exuber

[exuber]

well look at that, my horniness took the better of me, so here’s the result

I bite back

Yautja x Reader / Yautja x Human female

Rating: 18+

Read: Part 2

“When is this going to end?” you murmured, gently tapping your forehead against the cold glass of the chamber that held you.

“You keep feeding me. Giving me water. What do you want?” you asked again, your voice low, tired.

It was strange. You were aboard a spaceship—held captive when you’d expected to die the instant you locked eyes with the creature that had taken you.

At first, you fought. You cried. You screamed. You pounded your fists against the reinforced glass until your hands ached.

You had been so much fiercer in the beginning.

Now? You were numb. Almost bored.

Days blurred together, each marked only by meals of unfamiliar but oddly palatable fruits and endless silence from your captor.

The questions haunted you: Why did it take me? Where are we going? What does it want?

Fear had long since faded into fatigue. You were too tired to be terrified anymore.

In truth, some days, you thought you would’ve preferred death over this drawn-out uncertainty.

But then… something changed.

One day, the alien stumbled into the ship, and you froze.

It was wounded.

A deep gash ran down its arm, green blood—neon and thick—oozing from the torn flesh. The limb hung at an unnatural angle, barely attached.

You watched, breath caught in your throat, as it clumsily moved through the ship, almost forgetting your presence entirely.

It collapsed onto a pile of thick rugs, panting, trembling.

You observed behind the glass, transfixed.

It was the first time you’d seen it in pain. The first time it looked… vulnerable.

Maybe, just maybe, this was your chance.

It stitched itself with crude but efficient movements, applying strange, iridescent substances you couldn’t identify. It let out a low, guttural sound—half a roar, half a groan—and then lay still.

You sat down, quietly, eyes on its shifting, unsteady breath as it twisted in discomfort.

It wasn’t out for long.

Minutes later, it stirred abruptly, eyes opening wide with a sharp inhale.

Then it disappeared and returned shortly, holding a tray of those strange fruits you’d been living off of.

As always, it slid open the small hatch of your chamber and pushed the tray inside.

But this time, you moved.

You reached out, quickly, instinctively and grabbed its wrist.

It froze.

For once, it didn’t pull away. Maybe it couldn’t. The wound had slowed it down.

But still… it let you touch it.

Your hand trembled slightly as your fingers wrapped around the rough, scaly texture of its skin. It was cold. Not quite like a reptile, but close. Unfamiliar. Alien.

You didn’t expect it to go this far, that it would allow contact.

You swallowed hard.

“Are you… hurt?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

No response.

“I saw you. You collapsed.”

A pause.

“Let me help you.”

You didn’t know what you could do. You had no training, not even with human medicine, let alone whatever this was. But the words came anyway.

“You’ve been feeding me. Taking care of me. Let me return the favor.”

Still, it said nothing. But it didn’t move either.

Maybe it was trying to understand your intent—measuring the risk.

Then, slowly, it shifted its hand beneath yours.

Your fingers slid over its palm as it moved. Coarse. Cold.

You repressed a shiver.

The creature took a step back, eyeing you carefully. You were still kneeling, looking small, unthreatening.

You knew how you looked to it. Fragile. Weak. But that was the point.

You wanted this—this moment. A crack in its guard.

If it trusted you, even a little, maybe… just maybe… you could turn that into a chance.

A way out.

The creature took two ragged, guttural breaths before stepping closer to the chamber. Its clawed finger slid over the padlock in a slow, deliberate motion. With a soft, mechanical click, the door released.

What?

Was that it? Was it really that easy?

Had all it taken was appearing small—fragile—for it to trust you?

Before the door had even swung halfway open, you were already slipping through the gap, adrenaline firing through your veins. You moved fast, fueled by a desperate, animal instinct to flee.

But freedom didn’t last more than a breath.

A hand, massive and unrelenting, wrapped around your throat and slammed you back against the cold glass chamber. Your skull hit the surface with a thud, and all the air was gone from your lungs.

Panic overtook you.

The creature’s clawed fingers squeezed, just enough to restrict your breathing but not crush it entirely. Its grip was so strong, so terrifyingly effortless. The sharp curve of its nails dug into the tender skin at the nape of your neck, pressing hard enough to hurt, to warn.

You clawed at its wrist, nails scraping over its scaled skin, desperate for air.

It didn’t flinch.

Even with blood still dripping from its wounded arm, it held you firm, as though pain meant nothing.

Your feet dangled, your body pinned like prey, caught and immobilized.

It could kill you. Right now. Just one twitch of that wrist and it would all be over.

Your vision blurred at the edges. Your eyes welled from the pressure.

“Please—” you gasped, voice cracked.

The grip loosened, barely.

Air returned in small, painful sips, but the hand remained, keeping you locked in place, back pressed hard to the smooth surface behind you. You coughed, instinctively reaching to support yourself, but the creature didn’t move away.

It leaned in closer, massive frame radiating heat. Its head dipped low, its strange mandibles brushing your cheek. Its breath, hot and coarse, ghosted along your skin, and then came the sound.

A low, rumbling growl vibrated from deep within its chest. Not quite a purr. Not quite a snarl. Something primal.

It grew louder, reverberating in your ears and against your ribs, until it cut off sharply.

Then came the voice… deep, guttural, foreign… but unmistakably clear.

“If you try to escape again, I won’t hesitate.”

He didn’t say what he would do. He didn’t need to.

You nodded quickly—yes, yes, you understood.

You were no threat. Not now. Not yet.

Slowly, his grip slackened, and you dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping, fingers clawing at your throat as your lungs fought for air.

You looked up at him.

He towered over you, chest rising and falling rapidly. The wound on his arm had reopened, neon blood dripping down in thick lines, staining the floor.

Even in pain, even with one arm nearly useless… he was still dominant. Still terrifying.

And yet…

You saw it. Something behind the rage, the instinct, the brute force. He was hurting. Breathing heavily. Off-balance. Vulnerable… in his own way.

This was dangerous. All of it. You knew that.

You rose to your feet—slowly. Carefully.

Every movement was cautious, as if one sudden gesture might awaken some dormant, primal instinct in him.

You kept still once upright, eyes locked on the heaving rise and fall of his chest. The green blood still poured from his arm, trailing in slow rivulets down his thick, scaled skin. It was grotesque and oddly beautiful. Like art painted in pain.

You had never seen anything like him before.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke, your voice soft and unsure.

“Tell me how to help you.”

Silence.

He didn’t look at you immediately. Instead, he walked toward the part of the ship where he’d earlier attempted to patch himself up.

You watched him, his steps heavy, his breath audible. With a sharp tilt of his head, the long, rope-like dreadlocks shifted around his shoulders with grace.

He turned, mandibles twitching, the low clicking sound they made vibrating in the air between you like a warning or a signal.

He held something out.

A skin stapler—if you could even call it that. It was massive compared to any human medical tool, mechanical and crude, made for strength over finesse.

Then, without a word, he turned his back to you.

And only then did you see the true damage under the light.

A jagged slash, deep and raw, tore across his back. It wasn’t just bleeding—it was gaping, the green fluid seeping from it in thick, steady drops. You could see sinew beneath. Maybe even bone.

You stifled a gag, covering your mouth briefly before forcing your hand back down. Your stomach churned.

This was worse than you thought.

His back muscles twitched under the strain, contracting with each breath. Even still, he stood tall, tense, waiting.

You had to do this.

You needed his trust. And if earning it meant holding back the bile in your throat and pretending your hands weren’t shaking uncontrollably, then so be it.

Your fingers trembled as you took a step forward. You reached out with your free hand and gently touched his shoulder to steady yourself and him.

He flinched.

His skin was cold, much colder than you expected, and the contrast between your warmth and his body made him shudder. But he didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, before pressing the device to his torn flesh.

You braced yourself, and then pulled the trigger.

The stapler hissed as metal bit into skin.

He grunted, guttural sound rumbling from deep in his chest. His hands slammed down onto the metal table in front of him, claws digging into it, leaving deep gashes in the surface.

You kept going.

Staple. Staple. Staple.

With every burst, his muscles flexed. His arms shook under the pain, and the table beneath him groaned under the pressure of his grip.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t strike out. He simply endured.

By the time you were done, the line of staples snaked clean across his back, sealing the worst of the wound. You stepped back, your hands slick with sweat and blood, the device trembling slightly in your grip.

You had done it.

He leaned against the table, his breaths deep and uneven. You watched his back shift with each inhale as he flexed the stitched muscles, testing the damage, testing your work.

Your hands were still trembling slightly when he turned and took the stapler from your grip.

Then, he faced you.

He didn’t speak. He simply watched.

The kind of stare that made the air feel heavier.

You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing. But he seemed to be waiting for something—anything.

And when you remained still, uncertain, he closed the distance.

His hand reached for your face, fingers curling around your cheeks, thumb and forefinger applying just enough pressure to coax a reaction. You flinched slightly.

“What else do you want?” you asked, voice low and guarded, a frown forming on your face.

But the alien didn’t respond. He merely observed, eyes flicking across your features like he was trying to learn you, maybe even memorize the softness of your skin beneath his clawed fingertips.

His hand left your face, trailing down to your neck, then your shoulder, tracing a path beneath your arm and along your forearm. You shivered involuntarily when his thumb pressed firmly against the underside of your wrist, pinning your pulse.

He felt it.

Your heartbeat.

Unsteady.

And undeniably human.

A low purr resonated from deep within his chest, vibrating through the air like distant thunder. It wasn’t threatening, but it was possessive. Satisfied.

You let him explore you, not out of desire, but out of necessity. Every touch was a test. You didn’t know what he would do next and neither did he, maybe. But still, he touched like someone who had been holding back for too long.

When his hand slipped under your shirt, brushing just below your bellybutton, you stepped back instinctively, muscles tightening.

You couldn’t read his intentions, maybe he didn’t fully understand them either.

“I’m… ticklish,” you said quickly, a shaky breath escaping as you gently pushed his hand back up to your stomach.

Whether he believed the lie or not, he withdrew, wordlessly. Then, with fluid strength, he turned you around by your shoulders.

His claws traced along your back now, slow,intentional strokes.

Right over the spot that mirrored his own injury.

The gesture didn’t feel like threat.

It felt like recognition.

You bit your lip, steadying yourself when his touch followed the length of your spine. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth when his claws reached the small of your back. A tingling ripple ran across your skin.

He paused there.

Then, nothing.

Just silence.

Until you felt it.

Hot breath—on your neck.

It ghosted over your skin in slow waves. You froze, every instinct inside you telling you not to move.

His mandibles clicked, close to your ear. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your head turning slightly away, just to escape it.

That’s when his grip tightened. Hands holding your shoulders firmly, anchoring you in place.

Don’t move, your mind warned.

Don’t give him a reason to think you’re resisting.

His breath returned, heavier now, brushing over the nape of your neck and then came the sharpness. You hissed softly as you felt the faint sting of his mandibles grazing your skin.

There was moisture.

Not blood—at least not yours.

Then, a slick warmth dragged slowly over the same spot.

His tongue.

You hadn’t seen it before, but now you knew. It was real, and it was on you.

Testing you.

Tasting you.

You clenched your jaw, holding in the gasp that threatened to escape. The sensation was foreign, unnerving, but strangely cautious. He wasn’t being careless. He was exploring. Reading your reaction. Studying how far he could go.

You were being mapped with his mouth, his claws, his curiosity.

And all you could do was endure it.

You hadn’t expected things to escalate this quickly—yet they had.

The sensation that bloomed where his mandibles had latched onto your skin again was so alien, so unfamiliar, you could barely contain the noise that threatened to rise in your throat. It wasn’t like anything you’d felt before, stinging, with a strange heat. And that’s what unsettled you most.

And still… that same unknown sent a pulse of something dark and electric down your spine.

Your knees trembled—not just from fear, but from the way your body responded to the contact. Helplessly, shamefully. Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, as if caught in a tug-of-war between terror and… something else.

Another hiss slipped from between your clenched teeth when his tongue swept along your wounded nape, tasting the blood he had drawn moments before. You could feel the deliberate slowness in the way he licked over the bite, like he was trying to understand you—your scent, your flavor, your limits. This had to be a test, didn’t it? A threshold he was pushing you toward, waiting to see whether you would flinch… or endure.

If you could survive this, if you could hold your ground, maybe he’d trust you. And if he trusted you, then eventually… maybe you’d be free.

Then his hands were on you again, turning you to face him.

His breathing was ragged, strained, his chest rising and falling fast.

His mandibles were slick with crimson, your blood still fresh on him.

You should’ve recoiled in horror.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your eyes lingered on the tautness in his body, the tension in his shoulders. His gaze bore into you unrelenting and unreadable. Yet there was something unmistakably raw in it. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was doing, only that he needed to.

One clawed hand rose slowly, catching the hem of your shirt and giving it the smallest tug, pulling you closer until you were pressed to him, your face just above the curve of his chest. He was colder than any being you’d ever touched… and yet somehow, from within, he radiated heat. Like a furnace buried under stone.

Your breath stuttered as you tilted your head up, eyes meeting his.

He studied you the way a predator studies prey, but there was no hunger. Just intensity. Curiosity.

And then, without a word, one long, talon-tipped finger rose to your lips.

You held your breath.

He dragged it gently across your bottom lip, then pressed inward, urging your mouth open, just enough to trace the warmth inside. Your lips parted automatically, breath catching as the cold of his skin met the heat of your tongue. You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound until his chest rumbled in response—a satisfied purr.

He was testing you again. Learning the intricacies of your body the way someone learns the pressure points on a weapon.

And still… you didn’t pull away.

“Ooman, your heart is racing… yet you don’t seem scared.”

His guttural voice struck the air like a blade, freezing you where you stood.

Those red eyes—dark and unreadable—pierced you from above. There was something almost gentle in the way he stared, but it was impossible to ignore the sheer force behind his stance.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Your heart was hammering inside your chest like it was trying to escape your ribs… yet you hadn’t ran.

You hadn’t screamed.

He had touched you—bitten you—and you hadn’t moved.

Maybe worse… part of you didn’t want to.

Shame curled hot and thick in your chest, but shame didn’t undo the way your body had reacted. You were only human. You couldn’t control everything. Not when it felt this strange… this overwhelming.

He pressed his thumb further against your tongue, forcing you to choke slightly, the reflex hitting before you could stifle it. Tears welled up in your eyes from the gag, but even as your vision blurred, he didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze sharpened, his mandibles twitched, and the shimmer in his eyes suggested… fascination.

He liked that sound. Like he had just discovered a new function in a toy he hadn’t yet finished learning to play with.

“Are you sad, ooman?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. That question was… unexpected. But you realized quickly why he asked it.

He had only ever seen you cry when you begged him to let you go, sobbing behind reinforced glass. You were sad then. Terrified.

But now?

“…No,” you whispered.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth, glancing at the saliva stretched between his fingers. He examined it with the same curiosity a scientist might give a strange specimen before flicking his gaze back to you.

“Then what do you feel?” he asked again, this time quieter.

You didn’t know how to answer.

Fear, yes. Curiosity, definitely.

But the heat coiling inside you, the warmth spreading down your spine and pooling between your legs—it wasn’t curiosity alone. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something neither of you seemed able to name.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted.

And you meant it. The confusion, the contradiction of everything in your body and mind. It was too much to untangle.

But something about your honesty changed him.

He studied you again, slower this time. And then his claws returned, sliding under the hem of your shirt. With one decisive movement, he tore the fabric, the sound ripping through the quiet as you gasped.

Your stomach, exposed now, just below your ribs, was bare beneath his stare. A sharp sound left your lips as he pressed a single claw to your abdomen, not aggressively, but intently.

He was testing you again.

The touch crawled up, just below your chest, and stopped when you tensed, your eyes shut tight in fear and… anticipation. But he didn’t go further.

“Why is your heart racing again?” he asked, voice low and impossibly close.

You opened your eyes, meeting his.

“Are you scared, ooman?”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to lie, to give a simple answer and end this test. But there was no hiding from him.

You nodded. Then, unsure… you shook your head.

His mandibles clicked, clearly confused by your response.

“Use your words,” he commanded, the demand more like a nudge this time.

Your face burned with shame.

“I… I am scared,” you whispered. “But I also feel… hot. Wherever you touch me.”

You couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, so you looked away, resting your forehead lightly against his chest. Partly to hide, partly because he felt so real.

He was massive. You hadn’t truly registered the sheer scale of him until now.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, his voice hoarse, strained. Desperate to understand.

You nodded again.

“Speak,” he said, more forcefully now.

“…Yes.”

The sound rumbled from deep in his chest—a pleased, almost feral purr that vibrated through his body and into yours.

He liked that answer. All of it. Your hesitation, your embarrassment, your honesty.

And then, without warning, he moved.

In a swift motion, he slid an arm beneath you, gripping you just under your thighs and lifting you into the air like you weighed nothing. A yelp escaped you—startled, unsteady—as your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck.

You felt the wetness of his healing wound bleed onto your pants, staining them green. The contact was hot and sticky, and your panic spiked just enough to make your breath hitch.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered into a crouch and dropped you onto the pile of thick, ragged furs that covered the floor. The makeshift bedding cushioned your fall, but your body tensed as he loomed above you.

He knelt now, towering yet strangely calm.

The light overhead cast shadows across his skin, accentuating the dark blue hue of his chest. Scars, some old, some fresh, lined his torso, like a war map drawn across his body. He didn’t speak, didn’t gesture. He simply presented himself.

And you stared, drawn in despite yourself.

He didn’t wait for your permission this time. His hand grabbed your wrist firmly and brought it to his chest.

You hesitated.

Then… slowly, he let you explore.

Your fingers traced the hard lines of his muscles, the roughness of scarring, the slickness of partially healed wounds. He made a noise, deep and choked, when you grazed one of the fresh cuts.

Your eyes drifted up to his dreadlocks, long and heavy, brushing over his chest like strands of ink.

Hesitantly, you reached for one, curious now. You wrapped your fingers around it, stroking once, then again, before giving it a light squeeze.

That’s when it happened.

His entire body jolted, his muscles seizing as though you’d flipped a hidden switch. He collapsed forward slightly, one fist hitting the ground to steady himself, breath tearing from his chest in ragged bursts.

Your eyes widened.

Whatever those were… they weren’t just hair.

You let go immediately, crawling back into the furred rugs as he struggled to regain composure.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.

But your mind raced.

What was he?

And what had you just done?

You thought, for one breathless moment, that maybe this was your chance.

Maybe that flicker of weakness, his body buckling from your touch, meant you could shift the balance. Regain some control. Use it against him.

But that illusion vanished the instant he caught his breath.

He looked up at you with a low inhale and you saw it. The shift. The hunger. The intent.

Like a predator fixing its gaze on something it knew it could catch.

You stared, uncertain whether to brace or beg.

He didn’t give you time for either.

With a sudden, terrifying grace, he lunged forward, crawling fast over the rugs until he loomed above you. His forearms landed on either side of your head with a thud, enclosing you in his shadow.

You barely had time to gasp.

Warm blood dripped from his healing wound, trickling down to your cheek. You clenched your jaw to keep still, holding your breath, afraid to move or speak. Maybe this was it, maybe you’d pushed too far.

Then he lowered his head.

You heard the click of his mandibles before you felt his teeth.

He sank them into your shoulder, not deep enough to break bone, but enough to make you cry out. Sharp, white-hot pain bloomed across your skin as you twisted beneath him, but his weight pinned you like prey caught in a trap.

His hand pressed hard over your chest, flattening you against the furs, and then he struck again. His mouth finding your other shoulder with terrifying speed.

Another bite. Another cry.

This time, something was different.

He lingered.

You felt his tongue glide slowly across the mark he had made, the heat of it dragging across your skin, soothing and igniting at the same time. The sting of pain morphed into a low, building ache. You gasped, but not from pain. From…

Frustration.

But not the kind born of anger. This burned lower, deeper. A need you didn’t recognize, spreading like fire in your belly.

Your nipples stiffened under the thin fabric of what remained of your torn shirt. You weren’t sure when it happened, but his hand, still pressing on your chest, seemed to be aware before you were. Every brush of his palm made the sensation worse. Unbearable.

His mouth trailed lower, tongue dragging along your collarbone, then upward toward your neck.

You knew what was coming. Another bite. Another mark.

And some primal instinct in you snapped.

You acted before thinking, before fear could stop you.

You reached up, grabbed one of those thick, heavy dreadlocks hanging over your face… and yanked.

Hard.

He reacted instantly.

His body spasmed, his torso pitching forward until his chest nearly collapsed onto yours. A guttural sound erupted from him—not a growl, not a roar, but something building in his chest, shaking through his ribs like a lion’s warning.

His breathing turned ragged, desperate again. You felt him straining against the instinct to move, to react—to take.

His fist slammed down into the furs beside your head to steady himself.

You’d hit a nerve. Literally.

You let go. You could’ve stopped there.

But you didn’t.

Driven by something reckless, something stupid, you leaned up—and bit the same dreadlock between your teeth. Not enough to maim… just enough to threaten. To warn.

To show him that you could.

And that’s when it changed.

His hand shot up, clawed fingers wrapping around your throat.

Not with full strength, but enough to knock the air from your lungs and force you to release your bite.

He held you there, suspended between danger and awe. The grip at your throat was firm, unrelenting… but conscious. Just enough pressure to remind you: he was in control now.

Yet his eyes… they told another story.

Because in that moment, he wasn’t just looking at a fragile, soft-skinned thing he’d captured.

He was looking at something dangerous.

Something wild.

Something that bit back.

Your teeth might be small, but they could’ve torn through that sensitive appendage. And he knew it.

You saw that realization land behind his eyes.

And you saw something else too.

Respect.

Predator or not, he now understood:

You were not prey.

You stared up at him, breath hitching under the pressure of his hand, your body thrumming with adrenaline, confusion, heat.

“You bite like an animal,” he growled, voice low. “Yet you’re not one of them.”

The hand around your throat stayed firm, his grip no longer punishing, but purposeful. Curious. Possessive.

He studied you like a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find inside his cage.

Your chest rose and fell beneath him, breath caught somewhere between panic and anticipation, your lips parting reflexively as his thumb pressed against them—harder this time. Enough to make your head tilt slightly, your jaw strain. Enough to draw out those same desperate, involuntary sounds that had already begun to unravel him.

Mewls. Gasps. Whimpers that betrayed you, that sent heat rushing through both your veins and his.

He made you feel weak, pinned under his massive frame, restrained, breathless and yet the trembling in his chest betrayed a dangerous truth: he was just as undone as you were.

There was green blood staining the rugs now, hot and slick, smeared along the curve of your hip where he’d held you. His claws flexed at your sides, eager, restrained, and trembling. The Yautja was trying to hold himself together, and you… you were the reason he was falling apart.

In all his years of battles, of honor duels, of hunts through hostile terrain and endless bloodshed, he had never been brought to this edge. This need.

And not just because you fought back.

It was how you did it.

You didn’t bare fangs to kill.

You bared your teeth to warn, to challenge. To play.

And in his world… that meant something else entirely.

The way you looked up at him, defiant even as his hand rested on your throat. The way you gasped around his thumb, shame flushing your cheeks but never reaching your eyes. You weren’t meek. You were alive. Burning.

That was a language he understood.

It wasn’t what he expected when he first claimed you. You hadn’t fought then. You’d been taken without a struggle. No weapons, no resistance, just a shaking, wide-eyed creature.

He was supposed to drag you back. A trophy. A specimen.

Maybe even meat, if the elders had deemed it so.

But he hadn’t brought you to them.

He hadn’t handed you over.

He hadn’t harmed you.

Not even once.

Instead, he kept you.

Why?

He hadn’t known the answer… until now.

Now, your body squirmed beneath his. Your heat mixed with his, and your spirit rose like a flare against his instincts. You weren’t just prey. You were spark.

His chest began to tremble with a low, guttural noise, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Something deeper.

Amusement.

He laughed.

It was alien, yes, but unmistakably pleased.

A sound from deep inside his chest, vibrating through your body like a drumbeat.

You blinked up at him, startled by the change. The gleam in his eyes was no longer just predatory. It was amused. Intrigued. He tilted his head as if seeing you for the first time, not as an obligation, not as cargo.

But as entertainment. A wild, feisty creature dropped into his hands.

You felt it then, something shift in the way he looked at you.

You weren’t just a captive anymore.

You were his distraction… his companion… his toy.

And in a life filled with blood, silence, and cold steel…

You were the first thing that ever made him feel alive.

[exuber]

when you become untouchable {Vigilante | Adrian Chase} // one.

one. i come loaded with the safety switched off

Summary: After earning yourself several life sentences and a one-way ticket to Belle Reve in your early 20s, you've spent the decade and a bit since then establishing yourself as a loyal and effective tool for Waller and her team. As a meta-human who is able to completely know and understand the history of anything you touch, as well as master how to use it, and know exactly where the owner of the object is, but all only while touching the object, it's safe to say that you've developed a reputation as an unmatched hunter, though you've always felt hunter was too ominous a word for you and your upbeat nature.

So now you, Waller's pet supervillain known as The Chaser, find yourself as part of Project Butterfly, in the middle of suburban Washington. The only downside you can see is that everyone on the team is so serious; as the saying goes, if you enjoy what you do, you'll never work a day in your life! So fuck it, who are they to say you can't enjoy what you do, especially if you know you're good at it!? Unfortunately for everyone else, what you do is usually crime... and sometimes murder.

Need to Know: She/Her pronouns. villain!meta-human!reader. self depricating reader. chaos. implied dehumanisation. canon typical violence. possible smut in later chapter i haven't decided. slowish burn

[ masterpost ]

A/N: 2652 words. ive caved and im writing a villain!reader/vigilante series. this is different to the other oc/vigilante things ive been posting except that this is now the fic where The Chaser is a thing. im excited to write this, it's a lot of fun so far xx i would like feedback please!!!

Taglist: OPEN -- message or comment if you'd like to be added xx

If anyone were to ask your opinion on the team you were with, not that anyone ever did, you'd never hesitate to mention that you wished they'd lighten up.

"Careful, Kujo, your sociopathy is showing," Harcourt's voice was dry over dinner at Fennel Fields, though her lips were quirked with the slightest amusement.

"You know my confidence isn't an attack on you," you told her with blunt sincerity, brandishing a mozzarella stick like you're trying to emphasise a point - the grease that clings, the oil that burns, they're made in-house, the exact way to make them, bulk ordered bread crumbs, the machines that processed them, the crumbling, dough forming, wheat into machines, the wheat cut down in the fields, the breeze - "I'm good at my job, that's not bragging that's just a fact."

"Yes, but you're good at everything," Harcourt leans her elbows on the table, chin resting delicately on her knuckles, "isn't that the point of you? Wouldn't being insufferable about it get boring eventually?" She's wearing that thin, mean smile that's unfortunately flattering on her, and you sigh, as if terribly put upon, leaning against the half-wall divider your booth sat against.

"You'd think so," you sigh dramatically, "but considering I'm an idiot eighty percent of the time, I have to get my kicks in how I can," and you angle your head to show her your sharp, smug smile, and she rolls her eyes, sitting back in her seat. You take another bite of the mozzarella stick with a shit-eating grin.

"And they call you The Chaser?" Adebayo asks with faint scepticism as she processes the interaction she's just witnessed.

"Depends on who you ask," you responded lazily, finishing off the mozzarella stick in your hand, and immediately forgetting everything your brain had absorbed, had known while you'd been holding the breadcrumb covered cheese.

"I know who you are, I'm just confused as to why," she huffs a half laugh.

"Waller threw Savant to the wolves, you could have his name," Economos pointed out to you instead of answering Adebayo, though as he flicked a napkin at your face, it hit you in the forehead, "would be more fitting," he adds lamely, like after seeing you fail to catch the napkin, his heart's not in the change of names. The napkin flutters into your lap and you give him an unamused look.

After a beat, however, Murn is the one who answers Adebayo's initial question.

"Everything Y/N touches, she masters, and understands its entire history," he explains, while you leaned around him to shoot Adebayo a bright smile, "including whoever is the current owner of the object and where exactly they are and what state they are in, but only while she's touching it."

"Hence, Savant," Economos said, gesturing to you with a weak wave.

"Idiot Savant," you clarified with a good-natured eye roll, "if I don't make a very serious effort to remember something about the thing I'm touching, it'll-" you make an uncomfortably wet noise as you mime the information sliding out of your head through your ear. After a moment, you pick up your glass and take a sip of water - the restaurant owner's wife technically owns the cups, and you see the employee who filled it, every time its been washed by a busboy, every customer who's ever drunk from it, the cardboard box it had been bought in opened by the restaurateur's wife, the pallets of identical glasses being transported to the store it was bought from, the factory worker boxing it up, the mass production of the glasses, the heat to melt it into shape -

"Everything you touch?" Adebayo asks, incredulously, and then looks to the glass.

"This cup technically belongs to the wife of the restaurant owner; she's sitting on their sofa three blocks away with a Labrador puppy in her lap. She bought the glasses on sale; one was chipped in the set of four so they were eighty percent off," you said without a moment of hesitation, and then took another sip of water for effect, "they use a cheap brand of detergent here."

"I... don't know enough about this restaurant to verify that but it sounds impressive," Adebayo muses, a sentiment you could see honestly reflected in her eyes.

"Show off," Harcourt smirks, something a little proud in her expression that she's ducked to hide. After a beat, however, Harcourt surfaces; "she chose to call herself The Chaser because she's a bitch."

"There's literally no meaner way you could have phrased that!" Your expression lights up surprised outrage, but it's clear you didn't take it to heart, turning, "for the first few weeks -"

"Of your career as a murderer," Harcourt undercuts your moment, but you chose to ignore her.

"As a freelancer," you emphasised, before hesitating and conceding, "who yeah, was hired to kill people when word got around I was good at it," you rolled your eyes, waving your hand by your temple as if dismissing the thought, "anyways people started calling me The Hunter, and when I think of the name The Hunter, I think of like, Robin Hood, a green aesthetic and men in tights, which really just made me think of Green Arrow, and that guy? You wanna talk about unbearable, that's your man," you hoped your expression conveyed the earnestness of your hatred for him, before snorting dismissively, "and anyways, Hunter is such a heavy word for what I do; it implies I always kill them, which I don't."

After a beat to let your words sink in, Harcourt actually grins.

"And because she's-"

"Stop telling people I'm a furry!" You practically shouted over Harcourt with well worn exasperation, though her grin only got wider.

"Calm down, Kujo," her response comes with a fond kind of amusement the others had rarely seen.

"I called myself The Chaser because I thought it was light and befitting of the main reason I used to be hired," you said, voice lowering as the moment passes easily, "and now," you flourish your hands, before resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand, "I'm doing my dream job."

"Being part of a secret government task force?" Adebayo says incredulously, to which you shrugged easily.

"As long as I get to use my powers and travel, I'm happy; what are they gonna do? Arrest me again for following their orders? No," you snorted. Thankfully the moment I'd immediately derailed when Harcourt spots Peacemaker pulling up in his fully costume, a bald eagle in his back seat. The good mood that only you seemed to be able to elicit from her had disappeared, as did everyone else's.

When Peacemaker finally recognises you, his expression lights up with a strange kind of realisation and a 'oh yeah, everyone in Belle Reve knows Kujo', and you have to grit your teeth at that.

When you weren't working solo missions for Waller or the government, your powers were being used by your fellow inmates to find snitches trying to hide, settle disputes of ownership, or find out which guards were distributing contraband. Even in a power dampener collar, you had the faintest meta-human abilities, and it was more than a lot of folks you were locked up beside. Despite operating at your bare minimum while inside Belle Reve, a lot of people found you incredibly useful. It's a situation you preferred to forget; between being seen as a tool rather than a person, the unfulfilling requests everyone had, and how it felt like you were always scraping the bottom of the barrel to use even a fraction of your power, there was no time in your life you hated more.

After Peacemaker's comment, you find yourself quiet for the rest of dinner, far quieter than you had been before. Thankfully Peacemaker himself is loud enough for both of you, and no-one asks you any questions.

The dinner comes to a close, and you’ve still got half your plate unfinished in front of you. Everyone’s set to head home, or at the very least, head out for the night, but you’re still stuck in your head, memories growing teeth as you think back on Belle Reve and how powerless you had felt inside its walls.

“I’m going to grab a drink before turning in,” Harcourt’s voice brings you out of your thoughts, and you surface to see she’s the only one still in the restaurant, standing at the end of the table, watching you. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay, she doesn’t even ask if you want to join her, at least not out loud; she pulls a zip-tie out of her back pocket and offers it to you, wordlessly. The familiar routine brings a smile to your face, and you take it – you can see her, sense her there even with your eyes closed; it was her zip-tie to begin with, pulled from the pack this morning, and a week spent in a hardware store, shipped to the store with pallets all containing packets identical, packaged by meticulous machines, produced by the billions, fragile plastic warped from far bigger sheets -. With that, she gives a solid nod and heads to the door, following after the others. You loop the zip-tie around one wrist and only tighten it enough so it won’t fall off. Then, with a renewed spirit, you dig in to your meal, finishing it off.

It's as you’re finishing the last of your meal that you find yourself thinking about your own freedom for the night. You’d earned yourself several life sentences in the few years that you’d ‘freelanced’, enough time on your sentence that a lifetime of work with Taskforce X probably wouldn’t help you, but you were being unfortunately genuine when you’d called this your dream job. With a stipend from the government, getting to travel, getting to use your powers and often commit crimes, of which murder was not uncommon, it really was the ideal situation for you; people ask about your prospects outside of prison, but none of them seem to realise that you’d be doing this whether or not you were in prison, but now you can’t even get arrested for it. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, or even call it sad, you found it to be neither; you’re thrilled someone finally recognised you for what you’re truly capable of, and after almost a decade playing this part, you’ve been granted some trust, some wiggle room, some freedom in a sense.

So maybe you’ll join Harcourt at the bar, or find somewhere open late in town, or you could lay face down in the parking lot for an hour if the mood struck you; the world may not be your oyster, but this questionable town in Washington certainly was.

It’s only when you’ve finally decided to head to the bar and grab a drink with Harcourt that you finally notice the busboy who’s been hovering by the end of the counter, throwing glances at you ever few minutes, yet still trying to act covert. Wait… looking around, you see the restaurant is almost empty now, and sure it hadn’t been full to begin with, but it couldn’t be that – they’re closing in ten minutes. How long had you been stuck in your own head?

Immediately you’re calling out apologies; they probably could have left early if it wasn’t for you, but the minute you make eye contact with the guy in the red uniform who’s waiting, he’s brushing them off. As you’re attempting to pile all of the table’s dishes to make it easier to clean up, he comes over and tries to tell you that it’s no trouble. Still, you pile all the dishes and try and collect up all the cutlery to hand to him, trying to supress the nausea that always came whenever you were touching a lot of objects in rapid succession, the immediate flood of knowledge followed in mere moments by forgetting it all. Usually your gloves kept all of that at bay, but you’d had them off to eat and now –

You go to pass the guy your knife, handle first and unused, and in the half second in which you are treated to an encyclopaedic knowledge of this steak knife, amongst all other moments of this knife’s existence, is –

- suds from cheap detergent and a sink of water that should probably be drained, the scourer scraping off food remnants that cling, but then several minutes spent using the knife as a weapon; the movements being practiced are particular and harsh, movements sharp and deliberate. You know because the moment your fingertips had even brushed the knife you knew how to bed cut a steak as well as how to best cut a man, but this moment amongst the suds and grime is both practiced and in practice. There’s more times than you can count where you understand that someone was trying to practice flipping the knife, the night air cold, swearing each time it’s dropped or it cuts the user by accident; he’s used this knife enough that you understand how long it took him to actually get good at the knife tricks -

And the hands picking up the remaining cutlery are the same hands that taught themselves to flip this knife, to practice violence among soap suds. Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, maybe it’s simply how he passes the time, trying to make himself cooler, or to defend himself. Gripping the knife a little tighter, you wince as you realise the serrated edge is pressing into the heel of your palm, not enough to bleed, but enough to steal your focus.

“Thanks,” the busboy says a little awkwardly once the table’s clear. You’re still standing next to the booth with the knife, “I can take that for you,” he offers. He’s disarmingly cheerful, though perhaps it’s only disarming considering the moments you keep replaying over and over in your head.

“Sure,” you murmur absentmindedly, and flip the knife in the exact way you’d watched him try to master for months in your mind; the way you master anything you can touch has always been an interesting gift, as if your body borrows the muscle memory of everyone who’s ever used it without you even having to think about it. The busboy blinks several times at the movement, at you now holding out the knife to him. Then, his gaze meets yours; in your mind, you see him stab at the side of the metal sink that he snaps the very tip of the knife off, only by a millimetre or two, but there’s the faintest dent in the sink that no-one else has noticed. It’s been months.

He takes the knife, and you find yourself blinking quickly as everything about this one damn steak knife immediately dissipates from your head.

“How’d you do that?” He asks, looking at the knife, “I’ve been trying to get it for ages but…” he trails off, and you look at the piece of cutlery in his hand.

“Man, I wish I knew,” you laughed, rocking back on your heels. You know now that he’s probably far more dangerous and capable than he looks, but you hadn’t bothered to memorise the moments. Something about a sink? He was asking about a knife flip; you knew you did it, you’d just never be able to really explain how.

“Sorry, I know that that’s kind of a dick answer,” you gave a weak chuckle, “I wish I could help you, but I’ve already definitely overstayed my welcome,” you hoisted your bag up your shoulder, “sorry about that,” you cast your gaze around the empty restaurant, to host by the till giving you a tired look, “again.”

And as you scurry out of the building, you call a final thanks to the kitchen, and decide you need a damn drink.

[exuber]

a june baby drabble —a typical sunday morning with eddie and his girlfriend (and her toddler)

Your arm wakes up first. Eddie's trying hard to climb over you without making any noise, and for the most part he's succeeding. You have superhuman hearing, the groan of the bed springs and the soft shuck of his socks on the floor waking you. 

