#it's not that i do not want to help people... don't get me wrong-

[legacygirlingreen]

That you are || Johnny Storm

Pairing: Johnny Storm (FFFS) x female! reader

Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful... (No use of y/n)

Warnings: lonliness, tooth rotting fluff, Johnny is that perfect blend of soft/uncertain/scoundarl, office sex, desk breaking, don't get to blow a load but I think it's better this way...

Word Count: 25,000+ (I got carried away...)

Author's Note: Couldn't help myself after seeing it a second time for my birthday. You are getting Johnny round two. Loosely inspired by the vibes of Hozier's "that you are", because I was feeling soft and slow and easing one's self into love. Enjoy folks.

How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?

Perhaps it wasn’t all intentional. Bias was unavoidable to a degree. Woven into human nature as certain at times as our hair color or eye color. We built our opinions from scraps of known information, shaped by learned behavior and the neat little patterns our brains insisted on seeing. It was biology to use that information in order to protect oneself from harm. And it certainly didn’t help that the temporary promotion came with a gentle but pointed warning from Mrs. Richards herself…

“I need to warn you about something that comes along with the territory the next few months—”

“I think I’m prepared to handle the job’s tasks,” she interjected, aiming for a mix of humility and quiet confidence in her abilities.

“Oh, it’s nothing to do with your skills,” Sue assured, though her pause lingered a fraction too long. Ever the diplomat, she weighed each word with care, as if balancing her professionalism against the instincts of an older sister.

“Johnny is…” Sue’s eyes softened, but there was something underneath. An almost imperceptible flicker of concern. “A handful.” The warning hung in the air, far heavier than the casual delivery suggested. A handful could mean many things. Immature. Demanding. Reckless. Charming in that dangerous sort of way. And yet, no amount of quiet bracing could have prepared her for the moment he actually walked in.

The door swung open like it had been waiting for his entrance, and if his sister’s comment had summoned him. The faint scent of motor oil and something faintly burnt drifted in with him. He wore the grin of someone who’d never been told no. A confidence in his step that made it feel like he knew the entire world stopped and stared at him alone. “Hey, Sue—” his gaze slid, easy and unhurried, until it caught on her. 

Sue gestured between them. “Johnny, this is—”

“The temporary assistant,” he finished for her, stepping forward without hesitation. “I’ve heard plenty about you.” His handshake was warm, literally, and he held it for half a beat too long, grin deepening like he wanted to see what it would take to make her blush.

“I hope it was all relevant to the job,” she replied, meeting his eyes with the same measured steadiness she’d use in a boardroom. Her tone wasn’t cold, but not open either; it was precise, like every word had passed inspection before leaving her mouth.

Johnny tilted his head, studying her. “Guess we’ll find out.”

She withdrew her hand, smoothing the edge of her clipboard against her palm. “If there’s anything you need work-related, you can go through me. Otherwise, I’ll be coordinating with Mrs. Richards directly.”

“Oh, I think we’ll be talking plenty,” he said with an easy wink. It was the kind of gesture most people would let linger in the air. She didn’t.

“As much as the job requires, Mr. Storm.” Her nod was crisp, professional.

“Please, call me Johnny.”

“I prefer to keep things professional in the workplace,” she said evenly. “It helps maintain clarity.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work for me,” he said, grin leaning more boyish at that moment.

Sue stayed quiet, her expression unreadable. As if deliberately letting the moment stand. It was both proof of the warning she’d given moments ago and a silent test to see how her new assistant would handle the man in question. Luckily, the charms of the Human Torch seemingly missed. Without missing a beat she replied, “Then we’ll just have to disagree on the matter until you give me a real reason to adjust to informality.”

Johnny’s eyebrows lifted, and for the briefest moment, amusement and curiosity sparked in his eyes like a struck match. “Well,” he said, leaning back just enough to suggest he’d conceded without actually conceding, “guess I’ll just have to earn the downgrade to ‘Johnny.’”

“Highly unlikely, given this arrangement is only through the duration of Mrs. Jones’s maternity leave,” she replied, tone even. “However, I can’t dictate how you choose to spend your time, Mr. Storm.”

“A challenge.” His grin sharpened, all boyish confidence. “I like that.”

“Okay, Johnny,” Sue cut in, her voice edged with older-sister authority. “That’s enough harassing the poor girl.”

“I reject that. I’m not harassing.” He scoffed, looking at the woman mouthing can you believe her, only to be met with an unamused shrug. 

“Go.” Sue’s tone was flat, firm. It was the kind that brooked no argument.

“Leaving.” He tipped his head toward her in mock salute, then glanced back at the assistant. “Pleasure meeting you, Sweetheart. I’ll see you around.” And with that, he’d left as casually as he’d arrived, like the interruption had been nothing more than a warm-up act.

Thus began a steady procession of small, unavoidable run-ins with the man. The first came during her opening week on the job. Sue suggested a short trip back across town to the Baxter Building. Something small to act as a private celebration before Tabitha’s send-off to bed rest ahead of her little one’s arrival. Just the three of them, some bakery pastries, and coffee spread across the couch in the quiet living area.

The peace lasted all of ten minutes.

“Alright,” came a voice from the elevator, carrying the particular brand of mischief that seemed to announce him before he actually appeared. “I return the galactically powered menace to your watchful eye. After letting him skip nap time and pumping him full of sugar.” A blond head poked its head into the living space, eyes lighting up as they saw her. “Oh, speaking of sugar…”

Johnny strolled in like he owned the floor beneath him, Franklin perched easily in his arms. The toddler’s little sneakers bounced against Johnny���s side with every step, the boy practically vibrating from whatever sugar-laced adventure they’d just had. Judging by the spark in Johnny’s eyes, he himself was in a similar state.

“Johnny,” Sue scoffed, already sensing the trouble before it unfolded.

“What?” He grinned, all innocence that didn’t fool anyone. “I gotta beat Ben at being the Funcle.”

“How’s my favorite non robotic assistant?” he’s eyes darted to Sue’s regularly staffed assistant who looked at him unamused. “No offense Tabby,” He told her as she rolled her eyes, hands settling on her swollen belly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Storm,” Sue’s newest charge replied evenly, offering him the same professional nod she had the first time they’d met.

Johnny grinned, as if her resistance was the best thing that had happened to him all week. “Y’know, most people would’ve cracked by now. You’re starting to make me nervous.” When she didn’t respond to his comment he continued. “Guess I’ll just have to find another way to win you over. Maybe Franklin can help.”

At the sound of his name, Franklin beamed at her and held out a tiny hand. She reached forward and shook it gently, the faintest smile touching her lips. “See that? He likes you already,” Johnny said, shifting his hold on the toddler. “And the kid’s got great instincts.” Sue made a quiet, knowing sound from her corner of the couch, and Tabitha sipped her coffee to hide a grin.

The assistant straightened, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Instincts aside, I’m sure Franklin’s affections are much easier to earn than mine.”

Johnny’s brows were lifted in a mock challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

Sue cut in, her voice warm but pointed. “Johnny…”

“What? I’m just talking,” Johnny said innocently, bouncing Franklin on his hip with practiced ease. The toddler let out another gleeful squeal, arms flailing in delight. Johnny's eyes, however, lingered on the young woman next to him on the sofa. That ever-present smirk playing at his lips never wavering. “We’ve got months, Sweetheart,” he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough. “I’m a patient guy.”

His gaze flicked toward the coffee table. Years of living with Sue had trained him not to ask before grabbing what he assumed was fair game. Especially with a toddler in the mix. In the Baxter Building, "what's mine is yours" was practically law between the Storm siblings. So, without a second thought, he reached out and snagged the to-go cup resting beside a stack of picture books and spare pacifiers. He popped the lid, took a confident sip... and immediately regretted it.

Instead of the lightly sweetened, milky, vanilla thing Sue usually drank, he was hit with a full blast of unadulterated espresso: jet black, no sugar, extra strong. He paused mid-sip, visibly tensing like someone who’d just been punched in the taste buds.

Sue caught sight of him and let out a sharp breath. “Johnny—”

He grimaced, forced the liquid down with theatrical suffering, then stuck his tongue out like a scolded child. “Who drinks this willingly?” he rasped, eyes watering. “This isn’t coffee, it’s punishment in a cup.”

Setting the drink down with exaggerated caution, he glanced back at the woman, her amusement clearly growing behind her smirk. Something ignited in his stomach watching as her less than rigid act came at his displeasure. The first time she’d let down the professional act even for a moment.

Johnny leaned in, tilting his head, his grin finding new life. “You know,” he said, voice smooth now, “a girl who drinks coffee like that... probably needs a little sweetness in her life.” He let the words hang, just long enough to be felt before flashing her the kind of grin that usually came with a warning label. “Lucky for you, I’m happy to provide...”

“Out.” Sue’s voice cut through the air, firm and unforgiving as she extended her arms toward Franklin. Her expression left no room for argument, just the steady authority of an older sister who’d long since run out of patience for Johnny’s antics. Johnny raised his hands in surrender, already backing toward the door, mischief practically radiating off him. But as he stepped away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, eyes locking onto the woman again.

With a wink and that signature smirk, he added, “Rain check on the Sweetness. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

He hadn’t been entirely wrong, either. Because it wasn’t long after that moment that he surprised her. Not with another joke, or a ridiculous stunt, but with something far more disarming.

Three days. That’s all it had taken. Three days into managing the carefully coordinated chaos of Sue Storm’s professional life, and she was already debating whether or not she should fake her own death and vanish into the mountains. Tabitha had officially left for maternity leave and the mess left behind had fallen squarely into her lap. She was doing her best not to buckle under the pressure, holed up in the adjoining office, a fortress of to-do lists, unanswered messages, and too many events to cram into someone else’s schedule. Sue Storm really was Mrs. Fantastic, if she managed this much on a normal basis. 

A vinyl record spinning low in the corner, some vintage jazz number meant to soothe her fraying nerves. It almost worked. Until the faint murmur of voices in the hallway reached her. It was barely noticeable over the gentle crackle of the record, but enough to prick her ears. Then: a knock. Polite. A beat too casual. Followed by the door opening anyway. She didn’t look up, figuring it was Sue, back early from her meeting. But the footsteps were too light, too familiar in their rhythm. Then a voice.

“Man, you look tense, Doll.”

She blinked, then raised her head. Johnny Storm stood next to her desk, grinning like he’d just stumbled upon something far more interesting than whatever his day had originally held. Her glasses were crooked. Hair a mess from her anxious fingers running through it all morning. She knew she looked a wreck. Not the kind of way anyone wants to be caught in, and especially not in front of him. But then again, he was just her boss’s younger brother. Still, the sting of his observation made her wince.

“Way to make a lady feel great about herself, Mr. Storm,” she said, voice dry as paper. The apology started to form on her lips, soft and automatic. “I’m—”

But he laughed. A real, unpolished sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It hit the walls of the office and filled the space entirely, as it worked to clear out the tension just a little. “No, no, you’re right,” he grinned, holding up his hands in theatrical surrender as perched himself on the only empty corner of her cluttered desk. “I mean, I’ve been waiting to see a crack in that ironclad wall of yours,” he said, head tilted as he looked down at her, not with judgment, but with curiosity. “Gotta say, I like it.”

“Not much in here that lets me know more about you,” he said after a beat, voice thoughtful. “I thought I’d come do some recon, but looks like all you dragged up here was some music.” He gestured toward the corner, where the record player spun something low and moody. All smoke and soft brass, filling the spaces where words might’ve been too much.

She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his comment. For once there hadn’t been teasing. Just… genuine curiosity. Still, she shrugged, returning to her screen without really seeing it. “There’s not much to know,” she said lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a girl trying not to drown in Sue Richard’s impossibly packed schedule.”

In her tone she tried to push off the soft, dismissive, nature with her practiced kind of armor. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be known. Not here. Not by him. But Johnny didn’t push. Instead, he sat something onto the desk beside her keyboard with a quiet thunk. A to-go cup.

Her eyes flicked to it, then to him. He nodded to it without a word, his eyes effectively saying for you. She’d been expecting, instinctively, something saccharine and ridiculous. A caramel swirl monstrosity with six sugars and whipped cream, and enough milk to supply a whole maternity ward. A callback to his over-sweetened preferences, that time he’d drank from her cup when he’d assumed it Sue’s.

But the cup was plain. The aroma sharp. She lifted it slowly, cautious and took a sip. Dark. Strong. Bitter. Exactly the way she drank it. Her brows lifted, just slightly, and for once, words didn’t come easily. She glanced at him, surprised, and found him watching her with a small, satisfied smirk. Not smug. Just… pleased. “Didn’t think I’d get it right?” he asked, a playful edge to his voice, though his posture hadn’t shifted.

She blinked once, then set the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the warmth. “Honestly?” she said, glancing back at him. “No.”

“Well,” Johnny leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, but his grin anything but. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

And damn him, he was. His words tugged at something in her chest. Something small and inconvenient and far too easily stirred. She hated that it caught her off guard, hated more that he didn’t seem to notice the ripple his presence left behind. His gaze had already shifted, roaming over the cluttered corners of her office again with idle interest, like he was seeing it for the first time.

“You know,” he added casually, “you should really make this space yours. At least for now. Studies say people work better when their environment actually feels like them.”

She huffed a small breath through her nose. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Johnny straightened then, clapping his hand lightly against the desk as he stood. “Anyway. I’m off. Some charity golf thing. Sunshine, cameras, pretending I know what a nine iron is. You know how it is.”

She offered him a glance, amused, maybe even a little reluctant to see him go, but it was brief. Controlled. “Thank you,” she said softly, fingers curling around the warm cup still nestled beside her keyboard. “For the coffee, Mr. Storm.”

He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair as he turned toward the door. “One of these days,” he tossed over his shoulder, “it better be just Johnny.” And with that, he disappeared,  leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the lingering heat of the espresso, and an absence she suddenly wasn’t sure she was thrilled to notice.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saturdays were sacred. Or at least they were supposed to be. A quiet little corner carved out of her week, untouched by phones ringing or emergency scheduling changes. No Sue, no international crisis, no chaos in superhero suits. Just her and the worn spines of old books, the scent of paper and dust, the ritual comfort of a place that didn’t expect her to perform.

The shop was tucked away. Not the sleek chain store down the block, but a tiny, tucked-in independent with uneven floors and the kind of silence that invited exhale. She came here often enough that the owner, a soft-spoken man with thick glasses and a deep love for Victorian ghost stories, knew her name. She was halfway down the second-floor fiction aisle, a stack of paperbacks already under one arm, when a voice spoke from just behind her. “Didn’t peg you for a poetry girl.”

She froze. Turned. And there he was. Johnny Storm, of all people, standing a few feet away, sunglasses pushed into his hair making it look disheveled, a to-go coffee cup in hand, and the most unbothered expression she’d ever seen him wear. He was in jeans. A white shirt. Some kind of casual jacket. Not the polished charm of his media persona, not the gleam of a man trying to impress. Just… a guy. In a bookstore. On a Saturday morning before most of the city bothered to be awake.

She blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What, because I know the British romantics?" he grinned, stepping closer and casually leaning against the shelf. “Give me a little credit. I read things. I went to college. I suffered through English class. Birds and mountains, all that jazz.”

“I bet you pretended to read them. Or got some girl in your class to give you the bullet points ahead of class with that charming smile.”

He laughed and held up a hand in mock defeat. “Guilty. But seriously, Rime of the Ancient Mariner?” he nodded at the book in her hand. “You into seriously ruining the vibes of a wedding?”

“I’m into the classics,” she said, slipping it into her stack.

“Well,” he said, with a half-smile, “guess I’ve been categorizing you under the wrong genre.”

She raised a brow, skeptical. “What genre did you have me under?”

He sipped his coffee, thinking for a beat. “Non-fiction,” he said finally. “Sharp, efficient. All structure, no fluff. Certainly not poetry.”

She snorted before she could help it, and regretted it instantly when his smile brightened like he’d just won a bet with himself. “I try to be professional,” she said, mostly to herself.

“And you’re great at it,” Johnny replied, surprising her with the sincerity behind the words. “But I’d like to assume there’s more to you than lists and calendar reminders.”

Her arms tightened around her books, something about his tone striking too close to something she hadn’t let herself think about in months. That she’d built her entire life around being useful. Efficient. The calm in someone else’s storm, and somewhere along the way lost a bit of the things she found enjoyable. It was hard to have a life when the majority of your working life revolved around keeping someone else afloat. “Shouldn’t you be at some event?” she asked, shifting the subject, her voice steady again. “Shaking hands, lighting things on fire for charity?”

He shrugged. “Needed a reset. My therapist says I have to find quiet places that don't come with a camera pointed at me.”

That surprised her. Enough that she glanced up from the shelves of gently loved books in front of her. “You have a therapist?”

“Why does everyone sound so shocked when I say that?” he laughed. “I’ve seen things. Fought things. Spend quite a bit of time on fire. That can mess with the mind I’ll admit. Sue cried the day I voluntarily booked my first session.”

She laughed, and he smiled like that had been the goal all along. Then he held out the coffee in his hand. “Trade you. You recommend a book I’ll pretend I’ll finish, and I’ll give you this, on the condition I get something that doesn’t taste like battery acid in return.”

She eyed the cup with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Straight espresso,” he said, lifting it like a dare. “No sugar, no cream. I’m branching out. Figured if you drink enough of this stuff to kill a man, it must be worth the risk. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It's still crime in a cup.”

She took it, sniffed, and sipped. Bitter. Strong. Exactly how she took hers. He didn’t joke after that point. Didn’t smirk. Just turned and walked toward the front counter and waited for something better from the tiny espresso machine tucked into the back corner of the store, installed by the owner’s wife in what looked like a quiet rebellion against the chain cafés nearby.

She brought the cup to her lips again, pretending not to notice how easily he left it behind in her hands, like it was second nature to share. Like the fact that his mouth had touched it before hers wasn’t worth remarking on. Not that it mattered. She’d drunk after him once before. This just felt… different.

Her eyes followed him as he drifted toward the shelves, one hand brushing the spines like they might give him the answer to some quiet question. No rush. No bravado. Just a guy wandering a bookstore like the world outside wasn’t made of crime, gossip columns and headlines. Then she recalled his request. Something for him to read. 

Johnny Storm didn’t strike her as the kind of man who read often, and certainly not by choice. There was too much velocity in him, too much need for movement and distraction. She imagined him more of a fan of the cinemas than novels. There was strong doubt he sat still long enough to fall into a story unless the pages were filled with action or something lude. And so, she'd never quite assigned him a literary genre in her mind. No tidy label. No easy shelf to place him on.

Something accessible seemed safer, palatable, maybe even charming in its simplicity. So by the time he returned, a faint grin curving his mouth, one hand cradling a new cup of something more suited to his taste, the other tucked coyly behind his back like it contained a secret, she already had a book waiting in her hands.

She wasn’t entirely sure what made her reach for that particular one. Maybe it was a quiet rebellion against his reputation. A subconscious test, curious to see how he'd handle a story that offered less escape and more reflection. One with a title that might resemble a mirror. Maybe she simply liked the way it looked, worn and quietly tragic among the glossier titles. Whatever the reason, she held it out between them.

The Beautiful and Damned. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “This isn’t some cryptic signal for me to back off, is it?”

She shook her head, lips twitching. “Not unless it needs to be, Mr. Storm.”

Johnny turned the book over in his hands, scanning the blurb with a surprisingly thoughtful glance. “Read Gatsby a while back. Liked it more than I thought I would. I’m sure it’s good. Thanks for the recommendation.” Then, without missing a beat, “Which brings me to my much more superior suggestion for you.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean, your suggestion for me?”

“I’m giving you a book rec. Equal exchange. A little literary diplomacy if you will. We read, we reconvene, we give each other another and so on.” Something about that phrasing caught her off-guard. We reconvene. Casual, natural. Like it wasn’t strange at all. Like they were just two friends with overlapping routines and not… whatever this was. It wasn’t quite friendship, was it? And it certainly wasn’t nothing.

A quiet discomfort flickered at the edge of her thoughts. It was all a little too casual, too familiar. Too easy. She worked for his sister, after all. There were boundaries, weren’t there? Unspoken, maybe, but understood. Sue had never forbidden anything, never drawn a line in the sand. Her only warnings had been gently pragmatic: that Johnny could be a lot. Loud. Reckless. The type who flirted with beautiful women because he didn’t know how not to.

But she’d never said stay away.

Before she could dwell on it too long, Johnny was already extending the book toward her with something like pride glittering in his eyes. The Blazing World, by Margaret Cavendish. Her brows lifted slightly, surprised by the choice. A name she didn’t recognize. A curious blend of science fiction, philosophy, poetry and in ambitious prose. Strange and brilliant in ways that rarely showed up on casual reading lists, and even fell through the cracks of scholarly work.

She took it slowly, fingers brushing his as they passed the slim volume between them. His skin was warm, unsurprisingly, given he carried the sun’s power in his body. She let her thumb skim the edge of the pages, not yet opening it. Her voice came quiet, more contemplative than she'd expected. “You’ve read this?”

“I’ve attempted to read it,” he said, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t get far. But I liked the idea of it. Worlds colliding. A woman building her own Empire. Seemed like something you’d appreciate more than I could.” The comment caught her off guard. Not because it was simply flattering, but because it was…observant. It showed his understanding of her tastes, given the little information he had on her, and provided a thoughtful recommendation. It almost made her feel sheepish, given she’d picked something off best sellers lists to pass along to him, where he’d put in more effort.

She glanced up at him, studying the way he leaned back slightly, letting her set the tone. No teasing. No firework smile. Just him, standing there, strangely sincere beneath all that practiced bravado. “It seems weird,” she said finally, thumbing the cover. “But brilliant. The kind of thing I’d stumble upon.”

He grinned again. “Sounds like I provided a better suggestion,.”

She tried not to laugh but didn’t quite succeed, and he looked far too pleased with himself. They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the space between them a breath too close, books cradled like offerings in their hands. Then, casually he said, “So. Same time next week? For the post-mortem?”

She blinked. “You’re seriously going to read it?”

He shrugged, but there was something steady in his eyes. “I said I’d try. Besides…” He nodded toward The Beautiful and Damned in his hand. “Feels like the kind of deal you don’t back out of.”

She smiled. It was small, restrained, but real. “Same time,” she said softly before she could overthink how unprofessional it was to be seeing her boss’s brother on a familiar basis. It was the kind of thing she’d scold herself for… later. 

He offered a mock salute before turning to leave. He didn’t bother her after passing a few bills to the owner. Didn't even turn back around. She could hear the bell above the door jangling as he stepped out into the late afternoon light. She watched him go, unsure what it meant. If it meant anything at all. But with the book still clutched in her hands, she tried not to dwell. And when she finally cracked open the cover, she found herself smiling.

Not because of the words on the page. But because, against every reasonable assumption, Johnny Storm had just surprised her.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights were too bright when she came back in. The kind of artificial white that bleached out time and made everything feel faintly unreal. Her meeting had run over, leaving her with a dull headache and the vague sense that she’d forgotten something important, though she couldn't name what. She set her folder down with a muted thud, shrugging off her coat before freezing mid-motion.

There was something on her desk. Not just something. A book. She recognized it immediately. The worn, wine-colored cover. The familiar weight of it in her memory. The Beautiful and Damned. Only, this copy wasn’t hers. Hers had never been dog-eared like that, the spine a little more cracked now than before, the corners softened as if handled too often in too short a time. She stared at it, unmoving. A note might’ve made it easier. An explanation. Even a dumb sticky note with Told you I’d finish it in his cocky handwriting would’ve fit the narrative she’d built for him in her head. But there was no note. Just the book, left deliberately.

Slowly, she pulled out her chair and sat down. The silence of the office folded around her. When she opened the cover, her breath caught. The margins were full of ink. Not dense, frantic scribbles or anything that suggested pretense. Just... notes. Small, blocky handwriting in black pen. He hadn’t annotated passages with inherent rhyme or reason or filled every blank space. He’d written where it seemed to strike his fancy.

She flipped to a random page.

“This guy's self-pity could power the city grid.”

“Does Gloria actually like him or is she just bored?”

“This part… hits harder than I wanted it to.”

She turned another page. Then another. Every few leaves, there’d be another brief line in the margins. Some funny. Some startlingly intelligent. Some… vulnerable in a way that made her heart trip a little in her chest. Not because they were bold confessions, but because they weren’t. They were insights. Real glimpses into how his mind worked. He’d read it. Not skimmed, but truly read it. In a matter of days. And he’d thought about it. Enough to leave pieces of his perspective tucked between the lines. 

She wasn't sure what she had expected from him on Saturday. Maybe a careless toss of the book back into her hands, some joke about the slow downfall of rich people, a sarcastic rating. But not this. Not a thoughtful connection with the literature. Not ink on paper. Not something left behind, with no need for acknowledgement or using it as an excuse to harass her at work. Just a quiet answer to a question she hadn’t realized she’d been asking.

There was more to Johnny Storm than he truly let on. 

