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bellamy blakes and stiles stilinski wife

[bellsamorelle]

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i’m new to fanfic writing, (but not reading..) so apologies as not all of my works will be extraordinary..

[lov3lyl3tters]

Heaven, As Far As I Can Tell

Summary: spencer reid has written eleven drafts of his wedding vows. they're all true. none of them are right. so at two in the morning, three weeks before the wedding, he stops trying to write a speech and just writes what happened.

warnings: Fluff, established relationship, wedding, flashback structure, brief mention of a dangerous field situation

word count: 4.4k

author's note: This fic is lowk bullshit, but I spent way too much time on it to not post it, so please do enjoy

Three Weeks

Three weeks until the wedding, and Spencer Reid — a man who had memorized entire textbooks for fun, who could recall the exact wording of speeches he'd heard exactly once a decade ago — had, by his count, started his wedding vows eleven times.

He had eleven drafts. He knew this because they were folded into the back of a notebook he kept in his bag, each one crossed out in his small, careful handwriting, each one a little more polished than the last, each one — and this was the part that bothered him — wrong.

Not wrong in the sense of factually incorrect. Every draft was true. He'd written about her intelligence, her courage, the way she made the impossible parts of his job feel survivable. He'd cited — actually cited, in his head, before he'd caught himself and laughed — the statistical improbability of finding someone who understood him as completely as she did. He'd written a draft that was almost entirely about gratitude, and another that was almost entirely about the future, and one — the seventh, he thought, though he'd lost count slightly — that had gotten so technical about why he loved her that it had started to sound less like a vow and more like a research abstract.

All of it was true. None of it felt like enough.

He just couldn't articulate — not in a way that didn't sound like a list, not in a way that captured the actual, physical, gut-deep feeling of it — what it was like to love her. He kept trying to explain the conclusion without showing the work, and every time, it came out flat. Hollow. Like trying to describe the color blue to someone by reciting its wavelength.

That night, after a date — dinner at the little place with the string lights that had become their place, somewhere along the way, without either of them deciding it on purpose — they'd come back to the apartment they shared now, and fallen asleep tangled together the way they always did, her head on his chest, his hand in her hair.

Spencer did not fall asleep.

He lay there for over an hour, staring at the ceiling, his mind doing the thing it did — running, restless, circling back again and again to blank pages and crossed-out lines, to the date that was now twenty-one days away, to the growing, uncomfortable certainty that he was going to stand up in front of everyone they loved and not manage to say the one thing that actually mattered.

Eventually, carefully, so as not to wake her, he eased himself out from under her arm, pressed a kiss to her hair when she stirred and murmured something sleepy and unintelligible, and padded out to the living room with his notebook and a pen and the small lamp on the desk.

He sat there for a long moment, pen hovering over a fresh page, the cursor of his mind blinking on a blank line.

Stop trying to write a vow, he told himself, finally. Just write what happened.

So he did. He started — for the first time in eleven drafts — not with a thesis statement, not with a structure, not with anything that resembled a speech at all.

He started with the morning he met her.

It was an ordinary Tuesday, which was, he would think later, very on-brand for the universe — that something this important would arrive disguised as nothing at all.

The bullpen had been quiet that morning, the kind of lull between cases that never lasted, and the team had gathered in the conference room for what Hotch had promised would be a short briefing on case files that needed closing out. Spencer had a cup of coffee he wasn't drinking and a folder he wasn't really reading, half-listening, the way he often did when his mind had already wandered three subjects ahead.

And then the door opened.

"Sorry — I was told Agent Hotchner's office was up here?"

He looked up. Everyone did, but Spencer would remember, distinctly, being the one who looked up first — before the words had even fully registered, like some part of him had clocked the change in the room before his conscious mind caught up.

You were standing in the doorway, slightly out of breath, like you'd taken the stairs, with a badge in your hand and an expression that was equal parts professional and faintly apologetic for the interruption. Hotch had stood, recognition flickering across his face — ah, right, the new addition, today — and the next several minutes were introductions, names, handshakes, the ordinary mechanics of a new agent joining the team.

Spencer barely registered any of it.

He told himself, later — many times, for longer than he was proud of — that it was simply interest. New colleague. New variable in a system he understood very well. It made sense that his brain, which cataloged everything, would catalog youa little more thoroughly than usual.

But it wasn't just cataloging. It was the way you'd answered Rossi's first, slightly testing question — quick, sharp, a little dry, with just enough confidence that Rossi's eyebrows had gone up in something like approval. It was the way you held yourself, like someone who'd had to prove things before and had stopped needing to prove them quite so loudly. It was — and this was the part Spencer noticed and then spent a full ten seconds being annoyed at himself for noticing — the way you'd glanced around the room while Hotch talked, taking in details, reading the space the way a profiler did, before you'd even officially been told that's what the job was.

He was still watching you when Morgan said his name.

"—Reid. Reid."

"What? Sorry — yes. Hi." He'd stood up too fast, knocked his knee against the table, and you'd looked at him with an expression that was somewhere between amused and curious, and he'd felt his face go warm and thought, with the particular clarity of someone cataloging a data point they didn't yet understand the significance of: huh.

The case that week had been, by BAU standards, almost gentle — solved within forty-eight hours, no losses, a clean resolution. Spencer could recall every detail of it if he wanted to, the way he could recall almost everything — but it wasn't the case that had stayed with him, not really. It was just background, a frame around the part that actually mattered.

What he would remember — vividly, completely, down to small inconsequential things like the exact shade of the file folder you'd been holding — was working a whiteboard with you for an hour while the rest of the team ran down leads, watching you connect two details he hadn't yet articulated himself, watching you turn to him afterward and say, simply, "you would've gotten there in another minute, I just talk faster than you write," which had made him laugh, surprised, before he could stop himself.

Intelligent. Brave. Quick. He'd filed it all away under a heading that, at the time, he told himself was simply: someone like me.

It would be a long time before he let himself consider that it might be something else.

He wrote the next part faster, because there was so much of it — months, years, woven so thoroughly into the ordinary fabric of his life that it was hard to find the edges of where it started.

It hadn't taken long — a few months, maybe — for "new agent" to become "friend," and for "friend" to become something that the rest of the team had apparently clocked long before either of you had a word for it.

It started with small things. You'd both reached for the same obscure reference in a briefing once — a Doctor Whoepisode, of all things — and the look you'd given each other across the table, somewhere between you too? and oh no, had been the start of something neither of you fully recognized yet. By the end of that month you'd both ended up at his apartment on a rare weekend off, intending to watch "just a few episodes," and instead stayed up well past three in the morning working through an entire season, and Spencer had — for possibly the first time in his adult life — not minded losing an entire night's sleep to something that wasn't a case.

You read books together, which was, Spencer would admit, an objectively strange thing for the two of you to do, given that he could finish in twenty minutes what took most people days — but you didn't mind, and he found he genuinely liked it, liked having something to discuss afterward, liked the particular quality of your attention when you argued — passionately, at length — about whether a character's choices had been justified.

You hung out at strange hours. Two a.m. phone calls after bad cases. Diner breakfasts at five a.m. because neither of you could sleep. Long drives with no destination, just talking — about cases, about books, about your families, about the things that had shaped you both into the people who ended up doing this job in the first place.

He learned things about you that he was fairly sure even Morgan and Prentiss didn't know. You learned things about him that no one knew — not because he was hiding them, exactly, but because no one had ever asked the right questions, in the right order, with the kind of patience that made it feel safe to answer.

He never got tired of it. That was the strange part, looking back — Spencer Reid, who found most social interaction at best tolerable and at worst exhausting, who needed quiet and solitude the way other people needed sleep, never once felt that particular drain around you. If anything, it was the opposite. Time with you recharged something in him he hadn't known was depleted.

Someone like me, he'd written in his head, still, at this point. A friend. A good one. The best one, maybe.