"Eddie?" you mumble, blinking tired lashes. 

He strokes your cheek with the side of his pinky finger. You startle but turn into it fast, hungry for doting touch. Usually, Eddie would be eager to give it to you, but he needs to pee. 

He gives your cheek a last rub. Eddie's heavy with affection —he loves giving it to you, and you're in sore need. You're a sponge for love, probably because you didn't get as much of it as you needed the last few years. 

You poured it all into Junie 'til you had nothing else left, then you poured more. 

Eddie does his business, gets distracted in the bathroom by a toothpaste stain on the sink and then decides he might as well brush his teeth while he's in here. He rushes through it, excited to get back to you and the warm patch of bed he's left behind for some Sunday morning languishing. He's thinking he can stroke your back until it pisses you off. He loves how you let him do it far past annoying you, hiding your squirming until you have no choice but to push him away, the tickling unbearable. 

He's scratching his hair away from his face and squinting in the morning sun in the hall when he realises his prime time spot has been poached. A little arm curled around your neck, little face pressed to your face. Junebug hugs you while you snooze with a massive goofy smile on her lips, her cheeks chubby and her bare feet by your hip. 

Eddie knows then, looking at her, that he was wrong for thinking you needed love. You may not have been getting all the love you deserved, but the love you needed has been in arm's reach for the last three years. 

He climbs up the bed from the bottom, holding Junie's side up gently to slide beneath her. 

"Good morning, Junie-girl," he whispers, meeting her tired eyes. "You have a sleepie. Want me to get it?"

Her nod is slow like her head is moving through jelly. Eddie reaches up around her to brush it from the corner of her eye, careful not to scratch her with his nail. "Ew," he whispers teasingly. 

"Eddie," Junie grumbles. 

"You're gross, babe." 

"No," she says. 

Eddie wipes her sleepie in his shirt, unbothered. "Mom gets bad sleepies too. Must be from her. But I'm kidding, I'm kidding, you're not gross, are you?" His voice turns to a loving croon. "You're beautiful." 

You mumble something. Junie hugs you more insistently, prompting you to turn her way and pull your arm out. You drag her into your chest and bury your face in the side of hers, barely audible as you say, "He got that right." Cheek kiss, your hand covering her back, her pyjamas bunching under your slow back and forth, Junie looks as spoiled as any girl can.

Eddie inserts himself into the cuddle shamelessly. 

"What were you doing?" you ask, reaching blindly for his hand. 

"Me? Just using the facilities. You're real nosey, you know that?" 

"Bite my head off for asking," you say. He imagines you'd shrug if you had the arm space. "I won't ask again."

"Good," he says, though that's the opposite of what he wants. Eddie plans on answering small questions from you for the rest of his life if he has a choice. 

Junie plants a kiss on your cheek and uses her arms to leverage herself high enough to pout at Eddie. He brandished his cheek for a kiss, endeared when short fingers tangle in the hair by his ear. "Good morning," Junie says. "Mommy, you want breakfast?" 

You giggle and push yourself up the pillow, elbow in the mattress to get some height. You look very tired still, but you're a dream in Eddie's eyes, skin puffy around your eyes and your lips chapped. He's so in love, he wants to unscrew the chapstick and put it on you himself. He genuinely might do it. 

"Do you want breakfast?" you ask Junie. "Can you tell me? I want breakfast." 

"I want breakfast," Junie says. 'Breakfast' is a struggle for her sometimes, heavy on the 'uh' sound, like break-f-uh-sssst. She's a slow learner, but getting better everyday. "Sausages."

That sounds even funnier in her high-pitched voice. You brush a curl from Eddie's face thoughtlessly, looking at him without really looking at him. "We'll have sausage, egg and grits, yeah? Yummy." 

"Yummy," Junie agrees. She gives Eddie a pointed stare.

"Yummy," he says, scooping her up carefully to hold to his chest. "Let's go! Before mom thinks she's in charge of cooking!" 

You laugh as Eddie stands up in the middle of your mattress, and Junie screams with it as he bounds off of it and into the hallway. "Eddie, you could've tripped on the sheets!" you chide. 

"Oh no," he says, spinning down the hall, laughing himself as Junie starts her infectious baby giggle, vertigo pulling her head back. 

He makes a maraca of your girl until you appear to get her back, and for a good ten seconds, Eddie manages to wrap his arm around your arm and spin you with them. Your laughter is as cute as June's but lined in real alarm. You get dizzy faster than your daughter does. 

"Don't drop her," you plead, pulling away from him.

"As if I would." 

"Please, Eddie, you're wearing slippery socks." 

He stops spinning her. He doesn't feel dizzy himself, he wouldn't have risked something silly like that, but he stops because you were worried, and he only ever wants you to be relaxed, well-rested, and loved. 

"Take your spawn," he says, passing her to you with the utmost care. 

You take her and settle her against you, stroking her under the eye with the back of your finger. "Thank you. Eddie shook you around like a can of soda, huh? How do you feel?" 

"Hungry," Junie says immediately. 

You press a smile to her temple. "Good. Eddie's making breakfast." 

Eddie could pump his fist in victory, he's that happy. You're finally letting him take care of you. "Three plates of the best sausage, egg, and grits ever coming right up, ladies."  

[exuber]

Chapter Two - Astra

Din Djarin x Witch! Reader

Summary: Three years later, Din returns to visit you and brings a new friend

Warnings: Nowwww we're getting into the story, a little angst, no other warnings for this chapter apply

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter One | Series Masterlist | Chapter Three

***

Three Years Later

"Who is this?"

"I just call him Kid."

It was not unusual for your farm to be a resting stop for weary travellers.

Camping spots for nomads set up on the other side of your farm, stories or trinkets swapped for medicine or food. Every other month you would see one, and only every other time would they actually venture into your farm seeking out the witch they were informed - or warned - about.

Years of this had made you welcoming but carefully cautious of travellers and yet, until the Mandalorian, you had never let one inside your home.

Until the Mandalorian, they had never returned.

The second time he had appeared, he had stayed for only three days. He had helped you tend to the crops that still had another month before the harvest, had told you stories not expecting anything in return, had listened to your own tales with rapt attention.

The third time he returned was for less than a day, only to share news that he had heard of somewhere that sounded a lot like your home and so he had more questions to ask. Were the days long or short? Short. Were there neighbouring villages? None that you ever encountered. Do you miss your home? On particularly lonesome days, yes.

The fourth time he had stayed longer than before, two weeks where the walls thrown up between you and him had begun to crack and splinter until his discarded armour looked at home between your thick blankets and bottles of medicine, only his helmet and gloves remained.

For the next two years, the Mandalorian would stop by your farm as he travelled for his bounty hunting. Sometimes there were weeks between visits, other times months. Sometimes he stayed for less than a day, other times more than a week.

Now, nearly a year has passed since his last visit, and it’s hard not to imagine the worst - whether he grew bored of the visits, or whether he lost his life to a reckless hunt.

You hope not the former, not after his last visit when a moment had passed between you so much closer than ever before, but the thought of the latter had a sharp pain slicing through your chest. You would rather he was alive out there somewhere, even if that meant without you, than left for dead.

There was an entire shelf in your home dedicated to the Mandalorian’s gifts alone, ones brought on his returns. Rocks collected from planets he had visited, all neatly laid out and dusted each morning. You were there now, lifting them one by one to clean, when the familiar feeling tugged inside you, pulling you towards the door.

It was a feeling that kept you alive most days, a warning that someone was near your home, but it was different with him. Stronger, more excitement than fear.

Usually, you would wait until he was ready before you started towards him, but this time when you carefully peeked around the door and upon setting eyes on him, you could not ignore the pull towards him. Your legs were already carrying you across the farm before his helmet had even looked up in your direction.

The first time he had landed had been the end of the colder months, your farm bare and ready for the next season of planting. Now, it was flourishing, tall crops and plants brushing your fingers as you weaved through the empty path towards him, tickling the parts of your skin that were still rough from planting each seed.

He was different now. His armour was no longer rusting and now the same silver as his helmet, his shoulders carrying both straighter and prouder but also as though the world was resting on his shoulders, and in his arms-

Your steps faltered, bare feet soaking into the wet grass from the morning showers, and your lips parted.

In his arms was a small, tiny being. Green skin and wrapped up in a brown shawl, big eyes watching you as the Mandalorian’s steps slowed until he stopped a few paces away.

“Hello.” His voice was the same deep, honeyed sound that you heard in your dreams.

He shifted his weight onto his other leg, and even behind the visor you could tell he was watching you carefully. You stepped closer, eyes dancing between the visor and the child in his arms.

“Who’s this?”

His helmet dipped down, lifting the child higher on his chest so they were now eye height with you.

“I just call him Kid.”

You snort a laugh, holding a hand out towards the child. One small green hand rests on your finger and you shake it slowly up and down.

“Well, nice to meet you, Kid.”

He babbles in return and you laugh, your hand dropping only when his touch lets go. When you look back up, the Mandalorian’s gaze is already on yours.

“He’s not yours?”

“Not in that way, no.”

You nod. A family member, perhaps? A friend’s child? You have seen all kinds of families brought together in this universe - friends who become family and family who become friends.

“Are you hungry?” You ask.

His answering nod is slow, cautious, perhaps even questioning.

Maybe he expected the hundreds of questions that have kept you awake this past year. During the worst of it, four months ago, you had gone nearly a full moon cycle with barely more than an hour’s sleep every other night. On those sleepless nights you would wander the farm, checking on the crops, your mind galaxies away with the Mandalorian.

You had never yearned to travel the galaxies before. Tales told by travellers were simply that - stories to be enjoyed, consumed, but never once did you imagine yourself in them. You were the static being, one who stayed in the same place as the universe continued spinning on around you, and yet with the Mandalorian gone for so long, you began to wonder what you were missing out on.

Your mother had travelled the galaxies before you were born, that much you knew. She had been the only person in your village who had done so. The rest had been born there, had only ever left the village edge to hunt or barter goods.

She never spoke much of her travels, instead your father shared with you tales of your village and the generations before and those were the stories you had enjoyed; stories of people who had nurtured their home until it would flourish and keep future generations safe. Those were the stories you held closest to your heart.

But on the nights you wandered your farm you wondered what was out there that you had never seen. Would you have described other planets the way the talkative travellers had? Would you have liked what they liked and hated what they hated? The thoughts of travelling and the lost Mandalorian had kept you awake more often than not.

It’s not as bad now, the tiredness no longer keeps your face as hollow or your bones as tired, but you can already feel the urge to sleep well begin to seep into your muscles knowing that he’s alive.

The Mandalorian shifts his weight again, the child in his arms growing quiet as they continue to watch you carefully.

“I have some stew on.” You turn on your heels, leading them inside.

Your home is much the same as it was the first time the Mandalorian had visited. Warm, cosy, the new addition of a few trinkets from weary travellers who have visited in the past years and swapped them for a warm bowl of stew or extra layers for their journey.

The kid wanders around while the Mandalorian waits cautiously at the door, your back to him as you try to control the warring emotions on your face while preparing the table. When you finally turn, a forced calm on your face, even though his body is angled towards the kid you can feel his gaze on yours.

“Would you like to eat first or-”

“No. You and the kid can eat first.”

It’s awkward, something that hasn't been between you since the first day of his first visit here. He stands by the door while you eat, a few words shared of how he came by the kid - a bounty that he has now taken as his ward - and why he is here - the bounty still seemingly on his head.

Eventually you give up trying. Talking to the kid who only babbles in return.You tell him of last year’s harvest, of the weather, or a few visitors you have had. You don’t know if he understands - or if his babbles are telling you to stop annoying him - but you spend the rest of your meal this way.

When you look up again, the Mandalorian is gone. The door is open enough for you to see as he wanders the farm, looking carefully at your crops, occasionally bending down and testing the soil, and soon when the sun begins to set the small child beside you starts to lean his weight on you. Before long the sky is a dark navy and he has fallen asleep in his lap.

You tidy the mess of dinner, carefully moving the child to a makeshift bed. He curls into a half-knitted blanket, hands pulling it up higher until he is nearly entirely hidden from view, and you gently rock the chair.

He had never mentioned family before, not this kind of family anyway. He had spoken of his people, the few Mandalorian left that he knew of. They were good people, it seemed; bound by the same morals as he was.

Since the last time the Mandalorian had left your farm, after months of not seeing him, you left your farm and travelled further than you had in years to a close town. It was busier than the neighbouring villages you could walk to and from in a day, with busy shops and markets.

You had to stay a night there, and you had pushed the memory of the note you had left on your door left there should the Mandalorian have visited in the time you were gone - a pathetic hope that he would be there when you returned. When you got home, it was clear he had not been. You ripped the note off the door, throwing it in the fire you set for the evening, and then curled up in your chair with the book you had bartered for.

A History of the Lost Clan: Mandalorians

It was a small book, barely larger than your hand, and it now lay tattered on the shelves by the rocks. You read it cover to cover so many times you could recite it with your eyes closed.

You turn to pick it up, hand landing on the smooth surface of the shelf instead. Your hand drops, and when you look through the window the Mandalorian is now sitting on the steps of your porch.

You go outside and take a seat beside him, both of you looking out across your small farm, the new addition of goats and chickens in the corner and the flourishing crops everywhere else.

The Mandalorian clears his throat, his gloved fingers running down the spine of the book in his lap.

“How have you been?”

You don’t look at him when you answer.

“Good.” You tuck your knees towards your chest. “You?”

“Busy.”

You huff a laugh, resting your cheek on your knee and finally looking at him to find he is already carefully watching you.

“I wasn’t sure if something had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says and you shake your head.

“You don’t have to be. We’re not- so as to say’” You sigh, trying to find the words. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“No?”

Your eyes rake over him, and you shrug.

“The child,” you say, sitting up straighter, “he feels different.”

“I know.”

“I’ve only felt it twice before.” You twist your lips, trying to remember how long ago those travellers had ventured onto your farm but it was from a time when the years seemed to blur together - like many of the years before the Mandalorian.

“I’ve never known anyone like him.” He turns, facing back out into your farm, and you look at him carefully.

There is a tiredness hidden beneath his armour. When you first met him, you thought he was a statue beneath the layers of armour, now you can see for what it is - a barrier between him and the world.

Even though he spends most of his time quiet, his mind races beneath the helmet. You would give anything to know what goes on in there.

There is a thud of metal against your hip and you look down at the blaster placed by your side.

“Keep this. It seems the kid has trouble following wherever he goes. I don’t want him bringing it here when you have no protection.”

“I’ve gone long enough without needing a weapon.” You nudge it back towards him.

“Please.”

“I don’t know how to use it.”

“I’ll show you in the morning.” He pushes it closer to you again. “Please.”

You look between the metal and him before nodding once, tucking it in a pocket in your skirts.

“How long will you stay?”

It’s the first time you have asked. Never before have you given into the urge to want to know his return.

He sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and tucks the book closer to his chest.

“I need to do something. I’ll be gone for a week, maybe two. But then I’ll come back.”

“For what?”

His hand reaches out, gloved knuckles brushing down your cheek.

“For you.”

*****

And you know that saying, the calm before the storm…

[exuber]

Shelter - 2

Summary: You save Soap's life. Yours continues to go off the rails. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, panic attack, my continued attempt to write Soap and Ghost's accents, military inaccuracies, more canon divergence, Soft!Simon. MINORS DNI A/N: I truly cannot believe how sweet you guys were about the first chapter. Thank you so much for being so kind! I apologize for the wait. I was almost done with this chapter when I decided I hated it and scrapped all of it and started over. I also finished another draft of my novel! Busy times. This is definitely more of a slow burn romance and I'm thinking it'll be around 10 or so chapters.

Well, at least you were out of the hospital room. It wasn’t far from the hospital room, but the horrendously beige room down the hall had a television and a few chairs you could sink into and a small kitchen that always seemed to be stocked with snacks in neat boxes on the counter. Were they good snacks? Not really. But you weren’t about to complain when it was a break from the nutrient dense and flavorless food they’d been shoveling down your throat the last handful of days.

Coronation Street was playing on the television as you soaked a plain biscuit in your tea. This was probably a breakroom of some sort, cleared out of anything that you could have possibly used to communicate with the outside world and you were pretty sure the blinking light in the corner was a camera to make sure you weren’t going to do anything ridiculous. Like climb out a window.

No.

You just wanted out of that stupid room with its uncomfortable bed and terrible pillow and beeping machines.

The biscuit crumbled in half when you tried to remove it and you stared at your tea for a stretched moment as the soap opera continued to drone on. Dammit. You shoved the rest of the biscuit into your mouth and then sipped on the tea for a moment before digging out the remnants of the biscuit with your spoon. Not your proudest moment.

You were pulled from your sad cup of tea and entertainment by the door opening and Soap walking in, arm still in his matching sling.

“Why am I hearing about ye not taking yer pain killers?” He asked instead of a greeting. You found that Soap did that. He barged right into things. No slow starts for him. It would be endearing if this were any other situation.

And just like you not saying anything to Ghost about your sister and why she wouldn’t be found in any intel about you, you wouldn’t give Soap a straight answer either. You were not going to take any of those pain killers if you didn’t feel like you needed them. You knew… Well, that didn’t matter right now. “Are they telling you my medical history? I don’t think that’s legal on either side of the pond.”

He frowned. The big Scot frowned and you almost laughed with how it made him look like a puppy. “Don’t ye need it? Ye were shot.”

“I’m aware of that. Trust me.” You turned and grabbed at the sleeve of biscuits, knowing it was a blatant change of topic. “These are awful, by the way.”

Soap snatched them out of your hand and scowled at them. “These are shite. Why’d ye do that to yerself?” He then pivoted and rummaged through the cabinets you weren’t brave enough to open and then set down a pack of shortbreads in a fancy looking tin which he popped open with one hand (you tried not to be jealous about that particular skill). “That’ll be the only thing going near yer tea.”

The shortbread was delicious and you wordlessly made another cup of tea for yourself and a cup of coffee for Soap. You were prouder than you wanted to admit to hear you guessed correctly when you said he looked like he preferred coffee and prouder still when you dug some out of the cabinet and made it just the way he said he liked it as he settled on the lumpy couch beside you to watch the rest of the episode. He knew what was going on better than you and regaled you with the storylines long since finished and convoluted family ties of the characters. It was nice. Soap was…nice.

He had finished his coffee by the time the episode ended and scooped up your mug on his way toward the breakroom’s tiny kitchenette and set them both in the sink. He turned back toward you, bright blue eyes scanning your face for something. He had a casual set to his shoulders, even with the sling, but you knew the look of a smart man trying to pick his words carefully. Soap honestly reminded you, just a little bit, of a guy you went to highschool with, who looked the part of loveable idiot but eventually went to an ivy league school on a football scholarship. He was currently a doctor, knee deep in cancer research, if those annoying alumni emails had any truth to them.

“Just say what you need to say. I’m sure I can handle it.”

The corner of Soap’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I wanted to let ye know that yer intel was good.”

You just nodded. That would explain why you hadn’t seen the other three lately. They had been sent to Kastovia. “That mean I can go home?”

Soap sighed and your heart shriveled a bit more. “No, lass. I’m sorry.”

Someone had left a calendar in the breakroom. You had tried to keep track of the days that had slipped by, but you just wanted to be sure. You counted on your fingers how many days you thought had passed, but the pain killers the first few days after the tunnel had made everything hazy. You worried your bottom lip with the blunt edge of your teeth as you flipped through the next month and dragged your finger down to the day you knew Kirby was due.

Just a few short weeks. That’s all you had. You needed to be there. You needed to be back in time. You’d promised Kirby you would be. You’d never broken a promise to your younger sister and you didn’t want to start now. Those stupid, useless tears stung at your eyes again and blurred the calendar dates. “Fuck.” You wiped at your eyes, trying to keep them from falling before anyone saw, before you felt more useless and trapped than you already did.

Another episode of Coronation Street was playing, a hum at the back of your mind, but it started to mutate and grow until it was a screech. You needed to get to Kirby. They had what they needed from you. You would sign anything they wanted, change your name, dye your hair, live off the grid. But you needed to see Kirby.

You promised.

The door opened easily and you strode out into the hallway. Did you know where you were going? Not really but you just needed to leave. You could figure out the rest later. After all, Kirby always said you landed on your feet. It was time you proved her right. You turned down another hall and yelped when a meaty hand clapped on your uninjured shoulder. You turned, tamping down the urge to throw an elbow and snarled as you realized it was only Soap and his ridiculous blue eyes.

“What’re ye doing?”

“I’m leaving. I have to go.” Your heart thudded painfully as you turned, slipping out from his grip. The edges of your vision started to blur and you hated that you knew what this meant. It had been years since you felt like this—but this situation hadn’t exactly been great for your mental health.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Each beat of your heart hurt.

“Ye cannae do that, lass. Ye know that.”

“I’m leaving.” You turned again to leave and grunted when he pulled at the back of your shirt. “Let go of me.”

“Lass-”

You turned and tugged your shirt free, letting the snarl curl your mouth as your vision continued to tunnel.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

“I’m leaving!”

What happened next was not your finest moment but you’d also been through worse. Soap reached for you again and after you pulled out of his grip once more, he lowered his shoulder and ran at you, hauling you up and over. His arm anchored you down, a weight across your back as his shoulder dug into your stomach. You didn’t even freeze as he turned, presumably to bring you back to the breakroom. Your arm pushed out of its sling and you wrapped your hands around one of his thighs and let his next step help pull you from his grip. Heat lanced across your shoulder as you wiggled against the grip until you yanked your legs free and kicked them above his head and over your own until your heels hit the ground. And then you were throwing yourself forward and dashing down the hallway. Out. You needed to get out. You needed to leave. Every breath burned a little more and-

The tile was cool against your cheek but Soap’s arms were a heavy firebrand as they banded around your waist. “Calm down. Calm down fer me.”

You thrashed against his hold as he stood but he didn’t seem to care and it wasn’t like you were a match to those dumb, hulking muscles. But still, your memory was hazy as he dragged you back to the breakroom and shoved a shortbread into your hand.

“Now, I’ll talk to someone. But ye cannae do that. Ye understand?”

By the time Simon arrived back on home soil, they’d moved her and Soap to a different part of the base. A hall of barracks that had been recently constructed but not yet assigned to a different squadron had been a good place to hide away their injured sergeant and American informant. Laswell had informed Price of the move and then sent along a video in lieu of an explanation.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure how many times he watched her claw and wiggle her way out of Johnny’s grip but Price did eventually take the phone away from him. (But not before Simon sent himself a copy.) She was wily. Strong. Stubborn.

Even when she had tears smeared across her face.

It was easy for Simon to claim one of the rooms as his own—it had always been better for Simon to be on base anyway. His flat in Manchester never felt like home. Just an expensive place to rest his head when he was ordered to take his mandated leave. Knowing the others were down the hall was more comfortable than any sort of high priced pillow anyway.

The mission had been successful. And a shitshow. The second, and larger, cache of gas in Kastovia had been exactly where her intel had said it would be in a barren steel plant. But the handful of missiles had been an unexpected find. As had the small militia that awaited them. While they had been easily dealt with, one of them managed to set off what Simon could only describe as a failsafe to take out the entire plant and the surrounding area. The gas dissipated quickly but not before it had caused extensive damage. Makarov wanted them dead. And he wanted her dead, too, if the picture one of his men had pinned up beside a map of different caches and routes to take over borders was any indication. It was upside down and some artist had taken it upon themselves to scratch out her eyes and draw an obvious axe buried in her neck. Charming. There were a few smaller pictures beside it but he didn’t get a clear look at them.

The explosion meant they didn’t have more than the one picture Gaz took of the map and Simon’s lungs burned a bit every time he took a breath. Nik had been quick in the exfil but still cut it close. Too close. And it grated on his every nerve that Makarov hadn’t been there. Still in the wind.

Simon had been told to visit the medbay before going to bed—Laswell was supposed to be arriving tomorrow for a debrief—but he thought that was more of a suggestion than an order. He’d dropped his bag on the floor and rinsed off before lumbering into the small bed, letting the standard-issue sheets scratch at his skin. It felt like coming home. And he watched the video again, feeling a strange smile push at his mouth.

He could bother Johnny about her ability to get away from him in the morning.

The doctor whose name you couldn’t be bothered to remember told you to start physical therapy. And, just your luck, Soap had been told to do the same. If he was wary of you because of your outburst, he didn’t show it at all. He would smile at you, eyes crinkling, over his coffee whenever you opened your door at the crack of dawn. A tea would be in his other hands and ready for you. It was a nice routine as more days continued to slip by.

You’d stretch and grumble about the slowly fading pain in your shoulder and Soap would do the same. At least you didn’t need to use the sling anymore. But this was, pathetically, probably the closest you’d had to a friend. He’d talk and talk and talk. About his mom and sisters up in a small town outside Glasgow. About the dog he had as a kid—“Boots was the best dog a boy could have, lass, lemme tell ye.” About anything that seemed to pop into his head as the sun would intermittently peek out from behind the low hanging clouds to splash warmth across the dead grass beneath your sneakers. You counted it as a win that they let you outside. It was behind a fence with razor wire at the top, but a win is a win. Mostly. Maybe they were seeing if they could actually trust you outside those beige walls.

You’d swallow nails if it meant you could be at Kirby’s side when she needed you.

One of the more ridiculous exercises the doctor had you and Soap do was passing a yoga ball between one another—of course, you had to move your arms a certain way to get the right stretch or whatever, but it all felt a little silly, even with the twinge growing more pronounced with each pass. Hands on top and on bottom, twist so they’re on the side, hand to Soap. He’d repeat.

“This feels very stupid.”

“Aye. But they’re watchin’ so we’d best play nice.”

The yoga ball nearly slipped from your suddenly-slick fingers. “What do you mean?” You’d heard a bit of thudding from the empty room next to yours last night but thought it was a faulty air unit. Was there someone else here?

“They got back last night. Give ‘em a chance to settle before they say hello, aye?” Soap’s blue eyes sparked with mirth and you might have shoved the ball back at him a little harder than necessary. He just laughed at you.

You chanced a glance at the rectangular windows cut into the metal building, close to the sharp edge of the roof. He was probably just being funny, but now you couldn’t fight the feeling of someone watching you. And why did your mind conjure Ghost’s ridiculous mask?

He hadn’t said much after you had told him you weren’t going to pour your heart out to him. But he’d continued to stare until he and the others left for Kastovia without a word. One guy who’d found you “mysterious” while you were in undergrad thought that he could figure you out and stared, too. Thought that his attempt at a psychology degree would unravel all…well, all of you. He gave up after a couple of months. Ghost didn’t seem the type to give up. But that still didn’t mean that you were going to tell him anything.

You threw another glance toward the window and the yoga ball hit you in the face.

Simon stared down at the inhaler. This was stupid. The doc had hurriedly explained that being exposed to the gas during the explosion had done a number on Simon’s lungs. At least he wasn’t Price who’d hit his head on his way out and was told he’d had a concussion and also needed the inhaler. Gaz had been the only one who’d managed to get out mostly unscathed aside from needing a butterfly bandage for a cut over his eye.

His next breath burned and Simon finally shook the damn scrap of plastic and took a puff just as he heard the back door open. He stood and watched Johnny and the woman trudge out into the dead grass, carrying a few bits of equipment, including a yoga ball, craning his head just enough to see them through the high window. And well, if he stood on the small desk chair to watch, who would know?

He couldn’t hear them but he watched her throw a few glances toward the window. And then Johnny hit her in the face with the yoga ball. She promptly slingshotted one of the resistance bands at his head in retaliation.

“Heh.”

The debrief later that morning with Laswell had gone as expected: More intel was good. Makarov not being spotted was bad. They needed time to heal. Farah and Alex would investigate possible gas caches just within Urzikstan’s borders.

The picture Gaz managed to grab was helpful and did verify a majority of the intel they had already. But it did mean that Makarov’s network was larger than they had ever thought. One of Laswell’s contacts had enhanced the slightly blurry picture and Simon recognized each of the 141’s faces, pinned to the board, too. They were targets just as much as she was. Small bits of paper stemmed from Price, Soap, and Kyle’s pictures and Simon knew what they represented even without the fancy tech trying to make it clearer. They were hunting for weak spots. Family. Friends.

They needed to leave. Keep low. Hide. Simon hated it. He hated that the others had families on the line and he could do nothing but take a few puffs of his stupid inhaler and wait. These were men who’d become his brothers-in-arms and their families were at risk. He knew what it was like to lose.

Price’s hacking cough basically ended the debrief and Laswell said she needed to make some calls, disappearing to another part of the base and Price griped as Kyle urged him to go back to medical. Johnny said he was going to start packing.

Simon walked away as Price continued to grumble and walked down the small hallway toward the bunk rooms and–

BANG.

Simon paused just for a moment, straining his ears as he pushed further down the hallway. With how the mission had gone, he couldn’t rule out that someone had attempted to get onto base and finish the job the gas couldn’t. There were security gates and checkpoints, of course. The high fences. And this part of the base was underdeveloped for now. But having a traitor in the midst wasn’t something Simon could write off.

“Fuck,” came an annoyed voice.

The tension slipped from his shoulders as he pushed open the nearest door.

Sitting in a chair in front of the mirror atop the tiny dresser, she was picking at her stitches with a pair of needle nose pliers. A small pile of the twists sat atop the dresser—apparently she’d been at this for a while. Simon walked in, watching as she leaned closer to the mirror, trying to see the stitches across her shoulder better as she plucked at them. She’d jammed her tongue between her teeth and the strap of her thin top had been tugged down. A book, probably pilfered from the breakroom, was open beside her.

(Simon stared. Just for a little.)

The pliers fell from her hands and bounced off the dresser before hitting the floor. That had been the sound he’d heard.

“Need a ‘and?”

She let out what he could only describe as a squeak as she turned toward him, hurling the book at his head as the pliers slipped from her other hand. He caught it without letting loose the laugh he felt growing.

“Jesus Christ! How long have you been standing there? Don’t you knock?”

“Heard something. Thought something bad ‘appened.” Not a lie. He tossed the book onto the bed. He watched her mouth curl at the edges and Simon wasn’t sure if she was going to yell at him or laugh.

“Right.” She stared at him for a little longer before bending down to grab the pliers again. She settled in front of the mirror again and stared at the remaining stitches. At least the ones she could see. Simon had a clear view of the mess of stitches on her back. She’d never reach those.

She stared back at him in the mirror. The grip she had on the pliers was tight and grew tighter when he stepped closer. But he still easily pulled the tool from her hand and then reached down to turn her chair around to face him.

“What’re you doing?” She asked as he started to untwist the next stitch.

“Helping.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Doin’ it anyway.”

Well, fuck.

You could do very little except stare at Ghost as he undid each of the stitches. You weren’t stupid enough to tell him to fuck off. What he was doing was nice. You couldn’t deny that but why the hell was he doing it? He was even bigger from this angle as he loomed over you. But he was being gentle with you, so gentle. And silent. Maybe it would be better if he talked to you through it all or said anything at all, but he was…quiet.

And so were you.

Until the door opened again and Gaz came in, gun drawn. You had pivoted back toward the door, only for a moment before Ghost let out a short, sharp breath from behind his mask and nudged you back into position. You still managed to see Gaz holster his weapon with a smile on his face, perfect teeth glinting in the low light. “All good here, LT?”

He grunted but didn’t turn to look at his teammate. You chanced a look up at Ghost to see him still singularly focused on your stitches. His dark eyes didn’t stray from them even though you were sure he could feel you looking at him.

By the time he reached down to turn your chair again, letting him start on your back, you found yourself liking how quiet he was. Small talk had never been your forte and you surmised that it wasn’t high on Ghost’s list of skills either.

When his thumb pressed into your spine, covered by the harsh fabric of his gloves, you tried not to shiver as you let him move you so he could see the stitches better. And he removed those, too.

It was when his finger trailed against the new scar on your back, barely a whisper of a touch, that you couldn’t stop it. God, you really were pathetic. When he moved the strap of your shirt back up your shoulder, you managed to bite the next one back. “Thanks,” you said, the word uneven and warbled. “You going to help Soap take out his, too?” You weren’t sure if you were being sarcastic or not.

The way Ghost tilted his head made you think he wasn’t sure, either. “Cap did ‘is already. Looks like shit.”

And you laughed.

The nondescript SUV rocked slightly side to side as it tore down the road. Gaz seemed hellbent on getting wherever you were headed quickly. There had been some good-natured ribbing about not letting Ghost drive. They seemed to like each other, a good camaraderie between them that seemed as easy as breathing. But you guessed that would probably happen in their line of work. Defying death together usually did that. Price, however, did seem at least a little put out about not being the driver.

And you were stuck at the back of the SUV, listening to them talk amongst each other. To his credit, Soap and Gaz both tried to involve you in the conversation. They would ask what you had been doing in London, if you’d ever been outside the city, if your shoulder was giving you trouble. It was nice.

They were still nice.

You didn’t really understand why they were trying so hard but you weren’t about to ask. Especially not now when you had a black bag over your head. They didn’t really trust you but it had been a weird kindness when you’d felt Ghost buckle you in and place a light blanket over your lap before you’d departed. It was probably a silent order to go the fuck to sleep seeing as you hadn’t been sleeping well since you’d hastily weened yourself off the most intense pain killers. It didn’t help that you’d been shuffled outside right after midnight and told to get in the back of the vehicle without much fanfare. And you knew better than to argue.

You had a bag over your head and were heading to an unknown destination. The power dynamics didn’t exactly scream trustworthy. They kept you alive, that was true. But they didn’t trust you. Funny.

You leaned your head back against the seat and sighed, the fabric rustled against your mouth. It was a strange feeling. Weirdly comforting, like when you’d push your face into the pillow and scream when you were a child, desperate for an outlet.

“I can see why you like the mask,” you muttered.

“Whot?”

Hm. You said that out loud. Well, too late to take it back now. “I said I see why you like the mask.”

“She’s bloody insane,” Gaz whispered. But you liked to think he was smiling while he said it.

“Maybe Ghost’ll lend ye one of his? Ye two could match.”

There was an answering smack and “och, what was that for, LT?” before the blanket was adjusted over your lap.

“Go to sleep.”

You smiled beneath the bag. And, knowing you had nothing better to do…you went to sleep with Ghost’s low rumbling echoing in your ears.

Next Chapter

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[exuber]

The Wonder of You : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader

Summary: Over your four years working for Reed Richards, you'd given yourself one job: you can be his friend, but don't fall for Johnny Storm's charms. Too bad you had already failed that mission before it could even begin.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (making out, unprotected sex, p in v, nipple play, oral f. receiving, temperature play, creampie, aftercare), porn with a LOT of plot, slight hint of some angst, fluff, friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, mutual pining, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, female reader but no characteristics described, mentions of parental loss, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 17,433 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“We need to adjust the parameters for this. There’s a few more levels that I want to adjust, to ensure that we’ve scanned the baby for all possible anomalies,”

Years ago, when you had miraculously been offered the position as Dr. Reed Richards assistant, it was a dream come true. The smartest man alive, holding 18 Doctorate degrees himself, choosing you out of the thousands of applicants to be his assistant was a ‘pinch me’ moment. Of course, he didn’t want an assistant, it was thrust upon him by his wife, but you liked to think after all this time you’d wormed your way into his heart.

Working with Reed…was something else entirely. It was a learning curve, understanding just how the man’s brain worked. Even to this day, you weren’t sure you understood it. Even when things went perfectly, when test runs on prototypes worked out better than you could’ve ever imagined, Reed was never satisfied. Something could always be better, be improved, as if his brain was factoring in the hundreds of thousands of possibilities that could occur and alter your data. You made it work, though–with patience and understanding–you managed to find the best way to work around Reed’s faults and work with him, to support him.

What was supposed to be just a job in the Baxter Building became so much more. Through it, you gained a family you never thought quite possible.

Reed’s wife, Susan Storm, was another one of the brightest minds that you had ever encountered. Kind, compassionate, but fiercely loyal and unafraid to step up to the plate when a challenge arrived, when the people she loved were threatened. You admired her and everything she stood for, the way she carried herself day in and day out. And since the day you had arrived at the Baxter Building, she welcomed you with open arms, as if you had always been part of the family.

Ben Grimm was the most talented pilot you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The perfect counter to Reed and his panicky mind at times, having known the man long enough to understand his quirks in a way you could only hope to. Ben was always kind, always open, always ready to lend a hand or be a shoulder for anyone that needed to listen.

Johnny Storm…was the bane of your existence, in the best way.

“Wrong address, sweetheart. The modeling agency is two blocks down. I could escort you over there, if you’d like?”

Those were the first words the hot-headed younger brother of Sue Storm had said to you, passing by you in the lobby of the building on your first day, a wink thrown in for good measure when he’d spoken.

Having followed Dr. Richards' work long enough, which meant knowing bits about his personal life, you were well aware of the reputation that Johnny Storm carried. The papers and magazines, talk shows and gossip blogs, all called him a playboy simply because he’d never been in a long-term relationship but was still a ladies man. You never saw him like that, though. All you saw was a brilliant guy, a lover of space, even if that passion of his was sometimes overlooked because of his ‘love for women’.

And, oh, how you wished his empty, blatant flirting with you didn’t bring a blush to your cheeks every time, or make your heart skip a beat, but it did. Every single time, it did. You weren’t blind: Johnny Storm was objectively handsome and much too charming for his own good, and you decided right then and there that you would use every ounce of your willpower to ignore his empty flirts. You didn’t need to become another girl hopelessly in love with the heartthrob of the Fantastic Four, even if your heart ached when you saw him with anyone else.

Those four had become important to you in ways that you would never be able to describe, but Sue always described it best: a family. 

That’s why when four of the closest people to you in life went up into space for Reed’s exploration mission, and came back cosmically changed forever, you never left their sides. They were your family, and family stuck together, no matter what.