Her eyes drifted back to the desk. Nothing else was left with it. But there was something in the way the book had been placed deliberately there without spectacle. Like he wanted her to find it. Like he wanted her to notice. But he didn’t want to be around when she flipped through it. The realization was almost endearing in a way. Perhaps he wasn’t fully confident with the situation after all.

She leaned back in her chair, the book still open in her lap. The office buzzed faintly around her, but she didn’t hear it. Instead, she felt the weight of those pages, of everything between the lines. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bookstore was quieter than usual. No light filtered through the front windows, not with the snow falling outside. And the cold shift in weather seemingly kept everyone away. A coffee grinder rumbled briefly before dying into stillness. The smell of cinnamon and old pages curled in the air. She was already in the same aisle when he found her, pretending to browse, fingers resting lightly on the spine of a book she wasn’t reading.

“Hey,” came his voice, softer than usual.

She looked up. Johnny stood a few steps away, hair slightly windblown, coffee in one hand, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t look like someone who set things on fire for a living. Here, he just looked... a little uncertain. Maybe even a little hopeful. He nodded toward her, then toward the shelves. “So. Did you finish it?”

It took her a beat to register the question. She gave a small nod, folding her arms. “I did.”

A pause. He took it in stride, stepping closer, careful not to get too close. “And?”

She tilted her head, fingers still resting on that forgotten book beside her. “It was strange,” she said finally. “Dense. Messy. Ahead of its time. Kind of brilliant. Kind of exhausting.”

A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So... you loved it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She rolled her eyes, but softly. “What made you pick it?”

He shrugged. “I remembered the title from an old lecture back in college. Seemed like it’d match your energy. A woman building her Empire and all, with that dramatic energy of hers.”

That pulled a laugh from her, and she tried not to internally scold herself for the involuntary nature of it. “You think I have dramatic energy?”

“I think you build your own world,” he said, too quickly, before glancing away like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Or, you know. Something like that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... charged. She watched the way he sipped his coffee, how his fingers wrapped around the cup like he needed something sure to ground himself in the moment. “I liked the annotations,” she said after a moment. “You are actually funny when you aren’t trying too hard.”

“I can’t say I get that a lot,” he said, but the smile was modest. No fireworks. No bravado. He looked at her then and for a second she didn’t feel like she was standing in a bookstore at all. Just suspended, caught between the margin of something she hadn’t named yet and something he wasn’t forcing her to.

He gestured toward a nearby display. “Okay. Your turn.”

“For what?”

“New picks,” he said. “I’m clearly on a streak. I’ll try not to ruin it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is this becoming a regular thing now?”

He gave a half-shrug, half-smile. “Only if you want it to be.”

The words hung in the space between them, casual on the surface, but landing somewhere far less casual inside her. He said it with the same ease he said most things, like nothing mattered too much, like no moment was ever heavy enough to be held too tightly. But now, with him standing just behind her, following her lead as she turned down a quieter aisle, she couldn’t quite ignore the way her thoughts tangled around the simplicity of it.

Only if you want it to be.

What did she want it to be?

She let her fingers trail the shelves, touching covers she didn’t read, spines she didn’t care about. Searching. A book for him, that was the task. Another title. Another exchange. Something witty or unexpected. Something that said I see more in you without actually saying anything at all.

And yet her mind refused to focus. Because now, the game felt different. Slightly altered in its stakes. It had been harmless, hadn’t it? Originally just a test to see what he was made of. Now it could be a flirtation wrapped in pages and margins, passed between them like a secret handshake. Now it felt like she was making choices with weight. Choosing a book meant choosing how much to show. What version of herself she wanted him to hold in his hands. How much of her growing appreciation for him she’d let on.

Behind her, she could hear the subtle shift of his footsteps as he paused somewhere down the aisle. Not crowding her. Not pushing. Just… waiting. As if he knew better than to fill the silence too soon. She pulled a title from the shelf, turned it over, and put it back. Too grim. Another. Too ridiculous. Another. Too transparent.

How did you find the perfect book for someone who was suddenly no longer a passing curiosity? What does he see when he looks at me? The question slipped in before she could stop it. It wasn’t that she needed an answer. But lately, the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, it was quieter than the Johnny Storm she’d been warned about. No charming remarks. No obvious lines. Just these brief, disarming glances. Like he was trying to understand her.

And now here she was, stalling in front of the fiction section. Like what she picked for him could open or close a door she hadn’t even decided she wanted to walk through. She glanced sideways, found him leaning lightly against the end of the shelf, idly flipping through something he hadn’t really chosen. He looked relaxed. At ease. He was watching her, eyes lifting from the pages every so often to her, then back down. Not like he was even particularly curious about the outcome. Just... present. There. Noticing. She turned back to the shelves, pulse ticking louder than it should’ve. Eventually, her fingers settled on a slim paperback. One she remembered liking years ago but hadn’t thought about since.  She turned, holding it out to him before her mind could make her lose the nerve. 

Johnny took it, thumb brushing the edge of the cover, then flipping through a few pages like he was testing the weight of it. “From the Earth to the Moon, huh? Any particular reason?”

She hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. “Sue mentioned once that you liked space. Said it was your first love. Probably would be your last.”

That pulled a faint smile from him, the crooked and boyish kind, but something flickered behind it. He leaned into the shelf beside him, posture casual but gaze a little more focused now, the book still resting open in his hand. “Asking my sister about me,” he said, voice lighter than the look he gave her. “Now that’s unexpectedly personal.”

“I wasn’t asking about you,” she replied, too quickly, too defensively. “She mentioned it, and I simply cataloged the information.” Her voice was clipped, her posture a touch too stiff. Like she’d said more than she meant to and was trying to shrink it back into something neutral.

But he didn’t tease her for it. Didn’t grin or throw out some easy line the way she expected. He just watched her. Not with judgment, but with something far more subtle. Curiosity, maybe. Or understanding. She couldn't tell. He flipped the book closed with one hand, the soft sound of the pages coming together. “Well,” he said at last, eyes flicking to the cover, “it’s a good pick. You’re not wrong, by the way. About space.”

She raised an eyebrow, surprised he was still on that thought. “I used to memorize the constellations,” he continued, more to the book than to her. “Could name them all before I hit eight. Used to think the stars made more sense than people did.”

That last line hung there, a small piece of himself that was unguarded. Like it had slipped past his usual filter of flirtation. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched the way he shifted his weight, his free hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, like maybe he regretted the truth of it.

“You don’t think that anymore?” she asked, carefully.

“I think,” he said, glancing up again, “that the older you get, the harder it is to look up. So much happening around you, all the responsibility of being an adult, it leaves little room for those daydreams of distant stars.” He said it like it wasn’t profound. Like it didn’t carry a weight that caught her off guard.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, aching to fidget, to ground herself in something tangible. Instead, she said, “That’s why I picked the book. Thought maybe you could use a reminder of simpler times.”

That made him smile again. “I’ll read it,” he said, voice low. “Promise.” She gave a small nod, unsure what else to do with the weight of him looking at her like that. Like she wasn’t just a person passing through his orbit, but something fixed. A point of gravity. Then, thankfully, he broke the moment. “Alright,” he said, tucking the book under his arm. “I owe you one now. You want to cry, laugh, or question the futility of existence?”

She smirked faintly, relief bleeding into the expression. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Dangerous words,” he said with a wink, stepping away from the shelf and back toward the café corner of the shop. “Alright, emotion roulette it is.” She followed a few steps behind, bookless, hands tucked into her sleeves. But the space between them wasn’t awkward. It was almost familiar; comfortable in a way that snuck up on her.

“Okay,” he said, a little breathless, like he was admitting something that might cost him. “I’ll confess, I did some research before today. So this isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment pick. I might’ve also called ahead to make sure they had something in stock.” He didn’t wait for her reaction. Just pressed the book gently into her hands before she could protest. She looked down.

John Clare.

A collected volume. Thick, matte-bound, the kind of edition usually found in academic libraries or quietly aging on secondhand shelves. It wasn’t a single title, not a curated selection by the poet himself, but a posthumous compilation. Normally, she avoided those. They always felt like someone else’s hands had been too involved. Like the purity of the author’s voice had been filtered through other intentions.

But this time, she didn’t move to hand it back. Not when he stood there, a little hopeful. Like he knew it wasn’t flashy, and certainly was off the beaten path, and had still chosen it anyway. She traced a thumb lightly along the edge of the pages. The spine cracked faintly under her grip, and she could already feel the density of it. The weight of someone’s entire lifetime of work captured in the binding.

“You called ahead,” she repeated softly, not quite a question.

He shrugged, half-apologetic. “Didn’t want to wing it. Figured if I was gonna bring you poetry, it should be something thought out a bit more than your Frosts of the world."

That answer surprised her more than the book itself. She opened to the first page, letting the weight of it settle in her hands. The paper was thinner than she liked. The font, a little too small. But there was something in it that made her pause. A sort of stillness she hadn’t expected. “Clare’s not one of the poets I’m largely familiar with, but I know of him. A bit more accessible  than most,” she said.

“Yea,” he agreed. “I read a few of the shorter ones. There was this one about a field, or maybe it was a tree? Either way, it didn’t sound like much. But then halfway through one of them just… it made sense in a way I didn’t expect.”

She blinked. That wasn’t the kind of reaction she expected him to admit. Especially not about a 19th-century poet who wrote about hedgerows and abandonment in the same breath. “So you picked this for me,” she said slowly, “because… it got under your skin?”

“I picked it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “because it felt honest. Messy. Kind of sad, but not in a showy way. Thought maybe you’d like that. I thought breaking up the rich academics with a man who spent time in an asylum or living amongst paupers would have a genuine nature you’d enjoy. You don’t seem to like flashy things.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down at the cover again, the faint embossed lettering of Clare’s name. Something inside of her shifted. Like a door opening somewhere she hadn’t noticed was locked. Normally, she would’ve dismissed the book. Too long. Too curated. But he’d gone looking for it. For her. With intentionality. And that changed everything. She didn’t say thank you. Not because she wasn’t grateful, but because the words felt too shallow for what he’d just handed her. Not the book itself, but the thought behind it. So instead, she just held it. And that seemed to be enough for him.

Johnny didn’t press. He didn’t wait for a reaction like he needed validation. He just gave a small nod, "There's a table open near the back," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the café corner, where a window seat sat mostly in shadow, partially hidden by a crooked row of nonfiction titles and a wilting potted plant. “If you’re not in a rush.”

She hesitated, then followed. Neither of them said anything as they settled into the space. He placed his drink down, she set the book beside hers, and for a while, the only sounds were the low murmur of voices across the store and the soft shuffle of pages turning somewhere nearby. She watched him over the rim of her cup. He’d leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the shelves across from them as if thinking through something he didn’t want to name. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the wood, quiet and patient.

Finally, she reached for the book again. Her thumb flipped through the first few pages. The introduction. The publication note. The timeline of Clare’s life, compressed into neat paragraphs. Born poor. Largely self-taught. Obsessive. Unwell. Brilliant. Forgotten.

She landed on a random poem.

“I am! Yet what I am, none cares or knows.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. It was the kind of line that didn’t require understanding. It simply existed with profound truth. Like someone had written down a thought that had once lived, wordless, at the back of her own mind. And now here it was, plain and devastating and true. She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t want him to see the way the words had impacted her. But he must’ve noticed something. Because after a beat, his voice cut in, quiet.

“That one stayed with me, too.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to his. He didn’t smile. Didn’t try to soften the weight of it. He just looked at her like he knew. And it wasn’t the intensity that got to her, it was the ease. The way he let silence exist between them without rushing to fill it. He was simply present.

She closed the book carefully, ran a finger once along the edge of the pages, and asked, suddenly needing to know, “Why are you doing this?” Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. “This,” she said again, motioning vaguely between them. “The books. The effort. Poetry, for God’s sake. I know you’re not doing this just to cure some momentary boredom. I’m sure you could find much better company for that.”

There was no accusation in her tone, just quiet curiosity, laced with something more hesitant underneath. A softness mixing with caution. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled once through his nose, and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Honestly?” he said. “I’m not totally sure.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh, more reflex than anything else, and looked down at the table like the words might be hiding there. “But when I’m around you,” he continued, slower now, “it’s like I don’t have to keep being whoever everyone thinks I am. I don’t have to try so hard to be entertaining. Or clever. Or whatever version of me people are used to.”

His eyes lifted to hers again. “You don’t look at me like I’m supposed to prove something. That’s… rare.”

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t look away either. “And I think there’s something about you,” he went on, quieter now, almost hesitant. “Something still. Like, there’s this kind of loneliness to you, but not the sad kind. More like you made peace with being on your own. I don’t exactly like to just sit with myself and my own thoughts if I can avoid it.”

That made her inhale a little too sharply. His expression softened, but he didn’t apologize for saying it. “I guess I just like being around that,” he said. “It feels safe. Real. I don’t know. Maybe that sounds selfish.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, almost before he finished.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not about impressing you. If it was, I’d be doing a way worse job, trust me. I’ve got a knack for putting people off at a point when the ‘charming’ nature no longer seems, well, charming. I think I just… want to know what it’s like to be seen by someone who doesn’t already have an idea of me in their head.”

She held his gaze, heart ticking too loudly in her chest. She felt guilty. Just because she hadn’t made the thoughts known, she did have ideas in her head. Ones that were constructed from Sue’s warning. From the articles she tried to avoid. Small giggled conversations on her walk home from young women calling the billboard of him half exposed dreamy. The only contradiction to those being from the sparse moments he’d shown her since those flirty interactions at the beginning.

This version of him �� stripped of bravado, all the golden-boy confidence gone — felt startlingly close to something she hadn’t realized she missed in the company of people. A kind of honesty that didn’t ask for anything back. She looked down at the book again, ran a thumb along its frayed edge. “Well,” she murmured, her voice soft but not without a hint of dry amusement, “you’ve shown me a few sides I didn’t expect to experience, Mr. Storm.”

The use of his name was deliberately formal, but not cold. More playful than professional now. A tease, laced with familiarity. The kind of formality that invited contradiction. He caught it immediately. His grin flickered to life. “Careful,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” He tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. “It’s already in there.”

She rolled her eyes, but it lacked any real bite. The weight of the moment hadn’t lifted entirely. It lingered beneath their words, steady and quiet, but this, the soft return to banter, felt like exhale. Like an acknowledgment that they could hold both things at once: the intimacy, and the distance. The honesty, and the pretense. Johnny took another sip of his coffee which had long since gone cold, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze drifted back to the book in her hands, then to her. For a moment, something uncertain passed through his expression. Almost as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next now that the conversation had settled, now that silence had taken root between them again. 

He looked away, toward the front windows of the shop. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. What had started earlier as a quiet flurry had built slowly into something more committed. The light from the streetlamps cast soft halos through the drifting flakes, and the sidewalks were turning from gray slush to something closer to white. “Huh,” Johnny murmured, more to the window than to her. “Coming down harder now.”

She followed his gaze. People passed by in heavy coats, shoulders hunched, breath visible in short bursts of steam. The kind of cold that made your bones feel thinner. “I could walk you home,” he offered, lightly. 

The words were casual. He tried to make them sound that way, at least. But there was a quiet earnestness underneath. She looked at him for a second too long. Long enough that his confidence wavered just slightly, a flicker behind his eyes. “Are you planning to set yourself on fire for warmth if I say yes?” she asked, deadpan.

He grinned, his shoulders loosening with the shift in tone. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to, but I could probably manage it if things got desperate.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. She stood, the book still in hand. “Fine,” she said, slipping her coat on. “But if you turn this into some dramatic chivalry act, I’m leaving you.”

“Noted,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “Subtle heroism only. Got it.”

They paid for the books without conversation. Just silently ringing up, bags wrapped tightly around the precious cargo so it wouldn’t get damp. Then they stepped out into the street together. The snow greeted them in silence. Clinging to their hair and eyelashes as they walked side by side down the sidewalk. The city felt smaller in the snow. The world reduced to a few feet ahead of them, the hush of their footsteps, and the occasional flicker of streetlight through the white.

They were halfway down the block when the wind came slicing between the buildings, sharp and sudden. It cut through the wool of her coat like it wasn’t even there. She flinched at the cold and instinctively curled in on herself, shoulders tucking tighter, hands disappearing deeper into her pockets. A shiver worked its way through her before she could stop it.

Johnny noticed. He glanced sideways at her, brow lifting just slightly, like he was trying to decide how much trouble he'd be in for what he was about to do. Then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and tugged her gently into his side. One arm slung easily over her shoulders, like it had happened a thousand times before. Effortless. “Pretty sure Sue would kill me if I let her assistant freeze to death on the street,” he said, casually. Light on the surface. 

But his arm stayed where it was. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. Her steps faltered for a half-second. Less from the physical shift and more from the fact that it felt... Natural. Not like something he was doing to be charming. Not to get a reaction. Just a kind gesture to keep her warm.

She glanced up at him, lips parted slightly like she might object on principle. But he was staring ahead, focused on the snow, pretending like he hadn’t just closed the distance between them with no ceremony whatsoever. “You really think Sue would care that much?” she asked, tone deliberately flat.

“Oh, she’d absolutely care,” he said. “She really likes you. Warns me pretty repeatedly not to run you off.”

She let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. And then, surprising even herself, she didn’t move away. His warmth radiated through the fabric of her coat. The snow was still falling, heavier now, and the sidewalks were turning slick with a fine sheen of frost, but beside him, tucked neatly into his side, she didn’t feel quite as brittle in the cold.  They kept walking like that. No big moment. No shift in the world around them. Just his arm around her shoulders. And her letting it stay there. Which, for both of them, felt quietly remarkable.

They rounded the final corner before her building, the familiar stoop materializing out of the haze. She slowed her steps, and so did he. “This is me,” she said quietly, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

He stopped with her, but didn’t pull away just yet. His arm stayed where it was for a second longer than necessary before he let it drop. The absence of it made the cold return too quickly. He looked at the building, then at her. Snow clung to the edges of her coat, melted on the curve of her collar. She didn’t meet his eyes right away.

“You warm enough now?” he asked, tone light.

She nodded. “More or less.”

He gave a slow exhale, breath fogging in the space between them. Then, almost as if to explain the gesture retroactively, he added, “Didn’t want Sue to kill me for letting her assistant freeze to death on a Brooklyn sidewalk.”

She huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close. “How noble of you.”

“I have my moments.”

She glanced up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. Snow was caught in his lashes, and melted into the blond fringe over his forehead. There was nothing performative in his face now. No smug smile, no raised brow. Just a softness she didn’t quite know how to answer.

“Well,” she said, adjusting the book under her arm. “Thanks for the escort, Mr. Storm.”

He gave a slow nod, as if there were words he wanted to say but chose to hold back. Then, with a small, familiar tilt of his head, he said, “Anytime.” Stepping back from the stoop, he added, “I’ll see you Monday.”

The reminder settled between them. Sue’s schedule, the foundation ceremony for their late mother, with Johnny needing to be there for part of it. She nodded, the thought grounding her. They’d see each other again in less than forty-eight hours.

“Goodnight, Mr. Storm,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she started up the steps. She didn’t look back, but her fingers curled tighter around the book she carried. Eager to lose herself in its pages. In something that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She didn’t see him on Monday. Not because he’d flaked. Johnny was many things — sometimes reckless, often loud, and rarely on time — but never unreliable when it counted. Especially when it was related to his family. 

She didn’t see him because she never made it to work at all.

Sunday night had slipped into a quiet blur, the kind of fatigue that wasn’t cause for alarm. But morning came with a harsh jolt. A fever burning through her, a stuffy nose that wouldn’t clear, muscles aching in a dull, persistent throb. The flu had claimed her completely. She spent the day wrapped in blankets, while she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Outside, the world moved on, but inside her house, everything felt still. Except the steady, frustrating pulse of illness.

Sue had told her to stay home. The call had gone through that morning. Franklin crying in the background, muffled sounds of bickering between Ben and Johnny over cereal and Sue’s  gentle insistence and no-nonsense warning. “You need to rest. You’re not permitted in the office until you feel better. That’s an order.”

She had reluctantly agreed, lips pressed tight, even as guilt settled heavy in her chest. Missing work felt like failure. Like letting Sue down. Letting Johnny down, especially since the foundation was in memory of their parents, stung especially hard given their recent… breakthrough. But the fever that had clawed its way into her bones didn’t care about guilt. It demanded surrender. And so she surrendered, curling deeper into tangled sheets, the weight of the blankets somehow both comforting and suffocating.

The hours passed in a strange blur. Outside, daylight faded from pale to gray, then sank into the muted shadows of early evening. The city’s usual hum dulled to a low, distant thrum. The apartment felt hollow.  She’d never put much effort into updating the place. Where most clung to sleek, modern trends, she preferred the warmth of older things: a four-poster bed, a worn chestnut wardrobe, faded floral wallpaper, candle holders still half-used. It had a quiet kind of charm. A lived-in elegance, even if she rarely spent time there. Her fever-glossed eyes drifted over the room. Past the quilted blanket draped over the plush chair in the corner, the wooden record player and vinyl stack beside it, the shelf overflowing with books, titles spilling onto the floor like fallen soldiers.

And there, on the nightstand, lay the book Johnny had given her. Still unopened.

She closed her eyes again. The television murmured in the background, turned low, more ambient noise than entertainment. The stillness was a comfort.

Until it wasn’t. A knock. Hesitant. Unexpected. She froze. The room seemed to shrink around her. Another knock came, firmer this time, breaking the fragile calm. Her pulse fluttered. Who could it be? Friends? She didn’t have many in the city. Family? Even fewer. Maybe the fever was playing tricks on her. When the knocks didn’t come again, she sighed and sank back into the pillows. Probably someone at the wrong door. A delivery. A mix-up. She was too sick to care.

But then, light. Not the flicker of the television, but something warmer. Like a fireplace glow. That’s nice, she thought hazily. Fireplaces are nice. A small, delirious smile tugged at her lips as she buried herself deeper under the covers.

Another knock. Not from the front door this time. From her bedroom window. She sat up, breath catching, sheets clinging to her overheated skin. Panic lanced through her, briefly, until she registered the source of the flickering light outside the glass. She stumbled toward the window, ignoring the fever-sweat clinging to her back, the weakness in her knees. Fumbling with the latch, her fingers finally managed to pry it open. A blast of cold winter air rushed in, stealing the breath from her lungs and chasing heat from her cheeks.

And there he was. Hovering just above the fire escape, flames curling lazily around his shoulders and hands, casting flickering light across the snow-dusted ledge behind him. Johnny Storm. “I thought I had the wrong window for a second,” he said, grinning, though his voice held something gentler than his usual swagger. A thread of concern tugged behind the humor.

She blinked, dazed, gripping the windowsill like it might keep her upright. “You’re here?”

“Uh... yes? Is that a question?” he replied, one brow arching in that familiar, teasing way.

“Just... fever,” she mumbled, her gaze drifting past him, toward the soft mess of her room. The nest of blankets, the tissues, the half-empty mug of cold tea on her nightstand. “Wasn’t sure I was hallucinating.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. Instead, he stepped closer, the flames fading from his skin until only the natural warmth of him remained, haloed in faint light. Then, before she could even process it, his hand reached forward. Back of his dexterous fingers, cool and gentle against her forehead. “Oh, doll… you’re burning up,” he murmured, brow furrowing.

She turned her face slightly, attempting a weak smile. “Bit ironic coming from the Human Torch.” That led to a chuckle, short-lived though it was, as it dissolved into a sudden coughing fit. She braced herself against the window frame, chest heaving, head spinning.

Johnny’s hand hovered, uncertain, ready to steady her if she swayed too far. “Easy. I’m not worth laughing to death over, yeah?”

She gave him a look, still half-glazed from the fever. “Do you... need me to come down and unlock the front door?”

Johnny tilted his head, a spark returning to his grin. “What? And ruin the moment? I’m Prince Charming, Sweetheart. I can crawl through the window like Romeo.”

Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. She stepped back, giving him room. “Just don’t fall, Hotshot.”

“Oh, I never fall,” he said smoothly, one foot swinging over the windowsill. “I fly.” With practiced ease, he climbed inside, landing softly on the hardwood floor beside her bed. The moment he was in, she noticed the bag slung over one shoulder. Navy blue backpack, slightly beat-up, and obviously full.

Her brows furrowed. “What’s in the bag?”

“Supplies,” he said matter-of-factly, already setting it down on the floor. “Soup. Electrolites. Cold meds. Every single cough drop the corner store had. A thermometer shaped like a dinosaur, don’t ask, and your favorite cookies. Which, for the record, I had to bribe someone to get the last pack of.”

“You really came all the way here... just to bring me cold supplies?”

He shrugged, kicking off his sneakers. “Sue said you were sick, and when you didn’t show up today, I figured I’d do what any irresistible fire-powered hero would do.”

“You broke into my room.”

“I entered with style,” he corrected, “Huge difference.”

She sat on the corner of the bed, the warmth in her cheeks no longer just from the fever. “You’re ridiculous.”