He just hadn't yet asked himself the obvious follow-up question.

He paused before this one. Not because it was hard to remember — if anything, it was the opposite. Every detail was still right there, untouched, like it had happened an hour ago instead of years.

It had been a brutal case — the kind that earned its place in the small, unofficial list the team kept of the worst ones, the ones that cost everyone several nights of sleep and left everyone a little hollowed out by the end of it. When it finally closed, Morgan had declared, with the tone of a man who would not be argued with, that the team was going to a bar, and that this was not optional.

You'd ended up in a booth together, slightly removed from the noise of the rest of the team, both of you a few drinks in — not drunk, not really, just loose. Unguarded. The particular state where your defenses lowered just enough to let things through that you'd normally keep carefully filed away.

Spencer had been telling some story — he genuinely could not, even now, remember what it was, some tangent that had wandered far from its original point, the kind of thing that usually got him a fond eye-roll — and you'd laughed.

Not the polite laugh. Not the laugh you gave at office jokes. The real one — sudden, bright, a little too loud for the joke that had caused it, your head tipping back slightly, your whole face lighting up with it.

Spencer felt something in his chest just — stop. And then start again, differently.

He looked at you — really looked, the way he hadn't quite let himself before, not all at once — sitting across from him in that booth, completely at ease, no weight on your shoulders, nothing held back, looking at him like he was the best part of her night — and he felt the floor tilt slightly, in the nicest possible way. Like standing up too fast and feeling lightheaded, except it didn't fade. If anything it got more.

This is bad, he remembers thinking, with the calm, distant horror of someone watching a very obvious conclusion arrive several years late. This is — oh. Oh, no. I think I'm in love with her.

He didn't say it. Of course he didn't — it was a bar, it was loud, it was the worst possible setting for something that significant, and besides, he had absolutely no idea what to do with the information beyond simply holding it, carefully, like something fragile, turning it over in his mind for the rest of the night while you talked, laughed, leaned into him slightly when Morgan said something ridiculous, completely unaware that something fundamental had just shifted in the person sitting across from you.

Spencer didn't believe in fate, not really — too many variables, too much randomness, the universe was chaos dressed up as pattern — but that night, walking you to your car afterward, watching you laugh at something stupid he'd said, he thought, just for a second, that maybe he understood why people wanted to believe in it. Because it felt like that. Like something settling into place that had always, quietly, been waiting to.

He went home that night and didn't sleep, and didn't write a single word down, because he didn't yet have any.

The pen moved more slowly here. Of all the things he'd written tonight, this was the one that still felt like pressing on a bruise — not a bad one, not anymore, but one that reminded you it had been there.

It started with an argument.

You'd been reckless — genuinely, dangerously reckless, on a case that had a hostage, a woman about your age, terrified and out of time, and you'd made a call in the field that hadn't been cleared, hadn't been planned, and had put not just yourself but potentially the whole team at risk. It had worked — the hostage was safe, the unsub was in custody — but it could so easily not have, and everyone on the team knew it, and Spencer had spent the entire drive back from the scene with his hands clenched so tight in his lap that his knuckles had gone white.

He went to your hotel room that night. He told himself he was going to be calm. Measured. He was, after all, a genius — surely he could find the right words, the right framing, something that communicated I understand why you did it and please don't ever do that again and I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you all at once, gently, without it turning into something neither of you could take back.

He had absolutely no idea how to do any of that.

He knocked. You let him in, and you looked tired — not defensive, just exhausted, the adrenaline long since burned off and replaced with the heavy, hollow feeling that came after — and he started gently, he really did. I wanted to talk about today. But it didn't stay gentle. It couldn't. Because underneath the careful words there was something raw and frightened that he hadn't planned for, and it came out anyway — you could have died, do you understand that, you could have died and I—

—and you'd pushed back, because you weren't wrong either, because there had been a woman who was about to die and you'd seen something in her that you recognized, and you weren't going to apologize for that, even if the execution had been flawed, and your voice had gotten louder, and his had too, and somewhere in the middle of it — in the middle of raised voices, in the middle of an argument that was really about fear dressed up as anger —

"—because I love you, and I can't—"

He hadn't meant to say it. It just came out, mid-sentence, mid-argument, the absolute worst possible moment by every measure he could think of — and the room went completely, suddenly silent.

Spencer remembered, with perfect clarity, the way his stomach had dropped. Not because he regretted it — if anything, the relief of finally saying it out loud after months of carrying it was so immediate and so total that he nearly sat down — but because of what came next. Because you were just staring at him, and he had no idea what that meant, and every second of silence felt like an hour, and his mind — usually so fast, so full of words — went completely, terrifyingly blank.

Five minutes. He counted, after, because of course he did — five minutes of silence, the longest five minutes of his life, standing in your hotel room having just confessed the single most important thing he'd ever felt in the middle of a fight, with absolutely no idea what you were thinking.

And then, quiet — so quiet he almost missed it —

"I love you too."

He'd needed you to say it again before he believed it. You did — softer this time, a small, almost disbelieving laugh underneath it, like you couldn't quite believe either of you had managed to get here, of all the ways this could have gone — and then you were both crossing the room at the same time, and the argument dissolved into something else entirely, apologies tangled with relief tangled with the kind of kiss that felt like every unsaid thing from the last several months finally landing somewhere.

Spencer had never put much stock in the idea of heaven. Too many unfalsifiable claims, too little evidence, and he'd made peace with that a long time ago.

But that night, lying beside you afterward, listening to you breathe, he thought — quietly, privately, not quite ready to say it out loud yet — that if heaven existed at all, it probably felt something like this.

He hesitated before this part. Then he kept writing, because it mattered — maybe more than any of the rest.

They were together now — properly, officially, in a way that still occasionally made Spencer feel like he'd won some kind of lottery he hadn't known he'd entered — but the confession had nagged at him for weeks afterward. Not because it wasn't true. Because of how it had happened.

He'd told her he loved her in the middle of a fight. He hadn't planned it, hadn't chosen the moment, hadn't given it the weight it deserved — and even though she'd told him, more than once, that it didn't matter, that she wouldn't trade that moment for anything because it had been so real — Spencer couldn't quite let it go. He wanted to give her something he'd actually planned. Something that showed her — properly, deliberately — exactly how he felt, without an argument attached to it.

So their first official date, he decided, was going to be the confession he never got to give.

He found a drive-in theater an hour outside the city — one of the old ones, still operating, mostly out of nostalgia — and discovered, after some quiet investigation, that it was showing her favorite movie that Saturday. He packed a picnic. He found a florist who carried her favorite flowers and built an entire bouquet around them. He wrote her a letter — actual poetry, which had taken him an embarrassing number of drafts, each one feeling too clinical or too sentimental until he stopped trying to make it perfect and just wrote what was true. And he found, after weeks of searching, a small silver locket, and had a photo of the two of you set inside it — the one from the convention, both of you mid-laugh, unposed, the happiest either of you looked in any picture either of you owned.

The plan was simple: dinner under the stars, the movie, and then — at the end — the bouquet, the letter, the locket, and everything he should have said the first time, said properly this time.

It started raining halfway through the film.

Of course it did.

They'd scrambled for cover under a nearby tree, laughing, soaked through within seconds — and that was when she'd spotted the picnic basket, abandoned in the rush, the bouquet half-crushed beside it, and asked, simply, "Spencer — what is all this?"

And he just— told her. Right there. Soaked, freezing, completely unprepared, every carefully planned word from his letter forgotten the moment she asked — he just told her. About the night at the bar. About the months before that. About every quiet moment that had built, slowly, into the realization that he loved her — not suddenly, but completely, like something that had always been true and had simply taken him a while to notice.

He was a mess. Stammering, flushed, soaked to the bone, gesturing too much with his hands the way he did when he couldn't keep up with his own thoughts — and it was, by every objective measure he could think of, nothing like what he'd planned.

