Madz

masterlist

EDIT- I am no longer active, left tumblr to pursue my relationship with Jesus <3 Love you all so much, you have all been so genunine and kind and I will forever charish that. Thank you for being my supporters, moots and friends. Signing off -BoopieMadz

(find my pinterest @/Madisaur001)

NEW ACCOUNT >> @boopieluvsyou

June /30th /2025

im taking a break from tumblr i dont know if/ dont think im coming back. ive been in a spot of hardship and have been continually filling a void in my life with these stories. leaving you amazing people who have given me joy and smiles whenever you send me encouraging messages is really hard, its extremely hard for me to write this and leave this community i have worked so hard to maintain. my heart hurts to be leaving these stories and people behind, but its for the best.

you may be very confused but heres the truth: my relationship with Jesus means more to me then anything. i respect each and every one of you and hope to only wish you well and say how loved ive felt by all you, so i hope you could accept this and not leave any nasty comments.

but ive been so convicted as of late, following lust and the world instead of the God who brought me from the depths of darkness into light. i have tossed him aside and created an idol of this account and these fandoms. For it's in 1st John 5:3-5 it says:

"For this is the love of God that we keep his commandments, and his commandments are not burdensome. For everyone who has been born of God overcomes the world and this is the victory, that is to overcome the world our faith. Who is it that overcomes the world except the one who believes that Jesus is the son of God."

i really hope you respect my decision and i will miss you all deeply. i will be checking this post for a few hours then logging out of my account permanently and changing the password, so if you want to say goodbye (kindly) feel free.

I love you all and continue to pray for you, this is boopiemadz signing off 💗

super fluffy req: reader telling travis that she’s expecting and thinking he’ll probably be nervous, or apprehensive, or say they’re not ready, that he’s not ready (probably because of his own experiences W/ his father)

And yeah he’s nervous because of that but in that moment he’s just so happy and excited :3 idk I’m ovulating and I just need to see him be all teary and happy about being a father 😭

- 🧸🍓

ABSOLUTLY!! I wanted to make this post-rescue, both Reader and Trav had been in the wilderness so there is trauma and lots of uncertainty but they slowly build a family <3

Oh no... (blurb) Girl-dad collection

Travis shifts in his sleep, arm slung heavy across your middle. You’ve been awake for hours. You’ve known for three weeks.

And you’ve tried to tell him - twice. The words always shriveled in your mouth. Not because you don’t want this. But because he might not.

The rescue was just 10 months ago, just enough time for the world to start pretending things are normal again. For the cameras to go away, for the interviews to slow down, for the pity in people’s eyes to fade into quiet discomfort. Everyone’s trying to move on.

But you still jump when the AC kicks on too loud. He still flinches when someone calls his name sharply. His mom barely comes out of her room anymore. You’re staying with him in the only space he’s ever had - a small room that still has posters from when things were easier. The bed is too small for both of you, but you curl around each other every night anyway, trying to keep the cold out even though the house has working heat.

You rest a hand on your stomach. Still barely anything there. Just a secret. Just a weight. You inhale, quietly. Then trace your fingers through his hair.

“Travis,” you whisper. “Hey.”

He stirs.

“Trav, baby. Wake up.”

His lashes flutter. Then he blinks awake, groggy and disoriented.

“Wha-?” he mumbles. “You okay?” You nod. “Yeah. I just… I need to tell you something.”

He props himself up on one elbow, instantly more alert. Still tired, but trying. “Did something happen?”

“No. I mean - kind of. Not like… bad.” You laugh a little nervously. “Just… big.” He frowns slightly, concern tightening his jaw. “Okay. What is it?”

You sit up and tuck your knees to your chest. He watches you, silent. His hand rests on your back, rubbing once.

“I didn’t want to tell you like this,” you murmur. “I didn’t want to scare you. Or make you think I’m expecting something from you. I know things aren’t perfect, and your mom’s still not doing great, and we’re literally living in your childhood bedroom, and-”

“Hey,” he cuts in softly, “you’re rambling. Just tell me.”

You pause. Then breathe.

“I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t move.

Not for a full five seconds.

You almost start crying right there, because his face doesn’t change. Like his whole body is trying not to react. Like he’s bracing for something to hit.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I didn’t plan it. I’m on birth control, it just - it still happened. I didn’t want to spring this on you. I know you probably think we’re not ready. And we’re not. I mean, look at us. We just came back from hell. We’re both still dealing with all of that. And I thought… I thought maybe you’d look at me and think this was one more thing you couldn’t handle.”

“I’m not upset,” Travis says. Quiet.

You look at him. “You’re not?”

He shakes his head slowly. But his eyes are wide, glassy. His voice is low and shaky when he says, “I just - I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be a dad.”

You exhale, eyes stinging. “I know.”

"My dad was a piece of shit. And Javi and I just… raised each other relying on our emotionally abused mother. That’s all I remember. I don’t know what a good dad even looks like.”

“You’re not him,” you say firmly. “You are so not him, Travis.”

He finally looks at you - really looks. His voice is soft and small. “What if I screw it up?”

“You won’t.” You slide closer, holding his hand between yours. “You’re already better than that. You care so much. You love so hard. That’s already more than what you had.”

He chokes on a laugh, then ducks his head, brushing at his cheek. He’s crying before he can stop it. You press your forehead to his, your hands still wrapped around his.

“I was scared you’d leave,” you whisper.

“I would never,” he says through a shaky breath. “I just… I look at you and see everything I want to protect.”

You wipe his cheek. “Even the little blob growing in me?”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-sob, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “Yeah. Yeah, even the blob.”

You melt into him. His face is buried in your neck now, and he’s crying quietly. But his hands are firm on your back. Steady. And when he pulls away enough to place a shaky kiss against your temple, you know he means it.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice cracked.

“I love you more.”

He pulls back, eyes shining with something real. Something that finally feels alive again.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he says.

You smile. “And you’re gonna be the kind of dad you always needed.”

He laughs, wet and relieved and overwhelmed. “Holy shit.”

Then he presses his forehead to your belly and whispers, barely audible: “Hi, baby. I’m your dad.” And you both cry a little more, clinging to each other in the dark.

Because after everything-

the trees, the cold, the blood, the silence.

this is something new.

Something good.

!Populargirl X !LoserTravis

"A little carried away." (blurb)

WARNING: This story contains NSFW content! This does include smut so beware!

