i desire violently

lola | she/her | twenty-one | literature student | mdni!! | free palestine 🇵🇸

[abbotless]

JACK ABBOT — Talk To Me.

“death blessed me with you, whoa, whoa.”

pairing: jack abbot x morgue technician! reader

cw: inaccurate hospital work probably, shy!fem!reader, mentions of death/blood obviously, yeaner!jack borderline obsessed jack, mentions of his late wife, misunderstanding, reader talks to dead bodies, very isolated reader who’s only friends with trinity cuz i love her…

wordcount: 6.1k

No doctor in the PTMC liked you—not because of what could be considered as your creepy and quiet demeanor. But because they saw you at the worst point of their career, a time when the hours training and exercises failed them and someone else had paid for it with their life. You’d been everywhere, on every floor and in every department; in every room and operating room, you never left alone though.

No one was safe from your clipboard as you collected signatures along with the recently deceased. You worked indiscriminately with doctors of all expertise from chief attendings to brand new med students, everyone made mistakes and you were there for all of them.

The ED was probably your most visited department, it was where death came up right to the doors and knocked. It was rare anything that went up from the ED ever came back down to you. However that didn't stop you from being met by only frowns or wary looks from the doctors when the elevators doors opened. You didn’t care much; couldn’t care much. No matter what your personality was—they’d never greet you with warmness, how could they? Your presence was an announcement that one of their patients wouldn’t be leaving the hospital feeling better. Your footsteps were the final bell tolls to a patient’s last breath. You didn’t expect warmth because you were the reaper’s cold shadow—whenever death went you followed closely behind.

That was doctors though, the nurses liked you well enough. They enjoyed the calm silence you brought after a coding patient. While the doctors tried to grieve and say a few words begging for forgiveness for their egos, you cleaned the body with a quiet respect. You always said thank you if they helped and told them to go take a walk if they couldn’t. You knew not everyone could bear this weight, the weight you carried on your own. Sometimes you felt like Atlas, holding up the entire world. You felt like it was your sole burden to carry, one that weighted on your shoulders—just heavy enough to make you doubt—but your mind wouldn't let you falter and you carried on regardless because in truth, you wouldn't wish this burden on anyone else. Yes, the ED nurses liked you just fine because they saw the tenseness of you shoulders went they closed the curtain on you and a body, especially Dana.

So when you showed up early for the 8am morning rush on July 4th, Dana and Lena welcomed you with open arms.

“Hey kid, how you holding up?” The blonde woman smiled giving you a hug, you shrugged. Same old, same old.

Lena smiled and looked over her glasses; you had never found yourself on the nightshift so you had never worked directly with her but she loved you all the same. “Well if it isn’t Persephone?” She gently asked as the shorter woman gave you a side hug. The ginger often joked you were softhearted Persephone—Queen of the Underworld alongside Hades. Your lips just curled up as you sat in one of the spinning chairs, much nicer than the one stool in the morgue.

“Awe. The prodigal son returns.” Lena called out. You leaned back waiting for the rush, spinning idly.“Too soon?.” Lena she winced and you turned in curiosity as a Dr. Langdon meekly approached the hub. You’d only heard about him through stories and rumors, never having met him since he left for his 10 month rehab journey.

He shook his head to the two women, before noticing you in the chair behind them; your blue scrubs and lab coat sticking out in the sea of dark gray and black. He sent an awkward wave and you just stared back, you began thinking about what Trinity would say. “Is Robby around?” He cleared his throat and asked the taller charge nurse tapping his fingers on the desk.

“Uh, he's in with a trauma. But if you hurry back, you can catch some of the pass-ons. They're in North,” Dana replied; Langdon thanked her as he left to go find the chief attending.

You went back to spinning; you really couldn’t be concerned with Pitt politics regarding anyone but Trin. As you spun you’d been met eye contact with someone new, someone unfamiliar in gray scrubs, a new nurse. She was cute; two dark curly strands with a dual braids. So symmetrical. You thought to yourself. She looked at you nervously, you tapped Lena’s arm and pointed to the new presence.

Lena turned around curiously, “Hi, hon. How can we help you.” The red haired woman smiled happily; she was always so nice.

“I'm looking for the charge nurse,” the girl murmured softly.

“Oh, well, you found two of 'em. I'm Lena. This is Dana.” Lena motioned to Dana who turned matching Lena’s welcoming smile as she put down the papers she was holding. “And this sweetheart is our morgue technician, a floor down.” The girl’s eyes widened at the mention of the morgue. You didn’t mind, you were used to it.

“Emma Nolan. Nice to meet you three. Uh, I'm a new grad RN here to shadow,” she stammered, holding her hand out to you. You liked her, she tried. You hoped she found her footing soon you thought as you shook her hand.

Dana walked over to Emma, “Welcome to the Pitt, Emma Nolan. Here, let me put some of your stuff behind the desk, and I'll give you a quick tour.” She began removing all of the extra stuff the girl carried from her fanny pack and glitter pens, before giving the girl on a tour.

You turned back to Lena, watched as they went. “What a cute little lamb.” Lena said happily; you nodded in agreement.

Whittaker stuck his head out of South 15, calling your name. “I got a DNR in here.”

You sighed and Lena smiled at your already tired face while you stood up from the comfy chair, entering the room as the other doctors filled out. You nodded to Whittaker in thanks and he stammered out a good morning while guiding out the medical students. You’d prep the body for the viewing room so the family could see off their loved ones, one last time before they left with you.

By the time you’d made it back to your second home, a floor under, with the elder’s belongings. You had created a story for Ethan Bostick, based off his wife you’d seen as you collected the body from the viewing room.

“Let’s get started, Mr. Bostick.” You spoken softly. You’d taken time to remove and polish the gold ring he wore to who you decided was his highschool sweetheart, Evelyn. Putting it back on with gentle care. “I wonder just how long you were together before she’d been diagnosed.”

You’d seen her altered mental state and heard that she was going to be placed in a care facility. You thought it was sweet how they such stuck together even as they grew old. You’d guessed they’d had children but decided they lived cross country; maybe California or Washington. The thought of them waking up to the news made you so sad that you erased the concept completely.

This was your deep dark secret: how you coped with the isolation of the quiet morgue, you actually talked… a lot actually and used their personal items to create stories for people you would never meet; whomever came to your table. You forged tales from past scars that marred the skin or fables from tattoos they had permanently inked onto their person.

You longed for these people to feel something you had never felt—wanted—even in death, you wanted to know about them and learn from them. You wanted their lives to teach you about your own. You began telling the man lying on your table of stories of your grandparents love. You rambled but Mr. Bostick didn’t mind.

After you’d finished, you’d set Mr. Bostick into the storage unit for preservation for when his family came. A cold breeze came out as you shut the door; you shivered before sitting at the table by the entrance. You began logging the body and belongings and preparing it for the funeral home and mortician. It wasn’t long before receiving a call from the ICU about a body that was being transported down to you.

That kept you busy until a motorcycle accident happened and the driver passed in the ED. It was bloody, an open skull fracture Dana explained once you came up into the trauma room.

You took your time with the man, explaining how you had wanted to get a motorcycle once you got out of medical debt. You cleaned the blood and the chains he wore, noting every tattoo and you thought of a story behind each one. “Brenda” would be for his mother and the eyes of a hawk on his bicep were because hawks are his favorite bird. Were. Were his favorite bird. You always did that.

You mentally scolded yourself as you did whatever you could do to make the entire scene more digestible for whoever was coming for him. No one should have to see a loved one like that, mutilated and beaten by life. You knew better—maybe knew the best of how life loved to kick you while you were down. You mentally wished him luck on his new beginning in death.

“I should get my license first, I think.” You spoke as you rolled the man into the viewing room near the stairs. If you had the time, you’d like to get as much as this gravel out before his family came to see him.

You finished cleaning up the body of a Felicia Golding; a VAE that processed too far to be saved in the OR. You gently brushed through her hair that was frazzled from an OR haircap and complimented her jade necklace. You rambled about the protective qualities of jade that many cultures believed in.

You clicked the storage door closed, hoping that the metal door would continue protect in the same fashion of her choice of accessory. Before you could sit, the phone’s shrill sound rang through the quiet room; almost laughing at you for thinking you'd get a moment to yourself.

You sighed softly picking it up, “Morgue.” You spoke.

Dana’s voice rang through the receiver. “Heya, Perse. I have a sister in North 15 wanting to speak to you about the funeral process about our biker. Mind coming up for spring?” She joked chewing gum. You nodded saying you’d be up in a few.

As the elevator opened, Santos’ green eyes widened as you stepped out. “Woah. Hope you’re not here for me, reaper.” You rolled your eyes and shook your head as you began walking with her to the annex. Not a lot of doctors liked you. But Santos did, maybe she liked that you listened well or that you both were socially inept in terms of other doctors.

“Where to? I’ll be your guide.” She joked putting down a tablet. Ever since you’d gone out with her as her designated driver and gotten lost for 20 minutes, she’d known you had a terrible sense of direction. Not a lot of people knew that about you. Especially not in the PTMC.

“South 15.” You mumbled as she nodded as she led you around the hub with practiced ease.

“Can’t believe Langdon’s back.” Santos groaned as she glanced into one of the glass trauma rooms at the taller male.

She’d told you about her awful first day as you two went to go get drinks after a particular hard shift where you had to log three of her patients. She was intrigued after seeing you so much, by you and your quietness, and asked you to grab a drink with her; joking it was an apology to her. You didn’t mind. You rarely went to go get drinks—and had never went with a coworker before. You liked her, she gossiped well and acknowledged you with something other than disgust.

“And I’m on both the new attending’s and Garcia’s shit list.” The woman ranted as the two of you arrived at a door labeled 15. She could read your shocked expression at her words. “I’ll tell you later, have to catch up on my charting.” She knew you weren't one for speaking but still wanted to take advantage of the kind heart she knew you had deep down.

“Can we finally karaoke today.” She begged, she’d been begging for a while. You always just shook your head—what would you do at a karaoke bar? Sit there and stare at Santos, along with various other strangers, scream badly into a microphone?

But this time you just shrugged, she smiled at that. “Okay. I’m gonna go ask Whittaker.”

You turned to the door opening it and pulling back the curtain, expecting to see a teary eyed sister to the man in the viewing room. Instead you were met with the wide back decorated with a small wound on his shoulder which was covered in dried blood. The owner was a white male in his 50s backed up with his salt and pepper curls that adorned the top of his head.

His head flicked back over his shoulder at you; his grey eyes meeting yours in confusion as you exposed his injured back to the outside world. His brows raised in surprise, causing his wrinkles to fold deeper in on themselves as he finished removing his shirt. A frown graced his face, bashfully trying to hide his pecs behind his shirt as he turned around. He opened his mouth to say something, but when he realized you weren’t a med student or any of his peers he’d come to recognized—no, your pretty face was much better than any of those things—he just shut it and sat on the bed feigning nonchalance.

You brushed him off and looked around for the woman. He raised an eyebrow as you ignored him; he watched your figure as you searched the room. “Looking for someone?” His voice was a husky rasp, one you hadn’t heard before. It scratched that part of your brain just right and made you want to melt. You willed yourself to respond instead.

“I have a family member of a patient waiting on me.” You murmured softly.

“Room was empty.” He spoke as he began opening a pack of medical tape. You bit your lip in confusion; had you misremembered what room? He glanced at your expression, noticing the piece of lip you tried to push down with your teeth.

You refocused on the man in front of you. “What happened to your shoulder?” You wondered gently as he started to separate some pieces of the tape.

“Was shot at while I was volunteering for a SWAT team.” He tried to shrug off your worry but only winced at the tension on his shoulder.

Whatever answer you were expecting; it wasn’t that. Your mouth gasped open but no sound came out. He just let out a wry chuckle at your face. “I’m fine.” He tried to assure as he squeezed out some antiseptic for his wound.

When your face showed no change, he continued. “I'm a doctor here. Doctor Abbot.” He inserted a long Q tip into the medicine and attempted to reach over his shoulder with his other arm to dab the wound. You didn’t react and turned to check out the window for any signs of the woman who wanted to talk to but saw nothing but chaos. You really hated being up here instead of the quietness of the morgue. The man just raised an eyebrow at your silence and pouted. Whoever you were; you were weird.

When you turned back to the quiet of your room, the man’s bicep flexed the stretch showcasing his freckles and perfectly pale skin. You think you would've drooled a little if you were anywhere else but you weren’t just anywhere; you were at work. You internally sighed at the thought.

You watched him as he attempted to clean his wound again, clicking his tongue as he failed. He looked back at the wound—almost as if to check if it was still there—you just stared, waiting for him to ask for help like normal people did. When the stubborn old man didn’t, you just rolled your eyes as you grabbed a pair of blue nitrile gloves and took the Q tip from his hands. His thick fingers brushed against yours and you noticed a ring on his finger. Lucky wife.

“What’re you doing,” he gruffly pouted as you disappeared from his vision. You were pretty and Abbot liked to stare at pretty things like you while he worked. He waited for a response but didn’t hear anything; instead he just felt the gently cotton rub at his back. He pouted even deeper at your lack of conversation. Not only could he not see the pretty girl; but he couldn't hear her either, he crossed his arms to sulk, “you listening?”

If you were you didn’t show it, as you took the gauze and medical tape and began taping his now-clean wound shut. Jack was confused by you. Who you were. Why you were up here. Your scrubs at least told him you had a medical license. But the department to which the color coordinated to eluded him. Jack cursed trying to think back on administrative meetings.

Your fingers ran against his warm skin and freckles as you made sure there were no air bubbles. You patted his shoulders silently signaling you were done. He gruffly thanked you, “did good,” he praised you, grabbing his shirt from the end of the bed. This was a teaching hospital after all.

“Thanks. Normally my patients aren't breathing.”

"What?"

Abbot's brows raised so high at your words they might've hit his hairline. He turned around to look at the woman tending to his shoulder but he was just met with a pale blue curtain; he guffawed at how fast you'd had disappeared.

He'd checked around the room but only made eye contact with Robby who raised an eye brow at his friend's lack of a shirt. For a second, Abbot questioned if he imagined the entire thing; imagined you in his desperation. He huffed as he brushed off the silly thought—he could never have come up with the beautiful combination that was your features—before he realized that through your lack of words; you hadn't even given him your name.

“Mr. Channing meet the group; you five will be together for a while.” You said before beginning on the history of accidental first meetings and the importance of first impressions.

“I don’t think it matters how good my first impressions are though. Once I tell people of my job they seemed turned off pretty quick.” You finished, pushing the body in; admiring the work you had done to pick out every single piece of gravel embedded in his leg. You sighed to the group before shutting the door to the fridge with a resounding pop for the door to close.

The recent blackout announcement didn't exactly have you panicking; you'd just have to log the bodies on paper. It was honestly calming and didn't tire your eyes as much as a screen.

"Maybe try talking to living ones as much as you do the dead ones." You heard a voice call out; you tensed up before turning around. Usually no one came down here other than transport techs and the occasional pathology med student who'd come for a body.

What you were met with was an attractive Dr. Abbot watching you with grey eyes; the teasing glint turning them green. He leaned in the doorway, his age evident with the crows feet which crinkled at the ends of his eyes. He had changed into his black scrubs as you looked him over he chuckled blushing slightly at your stare. "You are a very hard woman to find."

He pushed off the doorframe stalking towards you in a similar manner to a lion to a gazelle—if you noticed his predatory stare; you didn't respond. If you were being honest, you didn't even know how to response to any attractive older men who came into your space, much less a coworker who looked like he wanted to devour you. He raised an eyebrow at your quietness and tense form as he began again, "Had me going up to pathology and admin." He listed, jokingly complaining. It was true. He’d spent 20 minutes searching for you when he could've been home getting a nap before his shift.

You couldn't help but crack a small smile at that—the idea of him moving up the floors of the elevator when you were just a staircase beneath him. Abbot tilted his head down to admire at the small joy you graced him with. He didn’t think he’s seen anything as radiant since the death of his wife. It was a different radiant than he was used to; like a murmured sunshine that happened when the sun obscured by clouds. He’d clear the entire sky if it meant he could feel your radiance fully. He let out a small teasing laugh. "That's what gets a smile outta you sweetheart? Me suffering?"

You meekly shook your head trying to hide your smiling bashful face as you went back to work but he followed you, like the Earth following the sun, across the room. You sat down trying to straighten out your cluttered desk; you usually never had guest down here, how embarrassing. Abbot chuckled as he leaned his hip against the desk, watching you fumble your files away.

“Can I help you with something, Dr. Abbot?” You murmured softly tilting your head up at him; it was a mistake. The older man just smiled at the sound of your voice as he crossed his arms as he looked down at you. Your eyes flicked to his flexing bicep—it was beyond big, thick even—littered with freckles of varying shades that pushed against his scrub top. When you glanced back at his scruffy face which was marred with the same beautiful pattern, his lips were curled into a wolfish grin as his eyes followed yours. Fuck. You were caught. You looked back down at your papers, a much more boring sight but safer, you needed to finish these.

“Just wanted to thank you for patching up before I bled out.” Abbot murmured down at you, he watched as your hands tried to find something to do. His hands twitched to remove the nervousness from yours; he almost couldn’t believe they were the same hands that touched him so confidently hours ago. His curiosity gnawed at him to know more sides of you, to ask for more of you.

“That’s okay. You already said thank you.”

Abbot frowned at that. You clearly weren’t getting it. He didn’t know why he even tried to beat around the bush with you. “Do you wanna have dinner?” He cleared his throat, as he watched you almost jump at the request.

Your lips pursed in confusion. He almost wished he could take a picture at the cute furrow of your brows and small scrunch of your nose. You glanced at the hand that was snug in the crevice of his crossed arms, his ring peeking back at you. You shook your head at his request. “I have plans after shift,”

He chuckled, placing a hand on the folder you were about to open. You watched as the ring came into your field of vision again, it was just mocking you now. Temptation with a very steep caveat. “Don’t worry. I work tonight. How ‘bout Wednesday night, I’m off.” He tilted his head down, trying to meet your eyes. He was desperately curious about you.

You sighed, finally looking up at him. He perked up once your eyes met his. He liked having your attention on him, you listening to him. “I’m not that kind of girl, Dr. Abbot.” You explained, straightforward and harshly. His eyebrows raised in confusion at your blunt words. He wasn’t expecting that. A straightforward rejection from a timid woman like you. He think he liked you more after that—proved there was more than meets the eye. He wanted to learn about that more.

Sure he’d been on a few dates and slept around since the death of his wife. But he had never been so outwardly rejected especially by someone who held lingering eyes for him. By someone he’d wanted so bad either. “Too old?” He asked with shameful disappointment.

“Too married.” You spat up glaring up at the stubborn old man. No matter how attractive or flirty a man was—you’d never become a home wrecker. For a person as alone as yourself, you’d grip onto your morals that kept you company in the quietness of night and hold tight. You’d begun your report on Mr. Channing, writing with your favorite black ballpoint pen that glided against the page.

Abbot’s eyebrows raised at your comment, and your strong glare. His mouth created a satisfying ‘o’—you scolded yourself for the thought. He squirmed uncomfortably. “I’m not…. I’m…” Now he was the one who was nervous. “She passed away two years ago.” He softly admitted in the quiet of the morgue; he fiddled with his ring.

Your hand froze on the paper mid sentence, processing his words. He could’ve chucked as he watched your brain load, but he didn’t, just waited patiently.

You glanced up at him. He waited. You looked back. He waited. You looked sorry. He broke, letting out a small smile. “‘S alright, sweetheart. You didn’t know. I respect it.”

Your small sigh in relief had him wanting to do it again. “Could make it up to me though.” He teased, you raised an eyebrow at his tone and mischievous expression.

His smirk could’ve been mistaken for young but it was contrasted by his salt and pepper stubble which mainly shown salt in the dim morgue. “Let me treat you to dinner, for my shoulder.” He requested, almost pleading this time.

You bashfully looked down at your hand which had been slowly lost its grip leaving an unsavory line across the receival of body form. You almost groaned at the thought of starting to over. This was insane. Something you’d read in one of your books or something.

“Please.” His voice was closer now, much closer, close enough you could hear the tenor in his voice. You could hear his vocal cords loosen for a lower pitch. It was softer this time too, as soft as the tone he used to praise you earlier.

You pursed your lips together, willing yourself to make the deathly mistake of looking at him again. Fuck. His eyes. His frown. His brows. The entire sculpt was entirely too good to pass up or look away from. But you should’ve because he was crouched to your level, a hand on the desk as he stared at your profile, waiting for your answer. His expression was more puppy dog than an ED doctor and his eyes bore holes into yours. You theorized he’d beat out a five year old if they competed on who could jut out their bottom lip more.

You couldn’t look away and softly scolded. “I hope you don’t normally do this with women, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack. And is that a yes?” Jack corrected before smiling and standing to his full height. He was already satisfied with what he’d knew the answer would be.

“Don’t be late.”

You spoke curtly; holding your hand out for his phone. He handed it to you from his scrub pocket with no qualms. You thought it was ridiculous. Both his lack of a password and the situation at hand as you opened up his phone. He watched with a smugness of a dog who had been rewarded extra treats as you put your name and number in.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

“You have a date with my nightshift attending.” Trinity gaped at you as she shredded her paper charts after she’d spent her time digitizing them. You had long since finished logging your patients, handoffs to your nightshift counterpart and came up to wait for her. You’d been avoiding the salt and pepper curls you’d occasionally seen roam the ED halls as you claimed a stool next to Trinity.

Before you could protest it wasn't a date, another doctor came to sit down at the end desk, Dr. King, you think. You didn’t have to collect her signature her much. She wore her heart on her sleeve as she carried a prominent frown on her face and sighed as she sat. “What's wrong with you, Malfeasance?” Trinity asked as she picked up her dictaphone to begin her charting. You hit her playfully at the nickname and she just rolled her eyes at your softness, you two complimented each other like that.

“I have to do another deposition.” The blonde softly admitted. The both of you winced. While as a morgue attendant you were almost never named in a deposition, you’d worked with some that were and never spoke of the experience fondly.

Trinity straightened her back and groaned at the thought. “Oh, that sucks. You must have really messed up.” You hit her again when you saw the girls face drop further at your friend’s words. Trinity leaned in, “Dude, I'm joking. You gotta lighten up. It's all just bullshit.” She motioned waving her arm around, dictaphone in hand. You nodded along encouragingly. Based on how little you’ve seen of her you could only guess Dr. King was an amazing doctor.

“God, you know what? Fuck all this. Do you want to go get a drink?” Trinity’s voice groaned. She was getting fed up with it. Probably has since she clocked in. You were honestly impressed she made it this far.

Dr. King looked around for who Trinity was talking to. When she made eye contact with you, you just looked at her. She wasn’t talking to you. “Me?” The doctor murmured out questioningly pointing to herself. You nodded.

Trinity glanced at her, “Yes, you. You--you do go out, don't you?”

“Well, I'm usually with Becca.”

“Well, bring her along.” Trinity shrugged before making eye contact with you, a gleam came to her exhausted emerald eyes. “Can she drive?” You sent her a glare—along with karaoke she’d almost been trying to get you blackout drunk but you’d always used the excuse you were the driver.

“No, and she's with her boyfriend.”

“OK. Becca.” You and Trinity’s eyebrows raised at that. Damn. Respect. You both nodded in understanding. “So it's just you, me, and the reaper.” She motioned to you. You waved at the worrisome blonde and she gave you a half-smile and wave. It was better than you normally got and considering her situation; it wasn’t so bad. “Do you like karaoke?” Santos asked, testing out the plans you two had cooked up to your new found friend.

“You guys do karaoke?” Dr. King perked up at your friend’s words, her hopeful eyes lighting up. A small smile at the thought came to her face.

You glanced at Trinity as she thought on her choice of words. She puckered her lips in thought to phrase it in a way that wasn’t ridiculous. To be fair this entire day has been ridiculous. “Well, what I do is more like primal scream therapy. And she’s never been.” The brunette pointed to you explaining, you shrugged. Dr. King looked at you thoughtfully. She understood it wasn’t your scene but thought it was nice you’d go on Santos’ insistence.

“There's nothing like getting wasted and just absolutely wailing to shake off a shit show like today.” Trinity continued, her face fell as she thought back on the day. Having her R2 year threatened to be repeated, the doctor who terrorized her from her first day back, and her casual relationship become more casual than relationship, yeah she needed this.

The blonde girl nodded in agreement a smile lighting up her demeanor. “I could use a fun night.” She fiddled with her hands on the desk.

“You and me both, sister.” Trinity said straight faced as she went back to soaking in her charts. During then, you’d gotten to know Melissa, Mel for short, and about her. You introduced yourself and listened to her ramble about her sister Becca who had come in today.

You’d nodded along as you listened before two wide hands met both of your shoulders. You tensed and glanced up in curiosity and were met by a smug face and greying eyes that glinted with pleasure down at you. Jack. You relaxed and his smile widened as he felt the knots almost dissipate at his touch. “Thought you had plans.” He accused playfully, you pointed to Santos and she raised her hand at the same time.

“I’m plans.”

“Oh.” Jack nodded in an understanding way. “I actually have a patient for you.” He clapped your shoulders, signaling for you to stand. You raised an eyebrow but did so and he smirked at your wordless obedience as you two began walking.

Once you two were out of earshot, he began to tease again. “Didn’t realize I wasn’t the only ED doctor after you,”

“I thought you had a patient.”

“I do. Just tell me who else you’re seeing outside the ER.” Jack gave you a cocky smile.

You rolled your eyes. “We haven’t even had our date yet and you’re already jealous?” You asked, you weren’t oblivious his arm brushing against yours as you two walked down the hall.

Jack just chuckled as he heard your voice chew him out. He wanted to hear it more, more than anything else in this hospital. He’d note in his mind that you remained quiet unless given a reason to speak—a reason like a begging and jealous man. Yeah. Jack could be that. He’d be that in a heartbeat. "It's a date?" He pointed out happily. You tensed at your own words; realizing you had been caught.

“For your information, Trinity is the only person I hang out with that is medically certified. Now your patient?” You huffed up at him. He just frowned when you wanted to focus on work… at work and clicked his tongue as he led you to a central room.

Jack pulled back the curtain to the central room, revealing an elderly man dead in a wheelchair. You raised an eyebrow to him at the unorthodox presentation. “Had two doctors pick him up in the waiting room. They swear that he’s been here since their shift change.”

“So what?”

“So, he died during the day and is a dayshift patient and you need to take him down to the morgue.”

“Jack.”

“Hm?” He smirked at your deadpans expression.

“I love my job.” You started simply, as you began to commit each wrinkle that creased in confusion when you leaned in. You had begun to see through him, had begun to unravel the mystery of Dr. Jack Abbot—it was much easier when they talked and you had more than what was on their person. You noticed the twinkle in his eyes that reveled in your attention. He called you over just to talk and out of some small petty jealousy.

His breathing paused as your chest met his. In this game of chicken, Jack wasn’t so sure he’d win now; wasn’t sure if he wanted to either. “Don’t make me hate it by being an old man’s escort.” You finished bluntly. The older man's frozen expression turned one into snugness as he registered your words and the irony behind them.

“You talking about me?”

You shrugged innocently. “You said it. Not me. Get a transport tech.” you called out as you turned on your heels, to return to your spot by Trinity. Jack just watched you with an impressed awe as you left. His eyes shamelessly ran over your body as you left—he took mental notes of the jewelry you liked and the casual clothes you wore—and the curve of your ass in your jeans.

Did you know you carried a piece of his heart as you turned the corner? He loved it, every time you let out one of your quips today. Every rose had it's thorns and despite your beauty and timid nature it was clear you weren't afraid to draw blood. He wanted to savor each comeback, keep it in jar he could look back at when the dark nights got too dark.

From the three times you’d saw him today, it was like flint and steel rubbing against each other. His steel metal heart, that had long since been ignited, knocked against your equally harsh flint words. It created small shavings that oxidized and sparked a deep-seated fire within him.

author’s note: hiiiii everyone!!!! here is my rendition on the morgue technician + the one to patch up jack! according to my research morgues at hospitals are really only for storage until the funeral home + mortician can get to it!! but the PTMC doesn’t actually have a morgue and uses an offsite one! so a lot of this was fictional and based off research! this reader is actually inspired by ducky from ncis…. hehe anyways… the enforcer!reader is almost done I PROMISE ITS NEXT!!!!!!! okay kia out…. 🤤🤤🤤🤤

[goldiwrites]

crushcrushcrush

pairing: roommate!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!

word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)

authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)

you are responsible for your own media consumption. don’t like? don’t read

song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast

divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics

masterlist

Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone Just the one, two, I was just counting on That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again Let's be more than, more than this

You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked. 

Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Folie a Deux

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter/Bullseye x Reader

Summary: Folie a deux: "the madness of two"

If you were to ask most sane people, a relationship between a hacker with a penchant for breaking the law and an FBI agent shouldn’t work. And yet, you and Benjamin Poindexter just seem to…well, work. You get each other. You love each other. In fact, it doesn’t take much to see that your boyfriend is completely and utterly obsessed with you.

Unfortunately, Wilson Fisk sees this too, and it isn’t long before it becomes clear just how far Dex is willing to go to keep you with him. And, after tragedy strikes, how far he’ll go to get you back.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Murder (I mean, it's Bullseye), Blood, Dex is down so bad guys, Smut!!, Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), Slight knife play, Slight gun play, Reader matches Dex’s freak, Vague mentions of mental illness (it's Dex), Angst, Canon-compliant character death, Please please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: And here we have the longest fic I've ever written! I loved writing these two so much that I'm almost sad to post it because I don't get to work on it anymore. Be warned that this fic is going to follow the events of Daredevil season 3 through Born Again season 2, so there will definitely be spoilers! As always, let me know what you guys think!! Your feeback brings me joy and keeps me writing!!

Word Count: 22k

-

It’s almost painfully cliche, how he meets you.

You slam into him, head banging against his shoulder so hard that it might bruise. So hard that your phone clatters to the ground in a chaotic little cacophony of plastic on pavement.

“Shit!” Your voice is a sharp cry in the crowded street, but no one really turns around for this kind of thing in New York. No one offers much more than a backwards glance and a raised eyebrow. He just wanted a damn coffee, and now his shoulder is aching and he’s about to whip around to snap at you for-

Your palm is pressed against your forehead, and your eyes are squeezed shut. You’re in a sweatshirt and jeans. There are subtle bags under your eyes from what he can only assume is a lack of sleep. Your sneakers are worn. There is almost nothing about you that should be in any way memorable.

One eye peeks open, and his heart…stutters.

“I’m sorry. Shit. You okay?”

His heart stops.

He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.

He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.

“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.

“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.

“Not that I know of.”

A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.

“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”

He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.

The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.

His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.

“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.

He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.

Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”

“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-

But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.

He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.

The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.

He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.

-

“Yikes, what happened to you?”

You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.

“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?

You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”

“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.

“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”

“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”

“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.

“So, speaking of which…”

“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”

“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”

“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”

Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.

Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.

“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”

You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”

“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”

“Hm.”

“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”

You raise an eyebrow again.

“Okay, the east coast.”

Your eyebrow climbs higher.

“America?”

You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.

“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”

“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”

You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.

“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”

Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”

And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”

Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?

“Wilson Fisk?”

“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”

Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”

“Foggy.”

He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”

“I haven’t been caught.”

“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”

“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.

So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.

Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.

Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”

“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”

“You said two.”

You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”

-

Watching you work is…fascinating.

It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.

You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.

The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.

When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.

He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.

Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.

But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.

-

It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.

You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.

So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.

And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.

Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.

Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.

Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.

You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.

“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”

“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”

“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”

“Dex.”

“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”

“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-

You snort. His heart bursts into flames.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-

“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”

-

“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.

“Not really.”

“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”

Actually, yeah. “I have one.”

You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“More than.” You’re excited. Really, truly excited. It’s fucking adorable.

“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”

“Aw, come on. Please?”

Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”

You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”

“Letter.”

“What?”

“Pick a letter.”

Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”

The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.

There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.

“Holy shit.”

Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.

“Can you do it again?”

Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.

You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.

But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.

Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.

-

He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.

He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.

He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.

Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-

“You have ice cream on your nose.”

He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.

“What?”

You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.

“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“

You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-

“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”

Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.

So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.

And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.

You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.

When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.

“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.

“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”

-

When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.

“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.

“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.

“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”

“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”

“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”

“But he knows?”

“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”

Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”

Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.

Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.

You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.

When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.

“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”

“Then why did you get them?”

He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”

You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”

Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”

You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”

He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.

Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.

You get him. And he gets you.

You just…work.

-

The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.

You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.

And then the suspension came.

“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.

“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.

“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.

“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.

You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”

He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”

Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.

“Three things you can feel?”

He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”

“Your shirt, technically.”

He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.

“Three things you can hear.”

“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”

You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”

He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.

“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.

“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”

“I know.”

“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”

“Hell of a compliment.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too.”

You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.

“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.

“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”

“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.

“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”

-

“One more.”

The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.

You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.

“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”

“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”

“We have gone all night.”

It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.

Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?

“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.

“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”

How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?

You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.

One more turns into three more.

-

You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.

Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.

You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.

Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.

“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.

What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-

“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.

His hands tighten on you. Fast.

“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.

“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.

He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”

“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”

“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”

You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.

“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”

“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.

“Say it. Please.”

You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”

He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.

You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.

So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.

“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.

You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.

The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.

Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.

“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.

His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.

“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.

He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”

You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.

He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.

It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.

He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.

You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”

And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.

-

“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”

“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“

“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”

That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”

You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“

“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”

“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“

“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.

“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”

You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”

“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“

“No.”

“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”

“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”

And yet…

No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.

Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.

You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…

Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.

-

He killed Ray tonight.

It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.

“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”

“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.

“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”

Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.

If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.

And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.

The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.

-

You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.

So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.

Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.

“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.

You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.

“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”

He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.

You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.

“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”

You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.

“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.

He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.

When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.

His brow furrows, and he pulls back.

You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.

“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.

But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.

That’s all.

-

The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.

And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.

“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”

You would recognize that voice anywhere.

It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.

It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.

You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.

And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.

You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.

Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”

You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.

You nod.

-

“What are you-“

You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-

Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.

That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.

His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.

He reaches for you, and you step back.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”

“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”

Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”

“Dex.”

“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“

You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.

“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”

Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.

“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”

“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“

“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”

You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.

“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.

You turn, and walk away.

You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.

You keep walking.

-

He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.

He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.

He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.

It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.

But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.

You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.

And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

-

It’s a nice, normal Friday night.

Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.

You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.

Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.

The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…

Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.

You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”

“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.

“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”

“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.

“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.

“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”

His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.

And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.

“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.

“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”

“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”

Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.

“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.

Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.

Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.

A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.

You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-

“Hey, baby.”

A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.

Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.

He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.

“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.

And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.

He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.

The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.

The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.

The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.

And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.

And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.

And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.

You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.

You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.

Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-

Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.

“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”

-

ONE YEAR LATER

There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.

You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.

But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.

So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.

The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.

He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.

They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.

-

“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”

Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.

“No.”

“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”

“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”

“They moved him to gen pop.”

You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.

“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.

“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“

“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”

Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.

But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.

-

“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.

You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.

“You killed Foggy Nelson.”

“Your hair is longer.”

“You killed Foggy.”

“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”

You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.

“Do it again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”

“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”

His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”

“You still love me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”

“Fuck. You.”

His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”

“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”

“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”

“You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”

“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”

He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”

“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”

He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do. I already have.”

“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”

That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”

“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”

“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”

“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”

His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”

And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.

They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.

One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.

The security camera light flickers off.

Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.

You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.

You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.

“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”

For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.

And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.

Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.

The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.

You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.

“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”

“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.

“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”

And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.

There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.

And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.

It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.

It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.

“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”

They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.

-

“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”

Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”

No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.

And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I did it for you.”

“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.

“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.

“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?

Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”

For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.

“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”

And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?

“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”

Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.

“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.

“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”

Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”

He’s right. He did. But-

“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.

Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.

“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.

Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.

“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“

But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.

“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”

The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-

“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”

Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-

You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.

“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.

And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.

Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.

You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.

A bullseye.

-

Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.

You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.

Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.

The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.

Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.

There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.

You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.

“You moved.”

“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”

“I don’t really fall under that definition.”

You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.

“You look tired.”

“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”

“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”

“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.

“You still can.”

You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”

“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.

“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”

“That sounds hard. Really-“

“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”

“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”

You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.

“Was that a fucking knife?”

“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”

“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.

“I would never in a million fucking years-“

“You. Killed. Foggy.”

“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.

“You’re delusional.”

“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.

You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.

In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.

He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.

“I should kill you.”

“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”

“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”

“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”

“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.

You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.

“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”

“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”

“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.

“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”

“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”

“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.

Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.

This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.

You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.

He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.

You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.

You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.

His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.

“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.

He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.

You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.

When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.

“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.

“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.

Kill. Kill.

All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.

Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.

You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.

“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-

“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.

Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.

He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.

And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.

Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.

“Stop it.” You try. You really do.

He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.

“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.

And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.

Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.

You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.

But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-

“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”

“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”

He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”

You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.

He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.

When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.

“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.

“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”

The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.

It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.

“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.

He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.

You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.

He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.

Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.

And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.

He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.

And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.

You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.

He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.

When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.

“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.

You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.

“What?”

“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“

Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.

“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”

He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.

He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.

“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.

You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.

It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.

“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”

“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.

“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”

He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”

Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.

“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”

“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”

You frown. “It-“

“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”

“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.

Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.

You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.

“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.

He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.

“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”

“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”

-

“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”

“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.

“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.

“I didn’t.”

“You just called me ‘the missus’.”

He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”

You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.

But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.

Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.

You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.

“You two ready to order?”

The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.

“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”

His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.

“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.

“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.

He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.

Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?

You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.

Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.

You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.

You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.

You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”

He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.

“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.

“Everybody get on the ground!”

You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.

His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.

“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.

A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.

You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.

“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.

You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.

“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.

Dex turns, and tilts his head.

“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”

He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.

You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.

“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.

“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.

“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”

You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

-

ONE YEAR EARLIER

“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”

Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.

But you’re still there. You. You. You.

He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.

Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”

And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.

And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.

“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.

Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.

Of you.

His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.

“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.

And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.

You. You. You.

You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.

You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.

His fingers curl against the picture.

“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”

He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.

“They talk to her about you.”

His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.

“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”

His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.

Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.

“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”

You. You. You.

Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”

Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-

“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”

You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.

“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”

Back to you.

He signs the contract.

-

One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.

Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…

And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.

You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.

You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.

But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…

One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.

No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.

So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.

- 

He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.

It was easy. Almost too easy.

But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.

He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.

But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.

-

“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”

She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.

Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.

There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.

Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.

You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.

You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.

And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.

-

He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.

He misses you. He wishes you were here.

The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.

“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”

“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.

“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.

Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.

The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.

Judgement day ticks ever-closer.

“Dex!”

His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…

There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”

“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….

“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.

“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.

“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”

“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.

“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”

“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“

The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.

And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.

The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.

“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“

…

-

You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.

Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.

Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.

And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.

“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.

“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.

“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”

Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.

“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.

“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.

“He killed Foggy.”

“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”

-

He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.

He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.

“Hey, baby.”

He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.

He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.

“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages. 

He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”

You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.

“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.

“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.

He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.

“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”

“Balancing the scales.”

“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”

“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.

“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.

“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.

“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.

You pull back, and push it in harder.

“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”

Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.

“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”

“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.

“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”

You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”

He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.

“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”

You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.

He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.

“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.

“Feels better.”

“Liar.”

He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“Let me touch you more.”

You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.

He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.

“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.

“No.”

He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”

“I could cuff your other hand.”

He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.

“Off.”

You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.

“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.

“Doesn’t hurt.”

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.

“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.

“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”

You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.

You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.

One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.

And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.

“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.

You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.

“No. Don’t move.”

“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”

He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.

“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.

“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Both cuffs, and no touching.”

He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”

-

When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.

You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.

“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.

You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.

“Uncuff me.”

“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.

He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”

“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.

“Your shirt is on inside out.”

You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.

“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”

“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.

“Shut up.”

“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.

He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.

But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.

He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.

And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”

Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.

“What do you need me to do?”

-

The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.

Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…

And then lowered out of pure confusion.

A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.

“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”

Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-

“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.

Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.

He goes down.

She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.

And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.

Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.

And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.

The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.

“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.

Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.

The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.

He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.

-

“Holy shit.”

“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.

Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.

“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”

Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”

“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”

Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who broke out of it.”

“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”

You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.

He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.

The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.

You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.

A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.

“What’re you up to?”

Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.

“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”

“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.

“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”

“Never.”

“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.

“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.

“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”

You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.

That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.

And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…

It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.

Home, to him.

You smile back, and meet his eyes.

“Where are we going?”

-

Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.

The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying -  but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.

Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.

Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.

He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.

“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-

He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.

And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.

No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.

He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.

But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.

“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”

The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.

Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.

May as well start now.

[w1nter-fairy]

Lethal love ᥫ᭡

main masterlist

pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

summary: After the mission of returning the infinity stones goes wrong, the power stone leaves you with something you can’t get rid of. You survive the exposure, but now Bucky can only survive you in small doses.

word count: 5.2 k

warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, implied smut, no happy ending (kind of open), graphic depictions of physical stress, mentions of blood and medical trauma, separation/implied breakup, self-destructive behavior. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any mistypo/grammar mistake.

a/n: may I say thank you to the lovely anon who made this request based on Smallville Lara and Clark’s last kiss? Honestly I cried a lot while writing this 🥀 I hope you guys enjoy it and I’m sorry in advance for what you’re about to read.

read in AO3

The quantum tunnel spits you out on Morag in 2014, and the first thing you notice is how quiet it is. Dead quiet. Just wind and ruins and the distant sound of waves.

"We've got forty-five minutes before the window closes," you say, checking th GPS device on your wrist. "The temple's half a klick north."

Steve adjusts his shield. "Stay sharp, we don't know what we're walking into."

Bucky's already scanning the perimeter, rifle raised. "Looks abandoned."

"It is," you confirm. "Quill still unconscious down there. We're early."

The temple is exactly where it should be—a massive structure carved into the cliff face, a fascinating alien architecture. The power stone it's placed in its pedestal, sealed in the orb, pulsing with barely contained energy.

"Okay," Steve says. "Nice and easy. We secure the stone, get back to the platform and—"

The explosion cuts him off.

You're thrown sideways, slamming into one of the temple pillars. Your ears are ringing. Through the smoke, you see them: Sakaraans, maybe a dozen of them, firing indiscriminately. They must have followed you when they saw the quantum tunnel.

"Get the stone!" Steve shouts, shield already deflecting blaster fire.

Bucky's at your side, hauling you up. "You good?"

"Yeah, go—"

Another explosion, closer this time. The temple shudders and you watch in horror as the pedestal cracks, the orb rolls free splitting open on the ston floor.

The power stone tumbles out, raw, uncontained, pulsing with enough enrgy to level a planet.

Everything slows down.

Bucky's moving toward it—he's a super soldier, he might survive the exposure—but you're closer. You're already running. You can hear him screaming your name, but you're faster. Your hands close around the stone, and the universe explodes… at least for you.

Purple lightning crawls up your arms, through your veins, behind your eyes. It's not pain, it's way too big to be pain. It's everything, all at once. Every star being born and dying, every moment that ever was or ever will be, all of it flooding through you at once.

You can hear Bucky screaming but you can't let go. If you let go, the energy discharge will kill everyone. Will crack the planet open.

So you hold on.

Four seconds. Five. Six.

You slam the stone back into what's left of the pedestal and the world snaps back into focus. You're on your knees, your hands are still glowing, purple veins crawling under your skin like lightning scars. Bucky's hands are on your face, he's saying your name over and over, frantic.

"I'm okay," you manage. Your voice sounds wrong, distant. "I'm okay, I'm—"

You pass out in his arms.

You wake up three days later in the med bay. Bruce is there immediately, shining a light in your eyes, checking your vitals. "Welcome back, how do you feel?"

"Like I touched an infinity stone."

"Well, you're not dead, so, that's a good start." He's trying for levity, but you can see the concern in his eyes. "The glowing has mostly faded, you've still got some residual marks, but they should disappear completely in another few days."

You look down at your hands. The purple veins are still there, faint now, like a spiderweb under your skin.

"Where's Bucky?"

"He's been here the whole time, I finally convinced him to go shower about an hour ago." Bruce hesitates. "He was… he didn't handle seeing you like that very well."

You're about to respond, when the door crashes open and Bucky's thre, hair still wet, looking like he's been through hell.

"You're awake." He's across the room in three strides, hands hovering over you like he's afraid to touch. "You're okay, you're—"

"I'm okay," you assure him. "Buck, I'm fine."

He sits on the edge of the bed, and you can see his hands shaking. "You stopped breathing twice. Did Bruce tell you that? Your heart stopped once, I had to watch them—"

"But I'm here now." You catch his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm right here."

He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. "Don't ever do that again."

"No more infinity stones, I promise."

He manages a weak smile before leaning down to kiss you properly. You don't notice the way his hand tightens on yours or the way his breathing picks up.

Twenty minutes later, he's vomiting in the bathroom.

Bruce runs every test he can think of. Bucky insists it's just stress, just the comedown from the mission, but you all know better.

It happens again the next day. You're sitting together in the common room, your head on his shoulder, and after thirty minutes he has to excuse himself. You find him in the hallway, pale and shaking, leaning against the wall.

"This is connected to the stone," you say.

"We don't know that."

"Bucky—"

"We don't know that," he repeats, more firmly. "Could be a hundred things, could be—"

He doesn't get to finish. His knees buckle and you barely catch him.

Bruce's diagnosis is clinical and devastating: you're still emitting radiation from the power stone. Not enough to hurt a normal person, but enough that Bucky's enhanced metabolism reads it as a threat. The serum is trying to fight it, which is tearing him apart from the inside.

"It should fade," Bruce says, but he won't meet your eyes. "In theory."

"How long?" Bucky demands.

"I don't know. The levels are decreasing, but slowly. It could take weeks, maybe months." He pauses. "Maybe longer."

"So what do we do?"

Bruce looks between you both. "You stay apart, minimize exposure until radiation dissipates to safe levels."

The silence is deafining.

"How much exposure is safe?" You ask quietly.

"Based on today's readings?" Bruce checks his tablet. "Five minutes. Maybe ten if he's had time to recover."

Five minutes. You only get five minutes.

After a few weeks, the lab tests proof that you're safe for fifteen minutes.

You measure everything now.

Bucky sets a timer on his phone every time he enters your room. When it goes off, he leaves without arguments or exceptions.

Fifteen minutes isn't enough time for anything meaningful. It's enough for "how was your day" and "I miss you" and one kiss before the alarm sounds and he has to go.

You start writing things down. All the things you want to tell him, but don't have time for. You leave notes in his room, he leaves notes in yours.

Thought about you today when I saw a cat stuck in a tree. It reminded me of that mission in Prague. -B Sam made a joke about your hair, I defended your honor. You're welcome. -You I'm counting down the minutes until tomorrow, always counting. -B

By week four, your time increases to forty five minutes, and it fels like a miracle.

You can have a meal together now… well, most of one. You learn to eat fast, to tlk while chewing, to fit entire conversations into the space between bites.

"Bruce says the decline is steady," Bucky tells you over breakfast. "If it keeps dropping at this rate, we might have a few hours in another month."

"That's good," you say, but you're both thinking the same thing: What if it stops? What if this is as good as it gets?

The timer goes off and Bucky's only eaten half his food.

"I'll finish it tomorrow," he says, kissing your forehead on his way out.

His plate sits on your table for the rest of the day. You can't bring yourself to throw it away.

By the sixth week, you got two hours, and it feels like the cruelest gift.

It's enough time to watch a movie—if you start it the second he walks in and he leaves before the credits roll.

It's enough time to have sex—once, and only if you're efficient about it, and only if you're both okay with him leaving immediately after. You try it once, the alarm goes off while you're still catching your breath. He kisses you and walks out, and you lie there alone in the tangled sheets and cry.

When the eighth week comes, you notice the increase is slowing down. Bruce shows you the charts, the curve is flattening. The rate of decrease is dropping.

"What does that mean?" Bucky asks.

"It means we might be approaching a plateau," Bruce says carefully. "A baseline level that won't decrease further."

"But it's still going down," you argue. "It went up forty seven minutes this week."

"Forty-seven minutes in seven days. Last week it was an hour and twelve minutes. The week before that, ninety minutes." Bruce looks tired. "I'm not saying it's definitely plateaued, but we need to prepare for the possibility."

That night, Bucky comes to your room. You lie together in your narrow bed, fully clothed, his flesh arm wrapped around you.

"We have thirty more minutes," you whisper. "We should talk about something."

"I don't want to talk."

"Then what do you want?"

"This." His voice is rough. "Just this, just you."

You fall asleep like that. Wake up four hours later to Bucky convulsing beside you, blood streaming from his nose and ears.

"You could've died!" You're shouting, pacing, because if you stop moving you'll fall apart. "You could've— do you have any idea what it was like, waking up and seeing you like that?"

Bucky's sitting on the edge of the med bay bed, still pale but recovering. "I fell asleep, it was an accident."

"An accident? You stayed for four hours, Bucky! Four freaking hours! Your timer went off and you turned it off instead of leaving—"

"I didn't—"

"FRIDAY showed me the logs!" Your voice cracks. "You dismissed the alarm six times, six."

The silence stretches between you.

"I wanted more time," he says finly.

"You could've died."

"I wanted more time with you." He looks up, and his eyes are red. "Is that so fucking terrible? That I wanted to fall asleep next to you? That I wanted one night where I didn't have to watch the clock?"

"Yes!" The word tears out of you. "Yes, it's terrible, because you're killing yourself for a few extra hours—"

"Don't you get it? It's not about hours!" He's on his feet now. "It's about us. Us being together… that's the only thing keeping me—"

The nose bleed starts.

You've been here too long. Twenty minutes arguing, and he's already over the limit.

"I'm leaving," you whisper.

"We're not done—"

"I said I'm leaving!" You're crying now, shoving at his chest before walking out.

You sink to the floor of the next room and finish the fight alone, screaming at an empty room.

Bruce calls you both into the lab. You know it before he speaks, he has a terrible poker face.

"The levels have been stbale for two weeks," he says. "No decrease, no increase. I think… I think this is it."

"It could still drop," Bucky argues. "Could just be longer plateau before—"

"It could." Bruce agrees. "But it's been twelve weeks. The radiation signature should've decreased more by now if it was going to." He pulls up a graph. "I think we're looking at a permanent baseline, aproximately three hours of safe exposure per day."

Three hours for the rest of your life. Three fucking hours.

"There has to be something else," you say, but your voice sounds distant. "Another treatment, a way to extract it, something—"

"I've consulted with everyone I can think of. Shuri, Helen Cho, Strange… There's no precedent for this. Infinity stone exposure on this scale…." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm really sorry."

You're aware of Bucky's hand finding yours, holding it tight.

"Three hours," he says. "We can work with three hours."

You don't answer.

That night, you sit in your room and do the math.

Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year. Divided by 24, that's 45.625 days. You get 45 days a year with him… the rest, you spend alone.

If you live by 80—optimistic, given your line of work— and Bucky lives to be 150 because of the serum, you'll get 58 years together: 2,668 days total out of 21,170.

12.6% of your life together. The other 87.4% alone.

You're still staring at the numbers when Bucky walks in.

"Three hours a day is 1,095 hours a year," he says, and his voice is so carefully controlled it hurts to hear. "That's 45 days, we get 45 days a year together. Some couples do long distance and see each other less than that. We could— we could make this work, right?"

He's standing in the doorway, hasn't crossed the threshold yet. Even now, he's trying to preserve your time.

"Buck—"

"I wake up at 5, come here until 8. Then lunch, 12 to 1. Dinner, 6 to 8. That's three hours, we just split it up throughout theday. It's structured but it's— it's something." He's talking faster now, desperate. "We could meal prep on Sundays so we don't waste time cooking. We could— I don't know, we could read books at the same time so we have something to talk about during—"

"Bucky, stop."

"No." He takes one step into the room, just one. "No, I won't stop. I've done the math every possible way and this— this is what we have, so we make it enough, we make it—"

"It's not a life."

The words land like a physical blow. You watch him flinch.

"It's our life." His voice cracks. "It is what he have, and people leave with worse. People— people do long distance, people have—"

"People don't get poisoned by the person they love."

"Don't—" The word comes out sharp, ragged. "Don't make this about—"

"What if it gets worse?" You're on your feet now, and you can see the exact moment the timer his head starts counting. He's been here for two minutes. You have 178 minutes left today. "What if the plateau is temporary? What if three hours become two, and then one—"

"Then we'll deal with it."

"What if it kills you?"

"Then it kills me!"

The shout echoes in the small room. Bucky's chest is heaving, his flesh hand clenched into a fist, and you can already see it— the slight tremor starting in his fingers, the way his pupils are dilating wrong.

Five minutes. He's been here for five minutes.

"Get out," you whisper.

"No."

"Bucky, please—"

"No." He crosses the room in three strides, and you can see what it costs him. There's already a slight drag to his left leg—the serum's propioception breaking down. "You don't get to decide this alone… you grabbed that stone to save the mission, to save Steve, to save the entire goddamn universe. You think I'm gonna let that sacrifice be for nothing? You think I'm gonna just walk away after—"

He stops and sways.

Seven minutes.

"Sit down." You grab his arm— his flesh arm, careful now— and try to guide him to the bed. His skin is already too warm. "Damn it, James, sit down before you—"

"No," he's shaking his head and the movement seems to cost him. "Not yet. I can't—I'm not ready yet."

"You're already past your limit—"

"I know." His voice drops. "God, I know. I can feel it. It's like fire in my blood, did you know that? It burns. Everything burns when I'm near you."

Your breath hitches. "You never told me—"

"Because I don't care." He cups your face with both hands, and the metal one is whirring wrong, plates shifting and clicking out of sync. "I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it burns— the only thing I need is you."

His knees buckle. You catch him, barely, and you're both sinking to the floor. His back hits the edge of the bed and you're kneeling between his legs, holding him up.

"I need one more time," he breathes out. "I need to kiss you one more time without the fucking timer, without counting the seconds in my head, without wondering if this is the one that finally—"

He doesn't finish. Can't finish.

"This is cruel," you whisper as your hands frame his face, and you can feel the fever radiating off his skin. "This is so cruel, letting you stay when you—"

"Then be cruel." His eyes lock on yours, and even unfocused with pain, they're still looking at you with so much love it hurts. "Be cruel, let me have this, let me—"

"It's killing you—"

"You think leaving me won't?" His metal had comes up—jerky and malfunctioning— and catches your wrist. The grip is weak. How could it be? His metal arm is never weak. "You think walking away and leaving without you won't kill me just as dead? At least this way I got to…"

His nose starts bleeding.

It's been ten fucking minutes.

"Please, stop." You sob, reaching for something to stop the blood, but he catches your hand.

"No, please, just—" He's pulling you closer, even though every instinct you have is screaming to push him away, to save him. "Just stay, please. I know we're out of time, I know this is it, I know tomorrow you're gonna leave and never come back, so just— god, please just let me have this."

"How did you—"

"I know you." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "I know that stubborn look in your face… you've already decided. You're planning on disappear and going somewhere I can't find you, because you think that way you'd be saving me. But baby, I'm not gonna survive without you, you understand that?"

He's crying now, and the tears are pink-tinged. There's blood on his tears. That's new.

"I can't lose you again," he chokes out. "I can't be the one left behind again. I can't wake up and find out the person I love the most is gone."

"Then you have to let me go." You're crying too, your forehead pressed against his. "You have to let me be the one that walks away, because I can live knowing you're out there, somewhere, safe and whole and alive. But I can't live watching this kill you. I can't, Bucky, I simply can't."

"One more time," he whispers against your mouth. "Let me have one more time where I'm not counting… where I can just pretend we have forever."

"We don't have forever…"

"I know. And I know I'm past it, I know I'm gonna pay for this, I don't care."

And he kisses you.

It's not gentle nor careful. It's desperate and drowning. His mouth is relentless against yours, like he's trying to memorize the taste, the feeling, the way you feel together. Your hands are on his hair, on his face, feeling the fever burning through him.

The kiss tastes like copper and salt. And somehow you feel it like the one last thing you'll ever have in your life.

His body is shaking violently now. You can feel every tremor, every muscle spasm. His metal arm is now hanging useless at his side, but his flesh hand is still cupped around the back of your neck, still holding you close as his strength fails.

You break the kiss against to breathe and he makes this desperate, broken sound that breaks your heart and chases your mouth. "Not yet, not yet, please—"

"Bucky, you're—"

"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time, gentler. "Just one more time."

Another kiss, this one starts to taste like blood. His hands are sliding down from your neck, he's losing motor control and his eyes are rolling back. You catch him as he slumps forward, his full weight collapsing into you.

"No, no, no…" You're holding him, lowering him down to the floor, cradling his head. "FRIDAY! Get Steve here! Get Bruce! Please someone—"

Bucky slurs something low, barely conscious. You look down at him with tears in your eyes. "Please, please, stay with me—"

But he's out.

You lay down, screaming until your throat hurts for what it feels like forever, even though it only has been two minutes.

You're still holding him when Steve and Sam crash through the door. Bruce arrives a bit later to the med bay. They try to pull him from your arms and you won't let go.

"How long?" Bruce asks quietly, already prepping an IV.

Your voice barely comes out and sounds distant. "Fifteen minutes, maybe more…"

Steve's face go white. "Jesus Christ."

"Get her out of here," Bruce orders and Sam pulls you away gently.

You watch from the doorway as they work in him. Watch as they load him onto a gurney and wheel him past you to medical.

His metal arm is hanging off the side of the gurney, completely loose. Blood is still trickling from his nose. But on his face, even unconscious, there's this ghost of a smile.

Like it was worth it.

You slide down the wall in the empty hallway and sob, praying in silence for him to be okay.

When Steve finds you an hour later, you're still there. Still staring at the same spot where they took him away.

"He's stable," Steve says quietly, sitting down beside you. "He's gonna be okay…"

You don't answer, looking down at your hands.

"Bruce says the exposure set him back weeks, maybe months. He will need time to recover before…" He trails off but you already know what he means.

Before you can see each other again.

"I'm leaving," you say. Your voice is flat, empty. "Tomorrow, somewhere he won't find me…"

"He'll look."

"I know." You finally look at Steve. "That is why I need you to stop him. You need to make him understand that this is— this is the only way I know how to save him."

Steve remains in silence for a long moment. Then: "He's not gonna forgive you for this."

You close your eyes, leaning your head on the wall. "…But at least he'll be alive."

The next morning, you're gone.

You leave a note on his bedside table in medical, anchored down by a small locket with your initials and a picture of you both inside. You took his dog tags in exchange. The paper is covered in your handwriting, and in some places the ink is smudged.

Bucky,

I'm writing this while you're still unconscious, and I'm trying not to look at you, because if I do, I won't be able to leave. So I'm staring at this paper instead, forcing my hand to move and trying to get all of it out before I lose my nerve.

By the time you read this, I'll be gone. And I need you to understand that this isn't me running away from you. This is me running forward the only future where you survive.

I love you. I love you so much it feels like it's burning me from the inside out. I love the way you still sleep on the left side of the bed just because I asked you once to do so because I felt more comfortable sleeping on the right. I love how you pretend you don't like when Sam calls you "Buckaroo" but I can see you trying not to smile. I love that you learned how to braid hair just so you could braid mine on the nights we actually had time together.

I love you for fighting so hard, for pushing your limits for wanting me badly enough to hurt yourself. But that's exactly why I can't stay.

Last night I watched you almost die in my arms just for some extra time with me. I felt your heartbeat falter under my hands, I saw the blood and I saw you smiling unconscious when they were taking you to the medbay. And that's how I know you're never going to stop. You'll never choose yourself over me. You'll push and push until there's nothing left, and I will have to watch you fade.

I can't do that, Buck. I can't let the person I love most in this world destroy himself for stolen moments and rationed hours. I can't live knowing that every kiss might be the one that finally kills you.

So I'm choosing for the both of us. I'm doing the thing you can't do.

I'm leaving. And I need you to let me go.

I know you're probably already planning how to find me. I know Steve is probably going to help you, and if they ever find me Sam is going to yell at me for breaking your heart, and you're going to pull every favor and every resource until you track me down.

Please don't. I'm begging you baby, please don't look for me.

I know it's not fair to ask, I know I don't have the right, but I'm asking anyway because I need you to live. I need you to have a full life without timers and blood and goodbye kisses that might be the last one.

You've spent so much time being a weapon, being used, being told you don't get to choose. So I'm giving you a choice now: you can spend the rest of your life chasing a ghost or you can let me be the one that got away. You can hold on the hurt or you can let it make you strong enough to move forward.

You probably already know which one I'm hoping you'll choose.

Be happy, James Buchanan Barnes. Be reckless and stupid and alive. Get a cat. Let Sam teach you how to use social media, let Steve drag you to those museums you always pretend to hate. Flirt with someone at a coffee shop, have a one night stand, fall in love again.

Live the life I can't give you.

I'm sorry I couldn't be strong enough to stay. I'm sorry for choosing this way. I'm sorry for every fight we won't have and every meal we don't share and every tomorrow we won't get.

But most of all I'm sorry that loving me turned into something that could kill you.

I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.

Always yours, even from far away.

When Bucky wakes up, the first thing he see is the letter. The second thing he sees is that his dog tags are gone. The third thing he realizes is that you are gone too.

He reads the letter and the machine monitoring his heart rate starts screaming.

"No." He's already ripping off the IV from his arm, swaying his legs over the side of the bed. "No, no, no—"

Steve's hands land on his shoulders. "Buck, you need to calm down."

"Where is she?!"

The scream echoes through the medbay. Bucky shoves Steve back hard enough that he hits the wall.

"You need to lie back down," Bruce says, trying to use his calm voice. "Your system is still recovering, you can't—"

Bucky's on his feet now. The room spins but he doesn't care. He's moving toward the door and Steve's blocking it and Bucky can feel it rising in his chest—that cold, dark thing he's spent burying.

"Move."

"You're in no condition—"

"I said move!"

His metal fist goes through the wall next to Steve's head. Sam is there too now, both of them trying to corral him back towards the bed, but Bucky's fighting them… really fighting them. There's blood running down his arm from where he tore the IV out and he can feel his body failing, feel the weakness on his legs, but he doesn't care.

"She's gone!" He's shouting, or maybe sobbing, he can't tell anymore at this point. "She's gone, I have to find her, I have to—"

"Bucky, listen to me—" Steve tries.

"No!" Bucky slams his metal arm into a medical cart and sends it crashing across the room. "You don't understand, she thinks—the letter says—"

He can't get the words out, can't even breathe properly. His chest is too tight and the room is spinning. You're gone.

"We need to sedate him," Bruce intervenes.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Bucky spins toward him and Steve has to physically tackle him. They go down hard, Steve pinning him to the floor and Bucky's still fighting, thrashing, his metal arm whirring as he tries to throw Steve down.

"I'm sorry," Steve is saying and he means it, Bucky hears it in his voice. "I'm sorry, Bucky but you're gonna hurt yourself if we don't stop you."

"I don't care!" Bucky's voice cracks. "I don't care, let me go, let me find her—"

He feels the needle slide into his arm.

"No, please, I have to— she doesn't understand—I need to tell her." His vision is blurring, Steve's face above him, both of them looking wrecked. "Find her, please find her…"

The darkness takes him back.

When he wakes again, it's dark outside.

He's restrained now. Steve's asleep in the chair beside the bed, Sam is gone.

Bucky lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his body aches and his head pounds. Underneath it all, there's this hollow space where you used to be.

The letter is folded on the bedside table. They must've picked it up after… after whatever happened. He doesn't remember all of it, just the rage and the panic, the desperate need to move, to chase you and fix everything.

But he's not panicking now, he's thinking.

What if all of it wasn't permanent? What if there was a cure? Bruce said there was no precedent for infinity stone exposure like this. No treatment, no solution. But Bruce doesn't know everything. Bruce couldn't save Tony.

Bucky's mind was starting to work, clicking through possibilities: Carol Danvers got her powers when she was exposed to the space stone. Wanda's powers were the result of an experiment trial with the mind stone. Peter Quill was exposed to the power stone, along with his team, according to what Steve told him.

There were options. Leads. Possibilities.

And if none of them worked, he would find new ones. He'll search every corner of the universe if he has to. He'll make deals with gods and monsters and anyone else who might have answers.

The restraints are loose enough that he could break them. They're meant to slow him down, not stop him. But he doesn't move. He just lies there, breathing steadily, his mind cataloguing resources and contacts and next steps.

He reaches back for the letter and reads it one more time.

I'm serious, James, don't look for me. This is the only way I know how to save you.

He folds it carefully and picks up the locket you left there, a picture of the both of you staring back at him. He closes his hand around it and presses it against his chest.

"I'm going to solve this out," he murmurs quietly, low enough to prevent Steve from waking up. "And then I'm going to find you, and we're going to have forever. I promise."

taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 @elisexoxo-buckysversion @angelryex @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @buckysdecaflove @jai200700 @squishyfruitloop @broadwaybabe18 @abyy1838 @juniebjonesin + add yourself here

[marvelstoriesepic]

His Name Was Never Just Bucky (I)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Falling for a mysterious man has been exhilarating, until you discover his biggest secret and realize you’ve been loving the most dangerous man in the city. But can you run from a monster in his own home when his eyes and ears are everywhere?

Word Count: 22.8k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni); smut (oral f receiving—but just in the beginning so you could skip it if you want); lots and lots of panic/anxiety/paranoia (reader); moral shock; huge misunderstanding; fear of being trapped; secrecy in a relationship; discovery of hidden identity; unequal power dynamics (implicit); manipulation (perceived); weapons (guns); Bucky might be a little possessive, but we love it; references to violence and criminal activity; Bucky is soft only for you; Bucky is down bad

Author’s Note: Oh my gosh, my first fic of the year, I’m so proud!! Mob Bucky has had me in a chokehold y’all and I’m so happy I finally get to share this. It took me what feels like an eternity. There is a second part to this coming up shortly. I fully planned on packing all of it into a oneshot but it’s gotten way out of hand and I don’t think tumblr would even let me get it out in one go. I also didn’t want to cut anything down because I already spent so much time trying to get everything the way I wanted it, and removing parts would’ve sent me right back into editing hell, so here we are. The second part is already in progress and should be up in a few days once I finish it properly. I hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist | part two

You surely are about to taste your own blood on your tongue any second now if you keep biting your lip so hard. But all you do is tighten your grip on those messy, dark hair your fingers are knotted into, and you can’t fight the reflex to shift your hips away an inch so that the embarrassing sob that is growing in your throat won’t make it out.

Though you should have known that that would make him stop. His mouth pauses against your clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

His hands remain firmly at your thighs, thumbs soothing those slow and drowsy circles against your skin. But his eyes lift to yours, the usual bright blue of them gone dark and concentrated in the dimness of his bedroom. His gaze is fierce enough to make your breath hitch, but melted into its depths is that softness you know is there just for you.

With his gaze still on yours, he begins to kiss a languid path up your stomach, pausing just beneath your ribs and letting his eyes flutter when worshiping your breasts with his skilled tongue. Your mind and soul are soaring up to his high ceilings.

Your teeth are imprinted upon your bottom lip, and you hope you can continue keeping your breathing as even as possible, though you’re not managing all that well.

His hands move slowly across the skin of your hips, pinning you to the mattress. He doesn’t use all his strength but enough for you to feel stuck in his hold.

He crawls further up your body with that deliberate drag that leaves you shivering and panting. He hovers over you and his bare chest brushes your heaving breasts.

His face is now inches from yours, his stubble grazing your cheek, smelling like vanilla and something like cardamom, and you breathe it in automatically. His pupils are blown as they sear into yours.

“Stop that,” he orders, though his voice is a warm whisper. He reaches up, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it out from between your teeth. He soothes the imprint. “Don't you hide those pretty sounds from me.”

“Bucky, the guards,” you breathe out, your voice trembling, still weak from the way he used his tongue on you. Your face burns. The room feels enormous again, full of listening walls. “Your people. They will hear. They will think—”

Something flits across his expression. It seems to be something proud, even possessive. You could say it looks dangerous, but being the person that you are, and considering the sweet albeit intense person that he is, it turns you the hell on and makes you sigh.

“I don't care what they think. I want them to know.” He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot and smelling of you. “I want every man on my payroll to hear the way you sound when I’m the only thing on your mind. I want them to hear who I’m answering to tonight. And every other night from now on.”

With a stunned shake of your head, you stare up at him, a huff of embarrassment trying to bubble up and fall out of your mouth but it fails because his mouth is on yours, kissing you aggressively before he dives back down, not waiting for you to argue. You’re entirely overwhelmed, but damn, not in a bad way at all.

His hands lock you into place, and the way he’s eating you out has you flying straight to heaven with a one-way ticket. He’s being greedy. He’s using his tongue with a blunt, feverish sort of worship that makes your head hit his pillow with a thud.

He’s a businessman, that’s what he told you. But as his mouth works over you with all that bottled-up intensity he carries around all day, you feel the latent power he usually keeps veiled behind a tie. He’s a man who takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to hear you break, and you might actually, because god is he good, so incredibly good, you could definitely get used to it. Maybe you already are, but who’s to blame you for it.

The first real moan tears out of you, and you cringe internally at how loud and breathy it sounds, the way it vibrates in the cavernous room, landing in the farthest corners of the high ceilings.

Bucky grunts against you, and it sounds so purely satisfied, it even seems to rumble within your own body. You gasp, trying to suppress another moan, and he only presses harder, licking and sucking and slurping, and it makes you feel like you’re the only meal on his plate.

His thumbs dent the soft give of your hips to make sure you’re pinned the way he wants you, the way he has the best access to all of you. It’s dizzying, it makes your gut lurch in the best possible way, and you feel like a queen and a ruin all at once. He’s gentle, yeah, but it seems to be the gentle kind you would use on a porcelain heirloom right before testing its breaking point.

Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves. Gripping the sheets or pillows, touching yourself—it all doesn’t feel like enough, so you go back to sliding your fingers into his hair and basically watch them disappear in it. You feel powerful and helpless, and oh god you should really keep those noises down or you won’t be able to look at his people anymore.

He is a mountain of a man, intimidating in ways you don’t understand yet, full of secrets; and yet here he is, kneeling for you and eating you out as if that’s all he’s been waiting for his whole life.

Damn, you’re a lucky girl.

He is drinking you in, his mouth molding to you with a suction that feels like he’s trying to draw your very soul to the surface.

It feels as though each individual bristle of his stubble is caressing your inner thigh, and it's abrasive and burning but also so damn good. It makes the gliding heat of his tongue feel so soft and vivid, and it pulls the tension right out of your bones.

He tracks you through his lashes, and you’re careful not to meet his eyes or that dark gaze of his would surely make you come already. But he doesn’t stop documenting you and the way you react to him. He thrives on it, so very much that it doesn’t seem to embarrass him in the slightest.

Then he dives past your entrance, his tongue finding that soft, sharp intake of your breath. And your spine bows upward out of pure blinding pleasure. The sound that leaves you is startled, too loud for your liking and so you try to clamp your hand over your lips.

He catches your wrist.

He’s not harsh with it, but he brings your hand down to the mattress and pins it there decisively. His fingers lace through yours.

“What’d I say,” he warns, voice low, husky.

You swallow, your eyes are fluttering. “Bucky—”

“Make the noise,” he whispers as he kisses along your inner thigh, eyes on you. “All of it.”

His free hand slowly wanders upward and it almost feels possessive how he ascends your heated skin. You glimpse that little hint of something feral, something prehistoric in the trail of his eyes. You’ve seen it before, and as always, it pulls you under completely. His ferocity isn’t some thrashing kind of wild, honestly, he seems perfectly comfortable with his position, as though he’s already done the math but there’s no clear solution and he just has to keep calculating. Has to keep going.

He lunges back and buries his face in your heat, his tongue flat and broad, applying a rhythmic pressure that whites out your vision and has you moaning without thought. It’s thorough and hungry, his mouth drawing you in eagerly, and it feels like he’s trying to pull the very center of you into his throat.

“Bucky—,” you gasp, your fingers tightly clamping around his, knuckles white.

He growls, and it rattles his entire chest, it vibrates against your sensitive skin. He uses his teeth—just a graze, a tiny, sharp nip that sends a scalding current straight to your core. Your hips jerk reflexively, his hands are pinning you open, and you are forced to take every unsparing lap of his tongue.

He shifts his weight, his nose dragging through your wetness as he focuses his attention on the very top of your nub. He works his tongue in a cadence so constant it sends the pressure straight to the back of your skull until the room dissolves behind your eyelids. It feels almost like a breaking point, but hell, you would throw yourself out of those high windows if he were to stop now.

He’s fast and skilled and you’re made to take it.

“Open up,” he commands against your skin, his voice muffled and wet although you couldn’t possible open up more for him.

There is no more warning before he fills you with two fingers, sliding them deep inside you and stretching you while his thumb maintains that dizzying pressure, and the friction burns a hole through your focus. The two sensations fight for room in your head, effectively demolishing whatever was left of your pride and it makes you let out the highest moan. You’re straining upward, seeking the release he’s dangling just out of reach.

He looks up at you, his face flushed, his breathing ragged against your thigh. A stray, damp shimmer glistens on the curve of his lower lip, and he licks it clean. You watch mesmerized and utterly overdrawn. His gaze is stripped of any pretense, it’s dark and appeased and entirely fixed on the way your face is breaking.

"That's it," he coos, watching your chest heave. "Scream for me, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you do."

He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep inside you before curling back to hook against your clit, and suddenly there is no perspective on anything anymore, and the floors are walls and the walls are floors, and—

And then his phone begins vibrating against the mahogany nightstand. It’s a sharp and intrusive sound and it’s stripping the air of its heat.

Bucky doesn’t seem to care, though. He doesn’t so much as glance over at it. His gaze stays welded to yours, his pupils taking up the beautiful blue. His thumb continues trailing your heat, collecting your slick, and he turns to watch in amazement, as he licks a long stripe up your center, making you choke on your spit.

The vibration of his phone still ringing grates against the wood, loud enough to feel like a physical itch.

Bucky is a man who has built an empire on timing, yet he seems perfectly content to let the world outside the bedroom door spontaneously combust.

The phone dies.

He keeps sucking, you keep moaning.

Then, it begins again, more insistent this time. His phone is pulsing. It seems urgent.

You feel his jaw tighten against you. Feel the shift you’ve come to recognize but never quite know what to do with. The air around him thickens by a single degree. The temperature of him changes, not in heat but in authority. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world is knocking its head against his patience.

“Bucky,” you breathe, the word leaning on the dryness in your throat. Your chest is still heaving, your skin flushed a beautiful pink. You softly pull at his hair to make him look at you, a weak gesture that feels like trying to move a mountain. “You should get that.”

His eyes meet yours. There are galaxies in them and something darker orbiting behind them. He leans in and presses a slow, devastating kiss to the inside of your thigh, all calm and relaxed while the phone continues vibrating angrily.

“It can wait,” he decides, voice an octave lower and threaded with promise as he trails a line of punishingly soft kisses along your skin.

Another buzz, the sound now an impatient thrum that seems to vibrate the very legs of the bed. It feels like a summons, a reminder of the business that pays for the guards and the maids and the high ceilings.

He exhales through his nose and lets out a rumble of annoyance. His thumb strokes a calming line along your hip, as if reassuring you that his irritation belongs elsewhere. He looks like some wild animal being interrupted mid-meal.

“Bucky—,” you start, carefully, your hand sliding to cup his face, feeling the heat of his skin, but he clicks his tongue to interrupt you.

“My girl deserves to get off first,” he hums, not letting his lips off your skin, his stubble a deliberate, intoxicating scrape against your thigh.

And when his tongue drives home, flat and strong against that hyper-sensitized knot of nerves, it doesn’t take long for that jolting pleasure to cloud your vision and bleach the dark corners of his bedroom into a searing, blinding white.

Your spine arches and snaps and leaves you suspended between the silk sheets and the cold air, held down only by his weight.

The embarrassing sob you were trying to hide earlier finally tears free, but it isn’t a sob anymore. It’s a melodic wail that echoes off the shadows-drenched ceiling. It climbs high and rings out with a clarity that makes the idea of guards and business feel like a fever dream from another life.

Your body is trying to crush his fingers in a desperate pulse that feels like a heart beating where it shouldn't.

And Bucky drinks it all in. He keeps his head down, jaw locked against you, refusing to let the moment end. That rough graze of his stubble is brutal but it keeps you somewhat in the room. He is taking the time with the mess he made, leaning into the way you are trembling, his mouth ensuring that every last bit of your control is gone.

By the time your vision starts to clear at the edges, and the room starts to solidify back into reality, you feel hollowed out, as if he’d reached inside and pulled the very soul of you to the surface. You slump into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to even twitch, your lungs burning with the effort of remembering how to breathe.

When you begin to squirm in his hold, Bucky finally pulls back, his expression bluntly victorious. He is breathing hard, his lips stained, his eyes trained on the way your ribs are still hitching with those dying tremors. His hand tightens at your hip.

Then he rises over you in one fast movement, bracing himself above you with his weight carefully balanced. You don’t need any more physical proof that he wants you, considering how hard and ready you can feel him against your leg, with his control barely in check; and it makes your lungs seize up.

Wordlessly, he leans down to pull you into a slow kiss that goes so deep, your thoughts evaporate and your fingers tangle in his hair. He groans against your lips, breathing your name. You feel him twitch against you as he lets his hand slide back between your bodies—when the door rattles with a knock.

Bucky stills with his forehead on yours, eyes still closed, jaw a block of ice. “Boss?” a slightly hesitant voice comes through the door.

His nose presses into the crook of your neck. For a long second, he just breathes you in, a deep, possessive inhalation as if he is trying to pull in all of your scent to survive the coming interruption.

With a low curse that is more a growl than a word, he rolls onto his side and promptly pulls you with him, tucking you into his chest. His body angles slightly toward the door, building an instinctive shield. His arms remain draped over you, his left hand splayed protectively across your back.

“What,” he calls, voice suddenly stripped of warmth. There is a pause on the other side.

“Sorry, boss,” The voice is male. Sounding even more hesitant now. And definitely embarrassed. “But, uh— it’s important. You are needed.”

You want to let out a heavy sigh. But you’ve seen this coming, really.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly and there is something pinched around them. He’s not usually a short-tempered man, at least not with you, but right now he looks ready to snap at the door.

“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, and you believe his voice is only calm for your sake.

Another pause. The poor man outside is probably staring at the door waiting for it to shoot him.

“It’s Sam,” he explains carefully, seemingly afraid to say too much.

You know Sam. Or, you have heard Bucky mention Sam. Sam, the colleague. The one your boyfriend refers to with a mix of irritation and reluctant brotherhood. A pain in the ass, he told you with a half-smile. But loyal. Does good work. One of the few men he trusts to argue with him and live. You had laughed at the way he said it so seriously. He hadn't really laughed with you, but he kissed you stupid afterwards and so you no longer thought of it.

Bucky gives a long exhale.

“Give me five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hurried footsteps retreat down the corridor.

And Bucky doesn’t make a single attempt to leave your side. He just peppers your neck with tiny kisses.

You try to turn to his face. “Bucky, you should go.”

His eyes meet yours, and the stoicism buckles immediately. Back is the softness.

“You come first,” he hums, and his thumb brushes your cheek. There is something apologetic in the gesture, though he hasn’t done anything wrong.

You smile faintly and let a slow pout form on your lips. “I don’t want to hold you back from work.”

“You’re not,” he reassures you softly, leaning down to kiss you with a lack of the urgency he should probably be feeling right now.

But then he’s shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and the loss of his heat is a stinging chill. The chandelier light spills over his naked back, over the breadth of his shoulders. Your eyes glide down the tiny pink scars on his left shoulder with a sinking feeling in your stomach—those scars are another mystery he hasn’t let you into yet. But all you want to do is kiss them and hope to make it better, even if just a little.

You watch the way he runs a hand through his hair, reassembling himself piece by piece. By the time he stands, he has edges. He always seems different when he’s no longer touching you.

He pulls on a pair of dark trousers and doesn’t bother with a shirt. The phone is in his hand now. He checks the screen, jaw grinding briefly before he glances back at you. And the hardness that stepped into his eyes softens again, dissolving the moment they meet your face. It’s almost ridiculous, how quickly it happens. Like watching a knife remember it was once a piece of silver meant for candlelight.

You’re still half-sunk into the bed, hair falling around your shoulders, limbs loose, and sheets wound around your naked body. Around you, it smells of cedar, expensive soap, and Bucky himself, which is somehow warmer than both.

“Stay here,” he says gently. “I’ll handle it.”

Handle it.

The words mean spreadsheets and contracts in your mind. Annoying colleagues. Late- night negotiations.

He walks back to his bed to press a tender kiss to your forehead.

You push yourself up slightly on your elbows, the blanket sliding down your side. And you definitely see the way his gaze drifts for an appreciative and unashamed moment before it returns to your eyes. There is a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it’s the one you always get to see when you’re the only audience.

“Make yourself at home while I’m gone, yeah?” he whispers, nodding toward the massive wardrobe along the far wall, keeping his attention on you. “If you get cold, grab a shirt of mine. Top shelf on the left.”

You smile at him, nodding softly.

His eyes move over you slowly, and there is something warmly adoring in them that makes your chest tighten in a strange, bright way. He reaches out to brush his fingers along your jaw. The touch is thorough, absentmindedly tender, soothing out something only he can see.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he adds, voice rougher now. Reluctant. “Didn’t plan on having to step out. Told Sam he better handle his own ass today. Should’ve known better, though.”

“You’re the boss, Bucky,” you ease lightly. “I assume dramatic interruptions are part of the brand.”

His mouth curves.

“Unfortunately.”

He kisses your forehead once more, lingering long enough to make your lashes flutter.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs sweetly. “Soon as I’m done with this.” His thumb traces your cheek. “I’m coming right back. Gonna give you my full attention.” His eyes darken slightly, voice dipping just enough to send a warm shiver through you. “Cuddle you properly. Maybe take things a little further.”

Your stomach does a small, excited flip. “Maybe?”you tease, leaning into his touch.

He presses his smirk against yours. “Definitely.”

With that, he pulls back and straightens, that sovereign steel slipping back over him piece by piece. It’s almost visible, the way he steps into whatever role the rest of his world knows him for. The man who answers phones about Sam and things that sound suspiciously more complicated than spreadsheets.

At the door, he glances back once more. Same softness, just for you. “Lock it behind me, doll.”

The door opens. His phone lifts to his ear.

His voice changes instantly as he steps into the hallway.

“Get Wilson on the line,” he demands, tone clipped. “Now.” And then the door shuts.

You’re left in the echo of him and his scent in the sheets, his warmth still imprinted on your skin.

You don’t get up immediately to lock the door. He can get just a little too protective sometimes, so you don’t deem it necessary to lock the door when he’s just out taking a call. And you’re sure his guards would be in much worse trouble if they were to enter and see you nakedly spread out in his bed.

So you flop back into the mattress—that certainly was expensive too, due to the way it feels—and stare at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you laugh, incredulously. A quiet little wheeze of disbelief escaping into the big room.

Because really. What on earth.

You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket with you, and glance around the bedroom again like maybe you hallucinated the last two hours. Or the last two months.

The place is obscene.

And not in a tacky-rich, or gold-fountain rich kind of way. This is the quiet kind of wealth. Everything is polished wood and deep colors and furniture that probably has a historical backstory longer than your résumé.

There’s a fireplace bigger than your entire first apartment. A chandelier that looks like it was handcrafted by depressed angels.

And somewhere downstairs, there are actual maids.

Maids.

And guards.

Actual human beings whose job description probably includes phrases like protect the property and stand menacingly near large gates.

Meanwhile, you used to eat instant noodles on a couch that leaned slightly to the left like it had given up on life.

And somehow—how the fuck—you have ended up in the bed of a man who owns more suits than you own pairs of socks. A man who is tall and broad and so absurdly handsome, who steps into those razor-sharp tailored suits as though they were invented solely for him. Who wears that self-confident authority in his voice that makes the people around him straighten without realizing why.

And yet, he was on his knees for you just moments ago.

The thought sends heat creeping up your neck again. But in a giddy way.

You bury your face briefly into the pillow with a muffled groan. Because honestly, how did you pull that.

A man like Bucky should logically be dating a diplomat. Or a CEO. Or some terrifyingly poised woman who drinks champagne for breakfast and owns fifteen languages.

Instead, he found you.

You.

Who once tripped over a grocery store display and apologized to the oranges. And yet he looks at you like you hung the moon with questionable hardware.

You grin into the pillow.

Also—objectively speaking—the man is incredible in bed. Like, it’s crazy.

Biting your lip and staring up at the ceiling, you wonder if the chandelier is as baffled by your luck as you are. It’s like winning the lottery without buying a ticket, and you’re silently pleading with the laws of probability to stay bent in your favor just a little while longer; at least until he realizes you’re a mere mortal and not the goddess he’s treating you as.

It’s weird that a man like him noticed you. Weird that he’s so sharp with the world but so gentle with you. Weird that he lives in this fortress of wealth and power and still tells you to steal his shirts if you’re getting cold.

Your eyes drift toward the wardrobe.

Top shelf on the left, he said.

You imagine one of his massive shirts swallowing you as a whole, and snort softly.

Yeah.

You definitely pulled a mob-boss-looking, suit-wearing, ridiculously attentive gentleman who apparently worships the ground you lie naked on.

Weird. Very weird. But you’re not complaining. You’re just mentally haggling with the universe, offering to never ask for another favor again if it just promises not to reclaim its prize or realize he’s a solid ten and you’re way out of his league.

He told you he runs a company.

You imagine glass walls and long tables and men in suits who nod too quickly while he stands in front of them all in his suit, looking all delicious and hot. You imagine paperwork, meetings, a name etched into metal on an office door. He never corrects you. He only smiles in that small way of his—enigmatic, a little asymmetrical, a little careful, as if the smile is something he built from spare parts and polished until it gleamed.

You’ve been dating for a short time. And considering the mystery he surrounds himself with, you guess it’s going to take a while until you truly get to know him. Until he truly starts telling you how his day has been and what he has been up to—and what taking a call means in his business.

But he kisses as though he’s been starving in a snowstorm. As though warmth is an endangered species and your mouth is the last sanctuary. His hands are large and soothing, and they never wander without purpose. He touches and handles you like the first blossom of a century-plant, something that has spent a hundred years preparing to bloom for a single day. And he looks at you as if you are that miracle. As if you are the only soft thing in a life built of stone.

And so, you tell yourself, you can wait for him to be ready to talk.

You don’t know what he does after midnight. You only know he sometimes steps onto the balcony to take calls. His voice changes there. It drops. He doesn’t smooth over his words and instead lets the corners stay pointy. You just never catch his words. The only thing you can do is admire the way the city lights flicker behind him like they’re afraid of him. Or in awe.

And when he comes back inside, he presses his forehead to yours as if he’s returning from war.

Contemplating, you lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. Then you sit up.

It’s not cold, the room is perfectly climate-controlled in that rich-people way where seasons are merely decorative suggestions outside the window; but you suddenly want one of his shirts.

Not for warmth, but for him, for the smell of him, for the proof that this is all actually happening and you are actually here with him somewhere out there in this huge mansion, waiting to get his mouth back on you. For the possibility that his detergent—whatever luxury forest-scented nonsense it probably is—might trick your brain into thinking he’s still right there.

You glance toward the wardrobe.

It’s enormous, who would have guessed. Cathedral enormous. Dark wood doors that probably cost more than your childhood bedroom set. It suggests that Bucky owns multiple versions of the same devastatingly expensive suit.

You slide out of bed and pad across the carpet, which is so soft it feels apologetic for touching your feet. Putting on your underwear for comfort, you make your way over to his wardrobe. The doors open without making a single sound.

You step inside and it feels like even the air is filtered for perfection. It’s a humbling difference to your own apartment, where the dresser functions less like furniture and more like a high-stakes game of Tetris, with your favorite sweaters perpetually losing the battle against a jammed bottom drawer, and where finding a matching pair of socks requires the luck of a seasoned treasure hunter.

There are rows of shirts, jackets, trousers. Everything spaced just enough apart to breathe. Everything immaculate. A faint scent of sandalwood and something clean and expensive drifts forward to greet you.

You tilt your head up.

The shirt shelf is ambitious.

You stand on your toes but you don’t reach anything. You reach higher, basically for nothing. Your fingers waggle uselessly in the air, far away from touching anything.

You sigh.

Because obviously, the man built like a six-foot-something war monument thinks a shelf near the ceiling is perfectly reasonable.

You walk out of the wardrobe and glance back toward the bed. Then toward the chair near the window.

His jacket is draped there. It looks like it belongs at the head of a mahogany table, brokering peace or declaring war with a single sharp lapel. And in between there’s the shirt he’s tossed aside as soon as you both entered his room, with an untidiness that feels like a glitch in his otherwise perfect Matrix.

It’s the shirt he didn’t bother to put back on when leaving you here. You grin.

Well.

That works too. Perfectly, even.

You wander over, the carpet not letting any sound free. The chair sits near the tall windows, moonlight cascading across the floor in long silver rectangles. It looks graceful somehow. His jacket catches the light along its seams, and you shiver at the thought of how elegant and powerful it makes him look.

You reach for it, intending to lift it aside and claim the bunched shirt.

But the moment you grab the jacket, something feels off. It’s heavy. Not normal-jacket heavy. Weighted. You frown faintly, adjusting your grip. You pick it up fully, wanting to fold it neatly, when something slips out of it.

There’s a short, dense thud against the floor. It makes you freeze.

The object lands on the dark carpet inches from your toe; a short, metallic punctuation mark in the silence. It drinks in the chandelier’s glow and spits it back out with a cold, silver arrogance. It ignites an unmistakable shimmer that makes the air in the room feel ten degrees colder.

Your brain takes a second to translate the shape.

It’s a gun.

You stare at it.

The word sits adamantly on the floor of your mind and turns the room into a crime scene before anything has even happened. It’s a sharp fracture in the timeline—there is the version of you from five seconds ago, and the version of you staring at a hunk of lethal metal.

This thing is real. Very real. Not movie-real. Not plastic-prop-real. More like heavy-metal-object-that-could-alter-the-entire-direction-of-a Tuesday-real.

Your knees grow weak and you crouch down so very slowly. Who knows, maybe sudden movements can already trigger it. You’ve never seen a real gun. You never expected you would, not like this, at least. This feels pretty surreal.

The jacket still hangs half off the chair behind you. The shirt you wanted is crumpled innocently beneath it, but you’re not grabbing it.

Your attention remains on the gun. You don’t touch it.

It’s not like your heart is racing noticeably, but there is a new tightness in your chest and it’s making you feel as though your thoughts all have quietly stood up at once.

Because. Right. Of course.

You know Bucky runs a company.

You know he’s wealthy enough to own a mansion that probably requires a map and a tour guide.

You know he has guards. Actual guards. You knew all that.

But with this gun sitting there on the carpet, it feels like looking through a new lens that snaps the blurry facts you know of this man into a slightly different focus.

If it’s frightening, you’re not sure, but it’s definitely clarifying.

You sit back on your heels for a moment, staring at it. He carried this in his jacket pocket. Casually. Just around. Like a wallet. Or keys.

Your mind tries to rewind through the past weeks. The way he watches exits. The midnight phone calls. The men who seem oddly respectful around him. The commanding note in his voice when he tells someone to do something.

You bite your lip, a hectic internal editor trying to bridge the gap between the little you know about the man and the metal you’ve found. You tell yourself not to panic, because panicking won’t give you any answers. And there’s no need to panic, because he’s just a man with power, a man who’s a boss and bosses tend to have people who don’t like them.

That’s no reason to use a gun on anyone, but it’s probably just a formality. A piece of insurance stored away like a fire extinguisher you hope to never use. Maybe it’s not meant for violence at all, just for peace of mind.

He’s protective. You’ve seen and felt it. Just last week, he was absolutely livid, after one of his guards stepped out of line with one of his maids, who’s this sweet old woman who had been with his family since his father’s time. He was in such a blind tailspin over it, and your soothing touch was the only thing that was able to pull him back to earth.

He would build a wall around everyone he cares about just to keep the wind from blowing too hard. Perhaps this gun is just part of that wall, a safety he keeps close so he never has to feel helpless. It doesn't have to mean he’s dangerous. It just means he’s prepared. It’s a precaution, a tool, a just in case that will likely collect dust until the end of time.

You try to settle the thought, but it feels like trying to pin a map against your chest in a storm; the harder you flatten your palms against the paper, the more wind tunnels through the gaps, ballooning the center and snatching the corners from your grip. If you manage to squash one section still, the air pockets behind the rest, turning the whole thing into a thrashing thing that fights to fold itself back up or fly away entirely. No matter what you do, no matter how much you lean into it, the wind will always be a second faster. The wind will always have the upper hand, hollowing out the space between your hands and the whole truth you are trying to read.

You just have to believe that the man who touches his girl so carefully is the same man who would only ever use that steel to keep the world at bay.

Your gaze lingers on it.

You don’t know much about guns. Your knowledge is mostly assembled from movies, news articles, and the vague understanding that they belong firmly in the category of things you should probably treat with respect. And it definitely belongs to a world you’ve never really stepped into before.

But apparently, Bucky lives there.

You glance toward the door he disappeared through. This is the guy who permitted you to steal his clothes, who pressed a kiss to your forehead with the softest lips. When he looks at you, it’s with that specific focus, that startled sort of wonder that always makes you feel so over-exposed, but also exponentially adored.

Your chest softens despite yourself. Still.

You eye the gun again, and one thing has become very clear in the last thirty seconds. You might be dating a man you know less about than you thought.

And that realization sits in the room with you now, waiting for you to act on it.

But you don’t know how. You simply keep staring. The chandelier light kisses its metal edges until they gleam faintly, indifferent to the fact that your brain is currently eroding into a new shape.

You swallow, and even that sounds strange in the imposing space, like it wandered too far from home.

Leaving this thing on the floor feels wrong.

And if Bucky comes back and sees it there... You don’t know why, but the thought makes your stomach tighten.

So you reach down, only now seeing that your hands are slightly wavering. Your fingers close around the grip, and the first thing you notice is the weight. It’s heavier than it looks, solid in a way that makes your palm immediately aware that this object was designed with very serious intentions.

You lift it slowly. Nothing happens, obviously. The world doesn’t explode. The chandelier doesn’t shatter. The mansion continues breathing its wealthy breath around you.

But holding it still feels like stepping one inch deeper into a room you didn’t know existed.

You turn it slightly, meaning only to orient it so you can slide it neatly back into the inside pocket of his jacket, but you spot an engraving, small letters carved into the dark handle.

JBB

Your brow furrows. You stare at them for a moment, tracing the edges with your eyes.

The metal around the letters looks softened. Not scratched exactly, but worn in the way objects get when they’ve lived in someone’s hand for a long time. Like a favorite pen. Or a well-loved watch.

If guns can look old, this one does. It’s not antique-old, but familiar-old.

You tilt your head. JBB. You try to assemble a name around the letters. The only name you know for the man currently pacing somewhere in this mansion making serious phone calls is Bucky.

Just Bucky.

You don’t know his last name, you realize suddenly, and you don’t like that.

You know his favorite whiskey. You know the exact shape of the scar on his shoulder. You know the way he presses his nose into your hair when he tries to calm himself down.

But his last name leaves a blank space in your mind. You glance down at the gun again.

JBB.

Maybe it belongs to someone else. Someone with a J. Jake? James? John? Jacob?

Maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe it belonged to his father. Maybe it’s one of those rich-man- heirloom objects that get passed down through generations alongside cufflinks and complicated legacies.

You exhale quietly.

That explanation sounds reasonable enough that you decide to borrow it for the moment.

Very carefully, and with explicit intent, you slide the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket. The fabric settles around it like it knows exactly where it’s needed.

You smooth the lapel automatically.

There.

No evidence.

Your fingers linger on the jacket for a second longer than you want.

It still smells like him. Clean soap. Dried tobacco. Something stronger beneath it that you can’t put a name to but always recognize immediately as Bucky.

You step back, and suddenly the room feels different. Not threatening, but it does feel larger still.

Because now your brain is busy counting the things you don’t know.

You don’t know his last name.

You don’t really know what his company does.

You don’t know why men knock on his bedroom door looking nervous.

You don’t know why he carries a gun like it’s just another accessory.

You rub your arms lightly, because now there is a faint prickle of awareness crawling along your thoughts and it is spreading throughout your body.

You’ve been dating for six weeks. Is this long enough to demand answers? To justify interrogations? Gosh, you’re not sure. You’re not sure about a lot of things right now, really. You’ve been floating through the beginning part—the sweet, dizzy, honeymoon fog where the only facts that matter are the ones you feel.

But now there’s a small string of sunlight sliding through the fog. A string of curiosity. You turn back toward the bed where your clothes lie in a small, careless pile.

Maybe you’re overthinking this.

Maybe.

Still.

You pull your shirt over your head, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. Your jeans follow, and then your fingers reach automatically for the necklace resting on the nightstand.

The pearls catch the light when you lift them. Bucky gave it to you two weeks ago.

It’s delicate. Real pearls, because he just can. Everything about him seems to come with an expensive quality attached.

You remember the way he looked when he gave it to you. Almost shy, which was deeply unfair considering how the man is built.

Saw it and thought of you, he’d said. Think about you all the time, he’d added.

Which had melted approximately seventy percent of your internal structure. You fasten the necklace and touch it lightly now.

Gentleman.

Ridiculously good in bed.

Mysterious.

Possibly carrying engraved guns.

You sigh.

You feel a little guilty. Because what you’re about to do is technically snooping. And snooping is not great. Your mother would absolutely deliver a lecture about boundaries if she could see you right now.

You glance around the massive room again. The desk by the window. The bookshelves. The curated neatness of everything.

You bite your lip. You’re not looking for secrets. You’re just looking for context. A clue. A name.

Something that tells you who Bucky is when he isn’t kissing your forehead and telling you to raid his closet.

Your feet move before your conscience can finish filing complaints.

Your steps make no sound as you move across the carpet, wandering deeper into the room and scanning the shelves and surfaces with a caution that can’t suppress your intrigue.

You don’t need all the answers. Just one or two. So you start with the obvious places.

Drawers.

It feels less intrusive somehow; opening something that was clearly meant to be opened. You move slowly, like a guest in a museum after hours, careful fingers, quiet breath, a mild sense that the walls might be watching.

The first drawer slides out with a wooden noise and even that sounds rich. Inside, there are watches. Several of them, lined neatly in velvet compartments. Dark metal, silver, leather straps. You don’t know brands, but you know enough to guess that each one probably costs more than your car.

You close the drawer.

The next one holds cufflinks. Rows of them. Small polished things that look important and serious and entirely uninterested in your investigation.

And it only goes on this way. You open drawer after drawer, and there is nothing strange. Nothing suspicious. Just the belongings of a very wealthy man who liked things neat.

Your shoulders loosen a little. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the gun is just a rich man's security thing. The guards downstairs carry them too, probably. It doesn’t automatically mean anything bad.

You open another drawer.

Paperwork. Boring looking things. A passport tucked neatly inside a leather sleeve. You hesitate for half a second before closing it again.

That one definitely feels like crossing a line.

You step away from the wardrobe and wander toward the nightstand instead.

The wood gleams darkly under the chandelier.

You pull open the top drawer.

More ordinary things. Wallets. Sunglasses. A small tray of rings.

Further back in the drawer, you find a small stack of Polaroids. You fish them out, because you recognize the first picture. It’s a picture of Bucky and you from a few weeks ago. You had found an old Polaroid camera and wanted to try it out, practically levering him into the frame while he grumbled about how he wasn’t photogenic which was total bullshit in your eyes. But he isn’t even looking at the camera in the photo. He is looking at you with a fond little half-smile.

Looking at a few others, you realize they are of you. All of them. One is a shot of your back as you walk toward a sunset, another is a blurred profile of you sleeping on his shoulder.

There is a warmth prickling at the back of your neck and you feel something slacken inside your stomach as you slowly lower the photos back where they were.

Nothing about all of this screams crime lord. Your nerves ease another notch.

You almost laugh at yourself. Your brain likes to get dramatic. Bucky is archiving your relationship, he is sweet and protective and tender and just—

As you are about to pull your hand out, your fingers brush against something cold and metallic near the back of the drawer.

You pause.

It’s partially hidden beneath a folded black cloth. Just the faint glint of a chain catching the light.

Curiosity taps gently on your shoulder.

You slide the cloth aside and notice the silver chain. It’s thin and tangled loosely like it’s been dropped there without much thought.

You hook your finger under it and lift. Something heavier at the end slips free. Two small metal plates fall against each other with a quiet clink.

Dog tags.

You blink.

That’s not strange, exactly. Lots of people keep sentimental things. Maybe Bucky served in the military. That would even make him hotter, to be real. But it does feel a little hurtful that he didn’t share this information with you.

You turn the tags over idly, expecting to see a name you don’t recognize. However, though, you do recognize the name that’s neatly spelled out on the metal plate. And it has the air in your lungs turn to stone, refusing to move a single inch.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your stomach drops in such a harsh way, there is no ending to the fall. Your internal organs are unmoored and everything about you feels dizzy and weightless. It’s like stepping down a staircase that isn’t there. You’re still gripping the metal, but the connection between your brain and your hands has been cut, and now your fingers feel distant and wooden, filled with a needling sensation you know comes right before they start to shake.

And they do shake.

A thin tremor at first, then worse, until the tags begin to chatter against each other. Each sharp nick of the steel feels so biting and loud, broadcasting the exact moment you are losing it.

Your mind flips through memory like rifling a deck of cards too fast.

News headlines.

Conversations overheard in cafés.

Podcasts about organized crime.

New York’s most notorious mob boss.

The man whose name floats through the city like a ghost story told after midnight. James Buchanan Barnes.

JBB.

Heat rushes up the back of your neck while the rest of you goes ice-cold. It feels like standing in two climates at once—your skin clammy, your spine rigid, a cold sweat blooming between your shoulder blades.

Every breath you pull in is labored and metallic, coating your lungs in a film of disbelief that makes your chest ache. You can almost hear the gears of your reality grinding to a convulsive, screeching halt, stripping the teeth right off the life you thought you were living.

Your pulse is a furious SOS tapped out against the underside of your throat; a muddled, thrumming reminder that you are standing in the epicenter of a storm you didn't even know was brewing. You feel thin, translucent, like a sketch of a person that someone could erase with a single, hard look.

Your fingers tighten around the dog tags. No.

No no no.

Your brain scrambles to reject it. Because that’s outrageous.

That man—the one people call dangerous in all kinds of languages, the one whose operations stretch across half the city, the one who apparently runs things so carefully that no one has ever managed to pin a crime on him—

That man is a myth.

A shadow.

A name in newspapers. No photos. No confirmed identity.

Just whispers.

James Buchanan Barnes.

JBB

You stare at the letters again. You recall the way his initials were engraved in the gun.

Your mind scrambles for explanations—wrong tags, coincidence, someone else with the same name—but every attempt at reason breaks apart in your hands.

Bucky. James. Bucky. James.

James Bucky Barnes.

Your eyes drift slowly across the room.

The suits.

The mansion.

The guards.

The midnight phone calls.

The seriousness.

The gun.

Your hands are shaking tremendously. JBB.

James.

Buchanan.

Barnes.

Your mind repeats it over and over again. The math is suddenly very simple.

He kissed your forehead fifteen minutes ago. He told you to steal his shirt if you get cold. He gifted you present after present because he simply could. He spoke your name as if he had ingrained it on his tongue.

He is the most dangerous man in the city.

Something uncomfortably glaring and stinging climbs up the back of your neck, and it’s making you feel watched by a predator you once mistook for a protector.

You’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. Illegal shipments. Rival gangs disappearing overnight. Entire businesses quietly changing ownership after one meeting with Barnes.

And yet there is no evidence. Never evidence. Just the name. James Buchanan Barnes. The general public doesn’t know what he looks like. There are no confirmed photographs. Just rumors.

But you know exactly what he looks like. You know the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired. You know the scars on his body, know his reactions to your lips on them. You know the exact sound he makes when you laugh unexpectedly.

You are standing in the bedroom of the most notorious mob boss in New York. Wearing the pearl necklace he gave you.

Sleeping in his bed.

Dating him.

For fucks sake, he’s been inside you. You came on the most wanted dick in this city.

The walls of his seemingly huge room, so pristine and elegant, now seem to turn from a sanctuary into a beautifully curated cage.

You have been falling for the most dangerous man in the entire city and until two minutes ago, you had absolutely no idea.

Your hand moves to put the dog tags back in their place, but it’s like you’ve switched to autopilot. Your fingers operate with a sense of detachment while your mind is still a mile behind, screaming.

You lower the chain back into the velvet-lined dark with a tremble you can’t shake. You should crush it in your fist, should throw it at the ground and stomp around on it, should spit on it for what this man did—to the world, to you—but all you can do is handle it with a carefulness that is usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.

The metal hits the bottom with a tiny clink. The sound is so small, yet it feels like a heavy iron gate slamming shut between who you were five minutes ago and who you are now.

You slide the drawer shut, the wood-on-wood glide sounding like a long, slow exhale of a secret that’s finally been caught. You do it with agonizing slowness, as if by moving quietly enough, you can trick the universe into rewinding the last sixty seconds, or rather the last months so you could have avoided stumbling into his strong but deceiving arms.

And immediately, your brain begins doing what brains do best when frightened—it rewrites the past with fresh ink.

Everything changes. Everything. You look around the bedroom again. But it’s not the same room anymore. It’s not a beautiful space where you spent evenings laughing and tangled in sheets with a man who handled you like he was scared to hurt you.

Now it’s a room belonging to James Buchanan Barnes. Mob boss. Ruler of the underworld. The man people whisper about like saying his name too loudly might summon him like the devil.

Your stomach is curled into a hard stone, your fingers still numb. And suddenly every memory of the last few weeks starts recoding itself.

You remember the first gift he gave you. Not the pearls. The flowers. Three dozen white lilies delivered to your apartment door a day after your first date.

You’d laughed at the absurdity of it, calling him to tell him that this is too much, way too much, but he had smirked over the phone, so soft and unabashed, only replying that you deserve it, that you deserve way more than that.

At the time it felt romantic. But now your mind shears the memory, leaving the colors bled and the angles wrong. You turn all the memories of him over in the light until the shadows fall differently, until they take on shapes that start to build a picture.

Maybe it wasn’t romance. Maybe it was a strategy. Because that’s what men like him do, right? They buy people. They build golden cages out of small, glittering gestures.

You rub your arms slowly.

Another memory surfaces. The restaurant. The one with the insane skyline view where the waiters treated him like visiting royalty.

You’d joked about it. Do you secretly own this place?

He’d smiled that slow, mysterious smile of his and simply offered you more wine. He had looked so pleased.

Tension coils behind your ribs, but your mind keeps going.

The necklace. The pearls. One month together and he gives you something that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.

You had protested. He’d looked almost offended. He pouted at you. He looked so adorably soft, so hopeful you would take this gift from him, that you thought it to be sweet.

Maybe a little over-the-top.

But that was just Bucky, is what you thought. A little intense. A little larger than life.

However, now the thought hatches, its spindly legs prickling against your focus.

He wasn’t spoiling you, he was buying you. Buying your affection. Buying your trust. Buying your silence.

Heat floods your face. Shame webs across your heart in a dark lace of regret. You feel so embarrassed. It spreads across your whole chest and even stains the air around you.

Because you fell for it. You idiot fell for it.

Hook, line, and embarrassingly enthusiastic sinker.

You believed the soft way he looked at you. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The way he kissed you like he had been wandering the desert and you were the first water he’d seen in years.

You believed the way he listened to you ramble about dumb things like your coworkers, your favorite movies, the stupid podcast you liked.

You believed the way he touched you. Gentle and devoted, and it all seemed so loving.

Your throat is tight, turned into parchment, the soft tissue shrinking and hardening until it feels ready to crack. Because all that might have been a performance. A simple performance to fool you.

Of course, he would know how to act. Of course, he would know how to charm someone. Men like that survive on manipulation.

But you don’t understand why it’s you. Why you of all people? You’re not wealthy. Not powerful. Not connected.

Which somehow makes it all the more humiliating because maybe that’s exactly why. You imagine the possibilities, and each one feels worse than the last.

Maybe he needed someone clean. Someone with no ties to his world. Someone who could unknowingly hold something for him. Transport something. Sign something. Test something.

Maybe you were never a girlfriend, but a tool. A pawn. A convenient, smiling civilian. Someone harmless enough that no one would suspect anything.

Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a sound that hasn’t even formed, but you cannot lock out your mind, and a keener thought pushes through.

What if he didn’t need you for anything practical at all? What if you were just entertainment?

A normal girl to play house with for a few weeks. A soft distraction between grating business meetings and dangerous deals.

Your eyes and cheeks burn at the thought that somewhere behind those soft eyes and tender hands, he might have been laughing at how easily you melted. How quickly you trusted him.

You feel sick. Your stomach heaves in a frantic attempt to purge the very air you breathe. It drags liquid heat up from your gut to your searing cheeks.

Your gaze drifts to the chair by the window. His jacket still hangs there. Inside it, the gun rests quietly.

Your stomach flips again.

Because suddenly it feels impossible that the man who carried that gun tonight was the same man who tucked the blanket around you earlier, who swiped his tongue against your pussy this deliciously and stopped you from hiding your reactions.

It was simply a power play, and god, are you a stupid girl.

You hear his voice in your head again. Stay here. Lock the door.

A shiver runs down your spine. Because now the words sound different. There is none of that protective and caring cadence. All you hear is a command. Containment. Showing you he is the one with the power, he is the one dealing the cards.

Oh, god. What have you gotten yourself into. This is definitely the worst thing yet.

You know you have to get the hell out of here. High-tail it. Let your panic lend wings to your feet to carry you the fuck out of the devil’s quarters.

You absolutely cannot still be in this room when he comes back. Pretending you didn’t notice the gun was one thing. Pretending you didn’t discover who he actually is, is another thing entirely.

The lie would be too large. It would sit between you like a loaded weapon much deeper and more fatal than that damned gun.

Your pulse is a vibrating scream inside your throat, your chest, your whole body, because what happens when he sees that you know?

What does a man like James Buchanan Barnes do with loose ends?

Fear and dread pin your lungs against your ribs and make the hairs on your arms stand up.

You don’t want to find out. You grab your phone from the nightstand with shaking hands. Inside your mind, your thoughts are colliding and yelling at one another, memories reshaping themselves into something darker.

He was so worshipful. So attentive. So careful with you.

And it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

He really is the best actor you’ve ever met.

You glance once more around the room. The bed. The wardrobe. The luxury of everything.

Then you head for the door. Because whatever this was, whatever he was, you need to be gone before James Buchanan Barnes comes back.

There is that low, now seemingly threatening rattle vibrating through the wood of the door. Somewhere down the long dark of the hallway, a mess of voices spills out—too muffled to catch the words, just a low drone. Then there’s the sound of footsteps on the marble, over and over, like a pendulum, until it gets softened by the rugs.

It’s eerie how this place just functions. No clanking, no friction. Just the invisible, midnight grinding of a house that knows exactly how to keep itself running while everyone else is dead to the world.

Bucky's house.

No—your mind corrects strictly.

James Buchanan Barnes’s house.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and turn the handle.

The door gives a tiny, smug click, and you step out slowly, looking around to see nobody.

Ahead, the hallway just stretches out forever, all that dark, expensive wood shimmering under these wall lamps that just stare at you, glowing like something waiting for its turn to speak.

It’s wide enough that you expect a massive echo, but the carpet is so thick it just eats your footsteps. It’s unsettling. The whole place feels like it’s sucked in its gut, just holding its breath, waiting to see if you’ll decide to jump through the floor-to-ceiling windows to your right in your desperation to leave this place.

The door closes behind you, and even though it doesn’t really make a sound, you flinch so hard, your little jump through the window plan might be accidental.

Your heart begins to pound harder now that you’ve left the safety—no, the illusion—of the bedroom.

Because this house feels much larger and colder out here. Maybe you should have taken the gun with you. But you don’t know how to use such a thing, because you’re a normal person, and normal people don’t carry those things around like an innocent handbag.

You take a few unsure steps and it feels like you’ve stepped backstage at a theater and suddenly realized the play you were enjoying might actually be a crime scene.

You know the way to the front door.

He walked you through the mansion when you first visited, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through endless rooms and hallways with an easy familiarity that felt charming at the time.

But you know better and realize he was just showing you the cage. But at least you were paying attention. Every turn, every hallway he bragged about is burned into your head. That charming tour just became the only map out of here.

Two hallways down. Past the staircase. Through the long gallery with the ample paintings.

Then the front entrance.

Simple.

Except for the fact that his mansion is apparently populated by a small army.

Maids. Guards. Staff who move through the house like quiet satellites orbiting the gravity of one man.

These were all signs you simply overlooked because he’s handsome. You bite the inside of your cheek out of frustration with yourself. How can one person be so fucking blind.

You start walking.

Your footsteps are soft, but your heartbeat is anything but.

A maid appears at the far end of the corridor just as you round the corner, and everything inside you locks up.

She pauses when she sees you, instantly throwing you a smile that genuinely looks pleasant. She recognizes you. You don’t recognize her. Your stomach turns and turns until it is knotted too tight to even be able to move.

“Miss,” she starts politely. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

You force a smile that you hope doesn’t look like it’s made entirely of nerves and the urge to run down this hall, disappearing out of sight.

“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light, a little apologetic. “Sorry— I just... I think I need some fresh air. I have a bit of a headache.”

The lie comes out smoother than you expected. Maybe panic is a good acting coach.

The maid’s expression softens immediately. She even looks a little too concerned for you for whatever reason.

“Of course,” she says sweetly, and you actually feel bad for lying to her. Does she know who she’s working for? Does she know who you are supposed to be for the man who is her boss? Maybe you could ask her. Maybe she would shoot you for it, who knows. Maybe everyone in this godforsaken building owns a gun, ready to use it. “Would you like me to call the boss—”

“No,” you interrupt quickly, then soften the urgency with a small laugh. “No, it’s fine. He’s busy with work, right? I don’t want to bother him.”

You hate how natural the sentence sounds. How easily you can say work when you now know that word hides a thousand darker things.

The maid nods, but she does seem a little hesitant. “Of course.” Thankfully, she leaves it at that.

With the wish for you to feel better soon, and an awkward thank you from your side, you continue walking.

One corridor.

Then another.

Your mind keeps racing ahead of your body, building plans like emergency scaffolding.

It all suddenly looks so terrifyingly menacing. Especially in the dark. It feels so much like a trap. The lights are down and the shadows feel like they’re actually reaching for you. There’s this dreadful, suffocating weight pressing out from the walls, like the house itself is holding a grudge. Your skin is crawling, and the air feels too thick to actually get into your lungs. It’s stale, as though it’s been sitting in a basement for a hundred years, and now the building has finally stopped pretending to be a home and turned into a giant cave with only dead ends so you will never have a way out and will end up as a rotting corpse in some forgotten corner.