Johnny pulled out the soup can, shaking it gently. “And yet, here I am. Ridiculous with a side of chicken noodle.” She watched him move around her space like he belonged there. Like it wasn’t weird at all that a literal superhero had just flown into her bedroom window in the middle of a winter night. Or that her boss’s brother, Jonathan Storm himself, was standing in her room with a bag and concern written all over his face. Like taking care of her was just something he did now.

Almost as if he could sense the direction her thoughts had drifted, Johnny’s gaze wandered across the space. His expression shifted. She followed his line of sight, bracing herself. It wasn’t the Baxter Building. Not even close. He lived among glass walls and touchscreens, floors that practically cleaned themselves, and a fridge that probably told you the weather and your mood. Her apartment, in comparison, felt like it belonged in another century. The kind of place with creaky floorboards and mismatched furniture passed down, not bought.

Framed photos lined her dresser. A school portrait from second grade with pigtails. A blurry snapshot of her with a chocolate-covered mouth at a birthday party. Trinkets from forgotten vacations. A chipped ceramic dish that held earrings and loose change. The floral wallpaper had peeled in places, but she hadn’t bothered to fix it.

And then… the books. He turned toward the far wall, stopping short. “Whoa.” Her eyes followed his. Three narrow shelves were mounted unevenly, packed end to end with novels. Classics, sci-fi, romance, history. Some stacked sideways, others crammed on top of one another like a game of bookish Tetris. And that wasn’t counting the ones on the floor. Piles of them leaned against the wall, curling at the corners, some clearly re-read until the spines cracked.

“You… uh,” Johnny said, gesturing at the organized chaos. “You ever think about getting an actual bookcase?”

She blinked. “The shelves work fine.”

“They’re working overtime,” he replied, stepping closer. “You’re one sneeze away from a paperback avalanche.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “They’ve survived this long.”

“I think we oughta ban you from the bookstore until you figure out a better way to display this incredibly large collection of yours,” he teased, eyeing the leaning towers of novels like they might collapse at any moment.

“That’s only about a third of it,” she admitted, voice raspy with exhaustion. “I’ve got boxes tucked in closets. Bit of a hoarder when it comes to books…”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Johnny said, still grinning. Then, after a beat, his expression softened. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making you talk this much. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel.” He glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on a small door just to the right of her bed. “Bathroom?” he asked, nodding toward it.

She nodded. Without another word, he made his way over and opened the door. She frowned slightly when it didn’t close behind him, her curiosity rising, until she heard the faucet turn on.

The sound of running water filled the room, followed by the creak of a cabinet and the soft clatter of what she guessed was a soap dish. He emerged a moment later, brushing his hands together. “Alright. Got the water running. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to ease the pain.”

She blinked at him. “You drew me a bath?”

He shrugged, casual. “Better you try it while someone’s here to make sure you don’t drown or fall and hurt yourself.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. That’s… unexpected.”

“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart.” He turned, walking back toward the window like he might be heading out. But then he stopped and looked back at her with a more serious expression. “I’ll wait downstairs. Unless you want me to go?” His voice was light, but there was a flicker of something unsure beneath it. His eyes dropped to his sock-covered feet, as if she might suddenly ask him to grab his sneakers, climb back out the window, and forget this ever happened.

For a moment, she said nothing, just watched him, feeling the warmth behind her ribs outweigh the fever in her skin. “You can stay,” she said softly. His head came back up at that, relief flickering across his features. “But,” she added, clearing her throat, “no making fun of Mr. Bear or anything else mildly embarrassing you may come across. I’m too fevered to fight back right now.”

He gave a low chuckle, hand already over his heart. “Scout’s honor. I’ll be on my best behavior. And I’d never mock… Mr. Bear,” he paused, testing the word as his eyes settled on the little brown teddy bear on her bed. 

She rose unsteadily from the bed, and for a second, he instinctively stepped forward, attempting to steady her but she waved him off gently, managing her way to the bathroom door. Just before disappearing inside, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Hey Jonathan?”

“Yeah?” Hearing his full name, not the one he went by, was a step in the right direction, but still felt entirely too formal for his liking. Still, he fought the grin threatening to take over his face at the small concession she’d offered.

“Thank you,”

His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but what came out was softer. “Anytime, Doll.”

She lingered just a moment more after the door clicked shut, listening faintly as his socked footsteps padded away from her bedroom. A second later, the soft creak of the floorboards in the hall told her he was far enough to respect her privacy. She exhaled slowly and turned toward the bathroom. Warm steam curled gently around the frame as she stepped inside. The tub was already filling, the water swirling with just enough heat to soothe without scalding. But what stopped her wasn’t the bath. It was the candles.

Three of them. Set along the edge of the sink and the corner of the tub, flickering softly. Matchbook she kept in the drawer absent. He’d lit them. So she wouldn’t have to use the bright overhead light. Her chest tightened. Just a little. She didn’t dwell on it. A few minutes later, she sank into the water, the warmth pulling a shaky sigh from her lips. It didn’t erase the ache in her bones, but it helped. The low flicker of candlelight danced across the tile. Johnny Storm. Lighting candles. Drawing baths. She smiled faintly to herself. 

Ten minutes. That was all she could manage before the fatigue started tugging her under. She climbed out carefully, dried off, slipped into fresh clothes. Sweats, thick socks, and the hoodie she usually reserved for laundry days. It smelled like clean cotton and fabric softener. Damp but brushed hair soaking through the material, she padded down the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance.

Her apartment hummed. Soft record on the turnstyle, Elvis it sounded like, and the occasional soft clink of metal against ceramic. When she turned the corner into the kitchen, she saw him. Johnny was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup with focused intensity. He’d found one of her oversized mugs and had clearly decided it doubled as a bowl.  He hadn’t noticed her yet.

She leaned against the doorway, watching him. This was... new. Unexpected. And honestly? Kind of nice. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of her. “Didn’t burn the place down, did you?” she rasped, voice still rough but lighter than before.

Johnny turned, surprise flickering across his face before it gave way to something softer. “There she is,” he said, voice low, dramatic in that way television hosts announced the mundane like it was breaking coverage. “Looking a little more alive.”

She moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen. Her legs were still shaky, but the bath had cleared some of the fog in her head. “I’d say it smells good, but I currently can’t smell much,” she murmured, eyeing the oversized mug he was ladling soup into.

“I didn’t screw it up, or go snooping while I waited,” Johnny said. 

She slid into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cold, grounding. “Thank you,” she said simply.

He set the mug down in front of her, along with a spoon, then sat across from her, forearms resting on the table. For a moment, there was only the sound of the spoon clinking against ceramic as she stirred the soup, letting the steam warm her face. She felt the weight of his gaze but didn’t look up. “You didn’t have to stay,” she said eventually.

“I know,” he replied. “Didn’t really feel like leaving.”

She glanced up at him then. His hair was still tousled from the wind, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold. He looked almost out of place in her old kitchen, like a snapshot from someone else’s life. “You could’ve just dropped the stuff off,” she said.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I just, wanted to be sure you were okay.”

She broke eye contact, focusing on the soup instead. “This is a lot of effort for someone who is simply your sister’s overglorified secretary.”

Johnny smiled faintly. “I stopped seeing you as just ‘Sue’s assistant.’ a long time ago.”

She went still at that. He didn’t push it. She took a slow sip of soup, Let it warm her from the inside out. He waited patiently, watching her without hovering. “This is good,” she said after a beat, voice low.

“Not much of a cook, but I’m good at heating things up,” he said. “It’s kind of my thing.” That got a small smile from her, the first real one since she sat down.

Johnny stood slowly, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile. For a second, she thought he might walk off, give her space again. But instead, he circled the table and lowered himself into the chair beside her. She turned slightly, eyes following him, uncertain. He didn’t speak, just reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her forehead. His palm was cool, fingers steady. She leaned into it without thinking.

Still too warm. His brow twitched. His touch moved gently, sliding from her forehead to the side of her face, then drifting into the damp strands of her hair. He paused there, fingers tangled loosely in it. “You’re soaked,” he murmured finally, barely above a whisper. “It’s going to keep you sick.”

Her breath caught, at the quiet concern in his voice, at how close he was now, at the way his fingers held more tenderness than she was used to. Before she could say anything, he pulled back slightly. Palm smooth over her head, and then: Warmth.

Not fever-warm, but something softer. A slow, radiating heat that started at the base of her skull and traveled through the heavy strands of her hair. She could feel it shift, lifting dampness, drying gently. It was careful, completely in control, and absent of the heat she knew him capable of. She closed her eyes. When it faded, her hair was dry. Still tousled and messy, sure, but no longer soaking through her sweater. No longer clinging to her skin.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Johnny’s hand dropped, resting lightly on his thigh. He didn’t meet her gaze right away. His eyes were on the floor, like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line. She didn’t say anything. Just reached for the spoon again, when she noticed his other hand resting near it. She brushed their fingers together intentionally.  His head turned toward her at that. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Thanks.”

He only nodded. But he didn’t move away. “Our mom used to get on Sue about going to bed with wet hair,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough at the edges now. “She’d lecture her every time, like it was some cardinal sin.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, even as exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. Johnny glanced at her again, then down at where her hand was still resting on his. “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked first.”

She shook her head. “Johnny, it’s okay.” The name slipped out too easily, too naturally. Her eyes widened slightly at the sound of it. So did his.

“You called me Johnny,” he said, turning more fully toward her now.

“Yes,” she murmured, suddenly self-conscious, “but—”

“No ‘Mr. Storm.’ No ‘Jonathan.’ I admit, I kind of thought you’d take that to your grave.”

She gave a tired, almost embarrassed laugh. “Blame the fever.”

He didn’t smile this time, just looked at her a beat too long. “You don’t have to pretend with me right now. You don’t have to be professional. I sought you out, remember? After hours.”

Her fingers shifted slightly against his. “You’re my boss’s brother,” she said, though it came out thinner than she intended. The old lines she’d drawn between them felt faded now, like chalk in the rain.

“And you’re not at work,” Johnny replied, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “You’re sick, and alone, and I’m not here because anyone asked me to be. I’m here because I want to be.”

She looked down again. Not at their hands, but somewhere past them. “I don’t… let people see me like this,” she admitted. 

“I noticed,” he said gently. That pulled her gaze back to him, an almost startled kind of glance. He held it. “I mean, you are practically apologizing every time you cough. Got those apologetic eyes,” he added, more lightly, but the warmth in his tone didn’t waver.

She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I guess I thought if I stayed professional enough, you’d stop looking at me like I was…”

“What?” he asked.

“Like you are right now,” she whispered, too worn down to keep the words in.

Johnny’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think I could stop looking at you like this if I tried.”

The words hung in the space between them. They were irritatingly sincere. Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady, like she was grounding herself. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The moment felt too fragile. Heavy with something she wasn’t sure she had the clarity to unpack just yet. Not tonight. Not like this, bleary-eyed and fever-warm, emotions unguarded and closer to the surface than they usually were.

But what struck her most was that he didn’t push. He didn’t follow it up with another line or ask her what she was thinking. He didn’t move closer or lean in. He just… gave her room to sit with it. And that, more than anything, made her exhale a quiet, breath of relief. Because the truth was, she didn’t trust herself right now. Not with her head foggy and her heart aching and all these new emotions rising like steam off hot pavement. She couldn’t tell yet if they were real or just fever-drunk fiction. And she needed space to know the difference.

“Alright,” he said, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. “Moving on before I say something less than charming and ruin the whole mood. If you’re done with that” he nodded to her soup, “I’ll take care of it while you go lay back down.”

She blinked. “I can—”

“Nope,” he cut in. “Your only job right now is not fainting on your way to the couch. I’ll handle the rest.” She watched him collect her mug and spoon with an ease that made the whole thing feel normal. Like he’d done this before. Like taking care of her wasn’t some burden or performance. He turned back, halfway to the sink. “Also, I put on something actually worth watching. What’s the point of being sick if you’re stuck with the news? You need something comforting.”

She narrowed her eyes faintly, wary. “Like what?”

“Like something you enjoy,” he said over his shoulder, rinsing out the mug and tossing the rest of the soup.

She wandered toward the television, feet dragging softly across the floor. She hardly watched anything these days, but her fingers moved on instinct, flipping to the one channel she remembered always airing the reruns that brought her a strange kind of comfort.

By the time he returned and dropped onto the couch beside her, she had already sunk into the cushions, blanket pulled around her shoulders, the black-and-white with intro music drifting through the room. He raised a brow, surprised. “The Twilight Zone?”

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, glancing over.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just wouldn’t have guessed you were a Serling girl.”

“It’s my favorite,” she said, voice low but sincere.

Johnny leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel. “Can I let you in on a secret?” She arched a brow, waiting. “It’s my favorite too.”

A soft scoff escaped her lips before she gently shoved his shoulder, surprising even herself with the casual contact. “You are such a liar, Jonathan Storm.”

He grinned, relaxed and unbothered. “I’m not. You can ask Susie. I still make her watch them with me, though she claims I just like how dramatic the opening theme is.”

She gave him a sideways look. “That does sound like you.”

He turned back to the screen, his expression growing briefly more thoughtful. “I really like that one with the World War I pilot. Y’know, the guy who disappears through the cloud and ends up going back to save his comrade.”

Her eyes flicked over to him, a little surprised at the depth of the reference. “That’s a good one,” she murmured, tucking her legs up beneath her. “Kind of poetic, actually.”

She tried not to unpack the notions under his favorite episode. The idea he saved lives for a living, and he seemingly understood what standing one’s ground to save others meant. It was a sad thought. One day he may do the same to save his family or a civilian. 

He smiled, oblivious to her internal thoughts, and said nothing else. For a moment, the show filled the room with that strange mix of eerie music and philosophical narration. The light flickered gently on both of their faces, shadows shifting as they sat in silence. Then Johnny glanced over at her and frowned. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her hands were balled beneath the blanket and her skin was noticeably pale.

“You’ve got chills,” he said, already sliding closer. “You should be under like, six blankets right now.”

“I’ve got one,” she pointed out, feebly. He didn’t say anything, just reached for the other end of the blanket she had half-draped over herself and scooted closer until he could pull it around both of them. She went rigid. “Johnny, don’t. I don’t want you to get sick.”

He gave a short, soft laugh. “Sweetheart, cosmically altered DNA makes it nearly impossible to get sick”

“But still—”

He turned slightly to face her, his expression gentler now. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Let me take care of you.”

She looked at him for a long second. Her guard almost rose again, but didn’t. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the warmth he gave off, literally and otherwise. Or maybe she was just too tired to keep pretending she didn’t want him close. So she nodded, and leaned, just slightly, into the space between them. And Johnny, in his own quiet way, shifted to make room. Pulled her in.

He was warm. But it wasn’t harsh. It was like curling up beside a sunlit window, steady and soft, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her without expecting something in return. Actually, the last time was the night he walked her home. She rested her head against his shoulder, her body finally beginning to settle, her muscles less tense, her breathing slower. “See?” he murmured, voice close to her ear. 

She huffed out a faint laugh. “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Unbelievably.”

The episode played on, but she barely registered it, her body finally relaxing into the pull of warmth and fatigue. Every now and then, she felt Johnny’s fingers shift where they rested along her arm, just light, absentminded motions. 

“You really don’t do this much, do you?” he asked after a quiet minute. She didn’t answer right away. “Let people take care of you,” he clarified gently, as if afraid to spook her.

“I don’t really know how,” she admitted. “I got used to being the person who handles things. Who keeps the wheels turning.”

Johnny nodded, not teasing now, not performing. “I see that.”

“Being vulnerable,” she added, “it never felt safe. Even when it was.”

There was a beat of quiet between them. “You don’t owe anyone softness,” he said, voice low and even. “But you deserve to have it. When you want it.”

That made her blink. Not because it was overly sweet or romantic, but because it was… kind. Thoughtful. Honest. And completely unexpected coming from someone the world painted as a hotshot. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it.

“For what?”

“For being much more than I originally thought you were. You’re, well for a lack of better words, kind.”

Johnny chuckled at that, his hand brushing over her blanket-covered arm in a casual motion. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, her voice already starting to drift with sleep.

“Noted.” Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, and Johnny didn’t move, just adjusted slightly to let her rest more comfortably, eyes flicking back toward the screen but not really watching. Outside, the city moved on. Cars in the distance, and the hum of nightlife. But in that little pocket of warmth and television static, she was finally still.

And Johnny, for once, was content to be quiet.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

She was back at work. Back to pressed collars and polite emails, back to the soft echo of her heels against the polished floors. Her desk was where she’d left it. The schedule just as full. Sue had barely let her finish “I’m fine, really” before sweeping her into two meetings and asking for three updates. It was easier, in a way: Slipping back into routine. No vulnerability required. No warmth, no weight, just structure and the quiet comfort of being needed.

And yet. Her fingers paused on the keyboard.Her mind drifted back to that night. To the TV flickering in her living room, the glow of black-and-white episodes washing over her walls. To Johnny’s arm around her, steady and warm. He hadn’t stayed. At some point, long after she’d fallen asleep, he’d moved her upstairs to bed. She hadn’t even stirred. Just woke the next morning under her own blankets, still flushed with the remains of fever and confusion, the TV off, a note on the counter in barely-legible handwriting:

Didn’t want to wake you. Get some rest, and I’ll check in later. — Your own personal Prince Charming aka Johnny Storm

She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Sue. Not because it was a secret, but because the words weren’t easy to find. Something had shifted, but she didn’t know what name to give it yet.

Not a romance, not exactly. But something more than familiarity. Something quiet. Unrushed. She rubbed her temple absently, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bottom corner of her monitor. A little past three. The week had crawled and sprinted all at once, especially after returning on Tuesday. Her gaze drifted toward the tote bag tucked under her desk. She’d brought the book with her. The one Johnny had picked out. 

John Clare had been a delightful surprise. There was something raw and untamed about his work, brilliant and aching in a way that clung to her long after she’d set the book down. He wasn’t polished like the other Romantics. His verses didn’t care for perfection. They bled loneliness and dirt and madness, and somehow, they still made her feel seen. Clare was a laborer, a man of the earth, not the universities. His longing was not performative, but primal. Honest. It had struck a chord she hadn’t expected. 

She still had a day left before Saturday. What had started as a casual coincidence now felt like something... A rhythm. A tether to something outside her routines. It wasn’t grand, or loud, or public. But it was theirs. And she was looking forward to it. More than she wanted to admit. Not just for the books. Not even for the quiet comfort of thumbing through dusty spines in side-by-side silence.

But because she was genuinely eager to hear his thoughts on Verne. His take on the moral gray areas, the invention of impossible machines, the way he always seemed to latch onto the underdog character no one else noticed. She wanted to talk about what she’d read. Wanted to see the way his eyes lit up when he made a point, or how he interrupted himself when he got too excited. She wanted to know what he’d pick next for her. She wanted to sit next to him and—

God. Those eyes. That particular shade of crystalline blue that somehow still felt warm. The bashful smile he sometimes slipped into when he was proud of something and didn’t want to say so. The way it curved gently at the edge of his full lips like a secret. 

She blinked hard, realizing she was staring at her monitor, her browser still open to a tab she hadn’t meant to click. With a quiet sigh, she closed it. Her fingers returned to the keyboard, but the page in front of her looked like static.

Focus? Long gone.

It was as if Johnny Storm — brash, ridiculous, too-handsome Johnny Storm — had shown up with that ridiculous navy blue backpack and cracked something open in her. Not with grand gestures. Not with fire and flair. But with soup. With gentle whispers into her damp hair. With the quiet, unexpected way he’d tucked her in and left without needing to be thanked.

And that was the part she couldn’t shake. Johnny Storm was kind. Truly. In a way people didn’t give him credit for. He was the type to pay attention when no one thought he was looking. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee. Who lit candles so the light wouldn’t hurt your eyes when you were sick.

He was careful with her. Considerate. Like she was something delicate and worth handling gently, not because she was fragile, but because she deserved the opportunity to be if she chose it. That’s what he said. Said she deserved the choice of being soft. And somehow, that made her head pound worse than any flu ever could.

The quiet hum of her thoughts was broken by the subtle ping of the pager clipped to her waistband.

SUE RICHARDS : OFFICE. ASAP.

She sighed, already pushing back her chair, straightening her blouse in the reflection of her black screen. Back to business. Back to the part of her life where everything made sense, where emotion had its place. Boxed and filed neatly beneath efficiency. But as she reached for the doorknob to close the door behind her, something stopped her. Soft yellow and crooked at the corner, a sticky note clung to the wood just above eye level. She stared for a beat before plucking it off.

"Hope your day is fantastic. See what I did there? Fantastic. Anyways, Johnny"

There was a tiny doodle of a winking face next to his name. Also a little doodle of their team's logo next to the word fantastic. Of course there was.

Her lips twitched. And then, despite every effort not to, she smiled. It was ridiculous. The handwriting was awful, and the joke barely qualified as a pun. But it was so very him. Playful, charming, and still, somehow, thoughtful. He hadn’t made it into a performance. Just a small note, as if to be respectful of her packed schedule with the lost days this week. Meant for her, and no one else. She pressed it flat between her fingers for a moment, then carefully tucked it into the side pocket of her planner before heading down the hall toward Sue’s office, still smiling. 

Saturday needed to hurry up.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Saturday morning came quietly, sunlight sifting through gauzy curtains in pale ribbons. The kind of morning that felt like a breath held just a little longer than usual. She put on music while getting dressed. Something light and old. The kind of record that made the apartment feel like it belonged to a version of her she hadn’t let exist in a long time. Normally, Saturday meant comfort. Casual. Efficient. But today…Today, she hesitated over her wardrobe. No T-shirt. A sweater instead: soft blue and warm against her skin. A nicer pair of jeans. The nail lacquer she’d brushed on the night before had dried into a muted burgundy that made her feel quietly elegant. Her makeup was subtle, but thoughtful. Deliberate. She didn’t think too hard about the why. Not yet. Maybe for once, she didn’t need to analyze or compartmentalize what this was. Maybe she could just let it be. It wasn’t a confession or a declaration. It was a choice. To feel something. To want something. To allow herself to be soft. 

A lightness threaded through her chest as she smoothed down the hem of her sweater. Something weightless and unfamiliar, like the feeling of stepping outside just before a storm breaks and realizing, for once, you don’t mind if it rained.

A knock at the door. Startled, she blinked and glanced at the clock. He wasn’t supposed to meet her at the shop for another thirty minutes. Curious, she jogged down the narrow staircase of her townhouse, feet against the old wood, and pulled open the front door, only to be met with…Wood. A solid wall of it.

She stepped back instinctively, eyes adjusting to the unexpected sight. It wasn’t a wall. It was furniture. A bookcase. A towering, beautifully worn, dark walnut bookshelf stood on her porch like some kind of offering from the gods of literature themselves. And behind it, peeking over the top, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, was Johnny Storm. “Surprise!”

Her eyes widened. “What in the world—?”

“I know we said bookstore,” he said, edging the bookshelf forward with careful steps, “but I figured if I’m going to keep enabling your addiction, you need somewhere to put your hoard.”

“My collection,” she corrected, stunned, still standing in the open doorway.

“My mistake,” he said solemnly, stepping into full view. His hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows. He looked infuriatingly handsome. Like he’d just stepped out of an autumn-themed magazine spread. “I rescued it from a junk shop down in Brooklyn,” he added. “Had to sweet-talk the guy to part with it. Said it belonged to some ex-college professor who chain-smoked and read philosophy aloud to his cats.”

She blinked at him. Then at the bookcase. Then back at him. “You… dragged a whole bookcase to my house?”

“I carried it,” he corrected proudly, setting it down with a grunt just inside the threshold. “Didn’t trust a delivery service not to damage it. Plus, dramatic entrances are kind of my thing.”

She stared for another breath. Then, without fully meaning to, she laughed. Not a polite chuckle. Not a tight-lipped smile. But a genuine, bubbling laugh that warmed the air between them. Johnny’s grin softened at the edges as he looked at her. “I figured if we’re going to hang out in bookstores every Saturday, you need a place to keep the spoils.”

She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.” But he didn’t step back. Not yet. Just stood in her doorway like he belonged there, looking pleased with himself and, at the same time, strangely... hopeful. She rested a hand lightly on the edge of the bookshelf, fingers grazing the worn wood. It was beautiful. Not new. Not modern. But solid. Thoughtful. Like he’d really looked for something that would suit her, not just fill a space.

“I love it,” she said quietly. And she meant it.

“I saw it and immediately thought of you,” he admitted. She looked up at him then, brows faintly lifted. “Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just… it felt like something solid. Not some new modern thing that doesn’t fit the vibe of your place, but something that would last a couple generations.”

She nodded once, slow. “It’s perfect.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. Eyes soft, the usual spark of mischief dimmed down to a low, steady glow. She was still in the sweater she’d picked carefully that morning, her hair half-tucked behind her ears, eyes brighter than they’d been in days.

“You feeling better?” he asked finally.

“Getting there,” she said.

“Good.” He leaned slightly against the bookshelf, arms crossing. “Because I was hoping maybe we could still do the bookstore. Unless you want to stay in. I can take down those poor shelves and set up this bad boy. Promise I’ll try not to set anything ablaze if I get frustrated.”

