#sunshine/storm cloud pairing

[fanficgirl429]

Sex, Dishes, and Emotional Damage

Prompt: Y/N walks into the kitchen where the rest of the Thunderbolts are and is in a very grouchy mood. She's mad at them for one reason and Bucky for another.

Pairing: Fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

---

The kitchen buzzed with the usual morning chaos: clattering mugs, half-hearted jokes, and a steady stream of sarcasm as the Thunderbolts tried to function on minimal sleep and questionable caffeine habits.

Y/N shuffled in like a storm cloud wrapped in fuzzy socks. Her hair was in a messy bun that looked moments from total collapse. She wore leggings and one of Bucky’s oversized sweatshirts—it nearly swallowed her whole, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the hem brushing her knees. She looked exhausted… and somehow still unfairly adorable.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Yelena chirped from her perch on the counter, legs swinging like a child’s as she sipped from a black coffee mug.

Y/N grunted. “Is it?” she muttered, making a beeline for the coffee pot like it held the meaning of life.

“Someone’s a little grumpy,” Ava sing-songed, lazily stirring her cereal.

“I’m just saying,” John added with a smirk, “this feels like one of those mornings where I pretend I didn’t see anything and slowly back out of the room.”

Bucky, leaning against the fridge, watched his girlfriend move around the kitchen like a very tired, very cute gremlin. He held a banana he’d long since stopped eating, more interested in how she looked in his sweatshirt. His voice was soft when he greeted her.

“Hey, doll.”

Y/N didn’t even look at him. “Don’t ‘doll’ me right now.”

Yelena’s eyebrows shot up. “Ooh. He’s in trouble.”

Y/N turned with her mug, scanned the room—and froze.

The dishes.

The fucking dishes.

The sink overflowed with food-streaked plates and smudged mugs. Greasy pans hadn’t moved in days. The garbage can was brimming. The counters were covered in crumbs, an empty energy drink, and a sticky mystery spot that might’ve been jelly.

“This kitchen,” she said, eerily calm, “is an actual war zone. Why do I even bother making a chore chart if no one reads it? Is it invisible? Am I being pranked?”

“Y/N, relax,” John said, raising both hands like she had a weapon.

“Don’t tell me to relax,” she snapped, spinning so fast coffee sloshed over her mug. “Last time someone said they’d clean it, guess who spent two hours on her hands and knees scrubbing dried oatmeal off the tile? Me!”

“Babe—” Bucky started gently.

She cut him off without turning. “Don’t even start with me, Barnes, because I’m mad at you too.”

A low whistle escaped Yelena. “Welp. I’m leaving before blood gets spilled.”

“I’m going with you,” Ava said, grabbing her toast as the three of them evacuated with zero shame.

Silence settled over the kitchen, save for the hum of the fridge.

Y/N let out a long sigh and leaned against the counter, arms folded tight, jaw clenched. But beneath the edge in her voice, her eyes looked tired—not furious, just worn down.

Bucky leaned against the counter opposite her, patient and calm.

“Alright,” he said gently. “Tell me what’s going on, sweetheart.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m tired. Not just tired-tired. Everything-tired. I feel like I’m doing all the little things no one else even notices. Cleaning. Organizing. Fixing. And the second I clean something, it’s a disaster again.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “You’re right. I haven’t been helping enough. And I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.”

She blinked a few times. Her voice cracked when she finally whispered, “I just miss when it was simple. When it was just us. That shoebox apartment with no furniture and a toaster that shot bread like a missile.”

Bucky chuckled, stepping closer. “You mean the one-bedroom with the leaky faucet and neighbors who screamed at each other every night?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I miss it. Because it was ours.”

He reached for her hand, gently lacing their fingers. “This is ours too. We just forgot how to protect our peace.”

She let herself lean into his chest for a moment, melting into the quiet comfort of him. “Thank you.”

He rubbed slow circles on her back with his thumb, then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Okay. But why am I in the doghouse, exactly? I’ve been pretty well-behaved lately, haven’t I?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. Then, softly: “We haven’t had sex in, like… a week, Bucky.”

Bucky blinked. “Wait. That’s why you’re mad?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Don’t laugh.”

He laughed anyway. “You’re mad at me for not jumping your bones?”

“I said don’t laugh!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“Babe, I didn’t know that was on the official ‘Reasons You’re Mad at Me’ list.”

“Well it is!” she insisted. “I’ve tried. But every time I make a move, you’re already passed out or talking mission strategy or patching someone up.”

Bucky stepped in closer, his voice low and sincere. “If you had said the word, I would’ve dropped everything. You know that, right?”

She looked away, but he could see the faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe I wanted you to notice first.”

“I always notice you,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Even when you’re mad at me. Especially then—you get all snappy and flushed. It’s hot.”

She rolled her eyes and swatted his arm. “Shut up.”

He grinned, tugging her into him again and pressing a kiss to her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere with a lock. And a bed. And no dishes.”

She giggled as he led her toward the hallway. “We’re just leaving this mess?”

Bucky glanced back at the disaster zone. “We’ll clean it later. Or bribe Yelena.”

Y/N laughed as he guided her to the doorway, stealing one more kiss before guiding her out—her hand in his, her storm-cloud mood finally starting to clear.

[satellite-evans]

just rain

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando claims his first win of the season in a rain-soaked Melbourne Grand Prix with a gentle reminder of his son.

Word count: 4k+

Warnings: fluff, anxiety

A/N:

picture credits @pucksandpitlanes <3

AHHHHHH LANDO WON IM SO HAPPY FOR HIM!!!! I couldn't watch bc of time zones but when is saw it in the morning I was soooo 🥹🥹🥹

also Alex being higher than the ferraris was NOT on my bingo card lol but im super excited for him too🤎

I overdramatized the race a bit and it is not 100 % accurate 😅

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The sky was breaking open.

What had been a perfect, cloudless Saturday — where everything had felt possible — was now a roaring mess of water and wind.

The same track that had held his first pole position of the season now looked like a stranger.

Lando stood by his car, helmet tucked under his arm, rain sliding off his race suit in steady streams, like the sky itself was crying for him.

He was trying — really trying — to get his head straight.

But it was hard.

Hard when the weight of every near-miss, every mistake, every podium that wasn’t a win pressed on his shoulders.

Hard when the image of Max in São Paulo, slicing through the rain like it wasn’t even there, looped in his mind, taunting him.

This was supposed to be his day.

Pole was supposed to mean something.

But now, all he could think about was how easily rain could take that away.

What if I mess it up? What if I lose everything? What if-

“Daddy?”

The small voice broke through the storm in his head like sunshine through clouds.

He turned.

There was Noah — rain dripping from the ends of his jacket, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes wide and honest and full of something Lando had lost in the last few hours: belief.

You hovered just behind him, watching quietly, giving them space.

Lando crouched down, resting his arms on his knees to meet Noah at eye level.

“Hey, buddy,” he said softly, though his throat felt tight. "You okay out here in the rain?"

Noah frowned, taking a step closer until he was right up in Lando’s space, hands reaching to tug gently at Lando’s suit.

“I am okay, but why are you not okay, Daddy?” he asked, tilting his head. "Aren’t you gonna win? You said you were gonna win."

Lando let out a breath, a shaky laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"I know, mate. I… I wanna win." His voice cracked at the end.

Noah blinked up at him, unbothered by the rain hitting his face. "Then why are you sad?"

Lando hesitated. What could he even say? Because sometimes winning feels impossible? Because I don’t know if I’m good enough? Because I'm scared?

Instead, he shrugged, offering a small, forced smile.

“It’s raining a lot,” he finally said, as if that explained the weight in his chest.

But Noah just gave him a look — the same look Lando had given you a thousand times when he thought you were worrying too much.

“It’s just rain, Daddy," Noah said matter-of-factly. "We like rain.”

Lando blinked, caught off guard.

"You always chase me in the rain," Noah continued, smiling now, that childhood certainty glowing in his eyes. "You say it makes you run faster. And you always catch me, even if I’m the fastest runner ever."

A soft laugh broke from Lando's lips, something warmer, something real.

"And Mommy always says we’ll get sick but you don’t care," Noah went on, as if this were the most important fact in the world.

"You say, 'It’s just rain, Noah. Rain makes us faster.’”

Lando’s throat tightened.

For a second, he couldn't speak.

Because in that moment, through all the noise and pressure and fear, his son had reminded him of something he’d forgotten:

Who he was.

Not just a driver. Not just a number on a screen.

But Noah’s dad. Your partner. Someone who could be brave when it mattered.

Lando reached out and pulled Noah into a hug, pressing his face into the crook of his tiny shoulder, breathing in the rain and the smell of his son — like grass and soap and home.

"You're right, little man," he whispered, voice thick. "It's just rain."

He pulled back, brushing wet curls from Noah’s face.

"And you think I'm faster than everyone, huh?"

Noah grinned, eyes lighting up. "You’re faster than everyone, Daddy! Even if it's raining forever!"

Lando let out a real laugh this time, warmth blooming in his chest.

He looked up to find you, standing there with your arms wrapped around yourself for warmth, but smiling, tears quietly mixing with the rain on your cheeks.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and you gave him a nod — small, but enough to say we believe in you.

Lando stood, keeping Noah’s little hand in his, squeezing gently.

“Okay, buddy. I’m gonna win that trophy for you.”

“Yay!” Noah beamed. “But you can keep it for your shelf... if you want.”

Lando chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Noah’s head.

“No, I think it belongs in your room.”

Noah’s smile widened, his eyes sparkling with pride, as though his father had just promised to conquer the world for him. In that moment, the rain didn’t feel so heavy. The doubts that had plagued Lando’s mind were still there, but the weight of them didn’t seem quite as unbearable with Noah at his side.

And you — your smile, your quiet support — made the world seem possible again.

As they walked toward the pit lane, Lando felt a shift inside of him. The rain wasn’t a burden anymore. It was a challenge. A reminder that no matter how many times life tried to knock him down, he could always get back up. Just like he always did when Noah ran faster than him, laughing, his tiny feet splashing through puddles.

Lando squeezed his son’s hand tighter.

"Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got, buddy."

With a nod from Noah and a final glance at you, Lando felt the familiar rush of determination surge through him.

This wasn’t just about the race anymore.

It was about being the man he promised to be — not just for himself, but for the ones who believed in him.

The Australian Grand Prix was shaping up to be a classic.

As the cars lined up on the grid in Melbourne, the drizzle had kept the track damp, just enough to keep the tire choices uncertain. It wasn’t the heavy rain that everyone had feared, but it was far from perfect racing conditions. Still, Lando sat in P1, his hands firmly gripping the wheel, his focus set on one thing: keeping that lead.

The McLaren car was well-suited to the conditions, and Lando had a good start. The lights went out, and he got off the line clean, his heart racing in sync with the growl of the engine as he took off into Turn 1. He held his ground, blocking Max, who was gunning for the lead, while Oscar — his teammate and the home hero — was hot on his heels in P3.

The track was slick, but Lando’s experience in these tricky conditions helped him build an early gap. His McLaren was light and agile, its handling sharp as he darted through the twists of the Melbourne layout. Verstappen, however, wasn’t far behind. The Red Bull driver was a constant shadow, ready to pounce at the slightest mistake.

By the first pit window, the rain had picked up a bit more, turning the track into a quagmire of uncertainty. Tire choices were a gamble — intermediate tires or full wets? The crew had to decide quickly, and they were calling for intermediates as the rain began to settle. Lando glanced nervously at the sky but held his ground. “Let’s stay out a bit longer,” he told his team, his voice steady but with a hint of doubt. Don’t get greedy, just don’t make a mistake.

Max pitted early, pushing for the full wets as he believed the track was getting too slick for anything else. He rejoined the circuit behind Lando, but it was clear he was closing the gap, his tires cutting through the water more effectively than Lando’s.

Just as the McLaren pit crew started to signal for a pit stop — the conditions changing rapidly — the first Safety Car period was called. A rookie crashed heavily into the barriers, bringing the race to a halt. Lando’s heart raced again as he followed the Safety Car. Was this a blessing or a curse? The rain had intensified even further, and the conditions were treacherous. Oscar, who had been showing great pace, was caught out in the slippery conditions, skidding onto the grass, and although he tried to recover, he struggled to get back on track in time. He was forced to return to the pits, ultimately falling back to P13.

Now it felt like a battle between Lando, Max, and the rest of the pack. But just as they prepared to go racing again, the rain poured down harder, the track quickly becoming a slippery mess. It was a delicate balance for Lando, who was managing the lead with grit and skill but was well aware that Max was waiting to pounce.

The green flag waved again, and the cars shot back out into the mix, Lando still holding off the charging Verstappen.

Lap after lap, Lando danced on the edge of control. Every corner was a fight, every moment a test of his patience and skill. The McLaren’s rear end was constantly sliding out, but Lando somehow kept it in line. He could feel Verstappen breathing down his neck, waiting for him to make a mistake — and then, it came.

The rain intensified in a sudden downpour, and the track became a slick, unpredictable nightmare. The tires couldn’t keep up, and the grip was nonexistent. As Lando tried to brake for Turn 4, his tires locked up, and he was forced to take a detour through the gravel, his heart nearly stopping as he fought to stay on the track. He got back on just in time to gain his way back to P1.

Lando was far from done.

He set his sights forward, telling himself to focus — just focus. The rain was lashing down, but with each lap, Lando found his rhythm again, using the high-speed corners to his advantage, keeping the McLaren planted while others struggled.

A second Safety Car came out as Jack Doohan spun into the gravel, and just as quickly, the race was halted once again. The field bunched up, and Lando’s mind raced. He could feel the pressure of it all — a season opener, a potential win slipping through his fingers as Verstappen loomed behind him.

And then, when it seemed like he was about to lose his edge, Lando had a moment of clarity. He’d thought about Noah — his little boy, his voice in his head, telling him, "You’re faster than everyone, Daddy."

Lando could feel his son’s words ignite a fire inside him. He wasn’t racing to prove anything to anyone else, but to show Noah, to show himself, that no storm, no matter how wild, could stop him.

When the Safety Car came in again, Lando took a deep breath. The track was as slippery as ever, but the fight wasn’t over.

Lando’s heart was hammering. He was in the lead, and with the final few corners in sight, he pushed his car to the edge. The track had dried just enough, but the pressure on him was unbearable. He took a deep breath and crossed the line with the loudest, most cathartic roar of his life.

Lando Norris had done it. He had won.

P1.

He couldn’t believe it.

The rain had made this race a battle of attrition, and as he eased into the cooldown lap, he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

He slowly lifted his hand to the radio and spoke to his team, his voice shaky with emotion.

“Oooph! Little bit of pressure, well done boys. Beautifully handled. Excuted to the second. One second later and we were done so well done everyone. Congrats, amazing way to start the year. Thank you so much. This one was for you, Noah.”

The world exploded in cheers as the McLaren pit crew erupted, their joy a mix of disbelief and ecstasy. But through the noise, Lando only had one thing on his mind: you and Noah.

He couldn’t wait to share this with his little boy and with the love of his life.

Lando brought the car back to the pit lane. He could hear the roar of the crowd, the fans cheering from the stands, even as the noise inside his helmet began to fade. He blinked, trying to keep his focus, but his hands were still shaking slightly from the adrenaline. His chest felt tight, like he was trying to contain all the emotions swirling inside him — relief, pride, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

He had done it.

He had won. P1.

As the car coasted into the pit box, the team was already waiting. The McLaren crew flooded around him, clapping and shouting, their faces beaming with joy. But Lando barely registered any of it. His eyes were scanning the crowd, searching for the two faces that meant the most to him — you and Noah.

The cheering around him felt distant, almost muted, as if it wasn’t real. But seeing you, standing by the barriers, your eyes wide with emotion, was like a splash of cold water. The world around him snapped back into focus. He could see Noah next to you, bouncing up and down, his small face lit up with excitement.

Lando’s heart swelled.

He quickly removed his helmet, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, and climbed out of the car. He could feel the weight of his win, but in that moment, it felt lighter. He was overwhelmed by how much this meant to him. It wasn’t just the victory, it was that he had made it — for himself, for you, and for Noah.

Before the team even had a chance to celebrate properly, he was walking toward you.

“Daddy! You did it!” Noah cried out, his voice high-pitched with excitement. Lando's eyes softened, and he dropped to one knee, his arms open wide.

Noah ran straight into his arms, as Lando hugged him tight, holding him close like he had been waiting for this moment for a lifetime. The rain still fell lightly, but it didn’t matter. All the chaos of the race, the uncertainty, the fear — it was gone.

“I did it, buddy,” Lando whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “We did it.”

“You’re the fastest, Daddy!” Noah exclaimed, his small hands grabbing onto Lando’s race suit. “I knew you were!”

Lando chuckled, pulling back just enough to look at his son. “You knew, huh? You were right all along.”

Noah nodded vigorously, his smile as wide as it could go. “You told me you were faster than everyone. And you are!”

Lando’s chest tightened at his words. He had said it to Noah so many times, almost as a promise, a reassurance that no matter what, he could always come out on top. He had made sure to tell Noah that on the tough days, on the days where it felt like nothing was going right, but now it was reality.

And it was because of you and Noah that he had found the strength to keep pushing.

Lando stood up, holding Noah in his arms as he walked toward you. The world seemed to slow as his gaze locked with yours.

You were smiling, but there was something else there — something that said “I knew you could do it”. You were just as emotional as he was. Your eyes glistened with pride, but there was a tenderness in your expression that made him feel like he was home.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Lando’s voice was rough with emotion as he reached out for your hand.

You nodded, your hand fitting perfectly into his. “I never doubted you for a second.”

He leaned in, his eyes soft as he looked at you — the weight of the moment hanging in the air. Without thinking, he pulled you into him, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was full of emotion. It was gentle at first, a quiet acknowledgment of everything he had been holding inside.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, and Lando could feel the joy and relief in that single kiss. It wasn’t just the victory he was celebrating, but the shared understanding between the two of you — the quiet support, the unwavering belief, the love.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours for a beat longer, as if he didn’t want to let the moment slip away. "I couldn't have done it without you," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

Noah squirmed in Lando’s arms, eager to get down and join the celebrations. Lando carefully set him down, and Noah immediately ran off toward the McLaren crew, who were cheering and clapping for the win.

As Noah ran off, Lando turned to you, the full weight of the victory finally sinking in.

“I didn’t think it was going to happen, not with the rain, not with Max so close,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I almost lost it.”

You smiled softly, brushing a damp strand of hair out of his face. “But you didn’t. You held it together, even when it was tough.”

Lando nodded, his heart full. “I had to. For you, for Noah. I couldn’t let this slip away.”

“You didn’t. And look at you now.” You cupped his face gently, your thumbs brushing over his wet skin. “You’re amazing, Lando.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the quiet moment before the world around him started to roar again. But it didn’t matter. He had done it.

The sound of the crowd cheering filled the air, and Lando turned back to watch his team. His crew was celebrating with Noah in the center, lifting him up in excitement. It wasn’t just his victory, it was theirs too. They had all worked for this moment, and Lando could feel the bond between him and his team, his family, stronger than ever.

As the team ushered him toward the podium for the celebrations, he couldn’t stop smiling. His eyes sought yours one more time, and in that glance, everything was clear. This was just the beginning.

As the excitement of the podium celebrations slowly faded, the atmosphere began to settle. The noise of the crowd dimmed as the McLaren team gathered to wind down, still congratulating Lando for his incredible win. It was time for the world to return to normal — at least for a little while.

The rain had stopped during the post-race celebrations, but the sky had once again darkened, and soon enough, the first raindrops began to fall, soft and steady, like a quiet whisper.

Lando was supposed to be getting ready for the press conferences, and Noah had been escorted back to the team’s area, his energy barely contained after all the excitement. But as the minutes ticked by, you found yourself standing near the pit lane, looking around, trying to spot them — Lando and Noah.

They had been with you just moments ago, but now, there was no sign of either of them. You checked the garage. No luck. You headed toward the pit, but nothing. The sound of the rain grew louder, and you could feel the cool droplets on your skin, the familiar scent of wet pavement filling the air.

As you were about to turn back toward the team area, you heard a familiar laugh.

You looked up. There they were.

Lando and Noah were standing near one of the back entrances to the track, the two of them laughing and completely drenched. Lando’s jacket was already soaked, but he didn’t seem to mind. Noah, in his little race suit, was jumping up and down, splashing in the growing puddles, his face glowing with pure joy.

Lando had both arms raised, pretending to be a goalkeeper as he blocked Noah’s wild attempts to splash him with water. They were in their own little world — no race, no press conferences, no podiums, just the rain and the playful chaos of it all.

And for a moment, it felt like everything had slowed down again, just like it had on the track.

You smiled to yourself, watching them. The rain didn’t bother them; if anything, it seemed to make the moment even more special. You could hear Noah shout over the rain, his voice filled with glee, “Come on, Mommy! It’s just rain! You can do it too!”

Lando caught sight of you, his eyes lighting up with mischief. He shrugged with a grin, as if to say it’s just rain, no big deal.

Noah ran toward you, water splashing with every step. “Mommy, come play!” He giggled, his face streaked with joy and raindrops. “It’s fun! Daddy says it’s just rain!”

Lando was right behind him, shaking his head in mock exasperation but his smile betraying the playfulness in his voice. “Come on, babe, it’s just a bit of water. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You could see the way Noah looked up at you with those wide, hopeful eyes. You couldn’t say no.

With a sigh, you gave in. “Fine, fine.”

You stepped forward, and in a moment of complete surrender, you joined them, letting the rain soak through your clothes as you took a running leap into the nearest puddle with Noah. The splash was enormous, and Noah shrieked with delight, running off to jump in the next puddle.

Lando joined you, laughing, as the three of you danced and played under the darkening sky, the rain falling harder now but somehow feeling like the perfect way to celebrate the day.

For that fleeting moment, there was no world beyond the sound of Noah’s laughter, the rain crashing down, and Lando’s teasing calls as he splashed you and Noah. The storm had come back, but instead of being a nuisance, it was the backdrop to a perfect family moment.

“Look at us,” Lando said between laughs, his hair soaked and his face flushed with happiness. “We’re all drenched and I couldn’t be happier.”

You caught Noah as he tried to leap into a particularly big puddle, lifting him up and holding him close. His wet hair clung to his forehead, but his smile never faded.

“This is the best thing ever!” Noah giggled, kicking his feet playfully.

“You sure know how to make a rainy day perfect, don’t you, bud?” Lando said, holding you close as you both watched your son’s joyful antics.

“Just rain,” you said softly, your gaze meeting Lando’s. The chaos of the day had faded into the background. What mattered now was here — this moment, with Lando and Noah, playing and laughing in the rain.

Lando pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there just a moment longer. “It’s just rain,” he whispered, and for the first time today, you didn’t mind the rain at all.

[parfaitblogs]

as time goes by ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you funnel through photographic memories of what once was, now isn't, but might still be.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst & smut (18+ mdni) tags: what isn't there? meet cute. burnt toast theory if you squint. right person wrong time. soft dom!spencer. first time. p in v. fingering. praise. fade to black oral (f receiving). mommy issues. anxious attachment reader. past alcohol consumption. argument. + angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort. word count: 9.8k a/n: i know i said this was 8k but then i just kept writing and writing and writing and writing and writing... enjoy my angels!! this truly took a piece of my soul to write. a short playlist of what i listened to while writing this <3

"I'm always soft for you, that's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say 'come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you." (Azra T)

February

It was a dreary burst of continuous rain and the threat of a thunderstorm that landed you in this predicament. 

Grey storm clouds that darkened the entire city even at the early hour of seven in the morning. There was a soft glow in one of the clusters of clouds where the sun was attempting to peek through, a striking metaphor for the way your life currently felt. Rays of sunshine barely piercing the sky enough to make an impression on the otherwise miserable day. 

You were late for work. Your usually easy morning routine replaced by bus delays due to the traffic on the roads, and trains canceled due to faults in the signalling.

You were barely halfway up the stairs to your platform when it happened. 

If you were any less focussed on keeping the ends of your jeans off the damp concrete, you wouldn't have spotted the drop of the blue and green SmarTrip card dropping to the step in front of you, from a leather messenger bag that was frantically swinging on someone's shoulder. 

You pick it up without even thinking, concerned by the fact that its owner hadn't even noticed. Which meant you'd have to experience the God awful awkward interaction of handing it back to them, and the even more awful small talk conversation that followed. 

The platform stretched out in front of you, and you were rushing to tap his shoulder before he could get too far away from you. A mop of messy curls turned, and never mind the fact that he was a stranger; he was hot. 

He's confused, and you watch him begin to think the tapping was a mistake, and you were just too rude to apologise for it. 

"Hi," you burst out, holding the card out in front of you. "Sorry. Is this yours?" 

"Oh," his expression is replaced with relief. "Yes. It is. Thank you."

You force an awkward smile onto your face, and he matches it with his own. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, and you thank God he was one of those awkward attractive guys — not an asshole. 

Then again, this was a two second interaction, and you didn't know him. Delusion would be your downfall. 

The train was overly crowded that morning. The traffic of two trains packed into one, resulting in barely any seats, and even less standing room. 

Thankfully, you had gotten one at the back of one of the carriages, which meant you could watch as multiple people walk past you, thinking there'd be more further down. Only to be sorely disappointed, but too stuck to come back and get the seat beside you they had spotted. 

"Oh. Hello again."

You lift your head at the voice, metro card man standing awkwardly next to the seat next to you. 

"Hey," you reply, heart rate skyrocketing. Just your luck.

"Is it okay if I sit here? All the other seats are taken," he asks, and even if there were six other free seats away from you, you'd let him. 

He sits when you nod, and you adjust your bag on the floor in front of you as he does the same, the messenger bag hugged firmly atop his lap. 

"Thank you for catching my card," he says, and you aren't sure if he's trying to make small talk because he's interested, or because he feels too bad to not. 

Your heart decides to go with the former. 

"It's no problem," you shake your head. "If I ever lost my metro card I'd probably have a panic attack in the middle of the station. So... y'know..." Why did you say that?

His chest shakes with quiet laughter anyways, and he's nodding in agreement, but you're sure he doesn't really understand what you mean. He doesn't seem like the type of person to have a panic attack in the middle of a train station.

"Are you headed to DC?" he then asks, and delusion be damned if this isn't him interested in you. 

You nod your head. "That's where this train is going, yes."

He pauses in a reply. "Well, yes, but there's stops along the way. You could be getting off at any of those." You fall silent at his words. That was true. "But you're not. You're going to DC."

"I am," you confirm your destination of the day for the second time, and your brain wonders if telling this inherent stranger where you were planning on going was a wise choice. Probably not. He didn't seem like a serial killer, at least. Then again, your judgement wasn't always the best.

"I am too," he says, lips pulling into the same awkward smile he had earlier, when you'd given him his metro card back. 

"We have so much in common," you joke, but you aren't sure if it lands. For he's blinking awkwardly, and then he must recognise you're trying to joke, because his chest puffs in a laugh. Pity laughter was still laughter. 

"We do."

It takes an entire train ride of conversation for you to muster up any courage at all, and it's only when he's about to step out into the aisle to disappear into his own world, and you into yours, that you blurt out,

"Do you want to get coffee?"

He blinks a few times, but then he's nodding his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

At his approval, you ask, "Could I get your number? Y'know, to... plan... this coffee date..."

Metro man, whose name you've since learned is Spencer, nods again, and he's rummaging in his bag for a piece of paper and a pen. The pen he finds, the paper he does not, and you simply tell him to write his number down on your hand. 

Delusions were fuelled quite easily when you're a hopeless romantic, and the immediate flutter of your heart when his hand holds yours in place so he could write on your skin was enough to convince you this man was your soulmate. 

You part ways from each other, feeling a little giddier, and a lot less like the storm clouds still swirling over your head. 

March

Even the quietest of sounds were catastrophically loud when you were in that middle ground between being awake, and being asleep. And the muffled sound of a tap turning on was as loud as a raging thunderstorm, in the early hours of that Saturday morning, startling you awake from the comfortable sleep you had been in. 

It took you a few more minutes to fully come to consciousness, but by that point, you had registered what tap was on and why, and your fears of an unfamiliar scent surrounding you as you awaken were diminished. 

"Oh. Morning."

Your eyes flutter open to see a slightly shocked Spencer Reid standing at the foot of his bed, collecting the bundled socks he had set on the mattress. 

"What're you doing?" you ask him, tiredly, rolling onto your back and blocking the bright sunlight with your arm. 

"Going to work," he answers. "I have paperwork I need to catch up on," he then adds, at your puzzled expression.

"Oh," you pout immediately, your heart sinking at the knowledge that he was leaving you. 

"I'll be home by three," he promises, moving around and crouching down by the edge of the bed, next to your head.

"You want me to stay here?" you ask him, rolling over to look at him.

His eyes bore into your own, and you search his face, his cologne mixing with the scent of his sheets beneath your head, making your head go a little fuzzy. 

He brushes hair out of your face. "You can if you want. There's food in the fridge, and I bought copies of your toiletries for when you do... stay over..." he stammers to a stop, brain catching up to his mouth. "Sorry. Is that weird?"

"No," your lips pull into a smile. "No. It's really sweet, actually."

"And there's clean clothes in my dryer," he continues at your reassurance. "Since you said you like my shirts. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But I'll only be gone six hours, and then I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off, and I know you do too, so I just figured—"

You cut him off with a kiss. Perhaps not the best time to kiss him, for you're pretty sure you have a bad case of morning breath. If you do, he doesn't protest. In fact, he melts even further into your lips. 

"I'll stay," you tell him.

"Okay," his eyes light up a little, and your cheeks hurt from how wide you're smiling. You're sure you look ridiculous. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Bye," you say, catching him for one more kiss, until he's closer to being late for work than anything, and he's tearing himself away from you. Forcefully, because he doesn't really want to. 

He comes home six and a half hours later to his home smelling distinctly of a candle he forgot he even owned, and whatever it was in his fridge you had managed to create a dish out of. 

He wonders if it's too soon to feel love for you. 

April

A night out was, arguably, the last thing you had expected to do when you woke up that morning. In fact, you had spent the entire day with plans to stay in your sanctuary of a bedroom with a shitty television series playing to detach from the past few weeks. Your life was busy, and you felt as though you had no time to yourself. Technically, you did. But your days off never consisted of an entire day in your bed without any responsibilities. 

It seemed that even on your planned day off, you couldn't get that. Granted you weren't mad, come six o'clock, because despite talking about how excited you were for your day off to him, the second Spencer Reid had mentioned restaurant and dinner in your morning phone call as he commuted to work, you were begging him to fulfil the plans he was about to cancel. 

He had stayed afterwards. Of course he had. You'd be damned if the man who had just taken you to the nicest restaurant you've ever been to in your life didn't stay over afterwards. And he was quite happy to, it seemed, which made your heart flutter a little more than it probably should've.

"Have you read Emily Dickinson?" you ask him, looking up at his face. You were now in your bed, covers draped over your entwined legs, his back up against the headboard of your bed, your own on his chest. 

"Yes," he nods his head, lips twitching at the way your face fell upon his response. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"No, I guess I assumed you had," you shook your head. "A small part of me didn't know for sure, though."

"Now you know," he says, eyes falling to the televison that had a silent cartoon playing on it (your choice, not his). "Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah," your lips curl into a smile. "Did you?"

"I always do with you," he leans down and pecks the smile off your face, watching your lips frown when he pulls back. "What?"

He laughs at the pout on your lips, and your eyes narrow in response. In a quick motion, your legs and arms wrap around him, bodies now facing each other, as you return your lips to his. 

"Was my kiss not up to your standards?" he muses against your mouth, and you poke his shoulder with a finger as a response, incessantly begging him to kiss you back.

You had done this before. Multiple times, in fact. Making out with Spencer was slowly but surely becoming your favourite past time. You weren't entirely sure what it was about it. Perhaps the way he kissed like he'd never be able to kiss again, always with so much fervour, and always so desperate. Maybe it was the way his hands felt when they grappled the entirety of your ass whenever you were on his lap, something that seemed so not Spencer Reid. Whatever it was, it was maddening, and you found a quiet, controlled mewl leave your lips when his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to him (if that was possible).