The dark walls feel like they are crowding your shoulders. Those deep red carpets are laid out just a little too perfectly, too insistent on keeping you in the center of the floor. Walking down those corridors feels like being threaded through a needle.

And it’s not that the place is ever actually quiet, it’s just that every sound here is on a leash. There is the clink of glass coming from somewhere deep in the gut of the mansion. The dry, dusty thud of footsteps on rugs that are probably more worth than your life in the eyes of the mob boss. Voices that stay low and thick, never quite hitting the walls. It’s too disciplined. It’s a silence that’s been trained to keep its mouth shut.

He probably won’t notice you slinking out of his home. However, what he will definitely notice, is that you will never see him again, or answer his texts or calls. So that will be a problem.

The man owns a gun, and whatever else he can kill people with. So you can’t go home, is what you think as you descend the wide staircase. When you get out of here, you can’t flee to your apartment.

Because he knows where you live. He picked you up there. Dropped you off there. Walked you to your door like the perfect gentleman.

You almost laugh at the bitter irony.

The most dangerous man in the city knows your address. He played the perfect gentleman just to find out where and how you live.

Which means going home would be like walking back into a trap you’ve just barely escaped.

But you know just who is badass enough to help you out of this situation. Natasha.

Natasha lives across town. Natasha answers calls at ungodly hours. Natasha once helped you move apartments at two in the morning with nothing but her wry commentary and a borrowed truck.

You could stay with her. For a few days, weeks, maybe even longer. You know she won’t mind. She’s just that kind of friend.

You could figure things out from there.

Your hand tightens slightly around your phone as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

You’ll text her once you’re outside.

Not before.

Because paranoia is part of your bloodstream now, and who knows who might glance at your screen, who might casually mention later that they saw you messaging someone.

So you keep walking until the entrance hall opens before you like the lobby of a five-star hotel. It’s extensive, with vast floors and tall ceilings and capacious doors at the far end like the exit to another world, a world you want so desperately to be a part of again.

You wipe your clammy hands on your thighs and try to mentally prepare yourself for this last step.

You cross the obsidian floor toward the doors with what you hope resembles casual determination.

Not too fast. Fast looks guilty. Not too slow. Slow looks hesitant.

You aim for something in between—the walk of a woman with a mild headache and absolutely no catastrophic revelations fluttering around inside her skull.

God, everything about the place seems so much darker now. The darkness even slinks upward into the walls, which are paneled in matte-finished ebony that drinks the light before it can reach the corners. There is no glow, not the one you imagined when you first walked in here, hand in hand with a man you thought you could fall so deeply for and would be safe with. But everything now feels iterative and cold and to feel safe means to leave and never return.

The guards notice you immediately.

Two of them stand beside the colossal front doors, tall shapes in dark suits, shoulders squared in that particular way men stand when their job description includes the possibility of violence. They’ve always been polite to you before. Quietly respectful. The way staff are supposed to be with someone important to the man who owns the house. You only now know the direction this importance takes.

They both straighten slightly when you approach.

“Ma’am,” the left one says with a deep voice that gives nothing away.

You offer another careful smile, layering it with just enough exhaustion to make your earlier excuse believable.

“I’m heading out,” you say, keeping your tone breezy, like this is the most normal thing in the world to do in the middle of the night after spending hours in their boss’s bed. “I have a headache, and don’t want to interrupt Bucky while he’s working.”

Your voice nearly stumbles over the name.

Bucky.

The harmless version.

The one that belongs to the man who kissed you like you mattered. Not the one attached to James Buchanan Barnes.

The guard on the left side of the door glances at the other one. It’s subtle, but you see it. A quick trade of communication.

Then he looks back at you.

“Boss aware you’re leaving, ma’am?”

The way he uses the word boss makes bile rise up your throat. You are actually getting a headache.

You force yourself to keep smiling.

“Oh, he’s busy,” you say lightly, waving a hand as if this entire situation is mildly inconvenient but otherwise harmless. “I would feel bad for bothering him while he’s working. And I could use some fresh air and a little rest. So I thought I would just head home.”

Neither guard moves. The doors remain closed.

You swallow tightly, and it feels like there’s a stone coming down your throat along with it, which makes your limbs feel heavier.

“I will call him,” the second guard offers, already reaching toward the small device clipped at his belt.

“No,” you blurt too quickly.

Both men look at you again, and your pulse tumbles when you feel a subtle shift sliding into place, into the invisible perimeter around this house, the machinery of control that keeps things exactly where James Buchanan Barnes wants them.

Your throat feels dry. Your voice tries to find a hiding place inside the hallway of your throat. You pull yourself together as best you can. “That’s really not necessary,” you add, softer this time, trying to patch over the crack you just made in your own story. “It’s just a headache. I don’t want him to be distracted by that. You can just let him know I left once he is done.”

The first guard studies you more closely now. He doesn’t seem suspicious exactly, but he does seem cautious.

And suddenly the hallway behind you feels very long. Too long. Because if they call him, and he walks in here while you’re standing at the door trying to escape his mansion—

Your thoughts spiral into vile possibilities faster than you can control them.

What does a mob boss do to a girl like you when he realizes she has discovered his identity? Certainly no good things.

Your heart pounds so loudly, it’s a single roar all around your skull. You feel hot, so hot, you could burst into flames.

The second guard lifts the radio slightly, eyes on you. “Sir—”

“Baby?”

The voice comes from behind you and it sounds so soft. Confused.

Your insides startle into a panic so bright, you turn blind for a second.

Your entire body freezes up.

Baby.

A freezing shiver breaks loose at the base of your skull and slides all the way down to your heels.

Baby.

The word traces the line of your back, making every hair stand up.

Baby.

You know you have to react in other ways than fear to your so-called boyfriend, so you turn around slowly, trying to unpin your strained expression.

He’s standing halfway across the hall.

Except, now he looks like a stranger.

While he was gone and taking that business phone call, he had changed into one of his perfectly tailored suits. The charcoal wool is stiff and sits snugly, and it would have ignited a heated flutter in your lower belly just an hour earlier, but now it just makes him look malevolent. He looks terrifying in his elegance. So symmetrical, your lungs are wheezing out of sheer fright.

The sweat on your skin, once warm from him, has now turned into a layer of ice. You look at him and think that no, this man doesn’t love you. All you have been to him is a soft room he stepped into to wash off the smell of whatever he does in that suit.

The business he talked about isn’t spreadsheets and meetings. It’s the way the two guards behind you have gone absolutely still, like dogs waiting for a whistle.

He looks dangerous. You have never associated Bucky with direct danger, only with protecting you from danger. But this is not a boyfriend’s posture, it’s a king’s. Even that softly confused frown he is giving you doesn’t make him seem less threatening. It’s just the look of a man who owns everything he sees and knows what to do with it.

Bucky.

Except now your brain whispers the other name.

James.

Every inch of that expensive tailoring screams that he could have you erased before his morning coffee, and he wouldn’t even get a crease in his trousers.

While you were falling in love, he was just managing a distraction.

Your heart is breaking all over again.

“What are you doing down here?” His voice sounds the same as always, and yet it doesn’t.

The guards immediately straighten although he is talking to you, though you wish he wouldn’t.

“Sir,” one of them starts, but Bucky lifts a hand slightly without even looking at them, silencing whatever explanation they were about to offer.

His eyes are on you. Only you. Concern tightens his face almost immediately.

There is a cold needle threading through your nerves. You feel like a deer that has been eating out of a hunter’s hand, only just now noticing the rifle leaning against the tree.

“I—” Your voice nearly betrays you, cracking halfway through the first syllable. Act. You have to act. You drag in a breath and force your shoulders to loosen, shoving your face into something resembling mild embarrassment rather than existential terror. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you lie, carefully smoothing your tone. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. It seemed pretty important.” You look toward the door, turning your body slightly with it in a gesture of longing. “So I planned on just heading home.”

His brows only pull further together, his expression turning deeper, and it doesn’t make this better at all. “You’re the only important thing, sweetheart. You know that.” His voice is low, but how does he manage to make it sound this gentle? Even soft.

Oh god, he’s coming closer. Of course, he’s coming closer, he’s your boyfriend, pretending to be your boyfriend, pretending to be worried, because his girl allegedly has a headache and wants to leave when he promised earlier to continue pleasing her in bed and asked her to stay and lock the door behind him because he doesn’t expect her to leave in the middle of the night.

But that doesn’t make it any easier for you to handle, doesn’t make your body react less in the horrifying way that this scary man is moving toward you, and he doesn’t know you know what kind of scary he is.

You feel your body fight against itself. You want to swirl around, run, bolt, fly through the door outside into the night, never to be seen again. Or at least not by him and his people. But you can’t. You have to stay, you have to remain planted to the floor. Even taking one step back would be a fatal mistake.

And suddenly he’s right there with all his tallness and built, and he still looks warm, but so much more intimidating.

You feel your insides shrink into themselves, your heart slipping into a corner somewhere deep.

The sheer scale of him in that suit makes your stomach drop. He is not a man, he is an entire system of brutality hidden behind a charming smile and gold cufflinks.

You shiver at the fact that your boyfriend could end a life with a nod of his head, and then come home and press his face into your neck as if his hands were clean.

“You’re not feeling well?” His voice drops into a frequency that is meant to be gentle and soothing, but for you, it just sounds like the rumble of an engine. The furrow in his brow grows shadows on his forehead. His eyes shift between yours so fast and piercing, with such a concentrated focus, scanning for the source of your pain as if he could kill it for you.

His hand comes up instinctively, the same way it always does when he’s worried about you, or when he’s not. It’s just normal for him to touch you. But watching his hand move toward you this time makes your back stiffen and a ring of alarm sounds out in your skull, shrill and poignant.

His fingers brush your cheek.

Your skin crawls of its own accord, and you flinch. You force your reaction to be small, but you can’t suppress it entirely. Your brain blanks, and your heart strikes high.

His hand stills, and so does your heart as it feels like.

Bucky notices everything. You guess it comes in handy with being the most wanted crime boss in the city.

His eyes sharpen slightly, and his concern turns more piercing. He looks at his hand still hovering awkwardly, then at you. His eyes are distraught, hinting at something deeper that just broke in two. And he looks so deeply puzzled.

“Hey,” he lets out, and it sounds a little raspy. You scramble.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quickly, forcing a small laugh that sounds thin even to your own ears. “I’m just a little dizzy, I think.”

He studies you for a long moment.

The guards are silent now and you feel them watching from behind your back.

The house feels too quiet, too attentive, too alert.

James’ hand lowers slowly, though his gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“You’re pale,” he acknowledges, his voice grainy. He sounds like he is holding his breath.

You shrug weakly. “Yeah, well. Not my best look.”

He’s not smiling, and you start sweating. How did you never notice just how scary this man looks.

He’s thinking. You can see it. Pieces moving behind that stormy gaze. Your heart hammers harder.

Please don’t see it.

Please don’t see that you know.

He exhales slowly, then reaches for your hand, and he doesn’t do it possessively, nor roughly, just tenderly closing his fingers around yours.

“Come with me,” he says quietly, and it could sound like a plea if he weren’t the man that he is.

Your skin is a furnace. You might explode. You force a shaky breath, praying he doesn’t hear the way your heart is trying to kick its way out of your ribs.

“Bucky, I really just—”

“I know,” he cuts in softly, but there is something thick and hunted in the way he talks. “Just a minute.”

He looms over you with his whole presence and those intensely fevered eyes and he sucks the oxygen clean out of your lungs.

He nods toward the hallway behind him.

“My office is right there. We’ll sit down for a second, make sure you’re okay. And if you think I’d let you go home alone with a headache you can think again, doll.”

Doll.

God, you really have been stupid. Doll.

This is not a sweet endearment. This is literal. You are a thing made of porcelain that he is scared of dropping—or since a man like him isn’t scared of anything—you’re a thing he realized he can break.

Your pulse spikes.

Office.

Private.

Closed door.

Every alarm bell in your body begins ringing at once.

In his office, the rules of the outside world—the rules where you are safe—don’t apply. It’s where the blood gets mopped up.

But the guards are watching. The exit is behind them.

They aren’t moving a muscle and stand there like gargoyles, guarding your only hope for escape.

And Bucky—James—is standing right in front of you, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, concern weaving through his quiet tone.

Well, you’re shaking because you can feel the callouses on his hands, the strength in his grip that suggests he could snap your wrist without his expression changing. He knows you are vibrating with nerves, but he has misdiagnosed the fever.

You force yourself to breathe. To smile. To pretend. Just like he has all these weeks. Just like he does now.

“Just the headache,” you whisper, and it’s tasting like bile.

He studies you for another long second, and for a moment you think he might see the truth. You think the mask is going to be ripped away right here in the hallway.

Then he squeezes your hand gently. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He turns you away from the door that would bring you to safety, moving his hand to the small of your back, and it is the gentlest thing in the world. But that somehow makes it so harrowing, because there is nothing rough in the gesture, nothing that could be called force by anyone watching, nothing but warmth and assurance, leading you into the heart of his house with the grace of a protector, and yet your whole body reads it like a sentence being handed down.

You are now thoroughly trapped, you realize while swallowing down the rising tide of bile. It feels like a master painter adding the final, darkening stroke to a portrait you can no longer step out of.

But there is nothing you can do. You let him steer you away from the door because what else are you supposed to do? Rip away, run, scream? That seems impossible in a house that breathes his name through every vent and doorway. A house where even the air seems employed by him.

The mansion appears to lengthen as you walk through it, as if corridors are being pulled like taffy just to spite you, just to show you how laughably far the front door already is, how absurd it was to think you could simply walk out with a polite excuse and a swallowed scream in your throat, hoping nobody heard it rattling behind your teeth, pretending you were still a girl who had a choice in where she slept tonight.

You try to pay attention. You try to mark the route the way people do in movies when they’re kidnapped or hunted or trying not to fall off the edge of the earth—left at the long console with the black granite top, right at the staggering painting in the gilded frame, straight past the alcove with the antique lamp and the white flowers that smell expensive and funereal at once.

But panic is a vandal and it is paralyzing and it comes in and smashes every useful thought with a chair.

Your heart is beating too hard, your blood too loud, your mind too busy manufacturing horrors to do something practical like remember turns. Foyer, hall, archway, staircase, another hall. No—was it staircase first? Was the office past the library, or past that room with the dark green walls?

Oh god, this is horrible. You're really starting to feel lost and this might be a catastrophic blow to your faith.

You try to pin each detail to the inside of your skull, but they slide off slick as fish, and every second spent trying to memorize the geography of this place only makes you more conscious of the fact that you are being walked farther and farther from the only exit you knew.

Why would he take you this far? The question lets sweat collect at the base of your neck. Why not the room just off the main hall? Why not one of the closer offices? Why not let you leave if you are only dizzy, only pale, only under the weather the way you claimed?

Does he suspect something? Has he already seen it, the wrongness in your face, the recoil you were too slow to hide, the way your voice came out laced too tight? And worse than that, more awful than suspicion because it drips with intention—was there always going to be a moment like this? Had he always been walking you here in one way or another, from the first date, from the first gift, from the first time he looked at you as if you were worth the chase?

Maybe this is what men like him do. Maybe he had a plan long before you ever had a clue. Maybe there has never been a single unarranged second between you, and you were just too lovesick and dazzled to notice the rails under your feet.

His hand stays at your back the entire time, broad and warm, but it makes you want to shove him away from you. When you hesitate, the pressure spikes just enough to remind you which way the door isn't. He is leading you forward and it would have felt gentle, but it doesn’t. No longer.

His thumb-strokes across your back don’t feel comforting at all and more like he is smoothing out a wrinkle in his own sleeve or the way he might polish a piece of silver he has decided to keep.

You suppress a chilling shiver he surely would have felt.

When you glance at him, because some abhorrent part of you still does, still wants to; you find concern in his face and it nearly brings you to the floor. You can’t glimpse any coldness, no strategic thinking whatsoever. At least not the kind you expected to see. His eyes aren’t narrowed and sharpened with discovery, there is no clipped impatience, no telltale crack in the mask.

He looks at you the way he has always looked at you when something seemed off, with his little frown and that determination, as if your problems are things he would like to drag outside and beat to death with his bare hands.

His gaze moves over your face with the same intimate concentration that once made your stomach warm for all the right reasons. It does not help. It makes everything worse.

Because if this is performance, then he is monstrous at it. If this is an act, he’s lived in the skin of it for a lifetime.

A lie shouldn’t feel this solid, shouldn’t have a thumb that knows exactly where your tension hides.

If he is acting, then he deserves a stage and an audience and perhaps a crown.

You can barely stand it, this collision between what you know and what he appears to be. A man can’t look at you like that and still be the most feared name in the city. Except apparently he can. Apparently, men can be two things at once. Apparently, the universe is vulgar enough to make both true.

You pass a maid coming the other way—a small, neat woman in a crisp uniform. She is carrying folded lines in her arms, and Bucky acknowledges her with nothing more than a curt nod, and she responds with a warm little smile aimed at you and the faintest dip of her head—something halfway between greeting and curtsey, so practiced it is almost invisible, but not invisible enough, not to you, not now.

It makes your breath hitch, how he doesn’t swell with importance, or doesn’t put on a show of his control.

He’s so comfortable in his power that he doesn't even need to show it off; he just steers you onward, knowing nobody will do a single thing to stop him.

And your stomach lurches so suddenly it feels as if your bones have missed a step. Because there it is. There, in one small exchange, is the whole persona of him. He is not loud or cartoony with his power, he just has it. It’s real. It doesn’t need to announce itself because everyone in its radius already knows where to bend.

The maid’s smile is kind, almost affectionate, and that somehow shames you more, because it suggests this has been obvious to everyone but you.

They all know what he is. The guards know. The staff knows. The men at the gate, the drivers, the strangers in tailored suits who always nod to him with instant stillness in their spines—they all know.

And you, meanwhile, had been floating around this house in your pretty little ignorance, accepting tea on silver trays, accepting jewelry in velvet boxes, accepting his mouth and his hands and his delicious attention as if you had simply stumbled into the arms of an intense, rich man with old-fashioned manners and a dangerous face completely by accident.

You would like to face palm yourself, but this is a bad moment.

Natasha will definitely do it for you once you get out of here and manage to escape to her apartment.

You had looked at the signs and called them charm. You had looked at vigilance and called it romance. You had looked at fear arranged into etiquette and thought that wow, he really runs this company proficiently.

The embarrassment of it blooms hot under your skin, nearly as painful as the fear. You have been blind. Worse—willingly blind. Blind not by accident but by appetite, by wanting. Love, or whatever this early ferocious thing is, has wrapped a hand-woven scarf around your eyes and led you smiling into a cathedral built from warning signs and decorated with red flags.

And the humiliating part, the part that makes you feel like you could peel yourself out of your own skin from sheer mortification, is that you had even congratulated yourself for being so unbothered by his world.

Look at you, cool girl extraordinaire, dating the beautiful, mysterious executive in his deluxe mansion, pretending not to notice the guards and the driver and the way everyone waited half a beat too long for his approval before moving.

You had thought you were being mature. Sophisticated. Unruffled. Meanwhile, you were essentially a decorative houseplant with a pulse, sitting in the sun of his attention and calling it insight. It would almost be funny if it weren’t your life currently doing a slow and terrible cartwheel off a cliff.

How could you have ever believed that a guy like him would be interested in that naive, silly girl that you are.

Honestly, if you survive this ordeal, you will end up in some corner of your small, meager apartment, bawling your eyes out, and keep living that unlucky life of yours.

He glances at you again as you walk on that burgundy red carpet deeper into the hole that is another hallway, and his hand presses a little more firmly between your shoulder blades. It’s protective rather than possessive to anyone looking in from the outside, but the gesture sends another flare of panic through you anyway.

You wonder if he can feel the fear on you, if it comes off your skin. You wonder if men like him are trained by experience to smell a lie the way dogs smell storms. You wonder whether he is leading you to comfort or containment. Every room you pass seems too opulent to be real with those chandeliers like frozen explosions, rugs plush enough to kill the sound of literally anything, the dark wood twinkling creepily under low gold light, paintings in heavy frames, looming over everything, looking down their painted noses at anyone not born into the frame.

The place no longer looks luxurious so much as fortified. You see the thickness of doors now. The depth of corridors. The strategic sightlines. The subtle placement of people. This house is not merely beautiful. It is defensible. It is a kingdom in disguise.

And you had been letting yourself be loved in it. You stupid girl had let him come way, way too close to you.

But it’s what makes every step hurt more than it should. Because despite everything, despite the gun and the initials and the name on the tags and the avalanche of terror crushing common sense into powder, there is still some small perfidious corner of you that keeps stumbling over the memory of how gentle he was, how attentive, how he watched your face as if your feelings were weather and he meant to learn every season.

You hate that part of yourself right now, and that it even exists in the first place after everything you found out about the man and what knowing him entails.

You want cleaner fear, simpler fear, fear without ache in it. But your fear is contaminated by affection. By memory. By the wrenching possibility that whatever else he is, whatever blood has dried invisibly on his hands, the softness he’s shown you may have been real. And if that is real, then the rest is not easier to understand. It is harder. Infinitely harder. It means the monster did not wear a mask. It means the monster kissed your forehead and tucked blankets around your legs and remembered how you take your coffee. But your brain can’t follow all of that.

Another turn. Another corridor. Another room you cannot catalogue fast enough.

You try again to memorize the path, because panic may be a vandal but desperation is stubborn.

The wall here is paneled more deeply. There is a bronze wolf on a pedestal. A narrow window at the end of the hall. A runner rug patterned in deep red, almost the color of old cherries, almost the color of dried blood if your mind is in the mood to be cruel, which it surely is.

Your thoughts keep darting ahead of you and slam themselves against every worst-case future they can find. If he knows you know, what does that mean? If he does not know you know, what then? Which is safer? Is there a safer version of this at all?

You imagine phones taken gently from your hand. Doors locked with apologetic clicks. Promises made in that low warm voice while your life narrows to the width of his will.

The terrible thing is that none of your imaginings need to be loud to be horrifying. A man like him does not need spectacles. He has infrastructure.

By the time he slows in front of a set of double doors farther inside the mansion than you have ever been allowed, or invited, to go; your nerves are so frayed they feel almost luminous, every sound oppressive, every movement enlarged.

He looks down at you, his face still threaded with worry, and sweeps his hand from your back to your elbow in a gesture so careful it would be beautiful in any other universe. In this one it only makes your chest tighten until breathing feels like work. He leans slightly closer, and his voice drops, intimate as a hand at your throat, though there is nothing harsh in it.

“What’re you thinking about, baby,” he asks quietly, searching your face.

Well, you’re thinking about the front door.

It’s where you left your mind.

Or maybe it was lost in his room already. Maybe it stayed with the gun on his carpet.

And the other, the more rational part of your mind, the one that told you this couldn’t have been true anyway, because you are you and he is him, lingers in every news story you ever half listened to.

You are inside the tormenting, glittering realization that you have not just fallen for a dangerous man, but for the dangerous man, and that all the softness you took as sanctuary may have only been the most exquisite blindfold ever tied.

“Nothing, Bucky,” you reply weakly, trying to ease, but your voice is shaking just that tiny bit, and judging by the uncomfortable twist of his mouth, he caught it.

You’re too lost in your stupidity that you’re hardly present when he opens his wooden office door and ushers you inside, again with the most tender movements.

The office is warmer than the hall, quieter too, and it makes goosebumps rise on your arms and the hairs stand tall at the back of your neck because this room is built to keep any sound inside and secrets fat and sleeping in the walls. Everywhere you look there is dark wood and low amber light and books lined up in stern, handsome rows as if knowledge itself has been drafted into his service.

You feel the world shrink from cathedral to chamber, from public performance to something confined, more dangerous, more indiscreet, because now there are no guards, no maids, no witnesses to help keep either of you inside your assigned role.

There is only him, only you, only that soft snick of the door as he shuts it behind him; and that small, tidy sound feels like it’s happening inside your own chest. You watch his hand leave the brass knob, and the logic in your head just gives up. There’s only a hysterical, messy scramble of thoughts, all of them howling at once and all of them useless.

He turns back to you immediately, all his attention gathering around you with that familiar chilling completeness, and before you can decide whether to stand very still or bolt like a startled animal with nowhere sensible to run, he is guiding you toward the couch near the fireplace with one hand steady at your waist and the other brushing over your arm, then your back again. He’s never forcing or gripping hard, but he’s just not letting go of you and it makes you want to jump against the wall in hopes it’ll crack and you’ll land on the other side because his touch is making you more and more nervous.

He treats you as if he thinks you might faint at any second.

It is infuriating, that gentleness. It feels like a kind of torture that’s impossible to fight because your skin has a longer memory than your head. Your body still knows him first as safety. It still recognizes the heat of his palm and the strength of him, the way he moves as though you’re the center of the room.

And now every instinct is splitting at the seams. All you want to do is run, you want him away from you, you want to be far gone from all of this, you want to scream and scream some more, but the other half of you is remembering how carefully he tucked a blanket over your legs last week when you fell asleep during a movie or the way he has checked you for bruises after literally making love to you with that distressed frown upon his face, scared he’s been too rough with you.

The collision makes you dizzy enough that, absurdly, he may not be wrong. You might actually faint. Just from the sheer vertigo of finding out that the man who kissed you so devotedly has a name the whole city says with a tremble in their voices.

“Sit down for me,” he coaxes, and his voice is low, soft, carrying none of the steel you used to hear when he dealt with his men, and that contrast nearly makes your skin crawl.

You lower yourself onto the couch because your knees are not reliable enough to argue with him. The room seems to have acquired a faint sway, because the blood in your veins feels thin and feverish, and he stays right there, close enough that his thigh nearly brushes yours before he drops into a crouch in front of you.

The sight of this dangerous man folding all that height and breadth down to your level, gaze lifted to your face with plain concern would have melted you an hour ago.

But all it does now is frighten you some more. It feels too intimate, too earnest, too much like care, and care from a man like him is no simple thing. It is not a ribbon. It is a chain in softer clothing.

You swallow hard and that alone almost makes you flinch.

His eyes move over you with increasing worry, taking inventory in little silent increments. Your face is pale, you feel the damp shine of stress at your temples, you can’t keep your fingers still in your lap, and you can’t quite tame the uneven hitch in your breath.

He reaches up and lays the back of his hand against your forehead, then your cheek, his brows knitting tighter, and his mouth presses into a serious line. “You’re sweating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he would like to issue orders to your body until it starts behaving properly.

His thumb grazes the curve of your jaw, feather-light, and you have to stop yourself from jerking away too sharply. You have to refrain yourself from slapping his hand away.

He notices even the version of restraint. You guessed, he does. A man like him has to. A man like him would. But it does worsen your situation.

A chill spreads along the base of your neck.

His eyes sharpen, not with suspicion exactly, but with apprehension deepening into something more searching, more troubled. “Talk to me, baby,” he pleads, softer still. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”

You stare at him.

For a moment the question does not make sense, your mind too busy running in circles with sirens in its hair, but you notice the shadow in his face, the hunch, the way his gaze jumps to your mouth, your throat, your posture curled too tight, and it seems bizarre because he honestly looks as though he might dread he pushed you too far, touched you too much, misread your body, took a liberty you weren’t ready for.

The absurdity of that nearly splits your head open because earlier when he—god, when he had his criminal tongue on your pussy—he acted so attentive, he seemed genuinely careful and devastatingly patient, and yet now, knowing what you know, even that lightness now hardens into a new breed of atrocity.

Because if this is him being careful, if this is him holding himself in check, then what does rough look like in a man built the way he is, in a man whose name can make grown men go quiet? What shape does cruelty take when it belongs to someone with this much power and this little need to raise his voice?

“No,” you answer too fast, the word skidding out of you. “No, you didn’t— nothing like that.”

Well, he did do something. A lot, really. Things that would put him in a cell never to be let out.

But he didn’t do anything to you yet. Yet. He might, if you don’t get your shit together.

His shoulders loosen by a fraction, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He still looks wound up. He still looks a little perturbed.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and there is something sincere in his voice, it is disorienting. “Because, honey, you can tell me if I was too much. If I missed something. If I—” He stops, swallows, and the hand at your cheek gentles further, as if he is trying to make himself seem safer. Funny. “I need to know. Need to know if there was ever a moment when you didn’t feel good.”

Something is dipping in the air around you, and everything feels distorted. Your head is hazy and a complete maze, because how is he even doing it this well?

You pull back then, small at first, because having his hands on you for longer will surely drive you insane. You don’t shove him off, or smack his hand away, you simply move out of his palms enough to break the line of his touch, but even that has him looking at you more closely.

You gather your hands together in your lap so he won’t see them tremble and shake your head with a smile that feels stapled on, brittle and thin, and one wrong breath away from snapping in half. “I’m okay,” you say, aiming for sheepish, for embarrassed, for normal. “I just need some sleep, I think. That’s all. It’s probably stupid. I’m probably just a little exhausted and overreacting.”

He doesn’t buy it.

You can tell immediately, and you hate that you can tell, but you notice how his whole face changes in that subtle way his face does when he has decided something is amiss and he is not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of it.

He shifts closer, forearms braced loosely on his thighs, his attention absolute. “Then sleep here,” he deadpans. As if this is simply the answer to all the problems in the world. “You don’t need to go anywhere tonight. 'Specially when you’re not feeling well.”

Your stomach contracts into a hard, cold knot, and it feels like there’s a displacement in your chest. It’s the sensation of a staircase ending one step too soon and you didn’t notice so now you’re hitting air instead of floor with a heart-shaking jolt. It is jarring. It is petrifying, because it means you’re not getting out of here that easily. You might not be getting out of here at all if he continues to look at you like that.

Sleep here.

Stay here.

In his house. In his reach. In the center of the web.

Your pulse stutters so hard it hurts.

“I should go home,” you try, and even to your own ears it sounds small, unconvincing, more instinct than argument.

His frown deepens, utterly baffled by your insistence in the face of what he clearly sees as a solvable problem. “Why?” he asks quietly, and his voice sound a tad hoarse. “If you feel bad, why would I let you leave?”

Your lungs can’t seem to catch any air although it’s all around you.

Why would I let you

He didn’t say why would you leave, no he said why would I let you.

Good god, you really have been a stupid girl. The signs were all in front of you, weren’t they? They were literally speaking to you.

He’s talking in a tender tone, making his voice all soft and gentle, even soothing and so concerned, but that’s just the outside. You never paid attention to what lay underneath, hidden deep inside, because the outside was pretty and alluring enough. And maybe you are imagining it now, the gravelly implications in his tone, maybe your body’s just trying to see and hear things that aren’t there, but perhaps it truly has been there all the time and you were too wrapped in him to notice it.

You stand up quickly.

And you shouldn’t have done that because he will think what the hell you’re doing now, but your body decided and now your body is doing it.

The room sways, your vision going soft at the edges for one humiliating second, and his hands are on you—one at your elbow, one at your waist, and there is no shaking them off.

You flinch despite yourself and he stills as if you have struck him. You know he doesn’t understand your reactions, how could he.

“Hey,” he coos, his voice lowering even further, and there is definitely something thick in his voice. “Easy.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, too breathless, too papery, trying to peel his hands off you without making it look like peeling, which is impossible, because every move feels too fast or too urgent, every instinct either too frightened or too telling. “Really, Bucky, I’m just tired. I’m probably being ridiculous.”

His gaze searches yours with such intensity it feels almost physical. “You’re trying to get away from me.”

The words are quiet, and although there is no anger in them, no threat at all, it has your mouth go dry.

“No,” you answer, and it is not a good lie. “No, Bucky. Of course not. My head’s just really hurting.”

Something in him clicks into a higher gear—not a lack of trust or anything like that, but a kind of piercing, automated focus. Something in his eyes snaps into high definition. All that soft, vague concern is gone, replaced by an attention so bright and infiltrating it feels like being pinned to a board under a microscope.

Carefully, he makes you sit back down on the couch and lands right beside you. You feel the heat of him pressing into your side, though he does give you a bit of space.

His hand comes to your upper arm, stroking once, and you hate your own pulse for noticing how familiar it feels despite it having lost its appeal. “Look at me,” he presses, and it almost sounds like an order. His voice seems serious enough to make you shiver in fear.

You look at him because you have to and refusing would be louder than screaming.

His eyes are so damn blue in this weirdly dim light, clear and intent and lined with such deep worry. He’s definitely denser, his concern losing its fluff, but not its patience. There still is no trace of coldness, no roughness, nothing that is overly intimidating despite the man he is.

Just that same irksome softness, that same look like your distress is something he wants to fix with both hands, with all of himself if necessary.

It rattles you more than if he had come in hard and sharp and monstrous. A monster would be easier. A monster would let your fear stand up straight. But this man looking at you like your pain pains him is a labyrinth with no clean exits.

And it feels foreboding. It has you more on edge. It’s the way the woods go quiet right before something heavy steps out of the brush; a sudden, absolute alignment of intent.

Maybe he knows you know and now he’s waiting for the right moment to pounce. You do your best to keep your fright behind your eyes.

“You can sleep here tonight,” he offers again, gentler now, and it seems as though he believes repetition might soothe you into agreement. “I’ll stay with you. Or I won’t, if you want space. I’ll get you water, food, whatever you need. But I’m not sending you home like this.”

Not sending.

Again that wordless, soft-toned authority.

Again that sense that his care and his control are fused so tightly together they share a bloodstream.

You are running out of room inside your own face. Running out of expressions that can pass for normal. Running out of ways to keep the panic from drawing its blade.

So you do the only thing you can think of, the stupidest thing, the most desperate thing—you lean in and kiss him.

It’s short and small and only meant to reassure, to smooth over, to redirect. Your lips meet his and every cell in your body revolts.

And it’s not at all because he kisses badly, god no. Even startled, even worried, he receives you with immediate tenderness, one hand lifting to cradle your jaw, his mouth warm and careful and heartbreakingly familiar but also so, so foreign, a cold shiver seizes your back.

It is what makes nausea roll through you so suddenly you nearly choke on it. Because this is James Buchanan Barnes.

This is the name on the dog tags, the name on the news, the name people lower their voices around as if it might hear them and turn its head.

This is the most feared man in the city and his mouth is still the same mouth that kissed the corner of your smile with one of his own.

Your stomach turns so sharply you have to concentrate not to pull away in disgust too soon, not to betray yourself with the wrong kind of urgency.

You kiss him once, twice, tasting dread under the memory of want, and every instinct in you screams that you are pressing your lips to a loaded weapon and pretending it is a rose.

When you ease back, you make yourself smile.

It feels gargantuan, the effort of it.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, like that explains anything, like that proves you are only tired and not terrified, only overwhelmed and not trying to survive. “I promise. I can go home like this.”

His thumb brushes under your eye so lightly, and you run your tongue over your lip, trying to get that uncomfortable tingling to go away.

But he still looks unconvinced.

More than unconvinced, actually. Plagued. As if the kiss reassured him of your affection but not your state, and now that mismatch is bothering him in ways he can’t make sense of.

His gaze lingers on your face, then your mouth, then your hands clenched too tightly in your lap. He takes one of them and turns it gently palm-up, his fingers closing around yours. You can feel how much bigger his hand is. You can feel how easily it encloses.

And all at once the room feels narrow as a throat, the walls leaning in, the lamplight too gold, the air too warm, and you are sitting inches from a man who could ruin your life before breakfast and is looking at you like the only thing he wants in this world is to make you feel safe.

“What’s going on, doll?” His voice could even be pleading, just a little bit. It’s definitely croaky. “I— I get the feeling—”

“I told you, Bucky. It’s just a headache.” He sighs to that, but all you can think about is how completely his hand closes over the bones of your own. How easy it would be for those fingers to tighten from comfort into command, from tenderness into something unarguable.

His other palm is at your arm, and your body does this awful arithmetic without your permission, subtracting your strength from his and arriving, every single time, at the same answer—none.

There is none. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You notice things you never let yourself notice before because before they were part of romance, of safety, of the warm relief of being cared for by someone larger and more grounded than you.

Now those same details come back rearranged into something atrocious. The width of his shoulders. The thickness of his thighs where they bracket the edge of the couch. The controlled way he moves, never wasted, never sloppy, suggesting he has long ago become intimate with force and no longer needs to flaunt it.

Even the gentleness feels frightening because it is so deliberate. You can feel, in every cautious touch, that he is handling you lightly not because he must, but because he chooses to. And choice is a nightmarish thing when done by a man like him. Choice means there are other versions of him. Choice means there are rooms in him you have never seen. Choice means the tenderness is not the whole house, only one lit window.

You sit very still because being still feels safer than moving, and panic has made your limbs feel both too heavy and too ready to misfire. While he studies your face with that immensely worried crease between his brows, your thoughts keep slipping sideways into grotesque little visions of what would happen if he decided to stop being soft.

Not even dramatic visions. That would almost be easier. Nothing so loud as being thrown or shouted at. Your fear is smarter than that now. It imagines quieter things. A wrist caught before you can pull away. A door closed with no visible hurry. Your name said in that low voice while every route out of the room gently, politely disappears.

You hate yourself for thinking it, hate the way your pulse kicks harder with each new image, hate most of all that his touch remains careful through all of it, remains incessantly kind, so that your fear begins to feel almost counterfeit in the face of what he is actually doing, and then the next thought corrects you suddenly—no, not counterfeit. Instinct. Instinct finally dragging itself awake after weeks of sleeping with its face turned to his chest.

He must notice something fresh pass through you, some new tremor or tightening, because his jaw flexes and then he reaches into his pocket for his phone.

He is glancing at the screen and some shutter drops behind his eyes. It doesn’t slam, it just falls shut, as simple as that. Just sliding into place as neatly as a blade returning to its sheath.

He lifts the phone, says a name you don’t catch because your ears are too loud with your heartbeat, and when the person on the other end answers, his voice changes so completely that a chill runs over your skin.

“Bring cold towels to my office. And painkillers. Water too.” That is all.

Simple words. Ordinary words.

But the voice that carries them is stripped clean of softness, and that is what makes your blood curdle. There is no gentle edge worn smooth for your benefit. It is a voice pared down to function, to expectation, to command. Not loud, not theatrical, not cruel in any obvious way, it is just cold the way a simple black stone is cold. Cold the way a locked gate is cold.

There is no room in it for hesitation, no room in it for mishearing, no suggestion that obedience is a favor rather than the natural order of things. Whoever is on the other end responds immediately, and he ends the call without another word, already moving to set the phone aside, already turning back toward you, and your whole body has gone thin with dread because all you can think, stupidly, helplessly, is this is how he speaks when he is not pretending to be gentle.

And if this is his ordinary command voice, then what would he sound like if he knew? If he looked at you and saw recognition staring back, saw the name James Buchanan Barnes fully formed in your eyes, saw that you had found the gun and the initials and the tags and had welded them all together into the truth? Would his voice sharpen? Flatten further?

Would he say your name with that same smooth authority and turn it into a thing that could pin you in place?

The thought is a beaded sweat of ice trailing down the ladder of your back.

You try not to react. You fail a little. He sees the shiver, he sees, because he is James Buchanan Barnes for goodness sake, and immediately his focus softens again as he leans a fraction closer, anguish returning to his face as if the colder version of him never existed at all.

The door catches your eye over his shoulder.

It is simply there. Closed, but not locked, at least not that you can see. Dark wood, brass handle, a square of possibility in a room rapidly losing oxygen.

And once you look at it, you cannot stop.

Your gaze keeps darting back like something hooked. You begin to map the distance with desperate measurements.

If you stood up now—no, not stood, launched—if you shoved him hard enough to buy yourself one puzzled second, maybe two, could you make it? Out the office, into the hall, left or right—God, which one had you come from?—and then what? Down one corridor, past another, through that impassable warren of pragmatic but pristine floors and expensive silence and armed loyalty, praying that your body would remember what your mind failed to memorize?

You picture it anyway. You can’t help it. You picture yourself bolting, slipping on gleaming floors, turning wrong and wrong again, heart exploding in your throat while the mansion multiplies around you like a bad dream, each hallway birthing three more, each staircase leading not to freedom but to another floor full of his money and his people and his reach.

Still, the image won’t leave you. It grows instead, takes on velocity. You imagine the first breath of motion, the clean scary choice of it. The couch under you unweighting. The door handle cold in your palm. The sudden crash of everything becoming honest.

You don’t have a lot of choices here. So maybe fate would take pity on you. Maybe panic would become a compass. Maybe your body would remember a route your mind cannot hold. Maybe the front hall would be merciful and simply appear in front of you, all that dark wood and those massive doors and the guards too startled to stop you before you ripped yourself out into the night. It is preposterous. It is probably impossible. It becomes, nevertheless, the brightest thought in the room. Bright enough to burn.

You are too poised on the edge of movement now, too taut, every nerve drawn tight as wire.

“Baby,” Bucky starts, a little alarmed, and he shifts closer again, one hand lifting instinctively, probably to touch your face, your shoulder, your wrist, some place he thinks he can soothe.

But the sight of that hand coming toward you almost does it. Almost tips you over from imagining escape into choosing it. You can feel your muscles gathering without permission, your body preparing itself in secret, a rabbit under the hawk’s shadow. Run, run, run. For one crazed second you are already halfway gone in your mind—up off the couch, around the table, through the door, don’t think, just move, just run, run, run—

And then his fingers brush your arm, so lightly, so soft, but it breaks something inside you because you want his sweet touch, you want him to hold you, to soothe you, to love you, but you don’t want it to be James Buchanan Barnes, you want it to be Bucky, but he’s no longer Bucky, he won’t ever be anymore, and so you simply react.

You jerk, shoving his hand away before you can stop yourself, not enough to really hurt, but enough that the gesture hangs in the air between you like a shattered glass note.

Your breath is now gone entirely.

There are a few beats where simply nothing happens.

Then his hand drops back.

You stare at him, your own hand hovering stupidly in midair as if all you have to do is snip your finger to turn back the time.

And Bucky—James—just looks at you. For a small moment, he simply looks startled, like a deer in the headlights of your rejection. He looks so tremendously confused, his face totally unglued, but then his eyes shift gears, shift into alarm, shift into a concern so much deeper than before. It seems as if your recoil has unhinged him. As if it has frightened him for an entirely different reason than the one clawing its way through your chest. As if it has confirmed something he’s only lived in a nightmare before.

His features warp into something resembling desperation, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and asking, and it is nauseating to watch—the way he’s already cobbling together a version of reality where he isn’t the monster you’re trying to run from.

He is misinterpreting your panic and it makes you sick.

He isn't thinking She knows what I am. His mind is sprinting in the exact opposite direction to protect itself.

He thinks the headache is actually a migraine that has you reacting strangely, or it’s a panic attack, or some hidden trauma he didn’t know about, and he is already frantically building a scenario where he gets to fix it. His mouth stays slightly open, his breath hitching as if he’s about to choke on his own breath. He looks around the empty office with this desperate, wild squint, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if he expects to find a physical monster standing there—something he can actually put a bullet in to make you stop shaking.

“Alright,” he lets out, and his voice is completely broken, a rough, dry scrape that sounds like it is tearing his throat.

He doesn’t lunge for you or do something big. Instead, he actually hitches his weight backward, trying to make himself smaller, which is harrowing because he is still twice your size and wearing a suit that could be sprinkled with blood in under an hour. His hands stay out in front of him, palms up, fingers twitching with this jittery, helpless energy. He is looking at you with this forlorn begging in his widened eyes, practically pleading with them for you to blame it on the lights, or the noise, or anything else in the world—because the alternative is that he is the thing making you look at him like he’s an executioner.

You might be running out of time to pretend.

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I— I’m so sorry, I don’t—” You don’t even know what explanation you are going to give him now, only that you are suddenly full of the clumsy need to fill the room with words before the room fills with something worse, and so your mouth opens on instinct, on panic, on the miserable little scraps of sanity still fluttering inside you. You hear yourself stammer out some thin, transparent nonsense about feeling strange, about maybe being overwhelmed, about maybe needing air, maybe needing to go home, maybe nothing, because every excuse sounds flimsy the second it leaves you, and every sentence makes your spirit mulch and dissolve into a gray slurry that won’t hold a shape.

And Bucky is still so close and still so beautiful and still so racked with his brows pinched into a severe, pained knot. His eyes are full of shadows, and this is all so bad.

His softness somehow makes all of this worse, not better, because if he were cruel already, if he were cold already, if he gave you even one clean villain’s grin, one sharp look, one thread of honest menace, maybe your fear would have somewhere proper to sit.

But he only examines your features as though it truly physically aches him to see you like this, as though your panic has reached inside him and laid a dirty hand around his heart.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he starts, and he says it so quietly, with so much care, still, but also with a mounting unease that is just about to reach its peak. “I just wanna know what’s going on. Talk to me, baby. Please. I—” he breaks off with a sigh, his jaw grinding. “If something’s wrong, if something’s going on, then I gotta know.”

You swallow hard in hopes that anything might help soothe the sting behind your eyes. You don’t believe him, not fully anymore, but some humiliating, hopelessly romantic part of you still recognizes the cadence of the man who kissed your forehead this morning, the man who tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the most tender hands, the man who remembered how you take your tea and which side you prefer to sleep on and the fact that you hate when socks twist inside your shoes.

It is unimaginable, it is desolating how tenderness can survive in the same body as terror, how your heart can continue making a fool of itself even while your mind is setting the whole house on fire.

“Bucky, really, I’m just...” Your voice hitches, the words sticking like thistles in your throat. You look down at his hands and they are so huge and capable, currently flexing with an empty urge to hold you. You know those hands have held weapons. You know they’ve ended lives and carried blood. But right now they are trembling because you won’t let them touch you.

You can feel yourself growing sharper and shakier by the second, every nerve in you pulled too tight, every breath arriving shallow and unhelpful, and still he keeps speaking to you in that quiet and gentle tone, asking whether it was something earlier, whether he pushed too far, whether he missed something, where exactly it hurts. You can’t tell him it’s your heart and not your head that is currently in shambles.

The concern in him seems real. That is the terrible part. It seems real enough to bruise. You shake your head too quickly. You try to smile and feel it crack before it even fully forms. You say you are just tired. You say you do not know. You say you are fine with the kind of desperate brightness you would use when standing on the edge of a roof insisting you are only admiring the view.

His gaze drops to the space you are slowly clearing between you, and his expression hardens. Gears are grinding behind his eyes and suddenly he looks like the man in the hallway, filled with command and so fucking terrifying, your pulse spikes to unhealthy numbers. He doesn’t look at you, he turns his head to look in the direction of the closed door, his posture squared.

“Did someone say something to you?” He asks, his tone dropping into a low, scraping register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “In the hall? Before I came out?”

You blink at him in disbelief. Does he think someone threatened you? Does he think one of his own men, or some interloper in his kingdom, stepped out of line with you? The fact that that would cause such an intense reaction in him makes you want to be catapulted straight out of here because this is genuinely just getting all too much. He seems about ready to tear his own house down to find the monster that scared you, completely unaware that he is the one wearing the monster’s skin.

You are about to open your mouth to improvise your way to freedom, when there is a brisk knock on the oak door and it makes your entire body jerk.

Bucky turns toward the noise, but not before you catch the brief, hot flare of irritation that darkens his features. He rises with all his coiled grace and contained force, and for half a second you just stare at his back, seeing even that differently now. He really is a tall man. He is immense. Broad. Space seems to make room for him as he steps to the door. God, what the hell did you walk yourself into. The only thought that gives you a tiny bit of ease is that there surely have to be other girls out there who would have fallen for it all, looking at him.

He cracks the door open. A man stands in the corridor holding a tray balanced with a folded stack of damp, cold towels, a bottle of water, and a blister pack of painkillers. And it’s weird how this would have struck you as absurdly thoughtful just hours before but now it feels sinister. It is purely ominous. It is comfort orchestrated by absolute authority; a display of care that only exists because of total, unquestioning submission.

Bucky, or James, or the most wanted mob boss of all time; thanks him, quickly, absently, not unkind but distracted, his thoughts still hooked to you so visibly that even the man at the door registers the tension.

And that man glances inside just enough to catch sight of you on the couch, sitting there sweating, pale, rigid as a hunted thing.

A manic urge strikes you to scream for help. You want to yell at this stranger to run, to call the precinct, or to simply throw you over his shoulder and get you the hell out of this building. But the impulse dies in your throat. It would be entirely useless. Every single person under this roof operates on his frequency. This man wouldn't take a single order from you even if it would be more of a plea than anything else. All of these people in this damn building listen to his every word. He wouldn’t do a thing to help you.

And before you can even let go of the fantasy, the man immediately drops his eyes again and leaves, because everyone in this house seems trained in the art of not seeing too much.

But you see too much now. That is the problem. That is the irreversible thing.

Because while Bucky’s back is turned, while he takes the tray and shuts the door with his shoulder and crosses toward the sideboard, your gaze begins to snag on the office around you with new eyes, and suddenly nothing is only furniture anymore.

Nothing is only decoration. All the wood in here is dark and expensive, perhaps even that is getting paid to stay silent, and there are details you would once have filed away as masculine and stylish.

But now everything is imposing. Everything reads as evidence.

Like that locked cabinet that is too reinforced to hold unimportant paperwork. There is a map pinned behind glass with inked markings that look less like commerce and more like a tactical grid. A stack of files sits bound with a suspicious kind of neatness. Then there is a heavy antique letter opener glinting on the desk like a civilized version of a threat.

Even the art on the walls seems changed, the frames too severe, the subjects too stern, everything in here curated by a man who does not simply possess things but controls them. He dictates outcomes. He governs people. His office is a single spider web woven from all this darkened wood and his suits, and you are the only thing inside it that is still vibrating, sending signals straight to the center where he stands, and it is making your skin grow cold in patches.

He is opening the water bottle for you.

That tiny, stupid gesture nearly does it—the torturous way he makes this all so normal and so intimate when he says, “Here, baby,” without turning yet, as if this is still salvageable, as if you are merely unwell and he is merely worried and the world has not already split clean down the middle.

Something primitive detonates inside you, and perhaps if it were a conscious thought or a decision or just some other thing in a civilized sense, maybe you wouldn’t do what you are doing, but your body is revolting before your mind can dress the fear in language, and you’re up.

Oh god, you’re up.

You’re off the couch, you’re on your feet, and now there’s no going back, now there’s no sitting down because now you sprang up and now you will run. You will run because the suddenness of your own movement has chosen the path for you.

Without looking back, without another word, your feet move you to the door and they move so fast, the room is moving with you, your vision is filled with streaks. Your hand fumbles blindly before finding the door handle, wrenching it open, and then you are sprinting.

“You love me, you say. You love me, you say. You love me, you say. Then why are you shaking?”

- Richard Siken

A/n: I know this is basically one single scene and I truly don’t know how I managed to make it this long. I always add unnecessary details and emotional spirals wherever possible but I worry that I sit in the emotions for too long sometimes.

So please feel free to let me know if the emotional introspection and all those feelings got to be a little too much at any point because I know I tend to ramble and take a while getting to the point in my writing and it’s getting a little frustrating. Hearing what you guys think would be really helpful 🫶🏻

And if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, please feel free to consider my ko-fi

Part Two

[dearwalker]

Enchanted to meet you

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word Count: 3.8k

Description: When Johnny is sent to investigate suspicious steam coming out of a sewer, he doesn’t expect a woman from another dimension to climb out of it. You look at him like he’s your knight in shining armor, and he realizes very soon you possess the ability to completely derail his life.

Inspired on the movie Enchanted ✨

Tags/Warnings: whimsy!reader, fluff, humor, cheeky references to other characters and universes, yearner!johnny being down bad for women out of this world.

Notes: I’ve been feeling whimsy lately and it’s all thanks to my dear @vividxpages, so this one is dedicated to her 🤍 I’ve also missed writing our dramatic prince Johnny, and ended up giggling a lot while writing this. Enjoy 🫶🏼

Masterlist

Johnny had just walked out of the shower when his Fantastic Watch™ beeped. Wrapped in only a towel from the waist down, he steamed the remaining water off his body as he reached for it. 

‘Steam rising from a sewer system detected in Midtown, please go check it out – Reed.’ 

He chuckled. The situation seemed a little bit dramatic to call a whole superhero, but Johnny Storm never missed a public appearance if the opportunity arose. He quickly got dressed in his blue suit, making sure his hair was fully dry before smiling to his reflection, and stepping out into the living room. 

Ben, who was reading a book on one of the large couches, watched Johnny stroll to the kitchen island to snatch a fresh Maisie’s cookie from the batch H.E.R.B.I.E was putting on a tray, giving him a little pet in the process. 

“Hey, J,” Ben called, just as Johnny reached the balcony and burst into flames. “If you find anything weird down there, try not to flirt with it,” he teased without looking up, and a robotic giggle was heard from the kitchen.  

Traitor, Johnny thought, narrowing his eyes at Herbert. 

Ben thought he was so smug ever since the whole Herald fiasco. But Johnny, ever the sweet summer boy, just gave him a pearly white condescending smile before finally taking off into the night. 

A few minutes later, Johnny lands in the middle of a street in Times Square, where traffic has stopped and a crowd has gathered around a rattling sewer lid. There’s indeed thick white clouds coming out of it, and Johnny can feel the high temperature as he lands next to them.

People gasp when they see him, then cheer and whistle because salvation has arrived. 

‘Human torch!’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘I told the mayor he needed to check on the system ages ago!’

“Alright everyone, back up,” he puts on a smile, shooing people away with his arms. “I got it covered–”

A loud metal sound makes him turn around, and the manhole cover blasts upward landing on top of a car nearby with a loud crash. People scream and scatter away, and Johnny flames on instantly, absorbing all the heat that pours out of it.

The white steam subsides, replaced by some lilac, glittering particles that make Johnny cough a few times, swatting at it with his gloved hands. Once Johnny can see clearly again–or maybe not–he notices there’s something peeking out. 

Is that…a hand? 

A hand comes out to grab the edge of the sewer, but he sees no claws or scales or weirdly colored skin, no…it’s a woman’s hand wrapped in delicate lace gloves. Then the other hand comes out, clearly trying to prop themselves up. 

Johnny’s fire dies when he sees no imminent danger, and he frowns at the small coughs coming from inside, stepping closer to see when something finally emerges from the sewer. 

You emerge. 

“Oof,” you say, using all your strength to climb out of…whatever you were in. 

The puffy white gown you’re wearing spreads around you as your heels finally touch the ground, layers upon layers of sparkling fabric drag through the glittery pavement when you straighten yourself up. You brush away dust from your giant skirt, too lost in your own world to notice that the crowd around you has gone dead silent, and Johnny looks flat out bewildered. 

That is, until a car blasts its horn, making you jump so hard you almost fall back into the sewer.  

Strong, warm arms wrap around your waist, catching you immediately. You yelp, clinging to your savior, and that’s when your eyes finally meet. Your breath hitches, but all you needed was one look to that perfect blonde hair and those bright blue eyes to exhale in relief. 

“Oh, thank goodness!” you say giddily, “Is this the Barbie Kingdom?”

Johnny doesn’t answer because quite frankly, what the fuck? 

You don’t seem to mind, your melodic voice keeps spilling out excitedly. “My bad, Ken. I know it’s not a kingdom anymore! That democracy thing you have going on is spectacular, I really admire–” your enthusiasm dies out a little when your eyes dart around, realizing there’s zero pink in this place, only strangers,  a bunch of weird colored lights, and the guy you’re holding onto for dear life is looking at you like you’re insane. “But this…doesn’t look like Barbieland,” you add with a nervous laugh. “Are you…a prince?” 

Barbieland. A prince? 

(I mean, he’ll take the compliment, but ????) 

Johnny’s confused gaze darts all over your face, then down to your dress. A wedding dress. There are actual sparkles woven into it, and he’s sure your skirt alone weighs more than him. The white fabric is pristine and you smell like flowers, not like you just crawled out of a sewer. 

And you just called him Ken. Thank God Ben is not here. 

“Umm, kind sir?” You snap him out of his trance, still gripping his forearms. “Can you please tell me what kingdom is this?” 

He looks at you, then at the crowd that’s just as confused as him, before replying hesitantly. 

“...Manhattan?” He says, and it does very little to calm you down. He clears his throat, finally releasing you from his grip so you feel more comfortable. “You can call me Johnny, by the way,” he says, giving you his best trademark smile. 

You smile back at him, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“Well, Johnny of Manhattan,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself and trying to avoid making eye contact with the people whispering around you, and the noise of those weird metal boxes with wheels. “Do you know Andalasia?” 

Even with all the extensive space knowledge Johnny possesses, he can’t really point out a place in the universe named like that. 

“Is that your planet?” He asks, making you chuckle softly. Johnny delights in the sound, he feels like any moment now birds will wake up to surround you and start chirping. 

“It’s my world,” you say, your voice turning more nostalgic now. “I was meant to marry The Bat Prince Edward today, my Eddie, and now I’ve fallen into this terrible place...” 

“…Right.”

Johnny tries to consider all options.

Maybe you hit your head? Or you were some junkie? A very dedicated theater kid? Method actor? Or maybe, crazy idea, you were telling the truth. He doesn’t get much time to dwell on it because your laced gloved hand suddenly reaches for his.

“Please, can you help me go back?” You ask desperately. 

Johnny looks where your hands meet, and decides to ignore the creeping blush on his face and the intrusive thoughts. She’s engaged. She’s probably crazy. But she’s so beautiful–no! Stop it, Johnny. 

The last time he had a crush on a woman that showed up unannounced on his planet, things had not ended well. 

“I know someone who might,” is all he says, avoiding your eyes. Since when does Johnny Storm get shy? 

You squeal immediately, practically leaping into his chest to give him a hug he certainly wasn’t expecting. Johnny laughs surprised, trying not to get lost in your sweet perfume. A white flash suddenly blinds you, and your eyes widen in panic at the crowd closing in. 

‘Johnny, who is she?’ ‘Another Herald?’ ‘Is this for a movie?” 

Without thinking you cling tighter to Johnny, who you’ve decided is the only person you can trust in this weird place, and that does something alarming to his stupid little heart. Red flag, red flag–whatever, he decides to step up to the role, shielding you from the photographers. 

“Alright, show’s over everybody!” He announces with a smile, never losing that golden boy persona, before turning back to you. “Okay, princess, you’re coming with me,” he says, pointing upward.

“...How?” You ask, staring up at the sky with a frown. 

“You just hold on, and try not to scream,” he winks at you, and before you can react he’s picking you up bridal style, bunching the skirt of your dress so it’s not on the way. “I’ll try not to scorch it, but no promises.”

“Scorch it? What do you mea–oh my god…” 

The night sky glows with fire coming out of this man’s body, as he flies you across the Manhattan realm. Truth to be told, coming from a world of magic and curses, this may not be the craziest thing that has ever happened to you. 

You land on the balcony of a tower that looks absolutely nowhere near the ones made of stone back home. And thank the universe you’re too busy gawking at the view, because Johnny is able to sneakily pat the ends of your dress that caught on a few flames without you noticing. 

“Oh wow…” you whisper, placing your gloved hands on the railing, overwhelmed by all the movement and lights and floating things. “Your world is strange, Johnny of Manhattan,” you laugh softly. 

Johnny chuckles, and wow, this is not what he thought his night would be like. But then you gasp, pointing at the sky.

“We have the same moon!” You exclaim, placing your elbow on the railing and your cheek on your palm as you stare longingly at the sky. “Don’t you like it, Johnny? Knowing she’s always there?”

Johnny smiles, but he’s not sure it’s because of the celestial body he’s admired since he was a little boy, or the way you seem completely mesmerized by it.

“I’ve always loved her,” Johnny says fondly, stepping next to you with both hands on the railing, but he doesn’t look up. His eyes stay on you. He watches you sigh dreamily, and it makes him smirk. “Is this the part where we start singing about our heart’s wishes?” 

“What? Noo,” you chuckle, without taking your eyes off the moon. “It just means home must be close if we can see the same stars…” 

Right, home. Johnny forces himself to take his eyes off you, and as he peeks inside the empty living room, he notices Ben is no longer there. Perfect. 

“Come on, let’s go inside, princess,” he says, and you turn to him with a smile. 

He bows to let you go first, and you do a little bow in return. Your enormous skirt barely manages to cross the threshold with a few tugs. The black fabric at the ends, courtesy of the human torch, drags across the carpeted floors as you slowly take in every detail. He guides you into a big metal box, and presses a panel. You extend your arms for balance as the thing begins going up all of a sudden. 

“Fascinating,” you whisper.

Johnny watches you with a smile and pride blooming in his chest. The Baxter Building is a marvel even for normal people, to you? It must be mind blowing. The innocent awe in your face makes Johnny feel that familiar flutter of butterflies in his stomach he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Bad Johnny. 

“Okay, number one rule,” he clears his throat, compensating by the thing he does best: joking. “We’re going into the ogre’s swamp, so you’re better off not touching anything.”

He feels proud of it, at least until you look at him horrified and recoil in fear. 

“An ogre? Oh no no no no…” you shake your head, reaching for the panel and pressing it frantically until the thing stops moving. “I don’t like those, absolutely not.”

“No, wait, sorry,” Johnny apologizes. “It was just a joke. We’re going to my brother in law’s lab, and he’s a bit…particular,” he explains, and only presses the button to keep going up when you nod. “Just uh…follow my lead, and you’ll be fine,” he says, when the elevator comes to a stop.

He stretches his neck, bouncing slightly on his feet and giving himself a small pep talk you can’t really understand. Then the doors open to another colorful, open place that makes your eyes go wide. Johnny strolls in first, and you follow behind like an anxious lost puppy. 

“Reed!” he calls out dramatically, to a figure leaning over a counter. “I bring gifts from my mission!”

The man–not ogre, thank the stars–Reed, doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. His intention to ignore Johnny doesn't last long though, because he hears a pair of heels clicking on the floor that definitely don’t belong to his brother in law. He lifts his gaze, and his eyes immediately land on you.

“Why is there a bride in my lab?” He deadpans, looking at you up and down. “For the love of God, Jonathan, don’t tell me you–”

“Uh-uh,” Johnny cuts him off, holding a finger in the air before spreading his arms in a flourish to gesture at you. “I present to you: the steaming sewer.”

“Hiii!” You smile politely, waving at Reed. “Are you the ruler of this realm?”

Reed now looks at Johnny, exasperation written all over his face. “Explain yourself.”

“She came out of the sewer,” Johnny shrugs, looking too smug for his own good. “Dress and all.”

“I did,” you nod enthusiastically, not really helping at all.

Reed sighs, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers, but by the time he opens them again, you’ve already wandered to one of his old models with a curiosity that reminds him of his own son. 

“Oooh, what’s this?” You ask, reaching for a red lever.

“No, don’t touch–“

You gasp in delight as the lights flicker when you pull on it, but Johnny catches your hand just in time before you pull the whole thing and cut the power of the entire building. He gently guides you away from the counters, smiling apologetically at Reed’s resting bitch face. 

Ogre, indeed. 

The doors of the metal box you arrived in open again, and a woman storms in carrying a child in her arms. He doesn’t even look a year old. 

“Not only are you working late, but you’re messing with the power while I’m trying to put Franklin to bed and I–” The woman stops in his tracks when she sees you standing in the middle of the lab. Her eyes go to Johnny, and she only has to raise her eyebrows for him to look like a scolded child.

“Sue, I can explain. Don’t panic, she’s just a–”

“Pwincess!” The baby in her arm babbles, clapping his little hands together.

You coo at the baby, but stay put where you are, not wanting to crowd the woman narrowing her eyes at you. You gather the fabric of your dress and give them a little curtsy.

“Thank you, little bean. But I’m not a princess yet,” you say, pressing one hand to your chest. 

Sue notices the way you clutch the fabric of your dress nervously, and curiosity gets the best of her. 

“Did you escape from your wedding?” She asks, but there’s no real malice behind it. 

“I didn’t escape,” you shake your head, looking down to the floor. “I believe someone may have tried to kill me and I ended up here instead.”

“Oh honey,” her expression softens, not entirely sure why she believes you’re harmless to her family. At least at this moment. 

Johnny does, and he sighs, because now you’ve activated Sue’s mom instincts. How is he supposed to not get attached?

At least she won’t be telling him to kill you.

“Where exactly did Johnny find you, sweetheart?” She asks, bouncing little Franklin on her hip.

“Johnny says it’s called a sewer!” 

Sue just nods, looking between Reed and Johnny but the latter just smiles with a shrug. A sudden blue light washes over you, but before you can panic Johnny shows you it’s coming from a little device Reed is hunching over. 

“He’s just scanning you to see how we can help,” Johnny explains reassuringly, and you nod as the light keeps going all over you. 

“Fascinating,” Reed says after a few minutes, walking away from the thingy to circle you. “No traces of chemical intoxication. Her body has adapted to survive in our environment, but her clothing fibers are unlike anything I’ve seen on this planet.” 

“Oh! My dress was hand sewn with the help of my friends. Mouses and rabbits are very talented when it comes to special fabrics,” you say matter of factly. 

“Mouses and rabbits.” Reed repeats and you nod happily. Jesus Christ. 

“H.E.R.B.I.E told me you were all here. What’s going on?” A new voice echoes across the lab as the doors open again. ”Uhh, is Johnny getting married and didn’t tell us?” 

You turn around to see a tall man made out of orange rocks and your shoulders sag in relief. Finally, someone normal around here. But before you can ask him if he knows how to get to your kingdom, Reed is already gesturing for him.

“Perfect timing, Ben. Team gathering. Now.” 

Ben obeys, following him without taking his eyes off you. Sue walks past you, and Franklin giggles when he tries to grab one of your puffy sleeves and fails. Reed motions them deeper into the lab, and Johnny walks backwards to look at you. 

“Don’t touch anything,” he mouths, and your eyes drift immediately towards another lever device on the counter. “Especially that!” He whisper-shouts, and you nod innocently, clasping your hands behind your back.  

He flashes you a grin before jogging to meet the others, who are already explaining the situation to Ben. You can hear the whispering, but you can’t really make out what they’re saying, so you distract yourself with your own dress. 

On the far corner of the lab…

“She came out of a sewer, and you believe she’s a princess?” Ben asks, biting back a smile as he watches Johnny roll his eyes.

“She could be delusional. Experimenting a psychological episode perhaps.” Reed says.

“Then why didn’t your scans show anything?” Johnny crosses his arms. 

Reed hesitates, because the machine may not show physical abnormalities, but your mental state is a different thing. 

“My love?” Reed asks the person he trusts the most in the room.

“She looks harmless,” Sue shrugs, shifting Franklin who’s starting to fall asleep on her shoulder. 

“She is harmless,” Johnny says immediately.

“You've known her for like twenty minutes,” Ben teases. 

“Yeah, and in those twenty minutes she’s been overwhelmed, yet polite enough to ask for our help. After all we’ve seen lately, I think we’re safe–just…look at her.”

They all glance back. 

You’re standing exactly where Johnny left you, carefully lifting the edge of your gown and gasping in visible distress when you notice it has turned black.

“Oh no…my dress…”

Johnny mentally slaps himself when you look at the singed fabric with a sad face. Okay, maybe flying in flames while carrying a hundred pounds of magical tulle had been a bad idea.

“So who’s the lucky fella?” Ben whispers, nudging his arm to get his attention.

Johnny takes a second too long to take his eyes away from you, before turning back to the group with the answer. 

“She said she was marrying some prince named Eddie,” Johnny explains, trying to sound as casual as possible. “But I don’t trust him, what if he’s the one who sent her away?”

“Or…maybe you just want to steal his bride,” Ben says without hesitation, making Sue snort. Even Reed’s mouth twitches. 

Johnny groans, stepping back to point between them defensively. 

“No, no, no. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong! Absolutely wrong,” he defends himself, but his family has the audacity to laugh in his face. 

“Johnny–”

“No! This isn’t another Shalla-bal situation,” he insists, crossing his arms. “That was months ago. Besides, can you really blame me? She was gorgeous.”

“And do you think the princess is gorgeous?” Sue asks with a knowing smile. 

He glances at you once again, and it’s a bad idea, because Herbert has rolled into the room too and now you are bending slightly so you can pet his weird head. You were actually petting him. The droid is complimenting your dress, and you thank him giddily because you somehow understand what he’s saying. 

“I fear the gown may be ruined, though,” you add with a small laugh.

“It still looks pretty on you,” Johnny blurts out loudly from his spot. 

You straighten up to look at him, and your flustered face makes it difficult for him to not smile like a lovesick puppy. What the hell is happening to him? 

When he turns back around, everyone is staring at him. Johnny closes his eyes with a grimace, sighing. 

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“I say you’re toast already,” Ben says, amused, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Good thing you can handle some heat–“

“I’m not handling any heat–“

“Alright!” Reed shuts them up. “Until we understand what happened, we can’t exactly send her anywhere,” Reed says, exhaling in defeat.

That makes Johnny perk up immediately with a smile that’s nothing but trouble.

“So we’re keeping her?” He says. 

“We are letting her stay temporarily because she clearly needs help,” Sue corrects, giving him a warning look. “And you are going to behave.”

“Yes, absolutely!” Johnny nods, way too fast and completely unconvincing. Sue narrows her eyes at him. “Your mistrust wounds me, sister. I’m always on my best behavior.”

She glares at him one last time, before gesturing with her head at the group to walk back to you. She notices H.E.R.B.I.E has stuck to your side, and seems to be charmed by you as much as Johnny is. Which is another positive point in your favor.

“You can stay with us until we figure things out,” Sue says with a reassuring smile. “We’ll do our best to find your home.”

Your eyes go wide, the relief washing your face makes you look even brighter. Johnny has to keep himself from clutching his chest dramatically. 

“Oh, I’m eternally grateful to all of you,” you say, lifting the fabric once again to do a full curtsy. “But especially to you, Johnny of Manhattan, because you were the one to trust me enough to bring me to your castle,” you add with a smile, straightening up and walking toward him to pressing a soft kiss on his warm cheek. 

Johnny stills on his spot as your lips delicately graze his skin, before you pull apart a walk alway like nothing happened. His hand lifts instinctively to touch the spot you kissed, and this time his family’s snickers are inevitable.

Maybe Ben was right. Maybe he’s toast. Burned toast. 

As he watches you obliviously hum a little tune for Franklin, who’s drooling away on Sue’s shoulder, acceptance hits him like a train. 

He was absolutely doomed the second you climbed out of that sewer. 

Thank you for reading this small fairytale! Feedback is always appreciated 💗🦇

Gorgeous dividers by: @chachachannah

[lovebugism]

✶ — SPACE ODDITY !

part one | part two

summary: a year after losing you, johnny storm is on a mission to find you again - even though he isn't totally sure where you are, or if you even want to be saved. spoiler alert: it actually works this time. (20k)

pairing: johnny storm / f!reader

contents: strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst (hurt/comfort), grumpy x sunshine (grump!reader), johnny still can't flirt to save his life, cw for probable typos, swearing, mentions of child birth, mentions of blood and gore, smut 18+, mdni!!!

LISTEN TO THE FULL PLAYLIST HERE!

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                            ★。＼｜／。★

          you are all i long for, all i worship and adore. . .

                            ★。／｜＼。★

Johnny Storm’s plan to get you back can be, so far, succinctly summarized in five words: Strategies for a Parallel Universe. It’s a collection of dreams more than anything, but still fueled by the very real possibility that there are uncountable deviating realities in an ever-expanding universe. He figures there are probably at least a billion different worlds where he knows you, and likely half of those where he gets to spend a life with you.

A life where the Excelsior never crashed, where he never got his powers, where the Saturn Five never became the Fantastic Four, and where his life with you is painfully normal but still incomprehensibly beautiful all the same.

He spends an entire year mourning you, comforted only by that thought alone. You are still out there somewhere — not because he’s still in the denial stage of his grief, but because that’s what science tells him. He might not be able to reach you, and there might not be another version of him that gets to love another version of you, but you’re still there. Somewhere where the stars are glowing, and the colors are brighter, and the sky is shades of green instead of blue.

There’s a place out there, in the untouched infinite, where you’re happier. Where you never got hurt. And that’s the only thing keeping Johnny stitched together these days.

He stands in front of his floor-to-ceiling bedroom window while a gold-plated vinyl spins on the record player just behind him. H.E.R.B.I.E.’s been programmed to deliver any and all space transmissions directly to him, and Johnny listens to every single one — over a hundred tapes containing nothing but perpetual static, a few strange pops, and maybe a distorted gurgle if he’s real lucky. He always hopes, not-so-distantly, that at least one of them will hold the sound of your voice inside it.

Static fills the room while an orange sun sets over New York City, turning the newly remodeled Excelsior into glittering shades of gold, which always has a way of taunting him with its unwavering presence. Johnny prepares himself for an inevitable nothingness until, for the very first time, words begin to crackle through the never-ending white noise.

Johnny twists like a sunflower at the gutwrenchingly familiar sound of your voice.

“Mark for— Consumed— The Devourer— Your time is—”

The boy burns from the inside out as he gathers the others in the living room. They abide by his sudden urgency, though not without complaint. Reed grumbles under his breath as he ushers a heavily pregnant Sue up from the lab, while Ben puts a begrudging hold on the fancy ossobucco he’s been talking about all day.

The towering man seems almost pensive as the spinning vinyl crackles and pops before him. His pronounced brow furrows, and his calloused arms cross over his chest — his inhumanly large biceps strain against the fabric of his flannel shirt and sweater vest.

“My veal is still braising, by the way…” Ben murmurs into the static-filled silence.

“Shh!” Johnny snaps, wide eyes laser-focused on the golden record.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “I can’t let it sit too long, or it’ll get too soft—”

“H.E.R.B.I.E., can you go check on it, please?” Reed directs quietly, with a protective arm around Sue’s waist. The tiny robot beeps in an affirmative response before whizzing off towards the kitchen.

“This part!” Johnny exclaims as the transmission starts to sputter. He holds a palm out in front of him while his wild ocean gaze locks with his sister’s matching one. “Just listen…”

Your voice breaks through the heavy static. “Mark for— Consumed— The Devourer— Your time is—” It’s faint and barely there, but enough to knock the wind out of all of them. Ben’s sunken eyes widen in shock. The perpetual furrow between Reed’s brows fades slightly as he loosens the striped tie around his neck. Sue’s pink mouth parts as a gasp catches in her throat.

“Tell me,” Johnny huffs, sounding a bit like the air has been punched from his lungs as he motions to the spinning record. “Tell me that doesn’t sound exactly like her.”

Sue takes a slow step closer, leather flats scuffing the navy carpet. She pushes up the sleeves of her scarlet sweater to her elbows before crossing her thin arms over her chest. She tucks a rogue blonde strand behind her ear and tilts her head towards the record player’s speaker, waiting for the voice with bated breath. She exhales a wavering sigh of relief when it never comes again, drowned out by the static and the strange gurgles of dying stars and newly formed galaxies.

“It’s just a bunch of… garbled nothingness, Johnny,” the older woman shrugs with a wavering smile. “It could be anyone. It could be anywhere—”

“It’s her,” Johnny corrects with a fire behind his light eyes that tells her there’s no use in arguing with him now.

It took her the better part of six months to convince him that, even if they had a working ship, they wouldn’t be able to find you. The tracker in your spacesuit stopped working the day of the crash; likely due to excessive celestial interference, Reed hypothesized, or maybe because the fire was much too strong for the suit to resist. Either way, even if you had somehow survived, searching for you would’ve been a near-impossible feat — a one-in-a-hundred-billion odds.

Johnny almost believed that, too. Until now.

“I don’t know…” Reed sighs with a pair of anxious hands on his hips. “It does kinda sound like her…”

“Really?” Sue hums with a glacial-like glare that makes the older man cower.

“See?!” Johnny exclaims, beaming brighter than a thousand suns.

To him, this is a revelation. This is the promise he’s been waiting for — the assurance that you’re still out there, just waiting to be found. But to Sue, this is nothing short of destructive. It does nothing but erase a year of progress, a year of grief, a year in which Johnny all but lost himself, only to find himself again a little better than before.

Whether this distant, garbled voice belongs to you has nothing to say in the matter, ‘cause they cannot find you if you don’t want to be found.

Maybe it’s the older sister in her, the one who exists solely to protect her little brother — or maybe it’s the stubbornness that comes with being the eldest daughter, who is often the most rational and the most likely to be overlooked. But something strong pushes her hands towards the spinning record. The golden vinyl scratches sharply when she snatches it suddenly from the needle.

“Hey!” Johnny exclaims in protest.

“This isn’t healthy, Johnny,” Sue says with a shake of her head as she marches back towards the lab. “I don’t want you giving him any more transmissions, Reed.”

The older man grows very visibly shy. “Well, technically, H.E.R.B.I.E. gave it to him—”

“Well, then, I don’t want H.E.R.B.I.E. giving Johnny any more transmissions.”

The blue-and-white robot beeps in protest from where he stirs at the bright green gremolata.

“Well, Johnny is standing right here, you know?” the blonde boy argues at Sue’s disappearing figure. “And Johnny can hear everything you’re saying?”

“Just for the record,” Ben murmurs beneath the chaos. “Ben likes it when Johnny talks about himself in the third person—”

“This just means there’s a chance, right?” Johnny shouts.

The desperation in his strangled voice makes Sue pause on the edge of the staircase, still grasping the record in a white-knuckled grip. She looks over her shoulder and finds her baby brother all but glittering with hope, eyes wide and round and glassy.

“There’s a chance that she’s still out there. A chance that we can find her.”

“We’ll go to space again soon, Johnny, I promise…” Sue sighs.

The sincere look in her made-up eyes makes him groan. She still sees him as that little kid who needed her to kiss all his bruises better — not as a man in mourning, not as a man who could be right about something.

“It’s not about that, Sue—”

“When the people need us to—”

“It’s more than that, and you know it—”

“Not because you want to spend the rest of your life looking for someone who’s already gone—”

A wildfire rages behind Johnny’s glaring eyes, turning his balled fists into glowing shades of orange. The light around Sue refracts slightly and creates a rainbow halo around her body. Their new powers seem to mirror how the Storms hold their anger. It’s in Sue’s nature to hide inside herself, and it’s in Johnny’s to feel all of it and burn accordingly.

The stubborn stare-off is interrupted when their watches begin to beep with a new message, the urgency of which they feel vibrating from the tips of their fingers to the point of their elbows. The navy blue sky outside turns into shades of eerie gold in that instance, as something close to hellfire rains from the stars.

“Johnny…” Sue wavers, wide eyes turned towards the window.

He nods once. “On it.”

He takes off through the balcony, leaving a trail of fire behind him as he weaves through skyscrapers like a comet personified. The others speed off in the Fantasticar. They flit through the city and find Times Square in a state of utter chaos. Traffic piles quickly as distracted drivers crash or otherwise rush out of their cars in an attempt to find safety. Others linger in the streets, gaping in wonder at something in the suddenly starless sky.

As lightning flashes golden and ash rains like fallen stars, it’s hard to tell what exactly they’re looking at.

The Fantastic Four gather in the center of the bustling square, where police officers struggle to section off a perimeter with frightened pedestrians getting in their way. Helicopters whir loudly overhead, shining their blinding spotlights in every direction until they settle finally on something descending from the heavens — a speck of nothingness in the dark at first, then something resembling more and more human the further it falls.

The neon screens of Times Square go dark for a flicker of a moment, before a familiar face shines on every single one.

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                            ★。＼｜／。★

         so please put your sweet hand in mine,

         we'll float in space and drift in time. . .

                            ★。／｜＼。★

“Oh, my god…” Sue huffs like the breath has been knocked out of her.

Reed holds a weathered hand over his eyes to shield from the blinding lights overhead. The whipping autumn wind sends his tie flying around his neck. “Is that—” he tries to ask, but can’t quite get the words out.

“I knew it…” Johnny says with a strange sort of conviction. Neither scared nor surprised, but rather affirmed in a way, and only slightly relieved. A distant part of him always knew that he’d somehow see you again — whether it be in this life or a million others — he just didn’t expect it to be this soon, or for you to be like this.

You still look so much like the girl he left behind a year ago, unsmiling and uncaring and slightly dead behind the eyes. But there’s something different about you still, that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Maybe it’s the strangely detached look on your face, adding a foreign tension to your features — like a girl who’s been to war and back and wears the shell-shock all over. Or maybe it’s the way your eyes lock, and how the subtle glimmer of amusement Johnny’s spent a year dreaming of is absent now.

You look at him like he’s a stranger to you. Like he’s an ant you could crush beneath your boot without so much as a blink, much less a second thought.

“Are you the protectors of this world?” you ask from a story or more above them, floating in thin air like it’s nothing to you. The tone of your words matches the look on your face, robotic and disconnected. Hardly human.

“You don’t remember us—?” Johnny tries to ask. But when he goes to take a step closer to you, Sue holds a protective hand out in front of him. ‘Cause he might’ve been right about one thing, about your still being out there, but she can’t be totally sure that it’s still all you.

As her blue eyes scan over your form, she knows someone had to have made that suit you’re wearing — all silver with intricate gold trimming, clinging to your skin, made of something strong enough to withstand the perils of outer space. You were, admittedly, never good with your hands after all. And besides, what could’ve happened to make you forget about them in a year? And what exactly brought you back?

“Yes, we are,” the blonde woman answers with a firm nod. “You used to be, too, once… Doc.”

If the nickname is at all familiar to you, you don’t show it. You just keep staring at them, unblinking, like they don’t even have faces to you.

“This planet has been marked for death,” you announce, speaking to all of them now. “And your world will be consumed by The Devourer.”

Your sunken eyes scan the growing crowd, which gapes at you in fear now — a familiar face they used to know, now a total stranger. The doctor who once dedicated her whole life to protecting the world from the unknown now brings the promise of their demise.

“Do not try to stop him. He is as essential to this universe as the stars,” you continue despite the gasps and distant cries from down below. “Instead, keep your loved ones close, and speak the words you have been afraid to speak. Because your time is short.”

“Why?!” Reed shouts, stumbling over his words as he tries to make sense of it all. He keeps a protective hand on Sue’s lower back as his scruffy face twists in anguish up at you. “Why here? Why— Why now?”

Your response is immediate, like the answer is obvious; and it’s strangely even-toned too, more disconnected than either of them is used to. “Because He willed it,” you tell him slowly.

“Who did?”

A foreign name falls bitterly from your lips, “Galactus.”

Despite Reed’s previous instruction for the cops to let the Fantastic Four handle it, like they’ve been handling it for a year now, a police helicopter dives suddenly towards you — likely with no other thought than to kill you, or maybe just to stun you enough to overpower you. But even if that worked, the world would still be ending anyway.

Because it’s not you bringing death to the world, exactly.

You’re just its herald.

You phase through the heavy-duty glass and metal like it’s nothing to you, flying through the otherwise deadly spinning blades like a total ghost. You ascend towards the velvet night sky with constellations in your palms — the swirling silver energy at your fingertips must be helping your flight.

“Johnny…” Sue warns lowly, ‘cause she knows what her brother is thinking before he’s even thought it. And she knows he’ll only make it so far chasing after you before his flame can no longer weather the freezing atmosphere. “Johnny, don’t—”

He takes off in a flash, consumed entirely by fire as he follows you into the dark night. He pushes himself to his limits, flying past the city lights and ponderous black clouds to where the stars turn to ice — where the sky meets an all-black eternity, 100 kilometers above sea level.

Johnny still hears your voice in his head as he fights every bodily instinct to catch up to you. His flame dies quickly. His body tenses at the inhuman chill. He can just barely make out the silver-gold of your suit above him in the darkness, but he reaches out for you anyway.

Five lanky, golden fingers wrap suddenly around your wrist and tug you slightly downward. The unexpected touch, so unfamiliar it burns you, makes you falter. The silver energy in your fingertips flickers, and the lack of gravity whips you off kilter. You find yourself upside down in a blink — your legs above your head and your arm extended towards the strange blonde boy below, who grasps your wrist in a bruising grip. He’s not entirely unkind in the way he holds you, just desperate and aching with it.

Confusion swirls in your features as you stare down at him. His deep ocean eyes dart back and forth between yours like he’s looking for something in your gaze. In a split second of a fleeting thought, you wonder briefly what he’s looking for — what he would find inside your eyes, something soft or ugly or human.

But you’re none of those things now. You haven’t been for a long time, you think. You’re not made of flesh or blood, but of stars and death and time gone by.

So it’s easy for you to reel your fist back and hold your rage inside of it, because rage was your armour and rage had never rejected you like the rest of the infinite universe had. What else were you meant to do with the blood on your hands, anyway? Pray? Reach out for something human and hope it holds you back?

Johnny thinks he almost sees a flicker of emotion in your solemn eyes — like you recognize him, maybe, or that you almost want to. But then your hand drifts from his weakening one.

He sees the burst of bright white light from your fist before he feels it. A blast of energy washes heavily over him, not enough to hurt, but enough to push him away with the strength of a thousand suns. He tumbles gracelessly back to Earth while you continue your ascent towards the heavens.

Johnny wants to take a breath in, but the air’s far too thin all the way up here. He wants to blink, but he’s too scared to take his eyes off you. So he just watches you go, drifting further and further out of his reach, disappearing into the velvet infiniteness he once lost you in.

The silver-gold of you turns into a distant star, a beautiful echo of death.

And Johnny falls for you all over again, this time at the speed of light.

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                            ★。＼｜／。★

          all your letters in the sand

         cannot heal me like your hand. . .

                            ★。／｜＼。★

The news is calling you Ghost.

They talk of your sudden arrival and your herald of death; they call your cruelty bestial, which Johnny thinks is rather unfair. Your memorial still sits in the center of the city square, just outside of the Baxter Building — a constant reminder of what you had done for the world, and what the people down below had lost. Your gravestone was revered just as much as your work had been, as much as you had been. And now they call you bestial and violent and cruel. You were their sacrificial lamb and their executioner; their scapegoat and now their angel of death.

Johnny seethes accordingly, maybe because he’s more biased than all the rest of them. He’s got a sort of devotion for you that’s impossible to recover from, like a blade constantly pressed to his throat. Even now, despite the stranger you’ve made of yourself, he’d lie next to the cruel, violent beast if he could.

“I couldn’t catch her,” the blonde boy blurts as he bursts into the lab, where the rest of the Fantastic Four start to scramble — a chaos resembling that of New York City, and very likely, the rest of the world. His toned chest heaves beneath his fitted black t-shirt as he pants heavily, looming over Reed’s shoulder while the older man types aggressively at the bulky computer in front of him. “Are you guys tracking her?”

“She’s way too fast to track, Johnny,” Ben answers from his other side.

“She’s moving lightyears per second, is my guess,” Reed amends, half-distracted as his fingers fly across the keyboard. “But I’m trying to track where she’s been.”

The man slides in his swivel chair towards the adjoining desk and types something into the second computer there. Johnny remains in place, arms crossed over his chest, navy jacket straining against his biceps. He shares a long look with Sue as she murmurs into the headset resting over her ear and mouth.

“I’m not gonna say I told you so—” he tells her.

“I’m on the phone, Johnny.”

“—‘Cause that’s obviously unsaid.”

Sue’s icy gaze narrows into thin slits. “Well, it’s not unsaid if you say it.”

“Here,” Reed blurts as a series of green pixels fizzle on the big screen overhead. They seem to resemble a galaxy before zooming in on various planet-like shapes inside it. There is one noticeably missing, a chunk of nothingness with the words no data blinking over the uncanny void. “That’s DA-773, a planet in the Proxima Delphi system—”

“You’re saying Galactus ate that whole planet?” Ben wonders aloud, calloused features twisted with an incredulous look.

“Five of them, actually,” Reed corrects, still slouched over the computer. “Five that I’m aware of, anyway. I’m sure there are more that fit the pattern.”

Sue slides the headset from her platinum locks, wincing slightly when it snags. “And the pattern is… what, exactly?”

“That they’ve been chosen with great care. Targeted. Destroyed.”

“Wait, wait, wait—” Johnny huffs an emotionless laugh, waving his pale palms ahead of him. “You’re saying that all these planets disappearing— They’re connected to Doc?”

Reed nods once, scruffy face oddly stoic. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s not possible.”

“It is,” the man assures, clacking again at the keyboard until speckles of yellow and orange pixels light up on the computerized galaxy ahead of them. “I’ve identified her heat signature and matched it to DA-773. She was there. She was at all of them.”

“But how?” Ben presses. “She’s only been gone a year.”

“Over a year,” Johnny corrects, chiseled jaw tilted and blue eyes trained on the screen overhead. “A year, five months, and twenty-seven days, if you wanna be technical.”

Ben’s human eyes squint. “Thanks, Johnny. But it still doesn’t explain how Doc managed to be at five different planets in… a year, five months, and twenty-six days—”

“Twenty-seven.”

“If Doc is moving at the speed of light, which I’m assuming she is,” Reed explains, spinning in his chair to face the three of them. “Not only is it extremely possible for her to travel galaxies at a time, never mind planets— it also means there’s certainly some degree of gravitational time dilation here.”

Johnny blinks like an owl. “…Meaning?”

“Meaning that time has probably passed much differently for her than it has for us. What’s only been one year for all of us down here...” Reed clears his throat at the expectant, ocean-eyed look he gets from his brother-in-law. “A year, five months, and twenty-seven days—”

“Thank you.”

“—Could’ve been five years for her. Or ten, or twenty, or a hundred. Who knows?”

“Isn’t that kinda your job?” the blonde boy laughs cynically. “Aren’t you the guy who knows things?”

“I thought I was, yeah,” Reed answers honestly, and with a sympathetic twist to his scruffy features. He stopped thinking he was the smartest guy in the room when the four of them came back from space with superpowers and minus one prized passenger. Smart people don’t make that kind of mistake, he thought. Stubborn people do.

“Well, then, can’t you just figure it out?”

Reed rises suddenly from the swivel chair and strides towards the chalkboard across the room on long legs. He scribbles a series of numbers and letters in white chalk. It leaves an ashy mark on the inside of his wrist and falls in motes of dust to the floor.

“DA-773, for example, is roughly four light-years away, right? And let’s just say, it’d take… what? Five hundred thousand days to orbit the sun— hypothetically, of course,” he rambles, jotting the numbers into a sloppy equation that only he could comprehend.

The sound of chalk scratching against the board fills the momentary silence until Reed circles the answer he gets. He slams the white sliver hard against the green. The dull bang fills the quiet laboratory as he turns back around with wild eyes. “That means one Earth year is a little over a millennium on DA-733. But she wasn’t just on DA-733, right? I don’t know where she’s been, I don’t know where she’s going— So, forgive me, Johnny, if I can’t just figure it out.”

Johnny shifts his weight on his loafers and averts his gaze from the crazed man before him. “Sorry I asked…” the boy mumbles under his breath, faltering slightly when Sue nudges him with a half-hearted hand.

“The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s been a while,” Reed concludes with a chest-deflating sigh. “Enough for her to forget our faces, at least.”

“Well, if you’re right about this, and she’s really been going around destroying planets…” Ben grumbles a heavy breath. “Maybe she’s seen so many faces we don’t even look like people to her anymore. Maybe we’re just… targets—”

“Doc isn’t like that, Ben,” Johnny snaps before he means to. “You know that.”

“She didn’t use to be, no. But she didn’t use to have powers, either,” the taller man argues, shrugging an inhumanly broad shoulders. He pats the younger boy’s back with a coarse hand. “Face it, kid. We don’t know her anymore.”

His words pierce Johnny somewhere deep, a white-hot knife dug into the center of his sternum. He likes to think he knows you down to his bones, though he isn’t totally sure how true that is. He knows what to do to make you angry in a blink, and he knows exactly what to say to send you on a tangent about something you’re particularly interested in. He knows how sleep sits in your eyes right when you wake up in the morning, and he knows how they get squishy around the edges right before you’re about to cry.

Johnny knows you deeply, like an unexplored void — but he thinks he still could’ve spent his whole life learning something new about you. He hates that he only got two years. Two goddamn years that’ll plague the rest of whatever godforsaken years he’s got left in him. It’s hardly fair. For either of you.

“I knew it,” Johnny bites, face flaring with an emotion that stings at his eyes. He turns on his heel and parts from the group, unsure of where exactly he’s going, but just trying to get away. The sound of his loafers on the pristine tile fills the momentary quiet. “I told you guys, we needed to go back—”

“I thought you weren’t gonna say ‘I told you so?’” Ben quips quietly

“Yeah, well, that was before my girlfriend came back from the dead, trying to kill everyone because she forgot all about us,” Johnny blurts with a crazed look in his eye, gesturing wildly with his hands.

The other blinks at him for a moment.

“Girlfriend, huh?” Ben echoes with a smirk curling on his calloused mouth.

“How long to get the Excelsior launch ready?” Sue wonders aloud with a faraway look in her light eyes. She splays a pale palm over her round stomach and shrugs at the look of boyish surprise she gets from her little brother — who’d been longing for space his whole life, and would likely spend the rest of it longing for you.

“What? If this Galactus can do what Doc says it can, then either we go up there, or they come down here, so… We need to get ready.”

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                            ★。＼｜／。★

          last night i dreamt i had forgotten my name

         'cause i had sold my soul but awoke just the same. . .

                            ★。／｜＼。★

You can find him in the coldest corner of the most unforgiving part of the universe.

You won’t see him in the void, but you’ll know he’s there — like the rumbling thunder just before the storm breaks, or the scent of rain hanging heavy in the air before it pours. Two things you’ve long forgotten, though the memory still stains the deepest part of your mind; you can’t remember now if it was a life you lived or a dream you dreamt.

The only thing you’re sure of now is the void. And how its dark infinite is filled by the unwavering presence of your rage. You don’t know when you became so angry, only that you feel the burning embers of your wrath constantly, and how it’s manifested now in the billion-year-old god before you.

Galactus looms in the shadows of his throne room, which you don’t think you’ve ever seen in its entirety. When he’s not feeding, he’s here — in the darkness, praying for rest. You can’t see him, but you can hear his heavy breathing, like a wild wind blowing, low and raspy. It fills the quiet of the planet-like ship as you kneel at the platform’s edge before him. The thin suit clinging to your form, made of silver star polymer and pulsing with the golden energy keeping the ship afloat, bends with you.

“Mission report…” the god grumbles from somewhere far away.

You keep your gaze averted as your palm presses against the hardened steel beneath you. “Earth-928 is now yours,” you tell him in a practiced, robotic voice. “It’s guarded by four protectors, from what I could sense. They are unassuming, but… They will not go quietly.”

“They rarely ever do…” the quiet voice booms in the darkness. It would sound almost humorous, you think, if he were capable of that sort of emotion. Or any emotion at all.

You feel the shadows watching you as you rise from your kneeled position. Your muscles urge you to turn and walk back the way you came, just like you always do — to leave this wretched place as quickly as you can. But something weighs strange and heavy in your chest, keeping your feet locked in place.

“What is it?” the darkness questions in a low rumble that you can feel in the pit of your chest, as though he can sense your hesitancy.

Your trembling hands ball into stern fists. Your nails dig crescent shapes into the butt of your palm. “They asked me if I remembered them,” you admit in a wavering voice. “Like I knew them once…”

“Perhaps you did…” Galactus answers in an indifferent monotone. “Many lifetimes ago…”

You don’t know what he means by that.

You don’t know how many lifetimes you’ve lived in this void, or if there was a lifetime you lived before it. You only know that there’s a strange stirring feeling in the bottom of your empty stomach, which tells you that there was a certain sort of familiarity in those faces from before. That you’ve looked into those round button eyes of the stranger who had held you, that you’ve swam in the oceans trapped inside them.

“There was a boy—” you confess into the shadows, features crumbling at the recent memory. You think your skin still burns from where he’d touched you. “A boy made of fire… I— I think I knew him.”

Silence falls over the darkness like an ominous shroud. You don’t know what sort of response you’re looking for. You hardly expect Galactus to take pity on you — you’re not entirely sure he’s capable of that emotion, either. You just say it because it feels like you should. Because feelings aren’t supposed to exist in space, but for some reason, you feel like you’re drowning.

The quiet breaks when something shifts suddenly in the distance, like rock grinding against rock. A pair of purple eyes with entire universes swimming inside them pierce through the void when Galactus finally reveals himself to you — a large face, almost human, looming a world over you. Always taller than you expect him to be.

Beneath his ancient garb and inhuman eyes lies a god that almost resembles a person: chiseled features, large nose, thin mouth. If he weren’t a thousand feet tall, you’d almost think he was like you.

“Your work… has been a gift to mankind…” Galactus speaks in a slow drawl, vaguely accented, though you can’t tell where from. “This universe… is always at a tipping point… between chaos and creation… Always at risk of destabilizing the cosmos… There can be no life… without destruction…”

It’s important work, you know this. The death of a single planet means little in comparison to that of the entire cosmos; you know this, too. But still, you find there’s something lingering beneath the rage you’ve been taught to use as armor — grief, grief, grief — your heart beats with it, too.

You find yourself heavy with mourning, though for what, you could not say. For what could have been, maybe, or what can never be. For what you couldn’t save before and what you can’t save now.

“But I knew him,” you repeat, voice breaking like fragile glass.

Your feet lift from the ground before you can blink. Galactus lifts a heavy finger and strangles you in something you can’t see, an invisible rope around your legs and wrists and neck; your lungs and heart and stomach. You gasp for breath while your insides strain. The foreign pain makes you writhe.

“And yet… He will die, anyway… As all living things must…” Galactus tells you in a strangely even voice, despite holding the power to decimate you in a single blink. His cosmic eyes pierce you like daggers while his heavy voice rolls like thunder in your chest. “That is how the cosmos stays in balance… One life is not worth that of the entire universe… Understand?”

“…Yes,” you strain through gritted teeth when you finally find the breath to answer.

His face disappears in his home in the shadows. His purple eyes dim like a dying star. Only then do you fall back to the unforgiving ground. You land with a resounding thud on the merciless steel, as useless as a crumpled piece of paper, and heavy with the unbearable weight of remembering.

Visit Original Link

                            ★。＼｜／。★

          and i'm floating in a most peculiar way

         and the stars look very different today. . .

                            ★。／｜＼。★

Johnny didn’t think he’d be this scared. He’s done this before, and he’s thought about doing it every day since, but the vast emptiness of space is filled with thoughts of you.

As the Excelsior drifts through the starless void, he sees your face in his head — how you looked at him like you’re entire world was just beginning that day of the launch, and how worry had pinched your features just hours before the crash — how quickly your life had ended when you thought it was just getting started.

He thinks he’s hiding it pretty well, the existential dread, but really it’s coating his pale features like a Renaissance painting. Sue can see it from a mile away. Sometimes she thinks she can feel it, too.

“Johnny?” the blonde woman calls across the empty cockpit, while Ben and Reed track your movements on a touch-screen map in the back. She looks over at her brother, but he’s too distracted by the starry void to meet her gaze.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” she tells him in a low, mournful voice.

Johnny blinks hard as his head whips around to face her. He learned long ago that Susan Storm was incapable of doing anything wrong — she was far too righteous for any of that. Even when she was wrong, she was right. She’d never done anything with malice, certainly nothing that ever warranted an apology.

“For…?” he trails off with furrowed brows.

Her pink lip quirks in a sad sort of half-smile. “For not listening to you a year ago.”

Her words pierce him somewhere deep, a physical ache in his chest. He covers it up with a scoffed-out laugh. “Well, I don’t blame you. Obviously. So… You shouldn’t blame yourself either.”

“I can’t help it… She thinks we abandoned her out there, I just… I can’t help it.”

“Well, yeah, she might’ve. You know, if she actually remembered who we are,” Johnny quips, feigning a humorous air despite the heavy weight in his chest. “Besides. It won’t matter when we get her back, right?”

For the first time, maybe ever, his boyish optimism doesn’t seem so far-fetched. Sue smiles as she rubs a soothing palm over her round bump, now hidden beneath her bulky spacesuit. “Did you ever tell her?” she murmurs vaguelly, but with a knowing squint in her light eyes.

Johnny flashes her a dubious look in response, brows pinched and eyes round like buttons. “Tell her what?”

“That you loved her.”

The boy swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he averts his suddenly shy gaze. “No… But I think she knew, anyway—”

“Everyone knew, Johnny,” Sue scoffs. “I’m asking if you told her.”

Johnny thinks for a moment, then shakes his head in response until the emotion stops strangling him. “No, I… I ran outta time, I guess.”

“No, you didn’t…” the older woman insists warmly. When the boy perks, she grins and nods her head towards the window. “‘Cause she’s still out here, remember?”

It’s supposed to make him feel better. And it does, in a way. Just the knowledge that you’re there is enough to rest his grieving heart — if he doesn’t focus too much on the whole Galactus bit, that is.

Reality hits Johnny hard when Reed tracks your heat signature to a dying planet, and a ship a thousand times bigger than the Excelsior, which drags them in like it’s got its own gravitational pull. They’re only able to dodge the chunks of imploding planet by way of the red beam of light that pulls them into the eye of the spaceship — where they find you waiting for them, floating in thin air, bathed in a daunting scarlet hue.

“I think we found your girlfriend, Johnny…” Ben murmurs from the pilot’s seat when the Excelsior goes dark with a quiet hiss.

They watch in a crimson-coated silence while you drift towards them, phasing through the otherwise impermeable fiberglass without blinking. The boots of your golden-silver suit hit the floor with a metallic thud. You don’t say a word for several long moments while your eyes scan the four strangers ahead of you.

You catch Johnny’s gaze and hold it for longer than he expects. A mixture of excitement and fear makes his heart spike into his throat. He swallows hard. “Hi…” he greets, trying to be somewhat casual despite the waver in his voice.

You say nothing to him as you turn away. “Galactus will see you,” you announce.

Reed rises abruptly from the seat behind Ben’s. The older man towers over you, weathered features lined with a worry that looks almost familiar. “I’ll go,” he blurts.

“All of you,” you tell him, gaze hardened as you look slowly over your shoulder.

Sue’s breath catches in her throat when you meet her eyes. Your stare darts from her worried features, to the bump beneath her suit, and to her face again. Her pale hands cradle her round stomach on instinct.

She thinks she sees something mournful threatening to pinch your stoic features when you tell her, “You should not have come…”

Galactus’ ship is made of steel and fire and something golden. The unknown energy swirls in the veins of the ancient vessel, faraway but with a strength they can feel in their chest, as you lead them further inside. The gold beats in your suit, too, like a living-breathing thing. Johnny wonders if you’ve absorbed the energy from this ship, if that’s what’s kept you alive all this time, or if it’s the other way around.

“What does Galactus want?” Reed wonders aloud, muffled beneath his helmet, from where he trails behind the rest of the group.

“He does not want,” you deadpan from the head of it.

“Then what is he doing?”

Without looking back at him, and without any inflection in your voice, you answer, “Feeding.”

Sue, leading the line of four astronauts, wonders aloud, “And how does he choose which planets to feed on, exactly?”

“He does not.”

Silence falls heavily over the blathering strangers — filled only by the sound of heavy footsteps against the metal pathway and the distant crush and sizzle of the dead planet, as the half-sentient ship harvests its energy. You think all you’ve ever known is this silence, but something about this one feels strikingly different for a reason you can’t name.

You make the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. You find the older woman’s narrow face contorted in a look of surprise and disgust, fear. Something about that look feels strikingly different, too.

“You choose?” Sue concludes on bated breath.

“Yes,” you nod once and turn away again.

Constellations swirl in the palm of your hands just before your feet lift off the ground. Flight comes naturally to you, as effortless as blinking or breathing. You navigate the ship with a similar ease, leaving the strangers to walk the labyrinthine walkway alone, while you take a shortcut over the rolling sea of lava.

Johnny doesn’t think before following behind you. It’s as instinctual for him as blinking or breathing, too.

“Johnny, where are you going?” Sue cautions into his comm.

“I’m gonna charm her,” the boy insists as he flies off in a burst of orange flame. He can practically hear Reed’s voice in his head as he goes. You have to monitor the gauge, Johnny, the man said. Don’t burn through your air reserves, Johnny.

Ben’s amused scoff crackles through the static. “‘Cause that worked so well for you last time, huh?”

“It did, actually,” Johnny quips, chest swelling at the not-so-distant memory — of every time he failed to flirt with you, and the one time it finally worked.

Sometimes, if he concentrates real hard, he can still feel your legs around his waist and your heavy breathing on his neck. Even now, when he drifts at your side and you refuse to spare him a second glance, he can still feel your lips on his mouth.

“Hey,” he greets clumsily, half-muffled by his helmet. “How’s it going—”

“No more questions,” you interject in a monotone.

“One more question,” Johnny insists, then continues at your silence. With his heart in his throat, he wonders aloud, “You remember me, don’t you?”

Your head whips around to face him. You reveal very little on your tired face, but he can tell his words have impacted you in some way. Even if you don’t exactly remember him, at least a part of you feels that you should.

“I could tell,” he says with a boyish sort of assurance that shines in his eyes, though perhaps that’s just the lava flowing just below your feet. “When you touched my head, you recognized me. Before you blasted me back to Earth, anyway…”

Emotion softens the sharpened edges of your face. You swallow it down like bile and turn away. “Maybe I did,” you monotone, hearing Galactus in your own voice. “Many lifetimes ago.”

“No,” Johnny blurts before he means to, with a stubborn shake of his blonde head. “No, it was— It was this lifetime ago, actually. A year ago. A year, six months, and twenty-eight days ago…”

You drift to a slow stop. Heat from the molten lava below you is heavy and all-consuming, though not quite powerful enough to pierce through your suit. “A year?” you echo with pinched brows, like you’re trying the word on for size.

Time is foreign to you now. What does a year mean when you’ve spent so many lifetimes here? What does a year mean when you think you had a life before this, but can’t remember it now?

Johnny nods rapidly as he looms just ahead of you, aching to close the distance. The flame engulfing the lower half of his form refracts the light around him, creating a vague sort of shimmer around your bodies.

“We went to space. All five of us,” he motions a gloved hand to the strangers on the walkway. “But we crashed on the way back, and… We lost you.”

“And no one came for me?” you hear yourself asking.

His chest pinches beneath his many layers of clothes. He can feel his heart liquefying just now, burning to ash behind his ribcage. “We— We couldn’t,” he stammers. “Our ship— It was destroyed. We barely made it out of the damn thing— But we… we wanted to, okay? I swear—”

He cuts himself off when his suit begins to beep rapidly in his ears. He flicks his wrist to check the source of the sound. 10% Low, his watch reads. 02 Level Critical. His flame is burning out his air supply, just like Reed warned him it would.

“Shit…”

“You should go back,” you tell him and fly on ahead without another word.

Johnny doesn’t have a choice but to obey. He heads back towards the group, landing at the very back of the line, and walks the rest of the way on foot.

“How’d it go?” he hears Ben ask in his comms.

“Yeah, it went okay,” the boy shrugs. “She definitely thinks we abandoned her out here, but yeah… It was fine.”

“So she dumped you already?” the man quips.

“Can you blame her?” Reed wonders aloud, glancing at the blonde boy over his shoulder and faltering at the look he gets. “Not that she dumped you— I mean, that we left her here. Look at this place…”

A ship made of fire and burning wreckage is hardly a home, and yet you had to live here anyway. It’s hardly surprising, Johnny figures, that the girl who spent lightyears in a burning house has been convinced the rest of the world should burn, too.

The path ends at a cliff’s edge. The only thing on the other side is total darkness. They can’t tell if it ends or if it goes on forever — if it’s empty or if something’s looking back. They figure there must be something lurking in the abyss as your footsteps slow to a pause just next to them. You raise your arm and motion ceremoniously to the void.

“You now stand before Galactus,” you announce in a detached monotone, dead behind the eyes as you stare off into the nothingness. “He honors you.”

Johnny blinks, and suddenly there are two eyes staring back at him — bright purple and looming several stories above them. A large face emerges from the darkness, looking almost human but not quite. The four of them stumble back as a primitive sort of fear spikes in their chest. They knew they were meeting a planet-eating god, but even still, his towering size was unimaginable before now. They have to tilt their chin to see him fully — a half-man, half-god sitting on an ancient throne.

“We’re honored,” Sue says to be respectful of the world-eater before her, low voice strangely even despite the glaring circumstances.

“I was a little thing like you once… Billions of years ago…” Galactus booms, loud like rolling thunder. The kind of thunder that shakes your house, that wakes you up in the middle of the night in a total panic. His voice is heavy and low, like it pains him to speak. “A man from another world. Before this relentless, eternal hunger… You have traveled far.”

Reed nods once, visibly terrified but fighting it. “Yes.”

“She said you would not go quietly…” Galactus observes in a faint rumble.

You feel the strangers eyeing you, but you refuse to meet their gaze. Johnny, standing closest to you but still several feet away, stares unabashedly at your profile — ocean eyes round and swimming with apprehension, flitting across your familiar features. Every part of you is so familiar to him that it makes his stomach ache, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a total stranger to him now.

“We want to talk,” Reed says in a trembling voice.

“You carry the power to save your world…” the god grumbles.

“Yes. I believe we do.”

“Inside her…” Galactus continues, large face leaning closer as his purple eyes zero in on Sue. “The child… He hungers…”

“What does that mean?” Reed spits.

“I will spare your world… In exchange for the boy…”

Sue gasps. The oxygen in her suit feels thinner now as she suddenly struggles for air. “What?” she asks on bated breath, eyes darting between you and the god looming before her.

Johnny does the same. His gaze is wild and glittering as he glances at you, then at Galactus, then back at you again. For the first time since he found you, he watches emotion flood your features.

Your inherent sense of humanity seems to return to you in that split second, though you don’t know exactly why or where it’s coming from. You just know that your adrenaline has spiked, running ice cold in your veins — with fear, maybe, or with an empathy you didn’t know you possessed.

“But he’s just a baby,” you blurt, with a newfound waver in your voice.

“He possesses the power cosmic,” Galactus thunders. “And he will inherit this cursed throne—”

“No, that’s not true!” Reed wavers with a stubborn shake of his head. “He’s normal! We would know— I tested the child!”

“He hides his nature from you…”

Sue stumbles back with a protective hand on her stomach. “No…” she murmurs, voice breaking as burning tears gather in her eyes.

“Yes…” Galactus croons, so low it shakes the ground beneath them.

He leans in closer until only his eyes are in view, until his glowing gaze forms into more distinct irises — galaxy purple, with wide black pupils, and the silver moon shining within them. Human, but not quite.

Sue makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. She feels his stare somewhere deep in her soul, twisting the pit of her stomach and squeezing her pounding heart.

The baby in her belly writhes restlessly, the way he often does in the early hours of the morning, but this time is different. This time, Sue feels him dropping. Painfully so. A throbbing ache blooms in her stomach and shoots down her legs. A pained groan bubbles in her throat and leaves her mouth before she can stop it. Reed reaches for her instinctively when she doubles over.

“What are you doing to her?!” Johnny yells at the god before him. His head whips around to face you, finding your features contorted in a similar sort of fear. Louder, he shouts, “Doc, what is he doing to her?!”

“You will not have our planet!” Reed says in a pained promise while a groaning Sue clutches onto his suit. “And you will never have our son!”

Galactus says nothing as he rises to full height. Standing hundreds of feet taller than the humans below, his glowing eyes paint the wreckage around them a haunting purple. “I will eat your child slowly…” he grumbles. “…While your child watches.”

Sue wails.

She’s nearly brought to her knees at the foreign, flaring pain. She’s kept up only by Reed’s strong arms around her as he tries to usher her back to the Excelsior. Johnny, meanwhile, bursts into a blinding white-orange flame as he takes off towards the towering god. You feel the heat of his fleeting fire radiating over your body the same way the fear does.

Galactus could swallow Johnny whole without blinking if he wanted. He could kill Sue just as easily, too — and even if she somehow managed to evade him, the void waiting outside would certainly not be kind to her labor. But if they were somehow strong enough to defeat this billion-year-old god, and if Galactus could not eat, they would all die anyway. All of them. The universe in its entirety.

Caught between your anger and your grief, between what you want to do and what you know you have to, you take off after the boy made of fire.

It’s hard to keep up with him, even as fast as you are, as he dashes through towering structures. The debris rains down and explodes as it falls, filling the dark throne room with wild orange flames. You dodge sinking wreckage and balls of fire with ease, but fail to catch the boy before he vanishes through the rolling pit of lava at your feet.

The ship fills with flame and ash and rubble. The smoke clouds your vision as you try to find a safe place to land. You blink rapidly to clear your stinging gaze and spot the strangers scattering down below.

The strong man made of something tougher than rock runs through the structures in his way with an admirable finesse. They crumble under his weight, hiding them all in a cloud of waste and smoke. Through it, you see Reed struggling to swing himself and Sue through the burning ship with only one long arm.

“I need the child…” Galactus roars in a deep rumble in your ear. “Do not let them leave…”

Small pieces of raining shrapnel scrape your face while rising red flames scorch your exposed skin. You fly through the ancient ship — once as dead and dark as outer space, now a raging hellscape you hardly recognize. You grow quickly lost in it accordingly, along with the strangers down below.

Johnny makes a swift getaway in the lava, only to come up again in a place he doesn’t recognize. Ben gets buried beneath the destruction as Galactus destroys his own ship to find the child. Reed loses his grip and dives right for the fire, making the swift decision to drop Sue before she can be consumed by the rising flames.

The woman pants through another sudden contraction, on her hands and knees, subconsciously creating a force field around herself to keep from breathing in the fallen ash.

And that’s exactly how you find her.

There’s a strange clearing, immune to the grey smoke and orange fire and raining debris. You can hear pained breathing, though the person it’s coming from is hidden from view. Sue suddenly materializes in a flicker of refracted rainbow light, as a crumpled ball on the ground.

She lifts a tired arm in a feeble attempt to knock you backward with the light in her palm — until a contraction rattles through her weak body, taking all of the energy out of her.

“Please…” the woman begs through gritted teeth, muffled behind her helmet, though her pallid features behind the glass strike you almost physically.

You have the upper hand now. It would take nothing for you to kill her. The energy surging in your fist just now would be enough to render her unconscious, and for Galactus to take the baby from her belly, and for the lightyears of bloodshed to end. But something stops you.

Through the rising flames and falling ash, you spot something in the distance — the Excelsior looming in dark smoke, flickering in waves of extreme heat.

You lift your fist and watch as Sue cowers, until your trembling forefinger lifts to point behind her.

When the woman struggles to her feet, something within you rushes immediately to help her. You wrap one of your arms over her shoulder and curl your other just behind her back. You walk with her through the wreckage, carrying her weight as if it were your own.

Sue blinks smoke from her glassy eyes. Her lidded gaze darts wildly over your profile, familiar but still somehow strange. “Why are you doing this?” she wonders through labored breaths.

“I don’t know,” you answer robotically, and without looking her way.

Her brows pinch. Her ocean eyes flicker. Her pink lips quirk in an almost-smile. “Yes, you do,” she tells you, though you’re not quite sure what she means.

