#Rectangle Roof

[commonlanguage]

Rectangle Roof Structure Manufacturer

Discover our top-quality rectangle roof structure solutions, engineered for long-lasting performance and architectural excellence. Our formal approach ensures every structure meets the highest standards of quality and design. Explore our range and elevate your next project.

[ellynneversweet]

How to make a building say ‘old’ in your fantasy universe: buttresses.

How to make a building say ‘old’ and also ‘cool as fuck’ and also ‘home office of someone extremely important and stylish’ in your fantasy universe: flying buttresses.

[theglassdragoncollective]

Fucking hate describing buildings

[howardazaria]

Modern Exterior - Roofing Mid-sized modern multicolored two-story mixed siding exterior home idea with a shingle roof

[storyarcade]

Modern Exterior - Exterior Mid-sized modern multicolored three-story mixed siding exterior home idea

[wiit889]

Traditional Landscape in New York Photo of a mid-sized traditional full sun front yard brick garden path.

[3sgroups]

crimp roofing sheets

Crimp roofing sheets have emerged as a versatile and stylish roofing solution that seamlessly combines functionality with aesthetic appeal. These sheets, characterized by their distinctive wavy pattern, offer a unique architectural element to any structure while providing essential protection from the elements. The crimping process not only enhances the sheet's strength and durability but also adds a visually captivating texture, making them a popular choice for both residential and commercial roofing applications.

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In conclusion, crimp roofing sheets offer a harmonious blend of durability, style, and practicality. Their ability to provide superior protection while elevating the aesthetics of a structure makes them a favored choice for roofing solutions. With crimp roofing sheets, you're not just investing in a functional covering for your building; you're making a statement that merges architectural finesse with rugged reliability. Whether for a residential home or a commercial complex, crimp roofing sheets stand as a testament to the perfect synergy between form and function.

[thatdisasterauthor]

New disaster education graphic! Had to split it in half so tumblr wouldn't TOTALLY eat the quality. I'm going to put the full, unsplit version beneath a cut so if you want to share this graphic you can grab the whole one or the two halves, whichever works for you. As always, my disaster graphics can be shared anywhere on the internet that isn't making a profit, as long as my credit remains intact at the bottom! If you would like to license a physical or paid use of them, reach out to me on my website.

I've seen a lot of graphics about defensible space over the years, but I've never really seen one that does a good job of also explaining WHY the recommendations are what they are, so I've been wanting to make a graphic that dug into the why.

Alt text is also below the cut!

Alt text: Two halves of a single infographic. The background is dark gray. The top text reads "Why Does Defensible Space Matter?" in large yellow text. Below that is the text "When it comes to protecting your home from a wildfire, having defensible space around your home is one of the best things you can do. But why?" in black. Below that is the text "Wildfires move in three main ways:" in white.

Next there are three rectangles in a lighter gray, stacked one on top of the other. Each has a diagram of a small house on the edge of a forest. There are decorations on the porch, firewood on the porch, leaf litter on the roof, overgrown grass, trees growing right up next to the house, bushes, and the forest is crowded and overgrown.

In the top box, there is a fire moving along the ground, and the box is labeled as "Along the ground." In the second box the fire is moving through the tops of the trees, and the box is labeled, "through the crowns of trees." The third box shows a distance fire with lots of little embers being blown through the air, labeled as "Through the air via embers."

After that is the text, "The goal of defensible space is to make changes that impede each of these types of movement" in white.

Below that are the same three boxes as above, but each one shows changes you can make to impede one of these types of movement. The changes are listed under the box in a numbered list, with the numbers also in the diagram where those changes are reflected in the art.

The first box is labeled as "Impede ground movement" and has the following items listed:

Create a five foot zone around your home with no burnables using gravel, pavers, or other hardscaping.

Keep grass trimmed and well maintained in a thirty foot radius around your home.

Keep ground plants other than grass to a minimum and well spaced out.

Trim low hanging branches to prevent a ground fire from accessing higher portions of the tree.

The second box is labeled as "Impede Crown Movement" and has the following items listed:

Remove trees hanging over the roof and close to the home.

Thin trees within One-Hundred Feet of the home to reduce movement of flames between them.

The third box is labeled as "Remove Anything that can trap embers" and has the following items listed:

Clean debris such as leaves from off the roof of and around your home.

Do not store firewood or lumber near your home.

Keep combustible decorations That can trap embers close to your home to a minimum.

After that is a larger version of the house, but redecorated in a more fire safe manner. The door has been painted purple, there are plants visible inside through the window, and the outdoor decorations are made of non-combustible materials. After the house is the text "There are still plenty of ways to make your home your own while being fire safe!" in white.

Below that in a rectangle is the text "For more information on defensible space and how to create it around your home, visit: https://www.fire.ca.gov/dspace for a more in depth breakdown of how to protect each zone around your home."

The last text on the poster reads "If you are in the U.S.A. and experiencing disaster related anxiety, call the Disaster Distress Hotline at 1-800-985-5990 for support and resources. Poster created by Katy L. Wood ● www.Katy-L-Wood.com"

[luciaintheskyainthi]

Thinking about Jason having trouble taking off his head gear and Peter being way too smug about being able to just roll up his mask.

Not quite what you probably envisaged but this is what came to mind hehe:

"Look what I got!"

Jason did not look. His attention was on the building across the street, his entire world narrowed down to the magnified rectangle centred on a revolving door.

Even so, he felt a windswept cool body flop down beside him, swiftly followed by the scent of cinnamon and oil.

"If those are churros, there'd best be at least five there for me," he grunted and held out a hand.

No churros were passed over. Merely impish laughter that almost tore Jason's attention away from the crucial door. But he'd heard word of a certain political figure turning up here not long after several less than savoury figures of the Gotham underground. If he could get pictures of them coming and going, he'd have enough ammunition to blackmail them into finally approving the redevelopment of Park Row Middle School. Something they were single-handedly responsible for the dragging out of. But he needed the perfect shot, and knowing Jason's luck, such a shot would come at the precise moment he looked away.

"Not going to look at me?" Peter asked.

"Kinda busy, Bitsy."

"Hmm. You sure about that?"

The paper bag of heavenly smelling goodness rattled tauntingly right by Jason's ear and he shoved -- or attempted to -- the webbed menace away. All Jason really achieved was hearing more of Peter's laughter.

"Don't fuckin' tease me, you brat."

"How about this?" Peter bargained, still snickering. "You take off the mask and I feed them to you, since you're obviously so busy."

Any other day, any other treat, Jason would have contemplated shoving Peter right off the roof for the suggestion. Really, the cheek of him.

But... churros. Cinnamon sugar and fried dough... To quote Peter, he was 'a slut' for them. And even if he wasn't... Jason was hungry.

Blindly he reached back one handed, fumbling with the clasps. Peter's amusement was palpable but he wisely remained quiet and made no offer to help. The last time Peter'd tried to take off Jason's muzzle, he'd got a nice shock when he'd fucked up with the latch. Jason had nearly been on his knees with laughter because of it, but the moment had been a valuable learning experience for Peter: don't mess with the Red Hood uniform.

Granted, it had also given Peter several of his own ideas about how to booby trap his suit, but Jason was a generous guy. He even showed Peter how he'd wired a taser feature into the symbol of one of his old suits.

Eventually, the mask was off and set carefully on the floor.

"If you say 'here comes the aeroplane', I'm going to shoot you," Jason said the moment he heard Peter's intake of breath.

The night air turned a distinct shade of miffed. He grinned.

"Wasn't gonna," Peter said sulkily.

"Liar."

"Bully. This is bullying."

"Sure it is. Now hurry up and feed me before they go cold."

"Hehehe."

"Don't--"

"Here comes the aero~plane!"

Murder. He was going to murder Peter one day and blame it on Timothy.

[clementineinn]

listen to the bookman!

abstract: two BAU agents find themselves caught in a different kind of tension — not the kind that cracks cases, but the kind that lingers in glances and slips between the lines of shared quotes.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluuuuuff

word count: 8.5k

note: i've been writing sm, but i haven't posted anything bc lowk i feel like my stories suck lol, but i'm just gonna pull the trigger and post this one. it is fluffy, which, sorry, i can't help myself, but i do have some angsty pieces in the works! enjoy!

The rain had started just after nine.