(collection masterlist)

You never thought English homework could be the start of something. But there you were - sitting on your bedroom floor, highlighters, scribbled notes, and open copies of The Outsiders spread out between you and Travis Martinez, who looked very much like he had no idea what to do with himself in a girl’s room.

It had started a few weeks ago, when your English teacher paired you two for a big essay project. You, the popular girl who floated through hallways, and Travis, the quiet guy who mostly kept to himself and somehow always knew the right answer in class but never raised his hand.

At first, you offered to meet at your place mostly for convenience, and maybe because you were curious. He was strange in that mysterious way, like someone always halfway through a thought he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Now, he sat stiffly on the floor near your bed, hunched over a notebook, pretending to be more focused than he actually was. His back was straight, legs crossed too carefully like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to relax. His gaze darted from his notes to your bookshelf, to the pink throw pillows on your bed, to your soccer medals hung on the wall. Like everything was too personal, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your world now that he was sitting in the middle of it.

“You can sit on the bed, you know,” you said, smirking as you stretched your legs out, your back resting against the wall.

He shook his head instantly. “I’m good here.”

You laughed softly, not pushing it. “Okay, floor it is.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I just… don’t wanna, like, mess anything up.”

“It’s a bed, Travis. Not a museum.”

But you liked how flustered he was. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, flipping through your annotated pages, “symbolism in The Outsiders. What do we think?”

Travis furrowed his brow and mumbled something about sunsets and divided worlds. He was actually good at this once he started talking, even if he stumbled through his thoughts.

Each day after school, he’d show up at your house - sometimes lingering in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. You’d wave him in like always, and he’d follow you upstairs with quiet reluctance before sitting in that same spot on the floor.

Over time, he got more comfortable. Not by much, but enough to lean back on his hands while you brainstormed aloud, or joke about how awful your teacher’s taste in literature was. He still avoided the bed like it was forbidden territory, though sometimes his arm would brush yours when you passed him a notebook or reached for your drink.

You started to notice things about him. Like how he drew little shapes in the margins of his notes - quiet doodles of abstract monsters or angular faces. Or how he looked up at you when he thought you weren’t watching. Like he couldn’t help it.

One afternoon, you had been sitting with him on the floor rereading a passage. You let your head fall back onto the bed for a second, eyes fluttering closed for just a second too long.

“You okay?” His voice was quieter than usual.

You peeked one eye open. “Just tired.”

There was a rustle, and before you could ask, he pulled off his hoodie. For a second, he just held it, like he wasn’t sure what to do. Then, gently, he leaned forward and draped it over your shoulders.

You blinked. “You looked cold,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You nodded, curling deeper into the dark green sweater. It smelled like laundry detergent and something unmistakably him. “Thanks”

As the deadline got closer, the sessions got longer. He stopped glancing around your room like he was trespassing and started slipping off his shoes by the door without being asked. Your shared conversations wandered from symbolism to music, to movies, to things you never told anyone else. And even when there were silences, they weren’t uncomfortable anymore. Just full.

And then - one evening - the light from the window started to fade, painting your room in shades of warm gold. You were side by side on the floor now, leaning over a book spread open across both your legs. You reached forward to point out a passage.

Your elbows brushed. You both froze.

You turned to him slowly, and there he was - close, so close - looking at you with startled eyes and parted lips like he wasn’t sure if he should apologize or breathe.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly.

But he didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft, your pulse wild.

His hand stayed near yours, just an inch away on the page. The air between you hummed, your knees almost touching. You reached out, barely thinking, and your pinkie brushed his.

He looked down at your hands, then back up at you. His gaze flicked to your lips, then your eyes again.

And slowly he leaned in. He kissed you. Just barely. Just once.

Your breath caught. And then you kissed him back. Shy. Gentle. Warm.

You both lingered for a moment, breaths mingling, eyes locked. Then Travis jerked back suddenly, face flushing red. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." he stammered, looking horrified.

You blinked in surprise at the sudden change. "Hey, it's okay," you said softly, reaching out to take one of his hands. "I kissed you back, remember?" You smiled reassuredly at him, trying to ease his obvious discomfort.

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Yeah, but...I don't know what came over me. I just...you looked...and I..." He trailed off, looking more and more flustered by the second.

Poor Travis, so awkward and unsure. It was almost endearing, in a clumsy sort of way. You knew you had to take the lead again to get him out of his head. So you leaned in slow and pecked his cheek softly, right where it was still burning red. "There," you murmured. "How about now?"

Travis swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. "I...uh..." He seemed at a complete loss for words.

You decided to take pity on him and leaned in to brush your lips against his once more - a real kiss this time, not just a teasing peck. Travis stiffened for a moment before relaxing into it, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as he kissed you back. It was shy and a little clumsy at first, but growing in confidence and intensity with each passing second.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were flushed and breathing a little harder. Travis looked dazed, his eyes glazed over and his mouth parted slightly. "Wow..." he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You couldn't help but grin at his awestruck expression. "I take it that means you're okay with it then?" you teased softly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Travis blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from his mind. A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart skip. "Yeah...yeah, I'm definitely okay with it," he said softly, but with a newfound confidence in his voice.

Feeling emboldened, he leaned in again, slowly, teasingly, he closed the distance, capturing your mouth in a deep, sensual kiss. Your lips moved against his in a lingering caress, savoring every contour.

Travis's hands slid up your sides, coming to rest on your ribs. He held you close as he kissed you back, his tongue tracing your lips, seeking entrance. You parted them for him with a soft sigh.

He walked you backwards until started to climb the edge of your bed, and you tumbled down onto the soft mattress, pulling him with you. Travis hovered over you for a moment, his eyes dark and intense as he gazed down at your flushed face

Travis leaned down, bracing himself on his elbows above you, he looked at you with an intensity you hadn't seen before, his gaze roaming over your face and lingering on your lips. "I've wanted to do that for weeks," he confessed softly, his voice low and rough.

You bit your lip, pulse racing at his admission. "Why didn't you?" you breathed, reaching up to brush a lock of hair off his forehead.

He shrugged one shoulder, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn't think you'd want a loser like me kissing you," he muttered, glancing away briefly before returning his intense stare.

You cupped his cheek, turning him back to face you. "You're not a loser, Travis," you said firmly, your thumb brushing the arch of his cheekbone. "You're...you're really cute."

Travis blinked, surprise flashing across his face before a slow grin spread, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart flutter. "Cute, huh?" he repeated, a hint of teasing in his voice.