"Mm-mm," he murmurs against your lips at the sound, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, eliciting another, less controlled sound from you. "You can do better than that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you mumble against his lips, semi-breathless, hands delving up into his curls, encasing your fingers in them.

He laughs again, the sound addicting, and melting any anxieties away as his fingers travel up your body, beneath your pyjama shirt, stopping short where your bra strap would be if you were wearing one. 

"We don't have to," you rush out when you feel his hesitance. Though you were no stranger to this part of making out – the suggestive touching – you could feel the bulge in his pants, and you realised this was not like every other time.

"You don't want to?" he asks with a gentle voice, pulling back to look at you.

"No, I–of course I do," you reassure him.

His lips tug into a small smile, and his face leans in to kiss the corner of your lips. "Okay. Good. I want to, as well."

"Good," you answer with a firm nod, and he hums. 

His hands slip beneath your shirt again. Warm – burning, even – though you weren't particularly cold. Yet, you felt like your skin was ice that was melting beneath his fingers as they dragged along your skin. All while his lips kissed down your jawline and neck, until they found your pulse point. He had found it accidentally a few weeks prior, and had used and abused it as much as he could after that. For no reason other than the fact that you let out the sweetest sounds whenever his teeth grazed over it, or his lips sucked on the skin there.

His hands reached further up, and his palms brush over both nipples at once, eliciting a gasp from you as your back arches into him. 

"Sensitive," he notes when his thumbs drag down over them, pulling the same reaction from your lips. You shoot him a sharp glare, and he laughs. His response is then to lean back in and kiss the pout away, gently biting down on your jutted lower lip with his teeth. All while he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning a whimper from you into his mouth.

It was a few more moments of that, before you murmur quietly, "Tell me you're taking this further." 

He laughs in response. Then, says, "What do you want?"

"Up to you," you reply, and he shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it. 

"No. Up to us."

"Okay. Um..." you hesitate. "Surely there's a natural order of things."

"I don't know. I think it depends on the people," he replies. "Tell me what you want to do."

You hesitate. There's a thousand things you want from him, and you're sure the mere twenty-four hours in the day are not enough for them all. Though, you also know time is not running out for the two of you soon. 

Recognising your hesitance, he instead taps your hips to get you off his lap, and you comply, and he lays you down on the bed. He hovers above you, and you almost laugh at his hair that falls down and creates a curtain over your two faces. 

His fingers lift the hem of your shirt over your body, and you let him, your breath hitching at the still less-than-hot air that settles in your room amidst April. He follows suite and removes his own shirt upon seeing your close to demanding look, before he ducks his head down to kiss you again. 

Fingers dance across the skin of your waist as he hesitates in pulling your pants down, but you don't even want to complain as he kisses you. In no rush to hurry him along, you savour his lips on yours, allowing him to take the time to work you up with brushes along your thigh through the fabric of your pants. 

You were equally as present as you were lost in a daydream as he touches you, for you don't really remember when your legs had become bare and his touch had become more direct, but you remember exactly what it felt like for his breath to hitch against your ear as he ran a finger down the damp fabric of your underwear. 

He seems to have picked up on your dreamlike state, for he brushes his lips against your temple and asks, "You with me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathlessly. 

He doesn't really believe you, but you're eagerly inching your hips closer towards his retreating hand for him to need to. 

Gently, he's pulling your underwear down your legs, and you're watching the pupils in his dark eyes expand. You relish in the knowledge of you emitting such a reaction from him. 

A sharp whine comes from you when his finger brushes through your folds, stopping just short of your clit. He does it again. 

"Spencer."

"Yeah, pretty girl?" he murmurs, though his focus is solely directed to his hand on you.

"Need you."

"I can see that," he muses, and he jolts at the way your heel kicks his side. You're pretty sure it doesn't hurt, at least. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"You should be."

His other hand pinches your thigh.

You don't have time to argue against him, for he is sinking a finger into you, and every word dies on your tongue, replaced only by a quiet moan and the breathless sound of his name. 

He lifts himself back up your body as he presses his finger further into you, capturing your second moan with his lips against yours. Again. He would probably swallow you whole if you asked him to. You think you might. 

He adds a second finger almost too soon. His fingers were longer than yours ever could be, and he curls them in a way that has your head tilting back and pressing into the pillow beneath it, and your hips rising off the mattress. He chases your lips with his as you squirm away, and his free hand pushes your body back into the mattress as he draws his fingers out, then presses them back into you. 

"Didn't know you were this sensitive," he murmurs against your mouth, and your teeth nip at his lower lip in protest. You feel him smile, and he returns the gesture, scoldingly. 

His fingers brush against your g-spot and you're pretty sure you see stars. Or perhaps that's just the ends of Spencer's hair tickling your cheeks as he continues to kiss you. 

He continues to finger you until it becomes its own language, complete with strings of high pitched moans from you, and his inability to keep you still on the bed. He pulls his fingers out all too soon, and you're verbally complaining about it as he takes his own pants off. 

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks you, but there's no heat behind his voice for you to seek insecurity from. 

"I talk when I'm nervous," you reply. 

"Are you always nervous?"

"Around you? Yes."

He doesn't reply, but he laughs, bashfully, and you know he finds it endearing. Instead, he says, "I need to go get a condom."

At which your eyebrows shoot up. "Did you bring some?"

He pauses, sheepishly replying, "Yes?"

You decide against teasing him for it, and merely nod your head. "Okay."

He doesn't waste time, but you're left laying there on the bed to watch him, stuck within the thoughts of how did you luck out so well? 

He's quick to return your mind back to Earth, and in a quick turn of events, he's positioned back over you, condom wrapper discarded somewhere in your room — you'd need to find that later before it gets found by somebody mortifying — and his hips achingly close to your own. 

Lowering your gaze instinctively, your lips part, and you mutter a, "What the fuck?"

"Tone, please," he asks you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Bad. But good," you confuse him further, before you settle on, "Shock."

"Are you still okay with this?"

"Yes," you quickly confirm. "Just... scared. I guess. I haven't had sex in a while and you're..." Not small.

"I'll go slow," he promises, and your heart flutters at the sincerity in his voice. 

Slowly, he eases himself into you, swallowing your moans all over again with a kiss, hands rubbing gentle circles onto your hips as a welcome distraction. It was borderline filthy as he moans into your ear in harmony with your own.

You hear him murmuring from above you, your ears catching the whispering of numbers and statistical facts you've definitely heard him spewing to himself before. But never in bed. Usually, it would be as he situates at his desk to work. 

"What're you doing?" you murmur, and he pauses upon realising he was thinking aloud. 

"Trying not to come so soon," he answers, kissing your jawline, a shuddering breath leaving him to rest his head in that position. 

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," he mocks. "You just feel so good around me. Can't believe I went so long without you, angel girl. Fuck."

You wish you could tell the you many moons ago that this is how the man you met at the train station would talk to you. 

He's slow as he withdraws his hips from you, before he's pushing himself back into you with yet another moan, from both him and you.

You're not sure when your causal moans break into whines and desperation overtakes you. Somewhere between him taking his time in getting to know what you liked, and discovering how easy it was to make you squirm if he just put a finger on your clit at the same time as thrusting into you. 

He is so good it's almost sickening, and you begin to entertain the idea of this man being your soulmate once again. Or perhaps he's just really good at seeing right through you, which might be a little embarrassing in retrospect. 

"Spencer," you moan, hands looping around his neck, delving into his hair and nails scratching gently at his scalp. 

"Mm?" he asks you, pressing another kiss to your head, drawing circles on your clit in tandem with his thrusts. 

"Please."

"Please what, honey?"

"Wanna—" you're cut off with a wanton whine, "—come. Please."

"You do? Really?" 

"Spencer," you repeat his name, this time frustratedly.

"That's no way to ask for what you want," he wanes his movements ever so slightly, a silent warning. 

"Please make me come."

"There you go, good girl," he mumbles, and he smiles at the way your hips jerk slightly at the praise. 

He complies with your request immediately, though you're sure it has something to do with how quickly his own hips stutter into a stop with an orgasm of his own. 

Never one to complain, though, and you let him work you through the star-seeing experience with broken moans and chants of his name that has his own heart fluttering. 

He rolls off of you soon after, disappearing from the bed only to dispose of the condom, before he's climbing back into the bed. Regardless of every bone in his body telling him to get you up to shower. 

"Why didn't we do that earlier?" you murmur.

"I don't know," he replies, lips moving against the skin of your forehead. 

"Can we do it again?"

His breath is warm as he huffs out a laugh, rolling back over top of you, thankful for his lack of asking to shower. "Yes."

June

There's a comfortable quiet that blankets the air around you and Spencer. The pages of his book turning as he flips them every few seconds, and the quiet murmur of characters Ilsa and Sam talking on the television, Casablanca playing at an awfully quiet volume. 

He was sitting on the floor in front of you, who was sitting on the couch, fingers entangled in his hair. Freshly washed, because you were adamant on fixing him a proper hair routine now that his hair was long enough to require something remotely akin to your own.

His head lifts as the piano began to play, and the familiar voice of Dooley Wilson filled the space, his reading of his book now on pause.

"Spencer!" you began to protest when he peeled away from the edge of the couch, the criss-cross pattern in his hair falling loose almost immediately. He turns to look at you, noting the page he was on for his book, before he closes it and places it on the coffee table in front of him. 

"What are you doing to my hair?" he asks you, hands going up to feel the strands, eyebrows frowning towards each other at the loose plaits he was touching. 

"I was braiding it," you grumble, watching as he brushes each strand out unconsciously. "You've ruined it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muses upon realising what he had done, lips twitching as his hands drop back by his side. "Do you want to redo it?"

"No," you huff, scooting further back into the couch, folding your arms across your chest. 

"Honey," Spencer says amidst a laugh, turning his body around fully. 

Instead of acknowledging him, you kept your eyes fully transfixed on the black and white television screen in front of you. You could see, out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him shifting on the floor. 

Perhaps it was cruel to be giving him the silent treatment so quickly. Though, you have a small smile painted on your face that told Spencer he wasn't in any real trouble with you for pulling your otherwise perfectly curated braids out of his hair. Unknowingly, mind you.

With your lack of response, he found his hands wandering over to your legs, fingertips trailing delicately up the sides of them. Despite the pyjama pants you had on providing a layer between his skin and your own, you still squirmed. And, much to his own satisfaction, your gaze flickered down to his face. His stupid, grinning face, that told you he knew he had succeeded oh so easily. 

"I'm mad at you," you bite, and his eyebrows rose. 

"You're mad at me," he parrots. When you glare at him, he's forced to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. "Okay. Can I make it up to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" 

No, you weren't. For his head was resting gently against the side of your thigh now, the slightest hint of a pout on his lips, eyes wide. To absolutely nobody's surprise, your resolve was dissolving, and you found yourself hesitating with a response to him. 

He wasn't oblivious to your hesitance, and the amusement on his face was almost frustrating. Almost, if not for the teasing drag of his fingertips along the sides of your thighs distracting you from the irritation you had towards him.

But, you held your own. "Yes, I'm sure."

His eyebrows rising told you he didn't believe you, and it took everything in you not to respond with the twitch of a sheepish grin. And under his unbelieving gaze, you let out a huffed sigh, and shook your head. 

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he answers, fingertips gently pressing into your lower back as he tugged you towards the edge of the couch. "So I can make it up to you?"

"Maybe," you murmur, biting the inside of your cheek. "What're my options, Dr. Reid?"

"I could take your clothes off," he says, punctuating his point with his fingers sliding around to your waist, hooking under your pants' waistband. "Or you can choose something else."

"I like option one," you answer, meekly. 

"I figured you would."

He was frustratingly slow as he pulls your pyjama pants down, the fabric catching on the leather of his couch you were sitting on, until you had enough conscious mind to lift your hips up for him.

He trails his fingers back up the skin, eyes almost fascinated in watching you squirm as your inner thighs — and only your inner thighs — received the upmost of attention from his hands. At a whining protest from you, Spencer's hands wandered to do the one thing he knew you were after, and you let out a breathy moan when his index finger traced up the centre of your already damp underwear.

"Oh, you do like option one," he says with a hum, and if you were any less turned on, you'd probably be glaring at him for it. Instead, you were nodding your head in compliant agreement. 

He, thankfully, wastes no time in latching his mouth onto you. He spends a good portion of your evening taking you to the stars and back, multiple times, before he's satisfied, and he's sure you are too. 

You're showered (again), and curled up on the couch, your head now in Spencer's lap as his fingers brush through your hair, the beginning of Casablanca beginning to play all over again. You had protested neither of you appreciated it enough the first time, and you want to give the film its proper treatment. 

"Why do you like this film so much?" he murmurs, staring at the black and white screen. 

"Reminds me of better times, I guess," you reply. 

"Your better times take place in Morocco in the forties?" 

"No," your lips twitch into a small smile, your head shaking, hair brushing across his thighs. "When I first watched this film I was fifteen, with my mom. It was one of the few times we really got along, so... I guess that."

He decides against commenting on it, for your voice had dropped to something a little sadder. "Rick's not a good person," he chides. 

"You don't get to form an opinion on Rick without finishing the movie first."

He laughs at that, but he falls silent soon after, an evident promise that he would wait. 

"Why did you make me watch this?" he asks, as you're greeted with a screen of black, your two reflections staring back at you. 

You turn your head, resting it flat against his thighs as you look up at him, raising an eyebrow in question. 

"It isn't a happy ending," he explains at your quizzical look. 

"Oh, so movies I show you need to have a happy ending?" you argue. "You like Star Wars, Spencer."

"No, obviously they don't. But when you explained the film to me, you said, 'a romance classic from the forties'. Forgive me for presuming it would be a happy ending."

"I think it is kind of happy," you reply, shrugging as you tear your gaze away, resting instead on the coffee table. 

"How so?" he brushes the hair that falls out of your face. 

"They weren't right for each other," you murmur. "Rick knew that. He loved her enough to let her go, I guess."

August

You are a fragment of every person you have loved, and who has loved you. Tiny pieces of their soul weaving within your own to form the person you are today. From acts as simple as the way you cook your eggs, to reactions as serious as your emotional response to an insult. Family members making up your emotional regulators, childhood friendships determining your insecurities. 

Like a solidified piece of putty holding two pipes together, you are a person moulded to be what other people need. 

Stay quiet, don't react, detach. 

Not even a conscious choice you make anymore. Too many years spent punished for being loud, too many tears cried over your supposed overreaction, too many pieces of your heart shattered each time somebody leaves. Your responses are simply automatic now. 

Spencer Reid had not heard from you in fifty six hours. 

Two thirty in the morning was never a good time to try and communicate, for a plethora of reasons. Never mind the fact that it was late. His mind had been exhausted of its use during a particularly gruelling case, and you had been too anxious the four days he'd been gone to sleep properly. 

For that reason, and possibly many others you didn't know, he was in a bad mood. Your being awake at that hour was irritating to him, your half drank coffee was an awful idea in his mind, and your touch was unwanted by him. You didn't know why. 

You hated miscommunication. You hated the unsaid words that hung in the air whenever you'd look at him. 

The first thing he had said upon coming home was not, hello, or even, I missed you. No, it was a sharp, "Why are you awake?" as he set his messenger bag down on the floor next to his door. 

"I was waiting for you," you had said, picking up the mug of coffee. "Then it hit midnight, and you still weren't home, and usually you come home to me asleep, but I wanted to see you so I drank some coffee and..." you'd trailed off upon seeing his uncharacteristically cold expression. 

"You shouldn't stay awake waiting for me," he'd muttered, taking the mug from you and heading into the kitchen to clean it, flicking the light on. "You have work tomorrow. You need to be asleep."

"I missed you," you'd protested, standing up and going towards him. 

"I missed you too, but you should've been asleep."

Your attempt at hugging him and kissing him in greeting was denied, his hands prying you off his body. He could've ripped your heart out instead and you'd think it hurt less than that.

"Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

You felt like a child being scolded at his snark, which was evidently the reason behind you not listening to him at all in the end. 

He'd offered no proper explanation for his irritation towards you. Even as you'd picked up your things and left his apartment, silently, not even a quiet I love you whispered to confirm that you weren't leaving him for good, he didn't explain a thing to you. 

Out of sight, out of mind, was not a principle you could exercise when it came to him. Every notification to your phone that didn't brand his name hurt your heart, a constant reminder that maybe he was still mad at you, and he didn't want to see you.

It was a knock at your door that pried you from the clutches of your duvet that morning, a half-assed attempt at brushing through your hair and straightening of your clothes was the best whoever dared to come see you uninvited would get. 

Opening the door and your brain computing who it was had you wanting to slam it again, as if this were some movie and he would have the will to shove a foot in the door to stop it from closing. 

Maybe he would. 

"So you are alive," he says. 

"Last I checked, yes," you reply. 

Simple words spoken between two far from simple individuals, until he was nodding his head to the open space of your apartment behind you, and you were wordlessly agreeing to let him come in. 

"Are you here to break up with me?"

His closing of the door was interrupted by your question, his entire body going rigid for a beat, before he gently clicked the door and lock in place, turning on his shoulder with frowning eyebrows. 

"No. I'm... not—why, why would you think that?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Habit."

That hurts his heart, and he's shaking his head almost incessantly. "I'm not. I promise, honey. I just want to know what's going on. Nobody's heard from you."

"I know," you murmur, feet carrying you over to your couch before your legs can give out on you. 

He watches you, awaiting another spiel of words to explain where you had disappeared to for the past two and a bit days. And yet; nothing. So, he follows you, and sits down on the couch next to you. Hands reach out to pick up your legs, shoulders relaxing a little when you let him place them in his lap, and you go slightly still out of fluster. 

"I'm sorry for making you mad, if I did," you whisper. 

"You didn't. Did you think I was mad?"

"I guess. You were kind of mean," his heart shatters at that. "But maybe I was just taking it the wrong way. I was tired."

"No," his fingertips run up and down your legs, the only conscious act he could focus on to keep himself from bombarding you with every worried thought he's had the last two days. "I shouldn't have let you leave thinking I was mad at you. I wasn't. The case just stressed me out, and I was concerned about you still being awake that late."

"I was waiting for you," you mumble. 

"I know, angel," he nods his head. "It's just I usually come home to you asleep on the couch."

"Or the bathroom."

His chest puffs out with laughter, and your heart swells a little in your chest at the sight. "Or the bathroom," he parrots, nodding. 

It was when he was coming home from a case on the border in Washington state, and you had, like usual, tried to stay awake to wait for him. Unfortunately, the UnSub tiptoeing between the two country lines meant the case was dragged out, and he had come home much later than expected. And you had mistakenly passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel, after a shower. 

Amusement was over as his eyes found and locked with your own, and he earnestly asks, "Can you tell me why you disappeared?"

"No."

It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him. Just that you didn't know why either. Perhaps it was something you'd need to unpack with a professional, not your boyfriend at ten in the morning on your couch. 

Ever so understanding, Spencer Reid was. Even with the pause of his delicate touch on your legs in what you're sure is another jolt of frustration towards you.

"That's okay," he says, instead. "Can you promise to try and not disappear next time, then?"

Your shoulders shrug. Can you promise that? 

"You can't," he voices your thoughts for you, and you nod your head in confirmation. "Okay. Well, I really want to work this out with you. I need you to want that too."

"I do," you say quietly. 

"Then you need to work with me," he answers. "Where did your brain go that night?"

"Um," you hesitate. You could think of a thousand places your mind wandered to that night. None of them very good. A child again, being scolded for not turning the light out because you were up reading, maybe. "I don't know. I don't like being scolded like I'm a child. I guess I felt like a child."

"That wasn't my—"

"—I know," you cut him off before he can defend himself to you. "I know it wasn't your intention. But it felt that way. I'm an adult who makes her own decisions, and losing sleep before work because I want to see my boyfriend is one of those. No matter how... how stupid a decision you may think that is."

"I didn't think it was stupid," he shakes his head. "I was just concerned."

"Funny way of showing it," you mumble, lowering your gaze, before his lack of response makes you realise what you had just said to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was mean."

"No," hands lightly swat your legs. "No, I deserved that. I was really mean. It wasn't the right way to show my concern for you."

"Doesn't mean I should be rude back."

"I think it does," he says, his fingers going back to tracing patterns on your skin. "In fact, I encourage it."

In true Spencer fashion, his words tug a small smile onto your lips, and you feel the heaviness of what had happened between you two ease off your chest slightly. "That's a weird thing to encourage."

"Maybe," he agrees. "I don't like that you left without saying anything."

"I didn't feel very wanted," you explain. "By you. I tried to hug you, and you wouldn't let me touch you."

"I was overstimulated," he says. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hug you, honey. I did. Sometimes I don't like people touching me, yes, even you," he adds upon seeing your confused expression and tilted head. "I didn't handle that well. I should've told you that in the moment."

"I wish I had known that before," you murmur. "That's why I left. And you didn't try to stop me, so I just assumed..."

"I wasn't very present," he shakes his head to stop your self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks. "I barely registered you were leaving until I heard the door shut."

"Oh."

"I wanted to stop you when I realised. I decided to give you space."

"I just thought you didn't care."

"If nothing else, know that I'll always care," he tells you, and your heart stutters at the raw honesty in his voice. "Even if you run away and I don't reach out for a week because I think you need space. I'll still care."

"Please don't leave me alone for a week if I run away," you reply, and one of his hands squeezes your knee. 

"Noted. I won't."

You nod your head with the faintest hint of a smile, before your gaze lowers to your legs. You inhale, then say, quietly, "I'm sorry for disappearing."

"I know," he answers. "It's okay."

November

It was a horrifically awful day that led you to this moment. Curling up on the couch with a blanket covering your entire body, staring aimlessly off into the warm glow of the reading lamp Spencer had bought you many moons ago. 

Your heart was heavy, hands cold, body shivering, in the cool November air that flooded your apartment. Your thermostat was just too far. Not that you were comfortable. Not even a little bit. You could evidently feel each spring of your couch pushing into your flesh, puncturing you uncomfortably. You hadn't had a need for a new couch since getting together with Spencer, usually finding your residence at his apartment more often than not. 

Not today, it seemed. 

Keys rattled outside your apartment door, and you heard the shuffling of familiar feet, followed by the gentle calling of your name to alert you of his presence. 

"Honey, it's freezing in here," he says, settling his bag down on the kitchen countertop, you're sure (you aren't looking). You hear the beep, following by the rush of wind coming out of your air conditioning unit as he turns the device on, and you're silently grateful. 

He finds you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you from behind it, greeting you with a kiss to the side of your head, right on your temple, and a few of your worries melt away in an instant. Only a few, for there is still a bricklayer of hurt seated comfortably over your heart. 

He says your name again when you don't say anything to greet him, and it's more shuffling of feet until he's dipping into the couch next to you, despite the fact that he still had his shoes and work clothes on. Irrelevant affairs he could deal with later. 

"Hey, what's this?" he asks you, quietly, leaning forwards and nudging your arched knees, and your gaze finally tears from the lamp to his face, spots of light decorating your vision and covering some of him.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I'm thinking."

"Very hard, apparently," he says, lightly. You appreciate the attempt of lifting the mood. "About what?"

"Um," you pause. "I saw my family today."

"Yeah. You said you were. I assume it didn't go well?"

You wordlessly shake your head, and he sighs, wasting no time in bringing you into his chest. You crack, and his heart shatters at the quiet sob that wracks through your body.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, voice all too quiet for your fragile state, for it only makes you cry a little harder. "Angel."

"She—um," your voice cracks. "Everything I said she turned into a joke to everyone. I just felt stupid the entire time. Like everything I said wasn't worth being said. So I stopped talking, because I couldn't get made fun of if I didn't say anything, right?" You feel his head nod against your own, even though you couldn't see him.

"No. She brought up things I'd said to her previously, and mocked them. I mean, I was in the other room so she didn't know I could hear her, but—but—" you choke on your words, cutting your ranting short, your hands petulantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. "I'm sick of waiting for her to love me. Isn't she supposed to? She's my fucking mother and yet I'm still begging her to even like me. Why?"

"I don't know, angel." His voice is achingly soft, and his hands thread into your hair, brushing through it a few times; a welcome comfort. "This happens every time you see her."

"Yeah."

You're feeling impossibly small in his arms as you nod, sniffling away hideous snot bubbles you're sure he cared about. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"Maybe it's time to stop seeing her."

"Yeah." 

You're reluctant in agreeing with him, though you know deep down he's right. But it's an Earth shattering revelation that you aren't quite sure you wanted to ever come to. While certainly a thought you've had, and entertained previously, agreeing to it aloud is an entirely different beast. 

"She's my mom, though," you mumble. "She raised me."

"What she did for you previously should never be enough for you to ignore what she does to you now. I've never seen you come home happy after seeing her. You're never anything short of miserable. That makes me miserable, honey," the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheek, and you hum as a quiet response. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate feeling like this."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs. "Don't decide tonight. You're emotional—yes, you are. Don't look at me like that," he scolds as you jerk your head back to narrow your tear filled eyes at him. "But can you promise me you'll consider my option?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good. I love you."

"I love you too."

January

He wasn't home. 

Three o'clock in the morning, and Spencer Reid was nowhere to be found. Not in his own apartment, like you had originally thought. Not collecting the last of your boxes from your own. Not anywhere he commonly would be. 

At three in the morning. 

You had tried calling him. Multiple times, actually. A flurry of messages followed in their wake, and you were growing increasingly impatient as you stand awkwardly outside his apartment, that had just recently become your apartment too. You didn't have a key yet — needing one to be cut for Spencer only had one thus far. 

He had promised he'd be home. When you'd asked him as you were leaving earlier that evening if you'd need to take the key, he said no, and that he'd be home all night. 

God forbid you actually believed him, apparently. 

You could've sat at that apartment door for three minutes or hours. You weren't too sure anymore. Staring off into space and making up a list of sentences to say to him when he finally showed up — if he showed up. 

It was embarrassing. Heels tucked next to you, dress bunched at your waist, head beginning to ache from the alcohol wearing off, and eyes beginning to droop from how exhausted you were. 

Shuffling of feet had you lifting your head, landing on an equally as exhausted looking Spencer Reid, who's lips were parting upon spotting you on the floor, and a sickening realisation settling on his facial features. 

"I'm sorry," he stumbled out as he helped you stand up, ignoring your protests as he picked up your heels for you. "I forgot you weren't staying at your friends. I just assumed—"

"—You forgot?"

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even sound a little irritated. It shatters his heart more to hear a painstakingly small, broken tone coat your words, instead of them being dipped in venom. 

He knew it was a pathetic excuse. He forgot. That's his whole thing. He doesn't forget. But he also isn't always called into his job at two in the morning for an in state amber alert. You didn't know that, though.

"Here, let's get you inside and out of your clothes," he places a hand on the small of your back and pushes you forwards into his apartment, your feet stumbling as you let him guide you around. 

"What do you mean you forgot?" you ask him, quietly. His stomach twists. 

"I got called into work. It was urgent. I had been so focussed on Hotch being freaked out I left without thinking. I'm so sorry, angel girl."

"Seriously?"

He freezes at your incredulous voice, his hands pausing at the top of your dress zipper. When he doesn't answer you immediately, you turn so you can look at him.

"You weren't home because you got called into work," you repeat the words over, and over, as if saying them more will make them any more sensical. He opens his mouth and begins to say your name, so you cut him off, "I was sitting there for—" you pause, checking the time on the wall clock across the room, "—two hours, Spencer. Drunk, and cold, and you weren't fucking picking up. Did you forget how to use your phone too? Did you forget how to contact your girlfriend?"

"You're tired, honey. Can you get some sleep and we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, actually. We're having this discussion now."

"No, you're not. You're exhausted. Sleep deprivation affects your emotional regulators, and—"

"—For once, can you not fucking Reid-splain to me?" you spit. "I think I'm allowed to be a little upset with you, Spencer. You forgot about me!"

He agrees; he does deserve your anger. Though, it doesn't make this any easier to listen to, and it certainly doesn't make his biting of his tongue very easy. For he wants to argue with you. He didn't forget about you, and none of what happened tonight was due to anything other than his lack of focus on things that weren't at the forefront of his mind. Case in point; a missing child. 

A few more beats of silence pass by, and you're brushing past him into the kitchen, jerking your arm away when his hand reaches out to grab it. 

"Why is it always work?" you ask him. "All of our issues come back to your job."

"I don't know."

"Am I not worth more than your job?" 

The question itself hangs in thick air, and his hesitance is enough of an answer within itself. It isn't fair. You know that. His job is important, and you'd never actively ask him to choose you over saving somebody's life. He knew that.

"I'm not asking you to choose seeing me over saving a life," you verbalise your thoughts, when he still doesn't reply. "I'm never asking that of you. But you couldn't have called me back? Or texted me to see if I could go to a friend's? Or even come to you at work to get a key?"

"I—"

"—Forgot. I know," you mutter, almost bitterly, turning around to pick out a glass from the cabinet. 

It's another few moments of quiet. Save for the tap that runs as you get yourself water, and the shuffling of his feet as he hesitates, then takes tentative steps towards the kitchen bar. 

"I don't think I can do this anymore," you whisper, before he can get too close.

"Do what anymore?"

"Us."

The silence that follows deafens, and you have to flutter your eyes up to the ceiling to wane tears that threatened to spill. This was most certainly not how you imagined your night to go. 

"That's a big decision," he says, as if it weren't obvious.

"I know," and it's the finality in your voice that hurts him even more. 

"Can we please revisit this conversation in the morning? After you've slept?"

"My decision won't change."

"It might."

"Humour me with how we're supposed to move past this."

He freezes. "Um—we can talk. And we can even go to couple's therapy, or something," he ignores the face you pull. "I just think we—you—should make this decision when you're completely sober and rested."

You place the now empty glass on the bench again. "I won't have the courage to break up with you tomorrow."

"Is that not a sign that you shouldn't break up with me, then—"

"—Let me do this, damnit, Spencer!" you slam your hands down in front of you, eyes wide and almost desperate. 

He doesn't say anything more to argue with you. Instead, he bows his head, and you despise the crack in your heart at the way his eyes shut and shed a tear before his face is out of sight. 

You're moved out by the end of the month.

June

The universe is a wonderfully strange place. Somewhere you go to when things get too difficult, begging for respite and the freedom from yourself. Or when things are going so well you thank whoever was pulling the strings of your lifeline. 

You tried not to curse at the universe. What you give, you will receive. The love you expend will always be returned to you, whether that is in two minutes or two years. Hatred for the universe was always internalised and pushed down, for you'd rather that, than having the karmic Gods ruin your life any more. 

And yet; fuck you universe. 

You were recently asked who you love, in a group setting with people you barely knew. You'd have said your best friend's name, or your parents, but you felt awfully lonely amongst a group of people saying, "my partner", "my kids". You didn't think you were old enough yet for the most important person in your life not being the woman who raised you (though, she would never be that anyways). 

You said his name before you could even comprehend it. Before your brain had a second to stop running on autopilot to think. The two syllables flying past your lips, embarrassingly so. 

When someone asks you who you love, you think of him. 

Perhaps this was all your own fault. If you had just bided your tongue, held onto your pride and mumbled a quiet, "My mom, I guess", you wouldn't have spoken his existence back into the universe. 

It was a quiet, "Oh. Hello," that'd prompted your head to lift from your phone, attempting to tune out the busy train. And there he was, standing tall, messenger bag crossing over his body. 

"Hi," you say, breathless, air knocked from your lungs. 

"Can I... um, sit? All the other seats are taken."

And like you would if he was a stranger, you nod your head, shuffling a little closer to the side, allowing for him to sit down next to you. 

"Your hair's gotten long," Spencer Reid says, quietly.

"Yeah, I need to go get it cut. You have more—um, facial hair. Like it's more prominent. Like thicker," you stammer. 

"Yeah," you see his lips twitch into a small smile out of the corner of your eye. "I just got back from a case. I haven't had time to shave."

You manage to push down a comment about you liking it. 

And as if you were not strangers, he asks you, "How are you?"

You know he doesn't mean currently. Subconsciously asking you to tell him you're doing awfully without him, that the past six months had been horrible and you miss him dearly. 