“Reed,” your comment was cautious, hands stilling at your work station in the lab of the Baxter Building. Glancing over your shoulder, Reed was hunched over the machine he’d built in just a day, specifically to monitor the health of the baby growing inside of Sue’s stomach, as Herbie rocked back and forth beside him. “You’ve scanned Sue a thousand times at this point-”

“That’s an exaggeration. I’ve scanned her 123 times-”

“That’s not the point,” he glanced over at you then, looking away the second he saw the pointed look you were throwing at him. With a sigh, you abandoned your work, leaning back against the table behind you to watch him fret over the device. “We have run every test possible, scanned for every data point that links back to the fluctuations in your DNA from the cosmic rays we noted years ago, and we’ve gotten nothing. Your baby is okay.”

“There are still more tests to run,”

Another sigh escaped past your lips, and you allowed yourself to hang your head with a shake.

Since the moment Sue had announced her pregnancy, he’d been like this: even more on edge than usual. Baby-proofing the kitchen, smoke detectors in every single room and hallway, baby gates around every corner, it was getting insufferable. A sweet gesture, overall, and a testament to how much he loved and adored Sue, but exhausting to everyone else that had to be in his presence.

“Fine, but I’m not breaking the news to Sue that you want to scan her…again,”

“I already told her to meet me down here before dinner for another scan. We can adjust the parameters tomorrow. I want another data set from today’s scan at the current parameters to compare the changes with,” Reed never looked in your direction, still fiddling with the machine in front of him. “You’re staying for dinner, yes?”

“I’m making it,” was the response you shot back to him, powering down your workstation in the lab and rising from your chair, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Apparently Sue has been craving spaghetti, and requested my family recipe.”

“You can’t argue with a pregnant woman,” Reed muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still never looked up. “I’ll see you up there for dinner, then. There’s a few more tests that I want to run.”

“You also have a meeting at 5:45 and one at 6:15,” you shot back to him as you turned to leave the lab, checking the desk calendar lying beside your work station. There was a hum from the man, the smallest acknowledgement you were going to get, so you set your sights on Herbie and waved him forward. “Come on, Herb. An extra hand in the kitchen is always nice.”

As much as you thought of the Fantastic Four as your family, you never stayed for dinner often. You always tried your hardest to uphold the lines between your work life and personal life, not wanting to blur them completely (though, you were sure you had already blurred them enough for it to be too late). There had been plenty of times over the years where you’d stayed for dinner, usually once a month at this rate.

Sue always invited you, and you never wanted to disappoint her, and you gave in often. Ben had a way of wrangling you into saying yes before you were ever given the chance to speak at all. Reed had only asked once, asking you to stay back for the dinner months ago in which they announced to you that Sue was pregnant.

Johnny asked every day. You said no, most of the time, but when you did stay for dinner it was usually because those captivating, bright blue eyes were staring into your soul and pleading with you to stay.

Speak of the devil: there he sat at the dining room table. Clad in a white t-shirt with their logo resting over the pocket and the blue pants of his suit, a weird sight given that you had been in the lab with Reed all day and didn’t think any of them had left to attend to any ‘hero’ work.

You didn’t say a word as you strolled past him into the kitchen with Herbie on your heels, simply plucking the box of Lucky Charms from his hands as you swooped past. It was impossible not to smile to yourself at the scoff of indignation he let out at your actions.

“Hey-!”

“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” you shot back at him, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder before slotting the now closed cereal box into the cupboard where it usually sat.

Herbie beeped out a set of beeps that, over the years, you had come to understand. This time, he was agreeing with you, pointing out some facts about how eating out of the box lacked moderation, and would in turn actually spoil his appetite. You gave the little robot a fist bump for that, something that Johnny shot the little helper a glare for.

“Come on, Herbert, you’re supposed to take my side on these things!” There was no real malice in his words as he got up from the dining room table, rounding into the kitchen as you took the pots and pans that Herbie had gathered for you, setting them out along the counter where you needed them. “Baby, you didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.”

When you told yourself that you weren’t going to fall into the trap that was the charming and charismatic Johnny Storm, you weren’t prepared for two things.

One: when he got comfortable around someone, he could be an even bigger flirt. Pet names were constant. Baby, sweetheart, honey, doll, love…you name it, Johnny called you it. Constantly. So constantly you were sure the blush on your cheeks was a permanent staple. He’d even once called you his little flame–that had been met with the tip of your heel being dug into his foot.

The second thing you weren’t prepared for: touch. Johnny Storm didn’t understand personal space, not when he was comfortable around you. If you were in the room with him, he was standing less than a foot from you, and you always knew because you could feel the warmth that radiated off his unusually hot skin. His hands would always rest on your arm, your elbow, right at the bottom of your lower back.

Moments like this in the kitchen were normal, and yet they still fried your brain. That simply little pet name, and Johnny’s warm hand ghosting over your lower back, before coming to rest on your hip. Clearing your throat, you gently pried his hand from your body, shooting him a look as you moved around to get the ingredients for dinner, hoping your flushed cheeks didn’t give you away.

“When your pregnant sister has cravings for my personal family recipe spaghetti, I’m required to oblige her,”

“I asked you to make this for me two weeks ago and you refused,”

Johnny followed close behind you, like a little puppy following its owner. You tried, and failed, to contain your smile at his actions. The media might paint him as some sex god (you weren’t going to lie…if he wanted to be, he could be) but you saw him for what he was: the epitome of a little golden retriever at times.

“Well you aren’t a hormonal pregnant woman with super powers,” you shot back at him, taking the opened jar of spaghetti sauce from Herbie’s hand and dumping it into the pot on the stove top, turning up the heat on the boiling pot of water for the noodles Herbie had laid out for you.

“No, but Johnny is a hormonal guy with super powers, who adores your cooking,” bumping his hip with yours, Johnny stole the wooden spoon from your hand with ease, dipping it into the simmering sauce to stir. With that same ease, he leaned down just slightly, leaving a kiss to your bare shoulder that felt as if it had left a brand into your skin. “Johnny also happens to just adore you, and loves when you stay for dinner.”

You had given up on the blush by now. He’d surely seen it enough over the years with his incessant flirting, there was no use in hiding it. Bumping your hip back with him, biting into your bottom lip in a failed attempt to conceal the smile spreading across your lips, you stole the wooden spoon back from him.

“Johnny also talks in the third person too much, and is an insufferable flirt half the time,” he dipped his hand into the sauce, coating his fingers in red as you whacked lightly at his hand, forcing him to withdraw as quickly as he’d dipped in. “What have I told you about doing that!”

He’d laughed, one of your favorite sounds, as you glanced over at him with a bright smile, unable to truly stay mad at him…ever.

That was, until he dipped his sauce-covered ring finger and middle finger into his mouth to lick the sauce clean off, eyes never leaving yours and a smirk curling up on his lips. It forced you to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and look away as quickly as you could, feeling a different kind of heat swelling in your body: yeah, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.

“Not sure, baby, that look you’re giving me right now doesn’t scream that I’m insufferable-”

“Oh, that’s exactly what it’s screaming,” you shot back, even with the ghost of a smile pulling at your lips as Herbie readied the garlic bread on the counter behind you. “If you’re not going to help, you can leave this kitchen. I don’t care if you live here.”

Johnny rolled his eyes in response, hopping up onto the counter next to the stove where you worked. You caught the box of noodles he knocked over before they could fall to the ground, shooting him a look as he held his hands up innocently, dumping them into the boiling water pot.

“You basically live here, too,”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, because you keep refusing the room that Sue prepared for you,”

He…wasn’t wrong. Two years ago, Sue had transformed what was previously the guest room into a room that looked like it had been built just for you. Your favorite color on the walls, a matching quilt set on the bed, and she’d offered it to you. A place to stay, to live, given that Reed sometimes had you in the Baxter Building until the oddest hours of the morning.

You declined, still desperate to keep that line between your work life and your personal life separate, as tempting of an offer as it was. Sue wasn’t slighted by your decision at all, instead offering it to you to use whenever you needed to. There had been times in which you had taken up that offer, a few changes of clothes tucked away in the room on the odd chance that you’d need them.

“This place is your home, not mine,” you didn’t look at Johnny as you spoke, simply shaking your head as you stirred both the sauce and the noodles in their respective pots. “I’m Reed’s assistant, I’m not family-”

“Stop it,”

Even with the heat that rolled off Johnny Storm, every time his bare skin touched your own it sent a shiver straight down the length of your spine. His hand curled around your jawline, thumb and index finger pinching at your chin to force you to look up at him, to gaze into those intense blue eyes and the look on his face that had morphed so quickly from playful to serious.

“Johnny-”

“You are family, whether you like it or not,” the statement didn’t surprise you, it wasn’t the first time in your four years of knowing him that Johnny had said something like this to you, or anyone on the team for that matter. It always made you feel warm inside, though, to hear him say it, to see that loyalty and love for the people he cared about shine through in his words, such a stark contrast to the way the media sometimes portrayed him. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”

That was new. He hadn’t made a declaration like that to you before.

It was something about the look in his eyes as he said it–so genuine, so soft–that had you melting into his touch. His hand curled back up to your cheek, thumb just barely caressing the apple of your cheek, leaving a trail of heat with every swipe of his finger against your skin. Your heart betrayed you, fluttering in that moment like it always did.

These moments used to be few and far between. You didn’t know how else to describe them besides just calling them moments. Over the first few years of knowing Johnny Storm, there were small moments where that empty flirts verged on the edge of something different, something raw and real. But in the last year, they happened more often than they didn’t. Johnny wasn’t pictured out with as many women anymore, wasn’t brazenly caught flirting with anyone with legs and a pulse at events. And in moments like this, even in front of his family, he’d touch you, caress you, speak to you in a way that felt so genuine, that felt like it was real. Like the flirting was no longer just empty, meaningless fun.

That line between your work and personal life might have been a muddled mess, but the line between being Johnny Storm’s friend and something entirely more was practically non-existent now.

“You say that to all your women?” you quipped back, trying to hold your own, even as you were melting inside and your voice came out as a whisper. The playful look on Johnny’s face returned in a second, his fingers instead pinching the cheek he’d just been so softly caressing.

“Never, honey. Those words are reserved for my brother-in-law’s pretty little assistant,”

In typical Johnny fashion, he was able to dissolve and ruin whatever the moment was in an instant with his usual ‘charm’. Swatting his hand away, you returned your attention to the food on the stove in front of you, smiling to yourself as Herbie beeped out a popular song you’d heard on the radio behind you.

“You always have a line, don’t you?”

“Hey, you know what you signed up for, being friends with all this,” he jokingly motioned to his body, and you caught sight of the smile lighting up his face again as you laughed incredulously at his actions. “As part of the package deal, being friends with me, you are legally required to attend movie night in the living room with me after dinner.”

You hummed in response, even if you were smiling the entire time just from listening to him talk.

“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”

“All of our movie nights are impromptu, babe-”

“I saw earlier that channel 2 is playing The Sound of Music tonight,” you shot back at him, finally looking up at him with an expectant look on your face. “That’s what I want to watch.”

Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and knocking it against the cupboards with a wince on his face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his overdramatic antics, as usual.

“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”

“And you dipped your hand–which, god knows where that thing might have been–into my sauce for dinner,”

Johnny opened his mouth to speak, before mulling over your words, and effectively shutting it with a nod.

“You know what, if it gets you to have a movie night with me, then I’ll take it,”

God, you adored this man, more than you should. More than you wanted to. In his presence, especially now, you were pretty sure the smile on your face was a constant, that it would never leave, as you laughed at him once more. 

Finishing off the special blend of additions to your sauce, giving it another swirl with the wooden spoon, you brought it up to your lips for a quick taste. Satisfied, you held one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping, holding it up toward Johnny.

“Alright, give it a taste,”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar intensity and warmth in them keeping you locked in place, holding your breath, as he took a quick slurp from the spoon. Smacking his lips together, running his tongue out along his lips, he gave a definitive nod.

“As always…perfection. Though, I expect nothing less from you,”

Before you could retort to his cheesy comment, his hand reached out, eyes still locked on yours, as he cupped your chin once more and ran his finger over your lips. With the slightest of glances down, you saw the small spot of red on his finger, the remnants of the sauce he’d so gently just wiped from your lips.

Glancing back up to those blue eyes you loved more than you cared to admit, you caught the way they finally glanced down at your lips, before looking away as if to not get caught.

“...am I interrupting something?”

As if Johnny had burst into flames and burned you, you jumped away from him immediately the second you heard the voice of Sue Storm across the room. You never even looked back up at Johnny, or turned around to look at the woman by the dining room table, just stared down into the sauce pot as you continued to stir it and the noodles.

“Actually, sis, you very much are interrupting something here,” Johnny called out across the room, and you could see him gesturing with his hands between you both from the corners of your vision.

“Johnny,” you rolled your eyes, glancing over at him with flushed red cheeks from what had just transpired. “Sue isn’t interrupting anything.”

“She kind of is. We were kind of having a moment here-”

“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”

You very much were having a moment, but you weren’t admitting that to him. His ego burned hot enough, no need to stroke the fire.

Sue laughed, rounding into the kitchen as she stopped by Herbie, thanking him and taking the garlic bread tray from him to pop into the oven he had preheated.

“Johnny, why don’t you go get cleaned up for dinner and stop bothering the poor girl. Bad enough I’m making her cook for me, she doesn’t need you hovering,”

The man let out a sigh, muttering something mocking toward his sister, as he threw himself off the counter with dramatic flair. He wasn’t done making your heart race, though, his hand curling around the back of your head as he planted a kiss directly to your hairline, before he disappeared from the kitchen with a pat to Herbie’s head.

The pots on the stove were forgotten as you turned around, simply watching him disappear with an incredulous look on your face. Quickly, your eyes shot to Sue, who was watching you with a smirk as she leaned against the island counter.

“There was nothing happening there,”

“I didn’t say there was,”

“But you’re giving me that look,”

“I’m not giving you any kind of look,” the blonde laughed, stepping up beside you to take the wooden spoon from your hand, tasting the sauce herself with a happy little sigh. “Just…enjoying watching the show from the sidelines, waiting for one of you to make a move.”

“Sue, there’s no move to make. He’s just…he’s Johnny,”

“And Johnny is my brother,” she shot back with a grin. “And Johnny has never been like that with someone, just with you.”

You didn’t get to respond, before Herbie cut in with another series of beeps. Your eyes shot wide as you listened to what he was saying, cheeks flaring an even brighter shade of red as Sue choked on air, laughing to herself at your side.

“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”

❤︎

It had been two weeks, and Reed had somehow managed to scan Sue a total of 142 times, now. Sometimes, you wondered how she was able to put up with his hovering, the hovering that had gotten exponentially worse since she announced she was pregnant.

“I’m not getting clear imaging,” Reed called out from the other side of the lab, the only sound in the room being the incessant beeping of the machine he’d built to monitor the baby, and the solder iron in your hand as it worked away on the small device in front of you. You shook your head at his comments once more, adjusting the eye protectors resting on the bridge of your nose as little sparks jumped up as the last piece of the triangular device was finally attached. “I’m going to have Herbie recalibrate this, I don’t like the data output I’m getting, I want a clear image on the next scan. Is the second bridge device ready?”

“Just finished fixing the soldering on the stand, so it should be good to go,” you shot back, tossing your eye protectors down at your workstation, lifting the device carefully and carrying it over to Reed’s station, setting it down with the matching device. “And, once again, you really don’t need to scan the baby again.”

You were met with silence, unsurprisingly. Until, the workstation down the room set off its alarm bell, a familiar tone that had you stand up straighter where you stood.

“New deep space transmission,” there was a hint of elation in Reed’s tone as he said it, quickening his pace across the room with Herbie hot on his trail. “Let’s identify the origin, then record it for further analysis.”

Quickly walking back over to your workstation, your eyes drifted to that desk calendar sitting next to you, and to today’s date: a poorly drawn flame, and the time “2:15” scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that you recognized instantly. Even if you hadn’t, the terribly drawn heart with your initials in it scribbled in the corner would’ve given it away.

“Your analysis is going to have to wait, Reed,” you called out with a sigh, knowing you weren’t the one who put this meeting on the calendar, but you sure knew who had. “You have a 2:15 incoming.”

“2:15? What 2:15?” Reed never even looked in your direction, focused on the new transmission. “You didn’t tell me there was anything on my calendar.”

“Well, I didn’t put this one on the calendar myself, but you must have cleared it at some point…”

Just then, the elevator doors to the lab popped open with a familiar ding sound.

“Ah–Reed!”

Good god, Johnny Storm was trying to kill you. You weren’t even sure if that was an exaggeration at this point, because you wouldn’t put it past him.

Blue looked good on him, it always had, but the navy blue button up he was wearing was doing nothing for your mind that was screaming at you to “keep it professional.” It didn’t help that the first few buttons were already undone, giving a slight peak to his chest. The white chinos–those were the nail in your metaphorical coffin. They had no right to be that tight, and he had no right to look so damn good in them.

“Ah…that 2:15,” you tried your best to conceal your laugh at Reed’s comment across the lab. “Johnny, do we have to today?”

“Johnny, do we have to today? As if I didn’t ask to put it on the schedule,” the blonde man in question mumbled mockingly to himself as he slid up to your side at your workstation as you laughed at his antics. One of his hands grabbed the back of your neck, tugging you closer before you could even think about it, pressing another kiss to your hairline. Suddenly, you felt like you were back in the kitchen weeks ago. “Darling, have I ever told you how breathtaking you look in your lab coat?”

“It’s a white coat, Johnny, it’s nothing special,” you deflected, taking just a short glance up at him before you had to look away, already knowing you were as red as the table beneath your hands.

“But the girl wearing it is-”

“Johnny, do you want to have this meeting or do you want to flirt with my assistant?”

You hung your head with a groan, even as Johnny laughed at the comment from his brother-in-law. His arm slung around your waist, hand settling on your hip as the heat that rolled off his body enveloped you for a moment, letting yourself lean into the side hug he gave you and the squeeze to your hip, before he was gone.

“There’s enough time in the day to do both! No, I had some thoughts about the new suit designs,”

“There are no new space suit designs-”

You glanced over at the pair as they met face-to-face in the middle of the lab, Johnny holding up the sheet he was concealing behind his back.

“You finished them years ago…they have dust on them,” Johnny deadpanned, letting out a sigh as Reed took the design sheet from him. “Look, I get it. You’re going to be a father soon, you’re scared-”

“I’m not-I’m not scared,” Reed cut in immediately, and you could hear the anxious undertone that overtook him immediately at Johnny’s words. Without even having to be summoned, knowing how his brain worked after all this time, you simply shrugged off your lab coat and stalked over to the pair, taking the design sheet from Reed’s hands without a word and placing it on his chalkboard full of equations. “I’m-I’m busy, Johnny. I’m busy. I’m busy, there’s a difference.”

“He means busy on his pace to scan Sue at least 200 times before she gives birth,” you shot back, sending Reed a bright smile that he frowned at, clearly seeing that you were siding with Johnny here. “Not terrified of becoming a father at all, those two things definitely don’t correlate.”

Johnny laughed, smile bright, and it only brightened the one on your face, a tug somewhere deep in your chest pulling on you when he locked eyes with you. Reed snapped your attention back to him in an instant, running a hand down his face as he gestured in Herbie’s direction.

“Just handle the new deep space transmission, please, instead of ganging up on me with Johnny,”

You laughed, heels clicking against the floors of the lab as you joined Herbie’s side as he waited for the transmission to be scratched into the record. There was a woosh of air, the air beside you heating up instantly as a hand found its way to rest on your lower back.

“Have you listened to it yet?”

The smile on your face softened as you glanced over at Johnny, who was staring down at the record in front of you both with pure excitement in his eyes. Beyond the physical moments, his flirtatious moments, these were the moments that had your plan to not fall for Johnny Storm splitting at the seams, if it hadn’t already.

“Seems to be a lot more of the same, just another complex signal,” Johnny left your side, the heat going with him, as he leaned against the blue table behind him. Herbie took the record from its place, rolling over to Johnny to hand it directly to him. “You’re more than welcome to take it with you, give it a listen.”

He twirled the record in his hands with a grin, absentmindedly reaching out to scratch the top of Herbie’s head. That simple little action elicited a giggle, hand coming up to cover your mouth as Johnny glanced up at you with a smirk.

“What’s so funny?”

“Herbie isn’t a dog, and yet you treat him like one,” you explained, stepping up just in front of him and grabbing his hand lightly, stopping the twirling of the record in his hands. “Also, you do know you aren’t supposed to get your fingerprints all over these, right?”

It was Johnny’s turn to laugh as he spun his hand, catching it in his palm and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a scorching hot, but gentle, kiss to your knuckles, sending a shiver straight through your bones. He didn’t even have a retort to your comment, just simply held your hand in his, thumb stroking along your skin, while your entire body flushed with a feeling you wanted to ignore.

“Johnny, what have I told you about flirting in my lab? I need my assistant, we’re trying to run a test,”

The moment was gone in seconds, your hand dropped from Johnny’s as he raced to the other side of the lab, following closely behind Reed and tossing the record onto the closest table.

You could only shake your head with a laugh, walking beside Herbie to join them, knowing Reed would be mumbling to himself the rest of the week about this moment and how much Johnny liked pissing him off.

“Cool! I got time,”

Reed didn’t roll his eyes as you and Herbie joined them back at your workstations, but you could see how much he wanted to. Holding the device you’d just finished off in his hand, you watched in the same awe you had for four years as his arm stretched across the length of the lab, placing it right back beside your own workstation.

“Bridge teleportation test one,” grabbing the notebook lying beside the device that contained your notes on the project, you flipped to a new page, prepared to note down any disparities that occurred during the test, as Reed placed an egg on the newly soldered stand. “Movement of organic matter six meters.”

Johnny grabbed the protective glasses beside the work desk, about to slip them on, before Reed took them with no hesitation and slipped them on himself. The blonde turned to you with an incredulous look that simply drew a laugh from you.

“Those are his pair, you can’t touch his pair,” you teased the man, who simply shot you a wink in return, as you both took the pairs that Herbie was holding out to you both. Johnny gave the little robot a quick fist bump.

Such a simple action that still had you grinning in childlike adoration at the side of his face.

Reed gave you a simple look, confirming you were ready. You gave him a nod, as he took hold of the switch to activate the device.

“Let’s run it,”

The whirring of the machine sounded, three silver beams of energy emitting from the device and encasing the egg within a sphere of energy. There was a shift in the room as that energy grew, as the hum of the machine filled the air, before there was a simple POP–and the egg was gone.

One glance from each of you over your shoulders was enough to confirm that the egg was, in fact, sitting on the opposite platform. Completely untouched and intact.

“It worked!” Johnny exclaimed, gesturing toward the egg.

That’s when the power to the building cut out.

It wasn’t surprising, given the notes you both had taken. The amount of energy that needed to be funneled through the device in order to channel enough energy to actually move organic matter without hurting it was sure to be beyond the energy limits of the Baxter Building. A full power outage…not what you were expecting. Not that you could write that note down in the pitch black of the room.

“Johnny,” Reed’s voice called out in the dark, steady with no hint of any emotion you could decipher in it. The man in question came to life beside you, body engulfed in flames, the flame resistant fabric of his specially tailored clothing working overtime to keep him from being stark naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, and even from the side you could see the smirk curling up on his lips. “Could you reset the breaker?”

You’d known Johnny long enough now, been his friend for enough years, to know him. Know him better than a colleague should. The instant dip in his smirk to a frown was clear, the tension in his broad shoulders, as he tossed his glasses down onto the table. He didn’t spare either of you another look, crossing the room to grab the record.

“Other way-”

“I know,” Johnny snapped, beside his flame engulfed body was on the other side of the lab, flipping the breaker as the electricity of the building roared to life again. The second it did, he was in the elevator, doors shutting without another word.

Neither you nor Reed spoke for a moment, simply looking down at the bridge teleportation device on the table in front of him.

“I’ve upset him,”

Reed didn’t phrase it like a question, he said it like a statement. Both were true, though. Reed always knew when he had upset Johnny, but never how he had really upset him.

You took a deep breath, nodding, as you scribbled a note in your notebook before turning on your heels, stalking back to your own workstation.

“Well, he went out of his way to put time on your calendar just to talk to you about the suits, and you did dismiss him…” you trailed off as you reached your station, eyes flickering back down to that desk calendar beside you. You couldn’t help it, letting your fingers lightly trail over that little heart with your initials, smiling to yourself, wishing it meant more than what it did mean: nothing. “Johnny loves space, he only got to go up once before…this all happened. You can’t blame him for wanting to go back.”

It was quiet for another moment in the lab, before Reed spoke up again.

“You know him well…better than I think I do,”

The flush in your cheeks was inevitable at that, embarrassment flooding you as it was easy for you to read between the lines of what Reed was trying to insinuate.

“I-I just listen to him. I always listen,”

It was quiet again.

“Go check on him,” was all Reed said. “If there’s anyone he’d want to talk to right now, it’s you.”

You wanted to argue, to save the crumbling bits of that wall between work and personal, but even you knew it was too late for that.

Johnny’s bedroom door was just two down from the guest room Sue had offered you years ago, a bathroom being the only thing that separated them. Ben’s room was at the other end of the hallway, along with the nursery where the soon to be baby Richards would sleep.

You may not have stayed in that guest room often, but you’d been in these hallways enough to know it like the back of your hand. To know it like it was your own home. 

There were countless nights, before you’d make the short walk back to your apartment, where Johnny had coerced you into movie nights in his room. He’d never try anything, never push you into something, always leaving the door open to make sure you knew he wasn’t bringing you upstairs for some alternative reason. His room was just quieter, and felt more private. It gave you the chance to see the side of Johnny that the world didn’t get to see.

The space lover, who spent his life dreaming of being an astronaut, of going into space and seeing the stars. He was a thrill-seeker, always wanting to live his life on the edge, to find joy in those rushes of adrenaline. But beyond it all, just a good man. A man who had an entire collection of records lining one wall of his room, organized from his favorite records to his least favorite, even though he claimed there wasn’t really a least favorite. The world got to know the Human Torch, but in  the confines of those four walls, you got to know Johnny Storm. The second you did, you knew your heart was fucked.

You found him in a spot you’d found him in before: leaning against the floor to ceiling windows of his room, staring out at the spaceship he hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. Your heart broke slightly from where you stood in the doorway, able to see the longing that was woven into his frown, that shone through his eyes that never strayed far from the Excelsior.

“You know,” with a few steps into the room, standing beside the record player, you lifted the needle to stop the replay of the foreign language from the deep space transmission that played on a loop. Johnny looked over, a soft smile overtaking his frown at the sight of you, as you kept your own voice soft and light. “I don’t think deep space transmissions are the right background music if you’re going to stare longingly out your window.”

Johnny laughed in a huff, turning on his heel to flick through his record collection.

“And suggestions then for a melancholic moment such as this?”

“Elvis typically has some hits that can set that mood,”

You watched him, the slight shake in his body that hinted he was laughing again, before he plucked a record from the shelves and rose back to his feed. Standing beside the record player with you, he slid it into your hands without another word and plopped into the chair just across from the player.

With care, like you’d done it a hundred times before (you had, right here in this room), you slipped the record onto the player, dropping the needle down as it coasted along the grooves etched into the record.

When no-one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong…you give me hope and consolation. You give me strength to carry on.

The lyrics settled in you heavily, but it made your body feel lighter. It was impossible not to read into them, to not think too hard about the deliberate music choice that Johnny had made. You couldn’t help that, somewhere deep in your heart where you had buried your feelings for the flaming man years ago, you were hoping these lyrics were a personal message to you.

“Reed send you to check on me?” Johnny asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he watched you. Composing yourself for a moment, shoving the flurry of butterflies beating against your chest down, you turned to face him and his blue eyes with a shrug.

“Technically, but I would’ve come on my own,” Johnny hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as his gaze found its way back to the spaceship taunting him just beyond the window. “Come on, matchstick, talk to me.”

He huffed out another laugh, stretching his arms above his head as you tried your best to keep your eyes trained on his face and not drift down his torso. Eventually, his arms settled back across his chest, his gaze still stuck out the window.

“I don’t know…it’s stupid. Last time we went up, we came back with superpowers, trust me, I get that. Now, he’s got a kid on the way. But I know–I know–that he knows how much space means to me. So, when he just dismisses me like that-”

“It makes you feel inadequate? Like you’re a child?” Johnny’s gaze found you again as you shrugged with a light smile. “I’ve worked in an enclosed space with him almost every day for four years, Johnny. He used to make me feel that way all the time, until I realized that Reed’s never trying to make me feel like that.”

“I know he’s not doing it on purpose…doesn’t mean I’m not going to shit talk him in the confines of these walls,” he gestured around the room as you laughed, coming to stand beside his chair, looking down on him as he sighed once more. His hands fell, gripping his knees, as he rubbed them back and forth against the fabric of his pants. “I love space. Simple as that.”

You hummed, bending down beside the chair Johnny sat in so that you were essentially squatting before him, having to look up at him. Hesitation caught you for just a second, your brain actively fighting a war with your heart as you raised your hands, but you ultimately took his hands in yours. 

All it took was a second for your eyes to drift over to the table beside him. One lamp, a stack of books, and the flash of a polaroid photo leaning against those books: a photo of you. Taken at some point in the lab, laughter written across your face, your hand almost blocking a portion of the lens as you tried to stop him from taking the photo. You didn’t even remember it being taken in the first place.

Good god, he was really going to be the death of you.

Eyes quickly back on him, with a little squeeze to his hands, you gave Johnny the most comforting smile you could, even as your heart did somersaults in your chest.

“I know you do. You’ll go back to space, Johnny, I promise,”

His eyes watched your hands, and you could see it on his face: that hint of adoration, that hint of something genuine that suggested it wasn’t all just a game, that you weren’t imaging moments for more than they were.

“What if I don’t?”

“You’re Johnny Storm, I’ve never seen you not get something you wanted before. Especially not something you want this bad,”

His mouth parted just slightly as he hesitated. You watched as his tongue darted out, just barely grazing over the edge of his bottom lip, before you flicked your eyes back to his.

“You’re wrong…I think there’s something I want more. Been trying to get it for awhile, but…she just keeps slipping through my fingers somehow,”

That tug on your heart was back. Your heart was surely beating so fast that it could be heard, hammering against your ribcage, as his thumbs glided back and forth across your skin. You could barely think of a response, too stuck on his words: the closest thing to a confession of any kind you’d heard in four years. Raw, real, genuine.

Johnny stood quickly, barely giving you a chance to potentially think of a response as he tugged you back to your feet. His arm enveloped your waist, your hand falling to his bicep as he still held your other hand in the air beside you both. You weren’t sure now if the flush crawling up your neck into your cheeks was from the moment, or from the heat radiating off of him.

“W-What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing,” he said it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, that usual smirk of his back on his face. Whatever had happened moments before, whatever confession may or may not have been said, was brushed away in an instant, that charming, flirty personality of his back in full force. “Can’t turn on Elvis and not dance, I think that’s a literal crime.”

“I didn’t know you even knew how to dance,”

“Oh, I don’t, Sue’s been telling me for years that I have two left feet,” Johnny shot back, shooting a wink down at you as his hand readjusted its grip along your waist. “Can’t be that hard with the prettiest girl in the building in my arms, right?”

Swaying back and forth, wrapped up in the heat of his body, in the faint smell of the cologne that coated his clothing, you were very certain that Johnny Storm was going to be the death of you.

And when you smile the world is brighter. You touch my hand and I'm a king. Your kiss to me is worth a fortune, your love for me is everything.

Johnny tilted his head back from you by just a hair, and you followed suit. Deep blue eyes, as captivating to you as they were the first time you ever saw them, shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. If you could, you weren’t sure you would survive knowing. 

Faces just an inch away, the closest and most intimate moment you’d ever shared with the man you knew in your heart was never going to be just your friend, your colleague, you were verging on the edge of making a terrible choice. Of opening the floodgates, of unlocking the feelings you’d buried away so long ago and letting them flow.

“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have, you know,”

Johnny always found a way to ruin these moments, and this was just another example. Lips tugged up into a smirk, mischief swarming his eyes as he teased you, that fleeting moment of raw vulnerability was gone.

Hand slipped from his, body pulled back from his and a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel within seconds.

“So typical of you, Storm,”

“What-? What did I do!”

You huffed out a laugh, a smile creeping onto your lips even as you tried to keep it at bay, as you threw your comment over your shoulder as you walked toward the door.

“You went and killed the moment, Johnny, as per usual,”

“...so you admit it, we WERE having a moment!”

You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you crossed through the doorframe. You could never stay mad at him, not when your heart yearned for him in a way you wish it didn’t.

“Come on! At least let me make it up to you. Will you stay for dinner?”

With a final glance cast over your shoulder toward him, you shot him a bright smile.

“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”

❤︎

Yeah, you really couldn’t say no to Johnny Storm.

Not when he’d spoken so sweetly to you, held you so tenderly, and all around just invaded every part of your brain and your heart. To be fair, he barely had to try honestly to do that.

It wasn’t shocking to see Ben in the kitchen, it seemed to be one of his happy places. You weren’t complaining: on the nights you did stay for dinner, and Ben was cooking, you knew you were going home with the best leftovers the city of New York had ever seen.

“Decided to stay for dinner again?” Sue called out toward you with a smile, giving Herbie a pat on the head as he worked away at carving a pumpkin. You shot her a smile in return, pouring yourself a quick glass of water before making your way toward Ben.

“Johnny asked…and I decided to be nice and oblige him,” you didn’t miss the teasing hum that Ben let out, lightly whacking him on his rocky shoulder. Not that it did you any good, hurting your hand more than it would ever hurt him. His laughter was ignored as your eyes lit up, catching sight of the familiar black and white cookies he was dumping onto a plate. “Oh my god, did you go grab these from Maisie’s?”

“Yes,” Ben waved your hand away when you went to reach for the cookies, producing another paper bag and sliding it your way. “These ones are yours.”

The smell that wafted from the bag was enough to have you almost moaning in the middle of the kitchen, eagerly digging one of the cookies out. Maisie’s famous snickerdoodle cookies, the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar that you had adored since you were a little girl. One bite of the cookie had you in absolute heaven.

“Oh my god, I haven’t had these in ages!” Ben and Sue both laughed at your excitement as you took another bite of the warm cookie in your hand. “How did you know these were my favorites?”

Ben’s smirk wasn’t hard to miss at all.

“Oh, I didn’t. Johnny asked me to pick those up for you,”

It was probably time to accept that blushing around this family was the only thing you were capable of.

Sue’s laughter rang loudest as she rounded the island counter, high fiving Ben as she shot you a pointed look.

“You really have my brother wrapped around your finger without even trying, huh? You know, before I went to get scanned–again–in the lab, I stopped by the nursery to check out the crib progress. Heard a little The Wonder of You from down the hall, thought I’d peek in…”

The groan you emitted could probably be heard from the other side of the country, leaning down to barely bang your head against the countertop. Ben and Sue’s laughter rang through the air again as you looked up, desperately waving your hands.

“I swear, it wasn’t what it looked like-”

“What wasn’t what it looked like?”

Of course, Johnny chose to make his grand entrance at that moment. Thankfully for you, he’d changed out of that ridiculously hot button up. Unfortunately for you, he was still wearing those god forsaken white chinos.

“Your little dance Sue was telling me about earlier,” Ben teased, easily catching your hand as it came up to whack him again in his rough, oversized one. “What’s with the long face?”

“Oh that dance was exactly what it looked like. Thanks for coming to dinner though, sweetheart, glad you like the cookies,” Johnny tacked on a wink in your direction, one you affectionately rolled your eyes over, before his smile was back to a frown. “And what of it, Ben?”

“Sounds like your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well. I’m sorry, pal,”

From across the room, you could see Johnny’s shoulders move in a huff of laughter as he clapped, bringing down the cabinet shelf that held the same box of cereal you had taken from him two weeks ago. You moved around the island counter, filming your cup with more water before standing opposite of Ben while Johnny made his way back over.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he spoke, though the edge in his words was clear as he did, coming to stand directly at your side. “I don’t mind or anything, it’s just, uh-”

“I hear you, pal. We’ll go to space again,”

“That’s what I was trying to tell him earlier,” you tacked on, bumping your hip with Johnny’s, who quickly did the same back to you.

That smile you adored was back in moments, though, as he dug his hand into the box and produced the action figure waiting inside: a miniature Johnny Storm. His bright grin was turned in your direction as he waved the toy toward you, his signature catchphrase from the cartoon–flame on–ringing through the air as Reed entered the room, greeting his wife by the dining room table.

“They captured my likeness so perfectly, don’t you think?” he quipped, activating the catchphrase once again as you rolled your eyes. “Do you still have the one I gave you a few months ago?”

“Yeah, buried in the junk drawer of my kitchen,”

Johnny feigned shock, pinching your side quickly as you squirmed away with a laugh.

“At least upgrade me to your bedside table so I can be with you while you sleep,” that stupid line was accented with another wink before Johnny thrust the toy in Ben’s face. “Come on, admit it’s cool.”

That catchphrase just kept repeating.

I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!

Flame On!

Flame On!

Ben grabbed the toy from Johnny’s hand in seconds, crushing it to nothing but dust and blowing it back in Johnny’s face with a smirk. You tried everything to conceal your laughter, but it was inevitable.

“Flame off!”

Sirens rang outside the balcony of the building’s living room. The flying cars of the police force raced past, bathing the room in red and blue lights. The second they disappeared, another squadron flew past in the other direction, the sirens all intermixing in the air.

These were the moments you never got to see often, when the team sprung into action. It was clear in Johnny and Ben alone, how their silly little moment was forgotten as they thrust into action, prepared to go running out of the building into danger. Reed simply held up a hand, shaking his head at the group.