You nodded, smiling up at him shyly. "Mhmm. And really good at kissing," you added,

Travis gazed down at you with those earnest, hopeful eyes, his hand sliding to rest on your hip. "Y/N, I...I really like you," he said softly, his thumb rubbing small circles on the fabric of your shirt. "A lot. And I think...I think I want to take this further, if you do too."

He swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "But I gotta ask...is this okay? Or would you...would you rather I stopped?" His brows knitted together in concern, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation or doubt. "Just say the word, and I'll back off. No pressure, alright?"

You gazed up at him with a soft smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Keep going," you murmured, thumb brushing his jawline gently. "I want this too, Travis. I want you."

His eyes widened briefly before a slow, relieved grin spread across his face. "Oh. Okay then," he breathed, leaning into your touch. "In that case..." He kissed you again, deeper.

Travis fumbled with the hem of your shirt, his fingers tangling in the fabric as he tried to tug it up and over your head. He paused, looking down at you with a sheepish grin. "Uh...like this?" he mumbled, fingers brushing against your cheeks as he finally got your shirt off and tossed it aside. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of you in just your bra, a pretty pink flush spreading across his cheeks. "Wow...you look...wow," he breathed.

His hands hovered uncertainly over your chest for a moment before he tentatively reached out to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the lace of your bra. He squeezed gently, not quite sure how to touch you, but eager to learn. "Is this...am I doing this right?" he asked softly, glancing at you with hopeful eyes.

Travis leaned down to press clumsy kisses along your collarbone, his lips and nose brushing against your skin. He nuzzled into the swell of your breasts, his breath hot and ragged against you. "You smell so good."

He fumbled with the clasp of your bra, fingers fumbling and trembling slightly. It took a few tries before he finally got it unhooked, and your breasts spilled free. Travis's eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, lips parting in awe.

"Wow," he breathed, his hands hovering uncertainly over your bare skin. Sheer admiration shone in his gaze as he drank in every dip and curve. Travis's fingers fumbled with the button of your pajama pants, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he popped it open. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, dragging your pants and panties down your legs and tossing them carelessly to the floor.

His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, now bare beneath him. Hesitantly, he slid his hands up your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the soft skin. "You're so beautiful."

Travis leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses along your hipbones, he worked his way up slowly, taking his time, until he was hovering just above where you needed him most.

He glanced up at you, cheeks flushed and eyes hopeful. "Is this okay?" he murmured. "Tell me if I should stop." His thumb brushed teasingly over you, not quite touching where you wanted him most.

Travis was a virgin, after all, and it showed in his unsure touches and hesitant kisses. But there was a sweetness to his clumsy affection, a tender reverence in his caresses. 

Travis slid two fingers inside you, groaning softly at the feel of you gripping him. "Like this?" he breathed out, thumb rubbing faster circles around you as he felt your hips start to buck up against his hand.

He could feel you fluttering around his fingers, your breathing growing heavier. He leaned down and replaced his thumb with his tongue, dragging it through you and moaning at your taste.

"Please, Travis," you gasped out, one hand holding onto his hair. "More. I need more." You were panting now, head thrown back against the pillow as he worked you over with fingers and tongue.

Travis growled softly against your skin, the vibrations making your toes curl. He curled his fingers just right and you let out a sharp gasp, hips bucking up against his hand. "Please, Travis," you whimpered, "I need...I need you inside me." You reached down, grasping him under his pants.

Travis shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips. "Are you sure?" he breathed out, struggling to maintain control as he ached to bury himself inside you.

"Please," you begged, looking up at him with hazy, lust-filled eyes. "I want to feel you, all of you." With a low, guttural groan, Travis couldn't resist any longer. He gripped your hips and thrust forward, burying himself to the into you.

He held still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feel of him. Then, slowly, he started to move, pulling outbefore thrusting back in, harder this time. He set a steady, deep rhythm, his hips rolling against yours with each powerful stroke.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his backside as you urged him on. "Yes, Travis," you gasped out, nails raking down his back. Travis could feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. With a cry of his name, your nails digging into his shoulders, your back arched spasming around him pushed Travis over the edge.

With one final, hard thrust, he buried himself as deep as possible inside you and let out a guttural moan. As your orgasm crashed over you, Travis felt you clenching rhythmically around him, urging him closer to his own release. At the last second, he pulled out with a strangled groan, his climax hitting him hard. Travis shuddered and gasped your name, exhausted he collapsed beside you, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist as he struggled to catch his breath. "That was...incredible."

A/N-

love the pun lol

Travis Martinez ~ (in chronological order)

Oh no...

Pregnancy is not fun (coming soon)

Shopping for your baby on the way

You look just like your daddy (coming soon)

Some days are harder then others, but your worth it (headcanons, coming soon)

Daddy daughter date (coming soon)

Spencer reid ~ (in chronological order)

Hey Spence? (coming soon)

Suprise party! (coming soon)

Should we look into Latin? (headcanons, coming soon)

Honey you should go home (coming soon)

Send in requests for Girl-dad Spencer! (once all works are complete)

-🩰🙈

YESSS post-high school (and crash), settled-down Travis x fem!Reader being domestic cuties while baby shopping. She's pregnant, and Travis is giving full soft girl dad energy while still being his awkward, sweet self. IM OBSESSED!! (side note should I make a girl dad Travis series??)

You hadn’t expected him to get emotional over a baby hat.

It’s knit a soft, white beanie with little bear ears, and Travis is just staring at it like it holds all the answers to the universe.

“We have to get it,” he says, his voice quiet but steady.

You smile, resting a hand on your bump. “It’s a hat, Trav.”

“It’s her hat,” he replies like that should’ve been obvious. “Like - her first one. She’s gonna wear this when we take her home.”

Your chest tightens in the best way, and for a second, you just look at him - his face serious, his hands gentle as he folds the hat like it’s made of glass, his brow creased in concentration. He’s come a long way from the closed-off, guarded boy you knew in high school. He still gets overwhelmed, still goes quiet when his brain gets too loud, but now… he lets you in.

And the fact that he’s this serious over a little beanie with ears?

Girl dad. Through and through.

You reach out and tug gently on his jacket. “We can get her five hats.” He cracks a smile and finally looks at you, eyes soft. “We’re getting this one, though.”

“Obviously.”