It's true, but you can't say that.

Instead, you opt for a nonchalant, "I'm okay," and, "How are you?"

"Okay, too," he says, and you wonder how much truth his words hold. 

"How's work been?"

You don't know if you actually care. Asking aimlessly about the thing you had to blame for him becoming a solidified memory in your brain, and not a current experience. 

"Busy," he answers. "I've barely been home."

Not much has changed, it seems. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replies. "It's kept me from wallowing."

"Can't say I've had the same fate."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It was your own fault, really. And maybe he thought that. Maybe he's making fun of you in his mind for being sad and feeling horrible things after the breakup, because it was you who initiated it, at the end of the day. 

No, he isn't. You know that. Spencer Reid doesn't do that.

"It's okay," you finally say, words spoken on a breath. 

Silence covets the two of you, a thousand words on the tip of your tongue, but none ever spoken aloud. A silent conversation dancing in the air between your two bodies.

Do you miss me?

Yes. Do you miss me?

More than anything. 

But then the train stops, and his station is called, and he's standing awkwardly, forcing a tight smile onto his face, as he bids you goodbye. 

And for a few long half seconds, you watch him walk away, very slowly, for time has stopped for just a few beats of your heart. Then, you're calling his name, and he's stopping, as if he had expected you to reach out to him before he could get too far. 

You stare up at him for another beat longer, and you wonder if he's quite content to miss his station, just to talk to you some more. 

"Do you want to get coffee?"

"To wait an hour — is long — if love be just beyond. To wait eternity — is short — if love reward the end." (Emily Dickinson)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[dreamwritesimagines]

Sunshine Masterlist

Summary: The first ray of sunlight holds many promises.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Type: Series of Oneshots

Tropes: Singlemom!Reader, opposites attract, romance, fluff, idiots to lovers, pining

1 - Sunshine

2- Summer Breeze

3- Downpour

4- Ray of Light

5- Dusk

6 - Middle of the Night

7 - Heat Wave

8 - Scorching

9 - Tranquility

10 - Storm

11 - Blast

12 - Wildfire

13 - Clouds

14 - Shelter

Headcanons

A wonderful playlist by @hunterofshadows04!

[prythianpages]

Kiss It, Kiss It Better | Azriel x Reader

Azriel x Reader | Even the strongest need a little extra loving sometimes.

warnings: kissing, slight angst in the beginning, reader showering Az with love bc our shadow daddy needs it

a/n: I keep getting distracted from the angst I'm supposed to be writing. But here's a cute little fluffy Az drabble (724 words) inspired by this kissing scene. I've never seen the movie, just saw this clip on twitter lol.

Azriel had a bad day. 

You could tell the moment you heard his footsteps, heavy and hesitant. They reached you before his shadows did, which was rare. Usually, they were the first to greet you, brushing against your skin affectionately. 

But today, they stayed with him, swirling around him in a frantic manner.

His wings were tucked in tight and there was a blankness in his eyes that made your heart ache. Still, even through the storm cloud he carried with him, he paused to place a small kiss to your cheek in greeting before disappearing into the bathroom without a word.

Maybe the mission hadn’t gone as planned. Maybe Rhysand had delivered news that didn’t settle well with him. Or maybe… he was just tired and feeling down. You didn’t ask. You’d learned not to. Azriel always talks when he’s ready.

So, you gave him some time alone.

While he bathed, you decided to prepare his favorite snacks, not caring if it spoiled dinner. You retrieved a bottle of wine from the back of the cabinet, the one you’d both snuck from Rhysand’s private collection during one of your drunken nights together. Azriel blamed it on Cassian and you didn’t know what was funnier–the fact that Rhysand believed it or that Cassian did too (having been guilty of stealing Rhysand’s wine one too many times to question it himself.)

You were pouring the wine when you heard the bathroom door creak open. His hair was still wet, damp curls clinging to the nape of his neck as he walked back into the kitchen. He wore only a pair of loose grey sweatpants, his chest bare and those muscles of his on full display, droplets of water making the black ink on his skin glisten. You nearly overfilled the glass in your hand.

He slumped into the chair beside where you stood, his shadows slinking around the floor like tired cats. Calmer now, though not entirely at peace.

Your lips curved into a small frown. “Rough day?” you asked softly, though it wasn’t really a question. Not when you already knew the answer.

Azriel didn’t reply at first. He just looked up at you, his hazel eyes warm and weary. His features softened slightly. You felt the bond between you pulse with a soft pull and you moved to him instinctively. He welcomed you with open arms, easing you onto his lap, resting his hands loosely around your waist.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low, his thumb tracing absentminded circles on your waist. “But it’s a little better now.”

Your smiled as you leaned in and whispered, “I can make it even better.”

He let out an exhale, a mix of a sigh and chuckle that puffed against your cheek. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones and began to kiss him. A kiss to his jaw. One to his cheek. The corner of his mouth. His temple. 

You kissed every inch of his face and slowly, he began to melt under your touch.

His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His eyes fluttered shut as he rested his forehead against your shoulder, breathing you in.

You felt his smile through the bond. It was like a tiny spark of warmth, like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. His shadows had risen from the floor, twirling lazily around you both.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, curling a damp lock around your finger. “All good now?”

Azriel tilted his head back. His cheeks were a little pink, the kind of flush he only ever got around you. Contentment and want reflected back at you as his eyes met yours.

“I think," he began, his voice just a touch breathless as his gaze dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes. “You missed a very important spot...want me to show you where?"

You laughed and he laughed with you. Then, he placed a hand at the nape of your neck, guiding you down as he closed the last bit of distance. His lips met yours—the one place you hadn’t kissed in the trail of sunshine you'd pressed across his skin.

The storm that had followed Azriel home had lifted. He’d tell you about it later. For now, he just needed you and the soothing warmth of your body against his.

a/n: It's 2am where I live but I just had to finish this.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kodafics

[huntingingoodwill]

aren’t you gonna tuck me in? (j.m.)

masterlist

pairing: brat!reader x joel miller

prompt: goodnight kiss

a/n: a lil sumn for @janaispunk’s 1.5k kisses challenge!!! with a bit of a grumpy x sunshine dynamic smirk smirk... congrats babes 💕

“You crazy old motherfucker!” Your screams were tinged with laughter as Joel slung you over his shoulder, carrying you out of the Tipsy Bison. 

“Who’re you calling a crazy old motherfucker?” Joel grumbled, locking his arm tight around your thigh and kicking open the door as he pointedly ignored your friends’ whoops and whistles. 

You blew them a kiss before they disappeared behind the swinging door, at which point you gestured to the desolate road Joel had carried you out onto.

“Don’t see any other crazy old motherfuckers around.” 

The slice of light that fell upon the road from the open door reduced into nothingness as it swung shut, leaving you and Joel awash in blue moonlight. 

“If I’m crazy, it’s only ‘cause you drove me to the brink-” He paused in exasperation, landing a smack to your thigh that prompted a delicious, ticklish pain to shoot up your leg, and peals of laughter to come falling out your mouth,“will you stop wiggling up there?” 

“Sure thing.” The saccharine words dripped off your tongue before you halted your movements, muscles slackening as you draped your dead weight over his shoulder. 

“Jesus,” He huffed, suddenly exhausted as he had to literally shoulder the burden of your lax body. “Y’know what, just get down.” He said, quickly lowering you to the ground. 

“Joel Miller, you are quite the party pooper.” You chuckled, stumbling to your feet. 

He had stormed into the Tipsy Bison, locking eyes with yours as he pushed past a crush of people, causing your lips to twist into a smirk and your heartbeat to quicken in time with the beat of the warbling song blasting from the jukebox. He had barely given you time to shoot off a sly remark before he tossed you over your shoulder and whisked you away, an act much more interesting to you than the drunken conversation you were enjoying with your friends. 

“I did not poop any parties.” He said, watching you stifle a laugh as you walked beside him. “Maybe you don’t recall, but we’re on patrol together tomorrow, and I am not gonna play nurse to you when you’re hungover on a horse.” 

When Tommy had first put the both of you on patrol together, he had thought his brother was pulling some sick joke. He probably was. You had taken a particular interest in Joel whenever you saw him around Jackson, never failing to deliberately bump into him and engage in some teasing that would render Tommy helpless with laughter as Joel stood on, unamused. 

As much as Joel hated to admit it, and as much as he felt he really was being driven crazy on his patrols with you, he had almost come around to it.

The gleam of your smile in those dark forests as you told him corny jokes around a crackling fire. Like sunlight peeking out from behind a dark cloud.

He pushed the thought away. Maybe you really were driving him to the brink. 

“Please,” you rolled your eyes, gait leisurely besides his focused march down the road, “I’ve been hungover on that horse before and you never had to baby me. I just think you hate fun.” 

“I do not ‘hate fun’.” He said, his monotonous drawl sounding pretty fun-hating, “...But maybe you were having too much fun. ‘Specially with that boy of yours.” 

He regretted letting the words slip as soon as he said them, but he couldn’t deny the flare of heat that simmered under his skin when he entered the bar to see you laughing your head off with one of the guys that always seemed to trail after you around Jackson. 

“Oh. My. God.” You said, a thin sheen of dust rising around your boots as you screeched to a halt. 

“What?” Joel said, heart pounding as he whipped his head around.

“You’re jealous!” 

“I am not-“ Joel spluttered, heat blooming across his collar. 

“I’m walking home with a green-eyed monster!” You grabbed him by the jaw, and Joel prayed you couldn’t feel the heat from his cheeks searing the pads of your fingers. You turned his head, prompting him to look in your eyes. He had to fight off the urge to melt against your touch under the intensity of your stare, his jaw clenching beneath your fingers.

“Nope. Not green. Still shit brown.” You said, killing the moment with a grin. 

Joel shook you off, quickening his pace rather unsteadily as you continued to walk beside him. 

“You’re obsessed with me. First, you’re carrying me out of the Tipsy Bison, and next, you’ll be carrying me over the threshold after our wedding." You laughed.

That made even more heat blossom in his cheeks, and he tried to push that image out of his mind as he cleared his throat, biting his tongue as he let you carry on.

“Don’t be too jealous, Joel.” You purred, slipping your arm through his, nuzzling up to him in a way that made blood roar in his ears, “That guy’s not really my type. I like older guys.” You placed extra emphasis on the last phrase, making Joel’s head swim. 

After making him squirm under your gaze for a couple seconds, you burst into laughter.

“As mean as you look, you get flustered so easily. It’s adorable.” You said, punctuating the sentence with a coddling pout. 

“I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Joel grumbled, eyes trained straight ahead. 

“It’s hilarious.” 

Your footsteps trailed off as the both of you arrived in front of his house, staring at its squat silhouette in the dark. 

You turned to grin at him, Joel shooting a sideways glance at you, debating whether or not to take the bait. 

“What?” He mumbled, taking the bait. 

“Miller, you devil. You could’ve at least bought me a drink before bringing me back to your place.” 

He rolled his eyes, walking up the porch steps as you trailed behind him. 

“Your place is all the way on the other side of Jackson. So you can either sleep here tonight, or we’ll spend another hour walking around in the dark.” He said, opening the door. 

“Excuses, excuses.” You clucked your tongue, shaking your head with false disapproval, "As much as I'd like that long, romantic, moonlit walk, I am getting a little sleepy. I'll stay the night."

He held the door open for you, gesturing for you to head inside, a motion that you simply returned with an expectant stare.

“What?” He said, trying not to shift under your gaze.

“Aren’t you gonna carry me over the threshold?” 

“Get your ass in the damn house.” 

Your laughter rang, clear as a bell, through the sparse rooms of his house as you kicked off your boots, flouncing up the stairs as if you were right at home. 

He heard the sound of his shower turning on and the syrupy hum of your voice over the splash of water.

He reached for your shoes, overturned and muddied, before straightening them and placing them next to his. Staring at the both of them next to each other, your voice ringing in his ears as you sang a discordant melody in the shower, a flicker of strange emotion shot through him. 

The realisation he wouldn’t mind picking up after you, putting your shoes next to his. They would have a place next to each other, where they belonged, whenever you came home. 

The realisation that he wouldn’t mind if your voice filled up every room in the house, where once he thought he was content with silence. 

As he poured a glass of water for you and began carrying it up to his bedroom, he realised he wouldn’t mind bringing up a glass of water for you every night, and a cup of coffee every morning. 

“I’m going insane.” He muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. 

“You decent?” He called out, knocking on his bedroom door. 

“Hardly ever. Come in!” You sang. 

The scent of his soap hung in the air, clinging to your skin. You grinned at him, a soft glow haloing you from his bedside lamp as you towelled water out of your hair, one of his flannels hanging off your frame.  

“Is that mine?” He swallowed, the words flying out of his mouth so quickly they almost sounded accusatory. 

“Yeah.” You turned to look at his furrowed brow. “What? I can give it back to you if you want.” You said, beginning to unbutton it.

He averted his eyes, that familiar heat shooting under his skin again. “Jesus- just- you can keep it on.” 

You burst into laughter as Joel rubbed the back of his heated neck.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He mumbled. 

“Thank you, Joel.” You whispered, your sincerely grateful, soft voice sending his walls tumbling down.

He cut his eyes at you one more time, a vision in his worn, old flannel, before making a move to leave. 

You cleared your throat, the noise exaggeratedly loud in the quiet room. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

He looked at you, his deep brown eyes wide in confusion, a furrow set in his brow. 

“Aren’t you gonna tuck me in?” 

His cheeks reddened as he stared at you, swallowing thickly. 

Hiding his trepidation behind an exasperated eye roll, he crossed the room. His hand, the skin rough in contrast to the soft blanket, pulled the fabric over your body, covering you. You smiled up at him, that evil glint in your eye that drove him crazy shining up at him. 

“Goodnight kiss?” You whispered with feigned innocence, glancing up at him through thick lashes. 

“Christ.” He whispered, heartbeat pounding in his ears, his heart somewhere between wanting, annoyance and restraint. 

“Please?” You whispered, lips turning up at the corners into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. 

He felt his resolve crumble to pieces, and he couldn’t resist. He leaned in, heartbeat kicking in his chest as he pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

He felt dizzy as he felt your hot breath against his ear, the soft skin of your cheek nuzzling into the scruff on his cheek. 

“Oh, c’mon,” you whispered, lips ghosting his cheek, “you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

He melted against your touch, barely able to formulate a smart retort before he felt your teeth digging into his cheek. 

“Jesus!” He recoiled, the bite radiating with a dull pain. 

“That’s for pooping my party, Miller.” Laughter bubbled from your lips as you watched him run his fingers over the grooves your teeth left in his skin. 

“You’re fucking crazy.” His wounded tone just made you even more amused, your smile growing on your face. 

“Don’t sulk.” You pouted, hand reaching up to skim a thumb across his cheek, and he couldn’t help leaning into your touch. “Let me kiss it better.” 

He let you press a kiss to the quickly fading bite mark, his head swimming as your tongue darted out, giving him a playful lick before you laughed against his skin, breath fanning out over his cheek. 

He turned his head, forehead pressed against yours as his nose brushed yours, his eyes screwed shut.

“You’re driving me crazy.” He mumbled. 

“I know.” 

He pressed his lips to yours, that strange, floaty feeling he had felt downstairs washing over him. You held him close, fingers entangling in the soft curls at the nape of his neck as you pulled him onto the bed. 

Lying on his back, he let you press your palms against his shoulders. He stared at the ceiling, feeling barely there, as if he could have just slipped away, your hands the only thing pinning him to earth. He felt it with every kiss you pressed to his lips, when your lips ghosted the line of his jaw, his neck. You were everywhere, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

“All better?” You said, voice barely audible over the roar of blood in his ears. 

“Yes.” 

“Y’know,” you whispered, tracing the line of his jaw with your lips, “I just realised something.“ You looked down at him, the smile that meant trouble returning to your face. “We have a really early morning tomorrow. Goodnight, Joel!”

Just like that, you had rolled off of him and turned off the light, plunging the both of you into darkness. He laid there, barely registering what had just happened, his body already missing your warmth. 

He turned to look at you, your face slackened with sleep as your breath evened out, completely calm in the embrace of sleep as his heart still pounded in his chest, giddy as he turned back to stare at the ceiling. 

He was definitely going crazy.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Heyy, could you maybe do an age difference reader x Toto Wolff or sunshine x grumpy, where he has one of his headphone breaking moments and she scolds him in the middle of the garage? Like I’d find super funny like his smaller, younger wife yelling at him for breaking his headphones and the fans and media eating that up haha. Please and thanks!! <3

The hum of the Mercedes garage was as familiar as it was chaotic, a rhythm of voices, machinery, and focused intensity. Engineers moved swiftly, the clatter of tools punctuating their discussions as mechanics fine-tuned the car for the upcoming race. Amidst the organized chaos, you stood by the monitors, scanning data with a calm focus that contrasted sharply with the frenetic energy around you.

Then it happened.

“Verdammt!” Toto’s voice boomed from the other end of the garage, startling even the most seasoned team members. Heads turned to see him, towering as always, but now radiating frustration. His expression was a storm cloud, and in his hands were the remnants of his latest pair of Bose headphones, the poor device snapped clean in two.

You let out a sigh, half amused, half exasperated. Your husband—the esteemed team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas, feared and respected across the paddock—had once again succumbed to his infamous headphone-breaking habit.

“Oh no, not again,” you muttered under your breath. You handed your tablet to a nearby engineer and strode across the garage, weaving through the maze of equipment and personnel. The team parted like the Red Sea as you approached, sensing what was about to unfold.

Toto stood there, oblivious to the audience he had attracted. His broad shoulders heaved as he tried to rein in his temper, the broken headphones dangling from his massive hands. He looked every bit the grumpy giant he was known to be, but to you, it was just another Friday.

“Toto Wolff,” you began, your voice sharp enough to cut through the air. His head snapped up, and his stormy gaze softened—just a little—when it landed on you. But his sheepish expression did nothing to quell your determination.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, planting your hands on your hips. Despite being significantly shorter and younger than him, you had no trouble commanding the attention of a man who could intimidate entire boardrooms.

“They broke,” Toto said, as if that explained everything. He held up the shattered headphones as evidence, his Austrian accent thick in his defense.

“Oh, really?” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words. “Did they break, or did you break them? Because I’ve lost count of how many pairs you’ve destroyed this season alone. What is it now, five? Six?”

A snicker rippled through the garage, and you caught George trying to suppress a grin from where he stood by the car. Even the media personnel hovering near the entrance couldn’t hide their amusement, cameras clicking furiously to capture the moment.

Toto’s ears turned red, a rare crack in his composed demeanor. “It was… a stressful situation,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

“Stressful?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “And snapping your headphones in half helps how, exactly? Are you planning to intimidate Red Bull with broken electronics now?”

The garage erupted in laughter, and Toto’s lips twitched, caught between a scowl and a smile. He shifted awkwardly, the 6’4” team principal suddenly looking very much like a schoolboy caught red-handed.

“You need to control your temper, mein Liebling,” you said, softening your tone but not your resolve. “You’re setting a terrible example for the team. And for the record, I’m not buying you another pair. You can use the cheap earbuds like everyone else until you learn some self-restraint.”

Toto’s eyes widened, the horror of your words sinking in. “Not the earbuds,” he said, as if you’d suggested he race barefoot.

“Yes, the earbuds,” you confirmed, folding your arms. “Consider it a lesson in anger management.”

Another wave of laughter rippled through the team, and even Toto couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. He looked down at you, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and affection.

“You’re terrifying when you’re angry,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Good,” you replied, poking a finger into his chest. “Maybe you’ll finally listen to me.”

As you turned to walk away, the garage buzzed with whispered commentary and stifled laughs. The moment had been caught by every camera in the vicinity, and you had no doubt it would be all over social media within the hour.

A shadow loomed over you, and you turned to see Toto standing there, an apologetic smile on his face. In his hand was a hastily repaired pair of headphones, held together with duct tape.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “No more broken headphones.”

“Good,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Because next time, it’ll be the earbuds and no kisses for a week.”

He groaned dramatically but nodded, retreating to his post with his makeshift headphones. You shook your head, a fond smile tugging at your lips. He might be a grumpy giant with a penchant for breaking expensive electronics, but he was your grumpy giant. And if keeping him in line meant scolding him in front of the entire team, well, you were more than up to the task.

[rcvcgers]

Rotten Apples ❦.ׂ

chapter eleven: a world without you

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

previous part | next part

oh yeah, i made a spotify playlist for this <3

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: caleb desperately searches for you. what he finds leaves him unsettled.

word count: 10.5k words

warnings: please, please, PLEASE read the trigger warnings before proceeding. lightly proofread...it ain't perfect!

author's note: hi! thank you so much for being patient with me! the story is taking a slightly darker turn! it will still focus on their relationship but...this is going to put their relationship to the test

content warning: mentions of death/murder, bodily harm, manipulation, experimentation, exploitation, self loathing, angst, professor lucius is lowkey a sadist

my rotten apples <3 : @militaryapple , @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @lemonwithstupidity

want to be added to the taglist? click here!

Seven months and twenty eight days.

It has been seven months and twenty eight days since Caleb let the woman who haunts his every waking thoughts and nightmares slip through his fingers.

He allowed himself to fall from the sky that day, slipping through the clouds as Ever’s plane vanishes from behind, becoming a black speck amongst the birds in the blue sky. The image served as a reminder of his failure to keep you safe, to keep you out of the professor’s hands and away from Ever.

Now, you’re gone and all he is left to do is pick up the remaining pieces of his sanity while trying to find you.

The days pass him by. Days blur into weeks and weeks blur into months. Caleb has become a shell of himself in your absence. All of the color in his life has been drained and his once (somewhat) patient persona as Colonel has become known as an officer to avoid in the headquarters.

Caleb dedicates every single second of his day to finding you. He pokes around the Fleet’s security files, just barley able to grasp onto a lead before the General, most likely puppeted by the Professor, locks him out of the system.

Caleb has become a Colonel that holds no power within the Farspace Fleet. He holds no power in Ever, having been dropped from the Professor’s precious right hand man spot, and he has no power in whenever he goes home, forever forced to stare at the ceiling, trying to think of new ways to get you home.

It is like a ticking time bomb slowly eating away at the seconds of his days. Knowing that you are in the clutches of Ever and Professor Lucius scares him. He is terrified because he knows that the Professor has a sadistic side to him, an unstable hunger for power and evolution that will devour the entire world from around you. Professor Lucius will not stop until his final plan comes to fruition and you, my dear, just happen to be at the center of his plans.

Caleb sighs, closing his eyes. He lays in his bedroom, the weather destroying the outside world as he battles impulsive thoughts of storming into Ever as a one man army, ready to do anything to bring you back into his arms, to smell your perfume, to feel your warmth against his skin…

Your face crosses his thoughts. A small smile spreads across his face, the man instinctively reaching out for your. Your hands are just about to meet, his fingertips just barely grazing yours, before your body is enveloped in smoke, being dragged away into the depths of his mind. Your screams and cries for help twists his stomach, contorting it so all he can feel is nausea. 

A tear slips from Caleb’s eye. His mind is a battlefield and yet his heart remains steady, unable to betray the turmoil that crashed throughout his mind. From the first day they took you, Ever’s surveillance on him has increased. He has felt the whir of the chip inside his body, the person on the other side of the monitor closely looking at his vitals, his heartbeat. He can’t let Ever or the Professor think that he has become unstable with you away, a flight risk that will destroy everything that Professor Lucius has built. He cannot allow them to have a reason to bring him in to, to beat him into submission.

Maybe this has been Professor Lucius’ plan all along. Once Caleb has found someone to fill in the void of his heart and mind, the elderly man planned to rip them away from him, to use them as a pawn in their never ending game of cat and mouse.

Caleb has always been a good soldier when he believes in the orders he is given. Anything outside of what he deems to be right, well, let’s just say that the Professor made sure to erase any part of him that likes to disobey. The Professor has made sure to erase the morals Caleb once held. He has left Caleb with an obedience that a losing dog has towards its owner.

You helped him loosen the collar. Your prescience reminded him of what he is fighting for, his motivation to continue on with his days until he can finally rest. With you gone, his life has no more meaning. Maybe he should give in to the Professor, to allow the older man to consume his mind and body, to contort and twist his limbs into a person — no, a solider — that Caleb cannot recognize in the mirror.

His purple eyes feel heavy. His eyes flutter shut, his body almost succumbing to the disastrous desire of sleep.

Caleb’s body jolts awake. He sits up in bed, shaking away the drowsiness that lingers in his limbs, and slips away from the confines of the sheets. His feet carry him out of the bedroom and into the openness of his apartment. None of the lights are on, just the occasional flash of lightning through the large windows he hasn’t been bothered to shield with curtains.

The thunderstorm outside serves as a reminder for him letting you walk away. He should have never gone inside and left you alone. Caleb knows that you’re a runner, it is one of your fatal flaws that inevitably cut your time together short, and it is a flaw that he will try to bury with love and reassurance once you’re back into his arms. If you’ve fallen to a fate that he’s unable to bring you back from…

Caleb stops once he reaches the kitchen. He hasn’t cleaned since the night you left. Crumbs litter the countertop from his last meal. He sighs, knowing that you would have had some witty comment about him turning you into a housewife whenever you come over, always having to pick up after him. He knows you wouldn’t mean it. He desperately misses the toothy grin that would flash across your face as you swiped the crumbs into your hand and into the nearest trashcan.

A sigh leaves his lips. It hangs in the air, weighing down on his shoulders. The man cleans the crumbs and places his dishes into the sink, not wanting to clean them just yet with the hop that you’ll walk through the door at any moment, wanting to hear how you’d chastise him for being so messy during a time when he needed to be clean the most.

Every now and then, Caleb grabs the perfume you left behind and sprays it inside the rooms, on his pillow, and in all of the places you used to fill in whenever you were at his apartment. The last time he sprayed was a week ago when he could barely bring himself to leave his bed. The notes from your perfume kept him going and it helped him push through the monotonous days.

Should he spray it again? The bottle is almost empty so maybe he should salvage it instead of being selfish. He should spare the leftover drops of perfume, be merciful, and not take out his frustrations and depression on it.

Caleb finds himself on the couch. He sits in your spot, grabbing the pillow that you always hugged to your chest and mimicking your movements, resting his chin against the smooth material of the fabric. He slowly inhales, his body melting into the couch’s cushions, as your familiar and welcoming smell lulls him into sleep.

There’s a knock at the door. Caleb’s head perks up, his purple eyes landing on the dark brown door. A pair of footsteps run from behind, infectious giggles and laughs while Josephine tries to keep up. Caleb looks over his shoulder, watching as Josephine attempts to grab her as she jumps around with damp hair.

“Caleb? Would you be a dear and grab that for me?” Josephine’s voice is light and airy.

It’s everything that Caleb hates. She may not remember what Josephine and her colleagues have done to them, but Caleb does. The boy decides to not fight it, though, and stands from his spot on the brand new couch. He scratches around an old bandage that sits on the inside of his arm, a place where he was frequently poked with needles while in the clutches of Ever.

Caleb navigates the house, weaving through a plethora of opened cardboard boxes. Inside sit brand new items. Clothes, kitchen utensils, shoes, decorations, picture frames…all of which were bought to give off the image that Josephine is a gracious grandmother to her adoptive children.

He cautiously approaches the door, hesitating to grab the doorknob. He hopes that he can get away with the excuse that the people left or that it was some prank, like the ones he saw on the screens when he first left the facility. The boy thinks that the coast is clear when another knock sounds off from the door. He sucks in a breath and opens it up, expecting it to be soldiers from Ever when in actuality it’s…

You.

You stand in front of him, just slightly shorter, with a bright smile on your face and a plate of cookies in hand. Your mother stands behind you, a proud smile on her face as you extend the cookies towards him. Your dress is a navy blue and you have an white ribbon laced into your hair, formed into the perfect bow any girl has. Caleb is unable to breathe, his eyes flickering between the plate of baked goods and your pretty eyes.

“Hi…” your voice is quiet and your demeanor is shy. You take a step forward, the rim of the plate pushing into his personal space. He isn’t complaining, though, and holds out his hands to take the plate from you. “Um...” you turn around and look at your mother, who gives you a thumbs up and a smile. You turn back around and meet his eyes again, making Caleb’s tiny boy heart skip a beat. “Welcome to the neighborhood! My mom and I baked these for you and your family.”

Caleb is unable to say a word. All he can do is nod and smile, warmth spreading through his chest at the kind gesture. He has never experienced this before, to have someone gift him something with no ulterior motives or expectations to receive something back. Just as he’s about to say something, Josephine and her come walking down the hall.

Her laughter grows as she gets closer and Caleb instinctively steps to the side so she and Josephine can come out. The two of them smile down at you, thanking you for the cookies and king gesture all while Caleb just stares. Your eyes move to him every now and then, sharing a small smile with him. Eventually, he returns it, sheepishly looking away as his cheeks warm up.

“It looks like you have a lot on your hands,” your mom speaks up from behind, approaching the door, “would you like me to take them for a bit so you can have some time for yourself?”

“That would be wonderful,” Josephine smiles, a sigh of relief washing over her body.

Caleb looks up at her, his mind already fighting against the idea of leaving the safety of their home, but his gut tells him that it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to forever live in a state of fight or flight. He watches as you, your mother, and her leave the close proximity of the door. He turns his face away, looking back up to Josephine who leans down, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Caleb,” her voice is tired, weary. She holds the weight of his and her’s worlds on her shoulders, carrying the weight of responsibility and accountability for her previous actions. “You deserve to go be a kid. Go and try to have some fun, okay?”

Josephine gently nudges him towards the trio. Her laughs fill the air, the young boy listening as she lists off her favorite types of sweets and favorite things she has seen since moving here. He sighs, nodding, and turning around. He keeps his eyes on the ground, unable to look away from the dark gray gravel. When he looks up, though, he notices you waiting at the gate for him.

“You’re Caleb, right?” you quietly ask. He nods as he approaches you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You tell him your name and he instantly memorizes it, loving how sweet the sound of your name is against his ears.

A butterfly flutters overhead. You look up, your smile growing brighter at the sight. You reach a hand out and the insect immediately lands on your tiny hand. Its wings are a bright orange color. It’s reminiscent of a sunset, one that he desperately wishes to see sometime soon.

“Do you…like butterflies?” he asks, finally breaking his silence. The two of you begin to walk in the direction of your house, which sits right next door to his. You ecstatically nod, a quiet laugh leaving your lips.

“My dad likes to say that we’re all caterpillars ready to become butterflies,” your voice is like music to his ears, your words as sweet as you are. The orange butterfly leaps from your hand and takes flight, its orange wings quickly flapping under the afternoon sunlight. You turn to look at him, smiling as the two of you approach the open door of your home. “Everyone deserves a second chance to become something better, don’t you think?”

Caleb nods, wholeheartedly agreeing with you. His heart swells and feels so full with a newfound purpose blossoming inside his body. He’ll become a butterfly, one that is as pretty as the wings that you already wear. He will not let his past define who he is, even if he is just a young kid who has no idea how the world works.

No longer does he love the colors white and gray. Instead, he much prefers blue and orange, the color of your dress and the butterfly that brought you two together.

“Come on,” you take his hand, tugging him towards the door, “let’s play!”

As soon as the two of you step through the door, your appearance changes. The two of you are older now. Eleven years old, to be exact. He finds himself in your backyard, surrounded by thriving greenery of your parents’ garden. A swing set sits in the middle of the lawn and she swings back and forth with the help of another kid, one whose hair is as black as night and his eyes sharing similar shades of the green grass and yellow flowers.

He sits beside you on the red and white blanket, popping an apple slice inside your mouth while you watch Zayne push her on the swing. There’s a small smile on her face, one that he has always found comfort in whenever he needed it the most. He rests his chin on his hand, melting into his own touch at the sight of you. Your eyes move to him, a small blush creeping up onto your cheeks. You look away, pushing your hair behind your ear.

“What are you looking at?” you ask, unable to meet his gaze. He found it so cute, how you always avoided his eyes whenever you caught him staring.