“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”

Ben and Sue followed Reed out onto the balcony, but Johnny hung back, his gaze stuck on you as you hadn’t moved from the kitchen. He simply tilted his head toward his family, holding his hand out for you. Such a simple move that shouldn’t have kickstarted your heart into what was surely an irregular rhythm, but it did.

The second you were at his side, Johnny’s hand rested at the small of your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt just so to tug you slightly closer to his side. Together, you stepped out onto the balcony of the Baxter Building beside Ben, overlooking New York as it was bathed in every corner in red and blue.

“For the past few months, I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations throughout the city,”

You shot a look down at your boss, eyebrow raised.

“That’s what you’ve been doing in that notebook by your desk?” Reed simply waved your comment off, pointing just down the block, fairly close to the area in which your apartment resided.

“47 of them, to be exact. Including the Puppet Master in the Bowery, the Wizard in Gramercy Park, and Diablo in Washington Heights,”

Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.

“You…baby-proofed the world,” Ben finally spoke. Sue’s sigh could be heard from the other end of the balcony as she tried to defend her husband.

“It’s a sweet gesture,”

“It’s a little insane,” you mumbled to yourself, just loud enough for you and Johnny to hear. The blonde at your side simply shrugged, glancing down at you and catching your gaze.

“It’s not totally crazy. He’s trying to protect the things he loves, what’s most precious to him…” Johnny’s lips quirked up just slightly. “I’d do it too…I’d do it for you.”

He said it so…so earnestly. With so much conviction in his tone, as if this was a certainty to him. That protecting not just his family, but you, was something he needed to do. That if it came down to it, he’d do it without a second thought.

“You…you have to stop saying things like that to me, Johnny,” you hated how breathless your voice came out, how wrecked you sounded as you whispered your response back to him, the conversation still droning on in the background between the other three.

The smile on Johnny’s face only widened, his hand slipping around from your lower back to your waist, as he gave you a light squeeze.

“Stop saying what, the truth?”

No, you need to stop saying things that are making me fall in love with you.

Love. That was a word that had only crossed your mind once when it came to Johnny Storm. 

It was two years ago, a week to the day that you had lost your mother, your biggest supporter in life. You stood at that funeral, surrounded by estranged family members you hadn’t spoken to in years, and family friends who wept for your loss. Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny had come, offered their condolences, paid their respects.

When the others left, Johnny stayed. He stood by your side through the first viewing, never left it during the second viewing, and stood with you in the pouring rain an hour after they’d put her in the ground. You had cried, he held you, and he’d simply never left you alone that day. The colleague that had quickly become a friend, who flirted with you every chance he got, never uttered a single flirtatious comment that day. He’d simply been there, been the shoulder you needed.

That was the day you realized you may have fallen in love with the one man you told yourself not to fall in love with, and you buried those feelings in your heart for what you thought would be forever.

“Stuck in your head over there? Come on, it’s dinner time,”

Ben’s voice broke you from your stupor. The team had all started to make their way inside while you were left at the balcony railing, hands white knuckled on top of the rail. 

Johnny’s hand was held out toward you, and you ignored every part of your brain that told you not to and slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you back in toward the living room.

That’s what their watches all went off, alerts blaring in sync with one another.

It was like a firework went off, a boom shattering the night air of the city. The clouds, the sky, were painted in gold, streaks of meteors and debris crossing the sky as they fell to the earth. The sound that emitted from the golden cloud that stretched across the sky, bathing the city in its light, felt…otherwordly. Like a scream, like a warning.

A warm hand enveloped your face, turning your wide eyes away from the scene.

There were very few times you saw Johnny as serious as he was now. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed but still soft as they looked at you, the cascades of gold shone over his face, highlighting his features as another boom sounded off in the distance.

“Go inside, don’t come out,”

Words were caught in your throat. All you could manage was a nod, his thumb doing a single swipe over your cheek, before he patted Reed on the shoulder and launched himself over the railing and into the air, igniting himself as he went.

If not for the moment, you would have stopped to admire him as he flew, bathed in the reds and oranges of his fire. You were awestruck every time you got to witness those cosmic powers firsthand.

Reed, Sue, and Ben had followed not long after, as you could hear the familiar whirled of their car through the air, chasing after Johnny through the city, following whatever had just appeared from the sky.

You? You sat on the living room couch, wringing your hands together to keep them from shaking. You’d been there as they had dealt with Red Ghost, or even Moleman, but this? 

This was different. This was otherworldly. This was terrifying. And when Herbie flipped the switch of the television, rolling to your side, you were greeted with the sight of the silver alien woman hovering in Times Square for the first time.

“Your planet is now marked for death. Your world will be consumed by the devourer,” 

Her voice sent a single chill down the column of your spine. Herbie’s robotic hand reached out for yours, ceasing the endless wringing of your hands together. You took it without hesitation, though you wished in your heart it was someone else’s hand holding yours in this moment.

“Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice, and celebrate, for your time is short. I herald his beginning…I herald your end…I herald, Galactus.”

And thus began the longest night of your life since the day your colleagues went into space and came back forever changed.

Sending the team into space was the only option, to confront this mystery at its source. Reed had given you the basics in passing: the threat was real, there was documentation of plants across the universe disappearing entirely, the chrome woman’s signature left on each of them. He’d tasked you to the launch team, to prepare Excelsior for launch in T-16 hours.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

Those words rattled around your brain the entire night, into the wee hours of the morning. Even as you helped Lynn set up the press conference, as you conferred with the launch team to ensure that the Excelsior was prepared in every conceivable way, as you checked and double-checked every data point throughout the entire ship, her words never left you.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

The anxiety was clawing at you, even as you threw yourself into work. The notion of what her words meant, of what could happen, of how close the end could be.

The clock read sometime around 2 a.m. when you had finally stepped foot in that guest room made for you. There was no way you were walking home tonight. Besides, come morning, there would still be too much to do, too many data points that needed to be checked, too many scenarios that would need to be run through to make sure your team came back to you.

You knew sleep wasn’t coming to you, though, not when that metallic voice was rattling around your head. Not when an alien threat was upending your life. Not when, two doors away, there was a man that you did, in fact, want to hold close…in case you never got the chance to again.

You loved him. All it took was the end of the world to admit it.

Clad in nothing but an old t-shirt with the 4 logo on the front, one you were sure was Johnny’s, and a pair of shorts, you didn’t care what you looked like as you tore out of the room and into the hallway. Not now, not when your world was being threatened, not when your entire life could be ripped from you in a matter of seconds.

Johnny was awake, just as you knew he would be. White shirt, plaid blue pants you’d seen him sleep in so many times, he stood in his dark room by the windows once more, watching the crews rush around on the ground as they prepared the ship for launch in just a few hours. That same record from earlier in the day was still playing.

I guess I'll never know the reason why you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

With a step into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lamp just beside the door, Johnny finally met your eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” was the only thing you could manage to say. Johnny tilted his head, studying you silently, before he held out his hand just as he had done hours before.

“Come here,”

Crossing the room in a matter of moments, you all but fell into his arms. His outstretched hand ignored, he was frozen in place for just a moment as you curled your arms around his neck, throwing yourself into his arms. The faint smell of his cologne lingered, as did his bodywash, and the sigh you let out the second the smell hit you was in comfort.

It didn’t take Johnny long to unfreeze, his arms finding their place around your waist. One hand rested on your upper back, one pressing into your lower back. A faint kiss was placed to the side of your head, heat lingering for a second. Heat lingered in your entire body, radiating off of him in waves.

“You have to talk to me, baby,”

Talk? The truth was, you didn’t know where to start. How were you supposed to explain that, since the moment you had met Johnny Storm, your heart was already his. That in all your moments over the years, you’d fallen for the man you told yourself not to fall for. And as the threat from the metallic woman loomed over the world, as he prepared to try and save life as you knew it, the only thing you wanted was to be held by him. To know he was here, that he was okay, that he was with you.

“I-I’m scared,”

Those were the only words you could settle on. Johnny pulled back, his hands sliding gently around the fabric of the shirt hanging loosely from your body until they reached your face. He cradled you, so softly and gently in his hands, it was almost involuntary the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, his warmth, chasing the feeling of security it brought you.

“It’s okay to be,” the gentle tone in his voice washed over you, covering you like a blanket. It’s exactly how he had spoken to you that day, standing in the rain when you refused to leave your mother’s side, reassuring you he was there. “I don’t care what the herald said, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Of course you knew that. If there was anything you knew for certain in this world, it was that when Johnny Storm said he’d protect you, he meant it. He’d spent long enough proving that to you.

There was no hesitation on your part when you laid your own hands overtop of his. Fingers curling around them, tugging his right hand just barely from your cheek, you turned and pressed the lightest of kisses to the palm of his hand.

Johnny froze. You could feel it. The slight tilt of his head, the questioning look that flickered across his face in the moonlight that shone through the windows. It was all fair. You were never the one to cross the boundary like this, to make a move such as this.

“I can’t stop thinking about what she said,” was how you tried to explain yourself, stopping and starting your sentence over and over as you tried to find the right way to explain yourself, the walls crumbling and the floodgates bursting wide open. “Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…it’s why I came to you.”

A single emotion crossed Johnny’s face in seconds: understanding.

That signature smirk of his was back in moments, even if it was twinged with a softness reserved only for you. The heat left your cheeks, but found your hands as Johnny’s fingers intertwined with yours, hanging your joined hands down between you both. There was a bright light that passed over the window for just a moment, bathing the two of you in bright light, before you were plunged back into the darkness of his room yet again.

“You did come to me…why’s that?”

“You know why-”

“I do,” he said it so matter-of-factly, that smirk growing just a tad as he leaned into your personal bubble by just a hair. “This push and pull, four years of ‘will they’ or ‘won’t they.’ I want to hear you say it, baby.”

“It’s not that easy,” you immediately shook your head, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as Johnny simply watched you. “Saying it…makes it real.”

He scoffed, the sound mixed with laughter, as his head cocked slightly more to the side.

“You came into my bedroom at 2 in the morning–wearing my shirt, might I add–is that not real enough?”

“When you’ve spent years trying to ignore how you feel and refusing to say it, it’s not that easy to say,” you desperately tried to explain. “If I say it…then everything changes.”

Johnny took barely another step forward, and you almost wanted to step back, to bring back the space between you and preserve the small, crumbling wall that still stood between you both.

“A sexy, naked alien woman came to earth and basically prophesied our demise, darling. If there was ever a time to ‘change everything’ and lay it all on the line, I think it’s now,”

Your heart wanted to hang onto the word darling, but your brain was too stuck on the ‘sexy, naked alien woman’ part of his sentence. The sigh that escaped you was instantaneous, as well as the frown, as you shot the blonde man a pointed look.

“Sexy, naked alien woman, Johnny? Seriously?”

“Come on! She was–objectively–attractive. You can’t deny that!”

It was your turn to scoff, tearing your hands from his in a heartbeat, before spinning on your heel. You felt like an idiot–on the precipice of finally confessing your deepest, darkest secret you’d kept locked away for years, and this is what you got.

“I try to be serious with you, Johnny, and you turn it into a joke once again-”

You didn’t get far from him. A hand enveloped your upper arm mid sentence, tugging and spinning your back around. A gasp fell from your lips as you collided with the chest of the man before you.

Whatever you were going to say never saw the light of day. Not when Johnny Storm gripped at your hips, tugged you as impossibly close as he could, and finally–finally–kissed you.

The kiss you’d dreamed about for four years, finally yours.

Johnny’s lips were soft as they slanted against your own, enveloping you in his warmth. They moved against you in a steady rhythm, passionate but still gentle, still testing the waters of the line you had never crossed before. 

His hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to your body, pushing it up just enough so that his hands could dip underneath. Your breath caught, even as his lips continued to move against yours, as his heated skin made contact with yours, and any part of your brain begging you to stop this was silenced as you melted into him.

Hands landed on his broad chest, gripping the fabric as you let him mold your body to his, the scent of his bodywash enveloping you as your body almost became one with him. In the pits of your stomach, as those heated hands trailed up your waist and ghosted over your ribcage, another flurry of butterflies erupted as a moan slipped past your lips, swallowed by his mouth.

A moan left Johnny’s lips at the sound of your own, one hand leaving your waist to curl around the back of your neck. Those slender fingers buried themselves into your hair, gripping just enough to have another groan of pleasure tumbling from your lips, as he guided your mouth against his own.

“You can’t keep making little noises like that,” his mouth barely left yours as he spoke, lips moving against yours, as he dove back in for another kiss the second he was done speaking.

“Your fault,” was all you could manage out, trying to back away just enough to speak, but Johnny never let your lips go far. Your hands glided up his chest, his neck, curling into his short hair as your thumb crested the ridge of his ear. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Be mad at me later,” was his immediate response, his lips leaving yours just to find their place along your jawline and slide down into the hollow of your neck. His tongue danced its way across your skin, leaving tingles of electricity everywhere he touched you, his words murmured into your neck as he buried himself there. “I’m trying to kiss you.”

There was some part of you that wanted to protest him–over what, you weren’t even sure at this point–but you couldn’t. Not when his teeth dug just so into the side of your neck, leaving his mark on your skin as if he was claiming you as his.

You were always his.

“You c-called–oh god–you called the alien sexy while I was trying to confess,” you just barely managed to get the words out through your moans. Johnny was slowly walking you backward, straight in the direction of his bed while his lips never left the side of your neck, leaving his mark on every inch of skin he could see.

Your foot caught on the raised edge of the platform his seating area sat on, your feet stumbling backward. Johnny was there–he was always there–and tugged you back into him. And god, if you loved those blue eyes before, you loved them even more now: pupils blown wide, Johnny Storm looked about as wrecked as you felt.

“Your confession was four years late, and I’m impatient,” he stole another kiss from you, his teeth sinking just barely into your bottom lip, tugging gently. He let go, pressing a messy kiss to your lips to soothe the pain of his bite, words fanning out over your lips. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m in love with you for four years now, so please just shut up and let me show you instead. Now–jump.”

At this point, you’d do just about anything he asked of you.

Johnny caught you with ease, both of his hands splayed out across the bare skin of your thighs, locking your legs around his hips. A choked moan fell from your lips the second your core was dragged against the painfully hard length bulging against his own pants, hands curling into his hair as you, this time, desperately pulled him into a kiss.

I’m in love with you. Those words repeated like a mantra in your head. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, the world’s fire boy and hero that they painted like a sex symbol. The ‘playboy’ with a new girl all the time, never able to hold down a girl…was in love with you.

Your back hit the bed, body bouncing just slightly before settling. His eyes never left you as you crawled back just slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look up at him in the dark of the room, lit only by sky and the lamp by the door. The music played faintly in the background, but at this moment, it meant nothing to you.

Johnny’s hands gently touched your knees from where they dangled off the edge of the bed, parting them just so in order to step between them. You watched, entranced by every move he made, body flushed from the heat that coursed through your bare skin at the slightest of touches from him. With a practiced ease, his hand took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head without hesitation. It found a place to lay somewhere across the room, discarded until the following morning.

It was impossible not to stare. His broad chest, those biceps that always threatened to bulge out of every shirt he wore. His toned abdomen and the trail of hair that led straight to the waistband of his pants, the outline of him still prevalent and straining against the fabric.

“I need to know that you’re sure…about this,” you weren’t used to it, the vulnerability in Johnny’s tone. He leaned over you now, hands splayed across the bed on either side of you, barely a few inches from your face. Those blue eyes flickered down to your lips time and time again. “Because if I kiss you again, I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”

There was no hesitation on your part. Just a single movement of your arms, tossing the old shirt hanging from your upper body across the room to join his. As simple as that, you sat bare before him, chest heaving with every deep breath you took in.

“I was already yours. I always have been,” there was only certainty in your tone as you held his gaze. “Speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…that’s why I came to you. Because if this is the end of the world, I needed you to know that I love-”

He didn’t let you finish your words. His next kiss was anything but gentle.

Messy, spit coating your lips as Johnny’s tongue seemed to invade your mouth and every one of your senses, his lips devoured yours as if you were his first meal in decades. He kissed with the hunger of a starved man, his hands grasping at every part of your skin they could–your waist, your hip, before finally your ass. The squeeze he gave to your skin, the uptick in heat you felt as if he was burning himself just slightly hotter on purpose, had another moan tumbling from your lips and into his mouth.

The hand still gripping your ass tugged you upward on the bed until your head fell against the silk pillows at the headboard. Your hands never left Johnny’s hair, carding through the strands as you frantically kissed him back, addicted to the feeling, as his hips ground into yours. That bulge in his pants pressed heavenly into your core, the friction rolling your eyes into the back of your head as you let your head fall to the pillows with a moan.

Johnny’s lips were everywhere. From your jawline, to your neck, until they finally reached your collarbone. He lavished you with his lips, tongue running over your skin as his hands trailed up the sides of your lower abdomen, stopping just as they reached the swell of your breasts.

“Since the day you walked in, I’ve thought about this,” his voice was raspy, the words barely understood as they were spoken against your skin. “Since the moment Reed introduced you to us.”

“I-I was wearing a lab coat,” you choked on your words as Johnny’s lips reached your sternum, trailing kissing down your chest, but never where you wanted him. “Hardly sexy, I’d argue.”

“It is when I’m picturing you in that coat and your heels, and nothing else,” he tacked on, before his lips wrapped around your nipple without warning.

You mewled at the sudden contact, one hand returning to his hair on instinct as your back arched off the bed and into him. Johnny’s hand on your abdomen was quick to push you back down, holding you down against the bedding beneath you.

God, with the fire that felt like it was burning through your body, you could’ve sworn that Johnny had caught you on fire. His teeth just barely grazed the sensitive bud in his mouth, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips on instinct. He was quick to soothe you, tongue swirling around the erect and sensitive bud with rapt attention. A moan slipped through him, felt through your entire body, as your other hand tore into the bedding. Desperate for something to hold onto. Something to ground you in your pleasure.

“I’ve dreamed about you under me. Kissing you, tasting you, loving you,” his practically purred out every single word, tongue flicking back and forth over your sensitive nipple. He moved to the other one easily, delivering the same rapt attention to it.

“I’ve thought about you, too,” you relented, divulging every secret you held dear to the man who lavished every inch of you in love and adoration. “In the kitchen, the lab, in that stupid button up from earlier-”

“I knew you liked that shirt. Wore it just for you,” his husky tone sent another shot of pleasure through you, heat curling through every inch of your body.

The tips of his fingers trailed lightly down your stomach. When Johnny’s head lifted for just a moment to lock his eyes with yours, that familiar smirk on his face, you weren’t given a second to react before heat poured through his touch.

Gasps mixed with moans of pleasure fell from your lips on instinct, that unnatural heat of his pouring through his touch and into your skin. Every movement of his fingers over your ribcage and down your abdomen felt as if it was leaving your skin on fire, branding his touch into your skin so that you would never forget the feeling. Burning him into your memory so that you would always feel the phantom sensations of his touch on your skin.

“You’re absolute perfection, you always have been,” Johnny moaned into your skin, lips trailing over the mounds of your breasts with another series of a thousand kisses. Those heated fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, pressing directly against your clothed clit without a warning. The moan you let escape mixed in the air with the moan that tumbled from Johnny’s lips against your skin. “Jesus Christ, baby, you’re so soaked.”

The heat was still there in his fingers, setting off every little nerve ending in you even through the soaked fabric of your panties that you desperately wanted gone. Your hips ground up into his hand, whimpers falling from your lips as you chased after the feeling of him, desperate for friction.

“All for you,” even this hint of pleasure had you stumbling toward the edge, babbling almost incoherently. With a tug to his hair, you were quick to bring Johnny’s lips back to yours, arms wound around his neck. He gave into your needs immediately, devouring you in a kiss as heated as his touch was, fingers rubbing slow circles over where you needed him so desperately. “Please–Johnny, please! Please, I need you. Need you–need you so bad.”

“I got you, baby. I got you. Keep moaning my name like that, and I’ll give you the world”

Those whispered words stayed on your lips, lingering, as Johnny left you. His touch wasn’t gone long. Fingers curling into your shorts, they were discarded across the room in a flash, panties gone with them as well.

For the first time, you laid completely bare in front of the man you loved–the man you denied loving for so long. And Johnny Storm was a mess. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, skin flushed, but he was still beautiful. The most beautiful man you’d ever met, inside and out.

Johnny didn’t give you a second to truly breathe once he was done admiring you. He sprawled out along the end of the bed, head dipping between your thighs, as he licked a single stripe with his flattened tongue directly up your center.

“Fucking beautiful, and all mine,” his words were growled into your core, two fingers lazily moving between your folds and spreading every ounce of wetness around, holding you open so he could see every inch of you. “Sweeter than I ever dreamed you could be.”

He dove into you like you were the only thing that mattered. Fingers spreading you open, giving him access to every square inch, his mouth devoured you. A cool drink of water for a starving man in the middle of the desert. Johnny moved his tongue with precise expertise, as if he knew exactly what your body craved.

Delving into you, flicking back and forth as he drank in every secretion of arousal that dripped from you. That same tongue dragged its way up to your clit, swirling around in figure eights, flicking back and forth.

Cries fell from your lips wantonly, hands digging into his hair. Eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the ceiling, there was only one word you could repeat over and over again: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. 

His name was all you knew anymore, too lost in your own bliss and pleasure.

In one fell swoop, your thighs were settled over his shoulders, before his head was back where you wanted it more than anything. His lips and tongue focused on your clit, still swirling back and forth, as his fingers dipped slightly lower, dancing right across your opening.

It started with one long, slender finger sliding into you. One of your hands was forced to leave Johnny’s hair, falling over your own mouth to try and conceal the cry that threatened to burst from you, afraid that the others would hear you.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he laughed against your core, his finger curling just perfectly against your walls as they clenched around him every time he dragged his finger back and forth. “Want to hear you.”

“Don’t want to–fucking hell, Johnny–let the others hear,” 

“Let them. Let them hear me love you,”

Fuck Johnny Storm and his stupid lines. His stupid dirty talk that had your walls clenching around him again and again.

Another finger joined the first, followed by another, before you were stretched as wide as you could be around Johnny. The squelch of your juices rung through the air with every move of his fingers–dragging so deliciously into you, curling up, before dragging out just to the edge of your opening. His mouth–god, his mouth–never let up, lapping away at your core like it was his job, what he was meant to do.

That coil of pleasure deep within your lower body came out of nowhere, sneaking up on you just like your love for this man had.

“Johnny–baby–I can’t. I can’t–I’m gonna-”

“Let go, darling,” came that growl in his voice again, the speed of his fingers increasing. “I got you baby, let go.”

That coil snapped in seconds after he spoke. The precipice of your orgasm was earth-shattering, like you’d never felt before. Like trails of fire through your veins, the pleasure coursing through you had your head buried into the pillow behind your head, desperately trying to conceal the wails of pleasure that tumbled from your lips. Your thighs snapped shut around Johnny’s head, but his ministrations never let up as he eagerly drank up every bit of your arousal that leaked from you.

The come down was slow, like waking up. Your breath was uneven, heart beating erratically when you finally pulled your head from the pillow. Eyes bleary, it took a moment to blink them back to life.

Johnny stood at the edge of the bed, discarding his pants and boxers to the pile of clothing littering the other side of the room. And even in your fucked-out, blissful state, one look at him for the first time had that burning desire coursing back through your veins.

He was big. There was no way around it, no denying it, no other way to put it. Flushed, hanging with that beautiful reddened tip, one large and prominent vein throbbing along the edge of it. Beads of precum collected at the tip, his hand smearing it down along his length as he gave himself one single pump before he was crawling back onto the bed.

Johnny knelt between your legs again. Even with limbs that felt like Jell-O, you met him halfway, dragging yourself into a seated position. It was the smile on his face right now, the one erupting those butterflies once more, that you decided was your favorite: soft, adoring, loving.

It was your hands that cupped his cheeks, bringing him into a soft kiss. The taste of you lingered on his lips, sweet just like he said. You poured every ounce of emotion into your kiss, trying to convey to him the years you’d spent loving him so quietly that you couldn’t admit it.

“I might be addicted to you, Johnny Storm,” your words were mumbled into his lips. He laughed so gently, stealing another peck.

“Glad you finally caught up with me, princess, I’ve been addicted since day one,”

Pressed to him, his lips stealing a thousand pecks from yours, the lust in your bones was back in full force. All you could do was hum in response, one of your hands trailing down his chest, nails dragging slowly over his abdomen, before you finally took his throbbing cock in your hand.

He felt even bigger than he looked, which didn’t even make sense in your mind. But he was hot, the skin searing into your hand in the best way. You gave him one squeeze, one tug, and you smiled at the hitch in his breath. The twitch of his cock in your hold.

Johnny’s hand quickly grabbed yours, though, unlatching it from him. All you could do was shake your head, practically whining as you tried to take your hand back.

“Johnny-”

“God, it’s so hot how eager you are to touch me,” he laughed again, tilting his head to leave a single kiss to the column of your throat. “This is about you, doll. Save that for next time. It can be a ‘welcome home from space’ gift for me. A ‘thanks for saving the world’ gift, if you will.”

Space. 

That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.

You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.

“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”

You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.

Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.

“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.

He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.

“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”

The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.

His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.

“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”

His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.

His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.

All that mattered was Johnny Storm.

“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”

“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”

“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”

There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.

Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.

His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.

He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been

“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.

His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.

“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”

You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.

“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”

Your second climax burned hotter than the first.

The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.

He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.

Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.

On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.

None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.

You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.

Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.

Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.

“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.

“I don’t think I would, either,”

His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.

With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.

I guess I'll never know the reason why, you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.

You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”

It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.

He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.

“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”

He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.

But Johnny Storm loved you. For now, in the quiet of the night, just between the two of you, that’s enough.

[exuber]

come back to bed

pairing: johnny storm x gn!reader

summary: johnny helps reader fall asleep on a restless night. (wc: 1.5K)

contains: reader has insomnia, mention of sleeping meds not working, johnny being a sweetheart, hurt/comfort.

The city had finally gone quiet.

It was a rare thing, New York still and hushed beneath a black sky. From the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline glittered with a scatter of lights that shimmered like stars had forgotten where the sky ended.

Inside the Baxter Building, the rooms were dark and quiet, except for the low buzz of a city that never sleeps.

You couldn’t sleep either.

The sheets were warm and soft against your skin, disturbed only by the gentle rise and fall of the man beside you. Johnny slept like someone who trusted the world. One arm thrown carelessly over his head, the other half-curled like he might reach for you even in his dreams. His face was peaceful, lit faintly by moonlight, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheek.

You watched him for a while, hoping maybe the rhythm of his breath would pull you under too.

It didn’t. It hadn’t for weeks.

The sleeping meds had worked at first. The calm, drowsy lull had been a relief, until they’d stopped working, gradually, like a tide pulling back without warning. Now your thoughts stayed up long past dusk, pacing the edges of reason. You had learned not to wake Johnny. He already worried enough.

So you moved quietly.

The sheets whispered as you slid out of them, rising in one smooth motion, barefoot and silent on the polished floor. You padded to the edge of the room, where a glass door led to the balcony perched high above the city.

The night air kissed your skin, cold and sharp. You stepped outside, wrapping your arms around yourself as you leaned against the railing, looking out. The city shimmered below like a living circuit board.

From this high up, you’d think it would all feel lighter. That all the expectations, the worries, the fears, would feel less. But it doesn’t. It sticks with you no matter where you go, always inside you.

You don’t hear the door open behind you. Just feel it — a shift in the air, the flicker of warmth that doesn’t belong to the cold night.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”

You turn toward the voice.

Johnny stands in the doorway, his hair a soft mess, pyjamas pants riding low on his hips. He lifts a hand slightly, and at his fingertip, a flame dances small, golden, alive. It throws warm shadows across his face, lighting his frame in the darkness.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say.

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, stepping forward. “You just weren’t there.”

He comes to stand beside you, the flame still flickering like a lantern he’s carried through the dark to find you.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just flicks the flame out and leans on the railing, his arms folded loosely. The dark returns, broken only by the city lights below.

“It’s the meds again?”

You nod, not looking at him. “They stopped working.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asks softly.

You shrug, arms still wrapped around yourself. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

Johnny exhales softly, and when you glance over, his brow is furrowed, not angry, just worried. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to see the parts you’re keeping tucked away.

“Everything about you is a thing to me,” he says, voice low. “You hurting? Definitely a thing.”

You don’t answer right away. It’s hard to, with your throat tightening like that. So you just look back out, watching the city flicker, pretending the wind is what makes your eyes sting.

Then his hand finds yours. He laces your fingers together, the heat of his palm soaking into your skin. A quiet, grounding warmth.

You let out a slow breath, one that’s been caught in your ribs for too long. And for a moment, you don’t feel like you’re falling through your thoughts anymore. You’re here. Warm. Held.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”

Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be. “I know.”

You turn toward him slightly, as he lifts a hand to your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye, delicate, absentminded. Like he’s learning your face all over again in the dark.

He kisses your temple first. Then the curve of your jaw. Then, when you turn your head just slightly to meet him, he kisses your lips.

It’s slow, like he’s not in a rush. Like you’re the only thing he wants to focus on right now. The kind of kiss that anchors you. One that says, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

When he pulls back, your forehead stays pressed to his.

“Come back to bed,” he murmurs. “It’s freezing.”

“I’ll just lie there again.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, soft and sure. “Not if I help.”

The thing inside you — tight, anxious, wired — is still buzzing, but it slows a little at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t push again. Just lets the words hang there, hand still on your cheek like he’s holding you in place without holding you down.

Eventually, you nod.

He guides you inside gently, his hand on the small of your back. He lets go only long enough to close the balcony door, then guides you further into the room. He moves with certainty, like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to coax you out of the corners your mind gets trapped in.

He moves toward the corner of the room where his turntable sits on its stand, a record collection stacked neatly beneath it.

He flips through the records with practiced ease, finally settling on one he knows you love. Soft, calming instrumentals that sounds like they were written for this hour.

“C’mere,” he says gently, guiding you back to the bed. The sheets are still rumpled from before. He pulls back the covers and slides in, then opens his arms without a word.

You go without hesitation.

You curl in facing him, your forehead nearly brushing his, noses almost touching. His arm wraps around your waist, fingers resting at the small of your back, thumb making lazy circles like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

The record plays low from across the room, soothing your mind.

You don’t talk much after that. You just breathe together. His hand at your back, your hand on his chest. His thumb still moving in that slow, grounding way. The world shrinks down to that space between you, a few inches of shared air, his breath warm against your lips, the soft rustle of sheets as your bodies shift closer without even thinking.

At some point, your eyes flutter closed.

The buzzing in your chest quiets, not gone, but soothed. The thoughts don’t claw so hard. The inside of your head doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore.

You feel his lips brush your forehead, light as a feather. Then the bridge of your nose. Finally, he rests his own forehead against yours, like there’s no place he’d rather be.

Still breathing. Still holding you.

And eventually, impossibly, you do fall asleep.

Not because everything is fixed.

But because you don’t have to face it alone.

[exuber]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[exuber]

charm on!

johnny storm x fem!reader

word count. 2.4k

summary. undertaking an internship as reed’s lab assistant, johnny is baffled as to why he hasn’t been introduced to you sooner.

notes. no spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, fluff in general, banter and some flirting, johnny’s down bad, reader plays hard to get, reed and herbie make appearances.

images found on pinterest & divider by saradika

“How’s it coming along?”

The smooth baritone of Reed’s voice ended the long-running silence, prompting you to glance away from the workbench. It was a temporary relief from the disarray of various mechanical tools and entanglement of wires, a sight that gradually tired your eyes during every lab session.

“Good,” you replied, despite the weariness seeping in. 

After all, working under the smartest man alive was an incredibly rare feat—and you didn’t tirelessly prove your intellectual capabilities to earn such a position for nothing. You held onto the honour of this job, and for the love of pursuing greater, unprecedented things in the name of science.

“Charges are all set,” you continued, noticing more equations and formulas had now cramped the blackboard, “I just need to recouple these wires and we’re good to go.”

With his set position of having his hands on his hips, Reed gave a firm nod. “I had Ben help to buy a dozen more eggs, so it’ll be alright if we break a few.” Then, a small smile appeared on his own exhausted features. “Nice job.”

You beamed, your chest swelling with pride. You had learned that Reed Richards was never really one for conversations in the lab—always opting to keep them short and functional—but there was always a kindness when he spoke, and you conducted your work in agreeable silence knowing your employer was a pleasant man.

Just as you were about to swivel in your chair, he spoke again.

“By the way, Sue’s been asking if you’d like to join us for Sunday dinner.”

You perked up then, raising your eyebrows. You hadn’t met the others yet—knowing the Baxter Building was also the Fantastic Four’s place of residence, you never wanted to intrude on the privacy of America’s most beloved superheroes. From the very beginning, you were trusted to take the elevator without an escort, and Reed had kindly offered you access to the kitchen if you wanted more coffee. Yet, you only stayed on the floor of the lab throughout the day, and Herbie, the household’s robot companion, was instead out to fetch more coffee upon your earlier request.

You gave a tentative shrug. “I really appreciate the invitation, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You won’t be.” Reed’s words came without hesitation, affirmed by his soft smile. “In fact, she seems really excited to meet you.”

Your heart did a flip beneath your ribcage. Sue Storm was excited to meet you, of all people? If anything, you had been dying to meet the remarkable woman yourself—but only under the appropriate circumstances, of course.

Attempting to keep it cool, there was a pause before you let out a quiet sigh. “Well, I’ll have to see—I dedicate a large portion of the weekends developing prototypes of my own.”

“Oh? I hope that’s not my work ethic rubbing off on you,” Reed replied, his lips quirking upwards, as if to tease. “I’m certain you can make room for us. It’s not every day you get to have dinner with cosmically enhanced beings.”

“World-renowned, cosmically enhanced beings,” you added with amusement, now enjoying the extended conversation. Turning back to the messy workbench, you readjusted your gloves and safety glasses, picking up your tools once more. “You’re right. Although, you still seem pretty human to me.”

A soft chuckle sounded from behind. You got back to work, though not without some warm exchanges interspersed as Reed asked about your own scientific endeavours, pausing to scan some research papers every now and then, the chalk knocking against the blackboard.

Soon enough, the familiar whirs and whizzes returned to the lab. Herbie carried a tray in his hands, whirling over to where you sat. You took your replenished mug, and in gratitude scratched his metallic head, to which he made a gleeful noise.

A few moments passed. Eyebrows screwed tight in concentration, you had moved on to handling a delicate set of wires. Then, across the room, you heard the robotic chatter, followed by a hint of irritation to Reed’s voice.

“Who’s coming to see me?”

The elevator pinged.

“Reed!”

You nearly jumped out of your seat. The electrical circuit threatened to crackle.

Annoyance flashed through Reed’s tone. “Not now, Johnny—”

The man only breezed past the workbench. “I’m bored out of my mind. Have you received any transmissions as of—” He halted in his tracks, body stiffening as he whipped his head around.

You met his eyes.

Johnny Storm.

A name that involuntarily crossed your mind sometimes—perhaps too often. It wasn’t your fault that the ridiculous billboard stared through the window of your apartment, one of the first things you’d see when you awoke, and the daily, unsolicited gossip that floated through your local bakery. At the supermarket, it was hard to miss his face, along with the rest of the quartet—plastered onto cereal boxes too high in sugar to be considered nutritious. Even as you made your way home in the evenings, you’d see children scampering around the streets, action figures of him soaring through the air, while mothers yelled from the windows to return for dinner.

In truth, Johnny Storm was a name abound in every corner, even if you weren’t looking. And now that he was up front, one thing was for sure—

You could see why the ladies went crazy for him. He was just as attractive as they raved about.

Bummer. If only he wasn’t so much of a womaniser, from what you had also gathered. 

Something must’ve been running through his head as well. But the moment failed to last when white hot sparks sputtered in your peripheral vision. You snapped back to attention, muttering an expletive as you quickly tended to the live wires before anything catastrophic could happen.

It was as if you had almost forgotten. This was why you never allowed such distractions.

“—No, and I would tell you if I did,” Reed answered then, a little curt.

From the corner of your eye, you could see Johnny making his way towards the blackboard, with a newfound eagerness in his strides. Reed was nudged by the shoulder, and there was an awkward scuffle of movement as the two inched further back in the lab. Despite their voices growing hushed, it was still audible for your ears.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Who—who’s that?”

“She’s my lab assistant,” Reed answered plainly, attempting to move when Johnny blocked him.

“Lab assistant?” The latter's tone was incredulous. “Since when did you have a lab assistant?”

“About two weeks ago. She’s serving her internship—”

“Two weeks?”

There was a weary sigh following the dramatic exclamation. “Look, Johnny—we’re running tests here. So unless it’s important—”

“And you’ve never thought of telling me this?”

“Well, I didn’t realise there was a need to,” Reed deadpanned. “You barely work in the lab. Would it make much of a difference?”

Johnny slapped a hand across his own chest, as though offended. “Uh—huge difference, man.” 

“Besides, I knew you’d act like this.”

“Act like what?”

Reed’s frown deepened. “You know what I mean. Don’t distract my assistant.”

Johnny huffed out a laugh. “Oh, c’mon. You both have probably been working for hours. I doubt you even gave her breaks. Can’t spare a moment?”

He gave a firm pat on Reed’s shoulder then. Soon, you heard a set of footsteps approaching. When you looked up, the initial surprise on his face was now rewritten with a smirk tugging on his boyish features—a signature look meant to charm.

A part of you didn’t want to let it work so easily.

From the back of the lab, Reed had pinched the space between his eyebrows. He had Herbie reorganise a stack of research papers, and eventually he returned to the blackboard, rolling up his sleeves.

“Hey.”

A hint of mischief twinkled in Johnny’s eyes.

“Hi,” you replied, safely setting down your equipment.

He sat himself atop what little space was left on the workbench, casually moving bits and pieces aside, his lips twitching upwards. “I’m Johnny—” A hand waved vaguely in the air. “But I’m guessing you’ve already heard of me.”