He drops it into the cart and then immediately picks up a onesie with ducks on it. “What about this?”

“Adorable.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m saying you are adorable for holding it like it’s alive.”

He flushes. “Shut up.”

You laugh and thread your fingers through his, squeezing gently. The baby section is quieter than the rest of the store. There’s something sacred about it - gentle lighting, pastel colors, tiny hangers and tinier socks.

Travis doesn’t say much at first. He mostly trails behind the cart, nodding along, scanning everything like he’s memorizing it for a test. But every so often, he surprises you. Grabs a baby bottle and goes, “This says ‘Dad’s Favorite’ - do you think that’s too cocky?”

You’re in the stroller aisle when you finally pause to sit for a second, heart fluttering a little too fast under the weight of walking. He notices instantly, crouching beside you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, fanning yourself. “Just tired. Not used to this much cardio with a human inside me.”

He pulls your water bottle from the side of the cart without being asked and opens it for you. “You’re pushing yourself.”

“Because I want to find the right stuff.”

“You are the right stuff,” he mutters, half under his breath, not meeting your eyes as he says it.

You blink. “What?”

He looks up, cheeks pink. “I mean - she’s already got the best mom. The rest is just... bonus gear.”

Your throat goes tight. “Travis.”

He shrugs, trying to be cool, but his lips twitch with a smile.

You lean up and kiss him quick - just enough to catch him off guard. “You’re gonna be the kind of dad other dads feel insecure around.”

“That’s not even a thing.”

“It will be once you’re out here wearing her in a carrier and heating up bottles with that focused little face you get.”

His smile cracks wide open. “My focused little face?”

“Yeah. You look like you’re solving a murder every time you try to cook eggs.”

He lets out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I really do.”

The sun’s starting to set by the time you finally check out - two bags of baby clothes, a set of bottles, socks, and the tiniest pink rainjacket you’ve ever seen. Travis loads it all into the back of your car with careful hands, then opens your door and helps you in before jogging around to his side.

“You hungry?” he asks once he’s buckled in.

“Always.”

“Pizza or pancakes?”

“Travis Martinez, are you offering me pancakes for dinner?”

“I’m offering you whatever you want, and if that means pancakes, then yeah.”

You grin. “God, I love you.”

His ears turn red. He still gets that look sometimes - like he can’t believe this is real. Like he’s waiting to wake up back in that high school hallway where he was just some quiet, weird kid with shaky hands and too many thoughts.

But you reach across the console, lay your hand on his, and he exhales. Settles.

Because this is real.

And soon, there’ll be a little girl, A little girl in the bear hat. A little girl who gets held by him, loved by him, protected by him.

Yeah. He’s gonna be the best girl dad.

⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁."You watch me wallow from a corner of my mind, 'Cause you caught me in a version of myself that I don't like, and you don't deserve this, I keep fucking up your nights. And I know I won't get better if you're standin' by my side" ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

. ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁."If clairity's in death then why won't this die?" . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁."I can still remember how your fingers felt, Clawing at my insides till I melt. I don't wanna say the way it really felt. There's a sort of feeling that you make me have, Snow cones and your dad's baseball cap, I don't like the feeling that it makes me have.". ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁."You're on top of me, And I’m under you. And it never stops, I am guilty, aren't you? No one gets to win, So we will both lose. Tell me why you think you love me, I am guilty, you're a fool. I want you to hate me, I deserve it for my crimes" . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

. ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁."What could've been, would've been, what should've been you.".. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ .

(specifically lane and Lottie…)

Lane & Lottie (ty for this req Ive been pondering this for ages)

"You're Everything I Refuse to Bow To"

Lane doesn't hate Lottie. But God, he wants to.

He wants to hate the calm in her voice, he wants to hate the way she never seems afraid, only devout. As if devotion could keep them safe. As if kneeling in the dirt and calling it holy makes the blood any less real.

And most of all, he wants to hate the way the others listen to her. Eat from her hand. Pray to the wind because she told them to.

But he can’t hate her. Not fully. Because sometimes she’s the only one who looks at him and understands the need to stay in it, the desperation, the unwellness he feels without it.

"You’re Not Divine - You’re Dangerous."

Lottie is a flame that refuses to flicker. Lane wants to blow her out. Wants to snuff out the certainty in her eyes. Wants to shake her until she says she doesn’t know what it all means, either.

But she never does.

To her, the whispers are truth. The pain is necessary. The sacrifice is sacred. And to Lane, that is horrifying.

Because he’s also heard the whispers. And they didn’t sound holy. They sound hungry.

Lane doesn’t want a leader. He wants escape. He wants quiet, he wants it to stop barking orders at him and captivating his mind. He resents her because the same darkness clawing at his ribs, she calls divine. She offers it her blood, her voice, her belief.

“If this thing wanted you to live,” Lane snarls one night, “it should’ve picked someone who fights back.”

And Lottie just says:

“It chose you, too. You just won’t listen.”

The Desire He Never Asked For

Lane doesn’t want to want Lottie.

He’s attracted to her in a way that makes him furious. Not just because she’s beautiful - though she is, almost hauntingly so - but because her beauty feels deliberate, like she was carved to be the perfect idol. Blessed, ethereal, untouchable.

He notices things he pretends not to: the slope of her neck when she tilts her head in prayer, the way her voice softens when she talks to the others, how sweat clings to her temple in the golden hour light. It’s not just want - it’s shameful, conflicted desire. He’s drawn to her like something primal, even while his mind is screaming don’t trust her.

And sometimes - just sometimes - he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss her.

Not out of love. Out of defiance. Out of a desperate need to collapse whatever line exists between them. But he never does. Because if he did, he might not stop.

And loving Lottie Matthews - truly loving her - would mean surrendering to the same force that destroyed everything else.

And Lane Fulmer would rather burn than bow.

His descent into maddness

Lane has seen things since the beginning through his camera.

He saw antlers in the trees. He saw fire in his hands. He saw Chelsea dead before he ever laid a finger on her. And still, for most of Seasons 1 and 2, Lane refused to submit.

Not because he didn’t believe - he did. But because belief, to him, was moral surrender. To follow the voice would mean accepting that this thing in the woods, this dark hunger whispering behind the wind, is right. That killing, sacrifice, loss... are not just inevitable, but sacred.

That terrified him. So he rejected it. Even while it tore him apart inside.

Lottie? He resented her most of all. Because she never fought it. She embraced the wilderness, clothed it in ritual, softened it with flowers and prayer. She made it digestible.