Not with thunder, not with fanfare. No lightning stitched across the sky, no windswept leaves gathering like whispers in the gutter. Just the quiet insistence of it — that slow, silver curtain descending from nowhere in particular. It arrived without urgency, as if it had always meant to come, as if it had only been waiting for the world to quiet down enough to notice it. A soft percussion, delicate and steady, like fingers drumming idly along a windowsill — not to fill the silence, but to settle into it.

Each drop struck the windshield with the hush of intention, tiny cymbals against glass. They gathered at the edges of the wiper blades, collecting into trembling rivulets before slipping downward in uncertain paths, distorting the view beyond until the whole street looked underwater — houses sagging in reflection, lamplight warping into golden haze. Time itself seemed to slow beneath the weightless repetition of it. Not stopping. Just stretching, the way long nights tend to do when nothing moves and everything matters.

The wipers stirred only now and then, slow as breath, like they too had fallen under the spell of the storm. Each sweep was reluctant — a lazy gesture through the fogged glass that cleared a temporary view before the rain returned, gentler still, like it meant to stay. Outside, the town had curled into itself: porches darkened, curtains drawn, the world behind doors gone still. What little light remained flickered in warm, amber pools across wet pavement, refracted in puddles that looked deep enough to fall into and dream.

Inside the car, the rain made a kind of silence that had nothing to do with sound. A hush that lived beneath the noise, pressing in close, like a held breath waiting to be released.

Their SUV sat parked along a narrow, tree-lined street — the kind where the sidewalks cracked in quiet places and the air still carried the faint scent of cut grass and wet bark. The federal government plate gleamed dully beneath a film of rain and road grit, a muted badge among leaves clinging to the bumper like the last breath of autumn. The vehicle itself had become part of the scenery now: quiet, unmoving, patient.

The Bureau had been called in days earlier, summoned like a needle to thread together the frayed edge of a town unraveling. A string of disappearances — ordinary people, vanished in the soft blind spots of routine. No witnesses. No patterns that held. No certainty. Only shadows, and the kind of silence that pressed too close to the bone. And so tonight: surveillance. One house under suspicion. Two agents in the field. Spencer and Y/N, seated side by side in the long, slow hush of a stakeout that had yielded nothing but hours and the strange intimacy of shared breath.

It had been hours already — the kind of time that stopped meaning anything. The kind that crept into your bones and curled there.

Across the street, the suspect’s house sat inert, draped in a stillness that felt almost deliberate. Its windows were dim behind gauzy curtains, pale rectangles of nothing. No movement. No flicker of motion behind glass. Only a single porch light humming softly in the rain, casting its weak yellow glow over the sagging porch steps and the glint of wet shingles. A weathervane spun once above the roof — a slow, indecisive turn, more gesture than warning — then stilled again, as if it too had grown bored of waiting.

The rest of the neighborhood had long since folded into sleep. Porch lights clicked off, one by one. Televisions flickered behind drawn blinds, scenes playing to no one. Cars glistened in parked rows like resting beasts, their hoods wet and gleaming. Everything had gone hushed. Held.

At the far end of the block, a lone red bulb blinked on a motion sensor, pulsing faintly against the damp concrete of a driveway slick with rain. It flared, then dimmed, then flared again, like a slow heartbeat echoing down the empty street.

Somewhere deeper in the neighborhood — faint, almost imagined — a wind chime stirred. Not with wind, but with memory. A sound delicate and eerie in the stillness, like the echo of something forgotten.

It was the kind of street that, on nights like this, made even trained minds question what was real. The kind of quiet that softened the shape of fear. That made the air feel too gentle for anything to go wrong.

And yet.

They watched. Because danger never did ask permission. It simply waited, like they did now — cloaked in rain and silence, eyes fixed forward, hearts just a little louder in the quiet.

Inside the car, the air held the slow warmth of people who had stopped pretending they weren’t tired. It was the kind of warmth that built over hours — gathered from breath, from body heat, from shared silence that had nowhere else to go. It clung faintly to the glass, fogging in soft curves around the edges of the windshield, curling up along the side windows where no one had spoken for a while. The scent was a mix of things that didn’t quite belong together but somehow fit: the faint sharpness of old paper, the damp wool of Spencer’s sweater sleeves, and the thin, bitter ghost of gas station coffee steeping in the bottom of two stainless steel travel mugs in the console.

The dashboard lights glowed a dim green, casting soft geometric shadows over the interior — across the grain of the steering wheel, the uneven crease of Spencer’s slouched coat, the glint of rainwater still clinging to the doorframe. The SUV felt like its own small world now, floating somewhere just outside of real time.

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat, his posture relaxed in that very particular way of someone who never truly let his guard down. A worn paperback was open across his knee, its spine softened from too many readings, the corners curled. His fingers moved absently along the edge of the page, not turning it yet, just holding the weight of it. A pen was tucked behind his ear — not needed but always there. The sleeves of his cardigan were shoved to the crook of his elbows, revealing the pale, fine angles of his wrists, the delicate bones that made him look more scholar than federal agent. His coat was balled up behind him, crushed into the space between his seat and the door. It looked like insulation. Or a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Y/N sat sideways in the passenger seat, curled toward the window like she’d grown into that shape — one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched lazily out, her socked foot resting against the center console in a quiet, unconscious nudge. Her boots were somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. The rhythm of her breath fogged the glass just slightly. Her head tilted, chin propped in her hand as she followed the rain across the windowpane — not watching the house, not really watching anything. Just letting the storm draw soft, meandering shapes down the glass, like an artist sketching something only she could see.

Outside, time moved on without them — steady, indifferent, marked by the soft blink of porch lights switching off and the deepening hush of a town folding itself into sleep. The world beyond the windshield turned in its usual way, unaware that anything was waiting.

Spencer turned a page.

The sound was nearly silent — just the faint rasp of paper moving against paper, the quietest breath of motion in a space that had forgotten what sound was. The overhead light remained off — too conspicuous, too artificial — but the dashboard cast a low, steady glow across his lap, enough for his eyes to follow the words without strain. In that dimness, he looked almost like a ghost of himself: all sharp planes and soft lines, caught somewhere between thought and presence.

He looked oddly comfortable for a man halfway through a ten-hour surveillance shift. But then again, Spencer Reid had never needed comfort to look at ease — only stillness. And this night, at least on the surface, had given him plenty of it.

Across from him, in the passenger seat, Y/N shifted.

It was the kind of movement that drew the eye without trying — slow, unhurried, the kind of stretch you made only when your body had started to mold itself into the shape of a seat. She drew her knees up onto the leather, curling into herself, not out of tension but out of familiarity. One hand rested lightly at the base of her neck; the other dangled off her knee, fingers relaxed, half-curled.

Her gaze still followed the long, translucent trails the rain carved down the glass — eyes tracking them like someone reading a foreign language slowly, line by line. Outside, the world blurred into shape and color: yellow porch light, dark trees, the soft distortion of reflections in wet pavement. But her eyes didn’t flinch from the blur. She just watched, quiet and still, like she might stay that way until morning.

They hadn’t spoken in some time.

But silence, here, was not a gap to be filled — it was a rhythm. A heartbeat. A third presence in the car, curling around them, holding everything that hadn’t been said.

Until—

“Any movement?” she asked, voice low — not tense, not expectant, just soft, like a thread being tugged out of habit more than hope.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward the house across the street, his gaze cutting through the layers of fog on the windshield and the distortion of raindrops sliding down the glass in lazy, luminous streaks.

Nothing.

No lights. No shift behind the curtains. No silhouettes pacing in backlit windows. Just the soft, constant hush of the storm and a porch that had grown too still to feel natural.

He shook his head, eyes drifting back to his page. “Nope. Not since the cat around eight-forty.”

That pulled a sound from her — not quite a laugh, more like a small, amused exhale. A puff of disbelief softened by affection. She turned toward him, one brow arched in gentle accusation.

“You logged the cat?”

Spencer didn’t look up. Just flipped a corner of the page with the back of his knuckle, as if this were the most obvious response in the world.

“He was orange. Limped on the right paw. Could be important.”

She smiled then — faint, but real. Not at the cat. Not even really at the joke.

At him.

At the way he said it with no trace of irony. At the way he watched the world like every detail might hold the thread that could unravel everything. At the way his voice had settled low for the night, mellow and worn like the spine of the book in his hands.