She laughed, “I think the bookstore’s still on the table,” she said, then glanced at the shelf again. “But maybe we move this first? I don’t want it sitting in the doorway all day, reminding the neighbors how weird I am.”

Johnny grinned. “You mean how classy and well-read you are?”

“I mean how I’ve let a man deliver furniture to my door like some Regency-era courtship ritual.”

He smirked. “If this is a courtship ritual, I’m definitely doing it wrong. I should’ve brought flowers.”

She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Next time, maybe.”

He arched a brow. “So you’re saying there’ll be a next time?”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “Get the bookcase in the door first, Romeo.” With a dramatic sigh and an over-the-top bow, Johnny lifted the bookshelf again and carried it inside, the wood groaning slightly as he maneuvered it through the narrow entryway. She closed the door behind him, warmth curling at the edges of her stomach as she watched him start up the stairs without being told what to do. 

Johnny Storm had been in her home before. Enough to feel comfortable navigating it on his own. Something that should’ve felt more disarming than it did. She followed behind him. He knocked her bedroom door ajar with his foot and stepped in, mindful of the pair of shoes she’d been planning to wear before he showed up unannounced. Glancing around her tidy room he smiled as he looked at her made bed. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Bear. Survived the great fever of the century, huh?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile. “I thought we had a no-teasing agreement about Mr. Bear.”

“We did,” he said, already walking toward the corner where the old wall shelves sagged under the weight of her books. “But it was provisional, and frankly, I’m reconsidering the terms.”

She scoffed softly, leaning against the doorframe as he set the bookcase down with care. He was already sizing up the room, scanning for a suitable spot. “Do you happen to have much in the way of tools?”

Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. “Sparse would be generous. I have a sad little drill I found at a pawn shop in Harlem. Missing most of the bits. Pretty sure it gave its dying breath the last time I tried to hang a curtain rod.”

Johnny winced in playful sympathy. “Let me take a look. Maybe I can coax it back to life.”

She raised a brow. “Since when do you fix power tools?”

He glanced over at her, feigning offense. “I do have an engineering degree, you know. I wasn’t just invited to the Baxter Building for my charming smile or last name.”

Her lips twitched. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He grinned, that easy, spark-in-his-eyes grin. “I actually worked. Built things. Ran simulations. Helped Reed maintain the ship before everything went sideways. Just because I light on fire doesn’t mean I forgot my mechanics classes.”

She nodded, quiet again. Another layer. One more thing about him that didn’t come through in headlines or swaggering entrances. It wasn’t loud or performative, it was subtle. Quietly competent. Jonathan Storm was kind. He was loyal in a way that wrapped around the people he cared about without asking for anything in return. And, frustratingly, he was smart. Not just clever, but sharp. Capable.

It was borderline infuriating to watch him revive the half-dead drill with a few taps and a muttered, “Come on, don’t embarrass me now,” and then methodically take apart the sagging old shelves. He moved with a purpose, placing the new bookcase against the wall like he already knew exactly how she’d want it.

She’d meant to help. Maybe even offer to hold a side steady or hand him screws. But she’d ended up sitting there instead, caught in the tangle of her own thoughts, watching him work like he belonged there. And then he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his warmth brushing against her skin. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice soft.

She hesitated, then let out a breath. “Just thinking.”

He nudged her knee gently with his own. “About...?”

“You.”

He turned his head to look at her fully. “What about me?”

She swallowed, gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards. “I just… I was wrong about you. In so many ways.”

There was a pause.“How so?” he asked quietly.

She exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. “You told me you liked that I didn’t have this idea of you in my head. And maybe it looked that way from the outside. But Sue warned me before I ever took this job what I’d be dealing with. And I don’t live under a rock, Johnny. Your face is everywhere: News outlets, gossip blogs, billboards. You’re a public figure, and people talk.”

He didn’t flinch, just listened. “I didn’t want to make assumptions. But... It's human nature, isn’t it? You take what you’ve seen, what people tell you, and whether you mean to or not, you start to build a version of someone in your head.”

She laughed softly, almost bitterly, and looked away. “But then you showed up. You took care of me when I had no one else around. You noticed I didn’t have a bookcase and carried one across the city for me like it was nothing. You’ve been thoughtful. Selfless. And every time you do something like that, it makes me feel guilty. For getting you so incredibly wrong.”

He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low but steady.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being careful,” he said. “And yeah... people do look for patterns in others. We make snap judgments to protect ourselves. I’ve done it, too.”

He shifted, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze again. “But when I said I liked that you didn’t have an idea of me in your head, I meant that you didn’t treat me like I was just the Human Torch. You didn’t flirt, or flatter, or try to get something out of me.”

She blinked, surprised. “I had a wall up.”

He smiled faintly. “Exactly. It was all business. No games. And for some reason… that was comforting. Honest. You didn’t pretend to like me.”

“I didn’t know you.”

“And now you do?”

A beat. Her voice dropped. “I’m starting to.”

Johnny’s expression softened, but he didn’t push. He sat with it for a moment, then gave a half-smile. “Well… I guess it’s my job now to keep getting to know you without screwing it up somehow, huh?”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted to the bookcase again. The dark wood, worn at the edges, like it had lived another life before finding its way to her room. “Why me?” she asked quietly.

He blinked. “What do you mean? I feel like I just—”

“No, not really,” she cut in gently. “You’ve said pieces. But I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. You could be anywhere. With anyone. And somehow, you’ve ended up… here. Sitting on my bed. Moving furniture. Talking like this. With your sister’s assistant.” He opened his mouth, but she kept going, voice tightening just a bit. “And before you say it, yes, I am Sue’s assistant. That’s how you know me. That’s the reason we’ve spoken at all. But why go past that? Why become… familiar? Why keep showing up?”

Her eyes met his, searching for something. Johnny sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t answer right away. “When I first met you,” he said slowly, “you treated me like I was just another guy getting in the way of your schedule. You barely looked at me. You were busy. Focused. Unimpressed.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.

“And yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,” he admitted. “The Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt… refreshing.”

His gaze found hers, steadier now. “You weren’t trying to be liked. You weren’t interested in some version of me that other people expect. You were honest. Blunt. Professional to a fault, honestly. And then, little by little, I started noticing things.”

“Like?”

He smiled faintly. “Like how you hum when you’re trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you don’t care about your desk plants dying but secretly bring in new ones every time. Or how you never ask for help, even when you obviously need it.” Her brows lifted, surprised. “I noticed, because I started caring. And I didn’t mean to, not at first. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized you were someone who listens more than she speaks. Someone who takes care of everyone else and doesn’t let anyone take care of her.”

He paused. “And I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell won’t ask. I can’t wrap my mind around someone who’s so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so he’ll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.”

The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. “You make it hard not to care back, you know.” Johnny’s eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fire—”

“Three steps,” he said automatically, lips quirking.

She shot him a look, but didn’t lose her thread. “And then it just… shifted. Somewhere along the line, I started looking forward to seeing you come around. You brought me coffee and I started enjoying your nonsense. The teasing. Even the interruptions.” She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.”

Johnny blinked, then gave a quiet smile. But there was something softer behind it now. Something grateful. Like hearing it from her was something he'd wanted, but hadn’t expected. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who aren’t family. It’s easier to be that version of myself so people don’t go digging.”

She shrugged a little. “You’re not that hard to understand, Johnny. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be more than what people out there know you for. And you are. You’re so much more.”

The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They weren’t touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. “You don’t have to decide anything today,” he said quietly. “But if you ever wonder why it’s you, it’s because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.”

Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. “I already decided,” she said. That made him still. “I don’t know what it means yet,” she added, voice barely audible, “but I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.”

He grinned wide and disbelieving. “That was your moment?”

She gave a soft, shy smile. “Yeah. That was it.”

A beat. “Can I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?”

She didn’t speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. “It wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said.

And that was all it took. Johnny leaned in. Not rushed, not cocky, not the flirty bravado he used to wear like armor, but careful, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. His hand hovered at her cheek, giving her the space to stop him if she wanted to. But she didn’t. When their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending, but like something already known.

She felt him exhale through his nose, slow and steady, like even he couldn’t believe it was finally happening. His hand brushed her jaw, thumb resting lightly at her cheekbone as he pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching now. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured.

She laughed under her breath. “You taste like smug satisfaction.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Can’t help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."

“That was literally the first thing I ever said to you.”

“Exactly.”

She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

He opened his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. Probably.” And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.

A few minutes later, they’d migrated back to the pillows, not in a rush of passion, but a slow sprawl of limbs and conversation. The bookcase stood quietly against the far wall, half-filled with the books Johnny had started placing before everything spiraled into confessions and kisses. She lay on her side, head resting in her palm as she watched him stretch out beside her, one arm slung over his stomach.

“Does Sue know you’re here?” she asked, teasing.

Johnny snorted. “She knows I’m with you. Doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but she’s definitely suspicious.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“She is usually right,” he said with a grin.

Her fingers drifted lazily across the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she was trying to memorize the feel of it. “Hey Johnny… This... whatever this is between us, it doesn’t have to be some big, dramatic thing.”

He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. “No. It doesn’t. But it’s something. And I’m not going to pretend it’s not.”

She nodded once. “Good. Because I’m done pretending, too.”

There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. “So... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?”

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. “Please don’t say ‘go steady.’”

He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. “That’s not a no,” he murmured.

She smiled, soft and certain. “It’s a yes. I’d love to let you take me out.”

“Perfect.” He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. “Can we still go to the bookstore?”

She let out a laugh, surprised by how easy it was to imagine. The two of them wandering between shelves, arguing over paperbacks, drinking coffee. They’d done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, they’d be pretending they weren’t quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was looking…

“Yes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

One month later… 

If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never would’ve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.

New York’s most famously charming rake? Absolutely. A flirt with a face made for magazine covers and a reputation to match? That checked out. Maybe, at some point, he had lived up to that image. She wasn’t there for all of it. Maybe he was that guy once.

But not now. Not with her.

Not since that quiet Saturday with shared kisses in her bedroom, hands brushing in the bookstore, smiles traded like secrets. Since then, Johnny had been something else entirely. 

Yes, he was still unmistakably Johnny, goofy when he thought he could get away with it, always ready with a smart remark and a ridiculous grin, but there was a kind of intention behind everything now. His coat slung over her shoulders without her asking, just because the air turned sharp in the evening. Kisses that rarely wandered beyond knuckles or the curve of her cheek in public, like he wanted to keep something about it just theirs. Doors held open. Seats pulled out. And the truly indecent comments? They were now whispered low and slow, right against her ear, where only she could hear them and usually accompanied by a devilish smile that made her want to roll her eyes and kiss him all at once.

It was strange, really. She hadn’t expected this version of him. But maybe what surprised her more was how much she liked it. How much she liked him.

Not the version plastered across gossip columns or paparazzi photos, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses at night, the so-called hotshot of the Fantastic Four. But this version. The one who sent her pager “I’m proud of you” after a long day she hadn’t even mentioned was weary. The one who was slowly making his way through all her books, writing notes in the margins, just so she could read them later. The one who showed up to the office unprompted with a coffee in each hand and no real reason to be there other than the fact that he wanted to be.

It scared her sometimes, how easily he slipped into her life like he belonged there. And it surprised her even more how little resistance she’d put up when he did. Sue had taken the news with an almost alarming amount of grace. No lectures, no big-sister glares, no stern “don’t-hurt-her” speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.

“She’s good for you,” she’d told Johnny one morning over breakfast. He’d tried to play it cool, said something like, ‘Don’t start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,’ but she could tell how much it meant to him.

And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, “He’s steadier with you around. Not dull. Just… softer.”

That had stayed with her. Softer. Because that’s how he made her feel, too. He didn’t dim things down. He didn’t take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like he’d always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didn’t feel loud or chaotic or fast. It just felt real.

With the territory of being his girl came a quiet shift in her world. A soft deviation from the life she’d been living, subtle at first, then all at once. What used to be long nights at the office, microwaved leftovers eaten in silence, and waking up to do it all over again had become something warmer. Cozier. Messier, in the best possible way.

Now there were dinners at the Baxter Building, where laughter bounced off the high-tech walls and a giggling toddler often ended up curled in her lap, sticky-fingered and beaming. There were double dates with Ben and his sweet-natured schoolteacher girlfriend, Rachel, who always brought homemade dessert and insisted they share it, no matter how full they were. There were evenings where Johnny roped her into ridiculous experiments with H.E.R.B.I.E., and she caught herself scratching the robot's “head” without thinking, just like Johnny always did.

She started keeping an extra box of that absurdly sugary marshmallow cereal in her pantry, because Johnny was prone to munching throughout the evening even after he swore he was full. Somehow, a drawer in her dresser had emptied itself without her even meaning to, only to slowly fill with worn t-shirts that smelled like smoke and soap and him. A second toothbrush had appeared in her bathroom. He didn’t even mention it, just left it there like it belonged. Hair gel. Cologne. A familiar hoodie draped over the back of her couch. Socks in the laundry she hadn’t bought. These weren’t big declarations. They weren’t moving boxes or dramatic speeches.

They were small signs that he wasn’t just passing through. That somehow, somewhere between the bookstore and those soft, sleepy mornings in her bed, Johnny Storm had started taking up space in her life. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just… genuinely. And the wildest part? She liked it. All of it.

Even the cereal.

She hadn’t really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No “so… are we dating now?” moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didn’t. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words “here, take this.” It had just appeared on his keyring one day, nestled between the fob to the garage at the Baxter Building and a tiny glow-in-the-dark Saturn “Franklin” had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into “I’m already outside” calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didn’t intend to let go.

But. Despite the closeness. Despite the sleepy mornings and stolen glances and passionate kisses that left her breathless, nothing had happened in that arena. They’d slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. She’d felt the tension. She knew he had too. The way his breath would catch sometimes, the way his hands would still on her waist, gripping like he was afraid to want more. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want her. That much was clear in the way he kissed her when no one else was around. Deep, slow, full of heat and intent, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth.

But Johnny always stopped short. Sometimes with a soft groan into her neck, sometimes with a sheepish laugh, sometimes with nothing more than a lingering touch and a whispered, “Not tonight.” At first, she’d wondered if it was nerves. If he was afraid to push. Then she thought maybe it was a phase, a slow burn he wanted to savor.

But as the weeks passed and the boundaries held, close but never quite crossing, she started to realize something else. He was waiting. Not out of fear or disinterest, but… respect. Control. Maybe even intention. For a man so famously impulsive, Johnny had been anything but with her. There was restraint in the way he handled her. Not cold. Not distant. But reverent. As if what they were building was fragile in the best kind of way.

And she couldn’t lie. It made her fall even harder. He could’ve had anyone. That was never the question. But he’d chosen to go slow. With her. To let this unfold without pressure or expectation. To give her time, or maybe give them time, for whatever it was they were growing into. And the way he looked at her when she caught him watching, full of something she couldn’t quite name yet but felt like the beginnings of forever, made her wonder if, somehow, he already knew what they were becoming. Maybe he was just waiting for her to catch up.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t increasingly growing a bit… frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnny’s patience, his gentlemanly restraint, his whispered goodnights and feather-light touches, there were moments when she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dark, aching. The way his hands fit around her waist, the way his mouth moved against hers when he stopped holding back just long enough to make her dizzy, it was maddening. A kind of slow, controlled burn that curled low in her spine and settled in her chest, tightening every time he pulled away with a kiss to her shoulder and a barely-there “Goodnight.”

She wasn’t inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasn’t simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and he’d press his forehead to hers like he was grounding himself. It was those long pauses in between kisses when her hands found the hem of his shirt and he caught her wrists, kissing her palms instead.

She wasn’t sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want more. She did. God, she did. There were times when she nearly said it aloud, nearly asked him why they were still dancing around the line. But the truth was… some part of her liked that he didn’t expect it. That he hadn’t made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.

He didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t turn her desire into an obligation. It felt… safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldn’t deny how much it meant. That, for once, someone wanted her, not just her body. That he could spend the night tangled up beside her and still walk away in the morning with nothing more than a sleepy smile and a joke about the way she hogged the blankets.

And yet, underneath all that comfort and affection, there was this hum of anticipation. An unspoken current that ran just below the surface. She felt it in the way his hands lingered on her back a little longer each time. The way his voice dipped when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he wasn’t doing. And it made her wonder. How long could they keep this up? Because love was growing. So was want. And somewhere between soft restraint and quiet intimacy, she knew they were on a path.

That didn’t make the waiting any easier. Especially not when she seemed to be the one feeling it most. That quiet ache followed her even when Johnny wasn’t around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie he’d left behind again, slipping into bed alone and finding his scent still clinging to the pillow beside hers. She hated how often she caught herself imagining him there, not just beside her, but with her. Close. Pressed against her in the dark, mouth warm and purposeful, his voice gone hoarse from saying her name.

She’d never needed someone before, not like this. Not in that bone-deep, restless way where just the thought of him adjusting his sleeves or raking a hand through his hair made her chest feel too tight. Worse still, it crept into her daydreams. Mid-meeting thoughts where she’d suddenly imagine his mouth on her neck, or what it might feel like to wake up to more than just his arm slung across her waist. She’d snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.

He’d ruined her. And he didn’t even know it. Or maybe… maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didn’t feel it too, but because he wanted her to be the one to say it first. To ask. To choose. And part of her hated how much she wanted to. But the other part? The other part was already starting to plan what she might say the next time they were tangled up in each other’s arms, all breathless laughter and too-close proximity. The next time his lips paused just beneath her ear, and his voice dipped low enough to make her stomach twist.

The next time it would be her who didn’t allow them to stop.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The office lights had long since dimmed to half-power, casting a quiet glow across the Building's upper floor. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, but her desk was still a pool of light and blue screens, surrounded by open folders, highlighted notes, and a half-empty coffee cup gone cold. Sue had tried to coax her out earlier: twice, actually. Once with gentle persuasion, and again with a sharper edge when persuasion didn’t work.

"You’re going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "It’s just a press conference."

"It’s not just a press conference," she’d countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "It’s the first time we’ve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesn’t go smoothly, Reed’s going to spiral, and the board’s going to blame you, and you know it."

Sue had sighed, muttered something about overachievers, and finally left her to it. Now, the halls were quiet. The only sound was the soft clack of her keys and the occasional hum of the cooling vents. She didn’t even notice the elevator chime at first, or the soft, familiar footsteps that followed. Johnny leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His hair was a little windblown, probably from flying, and he had that infuriatingly relaxed aura about him, like showing up uninvited at 11 p.m. was perfectly normal. “You know,” he drawled, “most people go home when the sun goes down.”

She didn’t look up from her screen. “Most people don’t have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.”

“Mm.” He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. “Well, most people also don’t look this good in computer lighting, so you’ve already got a head start.”

“Johnny.”

“Just saying.” He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. “Come home.”

She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “Not yet. It’s got to be perfect.”

“It’s already perfect.” His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. “You know how I know that? Because you wrote it.”

Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. “Flattery doesn’t change anything.”

“No,” he agreed, lips brushing her temple, “but maybe a little light kidnapping would.”

She let out a soft laugh, finally turning toward him. He stood over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. “Johnny, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.

And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadn’t gone anywhere, but something heavier sat just beneath it. That restraint. That way he looked at her like he wanted more, but was holding himself back from asking.

She swallowed. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get close. And then stop. Like we’re both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.”

He didn’t deny it. Just watched her. “You said you wanted slow,” he said softly.

“I said I wanted real,” she replied. “And this, us, it is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. That I don’t want more than just—” She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.

Johnny’s brow creased. “You think I don’t feel that too?”

“You never let it show. You always stop.”

He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. “Because if I don’t stop… I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Her heart stuttered. He stepped closer, slower now, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against her jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want everything with you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s all I wanted.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because that was it, wasn’t it? The thing she couldn’t name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadn’t been holding back because he didn’t feel it. He’d been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. “You’re not just some guy I’m passing time with,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for casual.”

He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just… grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. “Neither am I.” The air between them shifted: Warmer, denser, laced with something neither of them could ignore much longer. This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t pull away. 

His mouth met hers like it always did, a familiar rhythm, but something had shifted. There was more behind it now. More intention. More heat. The kind that curled low in her belly and made her press in closer without thinking. His hands found her hips, steady, warm, fingers flexing but he didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t frantic or messy. It was deep. That kind of kiss that quieted everything around them and filled the room with nothing but breath and skin and want. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, and for once, he didn’t stop her. Didn’t deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered “Not tonight.”

His lips just moved with hers, hungrier now. More certain. Then, just as she started to slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, he froze. Not pulled away. Just… paused. She felt it immediately. That subtle change in pressure. That catch of breath. That moment when his self-control kicked back in, like a hand on the brake.

“Wait—” he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. “Are we really about to do this in the office?”

She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. “No one’s here,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “It’s almost midnight. Everyone’s gone.”

His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasn’t moving. Not yet. “I just—” he exhaled, eyes closed. “I don’t want this to feel like something it’s not. You deserve… more than some desk and low lighting.”

Her voice was soft but firm. “I’m tired of waiting, Johnny.” He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. “Do you really think it’s going to mean less because it’s here? Do you think I’ll look back and regret it? Because I won’t. It’s not the location that matters.” Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. “It’s you. Being with you is the part that matters.”

Something in him broke loose at that. The last of his hesitation slipped through his fingers like water, and when he kissed her again, there was no more holding back. No more careful restraint. Just months of slow-burning tension finally unraveling. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a bed with candles or soft music. It didn’t matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.

In fact, the heels were helpful.

Johnny wasn’t absurdly tall, but he had enough height on her that the added inches made things smoother, more aligned, as they stumbled in tandem, laughter and heat tangled between them. The edge of the desk bumped the backs of her thighs, and with one sweeping motion, papers went flying to the floor, coffee tipping sideways in a startled arc. Johnny barely broke rhythm. With one hand still bracing her waist, he flicked his other toward the spill, steam hissed as the liquid vanished in an instant, evaporated before it could touch a single document.

And then she was on the desk, perched firmly as he stepped between her knees. “God, I love these little skirts,” he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. “You have no idea.”

She did, in fact, have some idea, judging by the reverent way his hands slid along her thighs, fingertips pressing in like he was discovering her body for the first time. His mouth dipped to the hollow of her throat, and he nipped there, just enough to make her breath hitch, leaving heat pooling under her skin.

Her hands moved with growing urgency, untucking his shirt with practiced ease as his own fingers toyed at the waistband of her skirt. That same slow-burning control was there in every movement, but this time there was no pulling back. No hesitation. Just the rising intensity of months of reined-in desire finally breaking surface. “You're still—” she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, “—obnoxiously overdressed.”

He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. “You started it. And I could say the same to you,”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, okay.”

But there was no teasing now, not really. His grin softened as he looked down at her, hands stilling just long enough to give her one more chance. One last out. She leaned forward instead, brushing her mouth against his, slower now. More certain. “I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He answered her without words. Just action: swift, sure, and full of intent. He leaned back, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric landed in her desk chair without a second thought. Then he was back, sliding between her knees again like he belonged there.

His hands found the edge of her blouse, tugging it free from where it was tucked neatly into her skirt. The buttons gave beneath his fingers one by one, slow at first, then with a quiet urgency, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t stand the wait anymore. “You always look so put-together,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. “Drives me crazy.”

His palms pushed the material off her shoulders, leaving the fabric of her bra as the only thing covering her from the waist up. Low lighting, darker now that the computer had kicked into reserve power, he still glanced at her longingly. Blue eyes tracing the exposure without hesitation. Her breath hitched, goosebumps racing along her skin as his palms slid over her sides, memorizing her shape like he needed it etched into memory. He smiled against the skin of her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “You ruin me. You know that, right?”

She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his jeans, kissing him hard enough to answer. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of his infamously tight chinos, cursing under her breath as the fabric refused to budge. The effort alone made her laugh, a soft burst of amusement she couldn’t hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.”

She rolled her eyes, still grinning. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at these pants. They’re a crime against movement.”

He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. “They’re flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.”

“They’re a straightjacket for your legs,” she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. “Seriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?”

Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. “What can I say? I make insanity look sexy.” With one final tug, the pants finally gave in, sliding down over his hips in defeat. She leaned back, victorious, breathless from the effort, and maybe a little from the view.

He stood there with all the smugness of a man who knew he looked good half-undressed, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She shot him a look. “I’d argue that it is quite hard…”

His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. “They always say it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, literally. A faint warmth always clung to his skin, like the sun had taken a special liking to him and never quite let go. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I wear them because I always hope you’ll end up taking them off.”

She looked around at the dark office, her shirt and his tossed to the side, now his pants removed. Only her bra on her top half but completely dressed from the waist down from where she sat perched on her desk: nylon, skirt, undergarments, heels. Johnny seemed to notice this fact as well as his fingers traced the outside of her thighs and his eyes darkened. “Speaking of taking things off…” he gestured to her tights. 