You offered nothing more than a perfunctory smile. “Yes, I have.”

He must’ve sensed your guardedness then, because his smirk faltered a little. 

Nevertheless, it didn’t seem to entirely discourage him. “So,” he continued, “you must be really special. I’ve never known Reed to be the collaborative type—or at least, he gets all antsy when I touch his equipment.”

“I thought you barely work in the lab?”

His lips parted, telling of the conversation you weren’t exactly supposed to hear. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Well, every once in a while there’s a few deep space transmissions we intercept. I like to analyse those.”

You simply hummed in acknowledgement, turning your attention back to the prototype, nimble hands picking up where you left off.

You could feel Johnny’s intent gaze, as if he had wanted something more out of the exchange. Then, he crossed his arms, deliberately leaning closer. You immediately felt a small rise in heat kissing your skin.

He peered low, as if trying to meet your eyes. “What, uh, have you been working on for Reed?”

You continued maneuvering the wires with steadfast focus. “Bridge teleportation.” Then, falling into a familiar rhythm of smooth explanation, “It’s still early. We’re experimenting with eggs—currently at two metres. I’m just rewiring the baseplates so we can increase the distance.”

“Cool.” You could hear the smile in Johnny’s voice. “Really cool.” His fingers drummed against the workbench. There was a beat before he spoke again. “Hey, how long’s your internship for?”

You only answered after a moment. “Six months, give or take.”

“Oh, sweet.” Johnny suddenly cleared his throat, as if trying to conceal his excitement. “I mean, that’s plenty of time if you wanna, y’know—” He shrugged then, a mediocre attempt at nonchalance. “Hang out or something.”

Hang out.

Johnny Storm wanted to hang out.

You could’ve laughed then. He wasn’t exactly subtle with his advances. If anything, you were flattered—and dare say maybe a little interested—but it was a frivolous prospect, and nothing but a huge distraction from your work. You had no doubt Johnny was an admirable superhero, and had appreciation for all the times he helped to save the city, but he also had a complicated reputation for toying with hearts. You didn’t want to somehow end up being hurt.

“I don’t know.” You leaned back against your seat, taking off your safety glasses and situating them on top of your head. “I’m pretty busy, so—”

He cut in, ever determined. “You don’t get bored? Being stuck here, doing this all day?”

“As a matter of fact,” you replied coolly, gesturing vaguely at the workbench, “I like what I do.” 

Johnny paused for a beat, though the corners of his mouth were still curled, a smile fixed at his features. He dropped his head, huffing out a laugh. “Okay, I see what this is—” He snuck a glance at Reed, who was too busy scribbling on the blackboard to notice. Then, in a slightly softer voice, “Did he warn you about me or something?”

You levelled with his tone. “No, you’re never really mentioned.” 

Johnny flattened his expression, half-amused. Of course, Reed wouldn’t.

You sucked in a breath then, deciding for a moment of honesty. “Besides, the papers, the press—a lot’s already been… said.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shot him a deadpan look. Surely, he knew.

“Womanising tendencies. Likes to flirt—”

“Oh, please.” He was quick to roll his eyes, but a playfulness still remained. “I like a lot more than that.”

“Really?” you questioned, a slight teasing edge now making its way into your voice. “Like what?”

His answer was quick-fire. “Rock ballads, automobiles—” Then, eyeing you with a smirk, “Intelligent women.”

You scoffed lightly. It was as if he was expecting you to swoon then, what with his smug expression. Though, a heat had crept up your cheeks. “Hm. They aren’t wrong either—you are quite charming.”

“Oh, good. I thought I lost it for a second.”

You returned an eyeroll, to which Johnny only grinned. It was only until a moment passed that you realised what had just happened—you had been flirting. It was harmless, you knew, but you couldn’t help but suddenly feel insecure at the idea.

“I expect that also means you’ve broken a lot of hearts.”

“Well—” Johnny shifted in his position, a little caught off guard by the change in tone. “Trust me, it goes both ways.” His lips pressed into a line.

He fiddled with his fingers, and for once, a silence fell upon you two.

You took it as a sign to call Reed over to let him know you were done. But just as you stood from your chair, feeling a slight ache in your back muscles from having sat too long, Johnny moved as well.

“Hey, um—” His voice was tentative, and this time you felt a lack of preparation to his words. “Look, I’m sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression. You seem really cool, and I’d really just like to get to know you—as a person.”

Warmness involuntarily seeped into your heart. A sincerity reflected in Johnny’s blue eyes, and the way they softened—you had a feeling you were going to be in trouble sooner or later, knowing his gaze alone was capable of forming a crack on the walls you’ve built.

The word came easily. “Okay.”

His smile reappeared immediately. Relief flooded his chest. “Awesome.” Playfully, Johnny added, “That doofus has been keeping you to himself for too long.”

A soft chuckle escaped you in response.

“You two done flirting?”

As if on cue, Reed’s unamused voice cut through the air. His gaze had swept over his writings, before he turned to face you both, hands squared on his hips. 

Johnny couldn’t suppress his usual smirk. “You practically allowed it to happen.”

Reed furrowed his eyebrows. “I was hoping it’d stop on its own.” Judging by his tired expression, he must’ve tolerated his brother-in-law’s antics one too many times. He let out an exasperated sigh. “If you would excuse us, Johnny, we’ve got work to do.”

Then, Reed moved to the other end of the room, Herbie excitedly trailing behind, the pair gathering a few things in preparation.

Left alone for a brief moment, Johnny swayed lightly from side to side, his hands behind his back. “So,” he started, meeting your gaze as a mischief resurfaced in his eyes, “I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

You were already in so much trouble.

A voice called out, urging him to leave once more.

Johnny elicited a sharp exhale, rolling his eyes. But just before he headed towards the elevator doors, he threw you a wink, and a promising statement. “If you ever get sick of Reed, I’m just three floors above.”

author’s notes. i love the new movie’s take on johnny storm, his character is so endearing! i know he’s usually depicted as a womaniser but i love that the movie shows so much more to him. i think it’ll be really interesting to write reader as someone who initially misunderstands him and is more hesitant, and i might have a few more ideas and cute scenarios to potentially progress the story! thank you for reading as always 🫶🏻

[exuber]

The Hunt - morning

Pairing: Frankie Morales & fem!reader Rating: G for General  warnings: mentions of dead animals. word count: 732 Summary: Frankie takes a job as a park ranger after Colombia. He soon realizes that danger lurks in every corner - human or not. A/N: it's been a HOT minute so I'm not sure what I'm doing exactly but it's been so refreshing jumping back into writing. This has been sitting in my drive for the longest so I figured it's time for it to see the light of day. Pulled some inspiration from The Descent. I am not a wilderness expert!!! Didn't consider myself a Frankie girly but he's got potential. Credits to the gif creator and @saradika for the fic divider. Hope y'all enjoy :)

The Appalachian trail is considered one of the most popular hiking trails in the world. With its lush greenery and inspiring views, it’s no wonder why an estimated three million outdoor aficionados visit each year.  

The soothing whistle of the wind. 

The restorative bubbling springs. 

The charming and varied wildlife. 

To the wandering eye, it was beautiful. To those who knew, it was horrifying. 

It had taken Frankie some bribing to get him to commit to the job. The original ploy was that Will would join him and the two would have idyllic views, serene silence and all the free food they could ask for. It seemed too good to be true, all of these perks plus free lodging and a monthly stipend. 

He guessed it couldn’t hurt to spend the summer in the mountains and as long as Will was with him, it’d allow the time to pass. Out of all his brothers, he and Will were the most alike. Stoic with a keen sense of dry humor, bound together through unimaginable circumstances. 

Perfect. 

Except Will now had a girlfriend who was a bit too touchy for Frankie’s taste. Her family came from the richer side of the tracks and spent their summers on the seas. She masterfully held in her distaste at the announcement that Will wanted to take up the park security position and that out of all the people that could join him, it would be Frankie. He knew she didn’t care for any of them, Benny and Santiago included. She refused to stick around for Benny’s fights and when Will introduced them, she didn’t dare shake his hand. 

So it didn’t shock Frankie that in the morning he and Will were due to head out, he received a text from the blonde headed man saying he’d have to venture on without him. 

Anna wants me to meet the parents. I owe you one. 

Bastard. 

Frankie could always just not go. He wasn’t the main point of contact for the head of park security, who happened to be a friend of Will’s, so he figured there were no real consequences. However, staying meant having to deal with Charity from the bar and he didn’t have the energy. She was a great girl, he was sure, but one drunken night that should’ve never happened turned into a half assed “relationship”.

Taking one last look around his shoddy home, Frankie closes the front door swiftly, double checking the lock before throwing his bags into the hood of his truck.

The first month was boring as shit. Frankie would run the same routine everyday, hoping that someone would throw a wrench in his plans but for once, all park goers were on their best behavior. He found ways to keep himself occupied: Reading and quizzing himself on the employee manual, completing several one thousand piece puzzles, organizing the mess the last person left behind. 

It was mundane and drove him mad. He enjoyed the quiet but too often he’d find himself sweaty and short of breath due to the constant night terrors. Sometimes he thinks he sees Redfly in the shadows of his room but he knows how crazy it sounds. To help bury the past, Frankie becomes a regular at the dive bar. It was shitty but had a local charm and cheap booze. What more could you ask for? 

Another month would go by before people started warming up to the ex-soldier. The judgy stares and barely hushed whispers turned into inviting smiles and loud conversation. The duo of army veterans welcomed him with open arms, recounting stories of the good ole’ days in-between bottles of beer. Frankie refrained from sharing too much of his time in the service, proving to be an excellent listener to Al and Reggie. 

On a warm night like any other, Frankie was throwing back his last bottle when he spotted her out of the corner of his eye. 

A lot can be assumed upon looking at Irene Awahi, given her stern face and austere personality. Underneath the uniform and brief interactions, people would look at Irene as a pillar within the community. She was fair, intelligent and did her duties well. For the elderly who had lived in the area their whole life, they knew her as the inquisitive young girl who followed on the heels of her father. Her light dimmed a lot after he had passed and town gossip would have you believe that she never got over it. Irene would just tell you to mind your fucking business. 

Frankie was drawn to her immediately. He was always partial to a woman who could carry her own, was steadfast and took no shit. 

Irene rejected him the first three times she even got a hint that he was coming onto her. Neither of them are sure what happened the fourth time except that Irene awoke at his, panties ripped and phone dead. 

The awkward tango continued between them, complete with stolen glances and buried emotions. Frankie had met his match. 

Irene woke up before him, making them both coffee before getting dressed to head into work. Frankie quietly regards her as she puts on her clothing, appreciating the care that went into her appearance. Irene had always insisted on staying over at Frankie’s, they were less likely to get caught and made to feel like scandalous teenagers than two consenting adults. 

Little conversation was had as they both prepared to face the day. Others might have felt the need to fill the void with useless chatter but Frankie enjoyed their shared peace. Except this morning was complete and utter torture. 

Things were different last night. Irene had called and invited him over. She was unlike herself, clingy and temperamental. Frankie had tried to get to the bottom of her attitude but she began to cry and begged for his touch, so he gave in. Long after she was asleep, Frankie remained awake, mind wandering. 

He knew that this was likely a temporary arrangement, one he was happy to agree to but his hands got sweaty every time she was near and he found himself caring about the things he said and did in front of her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get her to open up to him. Frankie could see through her clear as day, even though Irene refused to look in the mirror.

Frankie clears his throat. “Long day today?”

Irene shrugs, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. “Probably. What’s the date again?” 

Frankie taps his phone, screen lighting up with a picture of him and his brothers. “It’s the 9th.” 

Irene’s fingers stop for a brief second before continuing. She’s swift in the rest of her movements, grabbing her keys and phone before standing beside the door. “Let yourself out, yeah?” 

“Irene-” 

She shakes her head, eyes boring into Frankie’s. “Not today, Frank. We’ll talk soon, I promise.” 

Irene doesn’t wait for a response and sets off. Frankie exits a few moments after, careful as he locks up. 

“So much for an uneventful day.” He mutters to himself, driving off back to his own station.

Frankie thought he was seeing shit at first. Sure, it was early in the morning and he was in an area crawling with hikers but this was different. This didn’t look like a typical hiker. 

You stand in the middle of the road, chest heaving from your run. It had been a difficult journey and the first glimpse of a road had you clawing your way through the bushland. You had zero clue of where you were, what day or time it was. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that you had survived and would live to tell the tale. That is, if anyone believed you. 

The roar of a truck approaching startles you but you make no movement to get out of the road. After making it through a literal nightmare, getting taken out by a truck actually made you grin. 

The vehicle slowed down and a few feet from where you stood, it came to a stop.

A man exits. 

“Hey,” Frankie yells out. “Are you ok?” 

You stop in your tracks, keeping your distance. The man’s hand was grasping something tightly and the last thing you needed was to get shot because a sudden movement caught him off guard.

Raising your hands slowly by your head, you inch a few more steps forward, just enough so that you are in a better line of sight. 

His eyes flew around your figure furiously, assessing every inch of your body. You were bruised, clothes clinging onto you haphazardly that had been cut by bushes and tree branches. Frankie could tell that you were in a state of shock, given your slight whimper when he called out to you. 

You hadn’t heard a human’s voice that wasn’t wrapped up in a scream or choked grunt in a while.  

Frankie looks to his right and then his left, ensuring that you were alone. He had seen many things and battered women being used as bait wasn’t a usual trick but one he had experienced before. 

“You by yourself?” 

You nod. He lessens his hold on what you could now make out as a gun, tucking it in the back of his pants. 

“You lyin’ to me?” He probes. You shake your head, remaining as calm as you could. He seems to believe you because he eventually comes to stand closer to you. As his dark brown eyes rake over your face, they widen in slight recognition. He stalks backwards a few steps before motioning to his truck. You don’t move. 

“Listen, I’m not some random fucking creep. I work for the park and can take you someplace safe, I promise. I’m here to help.” 

If he was a creep, he was a pretty good looking one. Plus if he wanted to hurt you, he would’ve done so by now. It has been difficult to differentiate between realities lately, the one you had always known versus the one you were forced to believe in during your time out in the woods. Frankie seemed genuine in his concern and whether you liked it or not, he was the only option at getting help.

The cold leather of the couch irritates the skin of your thighs. It had been a while since you sat in an actual chair. Being out there for as long as you had, everything seemed weird and out of place. The man who had found you, Frankie, looked worse for wear. Reflecting upon him under the fluorescent lights, he reminded you of one of those hardened cowboys from the westerns. The grays seeped into his beard and hair, stuffed under a tattered baseball cap. He had a consistent tick in his jaw, mouth always fixed in a permanent pout. 

Frankie had asked the basic questions while he drove back to his station, only stopping to make a quick phone call. Given the remoteness of the area, calling for an ambulance could have you waiting for a while and you assured him that you weren’t gravely hurt so there was no need. It wasn’t as bad as it looked and you looked like shit. 

After arriving, he pulled out a first aid kit, working his way efficiently through the different materials inside. You were impressed by his knowledge but figured he had to know first aid, he wouldn’t have made a good ranger if he didn’t. 

 Frankie remembers then that he hasn’t offered you anything to eat or drink, rushing into the tiny kitchenette. He returns with a glass of water and a few granola bars. He leaves them on the coffee table in front of you before returning to leaning against the wall across from you. 

His radio crackles to life at the same time that his cell phone rings and he excuses himself, squeezing into the office space, leaving the door ajar. 

After what feels like hours, the side door to the cabin opens and a woman enters the room. You watch Frankie visibly relax, shifting out of his stance to greet her. She was gorgeous, even in a work uniform. Her hair reminded you of ink, given how fine and straight it was. You wondered what her secret was for keeping it so neat, especially in the southern humidity. 

She exchanges fast and hushed words with Frankie, throwing occasional glances in your direction. You pretended not to be invested in their conversation, examining the cabin instead. It was bare, tidy and quaint. There were a few paperback books on the other side of the couch, one of them a park guidebook. He kept much of his personal effects packed away in his suitcase, ready for departure at the drop of a pin. 

The whispers cease and you turn to face the duo, meeting their hard stares. 

“My name is Irene Ahawi, I’m one of the lead rangers in this park. Francisco tells me he found you out by the Montague trail, is that correct?” 

Francisco? You nod your head, swallowing thickly. Irene nods along with you, pink tongue peaking out from behind her lips. 

“You’re a ways from where you’re supposed to be.” 

If you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed the hint of accusation in her tone. 

“We got a call from the sheriff from a few towns over a few weeks ago, he mentioned something about a pair of missing hikers who went off trail, likely to end up around these parts.” 

Frankie’s eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked. You could feel his calculated stare penetrating your being, curious as to what he was thinking. 

“My sister and I take a hiking trip every summer. She starts medical school in the fall, so we figured this would be our last hoorah. We were only supposed to be gone for a week but things got weird halfway through our trip so we turned back. We tried our best to retrace our steps but realized that we weren’t on the same path as before.” 

“Where’s your sister now?” 

You open your mouth and nothing but a strangled cough comes out. You instantly close it, reaching for the bottle of water instead. 

Frankie doesn’t say anything about the dried blood underneath your fingernails and neither do you. 

“Well?” Irene queries again. 

You don’t meet her eye line as you answer. “I don’t know.” 

Irene huffs, cutting her eye at Frankie before looking back at you. “I’ve called the authorities, we’ll meet them-” 

A shrill ring cuts through the air and you yelp, covering your mouth with your hands upon realizing it’s just Irene’s phone ringing. She answers with haste. 

“Go for Ahawi.” 

You and Frankie both remain silent while Irene listens to the panicked voice on the line, gears working overtime as she tries to comprehend what’s being said. “I’m on my way.” 

“What the hell is going on?” 

Irene doesn’t look at Frankie as she dials another number, yanking the front door open. “We’ve got a situation. They need my help.” 

Frankie grits his teeth. “And what about this one?”

“Just take her down to the station. I’m sure the guys there will do the rest.” 

Frankie follows Irene out like a lost puppy, a striking contrast to his demeanor with you. They make it to Irene’s jeep before he stops her. 

“Hey,” his voice softens, shoulders sagging. He places a gentle hand on her forearm.“Be careful out there. I can’t explain it but something’s not right.” 

Irene gazes out into the vast thicket, mind briefly clouded. The need to give into Frankie’s touch caused her insides to twitch but she knew better. This was official business and the lives of others depended on her being fully intact. Irene couldn’t let another man get in the way of her career. 

She gives the yearning man a tight smile before shaking his hand off her arm. “I can take care of myself. Keep your ringer on in case of emergencies.” 

With that, Irene hastily jumps into her vehicle and takes off. Frankie watches her go, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. Reverting back to his regular sour mood, he returns to the house where you remained in your seat, head snapping away from the door to prove you weren’t eavesdropping. 

“Your girlfriend’s mean.” you comment quietly, attempting to break the icy silence. 

“Get in the damn truck.” 

The tires of Irene’s Jeep grinds the soil and gravel as she screeches to a halt, pulling alongside two police cars parked shy off the main road. The red and blue hues bounced playfully off her rich brown skin, emphasizing her exhaustion. Yellow tape creates a perimeter around the scene, more bodies in uniforms scattered around it.

One of the newer recruits to the force closes in on her, an eager skip in his step. His first taste of real action, she thought. 

“Hi, Ranger Ahawi. Thanks for coming down on such short notice.” 

Irene smirks. She remembers the first few months of working at the park. Bright-eyed, bushy tailed and a can-do attitude that would have solved world hunger and then some. That got beat out her real quick. “How you doin’, Warner?” 

Warner looks back at the scene, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Uh, well, I’ve had better days. Happy I haven’t had breakfast yet.” 

Irene raises an eyebrow.

“I can’t explain, could you just-” he gestures for her to follow him. Irene wasn’t able to describe the feeling that overcame her the moment she took a step forward but it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water all over her. The hairs along her neck stood frozen, goosebumps pimpling their way down her arms. As they inched closer, Irene could make out Kai. He stood further out from the rest, grand figure leaning against a tree. Head bent and covered by his hat, the cigarette butt illuminates his face in a soft glow. 

Irene turns her head before Kai could catch her staring, focusing back on the situation at hand. Warner lifts up the yellow tape and Irene dips under, hand swiftly covering her nose. The stench of rotten flesh and death pummels all her senses, bile threatening to rise from her throat. 

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you.” Warner utters. “I've never seen anything like it.” 

He could say that again. Sprawled out in front of them was something lifted straight out of a horror movie. At least half a dozen of white tail deer had been slaughtered mercilessly, carcasses strewn about haphazardly, a handful of bones missing. Irene takes her time as she surveys the scene, careful to sweep her eye over every detail. 

Warner studies her profile. “What do you think could’ve done this? I ruled out larger predators like bears or coyotes, they’re neat eaters compared to this. Definitely not done by humans.” 

He could say that again. 

“When was this called in and by who?” Irene questions. 

Warner tips his head back in the direction of Kai. Fuck. 

“He did, about an hour ago.” 

Irene clears her throat, patting Warner on the back. “Thanks for your work. Make sure to keep the area clean and clear of tourists. I don’t want this getting leaked to the press if we can help it.” 

“On it.” Warner nods. Irene exhales audibly before marching up to the emotionless man. 

He doesn’t move when she finally approaches him, stare fixed on the ground, cigarette perched in a calloused hand. 

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” 

Silence befalls them, the smoke from the stick billowing in the air.

 Finally, he speaks. “The kid is nice. Reminds me of you.” 

Irene posts up against the tree adjacent to Kai. “You shouldn’t be out here.” Irene points to Kai’s ankle. “How you even got this far with that on is beyond me.” 

Kai glances down at the thick black monitor strapped around his left ankle. “Today is her birthday.” 

“I-I’m sorry.” Irene stutters. The weight of the vast forest presses down on her, anxiety manifesting itself as a tight chest. “I meant to call.” 

A chuckle mixed with a cough emerges from Kai as he takes one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out underneath his foot. “Sure you did.”

He slowly creeps towards her until their chests were nearly touching, Irene shrinking under his intense leer. Eyes she once found solace in were now pools of bitterness and anger. Kai traces a lone finger down Irene’s cheek, delicately lifting her chin. He pokes at her neck. 

“Cute hickie.” 

The warm touch now turns cold as Kai snatches his hand away, sulking past Irene. She waits until he’s out of earshot before she lets out a ragged breath, tears spilling down her face. 

a/n: we must set the scene! I don't use tag lists anymore :,(

[exuber]

Up On The Rooftop

Summary: There's a racket on the rooftop when you're trying to sleep. And it's not raccoons (gender neutral reader)

Word count: No clue. Let's roll with it

Warnings: None

Gif by @gaybuckybarnesss

Crash.

Laughter.

Another crash.

You finally sit up in bed, sighing in exasperation. It was nearly 2 in the morning. Who on earth was making that noise on the roof? You figured it could be raccoons but raccoons don't have a boisterous laugh like that, if they even laugh at all.

You close your eyes just for a moment when you hear footsteps go across your ceiling at a certain tempo. Dancing. Whoever was up there was dancing.

Enough was enough. You had to get up early in the morning for work and there was no way you were going to get any sleep with this racket happening up on the rooftop. So grabbing your housecoat and slippers, you make your way to the stairs leading to the roof. As you neared the door the laughter and music only got louder and more obnoxious. The voices didn't sound like anyone you knew. It had to be teens causing a ruckus.

"Excuse me but people are trying to slee–" You begin to exclaim when you open the roof door. But your train of thought is cut off when a group of five suddenly stop dancing to stare at you, one of them being only in his underwear while drenched in beer.

Adrian Chase. You recognize him immediately. He's the weird busboy at Fennel's who always stops to talk to everyone despite them not wanting to be talked to in the first place. His usual clothed body had nothing but tighty whities on, also drenched in beer, you take note, and everything was out in the open. Was he always this beefy? Your brain glitches out when you look his well muscled form up and down; strong shoulders that led to the swell of his biceps. A muscular chest, abs and the slope of his hip bones that disappeared down into his wet briefs. You didn't dare go any further down than that.

Adrian spit out a spray of liquid and ran a hand through his wet hair, revealing tiny curls on his head. "Hi! I know you! You're my next door neighbor, right? Did we wake you?"

"Guh," was all you managed to say.

Adrian flashed you an award winning smile. "Sorry about the noise. Honestly we're wrapping up now anyway. I am in desperate need of a shower. Who knew beer was so sticky?"

You feel your entire body want to spasm when he ran a hand over his chest and abs but you suppress it. "Yeah. Who knew? Uh, yeah. You guys were a little loud. I have to work in the morning and can't sleep with the music and laughter."

A tall man with glasses waved a hand. "No problem. We didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"We were just celebrating our friendship!" Adrian pointed out. He then turned to face you, his eyebrows scrunching cutely. "You're staring at me."

You manage to finally fix the glitch in your brain. "Oh. Sorry. It wasn't my intention." You clear your throat. "Wrap it up here, please. And next time, party at a reasonable hour? Preferably when everyone isn't asleep?"

The group all nodded and agreed as they began to clean up their mess. That was all well and good so you headed back downstairs to your apartment. Your hand just touched the doorknob when Adrian called out to you. Looking up you see him jogging down the hall towards you. He was still in his underwear but he now had sneakers on with his clothes under an arm.

"Hey," he smiles. He's always smiling. "Wanna come to our next rooftop party? It's gonna be lit!"

You snort. "You're having another one?"

He shrugged. "Well yeah. You got to celebrate friendship whenever you can."

"But I'm not your friend."

He tilts his head like a puppy before rooting through his jeans pocket for something. After a moment he pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, on which he scribbles something and hands to you.

It's a phone number.

"Now we're friends," he whispers before stepping towards his apartment door across the hall. "Come to the party! It'll be fun. I promise."

You stand there until he's in his apartment and the door is shut. God, he's so weird but so hot at the same time. What do the kids say these days? Rizz? He had rizz coming out of his pores. He had an odd way of being charming but by God did it ever work on you.

You crawl back into your bed once you lock the door again for the night. It was now quiet; not a sound could be heard apart from the footsteps in the hall of the remainder of the group headed home. You sigh and close your eyes. Finally. Some peace and quiet.

A flash of Adrian's wet body crossed your mind. Him running a hand through his hair. His stupid smile.

Your eyes snap open and you groan.

You weren't getting any sleep tonight.

[exuber]

Chapter One - Terra

Din Djarin x Witch! Reader

Summary: Injured and unable to go on, Din finds sanctuary on your farm

Warnings: canon typical violence, injured Din, no use of y/n, as with all my work this will be blank slate reader (no physical descriptions used other than being afab, using she/her pronouns and having an ankle injury sustained before this story begins)

Word count: 6.6k

Prologue | Series Masterlist | Chapter 2

“I asked… what… are you doing?”

"I’m helping you.”

When Din rouses to consciousness once more, the moon is once again resting high in the sky.

Astra’s surface soaks in all the light of the stars around her, a stream of bright light slashing through the window of The Crest and bouncing off the edge of his visor. He winces, turning his head away from the light, only to be assaulted with an entirely new pain.

The sharp throbbing spreads up and down his side, stealing the very breath from him. His body slumps, arm missing the controls and his weight buckles to the floor.

There have been plenty of times where Din has been close to the edge. Most of those times were as a young man, the urge to prove himself overriding any fleeting thoughts of self-preservation. He would take bounties that were that side of too dangerous; ones that had the other members of the Guild looking at him like he was reckless or mad, or perhaps both.

It had been easier to bounce back then. Twenty years old with the ability to sleep curled into the cot of his first ship that was little more than a third of the length of him without so much as a twinge of back pain. He could spend days trekking a bounty that left the entire of his body bruised and sore, and yet one good sleep was all he needed to move onto the next one.

Now, it took longer to recover - mentally and physically.

His body aches as he rolls onto his elbows and knees, somehow managing to drag himself to the ladder and then down to the hatch. The only thought urging him on being the thirst he feels, the cartons of water kept stored away all empty - slashed through by the very bounties that had left him in this condition.

He registers, as he stumbles down the ramp, that his body feels abnormally light and pats down his hips and thighs only to realize that all of his weapons are gone.

He can’t even tell for certain how long he had been unconscious for. The sky is now a dark navy and his shadow casts eerily around the small clearing he landed on before losing consciousness. With the way his throat scratches as he tries to swallow it’s likely that there has been a full night and day to pass since then.

He pushes himself from tree to tree as his body pains and groans with injury, hunger and most of all thirst. The ache scratches at his throat and pounds in his head.

The third bounty had certainly been a surprise to Din.

He had only expected two having read over the holosheet the night before his attack as he rested against a rough tree, detailing a pair that liked to work together. Even with the knowledge that there was only meant to be two it had still felt too simple but, tired after a week of traveling on foot, he had ignored the alarm bells that were chiming as he bound their wrists and ankles and instead thought about how he would return both men to the Crest.

His back had been turned for less than a second when the blow came, one that had his head ricocheting against the inside of his helmet and his body falling to the ground in a slump.

When he woke again he found the cantina was empty. The chairs and tables had been toppled over and the two bounties that had been unconscious were long gone along with the third attacker, but Din could barely remember the scuffle that had happened or the group of a dozen men who had returned to finish the job as he fled back to The Crest.

All he knows for certain is the pain he can feel now, the one that starts at the top of his head and thumps and aches all the way down to his feet.

It feels like hours have passed in search of water when the trees finally give way to a large pond.

The water is clear, surrounded by wet rocks that glisten in the moon and patches of fresh grass and flowers. His whole body sags before it, knees narrowly missing a patch of white carnations.

He rips the helmet from his head and throws the water into his mouth like an animal, the palms of his hand barely wet before the cool water slips past his dry lips and into his mouth as he swallows it down again and again. He makes the effort to take in his surroundings as he does so, too wary of letting his guard down again, and he finds himself looking up at the trees that surround the water hole.

They’re thin and tall, full of thick leaves as they reach up towards the sky where Astra shines brightly down on her earth. He can still see the reflection of the moon when he looks back to the water, the ripples growing out from where his gloveless hands plunge back into the pond to disrupt her brightness for a moment before the water settles and she shines brightly down on him once more.

His eyes stay focused on the white light as he quenches his thirst but as he drags his hand down his face and the water settles once more, another light shines into the reflection.

It’s a lighter blue than the sky, dancing and breezing out with the wind. It is entrancing, the kind of light Terra fawns over each night, but before Din can lift his head in search of the cause he realizes that it’s not a light. Instead, it is a woman who is standing on the other side of the pond watching on.

He reaches for his helmet and blaster at the same time, the beskar slipping over his head as his other hand lands on the empty holster. He pushes himself to stand quickly, looking across at the woman who doesn’t seem to pose a threat to his much larger self but still he squares his shoulders and stares back.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his words harsh and loud, sending birds fluttering from the trees.

“I could ask you the same,” your reply is softer - calmer - than his rough words and Din tilts his head. “You are on my farm.”

You hold your hand out to the side and his eyes track the way your dress slips from your shoulder, your fingers pointing towards the large clearing to the left of the pond that Din seemed to have missed, or ignored, when his body first slumped down by the water. There is a large and imperfect circle of grass and at the other end there is a cottage where smoke billows out from the chimney. The sooty fog makes the whole scene before him hazy, though when he blinks again the haze only worsens, darkening at the corners of his eyes, and the smoke begins to turn the entire scene black.

His legs grow weak and his blinks seem to slow. His whole body sways.

“Sir? Are you alright?” You ask, gracefully stepping around the pond in bare feet that sink into the soil as Din stumbles to meet you where the pond ends and your farm begins. “Do you need food? Some more water? I have heat too-”

You stop talking when Din falls to his knees, his body managing to take down a fence that runs around the land as he does so.

You catch him with an oof, breath knocking out your lungs when you stop him before he hits the ground. His heavy arm rests across your shoulders, his legs able to hold up only enough of his weight to stop himself from dragging you down to the ground with him.

“I’ve got you.” You press your hand against his chest plate and allow his weight to lean against you. “Are you a Mandalorian?”

“Yes,” he answers, however strained.

“And you cannot show your face?” You ask, voice slightly labored as you carry his weight across the field.

“No.” Din chokes out a cough and you push open the heavy wood door before carrying your bodies into the cottage.

“I will keep it on. Your helmet, I mean” you reply, letting Din’s weight fall onto a soft surface.

He tries to keep his eyes open when you let go, watching the flurry of your dress move around the room as you lift jars and bottles, digging through shelves to find a mortar and pestle.

“What-” Din tries to lift his weight up onto his elbow but he falls back, the whole room spinning as he goes. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, instead looking down at where Din’s armor had been damaged at his side showing the gaping wound in his skin. You chew on your bottom lip for a moment before turning and reaching for another jar with a different kind of herb, mixing the ingredients into a paste.

You walk across the room as you do so, kneeling by his side and letting the soft material of your dress fan out around your legs. You place the mixture down long enough to pour in a drop of water before going back to… whatever it is in your hands.

Din is still too weak to concentrate, his eyes barely able to stay open long enough to take in the scene before him, but then he feels your soft fingers graze his side and his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist.

“I asked… what… are you doing?” His voice is strained through gritted teeth but you only blink in return, settling down on your knees.

“I’m helping you.”

Your eyes don’t move from Din’s, your hand pausing where it had been when he grabbed your wrist. He takes a moment to look at you, forcing his eyes to stay open and his mind to concentrate, to take in any signs of threat or danger.

Yet instead of the usual danger he feels as a bounty hunter - one that makes him feel both predator and prey - when he looks into your eyes that stare back into his very own, his whole body relaxes on instinct.

There is someone who will save you.

Only when his hand drops from your wrist and he nods do you begin to lather the medicine onto his side.

Din is too weak to stop the groan that fights its way up from his throat, but he doesn’t expect when your other hand slides into his in return.

“How do you-” he begins to grunt through his gasping breaths “-know of the Mandalorian?”

“I’ve read of them; of you I suppose.”

You scoop another slab of paste onto his side and he hisses.

“Just a little longer,” you whisper, squeezing his hand once.

Din can’t stop himself from squeezing back, his teeth biting into his bottom lip until his mouth fills with a copper taste of blood while you concentrate on his side. Soon enough the sharp pain gives way to a dull ache and soon enough he can no longer feel the injury, his hand slipping from your hold to run along his side only to find it numb.

“Please.” You stop him quickly, taking his hand and placing it back down against the blanket he lies on. “Don’t touch it. Your hands are dirty and I mixed a few things together that should stop the pain and rid you of infection.”

You clear the mess of jars and bowls by your side, brushing the dusting of powder from your dress as you carry it back towards the sink and place it into a basin. Despite the pain easing little by little, when you open the curtain enough for the moonlight to pour in he still can’t find the strength to concentrate, his eyes fluttering closed every time he tries to look around the room.

He’s already on the edge of sleep when he hears your voice again, a glass of water being passed into his hand before you place a soft blanket across his body.

“Drink the water before you sleep.”

And those are the last words he hears as you leave the room and he only just manages to finish the glass before his body slumps back down against the soft surface.

*****

When Din wakes again it takes him a moment for him to remember the events of the last few days.

There are bits and pieces floating through his mind of two bounties that were really three, of the dozen or so men who returned to try and finish him off, a journey in the Crest, a long trek to a water hole and….

He sits up quickly, surprised by the lack of pain in his side. He looks down to find the wound dressed and when he places his hand to his side the pain is gone; the numbness too. It feels… normal.

His head whips up quickly again, finding himself in an empty room he doesn’t recognise and the mysterious woman missing.

It is a small room, a small cottage really. It looks like there is only the one main room with two large chairs, a table with four mis-matched stools, a kitchen, dozens of shelves made from different coloured woods filled with books and jars, and a door behind that lies open an inch or so and lets him see into a room with a bed and large basin, where the woman he recognises from the night before is perched on the side.

The sleeve of your dress is rolled up to your elbow, your hand dancing delicately through the water where steam rises, and before Din can make another noise you look up and smile.

“You’re alive.”

He could barely see you the night before between his inability to keep his eyes open for more than a moment and the dark of the night but now you are bathed in the sunlight, your face etching into his mind line by line.

Everything from your eyes to your smile, the slope of your shoulders and wrists. When you stand and walk out of the bedroom, his trained eyes notice how you favour one leg over the other, a weaker ankle that doesn’t seem to stop you from moving any less gracefully.

“I’ve warmed a bath,” you say, nodding back to the other room. “I will clean your clothes while you’re in.”

There is no room to argue when you walk out of the room, the door to the outside opening and closing behind you before Din could blink.

Despite the lack of pain, Din takes his time getting up. He walks into the second room and closes the door behind him, stripping the clothes off and placing them outside of the door while keeping his beskar and armour in the room along with him, within arm’s reach and sight at all times.

His fingers dance around the lip of his helmet for a moment before he eventually kneels down by the basin, taking it off only long enough to clean his face and scrub his hair before he slips it back on and steps into the bath.

The warm water settles his tired muscles, the steam pulling him in until he is sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and the water splashes against his chest as his arms come to rest on the side of the cool brass tub. It takes him a moment to register something else that has been added to the bath, a lavender oil, and every second he stays in the water his shoulders drop lower and lower until the tension is gone.

He can hear you moving around the farm from the open window. If he leans over the edge of the basin ever so slightly he can see you, his clothes from earlier being hung on a line in the sun as you place your weight on your toes every time you secure his shirts and trousers with a peg.

He watches for a moment, and when your gaze never strays towards the window he lets his eyes drift close. The water sloshes up against his chest, the soothing rhyming motioning pulling him closer and closer to sleep until a knock comes to the door.

“Are you alright in there?”

“Yes,” he answers sharply, the water splashing as he quickly turns to face the still closed door.

“I have left some clothes for you outside,” you reply, tone still soft.

He spends another few minutes in the bath before he steps out, the water spilling down his body and back into the bath before stepping out and opening the door only enough to reach for the clothes.