It was barely anything.

And still, she found herself holding on to it.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

But it wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded explanation. It wasn’t brittle or impatient. It simply stretched between them, soft and steady, the way old friends might fall into rhythm without needing to fill it with sound. The rain had become a background hum — steady, hypnotic — wrapping the SUV in a cocoon of warmth and fog. Every so often, the wipers traced a slow arc across the windshield, a half-hearted attempt at clarity.

Spencer flipped a page with the careful precision of someone who didn’t just read — someone who studied, who inhabited, who listened to the echo of every sentence long after it was gone. The movement was unhurried, like time didn’t touch him here.

Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the curve of her neck exposed in the dashboard’s low green glow. Her eyes slipped closed, lashes brushing the skin beneath her brow. Not sleep. Just stillness. The kind that only found her when the storm outside was louder than the one inside her mind.

Then — a pause, a breath, a beat too long.

Her voice broke the hush like a pebble tossed into a still lake.

“What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t glance up. Just lifted the book slightly, eyes still scanning the page.

“Persuasion. Austen.”

That made her lift her head again, brow raised, an amused spark catching behind her gaze.

“Seriously? I pegged you more as a Brontë man.”

“I like the Brontës,” he said easily. “But Austen’s prose is more psychologically nuanced. And Anne Elliot is arguably one of the most emotionally complex heroines in English literature.”

Y/N blinked once, slowly.

“Okay, but does she walk across moors dramatically in the rain?”

Spencer arched a brow at that, finally looking up, mouth twitching at the edge.

“You do know it’s raining right now, right?”

She smiled — wide this time, unguarded, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and didn’t rush away. She stretched her legs out, shifting in her seat until her sock-clad foot nudged his knee lightly — a small, familiar touch that didn’t feel like much until it did.

“Fine. Read me something.”

He hesitated, thumb holding his place on the page.

“From this?”

She gave him a look, dry and warm.

“No, from your weather log. Yes, from that.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t smirk or prod or ask if she was serious. He just flipped back a few pages, slow and unhurried, his thumb dragging lightly over the paper as though reacquainting himself with the rhythm of the words before they even met the air. A quiet breath slipped past his lips — not a sigh, not nervous — something centered. Then he cleared his throat gently, and began to read.

“My idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.”

His voice was softer when reading — less clinical, less tightly wound than usual. Like the cadence of someone telling a story they remembered too well. It slipped easily into the space between them, filling it with something light but tangible. Familiar. Almost fond.

She smiled again, but this time it was smaller — quieter. The kind of smile that tugged at one side of her mouth, just enough to mean something, just enough to give her away. It wasn’t for him, not fully. It was for the moment. For the sound of his voice. For the line.

“And is that why you’re stuck in a car with me?”

Spencer looked over at her, gaze steady, not blinking. Not teasing.

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

Y/N gave him a look — half-amused, half-skeptical, but undeniably warm — then turned back toward the window with a faint shake of her head, lips still curled. Her breath touched the cold glass in front of her, fogging it just enough to leave a small, crescent bloom where her exhale had landed.

For a while, the only sound was the rain — a steady hush against the roof, soft and constant. Like the sky had decided to whisper all night and had no plans of stopping.

Time passed like that — not fast, not particularly slow, but in that strange, viscous way time has when nothing moves and everything feels like it might. The kind of time that didn't announce itself, only lingered in the stillness, tucking itself into corners: the curve of a seatbelt, the soft click of a shifting jaw, the rhythmic sweep of wipers.

Outside, the street held its breath. Inside, the car did too.

Spencer had already read two chapters. Probably more, if she was being honest. His eyes flicked across the pages with that impossibly fast rhythm she’d grown used to, but still found quietly bewildering. He turned each one with the same reverent calm, the motion so habitual it was almost unconscious — as if his hands knew the story before his eyes did. Not a single sentence read aloud since the last one she’d asked for. But the air still felt full of his voice.

The silence had begun to thicken. Not unpleasantly. Just noticeably. The kind of quiet that made you suddenly aware of the sounds your own body made — the shallow pull of breath through your nose, the slow shift of fabric over your knee, the faint, traitorous beat of your pulse.

It was sometime past ten.

Y/N had already counted the porch lights on the block — seven, two dimmer than the rest. She’d played a mental guessing game with the silhouettes behind living room curtains: game show, drama, rerun of something laugh-tracked. She’d reorganized the snack bag in the backseat by color, then by noise level, then by expiration date. Her left sock was bunched and bothering her, but not enough to fix. Her boot had begun to tilt inward from where it sat abandoned under the dash.

Meanwhile, Spencer remained exactly as he’d been: spine straight, expression unreadable, a small vertical crease between his brows — not from stress, but from focus. That peculiar kind of stillness that only sharpened his edges.

And it was all just a little too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice slicing softly through the quiet — not a jolt, but a ripple. Like a pebble skipping across still water, breaking the surface just enough to catch his attention. “Let’s play a game.”

Spencer glanced up from his book. The low green light from the dash slid across the lenses of his glasses, catching on the faint smudge of a fingerprint. His pen was still poised between his fingers, tucked neatly into the crease of the page like a placeholder he hadn’t meant to use. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful.

“What kind of game?”

Y/N turned toward him more fully now, folding her leg up beneath her, sock brushing the console. She narrowed her eyes with a mock-serious squint, the dramatic tension undercut by the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Quote battle. You read a line, I name the book, and vice versa.”

Spencer tilted his head — that precise, birdlike angle she’d come to recognize as curiosity. He looked at her as if analyzing the strategic value of her challenge, weighing outcomes and probabilities in real time.

“What do I get if I win?”

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, lighting her face like something just a little dangerous. “What do you want?”

He blinked once — visibly computing, as if she’d just asked him to solve something unexpectedly complex. His eyes darted slightly, then settled.

“Control of your iPod on the jet for a week.”

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand flicking outward like she was signing a contract in the air. “And if I win, you buy me coffee every morning until next Friday.”

Spencer considered this with the seriousness of a man preparing to enter diplomatic negotiations.

“So… eight days?”

Her brows arched, delighted. “You already did the math?”

His mouth twitched — just slightly. “You challenged me.”

She gestured toward the book in his lap, chin tilted like a dare.

“Go on then. Hit me.”

He flipped a few pages back, fingertips grazing the dog-eared edges with the ease of someone who had memorized the landscape of a book — its weight, its breath, the way the spine folded in his palm like it belonged there. His eyes moved fast, scanning the text like wind moving through leaves. Then he found it. He cleared his throat quietly, a low sound that somehow deepened the stillness between them, and read aloud:

“She had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—sharp, aching, and likely fatal if mishandled.”

His voice dipped naturally into the rhythm of the line — not performative, not dramatic, just soft and sure, shaped by memory and admiration. The words seemed to hang in the warm air of the car long after he stopped speaking.

Y/N squinted, angling her head toward him like she was turning a puzzle over in her mind.

“That’s not Austen.”

“No,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, equal parts pleased and impressed. “It’s Tana French.”

She hummed, a low sound of appreciation, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Well played.”

“My turn?” she asked, already shifting her weight, her voice curling with anticipation.

He nodded once, resting the book lightly against his knee. “Hit me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her voice was steady, quiet, but carried the weight of something familiar — a line so worn it gleamed like glass:

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Spencer blinked. Once. Then again — not out of surprise, but recognition.

“Jane Eyre.”

“Too easy,” she sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching with mock disappointment. “Fine. You go.”

He thumbed through another page, slow and deliberate now, though his eyes still moved with that rapid, uncanny rhythm — like he wasn’t just reading but indexing, cataloging, selecting the perfect thread to pull. His fingers paused near the middle of a chapter, pressed gently to the margin like he needed to feel the weight of the words before he let them leave his mouth.

When he read, his voice was casual — too casual. That smooth, practiced kind of nonchalance that only ever meant someone was trying very hard not to reveal too much.

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

The words drifted out into the warm hush of the car like smoke — slow and curling, heavy with implication. And for a beat, they just hung there. Not long. Not really.

But it pressed.

Pressed into the stillness. Pressed into her.

Y/N turned to look at him — slowly, like she already knew what she’d find. Her lips curved upward just enough, not a full smile but something sly and edged with disbelief.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me right now?”