She only had it in her to nod, allowing his large hands to work their way under her skirt. Scooting to the edge of the desk to make it easier she lifted herself for a moment as he tugged them from her waist, leaving her skirt bunched up as he then pulled them down the length of her legs. Kitten heels knocked off, tights gone, but skirt still remaining, she looked at him expectantly. 

"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I won’t lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your office…” came sarcasm dribbling into his tone. He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her neck as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath sent a ripple down her spine. One of his hands slid upward, finding the pin tucked into her hair. With a gentle tug, the twist unraveled, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders, soft waves catching the dim light like silk. Johnny pulled back just enough to take her in, one brow lifted. “Hmm… that’s an improvement.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the flush that bloomed across her chest and up her neck. “Do you say that to all the women you undress on desks?”

“Only the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.” His hands were already at her waist again, thumbs brushing over the exposed edge of her skin, just above the waistband of her skirt.

She laughed, but it faltered slightly when he leaned in again, lips ghosting over her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Every brush of contact was heat and patience and promise. “You always flirt this much when you’re half-naked in someone else’s workplace?” she managed, fingers threading into his hair.

His grin was pure trouble. “Only when I’m with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of me…” Then his hands slid lower, anchoring at the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, their bodies aligned, breath mingling. For a heartbeat, the teasing stilled. “I don’t think I can look at this office the same again,” he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.

She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. “Yeah me either”

“Mind if I try something?” he asked, voice uncertain for the first crack in his bravado since this had escalated. She nodded, and he brought his hands to her waist, tugging her until she stood in front of him. He knelt, reaching back up her pencil skirt until he found her panties, eyebrow raised for permission as she nodded, holding his shoulder lightly for balance. He tugged them free, tossing them on top of the growing pile of clothes and standing once more. 

Gently, he turned her to face the desk, the warmth of his hands a steady guide. She heard the soft rustle of fabric behind them, and when she glanced down, she saw his briefs pooled around their feet: quiet evidence of just how far they'd already gone. Fingers, deft and unhurried, brushed her hair to one side, exposing the line of her neck. His mouth followed, lips grazing her skin before he caught her earlobe between his teeth, just enough to make her inhale sharply. “I’ve gotta say,” he murmured, voice husky with laughter, “the skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for me…”

She smiled, lips parting around a breath. “Yeah?”

“Oh, definitely.” He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. “Just picture it. You laid out across your desk…” As he spoke, his hands slid over her waist, guiding her down with gentle pressure. Her stomach met the cool surface of the desk, the contrast sending a ripple up her spine. She turned her head to the side, hair spilling like a curtain as she felt his palms move over the bare skin just above her hips. “God,” he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His touch never rushed. Each pass of his hands over her body was like a promise, one he fully intended to keep. Her eyes drifted down from his face to see all of him. Exposed, standing behind her. His manhood stood at attention, already flushed and solid. A bit larger than she’d honestly have expected. Either way, the anticipation and long month of having it restrained behind his sweatpants and pulsing on her backside as he slept made her desperate to finally experience it all. Widening her stance she looked at him with a nod, hands seeking the edge of the desk to brace herself. 

“Yeah much better than just a fantasy,” he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along she’d gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away. 

Johnny didn’t ask as he lined himself up, bunching the skirt around her waist in the process. He didn't ask permission as he pushed his way inside either, grunt filling her office as he bottomed out relatively easily. He did, however, pause and ask permission before moving. “Wow, that’s, are you—”

“Please move,” she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him. 

“Yes Ma’am,” and that’s all it took. From one bashful, always stopping advances man, to fucking her right and raw against the desk. The wood groaning, the smacking of skin filling her silent office. After all that time waiting, heavenly. 

“Oh, Johnny,” she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath she’d been holding for far too long. Every thrust was a sweet, relentless ache. Stretching, filling, claiming. He moved with purpose, no hesitation, only the kind of need born from restraint finally shattered.

“Yeah…” he breathed out, the word barely more than a hiss, forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, uneven and desperate, syncing with the rhythm of his hips as he drove into her.

The desk beneath her creaked with every movement, sharp staccato echoes of skin meeting skin reverberating through the quiet office. What she'd once imagined might be slow and tender like the nights they’d shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. They’d simmered into this: a moment neither of them could pull back from.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to hold onto something solid while her body threatened to dissolve around him. “Johnny—” her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. “Don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it,” he gritted, one hand splaying across her hip, grounding himself. The other slid up her back, slow and reverent, tracing the curve of her spine through the mess of lace bunched fabric from her bra. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.”

She couldn’t answer, too far gone in the rush of sensation. Her world had narrowed to the heat of him, the sound of their skin meeting, and the tension spiraling through her with every breath. That was when she heard it: a groan. Not hers. The desk.

“Johnny—” she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. One more thrust, rough and deep, and—CRACK. The desk gave with a sharp, splintering snap, the legs buckling beneath them in dramatic betrayal. Papers flew. An empty coffee mug that survived his initial clearing hit the floor and shattered. And they dropped, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.

She landed with a thud, his weight half on top of her, half braced by what was left of the desk. Wide-eyed, she blinked up at the ceiling, catching her breath.

“Well,” Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, “I guess we’re filing this under workplace hazard.”

She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. “You broke my desk!”

He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. “Technically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.”

She stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and breathless. “How am I supposed to explain this to Sue?”

That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. “Okay, please don’t mention my sister while I’m still inside you.”

She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. “Right. Sorry..”

“Thank you.” He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. “Now let’s go back to the part where I was making you see stars.”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. “Pretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.”

His grin widened. “Oh? So I am that good.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.”

“I didn’t let you,” she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “You did that all on your own.”

Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. “Excuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “I did not say ravish.”

“You didn’t have to. I read between the lines,” he said with a wink. “Here I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romantic…”

“And instead, you went full ‘raunchy office scandal,’ like this was some bad porno,” she deadpanned.

He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. “You encouraged it. Don’t go rewriting history now.”

She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. “God, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.”

Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. “I can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then I’ll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.” He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. “The desk was just the… prologue.”

She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. “You better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.”

He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. “No promises.”

“I’m serious,” she warned, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s an antique.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re irresistible,” he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. “Now come on, I wanna do this properly.”

She stood with a quiet laugh, brushing off imaginary dust and tugging her skirt back into place, still slightly rumpled but beyond the point of caring. Around them, the remnants of chaos — cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button — told a story neither of them would ever live down. But somehow, in the aftermath, it all felt worth it. They dressed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional smirk or lingering glance exchanged across the room. Johnny, shirt still half-buttoned and hair a charming disaster, held the door open for her with an exaggerated bow.

“After you, Miss Desk Slayer.” She rolled her eyes but stepped through, her fingers brushing his as she passed.

And later, after the food had gone cold on the coffee table and the city lights flickered softly outside her townhouse window, he touched her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No games. Just quiet, deliberate care. The kind that only comes after you stop pretending there’s nothing to lose. His hands moved over her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to know every breath, every shiver, every unspoken truth. And she let him, opened herself to him fully, as though their bodies could speak the words of a now familiar language.

When it was over, when they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest and their fingers still laced together, the room felt suspended in a place as vast as space and timeless as infinity. She broke the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to come find me tonight.”

He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. “I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. “You say that now.”

Johnny’s voice was soft. Softer than she’d ever heard it. “No. I mean it. Wherever you are... that’s where I wanna be.”

Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he murmured, already slipping into sleep, his arm pulling her in tighter. And as the night settled in around them, warm and still, she realized something she hadn’t let herself admit until now.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Thanks for reading!

[wolvesandcomputers]

This is important perspective to me as someone who lives in a rural area. I'd been seeing the "If you hate cities there is something wrong with you" takes going aorund, and I felt kind of offended by them because I certainly do not want to live in a city. My family has a long tradition of horsemanship, and of raising our own food on our own land. I grew up off the grid where the nearest neighbor was a half mile away and the nearest paved road was over a mile a way. That is home to me. And I hear from a lot of places that I should move to a city and give all of that up. Can't find a job? Why fix the economy where you live? Move to a city. Bigotry against queer people? Why not move to the city? The local gas stations price gouge because they have a monopoly? Well it would be cheaper if you lived in the city. Can't get medical care because insurance doesn't have anyone "in network" in your area? Move to the city. Care about the environment? Go live in the city where humans belong and get out of the wilderness that should be pure and for the animals. Concerned about forest fires? Just move to the city.

It is really frustrating to hear all your problems reduced to: "Just give up your generational wealth, give up the lifestyle that has sustained your family for generations, give up your pets, quit your job, sell your house, abandon your community and start over in a place you know very little about, that will solve all your problems."

So many governmental solutions are targeted for urban areas, which makes sense because that's where the majority of voters live, and I do not object to them having the services. I do have a problem with the rural areas not getting similar services, and when we complain being told it's our fault for not living in the city. I'm sure that the people in rural Pennsylvania don't have a lot of public transportation options available to them. And I would bet that past budgets have had to chose between funding rural routes with small ridership numbers and funding routes in urban areas. And I would bet that just like in my state when the rural areas complain about how small their slice of the pie is, they get told "If you don't like it just move to the city"

That makes a really fertile ground for "Fuck the city" rhetoric.

Personally I think we should have more public transportation everywhere, urban and rural. Fighting between the two groups helps no one. I does get really tiring being told that if you want government services you should move to the cities because only they mater.

[berriesonmars]

Hello! This is a little crackfic request but. . . Angel!reader? Not religious or anything but if selfish people become demons in K-Pop Demon Hunters, then I headcannon that the purest of people become angels and it’s their job to help people heal from demon-related trauma. So I’d like to request some fluff with reader and the Saja Boys. Tysm!!!!

Angel!reader x Saja Boys

(I used ‘angel’s touch can provide healing’/temporarily get rid of gwi-ma’s voice for demons so there’s a lot of it, hope it’s okay! Also this basically turned into “comforting saja boys” pt 2. i’m sorry LOL.)

masterlist

Jinu

I imagine at first he’d be like ‘absolutely not,’ ‘get away from me,’ ‘I’ll taint you.’ But the more he gets to know you, the closer he is to giving in. He lets you hug him once (after a lot of begging that it’ll do him some good) and he almost slumps into your arms in relief.

Silence. You were right. This is nice. No Gwi-ma in his ear. He feels selfish but he’ll want your angel touch more often, at first out of need, but then later maybe for something more…

Mystery

He’s skeptical of you at first. Aren’t angels supposed to hate demons? Why are you being so nice to him? But overtime, he began to look forward to your visits. Your angelic presence.

So when you first proposed trying to help him with your angel touch, he responds well.

“We could hold hands, or hug, even cuddle-“

He perks up. You can work with that, you think.

So the two of you settle onto his bed, and you wrap your arms around him. He cries a bit at the pure silence and comfort. He wants more of this, of you, from then on.

Romance

He likes the forbidden aspect of this, and will flirt with you off the bat. After all, you’re an angelic being, in both personality and literally. He finds you very attractive, so why not? Not like it’ll turn into anything serious, anyways. It can’t.

Oh, how wrong he was. When you suggest a hug, he thinks you’re flirting with him and making excuses because you’re embarrassed.

“You’re so cute. Of course you can have a hug.”

You roll your eyes a bit internally at his response but wrap your arms around him, not missing the way his arms tighten around you after a moment. It must be working, right?

He sniffles a bit, and you hold onto him tighter.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He takes in the silence, the comfort, and holds you as tight as he can. He takes everything more seriously after this.

Abby

The nicest Saja Boy upfront. He doesn't mind that you're an angel (as long as you don't mind that he's a demon) and becomes friends with you right off the bat. He's worried when you mention that your touch might be able to help him, as he doesn't want to taint you or anything. You reassure him that you're a strong angel, and he has nothing to worry about.

He trusts you, and lets you hold him. He feels at peace, and thanks you when you finally pull away. He's grateful for the silence, even if it was only temporary.

Baby

He's another skeptical member. He's very guarded, and it takes you a long time to get close to him. When you finally propose your idea, he raises an eyebrow at you.

"Even if you could do that, why would you want to? I'm a demon. You're an angel. I could corrupt you, or something."

"I trust that you won't do that."

"That's stupid, but okay."

Hesitantly, he places a hand out for you. You place your hand in his, noticing the way he begins to grasp your hand like it's a lifeline. His gaze softens, and he looks like he's fighting back tears. This is the first time of many that you will hold hands, a bit of the wall he's built up knocking down every time.

[almostsaidiloveyou]

Your popular girl x quiet one fic?? I ate it up so fast omgggg

IT WAS SO GOOD. Gorgeous. I loved it so much. Pretty and sweet. And everything felt so damn real it was sooo niceeeeee

And I loveeee how long it was even if you didn’t intend for it! I can tell you had fun writing it, it feels like it was crafted with care.

I’d love to read the role reversal if you decide to write it. :))

🫶

This is part two of this one shot: Imagine 25. It’s similar to your request where READER is quiet and your love interest is popular.

Now I really need you to read the first part before this one LOL.

Thank you for the request, for enjoying my little imagines. Everytime I write, and it takes so long to make…just know I had more fun than i usually do. (And I find everything fun)

Imagine 25.5: "Don't you tell me to deny it, I've done wrong and I wanna suffer for my sins...I know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand. But I keep living this day like the next will never come"

❀✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊ criminal - fiona apple ❀✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊

(University AU - introverted!reader - filmstudent!reader - established relationship - insert female love interest - infidelity and selfishness - reader has a boyfriend - caught cheating - drama - long verbal fight - wlw - smut w/ plot - reader loses virginity w/strap - one shot - added background character - 7k words )

It’s been almost two weeks since you’ve done anything that wasn’t staring at a screen. Your desk is buried under empty mugs, memory cards, and half-scribbled notes. The world outside your apartment might as well be a movie playing as background noise.

So when she shows up at your door, cheeks flushed from the cold and a beanie shoved down over her ears, you’re caught off guard.

"Get dressed," she says, no bossiness, just a mischievous glint in her eyes.

You blink rapidly, look at her from the doorway. "Why?"

"Because you’re slowly turning pale, hunched over like a cave monster, and if I let you edit for one more day straight your spine is going to fuse into the shape of that chair."

She glances inside at the mess of your desk and grimaces. “Shoes. Now.”

The next thing you know, you’re bundled in layers, your breath puffing into the air as you take the subway with. To the city streets lit in warm gold from shop windows. The smell of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon drifts from a food cart on the corner. It feels strange and alive after so many days locked indoors.

When you finally see the rink: a wide oval of ice surrounded by strings of lights that look like they were inspo for a postcard; you can’t help but smile. Skaters loop past in scarves and coats, some gliding effortlessly, others clutching the railing for dear life.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you say, slowing your steps.

She grins, already tugging you toward the rental booth. “Nope. I want to watch you improved skills.”

It takes ten awkward minutes to lace your skates and shuffle toward the ice, her steadying you with an arm at your waist. The air is cold enough to nip at your cheeks, but there’s music playing somewhere:  soft, jazzy, old holiday standards.

On the ice, you cling to her hand for balance. She’s steadier than you expected, her movements confident but casual, like she’s done this a hundred times…(cause she has).

“You’re not gonna let go, right?” you mutter, eyes glued to your feet.

“Of course not” She squeezes your fingers, leaning closer so her breath warms the shell of your ear. “I like watching you rely on me.”

Your stomach flips, though you tell yourself it’s just the slippery ice.

You circle the rink together. Slowly, clumsy, but with her pulling you through the crowd like you’re the only two people there. And for a few minutes, it almost feels true.

Afterwards, you both strop out the ice. Like second nature you pull out your camcorder. 

The footage starts shaky,  you haven’t even flipped the screen around yet. Just light reflected in puddles and the muffled hum of the city. Then her voice, warm and close to the mic.

“Is it on?”

You steady the camera against your gloves, grin at her through the viewfinder. “Yeah. Don’t look at me, look at the camera.”

She does the opposite. She leans in, eyes darting straight to you, mouth tugging into a lopsided smile. The kind of smile that doesn’t sit still, that threatens to turn into a laugh at any second.

The frame shifts, catching her beanie pulled low over her ears, the wool scarf hiding half her mouth. Lights from the rink spill behind her, turning her hair into threads of gold.

“Tell the camera what we’re doing,” you say.

She tucks her chin down, shoulders lifting in the kind of mock-shy gesture she knows will make you roll your eyes. “We’re… getting the best hot chocolate in the city. Obviously.”

The next cut,  you’re still filming as she orders from the little street cart, mittened hands digging for cash while the vendor pours steaming liquid into a paper cup. She glances back at you once, caught off guard by the lens, and her grin softens into something smaller.

The camera shakes when you laugh.

You place the camera down on a table: her glove brushing yours, the white swirl of whipped cream spilling over the rim.

“Careful, it’s--” she starts, and then you take a sip too big, eyes watering at the heat.

She laughs, right into the mic. “Idiot.” 

She picks the camera up. A quick zoom, the kind you do when you’re trying to catch something small before it disappears. On the little smear of whipped cream clinging to your lip. You hear her mutter something that’s more fond than teasing, and the tip of her glove catches it, wiping it away.

The frame stays there for a bit, her hand against your mouth, your eyes meeting hers just over the edge of the camera.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, but she doesn’t move away.

The last shot before the battery light starts blinking red is the two of you walking side by side through the lit up plaza, the camera swaying with your steps. Her hand slips into your coat pocket. Not holding your hand exactly, but resting there, warm and close, like it belongs.

You eventually turn the camera off, the city lights blur behind you as you walk back towards the subway station, hands brushing together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The hot chocolate cups are empty now, but the warmth of your fingers pressed together lingers, spreading through your chest.

“I can’t believe you got me to leave my editing cave,” you murmur, smiling up at her.

She nudges your shoulder with hers, teasing but soft. “See? Touching some grass and breathing fresh air does wonders.”

The subway back is slow, unhurried, like neither of you wants to let the night end. When you reach the building, she fumbles with her keys, laughing as she mutters about how stubborn old locks are. The sound makes your heart squeeze in your chest.

Inside, the apartment lights are low, soft yellow glows coming from table lamps. She takes off her shoes and gestures toward the couch. “Sit. We need to plan something important.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning what?”

She grins, a mischievous glows in her eye. “A sleepover.”

You freeze just for a moment, feeling your cheeks heat, and then a shy laugh escapes. “Sleepover?”

“Yes. Just us and no one else. We can watch stupid movies, eat snacks, talk too much, maybe even…” she pauses, letting her gaze drop down to your lips, “���be close.”

You feel your heartbeat spike. You nod quickly, almost too eagerly. “O-Okay… sounds perfect.”

She pats the couch beside her, and you slide in, careful not to let your knees touch hers just yet, just enjoying the nearness. She leans back, stretching her legs out, and you mimic her, letting your feet brush together. That small touch sends a little jolt of warmth through you.

She grabs a throw blanket, holding it open. “We’re doing this right? I haven’t gone to many sleepovers. Blankets. Snacks. Movies. You can film me if you want. Just… secretly, of course.”

Your camera is already sitting on the counter, memory card empty, ready to be filled with candid shots. You smile, heart thumping. “I might have to. You look way too cute.”

She laughs softly, rolling her eyes. But still leaning against your shoulder as you pull the blanket over both of you. “And you… you’re adorable when you get all shy. Like this. You’re blushing.”

You bury your face lightly into the crook of her neck, laughing against her collarbone. The coziness of her skin, the soft scent of her hair, the quiet hum of everything outside.  It's all dizzying and grounding at once.

She turns slightly, tilting her head down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We’ll take our time tonight,” she murmurs, and your stomach does a little cartwheel.

You look up at her, eyes wide, and she smirks. “Don’t look at me like that. I like it.”

The blanket hugs around you, the soft glow of the lamps, the sound of your breathing and hers;  it feels like a world unto itself.

 A world just for you two.

The night goes on. Your fingers twitch every once in a while, wanting to reach for your cam. During a boring part of the movie. You can’t resist a little and you reach for your camcorder.

“Wait,” you murmur, pointing it at her. “You’re too cute. I have to film this.”

She jerk an eyebrow, smirking. “My god.  You gonna make a little documentary about me?”

You press record, the red light blinking. “Maybe. I need proof of how ridiculously adorable the strong, bossy, captain looks when cozied up like this”

Her grin widens, playfully and rolls her eyes. “Proof, huh? Okay, then I guess I’ll have to get in on this.”

Before you can react, she leans over, taking the camera gently from your hands. The blanket shifts as she slides to straddle you, the weight of her body pressing down. Her fingers brush yours as she adjusts the lens, tilting it just right to catch your face in the frame.

“You’re in focus now,” she murmurs, eyes sparkle with mischief. “And I think we should… make a film.”

Your cheeks heat, heart thumping, but the thrill of the camera, the closeness, the way she’s both teasing and serious; it’s electrifying. You can feel her weight balanced perfectly, hips lightly pressing against yours.

She points the camera at you, then tilts her head, lips close to your ear. “Say somethin’. Or don’t. Just… look at me. I like that better.” She grabs your jaw. 

You shiver slightly, the sound of her voice like fire against your skin. Your hands rest on her waist, carefully  but curious.

“See?” she whispers, adjusting the camcorder so it captures your flushed face. “This could be a whole scene. Us….like this.”

“Little bit chaotic. Little bit cute."

You can’t help but laugh softly, biting your lip as you glance into the viewfinder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” she says, eyes sparkling, “but I think you like it.” 

You tilt your head back slightly, letting her capture every detail through the lens, every smile, every blink, every little tremble in your laugh. She leans back, whispering, “No uses this camera, right? Just you?”

You confirm, and shift uneasily under her gaze.

“Stop fidgeting,” she teases, in a voice low and playful tone. “You look too cute when you’re nervous. I want the whole shot.”

You bite your lip, cheeks burning. Being in front of the camera has never been your thing. The idea of her filming you while she’s straddling you, all close and warm, makes your heart beat in ways you’re not entirely ready to admit.

“C’mon baby,” she murmurs, leaning down so your faces are inches apart. “Just… let me watch. Relax and trust me.”

She tilts the camera to catch the curve of your shoulders, the way your chest rises with each breath.

“You’re beautiful like this,” she says, low and husky, voice brushing against your ear. “Shy, nervous… but here, with me.”

Her other hand slides slowly up your side, brushing along the curve of your ribs, teasing the hem of your shirt. She presses her lips to your jaw, nipping softly, and your head tips back instinctively. The camera wobbles slightly in her hands as she adjusts the angle, capturing every one of your reactions.

“God, you’re so responsive,” she whispers, tilting the lens downward. Her hand slips beneath your shirt, ghosting over your skin. “I capture to see everything. Every little shiver, every gasp.”

You whimper softly, biting your bottom lip. “I… I don’t like being filmed…” you murmur, your voice shaky.

She smirks against your neck, brushing your hair aside. “I know. And that’s exactly why I like it. You look so… fragile. So real.”

She adds, “So, don’t  fight it. Not here, not now.”

Her free  fingers press against your sides and slide lower, teasing under your waistband, brushing just over your underwear. You arch into her touch, moaning softly, and the camera catches it all. She laughs softly, the sound low and hot, and leans in to kiss you deeply, her tongue slipping against yours, urgent and demanding.

The camera capturing nothing much this time. 

“You’re mine,” she murmurs between kisses, “...even on camera.”

She shifts slightly, straddling you more fully now, one hand still guiding the camcorder while the other presses against your hip, holding you steady. Your hands wander instinctively, brushing along her thighs, following the curve of her body, but she presses yours back down playfully.

“Not yet, baby,” she whispers. “Let me show you… let me watch you.”

Her lips find your shoulder, sucking lightly as the camera tilts to catch the flush of your skin, the tremble in your fingers, the way your chest rises and falls. You’re burning with embarrassment and desire all at once, the mix making your head spin.

“You’re perfect,” she murmurs in a thick voice, eyes never leaving the lens as her fingers continue their teasing. “So soft. So responsive. I could watch you all night.”

The camera captures every gasp, every quick movement, every whispered word, and through it all, you’re hers: embarrassed, flustered, burning for her touch and she knows it. She smirks, pressing closer, fingers still teasing, lips brushing against your jaw.

“You see?” she whispers finally, purposely angling the camera up to capture your flushed face. “You love it. Admit it.”

You groan, voice trembling, heat radiating through you. “Maybe… maybe I do…”

She laughs softly, leaning down to capture a kiss on your lips, the camera catching the press of her mouth against yours, the gasp that escapes you, and the absolute, messy, delicious chaos of being filmed by her.

You both teleport to her room, in feral kisses. She sits on the edge of her bed, camera balanced in one hand, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips.

You decide to kneel in front of her, hands resting lightly on her thighs. The camcorder tilts to catch every angle, red recording light blinking steadily.

“Really?” she whispers amusing .

You nod, swallowing hard. Slowly, your lips brush against her jeans, sliding over the fabric, teasing the sensitive skin beneath. Her fingers ghost over your hair, guiding you, tugging you closer, closer until your nose presses against her warmth.

“Don’t stop,” she murmurs, smirk replaced with full on pleasure. “I want you… I want it all.”

Your fingers slide beneath the waistband of her jeans, brushing the edge of her underwear, tracing the curve of her hip. Her hand tightens in your hair, persistently patient, guiding, pressing you down.