Lane never could.

Where Lottie created meaning, Lane saw horror. Where she called it divine, he called it hunger. She wanted worship.

Then...

He didn’t just start seeing more, hearing more. He started understanding. He started going deeper, accepting it not as this painting of something worth bowing too, but something worth dying for.

That’s when he burned the cabin. Not as vengeance. Not for freedom. But because the god that speaks to him told him to. And he finally let it take over.

And in the smoke and ashes, Lane finally stopped resisting.

Chelsea had became a block. The voice made that clear. When he killed her, it wasn’t out of rage. It was submission. Manic, tearful, deliberate. Like crossing a threshold. And once she was gone - once the blood was spilled - the voice grew louder and his passion to follow it grew.

Lane doesn’t follow Lottie’s rituals. He doesn’t chant with her or kneel at her feet. Because her god is too clean. Too ceremonial. Too forgiving.

The one that speaks to Lane is harsher, violent. It doesn’t ask - it takes. And for all his anger and pain, Lane understands it now. It speaks in chaos. It feeds on weakness. It rewards pain with clarity.

And he no longer thinks he’s wrong for listening.

Lottie still captivates him. Still represents everything he tried to be. He no longer wants to kiss her. He wants to shake her. To make her see what he sees - that there is no mercy in the wilderness.

Only submission. And he hates that part of him still reaches for her hand when no one’s looking.

And the tragedy is: He was right to be afraid.

OOOOOO! So fun! Wanted to write more for Grumpy X Sunshine so hope you don't mind added it to my collection. Also decided to make these headcanons :P

!GrumpyTravis X !SunshineReader (m-list)

↳ The arcade wasn’t actually your idea this time - it was Travis’s. He won’t admit to meticulously planning it though. It starts when he texts you randomly on a Thursday afternoon:

Travis- I’ve got Javi all weekend. Thought we could take him out somewhere Friday night. You in?

You immediately respond:

Y/N- Like a DATE date with Javi as our emotional support child?

He doesn’t reply for 11 minutes. Then:

Travis- Sure. Bring quarters.

↳ He figured you’d have fun, and Javi would be distracted, and he wouldn’t have to overthink anything. What he didn’t figure was how hard his heart would be beating the second he saw you outside the arcade in that little jacket and shiny lip gloss, grinning like the whole world lit up just because you saw him.

↳ He tries not to act like it’s a big deal. You greet Javi first, high-fiving him and asking what games he wants to play tonight. Javi’s obsessed with you. He tells you he’s saving up tickets for a lava lamp and he’s going to “crush everyone in skeeball like a legend.” You call him “Javi the Great” and say you’ll be honored to lose to him.

↳ Meanwhile, Travis is standing beside you two, arms crossed, eyes squinting at the sun setting behind the arcade roof like it personally offended him. He mutters, “He’s gonna get overstimulated in 15 minutes.”

↳ You think Travis is just gonna watch - stay in the background, lean against a machine, pretend he’s not interested. But five minutes in, he’s feeding tokens into the claw machine because you saw a stuffy duck in a hoodie and made the tiniest pout. You didn’t even ask him to win it - you just said, “Look at him. I need him. He has eyebrows.” He sighed once. Then muttered, “Hold this,” and handed you his drink like he was heading into battle.

↳ He won it on the first try. Then an elephant. Then a frog. He just kept handing them to you without saying anything, until you were cradling a small army of ridiculous plushies in your arms and looking at him with wide, sparkly eyes.  

“I didn’t know you were secretly a claw machine god,” you said.“I’m not.”“Then what is this?” “…My love for you.”

↳ The games bring out a completely different side of Travis. He’s focused. Quietly competitive. And when you team up on a two-player shooter, he moves closer than he probably meant to. Shoulder to shoulder. Elbow bumping yours. You’re absolutely horrible at it - wildly missing every target, but he’s got perfect aim. Still, every time you squeal when you get one right, he looks over. Like he just wants to keep seeing you light up like that.

↳“You’re not even helping,” he mumbles, shooting another perfect headshot. “Wrong,” you say, proudly. “I’m helping morale.” He almost laughs. “That’s what you call screaming every five seconds?” You grin, “Yes,“It’s called being emotionally supportive.” He rolls his eyes, but you catch the small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth anyway.

↳ Javi is on a mission. You are cheering him on like it’s the Olympics. Every time he wins a few more tickets or beats a level, you’re gasping dramatically and shouting “JAVI MARTINEZ YOU ARE UNSTOPPABLE.” He bows like royalty. He eats it up. Meanwhile, Travis is staring at the two of you like he’s in the middle of a long, slow headache.

↳ You’re sunshine. Travis is quiet thunderclouds. But he loves you anyway, secretly your rays of light warms his heart and his annoyance is truly admiration.

↳ Somewhere between games, you land at the photo booth. Javi jumps in first and takes like fifteen selfies making faces. Then it’s just you and Travis. You’re seated side-by-side on the cramped bench. He’s stiff. Doesn’t know where to put his hands. You lean in close and poke his cheek.

“Smile like you actually like me.” He looks down at you. “I do like you.” The camera flashes just as he says it. You look up at him afterward - and yeah, he’s blushing.

↳Then, he leans in and kisses you - soft and deliberate. Then again, deeper this time, lips moving against yours with a hungry urgency. Your fingers find the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer as he wraps an arm around your waist. The camera flashes again, capturing the moment, but you’re barely aware of it. Suddenly, he slips a hand over your chest, cupping you firmly as he leans in for another slow, teasing kiss. The flash goes off again, catching that cheeky moment. You laugh breathlessly, trying to wiggle away, but he just holds you tighter.

“Okay, last one,” he says, grinning.

↳You both sit up straight and throw your arms around each other, making ridiculous faces - tongues out, eyes crossed, doing your best goofy couple pose. The final flash goes off, sealing the night’s memories in four little snapshots. He pulls the strip from the machine, holding it up like a trophy. You grin, already looking forward to the next time you get to make memories like this - messy, silly, and completely yours.

↳ At the end of the night, you sit outside on the curb while Javi’s in line to cash out his mountain of tickets. You’re sipping the last of your mountain dew and swinging your legs, clutching a tiny lava lamp he picked out.