It doesn’t take long for Din to come back out in the dark green shirt that reaches high up on his neck and the dark trousers that cover his legs, armour strapped on top. There was even a pair of gloves laid out. Well worn leather that is slightly too small for his hands but good enough for now.

He finds you on the farm when he is dressed, back turned to him and mind elsewhere while you remain concentrated on the task at hand as he approaches.

“How can I repay you?”

You turn around, wiping sweat from your brow before shielding your eyes from the sun as you look up at him.

“There’s no need for that,” you reply with a wave of your hand. “Many travelers come through, most injured or hungry, so I fix them or feed them and send them on their way again. All I ask is that if they ever return they remember my name.”

Din shuffles his weight from foot to foot, the soil crunching beneath him.

“Can I have your name then?” He asks, knowing he’ll likely not return to this planet unless another bounty brings him here.

You share your name and Din repeats it back, ignoring the softness creeping into his voice.

“And yours?”

Din stills, his shoulders stiffening and hands clenching into fists by his side.

“Is not something I can give.”

You ponder it for a moment, head tilting slightly, but then you nod and back to the crops, digging into the ground once more, dusting your hands on your dress and reaching into the pouch tied around your waist before picking out three seeds and placing them delicately in the hole. With a few whispered words and closed eyes as you do so, you scatter the soil back over the hole and pat it down.

“I can fix your fence,” Din says once your words are finished.

You turn around and look at Din, eyes then honing in on the Mandalorian sized hole in the fence. You consider for a moment, head tilting and lips pressed together before nodding.

“Very well.” You pat the ground once more, placing the tools to the side and moving to stand with your weight resting on your good ankle.

Din holds his hand out in your direction. You look at it for only a moment before slipping your hand in, his gloved one wrapping completely around your soft skin as he helps you to your feet before your touch slips away.

You show him a small shed to the side of the cottage, full of an array of tools - some that look handmade and some that must have been bought - but once you have told him that he can use what he needs you go back to working the crops and Din walks over to the edge of the field.

Every so often Din finds his focus moving from the fence that is slowly but surely being rebuilt to the strange woman at the other side of the farm. You are still kneeling on the grass, knees digging into the mud and your dress - a dark green today - becoming more and more marked with the soil as you shuffle between each crop you are planting.

He has watched you for almost an hour now, watched you plant forty-seven crops, and even with every last sensor turned up inside his helmet he still can’t quite make out what you are doing.

You hum under your breath as you dig a hole in the ground with an old, rusty shovel before you sprinkle in three seeds - always exactly three as you count them out into your palm - and then close your eyes and whisper the words he can’t make out. After a while he resigns himself to the fact that they aren’t in basic, or any other language he can understand, but he continues to watch anyway as your eyes open again and you cover the seeds up with soil using your bare hands.

Between working on each crop you shuffle along, lifting the basket with your hand as you drag your knees back and forth before settling in place once more, you look up to Din. He pretends to look away, bending down and reaching for another plank of wood, but he can feel his cheeks warm every time as your eyes gaze right into his even behind the visor.

“Sir?” Your voice calls across the farm and he looks up, finding you now standing at the other side of the farm towards the cottage. “It’s about to rain; shall we take a break?”

“Rain?” Din tilts his head up to the sky, the blue one that still hangs brightly above their heads. “It doesn’t look like it will rain?”

You smile and from across the farm he can see how your features soften even further. “Can’t you smell under that helmet?”

“I can smell,” he replies, almost defensively. He doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. He takes another look up at the bright sky - not a cloud in sight - and places the plank of wood in his hand against the post, lifting a hammer with his other. “It won’t rain. I can keep working.”

You open your mouth to reply but close it before any sound comes out, clasping your hands in front of you before nodding once with a humorous smile. He keeps his eyes on you as you turn around, stopping by the basin at the door and washing your hands and feet before skipping back into the cottage.

He continues to work for another ten minutes before he watches the first spot of rain drip against his glove. He grinds his teeth as it rolls down and off the leather, his helmet focused down and his self-pride too strong to look up to follow the dark gray cloud he can feel covering the farm.

Before the raindrop disappears completely another lands, and then another, one after the other splattering against his glove and the rest of his body until he finally grumbles under his breath and walks back across the farm.

His boots sink further and further into the mud with each step he takes and despite the rain now falling heavier than he has ever felt before he makes sure to avoid the neat line of freshly planted crops as he makes his way towards the few steps that lead to the cottage.

You don’t look up when the door opens, not even when the wind howls so strongly that Din has to use both hands to close it behind him. Your eyes stay focused on the meal you are preparing on the table as he walks across the room, his clothes weighing him down with the water that drags across the floor behind him. It is not until he stops before the table that he sees your eyes are crinkling by the side, teeth biting into your bottom lip to stop your smile from growing any wider.

“Not. A. Word.” Din speaks slowly, leaning across the table slightly with a fist resting on the curved wood.

You lift a hand up and pretend to zip your soft lips together, the smile that is straining to be free still painted across your features as you shake your head and pass him a bowl. Din can’t help the smile that begins to tug at the corners of his mouth in return but he keeps his posture steady, his host showing no signs of being intimidated when you finally look up to him.

“Your clothes from yesterday have been washed and are on the bed. Go change; I don’t want you catching a cold and putting all my hard work to waste.”

Din opens his mouth to speak but when you level him with a look that makes him stop, soft features hardening ever so slightly when you raise an eyebrow and tilt your head towards the bedroom.

He changed by the window with the door open an inch or so, enough so he could still hear you moving around the kitchen and by the time he was finished changing the only part of him that was visible was the thin sliver of skin between his helmet and shirt.

His pile of polished armor, minus his helmet still on his head, lay on top of the bed. His eyes lingered on them for a moment before he looked through the gap in the door towards the kitchen. You were humming under your breath and mixing the contents of the pot, and he decided to leave the amour; opening the door with his thick black under layers and helmet with the rest of the armour remaining on the bed.

When he made his way back into the kitchen there was a knife by the bowl and when Din looked at the you and then the knife, you nodded, eyes looking down at his armour-free body for only a moment, barely an inhale of a breath, before you looked back down at the contents of your bowl. You worked side by side as he carefully chopped the vegetables from the bowl, looking over to his side as you did the same to the others.

The only sound was the rain that battered the roof, filling the kitchen with an echo that was both frightening and calming, the way you were ignoring the sound being enough for him to lean towards the latter.

When the vegetables in your bowl are cut he keeps his helmet trained down to the table but watches up through his lashes as you move around the kitchen, grateful hands opening and closing drawers before bending over a stove and lighting a match.

The small flame is enough to light the stove top, soft lips pressing together for a moment as you blow the flame on the match out before waving the smoke back and forth. You smile kindly at his messily chopped vegetables, moving around his large and imposing body while working around Din. When the broth is finally finished, you share it into two bowls, leaving one by the stove and carrying another in your hand.

“You can eat first,” you say, placing a bowl in front of the table.

“No- No, you can. I can wait until you are in bed-” He stops again when you raise an eyebrow at him once more, your hand gently wrapping around his wrist as you tug him towards the table.

“I will clean the clothes that are soaked from the rain. They should be dry by the morning.”

There is no room for arguing once again. You turn and walk back into the bedroom as he waits a moment before lifting his helmet from his head. You wait in the bedroom, and he takes his time enjoying the warm, spicy broth; trusting that you won't look.

Eventually he finishes and slips the helmet back on, clearing his throat. You enter the room again only then, settling by the table to eat.

After a moment of eating in silence Din finally speaks.

“Are you married? Will your husband not worry about a strange man in your home?” He winces at the blunt questions but you smile softly.

“No husband. No-one to worry.” You lift another spoonful of broth and blow on it ever so slightly before slipping it past your lips, only speaking again when you swallow. “May I ask what you were doing here? I am guessing you are not from here.”

“I am not,” Din answers plainly before going on, “and I’m a bounty hunter.” You don't look shocked or surprised, simply nod around another spoonful. “Were you born here?”

“A month's travel from here… I think. I was only ten when I left so I’m not quite sure I remember right.” Your lips press together and twist ever so slightly, eyes focused on the table like you are trying to remember. “I know it was colder than it is here. I have seasons on the farm: summer and winter, spring and fall, but my homeplanet was always cold. Not cold enough for snow but the kind that was found in the wind and made your nose and ears hurt with how bitter it could be.”

“What was it called?” Din asks patiently.

“I’m not sure.”

“You…” He tilts his head. “You’re not sure?”

The name of his home planet. The name of his mother. The name of his father.

Three names that Din will carry in his heart till the end of his days.

You shrug and look up at Din with an almost sad but resigned smile.

“I try to remember but I don’t think anyone ever told me. Nearly everyone who lived there had been there all their lives and no-one traveled so long as I was alive so… I don’t think there was any need to know the name; it was just home.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“Raiders came one night when I had been gone. I couldn’t sleep, I sometimes go through a few weeks where sleep just doesn’t come, and so I had wandered down to the river. I was there till morning and when I came back… everyone had gone.”

“They left you? Your family?” Something in Din hardens as he thinks about this stranger who has been so kind to him being abandoned by her parents.

“No.” You smile sadly across the table and pat Din’s hand once before reaching for another slice of bread. “Gone.”

A sadness blooms inside of Din’s chest, spreading up to his throat and making it difficult to speak as he stares back into your sad eyes. Din had been a similar age when he had lost his parents but the Covert had been there to take him in, to feed him and clothe him and teach him, but you had been left as a young girl without anyone to help.

“Is that how you hurt your ankle?” He asks.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“You must be a good bounty hunter with that keen eye,” you tease. “But no. That happened when I was here. I had worked at the port for a while and fell. There were no medic droids near and so it never healed right.” You shrug. “It’s fine for a quiet life, it never causes much bother unless it’s the middle of harvest season.”

“How did you end up here?” Din asks.

“I managed to find my way to a shuttle and I snuck on with the baggage. My mother had always told me that when we die we become stars and so I thought…” Your eyes glaze over with tears and you shake her head, looking out the window before going on. “I thought that I could take a shuttle up to the stars and find her there.”

Din has to rid the ache in his chest and he clears his throat, leaning back into the chair as his fingers dig into the rough wood of the table.

He can feel the way his mother’s hand had rested over his own from his dream, the ghost of a touch that brushes his hand now.

“I didn’t know anything about other planets or how to get anywhere and so I ended up on another shuttle and then another before I landed here. I was so tired and hungry and ended up working at the port a few days walk from here, selling tickets and then selling lost luggage to the scrapyard in return for food or wood.”

“Wood?” Din asks and you finally look back at him, the sadness not quite gone but the tears disappeared now.

You gesture around the cottage. “It took me a few years, I lost count after two because I was never good at tracking the moon like my mother until the past few years, but when I was fifteen I think, perhaps sixteen, I started to build the farm.”

“You built… all of this yourself?” Din asks, unable to mask the disbelief.

“I did.”

And then the sadness in your eyes is gone and your bright smile is back, the moon light catching your eyes as you reach across and rests your palm on Din’s hand once more before you squeezes gently.

“Please don’t feel sorry for me Mandalorian, I love my farm and when I look up into the sky I can see my family every night.”

He doesn’t speak for a while, your hand still resting on his as you scoops up the rest of the broth with two more slices of bread. It’s not until you finish, until your hand begins to slip off of his, when he talks again. He turns his hand over and catches your hand before it moves too far, his fingers curling around your own.

“I’ve traveled through the galaxies and been to many planets. If you tell me anything you can remember I can maybe help you remember the name?” He asks it so gently he’s not sure you hear, but when you rest your other elbow on the table and place your cheek against your palm, you begin to talk again.

“It was cold, like I said, but not with rain or snow. Mostly wind. There was a waterfall near our village and the mountain around it was the most unusual shape, all because of the harsh wind my mother had said. At the bottom of the waterfall there were these rocks, flat and long and looking more like glass than an actual rock. The trees weren’t tall like here but they had thick leaves; the moon also wasn’t as bright, I remember the stars more than the moon.”

When you don’t go on Din finally nods, squeezing your hand in his gently.

“I don’t think I’ve been to such a place but I will keep it in mind on my travels.”

“You will?” Something in you brightens even more, the light coming from you rivaling the moon outside.

“I will. I may not be able to give you my name, but that I promise.”

A silence falls over you again but your hand remains in his, your other hand moving across the table and picking at the small bowls of vegetables that were too much for the soup. When you finally move to the other room to sleep, Din crawls into the soft chair he had slept in the night before, and his own sleep comes to him much easier than ever before.

*****

Din stays for a week longer. He helps around the farm until he is fully healed, though something tugs inside him at the thought of leaving.

It’s perhaps the peacefulness of life here. Their easy conversations as you work the farm side by side and he tells tales of his travels while you tell him of the people who have spent the years camping just off the edge of the farm and bringing with them tales and trinkets from across the universe. The swipe of dirt that always ends up on your cheek or forehead that he has to curl his hand into a fist so he doesn’t reach out to brush it away.

Eventually, when he knows me must move on, he walks into the cottage to find you waiting by the table where a small bag rests.

“What’s this?” He asks.

You open it an inch or so and Din peeks in, your hand lifting each item out.

“There is food and water for your journey. I have also given you some of the medicine from the other night should your side become infected; lather it on the injury and it should clear within an hour or two. Also…” You dig your hand deep into the bag and pull out a small pouch. “When you reach the next clearing you pass on your way to the ship there is a man who has a speeder - give him this and tell him I sent you and he will take you to your ship free of charge, you won’t tire yourself out that way.”

He stares down at you as you tie the bag back up, his mouth still firmly shut when you hand it over to him.

Their goodbye is brief and quiet and Din isn't quite sure he would ever be able to tell you how thankful he is, how much he will miss you after only a week together, but when he reaches the tree edge he turns back and finds you still watching, arms locked around your waist as you lifts one hand in a slow wave and he does the same in return.

*****

Din treks through the familiar forest towards the wide clearing. He told himself as he placed the coordinates into the Crest that he was returning as a favor - to check on the woman who had saved him and to make sure that no raiders had harmed your farm during the most fertile season for the crops. He had stopped a day's walk away so as not to disturb the farm with his ship and had barely stopped walking the entire time, moving forward and forward until the moon was shining down on him and the cottage finally came into sight.

The fire was no longer burning and the night air was so still he could almost convince himself that you weren’t here - but then he saw the figure at the top of the stairs with the same dress on that you had worn that first night.

It was lighter than the blue morning sky and hung loosely off your shoulders, giving him the perfect view of those soft sloping shoulders that set off a feeling in his chest that he battered away as he leaned against the tree. Your eyes lifted from where they had been gazing at the blanket in your lap, on your fingers that were deftly working as you knitted row after row of yarn to protect you in a few months time when the winter rolls in, but your gaze stops before it reaches him. You pause and listen and Din finds himself holding his breath until you turn your gaze back down and your fingers begin the familiar pattern.

He stays there for an hour, perhaps two, just watching the peaceful scene unfold before him and only when he pushes off the tree and into the moonlight do you finally look up, the blanket placed to the side as you take one step and then another until you are off the porch and in the farm.

His hand slides into his pocket as he walks towards you, the small but heavy rock rolling between his fingers. It’s not flat or glass-like - not similar to the ones from your home planet - but it’s light gray and smooth, an almost perfect circle.

You stop halfway into the farm and he finds himself halting a few feet away, watching as your face softens and gives way to the smallest hint of a smile.

*****

Aaaaaand that is the end of Chapter 1! For anyone reading this for the first time, this will be a (long) multi-chapter fic based of a two-part Din fic I wrote years ago - it will be a slow burn and it will be “dual POV” (next chapter will be from reader’s pov then the next from Din’s then back to reader…)

I won’t be using a tag-list but instead I will keep the masterlist (linked at the start of this post) updated with the date of each chapter uploads - I will try to be consistent but I am writing this around my 9-5 and writing what will be my own debut novel!

[exuber]

Shelter - 1

Summary: You save Soap's life. It might have ruined yours. But now you're stuck with the 141 and the man named Ghost won't stop looking at you. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, my attempt at writing Soap's accent, soft Simon, military inaccuracies, canon divergence right off the bat.

A/N: My first COD fic! I hope you guys like it. It will be a slow burn because Reader needs a hug and therapy and Simon is awkward but also needs a hug. Enjoy!

This had been your first vacation in ten years. Ten. You had wanted to wander around London, see the sites, eat pub food, try to see how much the city had changed since you had last visited, ages ago when you had a summer internship at the British Museum. And now you were bleeding out on this shitty, dirty floor. There was shouting somewhere to your left as you hazily stared up at the dark ceiling.

You had made it three days before some guy pulled you off the sidewalk and shoved you into the back of a van. There had been a sharp pain in your neck before the dark came. When you came to, your hands had been tied and you were in the belly of an abandoned tube station, if you were guessing. Your captors were speaking Russian—rapidfire and stilted, but you did recognize some of it. Most of it. Maybe. If your undergraduate studies were still holding up. But you did know something for sure: you were curled up and hiding near a bomb. To keep your mind from wandering about when you were going to be the next hostage shot or when the bomb would explode, you started repeating whatever you heard to yourself, quiet and low. Cities, people’s names, shipments, shipments, shipments. You hadn’t done this in years, your therapist would have a field day, but this was better than the waiting. This was better than the pleading your fellow hostages were doing, begging for their lives.

You kept repeating what you learned. More shipments. More cities.

An immeasurable amount of time dragged on; how many days and nights passed, you couldn’t tell, but you knew exactly how many other hostages your kidnappers had killed before you were the only one left. And you weren’t entirely sure if it was because they had other plans for you or if they had actually forgotten you were there, huddled near the bomb. Perhaps you had taken the saying, “the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm,” too seriously.

But it mattered little when the fighting started and a too warm hand clapped on your arm. And then the brightest pair of blue eyes were staring at you. The man had the most ridiculous mohawk you’d ever seen but you couldn’t really tell him that, not when he was pressing a finger to his lips. A quick glance down showed his UK flag patch on his vest and you felt the smallest bit of tension slip from your shoulders.

“I’ma get ye outta here, lass,” he said, Scottish brogue winding through your ears.

You only nodded and let him move you into a crouched position. He and another man in a ridiculous hat worked on defusing the bomb, working in tandem on either side as your eyes swept toward the door. You were nearly there. Nearly free.

You were going to get out of here. You were going to live. You were going to see your sister and her baby. You-

-Came to a hard stop when the shooting started.

You curled into a ball behind the bomb as the shouting started but then you heard that ridiculous Scottish accent again. And yes, it was stupid. But you had always been a little stupid. You were on your feet again, hands still tied in front of you, before you could think of anything else to do and ran, shoulder down into the man tussling with the Scot and another man in the dumbest hat you’d ever seen. The man with the gun let out a wet ‘oof’ when your shoulder connected with his side and you both fell to the dirtied floor. You hadn’t even heard the gun go off.

Hadn’t felt anything but a heat blooming across your shoulder.

And then your knees buckled. “Oh.”

A quick glance to the left saw your once white shirt now a dark crimson. Pity. You’d liked this top. Your blood was roaring in your ears but you did remember someone saying the bomb was defused…that was good. Great. Wonderful.

A choked gasp was torn from your throat when large hands clamped over your shoulder and you saw those blue eyes again. “Now, why’d ye go and do that? Made a mess, ye did.”

“Next time,” you ground out between clenched teeth, “I’ll let you get shot.” Dark dots were starting to cloud your vision even as the grip on your shoulder grew tighter. You vaguely heard him shouting for someone to throw him something before he turned back to you. He was bleeding, too, crimson streaked across his face and neck. More of it slithered down his arm.

“We’ll get this cleaned up. Cannae have a bonnie lass bleedin’ out in a place like this.”

And you had to smile. You did, even if you looked absolutely insane, because this was probably the first time in over a decade that someone was nice to you and you had been shot.

And then the Grim Reaper loomed over you, skull bright as he blotted out the light above him.

“Fuck.” The word slurred on your heavy tongue. “Guess I’m dead, then.” The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on you, even as the light faded and you were out cold.

Your eyes opened slowly, weighed down and scratchy. It took a moment for you to realize you were in a hospital room, small, stuffy, and a worn shade of off-white. Uncoordinated fingers plucked at the thin, bleach-stiff sheets across your hips before you tugged at the neckline of the light blue hospital gown and frowned at the large dressing taped over your shoulder. A single wiggle against the flat pillow let you know you had a matching one on your back. Wonderful.

Well, at least you weren’t dead?

The door opened and a bespectacled man popped his head in. His bright eyes connected with yours for just a moment before the door snapped shut again.

What just happened?

You got your answer a handful of minutes later when your tiny room was filled with several more people, doctors and nurses checking you over and a woman—Laswell, you think she said her name was—staring at you from her place in the corner. She was biding her time, you knew that. Her American drawl had thrown you for just a moment, a stark contrast to the English accents coming at you from all directions. You tried to keep up with all the information they tossed at you, about your stitches, the physical therapy you’d need, how to keep movement to a minimum before helping you into a sling to keep your arm immobilized. It went on and on. The pain meds were keeping you from scratching at your shoulder but it did feel a little like your brain was swimming through your skull.

And three of them said the same thing: “You’re lucky you’re alive. It nearly nicked your subclavian artery and you would have bled out.”

Comforting.

And through it all, Laswell was quiet but when she pushed off the wall, the group of medical professionals dispersed.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

You said nothing as she stepped closer and set a manilla envelope on your bedside.

Her eyes darted to the envelope for a moment, obviously expecting you to take it but she continued on, unperturbed for now, when you did not. “From what I understand, you saved a man’s life and gave them an opening to be able to diffuse the bomb. I would actually say that all of London owes you their gratitude.”

“I doubt I’ll get it though, right?”

Laswell smiled. “Good. You’re smart.” But she still tapped at the folder again.

Fine. You picked up the folder and undid the thin rope closure as best you could with one hand and tipped it open across your lap, spilling paper and pictures across the blanket. One was of the man with the mohawk. And then… “Wait. He’s real?” You plucked one of the pictures up and waved it around like a flag. “I thought he was the Grim Reaper.” A man in a skull mask was staring back at you, large and hulking, and draped entirely in black aside from the SAS patch in the middle of his vest.

“You wouldn’t be the first to think that. But probably the only one to see him like that and live to tell anyone about it.”

Again, so comforting.

You flipped the picture over to see Ghost written in neat, small letters across the bottom. What kind of name was Ghost? He wasn’t a ghost. You flipped over a handful of the other pictures and learned the mohawk belonged to “Soap.” “Gaz” and “Price” soon followed—ah, he was the one with the ridiculous hat. But it was the last picture that had your heart stalling.

Vladimir Makarov was written in that same, small script.

“He’s dead, right?” Your voice shook as you stared down at the picture. “Tell me he’s dead.”

Laswell’s measured silence was all you needed before you hurriedly stuffed the photos and paper back into the folder.

“My flight back to Chicago is leaving on the tenth. What day is it?” You asked, tossing the folder to the foot of the bed. The simple motion had your other shoulder protesting, heat rippling across your chest and down your spine.

“It’s the ninth.”

Relief flooded through you. This would be over soon and you were never going to take another vacation, no matter what your sister told you. “Great. I’ll be out of the country in a couple of hours. Do I need to sign something or-”

Laswell frowned and took a few steps toward you and tension once again wound itself through your spine with each of them. “I don’t think you understand. Makarov’s plan didn’t work because of you-”

“Debatable.”

“-and you saved one of the men who Makarov has a personal vendetta against.”

The heart rate monitor was now leaping all over the place, beeping a sharp staccato into the tense air. You didn’t like this. You didn’t like this at all. “So? Makarov doesn’t know who I am. One of his lackeys grabbed me. He barely saw me.” You had been one of many, another faceless victim to his whims.

But Laswell shook her head. “I guarantee it; he will not forget you.”

Funny. You’d been forgotten by almost everyone else and you were apparently unmissable to a psychopath. “I am supposed to be going home. I want to go home.”

She took another step. “I’m afraid that until Makarov is in custody, it is safer for you to stay-”

“Am I being arrested?” You bit out.

“No.”

“Then I’m free to go.”

Laswell’s lips rolled into her mouth for a moment. “No.”

Traitorous tears stung at your ears. Stupid, so stupid. You hadn’t cried in front of someone else in decades. Tears didn’t help with anything and here you were, crying in a hospital bed in front of a stranger. “I need to go home.”

Another step and she looked down at you, eyes just shy of pitying. “You’ll be dead before you get off the plane.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She took the folder and opened it again, pulling out one of the papers you hadn’t read and another picture. She set both on your leg with a sigh. “You were taken out of London when you were stable enough to move.”

The next breath stalled in your lungs. “What?”

“Makarov has a long reach. You were wrapped up in it the moment you saved Soap. The hospital room in London that simply had your name on the door was raided. They killed a nurse.” Every new bit of information was a punch to the stomach, leaving you wheezing for breath and throat aching. “Makarov doesn’t do half measures. And he’s in the wind right now and staying quiet since his plan for London failed.”

Something you hadn’t touched in years started to bubble beneath your skin. A rage you hated. The rage that had kept you alive as a kid. “Then do your fucking job and get him. I’m going home.”

“Any word? Movement?” Gaz asked as Simon looked over the print outs of intel and loops of camera footage from the tunnels where Makarov could have fled.

“Nothing.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

He hated it. He hated not knowing.

There were leads, of course. Strings to be pulled on to see where they could go.

But Makarov was in the wind. And every night, he heard the woman on the other side of the thin wall cry whenever she thought no one would hear.

You did not go home. Instead, you were bustled out of the makeshift hospital room and into yet another infuriatingly beige room, your shoulder smarting with the movement even with the sling. At least the baggy sweats they’d let you wear were comfortable. You recognized Soap as Laswell had you sit in a cold metal chair on one side of the table.

“Good ta see ye up and about, lass,” Soap said. The stitches across his face were mostly covered by butterfly bandages that crinkled when he smiled at you. He then pointed at his own sling, barely holding his bulky arm up. “We match.”

You almost returned the smile. Almost. “Glad you’re not dead, too, I guess.”

“I wanted to get a look at ye,” Soap said. “Properly thank ye fer saving my life.”

Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “I think it was a mutual saving. You defuse a bomb, I keep you from getting your brains blown out. We can call it even.”

He laughed, hearty and jovial. “Ye’re tough. That’s good. Ye’ll need it.”

He was trying to be nice to you, you knew that. He seemed nice. Really! But you still felt the snark and sarcasm trying to climb its way out of your throat. You bit it back, probably grimacing the entire time. “I’m not the one shipping off to Kastovia.”

The smile slipped from Soap’s face. “What?”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. “I assumed that was where you were going? The guys in the tunnels mentioned it a couple of times.”

“You speak Russian?” Laswell cut in.

What was this line of questioning? You turned as best you could to look at her. “Yeah, sorta. I took a few classes in undergrad.”

“And you didn’t think to mention you overheard anything while you were held captive?”

“You’re CIA. He’s SAS,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder to point at Soap. Your stitches protested immediately, knocking the wind from your lungs for a moment. “I kinda figured you guys had all the information you could get from that shitshow.”

Soap rose from his seat and left the room without a look back as Laswell rounded the table to stare down at you. “You had information and didn’t share it. You know how that looks.”

“I was shot. Did you forget that?” You bit back. “Then you tell me I can’t go home. What was I supposed to do? When was I supposed to offer up any of this? When I was unconscious?”

Laswell’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You don’t trust me.”

The scoff tore itself out of your throat before you could even try to stop it. Scoffing at a CIA agent probably wasn’t your smartest move, but, again, you knew you were kinda stupid. “Wow. Look at you. That scary CIA training is paying off, huh? Love to see my tax dollars hard at work.”

The door opened again and Ghost walked in, shoulders nearly brushing each edge of the frame.

Your entire body tensed as he quietly neared the table and took the seat Soap had vacated. Laswell nodded at him and he tipped the point of his cloth-covered chin. And then she was gone with a snap of the door behind her. You pulled your gaze back to the man…the behemoth…in front of you. His mask was no less unnerving than it had been in the tunnel when you thought he was the Grim Reaper coming to usher your soul into the ether.

But this close you could see the dark honey of his eyes and that turned something else in the dark shadows of your chest.

And you knew you couldn’t be afraid. Not now.

“Ask me anything,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. But what if they didn’t believe you? What if he really would be the last face you saw, like you had believed in the tunnel? “I’ve nothing to hide.”

He huffed. If it were anyone else, you might have guessed it was a laugh. His eyes, hooded and dark, dragged over you. “We’ll see.” In one swift movement, he placed a handgun on the table and then reached across to grab your uninjured arm. He pulled it toward him before you could even think of pulling back. He twisted his grip on your wrist to have your palm up and only then did he release you.

You knew better than to retreat. You needed them to believe you—you were the victim in all of this. You. Not them. You. If you had to sit here with the Grim Reaper to prove it, you would. But it was when he tugged the glove from one of his hands that you felt your next breath stutter behind your teeth. And you were sure he felt it when he pressed the tips of his fingers against the delicate skin of your wrist’s underbelly.

He was warm. Solid. And oh god were you really this touch starved? That the man tasked with interrogating you—to make sure you weren’t a terrorist—was making you burn all over like a schoolgirl? It didn’t help that you felt his broad legs on either side of yours beneath the table.

Get it together.

He asks you questions and you answer. Truthfully. You listed all the places you’d heard, names you could decipher, cargo, shipments, everything. Anything.

Ghost listened to it all with that same hooded stare anchored on your face. Someone else probably would have squirmed under his gaze but you didn’t. If anything, his immovable presence was weirdly comforting. What was wrong with you?

And when you were done, when you had exhausted any and every bit of information you thought you had squirreled away from your time in the tunnel, the man in front of you simply drummed his fingers against your pulse and stood, putting his gun back in its holster and pulling his glove back on.

Funny, you hadn’t realized there were more bones stitched on them, too. At least he was consistent.

He strode toward the door and then turned back to stare at you again, unblinking. “Stay put.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly allowed to leave.”

His dark eyes narrowed for a moment and he huffed. Was it a laugh? You didn’t know, but you wanted it to be. But he left the room before you could ask.

It had been a risk, he knew, and had done it anyway. She could have been a spy, a trained one, good at deception and emitting pity. But he had felt her heartbeat skitter beneath his fingers, an impromptu lie detector. Simon knew she was being truthful. An open book.

A rare thing in times like these.

Well, open enough for him to believe her answers and her muttered instance that she wasn’t “some sort of Russian plant” because she wasn’t “dumb enough to be a criminal.” She was…something else. Simon wasn’t quite sure what that something was, but he knew that he thought of the curve of her bottom lip when he left the room and reported what he learned to Laswell and Price.

The pair looked at each other, matching looks of knowing on their faces. Her knowing about Kastovia hadn’t been expected but it didn’t seem like she knew that they (Gaz and Price) had already gone and had been led on an infuriating game of hide-and-seek with the transport of the Sarin gas. If the bird had been awake (or more willing to share what she’d heard before), they would have been back on base days earlier because it had been exactly where she’d said they would be.

“We need to keep this quiet. Makarov already knows she’s alive and at least suspects that she heard something. He wouldn’t’ve sent his men to the hospital if he didn’t.” Laswell scratched at her chin. “If any more of her intel pays off, this could be invaluable.”

The two continued, looking over the points Simon had written down after leaving that tiny room. And there had been shipments and their locations, names of people who probably would receive them, and then targets. Possibly. It was so much more than what they’d had when Makarov had vanished into the belly of the tunnel.

“She’s given us gold.”

“Or an unpinned grenade.” Laswell sighed and flipped through the pages again, handing one to Price and they spoke again in low tones. Simon listened, as he always did. They would still be sent out, following those breadcrumbs, with glowing red letters.

Something twisted in Simon’s chest, behind the crooked and dark ribs, and he thought of that curve of her bottom lip. “What happens to ‘er?”

You didn’t mind paperwork. Not really. Was it your favorite thing? No. But it was a fact of life that paperwork was inevitable. You almost liked that most of it was the same: sign here, date here, birthdate here. Easy. Simple. Unchanging.

But you weren’t entirely in love with how you knew you were basically signing your life away as Soap stood sentinel in the corner, his matching sling still around his bulging arm. They’d already “handled” your job, telling your supervisor that you had been injured and would be taking a leave of absence from work.

They promptly fired you.

Laswell winced at that and then said that “they” would take care of it. Who “they” were, you didn’t know and didn’t have the wherewithal to ask at the moment. But she inferred that your bills would be paid by someone else so you didn’t really care. Whatever. You’d been an archivist at one of the many museums in Chicago, cataloging anything and everything that came in. It had been good work, to be fair. You were actually using your degrees and the fact that they had you working overnight was almost a perk. It was nice to not have to worry about coworkers’ feelings or them microwaving fish in the communal microwave when you were trying to work.

But…whatever. It was fine. This was…fine.

You were given three meals a day and sometimes a snack. Tea in the early afternoon, much to your delight. You had a warm bed. Things could be worse.

Whenever the doctors or nurses would come in and check on your stitches and your range of movement, he—Ghost—would just be there. In the background. Waiting. Silent and unmoving.

And the painkillers you were given must’ve been some good stuff because you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Or maybe his unhurried gaze was weirdly comforting. Knowing he was there, was always going to be there, was nice. A weird constant in the upheaval of your life. (And maybe you should call up your therapist after you finally get home.)

You signed your name on the last paper and then managed to stack everything neatly with one arm before handing it to Soap who took it with a small smile. “Ye’re handling this well.”

“Yeah.” Been through worse, is what you could have said. But worse was debatable. At least in some regard. You could handle being fired. You had savings. You could find another job. Your sister always said you had the uncanny ability to land on your feet. You’d let her keep that assumption. It wouldn’t be the first one she’d made about you. “Can I make a phone call now?”

Soap tapped a finger against the papers and his blue eyes were full of pity. You almost hated it. “I’ll ask Laswell.”

Well, that wasn’t a firm no, at least.

It had been a few days since your interrogation with Ghost. You had deduced that you were on a military base of some sort, with the people walking by in uniform and the staccato of gun shots at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, every morning. Probably a firing range. While you weren’t allowed out of your beige hospital room, they were kind enough to bring you a few very well worn novels to help pass the time. Again…it was fine.

The door opened a few minutes later and Ghost and Laswell walked in, a large black brick looking contraption tucked beneath Laswell’s arm. Your heart stuttered for just a moment. A satellite phone?

“You need to understand that anyone you call could be in danger. Used against you.”

The next breath rattled behind your teeth. You had expected that. You knew that. But your sister deserved at least something. “Did you see her in my file?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

Laswell’s answering quiet was all you needed. Good.

“I’ll keep it quick,” you said, stretching out your good arm toward the phone. “Promise.”

“Any funny business-”

“I’ll expect a bullet between the eyes. Yeah, sure. Can I please have the phone?”

Ghost made that huffing sound again and you felt the corners of your mouth push into a twitching smile for just a heartbeat to two. The phone was weighty in your palm as you plugged in the number and held it up to your ear. It rang twice before… “Hello?”

“Hey, Kirby.”

There was an answering giggle and it shifted a weight on your shoulders. “Hey stranger! I thought you were living it up in London for a few days more? Thought you were gonna call me when you were home.”

“Oh, um. So there’s been a change of plans. I’m gonna stay for a little longer. I’ve been asked to consult at one of the archives here.”

Kirby hummed, crackling the line. “Consult. You’re so important. That mean you left-”

“They fired me, actually.”

She gasped. You imagined her clutching her phone tighter, placing another hand over her heart. She was always so delicate. Outraged on your behalf, too. “No!”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. You said I needed a new job anyway.” You shut your eyes, feeling them burn with tears. Lying to her didn’t feel right. She was the only person in the world you trusted.

“They were awful to you. But, you always land on your feet, don’t you?”

You smiled despite it all, wobbly and crooked. God, you missed her. “I try. But I didn’t want you to worry if you didn’t hear from me for a bit as I get settled here.”

Kirby laughed. “You’re the worrier, not me.”

“That’s true.” You were. And even know, with a bullet wound and a supposed bounty on your head, you worried about your little sister. You might worry about her forever, actually.

“You’ll still be able to make it to the delivery, right?” The smallest bit of trepidation dipped into the syllables. Kirby wasn’t scared often and it twisted at your marrow. “I need you to hold my hand.”

You opened your eyes and looked at Laswell and Ghost, lifting your chin a bit. You were going to be there. Come hell or high water. Or more terrorists. “Wouldn’t miss it, Kirbs. You know that.” You eventually said your goodbyes and “I love you” and “I love you, too” before ending the call with a quiet, “give the little one a hello for me, okay?”

The phone clicked in your hand and you let it slip back into Laswell’s grip when she reached for it. “Any other family you need to call that weren’t in any of your files?” The question was tinged with exhaustion.

You didn’t feel bad. “No. It’s just her.”

Laswell frowned but said nothing else as she strode from the room.

You expected Ghost to follow. He seemed fond of doing that. But he didn’t. His unmoving stare was anchored on you. “Why wouldn’t your file show your sister?”

Well, he certainly cuts to the chase. “It’s a long story.”

His large arms crossed over his broad chest (you ignored how your heart hiccuped. God he was so big.) “We’ve got time.”

Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[exuber]

Talkative

Story Summary -> Mike Wheeler had no idea why Y/N was allowed to be in Hellfire. She just took up all the time he could've been using to talk about, you know, what he wanted to. Maybe she was let in because of Eddie's very obvious soft spot for her? Or maybe it's because the other members genuinely like her? Who knows, but one thing is for sure: her not talking to him drives Eddie insane.

Tags -> Friends to Lovers, Misunderstandings, Mike Wheeler is a little bitch sometimes

Would you prefer to read this on AO3? Click here!

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mike had heard it before. So many times, in fact. Literally so many. Y/N had been yapping away about how excited she was for the next Hellfire session for ages - well, since the last one. He had lost count of how many times he'd had to block her out. It was just over and over again. Word after word. Nothing but endless monologues of how cool she thought the direction Eddie was taking the campaign in was.