“Look at me,” she whispers, pointing the camcorder down so she can see your face as you take her in. Her chest rises and falls, lips parting, eyes dark with want. “I want to see you.”

Your mouth parts, tongue teasing her through the thin fabric, brushing over her folds. She gasps softly, fingers tightening in your hair, camera wobbling slightly with the motion.

“God… that’s it,” she groans, leaning back, holding herself up with her shoulder, legs parting slightly, inviting. “Yes… just like that. Don’t stop, baby.”

You obey instinctively lips and tongue moving with more confidence now, the camera capturing: every small sound, every tremble, every little gasp. Her breathing hitches, and you glance up through the lens occasionally, seeing her flushed face, lips parted, eyes heavy lidded and dark.

Her fingers curl around the camcorder, tilting it to capture your movements, your focus on her. “You’re amazing… God, I could watch you all day,” she murmurs, voice thick with desire.

Her hips shift, pressing subtly into your mouth, guiding you. “Faster… slow… whatever you feel. Just keep going,” she whispers, and the way she presses into you, moaning softly, makes your fingers tighten around the waistband at her side.

Your saliva coated tongue presses against her wet underwear, soaking it more. You can hear her small sharp inhale as you circle her clit with your tongue. Feel the tremor in her body. She grins, a wicked, satisfied curl of her lips. “God… I’m close… don’t stop...don’t you dare stop.”

Your tongue moves slowly, teasing, licking the cotton, pressing your nose against her, and she lets out a long, shuddering moan, gripping the camera tight, filming herself through it all, recording the control she’s giving you, the way you respond, the way you squeeze your own thighs.

Her knees press slightly against the sides of your head, guiding you, pulling you closer, and you’re lost in the lust of it, the sound of her moans, the sight of her fingers clutching the camcorder, the red recording light blinking.

Finally, a desperate groan, a shaky sigh, and she shudders, hips tilting forward as she cums, a soft, breathy cry filling the small room. Your lips desperately trying to wrap around her entrance, tasting her. She grinds against your face, until she leans back, panting, smiling through her burning face.

She gently pulls your head back, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers soft against your jaw. “You… you are incredible,” she murmurs, tilting the camera to capture the mess of her hair, the shine of sweat, the soft flush on your cheeks. “And… we’re only getting started.”

She sets the camcorder down on the nightstand just long enough to rummage in the last drawer beside her bed. You’re still kneeling there, lips coated...shiny, breathing fast, when you hear the faint clink of a buckle.

Your eyes flick up. She’s pulling the pink strap from the drawer, slow and teasingly, holding your gaze the whole time. A low smile curls her lips.

"Pink? Really?" You giggled eyeing the pretty pink colored dildo attached to the harnet.

"I felt feminine that day." She chuckled rolling her eyes, before changing demeanor quickly.

“Lay back f'me,” she murmurs in a deep, commanding tone.

You swallow, feeling yourself get wet and crawl backward onto the bed. She slides the harness up her thighs, buckles it in place, her hands steady but her eyes never leaving you. Then she grabs the camcorder again, the red light flickering to life as she steps between your knees. She gently pulls down your pants along with your panties.

“Spread,” she says softly, but there’s no mistaking it’s an order.

You meekly obey, your thighs falling open, the cool air hitting your skin just before the warmth of her hand cups between your legs. She teases you with her fingers, dragging them over your folds, spreading the slickness there. "...so wet,” she whispers, tilting the camera to capture her hand on you. “Perfect.”

The blunt head of the toy nudges against you, and you bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut in embarrassed.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she warns, the silicone pushing just a little deeper. “I want to see you."

Your eyes snap open just as she thrusts forwards, the stretch pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. She grins, watching the camera screen as she draws back, then sinks into you again- - slow - - measured, like she’s savoring every inch.

“God, you take me so well,” she murmurs, voice thick with heat. “Look at you… already drippin’ for me.”

Her pace quickens, the slap of her hips against yours filling the room, your breath coming faster with every thrust. She adjusts her angle, hips rolling in deep, precise strokes that make your back arch and your fingers grip the sheets.

“You hate being in front of the camera,” she teases, thrusting harder. “But right now? You so gorgeous. You’re mine.”

The camcorder catches the way your body moves under her, the way your breasts rise and fall with each desperate breath, the way your thighs tremble as she pounds into you.

Her free hand slides under your knee, lifting your leg to open you up even more, letting her go deeper. “Yea… that’s it,” she growls. “All the way in. Take it for me.”

Your moans turn shameless, spilling into the small space between you, mixing with the wet sound of her strap going in and out of you over and over. Her thrusts get rougher, faster, her breathing ragged, the camcorder still pointed down at the way she’s fucking you open.

“Say it,” she urges, voice low and rough. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words breaking on a moan as her hips slam into you again.

“That’s right,” she says, leaning down. The camera catching her smirk before her mouth crashes against yours, kissing you hard, her rhythm relentless until your body clenches around her, pleasure tearing through you in hot and dizzy waves.

She fucks you through it, her pace only slowing when your nails dig into her back and your thighs shake around her hips. Finally, she slide out, setting the camcorder on the nightstand with a satisfied click.

She lies beside you, her smile smug. “Wait ‘til you see the footage,” she murmurs, kissing your jaw. “We definitely making a sequel.”

❀-

They’d grown up like siblings:

...teasing each other, competing in everything from backyard races to family trivia nights, but always with that underlying affection. He loved her, always had. But lately… she felt distant.

It had been weeks since Chris noticed the shift. She's normally honest and lively around him, carried herself differently now...quieter, distracted at times, hesitation in her laugh.

He caught it first in the little things. The way she lingered on her phone longer than usual when talking to you. The quiet smiles she gave when you said something clever. Ones that lingered just a second too long. How her gaze would dart to you when she thought no one was watching, her brow lifting in interest, amusement, or something else Chris couldn’t name.

It wasn’t just her either. You had changed too.

Chris noticed the way you talked about hockey practices or group projects with a little extra sparkle, how you seemed lighter, brighter, almost glowing when mentioning her. Even small mentions: “She helped me with my assignment” or “She showed me a new skating move," carried a warmth that hadn’t been there before.

Chris tried to brush it off. Maybe it was nothing, maybe he was imagining things. He told himself, she was just busy with school, sports, life. But still, the moments piled up like rocks in his bag: Her subtle teasing when you arrived at practices, your faint blush when your hands brushed by accident, the glances Chris could almost catch if he looked quickly enough.

One evening;

...you all went to a small get together at Chris’s frat house. Just friends, a few beers, music playing low in the background. Normally, Chris would be focused on her, exchanging playful jokes, keeping the energy alive. But tonight, she seemed… somewhere else. You're there too, quietly talking with her, laughing lightly, leaning a bit too close.

Chris felt a tug in his chest he didn’t recognize: jealousy, protective? Sure. But not just that; curious, puzzled, a brief second of worry he couldn’t quite name. When she made eye contact with you from across the room, something in your expression made Chris pause: a soft smile, a spark that he’d never seen directed at him.

His stomach twisted.

Why? What was going on?

Something Chris didn't know was, since that night with her, you couldn't stop replaying it in your mind. You had given yourself completely. In a way you hadn’t with anyone before.

Losing your virginity had been a moment you thought would be private, slow, careful. And yet here it was, with her, someone so bold, so unafraid, and so intoxicating... and who FILMED THE WHOLE THING with a cocky grin on her face.

The secret weighed on your shoulders, though. You hadn’t told her that it was your first time. A part of you didn’t want to, maybe out of fear of changing how she saw you, out of embarrassment? But that made the connection feel even deeper. Every touch, every look, every stolen kiss became filled with more than just physical desire. You realized you felt different toward her now: more attached, more vulnerable, more alive. She wasn’t just the girl who teased your scarf and dragged you at the rink or the wild, confident hockey star you admired from afar. She was your person in a way no one else had ever been.

And yet, guilt tangled through it all. You still had Chris, your boyfriend. The one who had known your heart in a different way. The one you trusted with the truth of your virginity long ago. The thought of the secret and the pleasure. Intimacy, the love forming quietly between you and she made your chest tighten. You were tangled in feelings and every moment with her reminded you of the choice you had made.

You don’t regret it. It made every thing from her feel heavier. More important. More risky.

❀-

You and Chris had chosen a quiet spot near the pond, sitting on an old wooden bench, your camera balanced in your lap. The sun dipping low behind the trees, golden fog over the park.

Chris was talking about his week, nothing major, stories from practice, homework, and his usual banter. But you couldn’t quite focus. Your fingers kept brushing against the camera, a nervous habit, remembering the weight of it and all the things it had captured. You tried to push the memory of her aside, focusing instead on the gentle comfort of Chris’s presence.

"Hey, you wanna try that angle over by the pond?" Chris asked, pointing toward the slightly elevated path. "You could get some nice reflection shots."

You nodded, swinging the camera strap over your shoulder. "Yeah, that’d be good. Let me just---"

Before you could take a step, a skateboard zoom past. You barely had time to register the movement. Then a small group of kids, too many for the narrow path collided with you in a ridiculous tumbling mess.

"Whoa! Watch out!" you cried, suddenly you were knocked off balance. You hit the ground hard, the camera sliding beneath you with a loud THUD. Pain shot through your knee, sharp and sudden, and you felt a small cut from the scrape.

Chris shouted your name, rushing forward. "Are you okay?"

You groaned, pressing your hands against your knee, trying to catch your breath. "I… yea, I think so.… the camera...."

Chris dropped to one knee beside you, his hands gentle on your arms. "Let me see it."

You handed it over, still wincing. "I think it’s fine… I don’t even know if..."

"Don’t worry about it," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I can fix it. Here, sit down a sec."

He guided you carefully to the bench, his touch light but reassuring. You could feel the steady care of his presence as he examined the camera. "Looks like the lens got damaged. Maybe a few settings got messed up. I can probably get it working again, no problem."

"A-Are you sure?" you asked, trying to mask the slight panic in your voice. The thought of losing your footage, all your careful photography: made your stomach twist.

"Absolutely," Chris said, offering you a small confident smile. "You’ve got enough talent. I’d hate for some dumb fall to ruin it. Trust me."

You let out a shaky laugh, grateful for his calm. "Okay… I trust you."

God, you're so dumb.

❀-

A few days later

She stumbled slightly as she left the cold bar, her face hot and flushed. Her mind was buzzing with more than whatever drug she took or alcohol she consumed; it's that the truth had settled like an itch she couldn’t ignore.

She was in love with you.

After everything, it was undeniable. The flirty distractions, the casual hookups of the past moths had been a showing it's self and she couldn’t deny any longer. She wanted you. All of you. Not just in a sexual way...no. She wanted you the way her best friend had you.

By the time she reached your apartment, her heart was pounding. Her boots thud loudly on the sidewalk as she paused, shaking her head to clear it. She had rehearsed it a hundred times in her mind: what she would say, how she would say it, how she could make you understand without scaring you away.

She pressed your buzzer. Once... then twice...the she realzied she was buzzing the apartment across from yours. So, she turned around and buzzed yours, then leaned against the wall, steadying herself. When you opened the door, her eyes were red, glossy, a little unsteady, but fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

"Hey, beautiful" she slurred softly, a grin tugging at her lips. "I… I-I gotta tell ya somethin'. C'n I...c'n I come in?"

You stepped aside furrowing your brows, "Of course," you said though your voice was cautious. There was something different about her tonight, something vulnerable.

She stumbled slightly inside, dropping her jacket over the back of a chair, and finally sank onto your couch. Her hair was messy, a few strands sticking to her flushed cheeks. She laughed nervously. "O-kay… whoa, okay, dis' is uh, this is way harder than I thought."

You sat beside her, giving her space.

"I… I think I’m in love with you," she blurted out, words spilling over like they had been bottled up for too long. Her fingers twisted on her pants.

"I been tryna...try-ing to ignore it, y'know. Trying to tell myself it’s jus'… wha'ever. But it’s not. S'not jus't' wha't'ever. It’s...it's you. I’m… I’m in love with you."

You didn’t move at first, only letting the words sink in.

The way her hands fidgeted, twisting the fabric of her pants, the way her voice cracked and slurred. It was all painfully real.

"I--I mean…" she hiccuped, swaying slightly on the couch. "I can’t… can’t do dis' sober… it’s too much."

You reached out instinctively, catching her arm before she tipped sideways. "Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe here."

She laughed, a soft, broken sound, leaning against your shoulder without realizing it. Cozy on you, familiar. You felt your chest tighten with a mix of protectiveness and something more, something that had been growing for months.

"I… I jus'…" Her words trailed off into a sigh, "I love… I loove you. I been been stupid thinkin' I could handle it, y'know? Like… jus' fun or whatev'r. But I can’t. I… need… you."

Her head tilted, fluttering her eyes as if she were trying to hold herself upright but failing. The living room felt smaller somehow. The soft hum of the streets outside fading behind the beating of your heartbeat.

"Shh, it’s okay," you murmured brushing a stray piece of hair from her face. "You don’t have to explain anymore. Just rest."

She tried to speak again, but her words came out mumbled, and her eyelids drooped low. Finally with a soft, exhausted groan, she slumped fully against you. Letting her weight press into your side. You caught her before she hit the couch, adjusting her so she was comfortable, her head resting against your shoulder.

For a moment, you just held her. Her breathing evened out slowly, soft and warm against you. The tension in her body left as sleep took over her completely. You found yourself cradling her gently, unable to move your eyes away.

"You’re… a mess," you whispered softly, smiling despite the heaviness in your chest. "But… you’re mine, now. At least… for tonight." You booped her nose.

Her hand twitched slightly against yours, a small unconscious grip that made your heart jump. You let your fingers intertwine with hers, careful not to wake her, unable to resist the connection. The living room was quiet except for the soft rise and fall of her breathing and the muted sounds of the city outside.

-

During all this, in the other side of town. Inside a frat house: Chris sat on the edge of his bed, the camera and laptop balanced on his knees. He wasn’t supposed to be looking through it, just fixing it for you, but curiosity called at him.

Again: "Curiosity killed the cat," they all say.

He tapped the screen lightly, scrolling through the files. Mostly they were what he expected: sports shots, a few landscape pictures you had taken on walks, harmless moments that made him smile. Your talent was obvious in every photo.

He paused at a rare shot of yourself, smiling lightly, hair falling onto your face, it was a reference photo you too for editing class. He smiled softly, heart warming, and leaned back.

Then he noticed a folder labeled something harmeless: 'Practice Footage' and tapped it. The thumbnails loaded quickly. Most were boring: drills, passes, team huddles. But then a sudden flash of a smirk caught his eye.

It was her.

Something about her expression caught him off guard. It wasn't a playful smirk or teasing one like he knew. No, it was personal and private, and intimate.

His fingers hovered over the files, he clicked it.

Thanks to the next few thumbnails that confirm it, movements and expressions that weren't for the public eyes, for anyone that wasn't: You or her.

Shock and disbelief mixed with a sinking heavy pit in his stomach. The moments he had once shrugged off as harmless hints, little smiles, brief touches, suddenly, everything had a new meaning. He leaned back against his headboard, fist tight, staring at the screen as the realization settled in fully.

His hands shook slightly. The secret you held, you sleeping with someone after telling him you "weren't ready". Someone he knew, someone he trusted. It was right here before him. His voice caught as he whispered to himself, "What…the hell?"

The room was silent. Chris’s mind raced, a mixture of hurt, confusion, and the stab of betrayal. Questions swirled:

How long?

When?

Why didn’t you tell me?

How could you?

The camera clicked softly as he adjusted it again, but he barely noticed. The thumbnails, the realization, the video: it was all undeniable. And Chris knew, in that moment, that nothing between him and you could ever be the same.

❀-

The pounding on her door shook the apartment. At first she thought it was a 'ding-dong-ditcher' pranking her, or some drunk neighbor. Until the voice caught her full attention.

"OPEN UP!"

Her stomach dropped, she swung the door open and found Chris standing there: eyes filled with anger. Like that one time when they were 16 and she accidentally crashed his brand new car.

"Chris, why are you knocking like---" she didn't get to finish. Without a word, he shoved past her and barged inside, heading straight for her bedroom.

"What are you doing?" she demanded stepping forward. Pushing him away from opening her drawers.

"Trying to prove to myself this isn’t real," he said gritting his teeth, shoving aside a pile of clothes. His hands trembled, half from anger--half from disbelief.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Prove what?"

"You’re fucking my girlfriend," he spat in a low tone.

For a second the words landed, shocking her. Then he shoved her hard... REALLY shoved her, knocking her off balance against her bedframe.

"Hey! What the fuck?!" she yelled, pushing back. "You’re gonna fight me in my own apartment? Hit a girl? C'mon Chris."

"You aren’t a fucking GIRL when you had that fake DICK between your legs fucking MY girlfriend, so why should I worry about fighting you?" he shot back fury radiating from him.

The words hit like a punch and she stumbled back, defensive. "What the fuck?!" she shouted, shoving him again, chest pressed to chest. "You’re insane!"

He shoved her once more, and the room shook with the force of it, the tension raw and brutal: like siblings on the verge of a brawl. She raised her hands, bracing herself.

"Stop," she finally said low but commanding, making him stop. Her chest heaving, eyes locked on his, she let her words cut through the anger.

He didn’t move, voice tight as he asked, "Did you… did you take her virginity just to rub it in my face?"

Her eyes widened. "I… I...what?"

Silence.

"I didn’t even know she was a virgin," she said quickly, irritated. "I wasn’t with her to hurt you!"

He laughed bitterly shaking his head. "Sure. Sure..." He rolled his eyes. "You just want revenge for all those times."

Her face softened slightly her voice stayed steady. "Chris… I wasn’t with her for revenge. I fell for her. I… I love her."

"That's not fair!" he ran a hand through his hair.

She stepped closer eyes looking at his. "It’s not fair I get your leftovers! Every girl you break up with ends up with me somehow, and every girl I like… they use me just to get to you. I’m tired of being in your shadow. Everyone loved you more than me."

She points her finger at him, "You don't get to say this is not fair when you've done this to me three...four..FIVE TIMES! And every time I have to suck it up and not be a big baby because it was always a "Don't blame me, she fell for me first," from you every time."

His jaw tightened. "That’s not--"

"I love her, Chris," she interrupted. “More than you could. More than you! And I know you like her… but you don’t love her. You just want the ‘good girlfriend’ on your side”

He stared at her, anger and disbelief mixing together once again. "That’s a lie!"

She shook her head slowly. "I know you, Chris...like the back of my hand. Sure, you like her. But you don’t love her. I know her, I know her heart… and I know mine. And she’s mine. Not yours. Not yours to claim."

The room fell silent for a beat, the weight of their shared history pressing in: the rivalry, the jealousy, the unspoken truths of childhood and teenage years, crashing in this moment of betrayal and confession. This was just two big fucking babies fighting over something they each claim is theirs.

Chris’s chest rose and fell rapidly, a storm of emotions clawing through him. Her eyes burned with conviction, in that moment he realized this wasn’t about revenge. This was love, raw, messy, and completely, irreversibly real.

"I GOT COOKIES!" you cheerfully said in a singy-song way, through the front door. Holding the small paper bag in hands. The aroma dancing in your nose as you knock.

Both their heads snapped to the outside of her room. Chris speed-walks to the front door, and she just crossed her arms, pinches the bridge of her nose.

The door swings open, and you freeze. Chris is standing there: furious. He's looking at you like you've personally betrayed him, and for a moment, the cheerful energy of the cookies in your hands feels stupid.

"Oh..h-hey Chris, what's up?" You try to say, your heart dropping. And it drops even lower when her gazes down at your outfit.

You and her were supposed to have a cute little 'hang out,' in the mountains again. You arrived 2 hours earlier though. Dressed cute, casual, colors that make you look sweet, approachable, and oblivious.

He scowls.

Without saying a word he slams the door in your face, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the hallways, and you flinch.

"Chris!" you hear her voice through the door. Saying something in an angry tone about him being a "fucking asshole", or something you couldn't make out.

The door creaks open again, and she steps aside, letting you come in. You try to smile at her, hoping your presence can somehow defuse this tension. But your eyes are immediately drawn back to Chris.

He’s pacing now. One hand running through his hair, jaw clenched, voice low and cold.

"Why… why the hell did you let me fix the camera?" he asks, glancing between you and her. "Knowing there was… you know… stuff on it?"

You blink in confusion. The dots in your head no clicking yet. "What do you mean?"

"He saw it..." she says quickly, cutting your confusion short. "Chris saw the videos we filmed...two weeks ago."

Chris isn't yelling, not yet, but he makes a low angry hum. His voice makes your stomach twist. "You let me...touch that?" he murmurs and you cringed.

You drop your eyes, thinking...how can you come back from this? You let him fix the camera, you knew what was in it. You didn't even understand your own actions. It feels as if you WANTED him to know subconsciously---self sabotage. Then again, in the moment your camcorder broke, you weren't thinking of that specifically. You were thinking about your progress, your new pictures, your hard work. He was your solution in that moment of empty mindness and worry.

"Chris...you have every right to be pissed," you mumbled, "I was...selfish."

"You...you didn't even think, did you?" Chris voice cracks slightly.

"I don't even know what to say," he mumbles your name. "I trusted you. I trust BOTH of you." His lips twitch as if he's holding something back. And you flinch under the intensity.

You glance at her, hoping for something or anything. But she, herself is frozen, arms crossed. Watching this...him...everything unravel like she knew it was coming.

"I...Chris..." you start, tone full of trembling guilt. You drop the paper bag of of cookies on the counter, the sound of it breaking the silence. "I didn't mean for you to find out like this. It's true I wasn't thinking. I just--"

"Just what?" His voice rises slightly, disbelief. "Just let her...let do that to you and film it.? Let her do that to us?"

Your chest tightens. "It wasn't like that...at least, not in a way to hurt you. I...I don't even know how to explain it." You rub your sweaty hands together, feeling suddenly small and exposed.

He takes a stop closer, the anger visible. "So....this is about you huh?You being selfish...You know what I think?" his voice gets even lower. "I think you wanted me to see it? That what it feels like...right?"

You shake your head quickly. "N-No! I didn't I...just....in the park my head was all over the place. And i wasn't thinking--"

"Again with the 'i wasn't thinking,' bullshit" his laugh is bitter. "You were having sex with her after telling me you were a virgin and acting like a saint. You slept with HER!" Chris points at her, she looked angry at the way he was talking to you.

"And you're telling me you didn't think? That you were autopilot mode?"

The room feels suffocating. Even the walls were judging you. "I...I didn't plan it. I--"

"SHE!" he interrupts, trembling with rage. He steps closer to her, pointing but looking at you, like he's showing you something in a display. "The one I've known forever? My best friend!"

He laughs.

"They always warn people about the quiet ones. God, I'm so fucking dumb, I set myself up. Trying to make you both friends...I should've just handed ya a hotel room key and tell ya to have fun," he was rambling, almost as if he was talking to himself or saying his thoughts out loud.

"You know, you're always taking pictures. I didn't think you were a pervert. I wouldn't be surprised if you had more than one video...with many others. Pfft and I'm here believing you were a saving yourself for marriage or something...You hate me so much and I swear I was trying to be the perfect boyfriend.

You can't look at him. You keep your gaze down, words failing. Defeated...because no matter what you say or how you say it would justify your choices. The choices that step on your chest.

"Christopher STOP! She...she didn't mean to hurt you either," she finally says, relaxing your panic. "Don't talk to her like that. I love her...I wasn't with her to get back at you. You think I'm that petty?"

Chris rapidly turns to her, fists clenched. "And you! Again with the 'I love her!' Do you think that makes it any better?" you can hear the pain in his voice when it cracks. "Do you think saying you love her....fixes that you--" He swallows hard. "You took her from me!"

You flinch, hearing the absolute distress in his tone. You're nauseous. "Chris, it wasn't like that," you whisper trying to gather your words and yourself. "I didn't want to hurt you."

He stumbles back a step, shaking his head: “I..." his voice exhausted. "...I trusted you. I thought...I thou we were..."

You take a careful step foward, heart about to drop. "Chris. I'm so so sorry. I love her, and I didn't want any of this to happen. I didn't want anyone get hurt."

He shuts his eyes, fists loosening, but he's not calm. "It's not fair," he mutters. "It's...it's just not fair." He repeats it.

"I know," you whisper. "I know, and I take full responsibility. I just want you to understand this wasn't some game or revenge."

You tell him how it started. That it was about you and her...and the feelings that developed. He doesn't respond immediately, just stares at the floor. Chest still rising and falling rapidly. The silences is long and thick and full of heart break, confusion, the sting of betrayal.

You drop to her couch, letting your hands rest in your lap, unable to meet his gaze. Your uneven breathing is the only sound.

-

Chris storms off. Slamming the door.

You stand next to her, slump against the counter, knees weak, the paper bag of cookies crumpled forgotten next to you. The storm has just passed and left a huge mess in you.

You can't look at her. You feel like you broke something important, a bond that wasn't even yours to touch. "I'm sorry," your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to..."