You look over at him. “This was fun.” He hums. “You say that like it surprised you.” You laugh. “It just… I dunno. It felt like a very happy night.” He doesn’t answer right away. But after a second, he puts his arm around your shoulders. “Yeah. It was.”

but it’s just. travis x reader (whom he’s already friends with) where it’s the initial plane crash and he’s scared because he can’t find them anywhere (kinda like ur “im finna be in the pit” story (i love that one— it’s why I followed you initially, I think), but when they’re just friends!!). angst with fluffy ending because I’ve been torturing myself lately…</3

luv ya! (In the most non-parasocial way possible)

- 🧸🍓

!GrumpyTravis X !SunshineReader (m-list)

About damn time

The plane shakes. You’ve flown before. Field trips, Vacations, Once to Disneyland with your family. You’ve never loved it, but turbulence never made your stomach churn like this.

This is different. This is screaming. The plane screams with metal and fire and something you can't name.

You twist in your seat to check on Natalie, one row behind you, and she nods at you with eyes far too calm. You know it’s not real calm. It’s her version of brave. You don’t even get the chance to ask if she’s okay. You glance to the right.

He sits beside you. Travis.

You’re not really close. Not in the way most people think of it. You're the girl who talks too much, who bounces around like you live on sugar and sleep deprivation, who asked him on the first day of sophomore year if he liked dogs or cats better and didn’t stop talking even when he didn’t answer.

And he never really asked you to keep coming around. But you did. Everywhere Travis went, you found an excuse to sit near him. Not in a stalker way. Just - you liked him. The way he didn’t fake a smile. The way he grumbled but still listened. You made it your mission to crack him open like a cold soda can.

You'd call him names like "Grumpasaurus" and "Travis Eeyore Martinez." You never expected him to laugh, but sometimes, just sometimes, you caught the corner of his mouth twitching. That was enough.

Everyone teased him about it. About you. Asked if he was your boyfriend. If he needed earplugs. He always rolled his eyes. But he never told you to leave.

Somehow, even with you like a beam of light and him the permanent cloud overhead, you fit.

Now, when the plane lurches, when the ceiling cracks open and oxygen masks fall, you scream his name. He looks over. Eyes wide. Terrified. You reach for him. He grabs your wrist.

And then everything breaks.

Travis comes to with blood in his mouth. He can’t breathe. The noise is gone. Everything's too quiet. It makes him sick. He groans as he tries to sit up, the seatbelt cutting against his ribs. The smell of fuel and ash coats everything.

Panic claws into his chest like a wildfire. He yanks the seatbelt free, stumbles into the aisle. Bodies. Screams. Smoke.

He trips over part of a seat. Shouts your name. Again. And again. Nothing. He checks survivors, digs through burnt wreckage with his bare hands. A bruise blossoms across his ribs where something hit him. He doesn't care.

"Where is she?!" he snaps at Natalie, half-crazed. She’s crying, tells him she doesn’t know. Misty hovers behind her, pale and quiet. It’s been fifteen, then twenty minutes. Every second feels like a year.

He searches the main wreckage, the trees, rips through brush. Calls your name over and over until it stops sounding real. Until the voice that comes out of him doesn’t sound like his own.

He thinks of the way you used to plop into the seat beside him in chemistry class, with gum in your mouth and a sparkle in your eye. The way you always said things like, “You’re gonna miss me when I’m not around.” as you pestered him with your unrelenting smirk.

He’d scoffed. He’s not scoffing now.

Then he hears rustling. Sees part of your jacket - torn, caught on a branch.

He finds your shoe first. Then your arm. Then you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been pinned. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a lifetime. Your ribs burn, your shoulder is crushed beneath twisted metal. You can’t move. You can barely think.

You close your eyes.

It’s autumn. You and Travis are in the parking lot after practice. You’ve convinced him to let you drive him home. You play music too loud and sing off-key. He rolls his eyes and tells you that you’re an idiot, but he doesn’t stop you. When you drop him off, he mumbles, "See you tomorrow." You swear you catch him smiling.

Another memory. In the hallway after school. He’s at his locker, and you’re sitting on the floor, talking about dreams. He pretends not to listen. Then he mutters, "You talk like I care." You grin. "I think maybe you do, why else would you still be standing there stuffing things in and out of your locker for what - 20 minutes?." His face had gone red. You never forgot it.

You whisper, "Trav... please..."

And then-

"I GOT HER!"

The wreckage shifts. Cold air rushes your face. He’s there.

Mud-covered. Scraped up. Bleeding. Wild-eyed.

Travis Martinez falls to his knees. He cradles your face like it’s glass. He’s shaking.

"I thought you were dead," he gasps. "I thought- I couldn’t- "

You reach for him with your good arm. "You looked for me?"

His voice breaks. "I never stopped."

And then he kisses you. No warning. No hesitation. Just grabs your face and kisses you like it’s none of his business. It's messy and desperate and all teeth and tears, and you sob into his mouth because you never thought you'd feel this again. His hands cup your jaw like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish.

You gasp out a shaky laugh. "God, I never thought you’d actually do it." His forehead presses to yours. "Yeah, well. I didn’t either."

"About damn time, Martinez."

"Shut up."

His hand doesn’t leave your cheek. Misty appears behind him, whispering instructions to get you to safety. Everyone gathers around to move the wreckage your trapped under. You scream a little when it lifts. Travis holds you tighter.

He doesn’t leave your side. Not when they clean your wounds. Not when someone tries to carry you - he insists on doing it himself. You don’t protest.

That night, as the fire crackles and the others sleep in stunned silence, you sit bundled in a blanket, propped up against a tree. Travis beside you. Close.

You whisper, "You were scared. Mr. 'I dont feel anything' was scared"

He stiffens. Says nothing.

You turn to him. Your voice is quiet. "All for little old me."

He blinks at you. And then his face twists.

"You don’t get it, do you?" he says, suddenly raw. "I didn’t know what I would do if I didn’t find you. I didn’t care if the whole goddamn plane burned, I just- "

And then he kisses you again.

You smile against his mouth. "Twice in one day? Who are you?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

He does.

And you let him.

You fall asleep that night with your hand in his. Your body aching. Your heart full. And somewhere in the smoke and ruins of a broken world, something new has started to burn.

---

A/N

Summary: Years ago, they were two students writing anonymous letters under the names "Sparrow" and "Owl." Through words alone, they fell for each other. Now, working side by side at the FBI, neither of them knows they’ve already loved each other once before. When fragments of their old letters turn up at crime scenes, everything comes back - and the truth changes everything.