It was better.

She told him later that she'd never felt more loved in her life than in that moment — not despite the rain, but somehow because of it, because it had stripped away every careful plan and left only him, flustered and earnest and completely unguarded, telling her the truth in the middle of a storm. She'd practically tackled him, she said — and she had, a little, laughing, kissing him with the kind of smile that he would spend the rest of his life trying to put into words and never quite manage — and confessed it all back, properly this time, the way he'd wanted to give it to her.

He gave her the locket anyway, later, once they were dry. She wore it every day after that.

Spencer looked down at the page. He'd been writing for almost an hour, and his hand ached, and the apartment was quiet except for the soft sound of rain against the window — of course it was raining, he thought, with something that felt like a private joke between him and the universe — and for the first time in eleven drafts, he didn't feel like something was missing.

It wasn't a list. It wasn't a thesis. It wasn't even, really, a vow, not in the traditional sense — it was just everything. The whole shape of it, start to now, written down exactly as it had happened, without trying to make it sound like anything other than what it was.

He read it back once, then closed the notebook, and went back to bed, and — for the first time in three weeks — fell asleep almost immediately, your hand finding his in the dark without either of you fully waking.

Three weeks later, Spencer stood at the front of a small, sun-filled room, in a suit that Morgan had personally supervised the selection of, with Rossi looking suspiciously misty-eyed in the front row and Garcia openly crying into a tissue before anyone had even said a word, and watched you walk toward him, and thought — not for the first time, but maybe more clearly than ever — there she is.

When it was his turn, he didn't take out a card. He'd memorized it, of course — he could have recited it backward if he'd wanted to — but it didn't feel like a recitation. It felt like just... talking to you. The way he always had.

He told you about the Tuesday morning you walked into that conference room, and how some part of him had known, even then, that something had changed. He told you about the conventions, and the books, and the two a.m. phone calls, and how you'd become, without either of you planning it, the person he most wanted to talk to about everything, always. He told you about the bar, and the way your laugh had rearranged something in his chest that night, permanently, without his permission. He told you about the argument, and the confession he hadn't meant to give, and the five longest minutes of his life, and how you'd said it back anyway, messy and real and exactly right. He told you about the rain, and the ruined picnic, and how he'd never felt more like himself than soaked through and stammering, finally saying it the way he meant it.

And then, at the end, his voice steady in a way that surprised even him, he said:

"My whole life, I've tried to understand things — really understand them. The science of it. The logic. I used to think that was the whole point — that if you understood something well enough, completely enough, you'd have everything you needed. I don't believe in heaven. I never have — too many unprovable claims, not enough evidence, and I made peace with that a long time ago. But I've started to think that maybe it doesn't matter whether it exists. Because however it's supposed to feel — whatever people mean when they talk about it — I think I've already found it. Not somewhere I'll go. Someone I get to come home to. You're it. Whatever 'it' is — the thing people are looking for their whole lives without knowing what to call it — for me, it's just been you. From a Tuesday morning in a conference room, to right now. And for the rest of my life, however long that is, statistically or otherwise—"

his voice caught, just slightly, and he smiled, a little wet-eyed himself now —

"—I just want to spend it figuring out new ways to be sure of that. Every day. With you."

You were crying before he finished. So was Garcia, audibly now, and even Hotch — Hotch — had to clear his throat rather pointedly and look away for a moment.

And when you reached for his hands, your own vows barely steady in your voice, the first thing you said — through a laugh that was half a sob — was:

"Spencer Reid. You beautiful, ridiculous genius. I love you.”

[lov3lyl3tters]

The Long Run

summary: You and Spencer can't stand each other... until a case forces you undercover as a newly engaged couple about to elope, the perfect bait for an unsub who hunts couples in love.

warning: Violence/canon-typical case content (kidnapping attempt, gun used, injury), description of a physical assault and resulting injury (sprained ankle, some blood/pain), brief mention of a serial killer's MO (couples found posed/murdered not graphic), hospital setting, mild language, fluff/hurt-comfort with a sweet ending, fake relationship.

word count: 4.1k

Authors note: guys I finally overcame the writer's block! This sorta came to me on a whim after a long time from not writing so it might not be my best work so please bear with me.

If you had to name the single most irritating person at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, you would not have hesitated. You wouldn't have even needed the full three seconds typically allotted for "thinking it over." The answer was, and had been since your first week, Dr. Spencer Reid.

It wasn't that he was unkind. It wasn't even that he was rude, not really — Spencer Reid didn't seem to possess a rude bone in his body, not on purpose, anyway. It was that he had an answer for everything, a statistic for everything, a gentle but relentless correction for everything, and somehow he managed to make being right feel like a personality flaw directed specifically at you.

"Actually, the average response time for—"

"I know, Reid."

"I was just going to say—"

"I know what you were going to say. You were going to say it's statistically four minutes longer in rural counties, and I was going to say thank you, I had already accounted for that, and then you were going to look at me like I'd personally offended Bayes' theorem."

Across the conference table, Morgan didn't even bother hiding his grin behind his coffee cup anymore. JJ had stopped trying to referee weeks ago. Even Hotch, usually a brick wall of patience, had developed a particular tell — a slow exhale through his nose — whenever the two of you were in a room together for longer than ninety seconds.

You didn't actually dislike Reid because he was wrong. That would've been easy. You disliked him because he was almost always right, and he had this maddening habit of being right at you, like it was a competitive sport and you were perpetually one point behind.

For his part, Spencer would have told you — calmly, and probably with a footnote — that he didn't dislike you either. He just found you needlessly combative. You challenged things he said not because you disagreed with the content, he'd pointed out once, but because he was the one saying it, which he found "an inefficient way to conduct a professional relationship."

You'd told him where he could put his efficiency.

So when Hotch stood at the head of the conference table that February morning and said the words "undercover" and "the two of you" in the same sentence, the silence that followed was not, by any measure, a comfortable one.

The case was ugly in the particular, quiet way the worst ones often were.

Three couples in a month, all in the D.C. metro area, all killed during the last week of January and the first week of February. All of them had been out at a bar — different bars, different neighborhoods — before they disappeared. All of them had been found together, posed with a strange, almost reverent care, in remote locations days later.

"He's not killing for anger," Reid said, pacing in front of the screen, hands gesturing the way they did when his brain was outrunning his mouth. "Or not only anger. Look at the positioning — hands intertwined, faces angled toward each other. He's curating something. He believes he's preserving them."

"Preserving what?" Morgan asked.

"Love," Reid said simply. "Real love. Whatever he thinks that is. Two of the three couples had been dating less than a month. The third had been engaged for two weeks. I think he's looking for couples at the beginning of something — before it can go wrong. Before it can become whatever made him angry enough to do this in the first place."

"A relationship that fell apart on him," Prentiss said. "Recently. Maybe permanently."

"February," JJ said quietly. "Valentine's season. He's punishing the holiday by recreating it the only way he can control."

Garcia had pulled surveillance footage from all three bars, and Hotch had spent an hour with a map and three colored pins before he found the pattern — a fourth bar, upscale, candlelit, the kind of place that did a brisk business in proposals and anniversaries, sitting almost exactly equidistant from the first three scenes. February 14th was six days away.

"We need eyes inside," Hotch said. "A couple. New relationship — recently engaged would fit his pattern best, and it gives us a built-in reason for the two of you to be alone together later in the evening, away from the rest of the team."

He didn't look at anyone in particular when he said the two of you. He didn't have to.

You felt Reid go very still beside you.

"Sir," you started.

"I'm aware," Hotch said, in a tone that made it clear the conversation was, as far as he was concerned, already over. "Garcia's pulling backstories. You'll start prep this afternoon."

Prep did not go well.