Spencer kept his gaze trained on the page in front of him, but the corner of his mouth twitched — a single, unspoken tell.

“Would it be weird if I was?”

“Only if you keep using Mr. Darcy’s lines on me.” She nudged his knee with her socked foot — not hard, just enough to feel him there, solid and warm beside her in the dark. “That man proposed like he was submitting a complaint to management.”

That did it.

Spencer finally looked up — really looked — and smiled in a way he rarely did. Wide, teeth showing, the kind of grin that cracked across his usually composed face like sunlight through drawn curtains. His dimples appeared, sharp and genuine, softening the angles of him until he looked startlingly young. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Not tonight. Not from her.

“And yet,” he said, tone rich with mock solemnity, “he’s one of the most beloved romantic heroes of all time.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, letting the words tumble out on a half-laugh, half-breath, “everyone loves a man who can’t express emotion without sounding like he’s about to faint.”

Spencer tilted his head, still smiling, eyes never leaving hers.

“That likely depends on whether you’re Elizabeth or Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

She let out a laugh — not loud, not sharp, but quiet. Contained. The kind of sound that stayed close to the chest. The kind that wasn’t just amusement, but recognition. Affection. A small flare of something bright held carefully in her hands.

“You know,” she said, nudging his knee again — gentler this time — “this whole thing is starting to feel suspiciously like flirting.”

Spencer looked up slowly.

His smile stretched wider this time — all teeth and dimples, that rare, utterly unguarded kind of grin he only seemed to wear around her. It softened everything. His posture, his face, the ever-present weight between his brows. He looked… happy. Genuinely so. And that alone made the moment tip slightly, like the air around them had taken one breath too deep.

“Only suspiciously?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Well, if it is,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “you’re doing it very… academically.”

“That’s the only way I know how.”

“I figured.” Her lips quirked, but there was affection behind it now — warmer, quieter. She shifted in her seat again, drawing her knees back up beneath her, curling into the corner like she meant to stay there. Her shoulder bumped the inside of the door; the toe of her sock pressed softly to the edge of the console.

“Next quote, Doctor Reid.”

He turned another page, but this time his fingers slowed at the edge — like they were no longer moving just to move. His eyes flicked down the page, scanning, not quickly now, but deliberately. He stopped halfway down, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. Smoother.

“There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.”

The quote settled in the warm dark between them like smoke. Light, but dense. Fragrant with intention.

She didn’t guess this one.

Didn’t even try.

Instead, she watched him — not startled or shy, just there with him in the moment, fully. Her gaze held steady on his face for a second too long, her expression unreadable but soft, like she was seeing something she hadn’t let herself look at before. Then she turned her head slightly, eyes drifting out the windshield toward the still-dark house.

Her voice followed a moment later — quieter now, but not hesitant.

“You always pick the romantic ones when it’s just me.”

Spencer didn’t reply.

Didn’t have to.

The words didn’t need answering. They weren’t a question. They were something else entirely — a thread unspooling gently in the hush between them, tying things together she hadn’t named until now.

They hung in the air — not heavy, not awkward, just suspended. Like a truth neither of them had to rush to touch.

And still, it pulsed there. Quiet. Unspoken. Real.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Not all at once. Not with drama or force. Just a slow thickening — a soft insistence in the air, the kind of weight that settled gently over rooftops and sidewalks until the world seemed wrapped in water. The drops came heavier now, tracing long, uninterrupted streaks down the windshield like tears that didn’t know they’d fallen. The rhythm changed — not frantic, but full. A lullaby in another room, low and constant, the sound of the earth exhaling.

Thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, too far to startle, too soft to fear. It rolled low and wide, more suggestion than presence — a storm that circled like a thought you couldn’t quite finish.

Inside the car, the change was quieter still.

But it was there — the kind of shift you felt more than saw. In the way her hands stilled completely in her lap. In the way his thumb lingered on the edge of a page, but never turned it. In the way he closed the book softly, without ceremony, and let it rest across his thigh like something that had given him all it could for the night.

The space between them wasn’t wide. It hadn’t been for hours. But now it felt different — a kind of nearness that didn’t ask for attention, only acknowledgment. A quiet hum building beneath the sound of rain, shaped like something waiting to be named.

Y/N stretched again, slow and languid, like the warmth of the car had melted into her bones. Her jacket was folded between her seat and the door, a makeshift pillow that carried the faint scent of wet wool and worn leather. One leg tucked beneath her, the other lazily extended until her knee nudged against Spencer’s on the console — light, casual, but not accidental.

“You look comfortable,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. The corner of his mouth tilted up, that soft glint in his eyes reserved only for her.

She shrugged, gaze still half on the glass, where the rain stitched silver threads across the surface.

“We’ve been here for hours. I’m adapting. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Spencer glanced toward the house again, letting the moment breathe.

Still no movement.

“It’s not like you to go stir-crazy,” he said, voice soft, shaped around the edge of a smile.

Y/N turned her head toward him, slow and deliberate, the overhead glow catching the curve of her cheek. Her voice was quieter now, touched with teasing, but threaded through with something gentler.

“Yeah, well,” she murmured, mouth curving, “you’ve been reading Austen aloud like it’s bedtime, and frankly, I’m beginning to feel a little wooed.”

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and mild academic protest.

“Austen is statistically one of the most romantic authors in the Western canon.”

She grinned, shifting her weight just enough for her knee to bump against the console again — light and unthinking, like contact was instinct by now.

“That’s what I’m saying. I feel like I should be fanning myself.”

He turned slightly in his seat, angling toward her without seeming to think about it — the space between them closing in degrees, subtle and slow. His hands rested in his lap, but his focus was fully hers now.

“Would you prefer I quote something less romantic?” he asked. “Something clinical?”

She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching as she stared him down.

“If you quote a math theorem at me, I’m getting out of the car.”

“In this weather?” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully toward the rain-streaked glass.

“Dramatic exits don’t wait for ideal conditions.”

That pulled another smile from him — unguarded, his dimples deepening as his features softened in the glow of it. He looked younger that way. Brighter. Like someone who had just been handed permission to be seen.

And then, quieter:

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her brows pulled together immediately, the shift in tone catching her with something almost like concern.

“You didn’t.”

Spencer looked down briefly, then back up, his voice a little steadier now — like it mattered to say it right.

“I just… wasn’t sure if the quoting thing was crossing a line.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, eyes still on his face, watching him with the kind of attention that always made him feel like she saw more than he said. The light from the dashboard cut softly across his features — caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the almost imperceptible movement as he swallowed.

And still, her gaze didn’t waver.

She caught the flicker in his eyes — the way his gaze dropped for a beat too long, as if a thought had slipped loose before he could catch it. Just a brief shift, but enough. Enough to feel the weight behind the silence. Enough to see that he was second-guessing something, maybe everything.

So she leaned in. Not dramatically, not to close a distance, just slightly. The kind of movement you made when you didn’t want to startle a bird. Her voice was low when it came, warm and unhurried — teasing in that familiar, sideways way that made space instead of closing it.

“Relax, Romeo,” she murmured, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth easy, natural, hers. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve made you switch to case reports an hour ago.”

That earned his attention.

Spencer glanced over at her — and this time, he didn’t just look. He saw. Really saw her. Not as the agent beside him. Not as the person he’d been sitting with for hours. But as something else. Something specific.

It was the kind of gaze he usually reserved for the rare things — uncrackable ciphers, strange celestial maps, pages too dense for most to decipher. But it was softer now. Focused. Unflinching.

And all of it was hers.

Y/N held his gaze, still smiling, still pretending — barely — that her heart wasn’t crashing against her ribs like it had just realized it had skin to break through. She didn’t drop her eyes. Didn’t tease further. Just let the quiet bloom around them.

And then, a little quieter, more honest than before:

“You don’t do it with anyone else. Just me.”

The pause that followed wasn’t long.

But it held.

Not because he didn’t have something to say — but because she’d already said enough.

Then she huffed a breath and leaned back again, her body folding into the curve of the seat like she was trying to retreat from the tension she’d just sewn into the air. She reached for levity — not to deflect, but to steady the moment, to give it room to breathe. Her voice dropped just enough to sound offhanded, even as something more trembled just beneath the surface.

“You’re going to make someone very confused one day, Spencer. Using Austen as a flirtation tactic is very dangerous.”