In just a few years, you’ll be boldly challenging him instead of being so shy. He loves the fact that you were able to undergo a third rebirth, shedding your cocoon of shyness and coming into a confident persona that he loves even more.

“Nothing,” he chuckles, leaning in to make your blush deepen even more.

“You’re such a jerk,” you mumble under your breath, earning a hearty laugh from him.

He wishes he can respond to you, to come up with some quirky quip about how cute your blush is or that he wishes that you would sit with him like this for longer. But all good things must come to an end. It’s just a fact of life.

She comes running over and places herself between the two of you, a proud smile on her face while Zayne takes his place at your side. You greet him with a smile and he nods in return, the man never having really changed throughout the years, which makes Caleb feel a tinge of jealousy. 

“Let’s play a game!” She proclaims with a fist in the air. Caleb’s eyes move between you and Zayne, his attention not on her as she begins to list off games that the four of you can play.

“Is there something you would like to play?” Zayne leans in to ask you. Caleb clears his throat, standing from the blanket. Everyone turns to look up at him but his purple eyes remain focused on yours.

“I propose that we play hide and seek,” Caleb smirks, knowing that it is the perfect opportunity to get you away from Zayne. “I can be the first one to find you guys! How does that sound?”

“Hide and seek?” Zayne stands from his spot, arms crossed over his chest while Caleb’s remain on his hips. “We aren’t—”

“It sounds like fun, Caleb,” you comment with a smile, standing and helping her up once you’re done. Zayne quickly shuts up and diverts his gaze, a hint of embarrassment flashing across his face. “Give us a minute to hide?” Caleb immediately nods, one that you return with a confident smile.

Not even a second later, the three of you bolt away and out of the backyard, knowing the set boundaries that your parents set so none of you go too far. Caleb turns around and closes his eyes, beginning to loudly count down from 60.

The closer and closer he gets to the last number, he can feel the summer air turn chilly. The once warm and inviting wind turns cold, slapping across his chapped skin like how one of Josephine’s colleagues would slap him whenever he cried about not wanting to crush metal objects with his mind or didn’t want to drink the bad tasting juice they made him drink before another experiment.

Caleb stops counting. He opens his eyes, seeing that he still remains in your childhood backyard. Everything is dead, though. Decomposed, overtaken by complete and utter decay. Rotten.

He looks down and spots his Colonel uniform on his body. He can’t move, feet cemented into the ground. No matter how hard he tries to fight against it, even trying to use his Evol to move but it doesn’t work. Tears fill his eyes as the familiar feeling of helplessness from his childhood seeps into his body. He cries out for help and looks around to see if someone — anyone — is there to help him.

A pair of hands cover his eyes from behind. He shudders under the touch. The pair of hands become wet from his tears. He closes his eyes, unable to bring himself to stare at the person who graces him with their touch.

He feels like a child all over again. Hopeless, unable to do a god damn thing to fight back against those who have hurt him so much. Caleb lets out a loud sob, his body trembling. The touch over his eyes turns warm, the feeling inviting and familiar. He keeps his eyes closed as a tingling sensation spreads across his face as their small fingers begin to wipe away his tears.

Caleb opens his eyes. Suddenly, he’s eight years old again. You stand in front of him, wearing the same navy blue dress you did when you first met him. You gently caress his face, wiping away his tears. A small, reassuring yet bittersweet smile spreads across your lips. A single tear rolls down your chubby cheek, eyes red from irritation.

“Find me,” you breathe the words out.

“What?” his voice cracks from under the pressure. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to fight away the image of your strained eyes.

When he opens them, he’s seventeen years old. You wear the outfit on the day you told him to leave you alone, a command that he should never have obeyed.

It’s his downfall…being a good soldier.

“Find me,” your voice that was one strong begins to deteriorate. Caleb feels like he’s being suffocated as his body racks over from helpless sobs.

“I can’t!” he cries out, “I’ve done everything I can!” Caleb reaches up to rub his eyes.

You stand before him in the same dress you wore on the night of the Peace Summit’s Gala. The black dress is a sight for sore eyes, something that he wished so many times that you would wear again during the happy and peaceful hours of your newfound relationship. He reaches out for the silk fabric, wishing to feel the material. His white sleeve of his Colonel uniform catches him off guard, unable to bring himself to close the distance.

“Find me, Caleb!” you raise your voice as the rain picks up, drenching your hair and outfit.

From around the corner of the house, Farspace Fleet soldiers appear. Their dark uniforms remain ominous, faces covered with pitch black goggles and the black fabric of their uniform covering the lower half of their face. Their footsteps are loud, the Colonel able to feel each and every vibration from their steps as they grow near. Caleb reaches out for you, desperate to hold on, but your arms are taken by the soldiers.

“Find me, Caleb! I’m going to die here!” you scream over the thunderous wind. Lightning strikes from a distance, the thunder rattling the bones inside of his body. “I don’t want to die! Please!”

The soldiers begin to drag you away from him. You kick and push them way, trying to fight against their forceful grasps. You gasp for air, making Caleb feel even more breathless, the Professor’s hand around his throat slowly tightening, making it impossible to breathe.

“I’m coming!” Caleb cries out, trying to force his feet to move.

He gasps, feeling as the vines from the garden curl around his ankles. The thorns push through the smoothed leather, piercing into his skin. Caleb hisses and reaches down to fight the earth as it begins to swallow him whole. He gasps, looking up as your bloodcurdling screams echo inside his ears, the sounds haunting him as his body is forced beneath the earth. Dirt and mud cover his body. A strike of lighting hits his body, forcing him deeper into the ground.

Caleb’s body jolts awake. He screams out your name. He loses control of his Evol, the living room becoming destroyed within seconds. The picture frames that once hung on the wall have fallen, the glass shattering and scattering across the floor of his living room. The television screen cracks and the ottoman that sits beside his couch flies across the room, landing near the kitchen. Pillows disperse, a few of them shredding from the sheer force and power of his Evol.

His chest rapidly rises and falls, his heart pounding on the inside of his chest, his breathing ragged, unable to fully catch it. He looks around, desperate for something that reminds him of you, to trick himself into thinking that you’re here or that you’ll be back in his arms sometime soon.

He can still hear your screams. Your pleas and cries for help.

Tears run down his face. Caleb doesn’t wipe them away and looks to the side as he tries to get his breathing back under his control.

With once glance to the side, he notices that the sun is out. The storm has passed. The sky is a remarkable shade of blue, one that he would comment on to you to try and get a smile out of you so early in the morning. His heart aches. He stands from the couch, his bare feet avoiding the remnants of shattered glass that lay across the floor.

His Colonel uniform feels heavier than usual. The corners of the metal pins on his chest are unusually sharp when he drags his finger along the edge, the metal cutting into the pad of his thumb. He doesn’t mind the pain. If anything, he deserves it.

Caleb steps through the door, slamming it behind him, leaving behind a wake of destruction that bloomed from his grief over you.

Today, things are going to change. Today, Colonel Caleb Xia is going to find you.

The day has dragged on for longer than it needed to. Caleb remains behind his glass desk, shuffling through random forms and mission reports that he quickly stamps his signature onto. The stack slowly shortens, just like the leash that the Professor has him on.

Whenever he leaves his office, he can feel the eyes of lower ranking soldiers and Adjutants on him. He pays them no mind, simply making the mental note to keep an eye on them just in case they decide to follow him and test his patience.

He wants them to follow him. He wants them to give him a reason to put them in their place, to declare them to be treasonous, to give him a reason to crush them beneath the weight of his Evol. Caleb would do anything to unleash the anger that he feels towards the Professor and Ever. He wants to avenge you for the harm that they have undoubtedly caused you. He wants them to pay with their blood, to break their bones until they are begging for mercy, for him to go easy on them.

Is that something you would want too? Will you also wish for them to pay with their bodies for all of the sins that they have committed?

Caleb’s mind wanders to you whenever he’s alone. He tries to put himself in the mindset of Professor Lucius, wondering where in the world he would tuck you away, where he’d hide you as a punishment against him.

Ever’s main base would be too risky. Caleb has been there one too many times for the Professor’s comfort, having been one of his many soldiers in the army he is slowly building. Holding you hostage in the Farspace Fleet’s administrative building is too risky as well seeing how Caleb knows the place like the back of his hand. There are other Ever bases that you could be held at, places that Caleb has visited as a child. What Caleb neglected to look at, though, are the bases that the Fleet has. A few of which that are placed conveniently close to one of Ever’s laboratories.

Caleb faintly remembers something that Josephine once told him. It was on one of the many nights in her later years, a time in which she was beginning to slowly lose her mind due to constant migraines and trips to the hospital. She was lucid one night, sitting alone in her chair as she slowly knitted a new scary for him to take back to the DAA.

Josephine stared out the window, the metal knitting needles frozen in her hands. It was a particularly cold day in Linkon. Caleb came back to help Josephine out, to shovel the snow in the driveway while she stayed inside on her day off from the Association. Caleb came back inside, hands frozen and his heart chilled by not having seen you at home.

“Caleb,” she called out to him. She barely looked in his direction, her eyes forever trained on the snow that falls from the window. Caleb approached her side, sitting in the old chair that he used to fight with her over who gets to sit in it. She usually won.

“Yes, grandma?” he spoke through gritted teeth, hating the affectionate family name. He only said it for her sake.

“Do you remember that snowy day?” Josephine’s voice is quiet, tired. She finally turns to look at him. “The Professor let the two of you go out and play in the snow as a treat for completing the job.”

The job meaning Ever killing her and forcing him to lift retired fighter jets and rusted train cars. Caleb fractured both arms from the sheer force of his Evol, the weight of the objects shattering his body. He remembers how the Professor called him broken but that it’ll be okay, that he’ll give the poor boy a second chance for her sanity.

“Yes,” he follows her gaze outside the window. Each snowflake is different, that’s a fact you told him when you partnered up for a class project.

“That place…nobody can leave it once they’re inside. You should consider yourself to be lucky.”

An ugly silence falls between them. Josephine reaches out and places her hand on his knee. It doesn’t bring him comfort.

From just outside the window, you cross by with a red scary covering the lower half of your face. You scurry across the frozen sidewalk, laughing after you almost slipped and fell. That brought him the comfort he needed.

What was Josephine trying to tell him? Was there a hint within her words or was she just spewing out crazy talk like she usually did before the house blew up?

Caleb sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He should consider himself lucky to have escaped from that place? Did Josephine not realize that she was the one who brought them there? That she is the reason for their pain and suffering as innocent children caught in a mad man’s crossfire and fucked up plans for the world?

Caleb turns to his computer. The Farspace Fleet’s logo stares back at him, the dark blue hues reminding him of the place he works at, the circumstances that he lives within. The confines of the cage are closing in on him. All he needs is a key to get out and escape so he can break you free too.

He stands from the desk, glancing at the family picture of him, her, and Josephine. His heart twists inside his chest. He should have placed a picture of you on here instead.

Caleb grabs his work laptop, one that he rarely ever uses, and places it inside his bag. He quietly exits his office, feeling no eyes or stares on him, as he begins to formulate a plan. If there is any chance that the place Josephine was speaking about still exists, then he is going to find it. He will do whatever it takes, spend however much money it will require, just so he can bring you back into his arms.

“Where are you going?” a voice says from behind him in the parking garage. Caleb places his bag into the backseat and turns around, shrugging his Colonel’s jacket off of his body. 

“Home,” Caleb’s response is short, cold. His Colonel persona quickly takes over his body, any warmth that was once stowed away and tucked beneath the confines of his skin disappeared. He stares at his Adjutant, Liam’s eyes cold and unresponsive yet there is a hint of desire behind them…a desire to help out his superior officer in his time of need.

“The General will be back today,” Liam’s voice remains monotone, dead. Caleb raises an eyebrow and rolls up his dress shirt’s sleeves. “He’ll want to see you.”

“More like me with him,” the angry comment leaves his lips before he can even think about it. Caleb sucks in a breath. Liam steps forward, a slow nod moving his head.

“Lunch made you sick,” Liam slowly speaks the words. Caleb straightens his posture, narrowing his eyes at the slightly shorter man. “You had to go home to recuperate. To be the best that you can possibly be for the Farspace Fleet.”

“The General will understand,” Caleb nods, confirming Liam’s cover story.

Caleb gets inside his car and closes the door behind him. Without looking at Liam, he drives away, speeding back to his destroyed apartment.

He sits himself down at the desk inside his bedroom. He pushes aside anything that will get in his way and opens up the laptop. He quickly logs in and moves to the Ever security database. It is something he has had access to seven months ago, but was kicked out. Since then, Caleb has been unable to get back inside the database to try and find the corporation’s files on you.

He stares at the log in page. The cursor blinks at him, slowly ticking away with every passing second. It beckons to him, your screams and cries filling his mind. Caleb swears he can hear you from down the hall but pays no attention to it, believing that it is just his mind playing stupid tricks on him. He wouldn’t even be surprised if it was a new aspect of the Toring chip inside his body, a way for the Professor to taunt him while he tirelessly searches for you.

Caleb types in his username and information. He is immediately kicked from the server, the login page staring at him once again. He sighs, leaning back in his chair, and cracks his knuckles. He loosens his tie, tossing it to the side. He glances away from the screen.

If only Josephine were alive to help him find the arctic base. Maybe then would this search finally come to an end, his pain and agony being able to rest with you back in his arms, your skin pressed against his as he protects you from the world, vowing to never let you go ever again.

Wait…Josephine. 

Caleb turns back to the computer. Although it was a little under twenty years ago that Josephine left Ever with her and Caleb tucked away in the back of a car, she still may have access to the company’s mainframe. Holding onto that small sliver of hope that flashes across Caleb’s heart, he slowly types in Josephine’s username, guessing what her password could possibly while trying to remember if she had told him about it in the past.

The damn Toring chip just had to do a number on his memories, didn’t it?

He stares at the small asterisks of the password. It’s long, yes, but everything that he has learned since living with Josephine as her perfect grandson, the spitting image of what a role model should look like before his untimely death. He sucks in a slow and deliberate breath.

The air around him turns stale. Your scent no longer lingers in the air. The rays of the sun leak into the room through hastily closed curtains, the golden light of the decaying day spread across his bedroom floor.

Caleb knows he will only have a few minutes inside the database before they recognize Josephine’s user inside the mainframe. In and out, that’s what needs to be done.

His finger hovers over the keyboard, ready to press the enter button when he hesitates again. He draws his hand back, gnawing at his bottom lip, his teeth digging in harsh enough to pull blood from his body. Caleb looks to the side, his Evol opening up a drawer. Inside sits a USB drive. He quickly inserts it into the computer, opening it up so he can download any and all files that revolve around you before he is kicked out.

His hands tremble, his breathing unsteady. Is he ready for what he’s about to see? How badly has the Professor treated you? Or have you been sitting pretty this whole time ready to be saved at any given moment?

He slowly breathes in, mentally preparing himself for the absolute worst. How will he react to the news that your body is stuffed inside some bag ready to be incinerated at any given moment?

No! He can’t think like that. He can’t afford to.

The man grabs his phone, his wallpaper lighting up. It is a photo of the two of you at your friend’s wedding. You look gorgeous in the bridesmaid dress, while he smugly smiles at your side, your purse strung over his shoulder. He sighs, focusing on the smile you wear. Your hand lays on his chest, head resting against his shoulder.

Caleb wishes he could go back into that moment and steal you away, to lock you away in the tallest building he can find so nobody can ever hurt you ever again. Only he will have the key to the door that you are hidden behind. Only he can move in and out. The rest of the world can politely ask him to see you. He’ll consider it.

He slowly exhales. He clicks the enter key and waits, watching as the database processes the login information. His heart races. His palms are clammy. He rapidly taps his foot against the bedroom floor. The small circle stares at him, his heart hoping that for the love of god it lets him in, getting him one step closer to you.

The screen goes blank. Caleb’s heart stops. The computer screen refreshes and it displays Ever’s database but from Josephine’s security clearance, one of the highest an employee can have. He gasps, fingers attaching to the laptop, and he quickly begins to navigate his way through the security system.

Caleb disregards any files about Viper or any of the other people he works with through Ever. He shifts through newer files, isolating it from the past seven months to narrow his search. Many of the reports are filled with nonsense about new diets for the team that lives on the base while others talk about upcoming research on Evols that Caleb doesn’t pay attention to. That is, until he sees a familiar number.

V-03

Caleb’s body goes numb, his blood cold. He blinks at the numbers, moving closer and closer to the main file source involving the mysterious V-03. He knows his place as X-02, and she is A-01, so who is V-03?

The deeper and deeper he moves inside the project file, the heavier his shoulders become. They begin to slouch, his eyes unable to blink or move away from the screen. Caleb quickly clicks through the folder, downloading anything and everything that he can find. The USB drive keeps up and swallows the files, making untraceable copies that will not be led back to him. He looks at the clock that blinks on the glass panel by his bed.

Three minutes have passed by. He guesses that he has about two or three left before they realize that Josephine, a phantom they killed a year ago, is haunting their security system. 

One folder in particular catches his attention. He doesn’t open it just yet, staring at the label.

Programming

He swallows the lump in his throat and downloads copies of it. His purple eyes move to another folder, quickly repeating the process as it dawns on him that he has finally found you. The file containing documents for V-03 were hidden away, only being accessible through back routes and hyperlinks imbedded into other documents. Professor Lucius is safe, Caleb knows this, and he knows just how precious you are to him. He’s going to keep you as hidden as possible yet keep you in plain sight so that it can torture Caleb with the idea that he could have found you sooner.

Two minutes quickly goes by and Caleb has downloaded everything involving V-03. It’s a long shot thinking that he has found you but with all of the clues and hidden messages with the way many of V-03’s comments have been blacked out only makes him believe that it is you, his heart aching at the thought that the Professor has made you endure the same process he did as a boy.

Caleb quickly logs out of the mainframe once he is done with little under a minute to spare. He removes the USB drive from the laptop and places it on his desk beside his personal computer. He takes the other laptop and uses his Evol to make it float the air. He inserts the USB drive into his computer while the Fleet’s laptop is slowly crushed into a small metal ball, the force of the surrounding gravity replicating the anger that simmers inside Caleb’s chest. The metal ball falls to the ground just as Caleb opens up the files about V-03, staring at the folder’s names.

Programming. Experiments. Evol. Purpose.

Caleb’s mouth goes dry. His mouse hovers over the names, sliding back and forth, unsure which one he should take a look inside first. He sighs and clicks on the folder labeled Purpose, hoping that this is the least worrying of them all.

Inside the folder sits a single document alongside a video. The video’s thumbnail is of Professor Lucius. Caleb sighs, his heart racing inside of his chest, as he clicks the video. It begins to play.

Professor Lucius enters the frame. He sits down and Caleb recognizes the office he is in. He leans closer to the screen as if it is going to transport him inside.

“The purpose of Project V is simple. The Farspace Fleet has given Ever the task of enhancing its soldiers and worker so that every single one of them will be able to fight with whatever threat it is that comes their way. The General has personally requested me to do this,” the Professor sighs, a slight smirk tugging the corner of his lips, “and he even has a participant in mind for the trial period.”

Caleb shudders. He pauses the video as a wave of nausea crashes throughout his body. Caleb suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings. The smell of decay that comes from the kitchen, the way the curtains flow back and forth from the ceiling fan, and the way his leg bounces up and down as anxiety courses throughout his body. He closes his eyes, unable to stare at Professor Lucius, and presses play.

“She’s a spitfire and yet she is one of the most obedient Fleet employees I have ever met. She is strong minded and gets the job done no matter what. I have only met her a handful of times but she has proven to be the perfect mound of clay for me to mold.”

Caleb stands from the desk and rushes away. To hear Professor Lucius talk about you so casually, talking about you as if you are a toy to be played with, makes his skin crawl.

“She will be our lucky V-03, a continuation of the…failed experiments from twenty years ago,” the Professor emphasizes the word ‘failed’ with such disgust and contempt that Caleb knows it was directed at him.

Caleb is the man the Professor hasn’t been able to tame. Caleb is the soldier that disobeys orders. Caleb is the weapon that got away, that fights back against the Toring chip every chance he gets. Caleb is the man who has evaded many of the Professor’s traps. Caleb is the person that Professor Lucius wishes to tame and he is using you as his leverage.

“Experiments will begin shortly. Additionally, she will be the first test subject to receive an all new Toring Chip, one that hands full bodily autonomy to Ever and the Fleet for controlling. It will be controlled through a small tablet. We’ll be able to control her breathing, consciousness, and emotional regulation while the chip is inside her body. Whoever holds her leash is in control.”

Caleb exits the video. His fingers move at a light speed pace, moving into the folder labeled Programming.

The inside of the folder is filled with hours of footage. You sit in the center of the screen. In some thumbnails, you look tired, in other ones tears run down your cheeks, frozen in time as you cry. The last video, though? Your face is completely still and is void of all emotion.

Caleb presses the first video, a sharp pain already striking through his heart.

“Day one of programming,” the Professor’s voice is heard from behind the camera. “V-03 is uncooperative and is unwilling to accept the Toring Chip implant. We will give her one last chance to accept before we turn to…more severe consequences.”

He can hear the amusement in Professor Lucius’ voice. You sit in the center of the frame, strapped down onto a chair. Your eyes dart around the room, hands trembling from beneath the straps. Your eyes well with tears. You begin to shake your head, arms tugging against the restraints that hold you down.

“Please…” you speak out, voice quiet, fear laced throughout your tone, “I-I don’t know what I did or why I’m here but please…don’t hurt me.”

Caleb knows what your plan is. He knows exactly what it is you’re thinking int his moment. He knows that you’re trying to appeal to Professor Lucius’ humanity. The irony here is that while you think the Professor holds humanity, Caleb knows he has none. If you think that he only experiments on adults — as if that makes it humane and acceptable in the first place — what would you think when you inevitably find out that Caleb was just a baby when he was passed off to Ever?

“Will you accept the Toring Chip? Yes or no?”

“What? Why would I?” you audibly laugh, leaning back as much as you can into the metal chair, the same chair that Caleb once at in when he was just four years old. “I’ve seen what it does to people! Why would I want to do something to myself like?”

You were always so opinionated, weren’t you?

“One more chance…because I’m in a good mood.”

“No!” your voice lowers, shaking. One of the scientists in the room nears you. You try your best to wiggle away from him, fighting against the restraints. “NO! Stop! Get off of me! You can’t make me do this!”

Your screams and yells are animalistic. Your appearance is covered by the scientist’s back. Caleb’s breath gets caught in his throat.

“Please stop! Ca—” the video’s audio cuts out. All Caleb can do is watch as your body thrashes around from under the scientist’s grip, a long syringe hangs in their hand, the metal catching the light. The video abruptly ends when you kick the scientist, causing him to topple into the camera. He exits the video and opens up a document, one that has been meticulously blacked out.

Your name is blacked out of the document, erasing any trace of your true identity. To Ever, you are V-03. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Caleb scrolls through the document. His eyes widen at the horror they put you through the first day. He connects the clues through the redactions, his stomach twisting and churning.

Subject will be known as V-03. Her psychological evaluation (REDACTED). V-03 refuses to answer questions about (REDACTED). Professor Lucius stepped in. He informed her of previous experiments. When (REDACTED) is mentioned, (REDACTED) and she (REDACTED). V-03 mostly speaks of the Colonel after this.

Caleb’s breath gets caught in his throat. The Colonel… Why are you trying to save him before you save yourself?

Subject was told that she will have Toring Chip V.3.9 implanted in the base of her neck. Subject refused and became aggressive. Once sedated, subject was told that if she does not cooperate, we will  (REDACTED) and make sure he (REDACTED). Subject agrees.

He moves out of the document, brows furrows at the computer screen. Caleb glances to the side and catches a brief glance of a document that acts as an overview for the new Toring Chip.

Toring Chip V.3.9 will be implanted as the base of the subject’s neck. Toring Chip V.3.9 will not be (REDACTED).  Unlike Toring Chip V.1.3, V.3.9 will not be taken out (REDACTED). Professor Lucius says that this makes the Toring Chip permanent instead of temporary.

An unsettling feeling ferments in the bottom of Caleb’s stomach. He closes his eyes, swallowing the bitter taste that forms across his tongue. It only worsens, though, leaving him trembling. He scrolls to the next video.

You sit in the same chair with dark eye bags under your eyes. Caleb blinks away his tears. He reaches for the screen, the tips of his fingers grazing against the image of your face.

Silent tears flow down your cheeks, eyes completely dissociated as the world moves around you. A man and woman in white lab coats move about the room like they live in it. They laugh and talk about their days, their plans for the night. The man’s wife made a pot roast. The woman plans on watching a movie. You stare into the nothingness of the room, allowing them to move your body and insert various needles into your arms in the same exact spot Caleb’s were located as a kid.

He looks down at his arm, the light and faint scar mocking him. He can’t help but wonder if you’ll have the same scar once he gets you out of there.

Professor Lucius enters the room. You don’t meet his gaze. He sits in his usual chair that is placed across from you. Caleb can see his reflection in the two way mirror that is right behind you. The two scientists shut up and move behind the camera. Caleb memorizes their faces as they pass the camera, making a note to make them pay for their sins as well.

“Good morning, V-03.”

“My name is—” the audio cuts out again.

Caleb is unable to look away, unable to bring himself to breathe as he reads your lips, the way you make for sure the Professor knows your name. Through the reflection, Professor Lucius leans forward. The side of his arm slips into frame. He can’t read the Professor’s lips, but he can continue to read yours.

Caleb? You said you wouldn’t hurt him. You promised!

You jolt forward in the restraints. The Professor’s body shakes, probably laughing at your plight. Tears well in your eyes.

Don’t hurt him…please. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of this!

Caleb leans forward, his nose almost touching the screen. Oh, how he wishes that he would have been there to wipe away your tears of agony, to rip you out of the chair and away from the people who are subjecting you to such torturous methods. He clears his throat, pushing away the urge to throw up, and moves to the next document.

It is a scanned copy of Professor Lucius’ notes. His handwriting is barely legible to anyone outside of Ever but Caleb knows the special characteristics of the way he writes, having deciphered many notes from meetings and hidden messages that hid orders behind veiled threats. Caleb scrolls through the file, unable to tears his gaze off of the screen.

V-03 remains uncooperative. The chip has been implanted into her neck but she shows signs of defiance. Threats towards (REDACTED) do not work anymore. Will calling her by her name work? Or do I need to beat her into submission?

V-03 is too much like X-02. If only she were more like A-01, then we would have made more progress.

Caleb closes his eyes. He knows how much you hate being compared to her. He can’t even imagine how you would have reacted if the Professor said these words to your face. Caleb can’t help but wonder if you fought back or accepted his words as the final truth to put you in your coffin.

Moving to the next page, there are pictures of you while you’re asleep. The back of your head has been shaved, just enough space for them to insert the Toring Chip. Caleb memorized the way the stitches were sewn into your skin, the way that the Ever doctors treated you with little care seeing how the stitches were jagged and messy.

Were they taking care of you? Have the stitches been properly taken care of or did you get an infection due to lack of care?

“Good morning, V-03.”

You look tired. You’ve lost all of the extra weight in your face, your cheeks sinking into your skull. You remain dissociated as the Professor sits beside you. He wears a big puffer jacket, his breath prominent in the air, while you’re stuck in a thin hospital gown with wires and tubes connected into your arms. Caleb watches as he takes your hand, brushing the hair out of your face. There are bruises on your arms with one particularly nasty bruise across your cheekbone.

“Are you ready to cooperate?”

You don’t respond. You slowly blink, staring into nothing, eyes glazed over as the Professor straps you down into the chair. He sighs, shaking his head at you. The audio cuts out. Caleb sucks in a breath and reads the Professor’s lips.

X-02 isn’t coming to save you, V-03. He’s a broken weapon. You…you will be our saving grace.

The audio comes back to the video just as the Professor sits back in his chair beside the camera.

“V-03, it was recommended to us by psychologists to undergo the Interlinked Program so we can have your full cooperation before we begin our experimentation,” the Professor sighs. You look away, tears rolling down your eyes.

Caleb’s heart aches. Exhaustion has taken over your body. At this point in the process, which Caleb estimates to be about a month or two in, Ever makes sure that the test subject is mentally hazy, to take advantage of their weaknesses and offer a way out, a saving grace that feels like an oasis in the middle of a never ending desert.

“V-03, if you do this for us, we will make sure that you get a blanket tonight. It’s so cold out, don’t you think? Wouldn’t a blanket be nice to sleep with before your big day?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” your voice trembles through the speakers of the computer. It is just loud enough for the camera’s microphone to pick up. It sends icy daggers through Caleb’s chest.

He should have worked harder to find you. He should have flown after the plane and done what the Professor has taught him to do best: destroy things.

“Look at the screen, V-03. We are going to show you a series of images. I’ll guide you through them. The camera is going to read your body temperature and language. We have full control over your reactions. We know everything. Whenever I say interlinked, you must say it as well. Understand?”

You weakly nod.

A screen illuminates from behind the camera. A man steps into frame, moving behind you with a tool that Caleb knows. It is to adjust the Toring Chip’s functions, to tweak it to fit the soldier they have put inside of. He presses it up against your neck and you shudder, more and more tears rolling down your cheeks as you tug against the restraints.

“Let’s begin,” Professor Lucius states. He clicks a button and your face is covered in various different lights. “I’m going to tell you your baseline. Memorize it. If you don’t, you know the consequences.”

You weakly nod again.

“Your baseline is: Weeping willows decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish. Repeat it.”

You remain quiet. The Professor sighs and snaps his fingers. A soldier walks into frame with a baton in hand. He slams it into your stomach. You cry out in pain, head rolling back. The soldier grabs your hair and movies it so you look at the screen once again.

“Say it, V-03.”

“Weeping willow decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish.”

“Good,” Professor Lucius scribbles something into his notebook. “Have you ever been in an institution? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

“A man and woman hold hands. Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” You gulp. With a wave of the Professor’s hand, the soldier hits you again. You let out a cry, jolting around in your chair to try and get away.

“Whenever an animal is trapped, V-03, it will chew of its own leg to escape. Are you the same? Are you an animal? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked,” you breathe through word out, fear already running through your body.

Caleb closes the video, unable to watch anymore. He is in a trance, his clammy hands slipping along the keypad as he moves over to am untouched folder.

Experimentation.

Caleb sucks in a sharp breath, the chilled air of the room making his lungs tingle, feeling so dead yet so alive. It is the bulkiest folder with thousands of documents as well as hundreds of videos.

You lay on a table completely naked with tubes moving in and out of your body. The camera is set to the side, your appearance hidden behind doctors in lab coats and scrubs. You look to the side, the terror and pain flickering across your eyes as they begin to tear into you.

Caleb remembers this feeling. He remembers being awake for every experiment and modification they made on his body. They numbed him so he wouldn’t be able to move or feel agonizing pain. He could still feel the drag of the scalpel into his skin, the way his flesh was sliced into with such ease as Ever modified his arm.

You look as if you want to scream out, to cry for help. You can’t do any of it. Caleb wishes he were in your place instead. He would undergo hundreds of more experiments if it meant that you wouldn’t have been touched by the Professor’s plans.

He opens up a new video. Professor Lucius sits in the center of the video, sitting inside his office with a look of determination and sadistic satisfaction written on his face. He clears his throat as he settles into his seat, shrugging off his jacket before tossing it away.

“Our mission here at Ever is to push the human race to its fullest potential. We want to make life easier for mankind, wanting it to thrive and flourish with no obstacles in our way. The way I see it, despite all of the technological advances that we have seen in the world, we are still in a Stone Age. With the growing population of Evolvers, I can’t help but think to myself if there is a way to gift the same abilities to normal people. V-03’s DNA sequence is unique. She, like many other people, possess the DNA sequence needed to become and Evolver. It just…needs to wake up.”

To wake up? What is he talking about? Caleb thinks to himself. Chills run down his spine. The place where his Toring Chip sits tingles. His arms vibrate, his Evol having a mind of its own, his bones rattling underneath the flesh and muscles of his arm.

“What happens when we push he human body to brink of death? To stress it out so much that the body is forced to ignite the DNA needed to evolve in real time. V-03 will be the first of her kind if this hypothesis proves to be true.”