The sanctuary of the quiet Excelsior fills quickly with the sound of Sue’s pained screams, each groan bouncing off the stark white walls around you. The woman braces herself on the desk bolted to the floor and makes careful work of stripping off her bulky suit. Her helmet clatters to the floor first, and her white cap goes with it. The blue and white uniform, and the garments underneath, become a forgotten pile on the floor. She’s left only in a black tank top and matching shorts.

Her knees buckle under the weight of another contraction. She grits her teeth and swallows down another shout. She vaguely feels a cold palm over her clothed stomach before the tension in her abdomen ebbs.

Her wild eyes dart from your hand, to you kneeling beside her, and to your hand again. Your fingers glow a starry silver. She doesn’t know what you’re doing — she doesn’t know if you know what you’re doing — but she doesn’t want you to stop.

Her following contractions come much easier to her, equally tight but mostly painless.

The others rush in together. Reed bursts in first, followed by a limp Johnny over Ben’s broad shoulder, just before the blonde boy is thrown half-carelessly to the ground. He tears off his helmet to reveal his reddened face and inhales the deep, ragged breath his lungs have been screaming for.

The older man exhales a relieved sigh when he sees his wife. His chest pinches all over again a second later at the sight of you. Sue catches the protective flicker in his dark eyes. “Don’t!” she warns. “She’s helping!”

His wide, fearful eyes dart to you then. He finds your gaze swimming with a similar panic. “He’s coming,” you tell them, when a powerful energy surges through your chest.

“Who?” Johnny pants.

“Galactus,” you answer solemnly.

“The baby!” Sue shouts at the same time, cutting herself off with a groan.

You ease her pain once more with a pair of sparkling fists. It’s enough to convince the others not to kill you.

Ben and Johnny rush to pilot the ship off the ground while Reed stays at Sue’s side. He lets her nearly break his fingers with the power behind her pale grip.

Not long after the Excelsior has taken flight off the fiery ship, does a loud beeping fill your ears.

“Guys…” Ben’s gravelly voice warns from the cockpit. “I don’t wanna alarm anyone, but I think Johnny’s mess punctured the fuel gauge—”

“Sorry for saving your ass,” Johnny scoffs from a distance.

“I think I saved your ass, actually—”

“Well, we remember five minutes ago very differently, then, don’t we?”

You struggle to keep Sue at ease while the gravity dissipates. You meander aimlessly in thin air and struggle to keep the energy focused on her belly. Reed plants his feet on the ceiling and extends his torso to keep the woman pinned to the desk. He holds her there with one outstretched arm and throws his other to the opposite end of the shuttle. You watch anxiously as he taps at the screen on the wall, feeling Galactus’s nearing presence in your chest even though you cannot see him.

“We’ll need to get to 0.88 the speed of light to have a shot back home,” the man shouts back.

“We don’t have the fuel for that!” Ben tells him.

“I can do it,” you murmur, quiet but no less stern, even at the dubious glance Reed gives you. “I’m fast.”

Sue shakes her head, blonde locks floating in a wild halo. “I need you here,” she protests, through a pained grunt.

“Tell me what to do, Reed,” Ben yells, panic coating his every word. “We don’t have much time!”

Reed hesitates for a moment, equal parts unsure of your intentions and worried for your well-being. Either you help them get out of here now and risk potentially dying, or Galactus catches up to you and you die anyway. But, he figures, you all almost died the last time he refused to listen to you — for a while, they thought you did die — so he decides to hedge his bets.

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” Reed says lowly, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding you. “But I need you to do it now.”

You nod once and part from Sue with a quiet 'I’m sorry,' floating on the microgravity towards the cockpit. The beeping alarm gets louder the closer you get. You find the room bathed in a flashing, neon blue light.

Ben and Johnny’s features contort in a mixture of shock and slight fear at your sudden presence. Through bated breaths, you tell them, “Jump to light speed… on my signal…”

“Wait, what’s the signal—?” Ben goes to ask, but you’re gone before he can get it out.

You phase through the fiberglass window of the shuttle, swathed in a swirling silver-gold. You blink, and the whites of your eyes glow the same color as the energy in your fists.

Johnny and Ben squint when you burn brighter than the sun before them. With their palms over their eyes, they watch as the empty galaxy starts to blur around you, bending around your glowing form.

“I think that’s the signal,” Johnny murmurs with his heart in his throat.

“Everybody hold on!” Ben shouts as he reaches for the lever on his right side. He pulls it towards him with a calloused hand, and the shuttle lurches into lightspeed.

The four of them travel through your hyperspace portal in a blink. The force of it knocks you backwards as you try to phase through the fiery nose of the Excelsior. You struggle to keep control of your body as the pressure ebbs and flows rapidly around you. Your still-glowing fingers just barely manage to pierce through the windshield while the rest of your body is pulled in the other direction.

Johnny struggles to unbuckle himself with anxious hands.

“Be careful, kid…” Ben wavers through gritted teeth, all but pinned to his seat from the unforgiving blast of gravity.

“Always am—” he argues.

He unlatches his strap with one hand while his other reaches out for you. His pale fingers wrap brutally around your wrist, using all of his strength to pull you the rest of the way inside. Your limbs entwine with his own as the surge of energy sends the two of you flying.

Your back hits the far wall of the cockpit with a loud thud. The impact rattles through your suit and down your spine. With Johnny’s lean body pressed to the front of yours, your noses are no more than inches apart.

You can feel each of his panted breaths brushing your chin. His hand, still holding yours, squeezes your fingers in a quiet reassurance — keeping you tethered to him as the gravity ebbs and you threaten to drift apart again.

I’m not letting go of you, he tells you without words — with only his wild ocean eyes that dart back and forth between yours. Not again. Not ever.

The silence that fills the Excelsior then is different than all the other silences you’ve come to know. Not empty or cold, but soft and warm. So, so warm. Broken only by a distant whine of a baby’s first breath.

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          i'd show them the stars and the meaning of life

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They tell you that you used to live in this place. They put you in a heavy black sweater and a pair of baggy jeans and tell you that those used to be yours, too. You don’t know how much any of it means, though — ‘cause Sue still had to sneak you into the Baxter Building to keep you hidden from the roaring crowd. What does it matter if this life used to be yours, if you’re nothing but a stranger in it now?

The only thing you’re good for is giving them intel on Galactus, who’s a whole lot more familiar to you than the strangers here on Earth. But, in the grand scheme of things, you’re pretty shitty at that, too. Because he’s the god of death. And you’re nothing but his herald.

“The universe is always at a tipping point— between chaos and creation,” you told them. “If Galactus does not feed, the cosmos will become unstable, and the universe will die—”

“But why Franklin?” Sue questioned from the round couch at the head of the lab.

“Galactus is billions of years old, yes. He has seen universes die and start again, yes. But, like all living things, he just wants to rest… And he will need a very powerful successor to absolve him of his hunger…” you explained over Franklin’s distant cooing as Ben swayed him in his strong arms.

The sight of the swaddled child made it hard to breathe, like there was a tension in your throat you couldn’t swallow through. You could feel the baby’s power in your chest the same way you could always feel Galactus’.

“And, like all living things, he is scared…”

“Of Franklin?” Johnny pressed with a deep furrow to his brows.

“Yes. And you should be, too.”

“He’s a baby,” Sue scoffed. “He’s my baby— How could I be scared of him?”

Your hardened stare makes her breath catch. “This baby will see universes rise and fall. He will be the last living thing this universe will know, and he will feed— Just like Galactus. Not because he is evil, but because he just is,” you rambled in a single breath. “He is your baby, yes. But he is also a god. Stronger than a god.”

Your rant was unceremoniously punctuated by Franklin’s gag as the “future god” in question spat up on himself. The baby then giggled in a quiet, breathy coo at the look of disgust on Ben’s calloused features. A sweet and soft little thing, bound to this world’s executioner.

Your rant was unceremoniously punctuated by Franklin’s gag as the “future god” in question spat up on himself. The baby then giggled in a quiet, breathy coo at the look of disgust on Ben’s calloused features. A sweet and soft little thing, bound to this world’s executioner.

In a feeble attempt to distract you from the impending doom, which you carry now like a black hole in the center of your chest, Johnny takes you to what he says used to be your bedroom. Untouched and unlived in.

The bed is made and pressed against the wide window on the far wall — the most optimal spot to stargaze. Yellow sunlight streams in gentle rays through the sheer curtain, bathing the room in a faint golden glow. It spotlights your desk on the adjoining wall, which is much more lived-in in comparison. Papers, both typed and handwritten, are scattered along the surface. Heavy books have been left open and abandoned. Novels you never got to finish collect dust on the tall bookshelf.

You dig your bare feet into the plush rug in the center of the room and hear yourself say, “I used to live here?”

You don’t realize how sad it sounds until it’s left your lips. I used to know this place like the back of my hand, your words really mean. And it’ll never be truly mine that way again.

“Yeah,” Johnny nods. He parts from your side in a flash, leaving the faint musk of his cologne behind as he hurries to the desk. He waves his hand vaguely off to the side as he searches for something in the drawers. “All those books, those were yours. You wrote some of ‘em, even. And look—”

He turns back around with a wide smile and a stack of photos. “These pictures are yours, too… Some of ‘em are of us, actually.”

Johnny closes the distance to pass you the polaroids. Your colder fingers brush his golden ones when you take them. The pile is heavy in your hands, weighted with nostalgia.

The photo on top is poorly developed, featuring a series of five silhouettes hidden behind powerful white sunrays. You slide that one away and move it to the bottom of the stack.

The next polaroid is a better version of the one before it. The shadows are now people in spacesuits, and the person on the far left is wearing your face. Johnny’s squinting one eye at the orange morning sun with his heavy arm thrown over your shoulder while you scowl at the camera.

You slide that one away with a hesitant hand, and only then remember to blink. The next picture is a face you don’t recognize — a scruffy man with a narrow jaw and gray eyes, frozen mid-conversation with you. This must’ve been Ben, you figure, before the rock-like callouses masked his human features. You tuck that polaroid below the rest, too, in absentminded motions, just before your breath catches in your throat.

You vaguely hear Johnny mumbling something over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. “Hold on, I’ll be right back,” you think he says before his footsteps rush out of the room.

The picture staring back is of Johnny and you, though you hardly look a thing like yourself. You’re in matching baggy blue pants and form-fitting t-shirts, feet off the ground as you navigate the microgravity of the Excelsior.

You’re posed like two people in a waltz, hands clasped together with his free one on your lower back, though he seems to be enjoying it much more than you do. You’re frowning and sleep-torn, while he’s all wild-haired and parted-mouth like he’s midway through song.

You think you can almost hear the music he was singing then. You think you can remember the feeling of his touch, too — warm and gentle and all-consuming. It’s a memory that’s almost yours, but not quite.

“Here,” Johnny says to announce his arrival, panting slightly as he rushes back into the room. You struggle to tear your eyes from the photo in your hand. You find the boy clutching an astronaut helmet between his lanky fingers. “Put this on.”

Without a word from you, Johnny snatches the polaroids from your grip and tosses them haphazardly onto the desk behind you. They scatter there along with everything else.

You flinch slightly when he slides the helmet over your head. It sits heavy on your shoulders, just slightly too big for you. Your nose crinkles at the scent of sweat and stale cologne stinging your nostrils. “Smells bad…” you mumble under your breath

“It’s the… pheremones,” Johnny stammers. “Don’t worry about it.”

Your fingers fidget with the steel edge of the helmet as you peer at him through the raised visor. “I don’t understand—”

“Just listen…” the boy coos before pressing a button on his bulky watch.

Static fills your ears. A series of familiar voices follow suit. “Remember that date I asked you on?” Johnny wonders suddenly, words crackling through like a song on the radio.

“Which one?” yours asks in a much more distant monotone.

“Any of ‘em? Is it too late to hash that out, you think?”

“Well, you can’t exactly take me out for coffee now, can you?”

You hear the pink smile in his words even now when he tells you, “Well, we get back in two weeks, Doc. I’ll have plenty of time to take you out for coffee then.”

“Trust me, Johnny Storm, you’ll be sick of me in two weeks…”

His laughter fills your ears, a bright cherry-pink color, even through the heavy static. It pierces your chest like sunrays. You can feel the honeyed sound almost physically. “I’ve seen you every day for the past year, Doc. If I’m not sick of you now, I don’t think I’m ever gonna be.”

There’s a long beat of silence filled only by the white noise in your ears. You furrow your brows and close your eyes, fingers gripping the bottom of the heavy helmet as you fight to guess your next words.

You should remember what you told him. You should remember everything, all these memories that used to be yours. But you don’t know what happened to them — where they went without you even noticing their leaving.

“…Coffee, then?” you murmur after several long moments. “When we get back, I mean.”

You swear you can almost see Johnny’s bright pink smile stained behind your eyelids. “It’s a date, Doc—”

The boy presses a button on his watch, and the voices click to a sudden stop. You feel their absence in your chest, in the deep void there that’s seemingly replaced your heart. Your eyes stay shut as your face screws in a pained sort of look, trying and failing to remember what was said after that — like that part of your life is just a movie you can only half-remember seeing.

“Why don’t I remember?” you wonder through gritted teeth.

“Because it’s been a long time for you, I think,” Johnny murmurs, ocean eyes round with a palpable sympathy.

Your eyes are slow to open. Your glassy gaze darts wildly over Johnny’s features — over his button eyes and pink mouth, his large nose and sparse freckles — like you’re trying to memorize him. Like, if you think hard enough, your brain will put the pieces together itself, and he won’t be a stranger to you anymore.

Words tumble suddenly from your mouth before you even realize you’re saying them, “I want to remember…”

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The following days are a whirlwind. Between tracking Galactus’ movements, plotting ways to stop him, and dodging an increasingly ornery public, Johnny tries to remind you what life was like before. Before the void. Before your humanity was so ruthlessly stripped away from you. Before you forgot that you had once fallen in love with him.

You made it strangely easy for him in that regard, being the kind of person you are, never wanting attention by any means but receiving all of it anyway.

He shows you all the articles you’d written to help you understand how you saw the world. Then he shows you all the articles written about you to help you understand how the rest of the world saw you. ‘Perhaps the most eminent female astrophysicist of our time’ — that’s how they describe you. Or, at least, the you you used to be.

The news publications show you in vivid technicolor, always so solemn compared to the smiling astronauts beside you, but still more full of life than you are now.

You hardly talk in any of the interviews, despite a few throwaway one-word answers — but there’s one shot on shaky camera footage where you can actually hear yourself speak. You’re monotone and hardly enthusiastic about the crowd in front of you, but there’s still a subtle sort of passion glinting in your eyes that you didn’t know was possible.

Sitting with your legs crossed in the blue velvet conversation pit, you lean closer towards the small television and try not to feel so disconnected at the sight of yourself.

“I wrote a book on the Black Hole Paradox, but I never taught the Black Hole Paradox,” you ramble in a detached monotone with Reed looming at your side, both of you wearing matching blue spacesuits. “We met after a lecture I gave on cosmic radiation— specifically the idea that cosmic rays can penetrate the body and alter its molecules, leading to extreme genetic mutations, which can be passed down for generations…”

Johnny enters the frame then, and the camera shifts immediately to meet him. The boy beams beneath the heavy static. You can almost feel the heavy arm he tosses over your shoulder through the screen. “See what I mean? Best damn cosmetologist I ever met.”

“Cosmologist,” you grumble before ducking from under his hold.

The blonde boy doesn’t take his eyes off you for several long moments, glittering gaze made a more vivid blue in the technicolor. “She’s the prettiest one, too,” he jokes with a gloved hand over his mouth, like he’s telling the camera a secret. “But don’t tell her I told you—”

“Look what I found!” Johnny announces suddenly, much louder and closer than the boy on television.

You blink hard and find yourself back in this reality — not the staticky launch site on TV but here, in this home that used to be yours. You glance over your shoulder and find Johnny strolling into the living room with a vinyl in tow. The hem of his denim jacket flows behind him in time with his brisk stride, leaving behind the scent of his deep cologne.

Just behind him, in the kitchen, H.E.R.B.I.E. whizzes around at Ben’s command. The man rolls his button-down up to his rocky elbows and tosses his tie over his shoulder as he stirs at a steaming pot on the stove. The scent of something savory sits heavy in the air. A floor below, you think you can hear Franklin cooing as Reed and Sue tend to their baby in the lab.

You feel all of it physically in the chest, like a kiss on the forehead followed by a punch to the ribs. You wonder if this is what home feels like.

“What is it?” Ben calls from the kitchen, muffled as he taste-tests the creamy sauce dripping from his calloused pinky.

“Just wait…” Johnny lilts.

He stands at the record player and replaces the vinyl there with the one in his hands. The needle hisses faintly. Satic plays for a flicker of a moment before music fills the air. Morning! Today’s forecast calls for blue skies— a deep voice crackles through the speakers beneath a lively chord of pianos.

Johnny spins around and snaps his fingers to the drums, only slightly offbeat. Your brows pinch at the wide smile on his pink mouth. “Did I like this song?” you wonder aloud, fingers picking absentmindedly at a rogue thread on your gingham slacks.

“You hated it,” Ben scoffs.

“I liked it, though,” the blonde boy insists as he saunters over to you. He towers over your crouching form, and you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze. “It played every day on the shuttle when we woke up. And you weren’t exactly a morning person.”

He extends an arm out towards you with a crooked smile on his face. Your eyes swim with uncertainty as they dart from his calloused palm, to his hopeful ocean gaze, and to his palm again.

Your hand trembles when you reach for him. A distant part of you half-expects your fingers to go right through him — for him to turn to dust beneath your touch — ‘cause nothingness is all you’ve ever known. So your heart lurches into your throat when his long fingers wrap gently around your own, warm and softly textured like velvet, urging you to stand alongside him.

The song continues from across the room, though it sounds much further away than that now, like you’re hearing it from underwater. Johnny’s touch is much louder in comparison.

It stopped raining, everybody’s in the play,

And don’t ya know, it’s a beautiful new day—

It’s much more familiar to the boy in front of you, holding your hand. He mouths the words embedded in his brain and bobs his hand to the beat, a little stiff in his way but always so casual.

You struggle to match his effortlessness. You tilt your chin down and up again in time with his own, eyeing him carefully, like you’re studying each of his movements.

Johnny grins wider than he realizes. “There you go,” he praises lowly when he feels your tense hand relax slowly in his hold.

You never truly loosen up for him, though Johnny figures he can’t exactly blame you. Rigidity was always in your nature, even before you died and came to life again. But now, you smile softly to yourself when he sings off-key — lips quirked and eyes squinted in a quiet bemusement when he jumbles up the lyrics to the chorus. You let him spin you around, too, which you never would’ve done before. You wouldn’t have laughed out loud back then, either, but now you give him a breathy sort of chuckle exhaled from your nose when he pulls you back into him again.

You stumble over your feet when he absentmindedly tugs you closer, black pleather flats scuffing the white-navy carpet below. Johnny catches you first with two wide palms on the outsides of your elbows — then, almost, with his mouth.

In that split second, where your warm breath fans across his jaw and your unsure palms brace themselves on his fitted white tee, Johnny wants to kiss you. He thinks he would’ve, in a different world. A world where you never left him, a world where he got to build a life with you, a world where he spent more than one night getting to love you like he really wanted.

He blinks once, and reality punches him hard in the gut. The bitter reminder that you’re not that girl anymore makes it very suddenly hard to breathe. The night he held you for the first time in the Excelsior lives only in his mind now. He wonders if the memory’s still in yours, too, buried somewhere deep. He wonders if he can help you find it.

“Is it okay if I…” he blurts suddenly, then trails off. You notice how his fingers tighten in the fabric of your blue sweater as his light eyes glaze over. “If I do something that’s… that’s gonna seem a little crazy to you? Something we’ve done before that might— that I think might help you remember… everything?”

Remember us, he doesn’t say.

It’s a little strange, seeing the wild boy so suddenly solemn. But you nod anyway, with a hopeful gaze that matches his glittering one, ‘cause you think you’d do just about anything to feel human again.

“Do it,” you tell him, a plea and command all at once.

Johnny leans forward, slow and hesitant. His warm breath fans across your cheek as his lidded eyes flutter shut. You blink once and feel his lips against yours — a sudden but no less gentle weight against your mouth. He lingers there, unmoving, just feeling you. Your sigh fans across his cupid’s bow as the music behind you fades into nothingness.

It’s a little strange, seeing the wild boy so suddenly solemn. But you nod anyway, with a hopeful gaze that matches his glittering one, ‘cause you think you’d do just about anything to feel human again.

“Do it,” you tell him, a plea and command all at once.

Johnny leans forward, slow and hesitant. His warm breath fans across your cheek as his lidded eyes flutter shut. You blink once and feel his lips against yours — a sudden but no less gentle weight against your mouth. He lingers there, unmoving, just feeling you. Your sigh fans across his cupid’s bow as the music behind you fades into nothingness.

You blink once more, slower this time, and feel Johnny pull away again just as quickly as he came. You mourn his touch almost instantly, because you hadn’t even gotten the chance to taste him properly. Your lidded eyes struggle to open again when he’s gone.

Johnny’s ocean gaze darts wildly over your face. You look perplexed almost, like a dog turning its head, caught between the state of awe and confusion. “How was that?” he murmurs cautiously.

Your mouth opens, but you struggle to answer. How do you tell someone that you’re grieving their warmth? “I— I don’t know,” you shrug.

Johnny’s unmanicured brows pinch together. “Like… You don’t know if you liked it, or you don’t know if you remember?”

“I don’t know,” you echo, firmer this time. “Maybe… Maybe we should do it again?”

Johnny doesn’t answer you with words.

His plush mouth quirks into a cheeky half-smile just before he leans into you again. He kisses you harder this time, until the tip of his nose smushes into the side of yours — until the pressure of his mouth urges your lips apart for him.

You feel his touch in the pit of your stomach, a swirling sort of warmth there that threatens to make your knees buckle. You wonder if Johnny feels it, too, as his wide hands hold tighter to your arms to keep you steady.

Your unsure fingers wrench finally in the lapels of his jacket, keeping yourself tethered and keeping Johnny close. Your brows furrow as you try to make sense of this feeling — he kisses you like the sun, like you’re tasting yourself in the golden mouth of a bright yellow sun. His weight is warm and solid and familiar. Close. Only the sun has ever been this close to you. Only the sun.

You hold him tighter until your hands begin to tremble. You wonder if this is what it means to be in love? If this is what it means to have nothing left to lose? To be aching for breath but chasing his mouth all the same.

You vaguely hear the music continuing behind you — “hey, you with the pretty face, welcome to the human race!” — just before it's drowned out by Ben’s yelling.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the older man scolds from the kitchen when he turns back around to find the two of you entwined. “Not in front of H.E.R.B.I.E.— Are you crazy?”

“Not in front of your nephew,” Sue corrects as she passes the threshold of the stairway that leads into the lab. Reed is just behind her, keeping a steady hand on her lower back while she sways the sleeping baby in her arms.

Johnny parts from you then, but doesn’t quite let you go. Instead, he keeps you cradled in his arms while Sue lays Franklin in his bassinet and Reed helps Ben set the table for dinner.

The couple wears the throes of parenthood all over. Sue’s blonde hair is always slightly mussed from Franklin’s chubby fingers, and she wears the same iterations of baggy clothes every day because it’s the only thing remotely comfortable to her now. Reed’s business attire is wrinkled and very often askew — tie half-done and buttons out of order. In trying to hide his exhaustion, he only makes it that much more obvious.

“That’s what I said,” Ben shrugs and turns back to you. “Now, stop being gross and come eat— You still eat, right, Doc?”

“No,” you deadpan.

“Great.”

“I absorb my energy from the Power Cosmic—”

“Well, you’re still gonna try my chicken alfredo, alright?” Ben interjects as he sets five steaming plates onto the round dining table. “‘Cause I made it specifically for you.”

Your brows pinch, and Johnny grins quietly at the confused look on your face. “Used to be your favorite,” the boy ducks down to murmur in your ear, squeezing you gently at the elbow to urge you to follow him into the kitchen.

The sound of glass breaking makes you pause. It comes from far away, several stories down, but still loud enough for you to hear — and for Franklin to flinch in his sleep. The baby whines softly in annoyance, but quiets himself down a half second later, even as the yelling outside grows into an inignorable drone.

You glance over your shoulder at the floor-to-ceiling window across the room.

“Don’t mind them,” Reed huffs, chair scraping the tile as he guides Sue into her seat at the dinner table. He takes the one beside hers with a soft grunt. “They’ve been out there all day…”

“Why?”

“Because they’re scared,” the blonde woman tells you.

“‘Cause they hate us,” the older man answers at the same time, rolling the sleeves of his wrinkled button-up to his elbows. “They think they might die, and they hate us for it. All of us. Franklin, too…”

Your chest flares with a strange feeling. “But he’s just a baby.”

Reed scoffs an emotionless laugh. “Yeah, tell them that.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as everyone takes their spot at the dining table, with one seat left open for you between Ben and Johnny. Your idle hands ball into fists as you spin on the heel of your shoe. The sound of the balcony swishing open makes them perk.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Johnny cautions with wide eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I didn’t mean literally!” you hear Reed call from behind you.

The crisp evening air of a late autumn brushes over your skin like silk. A stark contrast to the cozy warmth of the Baxter Building, which you’re still getting used to after so long spent in a freezing void of outer space. The constant noise is still foreign, too — the lights that never turn off, the cars that never stop going, the people that never stop bustling. Johnny tells you it’s worse than normal now, that people don’t use to be this loud, or this angry.

He doesn’t tell you that it’s all your fault, but you know it is.

Galactus may be the world-eater, but you’re the monster who sent him here.

The crowd gathering in the court square seems to be well aware of that, too. You descend over them in a burst of silver-gold, and their unintelligible yelling grows louder, angrier. You can see each of their contorted faces as you land on the edge of a rolling fountain — a memorial, it reads in a plaque below your feet, with your name inscribed in bronze — but you can’t understand what they’re saying. You think you can get the gist of it from the hand-made signs they wield.

4 No More! one reads. Save the world! says another. The Earth Believed In You! reads one more.

“Quiet…” you try to tell them, though it gets lost somewhere in your throat. You swallow hard, face pinched, feeling almost like you’re drowning in their cries. The incessant droning in your ears grows into an indistinct blur that makes your head spin. “Quiet!” you shout, louder this time

The command rolls over the crowd in an unforgiving echo that blankets their yelling.

“The baby… is sleeping…” you tell them, pointing firmly to the glowing building behind you.

“You’re the reason Galactus wants him dead!” a lanky man in a trench coat shouts from within the horde, accompanied by a few shouts of agreement.

Your brows pinch. “He does not want to kill the child—”

“Then why not give him up?” a young woman in an orange sweater and matching cap wonders aloud. There’s a man looming at her side — her husband, you assume, from the matching gold bands on their left ring fingers. He pushes a stroller to and fro, as though to quell the children inside it. “Why not save the rest of us!” she continues.

“Why not give your child?” you ask in an even voice that makes her cower. “Is that not a fair trade? If they must give their child, if you think it’s so easy, then why don’t you do it, too?”

The woman says nothing. Neither does anybody else. The gravity of the situation seems to settle over all of them in that instant — the idea that giving up their child would be a fate worse than death, even with the promise that it would save the world entire. Even when destruction is assured either way, it’s still easier to go together than to live without.

“Exactly,” you huff breathlessly, scanning the crowd with piercing eyes. “Because the life of someone you love— that one life— is worth more than that of the entire universe—”

“Don’t lecture us, lady!” an older man with a round belly and scruffy face bellows. He wags a chubby, accusatory finger in your direction. “You’re the reason Galactus is coming here.”

“Yes. I am,” you nod once. “And I am sorry—”

The crowd erupts in a chorus of angry cries. You try to talk over them.

“The only way I can make it better is to help you. And I swear to you that I will give my life for this planet before I let Galactus take it,” you promise in an unwavering monotone. “I am the reason he is coming, yes, but I will also be the reason he fails. I will fight for you— for all of you—”

Your words fall over their simmering rage like a wet blanket on a small fire. The ones who looked at you with hate now soften with a look of sympathy. Those who looked at you with grief now nod with tears in their eyes. One person begins to clap, somewhere in the center of the crowd. They’re followed by another, and then another, and then another, until applause billows over the silent crowd.

“No…” you shout over them with a stubborn shake of your head. “I said, no!”

The clapping dies slowly at your booming command. Confused faces gape up at you, unsure of how to root for you. You point back to the Baxter building and glower. “I said, the baby is sleeping.”

Johnny watches from several stories above with Sue’s tentative hand splayed on his ribcage, keeping him from intervening when he was momentarily frightened of how the crowd would react to seeing you.

They fall very quickly in love with you in spite of everything that came before — because, as Johnny sees it, it’d take much more effort not to love you. He doesn’t think there are many people in this universe or in the next one over who would, when conditioned to be apathetic towards humanity, still find themselves wanting to take care of the little life sleeping in his living room.

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          i had to phone someone, so i picked on you,

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There’s a certain tenderness to winter that you didn’t think was possible. Especially not when the end of the world felt more than promising. But for all the coldness, there is a certain beauty in the snowfall and the steel gray skies and the people who make this place feel like home, even when facing its imminent destruction. The winter was ironically rather warm, like blood — though when you told Johnny that, he said you probably shouldn’t repeat that to anyone else.

You don’t repeat much of anything you say to Johnny, though. You don’t do things with other people that you do with Johnny, either. There’s a certain tenderness in that, too, you think — in the way you look for him always, in the way your mind can’t roam anywhere without bumping into thoughts of him, in the way you kiss him like you’re trying to chase a distant memory.

One time, when you got particularly lost in his mouth, your feet lifted off the ground. You started to fly, in the most literal sense of the term, with Johnny’s body pressed like sunshine against yours. You floated together in the pitch-black of your bedroom, and it felt almost nostalgic — like a memory you’d already lived.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Johnny cooed as he pulled back from you, rosy mouth swollen and chiseled features half-lit by the silver moonlight streaming from the window. He smiled a crooked smile and smoothed a palm over your temple. “Let’s go slow, yeah? I’m not going anywhere.”

So you kissed him slow.

And so Johnny made a home in your bed.

More often than not, your days are busy with plans to save the world. Reed has described this one as foolproof. With the city already evacuated to an underground town called Subterranea, the five of you will have ample opportunity to ambush Galactus upon his inevitable arrival. Johnny, Reed, and Ben will aid in stunning the god while you create a portal to the opposite end of the galaxy for Sue to push him into.

It’s simple, yes, but it won’t be easy.

Not with Franklin as bait.

The baby will be safe in a carrier Reed has spent weeks ensuring is nothing short of indestructible. And, if all goes to plan, Franklin will be secure in the Baxter Building before he ever sets eyes on Galactus. But still, it’s an understandably hard pill for the new parents to swallow. You think they spend more time fighting about it than they do actually talking to each other. Maybe because they know they can’t stop the inevitable.

Sue left some minutes ago now, cloaked in a burst of refracted light. Reed put his coat on and left without a word. “Where are you going?” Ben called to him.

“Central Park,” Reed answered with an uncharacteristic sort of confidence. ‘Cause even when Sue’s totally invisible, she can’t quite hide from him.

You and Johnny seek a quaint refuge in his bedroom in the meanwhile, still wearing your pajamas like this morning is normal one. His sweatpants sit low on his hips, while your oversized shirt drapes over your form like a gown.

A record spins on a needle across the room, playing softly to ease the once-in-a-lifetime quiet outside your window. You flip through a book on black holes at an admirable sort of pace — though, you did write it, to be fair. Johnny finds himself watching you with an unabashed stare as the words of a question he’s been dying to ask build suddenly in his throat.

“Can I ask you something?” he hears himself ask.

“Mhm,” you hum, gaze averted.

Johnny shifts on the mattress. It dips under his weight as he sits further up beside you, leaning his elbow on the stack of pillows to face you better. He tilts his chin to his chest and peers at you from beneath his long lashes, eyes glimmering with a quiet curiosity. “Do you… Do you remember meeting him? Galactus?” he starts slowly. “Like, how you became, you know… his herald?”

Your fingers freeze with the thin page of the book caught between them. Not because the question offends you exactly, but because it’s one you’ve asked yourself before — and you’re only just realizing that you never found an answer for yourself.

“No,” you tell him. “There was just… darkness, and then… not darkness.”

“So… light?” Johnny presses.

“No. Not light,” you answer with a firm shake of your head. “There wasn’t any light for a very long time.”

You stare at the spinning record across the room with a faraway look in your eyes. You realize the first time you saw anything other than sunlight was the bright neon hues of Times Square: the headlights of passing cars, the spotlights from whirring helicopters, the glowing windows from towering skyscrapers.

And then there was Johnny, following you into the dark heavens in a burst of orange flame like sunshine incarnate — the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You think his light is stained on your retinas still. You think you see him every time you blink.

“I was pulled to him, like a— bug to a flame… Sometimes I think he was calling me…” you continue, turning to face the boy and finding his gaze trained on your profile. His blue eyes are round and wet, like he doesn’t totally understand what you’re saying, but he’s trying hard to still. “I think he could feel my power, and that he knew I was alone out there. He’d been tired for so long time that he… He knew it’d benefit him more to use me than to kill me.”

Your words spark a sudden flame behind Johnny’s ribcage. A sort of poorly concealed anger that radiates from his skin like sunbeams. You see it in the stormy waves rushing his eyes — in the way he clenches his chiseled jaw, and in the way his golden fingers ball into absentminded fists.

“How long?” he blurts, then clears his throat when you flinch at the sudden volume of his voice. “How long was he… How long was he using you?”

“Maybe using isn’t exactly the right word,” you say in an attempt to soothe him.

“No, I think it is,” Johnny argues with an emotionless laugh. “I mean, he’s asking you to pick which planets he destroys, that’s—”

“It wasn’t always like this, Johnny,” you say with a stern look in your eye. You don’t know why you’re telling him this, ‘cause it hardly makes a difference now, but you feel like you should. “The places I’ve been before— Those planets were habitable, yes, but they were lifeless. Galactus wanted it that way. I think so he could feed without having to carry the weight of his grief, but… No life means no energy. And if Galactus can’t eat, then the entire universe will collapse—”

“And that’s why you came here?”

“I have… never seen humanity on this scale before,” you confess breathlessly. A faraway smile quirks at the very edge of your mouth as your glassy eyes flicker with life. “I didn’t know it was possible to love each other so much… To love one another in spite of danger, in spite of fear. Like you and I—”

Johnny’s chest flares. His bushy brows raise to his hairline, etching three fine wrinkles on his forehead. “Me— Me and you?” he stammers.

“All of you,” you tell him.

“Oh,” he nods. “Right. Yeah.”

“You all brought me in despite what I did— despite everything I did. ‘Cause that’s just what you do. It’s the— the human instinct to help each other,” you ramble. “Like with Sue on the Excelsior. I couldn’t explain it then, but… I knew I couldn’t let her suffer. And then you…”

Your eyes dart back to him, squinting with amusement.

“…Me?”

“I don’t know you— I mean, I can’t remember knowing you, but… There’s something buried somewhere deep that I… I can’t explain it,” you trail off with a sigh. Your eyes go squishy around the edges as they dart back and forth between Johnny’s button ones. “I just— I wonder how many lifetimes we’ve known each other for you to feel so familiar to me…”

Your words pierce him like a knife to the chest, white-hot and twisting. He feels the burning in the warm tears gathering behind his eyes. He wonders if it’s wrong of him to mourn the old you — the grumpy, cynical, quiet you. Or if it’s worse to be grateful that you came back a little different than he remembered — still detached and a little deadpanned in your way, but far more eager to love him.

“You know what the crazy part is?” Johnny mumbles, smiling down at his fingers as he tugs at a loose thread on his striped comforter. “You were gone for a whole year, you know? A year, six months, and twenty-seven days— but it didn’t even matter… ‘Cause every morning, I still woke up with something new to tell you. Like, when Ben made a stupid joke or when Reed did something funny, I wanted to look at you and see if you were laughing, and you… You weren’t there…”

You don’t know what to say to him, what to do to make him feel better, so you find yourself apologizing instead. “I’m sorry…” you murmur.

Johnny flinches like you’ve hurt him. “For what?” he scoffs.

You think for a moment, then shrug. “For not coming back as the girl you remember.”

The bed creaks under his weight as he shifts suddenly beside you. The heavy book in your lap slips from your bare thighs when Johnny takes a firm and gentle hold of your wrists, ducking his head to catch your faltering gaze. “What? No, I don’t— I don’t care about that. I don’t care what you did to get back here, I only care that you’re here, understand?”

You flash him a wordless, dubious glance in response.

Johnny sighs.

“When I was a kid, and our dad was being… our dad,” he rambles with a wild gaze. “Sue would always tell me that you didn’t truly love someone until they’ve hurt you, and you still think they’re the greatest person in the world. And I always thought she was just trying to make me feel better then, but… I get it now, I think.”

For a former genius, it still takes a long moment for his words to register.

“…You love me?” you hear yourself ask.

“Yes,” Johnny blurts without a second thought. “I think I always have. And I think, in another universe, I got to tell you that sooner. And that, when we crashed, I reached for you— so you would’ve stayed, or so I would’ve gone with you, or— I don’t care. We just… We would’ve been together—”

“We are together,” you correct with a knowing glint in your eyes.

You squeeze Johnny’s calloused hand, and he grins. “Yeah. We are…”

He leans in to kiss you. You tilt your head to meet him halfway. His warm breath fans like silk across your chin when the tip of your nose grazes the bridge of his. A sudden knock at the ajar door forces you apart. The two of you jump at the sight of Ben’s broad body in the doorway, who falters at the sight of both of you so close.

“You guys aren’t having a moment in here, are you?” the older man asks, waving a rocky finger between you.

“Nope,” Johnny answers, though his annoyed sigh says otherwise as he slouches back against the pillows. “Not at all.”

Sue materializes suddenly in the threshold. Her thin frame appears in a ripple of rainbow light, leaning on the wall just beside Ben. She crosses her arms over her chest as a cheeky smirk tugs at her plush mouth. “They were definitely having a moment,” she lilts sarcastically.

“How… How long have you been there?” Johnny asks, eyes wide in a boyish sort of horror.

“Oh, I just got here,” the woman shrugs, feigning an air of innocence despite the mischievous glimmer in her icy gaze. “But I’m glad you finally told her, kid—”

“Oh, my god. We’ve talked about this, Sue,” Johnny groans, face flaring, a little brother in every sense of the word. “I hate it when you just appear like that—”

Sue rolls her eyes and saunters out of the room. “Reed wants everyone down in the lab in five,” she says over his yelling.

“It’s annoying—”

“Five minutes!” she shouts back.

Her footsteps are slow to disappear down the carpeted hall. Ben follows soon after, stomping much louder in comparison. The quiet bedroom fills with the sound of Johnny’s dramatic groan as he tosses his head back, raking a lanky hand through his short blonde locks.

You try to take a deep breath in, but find it suddenly rather difficult. There’s a sudden leaden weight on your chest that makes it hard to swallow. To breathe.

It’s fear, you realize.

You’re scared, and you never used to be scared. Maybe because you never had anything to lose. But now, as you stare the end of the world in the face, you find that you’re not scared of death, or the planet-devouring god seeking to destroy you. It’s not Galactus that terrifies you, but the thought of losing the only family you’ve ever known — the thought of losing Johnny.

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                            ★。＼｜／。★

          i'm burning through the sky, yeah!

          200 degrees, that's why the call me mr. fahrenheit!

                            ★。／｜＼。★

It was all your fault. All of it. Even when Johnny said it wasn’t. Especially when Johnny said it wasn’t.

You were the reason Galactus came here at all. The reason Times Square, once so full of light and laughter, was ultimately reduced to a pile of wreckage and rubble. While its citizens were left unscathed in the safety of Subterranea, many of them would have to build their lives over from scratch, and that was your fault, too.

You were the reason Sue Storm nearly died, and the reason Franklin’s first-ever memories would likely be that of death and destruction — the face of an old god seeking to capture him, and the face of his dead mother lying limp on the cracked pavement moments before he brought her back to life.

You knew what you had brought upon this world.

You think that’s why you’d tried so hard to save it.

You felt Galactus’ arrival before his ship had even punctured the atmosphere, like that sinking feeling you get in your stomach right before something bad’s about to happen. You felt his heavy footsteps like shockwaves up your spine as each of his steps shook the ground. There was a brief moment of eerie silence as the old god scanned the city in search of the lost baby, only to find him sitting safely in a carrier in the center of Times Square.

The plan went somewhat seamlessly thereafter. Ben distracted Galactus in the Fantasticar, which allowed Sue enough time to sneak up on the god and use her powers to conceal Johnny, which allowed the boy to blind him with the orange flames he shot from his fingertips. It gave you only a split second of time to fly the child back to the Baxter Building and for Reed to replace the old carrier with an empty one.

You parted from Franklin with a quiet 'I’m sorry,' and from H.E.R.B.I.E. with a gentle pat on his head, before meeting the others back in the city.

It almost worked.

Almost.

“You were always a clever little bug…” Galactus’ voice thundered in your ears when he realized Franklin was missing.

You fought him with everything you had left, all four of you did. But you were ants compared to the towering god — ants he could crush under his boot without trying. It was impossible to evade both him and the hellfire raining down upon you, a mixture of Johnny’s flame and the destroyed buildings toppling around you, which made it easier for Galactus to take the child.

“Whatever you did with that ship, Doc…” Reed panted with a fearful look in his dark eye as you ducked for safety, his blue suit torn to shreds around his body. “I’m gonna need you to do it again.”

“I can’t,” you said with a wild shake of your head. “I— I need a push. I need… I need Sue.”

Johnny, lingering just beside you and radiating heat, then wondered aloud in a wavering voice, “Where is Sue?”

The mother stumbled from the remnants of a car crash, where Galactus had chucked the Fantasticar into the nearest building with her inside it. She wears the cuts and scrapes all over, along with the ash and smoke smudged on her pale face. Despite her visibly wavering strength, she used all her remaining power on the god looming before her — stunning him long enough to let Reed steal their son back on outstretched limbs, and pushing him backward into the blackhole you formed in the center of New York City.

Your floating body glowed all over, brighter than the fire overtaking the city square. The white-hot sunshine burning in your eyes matched the swirling energy in your fists. The gold lines in your silver suit flickered with an energy that overtook your form as the world began to shift around you. The portal behind your body was lined with a similar silver-gold as it pulsed like a living thing with a heartbeat. Caught inside it was a void — a wide, starless void that rippled with a golden energy — growing and growing around your burning body.

With one last barbaric scream that could be heard a world over, Sue pushed Galactus into that void with a rush of refracted light from her fist. Strong enough to send her flying back towards the toppled building behind her. Strong enough to send you tumbling into the threshold of another universe that you had created with your bare hands.

Johnny watched from the ground as you slipped into the infinite void. He took off in an instant, in a burst of white-hot flame, towards the closing portal before him — despite the darkness, despite the god getting shoved inside it, despite the fact that he might get sucked in it too.

“Tell Franklin, Uncle Johnny loves him,” is the last thing the boy muttered into the comm on his wrist before he crossed the doorway into another cold, dark galaxy.

Johnny did then what he wished he had done the first time he lost you.

He reached for you.

He took your limp, exhausted body in his burning hands, keeping you cradled to his chest while he saved you from the same void he once lost you in.

You were alive but floating in and out of consciousness when Jonny carried you back to the others — one arm holding the bend of your knees and the other wrapped around your back. Sue’s eyes flickered a strange purple color as she swayed her baby in her weak arms. Ben and Reed helped her stand, teary faces gaping incredulously at the miracle they’d just witnessed.

Your head lolled on Johnny’s shoulder as you fought to stay awake. You don’t remember much, but you remembered that he smelled like fire and ash and blood. The scent of it stayed with you for a long while after that. Even now, you’ll catch a strange whiff of the memory, and it’ll send a ripple down your spine.

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                            ★。＼｜／。★

          little darling, it's been a long, cold, lonely winter. . .

          little darling, it feels like years since it's been here!

                            ★。／｜＼。★

That was almost year ago now.

A year since you announced the end of the world, just to save it again with a bunch of strangers you forgot used to be your family. The Earth entire rejoices, commending the heroes who had saved them with a tribute that could be heard all over. They praise you in spite of everything you had done before — no longer the herald of death, but the Doc they loved before and grew to love again.

Johnny says that was the best part of it all, getting to watch you fall in love with the world again despite what it had done to you before. You’re almost sure by 'in love with the world,' he mostly means 'in love with him,' though you’re not sure you’re totally inclined to argue. ‘Cause you are waking up in his bed, after all.

Your heavy eyes flutter open to find a bedroom swathed in gold, and a pair of warm lips pressed to the side of your neck. Johnny’s weight is comfortably heavy against you as he leans along your side, one hand propping himself up and his other splayed on your ribs under your oversized shirt. You inhale sharply, writhing beneath the cotton sheets as you rouse. You feel the boy’s smiling lips curl into a smile against your flushed cheek, ‘cause he can practically feel the frown on your face.

“What’s this for?” you murmur, words heavy with sleep, as you stretch your tired legs.

“It’s been a whole year…” the boy answers against your jaw.

“Since what?”

Johnny parts from you with a quiet smack. He fights back a shiver when your fingers rake through the tuft of blonde hair at the base of his neck.

“Since you came back,” he scoffs like it’s obvious.

Your brows bounce, neither pleased nor annoyed by his reminder. “Oh. Right. How could I forget?” you respond in a monotone, ‘cause you’ve devoted the past year of your life to forgetting about all that, even though Reed tells you that’s not the healthiest way to cope.

“So I figured I’d wake you up before the others did,” Johnny mumbles, punctuating himself with another kiss to your opposite cheek. “‘Cause Ben’s got some extravagant breakfast planned that he will not stop talking about.”

You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh, though your sleep-swollen face remains unsmiling. “Of course, he does…”

“And there’s an interview thing scheduled with ABC—”

“Definitely not doing that.”

“Figured,” the boy chuckles, a low rumble you can feel against your skin. “Sue already took care of it. They’re doing some tribute thing, I think.”

Your frown deepens. “That’s worse…”

“Well, you deserve it.”

“No, I don’t,” you scoff.

“You do.”

“Fixing a problem I created isn’t honorable, Johnny, it’s just— it’s normal. It’s what people are supposed to do.”

Johnny parts from you, then, just far enough to see your face. His rosy lips curl into a crooked smile until his swollen eyes squint softly at the edges, ‘cause his best girl is all but back to normal again. The cynical, monotone, self-effacing woman he fell in love with three years ago — who he hopes he’ll get to spend the rest of his whole life falling in love with.

Even though you refuse to see the good in yourself, the good within you that prevailed despite your wrath, Johnny sees all of it. He knows how empathetic you are despite your detached disposition, and how the public grew to love you for that very reason even when you didn’t believe yourself worthy of their affection. Johnny guesses he’ll believe it enough for the both of you until you come around to it.

“Well, let’s just agree to disagree,” Johnny shrugs, scrunching his nose as a mischievous glimmer settles in his eyes. “Because I really wanna make out with you right now—”

You jerk your chin back when he lowers his head, stopping him with two hands splayed on his bare shoulders. “Morning breath,” is all you say in protest.

Johnny scoffs in offense, but rolls off your body all the same. You stay buried beneath the tousled blankets while the boy trudges towards the adjoining bathroom, bare feet leaving vague prints on the yellow carpet. “Morning breath…” he grumbles bitterly as he goes, obeying you but complaining every step of the way. “Just ‘cause you don’t have morning breath, doesn’t mean it’s my fault that I have morning breath…”

You hide your smile in the pillow that smells just like him and wait for his return.

When his breath smells of fresh peppermint, and only vaguely of sleep, you let him kiss you as hard as he wants. You let his golden mouth explore your own like it’s still new territory for him to conquer, while Johnny smothers you beneath his warm weight. His lanky limbs entwine with yours under the mussed covers, caging your body between his warm one and the cloud-like mattress beneath you.

Johnny licks into your mouth. His pink tongue ruts gently with yours in time with his absentminded grinds. You feel him stiffening within the confines of his boxers as his hips rock back and forth. Your thighs part in a feeble attempt to feel him closer, heels digging into his legs to keep him pressed against you there. His half-hard cock drags up and down the length of your cotton panties. You moan into his mouth when he brushes the most sensitive part of you, throbbing like a heartbeat for him beneath the wet spot forming in your underwear.

A groan rumbles in the base of his throat, and the exhaled breath of it fans across your cupid’s bow. Johnny’s mouth clicks faintly when he pulls away. His lips are rosy and swollen and shining with a layer of your spit. His short honey locks are tousled from your fingers and a wild slumber, which he wears in his lidded, puffy eyes that dart back and forth between your own.

“Can I make you feel good?” he wonders in a whispered plea.

You nod wordlessly against the pillow for a moment until you find the breath to beg. “Please…” you sigh, anchoring your arms around his freckled shoulders to pull him impossibly closer.

Your breath hitches audibly in your throat when his hips grind against yours once more. Johnny can feel how warm you are there, how your panties slide from how wet you are. You catch an orange flame flicker in his blue eyes when he remembers he doesn’t have to be so gentle with you — that he doesn’t always have to kiss you like you might break.

Sometimes you want him to break you. Sometimes you want him to rough with you, ‘cause it distracts you from how rough you are on yourself.

Johnny knows this. So he gives you what you want.

He kisses you hard enough to bruise. His broad nose smushes into the side of yours as he licks sloppily into your mouth, swallowing your exhaled moans when his hand slips inside your underwear. His pointer and middle finger slide within the folds of your velvety cunt, finding it already slippery and weeping for him. Your hips buck, your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulders, and your pulsing hole swallows his fingers further inside.

You’re more than ready for him. You’re always ready for him.

Johnny props himself up with one arm beside your head while his other travels between your bodies, haphazardly shoving the top of his boxers under his balls to grab his half-hard cock in his fist. You lift the hem of your shirt to your stomach and slide your panties to the side with an eager hand. He drags the strawberry tip along the glistening folds of your pussy, then swallows your whimpers with his mouth when he guides himself inside you.

His lean hips tilt forward until he’s buried himself to the hilt. The faraway burning sensation as you stretch around his cock is followed immediately by a lingering and all-consuming pleasure. Your body trembles from where it’s trapped between his lean one and the mattress. It makes Johnny smile against your mouth.

He tucks his head in the crook of his neck when he begins to thrust inside of you, shallow and slow, never quite pulling all the way out. He moans your name into the burning skin there, and it sounds like a language you hadn’t spoken in years.

You sigh at the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut as his cock drags in and out of you. The tuft of coarse hair above his cock glistens with your honey and rubs mercilessly against your swollen clit. A warm, unrelenting pleasure settles there and begins to build in your belly.

“You feel so good… Always so good…” you hear him grumble into your shoulder, plush lips brushing your burning skin. His words are panted and slightly broken from his unforgiving thrusts. “Perfect… So perfect for me… Fuck—”

You’re hardly perfect, but you don’t tell him that now. You just wrap your limbs around his golden body to keep him close and let him make you feel good. Your back arches off the mattress as your head starts to spin. The pressure building between your thighs blossoms into an unignorable thing that makes you feel lighter than air, like you only exist where Johnny touches you, and all the rest of you turns to stardust.

You whimper when his thrusts still suddenly. He groans into your neck and rests his weight against your buzzing body. You think, if it weren’t for your shirt separating you from his bare chest, that you’d be able to feel his rapid heartbeat from where he’s pressed so ardently against you.

“Keep going…” you command in a broken plea

“I don’t wanna cum yet…” Johnny confesses in a whisper, voice breaking when he grinds slowly into you. There’s a coil tightening in the pit of his stomach, one threatening to burst at any moment. He grits his teeth and tries to fight it, anyway. He takes a ragged breath in, one hand balling the pillow into his fist while his other digs bruises onto the skin of your outer thigh. “Wanna make it last…”

Your fingers fist less than kindly into his chopped blonde locks, forcing him to look at you. His lidded, glassy eyes dart over your fucked out features — flushed and glistening with a fine layer of sweat. Something much softer swims in your pleading gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere, Johnny Storm,” you pant. “So make me cum.”

Like all the times before, Johnny gives you exactly what you want. Sometimes he just needs the reminder, needs you to say the words — to promise him that you’re here and that you’re here for good. He fucks you like you need, burying all of his pathetic whines in your sweat-slick shoulder as he babbles a series of nothingness into your ear. His mind’s going fuzzy, all words are starting to lose meaning now.

“Fuck, baby… You’re so fucking— shit— You’re so pretty, you know that? So soft, too. God, your pussy’s gonna kill me,” he rambles, almost inaudibly so. You don’t even think he realizes what he’s saying, how sinful his words are or how each of them finds your throbbing clit.

“Johnny,” you gasp, digging red marks into his shoulder blades. “I’m cumming.”

You feel him nod against you until the words catch up to him. His thrusts go rapid and sloppy and shallow as his cock jerks within your pulsing confines. “Cum— Cum for me— Fuck, cum right now—”

Your drooling cunt quivers around him. A moan rises in your throat and dies in a whimper on your tongue. Your limbs tighten, almost painfully so, and then relax again in a euphoric sort of release. Your body turns to honey along the wrinkled sheets. A contented sigh exhales from your nose as Johnny tenses over you, groaning quietly while his cock spits three warm ropes of cum inside of you.

It’s warm and fragile and barbaric. Like all love seems to be. You let the love drape over you in the form of a lean, golden body as Johnny turns to a puddle on top of you. You feel him all over, inside and out. Nothing has ever been as close to your soul as he is just now.

“…We should probably start getting ready soon,” Johnny pants after a long moment of blissful silence. He presses innocent kisses up and down your neck like he isn’t still softening inside of you — like his cum isn’t dripping out of you and onto the sheets beneath you. “Before the others start snooping around…”

You nod slowly, running your palms up and down his freckled back to soothe the raging red scratches you left there. “Five more minutes?” you whisper.

“Five more minutes,” Johnny huffs, ‘cause he isn’t enthusiastic about leaving this room either.

You melt together in the quiet bedroom. The silence between you is filled only by your heavy breaths, the distant sounds of a slowly rousing Times Square, and the record Ben’s got playing in the kitchen down the hall. You keep Johnny cradled close, savoring every inch of those five minutes.

His body is gentle and warm, like the golden light streaming in rays through the window, which you bathe in now, sun-kissed in every turn of the phrase.

Your grief still lingers like the slowly ebbing shadows in the corners of the room. It’s tremendous and never-ending. But so is the love. So is the love.

if you made it this far, (i'm so sorry) thank you so much for reading!! all the love i got on the first part made my heart grow three sizes, so i hope you all like this one just as much xoxo (▰˘◡˘▰)

everyone who asked to be tagged in part one ily ♡: @jules-kup-172 @ivanttier @multifandomrandomgirl @littlemissholy @nomorespahgetti @aureliaborea @shikshakshoko @hipsternerd9 @iliketoeatpaint @stupd000 @fanboilingwriter @jenaatje @diamondsandrust7 @jeshomie @thebitchiestnerdtowalktheearth @radiantdanvers @kylopensworld @lunaryasha @damnzelsoul @homeless-clown @thechamberofmysecrets @furiousprincesskingdom @thinkingabtellie @nngkay @danna-97 @pogueee @starsanarchy @blablaawo @nekkiotine @marveljedimaniac @lyrararaaaa @roslynsworld

[lovebugism]

✶ — LIFE ON MARS !

part one | part two

summary: johnny storm is on a mission to woo the newest addition to the space crew, who doesn't seem to like him very much. it almost works. almost. (10.8k words)

pairing: johnny storm / f!reader

contents: strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, grumpy x sunshine (grump!reader), johnny can't flirt to save his life, cw for very brief mentions of blood and gore, space sex, dry humping, smut 18+, mdni!!!

LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST HERE!

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✶ — April, 1960 | ANSA Launch Facility — ✶

A long, long time ago, before bodies were ever invented, the atoms of all living things existed in the stars. Humans were, at their core, nothing more than an inherent act of defiant creation — just a bunch of tiny solar systems pretending to be people. At least, that’s what you preferred to believe anyway, ‘cause the comforting thought eases your worries about your own misgivings. Restless, removed, reclusive.

Because, of course, you can’t sleep when the stars are whispering your name. Of course, no one will ever know you quite as well as the moon, when it had known you long before man ever did. Of course, you’re so often filled with a celestial-like solitude when you were never meant to be in this world to begin with, and fell into it completely by happenstance.

The vast infiniteness of the universe reminds you, every day, of how small you are. And every day, it reduces you to a starry-night sort of silence.

Johnny Storm struggles to approach you accordingly. He knew you only distantly, like all heavenly bodies are meant to be known. All he knew of you was that you were a professor — the first of your kind, a colleague of Reed’s, and a scientist whose accolades had caught his sister’s attention. Such vague descriptions did little to capture your beauty, a youthful and quiet sort of charm. As lovely as the stars and perhaps as lonesome as them, too.

And how was he meant to talk to the girl with the galaxy in her eyes? It’s a question he hasn’t quite figured out the answer to yet. But he’s damn sure going to try.

“How well do you know him?” is the first thing Johnny thinks to ask, while the group of soon-to-be astronauts squeeze into their all-white ventilation garments.

You give him a deadpan look in return, clad only in a black tank top and a pair of spandex shorts, as you tug the skin-tight fabric up your legs.

You don’t know Johnny Storm all that well, just that he’s Sue’s younger brother and a pretty damn good engineer. But, in the few short days you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve noticed his strange penchant for covering his awkward tenderness with a feigned sort of arrogance. He’s obviously still getting used to this new world, and the subsequent attention that comes with being among the first people in space — aptly called the Saturn Five.

You figure he’s not yet accustomed to the sudden adoration from the public, and so he’s forced to improvise accordingly.

“How well do I know…?” you trail off.

“Oh, right. Yeah—” the blonde boy stammers, laughing softly at himself.

Your emotionless stare never wavers.

Johnny’s cheeks flare. “My— My brother-in-law, I mean. Reed.”

“Not well,” you answer in a detached monotone and drag the white sleeve up the length of your arm. “Mostly by reputation.”

Johnny scoffs and drags his garment over his freckled shoulders, lean torso straining against the fabric of his thin t-shirt. “And you still decided to show up?” he quips.

You don’t share his amused smile. You rarely ever do. Never, actually. Most of the time, Johnny can’t tell if you realize he’s joking or if you just don’t care.

Now, you just nod in response and answer his rhetorical question in a single word. “Yes.”

Johnny nods to himself, too, and pulls the silver zipper of his suit up his chest. “Yeah, no. I get it. Reed’s a pretty good guy, I guess— But I’m just here to make sure my sister doesn’t do anything, honestly,” he confesses in a breathy chuckle. “…What about you?”

“What about me?” you repeat with pinched brows, tugging on the other sleeve.

“What are you in for?” Johnny wonders with a playful squint in his light blue eyes — the exact color of the sky at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, or the color of the ocean at exactly 33 meters deep. “‘Cause I know it’s not just because you like my company, Doc.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “To change the world, I guess.”

“That’s all, huh?” he laughs.

You nod once. The zipper whizzes quietly as you drag it up to your neck. “That’s all,” you answer in a monotone before turning on your heel and walking away.

Johnny’s footsteps echo through the expansive launch facility as he rushes to catch up with you. He walks a little too close for your liking, enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his pale skin and to smell the vanilla-tobacco cologne on his long neck.

His broad shoulder brushes yours with every quick stride down the white brick corridor, moving in extra close every time you pass by bustling scientists in lab coats or clunking machines that didn’t exist to the world a year or more ago.

“I wasn’t— I wasn’t prying too much back there, was I?” he frets with furrowed brows, ocean eyes swimming with concern as he ducks to look at you.

You don’t share his gaze as you hum in a detached tone of voice, “I don’t know. Were you?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Johnny sighs with a shrug. “Half-and-half, I guess— Prying and, for selfish reasons, genuinely concerned for your wellbeing.”

You stop suddenly in the middle of the narrow hallway. Johnny stumbles on his feet beside you. A group of doctors walk down the corridor, then — a gaggle of men with heavy glasses on their noses and clipboards in their weathered hands. He has to take an extra step closer to you to let them pass by.

His chest brushes yours at the dwindling proximity, which seems to affect him far more than it does you. The scent of your perfume makes him dizzy; something fruity, like a raspberry, maybe. Far sweeter than the way you glare at him now.

“Concerned about what?”

“Well, I just mean it’s— It’s one thing for Reed to rope all of us idiots into his crazy plan, you know? We’ve all known him for years, we already know he’s crazy,” Johnny laughs, only partly joking. “But you’re…”

“What? A stranger?”

“Normal,” Johnny corrects before shrugging. “Well, actually, pretty would’ve been my first choice, but… tomato, tom-ah-to, right?”

He flashes you a crooked pink smile then, which would’ve made any other girl swoon at his feet — a proven theory he’s tested at several bars since he became known as Johnny Storm, faithful member of the heroic Saturn Five. But you don’t even blink, totally unmoved by his charm (or lack thereof).

Johnny sighs and drops his head. He finally lets go of all the boyish theatrics he thinks for some reason he needs, which you’re grateful for.

“Look… If something were to happen to us up there, I think I could stomach that, you know— It’d be awful, obviously, but we’d handle it. Like we always do…” He trails off, button eyes round and full of a distant worry that sends him rambling before he can stop it. “But this… This is dangerous stuff, Doc. And Reed knows it. And he shouldn’t have recruited anybody else, but he did, and if something happened to you… I don’t think I’d forgive myself.”

You’re slightly moved by his admission, though you don’t show it on your face.

“Well, I guess, it’s a good thing nothing’s gonna happen up there.”

You turn to walk away again, and Johnny nearly trips over his own feet to stay in stride with you. “Hold on. Just— Just one more question, alright?”

“I’m going on this mission, Johnny Storm.”

“It’s not that—” he insists, voice breaking slightly at the use of his full name.

Even despite your not-so-subtle bitterness towards him, he thinks he hears something strikingly soft in your voice. It’s something almost tender, and perhaps only in his head, which gives his name a brand new meaning. You make it sound like everyone else has been saying his name wrong his whole life.

“I was just going to ask if you wanted to maybe hang out later, by the way, hypothetically,” Johnny rambles, talking wildly with his hands.

You notice his panicked gesturing from the corner of your eye, and how quickly he tucks his anxious fingers underneath his strong arms when he crosses them over his chest. He thinks he almost catches you smiling before you swallow it back down again a second later.

“I’m a little tied up here, actually,” you tell him, though it comes out too monotoned to sound like the half-joke you meant it as.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, me too…” Johnny nods, trying to play it cool despite his stammering.

You enter the main lab side-by-side for your daily check-ups. The rest of the Saturn Five are already waiting for you there. Ben, Reed, and Sue all sit next to each other on their exam tables, hooked to a series of buzzing machines which draw their blood into crimson tubes hanging at their side.

Johnny trails like a puppy behind you, brows raised and eyes glittering in a sheepish sort of look. “So, what about tomorrow, then?”

“Leave her alone, Johnny,” Sue calls across the room with a knowing smile on her face, always inherently gentle in her way, but still teasing like all older sisters are entitled to be.

The blonde boy gapes in response as he stammers, “I’m— I’m not even doing anything!”

“You’re bothering her.”

“I am not!” he argues instinctively, then flashes you a worried ocean-eyed look. “Am I?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” you shrug, as unenthusiastic as ever.

Johnny smacks his lips against his teeth. “Yeah, that’s not helpful—”

“She’s our lead astrophysicist, Johnny—” Reed reminds playfully from his wife’s side, olive skin growing sticky and pale as the nurse takes his blood. (He’s more frightened by needles than the unknown emptiness of outer space. It’s weird.) “—Which is code for: she’s way too busy for you.”

“Too pretty, more like,” Ben scoffs from beside the older man.

Johnny’s face screws in offense, which only makes them laugh harder at the stupid joke — even if it is sort of true. When you part from him to head to your own station, Johnny thinks he hears you laughing at it, too. A quiet, breathy sound that’s more of an exhaled breath than anything, but still a laugh nonetheless.

“Oh, really?” he huffs dramatically, ‘cause he’s been trying to get you to smile for three whole days now. “That’s what gets you?”

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✶ — April, 1961 | New York — ✶

Your last night on planet Earth is spent talking to the moon, crescent-shaped and gleaming. It tells you not to worry, though not exactly with words. It just holds you in its gentle glow and reminds you that you aren’t leaving anything behind, that there isn’t anything new you could possibly discover in the vast infiniteness of space. Because the universe was your first ever home in truth, billions and billions of years ago, and now it’s calling you back.

Like a childhood room you only see on holidays, frozen in time like you never even left it.

That’s how Johnny finds you — at an ungodly hour of the early morning, standing in the center of the worn sidewalk, bathed in the neon hues of the bright city square that never sleeps. You drown in your cable-knit sweater, arms crossed over your chest and fingers tucked away in a feeble attempt to hide from the early spring chill. You keep your chin tilted towards the sky, and your eyes trained on something far away.

He wonders if there’s something up there only you can see. That’s how you tend to look at the world, anyway, like you’re keeping all of its secrets.

“Where do you think it ends?” Johnny blurts, always so wrapped up in his own head that he tends to continue inward conversations rather than start brand new ones.

You’re unstartled by the suddenness of his arrival, ‘cause you felt him behind you long before he ever had to announce it — consumed immediately by his palpable body heat, along with the minty aftershave and sea-salt bodywash on his skin from a fresh shower.

“Why do you ask such vague questions?” you snap in return, as harsh as the late winter chill.

It’s your basic primal instinct to be annoyed by his presence, like the rage is hardwired into you. The simmering embers of misplaced anger in your chest are quickly snuffed out by the rolling breeze of a lingering winter, which bites mercilessly at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. Something primitive in the back of your mind subconsciously wishes he’d come closer then.

When you turn to glare at the blonde boy over your shoulder, you find him donned in a fitting long-sleeve tee and a baggier pair of plaid pajama pants. His strong, shaven chin is tilted upward, and his sleep-swollen gaze is pointed to the sky like yours once, only it’s a lot more annoying when he does it.

Johnny laughs on a quiet, exhaled breath. “I mean, where do you think the sky ends and eternity begins?” he repeats, a question that has plagued him for some days now.

He’s tormented by the thought of a thin, black veil — one which separates the only home humans have ever known from an emptiness that goes on endlessly in every direction. Is space just dark and dead and doomed? his mind rages. Is everything worth marvelling at just here on Earth?

“100 kilometers above sea level,” you answer instantaneously. “Approximately, anyway.”

Johnny’s head snaps in your direction. “What?”

“100 kilometers above sea level,” you repeat like it’s obvious. “That’s where the Earth’s atmosphere separates from outer space—”

A laugh sputters suddenly past Johnny’s pink mouth. The boyish sound echoes through the empty city square, which is only filled now by your bodies and flashing neon signs.

A deep frown settles between your brows in return. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m not,” he insists despite his chuckling. “I swear, I’m not—”

Your eyes narrow at him while his lighter ones glimmer with a newfound life. His cheeks flare a faint pink color from his poorly held-back laughter and the unforgiving late-night chill. He balls a pale fist in front of his mouth to hide how wide he’s smiling.

“It’s a fact—”

“No. I know, I just… I needed that, I think…” Johnny confesses before dragging in a much-needed breath; his first good one all night, maybe. “I’ve just been so in my own head lately, you know? With a bunch of existential stuff from the launch, I guess. I think I just needed to get out of my head for a second, so… Thanks—”

“I didn’t say it to make you feel better,” you snap.

Johnny smiles in the face of your glowering. “Yeah, I know that, too… I’m pretty sure you’re physically incapable of lying.”

“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” you scoff. Not because he’s totally wrong, but because you don’t need him thinking he knows a single thing about you — even if you have spent every day of the past year together.

“Really? Johnny hums with a knowing smile, crossing his arms over his toned chest as he takes a daring step closer. “Then tell me something nice.”

You swallow hard at the dwindling proximity between you. His body heat is all-consuming, swaddling you in a blanket of warmth and tenderness without trying. Whatever the sun is made out of, I think your soul might be made of it, too — those are the first words that rise like bile in your throat. Or your heart, maybe, and you’ve just got sunlight running like fire through your veins.

“Your eyes are very blue,” you observe in a monotone instead. “Like, the kind of blue where it starts to get a little scary if I look at you too long.”

Johnny’s plush grin widens. A big, boyish smile that moves everything inside of you — a flame that melts your body and turns your bones to ash, lighting up all the dark corners.

“And how long did you have to stare at me to figure that one out, Doc?”

“Why does everything have to be some kinda flirtatious remark with you?”

“Because sometimes I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or starting a fight, so I just assume it’s both.”

“Well, I’m definitely not flirting with you, Johnny Storm—”

“Oh, definitely not…”

“—Flirting is for children. We have a job to do.”

“Right,” he nods in a playfully solemn voice, with a wide smile and a sparkling look in his button eyes. “It’s very serious.”

You shake your head and turn away, headed back towards the towering skyscraper that overlooks the entire city — where you’ll spend your very last night on Earth before you’re seeing it from a space shuttle.

“I hate you,” you grumble as you go.

Johnny’s shoes scuff the pavement as he trails slowly behind you. “No, you don’t…” he lilts under his breath as he follows you inside, blanketed immediately by the warmth of the Baxter Building.

The boy spends his last few hours on the planet pondering not what separates his world from the immeasurable cosmic, but rather how disturbingly thin the veil is between hating someone and loving them.

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✶ — April, 1961 | ANSA Hangar — ✶

Nylon for the base. Spandex for mobility. Urethane for the pressure. Nomex for high temperatures. Mylar for the heat loss.

As Johnny helps dress you in the clunky blue and white space suit, you imagine each differing chemical coming together, resulting in a unique mixture that will (hopefully) prevent you from dying the moment you break through the atmosphere. All per Johnny Storms’ blueprint.

“How’s it fit?” the blonde boy wonders aloud from where he stands behind you, latching the last buckle around your back. He gives it one sharp tug just to make sure it stays in place, and you sway softly on your feet to keep your balance.

You nod once. “Good.”

“Better than the last one?” he asks with a smile evident in his voice, knowing that his first trial of spacewear was a complete and utter nightmare. It was too tight in some places, too loose in others, and failed not just one but two fire safety tests. That was about a year ago now. You’d like to think you have a little bit more faith in him these days.

“Anything would be better than the last one,” you scoff.

“Rude,” Johnny frowns.

You spin on the heel of your boot to face him and momentarily falter at how close he is to you. You take a sudden step back from him, like someone jerking away from an open flame. You turn away from his prying gaze and motion to his personalized suit still hanging on the display.

“Do you want help?” you offer unenthusiastically despite yourself.

“Nah,” Johnny declines, shaking his head and crossing his strong arms over his chest. His biceps strain against the tight fabric of his ventilation garment. “I got it. You go ahead.”

Your eyes narrow in a challenging squint. “You said it was a two-person job.”

“Because I wanted to help you,” he shrugs with his cheek tilted to his shoulder. “And I knew you wouldn’t have let me otherwise—”

“So you lied?”

“No, I… slightly misrepresented the truth in order to spend a little extra time with you…” Johnny corrects, blue eyes squinted as he carefully chooses each word. He smiles at the scowl you give him, “…Shoot me.”

“I’ve been meaning to, actually,” you deadpan and turn away.

You hear Johnny snickering behind you as you leave, like he finds something strangely sweet in the empty threat.

He likes it best when you’re mean — he thinks you’re gentlest that way, tender like a green and yellow bruise that’s still healing. The kind you dig your thumb into and revel in the pleasurable soreness you find below the skin. You’re like that, in a way. A delicate lover somewhere deep down in the bruising enemy you’ve decided to be.

Down the windowless corridor and through a set of heavy metal doors, you find the hangar bustling with unfamiliar faces and bulky cameras. The muffled chatter erupts into a thousand droning voices as you enter the room. A visibly anxious and already suited-up Reed Richards stands at the head of it, at the very center of the hounding press.

You freeze in place as the door clicks shut behind you. Your presence gains the attention of the media personnel across the hangar. You cower under their prying eyes and flashing cameras.

“What is this?” you wonder aloud, to no one in particular.

Reed hesitates for a moment, mouth agape and dark eyes wide, as his brain tries to figure out how to answer your question and the hundred others shouted his way. So, he just walks to your side instead, and the gaggle of journalists and photographers follow like so many ducklings behind him.

“This is Doc— Our in-house cosmologist and astrophysicist,” the older man announces as he stands at your side. He puts a gloved hand on your shoulder, almost apologetically so, like he’s trying to silently convey that he hates all this just as much as you do. His fake smile wavers slightly after having been plastered on his face for so long. “If anyone knows what’s waiting for us up there, it’ll be her.”

“I didn’t consent to this—” you deadpan, flinching at the blinding camera flashes.

Your protest gets buried under a barrage of questions shouted at you from every direction. Each member of the press is trying to be heard over the person standing next to them, who is trying to be heard over the person standing next to them. It’s an unforgiving cycle that fills the expansive room with chaos.

“How did the two of you meet?!” a newswoman questions into a bulky microphone from where she stands before a large news camera.

“At Colombia—” Reed answers, faltering briefly when the rest of the Saturn Five walk into the room behind him. Sue, Johnny, and Ben enter wearing their own customized spacesuits. The older man locks eyes with his wife almost immediately, who flashes him a sympathetic smile in return.

Johnny waits for you to look at him, too. He thinks he’s spent the better part of the past year just waiting for you to look at him. Because, most times, he sees you before he’s seen anything else in any given room.

Reed, realizing his sudden silence, stumbles over himself to continue. “Uh, Doc was giving a lecture on black holes, I believe it was, and I—”

“Cosmic radiation,” you correct bluntly.

“…What?”

“I wrote a book on the Black Hole Paradox, but I never taught the Black Hole Paradox,” you ramble in a detached monotone. “We met after a lecture I gave on cosmic radiation— specifically the idea that cosmic rays can penetrate the body and alter its molecules, leading to extreme genetic mutations, which can be passed down for generations.”

For perhaps the first time since security allowed the press into the hangar, silence fills the all-white room. You tend to have that effect on people. On everybody, it seems, except for—

“See what I mean?” Johnny says with a wide grin, relatively unfazed by the hundreds of cameras pointed his way. The lenses follow his every move as he walks to stand beside you, throwing a heavy arm around your shoulder. “Best damn cosmetologist I ever met,” he blunders unknowingly, but with a crooked pink smile that’s hard to say no to.

“Cosmologist,” you correct without taking your emotionless stare off the camera zoomed into your face.

You duck from beneath Johnny’s arm and shove through the crowd of media personnel, heading for the doctors waiting on the other side. The blonde boy takes the sudden attention with ease — he’s gotten all too used to it over the past year.

“She’s the prettiest one, too,” he jokes into the news camera, with a gloved hand cupping the side of his mouth like he’s telling some sort of secret. “But don’t tell her I told you.”

The fiberglass helmets are made of a thick polycarbonate, which Reed’s spent several years perfecting for this very mission. One of the many nurses slides it over your head and locks it into place. The amber-tinted visor, designed to reflect thermal radiation, paints the white building in so many shades of flaxen gold.

Johnny stands beside you — because he’s always somehow right beside you — and turns his heavy head to look at you when the doctor locks his helmet into place. The tinted glass dullens his ocean-eyed gaze and muffles his voice when he asks you, “Remember that date I asked you on?”

“Which one?” you deadpan.

“Any of ‘em?” he shrugs. “Is it too late to hash that out, you think?”

“Well, you can’t exactly take me out for coffee now, can you?”

A pink smile curls from behind his thick, glass visor. “Well, we get back in two weeks, Doc. I’ll have plenty of time to take you out for coffee then.”

“Trust me, Johnny Storm, you’ll be sick of me in two weeks.”

His laugh is muffled, but no less cherry-colored. “I’ve seen you every day for the past year, Doc,” he argues. “If I’m not sick of you by now, I don’t think I’m ever gonna be.”

It makes you frown. You don’t understand why he’s lying. ‘Cause you are, by nature, a rather demanding creature. You’re moody, cynical, and sometimes cruel. You’re at times totally untangible, and at others extremely unreasonable. You’ve intentionally made it very difficult to love you because you’ve spent many years not knowing men to be kind.

But Johnny — perhaps obliviously, and led only by his unbridled curiosity — longed to be close to you despite his inherent softness, and despite all your metaphorical barbs.

“Coffee, then?” you monotone without a glance his way, lest he see the vulnerability swimming in your gaze. “When we get back, I mean.”

Johnny glows at a moment’s notice. His button eyes widen in a not-so-subtle look of shock as his pink mouth falls softly agape. ‘Cause, sure, he’s been trying to get you to like him every day for the past three-hundred-sixty-five of them, but he didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. Or at all, really.

He nods beneath his helmet, rapid and boyish, and smiles at you far wider than you think he realizes. “It’s a date, Doc—”

The comms built into your helmet hiss as they crackle to life. Johnny flinches as his sister’s voice comes through the faint static. “Comms check. Everybody sound off,” Sue instructs from his other side, flashing her baby brother a knowing look.

“Check,” Reed nods.

Ben salutes with two fingers pressed to his forehead, over his rounded glass helmet. “Check, check.”

A cameraman moves down the line as each of you speaks. The chunky gadget sits heavy on his broad shoulder as he squints into the rubber eyepiece of the viewfinder, zooming into each of your faces.

“Check,” Johnny says with a nod in his direction, always so painfully casual.

The cameraman settles finally on you. He looks at you through the lens as though it were a third eye, and your face screws with a subtle scowl. “Tell this man to get his camera out of my face,” you answer in a flat voice.

Sue’s pretty laugh sounds through the static. “Comms are live.”

The large hangar door whirs slowly open. Early morning daylight bathes the room in shades of orange-gold. The Excelsior towers before you, sleek and silver and shimmering in the soft sunlight. The five of you walk in a line up the steep tarmac, inching closer to what will become your new home for the next several days.

Reed reaches for Sue’s hand before they pass the threshold. “Good luck kiss?” he offers, already leaning in towards her.

“Maybe just one for the road,” the older woman grins.

Their lips pucker for a kiss, but their fiberglass helmets bump audibly together instead. They laugh about it, anyway, as the double doors to the shuttle part with a faint hiss.

Johnny turns expectantly to you then, eyes round and silently hopeful. Your scoff crackles through his comm. “In your dreams, space-boy,” you deadpan and walk on ahead of him.

“Ouch…” Ben winces playfully in response as he enters ahead of the blonde boy.

Johnny shrugs off the rejection with a slow nod. “Rain check, then.”

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✶ — April, 1961 | The Excelsior — ✶

You still remember that strange liminal space between high school and university, where they called you overtly ambitious like it were synonymous with the word bitch. No one had been to space before, let alone a woman, and very few of your kind were able to break into the astronomy field at all. Therefore, no one was quite inclined to believe that you’d be the first among them to be truly successful.

Why don’t you just settle down? they huffed impatiently, like your life wasn’t just beginning. The best way for your kind to contribute to society is to be a mother— Everyone knows that.

That was, of course, before you were pictured on the cover of the Times with the rest of the Saturn Five — wherein you were described in print as ‘perhaps the most eminent female astrophysicist of our time.’

You were among the first of women to earn a degree in the field, and the first ever to receive your doctorate from the same university. You were the first female faculty member of Columbia’s astrophysics program — an assistant professor for some excruciating months, until it became rather grating to take orders from men four times your age. Sometime thereafter, and despite all the odds, you were the first female full-time astrophysics professor.

Such accolades inevitably caught Sue Storm’s attention. She liked your persistence, and Reed Richards liked your mind. And somewhere between then and now, you were recruited to become one of the first ever humans to experience the uncharted terrain of outer space.

As you strap into your seat on the Excelsior, you can’t help but wonder about who you’re living behind, and what those who doubted you must think of you now — if they marvel at what you’ve accomplished, or if they pity you still for trying so hard to break the mold.

“Final check and check, please,” Sue instructs through comms, from where she navigates between the two pilots.

Each of your voices crackles through speakers in return, and only then does Ben initiate the ignition sequence. You watch from behind him as he presses a series of buttons on the light-up panel, a pattern you’re unfamiliar with that he knows all too well. His weathered fists push a weighted lever, and the shuttle roars to life.

You feel the floors trembling beneath your weighted boots. Your seat shakes with it, too. Your gloved hands clutch the straps of your buckles in an unforgiving grip while a funny feeling rolls over your stomach. Not with fear, or worry, or excitement exactly — but the distant acknowledgment that your life’s going to change forever.

“We’re go for launch,” Ben announces to his co-pilot, who presses his own series of blinking neon buttons.

The whirring engine jerks suddenly as it lifts from its place on the ground. Four million pounds of pure steel propel suddenly towards the heavens with the burst of a golden flame. There’s a harsh pull and then a numbness, which turns into a heavier, emptier feeling as you break through the atmosphere — roughly 100 kilometers above sea level.

“Woo-hoo!” Johnny exclaims boyishly into his comms, arms raised above his head as the shuttle pierces finally through the dreaded veil — as he witnesses, for the first time in human history, where the bright blue sky meets an all-black eternity.

The gravity is slow to dissipate. It makes everything feel suddenly lighter — the cool air running through your suit, the heavy boots on your feet; your stomach, your heart, your mind. The dizzying feeling must be to blame for the absent-minded smile on your face, you think, ‘cause you look at Johnny then like you’re watching the beginning of the whole world.

A giddy laugh sputters suddenly like magic from your lips. Johnny and the stars sigh in unison. He’s been wondering ever since he met you what the sound of your laughter must sound like. Your smile is the only thing he’s dreamt of for the past year, the only thing, and he mourns it all over again when you ultimately turn away.

The Earth grows more and more distant. What once seemed so limitless, now looks so tiny against the star-speckled void of outer space. Everyone you’ve ever known, everyone there ever was, lived their entire life on this indistinct orb of green and blue. Every saint and sinner, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization. Millions of years of joy and suffering are contained within this brief smudge, swimming in a sea of never-ending blackness. A fleck of dust lost inside a bright sunbeam.

“You seein’ that?” Johnny wonders into his comm, to no one in particular, though he still hasn’t quite taken his eyes off of you.

You nod wordlessly for a moment, ‘cause you can’t believe how blue the world is from here.

It’s a rich, vibrant color that humans couldn’t recreate if they tried, ‘cause such a cerulean-cobalt shade cannot travel the entire distance from the sun to the land. Its molecules, instead, get scattered in the wind and the water, before reflecting in the more observable lighter hue that paints the sky.

But this? This deeper, dreamier, more melancholy blue — this blue that does not reach the Earth, this blue that gets lost on the way to the humans down below — holds the beauty of the entire world in its hand.

“It’s beautiful…” you murmur into the crackling comm, more speechless than the rest of them have ever seen you before.

You turn to Johnny then, who sits across the aisle from you, and wear the orbital golden sunrise in your gaze. Inside his, you find the same dreamlike blue that paints the depths and edges of the faraway Earth. The lost, untouched ultramarine swims now in his round button eyes as he stares unblinkingly at you.

“Yeah…” he nods within a breathless sigh, overcome by the ethereal infinite surrounding him — and the one sitting just beside him in the shape of a girl. “Beautiful.”

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✶ — May, 1961 | The Excelsior — ✶

The routine you fall into in space is not quite unlike the one you had on Earth. You’re alone more often than not, hidden away in the observation room with your books and your journals, trying fruitlessly to make sense of the inherently nonsensical universe around you. It’s exactly how you’ve spent most of your life, really — the only difference now is you feel much more at home here, on the Excelsior and in the unpathed emptiness of outerspace, than you ever did on Earth.

Sue Storm is perhaps the only one of you who understands the importance of a real schedule. You and Reed, particularly, would work your circadian rhythms half to death if she let you. But, in an attempt to maintain a routine in an inherently timeless place, Sue insists on taking all of your meals at the same time every day, and in the same spot at the small kitchen table in the galley.

You sit between Johnny and Ben for at least an hour out of the day there, and catch up on plans or other miscellaneous discoveries found while on opposite sides of the shuttle.

The five of you exercise for one hour every day, before breakfast and after dinner, in order to keep the strength in your bones and muscles, which would otherwise be sucked out of you from the microgravity. The rest of the day is fair game and often spent with the five of you scattered about. Sue and Ben are usually navigating in the control room, Johnny and Reed are always finding something to do with their idle hands, and you can often be found on the observation deck looking for something new in the nothingness spanning before you.

And when the rest of the Saturn Five, at the end of a long day, return to their sleeping bags strapped to the wall — yours is the only one left empty. And Johnny knows immediately where to find you.

You drift like a dream in the dim cupola, a room made of so many fiberglass windows. The starry, black velvet universe sits just outside — an undreamt emptiness at your fingertips.

Your hair is tied back and out of your face. Your body is adorned in your nightclothes, a simple white tank top worn over a pair of red gingham pants. Your legs are crossed beneath you, as if you were sitting down, and you scribble something into a journal while a heavier textbook floats at your side. You’re a pretty girl dressed for a quiet night at home, observing Mars as casually as someone would watch their television.

Johnny knocks briefly on the ajar door before he enters. He’s already in his pajamas, too — an old t-shirt that clings to his lean torso and a pair of dark sweatpants that sit low on his hips.

“Sue wanted me to tell you it’s time for lights out, so… Lights out.”

You nod without looking his way, still slouched over the book in your lap. “Good night, Johnny Storm.”

His quiet laugh fills the silent room. “I think she meant she wants you in bed, too, Doc. You know how she is about the schedule.”

“Well, I’m busy, so…”

“You’re always busy,” Johnny scoffs, shutting the cupola door behind him as he maneuvers into the room with you.

The lack of gravity makes his bones feel lighter than air as it carries him towards you, cradling him in its cold and heavy hand. He lingers just behind you, warm with exhaustion and smelling of musky vanilla-berry shampoo as he peers over your shoulder. He can hardly make sense of your haphazard scribbles. Your pen whizzes across the page like something’s telling you’re about to run out of time.

“What are you writing about?”

You motion wordlessly to something at your side, as easily as a parent shrugging off a child. Johnny looks around until he finds a telescope — short, bulky, and likely worth far more than it looks. He plucks the weighty thing in his hands as it drifts by his feet. He falters with it for a moment, struggling briefly to determine which eye to close in order to see out of the damn thing.

With furrowed brows and a single squinted eye, he peers through the lens of the telescope. He doesn’t know how to focus it, or exactly where he should be looking, so instead he marvels at the big, blurry planet looming before him — looking much closer than it did just a moment ago.

“Planet,” he concludes with a slow nod, like it isn’t plain as day in front of you.

With a practiced and half-distracted hand, you contort your wrist slightly to focus the lens for him, all without looking up from your notebook. When Johnny peers through the telescope again, everything is more distinct — the blobs from before are now craters and rocks and ridges on the billion-year-old planet.

Within the shrouds of rust-colored dust and martian stars is something more distant but still well-defined — it’s rounded like a planet, but grayer and swathed in a heavy veil of ice.

“What is that?” Johnny murmurs incredulously. “Is it like a… A ghost planet or something?”

The words feel a bit silly as they spill from his mouth, but you nod in response anyway. “Most scientists would call that an exoplanet, but sure, yeah. A ghost planet.”

“I’m a scientist!” Johnny argues, boyish features screwed in offense — not because you’re wrong, but because he feels a bit like he’s earned the title after being in such close proximity to some of the brightest scientific minds known to man. You, for one. His sister, for another. And Reed, though he would never co-sign that out loud.

“You’re an engineer who plays dress-up in his sister’s lab coat—”

“That was one time!”

You look up and nod your chin towards the window. “Look at what’s around it.”

Johnny ducks his head and squints one eye to peer through the telescope once more. With untrained hands, he refocuses the lens to see a bit clearer — the indistinct clouds there turn into more defined specks, red and dull and dying.

“Uh… Rocks,” he confirms.

You bite back a grin and nod. “Sure. Rocks and stars and dark matter,” you explain further, growing increasingly giddy in a way that makes you already embarrassed at yourself. “It’s a planet— A fossil planet.”

“…Fossil?” Johnny echoes.

“You can tell by the colors of the stars around it that it hasn’t changed or merged with any other galaxies in at least a billion years,” you ramble, gesturing wildly with the pen in your right hand. You point out the window like the strange planet is right outside and not tens of millions of kilometers away. “Which means it’s essentially frozen in time.”

Johnny just nods along. He barely understands you if he’s being honest — ‘cause he’d much rather build things than observe them — but he likes hearing you speak, so he pretends you’re speaking the same language.

Until it’s his turn to talk, that is. Then his blonde brows pinch slowly together and his ocean eyes turn to sparkling buttons. “Wait, what’s so special about a dead planet?”

“Everything,” you answer like it’s obvious, hardened gaze glinting with a newfound life. “They’re like time capsules— They can tell us everything about what our early solar system looked like. How it changed over time, how after billions of years of inhability, Earth just happened to be perfect for human life, it’s—”

The dim lights above you click suddenly off, leaving just one row of amber auxiliary lights glowing overhead. A second later and the heat whirs slowly off, too.

The comfortable warmth gives way to a heavier cold. A shiver crawls up your spine almost instantly that you fight stubbornly away. It’s Reed’s way of conserving power, and Sue’s way of saying that everyone who isn’t in bed will freeze for the night.

Johnny deflates at the interruption.

He was just starting to get you to open up again, just like you did a week or more ago, when the Excelsior first launched and you looked at him like you were discovering something. Johnny wants you to find it again. Whatever it is.

“I hate when he does,” you scowl, dull eyes losing their previous spark.

“I guess it’s a good thing you have your very personal space heater to keep you company, then, huh?” Johnny croons with a lopsided grin. Your frown deepens, and he shrugs. “What? I run hot. I always have.”

“I’m busy. And it’s late,” you deadpan and turn away again. “Good night, Johnny Storm.”

You return to your work with an admirable ease, like Johnny isn’t there at all. Your pen darts across the page in a series of swirled and smudged cursive, sounding much louder in the sudden quiet. He lingers at your side anyway, inching closer despite himself, as though the microgravity were pulling him towards you. He doesn’t say a word; tries to move too much, tries not to breathe too hard, for fear of being noticed.

You do notice him, though. You can’t help but notice everything about him.

“You’re still here,” you observe distantly.

“Well, I don’t want you freezing to death out here, Doc,” Johnny scoffs like he’s doing you some sort of service. “Just let me stay— you know, for warmth. You won’t even realize I’m here, alright? Scouts honor.”

He holds up four fingers instead of three. You turn away again and say nothing. Johnny takes it as the invitation you mean it as, ‘cause you’re no stranger to telling him to fuck off when you really want him to.

You continue your scribbling while he lingers at your side, chest pressed against your arm as he peers over your shoulder. Through the messy cursive, he manages to make out, It’s possible this exoplanet once existed in our own solar system and was later ejected; check for any potential strange orbital movements—

Your hand freezes in place when Johnny’s warm breath fans over your bare shoulder. Each rhythmic exhale through his nose brushes your skin. It makes it hard for you to think, makes all the words in your head jumble suddenly together. You don’t know why.

“You’re breathing on me,” you blurt emotionlessly, neither angry nor pleased, just observant in a way he’s always known you to be.

“Sorry,” Johnny flinches back.

His round eyes swim with a darker shade of blue as they dart over your profile. He wants you to look back at him, even if it’s with malice. He just wants you to see him.

But you keep your eyes on the journal in your lap, even though you can’t figure out what to write anymore. The only thing in your head now is the sun in Johnny’s veins and the deep, Earthy blue in his eyes.

“It’s okay…” you mumble, still detached as ever, but with a white-knuckled grip on your pen. You swallow hard and wait for him to be close again, mourning when he keeps his distance. With a weary look over your shoulder, you repeat more firmly this time, “It’s okay.”

Johnny knows it’s an invitation, but for what, he doesn’t know. His unmanicured brows furrow as his tongue darts out to wet his pink mouth. “Do you want me to… to do it again or…?” he trails off.

The soft look in your eyes turns glacial in an instant. “Don’t say it!” you scold. “Do it, but don’t— don’t say it out loud. That makes it weird.”

You look away again, inwardly cursing yourself for being so vulnerable. Johnny purses a smile to the side of his mouth, lest he look too excited for your request to come closer. He curls his arm around you and keeps a softly calloused palm on the outside of your elbow, gently tethering himself to your side as you sway together in the zero-gravity.

You feel his warm fingers against your skin and flinch on instinct. You haven’t been touched with such gentleness since early childhood. You weren’t a stranger to man or their bodies, nor what their hands could do to yours, but something about Johnny made you feel different.

It was something about Johnny.

You hated that it was always about Johnny.

But you let him keep touching you, anyway — and, in his arms, you feel finally like you belong some place. His breath feels warm and familiar as it rolls across your skin. His chest feels solid and firm as it presses against your back. When he gets closer than he means to, and his chapped lips accidentally brush the curve of your soft shoulder, you tense like he’s burned you.

Johnny’s breath hitches, too. “Sorry,” he blurts again, wide-eyed and worried that he’s ruined something.

“I liked it,” you confess, as blunt with him as you’ve always been. “I think…”

“You think?” Johnny echoes, pink lips curling. “So, you’re not sure?”

“No,” you answer plainly and spare him only a brief glance from the corner of your eye. “So you should probably try again. Just in case.”

He doesn’t know how you do it — how you manage to torment him with your feigned ambivalence and reward him with your closeness at the same time. Johnny obeys you anyway, though, ‘cause it’s in his blood to bend to your every whim. He thinks if the two of you were sunflowers, he’d face you instead of the sun.

He smooths his plush lips slowly along the expanse of your exposed skin, from the edge of your shoulder to the junction of your neck — not quite kissing you, just caressing you with his mouth. His tongue darts out to wet dry lips, and the pink brushes just over your pulse.

You hum on an exhaled breath. And in the deathly quiet of outer space, it sounds almost like a moan.

Johnny falters briefly. “…More?” he whispers against your skin.

You nod wordlessly. You couldn’t get the words out if you tried. You just know you want him to kiss you. God, you don’t want him to stop kissing you.

The entire universe spins around you when his warm lips lock more intentionally on your neck. You go dizzy in an instant without the gravity to hold you down. It makes you feel like you’re going crazy — did love make people crazy? Did love turn people into unrecognizable versions of themselves?

You figure it must.

Because the girl who turns her head to catch Johnny’s lips with her own most certainly can’t be you. The girl who abandons her life’s work, who lets her pen and paper float aimlessly next to her, who turns away from the uncharted universe in front of her to hold desperately onto the blonde boy she couldn’t stand a year ago — whoever she is, is a stranger to you now.

Your fingers twist in his freshly cleaned hair, mussing recklessly at the satin blonde tendrils. Johnny’s hand trails down your body in the meanwhile. His warm, wide palms smooth over your bare arms and across your back. He cups the back of your thighs, urging them around his waist. You lick into his mouth and lock your ankles behind him, keeping yourself tethered to him as you float aimlessly in the heavy air.

“And to think…” Johnny pants when you part from him, smiling lips swollen and rosy. “You spent all this time pretending to hate me.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” you slur with his spit on your mouth.

“Really?” he hums. “‘Cause it kinda feels like you like me a lot, actually—”

His strong hands curl around the curve of your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. Your lap sits flush against his own. Something soft and firm presses along your inner thigh. “I could say the same about you, Johnny Storm.”

You shift slightly, and Johnny realizes how hard he is. His cock strains against his sweats and the tighter boxer-briefs he wears beneath them. Feeling distantly overwhelmed and half-embarrassed, his pale cheeks flare pink. “Sorry…” he grimaces.

“Don’t,” you squint, slightly demeaning but somehow still playful. “I like it… I think.”

You kiss him again, deep enough to steal the breath from his lungs, wet enough to feel your spit on his chin. You wrap your legs tighter around his lean waist until his stiffening cock is sandwiched between your bodies, pressed intently into your own warmth.

Johnny gasps through his nose. He almost thinks he can feel the lines of your clothed cunt against him, hidden folds embracing the most sensitive parts of him. It makes him wonder if you’re wearing anything under your thin pajama bottoms as your hips rock back and forth over his own.

Your mouth is equally as unforgiving. You kiss him like you’re searching for heaven in his mouth, like you can taste stars on his tongue. His lungs burn for air, but still he never parts from you. You’re killing him, with your mouth and with your hips, but Johnny throws himself deeper onto the blade, anyway. He pulls you that much closer, kisses you that much deeper — until he worries he might bleed out.

Your lips smack in protest when he parts from you. “We should stop,” he frets through panted breaths, eyes dilated and heavy-lidded.

“Please, don’t—” you beg and fall back into him again.

Johnny falters. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you beg. He doesn’t think you’ve ever had to before. You never have to beg for anything; all you have to do is take.

A groan sounds deep in his throat when your hips grind over his own in a slow and practiced rhythm. “It’s gonna be too much,” he slurs against your mouth.

“What?”

“I’ll…” he sighs breathlessly and trails off. He can’t figure out the words to say without sounding like a total teenager; he only knows he should probably get them out before he bursts in his boxers and has to explain to Sue why he’s wasting water on a second shower.

“ I’ll cum,” he confesses finally, fingertips digging bruises onto your clothed thighs in a feeble attempt to stop your merciless movements.

Your lidded eyes dart over his form. His tousled blonde hair, his glazed-over ocean eyes, his flushed cheeks, his kiss-swollen mouth. He’s pretty and pathetic. You want to take care of him and ruin him all at once.

“I want you to cum,” you say. You plead. You command.

Johnny loses himself in your assurance. His slow and languid kisses turn sloppy — full of tongue and teeth and swapped spit. The fingers that once restricted you now fight to keep you close. His hands twist into the fabric of your pants as he guides your hips back and forth against him.

A pretty whimper sounds in your throat every time your clit catches the bulbous tip of his clothed cock, and the exhaled breath fans over his cupid’s bow.

His boxers dampen from his drooling pre-cum as he twitches in the confines of his underwear. He wonders if you feel it, too. He figures you must, if your erratic thrusts and choked back whines have anything to say about it.

“Johnny—” you whisper like a warning to him, voice breaking as your inevitable orgasm twists in your belly.

“I know,” he pants through rapid nods. “Fuck, baby— I know.”

He adjusts you on his waist with a pair of wide hands around your thighs. The harsh and sudden movement sends the two of you spiraling, spinning softly together in the open air like two orbiting planets. The new angle opens you wider for him, keeps your throbbing clit pressed intently to his aching cock.

Johnny feels the way your pussy pounds like a heartbeat for him as it rubs up and down his lap. A whine grumbles deep in his throat.

“I’m cumming,” you whimper against his mouth. Foreheads pressed together, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging crescent shapes into his shoulders. Your sensitive clit catches the ridge of his cock over his sweats, and you gasp. “Oh, fuck, Johnny— I’m cumming.”

The blonde boy holds you tighter. He curls one strong arm over your back and towards your shoulder; his other cradles the outside of your clothed thigh in a bruising grip. He keeps you spread open and pressed mercilessly against him while his hips rut with a sporadic sort of rhythm.

“C’mon,” he grunts in panted breaths against your chin. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—”

You tense in his hold, trembling when you cum for him. Your thighs clench around his waist. Your fingers ball his thin shirt in your fists. Your face screws as you fight back a moan. A whimper rises and dies in your throat instead, as a warm feeling of honeyed release blooms in the pit of your stomach.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Johnny praises in vague mumbles while you twitch in his hold. His hips stutter as his boxers grow sticky with a premature release. “That’s it, baby… Shit. I’m cumming, too— Gonna cum so hard for you, baby. Fuck—”

His voice breaks with a pathetic whimper. He chokes back a louder groan and tilts his heavy head back towards the ceiling.

Through heavy eyes clouded with a lingering pleasure, you watch Johnny’s orgasm rack through his body. His chiseled jaw clenches. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. His skin flares a faint pink color.

Even through the layers of clothes separating you, you feel his cock twitching with each rope of cum it spits into his boxers. Johnny grunts through each one of them, hips stuttering against your own, slow to come back down again.

You just stay like that for a while — limbs entwined, twirling slowly, floating together in every sense of the word. Johnny buries his face in your neck. He presses wet kisses to your burning skin, while you keep your heavy eyes trained on the cupola. You blink slowly at the stars and distant planets there, forgetting until that moment that there’s a whole world out front of you.

An entire universe you spent your whole life dreaming about, gone momentarily forgotten in Johnny Storm’s arms.

“Do you think we’re the first astronauts to orgasm in space?” you wonder aloud in a distant whisper.

It makes Johnny laugh. The warm breath of it fans across your shoulder. His body trembles with it, too. “Yeah,” he scoffs. “You gonna write about me in that book of yours? See what other firsts we could do up here?”

He presses one last innocuous kiss to your neck before parting from you. He lifts his heavy head, lips curled into a crooked smile, and finds you scowling at him in return. “Don’t push it,” you deadpan.

“Sorry,” he grimaces, ‘cause he can never quite tell where the line is — how close you’ll let him get before you’re pulling away again. Apparently, cumming in his pants will only get him so far. “I still get to take you out for that coffee when we get back, though, right?”

“Yes,” you nod in your usual deadpan, though something about your detachment seems different now. Maybe because you’ve still got your thighs wrapped around his waist. “I plan on doing a lot with you when we get back.”

It sounds almost like a threat as it spills from your monotone mouth.

It finds Johnny like a promise, anyway.

Visit Original Link

✶ — May, 1961 | Baxter Building Med Bay — ✶

How quickly a dream turns into a nightmare.

In a blink. In a flash of a bright light. In a searing storm of daunting blue and purple.

On the early morning of the dissent back home, you warned Reed of heightened solar activity. Johnny barely understood a word of it then, but he heard the distant worry in your voice when you told the older man about the strange eruptions of plasma pulsing from the sun, which you feared would disrupt the journey back to Earth.

“Our shielding isn’t strong enough, Reed— We can’t get caught in that flare.”

“We won’t,” he assured, voice strangely even for such an anxiety-riddled man. “You’ll keep an eye on that radar, and Ben will keep us outta the line of fire. We won’t get pulled into that magnetic field, Doc, I swear—”

“It’s not that I’m worried about.”

And you were right not to be.

It was strangely poetic, in a dark, sadistic way, how the thing you dedicated your whole life to learning about ended up killing you in the end.

You’d alerted Reed of the increasing cosmic rays coming in ripples from an aggravated magnetic field. And when Ben hit turbulence, worried that the ship wasn’t strong enough to take it on, the older man told the panicked pilot to push onward. Not because of his own hubris, but because there wasn’t any other choice. There was no going back then — either you laid there and took it, or you pushed the Excelsior to its limits and prayed you escaped unscathed.

Johnny only remembers darkness. And his sister’s screaming. And your strange silence. Then he remembers fire — a big burst of a bright orange flame that engulfed the shuttle as it re-entered the Earth’s atmosphere, snapping in half just before plummeting into the Atlantic.

The Saturn Five did not return to the Earth the same way they had left it.

Ben’s lean, white body, for one, is now covered in bulky calluses that make him a hundred times stronger than the average man, totally unrecognizable from the human he was before. Reed reaches across the aisle for his slumped-over wife, and his arm stretches abnormally to fill the distance between them. Sue, seemingly subconsciously, disappears at random in a flicker of refracted light — as easily as someone turning off a light switch. Johnny burns from the inside out, glowing orange from the wildfire raging inside of him.

And you…

You didn’t return at all.

That’s all Johnny can think about when they’re air-lifted back to the Baxter Building. Press hound the halls outside while ANSA doctors scatter about, unsure of what to make of the suddenly superpowed Saturn Five. He paces back and forth all the while, clenched fists bursting into flame at random, ash burning on his tongue.

“We have to go back out there,” Johnny decides firmly, made stern with his sorrow.

He does not cry for you. His grief is made out of something much more discreet than that, as silent as blood spilling from a weeping wound. Your absence pierces him like a thread through a needle. The thought of finding you again is the only thing keeping him stitched together now.

“With what ship?” Ben calls to him.

“We can build another ship— We’ve done it before!”

Sue pushes through the doctors crowded around her, stumbling towards her baby brother despite the blood matted in her hair. “It wouldn’t do any good, Johnny,” she tries her best to calm him despite the tremor in her own voice.

“We can’t just leave her out there!” the blonde boy shouts, teary eyes wide and crazed. He gestures wildly with his hands, and Sue flinches at the flame he holds within them.

“Johnny—”

“We can’t!”

“Johnny, she’s gone!” Sue shouts over him.

She puts her pale hands to his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath her palm. Her mouth opens to speak, but the words die on her tongue when her fingers start to disappear on their own accord. She balls the fabric of his shirt into her fists and tries to focus.

“If the fire didn’t kill her, being sucked into the atmosphere would’ve, and you know it! It would’ve crushed her, Johnny—”

The boy shakes his stubborn head. “You don’t know that, Sue,” he chokes.

“But she—” Sue pauses to swallow down her own sob, then flashes her brother a more assured, glassy-eyed look. “But she didn’t suffer, Johnny.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know it. I do. It was quick. It was over before she knew it was happening—”

“Not that,” Johnny snaps and stumbles back. His pale skin glows a faint orange color under the weight of his rage. He softens only at the fearful look in his sister’s eyes. “We don’t know if it killed her at all, Sue…”

The woman sighs, almost sympathetically so. “Johnny…”

“Look at us, Sue!” he shouts, voice ringing through the white and blue med bay.

He gestures around him with fiery hands — at the personified rock that used to be Ben Grimm, at the abnormally flexible limbs of Reed Richards, at the rainbow waves of light dancing around his sister and turning her invisible at whim.

“How do we know that something didn’t happen to her, too? Something that might be keeping her alive out there?”

“There wouldn’t be enough oxygen, Johnny,” Reed comments with an apologetic sigh from where he slouches on an exam table. His words are weighed down with an obvious regret that paints his weathered face. “Even if something did happen, we only had enough air supply for the trip. She’d be running out of oxygen—”

“Don’t!” Johnny snaps with an accusatory finger pointed his way. Reed cowers under the flame in his hand, and the red rage in his dark eyes. “You don’t get to speak right now, Reed— ‘Cause what happened to us out there? That’s on you.”

“It’s on all of us,” Ben says in a feeble attempt to quell the palpable tension.

“It’s on you!” Johnny repeats and storms out of the room, despite the distant calls of his name.

The muffled chatter outside the med bay doors bursts into a symphony of a thousand voices when Johnny rushes into the hallway. He pushes past the press waiting there, dodging questions and camera flashes, as he makes a beeline for the elevator.

“How’s it going in there, Johnny Storm?” he hears a deep-voiced reporter ask.

“How do you think?” the blonde boy bites in response.

His non-answer succeeds only in producing a hundred more questions in return. The choir of unfamiliar voices turns into a buzzing sort of drone as he steps into the lift. Johnny squints at the never-ending flashes and incessant yelling that pervades his inevitable migraine.

“Care to make a comment, Mr. Storm?”

“What happened to Ben?”

“Where’s the Doctor?”

“Are you okay, Johnny Storm?” a younger newswoman, no older than him, calls from the front of the crowd. The only difference in her prying is that it seems almost genuine, as her made-up face screws softly with concern.

“Yeah…” Johnny sighs and presses the button for the main floor. The elevator doors ding as they close ahead of him. “I just… I had a date.”

to the brave souls who made it this far: thank you and i love you and i'm sorry for making you read something so long hahah. but i hope you liked it!! just know i'm giving all of you a virtual kiss on the forehead right now ily!!! (▰˘◡˘▰)

[metal-armed-muse]

TASTE TEST

EXECUTIVE CHEF! BUCKY X SOUS CHEF! F!READER

SUMMARY. Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

WORD COUNT. 17.8k (she’s biiiig, i’m sorry) WARNINGS. workplace romance, age gap, power imbalance, lowk grump! bucky, switching povs, smut, lowkey love/lust at first sight, MDNI, 18+, male masturbation, oral (f receiving), soft dom! bucky, unprotected pnv, tit play, food play, public-ish sex, misogyny and sexism in workplace (not from Bucky or Steve), miscommunication, angst, no use of y/n. Switching povs - Reader is always referred to in second person — you/your, Bucky is always referred to in third person — he/him. Reader is able-bodied, has hair, has a scar on her right hand (needed for plot) from a kitchen accident. It’s mentioned a couple of times. Bucky doesn’t have a metal arm, there’s a scar instead. Hierarchy in the kitchen goes like this — executive chef > head chef > sous chef >>> line cooks. ‘Pass’ is the area/counter where finished dishes are kept to be picked up. NOTES. Baby’s first collab yayy. I am beyond excited to participate in the Bucky’s dream house collab with these amazingly talented authors of the @stantastic-association. Thank you @miraclediviner for organising this and making it a reality and a success. I’ll always adore you. Also thank you for the ‘scar on Bucky’s arm’ idea, I owe you baby. Ilysm ❤️

READ ON AO3

BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE MASTERLIST

Brooklyn's Taste opened three years ago on a Sunday when it wouldn't stop raining.

Bucky remembers standing outside in the downpour at 4 in the morning, staring at the sign above the door thinking he was going to throw up. Steve had been next to him, soaked through his jacket, grinning like an idiot. "We did it," Steve had said.

Bucky hadn't been able to say anything back.

Now the restaurant has three Michelin stars and a six-month wait list, and Bucky still feels like throwing up most mornings. Different reasons, though. Now, it comes from wanting something so badly it hurts, from knowing he has it and being terrified he will fuck it up.

He's got plans. Big ones. A whole chain of them someday, Brooklyn's Taste locations in every major city, his name synonymous with the best food anyone would ever put in their mouth.

It keeps him up at night. The planning. The obsessing. The constant loop of what if and what next. That and the fact he can't turn his brain off, ever.

5.30 AM and Bucky's already awake, lying in bed watching shadows move across his ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for Alpine purring somewhere near his feet. She's a small white ball of fur he found five years ago outside his previous workplace. Back when Brooklyn's Taste was still a fantasy and he was working himself half to death at some other asshole's kitchen. She'd been a tiny rain-soaked bundle, hissing and scared. He'd scooped her right up and taken her home. Now she's the only thing in his life that doesn't stress him out.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Steve: You up?

Bucky: Yeah

Steve: Coffee in 10

Steve's got a key to the apartment, has had one since Bucky moved in three years ago. The place is right above the restaurant. It stays sleek and minimal, Bucky's never home long enough to decorate. There's a couch, a bed, a kitchen he barely uses. Photos on one wall. Him and Steve through the years, the night they got their first, second and third stars, Alpine in a patch of sunlight.

Everything else is downstairs.

True to his word, Steve lets himself in ten minutes later with coffees and a bag of bagels. He looks annoyingly awake for this hour. "You look like shit," Steve says, setting everything on the counter.

"Thanks."

"When's the last time you slept more than five hours?"

Bucky doesn't dignify that with an answer. Taking his coffee, he drinks it black.

Alpine's already abandoned him for Steve. The traitor. She's perched between his legs and purring loud enough to echo in the quiet apartment.

"You need to hire someone for the sous position," Steve says, pulling out a bagel. "We're drowning."

"I know."

"Interviews are today, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky grimaces. He hates interviews. Hates the whole song and dance of it, sitting across from people who think they want to work in a Michelin kitchen but have no idea what they're signing up for. Half of them quit within a month. "Got three lined up."

"Try not to scare them off this time."

"I don't scare people off."

Steve gives him a look. The one that says 'you absolutely do and you know it.'

They eat in comfortable silence, comes from knowing someone since you were kids.

Steve's been there through everything. The shitty apartment in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, culinary school, the restaurants that fired Bucky for having a mouth on him, the ones that kept him because he was too good to let go. When Bucky said he wanted to open his own place, Steve had been the first one to say 'I'm in.'

Now Steve runs the kitchen when Bucky can't. Head chef. The person Bucky trusts more than anyone.

"You think about seeing anyone?" Steve asks suddenly.

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee. It's too much talk for this early morning. "What?"

"You know. Dating. Relationships. Human connection, the sorts."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious." Steve's leaning against the counter, doing his concerned best friend routine. "When's the last time you went on a date?"

Bucky thinks about it. There was that girl three years ago, the one who'd lasted maybe a week before she got tired of him canceling plans because of the restaurant. Then a few one-night things that hadn't gone anywhere because Bucky couldn't turn his brain off long enough to pretend he cared about anything other than work.

Now it's been... a while. Long enough that his right hand and some website with questionable production value have become his primary source of release.

"I don't have time for that shit," Bucky mutters.

"You mean you won't make time."

"Same thing."

"It's really —"

"Steve." Bucky sets his coffee down, runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long, past his neck now. He should cut it. "The restaurant is the priority. You know that."

"I know you're gonna burn out if you don't let yourself have something outside of this place."

"I have Alpine."

"Your cat doesn't count."

Alpine meows, like she's offended.

They drop it after that, but Bucky can feel Steve watching him as they head downstairs.

The kitchen's dark and cold, stainless steel gleaming when Bucky hits the lights. This is his favorite part of the day. Before anyone else shows up, when it's quiet and full of possibility.

The kitchen starts filling up around seven. Line cooks filter in one by one, tying aprons and prepping their stations. Bucky watches from his spot near the pass, drinking more coffee, mentally preparing for service. Lunch is in a few hours. Then the interviews. Then dinner service.

Then he'll go upstairs and do it all over again tomorrow.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't here?" Bucky asks Steve, the question coming out of nowhere.

Steve glances up from where he's working. "No. Why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think about it. Like what if I'd done something else."

"You'd be miserable."

"Probably."

"Definitely." A grin works up into Steve's face. "You're not built for anything other than this, Buck. It's like — you know how some people are good at things? You were made for this. Big difference."

Bucky wants to argue, but he can't.

Steve's right.

The kitchen is the only place that's ever made sense to him. The only place he doesn't have to explain himself or apologize for being intense or obsessive. Everyone here gets it. They're all a little fucked up, all chasing the same high of a perfect plate, a perfect service, a perfect night.

Brooklyn's Taste is his baby. His dream. The thing he's wanted since he was a kid watching cooking shows and thinking 'I could do that better.'

And he has.

The three Michelin stars prove it.

The first two interviews are disasters.

One guy shows up in a wrinkled shirt, can't answer basic questions about technique, kept calling Bucky 'boss' like they're on a construction site.

The second one's a girl fresh out of culinary school who talks about her 'passion for the craft' but goes quiet when Bucky asks her to describe how she'd handle a dinner rush.

By the time the second one leaves, Bucky's temple is throbbing.

He's got one more. Some girl from New England Culinary Institute, resume says she's done time at Rolo's and Per Se. Probably another disaster waiting to happen. He's subconsciously drafting the text to Steve: we're fucked, none of them can do it.

There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Bucky calls, not looking up from where he's scribbling notes.

The door opens followed by footsteps, quieter than the last two. Someone settling into the chair across from his desk.

"Give me a second," he mutters.

"Sure."

Something about your voice makes him look up.

Oh.

Oh.

You're pretty. That's the first thing his brain registers, and it is completely unhelpful. The second thing is that you're sitting there with perfect posture, hands folded in your lap, looking directly at him without that nervous energy the other two had. There's a defiance about it, like you're daring him to find fault.

Your resume's in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up at you. "You worked at Per Se," he states.