"I know," she says softly but firmly. She sits on the floor, crossing her arms, gaze somewhere far away. "I know you didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"But I did. I came in between you and him...and ruined whatever that was. I broke you two."

She lets out a long bitter laugh, shaking her head slightly. "I don't even know why I stayed friends with him," she hesitantly admits. "I love him. Like… a brother, you already know? He’s always been… this impossible standard, this perfect… dude. But he’s also made me feel small. Made me feel like nothing I do is ever enough.”

You sit beside her, careful to give space, yet drawn close by the shared silence. "I just… I wish it didn’t have to hurt anyone. I wish… we could just be happy without all this… pain."

Her hand brushes against yours almost like second nature, a small reassurance. "I love you," she whispers, voice thick with sincerity. "Not like him. Not like the way he wants everything to fit into his perfect image. And right now, that’s all that matters. Even if the rest is messy."

You look down at her hand holding yours, the warmth grounding you, and feel a flutter in your chest: part relief - part longing - part guilt that will never fully go away. "I love you too,"

She leans closer, tilting her head so your foreheads touch. "We’re all hurting," she says gently. "But… at least we know this is real. At least we have each other. And maybe… that’s enough to survive everything else."

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle between you.

Emotions are there, but it takes her presence, her hand, her voice, to keep you steady enough and hope.

She stays close for a while, then her voice softens, with curiosity and vulnerability. “Can I ask you something?

You nod, feeling fear and anticipation in your stomach. “S-Sure.”

Her gaze sharpens a bit, searching your face. “Why… why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

The question hits harder than you expected. Your throat tightens and you look down at your hands, fidgeting with the straps of your shoes. “I… I dunno,” you admit quietly, voice shaky. “I guess… I didn’t know how to. I didn’t know if it mattered, or if it would change… things between us. I was caught up in the moment.”

She exhales, a mixture of surprise and something softer. “You had me… and you didn’t tell me? That’s… crazy.” She smirks faintly, shaking her head. “But… you didn’t have to tell me, I guess. Still…” Her tone drops, serious now, eyes searching yours. “I would’ve wanted to know. For me. To see you… to protect you, make sure it wasn’t just a reckless thing.”

“I wanted it with you,” you whisper, “more than anything. I just… I didn’t think I could say it out loud. I… I didn’t want to ruin anything. Or make it weird.”

She tilts her head, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Weird?” she murmurs, voice low teasing but tender. “Baby, the only thing that’s weird is that we filmed it. Never met someone who documented their first experience.” She chuckles. “That’s all. It doesn’t change anything. You don’t have to be ashamed.”

You can feel that she was more experienced than you. And maybe that’s another reason you stayed quiet.

Yet, in the way she leans against you, the low hum in her voice as she talks softly, the way her eyes darken when she studies your expressions. She’s lived these moments before. She explored, learned, and become custom to the language of desire and intimacy

But with you, it’s different.

With you, it’s patient, tender, and yet full with intensity that makes your heart race.

Even her confidence has a softness now. A warmth that contrasts the commanding exterior you first noticed on the rink. It’s a balance: experienced enough to know how to navigate closeness, also gentle enough to make you feel safe, cherished, and completely seen.

❀-

Time have passed since the storm. The world around you feels… different. You’re walking through the world now with her hand in yours, and for the first time it doesn’t feel like you’re sneaking. You’re no longer hiding behind shadows and whispers. You’re here, and she’s here, and that’s what matters.

One thing you can breath about is how the video remaind private. You feared for a few days that it'll be exposed, but trusting Chris's words, "I'm not an evil person. I wouldn't do that to you, let alone her. Take care of yourself."

Some of his friends give you nods or sideways glances, their expressions a mix of sympathy, suspicion, and silent judgment. Others avoid you completely, shifting uncomfortably when you pass, whispering in small group that you can almost hear, though no one dares speak your name aloud.

You notice the divide clearly: the group is split. Chris’s influence lingers even without him directly in the room. Some friends are loyal to him, while others are quietly siding with her, or maybe just observing, waiting to see how things play out.

And She?

She preaches that she “doesn’t give a fuck.” She walks beside you as if the world hasn’t changed at all. Her grip on your hand is firm and rough possessive in the most comforting way. When someone gives you a stank look, she doesn’t step back. Instead, she tightens her hold and leans in, murmuring, “Ignore them. We’re fine.”

And it’s true. Around her, the judgment and whispers don’t touch you.

Her presence makes the world softer and bearable. The rest of campus, gossip and side eyes, fades into background noise.

You and she create your own space, your own routines. Late night walks, coffee runs, quiet corners of the library where no one knows your names. Your conversations are uninterrupted, filled with laughter and teasing, playful touches and glances that say more than words ever could.

❀-

The crowd roars as the players skate onto the ice. You spot her immediately, helmet under her arm, eyes scanning her team, that familiar fire and focus radiating off her. You grin to yourself, proud, amazed. She hasn’t noticed you yet, and you stay low in the stands for a moment, just watching, soaking it in.

You went all out, face painted in her team colors carefully in stripes and symbols of pride. Camera in hand (after Chris dramatically dropped everything off in a box) Standing in the stands, surrounded by cheering fans, you feel a mix of nerves and excitement. It’s not about hiding anymore: you’re here to support her, loud and visible.

She looks up. And her eyes find yours.

The crowd disappears into the background as she smirks, just a little, a secret acknowledgment that she sees you there, in full team spirit, cheering louder than anyone else.

She shakes her head, half laughing, half annoyed, but her grin says it all: she loves it.

The whistle blows, and the game begins.

You cheer and holla for every play she makes, every impressive pass, every shot on goal. You’re louder than the majority of the stands, and you catch glimpses of her glancing up, smirking, her focus never slipping for long.

Halfway through, one of Chris and her friends, standing nearby with a group, side eyes you.

You feel it, a mix of smugness and defiance swelling in your chest. They probably think you shouldn’t be here, that you "overstepped," but you don’t care. This is your person. This is your pride and your excitement, and no one gets to take that away.

After a particularly strong play, she skates to the bench and quickly glances up at you again. This time, she winks. You can’t help but laugh, waving your arms wildly, shouting her name like a cheerleader possessed. You’re caught up in the moment, in her.

Your in exhilaration of being seen by her, in a sea of her fan girls and ex-hookups and little groupies.

During a timeout, she leans over the bench and mouths: "Come after the game." Your heart skips a beat. It’s a private message in the middle of a public, a reminder that she’s yours, fully and unapologetically.

When the final buzzer blows and the team erupts into celebration, you can’t wait. You clutch your painted hands together, already imagining the smile on her face when you finally meet her behind the rink.

And you know, without a doubt, that tonight is going to be just for the two of you.

The final whistle blows, and the rink erupts in cheers.

Confetti flutters down from the rafters.

The lights, and the smell of sweat, ice, and victory in the air.

You remember the first time you used to pick her up after late night practices. How nervous you would be, trying not to seem too eager or guilty, waiting just outside the rink while she finished up. You stand near the exit, just like you did all those nights. The rink is still alive with cheers, teammates hugging, reporters snapping photos, but you block it all out.

All you see is her.

She steps out of the locker room, hair damp and easy, sweat shiny on her skin, a grin taking over her face. She carries the championship trophy like it weighs nothing at all, and your chest tightens at how perfect she looks.

"You did it," your voice barely above a whisper, but she hears it. She laughs, a short, happy sound, and it feels like music.

"Yeah. Couldn’t have done it without my biggest fan" she replies, eyes flicking to you.

You giggle, brush a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear, letting your fingers linger. "I wouldn’t be anywhere else," you admit softly,.

She tilts her head, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes returning, and leans up so your foreheads touch. "So… you waiting to take me out for victory fries or are you just going to stare at me like this all night?"

You laugh, the tension breaking, and pull her into a quick, careful hug, careful because you don’t want to squash the trophy she worked so hard for. "Both," you reply, grinning. "Def both."

She squeezes your hand, a silent 'thank you' and promise all in one. You realize:

the trophy isn’t the only thing she’s won tonight.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊ ✩

A/n: Finally finished on August 18 @ 10a.m.

Tags <3 also tysm for all the support & the reblogs. Some tags don’t work and idk why

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[watermelonlovershigh]

Each Harry Eras ... (Texting Harry You Have a Tummy Ache)

AN: started this back in 2023 but finished it over this past week. i hope you enjoy. i know most of you love this little harry era series. i'm still working on a harry smut one shot that should be coming out soon i hope.

This contains: sex innuendos, tummy ache, mentions of throw up, comfort, mentions of period, mentions of morning sickness

{ fetus!harry - fratboy!harry - prince!harry - longhaired!harry - dunkirk!harry - fineline!harry - 2021!harry - current!harry -boyfriend!harry - fiancé!harry - husband!harry - dad!harry }

How each Harry era reacts to you texting them you have a tummy ache....

{Fetus Harry - boyfriendrry}

Y/N: i got a tummy ache :(

Harry: awe i'm sorry baby. do you know what it could be from? something you ate or maybe your period is coming soon?

Y/N: i think i ate too many of those pastries from the bakery you served me earlier. wish you were here to cuddle me :(

Harry: wish i was there too baby. i can come over after my shift at the bakery is over.

Y/N: yay! but you'll have to sneak through my window because it's late and my parents have the no boys allowed in my room once its dark rule. they think we'd get up to no good.

Harry: well they're not wrong ; ) we got up to no good in your bed last weekend if i remember correctly. surprised you even got a period.

Y/N: hey, you know we used protection. and they don't need to know that. they'd ban you from even walking through our front door in daylight if they knew what we've done.

Harry: i'm just teasing baby. hope your tummy feels better.

Harry: i'll see you at 9. be at your window to let me in. i'll make your tummy feel better. :)

{Frat Boy Harry - boyfriend!harry}

Y/N: harry my tummy hurts

Harry: oh no : ( i'm sorry baby. was it the food we ate at that dodgy restaurant for breakfast? niall's been complaining of his stomach hurting too at rehearsals today.

Y/N: idk but it just doesn't feel good at all.

Harry: is it cramps or are you nausous?

Y/N: a bit of both i think.

Harry: awe babyyy, the show has an hour left and then i'll hurry back to the tour bus. i'll ask paul if he can bring you some medicine for your stomach ache.

Y/N: okay, thank you. tell him to ring me when he's at the door so i know its him who's knocking.

Harry: will do. just lay down and relax. i'll be there as soon as i can. love you.

Y/N: love you too

{Prince Harry - boyfriend!harry}

Y/N: H......

Harry: yeah? what's wrong baby?

Y/N: i have a stomach ache 🙁

Harry: oh no. what kind of stomach ache?

*10 minutes pass

Harry: babe?

Y/N: sorry, i went to throw up. guess it's that kind of tummy ache.

Harry: oh, poor baby. i'm sorry. try to take one of my stomach tablets that's in my bathroom cabinet and rest in bed. stay hydrated tho. wish i was there to hold you. i'll be home in two days.

Y/N: okay. the small blue tablets?

*image of stomach tablets in their foil package

Harry: yeah, those ones. they're for upset stomachs. it should help your belly. did you eat something bad or do you feel like you have a little bug?

Y/N: i think its a bug because several people at my gym was sick last week. might have caught what they had.

Harry: okay. just rest and keep me updated on how you feel. i'll call you before i go to bed tonight. love you. 😘

Y/N: love you too. 🩷

{LHH - boyfriend}

Harry: what do you want for dinner? i can pick something up after i leave the studio.

Y/N: not sure. my tummy kinda hurts.

Harry: oh no. did i go too hard on you last night? i know you said it felt good while we were doing it but after you said your stomach started to cramp a bit. didn't mean to hurt you. ☹

Y/N: i don't think it's related to that. although i'm pretty sure my cervix is bruised. 🥲 i think my period is about to start. so maybe that's why my tummy is hurting.

Harry: baby, should have told me not to thrust so hard last night. now i feel bad.

Y/N: harry you can't help that you have a long dick and i was the one that kept screaming for you to go deeper and harder. if anything it's my own fault.

Harry: yeah..... 😏 gotta long dick you say?

Harry: and it is not your fault at all. do you want me to grab us a bowl of soup from that soup and sandwich shop by our house? maybe a warm soup will help your tummy.

Y/N: yeah soup sounds good. thank you baby. hurry home. want soup and cuddles.

Harry: okay i'm leaving the studio now. be home in twenty minutes. love you too.

{Dunkirk Harry - fiancée!harry}

Y/N: baby my tummy hurts so bad.

Harry: omg do you think you're pregnant? i can run to the shop after i finish my morning run and pick up a pregnancy test.

Y/N: unfortunately i don't think it's that kind of stomach ache.

Harry: are you sure tho? what does it feel like?

Y/N: like i have to shit

Harry: you're joking right? then why are you telling me about it then? use the toilet.

Y/N: just wanted to see if you still wanted to marry me knowing i shit sometimes. 😂

Harry: my little comedian. haha. how funny you are. of course i still want to marry you. and fyi i know you take shits. we've been together for almost 10 years. i was bound to find out sooner or later that my fiancée is human and does human bodily functions.

Y/N: aw man. thought i was good at hiding it from you all these years. anyways, enjoy your run.

Harry: enjoy your poop. ✌

{Fine Line Harry - husband!harry}

Y/N: i gotta tummy ache

Harry: your morning (all day) sickness right?

Y/N: yeah, it sucks. sometimes i get super nausous and puke and other times my stomach just hurts but nothing happens.

Harry: i'm sorry baby. just rest in bed. you don't gotta cook dinner tonight. i'll bring us food home. if you feel like it, a bath might help your tummy too.

Y/N: thank you. you're the sweetest. i'll just rest in bed. maybe tonight you can join me in a bath?

Harry: yeah, of course. i'd love to. dim the lights and light a few candles. rub your tummy under the warm water. anything to help you relax.

Y/N: can't wait. love you xoxo

Harry: love you too

{Harry's House Harry - husband!harry}

Y/N: i think i'm catching what (childs name) brought home from preschool ☹

Harry: oh no. what are your symptoms?

Y/N: just got a tummy ache. feel a little nausous. got chills so maybe a fever. and tired. more tired than normal.

Harry: okay i'm coming home right now. i'll stop by the store to pick up some extra medicine that we may not have at home.

Y/N: you don't gotta leave the studio for me. i'm sure i'm fine.

Harry: i'm leaving. no buts about it. want to take care of you. and at 1 i'll pick up (childs name) from preschool so you don't have to worry about doing that today. love you. try to get some rest in the meantime.

Y/N: k. love you too. 🩷

{Current Harry - husband!harry }

Y/N: my tum tum hurts 😩

Harry: tum tum? what are you, 5?

Y/N: no but your child is. he got me saying it because he calls his tummy tum tum. but anyways, my tummy hurts.

Harry: i'm about to be back home from my morning run. would you like some breakfast? could cook you and (childs name) some. or is it a queasy tummy ache where you don't really want food?

Y/N: no, i think i could eat something. something not too heavy though. i think my period is coming soon so that's probably the cause of my stomach ache.

Harry: alright, headed on our street now. is (childs name) up?

Y/N: i do hear some noise down the hall so he's probably awake. he'll be in our room any minute now i'm sure. have a safe rest of your run. see you in a few.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

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My Masterlist Masterpost

[saetiate]

itoshi sae x f!reader smut. beach sex, light brat taming, teasing, oral f!receiving, semi-public, p in v. word count: 2.5k author's note: wanted to write sae a little more desperate in this. thank you to user yinyuedijun for posting what a cabana is, or I would've been calling it a "raised sunbed with curtains" this whole time. beach sex is finally viable

"If you're gonna stay on your phone, I'm gonna throw it into the ocean."

Here's what you know logically: One. The thick-cushioned sunbed in the cabana is especially comfortable on this private slice of the beach outside you and Sae's vacation home. It's the most perfect picture of luxury you could imagine. Two. Sae is pretty much never on his phone unless he has to be. If he's really answering his manager at this time, it must be important.

But there's also: Three. This was time you were supposed to spend together. And Sae rarely reveals so much of himself in public, completely shirtless, sun-kissed skin that reveals the light constellation of freckles over one of his shoulders.

Blame it on the beating, sweltering heat, on the way his eyes barely traveled over your figure when you revealed your sweet little bikini.

And then trust Sae to say nothing after that and leave you alone in the damn opulent sunbed.

He returns just as the quiet lullaby of the sea ushers your eyes closed, your head a wave that lulls into the cushion, interrupted by his ice-cold hands. You would yelp, except you're flipped over effortlessly by the waist, manhandled until you're on your knees, face pressed into the cushions of the raised bedding idyllically placed to watch the sea, that you begin to realize what you've made happen.

There's a little sound of an exhale as you land exactly how he wants you to, attitude still fraying against your frustration, prickles of sweat doing nothing to help even amidst your surprise as he smoothens his hands over your bikini bottoms, forces you into a position like you're presenting yourself.

"What —"

"You wanted my attention." Sae slides his fingers down on the inside of the inseams, so gentle just over where the fabric hides your core.

"This —," isn't what I meant, you want to say, but heat slinks up your body as he presses his fingers down over your clothed slit, toying with the fabric aimlessly.

"This is cute." He plays idly, hooks a finger into the swimsuit right over your slit, lets it slap back against your wetting core. "Is it new? Did you dress up for me?"

"Bought it on your card," you spit back at him. It's a mistake to look over your shoulder, because Sae is frighteningly calm, observant eyes that trace over you like opening the bud of a flower.

"That's good." And what does it say about you, that his approval still feels like the beam of a light ray. He thumbs a line up and down your clothed slit, a careful unraveling, his other hand gentle on your waist and holding you still, bracing you for when he taps on your clit. A tease, always. Or maybe just to check, to make sure you're reacting just as he expects when he circles your bundle of nerves over and over until a whine escapes you.

"Careful," he leans over you, until his breath catches against your ear, warm and minty, sparks down your spine. "People can still hear."

The beach is popular today, after all. Always is during this season, sunny and bright and easy, melting-popsicle heat that only further heightens the heady fog in your mind, sweetened by his chilled gaze.

Not that it truly matters to Sae, with his tight grasp of control. You feel the brush of his hair as he places kisses on both sides of your rear, the only warning you get before he descends further, his teeth nipping lightly into the skin at the back of your thighs.

"I get it." You swallow a mewl as he switches sides, twin hickies like milky ways on your constellation of skin. "You don't —"

Sae pulls the strings on either side, and the fabric gives way.

"Jesus, Sae, we're in public."

"It's private enough."

Private enough? He's not wrong, drapery flows down from the cabana, the next one is a house over. This portion of beach outside your house should be private, but — "This isn't like you."

He hums. "Maybe it's your fault."

You turn fast, accusatory. "My —?"

It's as much as you get out before you feel his tongue lather over your core, syruped heat drips through your body, a squeal escaping you.

He’s careful with it, savors you like one might do an expensive wine or a delicacy, slides his tongue through your slit and tastes every part of you to the fullest.

(The first taste is the strongest. He doesn't tell you this, but there's something that makes him crave it so heavily, the way the drip of your juices mingles with your sweat, salt-tang, he takes you in like the slurp of a fresh oyster.)

Your mouth opens in silent protest as you pant against the cushion, can't help the way you almost start to drool. He spreads both globes of your ass wider, the little raised bundle of nerves throbs on his tongue. The obscene mixture of his spit and your slick sticks between your thighs.

"That's it," he's breathless, slaps your ass lightly before pulling you back into his mouth, satisfaction settling into him at the way forming words becomes impossible for you. You squirm on his tongue, your legs shaking as he fucks it in and out of your hole, darts his tongue out to lather over your clit again. He moans into your cunt as your core starts to ache, crisp-water desperation, head-spinning in his intensity. He grabs you and pulls you impossibly closer, until you can feel how he swallows and gulps, until your knees are no longer on the surface, heaving chest pressed to the cushion.

"Fuck," a hot, shaky exhale against your dripping heat, something graceless, so unlike the way he is with the rest of the world, the kind of intimacy only you get to see. "Give it to me."

"Sae," the way he loses control with you, how carefully taking care of you and teasing you turns into heavy breaths and tightened grips, your name and nectarine-drip on his lips, hot breath and heatened core, sunlit warmth kissing your skin, drunk on the taste like wine.

Maybe it's the heat. Gives himself something to blame it on, how he rarely lets himself go like this. You think it might be exactly that desperation from him that has your senses heightening, heart-full as tension pulls tall like the tide before the inevitable crash. Your nails dig into the edges of the cushion like it just might anchor you through every heavy pant from him, how quickly his tongue flicks over your clit with the tip of it over and over again until your fluids flood his mouth.

The sound he makes is something guttural at the taste and into your cunt, audible, drinks every inch of you up and flattens his tongue over your clit through the oversensitivity, holds you tight to his mouth even as you try to run and thrash in his hold.

He’s uncaring now, unties your bikini top in one fell swoop, traps your nipples between his fingers to pull on them, hardened, aching buds that respond to him like flowers do to the sun.

"Sae. Sae, people are gonna see —," your mind barely works in this lulled, sensitive state.

"You better be quiet, then." He kisses your shoulder gently, a butterfly's whisper that trails down your back, tasting the line of your spine. His heavy cock springs and lays flat against the back of your thigh, and even in this heat you can feel the warmth of it, the way it throbs.

"Sae," you turn back to help, to do something, only for him to take your wrists in his hand, his hold circled right around them against the small of your back.

"Behave."

Any protest that could be made falls away with the wind when you feel the head of his cock pushing into your slit. You ache for him already, so aware of how empty you are, how full you will be. You’re sure you’re probably still sensitive on the inside too but somehow the craving of closer never ceases. He’s gentle with you, tenderly rubbing your skin, salt-air and sweat.

The whine you make into the mattress, if you were watching, makes a twitch of a smirk replay over his lips. He never gets over watching you take him, how you try to squirm away, brace for impact, but push your hips into him all at once.

"Sae. Sae, please." Faster, more, something aside from the slow little thrusts he makes as he slides deeper into you. He swoops you up, your back flush against his chest.

"You’re so needy." He bites lightly into your earlobe, tongue lapping over the shell. "We're in public, you know."

You clench down around him, now hyperaware of the ocean air even as he sheaths himself to the hilt, the way your breasts move with each thrust he slams into you.

"Oh. Oh, fuck. We're — we're in—"

"Yeah, baby." A hot trail of kisses makes a path down your neck, suckles on the slope, charged with want. He doesn't miss how your pussy clenches around him, the sheen of your drip over his cock. He bounces you in his lap like this, two of his fingers pressed against your clit, running circles that has your body jerking.

He flips you again selfishly, on your back, ocean waves crash behind you as the sky blooms into a pink-purple. It might be getting colder as the night descends but you can hardly tell with the way Sae presses close, chest to chest, kisses you with fervor and slides his tongue right behind your teeth. His cock slips back into you and everything feels complete.

This is the Sae you know, the making love, one of your arms wrapped around his neck, your other hand in his hold. He says your name like it's a delicate thing, safe in his mouth. You can feel the heaviness of his cock with each roll of his hips.

His thumb taps on your bundle of nerves at the front of your slit, and your thighs tighten with knowing.

There's something about the way he fucks you, hard and deep, even as his other hand caresses your hairline. Both acts of his intimacy, intense and overflowing. Only for you, especially for you.

"You’re so pretty when you come for me." His lips are soft against your forehead, so in juxtaposition with the way the mushroom head of his cock rubs deep inside of you against your cervix, emptying your entire mind with nothing but him, him, him. "You'll give me one more."

The drag of his cock against your walls feels like it lights up the sun inside of you, spills into glimmering moonbeam that glistens his cock further with each thrust. He always fucks you like this, with you in mind first. Until you can't think, you can hardly remember to breathe.

"So—," it's gasped, every exhale a shuddering breath. "So close."

You can almost see the shift in his eyes. You get one more kiss, deep and chaste. Before he starts to pick up the pace, and you vividly remember that he’s an athlete, that he holds strength and stamina. He holds your thighs up and wide, and you feel everything tenfold — how he jackhammers into you, his soft grunts, the marks that he can see starting to bloom on the back of your thighs from when he first tasted you.

Possessive of him, maybe. But he feels all the closer for it. A foamed ring forms at the base of his cock and something about that has his head screaming that you’re his. He leaves another nipped hickey on your collarbone, slams into you a little harder just to hear his name shake as it leaves your lips.

"Can feel how tight you are." The tapping on your clit is incessant, makes your pussy ache for release. "For me. Come for me."

If you were of clearer mind, you might wonder if he’s trained you to respond to him like this. Your back arches and you pull him close, closer, all of your attention focused on his hard cock inside of you. He can feel every twitch of your walls, the tremble in your thighs. He catalogues every detail, drives him half-insane to watch and feel how your orgasm wracks through you. Slow, at first, the tightening of every muscle, the way your breath almost holds, the uncontrollable rock of your hips, your walls and thighs both clamping down and around him until his head spins.