Images of you on the medical table flashes through his head. Caleb winces, closing his eyes as he tries to fight off the images of Professor Lucius digging into your chest, grabbing your beating heart into his hand, squeezing it to get you to squeal. Caleb can see the smile on the man’s face, the sadism of his actions giving him immeasurable pleasure as you wither beneath his touch.

The next video begins to play.

“V-03 will undergo beatings and lacerations as the first step of her Evolver process. The Toring Chip will send shocks throughout her body when she is about to pass out to keep her awake to prolong the process.”

The video ends and the next one begins.

You lay on the ground, your sobs curdling Caleb’s blood as soldiers beat you with their batons, kicking you with their metal toed boots. He watches as you tremble, crying out for them to stop — to have mercy on you — but they don’t let up. They continue their kicks before Professor Lucius calls them away like dogs. You shiver. You’re curled up into a ball, protecting your stomach as you cough up blood, face beaten beyond recognition.

“Your baseline, V-03,” the Professor calls out.

“Weeping willow decay under the scorching sun with no water to flourish,” you speak between coughs.

“An animal needs to be beaten into submission. Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.”

The video ends.

“V-03 shows signs of Evolving. Her Evol is special. Health regeneration. We’re going to push further to see just how far we can take it.”

Caleb opens up a file filled with countless photos. He thanks whatever higher power there is for sparing him from hearing your pained cries and begs for them to stop hurting you. Seeing them, though? He wishes he could go blind.

He shuffles through images of you with various wounds. A knife dragging along your arm. A torch being held against the flesh of your stomach, burning you. In another photo, you’re laying on the ground with multiple bloodied spots on your body, presumably where you’ve been shot multiple times.

Caleb can feel the phantom pains of the small metal bullets digging into his skin. His skin burns. His breathing grows heavy as he continues to see what they have done to you.

“V-03 cannot die. We can slice her neck and she will go unconscious, her heart still beats, but her brain activity shows that she is still alive and is…asleep. We cannot figure out where her consciousness goes if it is a dreamlike state or if she is truly just asleep. Her heart is her weak spot. If that stops beating, then she will die. V-03 also shows signs of being able to heal others with her touch. She has Evolved far beyond our expectations.”

Professor Lucius hesitates when he speaks. He rubs his eyes and turns back to the camera. A small smile graces his face. He’s finally reached his victory.

“We plan on showing the General this in a month. A showcase of our progress of the toy he has gifted to us. He deserves to see how we have molded his soldier into something…remarkable. With her DNA, we can figure out how to change the sequences of others. We will help make unstoppable soldiers for the Farspace Fleet and for the world.”

A phone rings from the other room.

Caleb slams the laptop shut. He shudders, body uncontrollably shaking. He pushes away from the desk, tears freely flowing from his eyes while his heart remains still. He exits his bedroom. His motions are calculated and careful. He enters an office that sits just at the end of the hall, a space where the two of you decided to have Fleet business happen whenever either of you brought work home.

Caleb sits in one of the chairs, grabbing the ringing phone, and brings it to his ear.

“Colonel Xia,” Liam’s voice is low from the other end of the call. “Professor Lucius has invited you to an Ever Group meeting as the General’s temporary Adjutant.”

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[elliesfreckle]

over & out | radio au

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📟 : record three 𖣠 wild horses couldn't drag me away

⏯ synopsis : you’re a voice on the other side of the radio. she’s your wrong frequency — a mistake. a fortune, maybe, at the edge of a devastated world. you never told her your name. she never asked what you looked like. but when the nights get colder, in a world full of silence, you keep talking.

⏯ pairing : ellie williams & fem!reader

⏯ content warning : swearing; canon tlou after outbreak world; a bit of farm-coded ellie just bc its summer; ellie, dina and jesse are just friends there; dina aka unbothered queen cause i love her too. mdni.

⏯ word count : 5.7k

⏯ a/n : loved writing this part! couldn't give you anything spicy, so im giving you country ellie fixing a fence. trust. sorry if there are still many mistakes, i proofread till i cried. also i hope i didnt miss anything. flirty reminder that your reblogs and comments feed my soul. leave a comment if you wanna be tagged or removed from the taglist. enjoy ♡︎

⏯ taglist ♡︎ @angelaut0matec @valeisaslut @bluminescent-moon @marleeeen111 @oneinameliann @500daysofpoppy @isabelckl @elliescoquettegirl @mars4hellokitty (im so sorry if something went wrong with tags, tumblr hates me tonight)

After a day of unrelenting rage, the weather finally showed mercy.

Ellie had slept through the morning, wrapped in the hush of rain. The storm softened into a lullaby against the roof. Wind curled at the corners of the house like a tired animal settling down beside her.

When she woke, her neck aching from the unmoving posture, the light was dull and silver-gray, the kind downpours tend to leave behind. An old blanket lay over her—coarse, familiar. She hadn’t put it there. Joel must’ve come by. He probably noticed the shoes by the door, her jacket on the floor. Said nothing, as usual. Just saw her, made sure she was back, and left.

Now, a day later, it’s all behind her. Passed with the last traces of the haze.

Though the ground still carries the memory of it. Soft beneath Ellie’s boots, damp and dark like tilled soil. The field stretches wide and open in front of her, the grass flattened in places by wind, but already lifting its head again. There are wild flowers whose names Ellie doesn’t know. Just the colours among the meadow—spilling puddles of blue and white, dots of yellow and purple.

Sunlight bathes everything—soft and cool, not burning, but drying her sleeves as she works, and leaving warmth on Ellie’s collarbones. There’s a breeze, light and steady, fresh enough to keep her awake, brushing strands of bangs across her face, but not unpleasantly so—just a reminder that summer isn’t over yet.

Ellie stands at the edge of the pasture; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, plaid fabric bunched at the crooks of her arms, hands on her hips. The sky above Jackson is so clear it almost hurts to look at. Pale blue, scrubbed clean of cloud, like someone rinsed it out and hung it to dry.

A section of the old fence is down—the storm took its time here. Not surprising, really. It had always been half-crooked, thrown together from uneven cuts of timber and rusted nails, more suggestion than structure. Now the boards lie in the grass like fallen ribs. Ellie spent the better part of the morning prying out bent nails and measuring new planks. She rests a boot on one of the fallen boards, brow furrowed, fingers tight around a hammer.

At her back, horses shuffle lazily through the field. Yesterday all of them stood idle at the stables—horses can’t eat wet grass—so now they’re just soaking up the sunshine and wandering around.

Shimmer’s the closest—her tawny coat is glossy in places, ears flicking toward every noise. She lets out a low snort when Ellie shifts, as if checking she’s still there. Ellie doesn’t answer—she knows this sound like her own breath. She knows the calm rhythm of hooves against the ground as Shimmer paces the fence line, patient and unbothered.

Ellie reaches down and sets a new plank in place. She grips one nail between her fingers, steady, while the rest are clamped between her teeth—three silver slivers catching the light when she turns her head to flick one into her palm. She lifts the hammer. The veins shift beneath her skin as she drives it down, wrists flexing with the clean precision of someone who’s done it a hundred times before.

The tattoo on her forearm ripples with movements—black fern leaves breathing with the stretch of tendons, the moth’s wings fluttering each time her grip tightens around the handle. It’s almost hypnotic, the way ink and muscle and skin become one living thing.

She doesn’t pause between strikes. Just inhales slowly, lips parted, eyes narrowed in focus, strands of hair falling forward to brush her cheek before she tosses them back with a sharp shake of her head. Sunlight glints off her jaw line, off the small sheen of sweat gathering in the collarbone hollow—right where a knife’s tip might rest if someone got close enough. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, smearing dirt and sunshine together.

The gloves on her hands are too big—someone else’s, borrowed from the shed this morning. They bunch at the wrists, stiff with grime. The hammer fits better: heavy and solid. It makes a satisfying crack as Ellie drives a nail into the wood. The sound echoes, and then disappears into the field.

The final blow lands with a dull, certain thud. She exhales, long and quiet, thumb brushing over the finished nail before she shifts to the next plank, arm flexing again, and for a moment it’s unbearable—how effortless she looks, how holy and unholy all at once.

Ellie glances over her shoulder, adjusting the hair out of her eyes, and keeps going; pearls of sweat on her temples.

Earlier today, she stirred up some kind of commotion. Nobody knew where she had gone, and that she was back, nobody would let her forget it. Not in a rude way—only concerned.

Dina looked up from brushing one of the colts and froze, a hand still tangled in its mane. Then her shoulders dropped, and her mouth moved before the words came.

“You’re back,” she whispered as if it wasn’t obvious.

She crossed the room in three quick steps and pulled Ellie into a quick hug, barely a second long, just enough to feel she was real before letting go.

“You okay?” she asked, eyes scanning Ellie’s face for any cracks in her armour.

Ellie snorted, shaking her head a little. “Takes more than that to kill me.”

Dina huffed, rolling her eyes before giving Ellie a light smack on the shoulder. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Ellie’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost an apology, except for Ellie never apologizing. “Yeah,” she said finally, quieter. “I’m okay.”

That was it. No details. No revealing secrets.

Maria had tried to talk her into taking the day off, but Ellie had already grabbed the toolbox. She needs this. Something to fix with her hands. The rhythm of it; the effort. The way it shuts everything else up—even if for a little while.

Ellie scratches her scarred brow with her wrist, gaze drifting over the field. Horses stolidly flick their ears at flies. Wind sighs through the grass. Ellie blinks at the dragonfly near her face. And then it comes.

A flash behind her eyes, quick and uninvited.

The headset that left dusty patches on her head; the numbers she doesn’t even know why she remembers. Three. Nine. Four. Seven. Her own kind of Morse code. And a name burning her tongue. Or burned on it.

They flood her mind like a traumatic memory, although there was no trauma, no big deal at all. She talked to a girl, yeah, whatever?

In some way, it matters. It won’t leave her mess of a head for two days.

The image flickers, bright and gone in the same breath as she opens her eyes. It’s gone like a glare of sunlight on a blade; flies away like the startled dragonfly. Ellie exhales, blinking two more times, and puts the hammer back in the box. As if by moving fast enough she can keep her mind empty.

She slips down to sit with her back against the newly fixed fence. The wood is rough and smells of resin and old rain. Ellie tips her head back against it, legs stretched out and crossed before her, boots streaked with sawdust.

The sky above her head is wide open. The same sky you probably look at. It’s wide enough for you to see the same clouds.

Shit.

Ellie pulls a long stalk of grass from the earth beside her and twirls it between her fingers before slipping it into her mouth. The taste is sweet and clean, melting.

Beside her sits her backpack, half-zipped. She drags it closer and pulls out her journal, its cover scuffed and peeling at the corners. The pencil is worn down to a stub. Ellie has to pour it all out on paper; ease the tension of this itch that keeps twirling at the edge of her mind. She doesn’t think and doesn’t plan.

Just presses the lead to the paper and lets her hand move, sketching jagged lines that rise and fall like radio static. Waves and frequencies, the shapes of invisible sound. The spoken words linger between those lines. She shades them darker, pressing harder until the page almost tears. The pencil lead breaks with a crack.

The blade of grass in her mouth tastes bitter now. Ellie spits it out.

A warm shadow falls over her. She looks up to see Shimmer standing close, Ellie’s convex reflection in her big doe eyes. The horse’s breath curls out in small waves of warmth. She lowers her head and nudges Ellie’s shoulder with her soft muzzle, insistent and curious.

Ellie laughs quietly, knowing her struggles mean nothing to a horse. Shimmer smells of sweet hay and dust and late summer evening. Her coat shimmers—huh—with campfire flames.

Ellie presses her palm to the horse’s cheek, feeling strength beneath the velvet skin, the calm heartbeat that doesn’t care about storms or voices or broken fences.

For a while, they stay like this. The girl and the horse, resting under the inverted dome of the sky. The broken pencil is lost in the tangled grass, and the page on Ellie’s lap is filled with silent signals, stretched across the paper like heartbeat monitors. She wonders if you could catch them. Like you did the first time.

Ellie doesn’t hear the footsteps behind her at first. She only notices when a shadow falls across her again, broader this time, blocking out the sun. She shuts her journal out of old instinct, and glances up.

Jesse’s there, leaning his arms over the top rail of the fence, wood creaking softly under his weight. He squints down at her with that lazy grin of his.

“Damn,” he says, eyes sweeping over the nailed planks. “You’re really making the rest of us look bad.”

Ellie grins, grabbing her pencil stub and flicking it at him like a spear.

“Then maybe the rest of y’all should do your fucking jobs.”

Jesse catches the pencil before it hits his chest, rolling it between his fingers as a trophy.

“Harsh words for someone sittin’ on their ass chewing grass.”

Ellie looks away with a smirk, slipping another stalk into her mouth just to spite him. Jesse props his chin on his folded arms.

“Came to check on you,” he says, quieter this time. “Dina said you were out here since dawn.”

Ellie shrugs.

“Needed to finish it.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment he watches her with that unreadable look he gets sometimes, like he’s seeing something she doesn’t know she’s showing. Then he sighs and swings himself over the fence in one easy motion, boots thumping softly on the other side.

He lowers himself into the grass beside her with a grunt, long legs crossing awkwardly. For a while he just sits there, elbows resting on his knees, looking out across the pasture. A hawk circles far above them.

“Well,” Jesse says, leaning back on his palms. “If you’re gonna waste time out here, I might join you.”

Ellie snorts again but doesn’t argue.

Jesse shifts to pick up a small stone near his boot and tosses it aside with a muted clink.

“Too bad,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Wish we could radio Dina. Tell her to quit whatever she’s doin’ and come be useless with us.”

Ellie sighs out a quiet laugh through her nose, though she gives Jesse a quick side eye, with a weird instinctive reaction to the word ‘radio’. She’s crazy.

Ellie chews on the inside of her cheek and clears her throat awkwardly. When she speaks, her voice is careful, too casual. He started it first. He did. Ellie just keeps the conversation alive. Sure.

“You think…anyone can just…I dunno. Get on the radio like that? Talk to whoever they want.”

She scrapes her cheekbone, her eyebrows lifting, gaze fixed on anything but him. Jesse watches her, unimpressed. When Ellie tries to play it cool, she’s about as subtle as a brick through glass. Still, he plays along.

“Depends what you’re using. Patrol radios are locked channels. Shortwaves are different, though. You get the frequency, you can talk to whoever’s listening. Why?”

Ellie scratches at the worn edge of her journal cover with her thumbnail, suddenly super-aware of the smudge of dirt on it.

“No reason. I dunno. Just…wondering.”

Jesse watches her for a second longer, narrows his eyes a little, then lets out a nonchalant laugh.

“Yeah, sure. Next thing I know, you’ll be running some late-night talk show. Ellie’s Hour of Depressing Shit.”

“Fuck off.”

She points a finger at him. Not the pointing finger, though. But her lips curl almost into a smile.

“Hey, I’d tune in,” Jesse says, grinning and leaning back on his hands again. “Long as there’s music breaks.”

A groan in response.

But a faint idea—more just a premonition of the coming idea—is vibrating somewhere beneath her ribs. Undefined and restless. Like a signal she can’t quite tune into yet.

She doesn’t think properly when she speaks to Jesse again. It’s bigger than her. It’s crawling.

“Uhm—in theory,” she begins, so Jesse squints at her with one eye open. His head lies on his arms, the sky above is blinding. “In a city like Jackson—not in Jackson, but. Like, you know...”

Jesse’s gaze says that he doesn’t.

The corner of his mouth twitches upwards like he’s trying not to smile.

Maybe it isn’t too late to just shut the fuck up and say something about the weather. Yeah, like how hot it was the first time she heard you. Or how fresh the morning felt when she came back, wrapped in mist. Or how furious the predicted storm was, the one that broke this very fence pressing into her back. So many topics, yet somehow all about you. White threads of your timbre are stitched through Ellie’s days. They’re tying her wrists, pulling tighter with every thought.

You’re the one tying them.

She rubs her nose with the side of her finger, smudging her freckles with the sun at its zenith, and releases a small sigh, like she’s bracing herself before diving underwater.

“If someone in that city would like to get—let’s say, a walkie-talkie…?” Ellie purses her lips, tongue pressing against her canine in thought. Her eyes scan the horizon, deliberately anywhere but him. “For personal purposes, hypothetically, how and where could they get it?”

Jesse rolls onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at her face. He’s silent for a good couple of beats. He looks at Ellie, Ellie doesn’t look at him. Dumb show.

“Do I wanna know the details?” he finally asks, voice low and cautious, but the smirk is already tugging at his lips.

“No way. You don’t.”

“Nah, I think I do…” He draws out the words with fake seriousness, eyes narrowing with mischief. “We really have to call out for Dina.”

“No way, we don’t.”

“Bro, is your record broken? Though, yeah—let’s not mention records. Bad topic.”

Jesse says it slowly, with all his fake concern, dragging out each word with deliberate emphasis. He wants to savour the way it’ll piss her off.

Ellie groans, rubbing the heel of her hand over her eyebrow—it was a low blow.

“You’re not fucking helpin’. Mockin’ me here…” she mutters, flicking a stray ant off her knee with unnecessary force.

“I know,” Jesse says, grin widening as he flops back down into the grass. “That’s the funniest part.”

Ellie stares at him, jaw shifting, and exhales through her nose in half a laugh, half defeat.

 “What did I expect?”

The sun crawls, pressing heat into their backs as minutes slip by. Ellie picks at a loose thread on her knee, while Jesse listens in silence, only nodding sometimes, looking thoughtful. She doesn’t tell him everything—just enough. Enough for his mouth to thin out into a line and his fingers to tap restless rhythms on his thigh.

At some point, the conversation dies off. The wind rustles through the tall grass, carrying faint scents of cooking fires from town. Maybe Ellie needs to simply speak it out loud more than to get a reaction. But spoken words have a tendency to grow deeper the second they fall from the lips.

Jesse lies back down with a sigh. “You gonna tell Dina any of that?”

Ellie scoffs, flicking a pebble at his boot. “Maybe. Over lunch.”

“Good,” he mutters. “She worries.”

Almost as if her name conjures her, Dina appears at the edge of the field, waving one arm to catch their attention. A folded cloth bundle is tucked under her other arm. Her silhouette cuts bright against the pastel background, hair pulled back messily, stray strands catching the wild wind.

“Speak of the devil,” Jesse murmurs, sitting up with a grin.

Dina stops a few steps away, mock glaring down at them both. “I knew I’d find you there too,” she says, pointing her chin at Jesse. “Thought you might want food before you die of starvation.”

She tosses the bundle down between them. Bread, jerky, two bruised apples.

Ellie huffs a quiet laugh and reaches for a piece of bread.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and for a moment, with Jesse’s lazy smile beside her and Dina rolling her eyes at both of them, everything feels almost normal.

“Also,” Dina adds as she sits beside them, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “I brought Ellie a sandwich.”

Jesse makes a wounded noise from where he’s sprawled in the grass. “And for me?”

“What did you bring to her?”

She crosses her arms and tilts her head, unbothered.

“My company.”

“That’s why we broke up.” Dina shoots back without missing a beat. It’s done for Jesse.

Ellie whistles with her mouth full of food. “‘Cause of me?”

“Yeah, keep dreaming.” Dina smirks, brushing a stray hair from her cheek.

“Harsh.” Both Jesse and Ellie mutter, defeated.

Dina suddenly frowns at them, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “You two look… weird. And suspicious. Like you’ve been trading weed behind the barn.” She pauses, shaking her head with mock offence. “Without inviting me? Assholes.”

Ellie snorts, tearing the package of her sandwich. Jesse points at her with the calmest expression on his face.

“Ellie’s just got herself another situationship over the radio with some girl from Montana quarantine zone, and now she’s awkward after her first old-fashioned sexting.”

It takes him less than thirty seconds to spill the whole thing on Dina with the most casual and careless manner, without even stopping to chew his apple. Ellie immediately starts choking on bread, fighting for her life with crumbs and flaxseeds. She’s losing. Ellie-ate-but-left-crumbs-Williams. Dina slaps her on the back with confusion.

“What the—?” she hisses at Jesse over Ellie’s hunched back. He doesn’t hear the words but can perfectly read the message with her whispering lips and questioning look. And then, as if remembering something, she speaks to him again, in full voice now. “Sexting is when there’s texting, Jesse.”

“There was no sex anyway!!!” Ellie blurts, rising from the dead, still coughing with her voice cracking halfway through. Both of them stare at her.

“So the other part is correct?” Dina inquires, leaning forward, her eyebrows raised. “How the hell did that happen?”

Ellie groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Long story.”

She rips a bite from her sandwich, chewing hard, refusing to meet either of their eyes. Then she explodes, a bit late.

“Can’t believe out of the whole fucking town, I chose to tell you,” she grunts, glaring at Jesse. She waves her hand at him, and a piece of tomato flies out of the sandwich she’s clutching. “Go tell Joel now, won’t you?”

“C’mon, it’s Dina,” Jesse protests, waving a dismissive hand. He kicks the tomato out of his jeans. “She’s smart. She can keep secrets. Hell, I’d bet my lunch she’s the only person who can actually help you.”

Dina lifts her chin, smirking. “Can’t believe I say that, but he’s right. I am the smart one in this trio.”

“At least I’m the handsome one.” Jesse shoots back instantly, flashing her a grin. It doesn’t work.

Dina and Ellie exchange a look. There’s a pause. Then:

“Actually…” Dina starts, tilting her head thoughtfully.

Ellie swallows her mouthful and nods solemnly. “No, you’re not.”

“Far from it, to be honest,” Dina adds.

“Fuck you two,” Jesse mutters, flopping backwards again with a dramatic groan. “Then I’m the funniest.”

Ellie chuckles. “Unlikely.”

Jesse brushes Ellie off, lips curling in a smug smile. “Can’t hear what a girl with a radio girlfriend says. Bad signal.”

Ellie shoves the last bite of sandwich into her mouth and glares down at him one more time. “I hate you, Jesse. Watch your back. I’ll poison your next apple.”

A girlfriend, yeah? Such nonsense.

The ride out is quiet, sun slanting low and gentle through thin veils of woods. Ellie leans forward in the saddle, one hand wrapped around the reins, the other resting lightly on Shimmer’s warm neck. The horse’s ears flick back at her touch, listening.

“Don’t give me that look,” Ellie mutters under her breath, voice swallowed by the breeze. “It’s not like I’m doing anything stupid. Well… not that stupid.”

Shimmer snorts, as if in argument, hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the path. Birds scatter from the grass in small brown flutters. The world smells like warm earth and old pine sap, dust kicked up behind them like pale ghosts following.

Measured rocking in the saddle clears the mind.

At first, it was an accident. The second time will be a huge mistake.

Ellie knows it isn't worth so much effort. The risk, the uncomprehending looks Ellie met as she said she needed to get back there. They were right. But she’s got a bad habit of walking down the wrong path. Today, it’s leading her to the long-abandoned school.

As an excuse, Ellie said that she had forgotten something important there. Maybe her common sense.

Earlier this day, Dina pulled her aside behind the canteen, glancing over her shoulder before slipping something small and black into Ellie’s palm. Cold metal and rough plastic. A two-way radio. Dina Woodward, the woman she is.

Ellie blinked at her. “How the hell did you—”

Dina just shrugged, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want honest answers to.”

“You stole it?!” Ellie stared at her, unbelieving.

“No! Not a crime.”

Now, as the old school looms into view, rooflines jagged against the pale evening sky, Ellie breathes out slowly. Careless birds far above know her worries. And they don’t care.

The same hallway waits for her beyond broken doors, the same peeling posters of letters and cartoon animals. The same you? And something new, settling heavy in Ellie’s chest, somewhere below the heart.

If nothing happens, if there’s nothing to hear tonight… she’ll drop it. Drop the whole idea, let it rot here like everything else. She’s not desperate enough to keep trying when there’s no one on the other end. Right?

She slides off Shimmer’s back, soles crunching over gravel. Pavement is hot. The horse whinnies softly, pawing the ground.

“Stay here,” Ellie tells her, giving her flank a gentle pat. “Don’t go wanderin’ off, alright? Not planning to drag your stubborn ass back to Jackson in the dark.”

She steps into the silent, echoing halls. The air tastes faintly of mildew and forgotten childhoods. Her fingers tighten around the backpack strap as she makes her way back to the broadcast room, the floor littered with soggy worksheets and broken crayons. The same window she sat beneath last time gapes open to the field, letting in the dying gold light. This room itself is like a jar of honey.

Ellie sinks down in the chair, remembering its creaks under her weight. The radio console is in front of her, all scratched panels and blinking dead lights, as if winking at her. Her gaze lingers above the knobs for a second before she exhales and slides the headphones over her ears. The cups swallow the world, leaving only the faint hiss in her pulsating head. She draws in a breath that tastes of rust and summer dust, thumb over the button.

She twists one dial, then another, eyes narrowing in focus. Numbers flicker past—frequencies she doesn’t understand, scattered noises—lives and stories just like hers, maybe—dissolving in crackle. Finally, she finds it. The familiar empty buzz, vibrating against her eardrums like a pulse.

She wants to drop it right now.

Rip the headset off, recoil from the table, set this damned room on fire and gallop back, urging the horse on. Hide in the quiet of her house, become deaf for a while, until she stops  hearing codes and faint laugh, ‘Jackson’ instead of her real name. But she sits there, frozen. Her soft breath near the mic.

Ellie’s mouth feels dry as she leans in, her heart hammering; her hand lightly beating over the button. She has no idea what she’s supposed to say. There’s a protocol for this shit, right? But she’s never been good with rules, and it’s not like she’d care to follow them anyway.

She clears her throat, voice low and cautious.

“Uh—Montana, you there? It’s… it’s me.” She cringes at herself immediately. ‘Me’? Really? Comprehensive.

A part of her starts hoping for no answer. Ellie releases the button. Silence hums back at her, stretching long and thin. Another part of her starts to curl away, embarrassed at herself for even trying, already preparing to cut the connection and leave this place and this stupid idea behind.

She imagines all the people who could be listening on the other end. Scavengers. Raiders. Strangers with guns. She repeats herself one more time that it’s not worth so much effort and risk. But despite that, there’s a strange lightness, tingling in her fingertips—expectation. The delicious, awful tension of waiting. It sits warm and electric in her belly. That’s probably how you felt, waiting for a response.

Then there is a familiar click, becoming a reflex sound for Ellie. She identifies the hiss, but not from the static.

“What the fuck are you doing here—?” you finally burst out, more shocked than harsh. That’s it—instead of any greetings. Ellie’s lips curve quickly into a smirk. Montana.

“Hi to you too,” she drawls, leaning back in the chair, her shoes scuffing softly against the linoleum floor.

“That’s not funny.”

Your tone tightens, serious, but there’s an undertone of something else—relief, maybe, or disbelief.

“No, it is.” Ellie insists, grin widening as she taps her fingers restlessly against her thigh. The headset feels hot around her ears.

You need a couple of heartbeats to live through the depth of her teasing voice.

“Can you talk?” There’s a change in Ellie’s tone. It’s serious and almost hesitant.

“Yes,” you reply after a beat. There’s a rustle on your end, like you’re shifting the mic closer. “Just didn’t expect you here.”

“Good.”

What's good? Ellie doesn’t know herself.

“Are you lost again?” you ask, dropping a little lower, amused despite your obvious confusion. “This time you definitely need help, hm?”

“I’m not lost,” Ellie shoots back, her smile fading just enough to leave her mouth slack with honesty. She exhales, rubbing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I—fuck. It’s just… seems like I can't stop thinking ‘bout you.”

A brick through glass, remember? Subtle as a rifle shot. You’re shot. Another two or ten heartbeats to proceed what she said. You have a feeling that this is too much for your ordinary late shift. Not complaining or anything, but you haven’t got used to random girls with—let’s admit—hot as hell voices, telling you they think about you day and night. Did she say day and night?

There’s a brief silence, broken only by the steady hiss of the frequency. Then your sigh crackles through the line.

“Can’t stop thinking about the girl you’ve never met in person and had, what, a twenty minute long conversation with?”

“Yeah.”

Ellie breathes out. It’s quiet, her voice catching a little at the end, almost like a laugh but not quite. Her restless fingers roll the pen without ink across the table.

“Desperate,” you whisper. But there’s no bite in it, only weary amusement, like you’re shaking your head at yourself as much as at her.

Ellie admits:

“Maybe.”

She holds her breath, eyes fixed on the darkened window, as if she could see you there. Her fingers release the pen, tighten around the edge of the table, nail brushing over a flaking chip of green paint. The sound of you is curling warm and ragged in her ears.

“Listen,” Ellie starts, rougher than she intends. She clears her throat and tries again, softer this time. “I got…hell, sounds stupid.”

“Wow, now I’m curious.”

“A walkie talkie,” she finally exhales.

There’s a pause on your end. She imagines you frowning slightly, head tilted like you do when thinking. Or you don’t. She has no idea how you look when you think. Or when you chuckle faintly at her comments. But does it matter? Ellie’s here because of a whole different reason. You yourself.

“A walkie talkie,” you echo finally, scepticism covering your tone. And a smile, but you won’t let her know about it. “And for what?”

Ellie looks down at her palms. Even through the headset she can hear Shimmer wandering under the broadcast room’s window. Really, why all this? She bites her lips.

“I dunno just—figured… maybe you’d wanna talk. Over the radio. When you’re bored or… whatever. Sometimes.”

Ellie just knows if Jesse was here, he’d explode.

She hates how small her voice sounds, how unsure. But there’s no taking it back now. The words are out there, floating in the stale air and across broken miles to wherever you are.

Another pause, shorter this time. She hears you breathe in, slow and considering. Something’s shifting on your side, then a dull crash. Ellie starts thinking you’re about to quit your post and leave her dying from embarrassment alone.

“It’d be nice. Sometimes,” you say. The best things are simple, just like your reply. You’re quiet, unreadable. “But not too often. And my shifts are at nights. So, no day calls. No ‘it’s me’ before six. I’m serious. And—”

“Another ‘and’, and I might give up.” Ellie interrupts.

“The biggest ‘and’: it might not work at all,” you cut in, and this phrase is screaming that you’re rolling your eyes hard.

“Why?” Ellie asks, frowning, thumb absently scraping a fleck of dirt off her jeans.

“How to explain…” You trail off, and she can almost hear you chewing on your lip, thinking.

“I’m not dumb, okay?”

“Right,” you rush to add, voice a little softer. “Well… my radio’s kinda powerful. It reaches pretty far out. That’s how I picked you up last time. It was late, or close to it. At night, radio signals go further ‘cause they bounce off the ionosphere better.”

Ellie blinks, staring at the scuffed floor, her mouth curling down. “Forget it. Now I feel dumb.”

A small laugh crackles through the line. “Don’t. Basically—regular radios reach further at night. Walkie-talkies, though… they only work short-range no matter what.”

A smile creeping across Ellie’s face. She picks at a splinter on the table edge.

“So. You’re a nerd.”

“That’s what you got from all that?” you hiss at her with this fake indignation that falls apart as soon as an uninvited laugh comes.

Ellie grins, leaning back in her chair until it tips onto two legs. “Brain and brawn,” her eyes half-lidded as she gazes at the peeling ceiling tiles above her.

“You’re the brawn part, right?”

“Who knows, Montana, who knows…” she drawls, openly teasing. Then Ellie returns the chair to its normal position, remembering. “But what’s with that damn walkie talkie? Useless?”

“We can try. You know how to set it up?” your tone becomes slightly guiding, the banter smoldering somewhere behind the line.

“That’s kinda why I’m asking. Figured you’d know. Thought… maybe you could walk me through it.”

Ellie scratches the back of her neck, glancing at the battered device in her bag. She is the brawn. Silence hums between you for a moment, long enough that Ellie wonders if you’re thinking about hanging up.

“Maybe,” you say, and she hears the faint smile in your words. “Depends how desperate you really are.”

Ellie’s mouth quirks up at one corner.

“Desperate enough.”

Seems like you both savour the moment, and then your voice shifts, gaining that crisp edge of focus Ellie’s heard only once before—when you called your lost patrol. Clear. Confident. Professional. Hot.