"For a year."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Wanted something smaller, more control over what I was doing. Plus the exec chef there was kind of an asshole."

Bucky almost laughs. Almost. "And you think I'm not?"

"You probably are. But at least you're an asshole about things that matter."

That does make him laugh.

You've read about him. Obviously. There's this way you hold yourself, confident without being cocky. Like you know exactly what you're worth and aren't interested in pretending otherwise. "What are you looking for in this position?"

"Honestly? A place that gives a shit. I'm tired of working in kitchens where it's all about the image and none of the substance. I want to make food that matters."

Bucky's quiet for a moment. That's... exactly what he would've said. Word for word.

"You know what it's like here." It's not a question. "Three stars means three times the pressure. Every plate has to be perfect. Every service. There's no room for error."

"I know."

"Most people quit all the time because they can't handle it."

"I'm not most people."

Bucky should laugh at this, send you out. If anyone else would've said this, he would've laughed. But there's a challenge in the way you say it, he feels something. Interest, maybe. Curiosity. Something he hasn't felt in a while when it comes to potential hires. "Why do you want to work here specifically?" Bucky prodes.

"Because I've eaten here twice. Both times I left thinking about the food for weeks. That doesn't happen often… Also because I want to learn from someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Flattery. But you say it like you mean it.

Bucky's eyes drop to your resume again, scanning the details he'd already read three times. Rolo's, Per Se, a semester in Paris. All good signs. He should ask more questions, grill you on technique, on how you'd handle specific situations, on —

"What happened to your arm?"

That startles and amuses him in equal measure. You're looking at his left forearm, where the scar runs from wrist to elbow, impossible to miss. He did not expect that. "Kitchen accident. Culinary school. Vapour burn."

Everyone has looked at him with pity. Not you. You're looking at it with something closer to understanding. Like you've got your own scars hidden somewhere.

"Does it hurt?" you ask.

"Sometimes."

"When you're stressed?"

Bucky's eyes bore into yours. That's when it hurts. How the fuck did you —

"I've got one on my hand," you say, holding up your right hand. There's a broad scar across your palm. "Culinary school too. Partner spilled oil on my hand. Happens when I'm tired."

There's an intimacy in this, trading scars like secrets. Bucky doesn't talk about his arm, doesn't like when people ask. Where people have been looking at him like fragile and broken, you look at him like you get it.

"You start Monday," he hears himself say.

"What?"

"Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late."

A slow smile spreads across your face, Bucky notices it more than he should. "I won't be."

Standing abruptly, you extend your hand across the desk. Bucky takes it, your palm warm against his, the slight ridge of the thickened skin. When you pull away, he can still feel the ghost of your touch. 

"Thank you, Chef." You walk away with footsteps as soft as they were when you entered.

Bucky sits there for a full minute after you're gone, staring at the door.

If there's a worst day to wake up late, it's Thursday. And Bucky wakes up late on a Thursday. Steve's day off, which means the kitchen is running without either of them there, chaos ensuing already.

He checks his phone — 8:47 AM, fuck — and rolls out of bed, ready to practically run down the stairs. Alpine meows as he rushes past without noticing her.

The kitchen would be a disaster. People scrambling, stations a mess, someone probably crying in the walk-in. Bucky is expecting the worst.

Instead, it's... fine?

Everyone's at their station, prepping quietly. There's music playing low in the background. Was that Jazz in his kitchen?

Standing near the pass, organizing tickets that haven't even come in yet, is you. Unfazed expression on your face when you greet him, "Morning, Chef."

"What —"

"Deliveries came in an hour ago. I checked everything, sent back the fish because the eyes were cloudy. Produce is good."

"It's your second day."

"Third, technically. But who's counting." Your mouth tips, just a little, Bucky notices, though he shouldn't. 

"How did you —"

"I got here at six. Figured I'd get a head start."

Six in the morning. On your third day. When you could've slacked off, could've waited for someone to tell you what to do.

Bucky's eyes land on your lips, not knowing what to say. 

"Coffee?" You bring him back to reality. 

"What?"

"Do you want coffee? You look like you need it."

He does. Desperately. "Yeah. Thanks."

You pour him a cup from the pot near the pass, hand it to him. Your fingers brush his for half a second, Bucky loses sight of his thoughts, the touch electric enough to freeze his brain. 

"Sugar?"

"Black's fine."

"Of course it is." You're smiling again. Bucky's starting to realize that your smile is dangerous. Makes him forget what he was thinking about. Again. 

"Chef, can you taste this?" Bucky's elbow-deep in prep when you appear next to him with a spoon in front of his face, with some kind of herb sauce pooled in it. You're holding it at mouth level, like this is completely normal.

Bucky eyes go from you — your face —, to the spoon, and then back to you. "What are you doing?"

You look confused by the question, head tilting slightly, which will drive him insane if you keep doing it.

The distance between you is too close, close enough that he can smell your shampoo, that same scent that's been distracting him all week. The spoon is still hovering in front of his mouth, attached to you looking at him like he's the one being weird here.

"I can —" He gestures vaguely at the spoon.

"Oh." A shy but sheepish smile blooms on your face, he has to press his lips together so he doesn't mirror it right back. "Sorry, at my last place we always just —"

The explanation makes sense. He knows of places that do it like this. But nobody's ever done it here because Bucky's never allowed it. The thought of someone just… feeding him feels too intimate for a professional kitchen.

But there's no attempt on your part to give him the spoon. The expression in your eyes is soft, makes him confused and mad and wants to let you do whatever you want.

"Right. Yeah. Okay." Just as he leans forward, you lift the spoon to meet him, his mouth. The movement is simple, but Bucky's heart is erratic in his chest. Your fingers are right there, practically brushing his chin. He can see the small scar on your palm.

The sauce hits his tongue and he forgets to think for a second. It's good. Really fucking good. Makes him want another taste immediately.

Pulling the spoon back, you watch his face, like if you do it with intent, you might be able to figure out his thoughts. Bucky really hopes you can't because most of them involve how pretty you look when you're nervous.

"Well?"

"It's good… really good. What'd you put in it?"

You rattle out an endless number of herbs and spices, which does not reach Bucky's ears. He can only see that you're smiling now, pleased with yourself. Somehow, that's even worse for his concentration. "I wasn't sure if you'd like it."

Bucky's brain helpfully supplies that he'd probably like anything you made, which is a deeply unhelpful — not to mention inappropriate — thought to have about his new sous chef. "It's perfect. Use it for the chicken tonight."

"Really?"

"Really."

You're beaming at him now. Bucky needs you to stop doing that immediately. He's supposed to be professional and not think about how your whole face lights up when you smile.

"Thank you, Chef." You turn to walk away and Bucky's brain finally catches up with what just happened. You fed him. With a spoon. Like it was nothing. And he took it. Like he was your golden retriever. 

"Wait," he calls before he can stop himself.

You turn to look at him. 

"Don't —" How does he phrase this without sounding insane? "The spoon thing. You're not putting that back in the sauce, right?"

Amusement coats your face as you try to mask a laugh. "Of course not. That would be a health code violation."

"Right. J-Just checking." Did he just fucking stutter? 

You're definitely laughing at him now, he can see it in your eyes even though you're still trying to hide it. "Don't worry, Chef. I know how kitchens work."

Bucky's left standing there like an idiot trying to remember what he was doing before you appeared with your spoon and your smile and your complete disregard for his sanity.

"You good, Buck?" Steve materializes at his elbow, with the knowing look on his face that Bucky doesn't appreciate.

"Fine."

"You've been staring at the same onion for like thirty seconds."

Bucky looks down. He has, in fact, been staring at an onion for thirty seconds. "I'm thinking."

"About onions?"

"About the menu."

"The menu. That's what you're thinking about." Steve's definitely smirking now.

"Fuck off."

"Just saying, she's good."

"I know she's good. I hired her."

"That's not what I —" Steve stops, that grin getting wider. "Yeah, okay. Sure. The food's good, alright."

Bucky finishes his notes, checks the walk-in one more time, makes sure everything's locked down for the night. The kitchen empties out slowly. He can hear voices from the changing room, people saying goodnight, the back door opening and closing as they filter out into the cold.

He's putting his jacket on when you emerge. The first thing he notices is that you've changed. Obviously. You're in jeans now and an extremely thin sweater, with your hair down instead of tied back. You look different like this. Softer. Without the chef's whites, without anything to hide yourself behind. 

The second thing he notices — and fuck, he really wishes he hadn't — is that it's cold in the kitchen. The sweater you're wearing is thin, and your nipples are hard.

Bucky's eyes drop before he can stop them. The sweater's fitted enough that he can see the outline clearly, and his brain just... stops working. Everything narrows down to that one detail, that one absolutely inappropriate thing he should not be looking at. He coughs, tries to hide that he wasn't looking at your tits, and looks away.

You're slinging your bag over your shoulder, completely oblivious. "Goodnight, Chef. It was a great day."

"Yeah. Goodnight."  

You walk past him toward the back door, that clean, light shampoo mixed with the lingering smell of the kitchen reaches his nose. 

The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air, and then you're gone.

Bucky stands there in the empty kitchen, staring at nothing. His pants are getting tight. "Fuck."

This is bad. This is really fucking bad. He's got a hard-on for his sous chef, the woman he hired less than a week ago, the one who's been nothing but professional and competent. And the one who's completely unaware that she's driving him insane.

You're at least ten years younger than him. Probably more. Way too young for him to be standing here with his dick hard just because he saw the hard outline of your nipples through your sweater. He's too old for this shit, too old to be crushing on someone like a fucking teenager.

But no.

Bucky adjusts himself. He needs to go upstairs. Maybe take a cold shower to forget this ever happened. He has to get his shit together before he does something monumentally stupid. Locking up, he heads upstairs to his apartment, thankful Steve wasn't there to witness any of that. 

Alpine's waiting for him on the couch, curled up in a little ball. "Don't look at me like that," Bucky mutters.

She doesn't look at him at all.

Bucky strips off his jacket and shirt, heads to the bathroom. The shower has to be ice cold, to kill whatever this is before it becomes a problem.

But he shoves his pants and boxers down in record speed, and his hand's already on his cock.

Fuck it.

He's has been half-hard since the kitchen, and it takes almost nothing to get fully there. When he closes his eyes, he sees you, in that sweater, the outline of your nipples, hard from the cold. He wonders what they'd look like without the sweater, without anything.

His hand moves faster on his dick. He imagines peeling that sweater off you. You'd be in just your jeans, bare from the waist up. Your nipples would be hard peaks, he thinks. Taut and hard, begging to be touched, to be sucked. "Fuck."

In his head, you're in his apartment, on his bed, looking at him with that same defiant confidence you had in the interview, daring him to touch you. He'd start with his hands, palms cupping your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you gasped. And then he'd use his mouth, tongue flicking over each peak, sucking them until you were squirming beneath him.

Would you be loud? Or quiet? Would you arch into his touch or try to stay composed?

His grip tightens. He's leaking slick now, desperate to blow. He imagines you on your knees. That's what breaks him, the thought of you looking up at him with those eyes while you take him in your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, tongue doing things that should be illegal.

Or maybe you'd be on your back, legs spread, letting him taste you. He'd make you come on his tongue first. Wouldn't even touch himself, just focus on you, on making you fall apart.

Then he'd fuck you. Slow at first, just to watch your face. Then harder when you ask for it. And you would ask for it, he's sure of that. You're not the type to stay quiet about what you want.

The image of you underneath him, your nipples hard against his chest, your breath coming in gasps —

Bucky comes with a groan, spilling over his hand and onto the floor. The orgasm hits hard enough that his knees almost buckle, that he has to brace himself against the wall. He just stands there, breathing hard, covered in his own cum.

Then reality crashes back in. He just jerked off thinking about his sous chef. The woman who works for him, who trusts him to be professional. "Fuck."

The water's cold. He stands under the spray and tries to figure out what the fuck he's going to do. This isn't going away. Whatever this is — this desperate want, this intense need — it's not going to disappear just because he got off once. If anything, it's worse now. Now that he knows what it feels like to imagine you, to picture you in his hands.

Bucky has been in a shit mood all day, snapping at people for things that wouldn't normally bother him. The fish is fine but he sends it back. When a line cook asks him a question, he bites their head off. Steve keeps giving him looks from across the kitchen, which says 'what crawled up your ass and died', but Bucky ignores him.

The problem is that he jerked off last night thinking about you. Now every time he looks at you, his brain goes straight back to that moment in the shower, and he hates himself for it.

You're his sous chef. His employee. Off limits in about a hundred different ways. Still doesn't stop his dick from getting interested every time you walk past him though. 

Service goes fine. Better than fine, actually. You're good at your job. Great, even. And that somehow makes it worse. Now he can't even pretend you're incompetent to convince himself to not want you.

Post-service debrief happens in the kitchen like always. Everyone gathers around, tired and wired, waiting for Bucky to tell them what they fucked up and how exactly. He's halfway through talking about the timing on table two when he realizes you're not there. Bucky stops mid-sentence, scanning the group. "Where's my sous?"

Everyone looks around. Blank faces.

"She was here like two minutes ago," Steve offers.

"Well she's not here now. Nobody leaves before the debrief. That's the rule."

"Maybe she went to the bathroom?" one of the line cooks suggests.

"I don't care if she had to take a piss. She waits."

Steve gives him another look. Bucky ignores it and finishes the debrief quickly, distracted now, annoyed that you'd just disappear without saying anything. That's not like you. You've been nothing but professional since you started. "Alright, we're done. Good work tonight." He dismisses everyone and heads for the back door, needing air and also needing to figure out where the hell you went.

The cold hits him immediately when he steps out. And there you are standing with your back to him, still in your whites. Bucky's about to lose his shit.

You missed the debrief to stand outside?

"Are you fucking serious right now?" The words come out harder than he's ever used with you. "You just left?"

When you turn around, Bucky's brain stutters to a halt because Alpine's in your arms.

There's genuine panic on your face. "I'm sorry. She — She almost got into the kitchen and I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just let her walk in there."

Fuck, you weren't ditching the debrief. You were keeping his cat from causing about fifteen health code violations.

"I — Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't — I shouldn't have yelled at you." Bucky can see that Alpine's purring, completely content in your arms.

You're holding her carefully, one hand under her butt and the other supporting her back. "It's okay. I should've told someone, but she was about to go through the door and I just grabbed her."

"No, you did the right thing." Bucky's close enough now that he can see the way the cold has settled on your eyelashes. "I'm sorry I screamed at you."

"You didn't scream."

"I raised my voice."

"Barely." You smile a little, Alpine headbutts your chin. "Besides, I get it. The debrief's important."

"Not more important than —" Bucky gestures at Alpine. "You probably saved me from getting shut down."

A soft laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't let that happen to you, Chef." There's no hesitation in your voice, none at all. It catches him off guard, tight, right in his chest.

"She's really sweet." You're scratching under Alpine's chin. "I didn't know you had a cat."

"Yeah. Five years now."

"What's her name?"

"It's a he," Bucky doesn't know why he says that, only that he can't help himself, a smile slipping past.

"Wait, he?" You look down at Alpine, mortified now. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I saw the white fur and just assumed —"

"I'm kidding." Bucky's full-on grinning, a rarity. "It is a she. Her name's Alpine."

"Oh. You're terrible."

"Sorry."

"Nope. You're not."

Alpine meows, and you adjust your grip on her. She's not a small cat, Bucky's been feeding her too much. He can see the way you're starting to struggle with her weight. "You must be freezing," he says. He just wants you to get you in first, take Alpine off your hands. But his eyes drift lower. Can't help it. Your whites are barely thicker than that sweater from yesterday, but it's still cold enough here that he'd be able to tell if —

Nope. No. Fuck. Not doing this again.

"I'm okay," you say.

"You're in kitchen whites. Those aren't meant for standing outside in the cold."

"I've survived worse."

Bucky wants to ask what that means, wants to know everything about you actually, but Alpine chooses that moment to squirm in your arms. "I can take her… If she's getting heavy."

You pull back like you're offended, your acting mediocre at best. "Excuse me? Heavy? You take that back right now."

"What?"

"She's perfect. She's the perfect amount of chunky." There's a smile on your lips, and Alpine's looking between you both like she's enjoying this.

"I didn't —"

"No, the damage is done. Alpine and I are very offended."

"Are you two ganging up on me?" Bucky laughs. He can't help it. You're standing there in the freezing cold, holding his cat, giving him shit about calling her heavy, and he's laughing for the second time today. Both times because of you.

Alpine's staring at you with this dreamy expression, the same one she gives Bucky when she wants treats. Looks like he's not the only one developing a crush. "She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She doesn't usually take to people this fast."

"Well I'm very likable." You say it with a straight face. Bucky has to bite back another smile.

The back door opens and Steve sticks his head out. "Oh good, you found her." When he sees Alpine, his eyebrows go up. "What's Alpine doing out here?"

"Almost went into the kitchen. She caught her," Bucky explains.

Steve looks between you and Bucky, sort of an understanding crossing his face. "Right. Well, I'm heading out. You two should too. It's late and we've got an early morning."

"Yeah, just — give me a sec."

Steve's smirking as he goes back inside. Bucky knows he's going to hear about this tomorrow. When the door closes, it's just you, Bucky and Alpine in the cold. "He's right though. You should get home. It's late."

"Yeah… here." You seem reluctant, but you step closer to hand Alpine over. The transfer is awkward. Your hands brush his as you manoeuvre the cat between you, and Alpine protests the movement with a loud meow. For a second you're both holding her, your fingers tangled with his in her fur, close enough that Bucky can smell your shampoo again. Then Alpine's in his arms and you're stepping back. "Goodnight, Chef."

Bucky just nods. Anything else feels like it'd come out wrong.

The door swings shut behind you, the sound lingering in the quiet, as you head back inside. He's still standing, Alpine heavy in his arms, her tail flicking lazily against his chest like nothing just happened. Bucky exhales, a soft sigh, shifts his grip on her without really thinking about it. He can still feel the warmth where your hands brushed his a second ago, like it didn't quite leave with you. "I'm so fucked," he mutters, more to the cold air than anything else.

Alpine just purrs, completely unbothered. "Yeah, real helpful," he adds, scratching under her chin anyway.

Rushing back to his apartment, he makes a beeline to the window. But you're already gone. The buzzing of his phone brings him back to the room. 

Steve: You're in trouble

Bucky: Fuck off

Steve: She's pretty Steve: And she saved alpine Steve: And you looked at her like she hung the moon

Bucky: I said fuck off

Steve: Good luck buddy

He's not attracted to you. He's not. You're his sous chef and you're young and you're off-limits and he's not doing this. But…

You're working on your station, breaking down vegetables for the service, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky's at the stove testing a new recipe — you think —, his sleeves are pushed to his elbows. Forearms are on full display, tanned and muscular with veins running up under the skin and disappearing into the fabric bunched at his arms. There's the scar, cutting across his left arm. When he stirs the pan, his forearm flexes, the tendons shifting under skin, distracting you from whatever the hell you were just doing. 

You've seen arms before. You work in a kitchen. Everyone's got their sleeves rolled up and everyone's got arms.

But this is different. This is Bucky's arms, and you're staring like you've never seen a man cook before in your entire life. He reaches for something on the shelf above the stove, the muscle making its existence known again. You almost make a noise.

But Bucky glances over and your eyes meet. 

Did you moan out loud in the kitchen? Fuck.

He caught you. He absolutely caught you staring at his arms like some kind of pervert, eyebrows doing that thing where it quirks up slightly. Turning the heat down, he starts walking towards you. Your heart's trying to break out of your ribcage.

"You good?" he stops right next to your station. Close. Too close.

"Yeah. Yep. Totally fine." The words make their way out faster than it needs to be.

"You sure? You look a little flustered."

"It's hot in here."

He's not even pretending he doesn't know. "Is it? Could've sworn we fixed the ventilation."

"Must be coming down with something."

"Right." Bucky leans against the counter, crossing his arms to the front. That just makes it worse because now the veins are even more pronounced. "You were staring."

"I wasn't —"

"You were definitely staring."

Your mouth opens and closes, brain scrambling for literally anything to say that won't make this worse. "You have veins."

Bucky's eyelashes do a slow dance as he blinks, like he didn't hear you right. "What?"

"Veins. On your arms. They're very — I've never noticed them before. The veins, I mean. I've noticed your arms obviously because you have arms, everyone has arms, but the veins specifically are —" You're spiraling. You know you're spiraling, can't stop though. "It's the lighting in here. Makes them more visible. Or maybe you're dehydrated? You should drink more water. Hydration is important —"

Bucky leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ear, making your entire body go rigid. "You're just digging your grave deeper, sweetheart."

Like he didn't just stop your heart, he's gone. Walks back to the stove, leaving you standing there holding a knife and a half-cut carrot, unable to move.

Service is a blur. You go through the motions, with your brain stuck on the way Bucky's voice sounded in your ear. Sweetheart. He called you sweetheart.

That's not a chef thing. That's a thing thing.

By the time service ends and the kitchen's cleaned down, you're wound so tight you might snap. You change quickly, needing to get out of here before you do something fucking dumb.

Like jump your boss.

You're heading for the back door when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

When you turn, Bucky's there. Changed out of his whites, wearing jeans and a dark henley that you immediately want to take off. "Hey."

"You rushing off?"

"Just — long day."

"Yeah." He's got his hands in his pockets, there's a nervousness about the gesture, kind of insane because Bucky Barnes doesn't get nervous. "So — uh — Alpine misses you."

If there's a loading screen on your brain, you just wish it doesn't show up on your face. "What?"

"Alpine. She's been sitting by the door all week waiting for you to come back."

"That so?" You can't help but smile.

"Yeah. Won't stop meowing about it." He shifts his weight, you wonder ig he really is nervous. "Thought maybe you could come say hi? If you're not too tired."

This is a terrible idea. You know it's a terrible idea. Going to Bucky's apartment, alone, is possibly the worst decision you could make. But there's no hesitation when you answer, "sure." 

Bucky's face breaks into an expression you've never seen on him. Relief? "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, can't leave Alpine hanging."

"Right. For Alpine."

"For Alpine," you repeat.

There's a beat where you both just stand there.

"C'mon… She's upstairs."

You follow him through the kitchen and up the back stairs you've never been allowed to use before, the ones that lead to his apartment. Your heart's pounding so hard you're surprised he can't hear it.

Bucky unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let you in first. The apartment is somehow exactly what you expected. Minimal with large windows overlooking the street, couch, a kitchen that looks barely used, and some photos on the wall. It doesn't help that it smells like him. "It's nice," you say.

"It's —"

Alpine comes tearing around the corner, meowing loudly, making a beeline straight for you.

"Oh my god, hi baby." You crouch down as she headbutts your hand. "Did you miss me? I missed you too."

Bucky's watching you with this expression you can't read, soft and a little awed. "She really did miss you."

"I can tell." Alpine flops onto her back, demanding belly rubs, you comply immediately. "She's perfect. Aren't you perfect? Yes you are."

"I'm starting to think she likes you more than me."

"Well, I am very likable."

"So you've mentioned."

"Bears repeating." You scratch under Alpine's chin as she stretches out longer, completely blissed out. "So, does she have a story?"

"Found her outside a restaurant."

"And she just — came home with you?"

"She didn't have much choice. Was soaking wet and scared." Bucky moves to the kitchen. There's the sound of cabinets opening. "She hissed at me for like three days straight. Eventually she warmed up. Now she's spoiled rotten."

"As she should be. You're living your best life, aren't you sweetie?"

When you glance up, Bucky's leaning against the kitchen counter with two glasses of water, watching you play with his cat, the usual look in his eyes replaced by softness.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He crosses the room and hands you a glass. "You looked thirsty."

"Thanks." Your fingers brush when you take it, the electric feeling you've been feeling shoots up your arm.

Bucky sits on the floor next to you instead of on the couch, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. "She never does this with anyone else."

"Does what?"

"The belly rub thing. She barely tolerates Steve."

"Maybe she has good taste."

"That she does."

Alpine rolls over to climb into your lap, circling twice before settling. The weight of her is warm and grounding.

"I think you've been claimed," Bucky smiles, it makes him look younger.

"I'm okay with that."

You're sitting on the floor of your boss' apartment with his cat in your lap, with him close enough to touch. An excuse to flee the scene should be on the tip of your tongue. The reality is anything but as you find yourself leaning into Alpine more. 

"Can I ask you something?" Bucky's voice is careful.

"Mhmm."

"Earlier. In the kitchen… What were you looking at?"

"I —" 

"Because you were definitely looking at something."

"I wasn't — okay, yes. I was looking." You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. "Your arms. The veins. It's — you were cooking and your sleeves were up and I don't know, it was distracting."

"Distracting," he repeats, like he's pleased with your answer.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Sound so smug about it."

"I'm not smug."

"You're absolutely smug right now."

Bucky laughs, and you risk a glance at him. He's closer than you thought. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating off him, smell him, see those little flecks of grey in his blue eyes.  

"For what it's worth, I think it's cute." His voice is barely a whisper.

"What is?"

"That you were staring. That you got all flustered, started rambling about hydration."

"I wasn't rambling."

"You were definitely rambling."

"I was making valid points about water intake —"

Alpine pads off toward her food bowl, offended she's not getting enough attention, leaving you and Bucky sitting on the floor with nothing between you. The space feels smaller suddenly, or maybe he feels closer. You're hyperaware of every detail, how he's looking at you, how his hand is resting on his knee just inches from yours, how you're alone with him in his space and your brain won't shut up about it.

When Bucky shifts, your eyes drop to his mouth without permission. You look back up to see he's staring at your lips too. "Can I —" He gulps, building courage. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes." It comes out way too fast, borderline desperate, but you can't seem to care.

One second, you're a safe distance apart and the next, his hand is cupping your jaw and he's kissing you.

Oh god, he's kissing you.

His lips are soft, sure. It's everything you've been thinking about for weeks. You kiss him back, probably too eager, definitely too hungry, and he makes this low noise in his throat that goes straight between your legs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer. You go willingly, let him tilt your head exactly how he wants it, let him kiss you deeper, let him take whatever he needs. When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

"Fuck. I've wanted to do that for weeks." He kisses you again, shorter this time. "Since the interview."

"You hired me and immediately wanted to kiss me?"

"Something like that."

"That's very unprofessional, Chef."

"Don't care." He's moving before you can answer, hauling you up and then higher, until your balance goes and you're grabbing onto him just to steady yourself.

"Bucky — I — "

"Bedroom," is all he says as he carries you down the hall. 

He sets you down on the bed — his bed — and immediately his mouth is on yours again, kissing you like he'll die if he stops. His hands find the hem of your sweater, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. "Lie down."

You obey. You'd probably do anything he asked right now.

Bucky follows you onto the bed, settling between your legs as he starts kissing down your neck, sucking little marks into your skin, dragging his mouth over your collarbones and the soft swell between your breasts. His hands work your jeans open, you lift your hips to help him slide them down.

"These too," his fingers hook into your underwear. A soft whimper slips out of you, making him smirk. He strips them off and tosses them somewhere behind him. He's pressing hot, open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thighs, stubble scraping your skin as he works higher toward your aching pussy.

Your brain finally catches up to what's about to happen. "Oh my god."

"Relax," Bucky murmurs against your skin. "Let me take care of you." His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, your hips bucking into his face involuntarily.

The first slow, filthy drag of his tongue through your slick folds makes you gasp, back bowing off the bed. He groans like you taste good, like this is doing something for him too, then he's devouring your cunt with single-minded hunger, tongue fucking deep before switching to tight circles on your clit. 

Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the strands. That doesn't faze him in anyway, he just keeps working you with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles that make your thighs shake.

He pulls back just enough to speak. "Fuck, your pussy tastes so goddamn good, sweetheart." His mouth attaches to your clit this time, making you cry out. He's ruthless about it, sucking hard on your swollen clit while his tongue lashes it. When you try to close your legs at the overwhelming sensation, he keeps them spread with his hands on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you.

"I can't — Buck — It's too much —"

"You can take it. C'mon, baby. Let me feel you cum."

Two fingers slide inside your soaked cunt. It's immediate how your breath stutters to come to a halt, the tight coil in your belly snapping without warning, pleasure rolling through you in waves while Bucky works you through it with his mouth and fingers. It goes on forever, ebbing and flowing, until you're boneless.

When you can finally think again, Bucky's kissing his way back up your body, chin wet with your slick, looking at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

When he kisses you this time, you can taste yourself on his tongue, impossibly hot. Your hands find his shirt and start pulling at it. "Off. This needs to be off."

Bucky sits back and yanks it over his head in one smooth motion, and you get your first full look at his chest. Broad and muscled with a trail of dark hair leading down to what you most want now. 

He's working his jeans open now, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock is rock hard, flushed, and leaking precum at the tip.

"Oh my god."

"What?" He's smirking.

"That's — you're —" Your brain's stopped working again.

Bucky wraps a hand around himself and gives a slow stroke, and you watch like you're hypnotized. The veins running along his length stand out, prominent and thick. Like he's read your mind, "how about the veins on my cock? Like 'em?"

If you could, you'd hide yourself. "Bucky!"

"What?" He's fully grinning, looking way too pleased with himself. "You seemed interested in veins earlier."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I really — oh —"

He's positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance by coming close enough, but not quite in. Whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

"Still hate me?" he asks, this time bumping your clit with the fat tip.  

"Y-yeah."

"I'm so glad you cook better than you lie, you're a terrible liar."

He taps his cock against your clit once more and you nearly come off the bed. It's too much and not enough and you need him inside you right fucking now. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?"

"Fuck me. Please fuck me."

"Well — Since you asked so nicely."

He pushes in slowly, the stretch perfect. You're so wet that he slides in easy, inch by inch, until he's fully seated and you're both groaning.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. "You feel — fuck."

You can only hold onto his shoulders and try to remember how breathing works while he starts to move. 

The first thrust punches the air from your lungs. The second makes you see stars. By the third you're moaning openly, not even trying to be quiet. "That's it," Bucky snaps his hips to yours, his cock . "Let me hear you."

Bucky fucks you like it's the only thing on his mind. Deep and perfect, dragging his cock along your most sensitive spots. One hand is braced by your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you'll probably bruise. "You're so tight," he groans. "So fucking perfect." Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck — Do that again."

Squeezing around him, you feel his hips stutter, so does yours. 

"Fuck — you feel incredible, sweetheart."

Bucky shifts the angle and suddenly he's hitting something inside you that makes you cry out. "There?" he asks.

"There — fuck, right there —"

He just keeps hitting that spot over and over until you're climbing toward another orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Bucky, I'm —"

"I know. I can feel it." His thumb finds your clit to run frantic but perfect circles over it. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock."

The combination of his cock, his thumb and his voice is too much. You come apart, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, just keeps going until you're almost sobbing from how good it feels.

"Where?" he grits out.

It takes you a second to understand what he's asking. "Inside. I'm on birth control — inside, please —"

Bucky groans and buries himself deep, pulsing until thick ropes of cum floods you, saying your name over and over again. Without pulling from you, he collapses next to you. "Holy shit."

You turn your head to look at him. He's looking at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked.

He reaches over to pull you close, your body finds his willingly, curl into his side like you belong there.

You wake up to Alpine sitting on your chest, staring directly into your soul. For a second you're disoriented, brain trying to catch up with where you are. Then, it does. The arm draped across your waist belongs to Bucky, who's still dead asleep next to you, face buried in the pillow.

Alpine chooses that minute to meow, loud enough that you're worried she'll wake him.

"Okay, okay," you whisper, carefully extracting yourself from Bucky's hold. He makes a small noise of protest in his sleep but doesn't wake. Instead, he reaches for the pillow you were using and pulls it close to his chest.

It's stupidly endearing.

Alpine leads you straight to her food bowl. Like she knows you'll give in. Which you will, because you're weak for both Barnes in this apartment.

The food's in the cabinet above the sink. You've stayed over enough times that you know where everything is.

It's been two weeks since that first night, and you still haven't talked about what this is and what you're doing. You just keep falling into bed together after service, wake up tangled in his sheets and pretend everything's normal while you're at work. It's easier that way. Safer. Putting a name to this thing between you, feels dangerous, like it'll make it real in a way you're not sure you're ready for.

Alpine crunches her food happily while you stand in Bucky's kitchen at six in the morning, barefoot and wearing his shirt from yesterday, trying not to think too hard about how domestic this feels.

"You're up early." Bucky's leaning against the bedroom doorframe, shirtless, wearing only the sweatpants he'd pulled on. His hair's a disaster, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The most breathtaking thing about this is that he has a smile on his face.

"Your cat's very demanding," you say.

"Yeah, she gets that from me." He crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around you from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. The weight of him is familiar now, comforting, making you lean back without a second thought, without hesitation.

This is the part that scares you. How easy it is. How right it feels to stand here in his space while he holds you like this is something you do every day, like you belong here.

"You staying for breakfast?" His voice is still rough with sleep.

"I should go home. Need to change before work."

"You could keep clothes here."

The offer sounds casual, practical. But you know what he's really asking. If you'll stay. If this is more than just convenient.

"Mhmm, don't like seeing me in your clothes?" Deflection comes easy to you.

"I think I love it a little too much." His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles through the fabric of his shirt.

"That so?"

He presses a kiss to your neck, right below your ear. You have to close your eyes against the rush of warmth that floods through you. "Looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"Can't argue with that."

You turn in his arms, his hands settling on your waist. "I'll think about it." The clothes thing. The staying thing. All of it.

The walk-in freezer is a blessed relief from the heat of the kitchen, even if you're hunting for duck at eight o'clock on a busy night. Your breath fogs in front of your face as you scan the shelves, fingers already going numb. There's a faraway sound of the door opening and clicking shut behind you. 

"Can you tell the chef we were low on shallots —" you call over your shoulder, to whoever it may be.

A hand lands firm on your ass. "Found something way better than shallots." Bucky's voice is smug behind you. When you whip around, he's standing there, looking at you like you're what he wants to devour.

"Are you insane?" Heat floods through you despite the cold. "We're working."

His hand slides to your hip, over the kitchen whites. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I won't tell your boss."

There's a little smirk playing at his mouth, it makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure. "You're the worst," it comes out breathy.

"Yeah?" His other hand joins the first, sliding down to cup your ass properly, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. "Doesn't seem like you mind."

You think about pushing him back. There's staff right outside and this is wildly unprofessional even by your standards. It doesn't stick, though. Your hands bunch in his coat, pulling him closer.

Bucky grins, his hand draws back and cracks across your ass. The yelp that escapes you is mortifying. So is the way your pussy clenches at the sharp sting, the way you lean into him instead of away. He does it again, other cheek this time, and you bite down on your lip to keep from making another sound. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Everytime you looked at me during service."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The audacity of this man. Leaning on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Hard and graceless, you taste the coffee he'd been drinking, he kisses you back, returning the same ferocity.

His hands knead your ass through your work pants, making you aware of how empty you feel, how badly you want his fingers, his cock, anything to fill the ache that's been building between your legs. Your hand drops down to palm him through his pants, already hard, thick and straining against the fabric. The groan he makes against your mouth goes straight to your heat. 

"Fuck," Bucky breathes. His hips rock into your touch, shameless in its pursuit. His own hand slides between your thighs now, cupping you through the layers, but it's not nearly enough. You find yourself grinding against his palm like you've lost all self-respect, chasing the friction.

"Jesus, you're soaked already." His fingers press harder, rubbing over where your clit throbs. "Can almost feel it through your pants. You been walking around the kitchen like this all night? Drippin' wet for me?"

Ever since he brushed past you during prep, you've been aching for him. It's pathetic how easily he gets you like this.

"Answer me, sweetheart." He nips at your jaw. Your hand works him faster through his pants while he grinds the heel of his palm against you. "Tell me how wet that pussy is."

"So wet," you gasp out, head falling back against the shelf. "Bucky —"

"Want me to fuck you right here? Bend you over, make you scream where anyone could walk in and hear what a mess you are for me?"

Your fingers slip against his belt, not as steady as you want them to be. "Yes, please —"

Too engrossed, neither of you hear the door swinging open. 

"Hey Buck, we need you on the — Oh my god." Steve stands frozen in the doorway. You watch in real time as his brain tries to process what he's seeing.

Bucky's hand is between your legs. Your hand is on Bucky's cock. Both of you look disheveled and panting. For half a second, it says that way.

Steve's face goes bright red. "I'm — fuck —I didn't—" He's backing away, hands up like he's been burned. "I'm leaving. Leaving right now. I didn't see anything. Bye."

The door slams hard enough to rattle the shelves, just stillness remaining. Bucky's pressed into you, forehead to your shoulder, shaking for a reason you don't yet know. 

"Oh my god. Steve just — he saw us —" you gasp. 

"Yep."

You owe Steve an apology. Probably several. Maybe a bottle of expensive whiskey. "Your bestfriend is gonna think I'm corrupting you."

"You are corrupting me."

"Shut up."

The difference in testing new recipes at Bucky's apartment is that his kitchen is a bit smaller than the one at the restaurant. Which means you're constantly in each other's space, brushing past each other to grab ingredients, hands colliding, his arm pressing against yours while you work side by side at the counter.

You're supposed to be perfecting a glaze for the spring menu. Something with honey that'll complement the duck without overpowering it. Bucky's doing the actual cooking part while you handle the sauce. 

Everything's going fine until you try to pour honey from the jar into your saucepan. The jar, heavier than you thought, drips the golden stream of honey onto your hand, your skin, more than the saucepan. Like any sane person, you decide to clean yourself. 

Angling your hand over the sink, you're trying to wash the honey off, when Bucky appears next to you. He grabs your wrist to bring it to his mouth, lips wrapping around your index finger, sucking the honey off, tongue swirling around your skin. Heat shoots straight between your legs. 

His eyes are locked on yours the whole time. As he moves to your next finger, you forget how to breathe. He takes his time with each one. Licking. Sucking. Making sure he gets every drop of honey while you stand there trying to remember your own name. When he finally releases your hand, his voice comes out rough. "That tastes so much better than regular honey."

"It's — It's the same honey," you reply dumbly. 

"No. It's not." 

"Bucky —"

"I need more." The hunger, the possessiveness in his voice goes straight to your cunt. "Get on the counter."

There is a brief second where you wonder if reminding him would be better, that you're both working, that you have to get this sauce done before anything else. But your body has other plans, complying itself as he lifts you onto air and places you on the counter. 

The granite's cold against your thighs. Bucky positions himself between your legs, and reaches for the honey jar with one hand, while the other stays rooted to your hip. Like you'd move if he moves. You won't. "What are you doing?" you ask, even though part of you already knows.

"Testing a theory." He dips two fingers into the honey and pulls them out, watching the way it drips. "About whether everything tastes better on you."

Honey coated fingers move across your throat, right over the dip of your collarbone, pulling a gasp out of you. Bucky leans in to lick a long stripe across your skin, following the honey trail with his tongue. "Fuck. I was right."

"Bucky — "

"What?" He has the audacity to look innocent. "This is an experiment." He's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it over the barstool. Your bra follows seconds later. What's left is you half-naked in his kitchen while he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

"This is not an experiment."

"Sure it is." More honey on his fingers, he drizzles it just above your breasts. "Hypothesis: you make everything taste better."

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue tracing the path of honey across your skin. He's meticulous about it, making sure he gets every drop. The combination of his tongue and the sticky sweetness has you squirming on the counter. "Bucky, please —"

"Please what?" He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "Tell me what you want."

"More. I want —" The words die on your tongue when he drizzles honey between your breasts, watching it slide down your skin.

"Want this?" He leans down and licks up the valley.

"Yes —" you whimper.

"You taste so fucking good." He's lost to it now, completely focused on chasing every drop of honey on your skin. "Better than anything I've ever made." That's probably the highest compliment you'll ever receive. 

"That's —" Your words cut off in a moan when he drizzles more directly onto your nipple. "Oh fuck —"

The honey sticks to the peak, driping down the curve of your breast. Bucky catches it with his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before taking it between his lips to suck.

"Bucky —" Your hands are in his hair now, holding him against you. "Please —"

Your back arches, pushing your chest more towards his mouth. He relishes in the invitation, tongue flicking over your nipple while he sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make you grind towards nothing in search of friction. "Oh my god —"

Bucky chases every drop with his tongue, until you're making sounds you've never made before. That doesn't seem to affect him, he casually moves to your other breast and does it all over again. More honey. More of his mouth. More of that devastating tongue. "You taste so fucking good," he says against your skin. "Could do this all day."

"We're supposed to be working —"

"We are working." He bites down gently on your nipple, making you cry out. "I'm working very hard right now."

Your laugh turns into a moan when his hand slides up your thigh. "These are in my way." He's working your shorts open. You lift your hips to help him shove them down along with your underwear. Completely naked on his kitchen counter, with him fully dressed and kneeling between your legs, Bucky speaks, "spread wider."

The way he looks at you, at how wet you already are, makes you clench around nothing. Bucky angles you so that your back is planted on the counter, and drizzles honey on your inner thigh, high enough that with the help of gravity, it drips down toward where you're aching for him.

Leaning in, he starts at your knee, working his way up with a patience that's going to kill you. His tongue is hot against your skin, chasing the trail once again. By the time he gets halfway up your thigh, you're ready to beg. "Bucky —"

"Mhmm?" He keeps licking, getting closer to where you need him but not close enough.

"Oh god —"

"Just me, baby." The smugness in his voice is a thing you'd like to hate, you would try if you weren't already too far gone. 

"Please — Buck — touch me. P-please touch me."

"I am touching you." His breath ghosts over your cunt, sobs threaten to spill from you.

"You — You know what I mean —"

He reaches for the honey again, about to pour it on your other thigh — you think — but something in you snaps right before. Lifting up your body with purpose and determination, your hand shoots out to grab his collar. "If you don't fuck me right now —"

"But, I'm not done —"

"Barnes." You use your other hand now, pulling him up to your eye level. "Shut up and fuck me."

His mouth pulls into a grin that's all teeth, enjoying this a little too much. "Yes ma'am."

While he's working his belt open, you're pulling at his shirt, trying to get it off him. His cock finally springs free, a moan escaping you from just seeing it. "This what you want?" Bucky fists himself, giving a slow stroke that makes your mouth water.

"Yes. God, yes —"

"How bad?"

"So bad, I'm gonna die if you don't get inside me in the next ten seconds —"

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait more, he lines himself up and pushes in, one hard thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect and exactly what you needed.

Both of you groan at the same time, relief spilling past shamelessly. "Fuck — You feel — Jesus fucking Christ —"

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hitting your cervix, making you scream. He's so deep like this, deep inside you, that your vision blurs.

"That's it," he groans against your neck. "Let me hear you." Bucky is fucking you in earnest, while you hold on to his shoulders and try not to fall apart. The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is mixed with your desperate noises and his low groans.

"Been thinking about this all mornin'," Bucky pants. "Watchin' you work, being all professional about the sauce — wanted to — fuck — wanted to bend you over the counter so fucking bad —"

You love his dirty talk. God knows you love it. But there's this intense need to be filled up, and his talking is currently slowing his dick. "Less talking," you gasp. "More fucking—"

Smirking, he shifts the angle, suddenly hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, makes you sob. "Right there?" he asks, but he knows, could tell from the way you're clenching around him.

"Don't stop — please —"

When his thumb finds your clit, you nearly come off the counter. Between that, his cock and the filthy sounds he's making, you're not going to last. "I'm close, Buck — I'm so close —"

"Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? C'mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

His words and one more thrust sends you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him. Bucky fucks you through it while cursing under his breath. Not long after, he buries himself deep. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up.

There's something dripping down your thighs, you don't know if it's honey, cum or sweat. Probably all mixed together, but you can't bring yourself to care.

When Bucky pulls out, you both wince at the loss. He looks down at the mess you've made, there's honey smeared on your skin, cum dripping out of you onto his counter. He lets out a breathless laugh. "We're disgusting."

"Your fault."

"My fault? You're the one who told me to shut up and fuck you." 

"You're the one who started the whole honey thing."

"You're the one who spilled it."

"Accidentally."

"Sure. Accidentally." He kisses you, slow, sweet. You kiss him back, tasting honey off his tongue. 

You should probably be mortified of the scene Alpine might walk into, but all you can think about is how you want to do this again. "We really need to clean up," you try being the responsible adult despite what you're feeling.

"Probably." But he's kissing your neck again. "In a minute."

"Bucky —"

"Just one more taste."

"Alpine, no — that's not food." You're trying to rescue a hair tie from Alpine's paws while Bucky makes coffee in the kitchen.

It's early enough that the sun's barely up, that grey-blue light filtering through the windows of his apartment.

"She thinks everything's food," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Found her trying to eat a receipt yesterday."

"She's going to make herself sick." Alpine bats at your hand, completely unrepentant. "You're a menace. You know that?"

She meows like she's arguing with you.

Bucky appears with two mugs, handing you one before sitting on the floor next to you. Alpine immediately abandons the hair tie to climb into his lap. "Traitor," you mutter.

The coffee's perfect. He's figured out how you take it. Same way you know he likes his black. "What time do we need to leave?" you ask.

"Hour. Maybe less if we want to prep early."

"We always prep early."

"Force of habit." He's scratching behind Alpine's ears, that absent-minded gesture he does when he's thinking. "You staying tonight too?"

The question should feel loaded but it doesn't. It's Bucky asking if you're staying, like he wants you to, like he's gotten used to you being here.

"If that's okay."

"It's okay. I like when you're here." His voice is soft.

You think about your apartment across town. How you haven't slept there in forever. How your fridge is empty and your bed feels too big and too quiet. How this feels more like home than anywhere you've lived in years.

"I like being here," you admit.

He pulls you closer with his free arm. You lean against his shoulder, coffee warming your hands, and let yourself have this.

"We should go soon," you say eventually. "Delivery comes at seven."

"Five more minutes."

"Bucky —"

"Five minutes. Please. Just want to sit here with you."

Alpine whips her head towards him, a 'did I hear that right?' look plastered on her face.

"And you too," Bucky admits, pulling you both closer.

"I'm just saying, the timing's convenient for her." The words make you freeze with your hand on the door. Jason's voice carries from somewhere near the dish station. It's so casual, the way guys get when they think they're being clever.

"What timing?" That's the new line cook. Miller? You can't remember his name and right now you don't care.

"Come on. Hired on spot? That's fast even for someone good."

"Maybe she is good."

Jason laughs like he doesn't care about what he's saying. "Oh, she's good. Question is what she's good at." The new guy laughs too, your stomach dropping straight through the floor.

"Oldest trick in the book," Jason continues. "Want a job in the best kitchen? Fuck the chef. Worked for her."

"Barnes seems smarter than that."

"Barnes is a guy. And you've seen her."

You probably should walk away. The opposite direction of all of this. You should not stand here and listen to them talk about you like you're not a person, like you're just a body that fucked its way into a position you spent years working toward.

But you can't move, can't breathe.

"Either way, smart play on her part. Get on your knees, get ahead."

They're still laughing when you finally force your legs to work, turning and walking in the opposite direction before they can see you, before they can know you heard every fucking word.

Your hands are shaking when you reach the prep station. Your chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribs and pulled them taut. Pressing your palms flat against the counter, you try to breathe normally.

Three weeks. That's all it took for people to start talking. To start assuming. To start reducing everything you've accomplished to who you're sleeping with.

And the worst part is if anyone finds out about you and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will look at your position and assume you earned it on your back. They'll question Bucky's judgment, his professionalism, and whether he's running his restaurant based on merit or based on who's warming his bed.

You can't let that happen. You can't be the reason Brooklyn's Taste's reputation gets dragged through the mud, can't be the reason people stop trusting Bucky's decisions. Which means this thing between you — whatever it is, whatever it was becoming — has to stop.

Your throat burns but you swallow it down. You force yourself to get through the rest of prep, to plate during service like your world hasn't just shifted sideways. It almost kills you to smile and pretend everything's fine when Bucky catches your eye across the kitchen and mouths 'you okay?'

All you can do is nod. It's a lie. He probably knows it's a lie from the way his eyebrows pull together, but there's service and no time to get into this.

You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.

But when later comes, you're slipping out the back door before Bucky can corner you and ask what's wrong. You can't look him in the eye and pretend you didn't hear someone reduce your entire career to a transaction.

Bucky catches you by the lockers after service the next night. There's a doubt in his tone, like he already knows the answer. "You comin' up?"

"Can't tonight." You're pulling your jacket on, trying very hard not to look at him. "I'm not feeling great."

"What's wrong? Do you need —"

"Just tired. Long week."

It's Wednesday.

Bucky doesn't point that out but you can tell he wants to. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, his hand comes up like he's going to touch you and then falls back to his side.

"Okay… feel better, okay?"

You leave before the guilt can stop you. You'll break down and tell him everything if you don't walk, the confusion in his eyes will kill you. 

Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your clothes are still in his closet. There's a drawer full of your shit in his dresser, your shampoo in his shower and probably a hair tie on his bedside table.

But you can't go back, can't step foot in that apartment again. If you do, you'll crack. You'll tell him what you heard and he'll say it doesn't matter and you'll believe him because you want to believe him so fucking badly it hurts.

But it does matter. It matters that people are already talking, that your relationship could damage his restaurant — his life. It matters that every time someone questions your abilities, they'll be questioning his judgment too.

So you go home to your empty apartment and try not to think about how Alpine's probably waiting by the door for you.

It gets easier after that. Or maybe it gets harder and you just get better at it. You start showing up to work right on time instead of early. You make excuses when he texts — headache, early morning, catching up on sleep. All technically true, all curated to create distance.

Bucky notices, of course. He's not stupid. "What's going on with you?"

You're in the office doing inventory counts, and he's standing in the doorway looking at you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll figure out what broke.

"Nothing's going on."

"You haven't stayed over in a week."

"I've been tired."

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm not —"

"You are." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. The small space suddenly feels smaller. "Did I do something? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it."

You did everything right, you want to say. He made space for you in his life. In his home, his bed, his routine. Now that space is a liability, ammunition for anyone who wants to question whether you earned your position or fucked your way into it.

He looks so worried, so confused. All you want to do is cross the room and kiss him, tell him it's not his fault, scream about Jason and the new guy and the sick feeling that's been living in your stomach for days.

But you can't. Telling him means admitting the relationship is a problem, and admitting it's a problem means either ending it or ignoring it. You can't do either.

"You didn't do anything. I just need space."

You watch Bucky's face change, as he tries to hide the hurt, nod even though you can tell he doesn't understand.

When he leaves, you sit there staring at inventory sheets you can't read anymore because your eyes are burning.

Bucky brings Alpine to you a week later. You hear her distinctive meow that makes your heart clench, before you can even see her. When you turn around, he's holding her like an offering. "She missed you."

Alpine's purring, looking at you with those big blue eyes. You want to take her and bury your face in her soft fur, breathe in that familiar smell and pretend everything's okay. "Bucky —"

His voice is soft, pleading. "Just for a minute… please."

You wipe your hands on your apron and take her before you can think better of it. She immediately curls into your chest, purring loud enough to vibrate your whole ribcage. Your hand runs down her back automatically, that familiar motion you've done a hundred times in Bucky's apartment. "Hey, baby," you murmur. "Hi, sweet girl."

When you look up, Bucky's watching you, eyes glassy. There's so much longing there, so much confusion and hurt, and you can see him trying to understand why you're doing this. Why you're pulling away, why you won't talk to him.

"I miss you… Alpine's not the only one."

"Buck —"

"Come over tonight. Please. Even just for five minutes, I don't care, I just — I hate that you're not there."

The apartment must feel so empty without you, frozen in time waiting for you to come back. Except you're not. You can't, not when being with him means people will assume the worst about both of you. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's not an answer."

Alpine headbutts your chin, demanding attention. You focus on her instead of the way Bucky's looking at you.

"Something's wrong," he says.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Everything's wrong!" An octave rise in his tone, desperation bleeding through as frustration. 

Alpine meows softly, like she can sense the tension. You hand her back to Bucky before you do something stupid like cry. "I need to get back to work."

"Wait —"

"Please don't make this harder than it already is." You walk away before he can respond. You cannot see the devastation on his face, you will completely fall apart in the middle of the kitchen.

Behind you, Alpine meows again, sad and confused, and you hear Bucky's quiet, broken, "I know, baby."

Bucky looks like shit. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair's a mess like he didn't bother combing it, and he's wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, a small stain on the collar from the sauce he was testing last night.

He barely looks at you during prep, barely speaks except to call out orders. And when Steve asks him a question, Bucky just stares at him for a solid five seconds before answering like he forgot how words work.

You did this. You're the reason Bucky looks like he hasn't slept in a week. The reason he's moving through his own kitchen like a ghost.

You're in dry storage counting inventory when Steve finds you. "We need to talk."

You don't look up from your clipboard, you can't. You can't lie to one more person. "I'm working."

"So am I. And part of my job is making sure this kitchen runs smoothly, which it's not doing right now."

"Everything's fine."

"Really? Because Bucky's been a mess for three weeks and you look like you're about to cry every time you're in the same room as him. So either tell me what's going on or I'm going to assume the worst."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Bullshit."

"Steve —"

"Did he do something?" Steve's voice goes rough, restrained. "Because if he crossed a line or made you uncomfortable —"

"No." The denial comes out quick. Nothing of that sort should even be spoken into existence. "No, of course not. It's — it's nothing like that."

"Then what?"

"It's personal."

"Personal is affecting professional. So it's my business."

Looking at Steve is hard. Talking about this is hard. So you turn back to the shelves. "Can you just drop it?"

"No."

"Steve —"

"He's my best friend. I've known him since we were kids and I've never seen him like this. He won't eat, he barely sleeps, and yesterday I caught him just standing in his apartment staring at nothing. So no, I'm not going to drop it."

Words refuse to come out, but you force them. "He'll be fine."

"Will he? Because from where I'm standing, you're both miserable and too stubborn to do anything about it."

"You don't understand —"

"So, help me understand. Explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's complicated."

"Try me."

You slam the clipboard down on the shelf. "Because if people find out about us, they'll think I slept my way into this kitchen. Happy?"

Steve looks at you with confusion. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Who the hell would think that?"

"Everyone, Steve. Everyone will think that. Woman gets a competitive job? Must've fucked the boss." A laugh comes out, it's anything but humourous. 

"That's — no one here would —"

"They already are."

Steve goes very still, like he cannot believe his own ears. "What?"

You shouldn't tell him. You should probably keep your mouth shut and let this go. But you're so tired of carrying this alone, so tired of pretending it doesn't hurt.

"I heard Jason and that new line cook talking. About how convenient the timing was. How I must be 'good at my job', if you know…" Your voice cracks, a hiccup in your words, you can't help it. "They laughed about it. About me." Tears well up in your eyes.

"Son of a bitch. When was this?" Steve's knuckles go white, even though he doesn't have anything in his hand. Purely from rage.

He should've been able to make out the timeline, but you know he's stressed. "Three weeks ago."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Who was I supposed to tell? Bucky? So he could fire them and prove their point?"

"Their point is bullshit —"

"Is it? Because if people find out about me and Bucky, that's exactly what they'll think. Every single person in this kitchen will assume I fucked my way in. And worse, they'll think Bucky's judgment is compromised. That he's not professional, and running this place based on who he's with, instead of who's qualified."

Steve lets out a sigh, you know he's not seeing your point. "So your solution is to break up with him?"

"We weren't together."

"Bullshit."

"Fine. It doesn't matter what we were. It matters what it looks like."

"To who? Jason? Some asshole line cook who's probably jealous he's not good enough to make sous?"

"To everyone. To food critics and investors and other chefs, to everyone who's watching Brooklyn's Taste and waiting for Bucky to fuck up. I can't be the reason his reputation gets ruined."

"His reputation? What about yours? And what about happiness? Both of yours?"

You ignore the latter. "My reputation doesn't matter —"

"The hell it doesn't."

"Steve —"

"You think hiding this is going to make it better? You think people are going to stop talking just because you and Bucky aren't together?"

You don't have an answer for that.

His voice softens slightly. "Look, I get it. People are assholes. But you're not protecting him by shutting him out. You're just making him miserable."

"Better miserable than —"

"Than what? Happy? Than having something good for once in his life?" Steve runs a hand through his hair and lowers his voice again. "Do you know what he said to me when you started seeing each other? He said he finally understood what everyone meant about coming home to someone. That for the first time in years, he wasn't coming home to an empty apartment."

Blurry eyes make it hard for you to see him. "Steve —"

"He's in love with you. Even if he hasn't said it yet, it's obvious. And you're killing him."

"I'm trying to protect him."

"From what? From people talking? They're going to talk anyway. People always talk."

"Not if there's nothing to talk about."

"You really think that's going to work? You really think you can just walk away and everything goes back to normal?"

"I don't know. I — I don't know, okay? I'm just trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing is being honest with him."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell him, he'll want to fix it. He'll either fire Jason or reprimand him or do something that'll just make everything worse." You swipe at your eyes fast. "Any way this goes, it makes him look bad. If he fires them, people will say he's protecting his girlfriend. If he ignores it, the rumors get worse. There's no winning here."

"So you're just going to keep avoiding him? Keep pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I don't know what else to do."

Steve's quiet for a long moment. "You could try trusting him."

"I do trust him —"

"No, you trust him to cook, to run his kitchen. But you don't trust him to handle this. He's stronger than you think. And he deserves to know what's going on."

"If I tell him —"

"He'll want to fight for you. Yeah. That's what people do when they care about someone."

You close your eyes and let the tears fall freely now.

Bucky's going through the motions of prep when Steve walks back into the kitchen looking like someone just punched him in the gut.

"What's wrong with you?" The question comes out automatically, that reflexive check-in he's been doing since they were kids.

"We need to talk. Office. C'mon."

"I'm working —"

"Now, Buck."

Steve never uses that tone unless something's seriously wrong. Wordless, Bucky puts down his knife and follows Steve into the office. The door closes behind them with a click that sounds too loud in the small space. "What happened? Someone quit?"

"No. But I just talked to her."

Bucky wants to speak, but words fail him. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth hurt. 

"And I know why she's been avoiding you," Steve continues. 

"Why?" Three weeks of emotions bundled into one single word. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how to say whatever he's about to say. "Jason and one of the new guys were talking shit, about her. Said she… slept her way into your kitchen."

The words don't register first. Bucky's brain refuses to process them, like if he doesn't acknowledge what Steve just said then it won't be real. "They said what?"

"She overheard them three weeks ago. That's why she's been pulling away. She thinks if people find out about you two, everyone will assume the same thing."

"That's —" The rage building in his chest is so intense he can barely form coherent thoughts, much less sentences. "That's — that's fucking insane. She earned that position before we ever — we weren't even —"

"I know."

"She's the best cook I've had here in years. She works harder than anyone. She —" His hands are trembling with the effort of not putting his fist through the wall. He shoves them in his pockets. "Who the fuck do they think they are?"

"Assholes. But that's not the point —"

"They're talking about her like she's — like she —" The sentence dies in his throat. Saying it out loud will make it real, will make him lose the last thread of control he's got. "I'm firing them. Both of them. Today."

"That's exactly what she said you'd do."

"Good. Then she knows me."

"Buck —"

"No. You don't talk about people like that. You don't —" Bucky's palm connects with the desk hard enough to rattle the papers on it. "Fuck. Does she really think I'd let anyone believe that? Does she think I give a shit what people say?"

"She's trying to protect your reputation."

"My reputation? What about hers?" The question comes out louder than he means it to, weeks of frustration packed into a question. "She's been dealing with this alone for three fucking weeks because she was worried about what — me?"

"Yeah."

"That's — Why didn't she tell me?" He starts pacing. Standing still feels impossible right now, all this energy with nowhere to go.

"Because she knew you'd react exactly like this."

"Like what? Like someone who gives a shit?"

"Like someone who's in love with her."

Steve is watching him with this knowing expression that makes Bucky want to punch him, mostly for being right. "Steve —"

"You're in love with her. Anyone with eyes can see it. The way you look at her, the way you —"

"I know. Fuck, I know, okay? I'm in love with her." Bucky finally, finally admits. But saying it out loud doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes his chest ache worse, knowing you're out there thinking you have to protect him from gossip while he's in here realizing he'd burn this whole place down if it meant keeping you safe.

Steve's expression softens. "Yeah. I know."

"And she's been avoiding me because she thinks — what? That I care more about what some asshole line cook thinks than I care about her?"

"No. She thinks she's protecting you."

"From what? From being happy?" Bucky lets out a humourless laugh. "I finally — for the first time in years I actually wanted to come home. Wanted to wake up. And she thinks I'm going to choose this place over her?"

Bucky loves his restaurant. Built it from nothing, bled for it. But it’s never felt like this, like something pulling him forward instead of just giving him somewhere to stand. This is the first time in a long while he's felt more than just getting through the day. 

"She thinks if people find out, it makes you look bad. Like you compromised your standards."

"My standards?" Bucky's voice goes sharp. "She exceeds every fucking standard I have. She's brilliant and she works her ass off and she —" He takes a breath to calm down. "I hired her because she's good. The best. Everything after that was just — it was just us."

"I know. She knows that too, I think. But she's scared of what everyone else will think."

"I don't give a fuck what everyone else thinks."

"She does. Or at least she cares about how it affects you."

Bucky sinks into his desk chair. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to her."

"I've tried. She won't — every time I try, she shuts down."

"Try harder."

"Steve —"

"You love her, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then fight for her. Make her understand that you don't care what people think. That you're not going anywhere."

Bucky looks up at his best friend. "And if she still won't listen?"

"Then you keep trying until she does. Because that's what you do when you love someone." Steve moves away towards the door. "But first you need to deal with Jason and whoever else was talking shit."

"I'm firing them."

"I figured." Steve pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth? She's miserable too. I've never seen someone look that sad while trying to do the right thing."

"The right thing would be talking to me."

"Yeah. But she's scared… and in love. Those people? They tend to do stupid things."

When Steve leaves, Bucky sits there in his office, trying to breathe through the mess of emotions churning in his gut.

Three weeks. Three weeks you've been carrying this alone because you were trying to protect him. Three weeks of him lying awake wondering what he did wrong, replaying every conversation, every touch, trying to figure out where he fucked up. And the whole time you were just scared, of people talking, of damaging his reputation, of being reduced to some cheap rumour.

He gets it. He does. The world's not kind to women in kitchens, not kind to women who get ahead. But what he doesn't get is why you thought you had to handle it alone, why you thought he wouldn't fight for you.

Because he would. He will.

He's in love with you. Has been for weeks, maybe longer. Since the interview, probably, when you looked at him like you could see right through all his bullshit. Since that first night when you fell asleep in his bed and he laid there watching you breathe, thinking this is what he'd been missing his whole life.

He's in love with you and you're out there thinking you have to protect him.

And some asshole has been running his mouth about you and still working in his fucking kitchen.

Bucky stands up. His hands are still shaking for a different reason now, pure, concentrated rage.

When he walks into the kitchen, everyone's in the middle of prep, focused on their stations, and the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the space.

Bucky's voice cuts through the noise. "Everyone stop what you're doing. Meeting. Now."

The sudden silence is almost jarring. People look up from their stations, confusion flickering across faces that quickly shift to wariness when they clock his expression. They start gathering near the pass, wiping their hands on their aprons.

You're standing near the back. When Bucky's eyes find you, his heart breaks clean in two. You look exhausted. Scared. Like you're bracing for whatever's about to happen.

He tears his gaze away from you and focuses on the rest of the kitchen. "Someone want to tell me," Bucky keeps his voice calm even though he wants to scream, "what gives anyone the right to talk about their coworkers like they're pieces of meat? In my kitchen?"

Silence. He watches a few people shift their weight, suddenly fascinated with the floor.

"No? No one? Let me be more specific then. Someone — multiple someones, apparently — have been running their mouths about my sous. Starting rumours in my kitchen."

More uncomfortable shifting. 

"You know what the really fucked up part is? She earned this job. She's got more talent in her fucking pinkie than most of you have in your entire bodies. And instead of respecting that, instead of learning from someone who's better than you, you reduce her to a cheap rumour."

"Chef —" Jason starts.

"I'm not done. This kitchen runs on two things. Talent and respect. You need both to work here. Both. Not one or the other. I don't care if you're the best cook I've ever seen. If you can't treat your coworkers with basic fucking human decency, you don't belong here."

Bucky's eyes scan the group, making contact with each person individually. He wants them to understand this isn't just talk. "This is me telling you how this kitchen works. How it's always worked. This isn't negotiable. And if you have a problem with that, there's the door."

No one seems to move.  

"I've spent years building this place. Years earning the stars, making sure every plate that leaves this kitchen is perfect. And I will not let anyone ruin that because they can't keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves."

He turns to look at Jason directly. "Especially when those opinions are rooted in misogynistic bullshit that has no place in my kitchen."

Jason's face goes from pale to flushed red in seconds, stain of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I didn't —"

"You did. I know you did. And you know what really pisses me off?" Bucky takes a step closer and watches Jason try not to flinch. "You made her feel like she had to hide. Like being good at her job wasn't enough, like she had to prove herself over and over again because assholes like you can't accept that a woman earned something on her own merit."

"Chef, I —"

"Save it. You're fired. Clear out your station and get out of my kitchen."

Jason's mouth works like a fish out of water, opening and closing without any sound. "You can't —"

"I can. I just did. Out. Now."

"This is bullshit —"

"It's consequence. There's a difference. And whoever else was part of this conversation? You know who you are. You've got two minutes to come forward."

The new line cook — Miller, Bucky thinks his name is — raises his hand like he's in grade school. "I'll resign."

"Smart choice."

Jason's still rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the kitchen like he's waiting for someone to come to his defense. But there's only silence. Nobody meets his gaze.

"I said out," Bucky repeats.

Jason rips off his apron and throws it on the ground, storming toward the back door. The new guy follows him. When the door slams behind them, the kitchen stays silent.

"The rest of you, get back to work. We've got service in three hours and we're down two people. Figure it out."

The kitchen erupts back into motion immediately, everyone returning to their stations like they can't get away fast enough.

Bucky's eyes find you again. You're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. There's shock there, definitely. Disbelief. But underneath it all there's something that looks like it might be hope. It's breaking his heart and healing it at the same time.

He wants to go to you, pull you aside and tell you that you didn't have to protect him, that he would've done this two weeks ago if you'd just told him, and firing Jason is one of the easiest decisions he's made ever.

But the kitchen's watching. Bucky knows better than to push right now. He just holds your gaze, trying to pour everything he can't say into that single look. Then he turns and heads back toward his office before he does something dumb like forget where he is and kiss you in front of everyone.

Bucky's staring at his laptop screen without actually seeing anything, waiting for the kitchen to clear out, to come find you.

When the office door opens and you step in, he cannot believe his eyes. You close the door behind you and stand there frozen on spot.

You both are. Waiting for the other to make the first move. It's stupid, honestly, the two of you stuck on opposite sides of this tiny office like there's some invisible line neither of you knows how to cross first.

The human heart is a wonderful organ, capable of supplying the entire body without missing a beat. Bucky's heart, though, trips over itself right now, like it forgot how this is supposed to work.

Thankfully, you're crossing the small space in three strides and he's standing, reaching for you, every tense muscle in his body finally remembering how to relax, his heart knowing how to function properly again. 

Your arms wrap around his waist, bury your face in his chest, hard enough he feels the shape of your nose, your forehead. You're shaking, just this fine tremor he can feel everywhere you're touching him. Like you're trying really hard not to fall apart and it's not quite working. His arms come around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses flat against your spine. "I'm here," he murmurs into your hair. God, you smell the same. Like the shampoo he's still got in his shower, the one you left behind three weeks ago. "I'm here, baby. Please don't cry."

Crying like this is hardly strong. But his arms are around you and he smells like home, and the last thing you want to be is strong. You've missed him so much it physically hurts. The sob that escapes you is wet against his shirt, "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Yeah? Whose fault is that?" There's a soft, familiar teasing in his tone, makes you pull back just enough to look at him. Your lips jut out before you can help it, the one that only comes out when it's just him, when you don't have to keep your guard up. Everyone else thinks you're tough and competent, and you are, but with Bucky you've never had to pretend you don't also want to be soft sometimes.

He wants to kiss that pout off your face. Wants to do a lot of things, actually, but first he needs to make sure you're okay. His thumb comes up to wipe under your eyes, catching tears.

"You're being mean." Your lips are still doing the thing he adores most.

"You're the one who disappeared on me for two weeks."

"I had a reason —"

"A stupid reason."

You want to argue but he's smiling at you. One of those real smiles that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. You've missed that smile so much you ache with it. "It wasn't stupid. I was trying to protect you."

"I know." His expression goes serious but still soft. "I'm sorry for doing that without asking you first. The meeting, firing Jason — all of it. But I was so fucking mad, and I would never let anyone talk about you like that. Never."

The fierceness in his voice does something to your chest, makes it warm and painful at once. "I know. I just — I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've told you."

"Yeah, you should've." But his voice is gentle, at odds with the words, hands never leaving you, holding you like you're something precious even though you fucked this up. The tears start again, harder this time, and you hate it. You hate crying, feeling this vulnerable, that you can't just pull it together for two seconds.

"Sweetheart, no —" Panic flashes across his face, knows he's said the wrong thing and scrambling to make it right. "No, baby, I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I shouldn't have — I should've just read your mind or something —"

That startles a laugh out of you, wet and a little broken but still a laugh. "You're not a mind reader."

"Clearly. Would've saved us both a lot of trouble if I was."

"You would've been horrified by what I was thinking."

His eyebrows go up, that interested look he gets. "Oh yeah? What were you thinking?"

"That I was in love with you and terrified you'd figure it out." The words come out before you can stop them, honest and raw and so vulnerable it makes you want to grab the words back out of the air and shove them back in your throat. But you don't, you can't. Not when Bucky's looking at you like that.

"You're in love with me?"

You can feel your face heating up, but you nod. "Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while."

"Mhmm, that's good. Because I'm in love with you too."

The relief that floods through you is so intense you actually sway a little, his hands tightening to keep you straight. "You are?"

"Yeah. I am. Have been for — I don't know. A while." He's using your words back at you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. You want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not. I'm —" How does he explain this? That he's been miserable without you? That his apartment felt wrong? That Alpine's been waiting by the door every night? "I've been going crazy without you. Alpine too. Keeps waiting for you."

Guilt speaks for you, "I'm sorry. I should've —"

"Stop apologizing." His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We both fucked up. You should've told me what Jason said. I should've pressed more."

Standing in his cramped office with your faces inches apart, it feels like you can finally breathe again after weeks of suffocation. "I missed this."

"Yeah?" His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. "What specifically?"

"You being annoying. Me wanting to hit you. The usual."

A soft smile curves his lips as you study his face, taking in details you'd memorized weeks ago. The small scar on his chin you liked to trace, the way his hair falls across his forehead. But now there's darkness under his eyes, that you've caused. "You look tired."

"Haven't been sleeping." 

You pull him closer, words failing, conveying what you want through touch alone. Bucky seems to understand, a soft kiss placed on your temple as he speaks, "we're really bad at this."

"At what?"

"Being apart." He says it like a confession, like admitting weakness, but his hands are still gentle on your face. "I don't want to do it again."

"I don't want to do it again either."  

Bucky has to kiss you now. Can't not kiss you when you're looking at him like that, all soft and more importantly, his. 

The apartment looks exactly the same as you remember. The book you were reading is still on the table. There's your coffee mug on the counter. From the faint ring outside, it looks like Bucky's been using it.

Alpine appears the second you step inside, meowing so loud it's almost accusatory. She's looking at you like you personally betrayed her. You sink down onto the floor right there in the living room, don't even make it to the couch, Alpine immediately climbing into your lap. She's purring, that rumbling engine sound that always makes you smile. "I'm sorry, baby," you murmur, scratching behind her ears. "I missed you too."

Bucky watches the way you curl around Alpine like you're trying to make yourself small enough to fit in her world. This is what he wanted. This. You in his space, in his world, with his cat, looking like you belong here. Without a second thought, he's drops down next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, arms around both of you. One around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and the other joining yours in Alpine's fur.

You let yourself lean into him, head finding that spot on his chest that feels like it was made specifically for you. Alpine's purring gets louder, pleased to have both her people back where they belong. "This is nice," you say.

His chin rests on top of your head. "Yeah. It is."

"I'm sorry I left."

"I'm sorry too. Can we stop apologising now?"

The laugh out of you, however soft, startles Alpine enough that she whips her head around to glare at you, but she recovers and nuzzles back into you, apparently deciding to forgive the disruption.

It's the most peace you've felt in weeks. Possibly longer. Alpine's warm weight in your lap, Bucky's arm solid around your shoulders.

"I was thinking," Bucky says eventually.

"Mhmm, dangerous."

He pinches your side gently, making you yelp and squirm in his grasp. "I was thinking you should move in."

"What?"

"Your stuff's already here. Work's downstairs. Commute's easier. Just makes sense."

"That's very romantic."

"I'm in love with you and I want you here all the time. Better?"

You're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "A little better."

"Is that a yes?"

You think about your empty apartment, waking up alone, not having this — Bucky and Alpine and home. "Yeah. That's a yes."

The kiss he presses to your temple is soft and lingering. "Thank God. Because I actually cleared out more drawer space — you know, before all this."

Alpine meows, annoyed at being squished between you, and you both laugh. But neither of you move. Neither of you want to.

"I love you," you say. Testing the words out loud now that you can, now that you know how to say it, and that he feels the same.

His arm tightens around you. "I love you too." He's smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips on the top of your head.

Alpine purrs louder, like she's agreeing, and you let yourself sink into this. Into Bucky and Alpine and the feeling of home.

COLLAB MASTERLIST ✧ MY MASTERLIST

EXTRAS. Thank you so much for reading! Please do support all the amazing authors who are participating in this collab! Did I know anything about chefs? No. Did I one day watch a random ass movie and decide chefs are hot? You know.

TAGLIST. @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

[scarletmika]

Irrevocably : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

READ PART 1: Unequivocally : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Witch!Reader

Summary: You didn't mean to fall in love with Johnny Storm, nor did he with you. Two different universes, two people that should have never met to begin with...but then why did it just feel so right? Why did home suddenly feel like a person instead of a place...why did it feel like it was destined to be the two of you from the start?

Warnings: so much fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, pre-established lovers torn apart by the multiverse, Johnny is a little shit sometimes, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader is kind of depressed but so is Johnny, can we consider this a soulmate AU at this point cause we might be able to, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 22,620 words A/N: I am so sorry this took so damn long for a part two, that's what happens when your mental health takes a nosedive for a hot minute because of other health related things lmao but we're all good now we're back baby

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Honey–no–that’s the gas pedal. You want the clutch-”

“What the hell is the clutch?”

“The second one in on the left, you have to press that down-”

Johnny bit into his bottom lip, trying desperately to try and conceal the laughter that was threatening to fall from his lips. In dramatic fashion, you threw your head back into the headrest of his blue Corvette. The sigh that tumbled from your lips was probably loud enough to be heard from Lower Manhattan at this point.

Gaze turning on him, stern and annoyed, Johnny could still see the notes of playfulness under it all.

“Stick shift is stupid, Johnny,”

“It’s not stupid-”

“Where I’m from, we can hit a single button to start our cars these days,” you accented your comment by pressing your finger into the space next to the steering wheel. “Hell, we can start some of them with our phones. They even drive themselves!”

The laughter Johnny tried so hard to keep at bay came tumbling out anyways, further cementing the annoyed look that crossed your face. He reached into the car, taking your hand in his, cradling it and littering soft kiss after kiss along each of your knuckles.

For just a split second, he saw that look in your eyes soften, that familiar affection he’d grown so used to creeping in along the edges. It always happened when he did this, and Johnny would take advantage of it every single time.

“This is the 60s, sweetheart, we aren’t that advanced. Unless I go tell Reed to make it happen,” you tried to drag your hand away but Johnny held tight, still kneeling on the ground in the open driver’s side door in front of you. “Also: be nice to the car. She’s my prized possession.”

“Prized possession?” you questioned, eyebrow lifting up immediately at the remark.

“Well, she’s been demoted to second place now,” Johnny’s lips turned into their usual smirk. Rising to his feet, he tugged your hand without giving you a second to think. Stumbling from the car and straight into his arms, Johnny’s wound around your waist to lock you in tightly to his body, nose just barely brushing the tip of yours. “My real prized possession has to be the little witch I managed to wrangle into loving me.”

You laughed, and Johnny could see it then like he saw so many times before: love. Written so clearly across your face, hidden in the lines of your smile and in the creases around your eyes as you laughed. A love her truly didn’t understand how he’d been blessed with, but was prepared to do whatever it took to keep it.

“I’m still trying to figure out how you managed it, too,”

Johnny just hummed, his lips finding yours with a practiced ease. A simple action that lit his skin on fire in a different way than he was very literally used to. Kissing you the moment you woke up in the morning, in front of his family until Ben complained, or in every little moment he could find, Johnny would never get tired of it. He’d simply never get tired of you.

He’d said it before, and he’d keep saying it until the end of time: you were it for him, ruined him in the best way, and he never wanted to go back to a life without you.

“It’s not good to mope, you know?”

As fast as that memory had overtaken him, invaded every single one of his thoughts, it was gone. The weight of your hand in his, the scent of your perfume, the feel of your lips pressed to his was resigned, once again, to what it was: a memory.

And suddenly, Johnny was back right where he didn’t want to be…in a life without you.

Standing by the window of his bedroom, gazing out at the Excelsior was where Johnny found himself as his sister’s voice invaded his thoughts. His room hadn’t changed much. Your favorite record had never left the player across the room, and in every single corner, on every single piece of furniture in the room, there was a memory of you burned into the very fabric of it.

“I’m not moping,” Johnny immediately shot Sue a look where she stood in his doorway, before looking back to the ship standing tall outside the window. Gesturing wildly with his hands, even he wasn’t sure what he was doing. “I’m simply…admiring the craftsmanship.”

“The craftsmanship-”

“Reed made some upgrades, it looks good,” Johnny shrugged, not having to look to feel Sue walking further into the room to stand beside him. “Darker blue around the windows, larger engines in the back, freshly painted logo–hey, has your husband ever thought about a career in interior design?”

“Given that everything you just said is on the outside of the ship, I don’t think it counts as interior,” Sue’s knowing gaze was already trained on him when Johnny finally met her eyes. “And you are trying to deflect.”

Johnny simply rolled his eyes at his sister’s words. Clapping her quickly on the shoulder, he stalked across the room to his bed, his freshly dried laundry sitting on top of the bed where he had neglected to actually put it all away. Busying his hands, he didn’t look back up at her as he talked.

“It’s not deflecting, you act like I refuse to talk about her. I talk about her all the time,” halfway through folding one of his shirts, Johnny simply gave up and tossed it across his bed, deciding it could just get hung up instead of folded. “We all talk about her all the time. I’m allowed to miss her, you know?”

“I didn’t even mention her, Johnny-”

“Not the point. I did love her, you know? I’m allowed to miss her,”

“Did, as in past tense?”

Sue was standing on the other side of the bed now when Johnny finally looked up. He sent her an unimpressed look as she folded her arms across her chest.

“You know what I mean,”

“Yes, because I know you. Which means I also know that you typically hide your moping and pining better than staring longingly out of a window. There was only one other time you looked this pathetically sad, and that was last year,” Johnny returned to the pile of clothes before him, refusing to meet his sister’s eyes as she slowly settled herself down onto the bed in front of him. “It’s almost the anniversary, isn’t it?”

Of course it was. Johnny knew it, Sue knew it, Reed knew it, Ben knew it–hell, even Franklin and Herbie probably knew it. 

Hanging on the wall of his bedroom, right by his dresser, sat that stupid little calendar. And five days from now there was one simple, tiny little blue heart drawn on the date. The day you had to leave him, turning his world upside down more than you had when you first arrived, and left him feeling as if a part of him was missing.

“Two years, Sue,” Johnny took a single glance up at her, shrugging his shoulders. “I think I’m allowed to be a little depressed around this time, okay? Give a guy a break, I smile in all our interviews and in every Ted Gilbert appearance.”

“A half-assed smile,”

Tossing one of his shirts at Sue, she caught it easily. But that look remained in her eyes, that knowing look. The one that, for his entire life, was able to see right through Johnny as if he was made of glass.

“Put yourself in my shoes, think about it as if it was you and Reed, and he got ripped away from you,” he tried to explain, getting frustrated with folding yet another shirt and tossing it off to the side. “It’s stupid, because I know she had to leave. I knew the entire time that, one day, she’d have to leave because she didn’t belong here. But it just…felt like she did, you know? Like she belonged with me. She didn’t see the Human Torch, she just saw me…the same way you see me.”

Quiet enveloped the room again. Johnny let the shirts in his hands fall to the bed, giving up on focusing on something else, as he met Sue’s eyes again. There wasn’t a second of judgement in them, not a single ounce of pity, just understanding. An understanding that for Johnny’s entire life he was sure only his sister could have for him, until you came along.

With his usual dramatic flair, Johnny threw himself down onto the bed. Clothing be damned, strewn out across the comforter, Sue’s light laughter filled the room as his head landed beside her leg. Her hand found its way to his shoulder, rubbing little circles into it in the most comforting way she could.

“I get it Johnny, we all do. We all miss her, too,” she quietly reminded him. He could feel her watching him, even as his eyes stayed trained on the ceiling above them. “Franklin asked about her today…asked where his auntie was.”

“He always asks where she is,” Johnny mumbled, still not looking away from the ceiling as Sue hummed.

“True, but he doesn’t usually cry. Doesn’t usually tell me how much he misses her, how he can’t feel her magic and it makes him sad,”

Johnny really thought, two years in, it would get easier. That maybe, after a few months, he’d stop missing you as much as he did those first few weeks. 

He’d eventually forced himself to put away the few pieces of your clothing that had still been littered around his bedroom from that fateful day. Your perfume had begun to fade from his pillowcases. He thought it would get easier then, that he’d just be able to look at the photos of you and him that still sat on his bedside table or hung on his wall and smile at the memories. That he could move on, look back on them for what they had to be: memories. Thank you for showing him what it felt like to be loved and how to give it so that he could give it to someone else. Because as much as you had promised him that it wasn’t a goodbye that day, and as much as he told himself he’d see you again, he knew the likelihood was slim. Two different worlds, two different universes, two different people who were just never meant to be. Who never should’ve met to begin with.

It was month three without you when Johnny decided that maybe, just maybe, he could try again. But the second Ben came home from a night out and cautiously told him that there was a nice young woman Rachel wanted to introduce him to, Johnny broke down into tears for the first time since that sparkling gold portal had opened in Reed Richards’ lab.

You had ruined Johnny Storm completely, and he knew right then and there he wasn’t going to be able to ever love someone again. Not like he loved you.

“I’m pathetic,” Johnny muttered in mock disdain, eyes still trained on the ceiling. “Little witch turned me into a pathetic, hopeless romantic. Maybe she really did put a spell on me.”

“No, Johnny, you just fell in love. That’s the beautiful tragedy of it,” Sue laughed, her fingers reaching out and bumping with Johnny’s cheek gently to grab his attention. He let his head lull to the side, catching her gaze and the soft smile on her face, the one that spoke a thousand words without having to say a single thing.

“Two different worlds, Sue. How real can that love really be?”

“Tell me: if she was standing here right now, and I handed you mom’s ring, would you ask her to marry you?”

“Yes,” it was the easiest thing Johnny had ever said. As easy as the first time he’d told you he loved you. Like he knew it in his heart.

“Then who cares if it makes sense? It was real, it still is,” Sue gave a little shrug, an easy smile on her face. “Love doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it’s complicated, but at the same time…when you know, you know. That’s the only girl I’ve ever seen you like that with, Johnny, and I’ll forever be thankful to her for the man she helped you become.”

“I sent you up here to stop his pity fest, did you turn it into a heart-to-heart?”

Ben’s voice cut into the conversation, his large form looming in the doorway as he raised his rocky eyebrow in the direction of the siblings. Johnny simply rolled his eyes at his friend, practically vaulting himself off the bed and back to his feet, laundry wrinkled across the bed now and a problem for a later time as he tried to shake himself awake from the conversation that loomed heavily in the back of his mind.

Sue shook her head, rising to her feet as well as she walked over to join Ben in the doorway.

“His pity fest was worse than usual. He was staring longing out the window. I almost saw some tears,”

“Damn, haven’t seen tears in a hot minute from matchstick,” Ben whistled, clicking his tongue. “The window is pretty bad. Worst I saw was his birthday–don’t think he took that sweater she got him off the entire day-”

“When did today become ‘Make Fun of Johnny Day’ huh?” Johnny cut in, eyebrow raised and arms thrown out as he cast a glance between both Sue and Ben on the far side of his room. “What, did you make it a city-wide holiday? Call up the mayor?”

“Not a bad idea-”

“Come on,” Sue cut in, landing a light slap to Ben’s chest, even as he laughed at his own comment. The pair were already turning to walk down the hallway together as Sue threw in another comment over her shoulder. “Reed wants you in the lab, it’s not an option!”

There was no point in arguing with the pair, especially if Reed was requesting his presence. He let his eyes drift to his bedside table, to that familiar polaroid photo that sat leaning against his lamp, of you wrapped in his arms on the living room balcony. He’d lost that magically preserved Plumeria flower weeks ago, spent days upending his room trying to find it, but your hand writing was still scrawled across the edge of the photo in your magic.

Unequivocally yours.

With a sigh, tearing himself away, Johnny followed the pair through the hallway and down the stairs and into the living room of the Baxter Building. His mind was far from in the moment, though, too lost in his own memories.

The memory of walking down those exact stairs into the living room to see you, dolled up for your first official date together. The many mornings he’d walked down those stairs to see you cooking breakfast with Ben in the kitchen, or sitting with Sue and Reed in the living room, laughing with Franklin on your lap.

Even the elevator brought memories as he stepped into it beside Sue and Ben.

“You know,” Johnny’s voice was low, twinged with a heat that he hadn’t felt before. His eyes took just a moment to glance down at your lips, flickering back to your eyes before you could catch him. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”

He waited with bated breath, a flurry of butterflies hammering against his chest the second your brilliant smile lit up your face. But then your eyes glowed blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic leaving the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.

Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact as he felt every ounce of breath rush out of him in a single moment.

“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”

Ben’s rocky hand collided with Johnny’s shoulder gently, knocking him out of his own head.

“Come on, buddy, quit daydreaming,” Ben teased, but his words were gentle. Almost pitying as the elevator descended down to the lab. “I know I said love looks good on you…but I hate seeing you like this.”

“Yeah, well, blame the wizard dude,” Johnny huffed out, waving his hand off-handedly as he tried to change the subject, trying not to let his mind wander once against and get lost in his own head for the hundredth time in the last hour. “Next time I see him, I might punch him.”

“That I might pay to see,” Sue chimed in, sharing a laugh with Ben as the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open to the familiar lab.

Reed Richards was down near his chalk board, handing a set of papers off to Herbie as he wrote what Johnny could only assume was another long-winded equation across the board. Herbie took the papers from him, rolling across the room to feed them into the computer down at the far end of the lab and wait for the results to print out.

Sue and Ben continued to converse with one another as they moved to join Reed at the chalkboard. Johnny, though, was in no rush. He lagged behind, arms crossed over his chest as he took tentative steps into the room, simply watching the three converse quietly in their little huddle by the chalkboard.

That is, until a little ball of blonde hair collided with his leg, latching onto him like a little leech.

“Uncle Johnny! You left your room!”

If anything, or anyone, was going to bring a smile to Johnny’s face right now, it was always going to be Franklin. With a single swoop of his arm, Johnny positioned his nephew onto his hip. The smiling four year old giggled, wrapping his little arounds tightly around his uncle’s shoulders to hold on as Johnny reached up to ruffle his hair playfully, tugging just barely on his ear to make the boy squirm in his hold as he shot him a bright smile.

“Hey buddy. I was told your crazy dad wanted to see me, I didn’t think this was a family meeting,”

“We made you a present!” Franklin excitedly announced, hands curling into Johnny’s shirt as he practically bounced in his arms. Johnny held on tighter, trying not to let the boy slip from his hold. “I even helped.”

“Did you now?”

Taking a few more steps into the room, Johnny shot his inquisitive look toward Ben, his sister, and his brother-in-law. The former two both shoved Reed forward, who simply shot them both looks for their actions, before he tossed the little device in his hands in Johnny’s direction. He caught it easily in one hand, turning it over in his palm.

“I’ve been working on it for a few months. Franklin just got to pick the color,”

Johnny…had no clue what he was looking at. The rectangular device was slightly larger than the palm of his hand, an opening in the back revealing a set of exposed wires that he was sure were meant to be connected to something else. 

The lit screen showcased a series of complicated numbers and equations. Multiple strings of numbers looked almost like coordinates, some looked like jump points that they used to calculate jumps through wormholes in space, but they all led to one number on the screen, highlighted in bold: 616.

“My gift is a little box with numbers…thanks?” Johnny raised an eyebrow in Reed’s direction.

Sue sighed, tugging on her husband’s arm and gesturing toward the chalkboard beside them. He nodded, waving Johnny over in their direction. He complied, albeit warily, standing in front of the couch with Franklin still positioned over his hip as Ben and Sue stood at Reed’s side while he ran him through the series of equations littering the board.

“We’ve been mulling over the idea for months now. Close to a year. More so the ethical implications of it,” Reed underlined one of the longest equations on the board, accenting the end of it with his chalk. “You’ve been in a funk, it’s been clear. I knew that I could accomplish this, but it came down to whether or not it was ethical for me to do this, to build this. But in looking back on my own notes, from my own data collected from her time here, nothing seemed thrown out of balance. From quick studies, I see no sign of any incursions. Which–theoretically–would suggest that the same could work in reverse. The construction of the device was simple, really. A device that could allow our ship to break through a jump point and use quantum physics in order to cross through a multidimensional stream was simple to construct-”

Multidimensional stream.

Johnny couldn’t breathe. Reed kept talking, his mouth kept moving, his hand kept sweeping across the chalkboard, but Johnny couldn’t comprehend a single word that came out of his mouth.

It wasn’t until he placed Franklin down on the couch behind him that he realized he was shaking. With both hands, Johnny clutched that device in his hands, staring down at that three digit number staring back at him. When he finally looked back up at his family, they were already staring back at him.

“You…you’re saying that t-this thing?” he held the device up, shaking it in the air in Reed’s direction with wide eyes. “Can help our ship travel the multiverse?”

Reed stalked across the room to his workstation without another word, digging around for something. Johnny caught Ben and Sue’s eyes. Their smiles were prevalent, those encouraging ones, the ones that screamed ‘you deserve this,’ that said ‘we did this for you’.

“Did you know, in the infinite multiverse, I was able to find approximately 17,835,239 other versions of your witch with energy signatures that are almost identical to hers? All slightly different, but very similar, almost impossible to tell apart,” Reed spoke up as he stepped back toward Johnny, pulling his hand out from behind his back and holding it out in Johnny’s direction. “Luckily, I knew just how to find yours.”

The Plumeria flower. Still shimmering, encased in your blue magic, forever keeping it alive.

Johnny glanced down at the device again, eyes catching that number once more: 616. A lump formed in his throat, every emotion he’d felt for the last two years swelling in him all at once as he let his finger drift over the screen, right over the number.

“So…616-”

His sister’s hand found his upper arm, curling around it, squeezing it in comfort. Johnny leaned into it without a second thought, too overwhelmed to think twice.

“It stands for Earth-616,” Sue told him softly. He could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s her earth, Johnny. Reed found it. He found her.”

 ❤︎

Dear Johnny,

It’s been awhile since I’ve written you one of these, probably since I stopped seeing my “Wong Appointed” therapist. He’s still upset about that, but therapists don’t exactly understand how to help me deal with falling in love with a man from an entirely different universe, so I felt like it was just a waste of both of our times. The letters were her idea, and they sometimes helped, so I guess she was good for something.

Today is the two year mark. I don’t like thinking about it. I’ve been trying not to think about it all day, actually. Joaquín and I left for a mission at almost three in the morning today, that’s how badly I didn’t want to think about what today was. The mission was easy, barely took half of the day. I threw two dudes out of a window, then I laughed to myself because I could almost hear you in my head saying “wow, that was so hot.”

I miss you. That’s the whole point of me writing this, because I’m really trying not to cry right now. We’re on the quinjet back, and at some point in the middle of this data retrieval it just hit me that it’s been two years since I’ve seen you. Since I’ve held you. Since I’ve kissed you. I thought maybe writing down how much I miss you, how much I love you, would make me feel better. Honestly, I think it might just be making it worse-

“OW! Joaquín, I swear to god-”

“It’s not exactly easy to stitch your arm when you’re writing. Put the pen down for two seconds and let me finish the damn stitches first, please and thank you,”

He had a point, even if you didn’t want to admit it. The quinjet was cruising on autopilot, the overhead indicator calling out that you’d just passed over Baltimore and the ETA to the compound was now ten minutes.

The pen in your hand dropped as a sigh escaped your lips. Joaquín shot you a mockingly thankful look, focusing back in on the exposed area of your forearm where the bullet had grazed, cutting through your suit and leaving a deep enough cut to warrant stitches. Thankfully, your teammate and friend knew you well enough to know you weren’t stopping by the hospital, and had volunteered his services before Sam forced you to be seen by a doctor the second you stepped foot off the jet.

“Did you finish off the report for Sam?” you managed out through gritted teeth, hand flexing as Joaquín finished off the final stitch, tying it closed and wiping down the area with a final anti-septic pad that had you inhaling another hiss of pain. You took the bandage he passed your way with a nod of thanks as he packed away the med kit laid out in front of him.

“Did it the second we got in the air, it’s on the table,” he nodded his head toward the main table of the room, stashing the medkit in its rightful place across the room before heading back toward the cockpit, double checking on all the indicators to ensure that everything was in place and holding steady. “So, are we going to talk about it?”

You hummed, rubbing at the now bandaged part of your arm over the torn portion of your suit. Rising from your chair, letter abandoned, you did a quick flip through of the report to ensure everything was in order: SERPENT base, files recovered concerning resurfaced HYDRA activity, no casualties, single gunshot graze.

“Talk about what?”

“Uh, the fact that the all powerful witch got so distracted she basically got shot?” you glanced in Joaquín’s direction as he spoke. He stood with his arms crossed, still donning his suit, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he gave a little shrug. “Come on, I’m the one who always needs a second pair of eyes watching his back in the field. You’re, like, a model of perfection on missions. You never slip up. What happened back there?”

“It was stupid,” you tried to deflect, but Joaquín held your gaze. With a sigh, you cast your eyes down to the table, drumming your fingers along the edge. “The two agents were just making callouts to each other. One of them…his name was Johnny. I just froze for a second when I heard it, that’s all.”

It really was stupid. Such a trivial thing. A name, just a name was all it took for you to freeze in a moment where you shouldn’t have frozen. Any other day and it wouldn’t have affected you, wouldn’t have stopped you in your tracks the way it had.

But not today. Not on the anniversary of the day you’d been forced to leave behind the little family you’d found for yourself, leaving a piece of yourself forever behind with the Human Torch himself.

Joaquín’s laughter cut through the silence of the jet, and the glare you sent his way immediately at the sound was piercing. He was hunched over, arm wrapped around his middle and one hand on the back of the pilot’s chair to try and steady himself. Each time his eyes met yours, he only doubled over more in laughter, waving his hand in your direction.

“I-I’m sorry, all it took was his name?” you crossed your arms over your chest, leaning against the table as you fixed your friend with an unimpressed look. He howled with laughter again, wiping at his under eyes with his hand. You couldn’t tell if it was an exaggeration, or if he really was crying from here. “Jesus, sweetheart, you really are pathetic when it comes to him.”

Stalking past him, a wave of magic rolled off you with a single thought, shoving him out of the way to allow you to climb into the pilot’s chair. Ignoring the tail end of his laughter as Joaquín clung to the back of your chair, you disengaged the autopilot feature of the jet, locking in the controls to prepare for landing at the compound 

“Thanks, Joaquín, I can always count on you to make me feel better,” your words grumbled out under your breath, hands tight on the controls. Joaquín climbed into the seat next to you, wings shoved off onto the floor behind him to allow him to settle into the seat comfortably next to you. Even without looking, you could see the stupid smirk on his face.

“Sorry, sorry, you know I’m just teasing. Everyone knows you’re always pathetic when it comes to your flame boy,” the only response you gave was a hum as he scoffed, reaching over and lightly hitting you on the shoulder with his hand. “Come on, lighten up! You’re my friend, you think I don’t know today is the anniversary? I’m trying to cheer you up, make you laugh, you know?”

“Might want to try a comedy class at this rate,” you shot back, head rolling over as you shot him a smirk of your own. “Maybe we should visit Isaiah. Watching him kick your ass in the gym might bring a smile to my face.”

That comment brought a laugh out of Joaquín, one that was enough to momentarily distract your mind enough to let a soft smile make its way to your lips.

“Damn, you’re one cold witch sometimes, you know?” the comment earned him a slap on his shoulder from you. His laughter died down, a soft smile mirroring yours finding its way to Joaquín’s face. “You’re allowed to talk about him with me, you know? I’ll listen.”

Your smile fell, just slightly. It got tighter by just a pinch, jaw tightening just a little, as your eyes turned back to the skies as you nodded.

“I know that,”

“You sure? Because you really don’t talk about him much. Not out loud,”

“It’s not easy to. If Johnny wants to talk about me, he has an entire building full of people that got to know me for a year to talk to. I don’t have that,” a bitter laugh found its way out of you before you could stop it. You didn’t want to be bitter about the situation, but it was impossible not to. There was no one you were made at except the situation itself, except the universe as a whole. “I love you and Sam dearly, but you two don’t know him. Chances are you never will. I can talk about how much I miss him, how much I miss all of them, but will you ever really understand why when you don’t know them like I do?”

Casting your eyes back over to him for just a moment, Joaquín still held that soft smile toward you. He gave a little shrug.

“Maybe not, but I’m still your friend. I’d still listen,”

Quiet enveloped the two of you for a few moments, the weight of the conversation settling between you both. You tried to shake it from you, to will away the memories that threatened to creep into your mind anytime you were left to stew alone in your head for too long. Suddenly, Joaquín shot up in his seat. Leaning closer to the windows of the jet, eyes wide and full of excitement, he cast a quick glance back at you and he pointed out of the glass. “God, I love when we fly back into the compound this way and can see the monument from the sky. One hell of a skyline, isn’t it?”

“One hell of a skyline, isn’t it?”

The nighttime breeze of New York City drifted over you, the cool feeling dancing over your skin. That cool feeling didn’t stay long, not when that familiar deep burgundy jacket slid over your shoulders, it’s warmth enveloping you. That same warmth suddenly found your waist, seeping straight from Johnny Storm’s hands and through your shirt, straight into your skin as he squeezed, the tip of his nose brushing along the edge of your ear as he slotted himself into the space behind you on the Baxter Building balcony.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you hummed back, leaning back into the warmth reflexively, hands gripping the railing of the balcony. The lights of the city glittered in the distance, car horns beeping and distant sounds of sirens could be heard from miles away. “Grew up here, remember?”

“Come on, our skylines can’t be the exact same,”

“Pretty damn close, baby,” you shot back, turning your head just barely to catch his eyes. Even in the night, those baby blue eyes were still so brilliantly bright. The smile that stretched across your lips was easy. “Sorry, guess your city isn’t that special.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. You moved then, stepping out of his arms and trying to step away from him, turning away to walk inside, but of course, he wouldn’t let you. His hand caught your waist again, spinning you back into him, hands landing on his chest as his grip held firm against your lower back.

Laughter bubbled out of you before you could stop it, smile bright, as your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. Before a single word could slip past your lips he surged forward, slotting his against your own, a sigh of pure contentment falling from your lips instead as you let your fingers curl into his hair instead. Relishing the feel of his hands along the small of your back.

“You’re such a dork,” the words were muttered against his lips through a smile. “But I love you.”

His smile matched yours, lips never leaving yours either as he spoke.

“Your dork, who loves you, too,”

A flash of light interrupted the kiss, tearing the two of you away from one another, but only by an inch. Sue stood sheepishly in the doorway of the balcony, balancing a giggling Franklin on one hip and a Polaroid camera in her other hand, muttering apology after apology, quickly trying to sneak away with the newly printed photo.

You could only laugh, leaning into Johnny as his lips pressed into the crown of your head over and over again, a rush of something shooting through you in the moment that you hadn’t felt in so long: safety. That comforting feeling, where in that moment, everything just felt right.

You hated memories. You hated how easy it was for something so simple–something so trivial–to invoke them.

“Yeah…it’s great,” was the only response you could muster back to Joaquín at that moment. Your smile was gone again, that youthful glow and that playful tone replaced once more with the wistfulness that had engulfed you since you’d stepped foot back in your own universe two years ago.

Not another word was said as you landed the quinjet further up the Potomac River on the landing pad outside of the compound, the one specially designed for the new team formed under Sam Wilson’s own Avengers team. Being left a sizable fund in your name by an old teammate and mentor left plenty to fund a compound for your new team.

If Joaquín noticed your quick change in demeanor, which he certainly did, he chose not to mention it as you strode side by side into the compound together. You were grateful for it. Talking about your feelings was, quite frankly, the last thing you wanted to do.

Wallowing in self pity in bed, all by yourself, sounded like the better option for the rest of the night.

The crumpled, unfinished note was tucked into the back pocket of your suit as you trailed through the empty compound behind Joaquín. He was flicking through the mission report, ensuring that everything was in place and he hadn’t screwed anything up, knowing that Sam preferred everything on these reports accurate when he wasn’t on the mission with either of you.

Both you and Joaquín came to a halt the second you saw the sight before you in the compound’s main kitchen.

“Uh…Sam?”

The man turned on his heel, sending a bright smile in the direction of you both, before he put the pot of noodles in his hand on the burner behind him, flicking it on just like the others were on their own pans. The entire island counter looked as if the local grocery store had thrown up on it: empty boxes of noodles, some flour littering the counter, homemade garlic bread sitting on a baking sheet waiting for the oven to most likely preheat. Enough food to, probably, feed the entire US military if Sam Wilson really wanted to.

“Who is this guy and what happened to our Sam?” Joaquín muttered toward you, thought not discreetly at all as you could see the roll of Sam’s eyes from the other side of the island. “He never cooks. At least, not for us.”

“Tonight is different,” Sam cut in, checking on everything on the stove quickly before turning back to look at the both of you. His hands gripped the edge of the counter as his eyes roamed over both of you, eyes landing on the bandage wrapped around the torn forearm of your suit. “What happened? I thought it was mission success?”

“It was,” you waved him off, taking the file from Joaquín’s hands and tossing it across the counter to Sam, letting him flick through the report. “I got grazed by a bullet, it was nothing. Don’t try and change the subject, Wilson, why is tonight different? We never do ‘team meals’ together, that’s not our thing.”

Sam was silent, didn’t answer your question for a moment, as he flicked through the rest of the report. Letting it fall back to the counter in front of him, the bright smile was back on his face in seconds as he glanced back up, specifically right at you.

“We have guests tonight,”

Joaquín stood a little straighter next to you, his own smile growing as he excitedly clapped his hand down on your shoulder.

“Guests? You finally make up with Bucky and invite those guys down here? Or is this a, like, military-strategy type of dinner meeting and we should go get out of our suits?”

You just watched Sam, whose eyes never left you. He just smiled, that cheeky smile that said he had something to hide. Before you could question it, he tilted his head over to the side toward the dining room, forcing your gaze to follow.

Wong stood, rigid, hands tucked behind his back. His robes billowed out down by his feet as he just silently watched you, face unreadable.

It was enough to make you tense, as well as Joaquín, who patted your shoulder this time in comfort.

“He kind of looks like he wants to kill you,” Joaquín whispered in your direction. You only nodded in response, taking a slight step toward the man as you gave him a hesitant smile. A tiny, miniscule nervous laugh fell from your lips.

“Wong…nice to see you?” he hummed in response as you quickly jerked your thumb backwards toward Joaquín. “I promise, whatever it is you think I did, Joaquín is probably the one that did it. I’ve been a perfect angel, no performing spells that I don’t already know.”

“Hey…” Joaquín muttered out behind you, fake-hurt laced in his voice.

Wong stayed silent for a moment before he let out a deep sigh, running a hand down his face. His eyes stayed watching you the entire time.

“You didn’t do anything, though at first, I thought you had. If that was true, we’d be having a much different conversation right now,” the Sorcerer Supreme crossed his arms over his chest, taking in another deep breath. “It’s been a long day, I’ve been dealing with your guests since they entered Earth’s atmosphere. So…I expect a thank you for the fact that I even brought them here and did not send them home immediately.”

Wong was making no sense. Not a single thing he said was registering with you. Earth’s atmosphere? They’d entered it? The only thing you could think of was Carol, but you were pretty sure she was back on Earth permanently at the moment. Plus, why would Wong send Carol of all people away?

Your eyes drifted to Joaquín, who looked just as lost. They drifted then to Sam, who still held that knowing smile, like he was biting back a thousand secrets he was dying to tell you.

Before you could utter a single question, something collided with your leg, wrapping itself around it and latching onto you like it never wanted to let go.

“Auntie!”

The word froze you in place. The feeling on your leg was clear in that moment–two tiny little hands gripping onto the fabric of your suit like their life depended on it. Morgan was the only one who ever called you that. There was only one other person that could–or would–call you that.

And when that thought hit you, your breath caught, and your eyes drifted down to the little body wrapped around your leg.

Your head told you it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be him. But your heart? Your heart knew when you looked at his little body. Taller than the last time you’d seen him, held him. More hair, but still just as blonde. As bright as his mother’s. And those eyes…as blue as the ones he’d inherited, the ones you’d accidentally fallen in love with.

He let go the second you dropped to your knees, eyes level with him now. Your chest felt like it was constricting, like it couldn’t decide if you couldn’t breathe at all or if you were about to start hyperventilating. It was him, you knew it was him. Hands reaching out, cupping his cheeks, a breathless little laugh left your lips in a whisper as he smiled at you through his little gapped toothed smile.

“F-Franklin?” his name just barely made it past your lips. You could feel a sob burning in you, your throat tightening, as he nodded his little head.

“I missed you, auntie,”

Tears finally found their way down your cheeks the second you wrapped him in your arms, tugging his little body into you and holding him as tightly as you possibly could. That sob threatened to escape, hiccuping out of you as Franklin wrapped his arms around your neck, hugging you back. You gripped to the back of his shirt, trying to comprehend it: little Franklin Richards, the little boy you hadn’t held since he was a baby, was here. He was here, on your earth, in your arms.

“I told him to wait and not jump on you, but he really missed his aunt,”

If Franklin almost pulled a sob out of you, this was the end of you. You let go of him, looking over, just to see her standing there: Sue Storm. In those blue and white suits you hadn’t seen in so long. Her hair was longer than it was before, just a tad bit straighter, but it was her. Smiling across the room at you, with that same warm, motherly grin that you hadn’t seen in so long you were beginning to forget the sight of it.

“Sue-!”

Her name had barely left your lips before a sob tore through you. On shaky legs, you practically bolted across the room, throwing yourself into her arms as you simply just let yourself cry without a care in the world. She laughed, her arms coming around your body and holding you back just as tightly, hand running down over the back of your head to smooth your hair as you held onto her.

“I missed you, too,” she said quietly, sweetly, pulling back to wipe the tears that were streaming down your cheeks. She reached down, grabbing your forearm and quickly giving you a pointed look at the bandage wrapped around your arm. “We told you to take care of yourself, remember? This doesn’t look like that.”

You laughed, pulling back to furiously rub at the tears on your face. You could faintly hear Joaquín behind you conversing with Sam, most likely having finally caught on to what was happening.

“If I remember the story correctly, you died at one point, so you don’t get to make comments about a tiny injury,”

“I prefer if we don’t talk about that day,” Reed Richards himself cut in, stepping up beside his wife. Still the same man you remembered, maybe an extra line or two around his face, but a warm smile on his lips none the less as he nodded his head to you. “Good to know it worked and I found the right version of you. You wouldn’t believe how many of you exist in the multiverse.”

You laughed. The brightest, happiest laugh you had let out in what had surely been two years. It was like a weight you hadn’t even realized had been sitting on your chest had finally lifted, like the grey clouds that had invaded every corner of your life had finally cleared away. You reached out, squeezing Reed’s hand as you gave him a watery smile.

“I thought I told you not to invent multidimensional travel?”

“Well, I do like being the first person to do things, so-”

“Alright, alright, quit hogging her! Let me see the girl!”

Ben’s voice commanded the room. Sue and Reed both laughed, parting, letting you practically run through them and straight into Ben’s awaiting arms. His laugh bellowed in your ears as his rocky form enveloped you in a hug, his head resting down on top of yours as he gave you a light squeeze.

“God, Ben, I can’t tell you how much I missed you,”

“I missed you too, little witch,” Ben pulled back, reaching behind him and grabbing something from the table behind him, presenting it in front of you with a large grin. “Don’t worry, I made sure to bring you the good stuff.”

You laughed the second you saw the logo on the paper bag: Maisie’s.

With one of Ben’s hands still resting against your shoulders, you turned back to Sue and Reed. Franklin was back in his father’s arms, messing with the edges of his suit, and something about just looking at them all in front of you, to seeing Sam and Joaquín smiling and watching the entire thing in the background, just filled you with a feeling that you hadn’t known for quite some time.

Not since you’d lost them, the people you had called your first family. Having all of them in this room, though, it finally brought back that feeling–that feeling of being well and truly home.

“This can’t be permanent,”

Wong’s voice cut through the moment, bringing your attention back to him, along with everyone else in the room. You straightened up, wiping at the tears on your cheeks, nodding your head toward him.

“I know-”

“A week, that’s the best I can give,” Wong cut you off, a sense of urgency in his tone as he spoke. He was making it clear that this could not, in any way, be permanent. No matter how much it would hurt in the end. “I’m still studying your magic and if your extended time in their universe had any lasting effects on the strands of time. In the interest of knowledge, you can have a week, so I can see what effects their presence here has. A week, though. Nothing more.”

You nodded, and Wong continued on. Something about how, if he found that their presence here was affecting the timelines, they’d have to leave immediately. How the fate of the universe, how ensuring that the strands of time themselves stayed intact was more important than anything else. You were barely listening at that point.

It was impossible not to just look at them. To admire in awe at the fact that they were really here. Sue, Reed, Franklin, Ben-

They were missing someone.

Sue’s eyes found yours the second that realization seemed to hit you. And like always, it was as if she knew. A soft smile crossed her face as she simply nodded her head toward the rest of the compound.

“He got curious, went snooping for your room,”

That was all you needed to hear before you took off running, anything else from Wong’s mouth ignored in your haste to get to your room.

The twists and turns of the compound passed by in a blur, your feet pounding down them. You knew them like the back of your hand, it didn’t matter if you couldn’t see anything through the blur of tears covering your eyes with every single step you took.

Your bedroom door was open down the hallway, something it never was when you weren’t here. It was always shut, a habit you had always had for privacy reasons. The soft lighting from the lamp inside spilling out of it and into the hallway, the beams of light crawling across the floor and up the opposite wall. You had to hang onto the edge of the doorframe to fully stop yourself.

There he was. 

A sight that made your heart skip a beat, that had your chest clenching at the thought that you were finally–finally–seeing him again. Two years, 730 some days since you had last seen Johnny Storm, and there he was. Standing in your bedroom like he belonged there, like he wasn’t universes away from his own.

His back was turned to you, but you knew him. You knew that blue and white ribbed suit, you knew that blonde hair, and you knew those hands. Those hands that were discarded of their gloves, that were rifling through a stack of papers he’d surely taken off your bedside table.

You knew those papers. Your letters, every single one you’d ever written. The first line of them was memorized, from the first letter, to the last one you’d written.

I still think this exercise is stupid, but I’m going to do it anyway. Joaquín said I moped today, told me I looked like a sad, wet kitten that had been abandoned in an alleyway. I didn’t have it in me to tell him it’s your birthday today.

To be completely honest, I kind of hate you right now. I hate that I’m crying in bed, in the middle of the night, trying to write a stupid letter to you that you’ll never see because I woke up from a dream where you were holding me and I realized how cold reality was without you. It’s not fair. I really hate you for this.

Sam was showing me stupid tweets on his phone today and I saw one that said “I didn’t fall for you, you fucking tripped me.” It made me think of you…you kind of did, in a way.

Today’s my birthday. Sam and Joaquín got me a cake, and then Pepper brought Morgan by so I could have dinner with her. I visited the makeshift grave I made for Wanda. Went to Nat’s and Tony’s, too. And through all of that…I just wanted you. I just miss you. I miss the drive-in, I miss kicking your ass at bowling, I miss dancing at The Regent. I miss you…and I don’t know how to stop. I’m not sure I ever will.

Sam asked me today if I regret falling in love with you, if it’s worth the pain I’ve carried since I had to leave. Without a second thought I told him no, no I don’t regret it. Getting to love you, and be loved by you, is worth any amount of pain I have to endure. Doesn’t mean it sucks any less, though.

As if he could feel you, feel your gaze watching him, Johnny finally turned.

There was no way to describe it. No way to accurately explain the flutter of your heart in your chest, the trail of goosebumps that seemed to travel your skin in seconds, or the utter pull that you felt in your gut to just run into his arms. There wasn’t a book, a song, a movie scene, a single thing in the world that could accurately describe the way in which simply looking into those blue eyes–no longer just a staple of your dreams–had you wanting to break down sobbing while simultaneously dancing across the room.

Johnny Storm wasn’t always the easiest person to read, not when you had first met him. But over time, as you’d let yourself fall in love with the man standing before you, you’d come to understand him better than you feared you understood yourself at times. You could see it all in his face, in his body language: the instant sag in his shoulders, like the weight that had been sitting on your chest had been sitting heavily on him all this time, too. The slight twitch of his lips, the way they curled up into that smirk that you had missed so desperately.

He raised his hands, waving the letters slightly in the air, eyes never leaving you for a second.

“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” even just his voice, just hearing it again, had a single tear rolling back down your cheek. Even as his voice was laced with his usual teasing tone, a contrast to the softness he carried in his eyes reserved just for you. Saying that same line, the first thing he’d ever said to you all those years ago. “But it’s not safe to just leave private letters like these sitting around. You never know who might find them.”

“W-Well, I don’t usually have curious blonde men from the ‘60s combing through my personal belongings,” you managed out, wiping at the tears that were silently falling from your cheeks. “Joaquín snooped in here once and found out the hard way why my room is off limits.”

“What, you give him a stern talking to?”

“Hexed his suit for a week so that his wings always did the exact opposite of what he wanted them to,”

His laughter filled the room. Warm, inviting, a sound that felt like a hug. A sound you had missed so dearly. Carefully, he laid the letters back on your bedside table, eyes never leaving you for a moment as he stepped out into the middle of the room.

“That’s my girl,”

Every step you took was shaky, still at war with yourself in your head on how this could be real, as you gingerly stepped into your own bedroom. How they invented multiversal travel, how they were here. How after two whole years of feeling like you left a part of yourself in another dimension, it was finally standing in front of you again.