In college, you were part of a psychology experiment - a correspondence study meant to test intimacy through anonymity. Each student was paired with a stranger from a different school. You, at Columbia University, were told you'd be paired with a student from Caltech. The project was funded by a cross-campus research grant on emotional intimacy through language. You signed your letters "Sparrow." Your partner signed his, "Owl."

The letters started formally - discussions of books, fears, dreams, and ideologies. The first letter you received was short, no more than two paragraphs. He introduced himself simply: Owl. He said he liked libraries, maps, silence, and things that made other people uncomfortable. You remember reading his letter in your dorm, beneath a lamp that barely lit the corners of your desk, and smiling for the first time in days.

You wrote back: brief at first, nervous. Told him you didn’t like the word "lonely" but often felt it. That you believed in ghosts - not supernatural ones, but emotional echoes. You talked about old poetry. About T.S. Eliot and grief. About your mom’s music collection and why you never slept with the door closed.

His reply was longer.

And from there, it took off. The letters became your ritual. Wednesday mornings were for envelopes tucked into the red campus mailbox. Saturdays were for hiding in your dorm to read his words alone. You never missed a week. It became real. It became sacred.

Owls handwriting was precise. He drew diagrams when he didn’t have the words, sketched out ideas in half-maps and graphs. His tone was painfully sincere. Sometimes fragmented. He confessed he hated the way people pitied him for being smart. That sometimes his thoughts moved too fast for his mouth. That he memorized everything and still felt like nothing stuck.

You wrote back that you felt unmoored, too. That the world often moved without your permission. That you didn’t know who you were supposed to be but felt safer telling him anyway.

You never met. Never spoke. The rules of the study forbade it. But there was something intoxicating in the not-knowing. You imagined Owl in pieces - his fingers ink-stained, maybe. His dorm filled with books. You pictured him sitting on the floor of a silent library, headphones in, scribbling thoughts he couldn't say aloud.

Then, with no warning, the letters stopped.

No goodbye. No explanation. You waited three months before you gave up.

You kept every one of his letters. Bundled by twine, in an old shoebox. You finished school. Took the FBI exam. Worked your way through the field, quiet and capable. You never forgot the mysterious stranger you found yourself falling for. You stopped waiting, but never forgot.

Years later, you’re at Quantico, sitting in a conference room across from Dr. Spencer Reid. You’ve worked with him for over a year. He’s strange. Brilliant. Guarded. But kind, in his own awkward way. You’ve always felt something around him - like you’ve known him longer than time allows.

The file on the table is grim. Three murders in Southern California. One victim posed with a cracked mirror. Another with a string of symbolic items: a chess piece, a pinecone, and a library card from Caltech’s main archives. All of them professors or scholars. All of them staged with purpose.

"There are notes," Hotch says. "Poetic phrases found written next to the bodies. None of them traceable to published work."

Garcia clicks through slides. The fourth reads: "To find truth, one must go alone into the dark." You freeze.

You wrote that. To Owl. In your sixth letter.

The room fades out for a second, the air too thin. You pull your attention back thinking, it must be a coincidence.

Later, after a long jet ride, you review the files alone in your hotel. You find another note photographed next to one of the victim’s: "Ghosts speak loudest to those who never stopped listening."

Letter twelve. Yours.

You don't sleep that night.

Over the following days, more letters appear in and around places the victims routinely visited - echoes from your past in the mouths of the dead. The phrases are too exact to be coincidental. Someone has copies of your letters. But how? And why?

At first, you try to convince yourself it’s an impossible coincidence. But when the third victim was positively identified to be one of the co-researchers on the original project, your stomach drops. Dr. Cho. Missing for two months. Presumed dead. Now confirmed.

"What kind of experiment was this again?" Morgan asks. You glance up from the screen.

"Cross-institutional letter exchange," you say. "Students were paired based on psych profiles. Asked to write for three months anonymously."

"What was the control?"

"There wasn't one. The goal was to study how anonymity affects vulnerability and connection."

Spencer tilts his head. "That sounds... familiar."

You look up sharply. "Did you do it?"

"I was at Caltech. Second year. They pulled some of us for a writing study. We had codenames. I was... Owl."

It’s like the floor disappears beneath you.

You nod, slowly, guarded. "What do you remember about your pen pal?"

He shrugs, thoughtful. "She was poetic. Sad, I think. But brilliant. We wrote about libraries and grief. The nature of memory. I burned the letters after Gideon left. Didn’t want to remember how much they meant to me, holding onto the hope we would find eachother was too painful."

He doesn't recognize you.

You excuse yourself. You go back to your hotel room and open the shoebox you had brought with you once you realized what the quotes were from.

You read them. All of them. Your own handwriting, responding to his. His quiet observations. His drawings. The dream about walking a spiraling staircase and ending in a mirror. His frustration at being told he was too much, too intense. The way you once signed a letter: "If you’re ever a ghost, haunt me gently."

Two days pass before you tell him.

Not until another body is found - with an origami bird in her hand.

You find Reid on the steps outside the precinct. He’s drinking coffee, flipping through his case-notes. "I need to tell you something," you say. He looks up. Blinks. "Okay."

You sit beside him. "I was Sparrow."

He doesn't speak for a long moment. Just stares at you. Then blinks again, slower.

"From the experiment?"

You nod.

"You're..."

"Yeah."

He sets his notebook down slowly. "Why didn’t you say anything before?"

"I didn’t know it was you at first. And then when I did, I didn’t know if you’d want to know."

He exhales, hand to his temple. "I burned them, the letters. I regret that now. But I remember some things, most things, eidetic memory..."

Your voice is smaller than you intend. "Someone’s using our letters. Just ours."

"The unsub must have accessed the electronic archive they entered every letter in, it was created to keep track of the results... he must have been one of the moderators for the project who got a little too attatched to you..." he says. "But that doesn’t explain the origami. That wasn’t in the letters."

"No," you whisper. "That was just us. I folded one into the last envelope. He- well I guess you, never responded."

He goes quiet again. "I didn’t get that one."

You look at him. "That’s why you stopped writing. He must've intercepted my last letter before it got to you."

The trap was set. You draft a new letter together. You write it by hand. He adds notes in the margins. It’s strange - working side by side with the person who once only existed as black ink on cream paper.

You sign it: "Yours, still, Sparrow."