It did not go well on day one, when the team's profiler-slash-acting-coach — a former undercover agent named Diane with the patience of a saint and the eyebrows of someone rapidly losing it — tried to get the two of you to simply hold hands across a table, and you both reached at the same time, fumbled, and ended up in some kind of half-handshake that made Morgan actually put his head down on his desk.

It did not go well on day two, when Diane had you run through the cover story — Spencer proposed three weeks ago, you're eloping in five days, you haven't told your families yet — and Reid recited the entire backstory Garcia had built, verbatim, including the exact date and carat weight of the (fake) ring, in the flat, bloodless cadence of a man reading a phone book.

"Spencer," Diane said, very slowly, like she was talking to a man on a ledge, "people don't propose like they're presenting a thesis defense."

"I'm aware of the standard romantic conventions," Reid said, a little stiffly. "I just don't have a frame of reference for—" he gestured vaguely between the two of you "—this."

"This being me," you said.

"This being anyone," he said, which, you noted, was somehow worse.

Day three was the argument about the ring.

It was a small thing. It shouldn't have mattered. But when Diane slid the prop ring across the table for you to put on, Reid reached for your hand to do it himself — "for verisimilitude," he said, already going faintly pink — and you pulled back on instinct, hard enough that you nearly knocked your coffee into his lap, and said something about personal space that came out sharper than you meant it to.

"I was trying to help," he said.

"You don't get to just grab my hand, Reid."

"It's a fake engagement."

"It's still my hand!"

"I'm aware it's your hand, I wasn't suggesting it was someone else's hand, I was simply attempting to—"

"Oh my God—"

"ENOUGH."

Hotch's voice cut through the bullpen like a blade. He'd come down from his office at some point during the shouting — neither of you had noticed — and he was standing at the edge of the room with his arms crossed and an expression that made even Morgan sit up straighter.

"Three days," Hotch said, low and even, which was somehow more frightening than if he'd yelled. "Three days, and you two have managed to turn a counter-surveillance briefing into a daytime talk show. There are two more couples this man is going to find before he finds anyone else, if we're lucky, and the only thing standing between him and a fourth crime scene is whether the two of you can manage to act like adults for four hours."

The room had gone very quiet.

"I don't care if you like each other," Hotch went on. "I don't care if you've never liked each other. I care that three days from now, a man who has killed six people is going to be in a room with the two of you, and he is very, very good at recognizing what's real and what isn't. If he sees through this — if he sees anything — he disappears, and someone else dies in his place. So either find a way to make this work, or I will pull both of you off this case and put Morgan in the suit, and I promise you, neither of you wants that outcome."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back up the stairs, and the bullpen stayed silent for a long, long moment.

You looked at Reid. Reid looked at you.

"He's right," Reid said quietly. It was the first time in three days either of you had said something the other didn't immediately want to argue with.

"Yeah," you said. "He is."

Something shifted, after that. Not all at once — you didn't suddenly like each other, not exactly — but something about the shape of the antagonism changed. It got quieter. More careful.

You started running lines in an empty conference room after hours, just the two of you, without Diane hovering. Reid stopped reciting the backstory like a deposition and started, slowly, to actually tell it — the version where he'd taken you to the little Italian place you'd gone on your first date (a real detail, lifted from your actual file, which had made you laugh the first time he said it, surprised that he'd noticed), the version where he'd been so nervous he'd nearly dropped the ring into his pasta.

"That's actually not bad," you admitted, the third night.

"I have a good memory," he said, which you both already knew, but it landed differently this time — less like a brag, more like an offering.

You worked on the small things. The way he was supposed to look at you — not staring, Diane had said, soft, like you were something he still couldn't quite believe he got to keep. The way you were supposed to lean into him, not performatively, just naturally, the way people who'd spent a thousand quiet evenings together did. He learned your real laugh, the one that came out before you could stop it, and started, without meaning to, trying to provoke it on purpose. You learned that his hands moved when he talked even when he was trying to hold them still, and that if you put your hand over his, just lightly, just for a second, it grounded him.

By the fourth night, when Diane ran you through the scenario one last time — bar, drinks, the easy physical familiarity of two people who'd been a unit for years — you got through the entire thing without a single argument.

"Better," Hotch said, watching from the doorway. It was the closest thing to a compliment either of you had gotten from him all week, and for some reason it made your chest feel strange and warm.

Reid caught your eye across the table, and — for the first time since you'd known him — he smiled at you like it was easy.

The bar was warm and golden and exactly the kind of place that smelled like candle wax and good whiskey, low lights and lower music, the kind of place where every table held a couple leaning in close. You wore a dress you'd never have chosen for yourself and the prop ring, which Reid had, this time, slid onto your finger without either of you flinching — his hands had been steady, and warm, and he'd looked up at you afterward like he was checking that it was okay, and something about that had settled low and warm in your chest in a way you didn't examine too closely.

The earpieces were nearly invisible. Morgan and Prentiss were two tables over, pretending to argue about a bachelor party. JJ was at the bar. Hotch and Rossi were outside, in a sedan across the street, watching the door.

And Spencer—

Spencer was good at this. Better than you'd expected, better than four days of stilted rehearsal had suggested he could be. He laughed at something you said — actually laughed, head tipping back slightly, and you felt the warmth of his hand find yours on the table, thumb tracing absent careful circles over your knuckles, and for one disorienting moment you forgot it was a performance at all.

"You're staring," you murmured, leaning in like you were sharing something private.

"Occupational hazard," he murmured back, and the look on his face — soft, a little crooked, eyes crinkling at the corners — was so convincing that your stomach did something complicated and unfamiliar.

"Tone it down, Romeo," came Morgan's voice through the comm, dry as dust. "Some of us are trying to eat."

You bit back a laugh. Spencer's thumb moved over your knuckles again, and you let yourself lean into his shoulder, and it was — easy. Comfortable, even. You'd spent three years bracing against this man like he was a personal weather system, and now his arm was warm around you and his voice was low in your ear telling you about the chemical composition of the whiskey you were both pretending to drink, and you found, with some alarm, that you didn't want him to stop.

An hour in, your phone buzzed against the table. A real call — your sister, the screen said, bad timing, she didn't know about any of this.

"I should take this," you murmured, already standing, playing it for the room: I'm so sorry, work, you know how it is."Two minutes."

Spencer caught your hand before you fully pulled away — quick, light, just a press of his fingers against yours. "I'll be right here," he said, and it was soft, and real, in a way that had nothing to do with the case, and you felt it all the way down to your toes as you stepped outside into the cold.

The alley beside the bar was dark, the kind of dark that swallowed streetlight, and you'd barely gotten three words into the call — hey, can I call you back, I'm at— — when a hand closed around your arm from behind and yanked, hard, and the phone clattered out of your grip.

He was big. Bigger than you'd expected from the file photos, all of it muscle and momentum, and he had you off balance before you'd even processed what was happening. You twisted, drove your elbow back into something solid, heard him grunt — but he recovered fast, slammed you sideways into the brick wall of the alley with enough force that your vision went white at the edges and your ankle rolled hard underneath you, pain shooting up your leg in a way that made your knees buckle.

You fought anyway. Years of training kicked in even through the pain — you got a hand free, clawed for his face, twisted against his grip — but your leg wouldn't hold your weight, and every time you tried to get leverage it folded under you, and he was so much bigger, and for one cold, lucid second you thought, this is how it happens, this is exactly how he does it—

"FBI! Let her go!"

Spencer's voice cut through the alley like a gunshot, and the unsub froze for half a second — just long enough for you to see Spencer in the mouth of the alley, weapon drawn, both hands steady despite the way his chest was heaving like he'd run the whole way. "Get on the ground! Now!"

The man didn't get on the ground.

Instead he hauled you in front of him, one arm locking brutal and tight across your throat, and you felt cold metal — hisgun, pressed hard against your temple — and everything in the alley went very, very still.