He turned to her fully now, one brow arching with exaggerated skepticism, the edge of his mouth fighting a smile.

“Dangerous?”

“Highly.” She waved a hand vaguely in the space between them, her tone mock-serious, but her gaze held steady on his face. “All this charm and intellect and emotional repression—it’s a lot.”

Spencer laughed — really laughed. The sound burst out of him light and breathless, and it startled even him a little. He tipped his head back, shoulders shaking for a beat, that rare, beautiful sound filling the car like light through fogged glass.

“That’s… an interesting interpretation.”

She smiled too, lopsided and knowing. A little crooked, a little fond. The kind of smile that came from watching someone unravel gently, willingly.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice softer now but still playfully edged, “if you keep quoting Persuasion at girls in the dark, someone’s gonna fall in love with you.”

This time, he didn’t laugh.

But the smile lingered — soft and shaped with something quieter. Something he didn’t need to dress up in humor or hide behind logic. It tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth like a secret wanting out.

He just looked at her.

And said, voice barely above a whisper:

“You say that like it hasn’t already happened.”

That was when the air changed.

Not in a loud, crashing way — but in the way the atmosphere does before a storm rolls in. The kind of shift you feel before you see. Pressure dropping. Something pulling low and deep in your chest. The hush before lightning splits the sky.

Her heart stuttered once — a quiet, startled rhythm behind her ribs.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

They just sat there.

Knees brushing. Shoulders angled slightly toward each other. Breath held just below the surface. The thunder rolled again, low and blooming in the distance, but it felt closer now — not in the sky, but in the space between them.

And the silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was brimming with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they almost had.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say — but because whatever had just passed between them was still in the room, still in the air, like dust lit by a headlight beam. It hovered. It clung. It needed space to settle.

And when the quiet returned, it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t companionable or easy. It was charged. Dense with possibility. Like a radio dial turned just off-center — all static and hum, vibrating with the shape of words that hadn’t been spoken but still somehow filled the space.

Neither of them moved.

Not at first.

The rain whispered steadily against the windows, carving glass into trembling river lines. The cabin of the SUV had grown warmer, breath-fog softening the edges of the world beyond it. The outside was blurred. The inside was bright with everything they weren’t saying.

Eventually, Y/N shifted — slowly, like she didn’t want to startle the moment. Like she was wading through it. A deer through tall grass.

She stretched her legs down from the seat, her sock brushing the base of the console as she moved. Not restless — just closer. Her spine curved slightly inward, instinctive, unconsciously tilted in his direction. Her hand dropped into her lap, fingers tapping out a rhythm that didn’t match the rain, didn’t match anything at all — except maybe the quick, uneven beat of her pulse.

She glanced sideways, not quite meeting his eyes, her voice soft — but edged with mischief, like a spark under velvet.

“So,” she said, drawing the word out like a thread between her fingers, the kind that unraveled slowly just to see where it led, “how long have you been using Regency-era romance as a seduction technique?”

Spencer blinked — once, then again, as though her question had short-circuited some internal circuit he’d previously thought infallible.

“Excuse me?”

She smirked, lips curling with the satisfaction of someone who’d just set off a particularly elegant trap. Her gaze slid sideways, head tilted, playful but precise — like she was enjoying watching him squirm just a little.

“You heard me. You’re weaponizing Austen, Reid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, mid-breath, brows drawing together in a furrow of genuine confusion. His tone shifted, caught somewhere between defense and self-doubt, like he was suddenly evaluating all his life choices. “I’m not weaponizing anything.”

“You say that,” she murmured, voice softer now, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. She leaned in just enough to make it feel like a secret. “But you’ve been sitting over there all night quoting Anne Elliot like it’s nothing.”

Spencer’s hands lifted slightly, as if ready to explain himself with a logical breakdown and supporting footnotes.

“It was relevant to our conversation.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She nodded, slowly, exaggerating the motion like she was humoring him. “Totally casual. Just a normal thing you do with coworkers during a federal surveillance op.”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again — the movement small but visible, the rhythm of a man realizing too late that he’d walked right into a thesis statement he hadn’t prepared for. He looked at her, a little wide-eyed, somewhere between horrified and completely disarmed.

And she was still smiling.

That same knowing smile that always made him feel like she could see straight through him — not in a threatening way, but like a flashlight through fog.

She leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the console between them like she was settling into a chess match she already knew she was winning. The space narrowed — not dramatically, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the faintest shift in his expression as she moved closer.

Her voice dropped, teasing and low, her words brushed with deliberate mischief.

“Be honest—do you quote Virginia Woolf to Hotch when you’re trying to butter him up?”

Spencer blinked at her, visibly startled — then gave her a look so affronted, so utterly scandalized, it made her laugh under her breath. It was the kind of expression he reserved for things like inaccurate statistics or poorly alphabetized books.

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing now, enjoying the way the tips of his ears turned just a shade darker in the dim light. “So what’s my category?”

Her eyes gleamed as she listed them off, slow and deliberate, watching the way he tried not to react.

“Austen? Brontë? Bit of Plath if I’m cranky?”

He was trying not to smile. She could see it — the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the fight behind his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly like holding in laughter required muscle.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being thorough,” she corrected, tapping the side of her temple like it was all part of a formal diagnostic process. “Profiling, remember?”

He shook his head once, but it was hopeless now — the shape of his mouth gave him away. That soft, helpless curve he only wore when it was her.

And then, quieter. So quiet she almost missed it, but not quite:

“You say that like it’s a theory,” he murmured, “but it sounds a lot like hope.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Not loudly. Not visibly. But it caught — sharp and low in her chest — and her whole body stilled for just a fraction too long, like something delicate had been named.

The space between them had grown impossibly small.

Inches. Maybe less. The console between their seats felt like a formality now — a boundary that had once meant something, back when lines were clearer. But those lines had smudged hours ago, and now the air between them pulsed with everything that had risen in the silence.

Every glance. Every quote. Every moment of not looking away.

Y/N blinked — just once — suddenly uncertain of her footing, like the room had tilted and she wasn’t quite sure what her next step would do. So she did what she always did when the ground started to shift beneath her.

She reached for levity.

“Alright, then. If you were going to write me a love letter, would it be annotated?”

Spencer huffed out a breath — something between a laugh and a sigh of relief, like she’d just let the air back in.

“Only lightly,” he said, the corners of his mouth curving again. “A few citations. Footnotes. Maybe a reference table.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed, the smile tugging at her lips returning with a softness that hadn’t been there before. “I love when romance comes with appendices.”

He turned toward her fully now — not just his head, but his whole body, his knees brushing hers again, their shoulders angled like a conversation only they could hear.

“You joke,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in a way that made the walls of the SUV feel smaller, closer, “but I could quote you half a dozen passages from 19th century literature that remind me of you.”

She blinked once. Quick. Like her breath had caught behind her ribs.

“…Name one.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for the book. Didn’t chase the question back with logic or wit.

He just looked at her.

And the look was a thing unto itself — unguarded and direct, like a thought that had lived too long in the dark and was finally stepping into the light. His mouth parted slightly, like he might speak, but no words came. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his seat, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.

The silence between them swelled, not awkward, not unsure — just full. Brimming. Close enough to touch.

And neither of them moved.

Because if they did — if even one of them leaned closer — it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

It would be everything.

Because the truth of it—that aching, unnamed thing that had stretched and shimmered between them all night—was louder than anything he could have quoted.

It hung in the air now, full and real, vibrating like a string pulled too tight.

The windows had begun to fog.

Not completely. Just at the corners, where their breath mingled in the air, warm and quiet. The edges of the world blurred out, as if even the SUV had started to breathe slower. Everything inside the car felt thick with weight—with them—their bodies no longer separated by anything that mattered.

Outside, the street was still. No footsteps. No shadows in the house across the way. Just the hush of rain, soft and constant, and the low purr of the engine like a heartbeat they’d both forgotten to hear.

It was too much. Too quiet. Too full.

So Y/N broke it—because she had to. Because it was either that, or let it swallow her whole.

“So,” she said lightly, trying for teasing but not quite reaching it, the word catching slightly at the edges, “was that the part where you were going to kiss me or just emotionally devastate me with more well-placed metaphors?”

Spencer turned his head.

Slowly.

Like he’d been waiting for permission.