“This really is real, right?” you asked softly, just a few feet in front of him now.

Johnny hummed, tilting his head slightly, before holding out his hand in front of you. Within a millisecond those familiar flames burst to life, burning bright within his hand. The heat that accompanied them enveloped you, warming your skin. A new set of tears managed to fall at the feeling.

“I hope it’s real,” Johnny shot back, but that teasing tone left his voice quickly. It was replaced with a soft smile, almost a hesitant one, like he was just as scared as you were that somehow this wasn’t real. Somehow, he’d wake up back home to this all having been a dream, and you’d wake up in your room alone again. “I’ve been kind of miserable without you. Really pathetic, if I do say so myself. It’s pretty depressing, I don’t know how they’ve put up with it for two years.”

“It’s not like I’ve been much better. I’ve missed you…so much,” you shot back at him.

“Baby, Reed invented multiversal travel because that’s how sick he was of seeing me mope around. I think we know who missed the other more,”

The flames in his hand died, but it stayed stretched out toward you. An invitation, calling you in. 

You ignored it, launching yourself into his arms instead.

Johnny wrapped himself around you, molding and conforming to your body just as you did to him. Like two puzzle pieces that snapped together perfectly. His hands found your waist, curling up your back, splayed out between your shoulder blades and across your lower back. Heat bloomed everywhere his hands touched you as his fingers curled into the fabric of your suit, pressing into your body, pulling you as close as he could physically hold you, but never close enough. You could feel the exhale that left him, that one that felt like relief now that he was holding you again. You understood it all too well.

One of your hands curled into his hair on instinct, feeling the soft strands of blonde between your fingers again, while the other simply clung around his neck as you buried your head as far into his neck as you possibly could force yourself. You took in a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of him wash over you, as another round of cries racked through your body.

Being in his arms again: a feeling that both was overwhelming and made you feel lighter than you had in years.

Johnny’s hand moved itself, leaving a trail of warmth from your upper back, over your arm, and up the side of your neck until he fully cupped your face within his hand. Pulling you back just slightly so he could see you, tears stained cheeks and all, you leaned into that hand, into that warmth, chasing after the feeling. Your eyes met his for just a moment before you surged forward, stealing from him the kiss you’d dreamt about for the last two years.

Shaky breaths mingled together, intertwining in the lack of space between your bodies and Johnny’s lips devoured you in a way that had your knees threatening to buckle beneath you. The heat within his touch seemed to climb, burning the feeling of his skin into every piece of you he touched, but you didn’t care. You craved the feeling of it, the fire it lit within you, as your fingers dug into his hair and tugged him as close as possible.

“I love you,” Johnny’s words were mumbled against your lips, never straying far from you. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, biting down just slightly until a moan tumbled from your lips, swallowed by him. The moan that fell from his own matched yours–low and full of longing–as his hips pressed forward, feet shuffling along the ground.

“I love you, too,” you barely managed to mutter out before your back was pressed up against the front of your dresser, caged in by his body. His hands cradled your face, pads of his fingers digging into the nape of your neck as his lips found the hollow of your throat, languishing heated kiss after kiss as your head fell back. Hands gripping at his forearms, the sides of his body, anywhere you could for leverage.

“Kind of the bane of my existence, though,” 

It was the first time he’d pulled away enough since your lips found one another for you to see his face. That charming smirk, full of mirth, eyes slightly squinted as he looked down at you. But even through all the bravado that was Johnny Storm, you could see it clear as day in his features, in the way his fingers still flexed and pressed into your skin. He was relishing every second of this, of having you back, just as you were him.

“Bane of your existence?”

“Very much so,” the kiss he stole from you then was lighter, softer, but still just as deep. Still just as full of love. His hands trailed their way down your sides, sending a shiver straight up your spine as they ghosted over your hips, fingertips grazing right over the sides of your thighs as his words were spoken against your lips. “A hot witch from another universe comes and steals my heart and then leaves me pathetically pining for two years. Insane. Absolutely unfair, you should be jailed for these crimes.”

The laughter that fell from you was different, different from what it sounded like these last two years, and you knew it. Lighter, freer, happier than it had been in so long. Genuine.

“You only have yourself to blame, you pursued me!” a shriek tumbled from your lips the second that the words left your mouth, as Johnny’s hands swept under your thighs and hoisted you up on top of your dresser without a care in the world. His hand swept out behind you, sweeping everything sitting on top of the furniture out of the way as you laughed, quickly trying to stop him and grab the frames he was knocking over before they could break. “Johnny! You can’t just mess up my room!”

“I’m just trying to kiss my girl,” the shit-eating grin on his face could be felt against your skin as he pressed yet another kiss to your cheek, moving down to lavish them along the line of your jaw.

“You can kiss me without destroying priceless photographs,”

He hummed, the sound vibrating against your skin, before he plucked the frame from your hands that you were still clutching onto. You watched as he pulled back, inspecting the photo in the frame, eyebrow raising quizzically as he turned it toward you.

“You’re holding up a middle finger and the man next to you looks like he’s screaming in terror–this is a priceless photo?”

“When it’s one of the first photos I ever took with Tony, yes,” you plucked it from his hands, gently tossing it across the room onto your bed so it was as far from Johnny as it could be. The look you shot at him was unimpressed, but nothing could keep the smile from your lips. “I’ve had you back for all of five minutes and you’ve already managed to get on my nerves.”

“I haven’t been able to annoy you daily for 17,520 hours,” Johnny shot back before he pressed in closer. Your legs parted just slightly on instinct, making space for him between them as he invaded every inch of your personal space. “Making up for lost time.”

The playfulness of the moment dissipated in that moment as his hand came back up, curling around your cheek to cradle you in his palm. You leaned into the feeling, eyes never leaving his, as his thumb drew circles back and forth across your skin. His eyes visibly softened, that smirk falling into a smile as he watched you.

“That’s a lot of hours,” you shot back softly, turning your head just barely to place a light kiss to the palm of his hand. “You've been keeping track?”

“Every day since you walked through the gold, sparkly portal,” you hummed in response, finger curling into one of the belt loops of his suit as you tugged him in closer. His eyes trailed down, taking in your own suit, a low whistle leaving his lips. “All this time later and–yeah–it’s still true, this suit is still doing it for me. God damn.”

Your laughter filled the air again as you tugged him in, chasing after another kiss that neither of you were able to stop smiling into, even as you nipped lightly at the reddened skin of his bottom lip.

“Maybe you’re right, maybe you are pathetically in love,”

“Unequivocally,” his answer was easy, rolling off his tongue without a second thought. “And maybe a little irrevocably.”

“That’s a big word for you, Johnny, don’t hurt yourself,” you shot back, his fingers pinching into your sides as a cascade of laughter fell from your lips.

Love. It was a feeling you didn’t need to describe, and honestly, you weren’t sure you could if you tried. You could explain the way you loved Joaquín like a brother, or the way you loved Wanda like a sister, or even Sam, Tony, or Steve like they were family. But the way you loved Johnny Storm? You couldn’t explain that, not in a thousand years, but you didn’t need to. You didn’t want to. 

When he looked at you like he did now, with that light smile playing at his lips, face still twinged with the same nerves he had that day on the rooftop, you just knew. Loving him made sense in a way that nothing else ever had.

Like a well oiled machine, like you understood one another without having to speak, you crashed into one another again. Your hands were back in his hair, combing through those blonde stands, while his hands settled on your waist, digging into your sides as they held you close. That heat fluttered through you, that familiar one of his, as your lips moved against his in a tango, leg curling up around his hip higher to keep him as close as physically possible.

“Sam said that he’ll have the food done–JESUS CHRIST, DUDE!”

The sound of Joaquín’s voice at your door didn’t even deter you. You didn’t jump back, you barely even pulled away from Johnny at all. If anything, you gave him a single inch of space before turning your head to shoot Joaquín a murderous glare.

“Yes, Joaquín?”

“What–dude, I get you missed your boyfriend, but if you’re going to fuck him, can you shut the door?”

Johnny’s forehead fell to your shoulder, his entire body shaking with laughter as you kept your glare centered on Joaquín, who was peeking through his fingers as if terrified he’d see something he didn’t want to see.

“We weren’t there yet, don’t worry,” Johnny shot back, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling back, a mischievous grin in your sights. “We learned our lesson about locking doors for that.”

“You mean that one time when Ben walked in because he wanted me to try a new cookie from Maisie’s, but you were about to press me up against the window-”

“Oh my god, you two are actually disgusting,” the fake gagging Joaquín did outside the door sent both you and Johnny into your own fit of laughter, still wrapped up in one another. But beyond the theatrics, you could see it on Joaquín’s face. The happiness for you, just seeing you happy, seeing that light back in your eyes. “Look, catch up on two years of physical activities later, Sam made dinner and it looks good as fuck but he won’t let me touch it until you both come downstairs.”

Johnny let out a low whistle, and before you could react, he’d stepped out of your hold completely. Your mouth dropped open in betrayal, lips fighting against curving up into a smile as Johnny shot you an apologetic look, backing out of the doorframe and clapping a hand down on Joaquín’s shoulder.

“Sorry baby, but multiversal travel did make me pretty hungry,” he shot you a wink, hand still grasping Joaquín’s shoulder as he tugged him down the hall, before speaking very dramatically and loudly from down the hall so that you could hear. “Now that we’re nowhere near her, I need you to give me every embarrassing story you’ve got.”

All you could do was laugh at the absurdity that was Johnny Storm, at the man you loved more than you could express. The man who managed to steal your heart while helping heal the wounds you hadn’t been able to close for years, who went on to be one of your hearts biggest wounds, only to close it right back up just by standing in front of you again.

And walking back down the stairs of the compound, and glancing out over that dining room table–Johnny laughing at something that Joaquín said as Sam regaled Ben, Sue, and Franklin with a story, while Wong spoke quietly off to the side with Reed–everything in the world finally felt right.

 ❤︎

“So, let me make sure I have this right: he was from the ‘40s, he was a stuck up billionaire, he’s a literal god, she was an assassin, and he brought a bow and arrow of all things to fight aliens half the time?”

“Put some respect on Clint’s name, baby. The one time he wasn’t there we did, in fact, lose,” with a short laugh, you reached over and swiped the photo from his hand, sliding it back into its protective sleeve in the binder laid out in front of him at the island counter. “These aren’t the originals, these are magical recreations, so please keep them in the sleeves. Also, you act like I didn’t talk about them all the time?”

“Seeing them is completely different,” respecting your wishes, Johnny didn’t remove the photo, this time instead holding the entire binder up near his head as he pointed toward the super soldier standing beside the young version of you in the photo. “This dude’s bicep is the literal size of my head, and he’s not even made out of rocks like Ben!”

It didn’t surprise you that the first thing that Johnny had dug around your room to find were photos. Most of the original photos, which had decorated the walls of your room in the Upstate New York compound had been destroyed years ago, prior to the final fight with Thanos. Magically recreated and preserved in a photo album you ensured to hex to be fire proof, bomb proof, and truly anything proof, it had become Johnny’s favorite thing over the last 16 hours they’d been in your universe.

From the Battle of New York, to photos you’d taken late at night in New York with Wanda or ones you had snuck of Steve when he wasn’t looking, it was like looking straight into your past. A past that Johnny hadn’t gotten to know, that he clearly adored.

“Well, he was a super soldier,” you chuckled lightly under your breath, turning back to the paperwork laid out in the manila folder in front of you. 

Johnny was quiet for a moment, and you snuck a glance over at him. He was still looking at that same photo, taken all those years ago in the aftermath of New York, of Loki’s invasion. There was a softer look in his eyes, though, as he let a single finger trail over the protective layer lying over the photo, right over where you stood.

“You were so young,”

“I was. I was just a kid,” you nodded your head, glancing at the little version of you for a second longer, before focusing back on the papers in front of you. “Dedicated my life to saving the world. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, and neither did you. Signing your name along the lines that Sam had indicated he needed your signature on, Johnny eventually continued to flip through the photos beside you at the island counter.

“Oh…oh, baby, tell me this is the dress?”

You didn’t have to look over to know what photo Johnny had stumbled upon. Instead, a light laugh left your lips as you looked over at him: red had crawled into his cheeks, his eyes wide as he looked down at the photo. He met your gaze for a single moment, and you could see his eyes dilate in real time.

“We had just found Loki’s scepter, which had the Mind Stone in it, and brought it back to the tower. Tony threw a party in celebration,” you explained, still laughing, as you reached over and tapped on the photo with a smirk across your lips. You were younger, but still you. Standing beside Natasha by the Avengers tower bar in that gorgeous black dress she’d bought for you, the slit on your thigh much too high for your age. “Nat had bought me that dress. To answer your question: yes, that is the one I mentioned.”

A low whistle left Johnny’s lips as he shoved the photo album to the side. His hands found the island chair you were seated on, spinning it before you could stop him and pressing your back into the edge of the counter, paperwork long forgotten. You didn’t mind, though, not when those heated hands found your sides as he stepped up into your space, dilated eyes roaming up and down your figure.

“These 21st century clothes really are going to be the death of me,”

“How do you think I feel?” you shot back, hands traveling up the bare skin of his arms until they caught the edges of the t-shirt sleeves handing around his biceps. Adorned in a t-shirt you’d stolen from Joaquín’s closet, as well as jeans and shoes you’d quickly ran to the local mall early in the morning to procure (along with clothing for the rest of the team), it was unfair how good Johnny Storm looked in clothing decades removed from his own. “21st century men’s fashion suits you. You should bring some back with you.”

“Nah, this stuff isn’t fireproof like my own clothes,” he shot back, lips pulled up on the edges into a soft smirk. Johnny leaned in, breath fanning out over your lips as, but never quite touching. “Besides, the only 21st century thing I care about is my 21st century girl.”

Another laugh left you, hands trailing up his arm until it cupped the heated skin of his cheek. You pinched at the skin lightly, giggling once more at the exaggerated wince he gave.

“Cheesy, Storm. Where’s that effortless charm? Have you gone soft these last few years?”

“Oh, darling,” fingers flexed against your hips, lips practically pressed to yours as he spoke. “I went soft the second you kissed me on the rooftop.”

A sigh of pure contentment fell from your lips the second Johnny fully surged forward, bringing you into a kiss. Soft, sweet, as if he was pouring every ounce of love he couldn’t show you for the last two years into it. It differed from every kiss you’d shared since that dinner the night before, the ones full of desperation and longing, the ones that seemed to consume you whole and fill your mind with nothing but thoughts of Johnny Storm.

You clung to him, lightly wet lips moving against his: slow, sensual, soft. His hands curled around to your back, pressing against your spine to bring you in as close as he could, though you weren’t sure there would ever be anything quite close enough. You let your hand thread back into his hair, tugging lightly to elicit a groan from his lips, head tilting to the side for a new angle as Johnny pressed forward more.

“Oh my god, were rounds one through five not enough for the two of you last night?”

Ben’s groans sounded through the living room, forcing you and Johnny apart. He didn’t let you stray far, arms staying locked around your waist and body still pressed into your personal space as you both tilted your heads in the direction of the others, just now walking into the room.

“You brought him to my universe because he was moping, and now that we’re together you all keep complaining,” you shot back at Ben with a teasing lit to your voice, able to see his eyeroll from across the room. “That’s so hypocritical of you.”

“In all fairness,” Sam’s voice shot in as he walked into the room, flanked by Sue and Reed as they donned their own 21st century clothing. “It was a bit overkill after round 2. I thought my ears were going to start bleeding.”

“Told you you should’ve put a spell on the room so they couldn’t hear us,” 

Johnny’s comment, and subsequent nip at your earlobe, earned him another laugh and a shove against his chest. A small burst of blue magic from your hand sent him stumbling backwards, giving you enough space to hop off the chair and collect the paperwork on the counter behind you, stalking over to Sam to hand it to him in the living room.

Sam hummed, flipping through the paperwork to ensure everything was signed as needed. Johnny launched himself over the back of the living room couch, landing beside his nephew and ruffling his hair, as the others all settled into spots on the couch themselves.

“Looks in order,” Sam shot you a grateful nod, before passing over the data pad in his hands. The screen instantly lit up, flipping through multiple surveillance photos as you projected it onto the living room screen. “Had an informant send these over about an hour ago, wanted you to take a look and tell me what it looks like to you.”

“Looks to me like Sidewinder got out of jail early,” you shot back easily, flipping through the surveillance images across the screen. “Escaped, more like it. It probably didn’t take him long to find out we recovered those files yesterday. Seems like a simple enough job for you and Joaquín to handle.”

With the data pad placed back in Sam’s hands, you turned to face Johnny. His eyes trailed from the screen full of images back to you, raising an eyebrow in your direction.

“Please, don’t stop your day job just because we’re here,” he shot at you, along with a wink, holding his hands up beside him. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you go full superhero mode. I’m sure that suit looks real good in action-”

A wave of transparent energy flew across the room, the slight hues of the rainbow visible as the invisible field of energy slammed into Johnny’s shoulder, jolting him to the side. You covered your mouth to conceal your laughter, as did Sam, as Ben and Reed laughed at the look on Johnny’s face as he shot his sister an unimpressed look.

“Do you ever stop objectifying her?”

“It’s not objectifying her, it’s admiring her many assets,”

You shook your head, stalking out of the room with a grin to unplug your phone from its place on the kitchen counter. The sound of the others groaning floated through the room, along with Sam’s laughter.

“She’s relieved from superhero duty for the week while you guys are here, unless another purple alien decides to try and destroy the world,” the look you shot Sam over your shoulder was anything but impressed. He ignored it, though, shooting Johnny a smirk. “Joaquín and I can handle Sidewinder without her. Besides…it’s date night for you.”

By the time Johnny had fully turned in your direction, you were standing beside the island counter with a sly smile on your face. He didn’t get a single word out before that usual glow of blue enveloped your hand, and you gave a single flick of your wrist in the air beside you.

The room was practically bathed in energy and in the hues of blue that encompassed your magic as it essentially tore into the area, a long streak of pulsing magic hanging in the air beside you. With another flick of your wrist, it tore itself open, widening as a pulsing magic portal hung in the air.

Multiple pairs of eyes and smiles watched as Johnny crossed the room, staring at the shimmering blue magic in awe. His feet came to a stop just in front of you, his hand reaching out as he let his fingers drift right through the magic. Those blue eyes found yours, head tilting to the side slightly as a grin crossed his lips.

“Magic portals…that’s a new development,”

“It’s amazing what you learn to do when you actually read and learn from a book, instead of blindly performing a spell,” Johnny laughed lightly as you reached forward, poking him just slightly in the side, as you stepped closer to the portal itself. “Come on, like Sam said: it’s date night.”

That grin grew cheeky, Johnny’s eyebrows furrowing slightly as he hummed, nodding his head.

“Right, date night. Thought that was my job to plan the dates?”

“This isn’t the 60s, baby,” you shot back immediately. Reaching forward, you let your hand wind itself into the fabric of his t-shirt, before you stepped back through the portal and tugged him along with you before he could say another word.

Wind immediately whipped around your face, a familiar sensation, as the quiet of the D.C. compound was replaced with the hustle and bustle of the city. Johnny stumbled forward, feet stumbling as you laughed, holding onto his arms to keep him upright as he practically fell through the portal and to your side. His own hands gripped right back on your forearms, steadying himself as the portal snapped shut right behind you both with a flick of your fingers.

Johnny’s blue eyes were wide as he looked at you, before looking at the now closed portal behind him, and back to you once again. It was impossible not to laugh at the adorably shocked look on his face.

“I’m afraid you have to take us back,” was the first thing he said, hands leaving your arms to slide down onto your hips instead, tugging you against him. “I’ve warned you how incredibly hot using your powers is to me. That-That was unfair.”

“It was a portal, Johnny,”

“Still hot, my overpowered little witch,” his fingers pinched at your sides, eliciting another laugh out of you as you whacked lightly at his chest. The wind continued to whip around you both as Johnny squinted at the feeling of the air hitting his face. “Where the hell did you even take us?”

“Well,” you took a single step back, letting your hands find his own and lace your fingers through his. “I spent a year getting to know your New York. Thought you might want to see mine.”

It was then that Johnny turned his head, and you could see it in his eyes immediately: the awe at the sight laid out before you both.

New York was beautiful, in your world and his, but nothing quite compared to New York City as the sun was setting. Situated on the rooftop of a building down 8th Avenue, the entirety of the city skyline was laid out before you both. The oranges and pinks of the setting sun glinted off of every building, reflecting right back along Johnny’s face as he took a step toward the edge of the building, eyes still wide as he took in the sight.

You couldn’t tear your eyes from him. At the cascading colors that fell over his face. Every moment you looked at him, it was impossible not to think about how you had gotten to this moment. Crash landing in a universe so different, yet similar, to your own and his face being the first thing you saw. His face being the first thing you saw through every high and low moment for an entire year. The face of the man you didn’t mean to fall in love with, but stole your heart somewhere between late night breakfast and a drive-in movie.

“You know, I think you’re supposed to be looking at the skyline. Even if my face could be considered the eighth wonder of the world,”

Johnny’s voice snapped you out of your reminiscing, of your mind wandering over every second of the last three years of your life. His eyes were back on you, one hand still laced with yours, that soft yet cocky smirk on his lips. You rolled your eyes.

“That might be a bit of a stretch,” his hand left yours as you slotted yourself into his side without hesitation, curling around him. His hand came up to rest around your waist, and you could almost feel the way that he pushed some of his heat through his skin and into you as the cool, night air began to slowly set in. “I used to look at this skyline every day from this exact spot.”

You pointed off in the distance, and Johnny followed your finger toward the building you knew so well. It had lost the color it used to have, lost the giant glowing “A” that hung from the helicopter pad, but you recognized it all the same. All this time later and it was still the same structure, the same place you used to call home. Johnny gave a low whistle at the sight.

“Your old home might rival the Baxter Building,” his words were mumbled into the side of your head as he placed a kiss there gently, a feeling that all this time later could still send a cascade of butterflies crazy deep within your chest. “Is that what date night is? A sightseeing tour of the city I already live in?”

His comment earned him a pinch to the side, which earned you one in retaliation.

“Not entirely. I didn’t really have a plan, to be honest,” tilting your head back to look up at him, you gave him a tiny shrug in response. “I just…wanted to be with you.”

“Missed me that much?” he teased, even as his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb gliding over the skin.

“More than I think I could ever explain,”

Your two New York Cities weren’t all that different, not once you were walking the streets down below and not up on the rooftops. Unlike Johnny’s, your own lacked the futuristic advancements and stylized buildings, but almost everything else laid out the same. The roads, where the buildings lay, even the colors of many of them.

The people were different. From the clothing, to the attitudes, those who walked the streets in your New York were vastly different from the ones who walked Johnny’s. Johnny Storm and the Fantastic Four could walk from Upper to Lower Manhattan and only be stopped a handful of times. The people of their world treated them like people, like normal citizens who could come and go as they pleased. You, on the other hand, were a spectacle. You were something to gawk at for those that recognized you, someone that they treated like a celebrity. It was something you tried to ignore, even if it felt impossible at times.

Hand resting in the crook of Johnny’s arm, you laughed as he took a sip of the boba tea you’d forced into his hands, begging him to try it. You watched him every second he held it, with every sip, as he too tried to decipher how he felt about the drink as groups walked past you on the sidewalks of the city as the sun fully set and the night set in.

“It’s not terrible,” Johnny finally came to a conclusion, passing the drink over to you so that you could take a sip from it as well. He wiggled his hand back and forth in a ‘so-so’ motion as he explained his thoughts. “It’s pretty sweet. Not sure how I feel about the little, floating balls at the bottom.”

“Tapioca pearls, Johnny,” you giggled back, taking a final sip of the drink before tossing it into one of the trash cans lining the sidewalk. “Pretty sure it was invented in the 80s, which is why you’ve never heard of it before.”

“I take you go-karting and to a dance hall, and you get me a chewy drink. I think I might have to give you a failing grade so far on this date,” your elbow dug into his side as he laughed, elbowing you right back. It grew quiet between you both for a moment, before he spoke up once more. “I went back there once, last year. To The Regent.”

You watched him as he spoke. That soft smile on his face, the fond one, as he reminisced. Looked back on the years without you, let you in on the memories.

“What was it like?”

“Felt empty,” he said simply, looking down at you with a shrug of his own. “It was the anniversary of our first date, I had refused to go the year before. Sue thought it could be good for me to go back, to think about the happy memories. But standing in there, without my pretty little witch on my arm, it felt like that whole place had lost its magic.”

It wasn’t hard to understand where he was coming from. You felt it too, in everything you’d done the last two years. The absence of him was loud.

“I woke up from a nightmare one time and couldn't fall back asleep. Joaquín found me at three in the morning attempting to make a milkshake in the compound kitchen,” Johnny’s eyes stayed locked with yours as you spoke. Even as a group of young adults, obviously in a rush to get somewhere for the night, shoved past you both. Even then, as their bodies collided with his shoulder, he never looked away from you. Hung off every word you spoke. “He thought I was insane, especially because I’d fucked up with the blender so badly there was ice cream everywhere. Told him about that one night at Griddles and Waffles, told him it was the only thing that seemed to help after nightmares.”

Johnny nodded, giving a low whistle. That soft smile on his face turned up into a smirk, his eyebrows wiggling as he leaned his head in closer to yours.

“If we’re going to make this a competition about which one of us was more pathetic the last two years, you might win-”

“As if!” you shot back with a laugh immediately, letting go of his arm to shove him to the side. Johnny laughed, his body bouncing back to your side immediately as you pointed a finger at him. “Ben told me this morning that you spent your birthday in that sweater that I bought for you!”

“It’s the softest thing! A pure cashmere sweater, bought for me by the love of my life. Sue me for enjoying the feel of it,”

You laughed again. Warm, genuine, one of the realest laughs you’d let out in years. It didn’t feel forced, you didn’t feel like you were trying to put on a show and pretend to me fine. You felt fine. You felt happy for the first time in so long.

Johnny’s hand was laced back in yours within seconds, and it never left it as you wandered the streets aimlessly. There was no objective in mind, there was just him. Just endless hours, endless possibilities, with just him at your side.

The streets gave way to the lush greenery of the park nestled between the high rise buildings. The trees rustled in the nighttime breeze. Leaves that had fallen to the ground crunched under your feet, breaking into a thousand little pieces as they broke apart. The sounds of the city could still be heard, bouncing between the buildings, but it was quiet. An elderly couple was walking the other end of the park together, a young family was just leaving the park, but other than them it was quiet.

Not much about the park was different, not since the last time you stood in it. The path was still paved in light grey concrete. The statue in the middle was the same, the edges of it decorated with different bushes and flowers than before. Benches still lined the area, illuminated by the soft light of the lamps surrounding the path. It felt like it had that night, three years ago.

You let Johnny’s hand slip from your own as you came to a stop, right in that same place in front of the statue you had been years ago. Johnny didn’t stop you, taking a few steps further along the path, simply looking around and admiring the sights of the falling leaves, of the buildings all around, before he finally turned back to look at you. Standing just feet away, in the same spot he was all those years ago. A smile seemed to cross his lips as he realized exactly where you both were, throwing his arms out to the side exaggeratedly.

“I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll,” it was impossible not to laugh at the performance that he was putting on, at the tone of his voice as he spoke. The most dramatic rendition of your first meeting, which had already been dramatic enough. Careful not to burn his non-fireproof clothing, Johnny lit just his hand on fire. “So why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”

In the same way you had all those years ago, you flicked your fingers, encasing his hand in that wall of blue magic. And years ago when you’d done it, he’d freaked out, tried everything to get it to go away.

This time? His eyes never left yours, full of nothing but love and adoration.

“No use trying, pretty boy,” you shot back, softer than the first time you’d ever said it. With another flick of your fingers, that magic dissipated with ease.

Johnny shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, taking a step closer to you. You took a set along the concrete wall surrounding the park’s statue behind you, crossing your legs out in front of you as you simply watched him. The way he bounced on the balls of his feet, the smile that never seemed to leave his face since the moment he’d seen you again.

“Pretty sure after that I made a comment about being turned on,”

“Oh, you did,” you laughed, shaking your head at the memory. Johnny sat down along the wall beside you as you turned your body to face him, poking a finger into his chest. “And for some reason, it worked on me.”

Before you could pull your hand away, he caught it in his own. Those blue eyes you adored never left yours as Johnny gingerly brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the pad of your finger, before pressing another one gently along your knuckles.

“Why…why does everything feel right the second I have you back?”

The question was heavy, holding the weight of a thousand things with it. In the quiet of the night, you let your fingers stretch out in his hold, ghosting over his cheek and jawline. He let his hand slip down to your wrist, keeping a hold on you, as you let yourself caress the skin beneath your fingertips.

“I don’t know,” it was the only answer you could give. “All I know is I meant what I said all those years ago. You’re my home, just as much as this earth is.”

Johnny smiled, turning his head for a moment to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, sending a flurry of soft heat through your skin and your veins themselves.

“What if we just tell the multiverse to fuck off?” The laugh you let out was soft, and Johnny’s own matched it. “No, seriously. Why does the universe get to tell us if we can be together? What if I’ve already decided that you’re it for me.”

“Because it put us in two different universes, Johnny. There’s no correcting that, as much as we want to. Not when us jumping between earths could alter the fabric of reality itself,”

“You spent a year with me, you’ve been back here for two, and the multiverse hasn’t fallen apart…as far as I know,” you shook your head, even as his hands took yours between them, letting them fall into your lap. “You came into my life and you fucked it up, baby. There is no amount of time, there is no multiversal distance, that will ever change the fact that I love you. I don’t care what the multiverse wants–I don’t care about the multiverse at all–or what fate and destiny want, I want you.”

Your lips quirked up on the side just slightly, into the tiniest of smiles. Fingers clutched between his hands, you let the pads of your fingers draw little circles into the soft skin of his palm.

“That’s selfish,”

“Don’t we deserve to be selfish?” he shot back. “The battle in New York, against the greasy haired god you always told me about–how old were you?”

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. Young. Too young, truly-”

“Exactly,” Johnny shifted, his face becoming serious. But you could see it in his features, those same nerves you’d seen on him before. The bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the way his hands fidgeted against your own. “You have dedicated your entire life to the people of your world, just like we did when we came back with cosmically altered DNA. That doesn’t mean we have to sacrifice everything, the things and the people we want, for them too.”

A sigh left your lips, your eyes trailing down to his hands. Watching the way his fingers fidgeted, the way the veins of his hands strained as he clenched up with every passing moment.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about it. Defying Wong, performing the spell you now knew how to perform so you could see him again. Taking off to their world, but this time, never coming back. But you loved what you did, you loved being a hero. For all this world had taken from you, it was still your home, still held people that you loved and cherished and needed. But you needed Johnny Storm as much as you needed them too.

“I’ve thought about it,” you spoke after a moment of silence. “I told you that the next time I saw you, I wouldn’t let you go. That we wouldn’t have to leave each other again. But you have a duty to your world, and I have a duty to mine. The stars have told us no, as much as I wish they’d tell us yes.”

Johnny grew quiet, those blue eyes never leaving yours, as you simply sat together. Holding hands, staring at one another, and letting the weight of the words settle between you both.

“Close your eyes,”

You didn’t argue. Your eyelids fluttered shut without another word, plunging you into darkness. Johnny’s hands left yours. You could hear the shuffling of fabric, the sound of a tiny chain rattling, before those warm hands hovered around your neck, the feel of a cool chain hitting your skin as his hands found their way back to his lap.

When you opened your eyes again, they landed on the silver chain now lying around your neck. It was the end of that chain that caught your eye, allowing what hung from the end to lie in your hand as you brought it closer, rolling it around in your fingers.

A simple silver band. A sparkling diamond, shaped into a square, resting in the middle. Smaller diamonds encrusted the band on either side of the main little gem, glinting in the soft moonlight of the park at night.

A wedding ring.

“It was our mother’s,” your eyes drifted back up to him, mouth hung open slightly in awe as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. His own were locked on the ring between your fingers, a soft grin stretched across his lips. “Before I found out that Reed invented time travel, Sue asked me if I’d ask you if she gave me her ring. I told her yes.”

“Johnny-”

“We have duties to our worlds as superheroes, I know. I’m not asking…as much as I want to,” his hands came up to cup around yours, the one still holding the ring, as his eyes found yours again. It felt as if the wind had been knocked from your chest, your lungs unable to draw in the air needed to breathe. “I just need you to have it, because there’s no one else that I’d ever give it to. Universe be damned, you are it for me, sweetheart. And if we can’t be together, I just need you to know that I am still 100%, unequivocally and irrevocably, yours.”

The tears that threatened to fall did in that moment, cascading down your cheeks and leaving a wet trail behind them. Johnny’s fingers caught them before they could fall too far, wiping them away.

“I-I don’t know,” were the first words you spoke after a moment of silence, of letting your tears fall. A watery smile grew on your lips, hints of a teasing tone finding their way into your voice. “What if the Silver Surfer comes back some day and professes her undying love for you?”

Johnny made a small hissing sound, squinting his eyes as he thought about it for a moment. He nodded them, giving you an apologetic smile that was threatening to let laughter break through as he let his fingers take hold of the chain around your neck again.

“Actually, that’s a great point. Maybe I should take this back-”

You launched yourself into him, lips colliding with his in a flurry of laughter from you both. Kiss after kiss you laid onto his lips was reciprocated in kind, the hands around your waist holding you firmly against him as you let your hands travel every piece of skin of his you could possibly touch. The smiles on your faces never faded, not through every move of lips against lips, or every kiss seared into skin.

Neither of you moved until the late hours of the morning, time spent right there in Johnny Storm’s arms as you recounted to one another every possible thing you could think of: dinners with Morgan, appearances on Ted Gilbert’s show, conferences with nations, one of Reed’s new designs knocking out the city’s power for an entire week.

That ring laid against your chest, feeling as if it was burning a hole through your sternum with every passing minute though, Johnny’s words never quite leaving your head.

Don’t we deserve to be selfish?

❤︎

A week wasn’t enough. You knew it the moment Wong said it. Seven whole days with Reed Richards, Franklin Richards, Ben Grimm, Sue Storm, and Johnny Storm would never be enough.

You made the most out of every single day, though. Of all 168 hours that you were gifted with the people who had become family to you.

Morgan Stark adored them, just as you knew she would. She had often asked you over the last two years to recount stories for her, to tell her about the man who could set himself on fire and the man who could stretch his body to his will. The second you’d strolled up to the door of the familiar cabin and she’d burst through the door, excitedly calling out the names of the people she’d only heard stories about, before dragging Franklin off to show him something in her room full of toys, you knew just how much she adored them. Getting to watch her drag Johnny outside and force him to play ‘heroes and villains’ with her was also the most adorable sight you’d ever seen.

Ben had found a comparable bakery to Maisie’s nestled in Hell’s Kitchen. It would never beat Maisie’s, you knew that, but you also could see the look of disbelief on Ben’s rocky face the second he’d bit into one of their world famous chocolate chip cookies.

Reed loved all the technology, fascinated by the advancements that your world had compared to theirs, even if some of their own technology surely rivaled the power of your own. He asked so many questions you were sure Sam’s head was going to explode at one point, taking both his wings and Joaquín’s wings to mess with them, trying to understand their mechanics and how they were built. The conversation surrounding vibranium had a look on Reed’s face that said he was determined to discover if their own universe hosted any deposits of the metal.

Sue just wanted to know the history. She wanted to know all your world had been through, all you had been through. Luckily for her, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, the debut exhibition that chronicled the entire story of The Avengers, had opened just months prior in the heart of New York. You’d walked them through it, through the photos and mementos on display and the memories: the battle against Loki, Sokovia and Ultron, the downfall of the Avengers, all the way to the arrival and defeat of Thanos. Sam took every opportunity to throw in an embarrassing story pertaining to you.

Johnny? He didn’t care for any of it. Not the cities, not the history, not a single thing besides you. There wasn’t a moment of any day where he willingly left your side. A warm hand resting on the small of your back, or curled around your hip rubbing circles into your skin, or fingers laced between your own. He was glued to your side, even if he had his moments where he was more like a thorn in it, unwillingly to let you out of his sight. Those crystal blue eyes were the first thing you saw every morning, and the last thing you saw every night, and there was nothing else that mattered to you than that.

You had filled those seven days with as much love for the Fantastic Four as they’d spent a year showing you. But through every moment, that lingering thought that when your time was up they’d have to leave again never left your mind. It had buried itself there, unwilling to move, constantly reminding you that your time with them was finite. That no matter how much you loved them, no matter how much you loved Johnny, he simply couldn’t be yours.

That ring still felt as if it was burning a hole into your sternum every time you thought about it.

“All systems are go for launch,”

Those were the words you had been dreading to hear. Standing in a field in Upstate New York, not entirely far from the ground that had held your former home, the compound, the Excelsior was uncloaked from the spell that Wong had put over it. It stood tall, the light of the sun glinting off of it, and all it did was fill you with dread.

Sam’s hand rested comfortingly against your back, rubbing soft circles into your muscles that were tensed tight, threatening to snap. The breath you took shuddered, your entire body shaking, as you saw them: Ben, Sue with Franklin on her hip, and Johnny stepped out of the ship and back onto the grass, wearing those white and blue spacesuits of theirs you’d never had the privilege of seeing in person. Reed stood not far from you, conversing with Wong in hushed tones, as the others made their way toward the area in which you stood.

“Don’t go crying on me now, witchy,” Joaquín shot at you, his tone teasing but still light, as he bumped his hip into your otherside. You spared him a single glance, the nail of your thumb resting between your teeth as the nerves radiated off of you. “You’ve been so vibrant–so fun–this last week, I don’t want to have the depressed version of you back.”

“Wow, you really do have a way with words,” Sam muttered just loud enough for the three of you to hear, shaking his head at Joaquín’s words. His hands traveled to your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “At least you got to see them again.”

Johnny’s eyes locked with yours as they fell into step beside Reed, all walking in your direction now.

“All so I could lose them again…as if I haven’t lost enough,” was all you could manage to say.

Reed shook hands with both Joaquín and Sam, thanking them for their hospitality over the last week. The pair thanked him back, wishing him safe travels, before moving on to Ben standing behind him. 

Your eyes locked with Reed’s as he stepped up in front of you.

“It’s been nice seeing you again,” his voice was quiet, firm, as he gave you a small smile. “It was nice to see Johnny so…not mopey.”

His words gained a short laugh from you, along with a shake of your head.

“Just don’t go inventing any other forms of dimensional travel,” you shot at him lightly with a grin of your own. “I don’t want to hear that you went dimension hopping.”

Laughter was shared between both of you for a moment. Reed’s arms opened, and you stepped into them without hesitation. That burn in your eyes appeared almost instantly the second he wrapped his arms around you.

You let yourself sit in his hold for a moment, taking it in, as he muttered his next words right by the curve of your ear.

“I’ll see you soon,”

Reed pulled away without another word. Just a simple nod of his head before he backed away to stand off to the side. Your eyes followed him, a question hanging from your lips as your head cocked to the side at his words, but Ben was quick to saddle up to you and pull you into a crushing hug before you could.

“I fear bringing flame brain here was a terrible idea…I feel like he’s just going to mope more when we get home,”

You laughed, pulling back to look at the man before you with a wide grin, one that matched his own. With a pat to his shoulder, your smile fell just slightly as your mind drifted, eyes darting back to his.

“You told me once that the people I love will be waiting for me back home, no matter how long it took me to get there,” Ben nodded as you spoke those words he’d told you so long ago in the kitchen of the Baxter Building. “Will you guys be waiting for me, even if…if I can never get there?”

Ben’s smile softened, his rocky hand coming up to cup the side of your head. Stroking over your hair lightly, he gave you a tiny nod.

“You’ll find your way back to us, kid, I know it. I’m not sure there’s anything in this universe that could stop you from getting back to him,”

Those words hung with you for a moment as Ben stepped away, joining Reed in the distance. There was no reprieve from the goodbyes, not when Sue stepped up in front of you, adjusting Franklin on her hip.

A shuddering sigh fell from your lips, those tears burning once again in your eyes. Lip quivering, you laughed, unable to find the words to say as you fumbled to find the right thing to say.

“I-I don’t even know what to say,”

Sue only smiled, reaching forward and tugging you into a hug. You reciprocated without a second thought, wrapping your arms around both her and Franklin, the little boy’s arm slotting itself around your neck in a tight hug. The first tear finally fell at that moment.

“Thank you for loving him,” her voice spoke softly, just loud enough for you to hear. You pulled away, wiping at the tears on your cheeks as you gave her a watery smile.

“It’s a privilege, even if he’s a pain in my ass,” you shared a laugh, before you turned your gaze over to Franklin. The little frown on his face, the tears that were pooling in his own red rimmed eyes. He leaned into the hand you brought up to cup his cheek, pinching at the skin. “Hey buddy.”

“Hi auntie,” his voice broke a little bit as he spoke, and god you were terrified that was going to be what broke the dam holding back most of your tears. Pulling your hand back, you let a little ball of magic roam over your fingers again, watching the way the blue light lit up his face, illuminating that little smile it was able to bring to his lips for a split second. “I love you.”

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you did so.

“I love you too, buddy,”

You weren’t ready to stand in front of Johnny Storm again. You weren’t ready to say goodbye. But the moment was here, and there was no running from it.

There were no tears this time. Not like the day you left, not like when you both cried into each other's arms, promising that it wasn’t a goodbye.

“Earth-616 is alright,” Johnny quipped. You could see the difference in him, though. It wasn’t the overconfident cockiness and teasing tone you were used to. It was more subdued, more quiet. “It’s got nothing on our earth, though.”

You laughed, those tears burning in your eyes, but this time refusing to fall.

“Sorry to disappoint. Did it have any redeeming qualities?”

“Just the one. It’s this pretty little witch that I still think put a love spell on me. I wish I could take her with me…”

No, this time was different. This time felt like a goodbye.

You stepped into Johnny’s arms without another word, curling around him. He did the same, glove covered hands cradling the back of your head as he pressed kiss after kiss to your forehead: soft, gentle, loving. You shut your eyes, basking in the feeling, wishing to stay in that moment for the rest of time.

“I really do want to be selfish,” you muttered out, eyes still shut as your hands curled into the fabric of his space suit. Johnny’s laugh was light, reverberating against your skin as he kissed your forehead again.

“You won’t be. There’s not a selfish bone in your body, unlike me,” one of his hands slid down to the back of your neck, tilting your head back just enough that when your eyes popped open, you were looking up at his smiling face. “Guess we’re just destined to be star-crossed lovers.”

You made a face of disgust, a giggle falling from your lips as you shook your head.

“Absolutely not. That’s, like, Romeo and Juliet type shit,”

“Weren’t they madly in love like us?”

“Yeah, but star-crossed lovers always end in tragedy. You know…like those two dying?”

“Hm, that’s a good point,” Johnny’s grin grew, his gloved hand rubbing back and forth against the skin of your neck. “Soulmates, then.”

Soulmates. A trivial word, a cliche one, a word you had never really thought of until Johnny Storm had just uttered it between you both.

Your love for him hadn’t appeared at first sight. It sunk into you with every passing moment, with every chance you got to see behind the curtain at the man behind the Human Torch. A love that had rooted itself so deeply inside of you that you knew you’d never love someone else the same way. A love that came so suddenly and unexpectedly, in the height of everything you’d ever lost. Your family, your best friend, your home was all torn away from you in a matter of years to the point where you felt lost. You’d lost little pieces of yourself along the way. Until you’d crash landed in that park, and Johnny Storm waltz into your life with an arm on fire, and helped you rebuild new pieces for the ones you had lost.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, but right on time.

You took one of his hands in yours, grasping that gloved hand in your bare palms. Your eyes never left him as you laid that hand right over the center of your chest, so he could feel the beat of your heart right underneath the diamond ring, still dangling on that chain tucked under your clothes. His hands curled in on itself slightly, grasping at that ring, as a bright smile lit up your face.

“Soulmates,”

You crashed into one another without another word, lips finding lips, falling into the feel of one another again. His hand curled around your waist to tug you as close as humanly possible, the other never moving from the outline of that ring. Yours curled into his hair, lips moving desperately against his as you tried to memorize every single bit of him: the soft skin of his lips, the warmth that bloomed under his skin, the feel of every strand of blonde hair between your fingers.

It was only when air was fighting to enter both of your lungs that you finally parted. Foreheads pressed together, noses just barely brushing, breathing heavily into the shared space between you both.

“I love you,” Johnny whispered one final time.

“I love you too. Always,” you whispered back.

The second he pulled away, almost having to drag himself out of your arms, you could feel it. That ache in your chest was back, those pieces of you threatening to break away again.

Sam and Joaquín were back at your side in seconds, each with a hand resting on your back as Wong stood off to the side.

The Fantastic Four walked up the ramp of that ship, casting one last look back at you, before the doors shut them in.

With a shaky hand, you tugged that chain out from under your clothes, grasping that diamond ring in your hand. You let the feel of it try to ground you, running your finger back and forth across every ridge and bump of each and every diamond.

You didn’t stop as the engines of the Excelsior roared to life. You only gripped the ring harder, never letting go. Even when the ship disappeared into the atmosphere, nothing more than a blip in the sky

The wind settled, the trees and grass stopped rustling in the wind created by the ship, as the entire field was plunged back into quiet. It was then that you turned to Sam, eyes red rimmed as the tears began to fall, breaths uneven and short as you tried to take in a deep breath.

“I-It’s not fair,” you barely managed the words out as Sam nodded his head, turning your body fully toward him.

“I know-”

“H-Haven’t I given enough?” you hiccuped through the words, almost sobbing by the end of it. That ring was still grasped tight in your palm, digging its shape into your skin. “Haven’t I-I lost enough?”

“You have-”

“Nat, Tony, Steve, Wanda, a-and now I can’t even have him-” a sob finally tore through your throat as Sam tugged you into him, burying your head into the crook of his neck as you sobbed. One hand gripped his t-shirt, while the other refused to let go of the ring. “I-I’ve given this world everything a-and I can’t even have this! It just keeps taking, and taking, and taking from me.”

Sam simply shushed you, hand cupping the back of your head as he let you cry. For the people you’d lost, the life you’d given up in service of the world, and for the man you loved that you let walk away.

It was a pain you couldn’t describe. A pain that only a hero would know: the sacrifice of a hero.

“Do you remember when Steve Rogers chose Peggy?”

Wong’s voice cut through the air, the only words spoke in the silence of the field amidst your cries. Sam’s hand on your head paused, the hand Joaquín had placed against your shoulder blades froze.

You pulled away, a mess of tears still littering your face as you wiped them away. Your chest still heaved, struggling for air, as you watched Wong. He stood in front of all three of you, hands clasped behind his back, that same stoic look on his face not giving away a single thing.

“W-What does that have to do with-”

“Rogers’ choice should have broken the sacred timeline. It should have created an alternate reality, started an incursion that destroyed the timeline as we know it. It didn’t,” Wong took a single step forward. Sam’s hand glided down, resting against your back, as you all turned toward the Sorcerer Supreme. “His choice did not break the timeline, it did not create a new reality, it simply worked. It defied the rules of time travel. It worked because that is the way it was written, that is how his story was always meant to end.”

You cocked your head, wiping away the trails of tears under your eyes once more as you shook your head.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because neither of you broke anything either,”

Wong’s hands flourished through the air in front of you all, shimmering in that familiar yellow and gold of magic. Hanging in the air in front of you all were two lines of pulsing, deep orange energy, stretching parallel to one another from one end of the field to the other, disappearing between the trees. Little stars almost seemed to twinkle in the spaces around the streams of energy.

“These are flows of time. This one represents us here, on Earth-616. This one represents Earth-828…their world,” you gingerly took a step forward, hand hovering over the flows of time pulsating in the air, Sam and Joaquín still glued to your sides as Wong pointed along the streams. “When something interrupts that flow of time, interrupts what is meant to happen, that branch splits. This creates alternate timelines, this creates incursions that can destroy the multiverse. I studied your time on Earth-828 for the last two years, trying to make sense of the year you spent there. Both of these branches should’ve been splintered, breaking apart at the seams: ours because it didn’t have you, and theirs because it had someone it wasn’t supposed to. These branches never split. Not once.”

The gears were turning in your head, but not fast enough. Wong continued on, waving his hand as the flows of time shifted, moving down until he stopped those streams of energy in the air at a new point.

“This section represents now, and the last seven days. I have studied these, night and day, since they arrived on this earth. I have waited for a single piece to break, for a single part to crack, but it never did. You didn’t break their timeline, and they didn’t break ours, for the same reason that Steve Rogers didn’t break it either…because it was always meant to happen,”

It was still hard to catch your breath, and it was harder then in that moment as Wong spoke those words: always meant to happen.

Your eyes widened a fraction, lips parting as your jaw went slack as the weight of his words settled in on you. Sam let out a breathless laugh from beside you, and Joaquín muttered an ‘oh shit’ just barely under his breath. Your legs felt numb, your hands were beginning to shake as you gripped onto the chain in your hand, looking up at Wong.

“I…I was always meant to meet Johnny?”

Wong waved his hand, the flows of time dissipating in front of him, as his hands settled behind his back once more.

“I have kept you apart, forbade you from performing that spell again, in the interest of protecting the timelines. In the interest of protecting the multiverse. All I have done, though, is stand in the way of something that was always meant to be,” for a fraction of a second, Wong’s lips quirked up into a miniscule smile. “There is no fundamental proof that soulmates exist in the vast multiverse, but if there was, you two would be the best example there is.”

Sam launched into a thousand questions, the logistics of it all. Could you freely travel between worlds? Could travel, eventually, break the flow of time? Every question that you knew needed to be answered, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Not when you opened the palm of your hand, and that diamond ring was glinting back up at you in the light, and Johnny’s voice could be heard in your head.

Don’t we deserve to be selfish?

❤︎

Johnny Storm wasn’t the same man he was three years ago. He knew that.

He had searched for love in all the wrong places all his life, finding it with the wrong people. He’d taken on the public persona of a playboy, the kind of man who would never settle down, when that’s all he wanted. He wanted the life, the love, the family that Sue and Reed had built together. It was all he’d ever wanted, but something he never thought he’d find.

Then, you appeared.

The witch from another universe, holding a power that could quite literally kill him if he didn’t watch his mouth. You matched his wit, you ignored his charms, and you fell in love with the version of him he was sometimes afraid to show the world. The version of him that he wanted someone to love. You’d done it so easily, too, captured his heart somewhere between that day in the park, that night with the milkshakes, and that late night on that New York rooftop.

You had changed him in a way he could never understand, fundamentally at his core. His entire life was changed irrevocably the second you had turned around in that park and looked at him.

“We’ve been home for two hours and you’re sulking already,”

Johnny rolled his eyes at Ben’s comment, picking at the pieces of meat in his to-go Chinese container before flicking them across the table at Ben. Franklin laughed from his seat at the moment as Johnny shot Ben a smirk, laughing along with his nephew as the man threw the stray pieces of meat back onto the table.

“I’m not sulking-”

“You haven’t said a single word since dinner arrived,” Ben shot back. Johnny opened his mouth, a retort on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t come up with one. “Yeah, exactly. That’s what I thought.”

“Give him a break, Ben,” Sue told him gently, reaching over to pat his arm as she took another bite of one of the pieces of chicken in her own container. “Not every day you have to say goodbye to the woman you love.”

“I still vote we should’ve left him there with her,”

Johnny barely looked up from his food, just shooting a little ball of fire in the direction of Ben, burning the meat currently on his chopsticks to a crisp in seconds. Franklin laughed even louder at the sight from the other end of the table, as Sue shot her brother a look that screamed for him to behave.

He was trying not to sulk, but it wasn’t easy. Not when he could already feel himself forgetting the feel of your skin, the scent of your perfume, or the exact shade of your eyes.

At that moment, Johnny let his eyes drift to Reed. Sitting across from him at the table, just as quiet as he had been the entire dinner. Reed glanced up, looking back down, before double-taking to meet Johnny’s eyes.

“What?”

“I’ll admit, I’ve been quiet, but you’ve been way quieter. It’s weird,” Johnny threw his container down, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in the dining room chair. “Thought you’d be talking about the success of the trip, or about how much cooler some of their technology is and how you want to recreate it and totally not wipe out all the power on the Eastern half of the country in the process.”

Sue gave a small hum of agreement to Johnny's comment, but Reed only shrugged, averting his eyes down to his plate. The shifty behavior set Johnny off immediately, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward.

“What’s going on in that supersized brain of yours?”

Reed made a move to comment, when the watch on his wrist beeped. It was that same alert, that familiar sound that Johnny had heard so many times before. That day in Gramercy Park, that day in the lab…Reed only smiled, silencing the alert and taking another bite of his food.

“Uh, stretch?” Ben jabbed his thumb in the direction of Reed’s watch. “Is everything good there?”

“Nothing I wasn’t already expecting,” Reed glanced back up at Johnny, nodding toward the stairs behind him. “Why don’t you freshen up for the night since you’re obviously not eating anything else. We’ll handle the dishes.”

The three adults around the table exchanged curious glances, confusion prevalent among everyone at that moment. Johnny was tired, though, and he wasn’t going to fight him on it.

The dining room chair squeaked against the floors as Johnny left the rest of his family at the table, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Franklin’s head, before leaving the room. Ascending the stairs, trying not to let his mind wander to the thousand moments that were littered in every square inch of this building of you.

Maybe he needed to move out of the Baxter Building. He was only going to be depressed for the rest of his life if he lived in a building crawling with memories of you hidden in every crevice.

The door of his bedroom was already slightly ajar. Johnny barely paid it any mind, swinging it open without a second thought as he entered the darkened room.

He’d yet to set foot in his room, not since the day they’d left a week ago to traverse the multiverse. The polaroid of you both was still lying on his bed, right where he’d left it, your handwriting still magically scribbled across the bottom half.

Unequivocally yours.

Johnny held it in his hands, letting his thumb brush over the words for a moment. Smiling, letting the memory of you satiate his broken heart for just a moment.

“Hi,”

The photo fell from his hands the second he heard it, that voice. All it took was one word, and he knew it. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t trust his own head. There was no way what he was hearing was real.

But there you were. Standing by that record player, the soft light of the moon through the windows streaming in, illuminating you from the back. You looked the same as you had hours ago in that field. The same clothes, the same hair, the same little smile on your face. The same woman he loved.

Johnny’s breath was caught in his throat. His mouth opened and closed, trying to find the words, stumbling over himself. Your smile only grew, hands tucked behind your back.

“...did you fuck up a spell again?”

You laughed, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, teeth digging into the plush pink of your bottom lip for a split second.

“More like performed it right,”

The shock on Johnny’s face, somehow, grew more prevalent. He wasn’t sure if his brain had fully caught up with the sight before him, if he had fully processed that it was you standing in front of him yet. He’d left you, he’d said his goodbye, but here you were.

“You purposefully came here?” you nodded your head. “Isn’t that, like, against everything the monk dude has been drilling into you for the last two years?”

“That’s the thing,” you shook your head, taking another step forward until you were on the single step that led off that elevated platform in the center of his room. “Apparently Wong was wrong.”

“He was wrong? Sounds like something he wouldn’t like,”

“Not at all,” the giggle you let out shot straight into his veins, Johnny’s body almost feeling weightless at the simple sound. “It’s…it’s complicated. I’ll explain everything to you, I promise, because it’s complicated.”

Johnny took a single step forward, still hesitant, still unable to believe the sight in front of him.

“How complicated?”

“Let’s just say that, when I call my world my home but you my home too, I’m not wrong,” you gave a tiny shrug, accented with a grin. “But for now, let me just answer the question I never did the other night…yes, we do deserve to be selfish.”

Johnny didn’t need to question your words, not when you took your hands out from behind your back and held your left hand up into the light in front of him: that diamond ring, the same one that always sat on his mother’s hand, glinting in the light and reflecting off the walls, now sitting on your finger.

Every question died on Johnny’s lips at that moment. He didn’t need to ask any questions, not when that simple action spoke a thousand words. He knew, in that moment, at least a semblance of what it was you were trying to say.

A squeal left your lips as Johnny practically rushed at you. His arms wound around your waist, squeezing the life out of you while yours clung to his shoulders for even just a moment of balance. He spun you, your laughter floating through the air as he finally let your feet touch the ground again.

Johnny’s hands cupped your cheeks, cradling your face as he looked down at you. Astonished, adoring, completely and utterly in love. Your hands laid on top of his, and he couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn straight to that ring once again.

“Better late than never on that third rule, right?” you laughed, smile wide, as the tip of Johnny’s nose bumped the tip of yours. “I think the last name Storm will suit you nicely.”

“I think so too,” you shot right back, squeezing affectionately at his hands as your face scrunched up just slightly, smile still impossibly wide as you looked up at him.

And when his lips found yours, when his hands trailed down your sides and tugged you in, and when you fell back against the comforter of his bed in a heap of laughter of pure love as the sound of his family bounding up the stairs echoed in the hallway, Johnny had never felt more at peace. More at home. More loved. Multiverse be damned, he loved you, and Johnny Storm was never letting you go. You were unequivocally, and irrevocably, his.

[scarletmika]

Unequivocally : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Witch!Reader

Summary: The Fantastic Four thought they were done dealing with cosmic threats after the defeat of Galactus. That is, until you crash-landed in Gramercy Park. Except, you aren't a threat, and Johnny Storm might be head over heels in love with a woman who couldn't care less for his flirting...again.

Warnings: little steamy but nothing major, making out, so much god damn fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, strangers to friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, star-crossed lovers, slow burn, bittersweet ending but there will be a sequel, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader kind of has PTSD, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 24,720 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

READ PART 2: Irrevocably : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

 “He’s late,”

Johnny Storm was barely paying attention to the conversation happening around the dining room table of the Baxter Building. Instead, he dug his hand even further into the Lucky Charms box, popping another handful of the cereal into his mouth.

Sue shot him a look across the table, half of the bits of cereal falling from the side of his mouth to the table. His only response was an incredulous look her way, which was met with an affectionate eye roll from his sister.

“He probably just got caught up with something,” Sue tried to calm Ben’s nerves, bouncing little Franklin in her arms as he babbled out nonsense of some kind. That was enough to bring a smile to Sue’s face, her lips pressing a kiss to the side of his little head. “You know how Reed is.”

“Ben’s got a point, though,” Johnny chimed in, as the giant rock hand of his friend swiped his cereal box from his hands. With a defeated sigh, he decided he wasn’t going to start a fight over it, turning his gaze back to his sister and nephew. “Last time he was late for Sunday dinner it’s because you were pregnant and he was having an existential crisis. As much as I enjoyed that crisis, I think we’ve dealt with enough in the last few months.”

He wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. They all knew it. A year later and the aftermath of Galactus and Shalla-Bal still hung in the air. The implications of intelligent, threatening life out there in the universe casting a shadow over every news broadcast across the globe.

“That’s exactly my point,” Ben high fived Johnny from across the table, turning his gaze to Sue as well. “If he’s this caught up with something to miss family dinner, that means he found something.”

“And we all know when your husband finds something, that spells trouble for the rest of us,” Johnny lit his hand on fire for added effect, lips pursed as he waved the burning flames around gently in the air. “For example…cosmic radiation.”

It was clear that Sue wanted to argue with the pair, but Johnny knew there was no arguing with them. Their point was made, and that smirk on his face creeped in as Sue sighed, rising to her feet with Franklin situated on her hip.

“Alright, fine. Let’s go see what he’s up to,”

The chorus of cheers shared between Ben and Johnny from behind was surely making Sue roll her eyes once again. Any moments that Johnny was given to bother his brother in law in the lab was a win in his book.

Following his sister into the elevator, Johnny snapped his fingers in Ben’s direction as they descended toward the lab floor.

“10 bucks says it’s another alien woman,”

Ben’s groan sounded through the elevator, bouncing off the walls. Short laughter from Sue mixed in with it, even as she shook her head in response.

“Johnny, just because the first one dumped you, doesn’t mean you can go chasing after any alien woman in existence,”

“She never dumped me, for your information. She heroically sacrificed herself to save me because of her deep, profound love for me,” the shove Ben gave Johnny’s shoulder pushed him into the wall of the elevator. All he could do was shoot the rock man a glare, following his family out of the elevator and onto the lab floor, but not before pretending to grab at little Franklin’s nose to make the baby laugh. “Plus, I think it’s about time little Franklin got an auntie. A cool one.”

None of them were prepared for the mess of a lab they were stepping into.

Papers scattered the entire floor, from the workstation to the chalkboards. Those chalkboards had a thousand equations scattered across them: some scribbled out, others circled over a hundred times. Poor Herbie was frantically moving throughout the room, trying and failing to pick up every piece of paper that he could and bring some form of organization to the room.

“Uh, Suze,” it was Ben’s voice that cut in first, the trio stood just outside the elevator doors in mild shock at the state of the lab that was usually pristine. “I think your husband may have finally lost it.”

“That or he bought some drugs and tried them for the first time,” Johnny tacked on in a mumble that still got him an unimpressed look from his sister.

Johnny wasn’t wrong, though, and neither was Ben. Reed Richards looked like a certified mess.

He stood at the far end of the lab, moving between workstations at the deep blue tables lining the area in a half circle. He typed viciously, new data points mapped upon the screens adorning the walls. The middle screen, the largest, held a map to the entirety of New York City, markings appearing every so often in certain sections of the city before disappearing.

Even as the group approached, Reed never moved from his place, still typing away as he mumbled to himself.

“Reed,” Sue spoke up, just as her husband stalked across the floor once more.

The freshly written upon papers in his hands fell to the ground the second he laid eyes on them. Hair slightly disheveled, tie almost entirely undone, Reed Richards looked as if he had been rocked by a hurricane.

“Something is coming,”

Those were all the words he had to say. Johnny felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked straight out. He heard the sharp intake of breath from his sister first, before Ben stepped forward.

“Reed, what are you talking about?”

Ben quickly had multiple papers shoved into his hands as Reed gestured to the large screen showing the map of New York. One of the workstations beeped as the scientist quickly logged whatever data his system had just mapped out, another blip appearing on the screen that Reed pointed to desperately.

“For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been tracking these energy signatures,” the map zoomed in on a focused location of the city. “They’re appearing at strange intervals. They started just a minute or two apart, but have grown to be just seconds apart now. All contained in an area between 24th and 17th street, in conjunction with Park Ave and 3rd Ave.”

“Gramercy Park?” Johnny chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head slightly, looking at the map and the park that lay directly between the streets his brother-in-law had just named off. Honestly, he was still trying to understand what it was he was looking at, or just understand Reed’s mental state as a whole. “Maybe your baby proofing didn’t work and the Wizard is just out of prison.”

“That was my first thought as well, but the energy signatures proved me incorrect,” Johnny only rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face at Reed’s inability to take a joke. “These energy signatures are different, even more so than those of the Herald. It’s a culmination of dimensional energy–energy that’s being pulled from the fabric of the universe itself–it matches with energies given off by planets, or even stars themselves. But there’s another component to it, something so inherently not scientifically explainable that I can’t understand.”

Johnny shared a look with his sister and Ben, and even a look with confused little Franklin, before Sue chimed in.

“Okay, so there’s some weird space energy in the area-”

“Energy that has organic life woven into it,” Reed emphasized for those standing in front of him. He crossed the room back to his desk, pulling up a clear imaging of the energy itself from a nearby street camera that happened to catch the pulse. It was like a burst of blue strands, interwoven, pulsing and dousing the surrounding area in color, before it blinked away. “This energy beats, like a heartbeat. It moves organically, as if being pushed and pulled by someone. Compare these scans with a simple energy scan of any one of us, anyone in New York for that matter, and the fundamentals match perfectly. This isn’t some cosmic energy seeping into our earth for a moment, there’s something attached to it, something causing it. It’s forewarning something–someone.”

The lab grew quiet, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air. For Johnny, they hung a little harder.

The last time something–someone–showed up on this Earth, he’d almost lost his family, lost his nephew. He had lost his sister, even for just a brief moment, but that was enough. Enough to never want to be put through this again. Johnny’s jaw clenched at the memory, his gaze flickering back to the screens.

“Why’s the park empty?” he questioned, gesturing to the live feed of the park from security cameras placed around light poles. “It’s not even 8 at night.”

“Suspicious activity in the area over the last week. I spoke to the mayor and had a curfew put in place out of an abundance of caution,” Sue chimed in.

“Okay, so another space alien is coming,” Ben clapped his hands together, the sound echoing as it drew everyone’s attention to him. “We threw the devourer of worlds through a portal to deep space…let’s just do that again.”

“This isn’t Galactus,” Reed muttered, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room as he turned back to the screens before him. “This is something else.”

Before anyone else could speak again, another pulsation of blue energy directly in the center of the park this time. Bigger than the others, strands of energy moving and beating in the air. Growing brighter, bathing the park in light.

The power of the building flickered for half a second before the live feed into the park cut off suddenly. Reed tapped incessantly, trying to bring it back, but it was no use.

“Reed…what is that?”

On the main screen, right in the center of the park on the New York City map, was one single blip of energy. Unlike the other blips, this one didn’t leave. It held steady.

“Johnny-” his name had barely left Reed’s mouth before Johnny was at the windows of the lab, swinging them open before streaking through the air in a blaze of red and orange.

No one was threatening his family again.

Gramercy Park wasn’t far away from the Baxter Building, especially not for a man who could light himself on fire and streak through the air at speeds humans couldn’t comprehend.

The park and every surrounding street was quiet the second his feet touched down on the pavement, flames dissipating from his body with a single thought.

The trees rustled above him in the night time breeze, stray leaves breaking off of the branches and falling to the ground. In the distance Johnny could faintly hear the usual sound of New York traffic, the muffled sound of sirens streets and streets away.

Straight ahead of him, down the path, laid the circle of greenery and flowers planted around the statue that sat in the middle of the park.

When he approached the center of the park apprehensively, flaming fist at his side ready to attack, the last thing he expected to see was you.

Pacing back and forth until the point he was sure you’d burn lines into the ground under your feet, you were glancing up at the sky over and over, muttering something to yourself. He cocked his head as he creeped closer, taking in the clothes that adorned your body: a pain of jeans adorned with so many tears and holes he couldn’t comprehend why you were still wearing them, and a tight fitting shirt that plunged way too far down your sternum to be considered decent to wear…anywhere. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen a woman wearing a shirt quite that revealing before.

His foot hit a single branch littering the pavement, ten feet from you now, before you froze and spun on your heels to face him. Johnny was pretty sure every bit of oxygen in the air was ripped away the second his eyes locked with yours.

Well, fuck, you are the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

It was the only thought capable of filtering through Johnny’s head. Reed must have gotten something wrong in his data, been tracking something that didn’t really exist, because there was no way that you were the blip that had appeared on the map. You were just another New Yorker–a drop dead gorgeous one, at that–who was out past the mandatory curfew…even if the clothing you bore threw him for a loop.

You didn’t look scared of him, his hand still burning with flames at his side. He could see the way your eyes drifted to the fire, head almost tilting in curiosity, before you glanced back at his face. Your hands were held out at your sides, fingers flexing as if you were prepared to defend yourself if the need arose. 

Johnny wasn’t going to hurt you. You were a civilian, one who should be in her home during this curfew. Just another normal civilian that he would definitely be coming back to this area for the following day so he could figure out where you worked, or which cafe you visited most often so he could orchestrate a way to run into you again-

His watch beeped, that familiar alert sound. Johnny’s eyes tore themselves away from you for just a second to glance down: an energy reading, matching the same one from Reed’s lab, pointed directly at you.

Way to go, Johnny. Get the hots for yet another alien woman that’s probably here to destroy your world and kill your family. Nice job. Way to go. Ben totally isn’t going to make fun of you for this.

“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” Johnny quipped, flames igniting on his other hands, both now burning bright at his sides. “But you’re out after curfew.”

“Curfew?” you had practically barked out a laugh, and fuck Johnny hated the fact that even your voice was pretty. Even as it was dripping in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a single curfew ever go into effect in this city through the multiple alien incursions it’s seen.”

Johnny cocked his head immediately: multiple alien incursions? Given that Shalla-Bal was the only alien he’d watched descend into Times Square, he was utterly confused.

“Makes sense–given that you’re another one of those alien incursions–that you don’t know about the curfew,” flames burning just a tad bit brighter, crawling up his forearms, Johnny raised his hands in your direction as he took a cautious step forward. “I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll, so why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”

It happened in the blink of an eye. Johnny’s eyes never left you as your head tilted just slightly, a flash of blue crossing your eyes as your fingers twitched at your sides, before suddenly his arms were enveloped.

Like a casing of blue tinted energy, pulsing around his hands and up his forearms, the flames that ignited Johnny’s skin were extinguished in moments. Blue eyes shooting wide open, he shook his hands frantically. Willing himself in his head, telling his flames to ignite, but they wouldn’t. Every wave of his arms did nothing, the blue energy unmoving and shifting with him.

“No use trying, pretty boy. There’s not a single ounce of oxygen in the air around your arms right now, so I suggest you keep the flames at bay because I’d prefer not to do that to your entire body,” you shot back at him. With a single wave of your hand, the casing of energy dropped from around his arms. Johnny let the fires reignite for just a moment, confirming that he could indeed use his power again, before his wide eyes shot back to you.

“...I’m going to be so honest, I can’t tell if I’m terrified or completely turned on right now,”

“I’m, also, not an alien. I grew up upstate. And, why does Gramercy Park look so…weird?” Johnny’s comment was ignored, even though it was a valid question that he was trying to work out in his head. He instead watched you spin around on your heels, pointing around the park and up toward the surrounding buildings. “I know I haven’t left the Sanctum in a few days, but I feel like I would’ve heard construction. That building was never white, that one–wait, how did they build an above ground subway system? That wasn’t there three days ago when I got in, and I know for a fact the city doesn’t have the budget for this.”

In all of his life, Johnny Storm had never been more confused. He’d sat through countless lectures from Reed about matters of organic chemistry that he didn’t understand in the slightest, or cooking lessons from Ben that ended in him shoving his hand deep into a box of cereal, and this was more confusing then all of those combined.

Your clothing, something just about the way you talked and looked, whatever the hell this blue energy was it looked like you were controlling–and what the hell was a Sanctum?

“Back up…the Sanctum?” Johnny chose to start there as you turned back to him. He chose to keep his flames at bay, having a gut feeling that if you really did want to cut off the oxygen around him you could, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. “Isn’t that, like, some type of Church thing? Are you from some weird alien cult?”

“I literally just told you I wasn’t an alien. The Sanctum Sanctorum, over on Bleeker street? You know…Wong, Stephen Strange, the Masters of the Mystic Arts?” you must have seen the confusion on his face grow, because Johnny could see the moment your back seemed to straighten. “Wait, you have no clue who they are? Actually–beyond that–you have powers. How do I not know who you are?”

“Great question, sweetheart. The Fantastic Four kind of just saved the world a year ago, so I’m about as lost as you are,”

Johnny wanted to be apprehensive, wanted not to trust a word you were saying. He wanted to be cautious, to put his walls up, because the last time someone had come down into his world like this, he’d almost lost everything.

But you weren’t Shalla-Bal. You weren’t standing on a silver surfboard, speaking with confidence and heralding the end of the world.

No, when Johnny looked at you now, he saw pieces of himself. Of little him, hugging Sue, losing their mother forever. Of the version of him that came back to Earth over four years ago forever changed: confused and scared. The version of him that locked himself away in Building Q, charring the sheets and everything around him as he cried, trying to understand what was happening.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” Johnny cut in, that usual charm infiltrating his words. You were still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he was curious, more curious then he was the moment a woman coated in silver appeared in the air. You had his full attention, even if he was still trying to figure out who the hell you were, but he hoped showing off his charm would ease the tensions a bit. “You’re a very pretty woman…and I might be turned on right now, the jury is definitely still out on that one. Took my breath away when I first saw you, and you could literally do that if you wanted to. That’s hot.”

He watched as you huffed out the semblance of a laugh, still teetering back and forth on if he was a danger to you. Given the fact that you had demonstrated your ability to cut off his oxygen…he was hoping you wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore.

“Ah, a charmer, aren’t you? Knew someone like that, been awhile since I’ve seen someone so brazenly flirt with a woman,”

“Oh darling, that’s my whole brand,”

You hummed across from him, but he caught your body language. Slightly more at ease, not as rigid anymore.

“The Fantastic Four?” your eyebrow shot up, eyes still wide with confusion, but slightly less apprehensive than before, as you brought the conversation back to that name he’d dropped. “Bit of a pretentious name to give yourselves.”

“That was all the fans,” Johnny shot back with a hint of a grin. A ghost of a smile seemed to find your mouth as well, and Johnny mentally cheered to himself that it seemed he was able to convince you he wasn’t a threat to your life.

“Fair enough. The Avengers was chosen for us…I feel like I would’ve heard about another new superhero team being formed in our absence, though,”

Johnny’s confusion was back again as he mulled over your words.

“Avengers? What are they, some superpowered band?”

It was your turn to mull over his words.

“You…you don’t know who the Avengers are?”

There was a whirl through the air as Johnny watched you glance behind him. He turned too, eyes landing on the familiar blue of the Fantasti-Car landing behind him on the pavement, Sue, Reed and Ben stepping out just moments later, practically running down the pavement toward him.

“Johnny-!”

“No, no, wait!” he called out frantically, glancing back at you again. Your hands were rigid at your sides again, fingers flexing, eyes narrowed in a terrified glare in their direction. He glanced back at his family, holding out a hand for them to stop just behind him. “She’s not a threat, I swear!”

Ben’s thunderous steps came to a halt, his head thrown back to the sky as he let out the loudest sigh in the world. “Johnny, seriously, you can’t keep falling for every alien woman you meet-”

Johnny didn’t let him finish, spinning back around to face you. His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would see his hesitance to hurt you, feet shuffling forward a few steps. You took one back for each step he made forward, that same blue energy dancing around your hands once again.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” you spoke, voice steady and loud enough to carry through the air. Your eyes glanced past Johnny, to his family. “Any of you. It’s not who I am, that’s not what I do. But if I have to, I will.”

“We won’t,” Johnny promised, taking a glance back at his family. Ben seemed unsure, Reed apprehensive, but Sue watched him. Curious, unsure of what he might do next. He glanced back at you. “I won’t. We’re just as confused as you are right now.”

You laughed. “I really doubt that.”

Reed brought a device out from his pocket, that same alert that came from Johnny’s watch ringing through the air as he pointed it in your direction.

“It’s coming from her,” Reed announced. Johnny tried desperately not to roll his eyes and make a comment of ‘obviously’ toward his brother-in-law. “These readings are coming from her. I was right: she’s controlling this dimensional energy, bending it to her will.”

Johnny hung his head with a sigh, still mulling over making a comment as he turned his gaze back to you. It was apologetic, accented with an eyeroll, one that brought a hint of a smirk back to your face. It worked, though, as you dropped your hands, body relaxing once more as Johnny confirmed for you once again that they didn’t want to hurt you.

With a single flick of your wrist, the device in Reed’s hands was enveloped in that same energy, wrapping around it and carrying it over to your hands before their very eyes. Johnny froze, along with the three directly behind him, as they watched it happen.

“Not energy–well, not technically–it’s magic,” you explained, never taking your eyes off the device in your hands as you fiddled with the controls. “This thing is…so strange. It looks like such a primitive piece of tech but functions so modernly. Did you get this from Stark Industries? Is this some old prototype of Tony’s that Pepper sold you?”

“I designed it,” Reed answered after a moment. You hummed, flicking your hand again as the device made its way through the air and back to Reed’s hands. “Stark Industries, are they a foreign company? Do you work for them?”

Johnny watched that confusion bubble up in your features again, tinged with nerves now. He caught it, the way your leg began to shake as the pacing you’d been doing when he first showed  up resumed once again. All he could do was watch.

“T-This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of you guys, everything about New York looks different, you don’t know the Avengers, hell you don’t even know who Tony is!” you laughed, incredulously this time, as your eyes locked with Johnny’s again. “This has to be a joke, right? A-Are one of you Wong in disguise, trying to teach me a lesson for opening a book to perform a spell that I wasn’t supposed to touch-”

You stopped in the middle of your sentence.

Johnny took another step forward the second you cut your own words off with a gasp. Hand flying up to cover your mouth, your wide eyes never left him as he took a cautious step forward.

“We just want to help you. What are you talking about? Help us understand,”

“The Book of Vishanti,” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like the four standing in front of you were supposed to understand it. “Wong thought I was ready for powerful light magic, h-he invited me so that he could show it to me, so that I could learn from it. I should’ve listened to him, I shouldn’t have snuck down there-”

Sue stepped up to Johnny’s side. He watched his sister, the easy look on her face, the understanding in her eyes, as she spoke softly to you.

“What happened before you showed up in this park?”

“I touched the book without him, I thought I could teach myself things without him,” you spoke quickly, shaking your head frantically. “I could barely read the spell and yet I performed it anyway. Either I fucked it up, or I did it right and I didn’t know what I was doing because…this isn’t my earth. It can’t be, not with all the differences.”

Reed and Ben joined either side of Johnny and Sue now, all four of them staring down at you in front of them as you came to a realization of what had truly happened.

Through it all, Johnny just couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Curiosity pulled at him, more than it ever had before.

“What are you saying?” Reed chimed in.

“I’m saying this isn’t my universe…I think I accidentally traveled the multiverse, and I have no idea how to get back,”

❤︎

Performing a spell from the Book of Vishanti that you couldn’t yet read was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea that you had ever had in your entire young adult life.

When the Sorcerer Supreme believes that you’re ready to handle a book such as that, lined with the most powerful magic and spells and knowledge of light magic that have ever existed…it’s not hard to get an ego about it and jump the gun. You could already hear the berating you’d get from Wong, the things that Steve would’ve said to you if he was still around, the things that Sam most definitely would say to you when you got back to Washington.

If you ever got home, that is.

It was a thought you tried not to dwell on. Every night, as you closed your eyes, you saw them. The ones still here, the ones taken from you even as you fought with every ounce of you to save them all. The final look in your best friend’s eyes before she destroyed the version of herself that she had become, destroying what felt like a piece of you in the process. All so you could wind up in a world without any of them, a universe so far away from your own, nursing what felt like a shattered heart as you tried to find a way home.

You cried enough every time your head hit the pillow of the bed that wasn’t yours, you wouldn’t let the tears find you during the day too.

To their credit, the Fantastic Four were the most welcoming and kind group of people you’d ever met. If a strange woman basically crash landed in your universe, claiming to be a witch, you too would probably have hesitated. But here you were, a week later, having taken up the space on the unused guest floor of the Baxter Building at the insistence of Susan Storm. Trapped in a universe so similar to your own, but so different.

You weren’t alive in the 60s of your Earth, but now you got the chance to experience it firsthand…with a twist. It was strange how retro and yet futuristic this Earth was. The technology was advanced, sometimes more advanced than anything you had seen in your own universe, and that was all thanks to Dr. Reed Richards. You had thought that Bruce Banner and his 7 PhDs was the smartest person you would ever meet, but Reed and his 18 Doctorate degrees blew him out of the water by miles. But beyond the advanced technology of the world, everything else was still so primitive.

The clothing was different, more modest and brightly colored than anything you were used to seeing before. The hairstyles were different, sometimes shorter, almost always poofier than they were in the 2020s. They talked differently, the music was different, everything felt so familiar and yet so wrong at the same time.

This little team, this family you had stumbled upon, had been nothing but helpful, even if they were still wrapping their minds around the idea of the multiverse. The protectors of their Earth, the only superheroes this universe had compared to the plethora yours seemed to have, but some of the most down to earth people you had ever met. Reed Richards was abrasive sometimes, but curious, asking a thousand questions when you would venture out of the guest floor about your magic and the scientific properties surrounding it and its composition. Ben Grimm was kind, giving you space, but always dropping off something to eat on the guest floor for you every day. Sue Storm was kind and bright, strolling in with confidence and her son, Franklin, perched on her hip, filling your closet with an array of clothing to wear so that you would be comfortable.

Johnny Storm followed you like a puppy dog, hanging off every word you spoke and popping up in every corner of the building you found yourself in, much like he was now.

“Find anything in there?”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the book borrowed from the city library onto the coffee table of the guest floor living room. It landed with a thud on the multiple other books that Sue had picked up for you before you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Johnny stalking toward the couch you were sitting upon from the elevator.

“Just more confirmation that witches don’t seem to exist in your universe, except in the fairy tales," you shot back with a sigh. Your gaze turned to the floor to ceiling windows adorning the wall before you, giving you a glimpse of the New York skyline as night crept in on it, the sun dipping below the horizon line in the distance. “Which leaves me with exactly what I started with: nothing.”

Johnny hummed, hands grasping the back of the couch from beside you as he too glanced out over the skyline. The record player in the corner played some Elvis tune, something to fill the silence.

“Can’t you just, like, do the spell again to get home?”

“If I knew what spell I did, probably,” came your answer as you glanced over to him, finding his blue eyes already watching you. “No clue what spell I did, so without that I have no means of traversing the multiverse.”

Your gaze watched him as he left the couch, stalking across the room toward the record player. Another eye roll left you as he plucked the Elvis record off the turntable in seconds, muttering something about how that record ‘wasn’t good enough,’ before combing the collection beside it for another one.

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this over the course of the week. It felt like Johnny Storm practically lived on this guest floor with you: he’d brought his dinner down every night to eat with you, lounged around the living room while you searched through book after book, and had gone through every bit of clothing his sister had procured for you and made comments about which ones he thought you’d look best in (spoiler alert: it was every single item).

You didn’t entirely mind. His presence felt like a soothing balm over the pain that still sat within you, his ability to joke and make anyone around him smile, able to slap a bandaid over what felt like a gunshot.

“What’s music like in the 2020s?” he called out from across the room, settling on a Bob Dylan record instead that he dropped the needle down onto. “Does everyone have giant record collections now, ones that would rival my own?”

“Music is…much different than what you’re used to now,” was the response you settled on, chuckling slightly as you tried to imagine the man across the room listening to the likes of Eminem or even Taylor Swift. Taking a sip of your drink settled on the table in front of you, you dug your now dead cell phone out of your pocket, waving it around. “We listen off our phones, can connect headphones to them wirelessly. Vinyl collections are usually just collections now, not typically used to play music.”

Your cell phone was plucked straight out of your hands by Johnny himself, who had crossed the room with impressive speed. With a chuckle, you shook your head at his antics, leaning your head against your hand as you watched him inspect the dead device.

“I should tell Reed to invent this thing. Have to use that big brain for something useful,”

“And somewhere in Chicago, I can hear Martin Cooper crying that his invention is about to be stolen,”

Johnny tossed your phone back onto the cushion next to you without another thought, plopping down right next to it. Head thrown back against the back of the couch, he turned to look at you again with a giddy grin.

“Ignore the little talking box device for now, can you show me more of your magic?”

That was the question Johnny had asked at least three times a day in the week you had been on his earth. It was cute, the way his eyes would light up with excitement like a little kid every single time you showed him something new. That sparkle in them, the grin that lit up his face every single time, as he’d beg you to show him again.

You tried not to focus too much on how cute it actually was.

“What haven’t I shown you at this point?” you laughed, smile bright, though you already knew the answer. There was a neverending stream of things you could show him.

“There has to be something,” he sat up a little straighter, leaning even more into your personal space now. “Come on, I have a witch sitting in front of me. I thought those only existed in movies and books. You can’t blame a guy for being interested, baby.”

Ignoring that pet name that so easily fell from Johnny’s lips, you took a quick glance around the room. Acting as the centerpiece of the table sat a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, curated by Sue herself and brought up as a gift. Leaning forward, you plucked a single daisy from the bunch, leaning back and holding it in the space between you and Johnny.

Your eyes never stopped watching him as that familiar swirl of blue magic seeped from you, enveloping the delicate flower. The thin, white petals merged together into five beautiful petals, the white coloring fading into an enchanting ombre of orange and pink. Then, as fast as it started, your magic dissipated and the blue hue that lit up Johnny’s face disappeared.

He took the new flower from you with the brightest of grins, a sight that stirred something deep within your chest you were keen to ignore. He took a single sniff, eyes glancing back to you as his smile slipped into a charming little smirk.

“What did that poor daisy ever do to you?”

“It wasn’t a Plumeria,” you shot back with a slight laugh, plucking the flower from his hand and slipping it back into the vase. “They’re my favorite flower.”

“Noted,” he casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, resting it over the portion directly behind your head, as that charming smirk grew even more. “Want them incorporated into the wedding decor, or should I pin one to my suit jacket so you can see it while we stand together at the altar?”

With a bright laugh, your hand met his face, pushing him back slightly as you rose from the couch, sauntering over into the kitchen with your empty glass. You could feel his eyes on you with every step.

“I have to hand it to you, Johnny, your flirting this past week has definitely gotten more brazen with each passing hour. Be careful, you might fall in love,”

“Too late, that happened when you first turned around,” shooting a glance back at him on the couch, he dramatically flopped backward on the cushions, pretending an arrow had just struck him in the chest. It was impossible not to shake your head and laugh at the sight. “I took one look at you and thought…wow, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You hummed in response, pouring yourself another glass.

“Does your charm and your flattery typically get you places with the ladies?”

“Depends, is it working right now?”

Ben had warned you about Johnny’s charming personality and what would surely be incessant attempts at flirting, but you hadn’t thought the man would be as persistent as he had been this past week.

You’d taken to keeping a running list in your head of some of your favorite lines of Johnny’s that he’d thrown your way.

Are love spells a thing? You could put one on me and I wouldn’t even notice: I’m already too far gone for you, baby.

Do you think you fell into our universe because you and I were made to find each other?

Before you head back to your universe eventually, we should send you back with the last name Storm. I think it fits you nicely.

Each one had made you laugh, and you begrudgingly had to admit that most of them were quite cute. It helped that Johnny Storm was as charming as they came.

From the moment you had laid eyes on him in that park that night you’d known it. This man was a heartbreaker, a face that girls across the world surely had hanging on their bedroom walls and were fawning over. Magazines called him a playboy, his personal fan club, The Flaming Hearts, swooned at his feet over how he was the ideal man women should strive for. You saw why they fawned: Johnny was attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. Perfectly swept to the side blonde hair, blue eyes that felt deeper than the ocean, and the charm and wit to have you laughing into the night.

He could flirt all he wanted, but it was going to take more than a flirty comment and a pretty smile to make you feel a thing. Johnny Storm wasn’t the first charming man you’d ever encountered, and he surely wouldn’t be the last.

“Sorry, pretty boy,” you shook your head, finishing off your glass that you’d just poured before dumping it into the sink for later. “Takes a little more than superficial flattery to butter me up.”

“I’m pretty sure you just called me pretty, that has to count for something,”

“It doesn’t,” you shot back, leaning against the island counter as you looked across the room toward him. Johnny was rolling off the couch in the most unelegant way, hopping back up to his feet to lean against the other side of the counter from you, shooting you a wink.

“You know what they say–denial is the first step to falling in love,”

“Acceptance. The quote ends in acceptance,” you barked out another laugh, shaking your head as the man as you stood up straighter. “Now, what did you actually come up here for, or was it just to bother me?”

Johnny clapped, eyes going wide as he seemed to remember exactly why he’d come upstairs in the first place.

“Right! It’s Sunday, family dinner night. You’re invited, and I was volun-told to come and get you,”

“Of course, because I’m sure you really protested being given that job,”

As charming as ever, he shot you another wink as he banged his hands on the table.

“You already know me so well, darling,”

“Are the pet names necessary?”

“Why, are they making you swoon?” yet another wink was shot at you.

“Johnny, I’m sure your charm works on just about every other woman in this universe. You want me to swoon? It’s going to take a lot more than that,” you pointed toward the shirt on his body, the bright blue logo over his chest shining in the light. “Plus, wearing your own team merch all the time? How superficial of you.”

He feigned hurt over your comment, looking down at the logo himself.

“I’m just representing the team. Plus, it’s comfortable, like our suits are too,” Johnny instantly snapped his fingers, eyes wide again as he giddily smiled toward you across the counter. “Your suit! You’ve never shown me your superhero suit! Come on, I’m dying with anticipation here, baby.”

Even as you rolled your eyes, you indulged his request. With a single flick of your wrist, your clothing shimmered in blue tendrils of magics, transforming it into the suit you knew like it was a second skin. Reinforced black and blue fabric that trailed high up your neck and down to your wrists, down your waist and finally tucked into the black boots that sat directly below your knees. That shimmering silver “A” still sat on your belt, something you were never able to part with.

Johnny let out a low whistle, teeth biting into his bottom lip as his eyes scanned you up and down over and over again.

“Hot damn…remember that comment I made about being turned on? Yeah, yeah this is doing it for me,”

With yet another eye roll, something you were learning you did quite frequently around him, you waved off the magic and dissipated the suit once again. The look you shot at him was anything but impressed, even if you were trying to hold back laughter.

“Why are you like this?”

Before some other flirty comment could fall from his lips, the elevator dinged across the room, its large doors sliding open. Neither of you were expecting it to be little Franklin Richards stumbling out on his tiny, wobbly legs.

Tufts of blonde hair on his head, blue eyes wide as could be, a happy little smile overtook his face as he spotted the two of you in the kitchen. His little hands clapped together, incoherent but otherwise happy babbles falling from his lips.

“Frankie! What has your mom told you about playing with the elevator, little guy?”

Johnny was across the room in seconds, sweeping Franklin into his arm with a single swipe. The laughter of little Franklin echoed through the room as Johnny dipped him, practically holding the little guy upside down, before spinning him upright. The little boy wearing a matching grin to his uncle, the man he could practically be a twin of, continued to laugh as Johnny pulled his shirt up, blowing a raspberry directly into his stomach and muttering something about how ‘magic babies never listen to their mothers.’

The skip your heart did at the sight was enough to have the beginnings of a flush crawling up your skin. Maybe his charm didn’t work on you, not his flirty jokes, but this? Seeing the side of Johnny Storm that the media didn’t see, the part that wasn’t the persona he played up for the world, was enough to bring a soft smile to your face and to fully understand why people across the world fell for him so easily.

Willing the blush to go away, desperate to hide the evidence that you did, in fact, find this man cute, you stalked across the room until you came to stand beside the man and his laughing nephew. They both turned to look at you, looking like twins with their bright smiles and blue eyes. Another round of giggles fell from Franklin as you swiped your finger over the edge of his nose slightly, pushing past them both toward the waiting elevator.

“Well, come on then. Guess I shouldn’t be late for my first family dinner with the Fantastic Four,”

In all honesty, you needed Johnny to put Franklin down. He looked too adorable, making faces at the little boy as he pressed the button for the main living area on the elevator. Franklin just continued to clap, babbling nonsense.

“You’re good with him,” you cut through the silence after a moment, smile still soft as you watched the two of them beside you in the confined space.

Johnny glanced up, an air of sheepishness finding him as he laughed lightly, looking back at Franklin. The little boy was watching you once again.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? Always loved kids,”

Bringing your hand up between the two of you, with a single thought you let a little ball of blue magic appear along your fingertips. Franklin’s eyes widened, following the movement of the little ball of magic as you rolled it around your fingertips, dancing it around his head and back to your hand.

Your eyes flickered to Johnny after a moment. His head rested against the wall of the elevator still slowly moving its way down. His smile was soft, softer than you’d seen it look at you before this week, his eyes holding a gentle pensiveness as they watched you.

“What?” you questioned lightly. He shrugged, adjusting Franklin on his hip.

“Nothing. You’re just good with him, too,”

“Well, he’s not the first baby in my life,” you answered, the edges of your smile dropping just a fraction as you thought about her. The little girl that was only, what, 6 years old now? Brown hair and eyes just like her father’s, the wit and sass to match it. Universes away from you, a little piece of someone you used to hold so dear that you may never see again.

“Whoever you’re thinking about,” Johnny was more observant than you gave him credit for, picking up immediately on the thoughts that seemed to plague your mind, even if he didn’t know the full extent of them. His fingers lightly grazed your cheek, an action that you so wished didn’t feel so nice. Comforting, warm with the heat that burned within him, brushing a strand piece of hair back behind your ear, tucking it there. You met his gaze, burning with a quiet determination. “You’ll see them again. We’ll get you home.”

Ignoring the slight flutter behind your ribcage, you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, you’re suddenly content with letting me go? I remember Ben telling me yesterday that you were planning to keep me trapped here forever,”

His laughter echoed into the living room as the doors to the elevator pushed open, allowing the three of you to step out into the room fully. Ben was hard at work in the kitchen, calling out things to their little helper robot, Herbie, who zoomed around the kitchen at his command. Reed’s arm stretched out across the room, setting the table without ever leaving the kitchen, his other arm wrapped around his wife as Sue laughed at something he said.

“Oh I’ll help get you home, but there are conditions to your departure,” Johnny shot back, walking alongside you toward the dining room. “The one non-negotiable is that you have to leave unequivocally in love with me-”

“Whoa, that’s a big word for you, Johnny-”

“You also have to leave admitting that I’m the most charming man that you’ve ever met-” he cut back in, cutting you off after you had cut him off.

“I mean, you’re definitely on your way to joining the ranks of Tony, Quill, and Joaquin-”

“You also have to leave with the last name Storm,” Johnny spun, back facing the kitchen, as he shot you a wink. “We can negotiate that one. I don’t want to rush our wedding, but I’d prefer you go back home with it. A little something to remember me by.”

Sue Storm was quick to slap Johnny on the shoulder as he dipped into the kitchen, practically tossing the laughing baby into his sister’s arms, before ducking around her to dip his hand into the pot of sauce that Ben was working to season. His rocky hand whacked Johnny on the shoulder, who pretended to crumble to the ground in pain as Ben cried out “you haven’t even washed your hands!”. Reed’s arm stretched across the room, coming between the two and pushing his brother-in-law to the other side of the kitchen without a word, trying to maintain a semblance of peace.

Sue sighed, pressing a kiss to her son’s head, before she turned to you: still standing still, frozen in place by the dining room table, watching the events before you unfold with a smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.

“Welcome to family dinners,” she told you with a laugh, Ben once again yelling at Johnny in the background as he dipped his hand into a cereal box. “Before you ask: yes, it is always this chaotic.”

The chaos was nice, it almost felt like home. A home you hadn’t known for years now. Watching them, you could almost picture them all, the family you used to have: a flash of Natasha’s red hair in your head, the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony’s quips that Sam always met back just as quick, Wanda muttering to you about how you worked with idiots.

Johnny’s eyes met yours again, a soft smile and a playful wink sent your way before he ducked out of the way of Ben’s arm again, and that was somehow enough to soothe that ache in your heart for just one night

❤︎

“I know people usually look exhausted after leaving Reed’s lab…but you were down there for two hours. I’m surprised you’re alive,”

Stalking across the room into the kitchen of the Baxter Building, you faked a laugh in Ben’s direction, dipping into the fridge for a bottle of water to nurse the headache you could feel approaching. The man let out a laugh at your actions, shaking off his oversized trench coat and tossing it over toward the dining room as he placed the multiple paper bags in his hands down on the counter.

“I am, too,” you shot back at him, hopping up onto the island counter beside him to sit. Ben just laughed at your antics, rifling through the bags on the counter from the market down the street. “He asked for more blood tests, so I consented even though I told him he’s not going to find any answers to why I have magic in my blood.”

“And did he?”

“NO!”

Ben’s laugh thundered through the room as he put some of the groceries away in the cupboards. Returning to the island counter, he dipped into a smaller, white paper bag, producing a small sleeve of paper holding a warm cookie within. The headache you felt coming on almost completely dissipated the second the sweet smell filled the air.

“Good thing I grabbed some of these, then. Eat, before you pass out from blood loss,” you didn’t argue, taking the gooey chocolate chip cookie from him with a smile and sinking your teeth in. “It’s from Maisie’s. Figured it was about time I showed you the best cookies in town, not sure how I held off for two months.”

Two months. It was a time period you tried not to dwell on. If you thought too long about how long you’d been stuck in another universe with no way back home, you were sure you’d start spiraling more than you did every night that your head hit the pillow of the guest floor. The guest floor that was slowly just becoming your floor.

If you thought about it too long, you’d remember how you were starting to forget the sound of Sam’s laugh. How this was the longest you’d gone without visiting Pepper, how Morgan was probably asking where you were. You hadn’t put flowers at Nat’s grave in so long, you could only hope her sister had gone and changed the flowers.

“Well, it’s quite good,” with a slight shake of your head, you sent Ben a strained grin, enjoying the taste of the cookie. It wasn’t a lie, it was quite possibly the best cookie you’d ever had. 

Ben hummed, holding your gaze for a moment, before he smiled. It was soft, but you could see it woven in: the pity.

“Thinking about home?”

You swallowed, both the bite of the cookie you’d taken and the lump that formed in your throat.

“Yeah…always am. I hate how good you are at reading me, by the way,” Ben chuckled at your comment, returning to putting the rest of the groceries away in their designated spots. “Reed offered to invent multidimensional travel again today.”

“Did you say yes?”

“No, I turned him down like I do every time,” Ben returned as you shook your head with a wry laugh. “It sucks because I know he could do it, he’d have me home within a week. But multiverse traversal spells exist, they have for a very long time, which means they obviously don’t blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t need Reed to accidentally blow a hole in the entire multiverse just to get me home.”

Ben hummed. Placing one hand on the counter, his other rocky hand laid across both of your legs, delivering the slightest of squeezes in comfort that he was able to. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and practically melted under the kindness and comfort in them.

“You’re going to go home, I promise you that. You’re homesick: it’s where you belong, it’s full of the people you love, and we’ll get you back there. But think of it like this: you’re in a different universe, how many people get to experience that? Take it in, enjoy it, learn from it, eat all the Maisie’s cookies this world has to offer. The people you love will still be waiting for you back home, no matter how long it takes to get there,”

He moved away, his hand sliding back down to his side and he returned to the groceries. But his words stuck with you, hung in the air, settled deep within you.

The quiet hung there in the room for a moment as you just watched him, placing cereal box after cereal box on a shelf near the fridge. He met your gaze again when he turned around, rocky brow raising in question as you let a sigh slip past your smiling lips.

“You remind me a lot of Steve,” Ben waited, letting you collect your thoughts, never pushing. “He always knew what to say, especially to me. That’s how it feels talking to you a lot, like I’m talking to him again. I…I miss being able to talk to him.”

“Well, you can talk to me anytime,” he motioned his hand toward the cupboards of the island counter blocked by your legs. Sliding off the countertop, you stepped to the side as he bent down to put another bag away. “Who do the others remind you of?”

You mulled the question over in your head, grabbing a bag from the counter and helping Ben place the rest of the groceries away across the kitchen.

“I think Reed has to be Bruce, simply because they’re both too smart of their own good. Sue reminds me a lot of Natasha, with the way she takes care of everyone. Nat was quiet about it, but she was always picking up after the boys. Johnny…unfortunately reminds me of Tony. He’s got his same sass, wit, charm and flirtatious nature,”

Ben waved his hand in the air, a grimace on his face.

“Please, no, I don’t want to think about there being another Johnny out there in the multiverse,” you laughed, catching the bottle he threw in your direction to slot into the fridge. “Speaking of matchstick, where’s he at? He’s usually attached to your hip, what with his whole plan of whatever he calls it-”

“Ah, you mean Johnny Storm’s Complete Guide to the 60s?”

It was the dumbest name in the world, but given that Johnny had named it, you weren’t surprised. He’d taken it upon himself to give you a complete guide to what the 60s were like, with the added footnote that the weirdly futuristic 60s they lived in was bound to be different than the 60s of your own universe. Johnny had claimed you were too ‘cooped up’ on your floor of the building, and it was time you got out and ‘lived a little’ since you were here.

Johnny’s guide to the 60s began with bowling. He’d been so excited, sliding into those custom shoes for the alleyways, that you didn’t have the heart to tell him until you were beating him by 70 points in the 8th frame that bowling was very much the same game in the 2020s.

“No, that’s unfair!” Johnny had called out, mouth dropped open as he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. The manual scoresheet in his hand was all but crumpled at this point. “You didn’t tell me bowling was still a thing!”

“To be fair, Johnny, you didn’t ask,” was the only response you could manage through your laughter, grabbing your ball once more and aligning yourself with the lane in front of you. “Bowling is very much still around, and very much the same game. I guess you just aren’t as good at it as you think you are.”

You weren’t laughing long, a spark of heat igniting along the back of your hand just as you let go of your ball. Your hand jerked immediately at the feeling, sending your ball rolling straight into the gutter. Mouth dropped open, it was your turn to point an accusatory finger in Johnny’s direction.

“Hey!”

“Leveling the playing field here, baby,” he teased, skirting by you as his fingers bumped your chin slightly, before he grabbed his own ball as his body was racked with laughter. “Now, let me show you how good I really am at this game.”

Johnny’s own laughter was short-lived. His ball made it halfway down the lane before coming to a sudden stop along the slick surface, surrounded by a hum of blue magic that flicked it off into the gutter. His betrayed face turned to face you, met with your smirk and hand held out toward the ball. You only batted your eyelashes at him.

“Hey, if you’re going to level the playing field with powers, then I am too. It’s only fair,”

“Oh, I’m going to show you fair-”

The laughter that poured out of you mixed with a shriek the second Johnny practically tackled you, throwing your body over his shoulder like it was nothing and parading you down the alley, highfiving little kids along the way as you could do nothing but laugh, smile never slipping for a second.

Go-Karting, on the other hand, was definitely a little different in the 60s. The karts themselves were much different, a lot less structurally sound at times and incapable of doing the speeds that you knew Johnny really had wanted to drive them at. He had claimed to win the race fair and square, even as you pointed out that he’d gone as far as to melt one of your tires right before you crossed the finish line.

Record stores, golfing, roller-skating, you named it and Johnny dragged you off to do it. He filled every moment with vibrant stories: the record store was one that Sue liked to take him to when they were growing up, golf was something he fell in love with after coming back from space with powers, and how roller skating was something he swore he’d never do, but the smile on your face the entire time had been well worth it.

The diner had been your favorite. Griddles & Waffles, nestled deep in the heart of Queens. A 24/7 joint that sold breakfast and breakfast only, a beloved place by locals. Johnny had been awake into the early hours of the morning that night, the only one still up, diving into a box of cereal buried in the kitchen when you screamed. The next thing you knew, he was practically diving out of the elevator onto your floor as you shakily grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, eyes wide and panicked as he informed you that he could hear you scream floors away. One look at the state you were in and he was shoving you into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving you out of the building and into his car.

“You took me to a place with waffles in the name, and you ordered pancakes?”

Johnny’s eyebrow shot up, half of the stack of pancakes in front of him practically shoved into his mouth as he pointed the fork in his hand in your direction.

“Don’t you ever diss these pancakes, you hear me? Best flat pieces of dough in the entire state of New York,”

You couldn’t help but laugh lightly under your breath as he barely got his words out through the food in his mouth. Taking another bite of your own waffle, it was easy to get lost in the decor of the diner. Bright colors, shiny metal gleaming under the lights, it looked exactly like the recreations that existed in your own universe. The simple thought of home brought your frown back in seconds, and Johnny was instantly snapping his fingers.

“No, there’s no frowning in Griddles & Waffles, you hear me?” you rolled your eyes, but that simple thought weighed heavy on you, lips still pulled into a frown. Johnny made some motion toward the waitress before he leaned into the table toward you, drawing your gaze to him and his waiting, patient, gentle eyes. “Honey, I’m surprised that scream didn’t wake anyone else up. What’s wrong?”

“It was nothing. Just a nightmare…a memory of a day I don’t like thinking about,” you tried to deflect, shoving your fork around your plate, scraping it against the ceramic. Johnny’s hand caught yours, his eyes still soft and gentle, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze until you relented. “It’s…I don’t like talking about it. I don’t get nightmares about it often anymore, but when I do, it feels like I’m there again: in that forest full of nothing but blood and dust.”

The blonde hummed, fingers gently rubbing small circles into your knuckles. His skin was warm, unusually warm from the heat that coursed through him, the feel of it on your skin bringing a sense of comfort. Then, he took his hand away, holding both his hands out like he was presenting something, that dazzling smirk of his lighting up his face.

“Have no fear, because Griddles & Waffles has the perfect cure for sadness!”

The waitress came back, sliding a single tall glass onto the table between the two of you with two straws tossed down onto the tabletop. You glanced at it: one large, over the top, classic chocolate milkshake with a large cherry resting right on top. You looked back up at him, your eyebrow raised this time.

“A milkshake? At two in the morning?”

“Have some faith in me, baby,” Johnny teased, slipping the two straws into the shake with ease. He took the cherry between his fingers, easily biting off the majority of the fruit as he twirled the stem between his teeth. Your eyes flicked down for just a second, to the stem between his lips and the hint of red juice that covered them, before your skin flushed and your eyes were back on his. “This is about to be the best milkshake you’ve ever had, and it’s going to cure every bit of sadness in your body.”

Johnny was known for exaggerating, but you indulged him anyway. With a short eyeroll you leaned in, taking a single sip from the straw pointed in your direction. Johnny waited, his smile wide and bright as his fingers tapped against the table, the sound echoing through the mostly empty diner in the middle of the night.

“...alright, it’s pretty damn good,”

His cheer echoed through the diner, the waitress shooting him an unimpressed look as his hands banged down on the table. Another round of laughter slipped past your lips as you shook your head at his antics.

“See? You have to trust me more often,” Johnny teased, leaning in to take a sip of the shake from his own straw. “These milkshakes are the cure to sadness.”

You didn’t have the guts in that moment to tell him the shake didn’t cure anything. No, you felt lighter simply from that boyish grin and the laughter that fell from Johnny Storm’s lips, something you weren’t keen to admit quite yet.

“Talking about me, baby? I leave you alone in the lab for a few hours and you miss me that much?”

As if hearing his name from floors away, Johnny Storm himself came strutting straight into the kitchen, charm rolling off him with every step he took. That smile of his was as bright as ever, eyes wide and full of mirth.

He practically skipped up to your side, tossing the box of food in your hand somewhere onto the counter. Cradling your hand in his, he brought it to his lips without another thought, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His gaze never wavered from you the entire time.

With a roll of your eyes, though paired with a smile full of affection, you shoved him off, placing the box of food he’d just tossed away into its rightful place as you shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny. Contrary to what you think, you are not the only thing I’m thinking about,”

“You see, but that implies that I am one of the things you’re thinking about,” his response came easily as he made his way over to Ben, stealing one of Maisie’s cookies from the bag before he could be stopped. Ben only let out a sigh that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. “Nevermind that, though, I came here on a mission. The sun is setting and we’ve got a 40 minute drive, so get upstairs and attempt to look even cuter than you already do, if that’s possible.”

Exchanging a quick look with Ben as Johnny walked backwards out of the kitchen and back into the living room, you both looked back at the blonde moments later.

“Get ready for what?” you questioned. “To go where?”

“Long Island, sweetheart. Your guide to the 60s continues tonight,” he paused at the stairway, one hand on the railing and the other pointing across the room toward you. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, got it?”

You considered arguing, but the truth was, you didn’t want to. Every one of these excursions with Johnny so far had been fun, had been enough to fill that little hole in your chest for a fleeting moment, and right now you wanted that more than anything.

“Alright, ten minutes,”

He clapped, beginning to move up the stairs as he practically shouted across the room.

“Good girl. It’s a date-”

“It is not a date-” your words fell on deaf ears as he went sprinting up the stairs, yelling out a distant “It very much is a date!” from the next floor. It was impossible to ignore the heat spreading in your cheeks at his words, though.

The silence of the room only hung there for a minute before Ben’s laughter filled it, echoing off the walls. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep breath, trying to understand the enigma that was Johnny Storm sometimes, before patting Ben on the shoulder as you moved toward the elevator.

“Well, wish me luck on whatever this next excursion is. Hopefully it doesn’t involve him almost whacking me in the head with a golf club again,”

“You’ll be just fine,” Ben called out from the kitchen, speaking through his laughter. You could clearly hear the underlying teasing tone to his words. “Have fun on your date-”

“Benjamin, don’t start with me!”

It might not have been a date, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try. There really was no reason to, though: Johnny had seen you at your worst over the last two months. Always arriving on your floor sometimes at the crack of dawn with an idea for the day, startling you before you even had a chance to wipe away the mess of tears streaking across your cheeks from yet another nightmare you’d just awoken from.

It wasn’t a date. Just because you chose the cutest pair of pants and a sweater that the closet full of 60s style clothes offered didn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing.

You hated to admit how good Johnny looked in just a simple grey sweater and some slacks. Strutting toward you through the lobby of the Baxter Building, employees already sent home for the day and leaving the lobby bathed in silence, he let out a short whistle as he came to a stop in front of you.

“You say it’s not a date, but you sure do look nice,”

“That’s because your sister filled my closet with all nice clothing,” you shot back.

Johnny hummed, eyes still scanning you up and down. Eyes finding yours again, he held out his arm to you, just as he typically did on these little excursions.

“Come on,”

Hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the cool night air sank deep into your bones as you stepped outside. Johnny’s hand was quick to find the handle to the passenger side door of his custom blue Corvette, swinging it open and taking your hand in his to help you into the leather seat, just as he always did. 

The leather made a noise as you shifted, buckling yourself into place as Johnny cooly slid into the driver’s seat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other drumming along the knob of the gearshift as his foot hit the gas, sending you speeding out of the drive of the Baxter Building and onto the roads of New York.

“What’s today’s adventure?” you asked after a few moments of silence. Johnny’s grin simply brightened, his glance finding you beside him for a second before his fingers turned the knobs of the radio on, filling the call with music as he continued to cruise down the streets he knew like the back of his hand.

“That’s a surprise, sweetheart. Just enjoy the drive,”

It was easy to enjoy it. The same city you’d grown up in, yet so different at the same time. Every building looked new, the atmosphere felt lighter than New York had for you in years, everything about the city you knew so well felt different. The lights, the skyline, everything still felt like home as you crossed the East River, flying through the streets of Brooklyn and eventually Queens.

The heaviness eventually found you, though, just like it had every day for the last two months. As city lights shone off the windows of the Corvette, bathing you in its light, your mind still wandered back to memories. The first time Tony had driven you upstate to the new compound in the passenger seat of the god awful orange Audi. The quietness that came with the blip, the way the entire city fell still. The sweeter moments, like dragging your best friend from the compound late one night and sneaking into the city, sitting along the Brooklyn Bridge to admire the lights.

“Hey,” those memories came to a halt, Johnny’s hand brushing across your knee, settling there with a gentle squeeze. “You’re thinking hard over there.”

You hummed, head still resting on your hand as your elbow sat against the window of the car door. You let your eyes settle on his hand, just watching the way his thumb drew circles into the side of your knee.

“Reminiscing on my New York, that’s all,”

“Ah, getting homesick,” the sight of Johnny nodding was just barely visible out of the side of your eyes, His hand slid from you, joining his other hand on the wheel. “You’ll go home, back to your futuristic universe eventually, I know it. Then you can forget all about us in this little universe.”

The radio was blaring a Frank Sinatra song, something much too slow for the night time around you. The song crackled through the speakers as you glanced over, observing the side of Johnny’s face. For a man that hid behind such an extravagant persona for the media and the fans, you could see right through it. That hint of sadness in his own features, woven into the creases of his eyes and the lines around his lips, at the thought of you leaving.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard.

“I think you’re underestimating how much I will miss you guys when I go home,” you told him simply, the music playing lightly through the speakers. It really was that simple, it was the truth. “I’ll miss you guys a lot. I’ll miss you.”

Johnny’s hand seemed to tighten along the steering wheel for just a second, so quick you almost missed it. Those blue eyes glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His features were riddled with something you couldn’t understand, but could see how gentle it was, until his charming smile was back, wiping away any trace of the strange emotion you had seen.

“Careful there, little witch. It’s starting to sound like you’re falling unequivocally in love with me-”

His laughter filled the car, overtaking the sound from the radio as your hand reached out and shoved his shoulder, your own laughter mixing in with his own.

“You’re fucking impossible, Johnny Storm,”

Of everywhere that you could’ve thought Johnny would be dragging you to, a drive-in theater was the last place you would’ve imagined. 

The entire stretch of lawn buried deep within the heart of Long Island was packed with cars of all different kinds, vintage ones you had never seen in person. There was a group of teenagers crowded around one of the cars, hugging their friends and talking animatedly between each other. Some couples walked through the lines of vehicles, giggling together under their breath as they carried their food from the little stand off to the side.

Johnny pulled the car to a stop in one of the last remaining spots, side windows immediately rolling down to allow the sound from the mounted speakers to infiltrate the car. Night had set in, an announcement projected onto the large screen that the movie would begin soon, as you turned to find Johnny already watching you with a wide grin.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve been to drive-in theaters too?”

“They’re still a thing, but I’ve never been,” was the response you gave, a small laugh falling from your lips as he excitedly punched the air. “I have always wanted to go to one, though”

“Then your wish, princess,” in his usual dramatic fashion, Johnny stole your hand in his. With a kiss placed to your knuckles, he was already halfway out of the car before you could truly process the moment. “Is my command. Be right back with the snacks.”

You watched him the entire time he was gone. From the moment he slipped out of the car to ordering something from the snack stand, you watched. Even as the young girl working behind the counter seemed to fangirl at the sight of the Human Torch in front of her.

His charm was stupid most of the time. Little one liners, flirtatious jokes, touches that were all but friendly in nature. You didn’t care for a single one of those moments. It had been awhile, but you’d seen Tony use the same tricks. In the briefest of time you had known Peter Quill even he had tried it. Those moments meant nothing to you, but these did.

Bringing you breakfast in the morning just so you didn’t have to be alone. Dragging you around the city to participate in a thousand activities on the off chance that you hadn’t done them before, once again so that you wouldn’t feel alone and left with your thoughts. Hearing a single scream from you, seeing a single tear, and dragging you through New York in the middle of the night just to see you smile again. Those moments worked on you–meant something to you–more than you wanted them to.

The moment he was swarmed by a bunch of little kids trying to leave the snack stand didn’t help the turmoil you felt inside either. Johnny didn’t complain, not once, simply balanced the food in one arm so he could lean down and high five one of the girls, ruffling the hair of another little boy standing right next to her. He smiled wide, you could see the shake of his chest as he threw his head back in laughter, igniting his hand quickly as the kids all clapped and gasped in awe at the sight of their own personal superhero. There was a news reporter nearby, calling out for a photo that Johnny happily posed for with the kids, leaving them with one last story that had them all looking up at him in awe and adoration.

You hated the stutter that occurred in your heart. You weren’t dumb–you knew what it meant. Johnny Storm was charming, handsome, a literal superhero that had captured the hearts of the entire world. He, also, was the most down to earth man you had ever met sometimes, more observant than you gave him credit for, and too sweet for his own good.

If you thought hard enough, you could almost hear Wong’s voice in your head, scolding you for slowly falling for a man from an entirely different universe. The definition of a man you could never have, never meant to be yours.