Or she'd talk about whatever movie she'd just seen. Or something interesting she'd read in an article. It seemed as if she'd just talk about whatever was on her mind, and if the other person showed enthusiasm or interest, they'd make it a full-blown conversation. (You know how two-way interactions tend to go.) And he had been left wondering why the hell Eddie even bothered to let her into the party. She was insufferable.

Nobody else seemed to mind it. It's just that Mike seemed to be under the impression that Y/N was talking up valuable speaking time. Speaking time that he could've been using to talk about El or Will or how weird it was that Lucas couldn't hang out after school today because he had basketball practice. Or...you get the gist. Anyone else could and should be speaking about what he wanted to hear, not whatever fucking dribble Y/N was spouting.

The current 'dribble' was Y/N excitedly gushing to Dustin about the upcoming Billy Joel album that was supposed to come out sometime in July. Mike sat quietly, resting his elbows on the lunch table, flicking between half listening to Y/N and dramatically eye-rolling at Gareth, who was paying the younger boy very little attention.

Billy Joel wasn't something that the members of Corroded Coffin were interested in, but Y/N and Dustin liked him so they'd be courteous. Plus, seeing the two geek out about music was nice. Yet, as most know, Mike isn't overly courteous. For some reason, he felt the need to keep interrupting it. That need only grew with every interruption.

"Jesus, Y/N, do you ever pause for breath?" Mike asked, half laughing and half irritated. "I don't think you've taken a break in the past twenty minutes."

Y/N let out a nervous laugh and immediately apologised in a quiet voice, "Sorry, guys. How were your weekends?" as she deflected the conversation onto them now and swallowed the new sense of shame that Mike had stirred up. Immediately, Mike jumped at the chance to talk about what El had told him in one of her letters. Now this was a topic he liked. This was a worthwhile topic.

That little snide comment never would've made it out of Wheeler's mouth if Eddie had been there. He was currently preoccupied with a drug deal, so anything was free game. Munson had a tendency to let Y/N drone on and on because of that tiny (actually huge and obvious) crush he had on her. All members of Hellfire knew of their leader's infatuation with little Miss Chatterbox, well, except Y/N. It was so plain for everyone else to see. He'd listen so intently, always resting his head on his hand as he gazed at her with longing. He'd ask her endless questions about whatever, even if he had no idea what she was on about.

Any chance to get her to speak more, he took. So when he arrived midway through lunch and greeted, "Hey, Lady Folksworth," and she didn't immediately respond with 'Just Alais is fine,' he knew something was up. It was something she always said. In and out of game. Lady Folksworth, her highborn ranger, hated being called Lady Folksworth. Y/N just gave him a small wave and continued with her food, listening and encouragingly nodding every now and again, but not another sound from her was heard.

Weird. That was weird.

From that moment on, Eddie noticed how little Y/N had said for the rest of the day. Maybe she was on an off day. Tomorrow would be fine. She'd be back to normal tomorrow.

Tomorrow was a smidge louder. Y/N seemed to engage in the conversation at lunch. Then Mike rolled his eyes at something she said.

Apologetically, she asked, "Sorry, did I speak over you, Wheeler?"

"Not the first time. Don't worry, Y/N. We're used to it."

Somehow he managed to play it off as if it were a friendly jab, but they both knew he meant it. Y/N laughed it off originally. She soon decided to shut up once more.

Mike managed to do that every day that week. He'd make some offhanded comment about how talkative she was, essentially shaming her into silence and switching so he could be the one who was talking. And she let him. Why not? He was just a kid. A kid who clearly needs attention. Just give it to him, and he'll start being nice to her. Right?

Wrong. The next session was when Y/N gave up trying to reel back her natural mouthy-ness by becoming a borderline mute at lunch.

Eddie had let the party into the Hellfire room early so they could come up with a battle strategy. Y/N had been a little late and heard from the other side of the door as Mike exclaimed to the other members, "...and honestly, sometimes I wish I could cast an eternal silence on Y/N so she'd just let someone else get a word in for once and..."

She stood in the doorway, just listening in for a moment. It was technically eavesdropping, but still, she was supposed to already be in the room, and she wasn't. If anything, it was Mike's fault for talking about someone he knew was going to arrive soon. From the little window, she saw as the other boys unpacked their bags and sat down, mostly paying Mike's little ramble no attention, which was comforting.

Yet he continued, "She's probably talking the ears off some unlucky guy that has to hear her drone on and on about... about whatever it is she talks about. I don't even listen anymore. Cause, it's like, is it interesting? No. Do we care? No. Not at all. Would this party be better without her?" He paused. "Who's to say?"

Better off without her? The boys wanted the session to just be that, the boys. That's fine. She'd let them do that. It's not as if Hellfire was the best part of her week or anything. Y/N turned and walked away, making a beeline towards the car park. She didn't want to listen to any more, which also meant that she didn't hear as the other boys disagreed with what Mike said.

Dustin actually smacked Mike around the back of his head and reminded his buddy, "You're doing the exact same thing with Y/N as you did to Max. Just because El isn't here doesn't mean another girl can't be cool and interesting."

"Yeah, Y/N's cool. She bought my lunch today since Daniel Oliver stole my money," Gareth admitted, giving Mike a disapproving look.

"Oh, she did that for me last week," Jeff added. "Then she almost got her ass kicked when she tried to steal it back off Danny-boy."

Since her feet were carrying her faster than her brain could comprehend, Y/N managed to bump into someone as she hurried to her car. Eddie held his arms out to steady her, but she was in no mood to be soothed. 

"Hellfire is the other way, Lady Folksworth."

She huffed out, "I know where Hellfire is; thank you very much. I'll-"

"Hey, hey, what's up?" She didn't want to talk. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be quiet, so she didn't answer him for a moment. The silence was broken as she heard him say, "Y/N, what's wrong?" with genuine concern laced in his voice.

"My grandpa just died," she blurted out, not even knowing why she said it. The words were simply leaving her mouth as she felt her lie fall flat.

He knew her better than that. "Which one? The one that's already dead or the other one that's already dead?" He countered, crossing his arms, not believing her lie in the slightest.

Shit. He'd caught her. There were two options in her mind. Go further or change course. "Well, he was like an old guy who was a family friend... you know, he was a non-grandpa," she furthered, walking away from him towards her car. "And I have a headache."

"I'm pretty sure I have an aspirin. Not my usual supply, but I'm bound to have one."

"No...no. I'm fine. Not fine enough to stay. Not that fine, but... I should go."

But there was no way in hell that was going to happen: she wasn't going to get away with these awful fibs. Without having to try too hard, he took a few long strides, making it in front of her in no time and placing his hands on her shoulders to gently push her in the opposite direction.

"Y/N."

"Eddie?"

"Tell me the truth."

Okay. It was time to change course. She used an ancient female tactic that has a tendency to get you out of doing things. Gym. Sex. Chores. All types of shit.

"I'm on my period."

It wasn't exactly a lie either. Maybe that's why Mike's words got to her so much this week? Huh, crazy.

"Ohh," he replied sympathetically, "The offer of painkillers still stands," and just like that, he was being so nice about it. "Name anything, and I'll get it for you. I'll go to the store down the street and be back in no time."

Her heart fluttered. It wasn't every day a boy was so understanding. He didn't even act grossed out by it like they usually did. He actually didn't make a big deal out of it. So, she couldn't help herself and wrapped her arms around his shoulders to give him the biggest, warmest hug she could manage. He hugged her back, closing his eyes to savour the moment.

"You're a good egg," she whispered, squeezing him a smidge. His face was bright red, but that's fine. She wouldn't be able to see it if he buried his face in her hair. "Ed, you can let go now if you want to."

"I don't want to," he chuckled, pulling her tighter to him and refusing to budge. He even started to shift his weight from left to right so they'd begin swaying slowly side to side, making her giggle, which entirely was his intention.

There was something about her giggle that just filled him with an immense sense of joy. It always turned his day around: he felt lighter, happier, and more energetic. It didn't even matter what he was doing. He couldn't understand it. One moment he was feeling listless and miserable. The next, she would start laughing, and then he'd be good and giddy. It was like magic.

Unknowingly, she had been playing with the strand of hair at the nape of his neck, and the moment she realised, she stopped and reminded him, "Hellfire is waiting for their handsome and charismatic Dungeon Master to arrive."

Oh shit. He'd forgotten about that. He'd been so focused on her, he'd forgotten to do his job. It was a serious breach of protocol. But, in this moment, he didn't care. Leaning back so he could see in her face if she lied, he shyly enquired, "You think I'm handsome?"

"Yeah, Ed, I do," she answered seriously, without even the smallest hint of a smirk. It was like she really meant it, and, boy, was he relieved. She really did think he was handsome.

Well shit, his fucking face was heating up again. How the hell did she have this kind of effect on him? And he'd never have guessed that it would've gotten worse as he complimented her back, "Oh, cool. Yeah, that's nice. You're, uh, you're handsome too - I mean pretty. Girls are pretty. I know you're not supposed to call a girl handsome. You're really pretty, Y/N."

Really. Not only was she both handsome and pretty, but she was also 'really pretty'. That last part made him wince a little as he admitted it, but it was worth it for the look on her face. It was the happiest he'd seen her in a while, which made his own face even brighter. It almost made her forget about what Mike had said.

Almost.

She looked away, her lips upturned in a coy grin, but didn't internalise what he'd said. That could wait till later. That could wait until she was in the privacy of her car so she could let out a really unflattering squeal. The urge to do so was increasing every second that she was still in his grasp, so she slowly backed up, innocently letting her hands trail down his shoulders and chest as she moved away.

Bashfully, she tucked some hair behind her ear as she let out, "You can call me handsome if you want to. I don't mind it. Honestly, I was going to say that your hair looked pretty when I saw you this morning, but I didn't want to, I don't know, freak you out or anything."

"You were worried about freaking out the freak?"

"Something like that." She looked down at her shoes for a moment. "Anyway, I better go. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, uh... yeah, see you, Y/N."

He watched as she started to walk away, only to turn around and hurry back, claiming, "Oh, I forgot to do this," and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for being so sweet."

Blushing, he nervously beamed, "Yeah, oh, yeah, you're welcome. Totally welcome," and couldn't help but distract himself from the fact that his cheek felt like it was burning and his head was spinning over the mere contact of her lips on his skin by focusing on her figure as she made it out of his field of vision and towards the parking lot.

Okay. Okay, he needed to calm down before he arrived in Hellfire. The boys would surely tease him if he turned up looking like a freshly picked tomato. It's always a good idea to make an entrance, and that definitely would throw them off long enough that he could return his focus to his second true love, D&D. Opening the door wide and announcing, "My dear boys, we may be one maiden down, and while Alais's absence will render the dynamic a little askew, she will be sorely missed until the next session, but we must press on. So, boys, it's time." 

Eddie immediately sauntered to his chair and waited for his disciples to prepare themselves. He always tried to make his entrances as elaborate as possible. The more attention to where he wanted it to be directed, the better.

Dustin piped up to ask, "Wait, Y/N's not here? I swear she said she was coming earlier."

"She felt ill."

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Eddie swore he heard Mike whisper to himself, "Thank God."

"Anyway, we must press on, gentlemen, without interruption," Eddie said, putting a finger to his lips to still Mike's rising protests.

Despite being one member down, the boys got on with it. Although they could all tell that the party was a little disjointed without their beloved Lady Folksworth. It wasn't that she was the most experienced member, though she might have been the most enthusiastic, but she was the one who kept them on their toes. It wasn't everyday that the Archduke Zariel of Avernus visited the mortal realm. There wasn't a whole lot to prepare for, but somehow, when Y/N was around, it felt like there were a million things to do.

Ultimately, it was a difficult battle (that may have been a slight bit easier if had seven PC's like Eddie had planned), but the boys (Dustin) managed to come up with an ingenious plan to kill the fallen angel and prevent her from returning for now.

The next day, when Gareth and Jeff had walked up to Eddie while he was at his locker, the older boy remarked, "Hellfire last night was quieter, don't you think? It wasn't as high energy as usual."

"That's because Alais was missing," Gareth pointed out, knowing full well that Eddie had been missing Y/N's presence. Even in the session, he seemed a bit preoccupied, a bit concerned if she was okay.

He'd even planned to buy a bunch of stuff she liked and show up unannounced at her house to be like, "Hey! I know I'm a gross, stinky boy and I don't get this period thing, but I hope this helps," but what if her dad were there and just assumed Eddie was making moves on his daughter? Which wouldn't have been completely incorrect. Yet, this was a move out of worry, not lust.

Plus, as soon as the other boys heard, he'd never get away from the teasing. Showing up to Y/N's house with a period care package? That would prove he was totally whipped. Totally. They weren't even dating, and he was completely and utterly wrapped around her finger.

Jeff decided to tease, "I'm sure Eddie was fully aware that Y/N wasn't there to play footsie under the table with him."

"I don't know what you're implying, Jeffrey," Eddie responded dryly. He one hundred percent knew what was being implied. That girl was his favourite thing in the world, and he would have done anything to be with her.

"Well, I'm sure we won't catch you gazing so lovingly at her at lunch again," Gareth said, resting his head on his fist and staring wistfully into the distance as he did his best impression of Eddie.

"Why, fair Y/N, why won't you accept my love? Is it the hair? Should I change it?" Jeff said in an exaggerated, disappointed voice.

Eddie was used to this at this point. He just usually just went along with it, but today he had an update. "I highly doubt it's the hair; she told me she thinks it looks pretty."

"Oooh, did you hear that, Jeff? She said his hair looks pretty."

"I wonder how long we'll be hearing about that one for."

"Remember when she said she liked the shirt he was wearing and he didn't take it off for almost a week?"

Gareth and Jeff burst out laughing. Eddie shrugged it off and turned the conversation back onto Hellfire. What he didn't realise was that Y/N was just about to walk up to him as he declared, "Even though she has a charisma mod of minus two, Alais is a complete chatterbox. That's probably why we could hear ourselves think last night," but she walked away, not wanting to hear if he pulled a Mike.

Mike getting annoyed at her voice was fine. It hurt a little, but she'd get over it. Eddie, on the other hand, that stung. He usually was nice and kind and pretty and sweet and chivalrous and totally cool and out of her league and was great at guitar and had the cutest eyes she'd ever seen, so the thought that she could be annoying him caused her to double down on the quietness thing.

Frankly, if Eddie had said anything actually mean, she would probably start crying and never stop. He was the sweetest guy she knew, and sometimes she felt that there was something going on between them when he would look at her for a second too long, or the amount of times he would force her into hugging him, and they would stay like that for what felt like an eternity, just as he'd done the night before.

Or, if she'd ask for advantage when they were playing, she'd say, "Eddie, if you wanted to be a good, no, a great Dungeon Master, you'd give me advantage right now," in the softest voice she could, and he'd give her that look of 'you know this isn't one of your characters abilities' but would say yes anyway.

As a result, Y/N kept mostly to herself that day. In any of the classes she had with her friends, she said hello and then made it seem like she was intensely interested in whatever the teacher was saying, which wasn't true. Eddie couldn't help but notice how she didn't even say anything other than "Hey" to him the entire day.

Tomorrow came and it was the same. And the day after that. And after that. And then the whole week. He had no idea how long periods lasted, but this was hell. Two weeks went by, and she barely said a word to him.

Actually, he was kind of offended.

It's not like he was planning on asking her to the movies, which they'd done so many times before, but he was going to make it obvious that there was going to be nothing platonic about this invitation. Well, that's what he thought last time they went, yet he didn't manage to follow through.

The moment they had before Hellfire had given him enough of an idea that she could like him. It was a possibility. She'd fucking kissed him, after all. Although it was on the cheek and she could've just been overly friendly and emotional because of, you know, the monthly blood monster. But maybe she liked him? That was a definite possibility.

Now she was ignoring him. You don't ignore somebody you're into. Or do you? Was she playing the hard-to-get move? No. Y/N wouldn't pull that. Would she?

Maybe she knew he liked her and didn't want to upset him when he found out she was going after someone else. That was his exact thought when he 'bumped' into her on the weekend at Family Video and saw her joyfully talking to Steve like she used to with him. She'd looked so happy then, so carefree, as she gestured wildly as she spoke about the movie Clue.

Apparently, Harrington hadn't seen it, so Y/N was giving him a rundown about the Tim Curry flick, telling him all about how Eddie had taken her to go and see it in the cinema the year before. Her laugh was music to his ears, even if it wasn't caused by him.

Very animatedly, she waved the VHS around as she explained, "Yeah, we went back three times because they're were different endings depending on what screening you went to. It was really cool. Each ending had a different killer or killers, I guess because there tended to be multiple, which is kind of genius." Then she put the video down as she almost threw it, which would've been funny, but she'd have to pay for it if it broke.

"Wait, so it's based on the board game?" Steve enquired, resting his hand under his chin as he gazed up at her. "The whole Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the rusty spoon or whatever game?"

Rusty spoon. That definitely should be one of the weapons.

Y/N giggled, confirming, "Yeah, that's the one. In the movie, Miss Scarlet is, well, she's basically a pimp."

"Now I have to see this movie." He leant forward and tried to flirt, "Do you want to..."

No way. Was Harrington flirting with Y/N? That was not happening. Not on Eddie's watch. Sliding in next to her, Eddie wrapped his arm around Y/N's shoulders and squeezed lightly, cheerfully interrupting Steve and greeting, "Funny seeing you here, Lady Folksworth."

Steve immediately stood up straighter, thinking he'd accidentally tried it on with a 'taken' girl. That wasn't his intention. Still....?

"Munson, how are you? How's high school treating you still?"

"It's going swell, Harrington," Eddie retorted, biting back the tone that he wanted to use.

"Think you're going to graduate this year?"

"They do say the third time's a charm."

Staring between the two, Y/N didn't really know what to do or say. She was lost, unsure of how to react to this situation. It was so awkward. She waited for a break in their exchange before lying, "My dad is probably waiting for me in the car. I'll see you two later," and unhooking herself from Eddie's arm. As soon as she was free, she gave them both a wave and began to leave.

Eddie called after her, "You forgot something."

Oh. Was he referring to what she'd forgotten before? He must've, so she made her way back to him and kissed his cheek, expecting that that was the thing he was talking about. Nope. In his hand was the VHS of Clue that she'd left on the counter. He handed it to her with a smug grin.

"Hey, do I get one of those?" Steve joked, earning a swift punch in the arm from Eddie.

"Bye, Steve. Bye, Eddie."

And she was off.

"Why did you get a kiss and I didn't?"

"Why did she say goodbye to you first?"

Actually, what the fuck had he done? He could've sworn he saw her car and not her dad's in the parking lot as he entered. Then again, he hadn't looked hard enough to be sure. Eddie was pretty sure he hadn't done anything to upset her. What if he had? Oh shit, that would suck. That would actually be the worst. The worst of the worst would be if he'd actually upset her and she didn't want to talk to him anymore. If that happened, he would be so royally screwed. 

But, no. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them.

Steve still asked, "Have you guys fallen out?"

"Me and Y/N? No. I don't think so."

"Are you sure? She left in a hurry as soon as you showed up."

Oh, he thought that too. Fuck, Eddie wished that Steve hadn't pointed it out because now it was out in the open. The words had been said out loud. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Are you two... together?"

They weren't, but, "Why do you want to know that?" It was obvious why Steve wanted to know. Eddie's reaction made it clear enough what his true feelings were since he stared at Steve blankly for a few moments before awkwardly shrugging and nervously scratching the back of his neck. The moment he put it together, he whined, "Dude, no."

"What? I haven't even done anything."

"Yet. You haven't done anything yet. Literally any other girl, ask any other girl. Please. I'm begging you. Don't."

God, he felt like such a fucking pussy. He was literally begging Steve Harrington not to ask out the girl he likes. That was how low he was willing to stoop for Y/N.

"But..."

"Just don't."

Harrington hesitated and then said, "Fine." After a moment of silence passed between them, Steve asked, "What are you doing here anyway?"

Robin butted in with "Y/N always comes in at lunch time on a Saturday, and he knows that," and bumped Steve out of the way so she could serve a customer that had been waiting, having been completely ignored by the two boys. "Harrington, are you even going to attempt to do some work?"

With that, Eddie tapped the counter in thought for a moment, his mind swimming with all the possibilities of why Y/N was acting in such a way. She'd claimed it was because of period pain, and not that he knew much about that, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was something else. She'd been almost mute for two weeks now. Did periods last that long?

Then he said something that he'd never ever expected to come out of his mouth. "Right. I'm off to the library." That wasn't it. He went to the library often because books are fucking expensive. The surprise came when he followed that up with "I've got some biology homework to do."

So that's what he did. He went past the fantasy section, his heart panging as he did so, and straight to the non-fiction area, finding one that was named 'The Female Species' in no time. When he opened it, his eyes immediately went to the illustrations. Yep. That was a pussy. Fucking hell, the things he'd do for Y/N. She better appreciate his research.

At the end of their shift, Eddie re-entered Family Video and went straight up to Robin. "I read in a book that periods usually last five days; is it normal for the girl to be really reserved at that time? The book was very factual about organs and tubes and shit, but didn't have anything about behaviour."

Steve heard and beelined for the back office. Robin blinked at him, her eyes wide, and obviously she was just confused why she was being bombarded with girl talk. So, Eddie continued, "Y/N hasn't been herself lately, you know. I think something's up."

"Just ask her."

"She's avoiding me like that time that I didn't shower for a week and she didn't want to be rude." Robin looked absolutely disgusted, as she should. "Don't look at me like that. Our plumbing broke."

"Alright, alright." She placed all of the cashing-up stuff down on the counter and called for Steve to do it. He wasn't as quick as her (she's got some mad quick addition skills, I know it), but it would have to do for today. "I will ask on Monday."

"What about tomorrow?"

Standing her ground, Robin repeated, "No. I will ask on Monday."

Eddie continued to whine for five minutes straight, hoping that if he threw a tantrum, Robin would give in and, maybe, even immediately go to Y/N's house and find out as soon as she possibly could. But no, Robin was tired and had barely sat down her entire shift. Plus, she had to work tomorrow too, so Monday was the best and only option that she was willing to do.

Monday couldn't come soon enough.

At lunch that day, Robin decided to ask Y/N to sit with her instead of with the Hellfire lot, which was a little weird at first, but she quickly grew comfortable with it. Y/N seemed as talkative as ever as she interacted with Robin and the other members of the marching band. What the hell was Eddie talking about?

From his position at his lunch table, Eddie watched with eagle eyes at the band table to see if there was any possibility of Y/N changing her mind and going back to the Hellfire camp. He caught Robin's gaze, and she just shrugged as if to say, 'You're overreacting.' Was he? Was he just reading into it too deeply? Nope. No way. He knew her better than that. He knew her better than Robin did. He was sure of it.

They shared the same fifth period lesson, and the moment she went to hurry to the next class, he easily lifted her off the ground and made his way to the janitor's closet with her squirming in his arms. They got a few weird looks from the other students, but mostly they were too busy with their own schedules to give too much of a shit.

"Put me down! Edward Anthony Munson, fucking put me down!" She exclaimed, slapping his arm in the hopes he'd stop manhandling her. He did once they were inside. He also made sure that he stood directly in front of the door so she wouldn't be able to leave.

Well, he intended to stay posted up by the door like a German Shepherd, but he quickly noticed that the janitor had a Santana poster and moved to take a closer look with a "Sick. He's got a Shango album poster. You know, it's not my usual type of music, but my uncle loves it," so she took the opportunity to try to weave past him.

Still, she had no chance. He quickly whipped his arm out and managed to wrap his arm around her waist, pulling her up against him.

"Hey!" She protested. Looking up at him, her anger faded as she saw his face, but she still tried to be stern as she asked, "What are you doing?"

It was moments like this that Y/N became fully aware of how much taller than her he was. She was used to it, but it still kind of threw her. If he'd been any other man, she would've been intimidated, but with him, she just found herself drawn to his beauty.

"Eddie, what the hell?" She asked, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. Damn, he loved the way she looked when she was blushing. It made her eyes go all soft and dreamy. He didn't answer. He just looked at her beautiful face, and his heart melted into a puddle of mush behind his sternum. He was staring at her lips so hard that he was barely able to muster up a response.

But he did. Eventually. Eventually, he blurted out, "Do you not like hanging out with me anymore?" His voice came out quiet and unsure, almost as if it took all of his courage to get the words out - that's because it had. It somehow got even quieter as he said, "Do you not like me anymore, Y/N?"

The soft, pretty pink on her cheeks deepened and her eyes shone like diamonds. All traces of uncertainty were gone, and in its place was shock. She studied his face for a moment, looking for any kind of signs of joking or teasing in his eyes. When she couldn't find anything, she sighed and said, "Of course I like you. What made you think that... that I didn't?"

"Wha- what? Uh, the fact that you haven't said more than two sentences to me all week." He couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. He didn't know what had come over him. One minute he was fine, and then the next - boom! Out came the sass. He'd never been good at holding in his feelings, especially when he was really into someone.

Not even giving her time to explain, he proclaimed, "And don't give me that crap about being on your period because I read up about that shit and it sounds fucking awful, I will admit, but it doesn't last two fucking weeks, Y/N. You're killing me here, sweetheart."

She couldn't help it. At his words, she let out a boisterous laugh that made his heart skip a beat. He hadn't heard her laugh like that in forever, and it just felt so goddamn good. Cackling, she said, "You read up on periods?"

"I was worried about you, and I don't exactly have a mother to ask about it. Uncle Wayne would've never let me live it down if I asked him."

Lightly, she dropped her forehead to rest on his chest as she tittered. His heart was about to burst out of his chest and into the open air. She lifted her head up off of his chest and looked him dead in the eyes, smiling as she claimed, "You're very sweet, Eds."

Sweet? She called him sweet? Everything in his body felt like it had turned to jelly. It took all of his willpower to keep himself from kissing the hell out of her. She still hadn't told him the actual reason, so he continued on his path of questioning. Putting on his best 'I'm a tough negotiator' face, he declared, "I'm serious, though. What the fuck is going on with you?"

"Is that face supposed to intimidate me into telling you what's wrong?"

Whoops. She gave it away.

"So there is something wrong!" He dramatically took his hands off her and flailed them in the air. "I knew it! I fucking knew it! Robin can fucking suck it."

Like usual, she found his little tantrums humorous, and she just gazed at him with a grin on her face as he continued to wave his arms in the air, swearing his fuzzy head off. It was like he was an overgrown toddler, trying his best to get a reaction out of her, and his efforts were successful as she laughed at him. How are you supposed to not laugh at a fully grown man hysterically jumping around in a confined space, accidently knocking over a mop on his warpath? He stopped for a moment, put it back in its place, then started whining again.

"Why won't you talk to me? This is bullshit. I've only had Dustin to annoy this entire week, which is fun, but I'd prefer to annoy you. I even stooped low enough to try and fuck with Wheeler."

"No, not Mike. How did you survive?"

Slowly, he got closer to her with a smug smile on his face, his eyes narrowing as he raised his hand to accusingly point at her as he began to facetiously complain, "You're laughing at my concern! Honestly, Y/N, I don't know why I do it. I had to look the librarian in the eyes and say, 'Hi, where's the section about pussies? Yeah, my friend has one, and I want to know why its making her act all stupid and shit. Oh, and where's the erotica while we're at it? Might as well add that to my collection too. That will give me something to do while I wait for her to even breathe in my direction!' Well, actually, no, I didn't say that, but I could've. I could've done that. I would've done that."

Swallowing down all her anticipation and nerves, she teased, "Aw, you would've checked out erotica for me?"

"Shut up," he joked, then immediately backtracked, "No, don't shut up. That's the whole thing. Don't shut - you know what? Fuck it, I'm just going to -"

Instead of continuing to ramble, he didn't know what came over him, but he knew it wasn't rational. Maybe it had something to do with the way her lips looked so full and soft. His hand grabbed her by the waist and yanked her forward, pressing their lips together with a hunger he couldn't explain. He didn't remember moving, or if he had, he forgot. One moment he was speaking, and the next, well, the next, all of his senses were focused on her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips, which caused him to smile against her mouth. He couldn't help himself; he couldn't stop smiling at the perfection of it all. Her body was pressed up against his; she was pressed into his chest. All he wanted to do was kiss her for hours. Her lips felt so soft, so sweet, and he couldn't stop touching them and tasting them. Every single part of his body was in tune with hers, and it was an amazing feeling.

There was a break in the kiss as he pulled back slightly to look at her, his hands resting on her hips as he tried to apologise, "Tell me whatever I did wrong and I'll make it up to you. I'll do what -"

"I'm not paid enough to care about this shit."

The pair broke apart, and their heads whipped to look at the newcomer. It was silent for a while as they just stared at the janitor in the hopes that he might magically vanish. "Get out," the janitor said. "Get out before I make sure you two end up in detention."

Detention was not on the cards as Y/N grabbed Eddie's hand and dragged him into the corridor as he still seemed a little dazed. Addressing the janitor, he complimented, "Cool Carlos Santana poster, by the way. That's actually what we went in there to see. Crazy. We heard about it through the grapevine, you know," so she pulled him away before he could say anything else.

"I swear to God, that was so fucking awkward," Y/N laughed, trying to suppress her giggles.

The moment they made it around the first corner they saw, he scanned if any teachers were around and then began to kiss her cheek, gradually making his way down from her cheekbone to her neck, manoeuvring her so her back was against the cold wall and his front was against hers. He nuzzled his face into her neck, inhaling her scent and absorbing it through his skin. 

Teasingly, he reared back and came to a compromise: "If you tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours, I won't leave the biggest hickey I possibly can on your neck. Just imagine how long you'll be grounded for when your parents see that."

"You're not serious."

"Watch me." He lowered his head once again, his lips finding her skin just above her collarbone, before she tugged on his hair to pull him back up. "Start talking."

Taking a breath, she finally explained, "So, I'm trying this thing where I let other people get a word in. We all know that I have a habit of talking a bit too much, and you're probably sick of my voice at thi-"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

His blunt statement made her jump.

She was just about to speak again when a junior, who obviously had a hall pass to use the bathroom, gave them a funny look and walked by without saying a word. Jokingly, she pointed out, "Why did we choose to do this in a public corridor?"

"And she begins avoiding my question once again," he taunted, moving his mouth under her jaw to plant a kiss there. He grinned, smug, and self-assured, and Y/N felt a swell of pride at his confidence. She considered her answer for a few moments, and in that time, his hand slipped from her hip to her lower back, sliding beneath her t-shirt to graze over her bare skin. She loved the way he was so comfortable in their little game.

"Stop," she laughed, but he kept his lips there, pressing against her neck and making her shiver. "Somebody mentioned that I'm a bit of a motormouth, so I decided to reel it back, okay?"

He craned his head back in surprise. "Who?"

"I'm no snitch, Munson."

"Uh, I'd like to know who fucked with my girl. I'm planning on kicking their ass."

Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she coquetted, "Your girl? Is that what I am now?" And to be super effective, she softly brushed some of his hair behind his ear.

There was no mistaking the pleased grin that curved his lips. He gave her the goofiest, most lovestruck grin possible, declaring that, "Oh yeah, didn't you hear? You have been for a while. Did I forget to mention it?"

"You may have forgotten, yeah. Maybe you did, and I was too busy chatting to notice," she joked, and he chuckled. Her hand moved to his chest, and she felt his heart pound against her palm, his breath quicken, and his body tense. Her smile faltered for a moment as she apologised, "I'm sorry for practically ignoring you for a while."

At her words, his answer was low and sincere. "Yeah, it sucked." He tilted her chin up as she'd moved her focus away from his face, suggesting, "You could always make it up to me by hanging out with me after school and rambling to me about every single thought that pops into your head."

"Eddie, I'm sure you don't really want -"

"You don't get to tell me what I want," he said, and the serious expression returned to his face. He shook his head and kissed her again, this time briefly but with a lot of affection. It was an answer in itself. Against her lips, he mumbled, "Your voice is my favourite sound in the world; don't deprive me of it again or I'll probably go insane."

That made her do the most girlish giggle he’d ever heard.

"Just so you know," he said, "you could read anything to me and I'd be enthralled. You could read the fucking Bible to me, and I'd convert in no time."

Despite the casualness of his statement, it made her realise how truly into her he was and how much he thought she was worth listening to. She loved the way he looked at her, like she was the only girl in the world, the way he thought she was so special. He didn't see her as just another member of Hellfire; he saw her as his girl.

Putting his favourite things together, she offered, "Why don't you come over; we'll smoke, and I'll read The Hobbit to you? My parents are out, so it's up to you."

He'd never heard something so perfect for him in his life. The smile that stretched across his face was absolutely, unarguably perfect. She waited until he'd composed himself before she copied his actions from before and kissed from his cheekbone down, which caused him to shiver slightly and unconsciously put his hand on the back of her head. 

Trying to play it cool despite how his body was reacting, he retorted, "What about your cat? Is she in?"

"You'll have to come over to find out."

So he did. He was practically vibrating with anticipation as he pulled his van onto her driveway and didn't even wait for her to get her keys in the front door before he hurried up behind her, grabbing onto her waist and tugging her against him so he could kiss the back of her neck. 

The moment she opened the door and pulled him inside, he noticed her cat and beelined towards her. "Hey, stinky," he said, holding the cat in his hands. He looked at Y/N and back to the cat. The theory that all pets look like their owners seemed to be correct, as Y/N's kitten was as cute as she was.

"Don't call my baby stinky," Y/N playfully warned, stroking the cat and leaning down to bump their noses together, causing the cat to lovingly nip at the tip of her nose.

"I can't help it," Eddie replied, holding the cat by the armpits and holding her above his head, wiggling her from side to side, falsely insulting, "Liquorice is just such a gross, ugly cat."

Faking offence, Y/N grabbed the kitten from his hands and cradled it as she began walking to her bedroom, cooing, "Don't listen to the rip-off Van Halen-looking boy, baby. He failed ninth grade English too many times for his opinion to be valid."

Eddie, of course, was hot on her heels as he followed her. "I'm not a boy; I'm a man."

"Whatever you say."

When they made it up to her room, Eddie immediately made himself at home, kicking his shoes off and jumping face first onto her bed. Y/N rolled her eyes and dropped the cat onto her pillow before sitting on the bed to beam as Eddie turned on to his side and pouted, urging her to "Kiss me?"

How could she not? She obliged, leaning in and pressing her lips to his. His reaction was immediate. He eagerly responded to her kiss, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, tongue eagerly exploring hers. Y/N was the first to pull back as she felt Liquorice pawing at her arm. 

"Oh, sorry, you jealous thing," she joked, giving the cat an equal amount of attention by scratching her belly. She instructed Eddie, "Take over while I find the book."

Liquorice had always liked Eddie, which was weird as she rarely liked anyone. Especially men. But it was as if she saw how kind he was and just went with it when he started to gently run his hands through her fur, purring as he did so.

Reading aloud, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat..." 

Y/N had found the book and made her way back to her bed, leaning against the headboard as Eddie manoeuvred to sit between her legs, bringing Liquorice to sit in his lap. Together they both said, "It was a hobbit hole, and that means comfort." 

Of course he knew that bit off by heart.

Slithering her arms around him, she placed her chin on his shoulder, occasionally giving him a peck on the cheek between paragraphs as she continued reading. He leant back, listening intently as he lit his spliff, taking a few drags before placing it between her lips and dreamily gazing at her as she let the smoke out of her nose like a sexy dragon. A sexy Smaug.

Never had he felt so comfortable. In a relationship or just in general. No matter how many people he'd been with before, there'd never been a moment when he'd ever truly felt like this.

Almost the second before she finished the final paragraph of the first chapter, Liquorice was spooked by a sound from outside and decided that she didn't want any more attention. Y/N called after her, "Do not start a fight with the dog next door," and all the cat seemed to do was narrow her eyes and saunter out of the room.

Finishing the last bit, Y/N declared, "Bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams. It was long after the break of day when he woke up."

Now that he no longer had a cat on his lap to worry about, Eddie took the book from her hands and set it on her bedside table, turning around to face her as he flirted, "Honestly, whoever told you to shut up must not have taste because I've read that so many times and it never sounded that good before."

The compliment was not lost on her as Y/N giggled, "I swore you fell asleep halfway."

"I was resting my eyes." He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers, only to pull back, looking into her eyes. "You're seriously not going to tell me who?"

"Nope." 

Fine. That'll do. He let out a huff, but it was quickly forgotten as she placed her hand on the side of his face, gently ghosting her thumb over his skin as she pressed her lips against his. And that's how they spent most of the evening. Just smooching with the occasional playful bout of taunting.

Over time, it wasn't rare for Eddie to spend all of his free time in the warm comfort of Y/N's bedroom. He lay on his side, leaning over her slightly as she used their intertwined hands to gesture, soaking in all of his focus.

It wasn't long before Eddie pieced together who had made her feel that way. Mike had made some offhanded insult about how long she had been talking, and Y/N looked at Eddie like 'this fucking guy, amiright?', accidently giving it away.

Then Hellfire came, and Mike was very surprised when his PC died only thirty minutes into the session. 

Strangely, it seemed as if the DM was personally targeting him. 

Who knows why?

*Click here for my masterlist*

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[exuber]

Astra - Prologue

(Din Djarin x Witch! Reader fic)

Summary: An injured Din lands on a planet he has only ever heard of in his mother’s bedtime stories, a place where salvation may come when he least expects it

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, injured Din, grief of lost parents

Word Count: 1.1k

Series masterlist | next chapter

Before Astra, there had been Terra.

When he was a child, Din’s mother would soothe him to sleep with stories of a planet on the outer rim called Terra. The planet had one moon, named Astra, and a sky that was so clear at night you could see her rough, alabaster surface, alongside the millions of stars that shone brightly in the sky.