Like he’d been still all this time not out of hesitation, but out of reverence—like he knew this wasn’t something you rushed.

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” he said, so softly it nearly dissolved into the air between them.

She blinked.

“I’m not—” she started, but her voice caught—right on the edge of certainty. She cleared her throat and tried again, masking the tremble with a crooked smile. “I’m not nervous. I just didn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated quote-to-eye-contact ratio.”

Spencer’s lips twitched.

But the look in his eyes didn’t shift.

It stayed steady. Bare. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. It held her without demand, like he was showing her the most vulnerable part of himself and trusting her not to look away.

And she didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t dodge. Didn’t retreat into metaphor or distraction or some clever turn of phrase.

He just looked at her.

The kind of look that reached deeper than words. The kind that unraveled things. The kind that said I see you — and always have.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he said, quiet as a breath, “since your first case.”

No dramatic pause. No swelling music. Just a soft truth offered in the smallest of spaces. No less earth-shaking for its gentleness.

Outside, the rain kept falling — slow and constant, threading silver down the windshield like time deciding not to move.

The windows continued to fog, blurring the world beyond them until it was gone entirely. Only the inside remained now. Only this space. Only them.

Inside the car, the world stilled.

Y/N felt it in her chest first — a quiet catch of breath that slipped beneath her ribs and stayed there, trembling. Something had shifted — tectonic, deep beneath the surface — and everything realigned around it.

Her pulse fluttered. Her fingers curled in her lap, grounding her in the fabric of her jeans, the grain of the seat beneath her. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look down.

She didn’t ask if he meant it.

She didn’t joke. Didn’t tease.

She just looked at him.

And the silence between them wasn’t silence anymore.

It was something whole.

She moved towards him, unhurried and certain, as though the moment had long since been ordained. There was no fanfare in the gesture, no trembling flourish — only the quiet conviction of a woman who had made up her mind. Her hand came to rest at his neck, her fingers light and reverent, and then — with the gentleness of breath and the steadiness of affection long harboured — her lips found his.

It was not a kiss of passion unbridled, nor of haste or vanity. It was a confession, tender and unspoken, offered in the only language she could summon. And he received it as such — returning the kiss with the astonishment of a man long denied happiness, scarcely daring to trust that it had come at last.

When they parted — for breath, for sense, for the sweet necessity of drawing nearer still — her hand lingered at his jaw, thumb brushing the fine curve of it with something very near reverence.

His eyes opened slowly, as though waking from some long, aching dream.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” he whispered, breathless.

A smile touched her lips — quiet, wry, and altogether disarming. “How were you planning to say it?”

He shrugged slightly. “I was… maybe going to write it in the margin of a book and pretend you found it by accident.”

Her laugh then was soft and genuine, surprised by joy. It caught in the air like a lark in morning light.

“You still can,” she said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. For dramatic effect.”

They remained there, foreheads pressed together in the hush that follows great change — the kind of silence that no longer feels empty, but earned. Rain murmured against the glass. The world around them faded to stillness.

And though neither dared to say more in that moment, it was understood between them — wholly and without embellishment — that the waiting was over.

And then — through the fogged glass, through the hush that had wrapped itself around them like a secret — a light blinked on across the street.

They both turned, instinct kicking in hard and fast, muscle memory overriding everything else. Adrenaline over romance. Duty over daydream.

Spencer reached for the binoculars. Y/N grabbed the radio. Their movements overlapped — smooth, practiced, nearly synchronized.

It was like slipping back into step. The rhythm of a thousand stakeouts before. The urgency. The protocol. The clarity of purpose. Familiar. Rehearsed.

But when her shoulder brushed his— 

when her fingers lingered just a moment too long on the gear shift— 

when he looked at her and couldn’t help the way his smile pulled, unbidden, real—

It wasn’t the same.

Not even close.

The rain had finally let up by the time they made it back to the precinct.

It was early — the kind of early that belonged more to the night than the day, sky still a gray-blue smear above the rooftops, low and hesitant. The pavement glistened, slick with the memory of rain, and steam curled in lazy tendrils from the sewer grates. Every surface gleamed like it had just woken up. So had they.

Y/N still felt the ghost of his lips on hers.

They walked side by side, steps in quiet sync. A little too close.

Their shoulders bumped once. Neither of them moved away.

She glanced up at him, trying — and failing — to bite down a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Spencer blinked, eyes wide in theatrical offense. “I’m being weird?”

“You keep doing that soft smile thing.”

“I always smile.”

“You smile in footnotes. This is new.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral. Failed miserably.

“Okay,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this yet.”

“Me neither.”

And then, grinning: “It’s kind of fun watching you short-circuit.”

He opened the precinct door for her with a small shake of his head, but his cheeks were unmistakably pink.

Inside, the station was half-asleep. Fluorescent lights hummed low. Agents drifted through the bullpen like ghosts with paperwork — coffee in hand, conversations murmured over case files, the scrape of chairs against tile. It smelled like burnt espresso and printer toner.

Emily looked up from her laptop as they stepped in, her brow immediately furrowing. 

“You two look… suspiciously chipper for a stakeout,” she said slowly, tone sharp with amusement.

From behind her, Morgan appeared with a mug in hand. “Right? You catch the unsub or just catch up on some really good conversation?”

Y/N paused mid-step. Spencer made a sound that could only be described as an intellectual cough.

“We—uh,” he started, eyes darting toward the coffee station like it might offer rescue.

“Read Austen,” Y/N said quickly, deadpan. “He read. I listened. Riveting stuff.”

Emily narrowed her eyes.

Morgan lifted a brow. “Austen, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “She likes the metaphors.”

Y/N shrugged. “They hold up.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with implication.

JJ passed them on her way to the coffee pot, casting a glance sharp enough to cut paper.

“Cute,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard — and kept walking.

Spencer looked like he might spontaneously combust. Y/N just smiled, hands in her pockets, a quiet glow still tucked behind her eyes.

Maybe they were terrible at hiding it.

Maybe they never really stood a chance.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to hide anything at all.

[asoftsighh]

Hii ! How are you ?? I wanted to make a request for Tasm Peter Parker, I imagine Peter passing by the street where the reader is walking and picking her up and starting to swing from building to building on the web with her, like that scene from the second movie, when Peter wrote "I love you" on the bridge and then he picked up Gwen while swinging on the web, I imagine the reader hearing screams about Spider-Man, and then, she is meters above the ground

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ tasm!peter parker x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ 

peter takes you for a swing 

1k words

a/n: i'm good and hope you are too! thank you for requesting babe this was so fun! (i changed it just a bit, hope thats okay) ʚ♡ɞ

Walking down the sidewalk, through the hustle of Queens at lunchtime, you can practically taste the spring rolls that will be in your hands soon. You and Peter’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Pearl’s Garden, is a ten minute walk from your shared apartment. They can make your food in less time than that. The owner, a nice old man, knows you both by name. 

You eventually turn down a street that isn’t nearly as crowded, where people have turned into convenience stores or have gone down to the subway. Just as you see the sign for Pearl’s, a big, green rectangle, you hear a whoosh. An arm wraps around your waist, curling you up toward their body like you weigh 10 pounds. Before you can scream, you shoot up into the air. 

“Peter!” You screech, turning in his arm to wrap your arms around his neck. There’s no need to worry about other people hearing his name since you’re already high up enough. 

His spandex-clad hand tightens around your waist, holding a fist of your jacket just in case. You can’t see it, but you know he has that stupid smile.. “Hi babe!” he says cheerily, like this is a normal place to hold a conversation, flying between tall buildings. “Where were you going?”

You press your face into his shoulder; at some point, you must’ve wrapped your legs around his waist. You’d think you’d be used to this by now, the feeling of shooting up and leaving your stomach far, far behind. Still, you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut, but you know that will just make it worse. 

“Were you following me?” You yell over the sound of air passing by your ears. 

You feel the bump of his nose against your temple right before he glides you both around a shiny, windowed building. You think he laughs as your arms tighten around him. “I saw you from above and wanted to say hi. Totally normal boyfriend stuff.”

If you weren’t too scared to let go of him, you’d pinch his side. Still, you smile to yourself. “Can’t you just say hi like a normal person? I think my insides are dying.”