“Okay. Check the channel knob—yeah, that one on the left. Turn it until you hit a blank frequency. We’ll set up a direct call line.”

Ellie obeys without thinking, her fingers moving quickly over the battered plastic controls. Your instructions come steady and calm, breaking only when you pause to breathe or correct her.

“Now adjust the squelch. Just enough to kill the static but not lose signal.”

“Done,” she says in response, adjusting the dial slowly.

“You did better than I expected,” you say, half-kidding, and despite the fuzz of the line, Ellie can hear the quiet approval warming your tone. It makes her snort.

For the next few minutes, neither of you speaks beyond clipped instructions and short confirmations. Ellie’s world narrows to the feeling of the weight in her hands and the sound of your voice guiding her through shadows and signal noise.

Finally, you exhale, and the line crackles softly.

“There. That should do it. Try calling me later tonight, around two or three. If it works… well, I guess we’ll find out.”

Ellie leans back, staring at the dusty ceiling. Relief floods through her bones, heavy and warm.

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “Yeah, okay.”

Outside, the sun is already sinking, laying long shadows across the floor. Ellie can almost feel home calling her back—the quiet roads, Shimmer’s steady steps, the smell of old wood and the faint echo of Joel’s guitar drifting through the house.

But for now, she lingers a moment longer, headset still cupping her ears, as if hoping to catch the fading warmth of your frequency before she goes.

“I told my friends about you.”

“Bold.”

“Did you report me?”

“...No.”

“That’s really bold.”

“You better thank me, Jackson.”

[heesmiles]

HOW TO HEX A HEART k.th

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇  7.5K ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairing s𝜗𝜚 ravenclaw ! taehyun ៹ hufflepuff ! reader ᧁ; angst ˒ fantasy ˒ hogwarts au

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ angst hogwarts au grumpy x sunshine academic rivals to lovers yearning characters are aged up set in a college like hogwarts setting ft sunoo (enhypen)

in which୨୧ ㅤִ Love was sacred, love was rare, love was fleeting...but Taehyun wanted none of it. Instead searching for a fullfilling life in the pages of texts books and viles filled with potions, your cheery personality and natural smarts did little for his ego and too much damage to his high standings in all of Hogwarts academics. He must put a stop to it...if he wished to stay on top.

★ !rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . chat I'm so excited!! This is apart of a collab I'm doing with my fellow writers and friends: the nine and three quarters collab. I hope ya'll enjoy. guys I actually hate how rushed this is. I'm sorry!! i wrote it ages ago for our event and it’s been siting in the drafts for a while now, i can honestly say….its not even nearly close to my best work. i wish it was better because taehyun deserve better! i’ll be writing my coraline fic soon as a redemption arc for tae, i swear by it!

The dungeon was alive with a symphony of simmering cauldrons and chattering students, the air thick with the sharp tang of fluxweed and the earthy musk of powdered root of asphodel. Candles floated above the stone tables, flickering with a lazy indifference, casting golden halos across glass vials and worn parchment. You sat hunched over your cauldron, stirring clockwise; then counterclockwise, exactly as the textbook instructed, though you liked to think you added a little flair to your technique. Beside you, Sunoo leaned over to check your progress, his face drawn in a mix of admiration and mild panic. 

“I swear mine’s more brown than bronze,” he whispered, frowning at his own mixture. 

“It’s because you’re overthinking it again,” you giggled, nudging him gently. “You have to let the potion speak to you. Feel the ingredients. Make a little magic of your own, y’know?” He rolled his eyes but smiled, accustomed to your blend of mysticism and mischief. You were sunshine in a bottle, golden, glowing, maybe a little overwhelming on days like this, but endlessly kind, brimming with a passion for the craft that made even the most monotonous ingredients feel like keys to a hidden kingdom. You adored Potions. It was alchemy and artistry, mystery and discipline, all bubbling into something beautiful. 

“Alright, ingredients table, now!” barked Professor Oakenhart from the front of the class, his robes flaring dramatically as he paced. “Step carefully. If you spill the unicorn hair again, Nott, I will make you polish the cauldrons with your tears.” You perked up immediately, hand shooting into the air before anyone else could even blink. “I’ll go!” you chimed, hopping up from your stool and bouncing toward the table with a spring in your step.

But in your unbridled enthusiasm, you didn’t see him. Kang Taehyun. Towering. Silent. Cold as the dungeons themselves and twice as sharp. He was the kind of student who didn’t just read the textbook — he memorized the footnotes, corrected the professor’s misquotes, and brewed potions with the precision of a seasoned apothecary. And he hated you. Not in the way someone hates a rainstorm or a bad meal; no, he hated you with purpose. Your effortless charm, your laughter echoing across the corridors, the way professors smiled just a little too brightly when you answered questions correctly. Worst of all, you matched him. In test scores, potion grades, practicals. You were sunshine to his storm cloud. And it infuriated him. 

So when you turned and smacked straight into his chest, your half-filled vial of brewed Knotgrass solution flying from your hand and splattering all across the front of his pristine uniform, it was more than an accident. It was an act of war. “Oh—oh my god—I didn’t see you—! I’m so sorry!” you gasped, hands fluttering uselessly in the air, unsure whether to mop it up or vanish into the floor. “It was an accident, really, I didn’t—” 

“Obviously it was an accident,” Taehyun cut in, voice cold and clipped, The potion dripped from his vest in sluggish streaks, soaking into the ravenclaw blue. “Next time, try looking where you're going instead of skipping around like some deranged fairy” You blinked, momentarily stunned by the venom in his tone.

“I—” But he was already striding off toward Professor Oakenhart, presumably to report the offense and extract his revenge in the form of docked house points or an extra essay. The silence he left in his wake felt oddly loud, like someone had extinguished the warmth in the room. You returned to your seat with what you hoped was dignity, though your cheeks burned and your heart thudded a little too loudly in your chest. Sunoo was watching you, eyes wide.

“That was brutal,” he whispered. “Are you alright?” You forced a bright smile, even though the potion fumes still clung to your nose and your pride felt a bit bruised. “Just peachy!” you chirped, plopping back onto your stool and picking up your ladle. “Besides, a little Knotgrass never hurt anyone. Except maybe his ego.”

Sunoo snorted into his sleeve. Somewhere behind you, you swore you could feel Taehyun’s glare like a knife to your spine. 

Professor Oakenhart clapped his hands for silence, the crystalline ting-ting-ting of his silver rings against his wand echoing through the vaulted stone. Bubbling cauldrons fell obediently to a hush, the once-lively chatter collapsing into a hush so complete you could hear the delicate pop of fluxweed bladders bursting in the brew. Oakenhart let the hush linger, he enjoyed suspense the way a sphinx savors riddles; before letting his voice pour down like cold mountain water. 

“Next year’s class prefect,” he announced, letting the words hang, “will be chosen in three weeks’ time. The badge will go”, his dark eyes skimmed the room, “to the student who best embodies the virtues that keep this ancient castle alive: scholarly excellence, unwavering helpfulness, and the kind of leadership that does not require howling at those beneath you.” His gaze flicked, ever so briefly, toward the Ravenclaw benches, then to you in your Hufflepuff yellow, where you sat up straighter on reflex. A hush of anticipation prickled through the air, sparking like powdered moonstone hitting hot embers. 

It took no more than a heartbeat for both your hands and Taehyun’s to shoot skyward, mirror images of ambition in two very different skins. Your arm rose with sunshine optimism, sleeve fluttering like a pennant above a castle tower; Taehyun’s lifted with predatory precision, elbow locked, fingers slicing the air as if claiming rightful territory. Two comets on intersecting orbits. “Questions?” Oakenhart invited, his thin smile hinting that questions were only respectable if they tasted of genuine curiosity and not vanity.

Taehyun noticed you first, noticed the way your fingertips wiggled for attention as though determined to catch falling starlight, and a quiet scuff of disapproval hissed past his teeth. “Little miss perfect,” he muttered under his breath, the phrase delivered like a curse brewed from nettle and spite. But the professor’s nod landed on you, not him. You stood, straightening your robes with a soft brush of palms, and the dungeon’s torchlight caught the hopeful glimmer in your eyes. “Professor,” you began, voice warm as summer rain, “will academic collaboration — tutoring students outside one’s own house, for example; count toward the leadership criterion, or is it measured strictly by individual achievement?” The question sailed across the room, thoughtful and earnest, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon from the potion still clinging to your cuffs. 

Taehyun’s scoff was immediate, a low, velvety sound of contempt. “It’s hardly rocket science,” he drawled, loud enough for the nearest cauldrons to tremble. “Prefects inspire excellence, they don’t spoon-feed it. Obviously individual performance weighs heaviest.” His sarcasm slithered through the air like a smoky serpent, confident that everyone would see the answer as plain as daylight. 

Instead of bristling, you turned to him with the brightness of a heliotrope bending toward dawn. You dipped your head, just a fraction and let a beatific smile unfurl, soft and sincere. “Thank you, Taehyun,” you replied, voice edged with honeyed cordiality. “But I find that shining your light helps others see where they’re going, and what’s leadership if not lighting the path?” Your gentle retort glimmered with the audacity of grace, and the dungeon seemed to flicker brighter for a heartbeat. The sight of your tilted head and unconquerable optimism struck Taehyun like a spell gone awry. A low, involuntary snarl rasped from his throat, a feral sound quickly smothered behind a pursed line of lips, but not before you caught it, not before half the class saw the flash of winter in his eyes. The tension between you twanged like a harp string wound too tight: one pluck away from music, one tug away from breaking.  

Professor Oakenhart cleared his throat, once, sharply, expelling the storm before it could fully gather. “An astute question, Miss, Yes, mentorship and cross-house assistance will be tallied.” He inclined his head toward you with a hint of approval, then pivoted to Taehyun. “Mr. Kang, if you have a different inquiry, do raise your hand properly rather than providing commentary mid-air.” A ripple of muted laughter swept the benches, but your gaze held steady on Taehyun’s. Where his irises turned to flint, yours softened to amber, and in that quiet, smoldering stalemate something unspoken sparked, an ember that might turn to wildfire or to warmth, given time and care. For now, though, it merely glowed, pulsing in the shadowed dungeon like a promise you both refused to name. 

Sunoo nudged your elbow the moment you sat, wide-eyed and whispering, “I think you just poked a Hungarian Horntail.” You responded with an easy grin, quill poised to continue your notes. “Better a Horntail awake,” you murmured, “than a dragon who never learns how bright fire can be.” Across the aisle, Taehyun pressed a palm flat to the cool desk, steadying himself against the tremor of unfamiliar emotion. His quill scratched furious strokes into his parchment; ink as dark as midnight vows, but beneath that practiced scowl, a new question brewed in secret: How does one extinguish sunshine…without first stepping into its light? 

After the classroom became a quiet hush, everyone working silently alongside their partners, Professor Oakenheart instructs Taehyun and yourself to rise and follow him to his desk. “You will both report to the potion storeroom tonight. Seven o’clock. No excuses. And no magic.” He says with a sigh. “I cannot have students arguing in class, it’s unsavory.” 

“Yes, Mr. Oakenheart.” You say with the downward tilt of your head. Taehyun didn’t say a word. His robes still glistened from your accidental splash, the potion drying in uneven patches across his sleeve. He glanced at you once, briefly, with all the warmth of a midwinter frost, then turned away. 

You walk back to your seat next to Sunoo solemnly, sitting down next to him silently. Sunoo whispered, “You’re cursed,” under his breath as you sat back down. You grinned and whispered back, “Just peachy.” 

–

Seven o’clock arrived like a tolling bell, and the potion storeroom, usually locked, usually silent, opened with a low groan as Professor Oakenhart wordlessly ushered you both inside. The room was narrow and cluttered, lit by a handful of enchanted lanterns that hovered in lazy loops, casting golden light onto rows of old wooden shelves. Vials of powdered roots and dried wings lined the walls, their labels yellowed and curling at the edges. The air was rich with the scent of earth and time; rosehips, wolfsbane, peppermint, and mildew. “You’ll sort and organize all of this,” the professor said, gesturing to a chaotic pile of unbottled ingredients and stained glassware stacked across the center table. “Without the use of wands. You leave when it’s done.” 

Then he left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with an ominous finality. You turned to Taehyun with a sheepish smile. “Well… could be worse.”

Taehyun didn’t even glance at you. “Could be over faster if you stopped talking.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, grabbing a jar of shriveled billywig stingers. “You act like I spilled that potion on purpose.”

“You didn’t not spill it,” he muttered, picking through a box of dried dittany leaves with the care of a jeweler inspecting glass. “You’re always fluttering around like a butterfly with no sense of direction. No wonder you can’t stay upright.” You rolled your eyes and tossed your hair back defiantly. “You’re so dramatic. One splash of Dreamless Sleep on your sleeve and you act like I’ve ruined your career.”

“That potion was for me, actually,” he snapped. “A concentration tonic. For my study schedule. Unlike you, I don’t need to flirt my way through classes.” The words hit like a slap; sharp, misplaced, and far too personal. 

You blinked. “I wasn’t flirting, Taehyun.” He didn’t reply. Just turned, his fingers tight around the neck of a decanter filled with bluebell essence. The silence stretched long and brittle. You turned back to the shelves, trying to focus on alphabetizing vials instead of the heat rising to your cheeks. You hated that he could twist your sunshine into something shallow. You hated that it hurt a little, even if you knew better. It was when you were climbing a rickety step stool to reach a jar of flobberworm mucus that it happened, your foot caught on a crooked rung, and the world tilted sharply. You yelped, arms flailing for balance, but gravity was faster. 

And Taehyun; curse him, was there. He caught you by the waist in a startled breath, your chest nearly colliding with his, both of you frozen in a strange, suspended heartbeat. For one unbearable second, the air was different. He smelled like cloves and parchment and the faint memory of apples. His hands were warm through the fabric of your robes. Your face was tilted up to his, and his jaw tightened like he was holding back a thought that tasted too much like truth. Then he let go. 

You stumbled back with a startled gasp, catching yourself against a shelf just in time to stop an entire row of beetle eyes from toppling to the floor. “You—!” you started.

“I’m not your babysitter,” he snapped, brushing his hands down his robes like your presence had scorched him. “You’re so dramatic,” you said again, this time with venom. “One second you’re catching me, the next you act like I’ve hexed you.”

“And you’re unbearable,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “Always smiling, always talking, always pretending the world is sugar and stars. It’s exhausting.” You stared at him, chest heaving, the light from the lanterns catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the irritated furrow in his brow. But underneath all that anger; buried like a secret, was something else.

You exhaled slowly. “Maybe it’s not pretend.” Taehyun said nothing. Just turned back to his work, jaw clenched, knuckles white where they gripped a jar of valerian root. 

You returned to the pile of unsorted ingredients with a huff, brushing the dust from your skirt and refusing to meet his eyes. The silence between you wasn’t peaceful, it was brittle, strained, the kind of silence that creaked like a staircase in an old manor, aching to be broken. Taehyun was the one who cracked first. “Maybe if you focused half as much on your work as you do on being liked, you wouldn’t be in detention.”

You turned sharply, a vial of crushed lovage seeds in one hand. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. I’m just stunned you think being liked is a flaw.”

He scoffed, not looking up from the set of empty phials he was aligning by size. “Popularity isn’t the same as talent.”

“And coldness isn’t the same as intelligence,” you snapped. “Just because you glare through every lecture doesn’t make you smarter than everyone else.” He finally turned to face you, eyes flashing like lightning behind stormcloud lashes. “I’m not cold. I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

You stepped closer, your arms crossed now, potion dust glittering faintly on your sleeves like constellation flecks. “You’re so scared someone else might outshine you that you treat everyone like competition.” 

“No one has outshined me,” he replied, voice like steel. “Until you.” 

The silence that followed was a strange one. Thicker. Quieter. Like the world had taken a step back to let those words hang between you — taunting, trembling, true. You blinked. “What?”

He looked away too fast. “Forget it.”

“No, you said—” You took a step closer, your heart thudding, not from the argument, but from the accidental confession strung beneath it. “You said until me. You think I’ve outshined you?” 

“I think you’re exhausting,” he muttered, back to organizing now with unnecessary force, placing bottles like they’d offended him personally. “You breeze through everything like it’s easy. People like you. Professors praise you. And somehow, despite all your little smiles and your sunshine-and-daisies attitude, you’re still top of the class.” You stared at him, stunned. “You think I haven’t worked for this?”

“I think you’ve never needed to work as hard,” he hissed, not cruel but bitter, like it was a wound he’d carried for too long. “You show up and everyone adores you. I have to fight for everything.”

Your voice softened. “That’s not my fault, Taehyun.” He paused, a jar of dried mint frozen in his hand.

“No,” he said, after a breath. “It’s not. But it still feels like I’m running a race you get to skip the hurdles for.” You didn’t know what to say to that. The space between you wasn’t so wide now. Just one potion-stained table and a pile of unsaid things.

“I don’t try to make you feel that way,” you said, quieter now. “I just… I like being here. I like learning. I like this world. It’s not about beating you.” Taehyun exhaled, slowly. “It’s always been about beating me.” You looked at him then; really looked. The precision of his posture. The tension in his shoulders. The fury not just with you, but with himself. With his need to win. And buried beneath that, the fear of what it might mean to lose to someone like you.

“Maybe,” you said gently, “it doesn’t have to be a race.” He looked up, and for the first time, he didn’t seem angry. Just tired. And quietly, painfully aware of you in a way that went far deeper than rivalry ever could. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said, but his voice had lost its edge.

You tilted your head and smiled; not mockingly, but softly. “Maybe I would.” He didn’t smile back.

–

The sky was ink-blue, bruised with stars. The Astronomy Tower stood quiet, wind whispering through the slits in the stone as if the castle itself was holding its breath. The hour was late enough that most students had turned in, their dormitories dim with drowsy candlelight and dreams. But you couldn’t sleep. Something in the air tonight felt unsettled. Heavy. Like the prelude to a storm, but not one outside. 

A strange instinct tugged at you; soft and insistent. So you wandered, slippers padding across stone, drawn not by sound but by silence. You found him there. Taehyun. Perched on the low ledge of the Astronomy Tower with his knees pulled up and his arms resting on them, his robes dark against the greystone, face upturned toward a sky he didn’t seem to be seeing. There was something wrong in the stillness of him.

He was always sharp in class, always stiff with pride, always holding himself like a blade; ready to cut, ready to be cut. But here, under the stars, he looked… tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. The kind that came from being measured too often. From being whittled down into something small and perfect and hollow. You approached gently, your footsteps careful. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you at all. Just kept his gaze fixed forward, eyes unreadable, expression carved from stone.

But you saw the parchment clutched in one hand, wrinkled and shaking slightly in the wind. You didn’t ask what it said. You didn’t need to. The way his shoulders curled inward, the way his mouth pressed into a thin, unfeeling line; it told you enough. So you sat beside him. You didn’t speak. Didn’t press. Just opened your satchel and wordlessly held out a Chocolate Frog, your last one. You kept it for exam days and rainy Sundays, but tonight, it felt like he needed it more than you. For a second, he didn’t move. Then, without looking at you, he took it. His fingers brushed yours. Cold. Tense. But real.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t tease. You just sat beside him in silence, letting the stars be the only witnesses. Letting the wind pass between you like breath. Letting kindness be quiet and simple and soft. And when you left, he still hadn’t spoken. Still hadn’t looked at you. But the Chocolate Frog wrapper sat folded neatly on the ledge when you returned the next day.

The next morning in Potions, everything feels almost normal. Almost. You and Sunoo arrive late, breathless from a stairwell that decided halfway through to rotate in the wrong direction. Professor Oakenhart levels you both with a tired glare, but waves you in without comment. You settle into your seat and reach for your ingredients; belladonna, porcupine quills, armadillo bile, your fingers moving on instinct while your mind drifts elsewhere.

To the Astronomy Tower. To the letter he never spoke of. To the way he never thanked you. To the way you hadn’t needed him to. It happens so fast you barely register it. A soft pop. A hiss. The sharp crack of glass. And then, boom. Your cauldron erupts in a bloom of green smoke and sparks, a chemical chaos that splashes up in a hot rush of steam and acrid potion. You flinch, arms flying up to protect your face, heart hammering in your throat. But nothing touches you.

Because in the heartbeat before the blast, a shield spell snaps into place; silver and curved like a falling star, held firm by a voice you know too well. “Protego.” When the smoke clears, you’re blinking through tears, more from shock than anything and coughing through the haze. Your cauldron is scorched, bubbling like a wounded beast, and Sunoo is somewhere under the table muttering prayers. 

But all you can see is Taehyun. Standing across the aisle. His wand still raised. His hair mussed slightly from the force of the blast. His robes dusted with soot and powdered nettle. He says nothing. Just looks at you for one long, unreadable moment. Then lowers his wand, turns on his heel, and walks back to his seat like nothing happened. You stare after him, stunned. Because it wasn’t like him to help. It wasn’t like him to notice. But he had. And something in your chest warms like sunlight over frost. 

The Professor grumbles something about careless brewing, assigns a week’s worth of clean-up duties, and moves on. But you don’t care. You’re still staring at the back of Taehyun’s head, and the words you didn’t say last night echo louder now than ever: Maybe it doesn’t have to be a race.

– 

Snow had draped itself over the castle like a dream.

Hogwarts shimmered under winter’s enchantment, its towers crowned with frost, its courtyards glowing gold with fairy lights. Students bustled about in robes lined with velvet, their laughter rising with each breath like smoke into the star-splattered sky. Tonight wasn’t the Yule Ball, not exactly, it was something smaller, softer. A midwinter celebration organized by the Prefects and Professors: music in the Great Hall, warm drinks passed from student to student, and the magic of December clinging to every flickering candle. You arrived with Sunoo, cheeks flushed, hair kissed with snow. Laughter danced on your lips before you even crossed the threshold, Sunoo telling a joke that made your sides ache, your friends gathering around like stars drawn to your gravity. You were radiant in your winter robes, something golden in your grin. You loved nights like this. Nights full of warmth and wonder. Nights where the world felt like it belonged to you.

He was already there. Taehyun stood on the far edge of the room, near the refreshment table but untouched by it. Alone. Always alone. His Ravenclaw blue scarf hung loose around his neck, frost still clinging to the hems of his sleeves, and his expression unreadable, carved from cool stone.You didn’t notice him at first. Not really. Not until someone asked you to dance.

It was a boy from Gryffindor, tall, smiling, a little shy. He offered you his hand and you, ever the sun, said yes without hesitation. Your friends cheered. Sunoo nudged you playfully. And soon, the two of you were spinning between floating candles, the music lifting your steps, your laughter like honey and light. Taehyun noticed. He noticed the way your head tipped back when you laughed. The way your hands fit so easily into someone else’s. The way you looked, joyful, unguarded, lovely, and not at all like the girl who once gave him her last Chocolate Frog in silence.

He didn’t stay. He turned before he could think better of it, his footsteps soundless on the marble. The corridor outside the Great Hall was quiet, save for the distant hum of music and the soft hush of falling snow through an open window. He didn’t know why he left. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t have the words for it. He just knew he hated watching someone else hold your smile. So he left. And you followed. 

You found him near the foot of the grand staircase, his back to you, the golden candlelight brushing against his shoulders, setting soft fire to the edges of his silhouette. “Taehyun.”

He didn’t turn. You stepped closer. “You left early.” 

“I wasn’t enjoying myself.”

“Why not?”

A beat. Then: “You looked like you were.”

There was something sharp in the way he said it. Something jealous. Something that trembled beneath the surface, unwilling to admit what it truly was. You folded your arms. “So you were watching me.” He turned to you then, slowly. His expression unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes were thunderclouds.

“You always want people to look at you,” he said, low and quiet. “So don’t act surprised when they do.”

Your breath caught, more from the venom than the words themselves. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you always have to be seen, don’t you? Always the center of the room. Always dancing, laughing, shining — like you need everyone’s attention to survive.” You flinched. But you stood your ground. “And you push everyone away because you’re afraid they’ll see something you’re hiding.”

“Better than parading around like you have nothing to hide.”

“At least I’m not cruel about it.” You quip back, hurt. 

“Oh?” he snapped. “You think I’m cruel because I don’t fawn over your every word? Because I don’t melt under your smiles like everyone else does?”

“No,” you said, stepping closer now, your voice trembling not with fear but with fury. “I think you’re cruel because you can’t stand that someone else might be your equal.” His jaw clenched.

“And because you’re angry,” you whispered, “that I make you feel something you can’t control.” Silence. Thick, aching silence. 

“You’re insufferable,” he breathed.

“And you’re impossible.”

“I hate the way you laugh.”

“I hate the way you lie.” A pause. A breath.

“I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you.” Your breath catches in your throat. Your mouth suddenly like cotton. 

Then, like a flicker of a flame Taehyun was kissing you. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire meeting fire, snow melting on burning skin. His mouth met yours with all the tension of months pressed into a single, trembling heartbeat. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every insult, every rivalry, every bitter word. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for him to stop running. When you pulled apart, breathless, your hands still clutched his robes. He stared at you, stunned. Like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wanted to do it again.

You smirked, the corner of your mouth curling just so. “Still hate me?”

His lips twitched. “More than ever.” But his voice was hoarse. And his fingers didn’t let go.

Morning broke cold and silver, the kind of pale light that softened the snow but sharpened the air. In the Great Hall, everything looked the same. Students chattered over toast and pumpkin juice, scarves half-tangled around their necks, steam curling from mugs like the remnants of dreams. The enchanted ceiling swirled with drifting snowflakes and a pale winter sky. But something was off-kilter in the space around you. Something missing You scanned the tables without thinking, eyes flickering past familiar faces. Sunoo noticed, you could feel his gaze as you forced a too-bright smile, buttered your toast with robotic precision.

“Did something happen last night?” he asked, voice soft, careful.

You shrugged, looking down at your plate. “Nothing.” But your hands trembled. And Taehyun wasn’t at his usual place near the end of the Ravenclaw table. Not that you were watching. Not that you were waiting. But still. You saw him again outside the library, later that morning. His robes were immaculate as always, scarf draped neatly over one shoulder, a book in his hand he wasn’t reading. You approached him cautiously, your heart fluttering like a sparrow trapped in your ribs. 

“Taehyun,” you said, gently, like the name itself might break if you spoke it too loud. His eyes flicked up. Cold. Unbothered. Your smile faltered. 

“Can we talk?” you asked, hands twisting in the hem of your sweater.

“No.” Just like that. Clipped. Sharp.

You blinked. “What?” 

“I said no.” Something inside you shrank, just a little. “Taehyun… what happened last night—”

“Was a mistake.” The words hit like a slap. You felt the breath leave your lungs, staggered by the sudden, cruel distance of him. “You kissed me,” you said, voice small, cracking. “You said—” 

“I got caught up in the moment.” His tone was flat, practiced. Like he’d already rehearsed these lines. Like he’d spent the whole night scrubbing every softness out of himself. “It didn’t mean anything.” The world tilted. Your lips parted, your voice caught in your throat. You could feel the sting building in your chest, behind your eyes. He didn’t look at you, wouldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the spines of books he wasn’t reading, as if pretending you weren’t there would erase what happened.

“I thought you—” You bit your lip, hard. Swallowed. “I thought you cared.”

“I don’t.” It was brutal, how easy he made it sound. And that was what broke you.

You turned before he could see the tears spill, before your voice could crumble entirely. You ran, not caring who saw, not caring where you were going, just needing to escape the weight of that hallway, of his voice still echoing inside you like the last note of a song gone wrong. Snow flurried around you as you burst outside, not feeling the cold through the heat in your cheeks. The castle loomed behind you, windows glowing warm with light you couldn’t bear to be near.

You collapsed beneath the shadow of a tree near the lake, the frost crunching beneath your knees, and let yourself cry. Quietly, messily. Like the sky had fallen only for you. You hated how much you’d hoped. Hated that one kiss had unraveled you. Hated that even now, even with his cruelty still ringing in your ears… You still wanted to believe he didn’t mean it.

The next morning came like a betrayal. Sunlight poured through the dormitory windows, golden and gentle, but it felt wrong against your skin. The castle still breathed with its usual rhythm, owls cooing in the distance, portraits murmuring, fireplaces crackling softly, but none of it reached you. It was as though something inside you had gone still. Quiet in a way that even your cheer couldn’t touch. You sat beside Sunoo in the Great Hall, picking at your breakfast with no real interest. Your usual glow was gone, dulled into something shadowed and quiet.

Sunoo nudged you gently with his shoulder. “You didn’t say much last night.” You didn’t meet his eyes. “There wasn’t much to say.”

He watched you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “This is about Taehyun, isn’t it?” Your fingers curled tighter around your spoon.

“We kissed, ” you whispered, barely audible. “And then he said it was a mistake.”

Sunoo’s brows lifted, and then quickly drew together in concern. “What?” 

“I thought it meant something,” you said, voice cracking. “But he shut me out. Said it didn’t mean anything. Like I was just… a moment to him. A mistake to be scrubbed out.”

Sunoo’s expression darkened. “What a bloody idiot.” You gave a weak laugh, one that didn’t reach your eyes. He reached across the table and covered your hand with his. “Look, I know you like to see the good in everyone, even in jerks who don’t deserve it, but maybe it’s time you started putting that heart of yours somewhere safer. Someone who’ll actually protect it.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “You’re right.” But the ache didn’t lift. Later that day, you filed into Potions class with the rest of the students, your bag slung over one shoulder. The scent of crushed herbs and simmering roots clung thick to the dungeon air. You walked with your head high, shoulders back, smile forced into place like armor. He was already seated when you walked in. Taehyun.

Sitting at his usual spot near the front, posture rigid, jaw tight. His fingers tapped soundlessly against his textbook. He didn’t look up when you entered. Didn’t so much as flinch. But you felt the chill in the room anyway, the weight of all that was unspoken crackling between you like a live wire. Still, you were you. Still sunshine, even with cracks in your light. You walked over, careful steps echoing softly, and perched on the edge of the desk beside his. “Hi, Taehyun,” you said, your voice light, as if your heart wasn’t twisting. “I was wondering if you finished the reading for today. The part about powdered asphodel, wasn’t that fascinating? I thought—”

“Can you just shut up for once?” His voice cut through the room like a blade. The entire class went still. You froze. “I’m trying to concentrate,” he said, still not looking at you. “And I don’t need your insipid, cheery commentary. Merlin knows it’s exhausting enough seeing you parade around like everyone’s personal ray of sunshine.” 

A few people snorted with laughter. Someone whispered behind their hand. You felt every eye in the room swing toward you, your face, your smile, your frozen stance. And Taehyun finally looked up, and his expression was cold, clipped, composed. But your world cracked. You swallowed the lump in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. You looked around, saw the amusement on their faces, the mockery, the disbelief that anyone as soft as you could’ve tried to reach someone as sharp-edged as him. And then your gaze landed back on Taehyun.

“All I’ve done,” you said, voice trembling, “is try to be nice to you. To care for you. Even when you were cruel. Even when you didn’t deserve it.” He said nothing. Your voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’m done.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see if there was even a flicker of regret in those storm-grey eyes. You turned on your heel, your shoes tapping hard against the stone, and fled the classroom. Again. But this time… you didn’t cry. This time, your chest burned with something else. This time, you were done being soft for someone who only knew how to bruise.

Taehyun sat frozen in the aftermath. The laughter had faded. The stares had drifted away. But the silence that followed your exit rang louder than anything else in the room. He stared at the empty space where you’d stood, chest hollow and knotted, something sour rising in his throat. The words he’d thrown at you echoed back in his ears; sharp, venom-laced things forged in fear, insecurity, and pride. And regret, thick and immediate, curled in his gut like poison. “Taehyun?” the professor called. But he didn’t answer. He stood up abruptly, chair scraping back, and bolted.

His shoes struck stone as he ran through the corridor, breath tight, wand forgotten. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to find you. That he had to. His heart beat painfully against his ribs. The hallways blurred past him, students turned their heads as he passed, but he didn’t stop. He found you in the greenhouses, your favorite place, tucked behind the castle where the air smelled of earth and mint, where your emotions could breathe. You stood alone beneath the arching glass dome, surrounded by sleeping winter blooms. The late afternoon light spilled through the frosted windows in ribbons of gold. You had your arms crossed, head bowed, lips pressed tightly together. When you heard the door open, you stiffened.