“Got swarmed by some little kids, had to make sure I showed off the flames,” Johnny’s voice broke through your thoughts as he slid back into the car, passing a bag of popcorn over the console and into your hands. Just as he did, the large screen in the lot changed, the beginnings of the movie beginning to play as some of those teenagers from earlier began to clap and holler. “Just in time.”

Shaking those thoughts from your head, trying to will them away, you brought your gaze back to the screen. The opening shots of the credits, directors names and actors names plastered across the screen as it dove into the first scene without hesitation, situated on some mountain with hoards of people who were dressed for an even more vastly different time period than now.

“Spartacus?” a questioning glance was thrown Johnny’s way from you as you took a quick bite of your popcorn. “An action/adventure movie was your choice for a drive-in movie date?”

“Hey, you’re the one who said this wasn’t a date,” Johnny retorted, meeting your glance as he took in another handful of popcorn himself with a cheeky grin. “Besides, I didn’t peg you to be a romance movie kind of girl.”

“On some occasions I can be,” you gave back with a shrug. “A good action movie is definitely more my speed, though, so good choice.”

“What can I say, I know you,”

He did. He really did.

It was barely an hour into this three hour movie when your mind finally began to drift off again. Legs curled up on the seat under you, your own popcorn bag finished off and discarded at your feet as you reached over to steal from Johnny’s own bag, you found your thoughts leaving the movie once more. But instead of thinking about home, about the people you lost or the ones waiting for you to come back, you found them on Johnny once again.

Watching the side of his face quietly, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him mouth some of the words to the movie under his breath, almost mimicking the accents of the actors themselves. It was enough to elicit a small giggle from your lips, bringing his gaze from the movie over to you instead.

“Are you quoting this movie word for word?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. I happen to really like this movie,” your giggles persisted, even as Johnny reached into his bag and tossed a handful of popcorn in your direction. “You should see Ben watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he could probably act that entire movie out for you. Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“You’re both such dorks,”

“Come on, don’t you have a movie you can quote?”

You hummed, letting the question sit with you for a moment, memories rushing back over you.

“Not a movie, but a show. Full House,” Johnny’s gaze never left you, the movie long abandoned in his eyes for a moment. An idea sprang to mind, your head tilting ever so slightly as you shot him a grin. “Want to see it?”

Excitement crawled into Johnny’s eyes immediately, his head nodding as he sat up straighter in the driver’s side seat.

You took a deep breath. Holding up your hand to the door beside you, that familiar blue magic seeped from your fingertips as that same color glowed in the irises of your eyes, crawling along the interior of the car until it reached the windshield. Your eyes were watching Johnny once again, the absolute wonder in his eyes as his windshield shimmered in blue, before the screen through the windshield changed before your very eyes: gone were Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier, replaced instead by John Stamos and Bob Saget in that iconic kitchen of their San Francisco home.

With another flick of your hand, the speaker at your car switched, playing the sound of the show you were now broadcasting instead of the movie.

“Don’t worry, no one else can see or hear this. Just us,”

Johnny was barely paying attention to what you said, too busy dipping his head in and out of the window in shock and awe, the screen beyond the windshield still playing Spartacus while within the confines of the car your tv show was playing.

“You…I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow get hotter every time you use your magic,”

Laughing, you reached into his popcorn bag and threw an unpopped kernel at the side of his head. Resting back into your seat, arms wound around your knees, you found yourself lost in the scene before you on the screen.

“This was one of Wanda’s favorite shows,” after a minute of silence, engrossed in the scene, you told him. You could feel Johnny’s eyes watching you instead of the show. “She always liked older shows, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. We used to watch this one all the time in the compound, whenever Steve didn’t have us training constantly.”

Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you.

“She was your best friend, wasn’t she? I don’t think you’ve ever said her name,”

“That’s because it’s hard to talk about her,” finding his gaze again, the gentle comfort shining in his gaze washed over you, as if draping you in a blanket. Swallowing the lump in your throat that always formed when you thought too hard about her, you offered him the smallest smile you could muster. “Just a few weeks before I wound up in your universe, I lost her. She lost herself to dark magic, let it consume her, so like the brave woman she was, she chose to protect the world from herself.”

Your words hung in the air, neither of you speaking for a moment. The scene from the show continued to play out before you swiped your hand through the air, dissipating the magic and letting the picture and sound of the movie return to the screen and the little speaker. It hurt too much to relive those moments.

“Hey, do you think by showing me a show that hasn’t come out yet in my universe, this will mess up, like, space and time? Like, what if I go pitch this show to Hollywood real quick and get it made a whole decade before it’s supposed to get made?”

The car got quiet, the only sound being the audio from the movie still playing through the speakers. Raising an eyebrow, entire face contorted in confusion, soft  laughter sputtered out of your lips at the simple comment.

“I…what? Johnny that…” his smile grew, as did your laughter as you struggled to get your words out. “Johnny, that doesn’t make any sense?”

“I’m aware,” his hand reached out, thumb and index finger pinching your chin between the soft pads of his fingers. Your breath caught, laughter dying down as you just stared at him, as he drew small circles into your skin, heat blooming under his touch. “You were getting sad. I just don’t like seeing you sad.”

Johnny’s words were so sincere. Not a hint of his usual charm, not a single signature Storm smirk in sight, just genuine affection. Genuine care for you, for your thoughts, for the way your memories made you feel.

The idea of never going home again hurt, but the idea of leaving the Fantastic Four? Of never seeing Johnny Storm again? That was starting to hurt even more.

Even as his blue Corvette was parked in front of the Baxter Building again late that night, headlights flickering off and plunging the car into darkness except for the street lights around the building, your eyes kept flickering back to him.

Driving through Queens, you no longer thought back on the memories of walking through the city one night with Steve when you were younger. Now, you thought about the diner, about the smile on Johnny’s face as he watched you try that milkshake in the dead of night. As you crossed over the bridge into the city, you didn’t think of the nights you and Wanda would sit on the edge and watch the city lights, you instead watched the way the lights danced over Johnny’s skin through the glass.

The elevator of the Baxter Building popped open on the floor of the main living room. The building was quiet, just a lamp in the corner by the staircase to the bedrooms lit up, everyone else fast asleep.

Johnny stepped out of the elevator, pausing just barely still in the doorway. One arm leaning on doors, keeping them open, you both just stood still and watched one another for a moment.

“For a not date, this very much felt like a date,” you threw at him after a moment. Those blue eyes of his lit up, smile lines etching themselves into his skin as his little grin grew immediately.

“Oh sweetheart, this definitely wasn’t a date. Our first date would be a lot different, trust me,”

You hummed, taking a step forward in the elevator, eyes never leaving his. There was barely space left between the two of you now. Johnny's sharp intake of breath was evident, the smile on your lips growing as you ignored every little voice in your head telling you this was a terrible idea.

“What would our first date be like?”

Surprise crawled into his expression. Eyes wide and bright, the smile on his face warped into something you couldn’t quite place. The hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks crawled forward, gingerly placing itself against your waist. Not pulling you closer, just lying there: steady, grounding, present. You didn’t push him away.

“The Regent,” he spoke softly but certainly, eyes never straying from yours. “Exclusive little dance hall just a few blocks away. Live band every night. You’d look just as beautiful as you always do, and I’d get to spend the entire night spinning you around in circles. Making you smile, watching you laugh, holding you close. That would be our first date.”

You hummed, stepping just a hair closer to him. His fingers flexed along your waist, squeezing ever so slightly, as one of your hands came to rest on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,”

“Every night since the moment I realized you weren’t a threat that was coming to destroy my entire world…again,”

“I don’t know,” you teased, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. “According to Sue, you’re kind of into that thing. I could always coat myself in some shiny silver paint if that does it for you.”

He huffed out a puff of air in laughter, tugging you in until you were pressed to his chest in the doorway of the elevator.

“No, you just have to be you. The pretty little witch that could cut off my oxygen supply with a flick of her wrist is all I need. All I want,”

Your eyes trailed down, along the bridge of his nose, until they settled on the pink of his lips. As you spoke, you never looked away from them.

“When would this date be?”

“Tomorrow night, 8 on the dot,”

“That’s so soon, eager?”

“Extremely, I’ve only been thinking about this for two months,”

Your laughter was soft as your eyes finally trailed back to his, only to find them settled on your lips in turn.

“It’s a date, then,”

His blue eyes found yours, shining with an affection that made your knees week. The hand gripping your waist trailed up, fingers dancing along every curve of your body, until it curled around your cheek to cup it within his hand. The heat of his skin bloomed through yours, sending a single shiver down your spine.

“You know,” his voice was low, eyes blown slightly wider than they had been before, as his eyes quickly darted back down to your lips for a moment. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”

Even with the flutter of butterflies through your chest, head feeling lighter than it ever had before, your lips curled into a wide grin. Eyes glowing blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic left the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.

Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact.

“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”

Even with the amount of bravado laced into your words as the elevator doors swung shut, cutting you off from Johnny’s captivating gaze, nothing could quell the swell of emotion building behind your chest at the simple thought of the blonde man who’d managed to capture your heart without even really trying.

❤︎

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you want to go on a date with matchstick. I mean, he’s my buddy, he's a great kid, but come on. There’s no one waiting for you back in your universe?”

Ben’s comment earned him another affectionate eyeroll from you, along with a deadpan look shot across the kitchen island counter.

He was deep into making a fresh batch of cookies that he had been given the recipe for, the little old woman he’d met claiming they could match the quality of Maisie’s cookies. Reed was skeptical of the recipe, trying to offer advice from further down the counter, but Ben waved him off every single time.

Little Franklin was sitting in his highchair at the counter between you and Sue, babbling incoherently as he played with the little pieces of cereal laid on the counter in front of him. You were simply flicking the little pieces around with little tendrils of blue magic, Sue laughing every single time Franklin tried to catch a piece and you yanked it away.

“No, Ben, there’s no one waiting for me back home,” was the answer you gave the man, never looking up once as you continued to toy with the food on the counter. “Being a superhero for most of your life kind of makes dating an impossible situation.”

“I, for one, fully support this,” Sue chimed in, rising from her chair to refill Franklin’s bottle on the counter. She passed behind you, reaching out to help smooth down the white long sleeve blouse along your shoulders, forcing you to adjust it along your waist where it was tucked into the navy blue slacks she had helped you pick out earlier on. “This is the first time I’ve seen Johnny so head over heels for a woman in a way that might just stick. He worships the ground that you walk on, I love to see it.”

“It helps that you could kill him if you really wanted to,” Ben threw in for good measure, ducking the slap that Sue tried to land on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s a secret kink of his-”

“Okay, I don’t want to hear about what kinks my little brother may or may not have,”

You laughed at the antics you had grown so used to from the group in front of you. Franklin got upset with the constant moving of his little cereal bits, grabbing a handful and tossing them toward you. Wide eyed at his antics, you grabbed onto his tiny hand, blowing a raspberry into the palm of his hand as his shrieks and giggles sounded throughout the room.

“Reed, I’m surprised you don’t have any comments to add in,” you threw in the super genius’ direction. “Nothing about how we’re from two different universes, or how this could blow up the entire multiverse?”

“I’ve been taking notes regarding it, actually,” Ben’s groan sounded through the room the second Reed said it, pulling a notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “Your genetic makeup, based on previous tests, seemed to align with ours, but that doesn’t mean that fundamentally there isn’t something woven into your DNA that doesn’t match with ours. There’s also the idea that, given you’re from two different universes, you were never supposed to meet, so if you managed to fall in love there could be an unforeseen breakdown of the fabric of the-”

Sue’s hand immediately clamped over her husband’s mouth, giving him an unimpressed look, as she shot you the brightest smile she could manage. She slid the now refilled cup for Franklin across the counter to you as you caught it, laughing under your breath at the entire situation as you handed it over to the little boy beside you who made grabby hands in its direction.

“What Reed means to say is that you’re good for him, and honestly, we haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been the last few weeks since you started spending more time with him. Since you got here he hasn’t done a single PR nightmare worthy thing. I think Lynne might want to get you the keys to the city for it,”

“What are we getting my girl keys to the city for?”

Maybe his charm never worked on you, his endless flirtatious moves and jokes. But in this moment, as he descended the stairs into the living room and your heart stuttered over several beats, you finally understood the hoards of women across the universe that had Johnny Storm plastered across their walls and their hearts.

The navy blue button up he adorned clung to him, almost slightly too tight on him as the fabric pulled in the creases under his arms and by his waist. It was tucked into a pair of white chino pants, accented with navy blue dress shoes. His smile was bright, cheeky as it always was, his hands clasped together behind his back as he made his way across the living room.

Taking a semi-shaky stand on the strappy heels that Sue had helped you into before, you met him halfway across the room, a hush having fallen over the kitchen as you felt their eyes watching every movement both of you made.

Johnny’s eyes trailed up and down your body the second you came to a stop in front of him, taking in the navy blue of your pants and the white of your blouse, before he cheekily shot you a wink.

“Twinning on the first date? What’s the slang they use in your time for that? Couple goals, wasn't it?”

“Couple?” your eyebrow shot up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Storm. You have to earn that.”

“Oh, I’ll earn it,” his hands finally unclasped from behind his back, thrusting out toward you. “For you, gorgeous.”

A beautiful bouquet of flowers: Plumeria flowers. Glittering in an ombre of pinks and oranges, taking you back to one of those first nights on that couch just a few floors away. 

You took the bouquet in your hands, eyes never leaving Johnny’s as you inhaled the sweet scent that wafted from the petals. The adoration that shone in his blue eyes sent your heart into another flutter.

“My favorite,” you responded.

“What, did you think I’d forget?”

“Kind of,”

“Give me a little more credit, darling,” he lifted one of your hands from the bouquet, cradling it in his as he left a kiss along your knuckles. “When it comes to you, I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”

“Can you two leave for your date and go flirt elsewhere? My god, this is painful to watch,”

Sue laughed at Ben’s comment, and you joined in. Johnny shot the man a look, flipping him the bird that you were sure was being shot right back at him from behind your back.

Sue saddled up to your side seconds later, plucking the bouquet from your hands with a soft smile.

“I’ll put these in water for you and leave them upstairs,” she shot her eyes to Johnny, narrowing them. “Treat her well or I will cover for her when she drags your lifeless body back later tonight.”

Too busy laughing, you never even noticed Johnny’s eye roll toward his sister. The only thing you could comprehend as he pulled you into the awaiting elevator was the feeling of his fingers slipping into the empty spaces between yours, intertwining your hand with his.

It felt right. Too right for two people who should have never met one another.

The Regent was situated just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building, the perfect distance to walk straight there. You weren’t complaining, not with the way Johnny gripped your hand like he was afraid you’d pull it away, every so often tugging it gently so that your body fell into his,  arm brushing against his arm.

“We fought with Moleman–well, I guess he prefers to be called Harvey–right here,” he pointed out just a few blocks from the Baxter Building, gesturing toward the blocked off area right beside a small park. There were fences up around what looked like a giant hole in the ground with just the very top of a building sticking out of it, signs indicating ‘keep out’ to everyone that walked past. “He runs Subterranea, the whole civilization under New York.”

“There’s an entire city under this city?” you questioned, looking up at him in alarm.

“Oh yeah, you guys don’t have that?” he quirked an eyebrow toward you as you shook your head in response. “He stole the entire Pan Am building, sinking it down into the ground before we could stop him. Been years and they’re still working on what to do with it.”

You took a single glance around: 45th Street and Park Avenue. The familiar intersection made you smile, one that Johnny seemed to understand all too well. Taking a quick glance around to  ensure that there weren’t too many people watching, you slipped your hand from Johnny’s in order to tilt his head to look at where the building used to stand. With a single wave of your fingertips toward his temples, blue seeping into his eyes, you could see the moment they widened at the sight you were projecting to him.

“In my world, this was the site of the Avengers tower,” you could see the glamour you were showing him, but you knew it like the back of your hand. The tower that hung high above the skyline of the city, the shining ‘A’ that matched the one hanging from the belt of your suit. “It was Stark Tower, until Tony decided to fashion it into a base of operations for the team after the battle of New York.”

The vision faded, the traces of your magic leaving Johnny’s eyes, as they turned back to look at you. His hand found yours again without hesitation, fingers tangling with yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

“How do you possibly get cooler and more interesting with every passing thing you tell me and show me? It’s not fair,”

Johnny filled every second of the walk with story after story. A diner on the corner that he’d rescued a little girl from during another fight in the city, and the way she’d hid behind her father shyly the second he’d dropped her back down on the ground. Another diner just a block away that he’d dragged Reed to after he’d locked himself in his lab for upwards of 48 hours, not having eaten a single thing to the point where Sue was concerned he’d just pass out on the floor in front of his chalkboard. The bakery that sat underneath a row of apartments that Johnny was convinced had the best pie in the world, but Ben still argued there wasn’t a single bakery in the world that could compare to Maisie’s over on Yancy Street.

Before you knew it, you were standing before The Regent. Elegant, sign shimmering and lighting up the darkened sidewalk before it. One single man stood at the door, surveying the area. With one look to Johnny, he nodded his head toward the door to grant him access.

Stepping into that room felt like entering an entirely new world. Light wooden floors that matched the light wood of the walls, which were decorated themselves with photographs upon photographs of couples and celebrities dancing and performing on the stage. The stage itself was beautiful, shining bright at the end of the room as the lights illuminated the band that was currently engrossed in some Elvis song that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The walls were all draped with velvety red curtains from the ceiling to the floor, accenting the dimly lit room, dance floor, stage and bar in color. Couples, friends, groups all mingled about, dining at the tables elevated at the back of the room, mingling along the walls, and dancing together in front of the stage.

“Of everything you’ve dragged me to these last few months,” you spoke up, voice rising to be heard over the music as the band switched songs, playing a cover of River Deep - Mountain High now. “This is the most 60s feeling thing yet.”

“And that, sweetheart, is why I saved it for a proper date,” Johnny appeared in front of you, your hand still clasped in his, as he tugged you forward. “Come on!”

Your laughter rang through the room as Johnny pulled you into the throws of people, finding an open spot among the crowd on the floor.

He spun you, that smile never dropping from his lips as you twirled in circles. Each twirl left you dizzy as the song played on in the background, the groups of people around you clapping along to the beat from the band. It was inevitable that you’d eventually stumble in the heels you weren’t accustomed to. Johnny’s arm was there, like you somehow knew it would be, curling around your waist. He dipped you, cheekily pretending as if it was all meant to happen, before spinning you back up onto your heels and pulling you into his chest.

“Come on, I can’t have you tripping and falling for me just yet,” he teased, hands holding yours as he spun you out once again just to pull you right back in.

“You try dancing in heels!” you shot back at him, earning a bright laugh from the man still dancing you around in circles. “We never danced like this at Tony’s parties.”

“I thought you said he threw a lot of those,”

“Yeah, but they were more stand around, drink, and talk parties than dancing,” you took a single glance around the room, at every woman being danced around by their friends and their partners. Swishing skirts, some almost touching the floor, loosely hanging from their bodies. “Not that the dresses I was forced to wear would've allowed for dancing. Too tight fitting–the one had a slit almost the entire way up my thigh.”

Johnny’s hand tugged you in at that moment, your chest flush against his. His lips skimmed over the edge of your ear, voice husky as he whispered into it just loudly enough for you to hear.

“I need you to not give me a mental image of your 21st century clothing while we’re in public, honey,”

A laugh bubbled from your throat as you pulled back to see him fully. The ways his eyes had darkened just slightly, the blue of his eyes almost completely overtaken, had your stomach doing a flip. But it wasn’t enough to stop the slightly sadistic smile that overtook your lips.

“Why? It’s so much fun, seeing you all worked up,” you let your fingers touch his jaw gently, nails dragging down the expanse of his neck and to the small bit of skin just barely visible along his collarbone, before you pushed away from him. “Come on, let’s get drinks!”

You could just barely hear his groan of “You’re going to be the death of me,” behind you as he followed you diligently through the crowd, his hand finding the small of your back within seconds so that you were never quite far from him.

Seated on one of the barstools, sipping gingerly at the drink Johnny had procured for you, it was impossible not to watch Johnny. 

The way he animatedly retold a story about how they’d been invited to a fundraiser years ago in a dance hall, how he’d talked Ben into getting up onto the stage to dance. The way he so enthusiastically greeted those around the bar that did recognize him, as they slid in little comments about if you were the “mystery woman” that the papers had begun to pick up on over the last two months. He deflected them with ease, remembering many of those that said hello to him, asking such personal things about their families, their jobs, as if they were his best friends.

Your laughter spilled into your drink as the band played their own version of The Twist, and Johnny chose to demonstrate his moves directly in front of you. He smiled wide, eyes never leaving you, as he mouthed the words in your direction, following along with the dance every other person in the club was doing along with him.

“Johnny Storm: a superhero, an avid golfer, a lover of space, and now we can add dancer to that extensive list,” you teased, taking the final sip of your drink before leaving the empty glass on the counter behind you. “Do you frequent these dance halls a lot?”

“When I was a teenager I found my way here pretty often,” he answered easily as the song came to an end, the room cheering out and erupting in applause for the band. With one arm, he leaned against the counter beside you, looking up at you. “I wouldn't call myself a dancer, though. Just had enough practice to be semi-decent.”

“Practice, huh?” you questioned, just as the band started back up again. “How many girls have you taken dancing before?”

The band kicked back up, their next song already ready to go. You recognized it immediately: that same Frank Sinatra song that had played in the car through Long Island barely 24 hours prior. Johnny only smiled softly, standing out in front of you with his hand outstretched toward you.

“None. Promised myself that only one woman would ever have the pleasure of seeing me dance. Now, will you do me the honor?”

It wasn’t a line, not one of his usually charming, flirtatious lines. Not the way in which he said it: so genuinely, so vulnerably. You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.

Johnny guided you back out onto the dance floor, finding another open space among the couples around with ease. His arm slid around your waist, resting there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it really did feel so right, in a way you had never felt before.

His hand pressed firmly into your lower back, holding your body close to his. You could feel that unnatural heat that radiated off of his skin through the layers of clothing that adorned your body. One of your arms found its place around his shoulder, hand curled around the back of his neck and tangling just slightly with the hairs that laid there. Your other hand was clasped in his, taking in every bit of warmth that seeped from his palm into yours.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked him quietly, nose just barely brushing along the edge of his jawline as you danced together, swayed back and forth across the floor with him.

“Anything,”

“You didn’t have to trust me that day in the park. You could’ve assumed I was a threat, taken me out. Instead, you took me in,” you closed your eyes, leaning in just slightly as your nose brushed over his jawline once again. “Then, you took it upon yourself to make me feel comfortable, to not let me feel alone in a universe that isn’t mine…why?”

“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were pretty, but it was because I felt like I was looking at me,” Johnny’s answer was simple. No charm, no jokes, just the truth. “I saw myself for a moment, the me I was when we came home from space with powers. Confused, angry, terrified of what I had become. I didn’t know what to do. You looked so lost, so alone, and you continued to look that way every day. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t want you to feel like I did when I came home that day, when I felt like I had to lock myself away. It didn’t help that…I kind of fell for you along the way.”

Any hesitation in your heart, any thought in your brain still telling you that this was a terrible idea, that it could never work, melted away in that single second.

My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.

“Can I ask you something?” he tacked on as your brain and heart still searched for a way to respond to him. All you could give him was a nod, one he could feel from where your skin touched his. “I’ve been flirting with you every day since we met. What made you finally say yes to a date?”

“Because I wasn’t saying yes to Jonathan Storm, the Human Torch, one of the four protectors of this Earth,” you told him simply, leaning back just slightly so that you could catch his gaze as you spoke, bodies still swaying back and forth to the swell of the violin. “I was saying yes to Johnny. The flame boy who decided to trust me. The guy that does the dumbest shit just to make his nephew laugh. The only one who’s made the pain of what I’ve lost lessen these last few months. I didn’t fall for all the bravado, or the charming lines, I just fell for him.”

Your confession was laid bare, as was his. He didn’t say a single word. Johnny simply smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, before letting his eyes close and his forehead rest against yours. You followed suit, mirroring him, simply existing in the space within his arms.

My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.

What felt like hours later, while also feeling like no time had passed at all, you found your hand clasped in Johnny’s once more. Roaming the streets of New York in the cool air of the night, a giddiness present in each of you that could only be compared to the feeling of pure childlike wonder and joy.

All you could think about was how right it felt, being with him. Having his hand in yours. Being in his arms. Universes separated you, but in this moment, you felt as if you had never belonged somewhere more than you did right now.

“Okay, okay,” Johnny forced out through his laughter, leaning into you as you turned another street corner, trying to find the next question to ask in the long line of questions you had been throwing back and forth. “Favorite fight that you had with the Avengers?”

“Oh god, I don’t know if I can answer that,” you responded easily with a laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “None of them were really fun, they all kind of left immense damage in their wake. One ended with me locked in a high security prison in the middle of the ocean for a short period of time, so, I guess that was fun.”

“That…that sounds like the opposite of fun,”

“Oh, it was. It sucked immensely,” he shoved his shoulder into yours for the comment. “Okay, my turn. Favorite memory with Reed?”

“When he asked me permission to marry Sue. I thought he was going to piss himself, I’ve never seen the man look so nervous,” Johnny laughed, tugging on your hand to bring you in closer to his side again. “Okay, how about your favorite thing you can do with your magic?”

Now that was a show instead of a tell question. Dropping his hand, you slid into the space in front of Johnny on the side walk, shuffling backwards against the pavement. He cocked an eyebrow as you shot him a tiny grin, before your hands at your sides began to glow in that familiar blue as your body lifted off of the grow by just a few feet, uncaring for anyone that could possibly see you in the area.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as his wide eyes looked up at you. He sputtered for a moment, trying to find his words.

“Wait–you could fly this entire time, and you didn’t tell me?”

“You never asked!”

Johnny’s body ignited in flames, a sight you’d sparingly seen over your time in their world. From the chest down, every bit of him burned in those bright orange and red licks of fire as he, too, flew above the ground before you, back to being level with you once more.

“We could’ve been flying everywhere instead of driving!”

“Well, let’s just have some fun with it now,” you shot back with a wink, before propelling yourself upward. “Keep up, flame boy!”

The chill in the New York breeze was a familiar feeling, beating against your face as you propelled yourself up into the air, flying along the edge of the buildings. Johnny followed along right beside you, the heat of his flames fanning out over you and cancelling out the chill that night air brought with it.

His eyes never left yours as you spun around a corner of the building, propelling yourself further up into the air. You looked down, watching him with a smile as you hung there high above the buildings and the city of New York. Johnny joined you in seconds, hovering just in front of you. The clouds practically kissed your body, the city so far down below you both, leaving you alone together among the clouds.

You could see it, the glint in his eyes, the way they flickered down to your lips for just a second before glancing back up, pretending as if they’d never strayed away. He leaned in, and you let him for just a moment, before letting your body fall backward and freefall through the air back toward the city.

His laughter echoed through the sky as he flew down after you, following the sound of your own laughter. He saddled up to your side, flying down alongside you once again before you took a sudden turn, propelling yourself toward the rooftop of a building just barely in the distance.

Your feet touched down on the private rooftop moments later, magic dissipating from your fingertips as you landed, taking in a deep breath as the rush of flying left your body in one fell swoop. The rooftop garden you’d landed in was clearly one for a private residence, somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, but you didn’t care. Not with the smell of the flowers invading your senses, the glint of the dim fairy lights strung around the roof bathing you in their light, and the view of the Baxter Building dead ahead.

Johnny’s feet touched the ground just moments after you, the sound of his shoes hitting the flooring alerting you. Spinning, he was standing just a few feet away, watching you with a little smile as he shook his head with laughter.

“You might be insane,”

“Sorry,” your giggles fell into the mix with his own laughter. “It’s been a minute since I’ve flown. I’ve missed it.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever flown with someone on a first date,” Johnny countered, taking just a few steps forward toward you. “Unless you count Shalla-Bal throwing me off her surfboard in space, but that wasn’t really a date.”

“Guess this was a first for both of us, then,”

You matched his steps, barely a few feet between the two of you now. Johnny didn’t make another step forward, though, didn’t close the space separating you. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed, his foot tapped against the ground, and his hands clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, even though you could practically see the nerves rolling off of him. He laughed, shaking his head as he glanced to the ground for just a moment, before back to you.

“I…I’m kind of nervous, if you can believe it,”

You hummed, taking the initiative to step up into his space, barely a few inches separating the two of you now. Your eyes never left him.

“Why? I thought the charming Johnny Storm had been on a bunch of first dates?” you teased.

He laughed breathily, eyes darting to your lips for just a second.

“Not ones that mattered…not like you do,”

You barely let him finish his sentence before you curled your hands around the back of his neck, tugging him down to you and slotting your lips against his.

It was short, but poured every bit of passion into it that swarmed through your heart and your head. Your lips moved against his just slightly, still testing the waters as the heat that coursed through his skin and into yours felt as if it was sinking straight down into your bones. Johnny’s lips were soft, supple, a shaky breath leaving his lips and fanning out over yours the second that they touched for the first time. Something in your head clicked at the feeling, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, making you light-headed as your fingers just barely curled into the hair kissing the nape of his neck.

It was you that pulled away first. Barely a few inches away, the heat of his body still filling the air between you. His blue eyes bore down into your, wide and full of awe, lips slightly parted. A smile stretched across his face first, a matching once crawling across your own as you let your hands fully dive into his hair.

Johnny moved first, hands enveloping your waist and tugging you until your body was almost one with his, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that had your knees almost crumbling to the ground.

Those heated hands swarmed your body desperate to touch every single expanse of you that they could in the way you were sure he’d thought about, in the way you never wanted to admit you sometimes dreamed about. Goosebumps crawled across your skin with every move of his hands, with every flex of his fingers and they pressed into you. His lips moved against yours like a starved man, slick with spit as your mouth opened to him, letting him invade every bit of you that you could, his tongue slipping just barely in and grazing over your bottom lip. A moan fell–from you or Johnny, neither of you knew–but the sound only spurred you both on.

His hands tightened their grip around your waist, holding him to you like a possession, one he couldn’t bear to lose. Claiming you. Your hand wound into his hair, tugging to elicit a groan from him, as you let your other trail down to rest over the patch of skin just barely visible under the single unbuttoned part of his shirt.

When your lips finally broke, soft pants filling the air between you, neither of you dared to look away. You couldn’t. It was like being in a trance, being pulled to the man in front of you almost magnetically. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft pecks against your lips, hands still flexing across your hips with each little peck that sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.

“This is crazy, right?” he muttered out between kisses. You hummed in response, matching each kiss of his with your own through your grin, hands still carding through his hair.

“What, falling for each other when we come from completely different universes?”

“Exactly that,” he responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before his forehead rested against yours. Those blue eyes bore down into yours, a soft smile over taking his kiss bitten lips again. “I don’t care much, though. Not when it just…feels so right.”

Your smile matched his in seconds as you leaned forward, stealing yet another kiss that flooded your body with warmth.

“Me too,”

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so crazy: falling for someone universes away from you. Even universes away, maybe Johnny Storm was always meant to be yours, always meant to be the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle.

❤︎

Johnny Storm had been called many things over the years by the media. A playboy, a womanizer, noncommittal. They were all wrong.

He preferred the term hopeless romantic, especially when it came to you.

Especially in this exact moment, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom in the early hours of the afternoon to see you sprawled out, tangled in the covers that were halfway off his bed. You looked as if you belonged there, and in Johnny’s eyes, you did. There was nowhere else that you belonged than right by his side.

Crossing the room quietly, trying not to disturb you, he gently placed the glass of water he’d ventured into the kitchen for down on the bedside table. He got distracted, as he typically did, at the sight of the polaroids splayed out across the wooden table. Taking them gingerly in his hands, terrified to ruin them, the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be wiped away.

You wrapped in his arms along the Coney Island beach in the early hours of the morning. One of just you, sprawled out in his bed in nothing but one of his button downs that fell down to your thighs. You on the couch, Franklin curled into your lap as you read him a book. His favorite one, sneakily taken by Sue late one night, wrapped in his arms on the balcony of the Baxter Building, lips pressed together through smiles.

He loved you. Johnny loved you more than he ever believed he could love someone in life. Multiverse be damned, you were it for him. You were meant to be his and his alone, and he was hell bent on loving you to the fullest extent every single day that he could, knowing someone could come along and rip you away at any moment.

But the universe had given him a year. An entire year to love you in every way that he could, to prove to you that you were it for him. He thanked whatever being out there in the multiverse he needed to every single day for the time he’d been given with you.

Johnny crawled onto the bed, tugging the comforter down from around your shoulders so he could fully see you. His pillow was clutched between your arms, the space in which he usually occupied. His white t-shirt, bearing the 4 logo that you’d made fun of him for months ago, covered your body, falling to the middle of your bare thighs.

He leaned in with a smile, pressing kiss after kiss to the bare skin of your arms he could see, trailing down to leave heat filled kisses to the bare skin of your thighs. He’d barely left three there before he could hear your giggle, body flipping over onto your back so that you could look down on him with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“You left me,” you teased with a fake little pout. “I had nothing to hold but a pillow.”

“I’m so sorry, princess,” Johnny mumbled through his smirk, pressing yet another kiss into your thighs. His hands traveled up the sides of your legs, pushing his t-shirt with them as his kisses trailed further up the expanse of your skin. “How could I ever make it up to you?”

“I-I don’t know…round three doesn’t sound that bad,”

Johnny hummed through his laughter, mumbling a quiet “I love you” into your skin. He knew you could hear it, though, he knew that you knew it.

He reveled in every little noise that left your lips, every puff of air that was on the cusp of being a moan as he lavished every inch of your skin in a kiss.

“Look, you’re both adults so I try not to tell you what to do, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and–JESUS CHRIST, JOHNNY!”

He’d never sprang away so fast, throwing himself so hard to the side of the bed that he fell straight off of it to the floor with a thud. Your laughter filled the room as he crawled back up the side of the bed, your hand covering your mouth to conceal your laughter and the comforter pulled back up your legs.

Johnny immediately shot a glare at his sister, standing in the doorway of his room with her eyes covered by her hand.

“Sue, you have no one to blame but yourself for this–”

“You could have closed the door! I don’t need to see you doing all of that, my god,” Sue shook her head, peaking between her fingers to finally see that there was nothing happening, before dropping her hand. “Reed wants you in the lab for a few more tests, okay, he promised those would be the last ones this week. Just…look decent and meet us down there, okay?”

She grumbled the entire way out of the room, muttering comments about scarring her for life.

Johnny only rolled his eyes, throwing himself back onto the bed to hover above you. Nothing could ruin his mood, not when you looked up at him like that, smile bright and eyes full of adoration.

“That’s the third time this month she’s done that,” you managed to speak through giggles, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “She’s going to kill us one of these days.”

Johnny only hummed, ignoring the comment. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck, grasping the chain of the necklace that rested against your chest, a little charm of a Plumeria dangling off the end. His Christmas gift to you, one of the many you received as you were showered in them by his entire family. He pressed a kiss to the flower, looking up to you, only to see that same soft look in your eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered out, leaning in to capture your lips in his before you could speak back. He could feel you sigh into the feeling, your fingers dancing over his cheek lightly as you kissed him back just as softly.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his lips, before your hand rested on his chest with a little push. “But we’re going to go down to that lab because if we stay here another second, Sue is going to be walking in on a sight that she really doesn’t want to see.”

Johnny groaned, but relented. Falling back to his knees, his hands wound under the covers to your hips, pulling you up to your knees quickly on the bed. His mouth found yours in an instant, cementing another kiss there just for good measure.

“Round three after, right?”

It was your magic this time that pushed him, sending him tumbling back off the bed as your laughter rang out through the room.

“If you can behave, then maybe,”

Still clad in his t-shirt, having thrown on the old pair of ripped jeans you’d arrived in this universe in over a year ago, Johnny tucked you under his arm the second you stepped out of his bedroom, unable to go a second without touching you in any way shape or form. You never complained, even leaned into him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline.

“Lynne was able to get us reservations at that one restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for tonight, by the way,” he told you as you stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for Reed’s lab instantly. He grinned at the way your smile brightened, eyes turning to look up at him.

“Oh my god, that new one in Times Square?”

“That’s the one,” Johnny shot back. He let his arm fall from your shoulders, letting it wrap around your waist. His hand found the edge of his shirt, dipping beneath it so that his hand could press against the skin of your bare back. “Thinking maybe afterward we could go for a little fly around the city, sit down on the Brooklyn Bridge for a little while.”

Your hands cupped his cheeks almost instantly after he spoke, pulling him into a kiss. A feeling Johnny was sure he would never grow tired of, never get enough of.

“It’s a date,”

Stepping out into Reed’s lab, the entire team was gathered around. Reed was fussing over a machine, just as he normally was, with Sue trying desperately to calm him down. Ben was entertaining Franklin over on the couch, reading to him one of his favorite books.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Reed called out, ignoring the doting of Johnny’s sister as he waved you over frantically. “I just want to run a few more tests for this week. I changed some of the parameters, I just want to make sure that we have all of our bases covered.”

You gave Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before crossing the room, sliding into the same chair you always sat in for Reed’s tests, presenting your arm for the usual blood draw. Reed was convinced that it was necessary to test your blood, to do weekly scans of your body, to ensure that there were no lasting effects on your from staying in the wrong universe for an extended period of time like you had.

Johnny joined Ben and Franklin over on the couch, leaning down to leave a little kiss on his little nephew’s forehead, one that left the boy smiling and giggling.

“Johnny,” Franklin was barely able to say his name, stumbling over most of the letters, but he heard him loud and clear. He ruffled the boy's hair with a laugh, kneeling down in front of the couch.

“Hey buddy,” Johnny glanced over at Ben, at the smirk on the man’s rocky mouth, and raised an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Love just looks good on you, kid,” Ben teased.

Johnny shot a look over his shoulder, straight toward you. Smiling in that chair, laughing at something Sue said, as Reed drew the blood from your arm with a practiced ease for his various tests.

“Nah, it’s just loving her,” Johnny glanced back at Ben, a hint of a sheepish grin on his lips as he shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, man. She’s just…I think she’s just it.”

Ben smiled, that knowing one that he always had, as his rocky hand came down to pat Johnny’s back.

“I think so too. You deserve this, matchstick. You were practically made for each other,”

Johnny agreed. He was trying to decide mentally if one year was too soon to officially make your last name Storm like he had promised months ago.

The quiet, the lightheartedness that filled the lab, couldn’t stay forever. Not when the alarms across the room began to blare.

Every head shot up at once, turning to look down the length of the lab to the computers where the alarm was blaring. Reed shot to his feet, taking a step in front of Sue as you ripped the needle from your arm in seconds to join them.

“Johnny-”

“On it!”

He’d practically sprinted halfway down the lab at that point, pulling up the alarm system at the designated workstation. That same map that had foreshadowed your arrival blinked on the screen, the same blip that showed your arrival in Gramercy Park blinking on the screen–right on the Baxter Building.

“It’s the same readings as when she got here,” Johnny called out down the lab, eyes frantically darting back and forth between you and Reed. “The blip, though, it’s right here on the building-”

There was sound from right beside him, startling him. Johnny whipped around, little sparks of yellow and gold flashing in the air beside him.

He instantly took steps back, shuffling backward and away from the growing sparks until his legs hit the back of the couch. Ben stood somewhere behind him, holding Franklin protectively in his arms. Reed held onto Sue across the room from where Johnny stood, keeping her at his side, as you stepped up in front of them: eyes glowing, magic dancing at your finger tips.

Until those sparks of energy grew, larger and larger, until they formed the makings of a small circle. Johnny could hear the second your breath caught, that glow in your eyes fading and the magic at your fingertips vanishing in seconds as you took another step forward.

“O-Oh my god…”

The sparking circle grew, almost the size of an entire person, before it stabilized, and out of what Johnny could only assume was a portal stepped a man. Older, tired, short hair and the remnants of cuts along his face. Body draped in elegant robes of purple and yellow he’d never seen before. His eyes darted around the room, before they landed on you, and he let out the loudest sigh Johnny had ever heard.

“Oh, thank god-”

“WONG!”

You’d practically flown across the room and into the man’s arms. Wong hadn’t wasted a second, hugging you back just as tightly as you cried, holding onto the man for dear life.

Johnny froze: Wong. He’d heard that name before. You talked about him all the time. The Sorcerer Supreme, the man you were supposed to wait for before you performed the spell that had landed you here in the first place. Johnny felt his heart break at the realization. He could feel the eyes of his sister on him from across the room.

His time had finally run out. Home had finally come to take you back from him.

“When I tell you that you aren’t to touch the Book of Vishanti without me, it is not a suggestion,” Wong scolded, hands clasping your shoulders as you violently wiped your tears across the room. “I already had to deal with Stephen breaking into the restricted section years ago, I do not want a repeat of that again. Do you know how difficult it is to find your energy signature through the vast multiverse?”

“I know, I know,” you nodded your head, before shaking it back and forth. “No performing any spells from an ancient book without your supervision. I got it.”

Wong nodded once, before his eyes finally glanced over the rest of the room. They settled on Reed and Sue, Ben and Franklin, and finally on Johnny.

“Do I need to worry about-”

“No, no, they’re friends. They’re practically family,” you assured the man, turning and gesturing out to the room. “This is the Fantastic Four. They’re essentially the Avengers of their universe…”

Your words trailed off as you finally met Johnny’s eyes again. He could see it, the moment that the realization seemed to settle in over you like it already had for him, and he thought his heart was going to break all over again.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see the glance that Wong sent between both you and him. A knowing one, one that spoke volumes without having to speak at all. He sighed, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet lab, as he squeezed your shoulder.

“Five minutes,” Wong told you gently, his gaze drifting back to Johnny for just a minute. “There’s no telling if your time here has done any damage to the time streams. We need to get you home…I can give you five minutes.”

You only nodded, tearing your eyes away from Johnny. There was no arguing.

He knew this day would come, even if selfishly he wished it never would.

His eyes never left you as you crossed the room, practically flying into Sue’s arms. Johnny felt as if his head was under water. He could see your lips moved, Sue’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word either of you said. 

In his head, Johnny could guess what you were saying. A thank you for taking you in, for taking care of you, for all the times Sue had helped you dress for a date or taken you out into the city with her. He was sure Sue was thanking you for simply loving her little brother.

Reed pulled you into a tentative hug, short but still sweet. You didn’t exchange many words, but he could make out a “thank you” on his brother-in-law's lips.A thank you that simply encompassed everything, everything that he was sure Reed struggled to say.

Johnny saw your tears again when you stepped into Ben’s arms finally. A conversation that he was sure detailed the many early morning trips you’d made to Maisie’s together, or the late night talks that happened on the couch over drinks as some movie played on TV.

Franklin’s cries pierced the air, his hands making grabby motions toward you as he cried. You placed a single kiss to his head, walking away before you broke down.

Finally, you stood before him. Mascara running just slightly, tear stains littering your cheeks and down to your chin. You mustered the smallest of smiles that you could for him, albeit watery. Johnny tried to do the same, feeling the lump in his throat beginning to form.

“I thought I had three rules for you before you went home,” he managed to say, trying to swallow back the burning need to cry. You laughed, though the sound almost sounded like a sob, as you nodded your head.

“I’m leaving having accomplished two of those things. I guess that counts as a win,”

Johnny nodded, the beginnings of a sob almost bubbling out of his throat. Like two magnets pulled together, you fell into his arms. Head buried into his neck, Johnny’s one hand curled into your hair, tears slipping down his cheeks and soaking into the skin of the side of your head as your own tears soaked into his neck, your cries muffled by his skin.

“I love you,” he muttered into the side of your head, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. “I don’t care. I love you. I love you more than anything.”

You pulled away, those red rimmed and watery eyes finding him, as you cupped his cheeks in your shaking hands.

“I love you too,” you whispered, stealing a kiss from his lips that took every bit of breath out of him. Your next words were whispered against his mouth. “This isn’t goodbye. I promise.”

Johnny managed a laugh, stealing another kiss as he gripped you as tightly as possible, hoping if he held on tight enough you wouldn’t slip away.

“What, you’re going to find a way to defy the multiverse to see me again? Abandon your home?”

“For you? Yeah,” you answer was short, meaningful, determined, definitive. Johnny believed every word. “I’ll see you again. And next time, I won’t have to leave. Because you’re my home, too.”

Johnny managed a smile, hoping it was as comforting as he wanted it to be, as he stole one last kiss. Not a goodbye, he wasn’t sure he could handle a goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could handle the idea of never seeing you again. This kiss was a promise. To what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe just a simple promise that he was yours.

“I’ll be counting the days,”

He couldn’t bear to look down at you again, afraid if he kissed you again he’d shove Wong back through that portal and find a way to hold you here forever. Johnny settled for a single kiss to your forehead, accented with the tears that were still running silently down his cheeks, before he let you go.

You slotted yourself back to Wong’s side, wiping at the tears that stained your cheeks. He placed a hand on your shoulder, and even Johnny could see how much it pained him to do this to you. He caught the slight flick of your hand, though, the slight burst of your magic, so small he wasn’t sure at first if he’d seen it correctly.

The room was silent as you and Wong stepped back through the glittering gold portal and onto the floor of the other side. Your eyes met his one last time, a watery smile crossing your lips, before it closed.

And in the blink of an eye, you were gone. Gone as if you’d never been there in the first place.

Franklin’s cries were still the only thing he could hear in the room, No one dared to speak, dared to break through the air, as Johnny’s eyes stayed locked on the last spot you had stood in.

“Johnny…”

He turned, tear filled eyes meeting with his family. The heartbroken look on Ben’s face, the conflicted look on Reed’s, and the absolute pity that shone through on Sue’s. She took a single step forward, but Johnny waved her off immediately, shaking his head as he wiped at his tears, forcing a smile.

“I-I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute,”

No one rushed after him, and he was thankful for it.

The entire elevator ride back up to his room was done in a daze, in a haze of emotions. His vision was blurry the entire time, but no more tears fell. He wasn’t sure he had more to cry.

Stepping into his room again, he felt like he could muster a few more tears. The bed was still unmade. The scent of your perfume, one you’d picked a few months ago with Sue, lingered in the air. Your clothes from the night before were strewn over a chair by his record player.

It was the only sign that you had, in fact, existed here in his universe. You weren’t a figment of his imagination.

Approaching his bed, wanting to bury himself in the lingering scent of you, his breath caught.

Lying there, on the unmade sheets, was a single flower. A single little Plumeria, remnants of blue magic dancing over and around its petals. Right below it? That same Polaroid Johnny loved so dearly.

He clutched it in his hands, willing himself to be back in the moment: holding you on the balcony that night, kissing you, telling you he loved you. As he did, your magic seeped across the bottom white edge of the photo, scrawling your handwriting across the bottom.

Unequivocally yours.

That, alone, was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.

Multiverse be damned: you were his. There was no one in this life or the next that Johnny Storm was convinced he could love more, just as there was no one that could love you the way he could.

In that moment, he knew for a fact he’d see you again. And next time, he was never letting you go.

[keeryhours]

the calm before the storm - johnny storm

Johnny Storm x pregnant!gf!reader

Masterlist Tag Lists

Summary:

You have some news for Johnny, but the last thing you expect is for Sue to beat you to it. However, it turns out becoming parents isn’t even the biggest thing the family has to worry about - there are much bigger forces at work. Follows the timeline of about the first half of the movie

Warnings:

Smut (18+), unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), creampie, movie spoilers, pregnancy, birth, fluff, angst, dangerous situations

Word Count: 19.2k

A/N:

I’m so beyond happy to have this completed and posted for y’all! This fic follows the timeline of the first half of the movie and contains spoilers, and is left open for more. I’m sorry if there’s anything in here that doesn’t make sense or isn’t canon compliant, I know nothing besides this one movie 😅 Much more can be written in the world of this fic - let me know if you want to see it! Big giant thanks to @punkrockmlchael for my banner, @writhingg for always being the best beta reader, @glassbxttless and @getaapologist for being the most helpful ever for this girl who knows nothing about marvel, and to @feral4youu and @sudsys for reading literally every scene the second i finish it (you’re both real ones ilysm)

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Johnny was a panting mess above you, leaning up on his elbows on the bed and watching your every move as you took his cock deeper and deeper down your throat. You looked up at him through your long eyelashes, taking in the fucked-out look on his face.

He was looking down at you with his face screwed up in pleasure. His toned chest heaved with his breaths, a whining moan at the end of each one.

His cock was hot and heavy in your mouth, throbbing between your swollen lips. Precum leaked from his tip, the heady taste on your tongue every time you swiped over his slit, which drove him crazy. His head would loll back on his shoulders as a low groan tore its way out of his chest.

You splayed your hands across his thick thighs, bobbing your head a little faster, making sure to give every part of him plenty of attention. He loved when you were sloppy on it like this. Johnny raked his hand through your hair, pushing you down all the way and holding you there until you couldn’t breathe.

“God-“ he choked, his eyes falling closed. “Oh, jesus baby, that’s- h-oh- oh, god-“

He let go and you pulled off of him, gasping for air. You took only a moment to compose yourself before you were sinking back onto him, sending Johnny flopping back onto the pillows with a groan.

You cradled his balls in your right hand, gently massaging them as you took him down slowly, focusing your tongue along the underside of his cock. His thighs trembled, muscles clenching.

“Fuck,” he whined. “Sweetheart, I- I’m so close, I’m so close. Wanna be inside you. Please.”

You lifted off of him with a pop, his cock twitching weakly as it was left wanting. Your lips were shining, wet with saliva. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Johnny laughed breathlessly and reached for you, pulling you on top of him and drawing a giggle from your lips. Your naked body landed on top of his, your chests pressed together as he tangled his hand in the back of your hair and dragged you down into a playful kiss.

Your lips moved together like they had always known one another. You straddled Johnny’s waist, legs on either side of his hips as you kissed him. His free hand rubbed down the smooth skin of your back and gripped your ass, making you gasp into the kiss. He chuckled.

“You’re perfect, y’know that?” he said quietly against your lips. He licked into your mouth, tasting a hint of the wine you’d had together, now forgotten across the room. A moan rumbled from his chest and against yours as your tongues rolled together, his cock pressed right up against what he wanted more than anything.

“You’re too sweet, Johnny,” you said as you broke the kiss and sat up. You rolled your hips experimentally, his cock dragging through your soaked folds. Johnny gasped, his hands flying to grip your hips tightly.

“Shit,” he hissed. “I can’t take it anymore. I need to fuck you right now.”

You moaned, you could feel his impressive length pressing insistently against you. He needed it bad tonight - you loved it when he got like this. Sometimes he was so needy and desperate, sometimes he was dominant and in control. Tonight was the former, and you weren’t complaining. “D’you want me to ride you, baby?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

You lifted yourself up on your knees and Johnny reached beneath you to line his cock up with your hole. His thick tip was pressed tight against you, his blue eyes looking up into yours with so much fiery lust behind them it took your breath away.

You mentally prepared yourself, then lowered, sinking down onto Johnny’s thick cock slowly. His head dropped back and he let out a loud groan - you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole Baxter Building could hear him. Johnny was never shy about letting you know how good you felt.

He rocked his hips up into you right away, feet planted on the bed and his thigh muscles working as he pumped up into you. He was so deep already, your head tossed back as you cried out.

“Johnny! Oh my god-“

He was fucking you so hard from beneath you, you forgot you were supposed to be doing the work, too lost in your own pleasure. Eventually Johnny tugged on your hips, encouraging you to move. “Ride me, sweetheart. Please.”

You rocked your hips slowly at first, grinding down against him. You rested your hands on Johnny’s chest, rolling against him, the hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit just right. It felt incredible for you, but he needed more. He grabbed your ass in each of his large hands and started guiding you up and down, lifting you before letting you fall back down onto him.

The first drop back down onto him made Johnny’s back arch, a loud moan filling the air. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were straining, his pink, kiss swollen lips parted in a pretty O. Oh, he was needy.

You set a steady pace bouncing on his cock, Johnny watching your every move with intense focus. Your tits bounced with your movements - he couldn’t decide whether he’d rather look at that or the way his cock was disappearing inside you.

“Jesus,” Johnny groaned. “God, yes, keep riding me like that. You’re so tight around me, so fucking hot and wet- oh-“

“Feels so good, Johnny,” you cried, your voice higher than usual. He guided you a little faster, needing more, needing to fuck you deeper and harder. His cock felt so good with you wrapped around him - he’d never felt anything so good. He thought he could stay there indefinitely.

He sat up, burying his face in your bouncing tits and groaning as he groped them with his large, warm hands. His thumb swiped over the nipple of one while his hot mouth wrapped around the other, making you gasp. He moaned unabashedly, deep and low and drawn out, loud enough for the whole city to hear.

He fell back against the pillows and grabbed onto your hips again, guiding you faster. He was getting close, you could tell by the way his muscles were clenching, the way he needed more more more, the way he started whining and babbling and praising you like you were some deity bestowing upon him pleasures like he’d never before experienced.

“That’s it, that’s it sweetheart, keep riding me like that, keep- keep- fuuuuck- oh god-“ He was gasping, whimpering, losing control as his orgasm crept up his spine like electricity. “Need you to cum, baby, because I’m not far off.”

“‘m close, Johnny,” you whined, falling down onto his cock over and over, your head tilted back, his tip pressing so deep inside you - it was sending you reeling. When he moved a hand from your hip to rub quick, small circles on your clit with his thumb, it nearly made you scream. The coil in your belly tightened and tightened and tightened-

Your pussy clenched around Johnny again and again as you came, which was almost his undoing. You were screaming and moaning his name and Johnny was trying to hold it together just a little bit longer, just a little more, he didn’t want it to be over yet but-

Flames crackled on his skin as he let out a roar of a moan, planting his feet and thrusting his hips up into you as hard as he could. You gasped, surprised by the actual fire flickering along his arched body - but you were too fucked out with his cockhead currently buried as deep in you as possible while he held you there, his cum dripping out of you and down the sides of his shaft.

You were both shaking hard as you came down. The flames disappeared and you were left with your normal not-flaming boyfriend, still holding onto your hips while he tried to catch his breath, his chest shining with sweat.

“Jesus,” you finally said, laughing lightly. Johnny joined you, breathless but chuckling at the situation. He helped you carefully pull off of him, more of the cum he’d given you dripping from your hole. His eyes zeroed in on it, and you thought you heard him whimper.

“That was incredible,” Johnny said. He reached for his bedside table and grabbed a water bottle sitting there, opening it and taking a long drink.

“Do you usually catch on fire when you have sex?” you teased.

“Only when it’s fucking incredible,” he said, giving you that charming Johnny Storm smirk. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. “You’re incredible. I love you.”

“I love you too, Johnny.” You kissed him again. You cuddled up to his side on the bed. “Is it okay that you…y’know…” Johnny had never cum inside of you like that before. Usually you used condoms, or he pulled out. 

“I can get you a morning after pill if you’re nervous,” he said quietly. “But with my powers, my DNA mutation - I’m not even sure if I can have kids. Reed and Sue have wanted them for ages and it never happened.” He shrugged sadly, still a hint of a smile on his face. “Kinda sucks, because I really wanted kids one day.”

The idea of never being able to have children with Johnny made you sad. It made your heart ache. You knew any child would be the luckiest in the world to have Johnny as their father.

“You don’t have to,” you said. “I know it's unlikely.”

Johnny kissed your temple. He knew how badly you wanted children, and he felt terrible he couldn’t give them to you. “I love you, sweetheart,” he said simply again. “I’m always gonna take care of you.”

“I love you too, Johnny.” You nuzzled into his neck, slumber catching up to your aching body. “I’m gonna take care of you, too.”

He chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath your head. He stroked your hair as you laid together and held you close.

“You are everything to me.”

“I can’t believe she’s having a baby,” Johnny laughed as you closed the door to your bedroom, still wrapping his mind around the news of his sister being pregnant. He was thrilled, that much was clear. Sue was happy, he was happy - he knew Reed would take good care of both of them. That wasn’t even a concern. They’d wanted a baby for so long. He shook his head with a smile, running a hand through his blonde hair.

“Yeah,” you said, trying to muster up as much enthusiasm in your voice as you could. “It’s really exciting!”

The truth was, your stomach was buzzing with nerves. You were beyond happy for her, but Sue announcing a pregnancy was the last thing you expected tonight - 

You had been planning an announcement for Johnny yourself.

Now, you weren’t sure what to do. You didn’t want to take over Sue and Reed’s baby news, especially with how long they’d been waiting for this. And sure, Johnny was over the moon about becoming an uncle - but how would he feel about becoming a dad? Right now?

Johnny gave you a strange look as he sat on the end of the bed, removing his shoes. “You okay? You seem…weird.”

“I’m fine!” you exclaimed, maybe with a little too much energy. “Seriously, I’m fine. It was just…a big evening.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But…something’s off. Are you not happy?”

“No!” you blurted too quickly. “I mean, yes, I am. It’s not that, I swear.”

You had begun to pace, fingers tangled together. Johnny was properly concerned now, leaning on his knees as he watched you. When he couldn’t take it anymore he reached out, grabbing your hand and stopping you. “Sweetheart. What’s bothering you? You know you can tell me anything.”

Unable to keep pacing with your hand in his, you felt like the news was going to burst out without your permission. “It’s nothing, Johnny, I promise.”

He pulled you down onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. “What, do you want a baby now that it’s on the table?” he asked, his tone teasing. Your stomach clenched in a knot, your skin like ice.

“What?” you asked, your laugh too high, too awkward to be casual. “What are you talking about?”

“Did my sister’s announcement give you baby fever?” he teased you even more, oblivious to your internal panic. “We’ll have one one day, baby. I wanna get married first, wait until things feel…right.”

That made you feel even worse. Would he not want the baby now? The way he’s talking now makes it sound like he doesn’t want one. But you were pregnant. It was happening whether it was the right time or not.

You felt tears brimming in your eyes. Your gaze was locked on the floor, avoiding Johnny entirely. When you didn’t laugh or joke back, he moved to look at your face better, seeing your wet eyes and trembling lower lip.

“Jesus, baby, what’s going on?” he asked, placing his hands on either side of your face. “I was just messing around. What’s bothering you so much?”

Your hormones were really getting to you. You weren’t much of a crier, not usually, which was what had Johnny extra freaked out as you sobbed in his lap. He rubbed your arms up and down soothingly, his warmth transferring to you. “Baby, please. Just tell me what’s wrong so I can help. I hate seeing you like this and feeling helpless.”

You shook your head. “I can’t. I…I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” The longer you went without just telling Johnny what was wrong, the worse his panic got. “Sweetheart, please. Just tell me, you- you can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I just…” you sniffled, wiping at your eyes. Johnny wiped a stray tear away with his thumb. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

“How you wanted what to go?” He was so lost. “Baby, please, just tell me. I’m so confused. You know I’m not good at…figuring feelings out. If I did something wrong, please just tell me.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Johnny.” You met his blue eyes, your own red and puffy. It broke his heart. “I just…I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot going on.”

“Like what?” he asked. “Let me help. Please. You don’t have to do anything alone.” He squeezed your hip. “I’m your family. We’re your family now.”

A deep breath. You had to tell him. And he knew enough now to be scared - it had to be now. “Johnny…”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he said. He was looking right into your eyes, you were surprised he couldn’t read your thoughts straight out of your head. Those eyes were so intense, they could have fooled you. “Let me in.”

“I…” He squeezed your hands in his. You took comfort in his touch. “Johnny, I’m pregnant.”

It was like time stopped. Neither of you moved an inch - or even breathed. Johnny just kept staring at you as if you hadn’t said anything. Then, finally - “Are you serious?”

You nodded. You were terrified as you watched him, waiting for his reaction. He looked like he was processing the words, like they hadn’t fully set in yet. Then-

“Really? A little Storm baby? Right now?” he grinned - but his mouth dropped when something else occurred to him. “And they’ll have a built-in best friend!”

“You’re happy?” you asked. Relief flooded your veins, but you were still shaking from the anxiety. “You want this?”

“What do you- of course I want this,” he said, laughing like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. He rubbed your upper arms, warming your entire body. “Who cares if we’re not married yet? This is the best news. We’ve gotta tell everyone right now.”

“Hold on,” you said, laughing lightly. Johnny had surprised you - he looked ecstatic. You had been worried for nothing. “Sue just announced, I don’t want to take away from her moment. They tried for a long time.”

Johnny considered your words. “She’s going to be happy for us,” he said.

“I know she will be.” His blue eyes were shining, the excitement physically visible in them. “But this is her moment. I don’t want to take that away from her and Reed.”

Despite your words, he still couldn’t wipe the huge grin off his face - he was happy enough at the idea of becoming an uncle, but a father too? This was one of the best days of his life. “Okay. We’ll wait. But this is the best. Who could have predicted me and my sister having babies at the exact same time?”

“It is pretty crazy,” you said, your voice nervous. You were still wrapping your mind around the situation yourself. You’d only known for two days, and had spent those worrying yourself sick over Johnny’s reaction. You had finally worked up the courage, but the news of Sue’s pregnancy coming out at Sunday dinner was the last thing you expected.

You knew that, eventually, this would be amazing. Two cousins so close to the same age were bound to be close. But you worried about how Sue and Reed would feel. Would they be hurt? Would they resent you and Johnny for getting pregnant so easily? By accident?

The anxiety made you sick. Even when you changed into your pajamas and climbed into bed with Johnny, your boyfriend spooning against your back with his hand already resting protectively on your stomach - you worried. Johnny snored softly in your ear and you thought about how you might have just ruined everything in your new family.

It was two weeks after telling Johnny about the pregnancy, and Sunday dinner had once again rolled around. You were content to keep the secret for a while longer still, but Johnny was driving you crazy about it. Every day he asked when you could announce, every day he begged you to say yes.

You’d finally agreed. Now Johnny was practically bouncing off the walls, excited for dinner. He was dressed handsomely, a button down shirt with dark blue pants. You had been suffering from the worst morning sickness the past week, and only had the energy to dress in an oversized t-shirt and leggings.

He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as you ate, and the others definitely noticed, looking at him strangely. Finally, as dinner was wrapping up, Sue spoke up.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” she asked her younger brother as she helped gather dirty plates, Johnny trailing behind her with more dishes. “You look like you have some good news.”

Johnny beamed at you - you mustered up a half hearted smile in return, but in reality your heart was beating out of your chest, your throat felt like it was closing. You’d hardly said a word all evening and didn’t have much of an appetite, most of your plate untouched. With the moment now here, you thought the little you had eaten might make a reappearance.

“I do, actually,” Johnny said, grabbing the box of Lucky Charms off the counter despite having just eaten. He grabbed some and popped them in his mouth.

Sue, Reed, and Ben looked at him with more concern than anything, exchanging a look with their eyebrows drawn together. That made you even more sick.

“What is it?” Reed asked. Johnny had everyone’s full attention now.

“Well,” he said, trying somewhat to contain his face-splitting smile. He sat the box down and walked back to where you sat, standing behind you. He placed his hands on the back of your chair. “We have something exciting to tell you guys.” He glanced down at you, then back at his family. “We’re having a baby.”

It was so silent, only the soft whirrs of Herbie as he bustled around filled the air. Reed and Ben looked at Sue - it was tense. Johnny’s smile began to falter.

“Wow,” she finally said, and it was obvious that was the last thing they expected Johnny to say. Her face was stone, and you felt your heart actually crack when you noticed her eyes becoming glassy. “That’s…wow.”

Reed reached over and took his wife’s hand, looking at her like he wanted to read her mind. She was unreadable, however.

You looked up at Johnny. He looked back down at you, the sudden understanding of your concerns now all over his face. He looked back at his sister, eyes darting to Ben and Reed before meeting hers again. “Are you…upset?”

“No!” she said quickly. “No. I’m not upset. It’s just…you know, it’s a lot.” She smiled, although it seemed a little forced. She let go of Reed’s hand and stood, approaching her brother and wrapping him in a tight hug.

Johnny glanced at you, but hugged her back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked her quietly.

“Of course I’m okay,” she said. “I just…Johnny, I can’t believe it.” They parted and she looked at each person in the room. “What are the odds, huh?”

“A little reckless maybe, don’t you think?” 

You all looked at Reed. He wasn’t smiling. The look on his face was completely unamused, serious. “Was it an accident?”

No one said anything. The question hung in the air, although each person there already knew the answer.

“Why does that matter?” Johnny finally asked.

“Have you even thought of the repercussions? The potential consequences? Dangers?” Reed asked. He gestured to you, towards your belly, and you covered it with your arms. “The child’s father has cosmically compromised DNA. You have powers, and she doesn’t. Have you thought of what might happen to her carrying your child?”

Silence. Neither you nor Johnny had even considered that. Johnny looked down at you with something a little like panic in his eyes.

“That- what do you mean?” he stuttered. “Could something happen to her?”

“We don’t know what could happen,” Reed said. “That’s why you were reckless.”

“We just don’t know if we’re going to have a fire baby to worry about,” Ben said lightly. The idea made you cringe.

“You don’t know what’s going to happen with two parents with powers, either,” Johnny said. “This is new territory for all of us.”

“I know,” Reed said. “I’ve been developing a device to scan the baby and check for abnormalities.” He nodded to Sue, then you. “I can check them both.”

Johnny looked at you. The sweat on your brow and the trembling in your hands were immediately noticeable - you were scared shitless. He crouched down next to your chair, speaking quietly for you only. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Could something really happen?” you asked him. “To the baby? To me?”

His mouth opened to tell you no, of course not. You’re safe. I would never let anything happen to either of you. But the truth was that he had no idea - no one did. And if something bad did happen, he thought, it would be his fault. He did this to you.

“I don’t know, baby,” he said. “But I can promise you I will do everything in my power to keep you both safe. And Reed is gonna make sure there’s nothing going on while that little Storm’s brewing.” A goofy grin took over his face as he placed a hand on your belly.

“Oh, come on,” Ben groaned, unamused by the pun.

Johnny stood. “Whatever you have to do to make sure she’s going to be okay,” he said to Reed, “that they’re both going to be okay- do it. I can’t lose-“ He stopped, taking a deep breath. “I can’t let anything happen to her.”

“Getting this machine built is my top priority,” Reed said. “I promise you, I’m going to do everything I can for both of them.”

You were relieved when everyone started returning to their rooms. You were exhausted, still felt sick, and were now stressed beyond belief. Johnny gave Herbie a scratch on the head - “Night, Herbert.” - to which he beeped contentedly.

As you were about to leave with Johnny, Sue stopped you. She hurried over, but once she reached you, she wasn’t sure what to say. Eventually, she smiled at you apologetically, grabbing your upper arms and running her hands down until they rested on your elbows.

She said your name, then looked at Johnny, giving him a look that said Some privacy, please? Johnny held his hands up, backing away.

Sue’s attention now fully on you, you felt nervous once again. You’d always liked Sue - you and Johnny had been dating a year now, and she had been nothing but kind to you since you’d known her. But this was a different circumstance entirely.

“I wanted to tell you congratulations,” she said. “And apologize for the way I reacted when you told us the news. It just- it shocked me. It was a shock. Reed and I- well, you know.” She smiled softly. “But I really am happy for you and Johnny. He’s going to be a great dad. I should have told him so.”

Warmth spread through your veins, comfort - like a hug from Johnny himself. Relief. “You don’t have to apologize,” you assured her. “I understand how you felt. I’m sorry we kind of…made you share the most important event of your life.” You grimaced - you felt horrible about it, even though you hadn’t in any way meant to get pregnant.

“I don’t mind sharing with you and my baby brother,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ve shared a lot with him over the years.”

You laughed lightly. “Thank you, Sue. And I am really, really happy for you. I know you’ve wanted a baby for a long time.”

“Thank you.” She pulled you into a tight hug. “You’re going to be an incredible mother.”

With the news out amongst the family and your bumps becoming increasingly difficult to hide, it was time to come out and tell the press. You announced with a spread on a magazine cover, the Four with two empty baby seats.

The public debated whether you and Sue would have boys or girls. Most seemed to think you were both having boys, but whatever the stance, everyone was passionate about theirs. There were articles, polls, bets being exchanged.

“The countdown continues as the Fantastic Four prepare to welcome two new members to the family,” the reporters were saying. “Preparations inside the Baxter Building are well underway!”

And they were. Herbie was busy baby proofing the entire building, flitting around and making sure everything was safe for the new arrivals. He was just as excited as the rest of you. He put plug covers in all the sockets, moved sharp objects out of the way, installed locks on the cabinets, placed baby gates - much to Ben’s annoyance.

“The question on everyone’s mind is - will the babies be born with superpowers?” 

It was true - everyone wondered. Even you. Even Johnny.

You thought back to Ben’s joke. What if you really did have a little fire baby to worry about? The idea of your child bursting into flames terrified you - it was still weird enough when Johnny did it.

The public wasn’t quite as nice to you as they were to Sue and Reed. Between a married couple who had been hoping for a baby for years, and a couple who had been dating for a year and got pregnant by accident - yeah, it wasn’t hard to imagine who they favored. As if it were a competition and not your family.

Gossip magazines had a lot to say about you in particular. Johnny was beloved, but you? You were just some girl who came out of nowhere, took the world’s most eligible bachelor off the market, then overshadowed the pregnancy of everyone’s favorite family.

There was a lot said about your intentions, like that you were only with Johnny for money and fame. They speculated that Sue secretly hated you. They implied you had trapped him with this pregnancy. How could the public be so happy for Johnny while being so cruel to you?

Johnny always told you to ignore it, that it wasn’t worth even keeping up with what those people were saying. But that was impossible for you - it’s like you had to know. Every time you passed a gossip mag at the store, you had to read the cover. You couldn’t help it.

“Those people don’t know anything,” Johnny would say. “Seriously. They have nothing better to do but make up fake drama. It’s sad. Please don’t pay attention to them, sweetheart.” A lopsided grin. “You’re my future wife. The love of my life. The mother of my child. No one is going to change that.”

You got to where you didn’t even want to leave the building anymore because you’d be followed by reporters. You were already struggling enough with the way your body was beginning to change, the last thing you needed was an unflattering photo of yourself ending up on the cover of another magazine, speculating if you’re having twins based on the size of your bump.

Johnny hated to see you isolate yourself. He was constantly trying to convince you to leave the building, to at least go on a walk with him. You’d agree some of the time, but not as often as he’d like.

“You and the baby need fresh air,” he’d plead. “It’s not good to stay cooped up in here all day.”

You would be cuddled in bed like a burrito at 2pm. “I just don’t feel up to it, Johnny.”

Johnny frowned. “It hurts to see you like this,” he said softly. “You’re depressed, sweetheart. I hate that these people are getting to you. It makes me so…” He looked away from you, flames combusting on his skin. You jumped - it was still so strange.

“Sorry,” he said, the flames disappearing. He smiled sheepishly at you. “It’s just…I wish I could do something. I wish I could do more. I’m not used to feeling helpless.” He rubbed his hand over your back, and you let out a deep sigh. “Just want my girl to be happy and safe.”

The gossip slowed down eventually as your pregnancy progressed, much to your relief. Despite the way they’d treated you, the public was absolutely beside themselves at the thought of Johnny and Sue both having babies. You were even asked to do a photo shoot with her for a magazine - that was completely out of your depth, but you’d done it.

You felt so small standing next to Sue Storm. Like, who cares about me?

Your family did, and they showed you that every day. Before long, you were feeling more like yourself again, walking around in public with your bump proudly visible, hand on it protectively. The public warmed up to you. You were really becoming a part of the family - in everyone’s eyes.

“Can I carry that for you, sweetheart?”

You turned, seeing Johnny jogging up to you. He reached for the laundry basket in your hands.

“Oh, sure,” you said, handing it off to him. He grinned - he always did have the most charming smile. It made your stomach fill with butterflies, just like the first time you’d seen him in person.

He followed you back to the bedroom with the basket, placing it down on the bed. He lifted a shirt from the top of the pile and began folding it.

“Babe, you don’t have to do that,” you said, placing your hand on his arm. He turned to look at you, those blue eyes so close to your own, it nearly took your breath away.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t want you to have to do it. You should rest. You’ve still been so sick.”

“That’s sweet, Johnny, but no, seriously. Herbie usually does it.”

Johnny stopped, his cheeks tinged pink. “Oh. Yeah. That’s right, isn’t it?”

You giggled. “What’s gotten into you?”

Johnny sat on the bed, reaching for your hand and pulling you down to sit on his lap. His hand settled on your four months pregnant belly. “Nothing,” he said. “I just wanna take good care of my girl. You know there’s two things I love-“

“Yeah, yeah, Johnny loves space, Johnny loves women,” you teased. Johnny chuckled.

“Johnny loves you,” he said. “He loves his girl,” he rubbed his hand across your small bump, “and he loves whoever this one is going to grow to be.”

“Will this tell us if everything’s okay?” you asked, standing nervously in Reed’s lab. Sue stood to the side, there for moral support - they were all concerned about you especially.

“It should,” Reed said. “I’ve developed and tested it extensively, and ran some tests on Sue just this morning.” He looked at his wife. “It did not detect any anomalies.”

That was a relief - but it didn’t mean you would have the same result.

You wished Johnny was there. But he was busy, and he had been bugging Reed about the new space suits so relentlessly, you know he certainly didn’t miss him.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Sue said softly, sitting her hand on your shoulder. “It’s quick and painless.”

You nodded. You were scared, but you would also do absolutely anything this baby needed. You laid down on the cool table. There was nothing visibly interesting about it - it was a flat white table with a piece that arced over your stomach.

Sue stood by as Reed worked the machine. It emitted a bright light, scanning over your stomach. The machine began printing all kinds of…graphs and measurements. You had no idea what you were looking at. You often felt a little inadequate in a family full of geniuses. You were just…you. No powers, no fancy degree. Never been to space. Just a girl who’s boyfriend/baby daddy flies and occasionally combusts.

Reed and Sue both examined the results that were printing rapidly. Reed wrote some things down, while Sue pointed over his shoulder, saying some things too quietly for you to hear. It made you nervous.

They still hadn’t told you anything when Reed shut the machine off. You looked at both of them. “So? Is the baby…is everything okay?”

They exchanged a look. “There’s…some kind of anomaly,” Reed said carefully. Your body went cold. “I don’t know what it is. I’m going to have to do more tests, but for now, I need you to relax. I don’t see anything that has me immediately concerned.”

“But you just said-“

“I know.” He looked at you seriously, Sue hovering behind him. “Just because there’s some kind of anomaly doesn’t mean it’s necessarily…bad. The baby’s father is an anomaly himself.” He smiled in a way that felt like he was trying to comfort you. “I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to keep running tests.”

Your mind was spinning for the rest of the day. When you saw Johnny that evening, his brow immediately creased, knowing something was on your mind right away. “What’s going on? You look…bothered,” he asked as he ate Lucky Charms straight from the box. You hadn’t even had dinner yet.

“It’s just…” you sighed. “Reed said he found some kind of anomaly on the test.”

His concern visibly deepened. “What kind of anomaly?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “That’s all he said. That there was an anomaly but not to worry about it because he’s going to run more tests.”

Johnny looked lost deep in his own head. His brow was furrowed as his mind filled with a million thoughts you’d never understand. Suddenly, he stood. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” you asked him - he was already at the door.

“To the lab,” he said simply.

And he was gone.

“What do you mean there are anomalies?” Johnny asked his brother in law as he stormed into the lab. Reed turned from the chalkboard, only mildly surprised. “What does that mean? What kind of anomalies?”

Reed sat his chalk down. “Hi, Johnny. Good to see you.”

Johnny looked at the machine as he passed it, his hand rubbing over the top of it. He picked up a long strip of paper with your results on it, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking at. He looked back at Reed. “What kind of anomalies?” he asked again. “Reed, be straight with me.”

Reed sighed. “I don’t think it’s anything too serious. I want to start with that,” he said. “But there’s something…off. I need to do more tests, that’s the truth. I don’t have any concrete answers for you. I’m sorry.”

Johnny shook his head. “What about Sue?”

“I haven’t detected anything from Sue.”

“So it’s just my child,” he said bitterly. “Two parents with two different powers are fine, but my powers alone are enough to mess things up?”

“We don’t know that anything’s messed up,” Reed explained patiently. “I need you to calm down, Johnny. There’s no reason to panic right now.”

“Right now?” he said. “So I panic later?”

“That’s usually how it goes,” Reed joked - but Johnny was unamused. “Look. If I find something that seriously concerns me, you two will be the first to hear it. I promise. For now, I need you to trust me.”

Johnny hated feeling helpless. Even now, he wasn’t angry - he was scared. Terrified. But what could he do besides trust his brother?

“Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll try.”

Reed clapped him on the shoulder. “Fatherhood is terrifying,” he said. “Super powers or not. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Worrying about your family is normal. I know you love them both.”

“More than anything,” Johnny said quietly. “I love them so much it…” He rubbed his chest. “God, it hurts.”

A knowing smile crossed Reed’s face - because he knew the exact feeling.

“Shit,” Johnny hissed, sucking his pinched finger into his mouth. “Baby, can you hand me the screwdriver?”

You leaned over, hand on your swollen belly as you grabbed the screwdriver from the floor with great effort. You were huffing by the time you handed the tool to your boyfriend, and he turned around, giving you a winning smile.

“We could have let Herbie do this, you know,” you said. “That’s what Reed did.”

Johnny waved you off. “I’m going to put my own child’s crib together myself.” He nodded towards the rocking chair in the corner. “You should sit down.”

He didn’t have to tell you twice. Your feet were killing you. You waddled over to the glider, sitting down carefully. Your feet up on the foot stool, you watched Johnny building the baby furniture.

“Only a couple months left,” Johnny mused. “Getting close.”

“Yep,” you agreed. You looked down at your round bump as you rubbed your hand over it affectionately. “Are you coming with me to the lab after this for Reed’s test?”

“Of course,” he said instantly. “I feel bad I haven’t made the others.”

The thought filled you with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. It was still such an abstract thought, the baby in your belly. You knew they were real, and they were growing and healthy - you could feel them most of the time, sticking an arm against your spine or kicking you so hard in the bladder you had to run - it was a comfort, although uncomfortable.

“Are you nervous?” you asked him. He screwed in the leg of the crib and turned back to face you.

“To have the baby?” he questioned. “Honestly? Yeah. I’m scared out of my mind. But I’m excited.” His blue eyes glittered with it. He was practically buzzing out of his skin - you were surprised his hair wasn’t on fire.

“I hope they look like you,” you said lightly, your fingers dancing over the bump ever so gently, lost in the cloud of your thoughts.

“Me?” He gave the railing of the crib a shake, making sure the finished thing was sturdy before he looked at you again. “Why?”

You looked at him like he was dumb. “Have you seen yourself?”

Johnny’s cheeks tinted pink. “Okay, Ms. Flaming Hearts Club,” he teased. “Were you the one who kept sending me those filthy love poems with the lipstick prints?”

“You caught me,” you grinned.

Johnny shook his head, laughing. Unfortunately, you remembered those poems from his mystery admirer vividly. They were far from family friendly.

He stood, moving to a box next to the completed crib. He opened it and started pulling out space themed decorations - a mobile of the planets, glow in the dark stars, a blanket printed with constellations. You stood with some effort and joined Johnny by the side of the crib.

He lifted the mobile, installing it above the crib. You watched him work quietly - he was careful and precise. When it was hung perfectly, he smiled down at you.

“It’s coming together,” you said. Almost all the baby prep tasks had been completed - the Baxter Building was completely prepared for the two newest members.

Johnny looked a little pale. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Almost time.” He was quiet. He rested both hands on your bump, now large and very much in the way. His thumbs rubbed over it while he looked down with all the affection in the world on his face.

“I hope they don’t have powers.”

The statement caught you off guard. Johnny had never said anything like that before, and you had just assumed he’d want the baby to be like him. But now his words told a different story, one coming from a place of love - and anxiety.

“Why?” you asked softly. You got the vibe it was a sensitive subject for him.

“I just…” he sighed. “I want them to have a normal life. Having powers…it comes with an expectation, a responsibility. I didn’t ask to have powers. It just happened to me.” You were quiet. You hadn’t known Johnny before the accident, and he had never talked about it. You let him continue.

“I don’t want their life decided for them like that,” he went on. “I want them to be able to do and be whatever they want to be. Not born in a Fantastic Four suit.” He smiled crookedly. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“I can understand that,” you said. The baby moved beneath Johnny’s hand, giving him a strong kick. He smiled. “I just want them to be healthy and happy. And if you think having powers would prevent that, then I agree with you.”

“I do think that,” he said, quiet. You wondered if he had thoughts about his own powers he’d never spoken aloud. “I want them to have a good life. An easy life.”

He gazed into your eyes, like he was reading you from the inside. His hand came to rest on your cheek. “You’re going to be the best mom, you know,” he said, so quietly. “I know we didn’t mean for this to happen right now…” He traced his thumb over your bottom lip, and you let out a short gasp. “But there is no one I’d rather be having a baby with. This baby is going to be so lucky to have you.” 

Herbie hurried in at that moment with a basket of freshly washed and folded baby clothes, saying a little “Hello,” as he sat the basket down and began putting the clothes away. Johnny scratched the robot on the top of the head.

“Thanks, Herbert, you’re a lifesaver,” he said. Herbie happily beeped in response.

“Ready?” Johnny asked you as Herbie continued his work, hand on your lower back. “Let’s go check on this baby.”

Laying on the table in Reed’s lab once again, the machine doing its job, you watched Johnny’s anxiety manifest by being as annoying to Reed as possible.

“So is this test gonna give us answers this time or what?” he asked, pacing next to where you laid. He was giving you anxiety with the way he wouldn’t stay still. Reed was trying to ignore him, Sue standing and reading the results over her husband’s shoulder.

“It should tell us more, yes,” Reed said, distracted, but he’d already been over this. He was being remarkably patient with him. But the longer he focused on the endless graphs and lines, the more nervous you and Johnny became.

Reed gripped the paper in his hands, staring at it intently. He was reading quickly, clearly thinking a thousand miles a minute. The look on his face made you nauseous - he was concentrating, and if something was going on to make Reed act like this, it was something.

“…What is it?” Johnny asked, his heart beating uncomfortably hard. “Just tell me. Is something wrong?”

“It…” Reed stopped himself, looking back over the paper. Johnny stopped next to you, and you reached for each others’ hand. “It appears as if their DNA has also been…altered,” Reed mumbled.

Quiet. “What do you mean?” Johnny asked, his voice dead serious. Not a hint of his usual goofy personality.

Reed looked up at Johnny - then at Sue, back to his paper, to you, and finally Johnny again, who was waiting. “They’ve inherited the father’s mutated DNA. They have the X-gene.”

Johnny’s eyes went wide. You looked at everyone, but no one was explaining anything. “What does that mean?” you asked, anxiety rising in your voice. Reed was about to answer, but Johnny wasn’t even looking at you. 

“So - a mutant,” Johnny said.

Another exchange of looks between Reed and Sue. “By definition…yes.”

“A mutant?” you asked, sitting up on your elbows. “What does that mean? Will they be-“ You didn’t even know what you were asking. You didn’t know what any of this meant, if it was bad news or not.

“It means they will develop powers at some point in their life,” Sue explained. “They have the X-gene exclusive to mutants.”

The information sent your head spinning. Your child would have powers after all. You hadn’t thought news like that would have upset you, but after your conversation with Johnny, you saw things a different way.

Speaking of Johnny, you looked up at your boyfriend, who was still staring at Reed, his face hard as stone. “They have powers.”

“They will,” Reed confirmed. “I don’t know when they’ll appear, or what they’ll be, but…”

Johnny abruptly pulled a chair out, sinking into it. You didn’t notice how he was shaking until he was sitting next to you, his hands intertwined in front of his mouth. He was thinking.

“It’s nothing to panic about,” Reed said. “We’ve been living with these powers for years now, and I will be performing further testing-“

“I just didn’t want this,” Johnny said simply. His words echoed through the room in the silence.

Reed closed his mouth, going back to the results, giving Johnny time. You didn’t know what to say either - was there anything you could say to make anything better? You didn’t think so. Not right now.

It was Sue who stepped forward, her left hand resting on her baby brother’s back and her right on her stomach. Johnny looked at her, and it was like they were communicating something to each other by nothing but their eyes.

“Would it make you feel better if you could see the baby?” she asked him gently.

Your lips parted in surprise - she could make that happen? - but Johnny looked up at his sister like she’d just uttered the secret to the universe. “You’ll do that for us?”

“Of course I will,” she said. She was looking at Johnny with so much love, it made your chest feel warm. They both turned to look at you. “Would you want that?”

It took you a minute to catch up to the conversation. “What? To…see the baby?”

Sue and Johnny nodded.

“Will it…hurt?”

Johnny chuckled. “No, sweetheart. I promise it won’t.”

You laid back down on the table, your head slightly inclined. Reed and Sue moved in close on your left side, while Johnny was on your right. You didn’t know what to expect.

Carefully, Sue laid her hand against the bottom of your belly, yours resting on top. It was just a minute of anticipatory silence, and then - your body, your stomach, became invisible, revealing the baby curled snugly inside.

“Oh my god-“

The choked words, like holding back a sob, were the first thing you heard. Johnny had covered his mouth with his hand, his blue eyes wet and shining in the light of the lab. His forehead was creased, and his eyes were locked on your stomach - at the baby inside. He looked like he was about 2 seconds away from losing it.

You were right there with him. There really was a baby in there - the thoughts you’d had the past months about not being able to wrap your mind around it were out the window with the vision in front of you. That was your child. The baby’s head was pressed right against where your hand rested. They were curled up in a little ball, eyes closed. Their nose reminded you of Johnny’s. Your heart was beating out of control, and you hadn’t even noticed the tears that had spilled down your face.

Reed and Sue let the two of you take your time. Sue cradled your belly like it was the most precious thing as she used her powers on you for the first time. She was the baby’s aunt, and she had so much love for them already, it was clear in her expression.

You looked at Johnny again. He was looking at your stomach with absolute awe - you wished you could hear what he was thinking. Slowly, like he was scared, he reached out and gently laid his palm on your stomach.

“See?” Sue said “There’s nothing wrong. Nothing to worry about.” She rubbed your stomach affectionately. “She’s perfect.”

“She,” Johnny repeated, his voice a mere whisper. You hadn’t even caught that yourself, hadn’t been able to think any deeper than seeing your child finally in front of your eyes. “She.”

It hadn’t even occurred to you that with seeing your baby, you’d be finding out what you were having. That wasn’t just the baby - that was your daughter. You were lost in your own thoughts when you heard a voice next to you that surprised you.

“Hey,” Johnny said quietly. He and his daughter might as well have been the only ones in the room. “Hey, baby girl. It’s your daddy.”

Reed and a teary-eyed Sue exchanged a look.

“I can’t wait to meet you,” Johnny continued. “You have the coolest family ever. You’re going to be the coolest person ever. And…” he was quiet for a moment. “And I’m going to teach you everything I know. One day, you’ll see space, too.”

Before you could completely burst into tears, Johnny turned to look you in the eyes. There was so much unspoken between you, it felt like something tangible taking up space and air. He surged forwards and kissed you, then pressed your foreheads together.

“I love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love the both of you.”

At eight months pregnant now, you were starting to really be over the whole thing. You were aching, swollen, tired, and irritable, and it felt like Sue was handling pregnancy with a lot more grace than you were.

Not only did she come across as significantly less miserable - usually dressed nicely with her hair and makeup done while you could barely handle getting out of bed and throwing some sweatpants on - she was also just lucky. She didn’t have the crippling morning (all day) sickness like you did, and her bump was small and cute, nothing like how huge you were. You knew every pregnancy was different, but it seemed a little unfair.

Johnny had been doing everything in his power to cheer you up. He took care of you, rubbed your back and feet, put lotion on your belly, and kept you company when you were too miserable to leave the building. However your pregnancy hormones were raging, and he often got snapped at - followed by a tearful apology.

He never minded.

You were looking for him now, waddling throughout the house with a hand on your stomach for support. Something you hadn’t been prepared for was your sense of gravity being thrown off - that was strange.

He wasn’t in the kitchen, and you had just left Reed’s lab after another scan - nothing new to report. Baby girl was totally healthy and not throwing you any more shocks. She was getting so big - she’d be there before you knew it.

You huffed as you dragged yourself up the stairs, getting plenty of use out of the handrail. By the time you reached the top you were breathing heavily, having to take a minute to lean against the wall at the top and catch your breath. Finally, you made your way to the bedroom.

There he was.

Johnny stood across the room at the window. His back was to you, so you didn’t even know if he knew you were there. He was staring out, the longing nearly radiating off his body. He was looking at the spaceship.

You walked up behind him, your feet sliding against the plush carpet. He didn’t turn, which was odd - you weren’t trying to be quiet. He only got like this when he had a lot on his mind.

And he did have a lot on his mind. Now that the due date was getting closer and closer, he knew he was running out of time to be ready to be a father. This baby girl was coming whether he liked it or not. The Baxter Building would be a much different place when the babies arrived.

He thought to his own parents. After the death of his mother, his dad had tried his best with Sue and Johnny, but he saw how hard it was for him. Being a parent isn’t easy at all, and now he was about to become one. Very soon.

The thought of the baby being here filled him with an overwhelming anxiety. What if he didn’t know the first thing about being a dad? What if he was an awful one? What if he screwed his kid up? What if he got killed on a mission and left you both on your own? What if-

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

Johnny startled, snapped out of his spiraling thoughts, but he smiled when his eyes landed on you. “Space?” he asked, looking back out the window. “God, yes.”

He gestured you over, putting an arm around you. You looked out the window with him - the ship was a sight. It was massive, and it was in your backyard. Johnny looked at it often. It was his favorite part of this room.

“I always loved space,” he said. “It’s like nothing else. The most beautiful thing you’ll ever see in your life.” He looked back down at you, giving you a wink. “Well, one of them.”

You scoffed a laugh, and Johnny squeezed your shoulder. “Do you think you’ll go back one day?”

“Absolutely,” Johnny answered right away. “If I thought I would never see space again…I don’t know what I’d do.”

Space had been his first love. You had to respect it.

“Are you okay?” you asked him. “You just seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

Johnny didn’t say anything at first. You weren’t sure if he was going to answer you, but finally he sighed deeply and his lips parted, as if he was about to speak but lost the words.

“I’m okay,” he said. “We’re just, y’know, about to take a big step together. We’re about to be thrown into something we know absolutely nothing about. And it’s scary.” He chuckled lightly. “It scares me.”

“It scares me too,” you admitted. “But I know you’re going to be the greatest dad. Do you know how cool she’s going to be at school? Her dad is the Human Torch.”

Johnny laughed at that. The thing is, you weren’t wrong. These babies were being born into a family of celebrities - being born into celebrities themselves. His smile faded a little as he thought of that.

“I just…” He sighed as he thought. “I wanted her to be her own person.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “She will be,” you promised him. “Her life isn’t over just because she’s going to have powers. And who’s to say if she didn’t have them, she wouldn’t wish she did?” 

Johnny hasn’t considered that. “I guess that’s true.”

“The point is,” you said, “everything about parenthood is…uncertain. We don’t know who she’ll be or what she’ll be like or who she’ll grow into. But I know she’s going to love her daddy with her whole heart.” Johnny’s cheeks flushed at the title - he still wasn’t used to it yet. “She’s going to be strong and, more than anything, loved.”

He nodded, and you thought you saw him sneakily wiping his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m doing what I said I didn’t want to happen. I’m deciding what she wants for her.” He scoffed lightly. “Is it always going to be this hard?”

“Harder, I think,” you said jokingly - but it was the truth. Parenthood would only get more and more challenging. “Who knows. Maybe one day she’ll be on that ship with you.”

Another thought that Johnny hadn’t even allowed himself to consider. But with the idea in his head, he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his lips. “That would be…”

“Your dream?” you teased. “She’ll probably end up a genius like the rest of her family and leave me the only normal boring human.”

Johnny turned to you swiftly, placing his hands on either side of your face. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re nothing special,” he said firmly. “Because that’s not true. You are smart. You don’t have to be a damn scientist or astronaut for me to think you’re one of the smartest people I’ve met.”

You looked at him skeptically, your eyebrows raised. “You know how many scientists, engineers, and physicists you know?”

He smiled. “That doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean they’re smart.”

“Kinda does.”

“You’re missing the point.” He kissed your forehead. “I don’t want to hear you talking like you’re nobody. That couldn’t be less true. You’re everything.”

You looked down. “It’s just hard not to feel useless in a house full of superheroes and a very productive and cute robot.”

“Well, I can say for certain that you’re cuter,” he said. You giggled as he leaned in abruptly and kissed your cheek, his fingers tickling your sides. You laughed, fighting him off, pushing him away as he only pulled you closer. He covered your face in kisses when he finally caught you.

“I love you,” he said. “God, I love you. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Later that day, you were in the kitchen with the family. Herbie carved a pumpkin, Ben was working on a meringue, and you were helping Sue set the table.

You looked up as Johnny stormed in, grabbing a box of Lucky Charms. He was clearly in a bad mood.

“Hey,” Ben greeted him, before noticing his demeanor. “Why the long face? Your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well?” Johnny said nothing, which was answer enough. “I’m sorry, pal.”

“Hey, I’m fine, you know, I don’t mind. It’s just that-“

“We’ll go to space again,” Ben said.

“Yeah, we will.” Johnny said it with confidence. He pulled the toy out of the box of cereal. “Oh! Nice!”

He pointed the little figure at Ben, pressing the button - “Flame on! Flame on!” Ben took the toy and crushed it in his hand, blowing the dust back in Johnny’s face. You shook your head, but stifled a laugh.

After messing with Ben a little longer, Johnny made his way over to where you stood. He placed his hand on your belly and leaned in for a kiss.

“You sure you’re okay, honey?” you asked him quietly. You knew he’d been looking forward to this meeting with Reed for a while - he had really been hoping.

“I’m okay,” he said, smiling at you like he wanted you to believe it. “Ben’s right. We’ll go back. I just…need to wait.”

The last person to arrive to Sunday dinner, Reed walked in and straight to his wife. As he spoke to her and Johnny stood with you, hand caressing the bump, sirens went by outside - that was unusual.

Reed motioned you all out to the balcony. Johnny led you out, hand on your lower back as you all walked out the glass doors.

“For the last few months,” Reed said, “I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations.”

You peeked over the balcony - there was a police presence all over the city. Your eyes widened in shock.

“A small number, huh?” Ben said.

“47,” Reed said. He pointed out some specific organizations, pointing at different spots in the city. Often left in the dark about these things, you didn’t even realize there were that many in the city.

“You baby proofed the world,” Ben said.

“It’s a sweet gesture,” Sue grabbed Reed’s hand. You agreed - you wouldn’t complain about the city being safer for the babies.

“It’s a thorough gesture,” Ben continued. “But, uh, I like punching.”

“You mean clobbering?” Johnny goaded him.

“No, I mean punching.”

“Hey, what time is it?” he asked as Ben turned to go back inside the house.

“It’s dinner time.”

“You sure it’s not clobbering time?”

“Stop it.”

At that moment, as the five of you were turning to leave, the Four’s alarms began going off. You all turned to see some kind of explosion in the sky - fire and flashing lights. Johnny placed a hand on your shoulder, a silent You better be in this exact spot when I get back, and then he was gone - a creature of flame, taking off into the sky and directly into the heart of the danger.

You grabbed Sue’s hand as he went. “What’s going on?” you asked her weakly, hand protectively over your stomach. She placed a comforting hand on your back, but didn’t turn away from the sky.

“I don’t know,” she said. She turned to you. “But we’ve got to go. I need you to stay here.”

Once again reminded of your uselessness - you could do nothing but nod. What else could you do? Get in the way? Put yourself and your child in danger when there was nothing you could do to help?

You watched on with worry as Reed, Sue, and Ben left the building as quickly as possible, leaving you with Herbie. When they were gone, you watched the commotion through the window - until you ran to the TV and turned it on, wondering if anyone was reporting. You didn’t have to look far.

“Breaking news from Times Square.”

You watched on as a woman - an alien? - stood before the city. You clutched your chest with one hand and protectively held your bump with the other. You could see the Four standing, watching. Seeing Johnny safe sent relief flooding your veins.

“Are you the protectors of this world?”

“Yes, we are,” Sue said, standing with confidence.

“Your planet has been marked for death.”

You barely even processed anything she was saying after that. Marked for death? Fear struck into your very soul.

“I herald your end.”

When Johnny and the others returned, you ran into his arms. He held you tightly - this was his first time facing galactic danger while having a child and you to worry about. He found it made him feel sick, an unfamiliar kind of worry and uncertainty he wasn’t used to.

They all went straight to the lab upon return to the Baxter building - there was no time to waste. The fate of everyone was quite literally in their hands. You joined them, despite feeling like you had nothing to contribute.

Reed was tracking where the herald had been. He found at least five planets, destroyed - and she was at every one. Galactus could and would do exactly what she said.

The herald had spoken to everyone, but she had spoken only to Johnny directly. He was hung up on it - what had she said to him? It was in her native language, but, he thought, there had to be some way to decode it.

After the herald, Johnny became obsessed with solving the message. He was making progress, too - he discovered transmission recordings that were the same language. Whenever Johnny got like this, it was cute. You loved seeing him in his element, even if it meant he had less time for you. The baby prep was done, there was nothing more to do but wait for her to arrive. 

You were relaxing in the bathtub, the hot water soothing your aching muscles, while Johnny was in the bedroom, listening to the recordings. You gave him his space.

Sue walked in as he was working. “Okay. So she spoke to you, yeah? And?”

Johnny played her the recordings. “I don’t know who they are or what they’re saying, but this? This is the same. This is her language.”

Sue looked at her younger brother, impressed. “Okay. Maybe that is something.”

He held up his hand for a high five. “Reed wants to see you in the lab,” she said before slapping his hand.

She didn’t have to tell Johnny twice. He hurried straight there. “You summoned me?”

“I finally knocked it off the list,” Reed said.

Johnny furrowed his brow. “What?”

“The new space suits.”

He turned to see four brand new space suits, all set up and ready to be worn. Johnny was barely even listening to Reed as he examined the suits, then he pulled his brother into a hug. “I take back every single bad thing I’ve been saying about you. To myself. In private.”

Reed didn’t acknowledge the comment. “Are you ready to go back?” he asked.

“Of course,” Johnny said immediately. “I’ve missed it every day.”

“Even if it means leaving your family behind?”

Johnny hesitated. That was true. He thought of you, and your baby girl who would be here so soon - what if he missed the birth entirely? What if you needed him and he wasn’t even on the planet? What if something happened and he wasn’t here to protect you?

“I can see you thinking,” Reed said. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. You’ve been excited to go back, but things are…different now.”

Johnny nodded. Reed was exactly right. It was an unfamiliar feeling for him, to have something here that made Earth a place that was more like a true home. “Can I ask you a question?”

Reed was slightly taken aback. “Of course.”

Johnny sat the suit down and sunk into one of the chairs sitting around the lab. Reed sat across from him - he could tell Johnny had a lot on his mind.

“How are you so calm?” he finally asked his brother in law.

Reed shook his head with a light laugh. “I’m glad you think so, but I certainly don’t feel calm.”

That surprised Johnny. “You don’t?”

“No, of course not,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? I’ve been panicking for eight months.”

“Seriously?” Johnny asked with a laugh. “You could have fooled me. I’ve been wondering what the hell I’m doing wrong compared to you.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Reed assured him. “You’re going great. I can already see it in you - you’re a dad now.”

That hit Johnny like a shot to the chest. He jerked back in surprise. “What? You think so?”

“I can see it in you clearly,” Reed continued. “You’ve been making the transition since you found out. You take care of both your girls like there’s nothing more precious in the world. You put the crib together yourself - I can’t say I did the same,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, but you were in here building that,” Johnny motioned towards the table you’d laid on countless times by now. “You made that to make sure the babies are safe.”

“I did,” Reed agrees. “Sue would have liked me to build the crib.”

Johnny laughed. He was feeling looser, the longer he sat and talked to Reed. Two soon-to-be fathers. The only other man who knew what Johnny was going through right now.

The atmosphere turned quiet. There was something in the air just waiting to be spoken.

“I’m terrified to leave her,” Johnny finally says. “Both of them. I’m scared out of my mind. What if she goes into labor without me?” The thought made his chest hurt. “You know, I’ve waited so long to go back to space, and now I’m going - have to go back - and here I am, wondering if I really want to.”

“You’ve never had something you cared about like this here.”

That was true, Johnny realized. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t…I don’t know how to handle it.”

“There’s no easy way,” Reed said - that wasn’t exactly what Johnny had been hoping to hear. “Being in love is irrational and all consuming.”

Being in love.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. He was in love with you. Yeah, he knew that - but did he know it? You hadn’t been together that long, hadn’t even known each other that long before you got pregnant, all things considered. Now, for the first time, he was struck with the uncontrollable urge to run out and buy a ring, to make you his wife, Mrs. Storm.

He had never had those thoughts about anyone before.

“Johnny?” Reed asked, sensing the emotional turmoil in the other man’s head. “You alright?”

Johnny nodded, distracted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”

“What’s going on in there?”

Johnny thought for a moment. Then - “Do you want to go on an errand with me?”

You weren’t completely surprised when you got out of the bath and Johnny was gone. There was a mess around the bedroom, all the transmissions Johnny was going through scattered around the turntable. You didn’t touch them - there was usually a method to his madness.

You went through your post-shower routine, doing your hair and putting lotion on your skin - and Johnny still wasn’t back. That was a little strange. It was late.

You were in your pajamas (an oversized shirt and panties), about to go to bed without Johnny at all, when he came abruptly through the bedroom door. The nervous energy was coming off of him in waves - it was clear there was something going on.

“Baby,” he said, moving straight to sit next to you on the bed. He was dressed in his F4 t-shirt and pants from earlier.

“Johnny?” you said, confused and bleary eyed. You waited for him for so long, you were about ready to pass out for the night. “Where were you?”

He held your hands, his thumb rubbing the back of one of them. “Reed wanted to see me,” he said. “He finished the new suits. We’re going to space, to try to negotiate with Galactus.”

The news both did and didn’t come as a shock. You’d known this was inevitable from the night the herald came, but it hadn’t been set until now. “When?”

“Soon,” he said. “I don’t know. Very soon.”

“I can’t go to space with you?” you asked, only half-joking and looking at him with big sad eyes. “Both of us?” You took his hand and laid it over the bump.

Johnny chuckled, looking affectionately down at where his hand rested. He rubbed circles against your belly. “I wish you could,” he said.

You sat in a comfortable silence for a minute.

“Do you think it’s going to work?” you asked him nervously. “Do you think there’s hope of getting through to this…Galactus? Of saving Earth?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to anyone,” Johnny said firmly. He looked you directly in the face when he said it, flames flickering in his blue eyes.

You trusted him with your whole heart. You knew if Johnny said he was going to make something happen - or keep it from happening - he was going to keep his word.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you said.

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“You don’t know what’s gonna happen,” you reminded him gently. His hand stayed protectively where it sat, while your hand rested on the side of his face. He tilted his head, leaning into your touch, letting you cradle his handsome face.

“I just want to know if the surfboard is part of her body,” he said like he was dead serious, and you burst into laughter.

“Johnny Storm, do you ever take anything seriously?” you teased. 

He smiled, turning his head to place a kiss on your palm. “Just you.”

Your chest felt warm. You could feel your love for Johnny spreading through your body like the very flames that lived within him.

“There was…” Johnny began, but stopped himself. You didn’t interrupt, wanting to know where he was going. “There was something I wanted to say. Or…ask you?”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He gave your belly one last caress before he let go. He stood, pulling your weary body to sit on the edge of the bed in front of him. You were confused, but watched him with an anxious excitement anyway.

Johnny looked nervous. You waited as he stood there, gathering his thoughts - you could practically see the steam coming off his head.

Finally, he said your name. “I just…had something to say.”

“Say it,” you encouraged, laughing lightly - nervous.

He smiled softly at you. “Do you know how much I love you?”

The question caught you off guard. “I think so?” you said - because what kind of question was that really?

“I’m in love with you,” Johnny said, looking at you so intensely it nearly took your breath away. “Completely, wholeheartedly, in love with you. I’ve known for a long time, but it didn’t hit me until today, not- not like this. It’s been there, I just never saw it for what it was.”

“Johnny…” you whispered. “What-“

“I needed to say it,” he said. “I know we haven’t been together that long, all things considered - and I knew I love you, I know we’ve been saying it for a while - but it hit me today, hard, like Ben punched me in the chest or something. Like I’d never known anything, nothing has ever made more sense, than how much I love you. Both of you.”

You were in shock, tears welling up in your eyes. The things he was saying were overwhelming, and completely out of nowhere.

“I just had to do this before we leave.”

“Do what-“

You cut yourself off with a gasp as Johnny dropped to his knee in front of you. He reached his right hand into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box.

“Johnny-“ you gasped, your hands flying up to cover your mouth, your eyes wide.

“Marry me,” he said, flipping the box open to reveal a beautiful (way too expensive looking) diamond ring. His deep eyes bore into yours, and it’s like he was communicating every ounce of love in his body to you. It left you shaking. “Be my wife. Spend the rest of forever with me- as a family. My family.”

You were so stunned, the words didn’t come right away. Johnny reached forward with his free hand and wiped the tears you hadn’t noticed off your cheeks with his thumb. “Will you marry me?” he asked, softer this time, his eyes almost pleading.

You nodded. Slowly at first, then faster as more tears spilled down your face. You were pretty sure you would be sobbing even without the extra hormones. “Yes. Oh my god. Are you serious? Yes.”

Johnny’s face broke into a huge grin. He took your shaking left hand in his and slid the ring on your finger - a perfect fit. How did he know?

“You have made me,” he began, “the happiest man in the universe.”

You laughed through the tears, wrapping your arms around Johnny and pulling him into you. He hugged you back with just as much love, lifting you with little effort and spinning you in a circle. You couldn’t stop giggling, the joy overflowing from within you.

He wrapped his arm around your lower back and dipped you backwards as he kissed you passionately, something like from one of those romantic movies you used to watch. You cradled his face with both hands while he held you, communicating just how happy you’d made him by the way he kissed you breathless.

When he stood you back up, his arms still wrapped around you, you laid your foreheads together, just looking into each other’s eyes. You could have gotten lost in that sea of blue.

Mrs. Storm had a ring to it.

You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face after the proposal. The ring glittered on your hand like a star plucked directly from the sky, just for you. You knew that’s exactly what Johnny would have done if it were possible.

You waddled out into the kitchen, the pancake craving striking once again. It was a good day - you felt light as air, metaphorically at least. It was a low pain day, the baby didn’t have a foot shoved into your spine, and you had an appetite.

Too busy mixing the batter together, you didn’t hear Sue come in. She startled you a little when she came up next to you, and you both laughed.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said. “I was too preoccupied by the pancakes.”

“Craving?”

“Oh yeah.”

Sue smiled. “It’s been pretzel sticks for me, can you believe that? I probably eat a bag myself every couple of days.”

You laughed - it was relatable. “Sounds like Johnny with his Lucky Charms.”

“That’s what I said!” she smiled. She moved around you, grabbing a couple of plates. “Make me some too, would you?”

“Yeah, of course.” You made a little extra batter, mixing it up well before dumping the first pancakes into the pan.

A few minutes later, you and Sue were both leaning against the counter holding a plate of steaming pancakes doused in syrup. You took the first bite and closed your eyes, an unintentional moan escaping your lips. “God. So good.”

“They are,” Sue said after swallowing her first bite. “You make a mean pancake.”

You chatted lightly with Sue until you’d both finished your plates. She helped you wash them up, then leaned back against the counter. She smoothed  her hand over her belly as she looked at some papers she had brought with her before putting them away.

“Where’s Reed?” you asked, just wanting to break the silence again.

“Lab,” she said. “Working on things for the mission. I was just about to head down to join him.”

You nodded. “Johnny wanted to work on his cars today. I told him go - it’s not like he’ll have much time for them for a little while.”

Sue smiled at you. “You’re really good to him, you know that?”

You were surprised, both by the randomness of the comment and the sentimentality of it. She had never said anything like that to you before.

“You- you think so?” you asked, unsure of what else to say. You certainly weren’t close with Sue - she was older than Johnny, and was usually too busy to sit and chat with you outside of group settings.

“I can see it,” she said. She sighed. “You know, Johnny…after our mother died, I helped raise him. He’s my closest family - he’s important to me. I always wanted to see him find a girl to settle down with, to be happy with…I’m glad he found you. I’m glad it’s you.”

Utterly speechless, you gaped at her, your eyes teary. Hadn’t you done enough crying? When you finally picked your jaw up off the floor and shook yourself out of it, you spoke. “I- thank you. Johnny means everything to me, I- I want to make him happy.”

Sue reached forward and took your hand in hers. She held it under the light, the ring shining, and smiled. “He loves you,” she said. “I know you know this, but…I don’t know if you understand how much without knowing him the way I do.”

Your heart thudded. You thought of Johnny - and how you loved him, too. How he had told you just how much he loved you last night - and showed you after. “I love him too,” you said. “More than anything. Him and the baby.”

“He’s going to be the best dad, you know,” she smiled, dropping your hand. She looked down at your stomach now - you were standing practically bump to bump. 

You felt a strong kick at that moment. You gasped, placing your hand over the spot where you’d felt it - and noticed Sue had done the same thing to her own belly.

“You felt that too?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

You still felt it. It’s like she was trying to get comfortable in one specific position. You took Sue’s hand in yours and placed it where the movement was for her to feel.

She looked up at you, her expression unreadable. Leaving her hand on your belly, she took your hand with her free one, and pressed it against the same exact spot on her own body. There was nothing from either of you, and then-

A kick. Two kicks. One from each side at the exact same time. Your wide eyes met Sue’s own.

“How interesting…” she finally said as you parted, as if in total awe.

“The cousins are excited to meet each other, it looks like,” you said lightly with an awkward laugh, but even you knew that was bizarre.

“Yeah, must be,” she said - but it was clear her mind was working. A moment later, she seemingly shook it off. “Anyway…that’s what I wanted to say, because I haven’t said it enough. You’re my sister. You’re good for my brother. You make him happy- he loves you, and I love you.”

She pulled you into a hug. “Welcome to the family, officially.”

The day of the launch came upon you faster than you expected. You woke up that morning sick to your stomach, and it had nothing to do with the baby. But you knew this had to be done - they were saving the world.

You had spent the night before wrapped in Johnny’s arms. He’d wanted to make love to you, as he put it, wanted to be as close to you as possible before he left. He didn’t get as much sleep as you would have liked him to before the launch.

Johnny held you on the bottom floor of the Baxter Building, dressed in his spacesuit already with the helmet sitting by his feet. He kissed you with every bit of passion in his body - which was a lot. You were going to miss your fiancè so badly, you didn’t care what anyone thought about the two of you practically making out in front of everyone.

Reed walked by, tapping Johnny on the shoulder to let him know it was time to go. He pulled back, his lips kiss swollen and pink. He grinned at you, but there was sadness behind his eyes. You couldn’t muster up as enthusiastic of a smile.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Johnny said. “You’re going to be fine. Herbie is going to take care of you, you have a whole team-“

“I’m not worried about me,” you cut him off. “I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said. “We can take care of ourselves, I promise you. We’re going to go fix this mess.” He pulled you back into another lingering kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Johnny,” you said. You rested your hands on his cheeks, the diamond on your finger flashing. Reporters ran over to start taking photos - you knew that would be in the magazines tomorrow. You didn’t pay them any mind. You and Johnny might as well have been the only people in the room.

He placed both hands on your 8 months pregnant stomach, looking down at it. “Please take care of yourself. If anything is weird, tell Herbie and he’ll call your doctors.”

“I got it, Johnny,” you said. You’d been over this countless times in the days leading up to this. “I’ll be careful. I’ll be alright.”

Johnny nodded. Then he knelt down on the ground, surprising you. The camera flashes kept going off as he kissed your bump, still holding it with so much affection it nearly took your breath away - and completely distracted you from how much attention was on the two of you.

“I love you, baby girl,” he said to your belly. “You better stay cookin’ in there for me. Don’t come out until Daddy gets back from space, okay?” She kicked his hand and he smiled.

You giggled. “I think she hears you.”

Johnny stood and wrapped his arms around you again. He pulled you into one final kiss, full of emotion and want. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, once he’d reluctantly parted from you. “Please be safe. I love you. Both of you. I’ll be back as soon as we can manage.”

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. “I love you too, Johnny.”

He kissed you on the forehead and then he was picking up his helmet, walking backwards for a little while to look at you as long as he could. He smiled, waved, then turned and joined the others, leaving you alone.

Well, ‘alone’. You were surrounded by people. You joined the crowd, carefully making your way to somewhere you could have a good view.

Johnny, Sue, Reed, and Ben walked the walkway to the spaceship. This was your first time seeing Johnny go to space since you’d been together, and as much as you missed him and didn’t want him to go, it filled you with pride. Your Johnny really was incredible, super powers or not. You held your bump protectively as you watched.

They were being filmed as they made their way onto the elevator. At the top, they walked onto the ship. Johnny paused right before boarding - he looked around until he found a camera. He stared directly into the camera and mouthed your name, with a blown kiss and an emphatic I love you.

The crowd awwed, and you could hardly see Johnny disappearing onto the ship through the tears in your eyes. You rubbed your belly - You see that, little one? Your daddy loves us more than anything.

The countdown began, and your stomach tightened in knots. You knew how dangerous launches and landings could be.

“3…2…1.”

The ship took off, rising into the air. Your heart ached as you watched them go, knowing it would be a long time before you saw Johnny again. You would see him again - you weren’t entertaining any other possibilities.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had a successful launch.”

You couldn’t believe he was gone, they were really gone. Before you could dwell too much on their absence and how much you would miss every one of them, you turned and let Herbie lead you out of the crowd and back upstairs.

It wasn’t hard to find Galactus, not really. They were able to track the herald straight to him.

Upon arrival, she greeted them on their ship.

“Galactus will see you. All of you…you should not have come.”

Now, standing before Galactus - a giant, possessing more power than they had even pictured - they attempted to negotiate. But some prices are too high to pay.

“I will spare your world,” Galactus said with finality, “in exchange for both the boy and the girl.”

“What?” Sue said, incredulous. “No.”

“Absolutely not,” Johnny said, looking around at the others for validation that they agreed. “No. No way.”

“They are connected. They both possess the power of cosmic, and they together will inherit this cursed throne.”

What?

“They’re just- they’re normal,” Reed lied nervously. “We would know. I tested them myself.”

Galactus leaned in, eyes glowing purple. Sue grabbed her stomach at that moment, groaning in pain. She looked around at the others in a panic - and for once, Johnny’s blood went cold with fear.

“What are you doing to her??” he yelled.

“You won’t have our planet,” Reed said, “and you will never have our children!”

But it was happening. Whatever Galactus had done - Sue was in labor.

The pain came when you were home alone. You’d been in the kitchen, mixing up the batter to make your biggest craving - a chocolate cake. You felt fine, good even - but then a horrible pain stretched across your stomach.

You wrapped your hand around it, holding onto the counter for support as you cried out. Herbie sped into the room, making what you could best describe as concerned beeps.