"Drop it," the unsub said. "Drop it or she's done."

"Okay." Spencer's voice didn't shake. You'd remember that later — how steady it was, how his eyes never left yours, not the gun, you, like he was trying to tell you something with just a look. "Okay, I'm not going to drop it. But I need you to think about this. You don't actually want to do this. This isn't what you've been doing — you've been careful. You've been gentle. This—" his eyes flicked, just once, to the gun at your head, "—this isn't gentle. This isn't what you do."

"Shut up—"

"You're not angry at her," Spencer said, and his voice cracked slightly, just slightly, and you felt the arm at your throat tense. "You're angry at her — the one who left. The one who made you believe none of it was real. But she's not — I'mnot—" his breath caught, "—please. Please don't do this."

For one impossible second, the arm at your throat loosened — just a fraction, just enough —

Spencer fired.

The shot caught the unsub in the shoulder, and the impact spun him backward, his grip on you breaking entirely as he stumbled and went down hard against the dumpster, gun skittering across the asphalt. Your leg gave out the moment the pressure released and you went down too, hard, onto the cold ground, the pain in your ankle white-hot and sudden.

"Shots fired, shots fired, we need EMS to the east alley, NOW—" Morgan's voice, distant, through the comm still clipped to your jacket, and then there was noise everywhere — footsteps, shouting, Spencer's voice closer than anything—

He had the unsub's weapon kicked away and cuffed before you'd even gotten your breath back, and then he was on his knees beside you, hands hovering like he didn't know where it was safe to touch, his face white.

"Hey — hey, look at me, look at me," he said, and his hands found your face, gentle, careful, tilting your chin up. "Can you tell me your name? Do you know what day it is? I need you to follow my finger—"

"Spencer," you managed, half a laugh, half a wince, "I don't have a concussion, I just—" you gestured weakly at your ankle, which had already started to swell against your shoe, "—I think I broke something."

"Okay," he breathed, and some of the white drained out of his face, replaced by something raw and overwhelmed. "Okay. That's — okay. EMS is two minutes out. Don't move your foot, don't try to stand, I've got you—"

He didn't let go of your hand. Not when Morgan and Prentiss came pounding around the corner, not when JJ crouched beside you with her jacket to put under your head, not when the paramedics arrived and started checking your ankle and your pupils and your pulse. He stayed crouched beside you in the cold, your hand in both of his, and every time you looked at him he was already looking at you.

"You're okay," he said, like he was the one who needed convincing. "You're okay. You're okay."

The hospital was bright and too quiet after the alley. They'd confirmed a sprain — bad, but not broken, which the doctor delivered like good news and which you received with the kind of relief that made your eyes sting unexpectedly. They gave you something for the pain that made the edges of the room go soft and slow, and at some point between the X-ray and the brace, you'd fallen asleep.

You woke slowly, vaguely, aware of low voices somewhere nearby and the particular antiseptic hush of a hospital room at night. Your ankle was elevated and wrapped, dull and aching but bearable. The lights had been dimmed.

And there was a hand around yours.

You didn't open your eyes right away. You recognized the hand before you even fully registered it — the long fingers, the careful way they were holding yours, like you were something that might bruise if he held on too tight.

"—and statistically, response times like that, in an alley, in those conditions—" Spencer's voice, low, talking to no one, the words coming faster the longer he went, the way they did when his thoughts were running ahead of him and he couldn't quite catch up. "I should have been faster. I was faster, the data says I was faster than ninety-six percent of agents in comparable scenarios, but it didn't feel — it didn't feel fast enough, it felt like — "

He stopped. You heard him exhale, shaky.

"I keep thinking about what would've happened if I'd been thirty seconds later. I do the math and I keep getting answers I don't want." A pause. "I don't — I don't really know how to say this, and you're asleep, so I suppose this doesn't really count, which is — which is probably why I can say it at all." Another breath, unsteady. "I think I've spent three years arguing with you because it was easier than admitting I think about you more than I think about almost anything else. And tonight, when he had that gun on you, the only thing I could think — the only thing — was that I hadn't told you. That I might not get the chance to. And I just — I love you. I think I have for a long time. I just didn't — I didn't know how to—"

Your fingers tightened around his.

He went absolutely still.

"I love you too," you said, quiet, your voice rough with sleep, eyes still closed, because some part of you wasn't ready to see his face yet — wasn't sure you could handle whatever was on it. "For the record. In case that — in case that helps the math."

There was a long, stunned silence.

"You're — you're awake," he said, faintly.

"Mm. Was. For most of that, actually."

"Most of it—"

"Spencer."

"Yes?"

You opened your eyes. He was so close — he'd pulled his chair right up to the bed at some point — and he looked exhausted and rumpled and so achingly hopeful that something in your chest just... gave, all at once, like a held breath finally let go.

"I meant it," you said softly. "I really do. I—"

The door swung open.

"—okay, the doctor said we could come in for five minutes, and I swear if you've fallen asleep again I'm taking a picture for blackmail purposes, Garcia's been dying for—"

Morgan stopped dead in the doorway. Behind him, Prentiss, JJ, Rossi, and Hotch all piled to a halt in various states of crowding, and all six of you — well, all of them — went very, very quiet, staring at the bed.

At your hand. In Spencer's. Both of you frozen, both of you very obviously caught in the middle of something.

"...I'm gonna need everyone to back up," Morgan said, very slowly, a grin spreading across his face like sunrise, "and somebody needs to call Garcia, because she is not going to believe this—"

"Oh my God," you said, dropping your free hand over your face, even as Spencer, beside you, made a small strangled noise that was somehow both mortified and — you peeked through your fingers — absolutely, helplessly delighted.

"It's about time," Prentiss said, and JJ was already grinning, and even Rossi looked like Christmas had come early, and Hotch — Hotch, standing slightly behind the rest of them, arms crossed — allowed himself the smallest, driest almost-smile.

"I believe," he said, "I told you to find a way to make this work."

The teasing went on, gleeful and merciless, for a solid hour — Morgan re-enacting the hand-holding from the doorway no less than four times, Prentiss extracting a promise that she got to be the one to tell Garcia in person, JJ threatening, fondly, to frame the betting pool slip with both your names on it. Through all of it, Spencer didn't let go of your hand once, and every time you glanced at him he was a little pink, a little dazed, and smiling like he couldn't quite stop.

Eventually — mercifully — Hotch herded them all back out, with strict instructions that you needed rest, and the door clicked shut behind the last of them, and the room went quiet again.

Spencer turned back to you. The teasing-flush hadn't quite faded, but underneath it was something steadier — something that had been there, you realized now, for a long time, just waiting for either of you to stop being too stubborn to see it.

"So," he said softly. "Just to be clear. The part where you said you loved me — that wasn't the pain medication talking?"

"Spencer."

"I'm just confirming the variables—"

"Spencer."

He laughed — that real laugh, the one that crinkled his eyes — and leaned in, slow enough that you had every chance to stop him, which you didn't. His hand came up to brush gently against your cheek, and then he kissed you — soft, careful, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to — and you felt that warm, settled feeling from the bar rush back tenfold, and you kissed him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you thought, distantly, that you owed Hotch's irritation a great debt.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far — just rested his forehead against yours, breathing slow.

"For the record," he murmured, "I've wanted to do that for a lot longer than four days."

"Yeah," you said, smiling, eyes already drifting shut again, his hand still warm in yours. "Took you long enough, Reid."

[polkadoli]

where did all the fluff and angst go

[themoonandmyman]

The first phrase Shane learns in Russian is ‘I love you’

The second and third actually are ‘harder, please’ and ‘yes, sir’, except he doesn’t tell Ilya.

He just springs it on him mid fuck with a perfect pronunciation and Ilya makes a face like he’s just stepped out into traffic and immediately cums so hard his entire body tenses and he gets a leg cramp so bad he falls off the bed.