“What do you want?” you said, voice hoarse, but strong.

Taehyun’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry.”

You laughed, bitter and soft. “You’re always sorry.”

“I know.” He took a step closer. “I know I keep ruining things. I know I keep hurting you. But I don’t—” His voice broke. “I don’t mean to.”

“Then why do you?” you snapped, eyes glassy, anger trembling under your skin. “Why do you keep pushing me away? Every time I try to be kind, every time I try to care about you — you throw it back in my face.” Taehyun looked down at his hands, curling them into fists. “Because you make it hard to pretend I don’t feel anything.” You stared at him. 

He looked up, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were wide, vulnerable, raw. “You’re always happy. You shine so damn much it hurts. And I... I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone expects. And then you walk in, and you’re better than me, and kinder, and I didn’t know what to do with that. So I lashed out. Because it was easier than admitting I—” He swallowed. “I like you.” Silence bloomed between you. Quiet. Fragile.

“You’re such a bloody idiot,” you muttered.

Taehyun blinked, startled. “What?” And then you stepped forward. Fast. Sure. Your hands came up to grab the collar of his robes, tugging him down before he could react. Your mouth crashed into his with a force that knocked the air out of both of you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was furious, raw, earned. Taehyun made a soft, strangled noise in the back of his throat, his hands fluttering for a moment before settling; one on your waist, the other braced against the table behind you. But you didn’t wait for him. You deepened the kiss, teeth and warmth and heat and something frantic behind it all. You poured your anger and your longing into him, tasting the apology on his tongue, daring him to mean it.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, your eyes burned into his. “I’ve liked you for ages, you emotionally constipated genius,” you whispered, chest heaving. “But I’m not going to keep running after you if you’re going to keep running from yourself.” His mouth parted. He didn’t speak. He only nodded, once, reverent. 

“I won’t break for you again, Taehyun,” you said, softer now. “So if you’re going to kiss me back next time… mean it.”

“I will,” he breathed, eyes wide, lips swollen, still stunned by the hurricane of you. “I swear.” And this time, when you kissed him again, it was slower. Sweeter. The first page of a new chapter written in ink instead of fire. And for once, he let himself feel it.

–

The announcement came quietly, a simple flick of parchment and a name spoken with no ceremony. At breakfast, the Great Hall was humming; spoons clinking against porridge bowls, owls flapping in with the morning post, low chatter weaving between house tables like mist. Professor McGonagall stood at the podium, spectacles glinting as she unrolled the scroll of student appointments. Her voice carried with its usual sharpness, precise and unyielding. “The Prefect position for next term,” she said, “has been awarded to Miss Eliza Rowe of Gryffindor.” 

A polite smattering of applause followed. Nothing loud, nothing triumphant, just the rustle of hands clapping out of obligation more than celebration. Eliza, three seats down from the golden trio’s old haunt, blinked, then straightened her back and nodded once, the picture of composed satisfaction. She’d dotted her i’s with logic, crossed her t’s with ruthlessness, built her empire from timetables and perfectly executed essays. And she deserved it. You blinked, mid-sip of pumpkin juice. Across the table, Taehyun paused, one hand wrapped around a buttered scone. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other. And then, like a shared secret, you both burst into soft, startled laughter.

No bitterness curled on your tongues. No resentment twisted in your chests. There was no sting to the loss, only the warm realization that you hadn’t even noticed the stakes anymore. Taehyun leaned forward, elbows brushing the edge of his plate, eyes gleaming in the slanted morning light. “You know, I think this might be the first time I’ve lost anything and not wanted to hex someone about it.” You smirked. “Wow. Character development.” 

He grinned, actually grinned, the corners of his mouth curling like sunlight creeping through storm clouds. “Don’t push it.” You looked down at your plate, then back up at him. “I mean, we both lost, technically. And yet…”

“And yet,” he echoed, voice low and warm, gaze lingering. His fingers brushed yours under the table, just a whisper of contact, but it said everything. You glanced around at the bustle of the Hall. No one was paying attention to you anymore. The spotlight had shifted elsewhere. You and Taehyun were no longer the top contenders, the academic titans vying for dominance. And you didn’t care.

The rivalry had sharpened you both, carved out the edges where you met, but now, here, in this quiet moment between spoonfuls of marmalade and melted butter, it felt like something new was blooming. Not softer, exactly. But truer. Less about pride. More about presence. “I think,” you said slowly, “I’d rather have this.”

He tilted his head. “This?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Us. Whatever we are now.” For a moment, Taehyun didn’t answer. Just looked at you, like you were the only person in the castle worth watching. Like maybe, in some unspoken way, he’d already chosen this over everything else. Then he said, “Me too.”

Epilogue 

The letter arrives on a Tuesday. It isn’t sent with an owl, or folded with formal corners. It’s slipped into your Potions textbook, tucked between a page on amortentia and the properties of powdered moonstone. You find it when your fingers brush against the soft, familiar parchment, sealed with nothing more than a pressed flower. A heliotrope. His favorite. And yours. Your name is scrawled across the front in his ever-meticulous handwriting, slanted and confident and just a touch dramatic. But inside; it’s him, wholly and undeniably.

Meet me at the Astronomy Tower. Tonight. Midnight. Don’t bring Sunoo, or I swear. 

Stop asking questions you already know the answer to, Little Miss Perfect. It makes me want to kiss you. Which is inconvenient. Because I hate you.

—T.K.

You laugh, soft, delighted, head shaking in disbelief. The paper crinkles in your hand as your fingers clutch it tighter, your stomach blooming with something golden and giddy. You press the letter against your lips, a half-suppressed giggle escaping. He still says he hates you. You roll your eyes, slip the letter into your sleeve, and go anyway.

The Astronomy Tower is quiet when you arrive, the air tinged with cold and the faint, fragrant echo of spring pushing through winter’s shadow. Snow clings in delicate lace to the ramparts, the sky a deep indigo velvet scattered with stars. Hogwarts sleeps below, its windows glowing faintly, warm and distant. You find him leaning against the parapet, robes fluttering slightly in the breeze, curls tousled and dark against the moonlight. He doesn’t turn as you approach, but you know he hears you. He always does. “You’re late,” Taehyun murmurs, without looking.

“You’re impossible,” you reply, stepping beside him, shoulder brushing his.

He finally glances at you. “And yet, here you are.”

You smile. It’s soft, easy. “What’s the occasion?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks up, at the moon, at the stars, at anything but you. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. “I used to come here to get away from people. To think. Sometimes just to breathe.” You say nothing. You let him unravel in his own time.

He exhales, long and slow. “Now all I think about is how badly I want you here. All the time. Even when you’re babbling. Even when you’re winning at things I swore I needed to beat you at.” You glance at him, heart beating like a drum beneath your ribs. He turns to face you fully now, the night making a poem of his profile, sharp lines, soft edges, eyes full of unspoken things.

“You ruined my solitude,” he whispers. 

You tilt your head, teasing. “You’re welcome.” 

His lips twitch. “I should hate you for it.”

“And yet?”

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to be wrong with.” You reach for him first this time, fingers brushing his, pulling him into your gravity. He meets you halfway. The kiss is quiet. Slow. Like a confession. Like a wish. Above, the stars burn steady. Below, the castle dreams. And somewhere between the heavens and the earth, a boy who built walls and a girl who tore them down find something far sweeter than victory. Not perfection. But something better. Home

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[yeyinde]

thinking many thoughts about a therapist reader stuck with price after he gets himself written up for mandatory anger management sessions by laswell…

he'd fight that on every level imaginable. poor reader. in storms this burly bear of a man who is uncommunicative (at best) and aggressively pacing around the room like a caged tiger, ripping apart the fundamentals of your profession (at worst).

i see Price as a mix of his traditional upbringing and someone struggling to circumvent some of the uglier aspects of these values that he doesn't believe in. on one hand, he can respect therapy as a whole. but on the other, when it comes to him and his problems, it's pseudoscience. a man of many, many contradictions. he's very much a "respect is earned, not given" kinda guy in my head and i don't think he really holds any love for what he sees as someone trying to change him (even if it's for the best).

but also. i love pairing him up with smart, ernest people. i think the juxtaposition between him (eternal grump) and them (burgeoning sunshine) is just spectacular. and his therapist having that easy-going, i'll split my hard earned cookie in half so everyone gets a piece/yes, i did bring enough gum for the whole class i'm so glad you asked! temperament would be impossible for him to deal with. anyone else and he'd just blow up. leave. throw his impressive weight around to get what he wants.

but then he's faced with this competent person (which he respects) who is just genuinely trying to help him because they see something in him that he doesn't want to admit is still there, and ahhhhhh. i'd love to see him flustered. uncomfortable. and i think that'd do it. (plus. i love throwing a person at him who is the model of his speech he gave Gaz, which i 100% believe was ALL bullshit. i think he felt Kyle slipping away and needed something to reel him back in, and also; it's Cope. he prescribed himself a serious dose of Cope, and it's so obvious. UGH. what a dumb, emotionally stunted, manipulative man. gimme him RIGHT NOW. and then you pop up and it's a slap in the face against everything he pretends to believe in!!!!)

anyway!!!! the first thing he says when meeting you would be some eclectic mix of disrespect and grumpy old man yelling at clouds.

"this might work for other people, sweetheart, but it won't work for me." and you just sit, stunned, and try to wrap your head around that.

[firelilyfox]

Banana Pancakes

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x female reader

Summary: A massive storm is raging over the city, so you two are trapped inside. For the first time you can enjoy some alone time with Bob and the feelings are getting up to the surface ...

Words: 2k

Warnings: fluff overload. Bob and reader having a HUGE crush on each other. kissing. touching. slightly naughty thoughts (nothing too much). dancing.

Author's Note: I was inspired by this song :) if you want to listen to it:

______________________________

You stumbled out of your bedroom. There was a disturbing silence in the hallway. 

Normally the voices of Yelena and Alexei would be echoing through the whole floor of the Thunderbolts Tower by this time of the day. They would be bickering about a minor inconvenience and John would try to get as far away as possible from that, but not without loudly dropping snarly comments. Ava would sing a song she made up, just to annoy John even more, because usually the songs are full of insults about him and his big ego. 

And Bucky … well you wouldn’t hear him because he always kept his mouth shut and watching the chaos unfold right before him. With an disapproving look on his face and a mug full of hot coffee in his hand (wich was probably already his third cup). 

But today … the tower seemed abandoned. Except for a dull rattling that came from the living room. And a mumbling voice. 

As you walked around the corner, armes crossed to keep the cardigan in place, you found the source of both noises. 

The voice was the weatherman on the tv, who was showing something on his chaotic weather-map behind him. 

The rattling was a thunderstorm outside of the windows, throwing heavy raindrops on the glass. New York vanished in a dark grey cloud and even the lights got blurred by the raindrops running down the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

„I guess they forgot both of us.“ 

The voice came out of nowhere and scared the shit out of you. A high-pitched scream came out of your throat, but you instantly slap one hand over your mouth. 

It was Bob. 

He was standing there in his pajamas - a dark sweatpants and an oversized shirt with a smoking turtle on it - and messed up hair. He just got up and still looked half asleep. 

„Geez, Bob! Don’t scare me like that.“ 

Bob apologized with raised hands. He didn’t meant to. But … when he saw you, walking in the room with this adorable, smooth movements… he didn’t seem to remember how to start a conversation properly. He wrenched his hands, trying to act all collected when in reality his heart made funny things. 

„M-sorry“, he mumbled. „Uhm - the others … they are on a mission. Out of the town. They left uhm - they left a note.“ Bob listened to the words coming out of his mouth and wanted to punch himself in the gut. Why does he sound like a damn toddler whenever you were around? 

You nodded. „Alright. Well, seems like we have the whole floor to us for the day. Ain’t no way they’re coming back while this disaster is still going on.“ You pointed at the storm outside with a side eye. 

„Yeah. Looks like the final judgement out there.“ Bob stepped closer to the windows - closer to you - and watched the clouds drive by. 

„So.“ 

He turned his head to look down at you. „So?“ 

You shrug. „So what are we gonna do?“ 

Bob looked around the apartment. There was not much to do here besides a gym downstairs and a technical headquarters, that would’ve made the secret service jealous. 

„I dunno“, he put his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. 

You turned to face him. „I have an idea!“ 

Bob mirrored your smile without knowing what you were thinking about. It was always like that with you. He couldn’t really control his body reacting to you.

When you pass by, he followed you with his eyes only. If something made you laugh so freely, he wanted to be that something. He wanted to be the one who made you laugh. And in moments like this, when your eyes light up in excitement, he felt like sunshine was filling the room. Fully consuming him, until all the bad thoughts and mean voices shut up. 

You gave him everything he need without even knowing it. 

So when you told him about your idea, he was totally into it. First you got into the shower - separated of course - but Bob couldn’t keep his mind from slipping to the though of you being right next door, in your quarters … naked. He felt his cheeks getting all flushed and turned the water ice cold. 

After you two got freshen up, it was time to make some breakfast. But the kitchen of a chaotic superhero family is not quite the most organized place to be. Or even stocked. 

„How can it be, that we live in a freakin’ tower with luxury nonsense things, but don’t have anything to eat“, you wondered loudly while Bob scanned the fridge for something usable. 

„No idea“, he chuckled. „But we have everything to make at least two pancakes!“ With a victorious smile he turned around and showed you the ingredients. You were smiling brightly, standing closer than he had expected. 

„I found bananas.“ You wiggling the fruit in front of his face and he almost dropped the eggs. Never had he been so close up to you. Bob noticed every detail of your face. The soft skin right under your cheekbones, slightly turning pink. Your hair still a little wet from the shower. Bob forgot how to breathe for a moment. 

And you? You stared into his widened puppy dog eyes, looking down at you. He licked his lips. The dark curls falling into his eyes, when his head dips a little more into your direction. He didn’t even noticed it, but his body took over and clearly wanted to be closer to you. 

A thunder rumbled outside. Bob blinked a few times, clearing his throat and quickly recovering from the sizzling tension in the air. 

You crooked a little smile. „Let’s make the best banana pancakes on this planet!“ 

Said and done. While Bob was preparing the kitchen, you stepped over to the music system. You chose a playlist full of your favorite songs for a rainy sundaymorning and walked back to Bob. Your body moved with the rhythm and it was hard for Bob to not stare again. It was almost hypnotizing for him. He wanted to rest his hands on your hips and experience the feeling of you … 

„Okay all set. Let’s make some breakfast!“ 

The pancakes turned out deliciously. And you could even get more than two out of the rare ingredients. Bob and you got comfortable to each lean at a pillar between the windows, leaving you sitting at the opposite from one another and almost touching by the knees. 

„They are really good“, you said with a full mouth and Bob had trouble to take a bite without smiling like an idiot. „I never knew you can cook.“ 

„Well, I wouldn’t count that as cooking. But thanks.“ Yeah the butterflies in his stomach are freaking out right now. 

You look at him, really look at him while he was distracted by his banana pancake. He looked so effortlessly handsome it was almost unfair. The way his brought shoulders are moving under his hoodie made your imagination doing funny things.

Your fingers twitched, in a unspoken wish to see how they would feel. Bob looked outside the window, chewing on a bite and you couldn’t hold back a silly smile. He looked so peaceful, so young and just so beautiful. 

When he looked back at you, Bob caught you red handed staring at him. Oh, if you would’ve only known what this little fact doing to him. He risked to suffocate on that last bite. 

You shivered under his intense gaze. 

„Oh are you cold?“ He asked. 

You made an effort to stand up and Bob mirrored your movements. Suddenly the two of you got really close again, standing in front of one another within a few inches. Bob wanted to reach out so badly. He wanted to take your hand in his, just feel how soft your skin would feel on his. Because he knew full well, that he would practically drop dead at how good it would be. 

„Yeah …“, you collected your thoughts again. „I think I’ll get something to cover up.“ You wanted to turn around to leave, but Bob let his instincts get the upper hand. 

He reached out and held you back by accidentally grabbing your waist. The plan was to aim for your wrist. 

Holy shit! I’m touching her …. What am I doing? 

His thoughts raced and went in circles. He forgot why he wanted to hold her back, but when he saw goosebumps on her arms, he remembered quickly. And pulled his hands back. 

„You can have my hoodie. I’m hot anyway.“ He nodded with a nervous smile. 

You blinked twice, letting his words sink in. And a little giggle escaped your mouth. For a sweet moment Bob was confused about you reaction … then he realized what he just said. 

„I-I mean .. fuck… I meant I’m warm. Not hot. No, I’m not hot. But this..“ He pulled the dark hoodie over his head, messing up his curls even more. „This is really hot - warm - I meant warm!“ 

Bob handed it over to you with an apologizing look in his puppy dog eyes. You could see his cheeks getting all flushed and you heart skipped a beat. 

„Thank you, Bob“, you said with a sweet smile and took his hoodie. The material was soft and it’s shape covered your frame like a big blanked. The waistband reaching the middle of your thighs and the sleeves swelling your hands completely. 

Bob was certain he just had a stroke. You looked so adorable in his clothes! A deep - cave man like - feeling formed inside his chest, telling him to always protect you. 

„How do I look?“ You spread your arms out and smiled. 

„You look stunning. Beautiful.“ 

Now it was your turn for heated up cheeks. Every fiber of your being wanted to get closer to him. You already knew how his hoodie feel, now you wanted to get more of him. All of him, if possible. 

Your favorite song, that just sounded from the speakers, gave you an idea how to get what you desired. 

So you straighten your shoulders and mentally diving into unknown waters. „Bob, would you dance with me?“ 

Bobs eyebrows shot up, leaving an surprised expression on his handsome face. „Uhm… Mh-kay.“ 

You reached out for his hand. Bob took one step in your direction, resting his free hand on the small of your back, gently pulling you closer. You could feel the heat of his body sinking through the thick fabric of your clothes. His hand felt strong and steady while guiding your movements, but at the same time he was holding you so soft, so careful … the butterflies in your stomach turned into a wild tornado, full of colorful wings. 

„I’m glad the others forgot about us“, Bob confessed with a cheeky smile showing off his dimples. 

„Me too. Never had a better Sunday in my life. Being with you makes me really happy, Bob.“ 

He looked at you like you just told him he’d won the lottery. (And if you would ask him, he definitely did). ���Can I, uhm can I try something?“ 

You nodded. 

Bob gently brushing a lost wisp of hair out of your face, cupping it with his large hand. He leaned down, slowly, so you could back out anytime. But you didn’t. Instead you got up on your tiptoes to meet his lips halfway, as they touched yours. 

The kiss was soft, gentle like a butterfly itself. His hand on your back holding you tight, while the other one went to slowly brushing the line under your jaw. Bob kissed you like he was incapable of ever stop again. 

You let one hand rest on his heart - feel it racing under your touch, while the other hand get a hold of his neck. 

When the kiss ended you were both a little out of breath. „You know …“ A smile appeared on your swollen lips. „I wasn’t even cold.“ 

First he was confused but then he understood that the goosebumps didn’t dame because of the temperature. He gave you a shy smile. 

„But“, you kissed him again. „I do think that your hot.“ 

The two of you danced for a while. Multiple songs have passed. Bob had swung you around, catching you again and holding you close to his heart. Laughter filled the empty loft while the music, mixed with the noises of the heavy rain outside, made you feel like being in a bubble. 

A bubble were only you and Bob exist. And banana pancakes. 

____________________________

Thanks for reading!🧡 All interactions are highly appreciated (but please don't copy my work)

🖤Bob Reynolds Masterlist💛

[callsigns-haze]

I love your Tyler fics so much, I just love imagining dad/husband Tyler 😭😭 can I please request something where he always introduces her to people as “my wife”? Like they’re newlyweds and he just loves slipping in “wife” whenever he can 🥹

The Weight of a Word

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Chapter of all fluff

A/N: So I reached 500 followers today and got a few fics done...

The sky above them was a shifting tapestry of dark clouds, a fitting backdrop for the storm-chasing team that had just reunited. The air was thick with tension, the thrill of the chase palpable in every glance and gesture. But amidst the chaos, there was a lightness to Tyler Owens, a quiet joy that radiated from him like sunshine breaking through the storm clouds.

Tyler stood by the team’s van, his arm casually draped over Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her close. They had been together for years now, but something had changed in the past few months—something that Tyler couldn’t quite keep to himself, no matter how hard he tried. He was still basking in the glow of their recent wedding, the memory of saying “I do” still fresh and vivid in his mind. It was a feeling he cherished, a pride that he carried with him everywhere they went.

“Tyler!” one of the team members called, approaching with a wide grin. “You ready for this? We’ve got a big one heading our way.”

Tyler nodded, his eyes flicking from the sky to his teammate, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to share his happiness, had to let the world know how lucky he was. “Yeah, we’re ready,” he replied, a grin spreading across his face as he gave Y/N’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “By the way, have you met my wife?”

There it was again—that word. It rolled off his tongue so easily now, but every time he said it, he felt a surge of pride and love. Wife. The title still felt new, like a shiny badge he got to wear every day, and he couldn’t help but show it off. He turned to Y/N, his eyes sparkling with affection, and she smiled back at him, clearly amused by how much he enjoyed saying it.

The teammate chuckled, extending a hand to Y/N. “Nice to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Y/N replied with a grin, shaking his hand.

Tyler watched the exchange, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. He loved seeing her here, a part of his world, blending into the life he led so effortlessly. And more than that, he loved the way she looked at him when he called her his wife, like she was just as thrilled by the title as he was.

As they continued to prepare for the storm, Tyler couldn’t resist sneaking in the word whenever he got the chance. Introducing her to anyone new, he would say it with that same proud grin—“This is my wife.” Even in casual conversation with the team, it slipped in naturally: “My wife thinks this storm is going to be a big one,” or “We’ve been talking about this since before we got married.”

It wasn’t just the word itself that mattered, though it did make him feel like he was part of something bigger, something more meaningful. It was the way Y/N’s eyes lit up every time he said it, the way she would squeeze his hand or lean into him just a little bit closer. It was the way she made him feel like he was doing something right, just by loving her, just by being proud to call her his.

As the storm began to close in, the team started moving with more urgency, checking their equipment and finalizing their plans. But even in the midst of the chaos, Tyler couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at Y/N every now and then, his heart swelling with affection. They had always been a team, but this was different. This was forever.

“Tyler,” Y/N said softly, drawing his attention as they stood together, watching the sky. “You know you don’t have to keep introducing me like that, right?”

He looked at her, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “I know, but I can’t help it. I just… I love saying it. I love the way it feels.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head slightly, but the warmth in her eyes told him she understood. “Well, I love hearing it. So I guess we’re both happy.”

Tyler leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and then pulled back to look at her. “I promise, I’ll never get tired of calling you my wife.”

“And I’ll never get tired of being your wife,” she replied, her voice soft and sincere.

As the wind picked up and the first raindrops began to fall, Tyler knew they had to focus on the task at hand. But even as they ran to their positions, as the storm loomed ever closer, he couldn’t shake the joy that filled him every time he said that word.

Wife.

It was more than just a title; it was a promise, a declaration of his love, a reminder of the life they had chosen to build together. And no matter how many storms they faced, no matter how wild the weather got, Tyler knew that this was the one thing that would always anchor him, the one thing that mattered most.

As they stood side by side, ready to face whatever the storm would bring, Tyler took Y/N’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. And with a smile that reached his eyes, he whispered one last time, just for the two of them:

“My wife.”

Requests for Tyler are open be free to send in as much as you wish!

tagging some:

@senawashere

@saviorcomplexrry

@cevansbaby-dove

@saynotononsense

@missdottie

@willowisp7

@taorislover94

@eloquenceinpurple

@86laura11

@rosiahills22

@jessicab1991

@kmc1989

@shanimallina87

@eternalsams

@teen-antisocial

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Storm Spirit and Sunshine - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.06k

series masterlist | main masterlist

You swing the door open like you live there.

“I can feel it,” you announce, as dramatically as possible, stepping into Haymitch’s house like it’s the stage and you’re the lead in a weather-themed tragedy. “It’s coming.”

Haymitch looks up from the table, one brow already raised. “What, the end times?”

You point a single finger to the ceiling like a prophet. “Thunderstorm.”

He blinks at you. Slowly. “That’s what you’re being weird about?”

You stride forward with purpose, dropping onto the couch. “It’s not just any storm. It’s the perfect storm. Big thunder. Dramatic lightning. Just humid enough to make my hair do the thing. I can feel it in my bones.”

“You what?”

“In my bones, Haymitch.” You pat your knees solemnly. “These bad boys don’t lie. You’re not the only one in this village with old people joints. I’ve got the storm-sensing cartilage of a seasoned sea captain.”

He stares at you for a long moment, clearly weighing whether or not it’s worth responding.

“You need help.”

“I need snacks,” you say, kicking your feet up onto the coffee table. “And a window seat for the show.”

“Remind me why I let you in.”

“You didn’t. But if you did it’d be because I’m delightful and bring chaos into your otherwise boring life.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer, but you see the twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turns back to whatever he’s pretending to read.

Outside, the sky rumbles.

The sky rumbles again—louder this time, long and low like the clouds are clearing their throats.

You shoot Haymitch a smug grin. “Told you. These joints don’t lie.”

He doesn’t even look up. Just mutters, “Should get them checked out.”

You gasp. “Rude.”

Another crack of thunder rattles the windows, and this time you light up like someone just handed you a puppy. You practically skip to the window, sitting in front of it with your face practically pressed against it.

“This is gonna be so good,” you breathe, eyes scanning the sky. “I bet we get real ground-shaker thunder before long.”

“You sound way too excited about potential structural damage,” Haymitch calls.

You wave him off. “Shh. I’m concentrating.”

The next flash of lightning slices through the sky like a blade—bright and fast.

You immediately start counting.

Then the thunder comes—loud and sharp, cracking across the sky like a gunshot.

You turn, grinning. “Two miles away.”

Haymitch frowns. “What?”

You gesture wildly, as if it should be obvious. “The storm! When you see lightning, you count the seconds until you hear the thunder. Then divide by five. That’s how many miles away it is.”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “Did you just make that up?”

You scoff. “No. My dad taught me that when I was like six. It’s science, sunshine.”

“Right. Storm science,” he says, like that’s somehow less valid than regular science.

“You’re just mad I know more than you.”

“I’m mad you’ve made this your entire personality in the last ten minutes.”

You smirk. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

Outside, another flash. You immediately whip back to the window and start counting again.

Haymitch watches you from his chair, shaking his head like you’re the strangest thing to ever walk into his house—and, somehow, his favorite.

The rain begins and thickens fast—goes from lazy drops to a full curtain in under a minute. It drums against the roof with steady insistence, a rhythm that seems to echo somewhere in your chest.

You rest your chin on your arms, still leaning on the windowsill, watching the branches sway like they’re trying to hold on for dear life. Wind whistles low and mean through the gaps in the eaves.

Another lightning strike slices the sky—closer this time, burning hot-white against the clouds.

“Half a mile,” you whisper to yourself, counting barely past two before the thunder hits like a hammer. The floorboards tremble.

You glance back at Haymitch. “That one felt personal.”

He’s squinting toward the window, not quite as relaxed as usual. “If a tree falls on this house, I’m blaming your knees.”

You press a hand to your chest. “How dare you question my weather bones.”

“I question everything about you.”

“You never tell me to leave though,” you say sweetly.

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “mistake of the decade,” but you catch the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Another flash—closer. You don’t even have time to count before the thunder answers, deafening and deep. The lights in the living room flicker.

Your eyes widen. “Oho. We are in it now.”

Haymitch sighs and stands, peering out another window like that’s going to change the weather. “Hope you weren’t planning to sleep tonight.”

You shrug. “Wasn’t the plan anyway.”

The wind howls—sharp enough now to make the house creak. You swear you can feel it in your ankles. And just as you’re about to make another smug comment, the sky flashes again.

“Lightning strike’s on top of us,” you say, half to yourself.

And then the thunder hits.

It’s not just sound this time. It’s impact. It rolls through the walls, shakes something loose in the floorboards.

Your stomach does a tiny flip. Not fear—just anticipation.

Haymitch mutters something under his breath and moves toward the kitchen. “Gonna find the candles before you start shrieking.”

You snort. “I do not shriek.”

“We’ll see.”

You’re still at the window, chin in your hand, rain streaking the glass like paint. It’s wild out now. Full fury. Trees bending, wind howling like it’s got a grudge. It makes the thunder feel sharper somehow. Hungrier.

“Storm’s practically on top of us,” you say quietly, like narrating makes it less intense. “Bet the next one knocks the power.”

From the kitchen, Haymitch grumbles, “If you manifested that with your weird knee magic—”

The lights go out.

Just like that.

Darkness swallows the room, sudden and total.

The storm outside rages louder in the silence that follows—like it was waiting. Like it was watching.

And for a second—just one—you freeze.

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the dark. Not really.

It’s the way it feels.

The way it hits you all at once—walls closing in, cold pressing down on your chest, the weight of memory clawing up from somewhere it shouldn’t still live. Dirt floors. No windows. Screaming until your throat gave out.

Locked in.

Alone.

Small.

“Haymitch?” you say—barely a whisper. But it’s sharp around the edges, panicked despite how hard you try to keep it steady.

There’s a thump from the kitchen. Then footsteps, fast and sure across the creaking floor.

“Yeah?” His voice cuts through the dark, close now.

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because it’s too much—the wind, the dark, the memories crawling out of the corners. And god, you almost scream. It bubbles up, fast and hot and ready to crack.

But you bite it back.

You clench your fists. Swallow it down.

“Hey,” Haymitch says again, closer this time. “You alright?”

You can’t see him. Not really. Just the vague outline of him in the dim silver of the stormlight, his shape blurry in the lightning’s afterglow.

But that’s enough.

You breathe in—sharp. Then let it out, trembling. “I’m fine,” you lie. “Just—didn’t expect it to be so dark.”

A pause.

Then, quieter. “You sure?”

You nod. Then realize he can’t see you. “Yeah. Just startled me.”

Haymitch doesn’t move for a second. Then he steps closer, and you feel his hand brush your arm—warm, grounding. Not grabbing, just… there.

“C’mere,” he says, voice lower now. Less gruff. “Let’s sit.”

He guides you back to the couch like you might disappear if he’s not careful—hand light on your arm, steps matching yours even though you’re both just walking five feet.

You settle on the cushions, blanket pulled instinctively over your lap even though the room feels hotter now, like the storm’s pressing its breath against the house.

Haymitch sinks down beside you with a quiet grunt. The lightning outside flashes—blue-white and jagged—and a second later, thunder shakes the windows like a warning shot.

You flinch. Just a little. Barely noticeable.

But of course he notices.

You feel it more than see it—the way he shifts closer. Not touching. Just near enough to be solid. Near enough to make it easier to breathe.

“I’ll get candles,” he mutters, already starting to stand.

“No,” you say quickly, fingers catching his sleeve before you can think twice. “It’s fine. Just… stay for a second?”

He pauses.

Then slowly sits back down.

Neither of you says anything for a while. Just the wind shrieking outside, the storm lashing at the roof like it’s trying to claw its way in. Every new crack of thunder feels like it’s aimed at your spine.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything about the way your leg is shaking. Or how tightly your hands are clenched in the fabric of the blanket.

Instead, he leans back, stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. Casual. Natural. Not touching—but close enough that if you needed it, if you wanted it, all you’d have to do is lean in.

“You still think this is perfect storm weather?” he asks after a moment, voice light.

You huff a laugh. It comes out a little watery. “Okay. Maybe slightly less perfect now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t think the power would actually go out.”

“That’s what you get for taunting the sky.”

You glance at him sideways. “I was doing science.”

“Oh, sure. That’s what that was.”

“I taught you something.”

“You patted your knees like a wizard and summoned hellfire.”

You smile. “Still accurate.”

Another flash. Another crash. You swallow hard.

His arm shifts slightly behind you—closer now. Still not touching. But it feels like he could. If you asked.

You don’t ask.

But you don’t move away either.