“Herbie,” you said, your voice strained. “I think- I think something’s wrong. I think we need to call somebody.”

Herbie beeped again, then took off - contacting your medical team, you hoped. The pain was getting worse, coming in fast. You figured you had to be having contractions at least once every two minutes - this was the real deal. And Johnny was gone.

You couldn’t help it - you panicked. You lowered yourself to the floor amidst the pain of another contraction, and you sobbed. You were terrified. Of all the scenarios you’d come up with, doing this alone hadn’t been one of them.

It was only minutes later when a team of medical professionals came bursting into the room - Johnny and Reed had left you with a team ready at a moment’s notice in case of emergencies. It was a coveted position - every medical professional in the city wanted to be involved in the birth of the two newest Fantastic Four members. You didn’t like your child being seen as a spectacle.

You were screaming through another contraction, a white knuckled grip on the side of the counter as it passed through you. The doctors and nurses got to work fast. It was humiliating having a stranger up your skirt, but you had to have a cervical check.

It hurt, but the pain was already everywhere. It was the look on the nurse’s face after she checked you that scared you, though.

“The baby is coming right now,” she said. “We have to do it here.”

Back on the ship, things were progressing. Sue was in the back, laboring in zero gravity. Ben was steering the ship while Johnny and Reed helped.

“Do you think-“ Johnny asked Reed quietly, but he didn’t even have to finish his question.

“She might be,” Reed said seriously. Johnny felt like he might throw up. 

“We need to strap her down,” Reed said, back into action, moving through the ship towards his wife.

“Strapping her down,” Johnny moved to help.

“Do not strap me down!” she yelled, pushing Johnny away - who quickly backed off.

“You need gravity to push,” Reed told her, helping her lay back on the table.

“This is not how it’s supposed to be,” she said, breathing through the pain. Sue was remarkably brave, but right now, she had to admit she was scared.

“I know, but we’re gonna make it work.” Reed helped to hold her down, multitasking while he helped Ben and Johnny, concerned they didn’t have enough fuel to make it home. Their only option was a slingshot maneuver - which they put into action. 

“He’s coming,” Sue announced. “He’s coming.”

Her pants kicked off, it was time to start pushing. She pushed and pushed as the ship made its journey.

Sue became invisible. Reed held her - it was silent. She reappeared, and-

A cry sounded through the air. A tiny little hand raising high - and a beautiful baby boy curled in Ben’s hand. He held him out to Reed, who took the precious little guy in his arms - bringing him to his mother. Sue held her baby boy in her arms, Reed cradled around them both.

Johnny came floating back from the front of the ship. His blue eyes were wide as he saw his nephew for the first time - a perfect baby.

He thought of you. He thought of his daughter. And he prayed you were both okay, that he hadn’t missed the birth. That Galactus didn’t want his daughter or his nephew. That he’d get home and you’d run into his arms, healthy and still pregnant.

But for now, he caressed the chubby cheek of the baby with his index finger, and looked into the exhausted eyes of his sister - one of the strongest women he’d ever known.

Franklin Richards was here.

The only coherent thought you could muster was I wish Johnny was here. It repeated through your head, like a prayer, like the ship might descend that very second and he’d come running to your side if you wished for it hard enough.

But you were on your own, about to give birth on the living room floor without your boyfriend. In a room full of strangers looking at your most intimate parts, Herbie was your only friend. He stood nearby, attempting to be a comfort. It worked somewhat.

“It’s time to push,” the doctor said between your legs. “I need you to push hard on every contraction.”

You nodded. You could do this. You may not have been a superhero, or a genius, but you were strong and you could get through this, with or without Johnny. You felt angry in that moment, angry at Johnny for not being here, angry at him for leaving you, angry at him for getting you pregnant in the first place. It wasn’t rational, but it was there.

At the start of the next contraction, you gritted your teeth and pushed. You pushed with everything you had, the pain shooting through your body like electricity. When you couldn’t take it anymore you let go, falling back against the pillows they had put behind you and breathing heavily.

You’d heard pushing could last for an hour or more sometimes - but that wasn’t the case here. This baby was coming now. Another contraction flared and you pushed down again, screaming though the pain and the pressure.

Three pushes later, and the doctor spoke up excitedly from below. “She’s crowning,” she said. “Just one more good push for me, you’ve got this.”

The next contraction crashed into you and you mustered up every bit of energy in your exhausted, sore body to push as hard as you could. You screamed through it, a deep, primal scream.

The pain was gone. An immense relief left behind, you fell back against the makeshift bed and breathed. You opened your teary eyes, a nurse using a cloth to wipe the sweat off your brow.

Then you heard it. A cry. Your heart stopped in your chest as the doctor handed the bundle to you.

You took it, pushing the blanket down below her little chin to see her full face. She was gorgeous. Johnny’s little twin for sure. She opened her blue eyes and looked up at you - you swore you had never felt love in your life like you did in that moment.

Celeste Storm was here.

Early days with Celeste were difficult, yet blissful. You only wished for Johnny, that he could be there to experience it with you (and help a bit). Herbie was a great help, essentially waiting on you hand and foot while you recovered.

It has been a month since the births when the ship descended back home.

Johnny had been in a perpetual state of anxiety since Galactus. He was worried sick about you, to the point that Reed, Sue, and Ben were worried about him.

His stomach was in knots as they descended, and not just from the motion of the spacecraft. As they landed, he could see the crowd running to greet them, and he wondered where you were amongst it. You had to be here, right?

People were running from all over the city to see their return. There was no way you weren’t part of it. His eyes scanned the crowd who still looked like ants, as if he could see you from this distance.

“She’s okay,” Sue assured Johnny, placing her hand on his arm while the other cradled baby Franklin. “She’s a strong girl. She’s okay.”

Johnny just nodded. He wanted to believe his sister, because he wanted that to be true more than anything.

They rode the elevator down together. He had never been so quiet before - his mind was running too quickly to speak. Reed patted him on the back from behind him.

When the elevator landed, they could hear the deafening cheers. Ben walked off first, then Johnny, who scanned the crowd immediately. He didn’t see you - but maybe you were waiting inside where they would stop to speak? Yeah, that made sense.

Reed and Sue were behind him with Franklin, and the crowd went crazy the second they saw them. They smiled politely at the crowd, Sue holding the baby close to her chest while Reed had his arm around her.

They were led into the Baxter Building where the press were waiting. They mobbed them, and Johnny was so overwhelmed by the flashing lights, yelling voices, and no sight of you even in here, that he started to feel panicked.

“Give them space!”

“They’re ready for you,” Reed was told, with a gesture towards the podium. None of them wanted to speak. There was no good news to share. All Johnny wanted to do was see his fiancée.

Reed took the podium, glancing back over his shoulder at the rest of the team. Johnny continued scanning the crowd, not seeing a single sight of you. He was feeling more sick by the second. Where were you? It wasn’t like you to miss this. What if something had happened to you while he was gone and no one told him?

Something was wrong.

“I’m sorry we don’t have a prepared statement,” Reed said, sparking unrest in the crowd. Everyone raised their hand for a question.

“Welcome back,” one of the reporters said. “Can you walk us through how you defeated Galactus?”

It was silent.

“Um…” Reed said, looking back to Johnny and Ben for some kind of help.

“We didn’t,” Ben said simply.

“Not…yet!” Johnny said, with little enthusiasm. “Not yet, we didn’t.”

The crowd murmured. This wasn’t going well.

“What do you mean you didn’t?”

“We attempted to negotiate,” Reed said. “But Galactus…he asked too high a price.”

“Well, what does he want?” “What did he ask?”

Reed felt sick. Johnny really thought he might be. They exchanged a look - fear, in both of their eyes. Would this put a target on their backs? On their children’s backs? Reed looked back out into the crowd.

“He asked for our children,” he said, gesturing to Sue and Johnny. Sue stood behind, holding Franklin protectively as more worry spread through the crowd. “He said give us both children, and I will spare the Earth.” A murmur rose in the crowd. “We said no, obviously. We said no.”

Everyone started speaking at once.

“You said no?”

“Would giving Galactus the children save us?”

Done with this and with fire burning beneath Johnny’s skin, the four turned to leave.

“Wait, just answer this, answer this!” someone called. They stopped and turned. “Are we safe?”

“Are we safe?” Reed repeated. “I don’t know.”

The crowd began speaking at once again, upset. Ben waved Reed off and they left the room, the reporters yelling after them.

“She wasn’t there,” Johnny said to the others once they were safely on the elevator. “She wasn’t…there.”

“She’s probably in the house,” Sue said gently. “Maybe she isn’t feeling well, or couldn’t come down in time. Herbie has her.”

Johnny nodded, but he didn’t feel much better. 

With the spacesuit stripped off, he was left in his F4 t-shirt and sweatpants. When the elevator doors opened to the house, Johnny rushed in, looking for any sign of you.

It didn’t take him long.

You sat on the couch, a blanket wrapped around your lap. The TV was on to the news broadcast of the landing. You looked up at him and the others as they entered, a teary smile on your face.

“Johnny,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

But it was the bundle in your arms that stopped him short. Slowly, cautiously, almost like he was scared, he approached you.

And he fell to his knees.

The baby girl in your arms opened her blue eyes and peered over at him. She was beautiful - more beautiful than he ever could have pictured. Perfection. He reached out a shaking hand and laid it on her, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“…Oh my god,” he said.

Totally forgotten by him, Reed, Sue, and Ben stood behind, watching the moment. Johnny leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s head, before looking up at you with wonder in his eyes.

“She’s here,” he said, like he was trying to wrap his mind around it. Saying it didn’t make it feel any more real - he felt like he was dreaming.

“She was born about a month ago,” you said gently, softly running your fingers over the baby’s fine hair. “Shortly after you left.”

“A month?” Johnny asked. He turned to look at the others - who seemed to be thinking the same thing he was. Galactus.

Turning back to you, Johnny rested a hand on the side of your face and pulled you into a gentle kiss. Then he was focused on the child again, his child, his baby girl. He was in awe.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, his fingertips just barely trailing over her smooth skin. She shifted, reached a little hand up, and wrapped her fingers around one of Johnny’s. His heart stuttered, and he choked out the quietest sob.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, looking up at you. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I- if I had known this would happen I wouldn’t have left you, I swear.”

“It’s okay, Johnny,” you said softly. You ran your fingers through his blonde hair. “You couldn’t have known.”

He laid his head against you, gazing down at his daughter. She really was incredible - he’d gotten to see her the one time, but it was nothing like this. It was nothing like seeing his child, here, earthside.

“Do you want to hold her?” you asked him. It seemed like he was too stunned to ask himself.

He looked at you with his blue eyes wide. “Really?”

You laughed. “Johnny, she’s your daughter.”

He nodded. Yeah, she was. And he could do this. You lifted her towards him and he slowly reached out, taking the bundle from your arms. The transfer was so slow and careful, and once he had her he cradled her close to his chest. Johnny held her, his strong arms now so delicate with his baby girl. A single tear trailed down his cheek.

They gazed at each other, both mesmerized by the other. Celeste cooed softly, making her little baby noises, and Johnny’s heart cracked. Oh, she had him wrapped around her little finger from day one.

“Hi, baby girl,” he said quietly, only for her. “I’m…I’m your daddy. I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been so excited to meet you.”

Celeste cooed again, her little arms moving jerkily, still not used to moving her own body. She looked all around, but kept returning to Johnny’s face. She reached up and touched his nose, and he chuckled.

He was a natural with her. He looked back over his shoulder at the others finally, who all looked like they might also cry. He waved them over. They approached the three of you, peering down at the baby.

“Oh, she’s perfect,” Sue said.

“Nice job,” Reed said, patting Johnny on the shoulder with a brotherly smile.

“Hi there,” Ben said, looking down at her. She gave him the biggest smile that he couldn’t help but return.

But baby Franklin was watching her closely. Johnny turned her so she could see her cousin, and the babies reached for one another. Sue and Johnny held them closer as they reached for each other, fingers brushing together. Like they had a connection of some kind, drawn together.

“Interesting,” Reed mumbled. He would need to run some tests - there was a link here, and he needed to find out what it was.

After the tearful reunion, everyone returned to their own quarters. They were all exhausted and relieved to be back home. Johnny sat on the bed, holding baby Celeste while she slept. You moved throughout the room, gathering pajamas and a clean diaper.

“The surfboard is not part of her body, by the way,” Johnny said randomly.

You laughed - “What?”

“I just needed to know! I was curious.”

You smiled as you moved back over to the bed. “Well, I’m glad you found out,” you said. Johnny chuckled.

He told you all about their trip while he helped you change Celeste and put her to bed. He told you everything - the flight, seeing Galactus, chasing the herald and running away. Galactus wanting the babies - which you’d heard on the broadcast. It worried you sick, but he promised there was nothing to worry about.

He wouldn’t let anyone touch a single hair on Celeste or Franklin’s heads, that was for sure.

In the days after their return, everyone was hard at work trying to figure out what was to be done about Galactus. Johnny didn’t want you and Celeste out of his sight, so you spent a lot of time sitting in Reed’s lab with the baby girl on your lap, or doing tummy time on the floor with Franklin.

The truth was, they didn’t know what to do. Giving the children to Galactus was completely off the table, obviously, but so was putting Earth in danger. They suggested blowing the ship up, and running, but neither would work. There had to be something to be figured out. You just wished you could be more help.

“Reed, you wanna take us through what you have?” Sue asked.

“What I have?” he turned. “What I have is nothing.”

“Nothing? Did you say nothing?” Johnny asked. He glanced at you where you sat feeding Celeste.

“I have the samples from Galactus’ ship,” Reed said, handing out some papers for you all to see. “All evidence suggests he predates our universe, our reality. You could take 10 years to understand his composition, let alone his existence.”

“So you’re talking about a god?” Sue asked.

“I’m talking about something beyond our experience. An unknowable life, who imagines Franklin and Celeste as his successors in possessing some kind of cosmic power.”

“That can’t be true, right?” Ben asked, looking at the others. “You ran all those tests.”

“I have, but I don’t know what can or can not be. I’m not sure of anything.” He was getting frustrated. “Celeste has the X-gene, Franklin does not - at least, not that I saw.” He turned, walking back to the chalkboard. “I have nothing. I have nothing!”

You had never known Reed to have nothing. The idea scared you more than you wanted to admit. No one had anything, no one knew how to keep the babies and Earth safe.

Since the trip, Johnny had spent every moment he wasn’t with Celeste hard at work trying to decode the herald’s language. He knew that could give them answers, and that’s what they needed more than anything.

You spent your days caring for Celeste while the Four were hard at work. Johnny spent as much time as he could with the two of you, and it killed him to be away from her, but you both knew the fate of the world hung in the balance.

Reed ran seemingly endless tests on both Franklin and Celeste. No new answers were coming forth.

“It’s getting bad out there,” Ben said one night as the family was in the living room together. Johnny held Celeste, who was wearing a little Flame on! onesie. Ben turned the TV on.

“It seems to me they have no plan for Galactus,” some idiot on a talk show was saying. “We as a society have to reckon with the idea that the Fantastic Four could save us today, but they choose not to. The idea is simple - Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and Johnny Storm and that girl of his, hand over their babies and we all live.”

Sue blew the TV up. No one had a problem with that. Out on the balcony, there was a mob visible right outside the front doors.

“Give us the babies!”

“They’re scared,” Reed said.

“Who isn’t scared?” Johnny asked. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder as he patted a sleeping Celeste on his chest. “That…is scary.”

Everyone was stressed. The discussion was constantly going in circles, no one coming up with anything new.

“Right now we don’t have a workable plan, and the clock is ticking. So their plan looks good. It’s…available,” Reed said.

“What are you saying?” Sue asked.

“I’m not…saying anything.”

The baby monitor lit up as Franklin started crying. Sue left to go attend to him, Reed following behind her. You were left at the table sitting silently with Johnny and Ben.

“Let me take her,” you said gently, taking Celeste from Johnny’s arms. He let you take her, although he was reluctant to let her go. He never felt like she was properly safe unless she was in his arms.

You were in the kitchen, making yourself busy, when Sue approached you with Franklin in her arms. 

“Come with me,” she said.

The mob outside was angry. They held anti-F4 signs, yelled horrible things, demanding the babies. 

And you followed Sue through the crowd, Celeste clutched tightly to your chest and Franklin to hers. You knew Sue wouldn’t let anything happen to any of you. Everyone stared as you walked through, making it to the middle where you stood together.

The crowd looked at the two of you expectantly. You weren’t sure where Sue was going with this, but you trusted her.

“I wanted to introduce you to someone,” she began. “This is our son, Franklin. And this is his cousin, Celeste. There’s been a lot of talk about both of them.” She stopped to compose herself. “Most of you know me. You know my story. When Johnny and I were kids, our parents were in a car crash. Our dad was driving, and he lived, but our mom didn’t. I know what it’s like to be a part of a family that was torn apart. Our dad wasn’t always a great father, but he wanted to be. He did his best. He wanted us to be together because that’s what a family is. It’s about fighting for something bigger than yourself. It’s about connecting to something bigger than yourself.”

Celeste wiggled in your arms. You and Sue both turned, seeing Johnny, Reed, and Ben coming out behind you. You smiled tearfully at Johnny - and he looked at you like he was proud.

“It’s about having something bigger than yourself,” Sue continued. “And the four of us already do because we have you. You know, our mom always used to say, Susie, for you, I would move heaven and earth. And we would do that for you. We will not sacrifice our children for this world. But we will not sacrifice this world for our children. We will face this together. We will fight this together. And we will defeat this together. As a family.”

The crowd clapped, and you wiped a tear away. Sue’s speech had been beautiful, and it seemed to have gotten through to everyone. You were filled with relief for Celeste - you’d barely slept an hour since the public turned on you all, terrified someone would manage to break in.

As soon as he could, Johnny had his arms back on you, leading you back inside. 

“That was amazing,” he said, “and so, so reckless.”

“But it worked?” you offered. He smiled at you, leaning down and kissing you.

“Yeah. Looks like it did.”

You were walking back to the elevator as a family when Reed spoke up.

“Archimedes,” he said. You all turned. “The law of levers. Give me a lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth. We are going to move heaven and earth.”

That was something. You took a step closer to him.

“Well, just earth,” he continued. “Sue…you solved it. We are going to move earth to a place that Galactus will never find us.”

With an idea, plans were underway. It would take the cooperation of the entire globe to pull off - but they thought it could work.

You spent as much time with Johnny and Celeste as you could. He was an incredible dad, truly. He spent most of his time preparing to put the plan into action, but his favorite time of the day was when he could relax in bed with you.

He laid back, Celeste sleeping on his shirtless chest. He was drowsy himself, his eyes half lidded as he slowly rubbed her back. Fresh out of your shower, you joined him on the bed.

“Ready for me to put her in bed?” you asked him gently.

He cracked an eye open to look at you. “Not just yet. I wanna hold her a little longer.”

You smiled. “Okay.” You laid down on the bed next to him. You looked at the clock just in time to see it strike 8pm, and all the power went out. The global power curfew was in effect to conserve what the bridges would require.

In the dark, you laid your tired head on Johnny’s shoulder. He felt content for the first time in a long time - his family together, a plan in motion. Hope for the future.

He may not know how things were going to turn out, or who Celeste would grow up to be. But he knew as long as he was with his family - they would be okay.

He would make sure of it.

reblogs and comments are so so appreciated!!

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[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[godmadeaterribleerror]

messy

✦Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦

✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦

✦wc: 10.9k✦

✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦

You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.

Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.

But not him.

You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.

“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“

“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”

“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“

“Yes, you have.”

Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”

You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”

“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.

“You should go try that.”

That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-

Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-

“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.

“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“

“No, he was looking before-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Yes, he was-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Who wasn’t what.”

You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-

“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.

I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.

“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”

You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-

He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.

Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.

And you’re not. You know you’re not.

You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.

You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.

But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.

They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.

The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.

Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.

She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.

Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.

You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.

In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.

You need to get a fucking grip.

“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-

Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”

You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“

“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”

“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”

Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”

“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.

“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.

It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.

You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.

“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-

“Kid, you already have.”

Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.

Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.

“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.

With his presence. His closeness.

How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.

“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”

You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.

“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“

“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.

The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.

“Everything’s fine.”

Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.

But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.

And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.

“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.

You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”

I dressed up for you.

“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.

“Is the printer out of paper still?”

“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not-“

“Yes, he is-“

“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”

Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”

“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”

You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.

“Hi, Stacy.”

She almost glows. “You remember my name?”

“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”

Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”

Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”

Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“

“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”

You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.

“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”

Right. Lunch.

“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I took a photo with the guards.”

“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“

“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“

“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it-“

“Steven Rogers.”

You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.

“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.

“Next time, tell them no.”

“But then I can’t come upstairs.”

You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“

“Or I can just do the photos-“

“No-“

“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.

“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.

He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.

No hope. It just makes everything else harder.

If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.

His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.

You can’t handle this at all.

The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.

You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.

Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.

You want to shoot yourself in the face.

It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.

“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.

“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”

He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.

You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.

Not that you’re much better about that, either.

“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“

“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”

He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”

“Why not-“

“It’s unethical.”

“I… don’t think that’s true-“

“Well, I didn’t earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“

“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.

Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”

You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.

“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”

You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“No. You don’t.”

That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.

“There she is-“

“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”

“A lot.”

“Like what-“

“You have to ask me to find out.”

You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.

“You suck.” You grumble.

He shrugs. “I know you think that.”

You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.

“I’m going to punch you in the face-“

“I’d like to see you try, kid.”

Kid.

You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.

“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”

Of course he will.

And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.

This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.

You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.

But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.

And that just makes it all hurt even more.

Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.

Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.

Consciously. 

But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.

You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.

And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.

Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.

But you still kept saying no.

Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.

Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.

Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.

But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.

And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.

More than usual right now. But all the time.

“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.

“Wait- I’ll come with you-“

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”

You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.

You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.

“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.

“I’m a journalist-“

“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.

That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.

“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”

“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.

“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”

He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“

“Only to people who deserve it.”

That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.

You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.

There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.

And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.

The same way he smiles at you.

You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.

There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.

You tried to be his friend. You really tried.

But you can’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.

“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”

You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.

“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”

Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”

“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.

“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”

“Stuff.” You snip.

Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean-“

“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”

You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.

But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.

You have to go now.

“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”

And Stark laughs, as you turn away.

“Oh. I’m sure I will.”

You avoid Steve for a week.

Properly avoid him.

He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.

You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.

To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.

Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.

You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.

Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.

You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.

There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.

And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.

Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.

You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-

You yank the door open, and freeze.

Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.

This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.

He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.

“Steve-“

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”

 You blink. “I- What are you-“

“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.

“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“With whom.”

Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“

“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”

You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”

“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name. 

This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.

“Is he nice.”

Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.

“Who?”

“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”

“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“What did I do?”

His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.

“You didn’t do anything-“

“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“

He waves to your outfit, and you frown.

“It’s just a date-“

“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.

“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“

“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”

He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.

Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.

Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.

Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.

A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.

“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“

“Steve-“

“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“

“You can’t fix it!” You shout.

He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.

“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”

“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“

“Stop being so nice to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.

“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”

“Can’t-“

“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“

You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.

“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.

Letting you go.

You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.

But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.

A dream.

You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.

Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.

You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-

“God- Screw it.”

A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.

Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-

It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.

You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.

Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.

Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.

He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.

But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.

This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.

He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-

This is a hit.

And you need to have more.

You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.

He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.

You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.

He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.

“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“

“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.

“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.

At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.

Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.

He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.

But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.

Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy. 

His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.

“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.

Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.

You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.  

“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”

You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“

“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”

“Wha- Oh-“

He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.

“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”

“You- You didn’t lose me-“

“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”

You glare up at him. “You let me-“

“No, I didn’t.” 

Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.

Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.

Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm. 

“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.

“Ruin…”

“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”

You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.

“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.

“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”

You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”

You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.

“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”

It does.

Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.

You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.

Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.

“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”

You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I-“

“I just came on your knee.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”

“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.

Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“

You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.

You’d very much like to see him give up.

“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.

Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.

“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”

You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.

“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“

“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”

“’M sorry about that-“

“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”

“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“

“You weren’t.”

“I got that now-“

“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.

He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.

“Fucking me.”

Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.

You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.

Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.

He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.

You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.

He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.

“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“

He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.

“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“

That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.

“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“

“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”

“I- Um- Ooooh-“

You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.

“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.

“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”

You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“

“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.

“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.

Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.

“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”

He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.

“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”

“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“

“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”

He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.

“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“

Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.

He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.

“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”

You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.

Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.

You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”

He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Jesus, Steve-“

“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“

“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”

You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.

“Dude?”

“Um-“

“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e

“Sorry, sir.”

You say it half to mock him, half to test something.

Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.

“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No, sir.”

Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.

Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.

He never does anything halfway.

“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”

You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.

The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are. 

Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.

“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”

“Steveee-“

“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.

You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.

“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.

“Sweetheart-“

“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“

He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.

He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“

Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.

“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“

“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“

Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.

A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.

“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.” 

Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.

“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“

You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.

“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”

You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.

He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.

“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“

That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.

“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“

He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you.  Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.

It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.

Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.

“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“

Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.

“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”

You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.

“Steve- I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”

The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.

It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-

You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.

Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.

“Woah.”

“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“

“Steve-“

“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“

“Steve-“

“I’m so sorry-“

“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.

You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.

“Does that happen every time?”

He swallows, and nods.

“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”

Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, and he shakes his head.

“I ruined your room-“

“I liked it.”

He stares. You smile.

Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.

“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.

“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“

He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.

“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”

You smile. You have no plans to do that.

Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.

✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[pearlessance]

Sugar Talking

summary: After three years of separation, Sarah's birthday offers you and Joel a second chance. But finding trust isn't easy once it's been broken. Luckily, Joel knows exactly what to say to get you to open up your heart to him again. And it certainly helps when he's begging on his knees.

pairing: Joel Miller x ex-wife!f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, heavy angst with a happy ending, inner feelings of guilt and shame, reader is sarah's mom, separated parents and joint custody, infidelity because joel is with tess (but they're not in a committed relationship and joel is still very much in love with reader), tension between reader and tess that gets somewhat resolved, lots of yearning between both joel and reader, begging, oral f!receiving, edging, dirty talk, fingering, possessive!joel, lots of apologizing, tummy bulge, unprotected piv, body worship, praise, creampie, no outbreak au

note: for @dazed-confused-amused who sent in this as a request months ago and who has been so unbelievably patient with me while i returned to my joel miller roots, love u sm han <3

wc: 11.2k

[masterlist] [AO3]

In the end, all the hard work pays off. 

After all the stress of preparation and the last second trips to fill balloons with helium, Joel’s backyard looks nothing short of magical.

Decorated with indigo streamers, plastic strands of white wisteria and silver colored butterflies. All of which you’d spent the last month hand crafting during Joel’s weeks with Sarah. A task to keep your mind occupied in the stretch of bi-weekly loneliness.

The grocery store sheet cake turned out a little funky; the sky blue border uneven, and the sprinkles too heavy in one corner. But the writing is legible, and it’s chocolate with whipped vanilla frosting一Sarah’s favorite一and you know she’ll love it regardless.

You’re clipping the last silver butterfly onto the edge of the cake table when Joel speaks.

He’s standing on the other side of the yard, the sun overhead shining brightly, accentuating the gentle wisps of grey beginning in his dark hair. “You, uh…you did a real good job on those. They look nice.”

You adjust the butterfly, tugging gently on the top of the right wing. “Thanks. You think she’ll like them?”

Joel snorts. “‘Course she will. You kiddin’ me? ‘Specially if she finds out her momma made ‘em for her.”

The sentiment makes you smile. Sarah’s always been thoughtful. Kind and compassionate in the way only a ten year old girl can be, heart pure and untouched by the weight of the world. “Yeah, well—she deserves it. We did a real good job on her,” you say. “Even considering…you know.”

The separation. 

It was messy and painful and the worst thing you’ve ever endured. But a necessary evil. Because Joel was a perfect man by all rights, but being perfect and being present were two very different things. 

You excused it for a long time. Too long, truthfully. All those nights you’d spent alone when Sarah was having a sleepover, all those school milestones he missed; kindergarten graduation and her last soccer game of the season and the parent teacher conferences that had revealed she’d gotten straight A’s in second grade.

Joel had spent all that time working—building homes for other families while his wife was alone, all but begging him to come to dinner before eight just three days out of the week.

But he never did. Too focused on filling a bank account full of money he would never be home long enough to use. 

And one day, he’d gotten off of work well after ten to find your wedding ring on the kitchen table and a duffel bag full of your clothes missing from the closet.

And now, nearly three years after that fateful night, he’s staring at you from across the decorated back yard with too much affection in his eyes. He doesn’t say it, but you can feel it in his gaze. The warmth, the familiarity, the longing. “You ever think about it? ‘Bout…what we had?”

It’s a stupid question. Even after so long apart it’s still all you think about. Because when things were good, they were good. Joel was your best friend. Your protector, your provider, your lover. Everything you’d ever wanted in a man. 

Sweet and strong. A terrible cook, but he was the only one who’d ever gotten your coffee just right. The kind of husband who always added your favorite snacks to the grocery cart even if they weren’t on the list. Who kissed your forehead before work whether you were awake to know of it or not. Loyal as a dog, too. The kind of man who’d defend your name in a room you weren’t in, even now, even without the weight of a wedding band on your ring finger.

There were a million and one reasons you loved Joel Miller.

But what you needed was more of him. 

“Of course I do,” you admit, pointedly keeping your eyes on the decorations and fixing things that don’t need to be fixed. “Do you?”

You can hear him shift behind you. “I've only ever loved three people my whole life,” he says. And you know what’s coming next before he speaks, because it’s something he’s said for years, long before your marriage. “You’re top of the list.”

It makes your chest pull tight. Because even while you’d made the decision to put the softness of your own heart first, the love between you was never in question. 

And you still want him. Of course you do.

But what you deserve is a husband who shows up for you not just when you need him there, but when you want him there, too.

You swallow hard, trying to clear the emotion lodged at the back of your throat like a stone.

The sound of his boots is heavy, even in the plush summer grass. His presence demands to be felt, despite all your efforts to block it out.

With a trembling hand, you adjust the silver butterfly again. “Yeah,” you mutter, voice cracking. And then again, clearer this time. “Yeah, I know. I love you too, Joel. I think that goes without saying, doesn’t it? But I know what I deserve now, too.”

When you finally find the courage to turn and face him, your ears ring and your eyes grow watery. The expression on his face softens, and his hands twitch at his sides. A long-laid instinct to pull you in close, to soothe the ache in your heart in the ways only he could.

But he doesn’t.

And you admit, silently, internally, only to yourself—that you want him to. Want him to press a kiss to the top of your head and wrap his strong arms around you, enveloping you with his warmth. You want him to make you feel whole again, to tell you he’ll be different, that he’ll be better. 

“You’ve always deserved the world,” Joel whispers instead. “An’ every single day I regret not givin’ it to you, baby. M’sorry.”

His words are genuine. From an emotional place inside his chest that you used to have to beg for him to allow you to see. 

And now here he is, opening himself up to you, completely unprompted. 

Hope flickers like a flame in your heart. Bright and beautiful and tempting. 

You want to believe him. You do.

You search his face, trying to find a lie. Trying to find anything, anything to pull you back from the edge of this longing.

And then, like a sign from God, the glass door to the backyard slides open. 

“Good! I’m glad you’re both here.” Tess strolls onto the deck like she owns the place. As if this house wasn’t yours at one point. As if you hadn’t picked out the color of the backsplash in the kitchen and the lace curtains over the windows or the pale green rug at the front door.

But you remind yourself that Tess is…nice.

And that fact is proven when you notice the multi-colored gift bags draped over each of her arms. Neon yellows and purples and blues, stuffed with pink tissue paper.

Joel leaves your side to help her carry everything. Ever the gentleman.

You try not to roll your eyes. Remind yourself that all the theatrics are for your daughter. That today isn’t about you. It’s about Sarah, and if Tess cares about her enough to remember her birthday and buy her gifts, then maybe she isn’t so bad.

Tess sets all of her things on the ground near the cake table. She runs her hands down the front of her jeans and gives you a tight-lipped smile. “You think I overdid it?”

Yes, you want to say. There’s the smallest bit of pink tulle sticking out of one of the bags, and you want to mention that Sarah hates the way tulle feels and will recoil the moment the plasticky fabric touches her fingertips.

You clear your throat instead. “Uh, no! No. Not at all. Thank you? Yeah, thank you for一uhm…for remembering her birthday. How…thoughtful.” 

Joel coughs. And you know it’s an intentional sound, covering up an ill timed laugh. The air feels thick. Awkward and uncomfortable, and you think everything could be solved if only Tess would just leave.

“There’s drinks in the fridge,” Joel tells her. “Soda and beer. A couple of wine coolers. Feel free to help yourself. Tommy’s getting Sarah from her sleepover and pickin’ up pizza on the way here.”

Tess nods and you try not to notice how much warmer her voice is when she speaks to him. “Oh, perfect. It’ll be such a good day, she’ll love it,” she says.

Your eyes narrow and you tilt your head curiously. You hate when she does that一speaks as if she knows Sarah. Like they’re familiar, like she’s anything to your daughter except for her dad’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. “You don’t know that,” you say, masking the venom in your voice. “She might hate it.”

She won’t, but that’s not the point.

“I just meant…well, Sarah’s a really sweet girl. I’m sure she’ll just enjoy everyone being together,” Tess says softly. Reasonably. Actually kind, devoid of the bitter undertone your words possess.

It only makes you hate her more.

“Right.” The word comes out short. Clipped. A little sarcastic.

Silence lingers. Joel stands beside her, scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed on a strand of white wisteria and adamantly avoiding the altercation you’re encouraging.

Tess sighs, and then stares hard at the side of Joel’s face. “Well. I’m gonna grab a beer, you want one?”

Joel shakes his head. “Later. Thanks, though.” 

The moment she slips through the glass door and into the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone once more, you feel yourself deflate. “What if I wanted a beer? Not very considerate of her to offer to grab you one and not—”

A grin stretches across Joel’s face. One of those smiles he can’t help, one that reaches his eyes and has them crinkling around the corners. He shakes his head the moment you start speaking and cuts you off to say, “You hate beer.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.”

“Yes she does, we talk about you all the time.”

You scoff, the sound coming out both surprised and infuriated. “You talk about me? Why? I’m sure she’s got an awful lot to say about the bitter baby momma, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“What? I’m just asking! You guys don’t have anything better to talk about?”

“C’mon, now. Don’t get all crazy,” he says. But he still wears that smirk, like he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the show, and doesn’t tell you to relax or be nice. He doesn’t even try to.

“You can’t seriously expect me to like her, Joel. She’s coming to our daughter’s birthday party while shacking up with my ex husband—”

His mirth falls, replaced with an air of seriousness. “I’m not your ex husband,” he insists. “I never signed those papers.”

“Semantics,” you say.

But Joel’s face contorts further, and though he passes it off as irritation you can see the injury behind his eyes. Can see the way your words hurt him. “No,” he says, voice firm. “We might be separated for now but I’m still your husband.”

His gaze feels heavy, piercing.

You don’t want to argue. And it is technically true, anyway. So you turn your attention away from him, unwilling to feel that longing so acutely, wishing the goosebumps on the back of your neck away. “Okay,” you concede, the softness returning to your voice. “I’m sorry.”

Not long after, Tommy pulls up in the driveway. You and Joel stand on the front porch, and Sarah’s launching herself out of the back seat before Tommy fully turns the engine off.

“Momma!” Her hair shifts around her ears as she runs to you, throwing her arms around your waist and burying her face into the softness of your belly.

It was Joel’s week to have her, so you haven’t seen her pretty face since the family dinner Wednesday night, and you swear she’s grown two inches in the last three days.

Everything feels more at ease the moment she’s in your hands. The Earth feels brighter, warmer. “Happy birthday, sweet pea! Did you have a good time with Ellie? You guys get to go swimming like you wanted?”

She nods and takes a step back. “We did! And look, look!” Sarah lifts her arm to show you the blue and white pony bead bracelet on her wrist. “We made friendship bracelets too!”

You run your hands through her hair and sing your praises like you always do, listening intently while she recounts each moment of the sleepover to you.

Tommy carries three pizzas inside, and you and Sarah follow him to the kitchen. She’s flipping open the container and pulling a slice right from the box, still talking animatedly around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.

You turn to grab a plate from the cupboard, but Joel’s already got one in hand, passing it to you to give to Sarah.

It feels seamless. Routine. The two of you working together, around each other, with each other.

Try as you might to focus on Sarah’s words, all you can think about is the rough texture of Joel’s hand as it brushes yours and lingers a second too long.

You can feel it in that touch. The want. The longing. The despair.

The remnants of your conversation in the backyard lingers in the back of your head. I’m still your husband, he’d said. 

And despite how badly you wanted to hate him and allow yourself to be free, he was never an evil man, just an absent one.

Tess speaks behind you. Something about how she knows Ellie’s mom from work. And it reminds you that while you might still be stuck, right where you were three years ago when you left him, Joel already has someone else. Someone to fill the gap you’d left behind. 

“Can you get me some water, mom?”

Sarah. The day is about Sarah, you remind yourself. Not about you or Joel or the goddamn mistress he invited to your child’s birthday party.

You smile and shake the tension from your bones. “‘Course I can.”

The five of you eat together at the dinner table, and truth be told Tess’s presence isn’t a bad one. You think, in another life, you might even like her. Sometimes she makes quick quips towards Tommy and you find yourself actually laughing. 

But dinner comes to a sudden halt the moment Sarah’s standing to dump her plate in the sink and her eye catches on the glint of a silver butterfly in the back yard. 

She’s a gasping, giggling mess of a girl as she takes in all the decorations, running her small fingers over each strand of wisteria. She takes a running leap in an attempt to touch the streamers overhead but is still just a hair too short at ten—now eleven years old.

Joel lifts her onto his shoulders so she can grab at them, and she spends the next five minutes directing him like a train conductor around the back yard.

It makes your chest pull tight, watching it all unfold. Joel’s always been the best father—before and after the separation. Sarah is the one thing the two of you have done right.

When she’s ready to open her gifts, Joel sets her in the center of the folding table and everyone gathers around her. Sarah chooses the gift wrapped in paper decorated with moons and stars first—your gift.

You try not to feel so smug about it, watching her sift through all the glittering bags from Tess to find yours. 

She peels the paper back to uncover the collectors edition box set of the Dawn of the Wolf books, and is so excited she’s nearly jumping off the table to throw herself into your arms. “How did you know I wanted this one? I’ve been looking for these!”

“Lucky guess,” you say, but she’s mentioned them half a dozen times since the final movie came out in theaters, and they’ve been sitting in the back of your closet for months.

Sarah chooses one of Tess’s gifts next, unearthing a glittering princess tiara. And though Sarah has never once in her life been much of a princess girl (with the singular exception of Mulan), she smiles anyway and says. “Thank you, Tess. It’s very pretty.”

But then proceeds to turn to you, eyes wide and brows raised. She lowers her tone and asks, “Momma, do I have to wear this?”

You try not to laugh. Really, you do. But a snort comes out anyway and you can feel Joel’s pointed stare as you gently take the tiara from Sarah’s hands. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do, baby.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between everyone, but you don’t care. Not when Sarah’s relief is physical and instantaneous, shoulders dropping as she’s unburdened by the sudden expectation. 

“Alright, mine next,” Joel interjects. He hands her a white gift bag that has silver stars on it and she’s tearing into it the moment she can, discarding the tissue paper into the growing pile beside her. 

She gasps as she pulls out the Dawn of the Wolf movie set. Blu-ray discs, even. Every one of them all wrapped up in clear cellophane packaging with a limited edition poster inside.

It’s an uncoordinated gift. As much a surprise to you as it is to her.

That feeling of longing rears its persistent head again, because you miss that harmony you once had. The two of you used to exist together not as two separate people but as an extension of each other.

You used to be so close. He used to be more than your husband, more than the father of your child—Joel was your best friend.

And seeing that harmony you once possessed displayed in such a clear, tangible way, completely unprompted? It has emotion welling up in your throat.

Sarah opens the remainder of her gifts. From Tess, all pink princess-themed dresses and skirts and things that will rot at the back of her closet. But Sarah grimaces and says thank you through it all. 

Tommy’s gift comes last. And thank god for it—because the moment he pulls it from the back of Joel’s truck, Sarah forgets all about princess tiaras and Dawn of the Wolf. 

“Oh my God! Are you serious?! This is mine?! Uncle Tommy!”

Everyone watches with toothy grins as he passes her an electric guitar. The body is glittering teal with an ivory fretboard, child sized to accommodate her eleven year old hands.

It’s the very same one that hangs in the window of the music shop downtown. The one she eyes every time Joel takes her there to pick up a fresh set of strings. 

Tommy laughs and kneels down in front of her. “Now, I know your old man ain’t cool enough to rock n’ roll. But he can get you started teachin’ you the basics on his old man guitar, hm?”

Sarah giggles and turns to give Joel the widest smile. “Dad! It’s called an old man guitar? You told me it was called an acoustic!”

It makes everyone laugh, and your heart swells in your chest. So overwhelmingly full with love and affection you fear it might burst. The sun is shining and your baby is safe and happy and healthy and Tommy’s making stupid jokes and Joel has his hand splayed on the small of your back.

The touch is grounding. Not inherently intimate, just…affectionate. Filled with the type of love that warms you but burns around the edges.

You lean into his side out of pure instinct, and when he rests his cheek on the top of your head, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him.

And it would be so easy. Just to tilt your head back, to smile and press your lips to his. Quick, but full of all the words left unsaid; I love you, and I always have, and I always will.

But you can feel Tess and her heavy stare from across the yard. And when you meet her eyes, you’re surprised to find no trace of resentment there. No anger, no fury. Just…understanding. And perhaps a bit of sadness, too.

Tess was also newly divorced when she met Joel, you know. A quick friendship that had slowly evolved into more. You wonder now, for the very first time, what it must be like for her. How it felt to watch you interact with Joel, how it felt each and every time your jealousy ran a little wild, how much strength it must have taken her to never respond to your cruelty with the same energy.

Guilt slithers like a python between your ribs as you come to the realization that she’s just trying to figure all this out, too. The same way you are.

Tommy helps Sarah lift the guitar strap over her shoulder. And the moment it’s secure, she’s running up to you and Joel and all but begging him to teach her to play a song.

And Joel obliges, of course. Grabs the acoustic guitar he’d hand-made out of spruce wood years ago and within a few short minutes, they’re sitting side by side on the back porch. The sight of them brings a kind of peace to your heart that feels indescribable.

You slip soundlessly inside to start cleaning up. Picking up the empty dishes and half-filled glasses from the table and carrying them to the sink in the kitchen.

Tess saddles up to your side with a hand towel and an easy smile. “Want some help?”

When your brows furrow, it’s on instinct. A knee-jerk reaction. You think about the words that threaten to spill from behind your teeth. More cruelty, more short words. No, I don’t need your help. I’ve got it handled.

But then you remember the way she’d looked at you and think better of it. Swallow down your dislike and instead say, “Uhm. Yeah…sure. Thank you.”

You turn on the warm water and lather the sponge in that god-awful dollar store dish soap he’s been buying since you left.

Tess doesn’t speak. Not right away. She just takes the washed and rinsed dish from your hand when you offer it to her and dries it in silence. She moves around the kitchen with a familiar sort of ease that would bother you.

Well. It does bother you. Because once this was your kitchen, too. You who decided which cabinet to put the cups in. You who organized the spices. You who picked out the stainless steel stove. Your kitchen. Your house. Your husband.

But you try not to let it show. Because she doesn’t deserve to be punished for what was ultimately a decision you made. And she’s never crossed any boundaries. Has always been good to your daughter. Good to Joel.

“You’re a great mom,” she suddenly says, sticking a dry plate on top of the existing stack in the cupboard. “You’re definitely that girl’s favorite person in the whole world.”

As sweet as the sentiment is, it makes you snort. “I think today it might be Uncle Tommy who’s her favorite.”

Tess smiles, but shakes her head. “Nah. She talks about you like you put the stars in the sky,” she explains. And then her voice gets a little lighter, as she says, “You know, the first time I met her the three of us went out for ice cream. And you wanna know the first thing she said to me?”

You’d known about the ice cream and about Sarah meeting Tess. Joel had introduced the two of you months prior, and refused to even tell Sarah about Tess without your explicit consent. As much as you hated it at the time, it had been handled with respect. But Joel had never given details, just said that it had gone well. That it seemed like Sarah had fun. “What did she say?”

“We sat at that picnic table and she looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘my mommy smells way better than you.’”

A crease forms between your brows and you turn to face Tess with a disbelieving look on your face. “She what?”

There’s a certain amusement in her voice when she responds. “Yep. And she was probably right, anyhow. I was working at a restaurant at the time and probably smelled like garlic aioli.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you. It truly is unintentional. But imagining those words in Sarah’s pretty, sweet voice sends you over the edge.

But Tess is laughing, too. Which is some small comfort. “And then she proceeded to tell me how much you liked that perfume Joel got you for Christmas and stood up on the bench and gave me a whole run-down about how you spray it. So that I could smell better, too.”

You can just imagine the way Joel’s face would’ve gone tomato red, embarrassed and in public no less. “You’re joking.”

Tess shakes her head. “Nope. I swear. Neck, chest, and the insides of your wrists. Right?”

You hand her the last dish and rinse the soap from the sink. “Uhm, yeah. In that order exactly. She’s…god. I’m so sorry. She’s something else.”

She waves your apology away with a quick hand. “Oh, it’s fine. Kids never have a filter at that age. I thought it was hilarious, actually.” She puts the final dish away and drapes the hand towel over the cabinet door beneath the sink.

There’s more she wants to say, but she hesitates. And this new ease you’ve created feels precarious, so you’re not sure if you should urge her or stay silent.

But after a few moments, she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. Her eyes are averted, staring only at the linoleum floor. And then she says, “I only say this because I want you to know even though Tommy got her a guitar and Joel’s going to teach her how to play it, it’s you she keeps a framed photo of on her nightstand when she stays here.”

Emotion chokes you. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but you try your damndest to swallow it down. You don’t want to cry, not here. Not in front of Tess. And not on Sarah’s birthday.

“The only person in the world who even comes close is Joel,” Tess continues. “And Joel and I…we have a lot in common. One of those things being that we’re both still stupidly in love with the person who left us.”

You try to blink away the moisture in your eyes, but it feels useless now. “Tess.”

The word comes out as a warning. One she doesn’t heed. 

“Joel’s a good man,” she says. “He’s a good man, and he loves nothing more than you and that little girl. And I can see it in you, too. The love that’s there. The kind that never, ever goes away. I don’t want…” she sighs. Shakes her head and tries again. “You deserve good things. And I’m glad you saw that you deserved more and stood your ground because Sarah is watching everything you do. And one day, when she’s in the same situation, she will look back and know exactly what choice to make. But I think it’s important to show her that love does exist. And sometimes…sometimes all it needs is a second chance.”

Your breaths feel uneven. Thready and labored. You don’t know what to say or what to do or how to react. Your ex husband’s girlfriend is standing here, encouraging you to forgive him. Not for you or for him but for Sarah.

It all feels heavy. Too heavy.

And all you can muster up the courage to say is, “Thank you, Tess. I…I appreciate you.”

“I’m only saying to you what I wish someone would say to my ex husband.” She gives you a soft smile. One that comes from a place of womanhood, of a sameness that can’t be manufactured. And then she clears her throat and squeezes your shoulder and says, “I’m, uh—gonna go ahead and sneak out. Thank you for letting me celebrate with her, too.”

You wait.

Wait until she walks away. Until she grabs her keys from the table. Until you hear the front door shut. Until you hear her car tires groan against the gravel in the driveway.

And then the tears are falling fast down your cheeks. Marring your skin and leaving wet streaks behind.

Because Tess is right. Or at least you want her to be.

You would give anything, anything, to feel whole again. To have that pretty ring on your finger and to fall asleep in the same bed and wake up to Sarah wriggling her way between you. To make coffee in the mornings and hear Joel tease you about the amount of creamer you use. To throw his laundry in with yours and file your taxes together again and hold his hand over the center console on a late night drive.

All it needs is a second chance.

When the sliding glass door opens, you turn towards the sink and frantically wipe the tears away from your face. You don’t want Sarah to see you crying一she always takes longer to recover from your tears than you yourself do.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” 

Relief floods you when you hear Tommy’s voice. He closes the door behind him and as soon as you turn to face him, he’s crossing the kitchen in four strides. “Sorry,” you say. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Don’t look fine to me. What happened? Why’re you cryin’?” He holds your shoulders, keeping you at arms length. “And where the fuck is Tess? Did she say somethin’ to you?”

There’s an underlying venom in his voice you know all too well. The kind that slips out when he’s gotten too drunk or when someone gets disrespectful to a woman in front of him. Protective to a fault.

You shake your head. “Tommy, no. It wasn’t like that. She was actually being…” you laugh, but it comes out bitterly. “She was really fucking nice. I’m just…”

His gaze is hard as he asks, “You sure? ‘Cause I don’t care what you and Joel got goin’ on, you’re still my baby sister. Someone made you cry. All you gotta do is say the word. Still talk to this girl from high school an’ she fights mean. I’ll call her up right now.”

This time when you laugh, it's more genuine. “Tommy,” you chastise. “Jesus, no. It wasn’t like that, okay? I swear. Relax.”

He searches your face, but ultimately nods and takes a step back. “Just don’t like seein’ you cry,” he admits.

And it softens your heart, because you get it. Understand what it’s like to love someone like a sibling even without sharing an ounce of blood. 

You’d seen Tommy on the worst days and on his best days. You’ve seen him cry and seen him laugh. Made sure he had a good meal every night and socks without holes in them in the mornings. Kept his secrets and gave him dating advice and bailed him out of jail a time or two.

It had been you who’d held his hand the whole way home after he was discharged from the combat zone of Desert Storm.

Tommy has become an integral part of your life. A piece you’d been terrified of losing in the divorce, only to discover your fears had been blessedly in vain.

“It was about Joel,” you admit, sniffling. Quiet and timid, feeling out of step with yourself. Unsure in a way you haven’t been in a long time.

Tommy sighs. “You wanna talk about it?”

He asks carefully. Not pushing, only concerned. And you trust Tommy, maybe more than anyone on the planet, because he has no motivation when it comes to you. So, for once, you say exactly what’s on your mind. “I still love him. I think I always will. But at what point is it disrespectful to myself if I go back? If we just repeat the same old habits, if I spend my days alone again, I…God. What would that look like to Sarah? Would it set this example that it’s okay to accept half-assed love? To go back to someone who you begged for months to just…to just be there. To come home when he promised he would. I deserve that, Tommy.”

“You do,” he agrees easily. 

“I just don’t know…I don’t know. How can I tell if things will be different? How do I take that risk and should I? If I go back, wouldn’t this all have been for nothing? I put Sarah through all of this for nothing?”

He sighs heavily, worry on his face. “You want my opinion or you just wanna get it all out?”

“Your opinion,” you say. Because your brain feels all scrambled and chaotic and Tommy has never once lied to you.

“Joel would take the risk on you,” he says with a shrug. Simple. Honest. A clean cut blow straight to your still beating heart.

And the worst part is that you know he’s right. 

“You know he went to therapy? That first year.” Tommy laughs. “Joel. Went to therapy. Could hardly believe it. An’ he complained about it every damn week, but he still showed up. I think he tried to be…better. You know? For you.”

It’s the first and only time you and Tommy ever talk about Joel and the things he did right after your divorce. You never wanted to involve him. Never wanted him to get caught in the crossfire.

But you find yourself glad you’re doing it now. Thankful for the honesty, no matter how much it hurts to hear it. “I…I didn’t know that. He never told me. Thank you, Tommy. For always being there for me. And for Sarah, too.”

His lips curl into that same toothy grin that your daughter inherited. “Course,” he says. “S’what I’m here for. And, hey一don’t sweat it so much. Things will turn out the way they’re supposed to. They always do, right?”

You nod, and he wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders. You lean into his embrace and let him pull you to the sliding glass door and back outside. Sarah and Joel are both so occupied in the moment they don’t even look up at you.

Joel’s got one hand on the neck of his guitar while the other is adjusting Sarah’s fingers on the fretboard of hers. 

You look up at Tommy and ask, “How long do you think ‘til she’s ready for cake?”

He snorts. “Oh, you’ve got an hour. At least.”

It ends up taking two.

But you don’t mind. You just sit on the porch steps and watch the two of them. Sarah’s eager to learn, and Joel is a patient teacher. He answers all of her questions and gives her tips and pointers and even promises to find a pink guitar pick just for her.

When Joel asks what song she wants to learn first, Sarah smiles excitedly and answers, “We have to play My Girl!”

The moment she says it, Joel casts his eyes to you and your heart pinches tight. And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s reliving the same memories you are.

Those late nights right after Sarah was born when she would cry and cry until Joel sang her softly back to sleep. The times he’d sing it to her even when she was older, dancing around the kitchen while she climbed on his back.

The memories that came even before Sarah. The first time he ever sang it to you, after he’d had one too many beers and you’d had to put him to bed. The time it had come on the radio in his truck and he’d pulled over to dance with you in the middle of a field of wheat. 

And on your wedding night, where you’d been so painfully in love that you barely registered the small group of family and friends around you. 

Because Joel had held you tight and kissed your forehead and sang the lyrics softly in your ear. His beard had ticked your skin, and your face had gone all hot, but you’d never been happier than you were at that very moment. Married to the man you loved, surrounded by people who cared about you, and a beautiful baby growing in your belly.

Of course that’s the song she would choose.

It takes her only forty minutes to learn the first verse. 

She quits only when the sun begins to set, and makes Joel pinky swear to practice with her tomorrow.

Tommy lights the candles on her cake, and everyone sings happy birthday around the table. She clings to you the entire time. Arm intertwined with yours, leaning heavily into your side, face pressed to your belly.

Sarah makes a wish and blows out the flame and asks Joel if he can put on a movie while they eat. He suggests Curtis and Viper, but Sarah won’t hear of it. 

She’s tearing open her new blu-ray box set of Dawn of the Wolf with vanilla frosting still sticking to her fingers.

And for the entirety of the first movie, she sits between you and Joel on the couch. Her head is in your lap and her feet are in his, and it feels good.

It feels like home. 

Tommy leaves when the credits roll. And Sarah jumps up to give him a too-tight bear hug and thanks him a million times for her guitar and swears that she’ll be concert ready by the following weekend. 

But when she sees you grabbing your jacket from the rack by the door, her face falls. “Can we please stay here tonight? Just for my birthday!” 

It breaks your heart into a million tiny pieces. Not only the request itself but the way she says it. Full of hope and love, like it doesn’t even register to her that the request might be too much for you to handle.

You think about Tess’s words and you think about your tears from earlier and you think about Joel. 

When your eyes find his, they’re full of melancholy. He carries this deep, pensive longing that has lingered there for years, and you start to wonder if it’ll ever go away. 

He shrugs. “I don’t mind. But it’s your week, so it’s your call.”

“Please, mom! Please, please, please!” 

You don’t think you’d be able to say no to her if you tried.

When you sigh, Sarah knows it’s over. She jumps in excitement and spins around the room and requests that Joel make popcorn before you start the second movie, to which he immediately obliges. 

Tommy hugs you tight before he goes. Kisses your temple and says, “You’re tough, little sister. Trust your gut. And Christ, girl. Give yourself some credit every now and again. You’re doing great.”

“Thanks for coming, Tommy,” you mutter. “We love you. And text me when you get home safe or I’ll have your ass.”

He chuckles low and you close the door behind him, leaving you in the silence of the living room. In the distance, you can hear Joel and Sarah in the kitchen. 

She’s talking excitedly about all the songs she wants to learn. You can hear the smile on Joel’s face as he utters words of encouragement. The kernels pop and the scent of salt and butter begins to drift into the living room, and you’re trying to stay strong. 

Really, you are. But it would be so fucking easy to just…to come home. 

And not in the sense of moving back into this house and dedicating every Saturday night to movies and popcorn. Home—like coming back to Joel.

You swallow hard and busy yourself setting up the next movie. Ejecting one disc and replacing it with the next. Skipping through all the previews and adjusting the volume, flipping off the overhead light and turning on the wax warmer in the corner that looks like it hasn’t been used since the day you’d left. 

When you’re done, you make your way to the kitchen and interject their popcorn process only to tell Sarah, “Why don’t you go upstairs and get your pajamas on before we start?”

“But, mom. I’m not gonna fall asleep. Can’t I do it after?”

You and Joel exchange a look—both fully aware that she’ll be out like a light before the twenty minute mark.

He smiles and nudges Sarah. “G’on. Listen to your momma.” 

She does so begrudgingly, her footfalls heavy up the stairs and down the hall to her room. 

Joel turns off the heat on the stove and pulls down the big plastic bowl from the top shelf. The one you picked out all those years ago. He glances at you over his shoulder and asks, “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

You know better than to lie. Not to Joel. Who has always seen right through you. Who knows you better than anyone else on the planet.

And what would you say, anyway? That you’re not sure what you want anymore, that you miss him but you’re terrified of accepting any less than what you deserve? That it hurts to see him with someone else, that it hurts even more that she’s nice?

When you answer, the words come out short and clipped. Not aggressive, just…tired. “Let’s just get through the night, Joel.”

You leave the kitchen and return to the couch, relieved to hear Sarah bounding back down the stairs. She smiles when she sees you and it eases the strain on your heart if only a little. 

She climbs up beside you and leans into your embrace when you hug her tight to your side. “Thanks for everything, mommy,” she murmurs, cheek smooshed to your arm. “I had the best day ever.”

You kiss the top of her head and thank the universe or god or whoever’s listening for sending you the most perfect daughter. For giving you a reason to prioritize your own heart. “You’re so welcome, sweet girl. Happy birthday.”

Joel comes to sit on her other side, popcorn bowl in hand. “Ready?”

She’s shoveling popcorn into her mouth before you can even hit play. 

And twenty minutes later? She’s got her head on Joel’s shoulder, and there’s a buttery kernel still in her hand, and she’s snoring so loud the sound echoes in the room. 

You look at Joel, and he’s wearing this grin that you think you haven’t seen in a while, and you have to cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing hard enough you wake her. 

“Christ,” Joel says. “S’like she’s sawin’ logs in her sleep.”

“Between Ellie’s last night and soccer practice this morning, I knew she’d crash hard. And I think Tommy gave her a bunch of candy on the way over.”

“Oh, he definitely did. Found three bags of peach rings in the trash,” he tells you with a light hearted chuckle. He shifts carefully, tucking one arm beneath her head and the other beneath her knees. “I’ll go tuck her in.”

You nod, and the moment you’re left alone in the silence you’re finding your way back to the kitchen. Cleaning up the scattered mess from the day, trying to busy your hands and quiet the turmoil in your head. 

When you collect all the torn wrapping paper and cellophane packaging and discard it, you move on to wiping down the countertops. 

Joel doesn’t say anything when he enters the kitchen soundlessly, but you can feel his presence as if he were an extension of your heart. 

He leans against the archway and presses his thumb into his palm. “You’ve always done that, you know,” he says. 

Without turning to look at him, scrubbing at a stubborn water ring, you ask, “Done what?”

“Start cleanin’ when you’re tryin’ to work somethin’ out in that head of yours.”

You pause, hand freezing, washcloth still clutched tight between your fingers. 

“You remember Sarah’s first day of kindergarten?” He huffs. “Spent the whole day cleaning the baseboards with a damn toothbrush.”

The memory comes back to you the moment he says it. Joel had spent that night working lotion into your chemical-dried palms, skin sore and taut from prolonged exposure to the cleaner you’d used.

“And when she sprained her ankle jumpin’ off the swings at the park, you rented one of those big dumpsters that weekend and threw out all that junk in the garage.”

The more he speaks, the more memories surface that serve to validate his claim. You leave the water stain be, and toss the cloth into the empty sink. “I guess you're right,” you say, trying to laugh it off. To keep things as lighthearted as possible.

But then he says, “I should’ve noticed it. That last week, right before…right before you left.”

The anguish in his words makes your gut twist. Because Tess is right, Joel is a good man. Perfect for you in nearly every way. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone, and you hate seeing him like this. Hate even more that you’re the cause of it.

“Was comin’ home every night and the entire house was spotless,” he says somberly. “Knew there was somethin’ going on, just…didn’t think it was…that.”

Emotion rises up in you. Thick and hot in the back of your head, making your ears ring. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, stepping fully into the kitchen now. He lowers himself into a chair at the table and answers easily, “Anything. You know that.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to therapy?”

You expect him to sigh. To shift uncomfortably or avoid the question altogether. But he doesn’t do any of that. He just says, “I thought about it. About tellin’ you. But, uh…guess I just supposed that when you came home to me, it had to be because you wanted to. Not ‘cause of somethin’ I was doing.”

The words shatter what remains of your resolve. “Is that what you think? That I haven’t come home because I didn’t want to?”

He shakes his head. “No, I…I know it’s because of…well. Me. An’ workin’ all the time and everything. Not makin’ the time for you an’ Sarah the way a man ought to. The way a dad and a husband ought to. But I haven’t missed anything in the last three years, have I?”

You try to recall all the events that have passed since the separation. All of the parent teacher conferences and birthdays and doctors appointments and soccer games and art shows. 

“Even when you put that hole in the wall of your apartment, tryin’ to move furniture around. Scared about gettin’ the deposit back, so you called me,” he says. “An’ I came, baby. Didn’t I?”

Those stubborn tears return again, pooling in the corners of your eyes. Quietly, you admit, “Yeah, you did.”

“There ain’t a day that goes by I don’t regret losin’ you.”

“God, Joel.” Your voice cracks when you say his name. 

And that’s all it takes before he’s standing to his feet and closing the distance between you, the instinct to soothe your discomfort deeply ingrained. “Hey,” he says, squeezing your fingers in one hand and tilting your face up with the other. “Why’re you cryin’? Talk to me.”

You shake your head. “I just…I miss this. Having movie nights and making popcorn and carrying Sarah up to bed. I miss coordinating birthday gifts and not just co-parenting but parenting together. I miss being here and I miss you, Joel.”

His eyes soften, and he gently drags the back of his knuckles across your cheek. “Then come home, baby,” Joel says.

As if there isn't a risk of hurting Sarah even further than the damage that’s already been done. As if he doesn’t have a partner who’s kind, who cares about Sarah in the only way she knows how. As if it was simple.

“I wish it were that easy,” you murmur, leaning into the palm of his hand.

“Tell me what you need,” Joel says, voice a little breathy now. “Just tell me. Talk to me. I’ll do anything you want, baby, anything.”

“I love you, Joel. That’s never changed and it never, ever will. But how do I trust you again? How do I know that you’ll be there? How do I know things won’t go back to the way they were? That we’ll settle back into a routine and then you’ll leave me here, raising our little girl alone?” You shake your head. “I can’t do that again. I can’t. I won’t.”

He folds his big arms around you and pulls you close to his chest. Holds you tight enough that it feels like he’s holding you together. “You won’t have to,” he says. “I swear. I’ll spend every day I’ve got left proving it to you. But you gotta let me in, baby. You’ve gotta let me fix it.”

“If I do come home, how confusing is that for Sarah? I mean, God. Haven’t we fucked things up enough? What if I come home and then it still doesn't work and一?”

Joel pulls away just enough to see you and shakes his head. “We’ll go slow, alright? We don’t have to tell her unless you’re ready. No reason to make things more complicated than they have to be,” he says. “And Sarah’s strong. She’s like her mom in that way.”

He’s saying everything you want to hear and you feel yourself unraveling fast. “And what about Tess?”

“She’ll understand, because she knows I’m yours,” Joel answers. “Yours.”

And then, without any warning, he carefully lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

His fingers curl tight around your hips, and everything feels hot and overwhelming and your breath gets caught in your lungs. He presses a kiss to your belly in the same place Sarah rests her head and you feel suddenly like crying again. “Joel.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” he insists. “Anything, baby. Please. Please come home to me.”

And all you can think at that moment is, why haven’t you come home sooner?

You thread your hands through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Your tears are falling freely now for the second time today but this time it’s different. Lighter. Like a breath of fresh air, tears of relief instead of turmoil.

“I love you,” Joel says, slipping his hands beneath your top and running his rough palms over your smooth curves. “Please, baby. Please. I need you.”

Your longing has become something else entirely now. A beast in your heart that’s grown teeth and sharpened claws, tearing apart every last defense you’ve so carefully built to keep him at arms length. When you speak, the word is a broken surrender in your mouth. “Okay.”

Joel freezes. “Oh…kay?” His brows furrow and you can feel his hesitance now. Unsure of himself, pulling away but so clearly wanting to touch you more. 

You cover his hands with your own, keeping them in place, pressing them more firmly against your ribs. “Okay,” you repeat. “I want to come home.”

In the fifteen years you’ve known Joel Miller, you’ve never once seen him relax as much as he does the moment you say those words. His shoulders slump, the tension in his face dissipates, the tightness bleeds from his limbs.

And then he lets out this long held sigh, shoulders shaking with it. He lifts the hem of your shirt with his hands and presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to your navel. “Thank you,” he says, and you know he means it.

He kisses you again, a little higher this time, and it ignites a flame low in your abdomen. Makes you feel suddenly warm and tingly all over. Makes you miss him in an entirely different way. His hands are rough and his eyes are glassy when he looks up at you through dark lashes.

“I love you,” he says. Soft. Gentle. But real. Not the sentiment you’re always giving him; the half-empty meaning. A way to say you care, but not like you used to. 

When Joel says it, it’s different. It’s all consuming. Nothing distant or safe about it.

“I love you so fucking much, baby. Please let me show you. Please.”

You nod without hesitation. Knowing what comes next, knowing the last step in your decision is giving yourself over entirely. Mind and body alike, becoming two souls bound together again, the way you used to be, the way you always should’ve been. You know he needs this, but maybe not as much as you need it.

Joel thumbs open the button on your jeans and carefully一oh, so carefully一tugs down the zipper. He watches you the whole time like you’re going to suddenly change your mind, like you haven’t wanted his touch every moment of every day for three years. Longer, even. 

He kisses the satin lining of your panties with a reverent mouth, and then he’s pulling them off with your jeans. Over the swell of your hips and down your thighs. You anchor yourself with your hands on his shoulders and Joel helps you step out of them completely. 

With a contented sigh, he presses his forehead to the space between your ribs. Inhales deep and then kisses your pubic bone. “You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Another kiss, lower this time, right above your clit. Like it’s muscle memory. Like relearning you will take no time at all. 

His hands slide up the back of your thighs and palm at the swell of your ass. “Spread your legs for me,” he says. And the moment you do, Joel’s got his head between them and his tongue swiping through the gathering wetness there. 

It feels like heaven. His mouth is warm and soft and he knows just where to lick and where to suck and where to bite. He’s hungry for it. Equally as starved. He groans low against you and you can feel the vibration of it down to your toes. “Oh my god.”

His tongue laves over your clit in long, smooth strokes. It’s full of purpose and worship and adoration. When he pulls away to speak, he takes the opportunity to wedge his hand between your thighs. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, gently pressing his middle finger inside of you. He adds another, his ring finger this time, still adorned with the titanium band you’d picked out years ago. “I’m so, so fucking sorry that I hurt you.”

Joel curls his fingers inside of you at the same moment his warm, apologetic tongue finds your clit again. The intensity of it makes you lose your balance, leaning back against the counter, hands scrambling to find purchase. A whimper escapes you, pleasure ratcheting higher and higher with each practiced, wet flick of his tongue between your folds.

“Christ,” he hisses. “Missed you so much, sweetheart. An’ s’okay if you don’t wanna admit it, but I know you missed me, too. Hm?”

Your chest squeezes tight. Because it’s true, it’s true, and you’re starting to feel delirious between the pleasure his sweet mouth brings and the sugar that pours from his tongue. You want it to be real so badly that you tremble. “God, Joel.”

“Shh,” he hums. “Don’t think so hard. Just feel. Feel me, baby. Feel what I do to you. Feel how much you love me.”

Christ. You do. You love him. You always have. And even when you decide to love yourself more, what you feel for Joel has always lived beneath your skin. A fire you’ve spent so long trying to put out, and you’re just now realizing you’ve only been stoking the flames.

Keeping them steady until now, until you return to him. And his mouth is like gasoline to the flames of your heart. Sweet words, sugary tongue. Honey poured in your ear, everything you’ve longed for all these years.

You feel your release approaching fast, but Joel does, too. He pulls away the moment his name leaves your mouth, but it’s only for long for him to lift you onto the counter and to spread your legs far enough to house the width of his hips. 

“Wanna feel you, baby,” he mutters, kissing the hollow of your throat. His breath is hot against your prickled skin, his words and lips both desperate. Needier than you’ve ever seen him, and you understand because you feel it, too.

“Promise me,” you say, words breathless, greedily swallowing up his oxygen. “Promise me you mean it. Promise me you’ll never pull this shit again.” 

Joel leans back. Cradles your face in his hands like he holds divinity. And maybe, to him, you are divine. His god given solace.

His wife.

“I mean it,” he says, gaze holding firm, eyes locked with yours. “Everything I am, baby. Everything. S’yours. I’m all yours. I promise.” He kisses you hard, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. “Let me in, baby. Let me come home.”

Home. Home, home一yours is here, with him and with Sarah in this house he built for you. And Joel’s home is you. In the confines of your soft heart.

Your hands find the back of his neck, nails scratching against the skin. And then you find yourself nodding, giving into it completely, flames of lust transformed now into a cleansing ritual, burning away all the hurt and resentment. “I love you,” you say, and he presses his forehead to yours with tears in his eyes.

Joel lets out a long sigh, and then unbuckles his belt. Pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to let his cock spring free. He holds it in his hands and you watch as he strokes it once, and then twice.

You wrap your legs around his waist and lean back just a little, just enough to make it easier for him as he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes inside with a shaky groan. 

The stretch aches in the best way, and you focus on each inch as it disappears inside of you while Joel watches you. His beautiful girl.

He fucks you hard. He splays one of his big hands on the small of your back, holding you steady as his hips crash into yours. There’s intent behind each thrust. A deep, satisfying reminder that you belong together. That you’re his and he’s yours. 

With his free hand, he rests it over your belly, low enough to gently stroke your clit with his thumb. “You feel me, baby? You feel me right here?” 

“Fuck,” you cry out, fingernails leaving indentations on his skin as you cling to him. “God, Joel. Feels so good, so fucking一god.”

“I know, I know,” he soothes. He kisses you gently this time, a stark contrast to the way his cock splits you apart, pressing hard against that sweet spot inside of you. “I’ve got you. Won’t ever let you down again, baby. You’re my girl an’ I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anything.”

It’s all too much. His desperate thrusts, his thumb on your clit, his tongue in your mouth, his sweet words in your ear. You’re unravelling even faster this time, ears ringing, skin heating. “Joel, please. I’m close, I’m so一”

“Give it to me,” he says. “Come for me. Wanna feel just how bad you missed this, sweetheart.” 

Release comes fast. Hot and with unexpected strength. Your vision blurs and your limbs tremble around him. Joel slots his wet mouth against yours, swallowing up your moans, taking everything from you that you’re willing to give.

You can feel his pace falter and his brows knit together as he nears the summit. And when you feel the pressure of his hands begin to lighten, you know his intent. But you hold firm, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him in even deeper. “Inside me, Joel, please,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

He groans low the moment you say it and buries himself to the hilt, spilling himself deep inside you. Joel stays like that the whole time, only moving the smallest bit, filling you up until he’s spent and twitching. “Christ,” he hisses. “Love you so much, baby. Don’t you ever leave me again.”

The come down is slow. Unhurried. He stays inside you until his cock softens, peppering gentle kisses across your face. He traces the curves of your jaw and your brow bone with his fingertips as if he’d forgotten the way it feels to touch you and wants to remember. 

When he does finally pull back, his hands still hold you. Fingers laced through yours while he gathers your jeans from the floor. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go on up to bed.”

You don’t argue. You just let him do what he needs to. Let him hold your hand the whole way up. Let him carefully take off your shirt and unclasp your bra once you close the bedroom door behind you. He pulls one of his t-shirts from the closet and tugs it over your head, kissing your forehead right after. 

Once he changes out of his clothes, discarding everything but his boxers, Joel crawls into bed beside you and pulls you close to his chest. You kiss his warm skin, right over his heart, and close your eyes.

But you can still feel his gaze as it lingers on the side of your face, and when you open your eyes to look at him, he wears this lovesick smile. You ask playfully, “You gonna stay up all night?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits. “Just like holdin’ you is all. Like seein’ you here. With me.”

You snuggle into him, warming your chilled fingers against his soft belly. “Get some rest, Joel. I’ll still be here in the morning, okay? I promise.”

He kisses you again and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. His voice is soft. The word broken but tender in his mouth as he says, “Okay.”

When you fall asleep, it’s to the sound of Joel’s soft snores beside you and Sarah’s echoed down the hallway.

You rest easy that night, without an ounce of regret. Feeling relieved in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever feel again. 

And when you wake up the next morning, the sun streams in through the half-pulled blinds. You carefully sneak out of bed, pull on a clean pair of his boxers, and pad barefoot down the stairs to the kitchen.

Sarah’s already up. She’s got a record spinning at a low volume, and she’s dancing around the kitchen listening to Pearl Jam. There’s pale powder in one of her eyebrows. It’s spilled across the countertop, too. And in her small hands is a metal mixing bowl and a wooden spoon.

She’s trying to make pancakes you realize, and your heart suddenly aches. Because she seems so grown up at this moment. No longer your sweet and silly girl who needs help washing her hands before dinner, more and more independent every day.

The fear crosses your mind that you are the reason she’s so mature for her age. That the separation is what made her take on this too-adult role.

But then she pauses her mixing to pick up the hand towel off the counter. She stares at herself in the distorted reflection of the metal bowl, and sets the towel over her little shoulder.

The exact same way that you do when you’re cooking dinner for her every night.

You suddenly see exactly what Tess was talking about. Sarah’s not trying to be mature or take on an adult role because she feels the need to.

She’s trying to be just like you.

Sarah picks up the bowl again and turns, eyes glowing when she notices your presence. “Mama! Good morning! I’m making pancakes!”

You laugh softly and come to her side. “I see that,” you say. “Want some help?”

“Yes, please. I’m bad at mixing.” 

With a shake of your head, you gently take the bowl from her hand and place it on the counter. “You’re doing a great job, sweet girl. Just need to add a little more water, see?” You turn the faucet on and add the smallest bit and hand the bowl back to her. “Now try.”

She does, and her smile grows as the batter begins to come together and smooth out. “There’s coffee, too. Uncle Tommy showed me how to start it.”

You turn to see the pot full, and giggle as you wonder how exactly that conversation had come about. Likely from the times Joel got up too late to start it, leaving Tommy without caffeine for god knows how long. “Thank you, baby girl,” you say. “That’s so sweet of you.”

Sarah beams at the praise. And when you pull two mugs from the cupboard, she stops you. “Dad will only use the owl one,” she says, nodding to the dishwasher. 

You follow her gaze, open the dishwasher, and quickly find the exact mug she’s talking about. It’s a poorly-made ceramic project you’d given to him for Christmas years ago. You were taking a pottery class with a friend, and the mug was the one and only thing you’d made that didn’t turn out so wobbly that it was unusable.

The edges were still a little bent and it sat on the table leaning just a little to the left, but Joel had insisted it was perfect. 

You hold it gently in your hands, fingers running over the owl you’d spent hours painting into its side. “The only one he’ll use, huh?”

Sarah nods. “He says it’s special to him ‘cause you made it. Maybe you could teach me how to make stuff too! We could make Uncle Tommy one!”

You promise her you will. Tell her you’ll find a place in town that offers classes and that you’ll go to one together. And then you fill the mug with coffee, climb the stairs, and set it on Joel’s nightstand. 

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and gently shake him awake. He smiles when he sees you. Gives you the same crooked smile your daughter inherited, and it makes you feel loved and warm all over.

“Mornin’ baby.”

“You meant it, didn’t you? Your promise?”

Joel reaches for your hand and holds it tight. “I meant it,” he tells you. “An’ I know it’s hard to trust me now, but I’ll spend every day tryin’ to prove it to you.”

“Good,” you say. “‘Cause I think…I think Sarah and I are coming home.”

thank you for reading, i love you!!

[superbassbuck]

marvel dirtbag series

warnings: 18+ mdni, contains smut, college au, angst, fluff, semi-public sex, banter, miscommunication, enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, opposites attract. each installment will have their own warnings tagged.

main masterlist

a/n: this was originally inspired by the rodrick x regina ship that was floating around on tiktok, and the song 'teenage dirtbag' by wheatus.

series synopsis: Two social outcasts and best friends find themselves dragging their feet through college, all while trying to make it big with their band. But how can they focus when Bucky Barnes is too busy losing his head over a girl way out of his league, and Steve Rogers is desperate to win back the heart of the childhood friend he broke? Both stories are set in the same universe. You do not need to read one boy's part to understand the other.

two tickets to iron maiden

pairing: dirtbag!bucky barnes x popular!reader ⤷ What happens when Bucky Barnes, the campus dirtbag, has a secret relationship (if you can even call it that) with the most popular, unapproachable girl in school? You get broken drumsticks in a fit of rage. You get smeared lipstick from heated make-out sessions. And most importantly, you get dirty little secrets.

Bucky's playlist ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•

captain american idiot

pairing: dirtbag!steve rogers x nerd!reader

⤷ Years of drift had turned you and Steve Rogers into strangers. Now being in college, he was the dirtbag guitarist in a rising band, and you were the quiet girl buried in her books. You figured your friendship was over—until he discovered you were the secret pen behind his rival band's greatest hits. Suddenly, Steve is miraculously crawling back.

Steve's playlist ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||||။၊|။•

[dearwalker]

Forevermore

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word Count: 32k

Part Two of Evermore

Description: Johnny finally meets his son, a secret you kept from him for too long. He missed the beginning of his life, but he refuses to miss the rest, so he does everything in his power to win his son’s and your heart, one quiet act of love at a time.

Tags/warnings: fem!reader, angst, idiots in love, heavy conversations, everyone cries, so much fluff to make up for the angst, jealousy, dad!johnny shenanigans, soft domesticity, this part contains smut.

This fic was inspired on Taylor’s Swift’s entire album Evermore, so you will find lyrics from it before every divider 🍂

Note: Oh. My. God. First of all I can’t believe the amount of love part one received!! I’ve gotten so many lovely comments and asks over the week, and I’m over the moon. Seriously babes, this kind of support means the world, so thank you for showing it 🤍 Now, this was supposed to come out just a few days after part 1, but I got so many interesting suggestions that I decided to expand the story more than I’d originally planned. Needless to say, I’m very excited to share this. So get cozy, get your tissues, your fav drink, and prepare to laugh, cry, and get surprised over and over🫶🏼 As always, the most special thanks to the lovely @breadcheese444 for beta reading the whole thing😭🫶🏼 enjoy!

The resemblance knocked the air straight from Johnny’s chest. It was a mini him, except better, softer…pure.

Johnny’s heart hammered so loud he thought the whole shop could hear it. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. And Leo, with wide curious eyes, looked up at you, then followed your gaze toward the man waiting by the window.

“From a long time ago,” you replied.

“Leo,” you said softly, brushing a hand over his sleeve to get his attention, “I want you to meet a friend.”

“A friend?” he said, and Johnny almost fainted from how cute his little voice was. “From where?”

Leo squinted at Johnny, the way only a child could, unfiltered, curious to the bone. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he let go of your hand and marched right toward the table. You followed anxiously. And Johnny? Johnny was toast. He forgot how to move. His heart jackhammered as the kid–his kid–stopped in front of him and just stared, unblinking, like he was scanning him for answers.

“You look like me, mommy’s friend.” Leo said matter of factly. “We have the same hair.”

Johnny panicked, and for a terrifying second he thought his legs were going to give out when he stood up from the table. He managed a shaky disbelieving laugh, crouching to meet him at eye level.

“Yeah, buddy,” he exhaled. “I guess we do.”

Leo grinned, quick and bright, satisfied with his own observation. “Cool.” Then, as if that settled everything, he spun around and tugged at your sleeve. “Can we get ice cream now, Mom?”

“Yes, baby. Let’s do that.” You nodded quickly, letting yourself be guided by his little hand to the counter. 

But Johnny was frozen in his crouching position for a few seconds, blinking fast, the word Mom echoing in his head as he stared at Leo who was already more like him than he’d ever dared to imagine. He took a deep breath.

There was no way back from this. Only forward, into the storm.

Once he managed to convince his legs to move and walk to the counter, where that same girl looked at the three of you curiously, Johnny cleared his throat, pulling out his leather wallet. 

“I got the ice creams,” he said, firm enough that you almost argued out of instinct, but before you could, he leaned slightly toward Leo. “So, what’s it gonna be, champ? What flavor?”

“Chocolate!” Leo exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. And my God, Johnny was looking at a mirror that reflected a younger version of him.

“Chocolate,” Johnny repeated, sighing with relief. “Perfect. You picked the best one, buddy.” A laugh escaped him, as he lifted his hand to high five Leo. 

Leo lifted himself on his tiptoes to high five with all his strength, and grinned wider, satisfied with the validation. 

“And for you? Strawberry?” Johnny glanced up at you, offering the same flavor you'd always pick all those years back.

“Strawberry,” you nodded, biting back a smile.

Something flickered in Johnny’s face at that…soft recognition, just like in the coffee shop, the memories he still kept present on his head. He only nodded, turning back to the counter.  “Got you.”

Leo chattered beside you, eyes glued to the toppings bar as he talked about the things he learned at school that day. Johnny listened, his hands busy ordering, but his heart caught on the sound of it…the normalcy, the ease, the way you stood with your son like this was the most natural scene in the world. When he brought the bowls back a few minutes later, balancing them carefully, the thought of setting something down at a table that belonged to the three of you made him feel warm inside. Leo climbed into his chair, elbows on the table, grabbing the pink spoon. But before he even took a bite, he extended his free hand over the table, his eyes darting straight to Johnny.

“I’m Leo Spencer,” he introduced himself, realizing this man had just bought him ice cream and he didn’t even know what he was called. “What’s your name?”

Johnny froze with his own spoon halfway to his mouth, dipping it back in the ice cream to stretch the tiny hand in front of him. “Uh…I’m Johnny.” He said, deciding to leave his last name out for now. After the most serious handshake of his life, Leo let go of Johnny’s hand and propped his chin on it to continue his questioning. 

“Where do you live? Why haven’t I seen you before? Are you from Mom’s work? You don’t look like a professor–”

“Leo…” You drawled, nudging the ice cream closer to him, but he just kept staring at Johnny.

“Wow, slow down, kiddo. You don’t mess around, huh?” Johnny said, wide eyed, grinning nervously.

Leo shrugged. “I’m five and a half. People always think I don’t notice stuff, but I do.” He took a giant bite of chocolate with sprinkles, cheeks puffed out as he chewed. “Where are you from?”

You’d told him Leo was a little wonder, that he asked a lot of questions. Turns out you weren’t exaggerating. Johnny glanced at you, panic flickering his eyes, but you just shook your head slowly ‘not yet’.

So Johnny cleared his throat and smiled. “I’m from…far away.”

Leo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, like he didn’t buy it, like he was sure he’d heard that same answer somewhere else. He just decided to save it to the back of his mind, as he dug back into his ice cream, completely unaware of how close his little questions would crack a new entire world open. Johnny shifted in his chair, trying to keep his grin steady, but his collar felt like it was choking him. Heat crawled up his neck, his palms still damp, and not the fire kind, just pure, human nerves. He hadn't felt like that in years, 

Great, he thought, the Human Torch is actually sweating because a five year old has him under a white spotlight. 

Finally, he decided to ditch his jacket and placed it on the empty chair beside him, leaving him only in a white shirt that fit him too tightly, rolling his shoulders like it might cool him down. Your eyes darted all over his torso, catching the way the fabric was practically fighting for its life from all the defined muscle under that shirt. 

Christ, he still dresses so unfairly good, you thought. But before your mind could go somewhere more inappropriate, Leo’s sharp eyes immediately focused on the strange device around Johnny’s wrist.

“Whoa,” he breathed, pointing with his spoon. “What’s that?”

Johnny stilled, and slowly lifted his arm, pointing at the device that you once had to leave behind.   

“Your watch,” Leo pressed, leaning across the table to look at it closer. “It’s not round like normal ones. It looks like a time machine on your wrist! Did you buy it because it looks futuristic? Or, wait–” His face lit up as his brain went faster than his mouth. “Does it have a secret special function?”

“Uh–no, no secret functions.” He said, too quickly. “Definitely not a time machine, either. It’s, uh…” He cleared his throat, fingers tugging nervously at the strap. “It’s kind of for work. Special…equipment. Helps me stay connected, keep track of things.”

“So like a gadget?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding quickly. “Exactly, a gadget. Just work stuff.”

“Does it at least light up?” Leo asked, narrowing his eyes.

“It does!” Johnny exhaled, relieved that he could at least indulge him on one thing, lifting his wrist and tapping the screen until it glowed faintly.

“That’s so cool!” Leo gasped, delighted. “Your job must be really fun.”

“Yeah buddy…it is.”

Johnny couldn’t stop smiling, watching his son bounce in his seat, utterly fascinated with something that had become so ordinary to him. Something that was his everyday. And that made him realize how dangerous his “Fantastic” world would look through those bright eyes, and how much he already wanted to shield him from it. So Johnny just sat there, watching him. He saw what Leo saw, the shine of the watch, the promise of technology, the thrill of secrets. A kid too bright, too curious, too hungry for answers to ever fit inside this little town forever.

But Johnny also saw beyond that.The flashing cameras, the crowds screaming their names, the endless scrutiny. The missions that went wrong, the villains that crawled out of the shadows. Through Leo’s wide eyes, it looked like magic. Through Johnny’s, it looked like the very thing that could swallow a boy whole. His hand curled over the watch instinctively, as though shielding it from view. 

God, he’s already too big for this city, Johnny thought. But my world? Is he ready for that? 

He looked at you then, and for once, he understood. He understood the fear that made you hide him away, the way you’d fought to keep him small, safe, unburned by the fire Johnny carried. And it hit him, how much you’d already given up just to give your son a chance at peace.

Leo was already on to his next fascination, spoon abandoned as he scrambled to kneel on the seat, finger pressed to the glass. “Look! A monarch!” he squealed, his voice bouncing with excitement. “Mom, do you see it? The wings are orange with black edges, but the male has two black spots, so that means it’s a female…”

You leaned to look, smiling. And Johnny just watched him, behind eyes that showed wonder and grief. His son was pure brightness, delighting in a butterfly like it was the greatest treasure in the world. For now, his world was small, golden, safe. When Leo finally peeled his eyes from the butterfly and spun back toward the table, his focus went again to Johnny.  

“So, what should I call you? Mom says it’s not polite to use a first name basis with older people,” Leo said looking at you. You nodded in agreement. 

“Older people? Doesn’t sound like me,” Johnny scoffed playfully, shaking his head like he was offended. “I’m just…Johnny.” 

“Okay…Johnny.” Leo tested, and Johnny almost melted right there. Maybe one day he could call him something different. “If your watch was a time machine, would you use it?”

The question caught him off guard, but he knew the answer. God, if only…if only he could go back in time, he’d undo every mistake, catch you before you slipped through his fingers. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, his eyes flicking to you. “I would.”

“To what time?” 

The answer came out before Johnny could stop it. “About six or five years ago. Without a doubt.”

You stared at him, and Johnny didn’t look away, he held your gaze, his blue eyes full of everything he couldn’t say in front of your son. The silence was heavy, tense, until Leo broke it with a shrug.

“Six or five…I would’ve picked something cooler, like dinosaurs...not many relevant things happened five years ago." He said, in all of his innocence. 

A small laugh slipped from your throat, the ache of it all suddenly turning bittersweet. Johnny’s lips twitched, but his eyes never left yours. “Well, something pretty important happened.”

Leo blinked, tilting his head. “What?”

“You were born.” 

Leo’s grin grew instantly, wide and toothy, and still devastatingly innocent. “Oh! That is important.”

Johnny’s words hung in the air, but distracted yourself by wiping a spot of chocolate on Leo’s cheek with a napkin. And the little action allowed Johnny, for one fragile second, to let himself drift. And he could picture it, the three of you sitting there every other day after school. Leo demolishing his ice cream, you wiping chocolate from his cheeks, Johnny learning butterfly facts. A life that wasn’t stolen, that wasn’t scorched. A life where he was there for every silly question, every science fair, every smudge of chocolate. Just for that infinite, delusional minute, he let himself believe that maybe, he still could. 

Leo twirled his spoon in the empty bowl, then looked up at Johnny with that bright, assessing stare he always had when something caught his interest.

“Johnny,” he said casually, “I have a collection of books at home. About space, animals, and inventions. I could…show you one day–if mom says yes.” He blurted the words out quickly, hesitant. 

Your brows lifted slightly. You knew that move. Leo had done it before, using his “book collection” as an excuse to draw certain people in, to test if they were worth his time. His teachers, a neighbor he liked, the old librarian he adored. It was his quiet way of saying, you intrigue me. I want to know more. And he didn’t even know that now he was offering it to his father. Just that he was intrigued by him. Johnny's eyes were wide, stunned by the offer. He looked at you, like he too was asking for permission. 

“Of course, Leo. If you’d like, we can do that.” You finally nodded, smiling at him. 

Leo lit up, like you just told him he could go play with the neighbor, and turned back to Johnny. “Cool! I’ll show you the one about Mars first, it has fold out pages with diagrams…you’ll like it.”

Johnny let out a shaky laugh, his eyes going soft when he looked at you. He didn’t say it aloud, but the gratitude was written all over his face. Thank you for letting me in. 

“I have to catch up with some grading today, though,” you announced, gesturing Leo to get up. “So the books will have to wait for another day.”

Johnny’s heart gave a little jolt. Another day. It shouldn’t sting as much as it did, but it did. He managed a crooked smile. “That’s fair, I can wait.”

The truth was…no, he couldn't. 

Leo stood up, brushing the topping’s crumbs off his pullover like a little gentleman. “It was nice to meet you, Johnny,” he said seriously, extending his small hand like he’d done earlier.

Johnny blinked, caught off guard, but was more than happy to reach out. His big hand swallowed Leo's, and he gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you too, Leo.”

Leo. Maybe one day he’d get to call him son.

You pressed your lips together to hide a smile, taking Leo’s hand while Johnny stood awkwardly by the table, unsure how to end this. When you turned toward him, you found him already looking at you, but neither of you knew how to say goodbye. So Johnny leaned in, hesitating for a heartbeat. You did too, freezing when his warm lips brushed your cheek. It was careful, light, painfully ephemeral, then he stepped back. Leo definitely noticed something, his sharp little eyes flicking between the two of you. But he decided to keep that saved on the back of his mind too, so he didn’t say a word.

Outside, the sun was almost completely set, and Johnny walked you both to the car. He stood by as you buckled Leo into his car seat, his small head already lolling against the cushion, tired from the day. Only when you slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door did Johnny finally step back, walking to his car. You buckled in, and turned the key. The engine choked a noise once, then again. and then…nothing. You closed your eyes, exhaling. 

“Come on, not now,” you whined, giving the steering wheel a little smack.

From the backseat, the noise startled Leo from his half sleep state. He leaned forward in his booster, sighing like a little stressed out man. “It’s the battery, mom,” he declared, almost scolding. “You forgot to ask Mr. Barnes to change it last week.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yes, thank you, Leo. Very helpful.”

“You’re welcome.”

You tried the ignition one more time and…nothing. A quiet curse slipped past your lips, when headlights flashed across the street, and Johnny’s truck pulled up beside you, his window sliding down smoothly. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

You closed your eyes for a second, gripping the wheel tighter, as if that would make the ground swallow you whole. You actually hadn’t forgotten to change the battery, you were just waiting for that month’s check to do it. And of course this happened in front of him. 

“Car’s being stubborn.” You shrugged, forcing a half smile.

“Let me take a look.” Johnny slid out of his truck, rounding your car. “Pop the hood, please,” he said, already rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. You did as he said, and lost sight of him as he inspected the mess of wires and metal. “Yep,” he said finally, closing the hood with a grimace and walking to your window. “Battery’s dead.”

You sighed. Behind you, Leo had slumped sideways in his booster, out cold with the sugar crash.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, running a hand down your face. “Just great. It’s getting dark, and I can’t even–”

“Hey,” Johnny cut in softly, catching the panic in your voice. 

“I can’t leave my car here overnight, it’ll–”

“Hey, hey.” He leaned closer to your window, his voice steady and coaxing, the way you used to hear him talk to Franklin when the kid was overwhelmed. His eyes searched yours, trying to give you some of his warmth without even touching you. “It’s okay. I got it, alright? Let me help.”

You shook your head, words tumbling out too fast. “No, I can’t ask you–”

“You’re not asking,” he interrupted gently, already reaching for the watch on his wrist. “I’m offering. Let me handle it. Just…trust me with this one.” His thumb hovered over the screen, but his eyes kept locked on yours. Reluctantly, you finally nodded. Johnny exhaled, shoulders loosening just slightly, and gave you the faintest smile. “Good. I’ll make a call.”

He stepped back to speak to his watch like some secret spy. You snorted, you were so used to it back in New York, yet here it looked ridiculous. After a few minutes he hung up the call, walking back to you with a confident nod. “Tow’s on the way. They’ll handle the car tonight.”

You exhaled, rubbing your forehead thinking how on earth you were going to pay for a tow service and also a new battery. Still, you gave him a grateful nod. “Okay. Thank you, Johnny.”

He glanced toward Leo, passed out in the backseat, then back to you. “I’ll drive you home.”

“Johnny–you don’t even have a car seat in that ridiculous truck.”

“So? we’ll move yours, problem solved.” He shrugged, like it was obvious.

Your laugh cracked out, nervous and tired. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Johnny said, already circling to the back door. “It’s fine, I got him.”

You got out of your car, chewing the inside of your cheek, before whispering, “I’m sorry. I usually deal with this stuff on my own.”

Johnny froze for a second, his hand resting on the doorframe. The words hit him harder than they should have, a quiet knife sliding between his ribs. He looked back at you, and made another promise.

“You won’t have to anymore,” he said softly. His gaze flicked to Leo through the car window, then back to you. “Not anymore, you have me now.”

All you could do was nod, if you didn’t want to start crying in the middle of the street. You rounded the car, unlatching the car seat straps while Johnny got the booster out, with Leo sleeping soundly on it, and brought it to his truck. 

“Alright,” he said cheerfully, placing it on the backseat and tugging at one of the buckles with that characteristic Storm confidence. “How hard can this be?”

“Famous last words.” You shook your head amused. You climbed the backseat from the other side, hovering over Leo in the booster, while Johnny leaned in from the other side, with the car door open. 

And…you were right. It didn’t help that it was already dark outside, and the small dome light from the truck didn’t help much either. Johnny had never felt more useless, yet he refused to use his flames as a light source, he was not taking the risk of the truck catching fire and sending his son to the hospital. It didn’t take long before he grunted, twisting the latch the wrong way for the fourth time.

“Oh come on,” he whined. “It just…doesn’t fit right.” 

“Because you’re doing it wrong!” You shot back, reaching across to fix it. Your fingers brushed his, both of you fumbling in the cramped space, bumping shoulders while trying to avoid bothering Leo as he snored softly through the chaos. “Move over,” you hissed.

“I am over!” he hissed back, his head knocking yours as he leaned closer. Your hands grazed again on the buckle, cold against warm, before you yanked yours back, face heating between frustration and nerves from being so close to him. 

“It’s this stupid truck, I had no problem putting this on my car–also, Franklin literally had one of these, Johnny. You should know how these work.”

“Yeah sure, it’s the truck.” He huffed at your annoyance on his extravagant vehicle choice. “And by the way, Franklin’s seat had a green light, alright? Reed made sure you knew when it clicked right. This thing’s–” He tugged at the strap again, scowling. “...old school. No lights.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Baxter Building, not all of us get high tech seats that practically latch themselves!”

Johnny looked up, mock offended, grinning like the little shit he was just to piss you off more. “Hey! It didn’t latch on its own–we still struggled to put it on the car.”

“See? It had a stupid green light and you still struggled.” You teased, but your amusement was cut short when you bumped heads again, hard, and Leo stirred under you.

The two of you stared at each other across the half installed seat, exasperated, Leo already on cloud nine while you acted like bickering newlyweds. Before this kept getting ridiculous, Johnny huffed, stepping back. 

“Okay, listen–clearly this isn’t working.” He announced, like it wasn't obvious already. “How about this, you set it up, and I’ll…” His gaze flicked to Leo slumped in the straps, and his voice went soft. “…I’ll hold him, so you can place it properly.”

“...Alright.” You unbuckled Leo from the seat. Johnny stepped close, arms out as he welcomed him into his arms. He cradled his small body against his chest, and for a moment, the world stilled. Leo heavy and warm in his arms, his little breaths puffing against Johnny’s shirt. 

He was holding his son for the second time, and he’d count every single one that came after this one too. Johnny could only give you a nervous smile as he whispered, “Okay, your turn.”

And with Leo safe in his hold, you crouched down to wrestle the stubborn seat into place. Your heart racing, hands fumbling, because every time you looked up, there he was…Johnny Storm, holding your son like he’d been waiting more than six years for the chance. You tugged the last strap into place, and wiped your palms on your jeans.

“There, we got it.” You sighed, but Johnny didn’t move. He stood there, dissociating  from reality, Leo tucked safe against his chest. He had one big hand spread across Leo’s back, the other carefully cupping his head of blonde hair. 

“Johnny?” you tried gently.

“Mm?” He barely looked at you, rocking Leo without realizing, his thumb brushing soothing circles over the fabric of his little pullover.

“The car seat’s been ready for a few minutes.”

His head snapped up. “Right–yeah, yeah…of course.” He chuckled, blushing, but still didn’t move to set Leo down.

“Are you planning on taking him home like that?” you teased softly, biting back a smile.

For a second he looked like he might argue. Because he’s Johnny Storm and he could fly him home if he wanted to, but then again, he wasn’t going to risk a burn. So then he sighed, lowering Leo reluctantly into the seat, as if every inch of distance physically hurt. He buckled him in with careful hands, lingering just a second too long to brush back his hair before stepping away.

“Sorry, I just…didn’t want to let go yet.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from thinking too much about it. Johnny walked away as you climbed out the backseat, already holding the passenger seat’s door open for you. 

“Thank you, Johnny.” You smiled. He nodded, smiling back as he closed the door once you were inside.

From the corner of your eye you could see the tow finally arriving, and let out a relieved sigh as they took care of your car. Once Johnny saw it was being handled properly, he finally moved his. Closing shops and trees in shades of orange blurred past as the truck rolled through the calm streets of your town. Johnny drove with the window down, the evening wind making a mess of his hair. His left elbow was propped casually on the door, right hand steady on the wheel, only letting it go to turn on the radio. A rock country song came on. It was just supposed to be background noise really, something chill that filled the silence. Yet you couldn’t help but pick on the lyrics. 

Someone told me long ago, there's a calm before the storm 

I know, it's been comin' for some time

You had your calm before the storm. Before the Storm. But you always knew he would eventually find you, it was only a matter of time. As his profile was lit faintly by the street lamps, you couldn't help your eyes from wandering. At least he seemed lost enough in his own head to not notice you were staring. Time had treated him well. He was still Johnny, of course, his outfit looking far ahead of his time like always. Pants too tight, cropped brown leather jacket, trendy Adidas. But you saw the weight of the years you’d missed as smile lines were starting to carve deeper into his skin, and his blonde hair surely hid baby grey hairs. But God help you, no matter how much time went by, he looked as handsome as ever. 

You turned to Leo to distract yourself from Johnny, and saw Leo slumped sideways in the car seat, mouth open, absolutely gone. A faint trace of drool smeared the collar of his little pullover.

“Kid’s out cold.” Johnny chuckled, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror.

“Sugar crash…always gets him.” You laughed under your breath, crossing your arms around yourself.

Johnny bit his bottom lip, shaking his head a little. “He drools exactly like me.”

“That, I can’t argue with you.” You laughed once more, catching Johnny’s smile going sad as he looked in the mirror again. “Are you…okay?” You dared to ask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how all of this was affecting him.

Johnny hesitated for a moment, his hand tapping the wheel absentmindedly before letting out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I was just…thinking about something.” He said, his eyes locked on the road ahead. “You know, when Franklin was born, I thought he was the coolest kid on the planet. Smart as hell, funny, just…this little marvel.” He smiled, and you nodded because you remembered how wonderful he was. “I was so damn proud to be his uncle. I didn’t think there could ever be a kid like that again. But…then I met him.” His eyes flicked to the mirror once more, where Leo drooled away on his collar. Johnny’s smile grew wider, eyes softening.

“My son. The one you raised. And he’s…he’s more than everything. Brilliant, curious, polite. With his own little quirks. You made him into this amazing person, and I can’t even explain how proud I am. And I only met him properly, like what, two hours ago?” He chuckled. “You did a hell of a job, you know that? All on your own, and he’s…perfect. So, thank you. For keeping him safe. For protecting him from all the mess that comes with me.” Johnny glanced at you, still with crossed arms, then quickly back to the road before finally saying what had been haunting his mind since the yogurt shop. “I get it now, you know…why you kept him away. My world, it’s not meant for a kid with a normal life…” Johnny hesitated, before adding, “However,  you know he deserves better than this town. He’s too big for it already.”

Your fingers twisted in your lap, eyes fixed out the window as the trees rolled past. Finally, you exhaled, words spilling like you’d been holding them too long.

“You’re right,” you admitted quietly, eyes fixed out the window. “I know this town won’t hold him forever. He’s…too much. Too smart, too curious. I’ve had a plan in the back of my head for years. Move to a bigger city when I can. Somewhere with better schools, better programs, kids like him. People who challenge him everyday.”

Johnny nodded slowly, biting his cheek before daring. “Well, that’s what the First Steps program is for. And it doesn’t just apply to New York. You know that, right? You could’ve applied for him to be part of it without ever stepping foot in our world. Without ever having to deal with me, with us, with the name. Just…the opportunities.”

“Johnny, that’s literally how you found me. And I was very careful with her application, yet it still backfired on me.” Your disbelieving scoff came out sharper than you intended, as you finally turned toward him. “ I was never putting Leo’s photo on your desk.That’s the exact opposite of what I wanted.”

“Yes, but you still could have–”

“No, Johnny. I couldn’t put him in a world that once promised me all those things. Opportunities, belonging, a family, a home.” Your lip quivered, but you pushed the words out anyway. “Because I know how it ends. We all know how it ended.”

“Yeah…I know,” he exhaled. “I was the worst. And my family was the worst. We failed you. God, we failed you so bad. If I knew then what I know now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But I still think you could’ve at least told me. All these years, you could’ve called. Said, hey Johnny, you have a son. You really think I would’ve turned that down? You think I wouldn’t have–” he cut himself short, taking a deep breath. “God, I would’ve never ignored him. Never.”

“And what would’ve become of that, huh? Back then?” You snapped. “You thought I was a traitor. You looked at me like I’d stabbed you in the back. You and your family would’ve taken Leo from me in a heartbeat. And you would’ve shut me out all over again.”

“We wouldn’t have.” Was all he could say, but even he wasn’t sure if he believed that. 

“You don’t know that.” You shook your head. “Look–it shouldn't have been the way it was, we both know that. And I’m sorry my decisions cost Leo his father. I’m truly sorry that you missed everything. The first words. The first steps. The first everything. But I couldn’t let you just have him…and you said you understood why.”

“...Yeah,” he whispered. “I did.” 

He felt like there was more to be said, like you still had stuff to get out of your systems, but he was tired of fighting with you over things he couldn't change. So for now, he “understood why.”

The rest of the drive was quiet. You came to a stop in your driveway, your own car already parked there. A tow truck was nearby, the driver waiting with clipboard in hand. You slipped out of the car to meet him, still shaken from your conversation with Johnny. “Wow, that was fast,” you breathed, taking the clipboard.

“We’ll swap the battery out in the morning, first thing.” He smiled politely.

Great. The morning. When everything was already chaotic with Leo. 

You bit your lip, scanning the page to see how much of your month’s income was going to this whole mess. “Okay, how much do I–”

“Already covered,” he cut in with a shrug, handing you the receipt.

“Covered?”

Johnny’s voice came from behind. “Just sign it.” He said softly, biting back a smile.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was climbing out of the truck, Leo drooling against his shoulder, fast asleep in his arms. Johnny shifted him higher, one big hand bracing his back.

At this point you were too tired to bicker over a receipt, so you turned back to the driver, signing it. “Alright. Tomorrow morning, then, thank you.”

He tipped his hat and stepped back. By the time you reached the porch, Johnny was already waiting. He tilted his head toward the door, a nervous smile on his face said a silent plea. Let me.

“You can put him to bed,” you whispered, almost laughing at the absurdity of saying it twice in two nights.

Johnny celebrated, but kept it small, just a subtle little fist pump at his side, like he couldn’t risk being loud with Leo now drooling on his shoulder. And then he stepped inside, carrying his son down the hall like it was the most natural thing in the world. You followed quietly, lingering in the doorway as Johnny bent to tuck Leo under the same soft blanket, brushing his hair back with tenderness. He pressed a kiss to his forehead again, then straightened, giving the room one last look before slipping past you back to the living room. 

He paused at the door, once again unsure on how to say goodbye to you. You sighed, leaning forward just enough to hug him briefly. His arms hesitated, then wrapped around you, strong and warm. And God, you hadn’t felt that warmth in so long. 

“Thank you,” you whispered into his shirt. “For…everything.”

“Anytime.” He whispered into your hair. 

You pulled back, managing a small tired smile. “You can come tomorrow after homework. He’ll want to show you his books.”

“After homework? Yeah, yeah, I can be here after homework.” He nodded quickly, making you laugh. “Oh–give me your car keys, I’ll move Leo’s seat from my car to yours.” He added, looking far too enthusiastic about it for someone who didn’t even know how to do it. “I’ll figure it out, just…let me help. Pretty please.” He smiled sheepishly, making a grabby gesture with his hand held up. 

Something told you he was plotting something, but then again, you were too tired for this stuff. So you narrowed your eyes and nodded, taking the keys out of your pocket and placed them on his palm. “Okay. Just put them under the rug when you are done.” 

And that’s how Johnny Storm walked out of your house with a grin bigger than the cheshire cat, and your car keys dangling from his hand. He barely caught the tow driver before he drove away, jogging to catch up with him through the window of the tall truck.

“Hey! tomorrow morning?”

The man nodded. “I’ll be back around nine.”

“Make it earlier,” Johnny said, pulling a folded bill from his wallet and sliding it into the man’s hand. “I’ll be here around 7 to deal with it.”

The driver raised a brow, but only tipped his hat and agreed, before finally driving away. Johnny glanced back at the house, at the faint light still glowing through the curtains. Tomorrow, when you woke up, your car would already be good to go before you even had to think about it. One less burden on your shoulders. To him, being a hero always meant fire. It meant cameras, news headlines, cheering crowds. A suit that Reed designed and a symbol the whole world talked about. Well, except for this town you had meticulously picked. 

But this, for once, wasn’t about his flames or saving cities.

This was about making sure you didn’t wake up stressed about a dead battery. About making sure you got Leo ready for school without worrying about how you’d pay for it. About showing up when no one was watching, when no one would clap or write about it. He left with your car keys in his pocket; he would need them the next day to deal with the battery and move the booster back in actual daylight. 

And that’s when Johnny realized this was the kind of superhero he wanted to be. Not the Human Torch. But a man who showed up. A father.

As soon as Johnny pulled into his hotel room, he checked his phone. He’d silenced the thing since the night before, only using his watch to make that emergency tow call. Now, he couldn't ignore the notifications stacked in rows that flooded the screen.

Sue: Johnny, have you found her?

Sue: Why aren’t you answering? Please don’t shut us out.

Sue: Seriously Johnny? Radio silence isn’t like you. 

Ben: Come on, J. Say something. Sue is planning to come find you if you don’t talk to us.

Reed: Your sister is worried. Please report back.

Normally he would toss back some joke to ease the tension, or…Sue’s worry would crack his resolve. His thumb hovered over the screen, and for a second, he thought about typing out the truth. 

I found her. I found her, and I found him. I have a son. He’s perfect. You have to meet him.

God, he wanted it. Wanted Sue to squeal with joy, wanted Ben to laugh and clap his back, wanted Reed to be floored by how brilliant Leo was. Wanted Franklin to finally meet the cousin who could rival him. They’d all love him. They’d adore him. 

But Leo wasn’t theirs. He was Johnny’s.

And he wasn’t ready to let anyone else near him. Not until he’d earned it. Not until he’d had more than two nights of carrying his son to bed, more than a single ice cream run, more than a handful of hours with him. And you had just started to trust him. If he opened his mouth too soon, if he let this secret slip to the family before you were ready, it would be betrayal. And he had already done that to you once. As much as he hated to admit it, Johnny finally understood why you had hidden Leo away. Because if he could, if it meant keeping Leo safe and his for just a little longer…he’d hide him too. So he settled for that.

Johnny: I found her, I’m trying to fix it. Everything’s okay, I promise I’ll explain everything when I get home. 

The morning was chaos from the second you opened your eyes. You rushed through the kitchen in unbuttoned sleeves, barefoot, hair barely tamed, Leo bouncing at your heels in his uniform and his backpack half zipped. He always followed you around full of questions before you’d even had your first sip of coffee. Then came the knock on the door. 

“Battery guy,” you groaned, breathless. “Hang on, honey.”

You yanked the door open, ready to rush through instructions while keeping an eye on the five year old battling with fitting as many books as possible on his backpack. But the man outside simply gave you a smile, holding his clipboard and something else behind his back. 

“All set,” he said. “Battery’s in, the car’s good to go.”

“What? How did you–I thought I had to–”

“Nope.” He cut you off softly. “The guy who hired me showed up early, made sure everything was in order…Oh–and he said to give you this, and this.”

He handed you the car keys, and a box of cereal. Lucky Charms, Leo’s favorite. A neon post-it with handwriting you recognized immediately was attached to it. 

Thought you might be running low. Good morning :) Tell Leo good morning too.

“Oh,” you blurted, clutching the box. “T-thanks…”

The man gave you a final nod and left. You stood in the doorway, cereal in your hands, your son’s voice echoing behind you. Johnny hadn’t crowded your morning. He’d respected your request to come after homework. But he’d been there, quiet but still present. You glanced down at the post-it again, warmth prickling your eyes. It was such a simple thing. Except it wasn't. 

You closed the door, walking to Leo who was already at the breakfast table and set the box down in front of him. “Johnny sent these for you, baby.”

“Lucky charms!” He exclaimed excitedly, but he paused mid reach, blinking up at you. His little smile spread wide, but there was a flicker of something else behind it when he noticed the sheen in your eyes.

“Mommy, where did you say Johnny was from again? Like…how do you know him?”

You met his sharp little eyes, and felt a knot in your stomach. He’d asked this before, so you gave him the same answer you always did. “He’s from somewhere far away, sweetheart. That’s all. Don’t think too much about it.”

Leo nodded, but his gaze lingered on you longer than usual. He tucked the information into his personal database once again, his little brain already putting pieces together. 

Oh, I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland

My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you

Johnny timed it all out in his head in the morning. If you picked Leo up from school at three, gave him a snack, and he did his homework for about an hour or two…then four thirty felt safe. Not too early, not too late. Right after homework. Right enough to show he respected your rhythm and your space.

He had spent the earlier part of the afternoon wandering the small town shops, trying to figure out what to bring. A toy store had caught his eye, but nothing felt right. Leo wasn’t that type of kid. Sure, he liked cars like any kid his age would, but the bookshelf in his room, the way he blurted facts like a mini Reed spoke louder to him. So Johnny had walked out with a puzzle instead. Something they could build together. Normally he’d rather set himself on fire than sit still for something like that, but the thought of sitting on the floor with Leo, fitting pieces until they made sense, suddenly seemed like the most fun he could have.

Then came the grocery store. He remembered seeing a book of recipes somewhere on your counter. So he filled a cart like it was his own kitchen, even if he’d never done it before. Different types of milk because he didn’t know which one you preferred, vegetables, more cereal, pasta, pantry staples. He snuck in some oreos and ice cream because why not. He walked out with enough bags to nearly overflow the truck. He almost grabbed flowers too, but stopped himself. Too much, Johnny. Get it together.

Which is how he found himself outside your door, arms stacked with too many paper bags that were dangerously balanced. He couldn’t even knock properly, so he leaned his weight on one foot and tapped the door gently with his sneaker. The door swung open and there was Leo, looking up at him, or more accurately, multiple paper bags and Johnny’s hidden face behind. 

“Hello?”

Johnny peeked over the side. “Hey, champ.”

“Mommy! Johnny’s here!” Leo yelled back into the house, before stepping aside with wide eyes to let him in.

You appeared from the kitchen, stopping dead at the sight. “What on earth is all of that?”

Johnny shuffled inside carefully, balancing the groceries stacked to his chin. “Uh…food?”

“For an entire football team?” 

Johnny tilted the bags a little higher since they were starting to slip from his hands. “I just…thought maybe your pantry could use some stuff.”

“Johnny. That’s–what, half a grocery store?” You chuckled, walking over to him to help with some bags and took them to the kitchen.

He laughed nervously, following you and finally setting the bags down on the counter with a loud exhale. “Yeah, well…figured milk and vegetables and, you know…stuff. There’s more in the car, I…might’ve gone overboard.”

Your first thought, naturally, was how you didn’t need him to sweep in and buy out half the town’s grocery store. But then you caught his face. There was no wink, no “look what I did.” He was actually sheepish…and incredibly happy to help. As if unloading those paper bags onto your counters was the highlight of his week. It tore down another one of your walls.

You leaned against the counter, and just watched. Watched him line up two more cereal boxes next to the three already crammed on your counter. Watched him set down a bag of broccoli he hated but your son probably didn’t. God, he hoped he didn't. Watched him hold up a mesh bag of potatoes, glancing at you asking for instructions.

“Where do these go?” he asked, brow furrowed, so earnestly lost in your tiny kitchen.

“Uh…the basket next to the stove,” you said. 

He nodded, putting them away, humming under his breath as he dug through the rest. “And…popcorn? Where in the pantry?” 

“Bottom shelf,” you answered automatically, biting back a smile and the damn tears at the same time.

Because it hit you then. Hard.

This was the life you once wanted. The one you pretended you didn’t care about. Someone who took care of your car problems. Someone in your kitchen, sleeves rolled, groceries spread across the counter. Not just anyone…Leo’s father. 

Johnny.

Present. Thoughtful. Doing the most significant insignificant things. Just him, you and your son. Every day. It was delusional, you knew that. But sometimes that was the solution. As you stood there, the picture was too vivid for you to ignore. You had to put away some stuff in the fridge so he wouldn’t see the hurt in your face.