He’s entirely obscured from view but Shane just hears a tiny confused (but affectionate) little

‘Shane what the fuck’

[bellsamorelle]

(tw: insecurity, suggestive themes, & lonesome moments)

The breeze washed against the fragile skin of my face, the face I'd come to hate, blowing roughly until my bleached-dyed brown hair had blown into my eyes. I sat within the rooted trees, the bright and luminous beam of the lighthouse periodically blinding my way of perception and clashing with the darkness of the night. The moist soil and sticks beneath my feet burrow in the crevices of my toes, reconnecting me with the nature I once knew—the one I yearned to know again. My pathetic, adolescent self, once ached and longed for this feeling of change and growth—to be the individual I am today. Because you’re raised to learn that it’s a wondrous thing to grow, to learn, to change. And at times, it does come as a blessing. But when you're sitting on the edge, watching the ocean waves clash against the walls of the rocky cliffs, you can't help but to feel a displeasure of yourself. Because when there's all the answers in the world, and you can't seem to grasp a single one, you drown yourself in romance after romance, to have any segment of possessing the love and confidence you once had in yourself. I understand this too shall pass, because watching the pines trees blowing with the wind, and the twinkling stars peeking through the wash of the dark and cloudy skies, I realize there's a good, a beauty, in everything. So no matter how lost you may feel, watch the gleaming stars, or the sea glistening from the provided beams of the moon above, and know that the wind, the cloudy skies, they don’t indicate a representation of you. You, make you.

[bellsamorelle]

The Bleachers

(wlw one-shot), wc: 300

The warm sun beamed against my cheeks as I lay my head on the lap of a friend, the gustful wind blowing each blade of grass as trancing as watching waves in the ocean. I was lost in my own appreciation, harnessing everything I could to savor and remember this moment. She was talking on and on about life, running her warm fingers through my hair in a way that felt so unreal and comforting it put me in a daze. Her blue, acid washed—ripped jeans with endless paint stains telling the story of her life being grazed by the tips of my fingers. She had this pristine tenderness to her. An effortless welcoming and a striking presence that harmonized with everyone she encountered. She stood out in a crowd, to me at least, not like a sheep in a sleuth of bears, but like a swan in a glistening pond of ducks. I spent my life chasing a feeling that I so desperately convinced I needed, but what I didn't understand was that all along I had it with her. The more I was around her, the more the wind against my face wasn’t a burden, but a graceful moment of time. The rain was no longer an irritation, ruining my silk brown hair, but a grace of the sky blessing you with a kiss. For the time I lay there—my face against the roughness of her jeans and my body clashing with the cold metal bleachers, I found peace and warmth within this soul that sat beside me. Because years ago, I met a person with the most undeniably precious soul, and kept her around. And at this moment, I'm lucky enough to call her the love of my life.

[yearningoverfictionalmen]

Hudson: “What’s always been something that’s frustrated me, not even with like other men, but also just there’s a lot of taboos around exploring physical intimacy with people you admire and love without people, especially in Western culture, being like, ‘Oh, they’re fucking, they’re doing this.’ I just was always frustrated by these kinds of notions. Especially with Connor, who I love dearly, it was something I was always kind of adamant that no matter what people think or want to infer, I’m always going to just physically express my love. I feel like if you’re still biased or jaded or uncomfortable with expressing physical love for people in 2025, you got to f*ing, just, you know, get over yourself.”

via Sirius XM

[bellsamorelle]

"i think a human's greatest weakness may be their own consciousness. apex animals, those with a highly developed frontal lobe, have the ability to die from grief or sadness—despite being the top predator of their ecosystems. they are their own predator. for example, elephants mourn the loss of loved ones and fall into depression until they die—not always, but sometimes. they are one of the animals known to have an advanced thought processing system, resulting in the consciousness of their own being. so maybe the more conscious you truly are—it controls you, being your greatest weakness."

[bellsamorelle]

Lovable

Bellamy Blake x Reader (set in s1)

Summary: y/n thinks she’s unlovable. bellamy steps into her life and loves her anyway.

CW: self-hatred, lying, bit of angst, mostly fluff, use of curse words, weapons, no smut. (word count: 1.5k)

While sitting at the campfire with many others from the hundred, discussing how you should go about the grounders, your eyes fixate on bellamy. the way the flame light makes his skin glow, the sound of his laugh—warming. you catch yourself smiling and quickly drop it as you remember how you got here in the first place. you were a criminal, stole medicine for your sister that was needed for a another patient. a patient in which that medicine was their last hope. you may have saved your sister, but the guilt of being the reason someone died, forever lived with you. you didn’t deserve love.

bellamy on the other hand has always persisted on the fact you’re lovable. but you’ve been close friends since childhood so you understood the love bellamy had for you was only platonic.

you snap back from your thoughts as you hear someone talking.

“you alright?” bellamy says as you look up.

“hm? oh, yeah i’m just tired.” you say rather convincingly, even though you’re aware he can read right through it. a silence sits before everyone goes back to talking.

you sit for a second longer before walking back to your tent, lost in thought.

after rounding a corner, you step inside. continuing to argue with yourself that you need to stop thinking about bellamy like that. so romantically. you don’t deserve love from anyone—especially him. not him and his gorgeous smile—him and his warming laugh, him and the way he always knows how to comfort someone. the way he cares so much. you and him may be destined to be close friends, but nothing more.

before you can continue your thoughts, bellamy unzips the tent, pausing to look at you before stepping in.

silence fills the room (or should i say tent.. heh, get it? cause they’re in a tent? yeah nvm) before bellamy speaks.

“your acting skills are almost believable.” dragging out “almost”.

you pause and look at him with a defeated and exhausted face, trying to think of a legitimately believable excuse.

bellamy places his hands on his hips and cocks his eyebrows up—waiting for an answer. you’ve recently noticed his underlying sass radiating off of him at times like this. cocky as ever knowing he’s right.

you sigh.

“it’s just been a long a day, bell.” talking as you run your fingers through your hair.

bellamy shifts, his presence everlasting in this awkward moment. but despite the awkwardness, his features soften, like he’s about to say something—but doesn’t.

he clears his throat before finally speaking,

“im going out with the hunters at first light.”

he looks at you softly, hands still resting on his hips.

“it’ll be good for you to get out of your thoughts for a day.” he says softer than before.

you twiddle, picking at your nails.

“uh, yeah, maybe.” you say, plastering look bellamy can’t read.

you know you won’t be able to get out of your thoughts if you’re walking along with bellamy, but maybe you’ll find a discovery in those woods you’ll be able to busy yourself with.

“alright.”

…

you look up and lift an eyebrow.

he makes eye contact with you, and a silence engulfing the air between you.

the socially acceptable amount of time to have a pause in conversations, 1-3 seconds, was prolonged. what was he thinking this time?

“okay, thats all.” he says as his hands slip from his hips and he walks away. (so he basically mogs and catwalks out the tent.. okay then..)

an awkward and silent moment sits after he leaves.

the next morning, you reflect on how you spent the entire night thinking about him—despite all your efforts not to. and hooray, lucky for you, you’re going hunting with him today.

you and a few others wait at the gate of the camp for the rest of the hunters, including bellamy, to join.

“morning princess. you look great.” he says sarcastically as he arrives. seemingly back to acting like his usual self.

you’re aware of the bags under your eyes, but it’s not like you can reply back admitting it’s his fault.

instead, you reply with a nod.

bellamy starts speaking to the group as the rest finally gather around.

“alright everyone. listen up. today we’re sticking in groups of two.” speaking as he hands out the list of pairs.

you didn’t need to look at the list to know you were paired together.

you pause in defeat once again—whispering under your breath as you see bellamy approaching in your peripheral vision.

“let’s go.” he says, gentling his tone.