Haymitch sighs eventually, mutters something about not stumbling over furniture in the dark, and stands.

“I’m gonna grab some candles before one of us eats it on a chair leg.”

You nod, trying to play it cool even though your spine feels like it’s been hardwired to the thunder. “Yeah. Good idea.”

But when he starts walking toward the kitchen, you… hesitate.

Then you get up and follow him.

He doesn’t say anything about it—just glances over his shoulder once, eyes catching yours in the dark. There’s a flicker of something there. Understanding, maybe. Or just recognition.

You don’t explain. And he doesn’t ask.

The kitchen’s pitch black, save for the faint light of lightning flickering through the windows. He rummages in a cabinet where he keeps emergency stuff—somewhere behind the duct tape and questionable canned goods.

You hover a few feet behind, blanket still around your shoulders, arms crossed tight like that’ll make you impervious to noise.

And then it happens.

A crack of thunder so loud it doesn’t even sound like thunder—it sounds like the sky split open and dumped war onto the earth. The entire house shakes, a framed photo toppling off the wall behind you with a crack, and your body reacts before your brain can even catch up.

You lunge forward and grab Haymitch’s arm.

Not just grab—latch onto it. Elbow to wrist. Like he’s the last solid thing in the world.

He goes still.

You don’t realize what you’ve done until the next flash of lightning lets you see your hand clutching his bicep like it’s life or death.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, instantly starting to pull away. “Sorry, I—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But his other hand comes up, wraps gently around your wrist. Not to stop you. Just to keep you steady.

“You’re fine,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

You freeze.

Because those three words land somewhere they shouldn’t—like a weightless promise tucked behind the ribs.

He lets go of your wrist slowly, but your grip stays for another second, maybe two, before you carefully ease away. The air feels weird now. Warmer. Closer.

He clears his throat. “Found ‘em.”

You step back, watching as he sets two small candles on the counter and strikes a match. It flares to life in his hand, golden and small, casting warm light across his face.

You swear your brain short-circuits again.

Because why the hell does he look good by candlelight? That shouldn’t be a thing. And yet.

He lights the first candle, then the second, muttering something under his breath about the Capitol not knowing how to wire a damn house properly.

You try not to stare at his hands again.

You fail.

“So,” you say, just to break the silence. “You do this often? Candlelit vibes and storm ambiance?”

He shrugs. “Just missing the romantic music.”

You grin.

And for a second—for one glowing second—it’s just you and him in a kitchen lit by firelight and thunder, both pretending this is completely normal.

You carry one candle. Haymitch carries the other, muttering about how you’re probably going to burn the house down with your “reckless candle waving.”

You hold it up like a torch. “We are the light in the darkness.”

“You are the darkness.”

“You wound me.”

You both step into the living room like it’s unfamiliar terrain now, shadows moving strange and slow along the walls. The thunder has quieted to a low, steady grumble—still loud, but not rattling the windows anymore. Just constant enough to make your bones hum.

Haymitch sets his candle on the coffee table and squints at the couch.

You drape your blanket back over the cushions with exaggerated grace. “Welcome to my lair.”

“You’re the cryptkeeper.”

“I’ve upgraded. Now I’m the storm spirit.”

“You’re gonna be the smoke alarm’s problem in about five seconds.”

You flop onto the couch and gesture for him to sit beside you. “Come on, sunshine. Let’s wait out the apocalypse in style.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Just settles beside you with a sigh, the couch dipping under his weight. The glow from the candles flickers between you, warm and uneven, painting his profile in gold and shadow.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the sound of rain, steady and wild against the roof, the occasional distant roll of thunder.

“This is kinda nice,” you admit quietly. “You know. Minus the potential power grid failure.”

He makes a noise in his throat. “You just like it ‘cause it’s dramatic.”

“Exactly.”

“You would thrive in a lightning storm.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You grin and tuck your feet under you, watching the way the flame dances in the glass. It smells like old wax and dust and something faintly like pine. The scent makes your chest ache, a little. Something familiar. Something safe.

Haymitch shifts beside you, arm brushing yours again—barely there. But it’s enough. Enough to keep you grounded. Enough to make the dark feel not so scary anymore.

You glance sideways, and he’s already looking at you.

Your breath catches.

“What?” you ask, trying not to sound breathless.

He shrugs. “Just making sure you didn’t spontaneously combust.”

“Give it time,” you say, a little too soft.

His mouth quirks. He doesn’t look away.

Another crash of thunder rolls through the air, closer again. You flinch—just a little. And his hand moves, barely noticeable. Like he’s going to reach for you but stops halfway, fingers curling loosely on his leg instead.

Neither of you comments on it.

Instead, you whisper, “Still scared of the dark.”

And Haymitch, voice rough and warm and quiet, says, “Then I guess I’ll stay ‘til the lights come back.”

You nod.

Not because you need him to.

But because you want him to.

And maybe that’s the scariest part of all.

You don’t look at him when you speak, voice low. “My mom used to lock me in the cellar when I pissed her off. Sometimes for hours. No lights. Just dirt and cold and whatever creaked overhead.”

Haymitch doesn’t move, but his whole posture shifts—like someone flipped a switch in his ribs.

“I’d count,” you say, quieter now. “To keep myself calm. Just… numbers. Over and over. Thought if I got to a hundred enough times, it’d make the time go faster.”

Still nothing from him. Just that steady presence, always solid when it matters.

Then he says, just as low, “The thunder gets me. Sounds like the cannons, sometimes. When it’s loud enough.”

Your head turns.

He’s staring at the candle, not at you. But his hand rests between you—fingers loose on the couch cushion, warm in the golden light.

Without thinking, you reach over.

You don’t just brush against him.

You thread your fingers through his. Interlock them. Like it’s always been that simple.

Haymitch goes still for a second.

Then—he holds on.

You glance down at your hands—your fingers laced with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You can feel the roughness of his calluses, the quiet strength in his grip, the warmth.

Haymitch clears his throat after a moment. “Your hand’s freezing.”

“Liar,” you murmur. “Yours is warm. I’m thriving.”

He shifts slightly, his thumb brushing against your knuckles—barely there, probably unintentional, but your brain short-circuits anyway.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, but he doesn’t let go.

You smirk, still watching the candle. “Too late.”

He huffs through his nose. “You’re an emotional liability.”

“And you’re enabling me.”

“Tragic, really.”

Another rumble of thunder shakes the house, and without thinking, you scoot just a little closer. Your shoulder brushes his arm. He doesn’t move away.

You feel bold. Maybe it’s the storm. Maybe it’s the soft golden light or the fact that you’re both letting each other be human for once.

“You know,” you say, voice light, “if you ever need someone to hold your hand during a storm again, I’ll consider accepting applications.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is dry. “You offering references?”

“I’ve got rave reviews. Very warm. Excellent emotional support. Bit of a flight risk sometimes, but otherwise solid.”

Haymitch shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now—small, tired, real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” you hum. “But not that hard to make room for.”

He glances sideways at you. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets out a breath and leans back into the couch like something in him finally settled.

And you stay like that—hands clasped, thunder rolling, candlelight soft between you.

Next Part

[dreamwritesimagines]

Sunshine [4] - Ray of Light

AN: My loves, thank you so so much for your wonderful support and lovely comments and HCs! ❤️ You’re amazing! ❤️

I hope you like this as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! 🥰

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Summary: A ray of light shines through the clouds.

Word Count: 4242 (to everyone who might be wondering why every chapter is turning 4k+... it's the martini I mean it baby)

CW: Smoking cigars, explicit language, mentions of sex

Series Masterlist

Logan was no stranger to the feeling of restlessness.

For him, it was around every corner; impossible to get away from. Even now, having just returned from the latest mission Charles had sent him on, he couldn’t help but feel like a caged animal, desperate to get out.

He gritted his teeth, slamming the door open to enter his room before he unzipped his suit and took it off, tossing it to the corner of the room. After putting his jeans and white shirt on, he ran a hand through his hair and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Scott and Jean were already there, perched on the stools while Storm sat on the kitchen island, busy with a file. Rogue was rummaging through the fridge and Bobby was making a sandwich on the counter, still in his suit.

“Do we still not have beer in this place?” Logan asked to no one in particular and Storm looked over her shoulder.

“This place hasn’t stopped being a school since the last time you asked, so no.”

“Great,” he murmured. “Soda it is.”

“It’ll be good for your health,” Rogue said with a grin, then tossed him a bottle which he caught mid-air. He extended his arm in Bobby’s direction without a word and Bobby touched the bottle, making it ice cold.

“Thanks,” he grumbled and pulled himself a seat.

“Why are you in a bad mood?” Storm asked with a curious look in her eyes. “The mission was a success.”

“Is it because that guy almost stabbed you?” Bobby asked, making him frown.

“He didn’t almost stab me,” Logan said as Rogue closed the fridge, nibbling on a slice of pizza.

“When people stab you, do you get annoyed?” Bobby asked and Logan raised his brows.

“More annoyed than right now? Nah, it’s about the same.”

“To repeat, why are you so—” Jean started but stopped talking mid-sentence, a smile pulling at her lips. “Ah. I see.”

“What?”

“We were supposed to come back from this mission around afternoon,” she said. “And it’s Monday.”

Shit.

“Jean, stay out of my head.”

Jean grinned at him. “Oh I’m not in your head. Don’t need to be.”

Scott looked between them. “Is this about Theo’s mom?”

The impact of the simple question was almost instant on the small crowd in the kitchen. Storm immediately put the file in her lap aside to look at him, Bobby stopped making his sandwich and looked up from the jar of peanut butter he had stuck the knife in, and Rogue’s jaw dropped.

Great.

“Wait, seriously?” Bobby asked. “You and her—”

“There’s nothing,” Logan cut him off, forcing himself not to let his thoughts drift to her. “Scott has no idea what he’s talking about as usual.”

“You’re just pissed off because you’ll have to wait until Friday to see her again.”

Logan scoffed. “That has nothing to do with the situation.”

“I think you two would make a cute couple,” Storm said and Jean nodded.

“Oh absolutely.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Logan said with a frown. “And for your information, I could see her whenever I want.”

“I don’t think they’d make a good couple to be honest,” Bobby interfered, “I mean don’t get me wrong but you’re…” he motioned at him, making Logan raise his brows. “You.”

“Nothing gets past your observation skills, does it?” Logan deadpanned while Rogue suppressed a laugh and took another bite of her pizza.

“Opposites attract is definitely a thing.”

Logan opened his mouth to retort, but was instantly distracted when he heard familiar footsteps coming closer to the kitchen, making him look over his shoulder. It wasn’t long until Theo appeared at the door in his pajamas, making Rogue let out an “aw!”.

“Hi Theo.”

“Hi Miss Rogue!” Theo gave them a happy smile. “And Mr. Logan and Miss Storm and Mr. Cyclops and Miss Jean and Mr. Ice Man!”

Even Logan had to admit, the kid was adorable. Theo pushed his glasses up, blinking up at them while holding a huge tin container to his chest as the small crowd in the kitchen greeted him back, making his smile bigger.

“Hi bub,” Logan said and Theo waved at him with one hand while still clutching to the tin with the other.

“What are you doing up at this hour Theo?” Storm asked and Theo looked down at the tin container, then up at them again.

“Um—” he said. “Do you know my friend Ralph?”

Bobby tilted his head. “The fish guy?”

“Yeah!” Theo nodded fervently before pushing his glasses up again. “So he told me his mom never baked him cookies, and—I didn’t know moms didn’t bake cookies because mine does whenever I feel bad, so I told my mom about that and um…yesterday she baked cookies for me to bring here,” he said, pressing his index finger on the tin as if to emphasize his point. “Everyone had one but you weren’t around, Professor X said you were busy, and I stayed up late so that you could have some cookies as well.”

She had baked cookies.

For the whole school.

Logan had to remind himself it was the middle of the night so he couldn’t in fact go all the way to her apartment to see her and kiss her and—

Focus.

He had to focus.

But for fuck’s sake, it was almost agonizing at this point. She was actually, genuinely nice, as if it wasn’t enough that he couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful she was, how sweet she smelled, and just how much he wanted to—

Not going there, he forced himself to think. Focus.

Theo made his way to the kitchen island and stood up on his tiptoes to place the tin on the island, making Jean press a hand on her chest and Storm smile softly. Scott ruffled his hair, making him smile up at him.

“Thank you, Theo,” Jean said. “Please tell your mom we thank her as well.”

“Of course!” Theo said, his voice cheerful. “Good night!”

“Good night bub.”

“Good night Theo!”

“I’m so going to babysit when you two get together,” Rogue said through her teeth as if she was hanging by a thread while Bobby rushed to the container to open it the moment Theo left the kitchen. “I swear to God, Logan—”

“No, I agree with Bobby,” Scott said. “She’s too nice for him.”

Bobby pointed at Scott with the cookie he was holding while Logan flipped him and Storm grabbed two cookies, tossed one to Rogue and turned to Jean.

“I’ll fill Charles in about the mission, are you coming?”

“Sure,” she said and grabbed a cookie as well. “I’ll see you guys later.”

With that they both walked out of the kitchen, Storm talking about what an adorable kid Theo was before Bobby popped the cookie into his mouth, then let out a moan.

“Jesus this is too good!” he said. “No I’m serious Logan, she’s like actually pretty and nice and bakes cookies. When was the last time you did anything nice for us?”

“I saved your life like half an hour ago, dipshit,” Logan pointed out, making Rogue laugh. “And every word out of your mouth makes me think I should’ve sat that one out.”

Scott chuckled and took out a cookie out of the container, then nodded at Logan.

“Do you want to have one or do you want to go ring shopping—” he started but he was cut off when one of Bobby’s friends, Caleb, if Logan wasn’t mistaken, entered the kitchen.

“Storm said there were cookies?”

“Over there.” Bobby motioned at the kitchen island. “Theo’s mom made them.”

“Oh she's such a babe,” Caleb said as he reached out for the container, making Logan turn to him while Rogue made a face. “The things I’d do, seriously, the milf of my—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence when Logan grabbed his arm and slammed it to the counter while Rogue exclaimed “Ew, Caleb!” and Scott tilted his head.

“Logan,” he said, his voice completely calm. “We’re not slamming students to flat surfaces.”

Logan gritted his teeth, glaring at Caleb whose heartbeat got much faster, the unmistakable scent of fear lingering in the air.

“Caleb, right?” he growled. “Listen Caleb, the next time I hear you talk about her, or even look at her in any way,” He unsheathed his claws, causing Caleb to let out a whine. “I will rip your fucking tongue out. Do you understand?”

Caleb nodded fervently again and Logan clenched his jaw, then pulled his hand back and Bobby grabbed Caleb by his shirt.

“It’s his first time in public, that’s why he is like this,” he said helpfully, dragging him out of the kitchen. “You fucking dumbass….”

“Sure,” Scott said after a beat, turning to Logan. “There’s nothing going on between you and her.”

Logan sipped his soda. “Shut up.”

Scott held up his hands, mocking surrender.

“Just something to think about,” he said with a smirk. “I’m gonna go find Jean. Good night.”

“And I’m gonna find Bobby and smack Caleb,” Rogue said, pushing herself off the counter. “Good night Logan.”

“Good night kid,” Logan said as they both left the kitchen and he narrowed his eyes at the container on the kitchen island before making his way to it. He grabbed a cookie to bite into it, his eyes closing as the sweetness crumbled inside his mouth, making him let out a breath.

A scene flashed before his eyes, something out of a dream; him in a cabin in the woods with her in his arms. He buried his nose into her neck, inhaling her sweet scent into his lungs as he pressed her warm body against his, her heartbeat getting faster before he forced himself to open his eyes again, taking a deep breath.

“Keep it together,” he muttered to himself and popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth, then pushed himself off the counter and made his way upstairs.

                                         *

Throughout the week, it was one mission after the other. He was beginning to think Charles was doing it on purpose, and when Friday finally arrived, as much as he hated to admit, he could barely focus on anything else.

“Come on, to the lake!” one of the boys said as he walked past them. “Ralph, where’s Theo?”

“Professor X wanted to see him, and I think he left already,” he heard the boy say. “Ugh, I was gonna show him this new fish in the lake! It’s huge!”

 Left?

No, he was still around. Logan could hear his happy chatter with someone through the chatter of the crowd but her scent wasn’t anywhere near so he followed Theo’s voice downstairs, stepping out of the building before—

“Have a nice weekend Mr. Logan!”

Logan’s head whipped around as Theo waved at him, then looked up to the man beside him as he took off his backpack so that the man could take it from him. “Uncle Jamie, this is Mr. Logan!”

What the fuck?

“Who the hell are you?” Logan asked the brunette, making him frown at the apparent hostility in his voice, but he didn’t dwell on it.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Jamie. I’m picking up the little guy today.”

“No you’re not,” Logan scoffed. “Do we even know who you are?”

“You don’t, but the school does,” Jamie said after a beat. “I appreciate the caution but his mother called Professor Xavier beforehand to let him know, so it’s okay.”

“Uncle Jamie, Mr. Logan helped mommy out with the car when it broke down, and he drove her home the other day, I heard mommy talk about it with auntie Julie!”

Jamie tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “…How helpful of him.”

“And Uncle Jamie is the hero who saved me when I was in mommy’s belly, Mr. Logan!” Theo introduced him, making Logan raise his brows.

“Is that right?”

“I was an intern, Theo was a premature birth.”

 “And you do years long follow up with all your patients or is this one a special case?” Logan asked as a dry smile twitched Jamie’s mouth before he clicked his tongue.

“It is,” he said. “I could ask you the same question though. Do you drive every parent home, or is this one a special case?”

Okay no, he did not like this prick.

However, Theo was right there so he had to mind his language, for his sake.

“You know what Theo, I’m pretty sure I just heard your friends say they were going to the lake,” Logan said, making Theo’s eyes widen. “They were talking about this huge fish. Do you want to go with Uncle Jamie or do you want to stick around a little to see that fish?”  

“Really?!”

“Go ahead,” Logan said. “Uncle Jamie will wait. Won’t you, bub?”

Theo didn’t even wait for Jamie’s answer as he darted for the yard, and Jamie gritted his teeth, shaking his head slightly.

“Unbelievable…” he muttered. “Are you even a teacher here?”

“Sometimes,” Logan said with a shrug of his shoulders and Jamie hummed, then took out his phone and touched the screen before taking it to his ear, waiting for the other line to pick up.

“Hi Jamie!”

It was almost funny, how her soft voice managed to put Logan in a better mood instantly but he tried not to think about it.

“Hi sunshine,” Jamie said, making Logan frown. “Listen, Theo wants to hang out with his friends a little more. Should I wait or…?”

“No no, you go back to the hospital,” she said. “I’ll leave in like an hour or so anyway. It’s a good thing that he’s socializing so um—just, let him.”

“You sure?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Thank you again Jamie, really.”

“No problem honey.”

“You can follow the way back,” Logan said, nodding in the direction of the gates when Jamie hung up and he heaved a sigh.

“I know your type, you know?”

“I doubt it.”

“No no, I do,” Jamie said, motioning at him. “This whole tough guy bullshit isn’t gonna impress her.”

A cocky smirk curled his lips. “What, are you threatened?”

Jamie scoffed a laugh.

“That’s not what this is,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve known you for five minutes and I can already tell she deserves better than you.”

That—

That was true actually. Even Logan knew that; hell, he had been trying to make himself understand that ever since he had met her, but no matter how much he tried, he just couldn’t.

Knowing it wasn’t enough to make him stop thinking about her.

“Guess you and I have one thing in common then,” Logan stated. “But I seem to be making better progress in a month than you have in years, huh?”

Jamie shook his head.

“See you around,” he said before he walked away and Logan took a deep breath, then ran a hand through his hair.

“Asshole…” he muttered and made his way through the yard to keep an eye on Theo in case he got too close to the lake.

                                       *

The strange thing wasn’t that he smelled her the minute she arrived.

It was what her scent did to him.

As soon as the familiar sweetness tickled his nostrils, his head snapped up and he looked around, then got up from the bench he was sitting on, painfully aware of his heartbeat getting faster. He strode through the yard, away from where Theo and his friends were running around and towards the gates, where her scent was stronger.

He couldn’t help but notice she didn’t smell like him.

Jamie.

He had no idea why he was getting so worked up on the existence of that asshole, but somehow that detail alone managed to soothe the hot jealousy running through his veins. He knew Jamie had a point, he had been saying the same thing to himself ever since he met her, yet it didn’t mean…

There she was.

He didn’t know how she managed to look everyone and everything else in shadows where she herself was the only thing illuminated as if she had her own ray of sunlight falling over her. The mere sight of her was enough to make him stare at her as she waved at him, her heart pacing in her chest as soon as her eyes fell on him, the pleasant sound nearly deafening in his ears—

No.

He had to focus.

Logan had seen wild animals in captivity before. How they would be straining at their leash, how they would be slamming against their cage, nearly blind with the desire to be let loose and lately, whenever she was around, she had the same effect on him.

“Hey stranger!” she said with a bright smile as she reached him. “Are you okay? You seem…tense.”

Shit.

“Me?” Logan asked. “Nah. Hi.”

Good string of sentences there.

“Hi,” she said, looking up at him. “Look at that, you’re here.”

Logan pulled his brows together. “I live here.”

“No no, I meant—” her heart skipped a beat, her eyes widening at the misunderstanding. “Right, of course you do. It’s just that, when I dropped Theo off on Monday you weren’t here, not that I noticed—disclaimer, I definitely did notice in case it has escaped your notice—but you know, I figured you were busy, and then Theo said…”

Alright, why did he find this cute?

Since when did he find things cute?

“And he must’ve seen someone’s suit or something because now he wants one, and I told him he can have one for Halloween but guess who didn’t think that through, because now I’ll have to tell Julie, she’s the arts and crafts person to go to in a situation like this. I’m just going to bribe her with cookies which is everyone’s favorite payment method I feel like …”

Don’t kiss her.

Do not kiss her.

A part of him wanted to go check with Charles to make sure he wasn’t fucking with his mind, to make sure she wasn’t a figment of his imagination because this wasn’t normal. Having her within his reach, all he could think about was pulling her closer, kissing her and taking her to his bed upstairs, to taste her until the only thing left in her mind was his name, her body trembling, her soft voice hoarse while she begged for—

“And I’ll stop talking now because you’re giving me that look again, do I have something on my face?”

Fuck.

She was looking up at him with a small frown pinching her brows together so he shook his head and said the first thing he could come up with:

“I tried the cookies.”

…Yeah no, Charles had to be fucking with his mind to make him this tongue tied.

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you like it?” she asked, her heartbeat getting faster like she was nervous to hear the answer and Logan nodded his head.

“It was amazing,” he said, making her let out a breath, a happy light shining in her eyes.

“Really?”

“I’m serious,” Logan said, “The best cookie I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Aw, that’s wonderful!” she said, smiling wide. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who doesn’t like chocolate chip cookies, so when Theo mentioned his friend I figured— do you know where he is by the way?”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“By the lake with his friends,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“Finally in the welcoming tour committee huh?” she joked as she started walking beside him and he chuckled.

“Only for you.”

“Much appreciated,” she said. “I was gonna come earlier actually but there was this thing at work, it was a disaster.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the grill stopped working around the lunch hour,” she said. “They fixed it but waiting for food makes people very grumpy. There was this one customer, he…” she made a face, making him frown.

“What?”

“He was in a very bad mood but thankfully he calmed down when I gave him ice tea on the house.”

Logan shook his head slightly. “You should stop being so nice to people, princess.”

That seemed to make her heart skip a beat, causing a small smile to curl his lips while her hand shot up to her mouth for her to bite at her nail.

“In my defense, that’s not being nice, that’s just being in the service industry,” she mumbled. “Good thing it was fixed fast though.”

Logan hummed.

“So…” he trailed off. “Uncle Jamie then?”

“Oh, you’ve met him?”

“I was around,” Logan lied through his teeth. “When he came here.”

“Yeah, Theo adores him,” she said, nodding her head. “Jamie saved his life when he was an intern—fun fact, some doctors don’t take you seriously when you’re pregnant at 18 and completely clueless, so I knew something was wrong but he was the only one who believed me. He got chewed out by his supervisor but he ended up saving Theo’s life.”

Logan frowned, distracted from the Jamie issue for a moment.

“His father wasn’t there?”

“Nope,” she said with a bitter smile. “He was uh…busy.”

What the fuck?

“Do you know where he is now?” Logan asked, anger shooting through him and she let out a laugh.

 “He’s in the past,” she said. “And he should stay there.”

 He wanted to insist, he really did. The guy sounded like the type of asshole who really needed to get his ass beaten, but before he could ask, she had already changed the subject.

“But yeah, Jamie is amazing,” she said. “He’s very protective, he’s like the brother I never had.”

He bit back the pleased smile threatening to pull at his lips at the second part of that sentence and hummed.

“Yeah?” he said. “Does he know that?”

“Hm?”

“That he’s the brother you never had?”

She blinked up at him in confusion, her brows pinching together before a look of realization downed on her beautiful face, her heartbeat getting faster.

“He does,” she said, nodding her head. “So does his boyfriend.���

…Ah.

He had misunderstood the situation.

That had to be what Jamie meant when he had said “That’s not what this is,” he wasn’t trying to get with her, he was genuinely cautious about strangers such as himself. That whole exchange made sense now, considering the story about him saving Theo’s life; he had met her when she was alone, and had been trying to keep her and Theo safe ever since.

Of course.

“And he’s in a very happy relationship with him,” she added. “Unlike—you know, unlike me who’s not in a relationship at all, totally single. Not that you asked but it’s like…it’s like general trivia about me, and—whoa, today is a hot day isn’t it? Because honestly, it wasn’t this hot when I left the car—”

“Mom!”

“Oh thank God,” she muttered as she turned her head to look at Theo who was running at full speed to them and Logan bit back his grin as Theo reached them and flung himself into her arms.

“I missed you bean!” she said, hugging him tight and kissing the top of his hair. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah!” Theo said, his glasses slipping as he nodded fervently and she pushed them up again with a fond look on her face. The sight sent a warmth through Logan’s chest, a smile he didn’t even notice curling his lips. “We saw a big fish!”

“Really?” she gasped, her whole attention on him, hanging onto every word he said. “How big was it?”

“This big!” Theo spread his arms as wide as he could, making her smile widen.

“Whoa, that sounds big!” she said. “What color was it?”

She was too good at this. Even an outsider could see how excited Theo was to tell her everything, how genuinely happy he was to have her there and how attentive she was with him.

“Gray,” Theo answered. “Mom, maybe it’ll grow up to be a shark!”

Logan tilted his head and she exchanged glances with him as if telling him not to tell Theo it would not in fact grow up to be a shark, and Logan winked at her, making her giggle.

“Maybe,” she said, turning to Theo. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Theo said and she fixed his shirt, then took his backpack from him to swing it over her shoulder.

“Say goodbye to Logan.”

“Goodbye Mr. Logan!”

Logan ruffled his hair. “Have a great weekend bub.”

“I’ll see you around?” she asked and Logan couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful face before reminding himself to pull himself together.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to focus. “Don’t be too nice to people until then.”

Her smile widened and she heaved a sigh, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

“Don’t be too mean to people until then,” she replied and took Theo’s hand, walking away with him. He could hear her asking what else he had seen in the lake and Theo listing every single fish he had seen so he watched them until they were out of his line of sight, then let out a breath.

“Fuck…” he muttered, frowning to himself. “She’s beautiful, got it. Get your shit together.”

5 - Dusk

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

That's How You Know

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1k (lyrics included)

Warnings: fluff

Summary: Spencer finds little ways to tell you how much he loves you.

Square Filled: Club for @acrosstheuniversebingo (deleted bingo)

Author’s Note: this is based on the song "That's How You Know" by Amy Adams from the film "Enchanted"

x

Well, does he leave a little note to tell you You are on his mind? Send you yellow flowers when the sky is gray? Hey

The worst thing about being sick is waking up sick. All you want to do is close your eyes and go back to sleep, but the ache in your face prevents you from focusing on anything but that. You groan and sit up in bed, seeing the other half empty. It’s nine in the morning. Spencer is already at work.

You trudge over to the window and slide open the curtains. Even the weather is doom and gloomy. Gray clouds cover the sky with the promise of a storm coming. It makes everything in the apartment look gray and lifeless. Still, you prefer this to sunshine. You walk to the kitchen where the medicine is, only thinking about numbing your face and going to bed.

You pause when you see the little present that Spencer left for you on the kitchen counter. Bright yellow flowers with a note next to it. Yellow flowers are your favorite. They brighten up every room they’re in. They’re a great way to add a little sunshine to your life.

You walk over to the flowers and smell them even though you can’t really smell anything. Your nose is too clogged up for this, but you enjoy the feel of the petals on your skin.

Baby, 

I’ll be stopping by on my lunch break to check on you. I saw these flowers this morning and thought of you. I love you.

Spencer

It’s just like Spencer always to get the things that remind you of him. You have an entire drawer of shit he’s given you, and this note will go alongside the rest.

Well, does he take you out dancing Just so he can hold you close? Dedicate a song with words Meant just for you? Ooh

You just finished putting on the dress to go out dancing. It’s long and flowy, perfect for swaying to music. This is your first day off in weeks, and you really wanted to go out dancing. Spencer’s idea of a perfect night is to stay in and read, but here he is getting ready to go to the club with you.

“Are you sure you want to go with me? I can call the girls to go out with me instead. I know you hate the club.”

Spencer walks over to you and stands behind you in front of the mirror. He runs his hands down your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

“You like to go dancing so we’re going dancing. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

You can’t help but grin happily. The club is only a twenty-minute drive and there are already a lot of people here. Spencer splits from you to talk to the DJ who nods once he whispers what he wants. The song ends and the one Spencer requested turns on. It’s your song. The song you danced to privately at your wedding.

The song was never written for you, but when Spencer sings it softly in your ear, it makes you feel like he wrote those words just for you. He slides his hands down your body and sways to the music with you, everyone else disappears so it’s only you two on the dancefloor.

Because he'll wear your favorite color Just so he can match your eyes Plan a private picnic By the fire's glow Oh

“Spencer, where are we going? We’ve been walking for ages,” you giggle.

He made you wear a blindfold from the moment you stepped out of the house until now. You’re not sure where you are or what you’re doing, but you know you’ll be safe because you’re with Spencer. He would never do anything to put you in harm’s way. Still, you want to know the surprise.

“We’re almost there. Just a little more.” It feels like you’re walking on a hill. Your legs slightly burn from the uphill walk, but you know whatever he has planned, it’ll be worth it. “Okay, you can take off your blindfold.”

You rip the fabric from your eyes and gasp at the scene in front of you. Spencer loves date nights. He puts in a lot of effort when it’s his turn to take you out. There’s nothing this man won’t do for you, and he can get away with a lot of things with his FBI badge. He won’t ever use that badge for nefarious reasons but it helps when he wants certain parts of the park blocked off.

Sitting on top of the grassy hill is a picnic that overlooks the city. This spot has a perfect view of the sunset, and the sky has such pretty orange and pink colors. It’s like something out of a romance novel.

“Spencer, I love it,” you gasp.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

You twirl atop the hill and smile at your husband. The glow of the sinking sun reflects off his skin, making him look ethereal. You’re wearing a light purple dress and Spencer is dressed in a suit with a light purple jacket.

“You’re very handsome,” you smile.

It’s Spencer’s turn to blush. No matter how many compliments you give him, his face always reddens. It’s cute. He walks closer to you and wraps his arms around your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers and kisses you.

It’s a little chilly outside but being so close to him is enough to warm you up.

He'll find his own way to tell you With the little things he'll do That's how you know That's how you know he's your love That's how you know he loves you That's how you know it's true

It’s another gloomy day but the flowers Spencer got you are in small vases around the room to give it a bit more color. It’s seven in the morning but you woke up to go to the bathroom earlier. Now you’re lying in bed watching Spencer sleep next to you. He looks so peaceful. You reach out and lightly drag your finger down his cheek. His eyes flutter open and he smiles when he sees you.

“Good morning,” he says in his raspy morning voice.

“Good morning.”

He closes his eyes and moves closer to you, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I love you.”

x

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