Two days, and he was doing his best to undo part of the damage he’d caused so long ago. And it terrified you that it might've been working. Still, as you stole one more glance at him clumsily stacking pasta bags, knocking over some spices and barely catching them, you couldn’t help but think, I can almost pretend this is us.

Leo had managed to lure Johnny away from the boring paper bags and guided him to the bookshelf in his room when you got distracted, practically vibrating with excitement. Johnny folded himself down onto the puff in the corner, as Leo started grabbing his favorite books from the shelf and plopping them onto Johnny’s lap. He laughed under his breath, running a hand through his hair as the stack grew quickly, one by one.

“This one,” Leo started, tapping the first. “This one’s about animals from the rainforest. The illustrations are interesting. And this one, it’s about space, and the author is my favorite. Oh, and this one has the best drawings of dinosaurs, you’ll love it–look, look, you can see the scales on this one…”

Johnny’s eyes softened, glassy in the dim lamp light. He wasn’t looking at the books. He was looking at Leo. He’d never felt like he belonged anywhere more than he did now. Sinking into a beanbag, knees bent awkwardly, his son piling book after book onto him, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You lingered in the doorway of Leo’s room, leaning against the frame, as Johnny’s lap became a bookshelf of its own, when he suddenly remembered. 

“Hey–uh, could you do me a favor?” he asked you, glancing toward the hallway. “There’s a blue bag by the others I brought in. Can you grab it? I’d stand up but…” He gestured helplessly at the leaning tower of books weighing him down that Leo kept piling stuff on.

Suspicion flickered across your face, but you went anyway, returning with the bag dangling from your fingers. You handed it over with curiosity. He mouthed a thanks, then grinned at Leo. 

“It’s for you, buddy,” he said, holding it out to him.

Leo’s eyes went wide, the books forgotten as he peeked inside, then gasped. “A puzzle?” He pulled out the box, turning it around to study the picture. A swirling nebula, galaxies spilling across the cardboard in oranges and blues. 

“It’s the Carina Nebula! Mom, the Carina Nebula! And a thousand pieces too, thank you Johnny!”

“Johnny…” You gasped at him in surprise, and he was just delighted to see so much emotion in Leo’s face from something Johnny considered less than ordinary a few days ago. 

But not anymore. From now on a thousand pieces puzzles were his favorite thing too. “Of course, bab–Leo.” 

Johnny almost slipped out a more personal nickname, but Leo was too busy tearing the box open and dropping the contents onto the carpet to notice. He scrambled his little fingers to start flipping the pieces over. He got up only to run and stand in front of Johnny, a huge grin on his face.

“You read this one, please.” Leo said breathlessly, shoving a book from the pile at Johnny “Read, read! I’ll sort the edges.”

Johnny chuckled, picking up the slim hardcover. “Yes, sir.” His voice softened as he opened the first page.

He looked up once, mid sentence, and caught your gaze. The way he smiled back made your chest ache in the best way possible.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“No, thank you,” he mouthed back.

You smiled, and walked out to put away the last of the stuff he brought while you finished up dinner. Johnny tilted the book closer to his face, squinting. The lamplight was weak, and his first instinct was the same one it had always been, just flare his hand and solve the problem without thinking. But then he froze. 

Because he couldn’t. Not in front of Leo, the kid didn’t even know yet. That’s when it hit him like a punch…he hadn’t used his powers since he got here. Not to save anyone, not to show off, not even to heat up a cup of coffee, and he hadn’t even realized it until now. So he just angled the book toward the light, cleared his throat, and kept reading, when Leo’s small voice cut through his storytelling.

“So…what exactly do you do for work?”

Johnny’s eyes went wide, lowering the book to see Leo looking at him with the same intensity Sue sometimes did. 

“Work?” He cleared his throat. “Well, I uh, do research on space stuff. You know…boring science things.”

“What kind of space stuff?” he pressed, the puzzle forgotten for a moment. 

Johnny forced a smile, leaning back against the beanbag. “Oh, you know trajectories, black holes…space.” He tried to brush it off, even when it was his favorite thing to talk about, just so the kid wouldn't pry further. 

Leo hummed, not convinced with the brief explanation. So he tilted his head, trying with a different question. “How long have you known mom?”

“Longer than you’ve been alive.” He said quietly. “Way longer.”

Leo gave another thoughtful little hum, pretending to be focused again on lining up puzzle edges. But Johnny caught it, that tiny, dramatic pause before he placed a piece down, the way his eyes narrowed and his lips twitched on the smallest smirk like he was silently declaring Gotcha. A Storm quirk if Johnny had ever seen one.

Johnny gulped. Because he had a feeling Leo wasn’t just curious…he was clocking him.

“Dinner’s ready!” Your yell from the kitchen cut right through the tension.

Johnny snapped the book shut like it had burned him. “Dinner’s ready!” he echoed, way too cheerfully, setting the books back on the low shelf as if nothing unusual had just happened. He ruffled Leo’s hair lightly. “We’ll get back to these over the next few days, buddy. No rush.”

Leo studied him, still with narrowed eyes that looked too much like Johnny’s own. Then, with a little nod, he got up and walked to the living room’s bathroom. Johnny exhaled, until Leo popped his head back around the doorframe and ordered. “Wash your hands.”

“…Right, of course.” He walked after him, chuckling under his breath. “Bossy, like his mom.”

Johnny had sat through hundreds of family dinners. You’d been part of them once, too. Ben in an apron, Herbert always helping while Johnny just tasted stuff and looked pretty. Everything was always polished, silver cutlery against fine white porcelain, shiny glass cups, not a single plate out of place.

And now here he was, at your small wood dining table. The plates didn’t match; yours had a painted baby blue rim, Leo’s was patterned with tiny colorful stars. And Johnny’s was something goofy, with cartoon astronauts smiling up at him. He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. He knew you picked it specifically for him. 

He loved it. 

Cups mismatched as well. Your mug was delicate with pretty spring flowers, Leo had a green plastic dinosaur cup, and Johnny had the orange plastic one with the built-in wavy straw. 

Yeah, that was targeted too. He loved it more. 

Leo dug in with his small plastic fork and occasionally his hands like a kid who knew he was loved enough not to be scolded for enjoying his meal. Johnny couldn’t stop staring at the little details. The cups, the plates, the way you smiled when Leo asked for seconds of broccoli. So he does like it, the thought, that’s my son. Here, there was no Herbert hovering nearby to meet their every need. Here, dinner wasn’t polished like back home, but it was perfect, because this was his new one. 

That’s how the rest of Johnny’s week went. Going after homework, bringing a new puzzle if Leo had finished the last one in record time, and dinner with you. Occasionally he would bring dinner too, some greasy takeout he definitely bribed you into by bringing fruit for Leo.

He was having the time of his life playing family with you. He felt like everyday he managed to tear down another row of bricks from the walls you’d built around yourself. But at the same time, the weight of the other family that waited for him back home kept breathing down his neck. Sue wasn’t happy at all, considering how uncharacteristically nonverbal Johnny was being to them, but he’d managed to keep her at bay with little white lies that weren’t actually white or little at all. 

Johnny just wasn’t ready to leave the only sense of normalcy he’d managed to build with you. 

I'd live and die for moments that we stole, on begged and borrowed time

Leo’s room was a mess of puzzle pieces, once again. Johnny sat cross legged, sleeves rolled up, sorting corners from edges. Leo took the sorted ones and tried to set up a start, but something seemed to rattle his little head, because he was having trouble matching the pieces together.

“Johnny,” Leo started casually, eyes fixed on the puzzle as he finally fitted two edge pieces correctly. “Have you ever wondered why we look so much alike?”

“Oh–uh…not really.” Lie. “Sometimes people just look similar. DNA can be weird, kid.” He shrugged, trying to sound casual. But he came off as too casual. “Random coincidences.” He laughed nervously.

“But you can only call it a coincidence if the DNA isn’t the same.” Leo said immediately, like he was waiting for a slip up like that to happen.

Johnny almost choked with his own spit. Shit. Why did he have to bring up DNA to his literal mini genius of a son?

“...The same?” Johnny panicked.

Leo looked up confidently. “Yeah. If the DNA is tied, you don’t call it a coincidence, you call it inheritance. That’s what makes people look alike. I learned about that today at school.” He stated, and Johnny’s stomach dropped. Leo leaned back on his little hands, squinting at him. “So is it a coincidence…or inheritance?”

“Leo…” He shook his head, trying to laugh it off. “Look, kiddo, I–”

“If it’s just coincidence, then just tell me we don’t have the same DNA.”

Johnny looked at his son, and every lie he could say to protect him from the truth died on his tongue. He wanted to bluff, to wave it away, to keep this little universe intact until you were ready. But as he stared into Leo’s bright, searching eyes, he couldn’t.

For God’s sake, he had to learn about that in school today. 

Leo just hummed at Johnny’s silence, like the puzzle pieces he’d been trying to put together in his own head had finally clicked. “Mommy lets you do things no one else does.” He added, still scrutinizing Johnny with his gaze. 

Johnny straightened in his cross legged position. “Like what, buddy?”

“She lets you be in my room and play with me. She lets you buy food for us. She lets you take us in your car. She thinks I don’t see it, but she never lets anyone do anything.” He shrugged. “It’s always just been mom and me...until you showed up.”

“Huh.” Johnny had to bite back a smile. “I guess…that just makes me pretty lucky, right?”

Leo shook his head. “Or important.”

Right now Johnny wished he had Sue’s powers to turn invisible. The gaze of the five year old on him was making him sweat. Again. And Leo wasn’t even done with his questioning. 

“Where are you really from? You never tell me.”

Johnny cleared his throat. “I told you buddy, somewhere far away.”

“You always say that. Mom always says that.” 

And that’s when it happened. Those bright, impossibly hopeful eyes narrowed, not suspicious anymore, more like he’d just solved the final clue in a mystery. Then, without hesitation, he dared to ask. 

“Are you…are you my dad?”

The world stopped. 

Johnny wanted to say yes a million times. He wanted to throw his arms around him and sob into his tiny shoulder and never let go. But he was terrified. This was not how he’d pictured the big reveal.

“Pizza’s here, you two!” From the living room, your oblivious voice broke the silence.

Neither of them moved. Leo tilted his head, curious at the silence he’d caused, but Johnny looked like he’d seen a ghost, his face pale, heart slamming like it was trying to escape out of his chest.

“Please don’t lie to me.” Leo’s voice came softer this time, too innocent, too vulnerable for Johnny to bear. “Are you?”

You appeared in the doorway, ready to scold them for not coming out when you called, but you caught the question Leo made. 

“Is he what?” You asked playfully.

But that’s when you saw Johnny's face, paper white as Leo stood in his spot, tiny hands planted firmly on his hips. Those sharp eyes darted from Johnny to you, then back to Johnny, and there was something about the way he was looking at him that made your stomach drop.

“Leo? What are you asking, baby?” 

“I’m asking Johnny if he’s my dad.”

Your wide eyes went to Johnny, but his gaze was fixed on the floor. “Why…why do you think that?”

“Because you always say my dad lives somewhere far away. And when I ask Johnny where he’s from, he says the same thing. And because we look alike.” He gestured between himself and Johnny, small hands waving in the air like Johnny did when he explained something. “Not just the hair, but the way I move, the way I talk. He looks like me, and I look like him, and that’s a fact. You can’t tell me that’s only a coincidence.”

You knew Johnny couldn't get a word out, he looked like he was about to pass out, and Leo wasn't letting it go either. So you sighed, walked to his little figure and dropped to your knees beside him, brushing a strand of hair back behind his ear, while your heart was trying to crawl out of your chest.

“Yes, baby.” You smiled through glassy eyes. “Johnny is your dad.”

Leo looked at you in silence, like he just found the final piece of the puzzle he’d been solving all this time inside his head. Then he turned to Johnny, eyes searching for a confirmation from the man itself. 

“Yeah, buddy.” Johnny’s voice came out shaky, holding back tears. “I’m dad.”

Leo studied him for what felt like eternity. He wasn’t angry, but he didn’t seem that surprised either. Then, he nodded once. “Okay.”

It was such a simple reaction, that Johnny almost sobbed in relief. Almost. Because then Leo tilted his head, and asked the real question Johnny wasn't ready for.

“Then where have you been all this time? Why were you so far away?” It wasn't exactly sad, or angry. It was just a child trying to understand why his father didn’t go see him once in the five years of his little life.

“Leo, things…were complicated,” Johnny managed to say, coaxing. “Complicated in ways I don’t think you’d understand yet.”

“Try me, I am very intelligent. I understand many things.”

The innocent argument earned a breathless laugh from Johnny, because God, he knew it was true. This kid could probably teach him a thousand things already. But he shook his head. “You do, buddy, you do. Just…not this.” He said softly. “I know I’ve missed a lot, but I’m here now, Leo. That’s what matters, I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

Leo watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” For once, he didn't feel like questioning everything. “But don’t miss anything else.”

And for Johnny, that little “okay” and that plea felt like the universe just gave him a second chance. So he nodded, maybe too quickly, but he was already feeling that familiar burning sensation behind his eyes. 

“Can I…hug you?” Leo asked quietly.

“What?” Johnny whispered, like maybe he didn’t hear right.

Leo shrugged sheepishly. “I’ve never hugged my dad before.”

Johnny’s heart stopped again. At this point he was gonna need a crash cart next to him. He nodded quickly, his whole body tilting forward, arms welcoming Leo as he launched right into them. Johnny clutched him so tight, one hand cradling the whole back of his head, the other wrapped around his tiny back, and he buried his face in his son’s shoulder.

“You have no idea,” Johnny choked, voice muffled, “How long I’ve been waiting for this.”

You stood in the doorway, tears burning your eyes, because the image was seared into you. Your son, safe in his father’s arms, and Johnny, finally holding the piece of his life he thought he was never getting back. It took forever before Johnny even loosened his arms. Finally, slowly, he leaned back just enough to see his son’s face. His hands cupped Leo’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over the soft skin like he was memorizing every detail. Johnny was crying, shameless tears, but smiled through it, shaking his head like he couldn't believe this was real.

“Look at you,” Johnny sobbed,“You’re perfect.”

Leo hit him with that toothy five year old grin, and Johnny melted. He kissed his forehead, his hair, the crown of his head, over and over, until Leo squirmed and started giggling. It was the kind of laugh that bubbled right out of his chest, because he’d never been loved like this by anyone but you, and now suddenly he had his dad too, the one he’d wished for every time he blew his birthday candles. 

Leo leaned back a little, pushing Johnny’s chest with his tiny hands, still giggling as he looked from Johnny to you. “Mommy…what should I call Johnny now?”

It was a question you never thought you’d hear…at least not so soon. You stared at your son, then at Johnny, who looked like he was seconds from fainting again, waiting for your answer.

“Whatever you want to call him, baby.”

Leo hummed, thinking hard for a moment, his little brow furrowed. Johnny’s breath got stuck in his throat. This is it, this is the moment, he was about to hear that word “Dad”, and it would kill him in the best way possible–

“Johnny.” Leo announced firmly. “Still Johnny. For now, mommy.”

Yeah. That killed him in the worst way possible. Still, he forced a nod, and somehow found the strength to smile. “Johnny’s perfect, buddy. I’ll take that.” Leo would be “buddy” for now too. He’ll save the word “son” for when he is ready to call him Dad. 

“Baby, Johnny and I need to talk, okay? Just for a little bit.” You cut in softly, gesturing Johnny to the hall with your head.

“Is it because I figured it out? Am I in trouble mommy?”

“No, no, of course not, baby.” You reassured, giving his cheek a little squeeze as Johnny finally got up from the beanbag. 

“I’ll be back in a minute, champ. Promise.” Johnny said, ruffling Leo’s hair playfully. 

Leo nodded, focusing back on the puzzle he’d abandoned on the floor. You closed the door softly behind you, walking down the hallway, stopping when you reached the living room.

“He figured it out.” Johnny was the first to speak, still stunned. “He actually figured it out on his own.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, still in disbelief.

“First, he asked me why we looked so alike,” Johnny said, pacing half a step, hands flailing like he always did. “And I panicked, right? I said some crap about coincidences and DNA, you know, like how it works sometimes.” He chuckled. “And you know what he said? He said it’s only a coincidence if the DNA isn’t the same. If it’s tied, it’s an inheritance. Said he learned that today at school.”

“Inheritance. Five years old, and he’s out here lecturing me like Reed.” This time you both chuckled. Johnny kept pacing, still buzzing with disbelief and pride. “You know what? This is my karma. All those years giving Reed hell about his oversized brain, and my kid’s out here calling my bullshit and casually dropping terms like inheritance.” He made a funny “serious” voice in that last word, making you double in laughter. “And you know what? I’m proud as hell. Because he’s cooler than Reed, obviously, cooler than all of us…and he’s gonna have a blast with Franklin–God, can you imagine them together? Two geniuses, tearing up crosswords, building–”

“Johnny–wait. Just…wait.” You put a hand in the air to stop his pacing. “We haven’t talked about any of that yet. About the tower, about…your family.” You said. “He just found out you’re his father. Just now. Can we please backtrack before you start planning his whole future?”

You didn’t mean to sound angry, but the defensiveness came out like a reflex. The grin faltered right off Johnny’s face, and looked at you with wide eyes like he was afraid he’d just ruined everything. 

“Right–yeah. You’re right,” he blurted. “I just got a little carried away. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s okay. We just...” You sighed deeply, and softened your tone. “We just…need to breathe, and have a conversation about it together. Step by step.”

Together. That’s all he wanted since he set foot in this town. Johnny nodded quickly, muttering, “Yeah, together.”

That was when he moved closer, not too much, just a cautious step that made the air around you grow warmer. He just let his hand lift until his knuckles skimmed yours in the faintest brush. Testing. It was so easy getting lost on Johnny’s blue eyes, and you almost forgot how to breathe when you felt his skin graze yours. But the bolter in you told you to keep protecting yourself, so you folded your arms back across your chest, forcing yourself to break that spark between your hands, then tucked your hair behind your ear. Anything to give yourself a sense of composure. You pretended not to see the defeat in Johnny’s eyes, clearing your throat. Maybe you couldn’t give him your touch yet, but your closeness was something you were willing to offer. 

“Listen uh–it’s getting late,” you said softly. “And today’s been…a lot. Let’s have some pizza, and if you want, you can crash on the couch. That way you’ll be here to put him to bed tonight and he can also see you in the morning.”

Johnny blinked, like he didn’t hear you right. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna intrude. I know your mornings are–”

“Crazy,” you finished for him with a tired smile. “Yeah. But he’ll be happy to have you here. And honestly…I don’t think you should drive back after a day like this.”

And I'll be happy to have you here too, you thought. The truth was, you didn't want him to leave after dinner. But a little white lie never hurt anyone.

“Okay,” he smiled softly, boyish. “I’ll crash on the couch.”

Time, mystical time, cutting me open, then healing me fine

The morning sun seeped through the curtains, and the first thing Johnny saw when he opened his eyes was his five year old staring him down in his cute rocketship pajamas. 

“Good morning,” Leo said, and a soft smile spread on Johnny’s face. It didn’t last long before the kid pointed out, “You snore louder than a dinosaur,” and then disappeared back into the hallway. 

Johnny blinked a few times and huffed. His back ached like hell, but if he ignored the accusation that he snores and just focused on the tender ‘good morning’ his son gave him, he couldn't care less about the pain. The next thing he saw was you walking out with your shirt untucked, hair barely tamed, and Leo trailing behind you, narrating every dinosaur fact he could remember. You stopped right before entering the kitchen, remembering you let Johnny sleep on your couch last night. 

“Morning, Johnny,” You smiled sheepishly.

“Morning.”  He propped himself up on his elbow to flash you a grin. 

Damn deep morning voice. Damn bed hair. Damn tight shirt. Honestly, just damn Johnny Sto–

“Mommy, are you even listening?” Leo tugged the fabric of your dress pants, and only resumed his description of the Brachiosaurus when you turned to him with an apologetic smile. 

Johnny chuckled when he realized your mornings were indeed chaotic with a walking encyclopedia following you around, so he sprung up from the couch to swiftly scoop Leo into his arms. “Alright, buddy, Operation ‘Let’s get dressed’ starts now.”

Leo giggled like it was a game, as Johnny hauled him toward his room making jet noises. Next thing you knew, Johnny was actually helping; getting Leo into his little uniform, somehow managing to fix the collar better than you expected, and even finding his missing shoe under the bed. You finally let yourself breathe. Johnny had Leo occupied so you could focus on breakfast. You told yourself you were just doing something nice because your son needed to eat something decent before school. That was it. Nothing to do with the fact that Johnny was there, suddenly making your morning a hundred times easier since he smiled at you. Nope. Totally not about him. So you pulled out the flour, eggs, and milk like it was the most casual thing in the world. But instead of Leo’s usual quick chopped fruits and cereal, you were whisking up pancake batter. Adding strawberries sliced on top, a drizzle of honey and even some whipped cream because why not.

“Pancakes? What’s the occasion?” Johnny appeared in the kitchen, leaning on the counter with crossed arms and a teasing smile.  

“No occasion. Just figured Leo deserved something nice.” You muttered, setting the plates on the table, just as Leo strolled in all dressed up. 

“She only makes pancakes on Sundays! Or birthdays…"

Your head whipped around. “Leo!” But he was already running to the bathroom to wash his hands, knowing exactly what he’d done. 

Johnny’s grin widened, he padded over, standing way too close as he looked at the plates you’d clearly put an effort on. “So what you’re saying is…”He teased behind you, “…I should feel really special, then.” He was so close you could feel his warmth all over your back. Your hand stilled over the table, as Johnny’s hovered over your waist, almost touching you, testing just like last night when–

The doorbell rang, making you both jolt. You took that as your chance to bolt the scene, muttering something about getting the door. You cleared your throat, and tucked a loose strand behind your ear before opening it. 

“Oh hi! How are you?” You beamed at your neighbor, and your sudden joy made Johnny snap his head to the handsome man greeting you with matching excitement. “I was going to call you, my car’s battery died the other day…” You said, voice fading away as you stepped outside to greet him and closed the door behind you, leaving Johnny without a sight of the interaction. 

Oh hell no. Johnny immediately rushed to the window, leaning his knee on the couch to peek through the curtain. He saw you standing next to your car, already giggling at whatever joke this guy said. His eyes went up and down the mysterious man, he had shoulder length wavy brown hair, and a stupid kind smile. He was wearing a deep blue coverall uniform, his name embroidered on it but too far away to read. As if on cue, Leo walked out the bathroom, wondering where his mom was. Perfect. 

“Hey, Leo, pst.” Johnny whispered, and the boy perked his head up in curiosity. “Come here buddy.” 

Leo obeyed, climbing over the couch to get a peek outside too, and saw you. “Why are we eavesdropping on mom?” He asked, a bit too loud, his little brow already judging Johnny. 

“Shhh. Buddy, we’re not eavesdropping, we’re…observing.” Johnny gaslighted, and Leo wasn’t fully convinced, but this seemed fun enough to entertain him. “Now Leo, who’s that man? He’s your neighbor?”

“Yes, that’s Mr. Barnes. His name is Bucky.” 

“Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky.” Johnny frowned, and Leo gasped. 

“Language!” The five year old scolded, and Johnny reluctantly muttered an apology. “He’s a mechanic, he was supposed to change our battery last week.” 

Yeah, but why is she giggling so much? He can’t be that funny. And why are those guy’s eyes so blue? Johnny leaned closer to hear the conversation. 

“Hey, next time something like that happens, call me alright?” Bucky said, and you nodded. 

“Thank you, Bucky. I will.” You smiled at him one last time, and finally turned to the porch to make your way back. 

“Shit–” Johnny scattered away from the window, ignoring Leo’s little scold for the curse, and snatched him off the couch just in time as you opened the door. 

You walked in with a sigh and a smile, only to find Johnny and Leo standing suspiciously close to the window, both trying–and failing–to act normal. “What?” You asked, crossing your arms. 

Johnny shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Nothing. Just…didn’t realize the pancakes included an early morning comedy hour with the neighbor.”

You snorted. “Oh my god, Johnny. He just wanted to ask about the tow he saw last week.” 

“Right! The tow, yeah that’s hilarious, isn't it…All that giggling and tossing your hair back, talking about a tow...”

You narrowed your eyes, and bit back a smile at his very evident jealousy. “Johnny, Bucky is like a hundred years old.” You said and his brows furrowed in more confusion. “Okay–not a hundred. But he’s way older, you don’t need to worry about him…”

“Me? Worried about that guy? Pft.” He shrugged. “No, I was just curious why Mister Mechanic thinks he can knock on your door before breakfast.”

You rolled your eyes. “Because some people actually wake up early to do their jobs, Johnny.” 

“Oh, so now you’re defending him? Wow. First pancakes, and now this. The morning just keeps getting better!” He said sarcastically, and Leo watched him amused. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you walked to the breakfast table. “You’re ridiculous.”

Leo trailed behind you. “Yeah, and foul-mouthed.” He giggled climbing into his chair.

Johnny groaned, dragging his feet to the table. Yeah, well…ridiculous or not, I just got my family back. Not really in the mood to share laughs with some guy named Bucky.”

Pancakes were a success, so much that Johnny was eager to offer himself to drive Leo to school and drop you at college after. The car ride was nice, at least to Leo, who chatted away with Johnny while you kept replaying in your head the way he looked when he just woke up, how warm his body felt behind you, right before the door ring, and his little jealousy fit after. It didn’t help that you still had a very important conversation pending haunting you as well. You couldn't do it in front of Leo, of course, but even after he jumped out of the truck, you still didn’t…talk. About what was important, at least. About what on earth was going to happen once you decided to step out of the little bubble you’d created, the one with pizza nights, pancake mornings, and light family banter in between. You told yourself you were just buying more time, but swearing by that six years ago might’ve been the start of this whole mess in the first place. The problem is, old habits die screaming, and you still had air in your lungs. 

And unfortunately, as beautiful as “playing house” sounded, all those afternoons Johnny spent at your place for a whole week, had led you to be incredibly behind with your faculty responsibilities. You hadn’t even noticed it was way past lunch time already. You sat on your office desk, red ink staining the side of your hand as you went through the mountain of papers you needed to grade. Your growling stomach told you to stop an hour ago, but you couldn’t, not when you were this behind. It wasn’t something you were used to, but the new flame in town was the one to blame. You let out a sigh, setting the pen down only for a second to rub your temple, when a knock on your door made you jump.

“Come in,” you shouted without even looking up, expecting a student, or the nice janitor wanting to say hi. 

“Are you planning on eating the papers for lunch?” 

You snapped your head up, only to find Johnny leaning against the doorframe, holding a brown bag in his hand. His blue eyes flicked over the chaos on your desk, and behind that cocky smile was that quiet concern you’d learned to recognize in him. You sat up straighter, pretending you weren’t just about to scream in frustration before he knocked on your door. 

“Johnny…” You warned, as he strutted toward you waving the bag excitedly. “I’m busy, I told you I needed to get these done by today.”

“Relax, I know. I’m not here to distract you, Professor Spencer,” He said, setting the bag down next to your stack of ungraded exams. “I just grabbed some sandwiches from that corner deli I saw the other day, and I figured you might’ve forgotten.”

You looked at him, ready to put up a fight, but your stomach said just take the damn sandwich, girl. So you exhaled, relaxing your posture in defeat. “I…yeah. I did forget.”

Johnny pulled the chair from that side of the desk and placed it backward, then sat down with his chin resting on his folded arm on the top rail as he watched you with amusement. “Knew it,” he said, pushing the bag closer to you with his finger. “Come on, eat first, fail your students later.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for it, biting back a smile at the gesture. It caught you off guard how easily he kept working his way into different pieces of your day. Parts that had always been just yours. 

“My students don’t fail,” you argued playfully, pulling the sandwich out, realizing he’d gotten your order right once again. “There’s only one here, want to go halfsies?” You offered, the same way you did to Leo sometimes.

“Oh, yeah–I mean, no…I already ate mine on the way I was starving.” He snorted, blushing. “And I’m sure they don’t,” he chuckled, but there was no malice in it. 

You hummed pridefully. Johnny watched you nibble the edge of the sandwich, your free hand already picking up the pen and eyes darting back to the papers. He groaned dramatically and reached over, snatching a pile from the stack to slide it toward him.

“Alright, hand me the red pen, I’ll help you while you eat.”

You shook your head, trying to grab the pile back but he put his arm over it to keep it in place. “Johnny, you don’t even know the subject.”

“Nonsense,” he kept his arm there, flicking his fingers for the pen. “I’m an astronaut. I’ve been to space and learned alien languages, I can grade a few papers,” he said confidently, too smug for his own good, but it was enough for you to shrug and hand him the pen. Maybe this could be fun. 

“Let me give you a graded one so you can see–”

“I don’t need it,” he shook his head, already squinting at the page in deep concentration.

You held back a chuckle, and leaned back in your chair to enjoy your sandwich, curious on how long it’d be until he gave up. His brow furrowed at the first page covered in equations, mouthing the items under his breath. It took about four more seconds.

“Okay, so…you give credit if they write their name at the top, right?”

You snorted, shaking your head in amusement. “Come on, Mr. I talk to naked sexy aliens, you got this.” You took another bite of your sandwich, smiling against it. It tasted better while humbling Johnny Storm. 

He just smiled at you sarcastically, eyes squinting in fake enthusiasm. He turned to the second page, expecting to at least know one answer, but as he went through the items his jaw dropped dramatically. “Jeez, these are hard questions. What are you preparing them for, NASA?”

“Basically,” you deadpanned, “I’m trying to get them into programs, like your family’s.”

You said it so genuinely that it was enough to shut him up. For a moment he got caught between a sense of pride and guilt, tapping the pen on the page trying to mask it. “Guess I should, uh…leave this to you, then. I’m a little rusty anyways,” he tried to play it cool, setting the pile back onto the stack and resting his arms on the back of the chair again. You nodded, setting the half of the sandwich down to reach for the pen again. “You know,” he said softly, “all this work you’re doing–what you did with Kate and try to do with others…you’re changing the course of their lives. That’s one hell of a mark you’re leaving here.”

You shook your head, eyes locked on the numbers. “I just thought everyone deserved a chance at a better life, that’s all. Someone gave me that chance once. It didn’t work out for me but maybe it will for them.”

Johnny tilted his head and felt that familiar pang in his chest, the one that told him he didn’t protect that chance when it mattered, didn't protect you. He didn’t speak for a while after that. You tried to ignore it, the weight of what was unsaid still hanging in the air, of what you were still running away from, but the insistent bounce in his leg made you glance over at him. He was absentmindedly tapping his fingers on his forearm, and he wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were stuck on the bulletin board behind you, but he wasn't really reading anything on it. You knew that tapping. You knew that look. Leo had the same little quirks when something bothered him. You could’ve just ignored him. It was easier to keep escaping and you still had it in you to keep running, but your legs were starting to hurt. So you sighed, setting the pen down again and moving the papers away. 

“Johnny,” you started softly, and he just hummed. “You didn’t just come here to have lunch with me and get humbled with my tests, did you?”

He stopped tapping his fingers, gaze finally meeting yours with a forced laugh. “Hey, I said I was a little rusty,” he joked, but it faltered quickly. “But, you’re right…I didn’t.”

You nodded with a sad smile. “We’ve been avoiding this since last night, haven’t we?”

“We have,” he exhaled, finally dropping some of the weight off. “I think I was hoping it would just…work itself out. That I’d keep waking up in your house and we’d all just be there together, sharing breakfast, answering Leo’s morning trivia,” he chuckled at that, and it made you smile too. “That one day he’d call me dad without hesitating, and you’d…you’d stop looking at me like you’re still halfway out the door.”

He didn't say it like an accusation, and maybe that made it worse. You looked away. It was hard to face the fact that those were just mere fantasies, ones you couldn't deny you had yourself. 

“But I know I can’t stay here forever. I have responsibilities back home, and they don’t just go away because I want them to. I’ve been pulling excuses for weeks, because I know I need to have a plan with you before I bring this to my family, but Sue is not happy at all…I’ll have to face them before they come snooping around.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But I don’t want to turn into a visitor in my son’s life, I want to be in it, so there’s gotta be a middle ground for us.”

“Johnny, you talk about it like it’s easy to decide what that middle ground is.” 

“Because it should be,” he shot back instantly, refusing to let you keep brushing it off. “I’m not asking for everything at once, I just want us to start, to get somewhere.” 

“You say somewhere but we both know what you mean by that. That’s not a middle ground.” You snapped, burying your face in your hands. 

Johnny kept himself from groaning, sighing instead. “That’s not what I meant.” He was coming off wrong, yet the fire inside him told him to keep pushing. “I’m just saying, you told me you believe everyone deserves a shot. So why not you? Why not Leo?” The way your shoulders tensed didn’t go unnoticed by him. “You’re busting yourself in this office, running on no sleep, all to give strangers a shot at a better life. But your son–our son, and you? You deserve it too, maybe more than anyone.”

You finally looked at him. “I know he deserves the best in the world, and once I believed that for myself too,” you said, fighting the burn in the back of your throat. “But I don’t know if I can ever go back there, Johnny. I know you were scared but I lost everything that day. I’ve been living in the shadow of what you did to me for so long, that it’s easier to believe it's safer to stay small.”

The guilt was so heavy in Johnny’s chest that it stung. Saying sorry was never going to be enough to repair the damage he’d done. You sat in silence for a moment, and even if the words that came out hurt, they needed to be said. It was the only way to get somewhere. 

“I know you have your life in New York, your family, the team. But Leo and I…we’ve built something here, something safe. He knows you’re his father now, but that still doesn’t change that our life is here,” you said firmly.

“I understand that.” Johnny nodded softly. “I’m not asking you to give that up–”

“But you’re not going to give up yours either.” The words came out of your mouth before you could stop them. And you hated how accusatory it sounded, because he had every right as much as you did. 

“I’m not,” he admitted, smiling sadly. “The city, my team…it’s not just duty, it’s a part of me. But I’m not saying you need the Baxter Tower either, you don’t ever have to forgive them…or me, if you don’t wish to.”

“I didn’t say I’ll never forgive them,” you shook your head, finally easing down. “But I don’t trust them, not yet. And I can’t just pretend like those years didn’t happen.” 

“I’m not asking you to pretend,” he said softly, “I know I should’ve stood by you. I should’ve trusted you. And me being scared doesn't change the fact that I was a coward that day.”

You’re not wrong. 

“I’m not asking you to trust them right now, I can only ask you to trust me. To trust that I’ll never let you be alone, and that I’ll stand between you and anyone who tries to treat you like that ever again…even if it’s them.”

You let the words sink in. Promises you’d prayed for so many times in the dark. “You know when you talk like that, I want to believe again. I hate it, but I do,” you admitted.

“Then don’t fight it.”

Your breath hitched when Johnny suddenly got up from his chair, rounding the desk to walk to your side. He crouched down, swiveling your chair slowly to face him. He put one hand on the armrest as the other reached hesitantly, hovering over yours for a few seconds. He waited for that rejection, for that almost touch, but you didn’t pull back this time. You just sat there, eyes wide, staring at his hand finally wrapped around yours. All you could focus on was the little mole on the back of his hand you always wanted to press a kiss on. 

“Let’s try this again,” he smiled softly, his thumb brushing your skin. “I don’t want you to think I’m saying pack it up and leave your life overnight. I just want to find a way to make this work, I want us to find a way.”

“But…what if we don’t figure it out?” you whispered. 

“Then we keep trying until we do,” he shrugged. “I’ll fly here every week if I have to. We’ll do weekends, we’ll FaceTime. We’ll write letters if that’s what it takes. But I’m not giving up on you.”

You nodded, but didn't say anything else. Johnny didn’t mind it, the fact that you let him take your hand was enough for him. He watched you for a moment longer, then slowly, gently, he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss, right over your knuckles. He lingered there, eyes never leaving yours, and it was the gentleness that undid you, more than the promises. That, and the impossible longing behind his gaze. 

“You look even more beautiful than I remembered,” he whispered against your skin, making your heart race and heat creep up your neck.

“Johnny…”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been dying to say it since I arrived here,” he flashed you one of his dashing smiles, finally lowering your hand to your lap but never letting go.

The way he managed to turn everything around so easily with just a couple words and that maddening grin drove you insane. Still, your fingers tightened around his, and you couldn't help the smile on your face. There goes another one of your walls.

“You know, I don’t think our middle ground is Manhattan, but maybe we could consider something…closer.” You drawled, and he nodded enthusiastically. “I just don’t know where–“

“We’ll figure it out,” he cut in, desperate. “Any city, as close as you wish. We’ll find the best school for Leo and I’ll buy you a house there, as big as you want it, I’ll paint it your favorite color…we can even have a cute garden and a mailbox and a driveway with a basketball hoop–”

“Johnny…” You chuckled at his little suburban fantasy, shoving his shoulder playfully with your free hand. 

“I mean it! We can do anything, I swear.” He laughed too, clutching your hand tighter. “All I know right now is that I want you, and I want him closer. I want him to know who I am. Just–just don’t worry about anything, and leave it to me. I’ll protect the family. Our family.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heart ringing in your ears and his hopeful eyes locked on yours. He looked like he was in the middle of a battlefield instead of an office, because yes, this was the goddamn fight of his life and he’d started it all those years back. But now he was ready to burn himself down if it meant proving to you that this time, he would fight. And you chose to believe it. 

“Okay…” you whispered, “I trust you, Johnny…don’t make me regret it.” 

“You won’t.” He shook his head, pressing another kiss to your hand, smiling against your skin. 

He lowered your hand, eyes inevitably going to your lips, looking too inviting for his own good. He leaned without even thinking, breath almost mingling with yours, his thumb tracing circles that sent shivers up your arms. His lips were so close you could feel his heat wrapping all over your body, so you closed your eyes instinctively when–

Two knocks on the door startled you both. He almost bumped your chin when he leaned back, but before any of you had time to think about it, the door swung open. 

“Professor, I–uh…”

You looked over to find none other than Captain Walker standing there. Six-foot-two of pure southern muscle wrapped in his neat navy blue uniform. He held a red paper plate in one hand, with a very generous piece of cake on it. His smile faltered just a second when he clocked Johnny crouching, hand still on yours, both of you snapping back like guilty teenagers caught making out behind the bleachers.

“…I see I’m interrupting something,” he drawled, his amused voice sweet as honey. 

You cleared your throat, heat creeping up your face as you tugged your hand back, pretending to shuffle the papers on your desk. “Not at all, John, come in.”

Johnny immediately stood up, without leaving your side, hands on his hips, and if looks could kill…Great. First, Mr. Mechanic in the morning, and now Mr. Cowboy boots. Stealing his moments with you. 

“You always just burst into places like that?” Johnny snapped, but it only made John grin wider. 

I’ll be damned, looks like Ken is mad at me. “My bad, she usually has no problem with me walking in like this.” John shrugged, unbothered, strolling toward your desk. Johnny’s eye twitched. 

You scrambled to diffuse the awkwardness, gesturing between them. “Uh–Johnny, this is Captain John Walker, we’re campus neighbors. John, this is Johnny…Lowell, a friend.”

Lowell? A Friend? Seriously? 

He remembered this guy all too well. The same one you brushed off that time with that laugh you do when you’re trying to be polite. And now he’s back again. With “cake”.

Still, he extended his arm over the desk when you tilted your head at him. John’s handshake was firm, maybe a little too firm, and Johnny didn’t even bother hiding how reluctant he was to take it. While their eyes locked in a silent testosterone showdown, you were sitting there wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

“It’s always nice to see you around, John. What do you have for me?” You smiled, more out of habit than anything, but it was enough to make Johnny’s head whip to you like Excuse me!? 

John ignored him, and placed the cake on your desk, right next to the crumpled brown bag, dusting some crumbs off the edge. “The chief wanted me to bring you this, thought we’d share the wealth.” He smiled, wide and bright, knowing exactly what he was doing. 

Johnny scoffed. “Right, the chief sent you all the way here from the station.” Johnny said, crossing his arms. “Oh and I bet he’s also like what, 6’4? Probably built like Superman too, huh?”

You glanced over at him, amused. Oh, he was digging his own grave. But he was too busy with the gears already smoking in his head. What the hell is in the water in this town? Why is every man hot and trying to flirt with you?

“No, actually, she’s about this tall.” John corrected, lifting his hand flat in the air, showing where someone about a foot shorter than him would reach. “Maybe 5’4 at best. She could kill you with her eyes closed, though.” 

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh with a cough, because oh my god, Johnny’s face.

He turned to you, offended, red as a tomato. “Did you just laugh? You’re definitely laughing.”

“I’m not.” You cleared your throat, then turned back to John with a casual ease that only made it worse. “That’s so sweet, John. Tell Yelena I said thank you and happy birthday.”

“Will do,” he nodded. Then he crossed his arms, hands touching his elbows, as he eyed Johnny up and down. He stared at the XS outfit, the silver bracelet peeking under the sleeve of his designer jacket, and the flawless little haircut. “Nice pants, by the way. You a lawyer or something?”

Johnny was flabbergasted, to say the least. “Do I look like a lawyer?”

John shrugged, “Do I look like a cop?” 

Do I look like a cop?. Johnny mimicked in his head. I’m going to burn this man down and have Reed cover it up. See how much of a cop you look like after that. 

“Actually, I’ll have you know I’m the human–ah.” He grimaced when you pressed your hand harshly to his stomach, holding a couple of papers tightly against it. 

“What Johnny means is he’s from Human Resources.” You gritted, glaring at him. “He was just helping me with some paperwork.” 

Johnny exhaled in defeat, taking the papers from your hands, rolling his eyes dramatically but still nodding. 

“Yeah, he seems pretty…resourceful.” John said. But instead of feeling intimidated against this man evidently staking his claim, especially after whatever the hell he walked on, he just chuckled and shrugged. “Now I see why you never said yes to me.”

Damn right, Johnny thought. 

You just buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

John was about to tip his head and make himself scarce before he had to arrest a pretty boy assaulting an officer, when he felt that uncharacteristic warmth he’d only felt in your office before. “I know I’ve mentioned it before, but are you sure you’re not messing with the heating? It’s so warm here.” 

“The heating? Not really, I–“ Your eyes went to Johnny, who looked way too red and too suspicious at the comment. You narrowed your eyes. “Huh. Yeah, it’s actually getting very hot in here…” 

Johnny avoided your gaze as he circled the desk. “Well, this was lovely, captain! Aye aye, time to go!” He placed his abnormally warm hands on John’s biceps, and turned him around, pretending not to struggle as he nudged him toward the door. 

“Enjoy your cake professor, I know it’s your favorite.” John half turned, planting his boots on the floor and towering over Johnny for him to stop –attempting– to drag him away. It worked. “Pleasure meeting you, Lowell.” Not.

And after one more smile at you and a glare at Johnny, he finally walked out the door. Johnny stood there for a few seconds, just glaring daggers at the closed door. “Okay–what the hell was that? Cake? Really? He brings you cake and suddenly you’re giggling like he’s the funniest man alive?”

You rolled your eyes, scooping the plate closer, and tasted some of the frosting with your finger. “Oh, please Johnny, he was just being nice.”

He snapped his gaze back to you, utterly scandalized. “That wasn’t nice, that was–look, he walked aaall the way here from the station. You don’t just show up with cake in the middle of the day unless you’re trying to make a move on someone.” He wouldn't even be surprised if this “Yelena” was trying to get her foot in your door too. 

“I park by the station when the campus is full, Johnny, I see them very often. They're just my friends.”

“Friends,” he muttered under his breath, pacing in his spot. Last time he was your “friend” he procreated a secret baby with you. “He knows your favorite cake too.”

You rolled your eyes. “Johnny, you’ve been in my life again for like four minutes. Of course people know stuff about me.” 

“Wow wow wow–four minutes? Now that's cold.” He stopped pacing, pointing accusingly at you. 

Jesus Christ. Was this really the same man that promised you a big house with a stupid basketball hoop while kissing your hand just moments ago? 

“Says the guy who warmed up the room with pure jealousy,” you shrugged, unbothered, playing with the little spoon without looking at him.

“I’m not jealous. I just…run hot,” he shrugged, then smiled devilishly when that idea popped back in his head. “However, in case I need it–I’m not saying I will, but if I ever do, Reed can cover up a murder you know…” 

“Oh my god, Johnny,” you gasped, then both bursted in laughter. “Well, until you get caught, do you want some cake or not?” You said, pointing at the cake with the spoon. 

He sighed in annoyance, but still dragged his feet back to the chair. “I do…but I’m still angry.”

“I know,” you smiled, holding out the spoon with a piece toward him. “And I still have to grade these papers.”

He took the bite, smiling against the spoon. “I know that too,” he said, voice muffled. “Give me another pen.”

So there you were, hearts on your sleeves, cake frosting on your lips, and a very jealous Johnny Storm finally accepting a graded test reference so he could actually be helpful. 

“But another Jonathan, really?”

“Ugh, Johnny!”

Your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand

Johnny hadn’t exactly planned on sleeping on your couch twice in a row. Somehow it happened, after Leo wouldn’t let him go until he read all four of his favorite books to him. 

Leo didn’t like short books. 

Not that Johnny minded though, he’d stay up all night reading and entertaining his son if it meant making up for lost time even in the slightest bit. He couldn’t stop thinking about Leo’s bubbly laughter when he made a witty joke, or his seriousness when he corrected something Johnny misread trying to make a funny voice. Leo’s fire was brighter than his in all aspects, and he’d never been prouder to be outshined by someone barely over forty four inches. You invaded his memories too. You sat next to him on the little bed while he put on a show, laughing at his jokes, smiling until your cheeks hurt, and ignoring the fact that it was way past Leo’s bedtime by book three. It was a Friday anyways, so who cares.

So here he was, 2 am, padding toward your kitchen, for an “I can’t sleep snack”. It was ridiculous, really, sneaking in the dark to raid his five year old’s cereal stash. He found the last box on the counter, frowning at how light it was. Almost gone. Gotta remember to buy him more. Then he went to the fridge, juggling a milk carton, the cereal, and a ceramic bowl at the same time, cursing under his breath when he almost dropped the bowl. That’s when he heard the soft steps behind him.

“Johnny?”

He froze, caught red handed with a spoon dangling awkwardly out of his mouth. He turned slowly, to find you next to the breakfast counter, arms folded, squinting in the dark. 

“I–uh,” he whispered, lowering to the opposite counter to drop the spoon from his mouth, half laughing. “I couldn’t sleep.” He gestured lazily at the box in his hand. “Chose to battle my insomnia with…cereal.”

“Right,” you smiled. “I couldn't sleep either.”

Johnny put the milk into the fridge, set the bowl back in the cabinet with exaggerated care, and grabbed the cereal box with a flourish, pouring a handful straight into his palm. He munched quietly, looking at you like he was waiting for judgment. Instead, you just leaned against the counter in your oversized shirt, watching him with amusement.

“I’ll bring more tomorrow,” he justified.

You shook your head softly. “I don’t mind, Johnny. You brought it here. You can eat anything you want from this house.”

He grinned, and held out a few pieces to you in truce. You smiled and took them, brushing his fingers faintly. And now it was just the two of you, parents to a brilliant five year old, sharing stolen cereal under the moonlight at two in the morning.

“There’s something we haven’t talked about yet, and I’ve been dying to ask you about it.” Johnny broke the silence.

You frowned, but still nodded. “Sure, what is it?” 

He gathered courage, and asked. “Why Spencer?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I get why not Storm, but…why the other?”

“Well…I wasn’t really thinking clearly when I first chose it.” You said, chucking nervously. “But I think in the end, it was because I didn’t want you completely out of his life,” you confessed, sighing. “It wasn’t safe to name him Storm, of course, but I couldn’t erase you, either. So…Spencer. At least some part of you would always be with him.”

And with me, you thought. But you weren’t ready to say that out loud yet. 

He stood in silence for a moment, taking it all in. Then, he smiled, genuinely. “You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

You just nodded, biting your lip. “Now I have a question for you.”

He popped a few flakes into his mouth, grinning smugly. “Shoot, professor.”

“Why aren't you using your flames?” You asked. “Why are you brooding in my kitchen in the dark?”

That almost made him choke on the cereal, he barked out a laugh, louder than he meant to, and clapped a hand over his mouth before he woke Leo up. “Okay, yeah. I know it’s ridiculous. I don’t even remember the last time I brooded in complete darkness like this. Definitely before the accident, like, eleven, twelve years ago?” He shook his head at himself.

You looked at him amused, but still waited for his answer. He sighed and leaned on the counter behind him, one hand still holding the cereal box as the other rested on the countertop. 

“Truth? I haven’t used my powers since I got here. It just…didn’t feel appropriate. Your house isn’t exactly fireproof and I wasn’t gonna risk burning down my kid’s home.”

That made you laugh, muffling the little snort into your hand. He beamed at the sound.

“I understand that, but…” You looked at him curiously, uncrossing your arms. “...I was wondering, if maybe I could see it?”

“See…it?”

You nodded, and stepped closer to him. “Your flames…it’s been a while. But I remember they were beautiful.”

Johnny set the cereal box in the counter behind him, his eyes searching yours for hesitation. “You’re not scared?”

You shook your head. “Just…step away from the curtains.”

A breathless laugh slipped from him in a mix of disbelief and nerves, but he’d do anything for you. He took one step forward, into the middle of the kitchen, and lifted his hand. A warm light washed your features when his entire hand lit up, fire curling up his fingers. The heat filled the room instantly, the warmth close enough to kiss your skin but never to hurt. And in that glow, all you saw was him. Johnny in the firelight. His blue eyes caught the dancing flames, orange and gold, but he was staring at you as if you held the fire he’d spent his whole life chasing. He stepped forward, flexing his fingers, so the flame flickered a little lower in delicate patterns. 

“Yeah…” you whispered. “…still beautiful.”

You smiled at him, so softly, so honest, that Johnny almost fell to his knees for you on his spot. This was it. This was his moment. No more interruptions. No more mechanics or policemen. No more ‘almost’. 

“So are you.” He stepped closer one more time. “I meant it before and I will mean it my entire life,” he mumbled, like it slipped out before he could stop it. 

“Johnny…” your breath hitched, but you didn’t step back. 

The flame softened even more, until it was just a quiet glow, just enough to light your faces in gold. He closed the last of the distance between you, his other hand rose slowly, and fit like a puzzle piece on your waist. His touch was warm, just as you remembered it, as his hand brought you toward him with the gentlest pull.

“Is this okay?” he said breathlessly, his voice betraying him on how badly he needed the answer.

You barely nodded, because you were too mesmerized by the fire dancing in his eyes, and the way his hand on your waist made your heart race. So he dared to close the space until your chests finally collided, until your breath mingled with his, until the world came to nothing but the warmth of his hand sliding to your back and the firelight dancing between your mouths.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t think about the taste of your lips all the time.” His lips hovered over yours, just a breath apart. “I’ve missed you so much.” He whispered the words that have been caged in his chest for six years and could finally break free. 

Your heart screamed me too. The ache, the longing, the waiting for him to come save you from the melancholy you’d drowned yourself in…it all flooded back to you as if no time had passed. So you decided it was time to finally let him in. You slipped your arms over his shoulders, hands placed firmly on the back of his neck, and pleaded.

“Just kiss me, Johnny.”

He didn’t waste another second. 

Your lips touched first like a question, but the instant his mouth found yours, the flame in his hand died down, just as the one between your lips ignited. Suddenly both his hands were on you, palms running across your back, tugging you closer as if that would erase the years spent apart. His kiss was wild, desperate like he’d been starving and was finally allowed to taste what he'd been craving.

Your fingers were on his hair before you could think, pulling, anchoring you to reality as the kiss deepened. Johnny breathed against you between kisses, broken little groans that showed the hunger burning inside him. It wasn't gentle, it wasn't careful. He wanted to feel every part of you pressed against him, to make sure you were real, that this was happening, that no one was interrupting this time. It was everything unsaid, every letter you never sent, every apology he made that never reached your ears.

The kiss broke not because either of you wanted it to, but because salt hit your mouths, tears you didn't even realize had been spilling. His and yours, both mixing together until you pulled back to see the glimmer on his cheeks, and he saw the same on yours.

His thumbs wiped your tears, as he smiled through his. “I never had the courage to make you mine for more than just one night and I hate myself for it. It was my fault that we were never anything, when we should’ve had it all.” He paused, only to wipe his face. “We were just…two idiots who pretended love didn’t exist…but it did. It existed to me. It always did.”

You took a shaky breath, partly because you were still recovering from the kiss, and because his words cut too close. “It did to me too, Johnny. I’m sorry that we were never anything. I’m sorry I let myself believe we couldn’t be.”

“I don’t want us to be like that anymore. I don’t care how messy, how complicated it’ll be to find a middle ground–it just…doesn’t matter. I lost six years with you that I’ll never get back. And I swear to you, I’m not wasting another second.” He promised, still holding you. “I want it all. God, I want everything. You, Leo and me. Forever.”

You were tired of words, so you leaned in instead, your lips meeting in the middle. Soft at first, then hungrier, almost laughing against his mouth when he exhaled in relief into it. 

“Yes. You…” you said between kisses, “Leo…”

Another kiss.

“And me.”

One more. 

“Forever.”

Johnny groaned into your mouth, relief and joy tangling into one sound, as he guided your bodies with a few steps forward. Your lower back pressed against the counter as he leaned you against it, still kissing you. Your giggles bubbled up, breaking through the kiss, and he chased it with his lips wanting to taste your laughter. He joined you, and soon you were both giggling, kissing, pulling apart only to fall right back in. Your hands twisted in his hair, his thumb brushed the side of your jaw.

For the first time in years, the ache lifted, leaving two idiots in love, finally letting themselves be just that. 

The next thing you knew, your hand slipped into his and you were guiding him to your room. He just followed, cereal and everything else forgotten, heart beating so fast in his chest he swore you could hear it. He couldn’t take his eyes off your back, the way that shirt barely covered past your ass, the way your hips shifted with every step, the way your hand dragged him to a place he thought was forbidden. When you pushed open your bedroom door, even in the dark, he could see how warm the space felt. Soft floral bedding, a few books stacked at the nightstand, pictures of your life, races of you everywhere. He wanted to soak it all in, but you didn’t give him time. You pulled him in, and he stumbled a little before he kissed you back, but then he pulled away just enough to whisper against your mouth. 

“Are you sure? About this? About…me?”

Your fingers clutched his shirt, walking backwards toward your bed . “Yes. But we have to be quiet, our son is asleep.”

That made him huff out the quietest laugh just as just stopped by the bed’s edge. “You, quiet? With me? Oh, sweetheart…” He grinned mischievously. “You don’t really have the best record with that.”  

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. He stole another kiss, muffling his own chuckle against your lips, and then you were both tumbling onto the bed. Johnny shushed himself dramatically when the mattress squeaked, his neck stifling your laugh. 

Johnny’s hands roamed everywhere, greedy, making up for every touch he couldn't give you before. Six years ago it had been laughter muffled in champagne glasses, hurried kisses that dissolved into tangled limbs, both of you too drunk to notice much beyond the spark between you. But this…this was different. His lips moved down your jaw, to your throat, to the skin peaking under the shirt. You could feel the way he was holding back still, making the effort of not rushing, because he wanted this to last. Wanted you to last.

“God,” he mumbled against your collarbone, his breath hot on your skin. “I don’t even remember if I kissed you here last time.” So now he did, warm lips making you gasp.

You were already melting under him, every kiss undoing the last pieces of the wall you’d built around yourself. It was like your body remembered him even if your mind tried to forget. 

“I lied about that night.” He confessed against your lips. “It wasn’t just one night. It was everything. It's so unfair I only got to taste you once…but I’m gonna make up for that lost time.”

Clothes came off in a hurry, first your shirt, then your panties, tossed somewhere on the floor. Johnny took longer to get undressed, his shirt, his belt, his tight pants, he put a little show on for you while you did nothing but lie there naked, pretty, and wet for him. Once he was naked too, he pressed his warm body back on you, thumbs stroking your waist, while his mouth made his way from your neck, trailing kisses down to your breasts, your nipples, your stomach, until you could barely think straight. This time, Johnny wasn't laughing nervously or fumbling in a haze of alcohol. This time, he was memorizing every gasp you made, every arch of your back, every shiver as his mouth trailed lower and lower. Until a moan came out too loud, and his head snapped up right over your lower belly.  

“Shh–we have to be quiet.” He grinned like a devil, then leaned back again to place a teasing kiss just above the most sensitive part of your body. “You’re perfect.”

“Johnny, come on,” you whined, your hands reaching for his shoulders, trying to pull him back on top of you. “Please don’t tease me.” 

He wanted to be a little shit about it, but when he heard the need in your voice he let you pull him back, until he was hovering your body again. You ran your hands through his toned abs, his chest, until one landed on his bicep and the other cradled his face. 

“I want to feel you, Johnny.” You said breathlessly, running your thumb across his cheek as you lifted your knee to softly rub his hardened cock, making his eyes widen in disbelief. “Please.”

“Oh you’re vicious.” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. He grabbed himself in his hand, pushing your knee with his elbow to open your legs to him. You just bit your lip and pulled him closer. “Alright, alright. I got you sweetheart.” He chuckled. “I want to feel you too.”

He wasn’t even trying to hide how much he was enjoying having you under him, pleading and ready, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was the feel of his leaking tip as he lined himself with your soaking folds. 

“Fuck–you’re soaking for me, baby.” He groaned, eyes fixed where your bodies met. He looked up to check your face, to make sure you were still saying yes, and he was met with dilated pupils and your mouth parted open as you nodded. That was all he needed. 

The moment he finally sank into you, his length stretching your walls the way only he could, both of you gasped at once. Your hands flew to his neck, clutching him close, and he buried his face against your neck to muffle the sounds he couldn't hold back.

“God–” he groaned, pushing himself as deep as he could. “–so much better than I remember.”

You held back your moans, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered breathless. “So good, Johnny.”

Soon you were gasping under his strong grip, clutching every inch of his body. His hair, his neck, his pecs, his back, ultimately slipping your arms around his biceps to ground yourself as he picked up the pace of his thrusts. And when a moan slipped a bit louder, he groaned into your skin, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Baby you gotta be quiet–or I’m gonna lose it too.” He chuckled under his breath, making you giggle too. He leaned to kiss your cheek, your temple, the corner of your lips, then a roll of his hips pulled another loud moan from you. “Fuck. I know, I know you like that…but he’s sleeping.” 

Still, he angled himself so he could push harder, the squeak of the bed now filling the room along with the headboard hitting the drywall. That was when Johnny stopped, eyes wide, looking at you like he’d done something he shouldn’t have. You both laughed quietly like teenagers trying to get it on with parents next door. Except, now you were the parents hiding from the children. 

“Jesus, wait–“ Johnny shook his head, still laughing. He pulled himself out just to grab a small pillow from your bed, and set it between the wall and the headboard. “Let me test it first.” He looked at you mischievously, placing himself between your legs again and pushing inside with no warning. You choked a gasp at the stretch, at the way you only felt full if he was inside you. The bed moved with Johnny’s thrust, still creaking, but the pillow had successfully soundproofed the headboard. “Bingo.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Are you ready?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again, pulling him closer to you to whisper in his ear. “Just fuck me, Johnny.” 

He whistled low, then whined playfully when you swatted his bicep so he would shut up. That was when he just decided to do what you asked of him, and fucked you. He dragged his cock out and pushed back in a quick pace, making your body bounce with every thrust. The sound of your muffled whimpers, his broken gasps, the slap of skin and the faint creak of the bed, all blended into a desperate rhythm. 

“It feels so good, Johnny. I can’t–right there.” 

“Right there?,” he groaned, thrusting deeper until you choked on the sound. His hand cupped the back of your head to lift it, leaning just enough to place a kiss on your forehead, before pulling back. “Look at me…look at me when you tell me how I make you feel.” 

And you did. Breathless, clutching his arms tighter, drowning in those blue eyes as you told him exactly what he was doing to you, how he was wrecking you, how he stretched you just right, how every movement burned in the best way. That undid him. 

“I swear I’ll give you everything. Anything you need–fuck–I promise.” His lips crushed yours, and soon you felt the saltiness of your shared tears.

The heat of his skin was making you sweat, and you felt that familiar pressure building, so close to snapping. Your back arched and you cried out louder, too loud, and he placed his big warm hand over your mouth, groaning into your ear. “Shhh–baby, as much as I’d give anything to hear you scream…I can’t, we can’t–” 

You started moaning under his hand, eyes wet, but it only made him push harder, until your muffled moans broke into little sobs of pleasure. You bit down gently against his palm, and that was when he felt himself breaking too. 

“Come with me–please sweetheart. Come with me, I can’t–I won’t last for longer–“

You finally felt the pressure snap across your body, your walls clenching around him, pushing his hand away from your mouth so you could pray his name over and over in low pants. “JohnnyJohnnyJohnny.” Johnny’s name died on his lips when he muffled his own groan against your mouth. He kept driving into you, chasing his own edge, until he filled you with every last drop of his release. You both ended up panting, your nails still dug into his biceps, trying to steady yourself as your chest rose and fell against his toned one. Johnny’s head fell into your collarbone, damp hair sticking to your skin. 

“Shit,” he laughed, trying to catch his breath. “I–I didn’t even think. I finished inside…is that okay? I don’t wanna accidentally make another Leo. We can barely handle one.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, weak and breathless, and swatted his shoulder. “Johnny, I’m gonna hold your bicep when I say this. Stop talking about him when you’re still inside me. It’s alright…I got it covered.”

“Okay sorry, sorry. I just–my brain is fried. Couldn’t think straight even if I tried…pretty sure I saw God.”

“Johnny…” you giggled, warmth blooming in your chest as you played with his hair. 

“I’m just saying,” he laughed against your skin, looking up to meet your gaze. “You made a strong case for heaven just now.”

As you laughed, shaking your head and holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world, aside from Leo of course, Johnny had never felt more complete. 

He finally pulled out, and let himself collapse beside you, both of you boneless and dazed, just breathing heavily in the dark. You turned to lay your head on his chest, his arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you tight against him. 

When he first drove into this quiet little town, he never thought he’d end up here. Not in your bed. Not with your head pillowed over his heart. And sure as hell not with a pillow between your wall and your headboard to sneak from your son next door. You couldn’t have imagined that in a million years either. But as you sighed softly against his chest, and he tightened his hold on your body, you had a warm feeling blooming in your chest. Something you hadn't felt in years.

You could love again. Because the truth was, you never really stopped. 

Now you hang from my lips, like the gardens of Babylon

With your boots beneath my bed, forever is the sweetest con

Waking up to Johnny was still magical, just like last time. It was all in the way his head rested on your pillow, his golden hair falling into place like dominoes, the sunlight dancing over his perfect nose, his parted lips, his bare chest rising slowly. He looked so at peace, and you were so at peace. That little piece of quiet, tucked between Saturday and forever, felt like something that might last this time…until it didn’t. The magical moment broke when a tiny, determined fist banged on your locked door, complaining about the lack of cereal for breakfast. It didn’t take long before you sighed, barely brushing Johnny’s lips before getting up to meet your son’s demands, distracting him as Johnny groaned and sneaked out of your bedroom to pretend he’d been in the bathroom all along. 

Turns out, you really had no more backup boxes, so Leo had to settle just for fruit. Then, he basically forced you both to get dressed, and go grab cereal immediately. He even was the first to beeline toward Johnny’s truck, to supervise the grocery run, but when the little twin neighbors from just a few houses down appeared on your driveway, inviting him to play at their house like they’d done many times before, he suddenly forgot about the cereal. 

So now here you were, in the middle of the town’s grocery store, with Johnny pushing the cart beside you like this was an usual Saturday activity. 

“If we want Leo to get into a good program, we need to do it at least a year ahead.” You said, placing a few cartons of milk on the shopping cart. “He’s almost out of school for this year, but he’ll have to do another one here while we figure everything out.” 

“A whole year?” Johnny protested next to you, pushing the cart slowly. 

“It might be even more, these programs have very limited timelines.” You didn’t budge at his groan, focusing on reading the back of a pancake mix box. 

“But his family basically invented science! We’re astronauts, I can have Reed call any school and he’d be accepted in a heartbeat–“ 

“Don’t you think Reed would have to know about his existence first?” You cut him off, setting the box on the cart. 

He stopped moving. “Yeah…yeah I guess.” His shoulders sagged as he leaned on the top of the cart, lowering his gaze to the box you just put in. “I mean I could call…offer a few of the calendars I give to the fire department every year and boom! Accepted.” He shrugged playfully, but his joke didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

You sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Johnny, we said we weren’t going to rush it. We have time, we can look for schools together, and find the best place for…us.” 

Us. 

“Yeah I know…no rushing it,” he assured, straightening up to place his hands on your waist, bringing you closer. “I just…I can’t wait to be close to you all the time. For our toothbrushes to be next to each other and all that stuff, you know.” 

You laughed, but your heart still lurched at his warm hands on you. He hadn’t stopped being touchy since last night. “We’ll get there, Johnny,” you said softly, “without bribing people with calendars.” 

“Oh come on, you’re no fun!” He whined, but he was grinning anyway. “I’ll get you a few, the fireman get all the shirtless pictures.” He wiggled his eyebrows, making you laugh again in the middle of the aisle. 

He laughed with you, never letting go of your waist, but his smile faltered enough for you to notice. “Hey, what is it?” You asked, searching for his eyes. 

“I, um…” He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the shelves of items around you. “There’s something else we could do to start though, like I said I’m not trying to rush this but I’ve been thinking about it all morning and I–“

“Johnny, just say it.” 

“I want Leo to know who I really am.” He blurted. “I mean–not just like the dad he doesn’t call dad yet, that sleeps on his couch and buys him cereal to bribe him–which, I do, but…I mean all of me. My flames, my job…I want him to know that part too.”

When you didn’t answer instantly, he added quickly, “I don’t want to scare him or overwhelm him, so I would need your help with that, but…I’d rather it come from me, from us, before he manages to figure it out on his own, given his record.”

You pressed your lips together, thinking. But just as he was about to spiral again, you nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” His eyes widened, like he was expecting more of a fight. 

“Yes, okay,” you laughed at his surprise. “We could tell him tonight over dinner, but I’m going to warn you Johnny, this isn’t just flames and smiles and comic book moments. You need to prepare yourself for the million questions he’s gonna ask.”  

He nodded frantically, finally letting go of your waist to celebrate with air punches. “I want him to. I’m ready, I’m so ready.” He smiled from ear to ear, and you couldn’t help but smile too. 

“Alright, hotshot. Think about how you’re gonna make your grand reveal, I’m going to find some dino nuggets to lessen the blow.” You said, patting his chest softly before turning around. “And pick some cereal in the meantime!” You yelled, walking away. 

Johnny could only do what he’d been doing after last night. Smile like an idiot…and fix the crotch of his jeans, as you turned around the corner. 

He was on fire. His son was finally going to know he was The Human Torch. 

He pushed the cart as he strolled into the cereal aisle almost absentmindedly, already knowing where to find what he needed, when an orange box he’d never seen before caught his eye. 

“Wheatie’s Thunderbolts edition,” he read, eyes judging the comic illustrations of some mystery superheroes he had never heard of. “What the hell? They sell these and not mine?” He muttered under his breath, squinting at the names on the box. “Who even are these guys…U.S Agent? Pft. What’s next, a Homelander?” He shook his head, and with a theatrical sigh, he shoved the stupid box back onto the shelf. 

This is what I get for saving the world. Nothing more than irrelevant in a small town. Unbelievable. 

But just as his shoulders slumped in defeat, something shiny blue caught his eye. He faced it slowly, and his pupils dilated like he just found the gates to heaven, or a whole mid aisle ‘Fantastic Four’ display. There, dozens of Lucky Charms: Human Torch Edition, were stacked in perfect rows. 

Just arrived! Get your free Johnny Storm figure inside 🔥 read the banner across the display. 

“Oh my God…” Johnny gasped. “No way!” He stood frozen for a second, eyes wide, mouth still open. Then he left the cart abandoned and jogged over like a kid on Christmas morning. “They have it. They actually have it now!” Johnny laughed under his breath, picking up the box with excitement. He could only imagine Leo’s little face when he found the little toy inside. 

Flame on! Flame on! Flame on! 

We have to tell him as soon as possible, I need to show him this after we–wait, should I get it now? Maybe just one…

“Okay, I’ll just get one for later,” he nodded to himself. “We will tell him and then bam! My name on his favorite cereal.” But then he saw the bottom shelf, with the family size ones, so he grabbed two more. “Actually...maybe just another one for good measure. I’m getting four. Yeah–that’s reasonable, I always get him two so the others are a bonus.”

I can’t wait to tell him. He’s gonna love it and I’m gonna be the best dad ever–

“God, I should’ve known this is where I’d find you.” 

Johnny almost dropped the boxes when the familiar voice came from behind him. He shut his eyes, real tight with a grimace. Maybe he imagined it, there was no way she was behind him right now. 

“Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm.” 

Fuck. 

That voice, that tone. He hadn’t heard it in weeks because he’d been avoiding it. He sighed deeply, and turned around slowly. He only opened one eye, to find none other than Sue with crossed arms in the middle of the aisle. He scattered to put the boxes back in a hurry, then turned to her again with wide eyes. 

“Sue? No no no no, what are you doing here?” He panicked, looking frantically to both sides making sure you weren’t there yet. “You shouldn’t have come!” 

“Excuse me?” She looked at him perplexed. She took a step forward as Johnny instinctively took one back. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?” She snapped. “You’ve been dodging every call, sending vague messages instead. You went radio silent for weeks, when you were supposed to be–oh, I don’t know, fixing this, Johnny! Instead, I find you hiding in a cereal aisle, buying your own figures.”

“It’s not what it looks like!” He hissed defensively. “And lower your voice, she’s gonna hear you!” He whisper-yelled, eyes still darting toward the ends of the aisle. 

“Johnny–"

"I’m serious!" he snapped. "You have no idea how complicated this actually is. If she sees you now she’s gonna run the other way.” He kept glancing down the aisle like you were going to round the corner at any second, catch him mid encounter, and forget everything he’d done the past weeks. 

Sue narrowed her eyes at him in silence, but his pleading puppy eyes were enough for her to break her stance after a few seconds. 

"Oh, for God’s sake,” she sighed, and stepped forward. She reached out, wrapped her hands around his wrists, and in a blink, they both vanished out of sight. "Better?" she said, and Johnny exhaled in relief. "She can’t see me now. So why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?"

Johnny groaned. "You shouldn’t be here."

"And you shouldn’t be ignoring your family."

"I’m not ignoring you."

"Then what have you been doing? You stopped responding, and when you did reply, it was vague answers. You wouldn’t even take my calls. Do you know what I thought, Johnny? I thought she was dead." Her angry voice finally cracked. "I thought something happened and you couldn’t tell me…and turns out you’re just buying cereal, while we’ve been worried sick–while everything is falling apart back home.”

That rubbed him the wrong way. "Oh, so now you care."

Sue frowned, caught off guard by the defensiveness in his tone. 

"You want to talk about falling apart?" He took a step forward, lowering his voice even if no one around could hear them. "What about when I was falling apart back then? You took Reed’s side, told me to move on when I was still processing everything, took every last thing I had from her and locked it away. How do you think that made me feel, Sue?”

“Johnny–“ she whispered, eyes brimming with tears. 

“No, I'm not done yet. You don’t get to tell me about sadness.” He hissed. “And I’m not even the one you hurt the most. She lost everything. Her name, her home, her future. I said you can’t be here because she doesn’t trust you, or them, and I don’t blame her–God, she shouldn’t even trust me. But I’ve earned it, and it hasn’t been easy. I won’t let one surprise visit tear all that down." He regretted saying it the second it was out. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but it was the truth.

Sue didn’t fight back, instead she wiped her tears and nodded. "You’re right, Johnny," she said, sniffing. "We didn't listen–I didn't listen. I let fear win, and I’ve been living with that every day since you found out she was telling the truth."

Johnny hadn’t noticed he’d been crying too, until he saw her through misty eyes. And she wasn’t angry anymore, she just looked wrecked.

"It’s been awful at the tower since then," she admitted, looking up to try to stop the tears. "Ben doesn’t really talk to us anymore. Reed hasn’t slept, he spends hours pulling old data files, thinking that if he just tries enough, he can rewind time and make it make sense. But it doesn’t, because nothing we do now will make up for what we did to her." She paused, only to swallow the lump in her throat. ”Franklin keeps asking where you are. He thinks it’s his fault you’re gone, and he’s scared you won’t come back like her…and me? I’ve been trying to keep it together for them. But it’s been eating me alive, Johnny. All I think about is that we broke her for nothing. We ruined her life, and I let it happen."

All that heaviness settled into an excruciating silence between them. Johnny could hear the faint noises of the store outside of Sue’s bubble, wheels of shopping carts, beeps of cash registers, the casual laughter of a kid running down the aisles. That’s the one that stung. She didn’t even know the worst part. 

God, perfect timing. You’d finally started talking about schools, about programs, about a future. With him. You were planning on telling him tonight about his powers for God’s sake. But that doesn’t change the fact that you haven't faced the hardest part yet. His family. 

"Let me help you,” she pleaded, breaking the silence. “I can–“

"No." He shook his head. "She’s not ready to see you, and you’re not about to make that decision for her. That’s only hers to give.”

Sue looked away, her lips pressed together in disappointment, but she still nodded. "I won’t let her see me, not unless she wants to," she promised. "But at least I need to know how…how is she?” She asked, hesitantly, expecting another wall from her brother. 

Johnny exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "She’s okay, but it’s taken a lot to get here. I swear I’ve aged more in these past few weeks than in the last six years."

“I understand, Johnny. It is very complicated, but…I just wanted to apologize, that’s it. I need to say it to her face. I can’t sleep knowing she thinks I still hate her."

Johnny groaned, he loved his sister, but she was getting on his nerves. 

"Sue, I’m fixing it, okay? Me. If you show up now, even just to say ‘sorry,’ we might go back to where we started. I can’t risk that, I can’t lose them again–“

Sue frowned. "Them…?" Who’s them?”

Johnny cursed under his breath, looking away. "Nothing–doesn’t matter."

But her eyes narrowed with suspicion, tightening her grip on him. "Johnny, what are you not telling me–"

"You need to go."

"Johnny!"

"Don’t–just…don’t, please.”

Sue hesitated, but Johnny looked at her again with the eyes she could never resist. She hated that look. It took her straight back to the times when he was just a kid who couldn’t sleep without her tucking him in.

Finally, she sighed. "Okay–but you better pick up my calls now.” She pointed at him. “And…when she's ready, she deserves to hear I’m sorry. From me."

He barely nodded. She couldn’t help it and grabbed him by the shoulders to hug him. Johnny stood frozen, arms stuck in the air for a moment. “Don’t shut us out, it’s already been hard enough.” She pleaded into his hair. 

“I won’t,” he whispered, finally letting himself fall into his sister's arms. He didn’t know how much he needed it until now. 

They hugged in silence, until Johnny cleared his throat and finally stepped back. “You said you wouldn’t let her see you, so let’s just…stick to that, alright? Just…stay invisible until you leave.” 

She sighed, then nodded. Sue let go of him, and with a shift of a rainbow glare around them, Johnny became visible again.

That was exactly when you turned the corner into the aisle. 

"What the fuck?" You froze in your step, eyes wide, clutching the frozen dino nuggets bag in your hands. 

No, no, no, please, no. His eyes widened as he pointed at the cereal display in a mix of guilt, panic, and a very badly disguised attempt at pretending he didn’t just come out of thin air.

"I–uh–these just arrived! Can you believe it?" He grinned, too wide, too excited. “I say we take four, it’d be irresponsible not to–"

"Johnny.” You took a step closer, dropping the bag on the cart before looking around . "She’s here, isn’t she?"

“She? Who’s she? No one’s here–”

“As far as I know, you don’t turn invisible, Johnny. That doesn’t just happen." You snapped. “Don’t lie to me, did you call her?”

“No, no, no, I didn’t,” he panicked, rushing to get in front of you, but you took a step back. “I’m telling the truth. I didn’t even know–”

“Where is she?” You insisted.

"I’m here." A voice came from behind Johnny. “He didn’t call me, I tracked him.”

The blood drained from your face when you heard it. You stepped aside from him, and Sue Storm flickered into view like a ghost dragged out of your memory. Suddenly you forgot all about the schools, and the houses, and the nuggets, as you got thrown into the past. At a simple glance she looked just as put together as you remembered her, perfect wavy hair, long burgundy leather coat on a cashmere turtleneck dress, and a fancy pair of brown boots to match. But her face, her bloodshot eyes, the dark circles on her fair complexion, and the slight shake of her hands didn’t lie. 

The two of you just stood there. None of you said anything, but it was all there. The invisible bruise between you both, the memory of that day, the betrayal, and the years that followed. You stared between them, and the shiny brand new cereal display with their number on it. It was just a matter of time before their world crashed into yours. 

"I’m sorry." She blurted. “I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes flicked to Johnny, it hurt too much to look at her. He hadn’t moved either, just stood between you both, helpless, and even though every fiber of you screamed don’t break, don’t let her see, your body acted faster. You shifted, ever so slightly, getting back behind him. Not entirely, but enough to feel safer. 

And enough for Sue to notice. Enough for it to sting.

"I know I don’t deserve to just show up like this.” She hugged herself. “But I need you to know…I know we were wrong–I was wrong. I should’ve listened and I’m so sorry I didn't." She stepped a little closer, but Johnny angled himself better in front of you. "I know it doesn't justify it, but I was scared. And Reed…he thought he was right. But now that we know the truth, I haven’t slept, I haven’t breathed right in weeks. Franklin still asks about you, and now he keeps asking why Uncle Johnny doesn’t call anymore. Reed hasn’t left the lab and Ben…he’s just not the same–we are not the same."

Good.

"I don’t care if you never want to see me again after this, but I needed to look you in the eye and say it…I’m sorry. I am so sorry for what we did to you, for making you carry the weight of something that wasn’t your fault."

"That’s a lot easier to say now…now that you have the evidence." You said, eyes lowering to the floor. 

Johnny shifted slightly beside you, just a gentle step forward. He didn’t say anything, but he searched your face, wishing he could just reach out, wrap his arms around you and never let anyone close enough to hurt you again.

“I’m still gonna say it,” she shrugged, wiping the tears away. "I’m not asking you to forgive me. You don’t owe us anything…but I feel like we owe you everything.”

We owe you everything. Were they here too?

Your head shot up. "Are you here alone? Or did you bring someone else?" 

Sue shook her head."It’s just me, why?"

You didn’t have to answer for Johnny to know what you were thinking. What if Reed was here? What if Ben was parked outside? What if they found your house? What if they followed him? What if they knew?

Your hand brushed over your pocket, instinctively reaching for your phone, and right on cue it vibrated, your neighbor’s name bright on the screen. You turned around, walking a few steps away to answer with your heart racing.

Behind you, Sue narrowed her eyes. "Johnny," she whispered. "What the hell is going on? She looks terrified."

"God, Sue, I told you this was complicated–"

"Complicated doesn't make her scared of me."

A few steps away, you were able to breathe again when your neighbor just told you she’d be going out with the twins later, and Leo needed to be picked up soon. “I’ll be there in 20, Wanda, thank you.” 

“Sure, they’ve been having so much fun!” She chirped on the line, quickly being distracted by the boys in her charge. “No you can’t throw that out of the window, Billy–Hey! boys, I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to leave you–“ 

The line cut before you could laugh onto the phone, hoping Leo wasn’t partaking too much in the chaos. You finally sighed in relief, trying to ignore that voice in your head that told you he wasn’t safe. You made your way back to them, and cleared your throat to stop their hushed bickering. 

"Johnny we–uh, we have to go," you said, while Sue tried to figure out what your call was about. "Let’s check out and head back."

He stepped toward you, worry in his face. "Wait–can I talk to you for a second?" 

You nodded, and he gently took your hand and led you a few steps down where you took the call, while Sue stayed behind, pacing in her spot as she fiddled her necklace. 

“Is he okay? Something wrong?” 

“He’s okay, don’t worry. We just need to pick him up soon,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “But how do we…deal with this?” you asked, eyes flicking back toward Sue. 

"God–yeah, I’m sorry," he sighed. "I told her you weren’t ready to see her. I swear I had no idea she was even in town until she showed up in front of the damn cereal display. I was having a moment and she showed up out of nowhere…”

You laughed softly, more out of nerves than anything. "It’s just…It’s like seeing a ghost. It’s the same way I felt when I saw you on my doorstep. Like I blinked and got thrown six years into the past."

"I know, I’ll talk to her," he reassured. "I’ll tell her to leave, and I won’t tell her anything else."

You nodded, but Johnny lingered just a second longer. He leaned to press a kiss to your cheek, meant to be casual, respectful in front of Sue, but it landed just at the corner of your mouth. You couldn’t help the little smile on your face as you turned to grab the shopping cart, head ducked low as you tucked a hair strand behind your ear. Sue, behind Johnny, saw it all. 

Past me, I want to tell you not to get lost on these petty things

Your nemeses will defeat themselves before you get the chance to swing

Sue hadn’t said a word since they sat down in the store’s cafeteria while you were at the cashier. Her tears had finally dried up, and she pulled her coat tighter, crossed her arms, and stared at a fidgety Johnny with narrowed eyes hoping for a confession instead of a ‘good riddance!’. 

“You’re hiding something,” she accused, finally breaking the silence.

“I’m not–“ He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, you already said your apologies and saw she’s okay. Still hurting, yes. But she’s rebuilding and I’m helping her, that’s all you need to know. Now you go back to the Tower and let me keep fixing it.” 

“You seem very eager to kick me out.” She narrowed her eyes more. “To keep hiding whatever it is you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” He rolled his eyes, dropping his head back dramatically. “Sue–“

“No, no. Hear me out,” she cut him off, leaning forward, “The way she smiled after you kissed her, tells me you’ve done more than get your foot in the door.”

Johnny stilled in his seat. 

Sue raised an eyebrow. “Wait, did you two actually–already?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.” He looked away, avoiding her gaze. 

“So you did sleep with her.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “God, Johnny you really don’t waste time, do you?. ‘It’s been complicated’–sure it’s been!” She mocked, as Johnny groaned, turning more and more red. “Okay, okay, sorry, it’s just–you’re blushing like you’re fifteen again sneaking a girl into your room.”

Johnny groaned again, louder this time, and buried his face in his hands. “Sue, you really have no idea. This is not just some random fling in high school, this is serious.” 

“Why? I mean, it’s not the first time,” she teased, but that only made Johnny sink deeper into his seat. She noticed Johnny was a bit more flustered than usual, so she tilted her head analyzing him. She gasped after a few seconds, her amusement dying down as worry overtook her features. “Wait–Is she married? Johnny, please don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping with a married woman.” 

“What the hell–No! God, Sue!”

“I had to ask! You’re acting very weird right now.” She shrugged, “Tell me what it is then.” she pressed, but he didn’t answer. “Is she sick? Did something else happen to her? “ 

Sue went through many possibilities in a matter of seconds. But then she remembered…the nuggets. 

“Wait–does she…does she have a kid?”

That's when his breath hitched. Sue’s eyes widened. “Oh my god–she has a child?” 

All the blush on Johnny's face drained, his face went pale. Fuck it. He couldn’t keep it in any longer. 

“She has a son.” He said. “A bit over five years old.”

A strangled gasp escaped her mouth, her brain couldn’t string words together fast enough to meet the truth that had just hit her.

“My God, Johnny. You’re telling me she–please tell me he’s not yours.” She pleaded, tears already welling up before she could stop them. 

Johnny suddenly got déjà vu. He was about to break his sister’s heart the same way you broke his. 

“He’s mine, Sue.” He shrugged, because there was no sugarcoating the bittersweet truth. “He’s my son.” 

Sue forgot how to breathe. My brother has a son. I have a nephew. It wasn’t just shock that took over her, but grief. Raw and cold and devastating, because the pain wasn’t over. 

“You mean–she was pregnant when–when we–“ Sue’s hand flew to her mouth to cover her sobs. “We didn’t just destroy her, Johnny. We–” She shook her head, tears slipping freely now. “We destroyed a child.”

“Sue–”

“Your child.” Her breath hitched, voice rising before she could stop it. A couple turned from a nearby table. Johnny reached out across the table quickly to take her shaking hands on his. 

“Hey, hey–it’s alright.” His words came out panicked, a whisper of desperation. “You need to breathe, come on, people are looking.”

But Sue shook her head. “All this time,” she sobbed between breaths. “All these years, we’ve been sleeping soundly in that damn tower, and she–she was raising him alone.”

Her voice shattered completely on that last word. Johnny looked away, because he remembered the first time he realized that too, and how it had wrecked him.

“I wish it wasn’t that way, but I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t know. I only found out when I came here…that I have a son, Sue, I have a son.” He chuckled through tears, but that only made Sue sob harder. 

“You have a son,” she choked. “A five year old, Johnny, that’s five years without you. We took that from your son. I took that.”

“You didn’t know,” he said quickly, “None of us did.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s a baby, Johnny–he’s your baby. And he grew up thinking that his father didn’t want him? That we–”

“Don’t. Don’t go there, come on.”

“But could’ve been there, he could’ve been growing up with us, safe. We could’ve loved him. And instead she raised him alone. She was alone. No wonder she looked at me like she was reliving the worst day of her life,” she cried. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did to her, for what I did to you…for what I did to him.”

Johnny’s eyes softened, he squeezed her freezing hand. “I know,” he said softly. “Believe me, I know, I’ve been there. The day I found out, I thought I’d never be able to look at myself again.”

Sue looked at him through tears. He’d never sounded more mature to her. The cocky little brother she used to scold even at this age had turned into a man carrying the weight of two very different lives.

“What’s his name?” she asked finally, her voice barely audible. “What’s he like?”

“His name’s Leo. Leo Spencer.” Johnny smiled, Sue’s lip quivered. “He’s wonderful, Sue, he’s like all of my fire but a thousand times better. He’s smart, like Reed smart, talks a lot, thinks even faster, and for some reason he loves to wash his hands.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s too big for this town…for anywhere, really. 

Sue sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Does he know who you are?”

“He does…now he does–figured it all out on his own, too.” He chuckled. 

That undid her all over again. She let out a choked breath, pressing her palm to her throbbing chest, eyes filling once more.

“I want to see him,” she whispered. “I need to see him.”

“I don’t know if she–“

“Let me try, please. I can’t go back. Not after knowing all I know now.” She begged. “Please, Johnny.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the cafeteria’s window, where the golden sunlight spilled through the glass. That took him back to the ice cream shop. To his shock when he saw him for the first time in daylight, to Leo’s million questions, to the chocolate smudge on his little face, and he smiled without even realizing. Then he looked back at his crying sister…maybe she deserved the chance to see that for herself. Lord knows he’d been dying to brag about him anyways. 

But you held the final word. “Let me figure it out.”

You knew it the second he came back to you. Sue wasn’t around anymore, but it was all in his eyes, looking way too guilty as he took the cart with the paper bags from your hands. 

“You told her.”

“She got it out of me,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I swear I didn’t mean to–but she…she started making theories, okay? Even asked if I was sleeping with a married woman and I–”

“Wait, I meant about Leo. Johnny, did you tell her that we–?”

“Well, it’s not like she didn’t hear us the first time…” 

You nudged his arm. “Johnny!”

“I didn’t give her details!” he rushed out, “Look, she’s my sister, and she knows me. She started pressing and now she kinda knows stuff…about you and me, and…Leo.” He let out a sigh. “Don’t look at me like that, it wasn't easy. She–God, she was wrecked. I haven’t seen her like that since our mom…well, that was a long time ago. But, she wasn’t even mad, just…devastated.”

You let out a long exhale and looked away. Of course she was. 

“She wants to meet him,” he tried softly. “But only if you’re okay with it. I’m not pushing you, I swear I’m not, but it’s out there now. We’re not hiding anymore.”

“Johnny, I don’t trust her…yet.”

“I know.”

“But I trust you. And I’m tired, Johnny, I’m so tired of hiding, of looking over my shoulder all the time, of lying to Leo,” you admitted. “I shouldn't be planning his future without including one of the biggest parts of it. Maybe I just need to stop waiting for the perfect timing, maybe I just need to allow myself to heal. So…she can meet him. But if she tries anything…”

“She won’t,” he said quickly, reaching for your hand. “Thank you, thank you for giving me this. I know you’re scared, and so am I, but we’ll do it together. Every step, always,” he promised.

You smiled and nodded. Always. 

I'm begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans

That's my man

Johnny’s truck pulled up to the curb of your house, as Sue’s sleek white rental parked right behind it. The whole way there was quiet, your hands still fidgeting on your lap, freezing from the uneasiness on your chest. 

Until you felt his hand find yours. Always warm, always protective. You glanced down, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, and it was enough to keep you grounded. 

“You know you don’t have to go through with it, right?” he reassured, eyes locked on yours. “You can still say no, and I’ll tell her to head back to New York.”

“No, it’s time.” You shook your head slowly. “I’ll go get him, you go with her.” You squeezed his hand, before stepping out of the truck.

Sue sat nervously inside her rental, as she watched you walk a few houses down through her overpriced plastic sunglasses. She’d tried wiping the smudged makeup under her eyes in a red light, but she ended up looking worse. And her last attempt at hiding the fact she’d been crying the whole way there was unsuccessful, since the light shaded lenses didn’t really help much. 

Johnny made his way over to her side, the window rolling down smoothly revealing his sister clutching a wrinkled tissue paper for dear life. She immediately sat up straighter and cleared her throat. 

“Are you sure about this?”

“Sue, I haven’t been sure about anything since I arrived here,” he scratched the back of his neck, chuckling. “But uh–I guess it’s happening. She’s picking him up.” 

She turned to the house she saw you walk to, wanting to get a peek as you talked to a redhead on the porch. “Well, is she sure about this?” 

“Kinda…yes. Just–don’t crowd her,” he followed her gaze. “This isn’t easy for her, none of this has been.”

Sue bit her bottom lip and nodded. The moment she saw a little boy come out of the house,  tugging your hand as he bounded down the steps, everything else vanished.

He was Johnny, all over again. Same hair, same lashes no boy that age should have. He moved like her brother too, light on his feet, a bounce in his step, like the world was not ready for the storm coming. 

“He’s…” she whispered, her voice breaking again, “he’s you, Johnny.”

“Yeah, he is…” Johnny gave her a prideful smile. “Come on, come meet him,” Johnny said softly, opening the door for her.

“What do I even say?”

“You say hi,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And you try not to scare him off with your ugly cry face.”

She let out an offended laugh, swatted his chest, and finally stepped out of the car. She adjusted her sunglasses again, and walked toward you. You were already crouching in front of Leo on the sidewalk trying to stay calm even though your palms were sweating cold and your heartbeat felt way too loud. 

“Hey,” you said softly. “I want you to meet someone else.”

He narrowed his eyes at you immediately. Déjà vu.

“Like a friend?” he asked cautiously. “Like Johnny?”

You let out a shaky laugh. Smart little monster. “Something like that,” you shrugged. 

He looked unconvinced, studying you with those impossibly intuitive eyes, but he didn’t argue. You tucked a small piece of lint from his shirt sleeve, and smoothed down his messy hair from terrorizing the neighbor's household. Johnny put one hand on Sue’s back as he guided her, smiling when he saw you preparing Leo to meet his aunt. You tensed when they finally stopped next to you, but Leo? Oh Leo. He eagerly turned to them, looked her up and down in that shameless way only a kid his age could look cute doing, and pointed out with a totally serious tone.

“You look like Johnny.”

Sue tilted her head, smiling immediately. You stood upright, walking behind him. 

“I…yeah. I guess I do.” She crouched in front of him, studying every part of his little face. 

He crossed his arms, and then, without hesitating, “Are you his mom?”

You suddenly had three adults with jaws on the floor. You covered your mouth to muffle a snort, Johnny’s eyes almost budged out his face, and Sue…she just blinked. 

“No, no, no, buddy,” Johnny finally blurted, crouching next to her. “This is my sister. Her name is Sue.”

You watched his whole face light up with the realization.

“I have an aunt!?” Leo exclaimed, with barely contained excitement.

You barely noticed that you’d stepped a little closer to him. Just enough to feel the warmth coming off his little body, your hand brushing his back instinctively when you realized he was no longer just yours. 

Sue let out a breathy, stunned laugh that almost turned into a sob. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah, sweetheart. I guess that means I’m your aunt.”

“Cool!” Leo’s grin widened. 

Johnny exhaled in relief, staring up at you with the biggest smile ever mouthing a ‘thank you’. You smiled back at him, but you quickly cleared your throat, hand still on Leo’s back.

“Okay, let’s go inside. My neighbors have already seen too much this year.” You chuckled, guiding Leo toward the front steps, while Sue followed close behind. 

Johnny jogged back to the truck to get the groceries out, casting a quick glance up and down the street. He was sure he saw at least two curtains budging. Typical. 

You unlocked the door and walked inside, feeling instant relief to be in your safe place. Sue lingered a second before stepping in, letting her fingers trail lightly along the white doorframe. She smiled at the tiny pair of red boots next to the ‘Welcome!’ mat. 

The moment she stepped inside, she took it all in slowly. The soft light, the warmth, the history of the place. Her nephew’s home, his life. Your life. She took off her sunglasses, folding them in her hand, caught on the way Leo kicked his little shoes off by the door, and strolled to the kitchen to ask you for some water. Johnny gave her a gentle nudge as he walked in, paper bags balanced on his arms. 

Sue watched it all quietly. The way Leo looked up at you when you laughed at something he said about the neighbor’s house. The soft way your fingers caressed Leo’s cheek when you handed him the water. The way Johnny’s shoulders dropped the moment he saw you both just existing. 

“Mom, did you get my cereal?” Leo asked against his plastic blue cup.

Johnny froze for a second, then he placed the grocery bags on the counter. He scratched the back of his neck and muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse.

“About that…” He said, stepping over to Leo, “they were, uh…sold out, buddy.”

“Oh, really?” Leo couldn't hide his disappointment.

Johnny crouched next to him, ruffling his hair. “But I got strawberries for you, buddy.”

Leo perked up instantly. “And blueberries too?”

“Of course, champ.”

“I’m gonna wash my hands!” Leo grinned and strolled toward the bathroom. 

Johnny turned to you with a crooked smile, winking before fishing the plastic containers out the paper bags, and walked to the sink to rinse the fruit for Leo. He dried the berries with a paper towel and you handed him a small bowl, where he mixed two blueberries for every strawberry, just how Leo liked it, and handed them off with a smile that matched his son’s.

“Thank you, Johnny.” Leo said, happily skipping to the breakfast table, where Johnny helped him settle in.

You began putting stuff away, eyeing Sue, who never took her eyes off Leo. She suddenly understood why Johnny hadn’t answered her calls. He had found something sacred here, a home, something he wanted to protect with his life…even from her. She felt out of place for a moment, crashing a household she never knew existed. 

She’d always loved being a mother, it became the center of her world. Franklin’s first cry, first tooth, first steps across their living room, the never ending questions, even the tantrums. She’d seen Reed hold their son with awe and stumble through lullabies in the dead of night. She always had both of them. 

And her brother…Johnny hadn’t had any of it.

He didn’t have you or his boy. His copy. All this time, he’d been missing the firsts that had shaped Sue’s life as a mother, and her heart broke for him. But there was a bit of hope left, because she knew Johnny still had a first waiting. She’d noticed it instantly, the way Leo called him Johnny, not dad. He’d only just learned the truth, and the word hadn’t found its way past his lips, but one day it will. At least Johnny would get that moment, the first time Leo called him Dad. She knew her brother would hold on to that like oxygen, and maybe then, she could breathe right too. 

She was snapped out of her thoughts when Leo announced he was done with a satisfied “Thank you!”, then leaped from his seat to skip toward the couch where Sue sat. He stood in front of her with a tilted head, deciding if she was worth inviting to check his books. Sue just watched him with a smile and playful narrowed eyes. She’d only known his existence for barely an hour, but she’d already decided she’d love this mini Johnny as much as her own son. 

“Leo,” she said his name softly, and his head perked up. “Do you mind if I hug you?”

You watched the interaction with wide eyes from the kitchen, tensing next to Johnny. He placed his hand instinctively on your back, letting you know he was there if you just wanted to pick Leo up and lock yourself until you felt it was safe again. Maybe part of you wanted to do that, because you were still scared…but your Leo wasn't. 

“Okay, but not too tight, I just ate.” 

The answer made you laugh softly. You looked as Sue hugged Leo with so much intensity, probably even too tight, but the boy just giggled in her embrace. Johnny’s hand slid across your back and wrapped around your waist, pulling you to him. Maybe you were right. Maybe your path to healing was simply allowing yourself to, no matter how things happened from now on. 

Because the answer stood right in front of you. In Leo, in that bright mind and those curious eyes, because he was the bridge to this new world. 

You turned to Johnny, pulling back just enough so he could see the determination in your eyes. “Johnny, we have to tell him, now. He deserves to know who you are.” You whispered, while Sue and Leo chattered away. 

He panicked, his blue eyes darting from Sue and Leo to you. “Now? You mean now now? What about dinner or–nuggets! What about the nuggets to lessen the blow? He deserves that at least.”

“The nuggets were actually for you.” You smiled apologetically at his face of disbelief, then sighed. “Johhny…you said it yourself, we’re not hiding anymore. Secrets tear families apart. I’m not gonna make the same mistake again. It’s now or never.”

“Now or never, yeah that’s a great pep talk,” He almost groaned, but when his eyes found yours again, they softened. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

“I’m sure. He already knows you’re his dad, now he needs to know who his dad really is.” You gave him a soft pat on his chest, and he nodded. 

You waited until Leo and Sue were done with their conversation, before stepping toward the living room. Johnny sat next to Sue, and you across from them, and Leo went instinctively to your side.

You smoothed his reckless hair back, taking a big breath. “Leo, sweetheart, there’s something important we need to tell you.”

His eyes narrowed, immediately alert. “You’re introducing me to someone else?”

“No, baby. Not now at least.” You said softly. “I know you’ve met Johnny, and now you’ve met Sue. They’re your family…and there’s still a few more you need to meet. I know I told you before that they live very far away, but we might be together more now, and we think you deserve to know the whole truth first. So Johnny wants to show you something.”

Leo’s brows furrowed, and he looked over at Johnny, sizing up his next victim for questioning. “Show me what?”

“Come here, buddy.” He gestured in front of him, and the kid skipped toward Johnny. “You’ve heard about the Fantastic Four, right?”

Leo nodded quickly, excited. “They told us about them once in school. They live in New York! They have Dr. Reed Richards, the smartest man alive, and the Thing, and the Invisible Woman, and The Human Torch...Why? Do you know about the Fantastic Four?”

You looked at him stunned. You knew he’d heard about them to some degree, everyone had, but it was weird hearing their names in his mouth. Sue was quiet next to Johnny, knowing she was witnessing her brother’s entire world, and Leo’s, fall into place. But Johnny only looked at you, and you nodded for him to continue. Now or never. 

“Well, I uh…I don’t just know about them. I’m kind of part of it.”

“Part of it?” Leo’s mouth dropped open. 

Johnny steadied himself. His hand twitched just a little as he extended his palm out in front of Leo, careful to keep enough distance. Then, with a soft glow, a flame bloomed in his hand, the golden light spilling across their faces. You all watched expectantly. 

His gasp was sharp, the fire crackled in waves, reflecting in Leo’s wide eyes.  “You–you’re the Human Torch!”

Johnny just nodded; he couldn't get words out. Leo stared at the flame, awe written all over his face as the reality settled. His father, the man he always dreamed about, was the same one who could hold fire in his hands. Johnny couldn’t help the tears prickling his eyes and the smile that spread across his face. But then, oh boy, Leo had a thousand questions. 

“How hot do your flames get? Is it plasma or actual fire? Does it change the temperature around you? It’s because of cosmic radiation, isn't it? Does it hurt? How fast can you fly? Why didn’t you tell me before–” He hardly paused for oxygen, his little hands waving around as his mouth moved quicker than his brain. 

“Hey, hey, slow down, buddy–”

But Leo just turned to Sue, his eyes went wide in realization. “So are you the Invisible Woman? You can bend light around your body? Do the force fields work the same way? Could you make a bubble around me right now?”

Sue let out the tiniest, nervous laugh, her glossy eyes darting to Johnny, because she saw that same fiery, dramatic curiosity, burning so hot it was about to fry his little brain. And it did. Leo’s chest rose and fell too quickly, his questions stumbling over themselves until they turned into incoherent words, it was too much for his little body to contain. His lip quivered, and his eyes welled up.  

You immediately stepped in, kneeling and pulling him close. “Hey, hey, baby…breathe. I know, I know, it’s a lot.” Your eyes welled up too, God, you should’ve listened to Johnny. This was just too much. You glanced up at them, both stunned as they watched you trying to calm him down. 

Leo clutched your shirt, peeking over your shoulder at Johnny with wide eyes. And then, without a warning, Leo turned away from you, and climbed straight into Johnny’s lap, his small hands now clutching his jacket. He buried his face against Johnny’s chest and just sobbed. All Johnny could do was wrap his arms around his son, rocked him gently, and pressed his lips against the crown of his blonde head. 

“Shh, hey, buddy… it's okay. You don’t have to understand right now, just let it out. I got you, I’m not going anywhere.” He reassured, and your heart broke with every hiccup coming out of your son’s mouth. Johnny looked at you with the same pain in his eyes. “I’ll take him to his room, just to calm him down?”

You nodded, and watched through misty eyes as Johnny stood, carrying Leo in his arms. Sue stayed behind with you in the living room as Johnny disappeared down the hall. And in Leo’s bedroom, it was quieter. Johnny sat on the edge of the bed with Leo curled into him, rubbing his back in slow circles, and kissing the side of his hair.

“I know it’s a lot, buddy, I didn't mean to scare you with my flames. I promise they will never hurt you, okay? Never.” 

Leo tipped his tear streaked face up. “But does it hurt you?” He sniffled. “When you…when you use your flames, do they hurt you?”

“Not even a little, buddy. Feels like…like standing in the sun. All warm and nice.”

“If you stood in the sun it would hurt a lot,” Leo argued, even through his tears. 

Johnny threw his head back in a shaky laughter. “Alright, bad analogy. It feels warm like…sunlight, do you feel it?” He asked, increasing his temperature just enough so his son could feel even cozier in his arms. 

Leo nodded. “I like it,” he let out a sniffly giggle. “And you save people?”

“That’s what I try to do, yeah.”

“…If you save people,” he whispered, “does that mean…you can keep me safe too?”

Johnny only pulled Leo closer. “Of course, baby, always. Your dad will always keep you safe. There’s nothing in this world or the next that could stop me from doing that.”

Back in the living room, you sat stiffly next to Sue, fighting the urge to go to Leo’s room, but not wanting to overwhelm him more. 

“You know,” you stared softly, without looking at her. “Now that he met you, that means he’s closer to meeting Reed and Ben…and he’ll step into your world sooner or later. And that terrifies me.” You confessed, shaking your head. “Because…what if he looks at me differently? Now that he knows there’s more out there in the world than what I can offer him. Now that he knows that his family are literal superheroes and I’m just…me.”

“Stop, don’t do that to yourself.” Sue said gently. “Look at what you’ve built here, all alone. You’ve done an incredible job with Leo. He’s happy, he’s brilliant, and he knows he’s loved. That’s everything. That’s not something Johnny gave him, that’s not something any of us did. That was all you. And as a mother, I understand why you kept him away. You were protecting him from what just happened, but this wasn't a mistake. He deserved the truth, and you gave it to him. And come on, you’re here talking to me instead of running to see him because you’d rather do that than risk making it worse for him. That’s a superpower alone.” She laughed under her breath, making you smile. You finally looked at her, and her hesitant hand found yours. “You’ve given him everything, really, and now Johnny gets to share that too. You’re not alone anymore. None of you are.” 

You could only give her hand a squeeze, and nod in silent gratitude. Because maybe you weren’t ready to grant forgiveness yet, but you were ready to let her try. You finally lifted from the couch, dropping her hand gently. You didn't have to say anything, just padded toward Leo’s room quietly, and peeked over the doorframe. 

Johnny was holding a sleeping Leo like he was holding the entire universe. Leo’s little face was buried in his chest, small body curled safely into his father’s arms, finally peaceful, finally complete. The thought of Reed and Ben, of the tower, of the bigger world…it didn’t feel so terrifying anymore. Not when the three of you already feel like home.

No more tug of war, now I just keep you warm 

And my waves meet your shore, ever and evermore

September, one year later.

New Jersey.

“Ugh–Johnny!” you called out, staring down at the box your foot just collided with. “Why are these in the middle of the hallway?”

No answer. You squinted at the label on the box. LEO’S ROOM – BOOKS 1. You shook your head, pushing the heavy box to the side, sighing when you realized there were more where those came from. BOOKS 2, BOOKS 3, BOOKS 4, BOOKS 7–God, it had only gotten worse since his family started getting books for him. You decided to forget about the boxes, and quickly caught yourself lost in the beauty of your new house for the millionth time.

The house was one story, just like your old one, but this one stretched wide in the corner of a fancy neighborhood street. A beautiful, pale blue welcomed you from the outside, with white trims and soft gabled lines. It looked straight out of a catalog, but this one had your name on it. It wasn’t even fully furnished yet, mostly filled with cardboard boxes scattered all over, but it was yours. 

Inside, the space was flooded with natural light pooling across the wood floors. The almost floor to ceiling windows wrapped around the white living room, framing the golden trees outside like moving paintings. Autumn poured in through every glass panel, and you could see the breeze rustling the branches from nearly every room. You loved the cozy nooks and built-in bookshelves lining the hallway, but your favorite was Leo’s room, just down the corridor. You made your way there, hearing the voices before you even reached the door. 

“Dad, you’re doing it wrong!”

“I know what I’m doing, buddy.”

“No you don’t!”

You finally arrived, leaning your shoulder on the doorframe, amused. Leo was standing in the middle of his bright new room, holding a manual, six and half years old and absolutely done with the man on the floor in front of him. Johnny was knee deep trying to figure out the pieces of a very nice, very large and very not put together white bookshelf.

“Okay, okay–don’t panic,” Johnny said, voice muffled by one screw clenched between his teeth, “This one just goes–uh, wait, where’d the instructions go?”

“I have them,” Leo said, waving the paper exasperated. “Dad, you skipped step four! That’s why the screws don’t fit, they go somewhere else."

Johnny took one look and then shook his head, pretending he wasn't completely lost. “Leo, it’s the same thing.”

“It’s not!”

You pressed your hand to your lips to keep from laughing. because Johnny Storm was being humbled by a kid with an eye for detail. His kid.

Johnny finally caught your presence and straightened up on the floor. “Hey, this is under control. Just so you know.” He grinned, too proud for his own good…and Leo’s.

“We’ve been stuck on step three for like…forever,” the kid complained, making Johnny roll his eyes. “It was better when Mommy did it,” Leo deadpaned, flipping the instructions toward you.

Johnny turned to you with wide eyes, betrayal all over his face. “You hear this? No respect in this house.”

“Well, in his defense, I did build all of our furniture back in Georgia.” You strolled into the room with a smile, but just as you reached for the manual, the doorbell rang. “Oh, they must be here! Hang on, baby, be nice. Don’t be so hard on your dad.” You said, ruffling Leo’s hair on your way out.

Behind you, Leo groaned like a tiny old man. Johnny muttered something under his breath, which was definitely not suitable for a six year old. You said something similar when you almost tripped over another rogue box in the hallway as you headed for the door. When you opened it, the familiar faces waiting for you made your heart squeeze. Ben Grimm stood front and center, holding a foil covered tray in his massive hands. The cheesy smell hit you before he even said hello. A very sheepish Reed stood next to him, with a mysterious translucent blue box on his hands.

“Figured you got your hands full with all the boxes,” Ben spoke first, with a soft smile. “And, well, Johnny still can’t cook to save his life. So, I thought I’d bring a little something to celebrate the new place.”

“You brought your lasagna?” you asked, already smiling at the tenderness in his voice.

“You know it.” he said, with a proud little nod.

“That’s very nice of you, Ben. Thank you.” You stepped aside and gestured him in. “Come on in, the oven was installed just yesterday.”

He nodded and made his way to the open kitchen, past the trail of half unpacked boxes, torn packing paper, and random Human Torch plushie on the floor. You followed him with your gaze until he settled the lasagna on the kitchen island, right next to Leo’s and Johnny’s lined up cereal stack. You turned your body back to the door, eyes settling on the second figure lingering on the porch. Reed stood just a little off to the side, unsure. You took a better look at the box he was holding, sleek and translucent in their signature blue, straight out of the Baxter Building. 

“Hi Reed,” you greeted politely. 

“I–uh…hi,” he greeted back, and cleared his throat. Even after a year, you could still see the guilt he carried in those deep brown eyes. Reed was never one to forgive himself easily, if ever, so your process with him had been a little different than with the others. “Apologies for Sue, she couldn’t come with us. Franklin had a dentist appointment, but they’ll come by later. She’s been really looking forward to seeing the new home.” 

“Oh, that’s okay,” you nodded softly. “And…the box?” You lifted an eyebrow.

“Ah, yes…I brought something for Leo. Learning material I used when Franklin was younger. They’re highly stimulating, and he showed excellent development with them at this age, so I thought they could be useful for my…for my nephew, too.”

My nephew. It still tasted strange, especially when he felt he didn’t even deserve to call him that, not even now. Yet here he was, on your doorstep, offering something thoughtful for him. 

“Thank you, Reed,” you smiled, taking the big box from his hands. It was lighter than it looked, even as it was filled with all types of puzzles and stuff you couldn't really make out, but Leo most likely would. “Come in, he’ll want to thank you himself,” you tilted your head toward the hallway, making your way back to Leo’s room as he shut the front door.

From the end of the hallway, a very loud, very frustrated voice echoed through the walls. “Dad, I told you, the flat screws go in the side!”

“Leo’s teaching Johnny how to read a manual,” you explained to Reed, who stopped midway when he heard it. “I think you’ll find it delightful.”

There was a twitch at the corner of Reed’s mouth, memories of his own son flashing his head. You didn’t even make it past the doorway of Leo’s room before Johnny stumbled upright when he saw you, while Leo was too focused on counting a pile of scattered screws like his life depended on it.

Johnny brushed the dust off his grey sweatpants and tight burgundy shirt, eyes flicking to the box in your hands. “Let me help you with that, sweetheart,” he said, already reaching to take it, and stealing a kiss on your cheek that made you smile. “I’m being bullied here,” he announced dramatically, shaking his head. “All those years complaining about Reed, and now my own kid is worse than him.”

“What was that, Johnny?”

Johnny’s eyes widened, he peeked over your shoulder and smiled exaggeratedly. “Reed! I didn’t see you there. Thanks for–” he leaned over to glance inside the box. “...whatever this is!”

Leo’s head snapped up from the screws. “Uncle Reed!” He exhaled in relief, as if a competent adult had finally arrived. “Finally! Someone who knows stuff.”

“Excuse me?” Johnny turned to him, but Leo was already marching toward Reed and shoving the instruction manual into his hands. 

“You’re smart enough to be able to build a bookshelf!”

“Smart enough, huh–you know what? This is your problem now,” Johnny shrugged to Reed, who held the paper hesitantly and looked panicked at you two. Johnny set the box down, and turned to you, lowering his voice. “Come on, before Leo unionizes.”

You stifled another laugh as he took your hand and hurried you out of the room, with Leo’s commanding voice fading behind. “No, Uncle Reed. That piece goes there, please read the manual.”

Down the hallway toward the front of the house, just out of sight from Leo’s room, you dodged the boxes, Johnny bumped into one and cursed under his breath before spinning around, hands now entirely free, and wiggling his eyebrows with mischief in his eyes. 

“Well, look at that. My hands are free now,” he teased, softly pressing you to the corridor wall. “Guess I can finally get them on you.”

You laughed, stumbling into his chest as your hip knocked into a stack of boxes that were labeled as FRAGILE - JOHNNY’S RECORDS. “His room is turning beautiful, Johnny. The whole house is…” You beamed, running your hands through his hair.

“Yeah?” He smiled, then kissed you, quick at first, but he was already chasing another before you could breathe. Between your giggles, he nuzzled closer, planting one slow kiss after another down your neck until he found that sweet spot that made your breath hitch.

“Johnny…”

“What? Can’t I kiss my dear fiancée that loves our new house?" He whispered against your skin. “We haven’t even christened it yet.”

You laughed harder now. “Yeah, but not with them in the house. And you still have to build our bed.”

“That’s what the floor is for, babe,” he smirked, still kissing along your collarbone. “We’ve gotten good at being quiet anyways, they won’t hear us…”

“I can hear you.” 

You both froze at the voice coming from the kitchen. Ben.

You peeked your heads around the corner and found Ben standing by the stove, casually stirring sauce like he wasn’t a victim of your hallway make out session. His eyes flicked up to you in an unimpressed and amused way.

“Sorry, Ben.” You smiled apologetically, trying to fix your hair, face heated up.

Johnny, unfazed and standing proudly behind you, still placed his hand down the curve of your ass, chuckling when you slapped it away. “Ohhh, is that lasagna I smell?” He made a beeline to dip his finger on the sauce Ben was stirring, but got his hand slapped again. 

“Don’t you dare, fire boy. Go wash your hands first.” Ben said without even looking up. Johnny rolled his eyes, reaching for the sink, while he muttered “Bullied, I’m telling you.”

You couldn’t help but smile, leaning against the wall, listening to them bicker. You half turned around, hearing the faint voices of Reed fighting for his life under the supervision of your very serious son, and your smile grew. Then, your eyes landed on the calendar taped on the wall close to Leo’s door, low enough for him to reach. A red crayon circle marked next Saturday, “Debate with Franklin.” You shook your head, laughing under your breath. 

You then padded to the front of the house, the floorboards faintly creaking under your bare feet, as you stopped by the wide window. You opened it, letting the crisp autumn breeze sweep in and kiss your skin. Your eyes went to the golden leaves sprawled across the glistening grass of your garden, to the sun shining down Leo’s bike next to the porch, to the basketball hoop Johnny was hoping to install with Ben laying beside the garage. The voices of your home filled the background, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathing it all in.

Some nights your past still caught you off guard, but you trusted the arms that held you, because you didn’t have to face it alone now. Your fiancé became the voice that soothed you every night, and the love that chose you, every single day. Your hand went instinctively to your belly, to a secret you found out just that morning, but one you wouldn't have to keep hidden like you did last time. You’d share it that same night.

That’s when deep inside you, beneath every scar and ache, beneath the small heartbeat you carried inside, bloomed a quiet certainty. 

That the pain wouldn’t be for evermore.

Little extras.

Ta da!! Thank you so so so much for reading this story, I’m delighted to have shared it you, this project is one of my favorite things I’ve ever done and it took me a whole month to pull off 😭🤍 thank you so much for all your support, your beautiful comments and asks. Feedback is always appreciated, so don’t be shy to share your thoughts 🫶🏼 Lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics and @lobster-graphics