…

after walking a while in an awkward silence, and meaningless conversations of “how the weather’s been..”

a two headed deer is spotted. big enough to feed the camp for a day or two. you grab bellamy’s shoulder, pulling you both down to crouch behind a log. bellamy spots the prey before having to asking what that was for. he stays quiet, watching you raise your arrows.

a silence of focus fills the air as an intense focus surrounds you. but trying to lean into that focus isn’t working. you can practically feel bellamy’s eyes burning into your back. you close your eyes and take a deep breath, hoping to ignore it. taking a second and finally shooting. but missing the deer by an inch—hitting its leg.

you shut your eyes together and take a breath out, disappointed in yourself as you lower your bow.

as much as you wish you can blame your mistake on bellamy, it’s wasn’t him who was affected by his silence.

…

“let’s get going.” you say, avoiding eye contact.

he simply nods, placing his hands in his pockets.

…

only a few minutes pass when you spot the same deer, arrow still in its leg. this time you don’t wait to crouch behind a log or tree, but raise your bow immediately. you must redeem yourself. but with bellamy’s presence, and him watching your every move, it’s quite impossible.

he notices you tensing up. he steps up behind you and wrapping his arms around, helping to aim the arrow.

“just breathe.” he says sternly, yet in a whisper.

you take a breath in and relax against him. you aim, and shoot once again.

finally. redemption earned.

without turning to him, you speak. “for the record, i weakened it by hitting it earlier—so none of that was your help.” turning toward him as the corner of your mouth twitches to a soft smile.

bellamy smirks as he places his hands back in his pocket, while taking a step back.

“right.” he says as he nods with a playful grin on his face. “i think you could use my help bringing that deer back though.”

…

you nod, trekking towards the fallen animal.

…

“hey, though-“ he says with a more serious tone.

“be honest with me. what was really going on with you last night?”

…

you dont respond immediately, allowing space for silence.

“listen, if someone is bothering you—“

“no one is bothering me. im fine.”

bellamy reaches out and gently grasps your shoulder to stop your walking and turn you towards him.

you look to the ground, or to the trees behind him, anywhere, to avoid eye contact.

“why are you lying? we’ve been close friends since forever, and recently i’m starting to think you hate me. you’re more comfortable around people you don’t know than me, and i—“

“for fucks sake, stop criticizing yourself.. please.” you say aggravated—fidgeting.

without thinking, you grab his collar and pull him down. linking into a kiss.

…

instead of being met with a kiss, he places a hand on your shoulder and pushes you back.

you quickly gravitate away, understanding your grave mistake. you just ruined everything.

he was sure to sense the uneasiness and panic of your face, but before you could say anything, you were met with felt this warmth of his hand grazing your face.

“i-“ you say,

…

he drops his hands to hold yours. “as much as i want to lean back in and desprately kiss you with all my might,” he smiles gently, “i want to talk first.”

your mind is racing. thoughts spiraling. he pushed away, but then admitted he desperately wants you. its all so confusing. but something in you keeps you put. because the feeling of his hands on yours is more relaxing and calming than you would’ve ever thought.

…

“okay.. we can talk.”

he nods, a soft smile to this face. “tell me what’s been going on lately. please.”

…

you sigh. “you.”

“me?’

…

“you know me, you know my story. how it deeply affects me and how i deal with.. feelings. so im in denial. denial that i love you. every part of you. and it’s killing me, because i know i don’t deserve you. how your skin glows against the light of a bonfire, the caring courage behind a tough persona, you and every little thing about you. and its been gutting me to my soul that i cant control this feeling. because out of everyone, you deserve someone ethereal. someone worthy of you. and i know thats not me.”

…

“thank you—for telling me. but it hurts me to know how lowly you think of yourself and your being.”

he takes a deep breath, hollowing the tension. with his eyes admiring yours, he chuckles.

“all this time, you’ve been fighting the urge to not want me. when i gave in a long time ago. presumably, your dismissing seems unreasonable.” he smiles. “i’ll be as patient as you need. unlimited assurance, because i want you, no one else.”

not only are the butterflies in your stomach about to burst themselves, but you’re entirely calm. a perplexing idea, but it’s his words, his touch, him. as much as your heart is about to beat out of your chest, he brings you sincerity and the feeling you’re featherlight. like there’s nothing else in this world but you and him, and no worries to arise.

you drew in a deep, vital breath, muttering. “i truly don’t deserve this.” (pick me ahh)

his smile drops as he rolls his eyes. “damn it you, you deserve love more than anyone I know.”

you scoff playfully. suddenly, there’s no way to fight this anymore. it feels like there’s a rope attached to your heart that is tied to him. it’ll be a journey, trying to accept yourself, but maybe it will all be okay. because you have him.

“you’re special to me. and that’s what matters right now.” he says.

a/n: hoped you enjoyed!! bare with me as this is my first fic and there is definitely gonna be errors. ꨄ

[bellsamorelle]

“perhaps in another life”

bellamy blake x reader ᭡༄

summary: a diary entry by gf!reader, wishing the love her and bellamy shared for each other was normal “like in the movies”, and hadn’t been formed on bonded trauma.

cw: heavy angst, jasper being struck by a spear, talk of trauma (the agony the 100 had to experience)

perhaps in another life, fear would be foreign, a phrase we envy. possibly in another timeline, we would have exchanged glances—a flash of remembrance of the reverence and ache we once knew. a flicker of understanding, a chance to salvage the connection we had before.

or perhaps, we’d be hesitant to approach one another. if we were to close our eyes and flicker to another time, another universe of our lives, we’d linger a gaze, but turn, diminishing the fleeting feeling of deja-vu.

unlike now, where limited time dissolves hesitation. for at any moment, danger could arise, and worry would build our walls. for if we imagine this separate life, we meet, and the paranoia we shared seeps through—our new selves mistaking it for danger, not for what it is—an endless connection we once had, lingering. a connection formed from the bonds of trauma.

for if we were never sent to the ground—to earth—a dream we once had, we would have never had to bear the unwavering sense of paranoia, sorrow, ache, torment, or salvage. if it had never started with jasper being mauled by a spear, many had never died, massacres had never occurred, and we never knew of the city of light, perhaps we could reminisce about our love without the reminder of the unavoidable, chest-tightening, shared memories of agony forming our bond.

we wish we could relish our connection, without the pain of enduring havoc and torment. only if our past ancestors had prepared the future for us. instead of destroying any path we pursue. the city of light, and alie, i refer.

[bellsamorelle]

guidelines ᥫ᭡

requests are always welcome! however, i will not write smut, hard or dark kinks, illegal sexual acts, or anything relating to those.

what i do write includes: fluff, angst, yearners, suggestive themes and language, oneshots, etc.

i mainly write for bellamy blake, stiles stilinski, vampire diaries, and made up scenarios not necessarily relating to any fandom! plus any show i pick up along the way and start to obsess over lmao.. nonetheless, feel free to request other films or fandoms as long as it follows these guidelines.

additionally, let me make it clear that any racism, homophobia, or sexism, will not be tolerated.