This time, you do hear him laugh... loudly. It buzzes against your ear, soft and scratchy, like he didn’t expect it to come out. He doesn’t respond as you peer over his shoulder hesitantly. You think you’re slowing down; it’s so hard to tell from up here. You watch as cars drive down below, before all you can see is a rooftop. He has landed on a flat roof, most likely some commercial building. 

You unravel your legs from his waist. Just as they are about to hit the ground, Peter’s swinging arm joins the other and wraps around your back, his hand spreading on your side. “Let me go,” you whine, though you don’t let go of him either. He sways you back and forth, a mix between dancing and puppy-like energy.

“I missed you,” He says, his voice sounding clearer, like there's no mask covering his mouth. You lean back, and sure enough, you can see his handsome face now. His crooked smile was creeping in, but it was the way his eyes crinkled when they met yours, soft and golden and impossibly kind, that made your heart ache. 

Your smile matches his. “I saw you a couple hours ago,” you say. Your hand creeps up the back of his neck to touch his hair, the thick, brown locks soft on your fingers. 

He looks pained all of a sudden, as if a couple hours without your presence has physically wounded him. He tugs you back to him, squeezing your body as close to his as he can get without it becoming painful. “Where were you going?” His breath tickles the baby hairs growing from your temple. 

“Pearl’s. I was hungry and wanted lunch. And we don’t have any food at home because somebody forgot my yogurt.” You say, not unkindly. 

He pulls back enough to look at you again, squinting at you. “You told me you weren’t mad about that.”

You aren’t, not really. You just like messing with him. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Parker. And that I was craving an egg roll or two.”

Still, he is never easily mollified. His face falls into the crook of your neck, his nose brushing against your jaw. “I have failed you. As a boyfriend. As your grocery shopper. As a man.” You’re giggling now, which you expect was what he wanted in the first place. He presses a kiss to your jaw. “I’ll get you your yogurt on the way home. Pinky promise, babe.”

You smile into his hair, kissing the outer shell of his ear, simply because you can. “Are you busy with Spider Man stuff? Or can you take a break to have lunch with me?”

He removes his face from your jaw to give you a look, one that says what a stupid question and Oh My God I love you all in one. “Duh.” He punctuates it with a kiss on the tip of your nose. 

You grin at him, heart beating in the way that only seems to happen when he’s this close. When you can see darker rim around his eyes, the blonder streaks of hair around his forehead that can only come from time in the sun. “Good. If you said no, I wouldn’t have gotten you anything for later.”

His jaw drops open dramatically, and before you can push him away, his arms tighten around you like he can read your thoughts. “Cruel,” he says against your cheek. “What have I ever done to you?”

You laugh as he gathers you in his arms again, getting ready to leave. “Forgotten my yogurt, apparently.”

As payback, he doesn’t give you a countdown for when he jumps off the building, heading back to Queens. Your scream gets swallowed up by the rushing air, cars honking, and his laugh against your ear. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

i’m very new to writing ✮⋆˙

[sereneabyyss]

Ouija Board At Bat Gas (Dead On Main)

Bat Gas was an unfortunate little, dingy, abandoned gas station situated just outside of Crime Alley in an area where it couldn't be said to be part of The Alley, but was close enough that anyone not from there would never dare to fill up their tanks there in fear of getting mugged and none of the residents of Crime Alley ever bothered filling their tanks, if the car they were using ran out, most just simply jumped at the opportunity to steal another. Safe to say, the gas station hadn't lasted long in the business world.

Thus, it sat there, vines overgrowing the concrete flooring and winding up the empty fuel pumps. Like all abandoned things in Gotham, stories of ghosts haunting and wails of grief filled any conversation about Bat Gas. Many of the street kids liked to make dares out of venturing into the den and going so far as to touch one of the pumps. Risks of rubber bound vipers striking out, possessed by a vengeful spirit, only seemed to fill them with determination to complete the dares of their friends.

Perhaps those stories were what brought Jason Todd out at bat gas on December 25th, a Ouija Board in hand. The original plans to spend the holidays at the Wayne Manor had been scrapped with the raging of pits and glow of green eyes leaving every other member of his family walking on tip toes around him. Normally that would mean ditching Jason Todd for the comfort of Red Hood, except there were no issues in Crime Alley for Hood to take care of. Every bastard seemed to have scampered into hiding in time for the New Year. So, he was left as he was, a lost Jason Todd just looking for some way to ignore the mess of his life on Christmas Day.

So. He was going to use a Ouija Board to see if Bat Gas was actually haunted. What could he lose? His dignity if anyone stumbled upon him? He forsook that years ago.

Walking onto the cracked concrete, it was like an icy wave of contentment washed over him. Any lingering Pit Rage simmered beneath the surface before mellowing out completely. The knots in his chest unwrapped themselves and all that seemed left within him was a feeling of light-weightiness. Like the feeling when he was grappling between buildings and he was falling falling falling until the hook's line tightened and he was flying back up. He wasn't sure he had felt this way since the day he awoke half alive half monster.

(There was definitely something dead here. It was just so familiar. He would never be able to explain the feeling, but it was as if he was bathing in less angry Lazarus Pits.)

Danny perked up as the presence of a halfa (liminal? halfa? he couldn't tell exactly, something seemed off with both descriptions, but halfa was definitely the closest between them) entered the neat little gas station he had decided to make his temporary haunt.

He had decided to haunt the abandoned Bat Gas he had heard others talking about during Christmas, not wanting to deal with questions on why he didn't celebrate. (Seriously, after all the arguments every year and that one time with the possessed candy cane, he had given up any sort of Christmas Spirit he may have had before.) After visiting Mars last year on Christmas Day, he family had given up all hope of trying to get in contact with him for the entire day. So, he knew he would be free to haunt the cool looking gas station with no one hunting him down and trying to stick him in front of a tree with too many blinking lights and gaudy paper wrapping unnecessary trinkets he'll lose between his ribs after like three days.

But! There was a halfa entering his new haunt! And they were maybe ill! He had to see what that was about!

Peeking over the roof he was situated on, he watched as someone continued walking, something weird and rectangular looking in their arms. Tilting his head to the side, he slowly floated down, staying invisible as he took a peak at the stranger.

His eyes narrowed in on the rectangle object in the halfas arms. They placed it on the concrete, giving Danny room to finally look and- ohmygodwasthataouijaboard?! HE WAS GETTING OUIJA BOARDED! HE WAS SO GOING TO SHOVE THIS IN SKULKER'S FACE THE NEXT TIME THEY FOUGHT! THIS WAS EONS WORTH OF BRAGGING RIGHTS! HE WAS GETTING OUIJA BOARDED!

Silently clearing his throat, he sat in front of the halfa, allowing him to get a good look and... fuck, he was hot. Like, thighs that could absolutely crush a watermelon hot. Hair wind swept back with a little white etched into the front hot. A boyish, smugish, hottish face that just screamed danger hot. Hot enough this man could probably melt his ghost ice hot. Did Danny mention he was hot?

Maybe if his Christmases were always spent getting Ouija boarded by incredibly hot maybe halfas he'd have more Christmas Spirit. Santa, he knows you're real, send him this halfa again next Christmas and maybe he'll actually respect you.

The new halfa furrowed his eyebrows as he concentrated setting up the Ouija board properly and Danny almost fainted from how hot he was. Patting his cheeks sharply, he concentrated on the fact that he was getting to do his first Ouija Board! He had to look cool! He had to be smooth! This halfa was hot and Danny couldn't blow it!

"Oh Ghost who haunts this gas station, can you hear my voice?" The halfa called out and Danny had to hold himself together from freaking out over the man's voice. It was just perfect. It wasn't too harsh nor did it have the silken smooth feeling most liars had. It was gruff but in an experienced shit way. Oh my Ancients he could absolutely die once more and be the happiest ghost!

He giddily grabbed the little wood whatever-it-was-called in the halfas hand and slid it towards the YES option.

Jason blinked in shock as the planchette in his hand began moving without him forcing it. He had known something not quite alive was here in the gas station, but he hadn't expected it to actually be able to communicate. "I'm Jason, do you have a name?" Slowly, it began moving once more, spelling out P-H-A-N-T-O-M. Which, he wasn't necessarily expecting such a cheesy name, but it could have been worse... probably. "Nice to meet you Phantom. Why are you haunting Bat Gas? I don't recall there being any deaths here."

I-M B-O-R-E-D.

Yeah that was actually a fair enough reason in his books.