The reply comes in a matter of hours. A bound volume of your letters, printed out, annotated in red. Obsessive. Worshipful. Violent.

Inside is a single line: "He never deserved you."

The unsub sets the stage in his response - a private library close to the precinct you were working out of. He wants you to come alone. One last letter. One final act.

You walk through the stacks like you’re underwater. Every wall echoes. Every breath feels borrowed. The unsub waits, hands gloved, holding your letters like scripture.

"You were Sparrow. You were mine."

"You never even knew me," you say.

"But I read everything. I saw you."

"You saw what I gave someone else."

"He wasted it. He burned it."

You stare him down. "I forgive him."

The signal is given. The team bursts in. Reid tackles the unsub himself.

Weeks had then passed since the chaos settled, since the unsub was caught and the shadows of your shared past briefly lifted.

Then, the package arrived.

It was unassuming, wrapped in brown paper, the edges frayed like an artifact from a forgotten time. No return address. You peeled it open with a slow reverence, your hands trembling just slightly, as if handling something sacred.

Inside lay a leather-bound notebook, worn at the edges, the supple cover faintly scented with old books and ink. You traced your fingers over its spine, a shiver rippling through your chest.

You opened the cover.

"For Sparrow, between the past and this moment."

The dedication was written in Spencer’s precise, looping handwriting. Ink slightly faded, but every word vivid as if whispered directly to you.

The notebook rested on your lap, its leather cover worn soft by time and countless nights spent open on Spencer’s desk or his favorite café table. This was no longer the stranger of distant letters - these were poems written for you, the woman he worked beside every day, the woman whose presence unsettled and inspired him in equal measure.

Each page felt like a secret unfolding.

“I watch you from the edges of crowded rooms, The way you tilt your head when lost in though., A careful quiet broken only by laughter. That slips like sunlight through autumn leaves.”

You traced the words, imagining the countless moments he observed you - unnoticed, unspoken, the way he pieced together fragments of you like clues in his case files.

The poems turned inward, revealing his fears - his worries that his feelings might break the fragile balance between you.

“I fear the chasm between us, wide and deep, Built from silences and things unsaid. Yet I find myself reaching across the void, Yearning for something I cannot name.”

You could feel the tension in his words, the battle between wanting to protect himself - and wanting to let himself fall. Between the poems, his handwriting sometimes faltered, lines scratched out, rewritten, almost as if he doubted his own courage.

One poem was followed by a small drawing - a park bench beneath two sprawling oak trees, their leaves sketched with delicate strokes. You paused, heart quickening.

“If ever you find yourself lost in the crowd, Or weighed down by shadows too dense to bear, Know there is a place where the world grows still, A bench beneath oaks that hold whispered prayers.”

The imagery was unmistakable: the quiet park near the city’s edge, where you sometimes went to escape the noise and the weight of everything. You remembered those afternoons alone, the feel of rough bark beneath your fingers, the way the setting sun painted the leaves gold.

The poems grew bolder as the pages turned, each one a step closer to confession.

“I’ve fallen in love with the way you move through light, With the quiet strength that anchors storms inside. If only you knew the weight of my hope, You’d let me in, no longer denied.”

You paused again, fingers trembling slightly, heart beating unevenly as if the poems themselves were alive, pulsing with something urgent and fragile.

“I write these words in the hope they might reach you, Across the distance we pretend to keep. If you ever tire of shadows and want to find me, Look for the bench where silence and daylight meet.”

Your breath caught. The final poem was folded carefully at the back, sealed with a faint imprint of a purple Sparrow and an illistration of a red Owl.

You read it over, letting the lines settle:

“When the dusk drapes the sky in amber hues, And the world softens into whispered truths, Come find me where the oaks embrace the breeze, Where two souls may speak beyond words and pleas. I am waiting, not as a shadow or name, But as a man who has loved you just the same.”

Your fingers closed the notebook gently, your heart pounding with anticipation.

You knew where he meant. The park. The bench. Tomorrow at dusk.

The next evening, as the sky softened from gold to rose and the breeze stirred the leaves with quiet whispers, you approached the park. Your steps slowed, breath catching as your eyes fell on the familiar figure seated beneath the spreading branches of the oak.

There he was - the man whose words had cradled your heart, whose silent love had shaped so many quiet moments.

You stood frozen, the world narrowing until it was only the two of you, breath mingling with the fading light.

And then your eyes met.

Spencer stood just a few feet away, eyes fixed on you, searching for words that had taken him years to find. His voice was low, steady, carrying the weight of everything he’d held inside.

“I loved her,” he began, voice a little rough, “Sparrow. Even when I didn’t know who she was, even when it was just letters on paper. I loved her words - the way she spoke of loneliness, hope, pain... how she saw the world. Somehow, through the distance and the silence, I felt connected to her, like she was the only person who really understood what it meant to feel broken but keep going.”

He swallowed, his eyes never leaving yours. “And then... I started noticing you. Not as Sparrow. Just you. The way you looked when you were thinking about something too complicated to say out loud, the way your laughter filled a room, the way you carried your quiet strength. I realized I was falling for you.”

You felt your chest tighten as his words settled over you. His vulnerability, so rare and precious, wrapped around you like a soft shield.

“And now,” he said, taking a hesitant step closer, “here you are. Both the writing I once knew and loved, and the girl I've found myself day to day captivated by. And I love you. I love you - more than I ever thought I could love someone.”

You swallowed hard, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Your voice was quiet but certain. “I loved him too. Owl. Even before I knew you were him. I loved the way he thought, the way he cared so deeply but hid it behind numbers and facts. I thought he was unreachable, and I was scared to fall for someone I didn’t know. But I did. I fell for you - without even knowing it was you.”

Your gaze softened, and you reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek. “And now you’re here. Real, in front of me. And I love you too.”

Spencer’s breath caught, his lips parting slightly. Slowly, with the gentleness of a whispered prayer, he leaned in. Your lips met - soft at first, tentative, savoring the moment as if making sure it was real.

Then the kiss deepened, passion blooming between you, years of longing and unanswered questions melting away in the warmth of shared breath.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cooling air.

You smiled, with a quiet confidence of someone who’d waited a long time. “I was hoping... you'd come home with me.”

His eyes widened in surprise and delight. “I’d like that. More than anything.”

You slipped your hand into his, fingers lacing tightly with his own.

He pulled you gently into his side as you walked away from the park, the night unfolding around you like the beginning of everything you both had waited for.

A/N-