~

[bellsamorelle]

“perhaps in another life”

bellamy blake x reader ᭡༄

summary: a diary entry by gf!reader, wishing the love her and bellamy shared for each other was normal “like in the movies”, and hadn’t been formed on bonded trauma.

cw: heavy angst, jasper being struck by a spear, talk of trauma (the agony the 100 had to experience)

perhaps in another life, fear would be foreign, a phrase we envy. possibly in another timeline, we would have exchanged glances—a flash of remembrance of the reverence and ache we once knew. a flicker of understanding, a chance to salvage the connection we had before.

or perhaps, we’d be hesitant to approach one another. if we were to close our eyes and flicker to another time, another universe of our lives, we’d linger a gaze, but turn, diminishing the fleeting feeling of deja-vu.

unlike now, where limited time dissolves hesitation. for at any moment, danger could arise, and worry would build our walls. for if we imagine this separate life, we meet, and the paranoia we shared seeps through—our new selves mistaking it for danger, not for what it is—an endless connection we once had, lingering. a connection formed from the bonds of trauma.

for if we were never sent to the ground—to earth—a dream we once had, we would have never had to bear the unwavering sense of paranoia, sorrow, ache, torment, or salvage. if it had never started with jasper being mauled by a spear, many had never died, massacres had never occurred, and we never knew of the city of light, perhaps we could reminisce about our love without the reminder of the unavoidable, chest-tightening, shared memories of agony forming our bond.

we wish we could relish our connection, without the pain of enduring havoc and torment. only if our past ancestors had prepared the future for us, instead of destroying any path we pursue. the city of light, and alie, i refer.

[bellsamorelle]

Do you feel Bonita?

stiles stilinski x reader

c/w: kissing, fluff

───────────────

ᥫ᭡

You’re kissing Stiles, well aware of the lipstick on your lips being transferred to his.

You snicker at every peck—lipstick reddening his lips. Stiles was too into the makeout to realize your ever so often giggling. Until now, where he’s about to faint from being so flustered. He parts his lips from yours, leaning back on his elbows.

You snicker once again, the lipstick shade matching his flushed cheeks. He raises a brow, confused.

“What?” He says.

You take your phone out of your pocket, showing him his reflection.

“Oh.. my god.” He says, attempting to wipe the color off—but instead smearing it.

You laugh, trying to compose yourself to help him out. You lift your thumb to his lips, cleaning up any color that’s out of his lip-line.

“Much better,” you respond.

Stiles puckers his lips, looking into the camera.

You snicker once again—“Do you feel.. Bonita?”

Stiles’ eyes quickly look to you, playful disappointment on his face.

You lose your composure, busting out laughing.

Stiles smiles, laughing with you.

“Yes, I feel very Bonita. Thank you.”

He kisses your cheek, planting a stain, and chuckles.

[bellsamorelle]

a reblog for my most popular fic (totally not just reposting fics cause i haven’t written any new ones lately)

[captainamericasmotercycle]

ok sorry but why are we writing “sexist” au’s of characters 😭😭😭 women did not fight for this pls this is where i draw the line i #lovewomen and #lovewomensrights

[bellsamorelle]

tattoos

bellamy blake x fem!reader

summary: bellamy acts tough—getting so many tattoos. but the truth spills out as you find he’s tattooing the names of every person who died in his arms. showing that behind that facade of toughness, is a caring man.

cw: tattoo needles, fluff, angst, mention of death

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“i deserve the pain.” bellamy says, face down on the table—you currently tattooing names into his back.

“i deserve to have the names of everyone who has died because of me. because of mount weather, the massacre of 300, and everyone i couldn’t save.”

“bellamy,” you say softly.

“we’ve all done something inhumane, something that will haunt us for the rest of our lives—” you sigh.

“—but the things we did to survive, to have all the people we have alive today, wasn’t for nothing.”

a sudden whistle of the tent fabric dragged the silence.

“bellamy,” you say, in a whisper. “i’m serious. you focus on what we did, not what we have.”

he lets out a soft—almost unheard, sigh. “i know. but it doesn’t always feel like that.”

you exhale, lifting your tattoo gun from his back, then lean in to kiss the back of his shoulder.

amidst the silence, a calming feeling of warmth overwhelms the air—a hush of stillness that almost makes you believe you’re at peace in this world.

he looks at you with strained, yet calm eyes. his hand brushing against your cheek, eyes searching yours.

your study the planes of his face, light faltering across his features. a faint flush rose to his cheeks, his eyes darting away as he cleared his throat.

without a second thought, you pulled him and kissed him.

like his body couldn’t help the reaction, he instinctively drew his hands to your face indulging in the quiet precision.

pulling away to catch the lost breaths, the corner of his mouth lifts to smirk, as he speaks.

“damn, that was pretty romantic.” he teases, breaking the tension.

you snort, laughing at his response. glad he’s back to acting like his cocky, teasing self.

with sincerity, he places another on the back of your hand. conveying there was no regret in the kiss you shared.

your chest tightens, a soft smile appearing on your face.

“that wasn’t very sanitary,” you smirk.

“well shit.” he nudges.

updated and revised as of 7/18/25

[bellsamorelle]

yearning

it was always a possibility bellamy would get captured by a reaper at some point. but the terror you felt when he was really gone made you forget about everything else.

cw: yearning, heavy angst, fluff, mention of death, mention of blood

you and bellamy have a love that is left unsaid—from complimenting each other through bickering and annoying teasing—to glances that are a little too long. the time bellamy almost dies, you both show your love to each other with open arms. a yearning you didn’t know you could feel until the death of another was in play.

you gasp in exhaustion—a few moments ago, you were terrified that bellamy was dead. he had been missing for weeks, and the grounder had sent a bloody skull back to camp. everyone, including you, was out of their mind that they were too late to get to bellamy.

but next thing you all know, bellamy is stumbling into camp—near death.

he explained that he had escaped, and medics immediately rushed him to lie down. he was bloody, full of cuts; looking like had been through hell.

probably had.

you were finally able to breathe knowing he was alive, but at what cost? he had been through hell, and you couldn’t help him. you had been searching for days on end, day and night—not getting any sleep. you thought you knew fear, but not until you realized he might be dead.

you and bellamy’s love was always left as something unsaid, something involving teasing and bickering, a stare too long, but at this time—you realized what you had for him wasn’t something a friend had for a friend.

you loved him. and you couldn’t bear the fact of losing him.

you were the first in the medic tent—face full of concern and worry. panting in exhaustion.

though you were the first to spot bellamy, and get him to the medics, bellamy was in a critical state. medics weren’t allowing anyone inside until after surgery. you’d pace outside the tent for hours on end, not being able to sleep. you sit outside the tent, waiting and waiting for news to come, until you fell asleep.

it was morning now, the sun blaring through your eyelids, and a muffled sound of someone talking. one of the medics were tapping you awake—

“hey, you’re allowed to go see bellamy now,” she says, smiling carefully.

your eyes shoot open, and you rush your way into the tent. eyes full of concern and care.

you exhale out a breath of somber, seeing bellamy with stitches all along his body, bruises, scratches, gashes, and bandages.

it’s an odd feeling to feel this way about him as you two are usually playing around, not taking things seriously, and bantering. but in this moment, you couldn’t care about anything but him.

you didn’t care what you normally act like, this is bellamy. this is something you thought you’d never have to experience with him being so trained in the field. but it happened anyway. i wave of understanding that anything can happen despite you thinking it couldn’t, washed over you.

you care about him more now than ever. a different kind of care. a care of everlasting love.

you sit down next to him, gently holding his hand.

you lean forward, placing a kiss on his forehead—brushing his hair with your fingers.

“shit..” you whisper. “you had me worried for a while, bellamy.” you let out a sigh, leaning your head down.

“that’s my bad” bellamy whispers, voice raspy and hurt.

you look up swiftly, making eye contact with him.

the corner of your mouth lifts slightly, forming a smile.

“you’re awake.” you speak, eyes filled with sorrow.

“i am.” bellamy speaks in a soft whisper.

you gently lean your hand down to rest your head on his hand. you don’t speak, the air filled with somber yet gratitude.

tears stream from your eyes in silence—bellamy feeling drips on his arm.

“y/n” (i’m cringing) bellamy says in a soft-spoken tone.

he places his hand on your head, fingers running through your hair.

“i love you.” he whispers.

you lift your head slowly, tears staining your cheeks. a small smile full of concern and care slightly on your lips.

“i love you too, bellamy,” you say as you lean forward to place another kiss on his forehead—tears burning your cheeks.

you exhale; “i’m so glad you’re here.”