"Is there a reason you haven't passed on? Is something tethering you here?"

A-V-O-I-D-I-N-G P-A-P-E-R-W-O-R-K

Shit? There was paperwork in the afterlife? Maybe that was why he decided to come crawling back after getting dumped in the pits. Unfortunate that being a crime lord actually had more paperwork than being a Robin ever did.

Danny was vibrating so fast it looked like that time he ate lithium batteries (it was for science!). The halfa was still talking to him! He was keeping up an interesting conversation! Ouija boarding was so much fun!

"Can you turn visible? Or is that just something movies make up?" He wanted to see Danny! He was interested in what Danny looked like! Dropping his invisibility, Jason visibly startled taking in the sudden appearance before him.

"Hello! I'm Phantom!"

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

"In all the days of the Third Age, after the fall of Gil-galad, Master Elrond abode in Imladris, and he gathered there many Elves, and other folk of wisdom and power from among all the kindreds of Middle-earth, and he preserved through many lives of Men the memory of all that had been fair; and the house of Elrond was a refuge for the weary and the oppressed, and a treasury of good counsel and wise lore." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age" "Therefore ere the Third Age was ended the Elves perceived that the Ring of Sapphire was with Elrond, in the fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone. . ." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age"

@arwenindomiel's tolkien south asian week ☸︎ day 3: home ☸︎ RIVENDELL

[ID: an edit comprised of four posters in muted browns, reds, and blues, showing different aspects of nepalese architecture.

1: A multi-terraced wooden building with intricately carved woodwork and lattices. White text in the top left corner backed by a white line reads "rivendell" in all caps, and in smaller text underneath "stronghold and refuge" / 2: A row of carved wooded columns holding up a portico, framed by a white rectangle. Text along the inside of the frame reads "His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all." Some words are emphasized in all caps / 3: A series of stone archways leading to a courtyard with a fountain or cistern. Same format as Image 2, but the text reads "Evil things did not come into that valley" and is only in the upper left and lower right corners of the frame / 4: The roof of a buddhist temple, with a domed under-portion surmounted by a tall golden spire. It is adorned with prayer flags and two painted eyes. Same format as Image 1, but the text is on the opposite side, and reads "imladris" and "valley of the elves" //End ID]

[legendary-pancakes]

Lyrics: The Storm - TheFatRat & Maisy Kay

“Little” ramble on the making of under the cut:

WOW this took a while! I came up with the concept in november 2023 and sketched out some extremely bad thumbnails that I kinda hated and then I didn’t work on it for like a year. flash forward to nov 2024 where I decided to a) draw tiny rectangles to do the thumbnails and then make them bigger later and b) sketch it on paper and. well. It Worked. Motivation exploded through the roof it was great

The og idea was originally 12 pages which would’ve been INSANE but I quickly realized what I could take out. I was originally going to have some pages without any lyrics on them to tell the story chronologically, but then I was like “wait. my audience is (mostly) Zelda fans who know the plot of the games. what am I doing” and I was also able to condense some elements so we ended up with only 7 pages. Yay!

I had a lot of fun working in mostly greyscale + accent colours, it was a fun challenge making everything contrast properly. The last page was a nightmare in terms of composition but @twist-dg helped me figure it out!

I’m really proud of this piece and of my improvement in drawing comic pages. My last attempt at something similar is here and tbh I kinda hate it (except the clouds I drew the clouds real good) but it’s really nice to see how far I’ve come

And uh yeah! The Storm a good song y’all should listen to it!

[silverskye13]

through rigorous character study i have determined tanguish is triangle coded and helsknight is rectangle coded. this means if you stacked tanguish on top of helsknight they would make a house shape. tanguish (fittingly) being the roof.

And together they make a home <3

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Chapter 74

All my brain things are firing right now cause there's so much about the title image I can talk about.

First, the small stuff:

Fleki has a tattoo on her chest that I assume is used to summon her familiars. It looks like she also has some spell around her neck similar to what Kabru has on his wrists. Maybe all the criminal members have something like that to keep them in check.

Otta has pet hedgehogs? Nevermind. It's a fur collar.

Why is Senshi the prettiest one here and why is he the only one with facial hair?

Now the big thing.

Earlier, I guessed the tell-tale sign someone was a half-elf was the shape of their ears and this image confirms that to me. Marcille is surrounded by elves and is trying to cover up her half-elf heritage.

Also, I tried matching every person to someone we've seen. Some of them are obvious, but there were several obscure references such as Mithrun's beloved and some of the unnamed Canaries from chapter 66.

And at first, I thought the messy-haired elf at the bottom was Fionil until I realized that was actually Mithrun's brother. And when I realized Fionil isn't in the image at all, I went back to chapters 3 and 32 and noticed Fionil also has rounded ears; she's also a half-elf.

Onto the chapter.

Mithrun has even worse people skills than Laios. His mental image of Kabru was a child's doodle of him and Mithrun couldn't tell the difference between it and the real Kabru. Mithrun's idea of all people is probably similar. All he cares about is killing the demon, and every person is just a means to that end.

He literally doesn't see Marcille as a person and doesn't care that she's scared out of her mind that a stranger is standing over her and bombarding her with all these questions. He just sees her as a thing that can provide him information.

Marcille blew up the roof and Mithrun teleported himself and her to the lower floor. Depending on the order of those two events, it can imply some underlying mechanics about spell casting.

Marcille cast her spell, but Mithrun teleported them before the explosion actually happened. So there's a short window between the spell's activation and effect. Also, the target of the explosion spell is a set coordinate. She can probably set it to "The coordinate of this object" but as soon as the spell is cast, the explosion will happen at the coordinate location.

Marcille could be a better spell caster if she learned how to lead her target.

Hmm. Those are some strange rectangles in Marcille's pants.

Pattadol is far more cordial to Marcille than she was to Laios. She's willing to engage in small talk whereas she went immediately to questioning Laios.

No one raised any concerns when Marcille said she studied ancient magic. So there's no problem studying ancient magic?

Kabru is probably relieved the Canaries are talking to someone who has some amount of social skills.

Mithrun is not happy being told the situation is under control.

Was Mithrun lying to Marcille about meeting her at the celebration? I mean, yes he definitely did lie to her, but I wouldn't think he cares to deceive people.

I think Mithrun was trying to figure out if Marcille plans on using the demon's power, and he's correct but for entirely wrong reasons. He thinks Marcille wants to become a full elf because that's just the stereotype they have about half-elves.

Whatever blessing herring, mackerel, and sardines creates must be impressive based on Pattadol's reaction.

Every time someone started racially profiling Marcille as an elf, she always got petulant and shouted her race had nothing to do with what she was doing.

But when she's profiled due to her half-elf heritage, she becomes furious instead.

Marcille despises how elves act like they're superior to everyone. Her elf heritage follows her everywhere and everyone has this general assumption that she is going to look down upon them, boss them around, and think she's the smartest person in the room.

Her wish to make every race's lifespans equal is part of her attempt to destroy the elves ability to look down on the other races. They can't look at other races as ignorant children if the other races can live as long and experience as much as them.

So to assume Marcille wants to be part of the group responsible for this inequality is the greatest possible insult.

Mithrun is genuinely pleading that Marcille not use the dungeon's power.

But maybe he should have told Marcille about his own experience as a dungeon lord and asked Marcille why she might want to use that power rather than just making assumptions about what she wants and talking down to her.

Marcille heard Izutsumi enter the room and that's why she decided to start talking back.

I wish Kabru had been the one doing the negotiations. He would definitely have been able to persuade Marcille to give up on all this.

Why did Izutsumi bring a rabbit!? Is it alive!? It will kill everyone!!

Maybe she's using it as an improvised weapon. Or maybe she wants to make curry or stew after this is over.

The correct way to animate this scene will be in very slow motion.

Marcille's incantation is the same one she used in chapter 64 minus a few lines. Either breaking the first seal made it simpler to break the whole seal, or Thistle's reapplied seal was weaker than the original one.

Marcille was hiding the books in her pants the whole time and nearly every shot of her legs showed that to be the case. I have to wonder if it was Marcille or Izutsumi's idea to shove them down her pants.

Is that a winged lion in Marcille's pants or is she just happy to see us?

This has to feel so weird.

This was playing in my head while reading the last few pages of this chapter.

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