It is known to be a fruitful planet, with tall trees and fields upon fields of green, but it had not always been this way. The story goes that years ago Terra did not have a moon and, instead, at night the sky was a dark blanket of navy with only the dusting of stars that twinkled above. That had been until one day a star fell from the sky and crashed down to the surface, breaking off a piece of Terra that floated up into the night. That piece of rock became Astra and it shone brightly down on Terra every night.

Terra was heartbroken at this loss and each day that passed the desert planet turned into a fruitful one; the rivers that had been dry raged with her tears and the wind that had been still howled in pain as it carried the pollen to greener grass. She cried from dawn till dusk, silencing only when the sun set and Astra could be seen high in the sky.

Terra would bask in her glow and even though they only had the night together, it was long enough for the rivers and wind to calm and for the planet to bore life once more.

Whenever Din’s mother told him this story she held him tighter against her side, like she was scared that he would suddenly break away from her to never be seen again. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel her hold.

Rough fingertips from hours of hard labour. Soothing circles rubbed into the skin of his arms that had still been scar free. The clean smell of her bath salts, used sparingly and after particularly long days at work.

Din doesn’t let himself think of his parents often. He fights against any memories of them that will creep out from the dark corners of his mind; times when he smells a broth like his mother’s or watches a small child play with a carving made by their father. He can’t stand the ache that follows when he does, one that is more subtle than the grief he first felt as a boy, but has stayed with him for years since.

It makes him think too deeply about what he is doing with the life that he is so lucky to have when theirs was ripped away while protecting him. He thinks about what they would see when they looked at him now. Would they even recognise him with a wall of beskar and weapons covering every inch of his body?

It’s not the grief he fights against. It is not the grief he is scared to feel. No, it’s the thought that even if they would recognise him as the man he has become, they may not be proud of him.

Mandalorian. Warrior. Bounty hunter. Killer.

There is no fighting against the thoughts of his mother when he stares up at Astra and is reminded of the stories she told of the moons and stars while putting him to bed at night, her voice gentle and quiet as she brushed the hair from his eyes and told him stories of love and promises and kindness. The thoughts of her remain as he flirts in and out of consciousness for hours, barely finding enough strength to remove the blade from his side before losing the battle against sleep once more.

The only time Din ever truly thinks of his mother in his dreams, her presence in them is enough to keep her face and voice fresh in his mind. She is always smiling when she appears, much like the way he had never seen her without a smile until that final day. Sometimes in his dreams she talks to him with that same smile on her face but most of the time he finds himself walking away from her, the pain that follows when he wakes up in the morning, the one that reminds him that she is gone, being too much to carry.

Now, as his feet carry him towards the home he recognises all too well, he is too weak to fight her. He lets her slip her hand into his and she pulls him to the chair he would always sit at for breakfast and dinner, that same hand coming to brush the hair from his eyes like she did when he was a child.

“You are injured.”

“I always am,” he replies and doesn’t miss the way her smile falters. “I think… I think I may be too hurt this time.”

He looks around the room, one he usually refuses to enter in his dreams. It’s exactly as he remembers if he tries hard enough, the sets of three that are placed around the room; three bowls, three plates, three sets of cutlery; three pairs of shoes lined neatly at the door, three cloaks hanging on the hooks above them; three chairs that surround the table with three marks from where the bowls had been set for years now.

He eventually looks back to his mother, a woman who is still the same age as she was when she passed, the same age that he is now. She is - was, he reminds himself - a beautiful woman with hair and eyes as dark as Din’s and round cheeks that were always flushed with pink after a day of work.

“There is someone who will save you,” his mother goes on, sitting in the chair by his side and scuffing it along the floor until her knee bumps his and she places her hand over his own.

“There is no one on this planet, Ma. It’s all land and barely any people.” He finds his voice softening, much like hers had when she patiently explained something to him as a child, and it has her eyes lighting with humor.

“Why did you come here then?” She asks, her thumb stroking over his scarred hand. “If not to be saved, why did you come here?”

Why did he come here?

Fleeting thoughts of crawling to his ship, of slumping into the seat to flee the planet that seemed to turn against him when the bounty had gone wrong. His hand bumping across the controls, his blurry vision tracking the map before he finally clicked on the one name he could recognise from his memories. Or perhaps, from his dreams.

He doesn’t - he can’t - answer.

“You are where you’re meant to be.” The pain between his ribs begins to return - slowly and then with all it’s might and he clings to his mother’s hand. “I’ll see you again, Son.”

“Ma-”

“Soon.”

[exuber]

Return

Summary: König misses his neighbor and pathetically eagerly waits for you to return. Paring: König/F!Reader Rated: T+ Word count: 1319 Notes: [More neighbor König] As always, König speaking German is in "italics".

In all his fantasies, you were always there when he came back home. He’d come home still covered in sweat and grime and you wouldn’t even care, you’d just run up and hug him. Then you’d fuss over him, insist that he eat something that you were keeping warm just for him. And he'd lead you back to his room and he'd eat what he really wanted.

But things were never quite like his fantasies. Instead of you waiting for him at the top of the stairs, you were gone. He only left for a few days, a meeting with executives nothing more, but he still couldn't wait to get back home and see you. The day he landed, you sent him a text saying that you would be away for a few days. There was a death in your brother-in-law's family and instead of making the kids miss a week of school, your sister asked you to stay with the kids. 

He sighed as he washed dishes. Usually, if you ate dinner together (which was more often than not these days), you would do the dishes together too. It turned the task from something boring and tedious to something exciting and even fun. He’ll never forget the night that dishes turned into a little soapy splash war while you were wearing a white blouse. Sure you went home shortly after, a little embarrassed and keeping your arms crossed over your chest, but that only fueled his dreams even more. He went to sleep imagining that the pillow under his head was instead your soft chest.

For a moment he wondered if he could sneak into your flat (as much as one sneaks when they have a key!) and sleep in your bed, surrounded by your scent and warmth. He didn't. He thought about it, a lot, but he didn't want to break the trust you put in him when you gave him your spare key. Nor could he bear the thought that you'd think less of him. 

So he did the next best thing. He slept with his nose pressed into the blanket that you usually wrapped around you when you complained that he kept his flat a little too cold. 

On Tuesday he tried calling you after work, but you were busy with the various after school activities the kids had, so the conversation was short. “Welcome back! I missed you too! I’ll be back Friday night. Gotta go, g’night!” 

At least he got to hear your voice. 

He tried to text you on Wednesday, but by the time you answered, he was already starting to get tired and the conversation fizzled out pretty quickly. 

He slept with the pillow that you usually leaned on that night. It wasn’t the same, he wasn’t even sure if he could actually still smell you or if it was just his imagination. But it reminded him of you, so he held it close in his sleep.

He could hardly sit still Friday, impatient enough to raise a few eyebrows when he rushed home as soon as he could, as if that would make you get home any faster. No, he just didn’t want to miss you, he hadn’t seen you in so long that he needed to spend as much time with you as possible.

Should he question when and how he became this attached to his neighbor? Probably, yes. But he wasn’t going to, not when his phone just lit up with a text from you saying that you were on the way home. 

Then he froze, his heart hammering in his chest as he realized that he hadn’t changed out of his work clothes. He cursed under his breath and rushed through a shower, he even shaved the five o’clock shadow off his chin. He paced around his room so much trying to decide how “casual” he should look that he practically air dried.

An alert on his phone told him that someone had just set off the motion detector he set up in the stairway. (He'd take it down later!) And he rushed to finish dressing. Simple gray sweats and a black t-shirt. He hesitated when his hands hovered over his makeshift mask but when he heard footsteps in the hall he grabbed it and hastily threw it over his head, at least he could hide any embarrassing faces he'd make. 

He managed to pause and catch his breath before he opened the door, seeing you standing in front of your door with your keys in hand. 

You only had the door unlocked, not even opened yet, when König emerged from his flat, your name a cheerful exclamation on his lips. 

“König!” You laughed as he quickly gathered you in his arms. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hood pushed up so that his lips were pressed into your skin as he mumbled something in German. You were grateful for how many cognates German and English shared, you figured he was saying something about you coming home. 

“Ok! Ok!” You laughed again as you wiggled in his arms. “Let me put my things inside!” 

“No! No!” He shook his head, face still pressed to your neck. “If you leave  again you won’t come back!” 

“Then come inside with me!” You protested with a giggle. 

He nodded and leaned down just enough to grab your bag in one hand, the other securely placed on your back. You wrapped your legs around him when you realized he had no intention of putting you back on your feet. “You act like I’m the one that went off to war!” 

“You were gone long enough.”

“It was a week!” Admittedly by the end of the week you were eager to get home and just as eager to see König again. 

He carelessly dropped your bag by the door and locked it behind him before you carried you to the couch, where he laid you down and climbed on top of you. “Like I said,” he once again buried his face in the crook of your neck, “too long.” 

“You,” you shifted beneath him, allowing the two of you to get more comfortable, König ended up with his head resting on your chest, your heartbeat lulling him into an easy relaxed state. “-are acting like a big baby.” You finished with a chuckle.

König hummed and looked up at you, resting his chin between your breasts, “you are good at taking care of babies. Will you take care of me?” 

You let out a sharp laugh that you tried to hold back, giggling at his absurdity. When you finally had your laughter under control, you met his eyes again. He was looking up at you reverently, like you were about to say something profound. You just smiled sweetly at him, “only if you promise to always come home to me.” 

He nodded quickly, “I promise.” 

“Good.” 

“Good.” He nodded again and went back to resting his head on your chest.

“Ok, now get up.” You nudged him, though he didn’t budge. 

“Already breaking your promise, my love?” 

You rolled your eyes and nudged him again, “noo. Just suggesting we move to my room, it’d be more comfortable.” 

König paused before he finally pushed himself up, “yea ok, you’re right.”

Even as he stood, he didn’t let go of you, pulling you up with him and keeping his arms around you as you led him to your room. 

As he slipped into bed behind you, wrapping you up in his arms and holding you close, it felt so easy to drift off to sleep, the anxiety that had been gnawing at him all week gone in what felt like an instant. 

Even as your presence lulled him to sleep, he knew what it was. He’d been back for a week but it finally felt like he was home.

End Notes: This was a totally unplanned chapter, but I'll write what I can these days.

[Neighbor!König Masterlist]

Neighbor König taglist (blurbs): 

@warrior-of-justice  @cumikering @ihateuguys @rand0m--fangirl @keiva1000 @dtftheavengers @takeyour-pants-off @aeeliy @milenko115 @sodonuthideout @onegami @nadiauddincrafts @nadiauddincrafts @grizzersmamma @flooftoof @techs-ass @virginalsacrifice @s0rc3r3r @sleeplessskeleton @introvered-violinist @tizylish @romula96 @peach-habibitch @mitchlow @queenotaku27 @fenixnegras @emmbny @love-dove-noora @lesbianmitsuri @supergirl16 @wybwtjmiadz @ghonigsloverbabe @thatmusedhatter @grassclippers @skystreamchan @lordlydragon @luvecarson @thetestsubject666 @mafer383 @darkangel4121 @puppylikethedog  @trashitytrashitytrash @teapartydreams 

[exuber]

— santa baby

santa!joel x f!reader

synopsis

you find an intruder dressed like santa in the living room of your childhood home on christmas eve. what could go wrong? or, you learn that santa is real. and extremely charming. and handsome. and he fucks, hard.

wordcount: 5.6k

ao3 | masterlist | fic notifs

tags/warnings: explicit (18+ mdni), christmas fluff/humor/smut, rom-com vibes, crack/silly fic treated semi-seriously, no use of y/n, age gap (reader is a mid 20's grad student, joel is in his 50's), unprotected piv, pet names (baby, baby girl, sweetheart, honey, little girl), brief daddy kink, santa kink(?), joel is santa, soft!joel, strangers to lovers, reader initially thinks joel is an intruder that poses a threat but is never actually in danger, so light thriller elements

When your eyes flutter open, it takes a moment to process the sight before you. Firelight still crackles in the hearth; the comforting scent of freshly baked cookies wafting in from the kitchen. The picturesque tableau of the perfect living room on Christmas Eve is interrupted by only one issue: the presence of large black boots standing before the mantle, attached to a towering man in a fur-lined red coat.

The first possibility— you’re dreaming. You must have been drunker than you thought when you dozed off in the plush lounge chair earlier that evening, warmed by the fire across from you. You do have weird dreams after drinking too much.

But... you only had a couple glasses of eggnog. Your blood alcohol content is definitely not high enough to be dreaming up a stranger decked head to toe in red sneaking around your parent's living room in the middle of the night. If this were a dream, the stranger would at least have a decent beard to complete the Santa look, right? The patchy shit framing his jaw is, quite frankly, an insult to mall Santas and Christmas card illustrators everywhere.

Trudging through the dregs of sleep, each thought like pushing through molasses. You rub your eyes to clear your head as your mind settles on the horrifying, disastrous, second possibility. Some fucking psycho is in your parents living room, on Christmas Eve, dressed like Santa Claus.

The stranger hasn't noticed you open your eyes, back still turned towards you, broad shoulders on display where the velvet of his coat pulls taut. His body shifts as he reaches for something above the hearth, adjusting the stockings… And methodically removing them from the hooks on the mantel! Is this motherfucker really swiping the stockings you and your siblings managed to hand-sew as a gift to your parents a few years ago? They aren’t even full of stocking stuffers yet! Not to mention that they are, quite frankly, of shitty construction and devoid of any material worth. What did this asshole want with them?

Rage simmers within you like a pot of water left too long on the stove, but fear wins out as reality washes over you—stock-still in your seat, blood frozen over in an icy river beneath your skin. There is a burglar just feet away from you, his huge shoulders filling out the joke of a red jacket he wears, strong frame easily visible beneath the costume. And your family won’t be able to clamber downstairs fast enough to stop him from doing some serious damage to you even if your scream did wake them up. So… motionless you remain. 

You must have been asleep when he walked in. And he had left you alone. Pretty shit move for a burglar– probably should have chosen a house without a 20 something year old passed out in the living room, but okay. Whatever. Maybe you can just close your eyes, pretend you never woke up, and he won't hurt you.

But then knock off Santa does something unexpected—he puts the stocking back on its hook, hanging a little heavier now. What kind of thief is this guy? He definitely isn't very good at it.

Maybe… the icy river rages back to life in your veins, dread cracking through its frozen surface. Maybe he isn't a burglar at all. Maybe he put something dangerous in the stocking like poison, or a bomb, or—

Shit. Fuck. You are definitely alone, in the middle of the night, with some sick fucking Santa themed serial killer. 

Strange man? yes.

Breaking and entering? Yes.

In the dead of night? Yes. 

Burglar? Definitely not.

Deranged serial killer is like, the next option down the list. To someone else, burglar to serial killer may seem to be a large jump to make. But in this moment of pure panic, you find no other logical conclusions.

Serial-killer-Santa has moved onto the next stocking, rummaging for something in the bag slung over his shoulder, still facing away from you.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Your body is wide awake now, each second passing in slow-motion while Serial-killer-Santa fills each of your family’s stockings with who-knows-what. Whatever it is can’t be good. Right?

What is this guy’s plan? Does whatever he put in the stockings do the job? Is he filling them up for shits and giggles before going around the house and doing it himself? And, most importantly, what the fuck are you supposed to do?

There is no way you can get past him unnoticed to grab a knife from the kitchen. Gears turn as you run through your options. Something close by will have to do. Your eyes scan the room for anything you could use to fight him off.

There is no way you’re letting this fucking creep kill your whole family on Christmas Eve. Who the fuck does that?

Finally, your eyes fall upon your saving grace. Wrought iron fire tools, old-fashioned and quaint in their appearance in their stand beside the fireplace. They could also very well be your doom—they sit just few feet away from fucked up Santa. He could turn at any moment and see what you’re doing. Without the element of surprise, you have nothing.

You shift in your seat, holding in your breath as you wait for the creak of furniture that never comes. Without even breathing a sigh of relief, you inch across the plush rug covering the old wooden floor, lowered to all fours. Each movement is calculated, your body taut with tension. Knee, forward, stop.  Hand, forward, stop. Over and over, for what feels like en eternity. Breath held until your hands wrap around the handle of the little shovel standing beside the hearth.

Fucked up Santa is an arm’s length away as you draw the shovel up and out of its holder, careful not to make a sound. Between the shovel and the fire-poker, you figure blunt force trauma is the more dependable option. Just knock him in the head, and you’ll be safe. Feet tuck beneath your knees, knees beneath your hips, hamstrings burning as you push yourself up little by little. Until, with a swing backwards for momentum, you bring it down on Santa’s head hard.

Did it just fucking bounce off his skull?

You try again.

Bounce.

Again.

Bounce.

Again, again, again.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

What the fuck?

Panic surges through you, a sinking pit where your stomach should be. What little control you had over the situation is ripped from your grasp and it leaves your mind reeling as you try to come up with a new plan to get out of this encounter intact. The bored drawl of his voice finally rouses you from your racing thoughts.

“You done?”

The shovel is still held tight in your grasp, ready for another swing, when those big brown eyes disarm you. His forehead is creased into a scowl and his lips are slightly downturned at the corners, like you are nothing more than a pestering inconvenience. But those damn eyes—burnt amber and gentle; they draw you in like a fly to honey.

You’re certain your eyes bulge out of their sockets, your mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, stunned as you’re caught between drinking in the sight of him like the sweetest ambrosia, and knocking him upside the head one more time to see if it’ll take.

Maybe-serial-killer Santa drags a huge, gloved palm down his face; body sagging in exhaustion or frustration as he lets out a breath. The bag he had been holding flops on the ground beside him.

You track the movement of his hands—are the gloves to keep from leaving any DNA behind?

He must feel the fear radiating from your body because he holds his palms out like you’re a baby deer he’s trying not to scare off. “Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Great, the devastatingly sexy trespasser tampering with your fireplace says he won’t hurt you. Luckily criminals are known for their credibility!

The man nods encouragingly when you don’t bolt after his first statement. “This is my last stop of the night before flyin’ back home.”

Your eyebrows draw together. It’s not like you can run, so the only option you see is to engage with this weirdo. There aren’t any flights out this late, the airport is closed. Is he rich, or is he delusional?

“What like, a private jet or something?”

His lips quirk up in a smirk, “like reindeer.”

Oh, great. Delusional. Maybe your sense of self preservation is finally depleted, because you scoff.

His grin widens. “Don’t believe me?”

“Reindeer don’t fly, asshole. ‘Specially not for delusional intruders on Christmas Eve.”

His chuckle is soft and warm, comforting like a fresh cup of cocoa.

“I’d say that’s the only type ‘a person they fly for, sweetheart.”

Knock off Santa does have a point. And the term of endearment has your blood rushing between your legs. But, still. There’s no way… right?

“Ya want to see?”

So. Your life just got a lot weirder. It turns out Serial-killer-Santa isn’t Serial-killer-Santa at all. The reality is even more improbable than that: he’s just… regular Santa. Old Saint Nick. Father Christmas. With reindeer and snow magic to prove it. You think those melting-chocolate eyes have something to do with how quickly you accept the whole thing—kneeling in fresh snow with a stranger in the front yard well past midnight, hairy whiskers and warm breath against your skin as a reindeer eats straight from your palm.

Not-fucked-up-Santa’s gaze weighs heavy in your chest. A soft grin tugs at his lips. There is something enchanting about the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself. Gruff and sure, with warm eyes and secret smiles that belied his rough exterior. On his knees beside you, he affectionately scratches behind another reindeer’s ears.

The snow is freezing where it melts through your pajama pants, but the warmth in your chest makes it all worthwhile. You can’t believe you thought this guy was some kind of evil psycho. After you spent the last half an hour together in the front yard, you swear he reminds you of an overgrown teddy bear.

You nod towards the reindeer he’s petting. “What’s its name?”

“Prancer.”

Your laugh rings like a bell, rising into the night sky. You shake your head with upturned lips. “Prancer like in the songs?”

The man nods. “Just like ‘em.”

You look down, suddenly shy, eyes tracing reflections of Christmas lights atop the fresh coat of snow.

“So, what about you?” You ask, realizing you aren’t actually sure what to call him.

He cups both sides of Prancer’s face playfully, the reindeer leaning into get more chin scratches. He responds absentmindedly, “What about me?”

“What should I call you?” You ask, recalling different names you’ve heard over the years. “Santa Claus? Kris Kringle? Saint Nicholas?”

“The name’s Joel.”

Your head quirks to the side, surprised. “Joel like Jolly?”

He huffs a low chuckle, standing up with a fond pat on Prancer’s back. The lights lining the roof glint in his silver hair. “Joel like it’s what my momma named me.”

You raise to your feet as well, snow crunching beneath the slippers you slid on before following Santa—Joel—outside.

He rests gloved hands on his hips, standing with one knee popped out a little. Assessing you like he knows what you’ll say next.

“So… what’s with the other names?”

His little grins are becoming a familiar sight, warming your bones like the living room hearth. “Only started this gig a few years back.” Joel tilts his head upwards, taking in the inky black sky and its silver dusting of stars.

“Kris was the last guy. Before that it was Nick.” He lets out a sigh, breath a white cloud; nodding towards the team of animals harnessed to his sleigh. “The reindeer live forever. Santas… not quite. Usually get about a millennium, give or take a few decades.”

You nod, processing. “What Christmas is this for you?”

Joel rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “The third.”

Your eyes widen and you can’t help but laugh. Even if it is a little morbid. “Wait, Santa died two years ago?!”

Crossing his arms, Joel replies with a subtle twinkle in his eyes, “I’m Santa. Been over that already.” Chuckling under his breath he adds, “you ain’t the brightest light on the tree, huh sweetheart?”

Your hand finds his shoulder in a playful shove. “You know what I mean, asshole!” Huffing a laugh of your own before you continue, crossing your arms over your chest in mock defense. “And my GPA this semester was three point nine. So I’m plenty bright.”

That leather-clad hand reaches out to cup your cheek and your heart soars before Joel catches himself.

Hovering awkwardly between you, he speaks. A muttered out I can tell, darlin’ before he lowers his hand in a stilted movement.

Before you can think about it, your palm is wrapped around his wrist, and he slots his fingers between yours. Heat is radiating off his body like a furnace—whether it’s from Santa magic or the fur lined coat, you aren’t certain.

You blink up at Joel through lowered lashes, standing at least a head taller than you. “Aren’t you gonna ask my name, Santa Claus?” Voice lilting and flirtatious, you wonder if a little bit of that liquid courage still thrums in your veins.

“Don’t need to. Already know it.” As soon as the words pass through his lips, his eyes widen and he’s backing away from you, leaving your hand achingly empty.

“Shit, uh–” Joel clears his throat, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “That came out wrong. It’s just—”

Putting him out of his self-imposed misery, a giggle bubbles up in your chest. “The list?”

Joel nods, shoulders sagging in relief. “The list.”

Your body floats towards Joel’s again like you are attracted by some magnetic force. Eyes wide and doe-like, you surprise even yourself with the next question. “And which list is my name on?”

His face is so close you can feel his breath hot against your cheek. Black leather cool against your ear as he tucks a tress of hair behind it before cupping one side of your face in his big palm. Your heart beats like a wild drum inside your chest.

 Mere inches separate his lips from yours when he answers your question, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His voice is low and rough, with a teasing edge. “Don’t know, baby. You been a good girl?”

You swallow the lump stuck in your throat, absolutely certain he can hear the way your breath catches. All you can manage is a little nod.

Joel raises the other gloved palm to cup the base of your skull in both hands, tilting your head up towards him. The space between your lips is thick with tension, begging to be crossed. But you are as frozen as the air around you. Enchanted; not by the magic or impossibility of who this man claims to be; but by the way his silver hair glints in the starlight, curling at the base of his neck. By the way his fingers spread warmth where they touch, and the way you long to feel the work-roughened skin beneath them. By the way his eyes smile before his lips, and the way he makes your insides dance in leaps and twirls like the sugar plum fairy.

His voice comes out in a whisper. “You gonna be a good girl for me right now?”

The smallest nod of your head before he clarifies—“words, baby.”

You have half a mind to be embarrassed by the way you’re about to beg, but you know Joel is just as desperate as you feel in this moment. That he needs to hear what you want, that you feel this feeble string of fate pulling taut between your hearts, that already this may be something more than lust. Spellbound in the way he makes you feel seen, by the care he’s already shown you; the way he delays going home to rest after the longest night of the year to comfort you and ensure that you know you are safe, that he isn’t a threat to you or your family.

Your pleading whisper matches his. “Kiss me, Joel.”

The moment the words escape into the chill between you, Joel closes the meager distance keeping him from you. His lips are warm, chapped and rough where yours are smooth. His touch is feather-light where he still cups the base of your skull; his kiss just as gentle. Hands brace his chest, a rock upon which to hold steady against each wave of sensation. His mouth moves against you tender and timid, as if any movement too sudden could break the spell you’ve cast upon each other.

But you ache for more; for the heat and passion simmering beneath your skin. Longing for not just his gentle touch but also his jagged edges. When you trace the heat of your tongue across the seam of his lips, he opens for you like a bright red flower blooming in white snow. Suddenly tenderness is traded for hunger, and your fingers wrap around the white fur of his collar. Tugging it downwards, begging for his body flush against yours. Begging him to bare himself before you.

Hands gently wrap around your wrists in an urge you to pause. Voice wobbly as if he is holding himself back from continuing too. “Not here, baby girl.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath as he kissed you. But you must have been, because your little huffs puff white plumes into the air as you catch it.

“Come up to my bedroom?”

The moment Joel nods his assent, you take him by the hand to lead him inside, an unspoken promise lingering in each step.

You gently pull the door to you bedroom closed behind you. Your back rests against the white surface; the gentle cool of the wood so juxtaposed to the way each nerve ending in your body crackles with flame. Fingers turn the lock without looking, eyes fixed on the way Joel devours your body with sight alone. The bedside lamp is still turned on, warm light washing over the planes of his face. Letting you study each line and freckle now that he is lit by something more than the night sky.

It does not surprise you that he is even more devastatingly handsome in the light. Now that you can see the little wrinkle of concern between his brows, the lines that frame his eyes commemorating each scowl and belly laugh that you didn’t get to see. Your heart swells with gratitude for what you can see—how the worry line ease and the crows-feet deepen as he matches your timid grin with a one that splits his face in joy.

He speaks your name like it’s the one Christmas wish he doesn’t have the power to grant. All his magic, and he looks at you as if you’re the most enchanting thing in the room. “Can I kiss you again?”

You surge forward to capture his lips, more desperate now for the time spent parted as you walked through the quiet house. Hands bump into each other as you struggle to rid your bodies of the layers separating them. Melting against Joel at the first touch of his gloveless hands upon your skin; they bear the callouses you knew you would find. His fingers light trails of white-hot sparks with each touch across your skin, unbuttoning your knit cardigan and coasting his hand along the skin beneath the hem of your shirt.

Unlike the frigid air outside, your skin holds no chill. Despite your lack of proper dress, you never felt cold as you stood with Joel in the yard. Your lips pull into a smile against his, heart full with the knowledge that he did that for you.

His chest is toned and belly pleasantly full as you strip him of his coat and shirt. Pants pool on the carpet soft beneath your feet, shoes abandoned in the foyer. Your gaze stops short on the bulge outlined in Joel’s red (of course) boxer-briefs as his catches on your mismatched bra and panties. Fingers trace along the softness of your abdomen, slowly reaching around to the clasp of your bra, eyes locked with yours in a question. You quickly nod, and Joel’s fingers deftly unclasp the fabric before he lets it fall unceremoniously to the floor.

His pupils, already darkening his irises, blow even wider as he studies your pert nipples and the supple flesh of your breasts. One hand finds each, each gentle squeeze sending heat straight to your core. Surely the gusset of your panties is already soaked. Before you can lament the loss of his touch, he cups your chin in his hands. Lips find yours, reverent and gentle, as you slowly walk him to the bed.

The back of his calves meet the side of your mattress, urging him to sit on the edge before you climb into his lap, legs straddled on either side. Your fingers tangle through his gray locks– his rest upon your waist, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the skin beneath your breasts. Lips hover just a hairs breadth apart, eyes locked in a heated gaze as you grind against him, his bulge rubbing the fabric of your panties against your slick folds.

He warns, “don’t have a condom, darlin.’”

It’s a stupid decision. The sex-ed outreach ambassadors at your school would definitely be horrified to see a grad student engage in such reckless behavior. But as you breathe out a response, you mean it. “Don’t care, Joel. Need you.”

His lips ghost against yours in a brief tease of a kiss before pulling back to speak against them. “Can’t get you sick. Perk of the job.” He steals another kiss before continuing, “you on somethin’?”

You nod, relief mixing with wonder at how he keeps finding little ways to take care of you. At the way he’s keeping you safe. You sound breathless when manage to speak, only getting out a simple, “IUD,” in response.

His hands guide your hips against the hard outline of his cock. You can feel his grin against your lips as you kiss him deep and long. His scruff rubs against your face and you trace it with your fingertips, stopping to rub the smooth little patch of skin you find along his jaw. You can’t believe you thought this sweet scruff was a sad excuse of a beard. He grinds his hips upward and you both groan at the friction. You think surely you could swim in all the slick pooled in your panties. The feeling of his cock against your seam has your cunt aching through the fabric keeping your centers apart. That feeling in your belly builds with each movement against him, and you think you could come like this.

“Joel, please.”

The deep edge of dominance in his voice sends a fresh wave of arousal washing over you. “Please what, baby girl?”

Your reply comes out in a needy whine— “need to feel you!”

Joel hums low in his throat as his teeth graze the shell of your ear. He buries his face in your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo—cinnamon and vanilla.

“Need Father Christmas to touch this sweet little pussy, hm?” The kiss he presses against your temple is so at odds with the filthy words that leave his lips. “Filled up your stocking out there, now you need t’be filled up right here?” Joel taps gently against your panties. “That it?”

His eyes find yours expectantly, your mind swimming in the sensation of his cock rubbing against your seam and his finger painfully close to where you need him most. You blurt out the first words that come to your mind—a little moan of yes, Daddy—the assent that he needs to hear before he touches you the way you want. You don’t mean to call him Daddy, didn’t even realize you were thinking it before it slips out. Heat rises in your cheeks. It’s his own damn fault, calling himself Father Christmas. You hope you haven’t scared him away; broken the haze of lust that has fallen over you both.

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by a broken groan as his hips buck into you. “Oh sweetheart.” His voice sounds wrecked, want cracking the last word— whiskered lips curve into a knowing grin. “Just need Daddy to take care of ya.” A drag of his cock against your dripping cunt through the layers of underwear. “S’ok, honey.”

Joel’s huge palms guide you to grind against him steadily. “Santa’s here. M’gonna take care of you, gonna take care’a my girl.”

His girl.

Panties pulled to the side, a calloused index finger runs through your soaked folds. Each touch sends sparks thrumming through your veins. You bury your face in his neck, hips bucking when the pad of his finger grazes your clit. Breathing deep to inhale his scent; pine and peppermint. A low groan tears out of Joel’s throat as he dips a finger inside your aching cunt, pumping in and out as your walls convulse around him.

“So damn wet for me, baby.”

You moan out a high pitched mhm. Joel rubs his thumb against your clit as he moves in and out, only one finger inside and you already feel deliciously full—but you need more. Adding a second finger inside you, you swear he can read you like an open book. Knows just what you need.

The stretch of two of Joel’s fingers is nothing like when you touch yourself; you can’t imagine how his length will feel. He can already reach so deep, easily rubbing against the spongy little spot hidden inside that makes you see stars with each pump of his fingers in and out.

“Good fuckin girl, takin’ what I give ya,” Joel breathes into your hair. “Think this pretty pussy is ready for my cock?”

“Yes, Joel, please, fuck—” his fingers brush against your g-spot one last time and cut off your begging with a keening whimper.

You watch entranced as Joel’s tongue darts out to taste you on his soaked fingers before sucking them in his mouth. He hums around his fingers contentedly. “Knew you’d taste sweet, baby girl.” Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, speaking into your hair. “I could stay down there until the sun comes up, just tastin’ you.”

You won’t deny that the idea excites you. But you can feel his hardness press against your core, panties partly covering your folds now that Joel’s hand isn’t there to hold them to the side. You feel so empty, your achy cunt pulsing around air. So desperate to be full of him that any course of action except Joel splitting you in half with his cock seems unacceptable.

Your head pulls back, batting your eyelashes with the sweetest puppy-dog eyes you can muster. It doesn’t take much pretending for you to look so needy– it surprises you, the burn already starting behind your eyes. You’re certain you’d cry if he denies you a second longer.

“Taste later, Joel.” Lips press against his scruffy cheek. “Need your cock, please.” Lips press against the other one. “Now.”

Something about Joel, about the way he takes care of you, his rough-edged gentleness—you’re downright desperate. And it feels good.

Joel’s belly laugh is full of warmth, loud in the quiet of the house. “Later, huh? I’m holdin’ you to that.”

You’re grateful that your bedroom is far enough from the rest of your family’s to worry too much about the sound carrying and waking them. But still, you shush him with a scandalized grin. “Joel!” You whisper-laugh. “Not so loud.”

He lifts you from his lap like you weigh nothing, laying you back gently against the mattress. You add Santa-super-strength to the mental list of things about Joel that turn you on. He harrumphs, pouting playfully as he rids himself of his underwear.

His length bobs heavy, hanging thick and long between his legs. Goosebumps pebble your skin; his fingers are big. But his cock is huge.

Strong legs straddle either side of your hips, lips brushing against your ears as he speaks, “weren’t so worried ‘bout bein’ loud when you were beggin’ for my cock, little girl.” The words are harsh, but his voice holds no bite—teasing.

Joel’s name falls from your lips again. This time it’s a needy whimper.

He thumbs the hem of your panties, gaze serious as it meets yours. “Can I take these off, darlin’?”

Immediately, you nod. “Joel, please.”

Gently tugging your underwear off, he throws it backwards to join the rest of your clothes somewhere on the bedroom floor. His palm cups your pussy, the curls covering your mound slick to the touch.

He hushes the little whines leaving your throat. “Sh, sh, sh. S’ok baby girl.” Running a finger through your soaked folds, his voice is reverent, “gonna give you what you need.”

Joel’s cock his heavy against your thigh as he lines it up with you. Body covering yours like a blanket, propped up on his elbow above you. He runs the head through your puffy folds once, twice, thrice; each nerve on fire with every teasing motion. Finally, he notches his hard length at your entrance, waiting for you to nod before he slowly pushes inside.

There is a pressure in your core like you’ve never felt as he stretches you open. When you finally take him to the hilt, he stills to let you adjust to his size. Joel’s nose brushes yours, sweat glistening on his forehead in the warmth of your room.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

He hasn’t even moved yet, but your breath already comes in shallow pants. The tip of him brushes a spot so deep inside that you feel like you’re made of jelly. “So good, Joel. So good.”

He rolls his hips slowly, cock still wedged within you. You cry out, nipples brushing his skin as your back arches into him. Voice breathy, you only manage two desperate words– “I’m ready.”

Finally he moves, pulling nearly all the way out before he thrusts back in, deep and languid. Joel pumps his cock in and out, keeping his pace slow and comfortable. Like he’s still afraid to hurt you.

The stretch of your walls around his length has your skin prickling, clit swollen and begging for attention. Pleasure builds in your belly, but you need more. Nails dig gently into his back, urging him on.

“Harder, Joel, please,” you manage between panting breaths.

It’s like the leash that holds him back frays and snaps at your permission. Your fingers tangle in his silver curls, the pad of his thumb swirling around your puffy clit. Your cunt spasms around him as tension pulls taut deep in your abdomen with each rough snap of his hips against yours.

He fucks you mercilessly, for minutes or hours. You lose track of time as he pulls earth-shattering pleasure from your body.

“That’s right, good fuckin’ girl. Come on my cock, baby.” His comes out rough and breathy, sounding as wrecked as you feel. “Give it to me, baby.” Each instruction spurs you closer to the edge, coaxing you toward release with every mind numbing brush of his cock. It’s so deep inside that he must be hitting your cervix. He growls low in his throat, “let go f’me”

Joel’s thrusts quicken, frenzied as you writhe beneath him. With a few more tight circles around your aching clit, your eyes roll back as your release hits you. Walls flutter around his cock as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his thumb stilling its movements.

His pace doesn’t let up as he chases his pleasure, your arousal coating his cock in a slick squelch with each snap of his hips. “So good for me, so fuckin’ good.”

A desperate wine tears from your throat, stars painting your eyelids at his praise and the tip of him brushing against your g-spot as he fucks you hard and deep.

“Y'want ol' Santa to put a little snow inside ya, baby girl?”

The rasp of his voice has you begging for him to fill you with his spend. Needy whines of yes, Joel, please, fuck, yes!

He makes a strangled noise as his hips stutter, face buried in your neck as he spills within you, fucking his spend deeper as your cunt milks him dry. After a few shallow thrusts to ride out the aftershocks, he falls limp on top of you.

In this moment, you aren’t worried about the mix of your come and his dripping out of your cunt and onto the bedsheets. You aren’t even worried if your family heard Santa fuck you stupid.

All you care about is Joel, the softness of his curls between your fingertips. The feeling of plush lips against yours as he kisses you gently, his large palm cupping your face. You lay there, limbs tangled, in the arms of this man who was a stranger just hours ago.

You hope he never becomes a stranger again. After all, you do owe him a taste. You get the sense that you’ll be making good on that promise.

fuck neil druckmann, support palestine

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i've had such a busy christmas eve and need to go pass out now but i might add more detailed notes later lol if you enjoyed and want to leave feedback it would make my day!! need santa!joel bad idk it's embarassing

idk if i would have written a santa!joel fic if i hadn't been inspired by mr. winter by @kedsandtubesocks! please go read it ✨

dividers by @saradika-graphics

follow @elflutter-fics for notifs! i may some mutuals in the replies 🤍