He fucks you through it, even with how unbelievably tight and warm you are, need-heavy and the choked sob you make as your fluids soak his cock even further is all the award he needs. You’re so wet that he can see it on your inner thighs, and it's exactly that warm, slick feeling that has him cumming inside of you, fucking you through both your orgasms.

He holds you close until you’re both breathing deep, kisses you like you might just oxygenate him. Every press of the seam of his lips against yours is studied, swallowing your little whines, pillowy soft until your body finally relaxes. He peppers kisses over the high of your cheeks, down your jawline, fish-fin-flap kisses with giggles that bubble up your chest.

"Ohmygod." It's clear to you now, with the cotton candy sky behind Sae, so picturesque, in perfect compliment with his hair and ocean-water eyes. "We just fucked on the beach."

You don't know whether to laugh or be mortified, your forearm over your face like hiding yourself might just save you. But his smile that you find peeking out at the corners of his mouth wash that all away.

"It's your fault."

"My fault?! You came onto me!"

"You looked like that."

"Oh, so you were paying attention."

"To you." Always, to you.

OFFICIAL NEW BLOG DEBUT WOOOOOOO THANK YOU BEACH SAE. also his hands were cold bc he just washed them :D THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING ME THROUGH MY BLOG MOVE i hope that the christening of this blog with beach sae brings good vibes :D

[kilometresrufflefuck]

narumitsu, pre-dd badge deliberations, ficlet of some description. contradictions in the freedom and dictation of being known

Phoenix says abruptly, "How long do you have to do something before you can say it's stuck?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean..." Phoenix struggles. "How long before you can't say you were something anymore? I feel like if it's been more time since you were the thing than you actually spent being the thing, you can't call yourself the thing. Anymore. I was a Shakespearean actor in college, but I sure as hell am not that now."

"Phoenix," says Miles.

"I was a lawyer for like three years," says Phoenix. "In my early twenties. I was a lawyer for less time than some people are waiters."

"Phoenix," says Miles, again.

"I'm thirty-five," says Phoenix.

He sinks suddenly and heavily to sit on the floor. Miles stands, alarmed.

"I'm fine," Phoenix says, before Miles can leap over his desk and/or call an ambulance and/or overreact in some other stunning way. Says it weakly, wearily, but says it. "Floor time for ol' Phoenix. That's all. It's healthy."

"Do the semantics matter so much to you?" Miles asks. "You'll have your badge back within the month. Any uncertainty you may have about being called a lawyer should be well-resolved when you are, again, a lawyer."

"There's being a lawyer and then there's being a lawyer," says Phoenix. "You know?"

"No," says Miles.

Phoenix sighs. "It's not just a career. It's how I understand myself. It's the things I believe in. People keep saying, you know, I'm getting my badge back, like it's a part of my identity that just got borrowed for a bit. Like getting back in the courtroom is inevitable? And I don't know, I just wonder, for my three years, do I actually get to say that or am I getting my badge again?"

Miles hesitates. "Would it make you feel better to put it that way?"

"No," says Phoenix. "Fuck no." Pause. "Gavin has more court experience than I do."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Miles says. He's doing a very bad job of hiding his impatience, but Phoenix isn't offended. It's the kind of impatient he gets when he can't work out how to help, like a dog watching you file taxes. "Forget the badge. You've done more to and for the legal system than most lawyers will do in a lifetime. You live and breathe the law. If your peers spoke of the inevitability of getting your badge back, it's because it was inevitable. You were born for the courtroom. It's your blood."

"See, that also sucks," says Phoenix to the floor. "What if lawyering was something I wanted to do for a bit and then it didn't work out so I go be a pastry chef? Nobody ever even thought about that. It's Phoenix Wright, comma, awesome attorney. I didn't get a say here. As soon as we got that one over on Kris it was the emails going congrats, always believed in you, when are you taking the Bar again?"

"Do you want us to believe in you or not?" Miles says in dog-voice. "If you wanted to be a pastry chef, you'd have done it. If you want to do it now, you can do it. I call you a lawyer because I know you, and it's what you are in your heart. If it's no longer something you want, then I'll nod and say I'm wrong and good luck. You've never said as much. You've had seven years away from the bar, and you've done nothing but work to fix the law. There's the evidence I rely on to continue asserting that I know you as you are. To say that if it is meaningful, as you say, to be a lawyer in spirit as well as in profession, then you are a lawyer, as true as any and truer than most. And are you married to 'awesome attorney'?"

"Yeah, it's not really business card material," Phoenix says, considering. "I'll workshop. Miles, you believing in me is the reason I'm alive. I'm a lawyer. They haven't sent the thing yet but I know I passed the Bar. I'll be more diligent about polishing the new badge. Can I sit on your floor and be a huge bitch about it for like another twenty minutes?"

Miles is already reaching for his phone. "What do you want for dinner?"

[crashingcryptid]

Itsy bitsy stow away- part 5

Summary: You learn about why you've earned the callsign Bitsy and begin to actually bond with your team. It's out of your comfort zone talking too and being around the team, but you find that you enjoy their company. Even better, they enjoy your presence, though they grow concerned when they learn it's time for you to molt.

"Why Bitsy?"

"Huh?" Ghosts' ears swivel up toward the ceiling before his head does, smiling a little as you lower yourself down to him. "Why Bitsy? What do you mean?"

"Well, I know you all have Call signs... Except Price. Bitsy, that's mine?" Simon nods in agreement. "Why did you guys choose that one?"

"Well... Itsy bitsy spider. You're small, but that's an advantage that you know how to use well." He explains matter of fact, a little grin lifting the corners of his mouth. "That, and you take little bitsy bites of your food."

"You try eating with fangs!" You shoot back, slightly indignant, but you can't help but click said fangs in laughter. "I guess that makes sense, though." You look down at the guns and weapons he's cleaning and tilt your head. "Am I bothering you? You look busy."

"Talking to me doesn't take up my hands, Y/N. I can chat with you." Simon states mater of fact as he goes back to disassembling the weapon.

"You want to?" You prod a little. You hadn't had many people be comfortable in your presence. Your appearance, your venom, and your silent movements threw people off. Having someone actually want to spend time with you to talk, that was new.

"Yeah. Where do you hang out most days? When we're going about our routines, you're never spotted." Ghost asks, and you grin a little as you settle into your upside-down position to chat.

"Hey! Y/N, are you up there?" Johnny calls up to your shelf in the broom closet, expecting to see you in your nest.

"No." Johnny jumps a little and turns to see you in the hallway. "Sorry, I could hear something stuck in my webs."

"Did you eat it?"

"No." You scrunch your nose and shake your head slightly. "I'm tired. Do you need something?" You ask as you make your way into the closet and too your nest.

"You okay? You've been sleeping a bit more lately. Did hanging out with Simon to take out all your energy?" Johnny jokes as he watches you settle in the nest. You click your fangs together sleepily, looking down at him.

"No... I don't think so? I'm sorry, I'm tired." You mutter sleepily, two of your four eyes shutting. "Can you wake me up for dinner? Price says he's got some mushrooms for me." Johnny smiles a little at you, and nods his head before he leaves the broom closet.

"I think Y/N is going to lay eggs soon." Kyle notes when Johnny finds him. "They've been moving slower, spending more time with us, and their webs are full of bugs but they aren't eating." He continues, counting down the reasons he's concerned about you.

"If they do, what are we going to do to help? Can we do anything?" Johmmy asks as he settles at the table beside Kyle.

"I don't know. I could be wrong, but I also don't want to ask them. Feels akward." Kyle sighs, shrugging his shoulders and looking up at Simon when he comes into the kitchen. "Si, has Y/N mentioned anything about laying eggs? They've been acting strange."

"They aren't laying eggs. They are going to molt soon. Probably by tonight." Simon says matter of fact as he grabs the kettle to fill with water.

"Molting!?" Kyle and Johnny exclaim at the same time, sitting straight up in their chairs. "I didn't know they could molt... Maybe we should bring them dinner tonight." Johnny says, wondering what molting meant for you.

"Well if they start tonight, they won't come out of their nest for at least two days. Takes a while for their bodies to feel better." Simon explains. "They started getting kind of confused when we were chatting earlier. Kept asking me to get them for dinner, or wake them up for training tomorrow. I think they are already tired and ready to molt."

"Well... We should keep an eye on them. Make sure they know that we care and can help if anything goes wrong." Kyle suggests and both men nod in agreement. They had to look after their itsy bitsy spider.

Your legs shake and twitch as they free themselves from the molt, whining in pain as you try to pull the rest of the loose skin off. Your abdomen and legs were soft, this was the most vunerable state you could be in, and it scared you.

The human upper part of your body felt just as weak as the rest of your body, though thankfully that part of you didn't molt. You shudder in your webs, laying your head down on them and whimpering softly in pain.

Molting is deeply uncomfotable at any stage. Itchy and claustaphobic, even as the molt finally started to fall off of your body. It came off mostly in one peice, but that made it even harder to remove.

A knock at the broom closet startles you slightly, a small ripple of panic shooting through you until you hear Kyle's voice. "Y/N? Are you doing okay?" He slowly cracks the door open and steps inside. "Do you need some help?"

"No! No don't touch me!" You cry out in defense. Knowing that you can't evem skitter back or up the wall fast enough makes you nervous. Kyle holds up his hands and stays by the door.

"Hey, I'll stay right here. I am not gonna touch you unless you really want help." He assures you softly, watching as you settle down and lay your head on your web again. "Can I get you anything? Some water or food?"

"No... I don't wanna eat right now." You sigh weakly, finally gathering up the stregth to pull the rest of your molt off of your body. Kyle watches in facination as your limbs tremble, clearly weaker and softer than they normally are. He can understand now why you didn't want him to close.

"How long does it take for you to feel back to normal? I just want to keep an eye on you." Kyle prods gently as he watches you settle down in your web.

"Two days if I'm lucky. Maybe three? That's why I kept hanging out with you all. I knew I'd be here for a while." You explain, eyes still shut. "I'm okay with you checking on me. You guys feel safe. But don't get too close, please."

"I won't. We won't, I promise." Kyle assures and he's thankful when he see's a little smile stretch your face. "I'll leave you to molting, okay? I'll check on you in the morning." And with that, he leaves the broom closet to let you rest.

You sigh quietly, settling your squishy, twitching body in your webs. At least you knew you had a whole team, just outside the door to protect you. That made you feel less anxious, finally able to fall asleep and let your body heal.

Spider molting!!! I really wanted to include this as well as egg laying, which I think I'll include in another chapter. Anyways, it probably isn't completely scientifically accurate, but we are talking about human animal hybrids. SO, WHO CARES FOR REALITY HERE??? Certainly not Mr.

@big-stretch @skz-goose @skullcrawler @bbmgirll @snowfire0313 @silas-aeiou @lobotomy-v1ct1m @bluefans-blog

[spread-the-influence]

When Ragatha said she feels like she failed Pomni the same way she failed Jax, do you think she meant "I failed to stop Pomni/Jax from slipping into evil" or "I failed to be a good friend to Pomni/Jax because something I did (*cough* trying to help everyone instead of having a desire for herself *cough*) somehow alienated them"? Or I guess it's probably both? Ragatha feels like she made Pomni reject her by asking to team with Kinger (because she put Kinger's perceived needs ahead of her own want) and saying "I'll be here if you need me" instead of "I wanted to team with you". Then Jax pushes Pomni down the same bad path he went down. Ragatha now blames herself for causing Pomni to somehow hate her AND for Pomni becoming a new Jax, and Kinger's like "no, Pomni's fine, you don't have to be with her at all times to maintain a friendship with her"?

There's a lot going on with Ragatha this episode is what I'm saying.

shakily grips your shoulder . bear . with . me .

it could be both ! for my interpretation personally , it's the latter ... kinda ? it's complicated .

many things were dropped from that conversation but i'll start by talking about why i Think ragatha thought she failed pomni ;

ragatha has the problem of Coming On Too Strong , she said it herself — she would try too hard to get on someone's good side only to push them away . which , from the way jax and gangle talked about her and how she Tried to get pomni's attention in episode 5 , it tracks . she's lucky that pomni has the patience of a fucking saint because she still comes back to ragatha after 5 episodes of her bullshittery —

we have the benefit of not being restricted to a point of view , so we Know that pomni isn't really rejecting ragatha . but because ragatha has ... 5 undiagnosed mental illnesses , she couldn't see that . her getting close to jax isn't making a new friend in ragatha's mind — it's pomni getting tired of her . it's ragatha letting someone down ... Again .

clearly she's a ' Bad Person ' ! she has said ' Wrong Things ' that day that Definitely soured pomni's opinion of her ! and that's not even getting into the way she exploded at her ! Can't she do anything right ?!

with all of that context , even saying No would weigh on ragatha . apart from her being a people pleaser and thus she'll think setting a boundary would be like putting a landmine that'll blast her friendships away — it's pushing pomni away even more . pomni's reaching out even after seeing how much of a ' Bad Person ' ragatha is , and what did she do ? reject it !

which — well , of course pomni just accepts it , it's Just saying no . but to ragatha's Disorders it's like she exploded their bond entirely . because she said no to pomni , pomni totally HATES her now and will leave her and prove ragatha's belief of being unlovable once more and then become a worser person because of jax on top of that Which Is Totally A Realistic Scenario !!!

basically this entire thing is just ragatha beating herself up over a problem that ... Doesn't Even Exist . she still needs that conversation about boundaries of course but her thoughts of everyone hating her is Twisted , at best . it's sadly hilarious in a way .

with the context of jax , i did always suspect that ragatha has tried to be close to him and he rejected it . unlike pomni though , he clearly did it vehemently . jax got tired of her . ragatha let him down . people are thinking that she came on too strong after he's grieving ribbit's abstraction , i personally think her vibes were just Off from the start .

i said this and i'll say it again now that this was validated — the one person that ragatha hates more than jax is Herself . my girl has self-worth issues , it's clear that she pressures herself to be there for everyone because it's the only way she could feel worthy of love . but of course because relationships are , well , Two-Sided and that one person can't be lifting all of the effort , people are obviously put off by that . and because ragatha has Problems she interprets it as Oh they hate me now ): than Oh they just need space (: . oh my girl with rejection sensitive dysphoria

on a semi-related note that i couldn't find a way to put into the post ; i've been thinking about the ' like she's seen through all my tricks and doesn't trust me anymore ' line , which has interesting implications . it shows that ragatha has some degree of self-awareness that her persona's a mask . the specific wording of ' tricks ' is interesting as well because it means ragatha thinks she's Kind Of deceitful in a way . do you guys think she probably hates herself for being like this ?

[suestorms-wife]

Isadora Capri x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, very brief mention of being in heat

A/N: Feel free to leave requests if you have any x

Read on AO3

[Reader is a teacher as well]

Something was up with Isadora and you couldn't quite figure out what it was.

You two had been 'official' for about a month now. At school, you would hold back a bit, but you'd still give each other a quick kiss or a hug or find each other during breaks. 

Today, however, she seemed very... affectionate.

Whenever you ran into her in the hallway, she'd kiss you. Deeply.

During break time, she'd kiss you. Every minute or so. 

When you were just done talking to a student, she'd run up to you and give you a quick kiss before leaving again, leaving you rather flustered. 

Wednesday's face after witnessing that hilarious, though.

You couldn't quite understand why she was this way today. Perhaps it was something werewolf related? You wondered if it had anything to do with werewolves going into heat. She talked about it before but you hadn't actually seen it happening to her yet.

...

No. That, you would notice.

Regardless, it was worth asking about later. 

For the rest of the day, you let it all slide. It wasn't like you could complain about it, you definitely liked it. It was just a little different, being so affectionate in public.

Finally, at the end of your workday, you go to find her. The first place to look is, of course, her classroom where she teaches music. You find her there, still teaching a class. You stand at the door and give her a small smile and a wave, earning a wink from her in return. A few students seemed to notice and started to giggle and talk among themselves, to which you decided that perhaps it was better to wait in the corridor instead.

After walking up and down the stairs, looking at the world outside and staring at the same two paintings in the hallway, the class finally ended. The students who passed you would greet you with a smile, before turning back to their gossip. No doubt you and Miss Capri were one of the topics.

Once the wave of students pass, you make your way back to the classroom where you find Isadora perched on a desk with her legs crossed and leaning back with one hand for support, already waiting for you. You can't help but smile at her as her free hand twirls a strand of her hair. 

"What brings you here, my love?" She teases, tilting her head. 

"Do I need an excuse to visit my girlfriend?" Smirking, you walk up to her and stop just in front of her. You hold out your hand so she can gracefully hop off the table. Right after doing so, her hand slides up your arm and around your neck as she pulls you in for yet another kiss, tongue hungrily running over your lips. You're even sure you heard her moan.

Now you're starting to doubt that maybe she is in heat.

When the both of you catch your breath, you take the opportunity to question her about it. "Darling-"

"Hm?" Her eyes move between your lips and eyes as she bites her bottom lip.

"Can I ask you something?" 

"Always." The redhead whispers, her enticing tone unmissable. 

"And please don't take this the wrong way," You know how quick she is to start overthinking. "But you've been very... public with your displays of affection today. Why is that?" 

"What, I can't show people that I love you?" She practically pouts, making you chuckle. 

"Of course you can, darling. But this is just so sudden. I thought we said to take it easy on that during work hours." 

"Well maybe I don't want that anymore." Her gaze once again falls to you lips, her face mere inches from yours. 

But you don't fall for it. You might not have know her for that long, but you certainly know when she tries avoiding the topic. "You could have informed me on that decision." You quip.

Her lips lock onto yours again and you can't help but melt into it. 

How does she keep getting away with that?

Reluctantly and gently, you pull away from her. 

You continue the earlier conversation, which she seems to want to avoid. It's not like you're trying to push her to answer it, you know she would tell you to stop if this were the case, but you're curious as to why she is avoiding the topic. She's usually very straightforward. "Is it a werewolf thing? I know you talked about being in heat before but that sounded way more intense than this and-" 

"Oh! No, that's not it at all, honey." Her arms wrap around your neck, hands playing with your hair. You let your hands fall to her waist.

"So it is something?" 

Her eyebrows shoot up. "No-" 

"Yes." You challenge, pulling her closer.

"Okay, okay. I'll tell you." She lightly hits your shoulder. "But don't laugh." 

"I would never." 

"You absolutely would." 

"Well?" 

"I..." She licks her lips. "I liked the taste of your chapstick." 

It takes everything in you not to laugh. "My... chapstick?" 

"Yes. It tastes like cotton candy." From the look on her face you can already tell that she knows you're holding back a laugh. "You can laugh if you want." She whispers, the curves of her mouth turning upwards ever so slightly.

Instead of full out laughing, you just chuckle. "It's just- I was so sure it was werewolf related. But this is so much cuter." 

That comment makes her blush as she briefly stares at her hands. "It somewhat is? That delicious scent made it easier to find you... But not easier to keep my hands off of you." 

You take her hands in yours when you notice she started to fiddle with her rings. "Seems I will have to use it more often, then." You whisper to her, planting a quick kiss on her lips. "Ready to leave?" You say a little louder, realizing you're still in the music hall. 

"With you? Always, my love." She answers, quickly grabbing her coat before walking back to you, taking your hand as the two of you walk out of the classroom.

A/N: My god its been a while since I last wrote anything. Apologies if this is somewhat bad xD trying to get back into it and the English language escaped me multiple times while writing this. Still, hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading xx

[tsukii0002]

Hii!!! I'm new here but I absolutely love your writing! MC is amazing here and I love the crack texts loll

But anyway, I'm not sure if your asks are open right now or whether you accept asks or not, but if you do, I hope you don't mind mine :D

I've been feeling overwhelmed recently. My A levels are coming close, but my church organization is forcing me to become PIC of an event, even though I already told them that I'd like to focus on my grades more first. But they're all leaving me on read anyway so I'm very stressed...

So if you don't mind, could you do a fic/brother's reaction to an overwhelmed MC? It can be general if you're uncomfortable with writing about Religion!

I just wanna cuddle with Mammon rn 😭

Perfectly fine if you can't thoughh, thanks!

Hello dear, I hope you are well and that your exams went well. A big hug.

I don't know why, but your request got lost in my drafts, so I apologize for the delay. Even so, I hope I have understood what you wanted that it helps you feel better.

How Mammon react to a Mc overwhelmed by responsibilities (Mc is the reader)

You were sitting in your room in the human world, had been receiving messages the whole afternoon, your phone hadn't stopped ringing. That's why you hadn't noticed that your ddd was also full of messages and missed calls. You were overwhelmed, feeling that one more request would break you, but no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to care. You had exams coming up, and you wanted to focus all your energy on them, so the brothers had offered to do your part of the student council work, but your human circle hadn't understood that so well.

“Hey, how's it going?” You turned around, startled, to see the demon standing in your window frame. “Mammon? What are you doing here???” With a little jump, he entered your room, averting his gaze as he approached you. “I may have broken the rule about coming to the human world… or maybe not” You didn't know how to react, because his presence broke the tense and stressful atmosphere you had been living in for the last few days. Mammon approached your desk and glanced at everything there “This doesn't look like math… What are you studying?” Those words broke you, and you couldn't stop the tears from falling.

“Woaa! what's wrong?” Mammon jumped up and took a step toward you, worried and nervous. You couldn't answer, you couldn't even cry, only tears fell, in the end it had all gotten to you. The demon looked around your room frantically and, after cursing under his breath, picked you up princess-style. He sat down on your bed and hugged you, covering you with his whole body “I don't know what's wrong, but don't worry, the great Mammon is here”

He waited patiently for you to calm down, comforting you every moment, sometimes stroking your hair, other times playing with your hands, but never demanding anything of you. Mammon gave you peace of mind despite being a demon who was always getting into trouble. So you leaned back against his chest and began to talk. The workload they had imposed on you, the mental strain it had caused, the frustration of being ignored, of not being understood or not being willing to understand your motives, how you felt invalidated and that your opinions or desires were not taken into account by the people who were supposed to be a safe place.

You talked and talked, pouring everything out under the watchful gaze of Mammon's blue eyes. The demon listened to you, nodding and expressing outrage, never letting go of you. When you finished, you felt a weight lift off your shoulders, and Mammon hugged you even tighter, lying down on the bed and pulling you down with him. “I think we should sleep” you looked at him incredulously “But did you hear what I was telling you? I don't have time” You tried to sit up, but he caught you in his arms “Nope, it's time to sleep” You looked at him, ready to argue, but his gaze was serious.

He rearranged himself, wrapping his wings around both of you and placing his arm under your head as a pillow “It's not fair that you have to do all this when you're tired” You tried to argue with him again, but the vibration in his chest convinced you otherwise. When Mammon began to purr, there was no turning back. So you sighed and settled into his arms in the makeshift cocoon he had created “Everything will be fine” his skin was pleasant as he stroked your back “How can you be so sure?” The demon looked at you and smiled, that beautiful smile of his “Because I know" You couldn't help but laugh “You have too much faith in me” he brushed your hair “I've seen you achieve harder things, Mc” You couldn't help but hold your breath “But sometimes you need a break to get back up stronger”

Resting your cheek on his chest, you remained silent for a moment “Besides, whatever happens, I'll be there for you, understand?” It was your turn to hug him tightly, his wings fluttering “Thank you, Mammon” He kissed you on the forehead, and little by little you began to feel the embrace of sleep “You're welcome, Mc, whenever you need me”

.

.

Thanks for reading

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[eyrie-faery]

They had been stuck in Hell for about four months, but his Starlight still slept every now and then. It was a hard habit to shake. Avior thought their pure stubbornness prevented them from giving up on escaping, but there was something they said before they slept. Just quietly to themselves, they would recite,

“Star light, Star bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might. Have this wish I wish tonight.” hope

He asked them about it once. They explained it was a children’s rhyme - you make a wish on a star before you sleep and just maybe it would be granted by the morning. Something to keep their hopes up in some silly way.

“What do you wish for?” Avior asked.

“A Pony." They scoffed and nudged him. "What do you think I wish for? Anyway that’s not the important question.”

“Then what is the important question?”

They waited a moment before answering. Made a point of looking in his eyes, like they were about to share a huge secret. “Which star am I wishing on?”

Avior didn't know any constellations - he had barely wanted to focus on people while in Elegy, he never gave the sky a second thought. So when he had figured out the magic to create their own stars Avior had to make them up as he went. His Starlight had helped of course, giving suggestions on how big some should be, changing the colours if they could and of course creating their own constellations with crazy stories wherever possible. They never named the individual lights though.

He looked up to these 'stars' now, both thinking and admiring his work. He adopted a thinking face and pointed to one of the smaller specks on the ceiling.

“That one.”

Starlight chuckled, “No.”

“This one.”

“Na-uh”

“Then... this one.”

“Okay I’ll tell you.”

His lover took his pointing hand and pulled it into their chest, using their other to guide his face back to them and kissed him. warmth

“It’s you.”

He didn’t respond for a moment. All his words somehow couldn’t compare to that.

“You told me all demons shared names with stars; it would be rude to seek someone else’s patronage.”

“I’m not exactly the brightest and bubbliest - I don't know if I count as a star."

"It's wishing on the star itself not how bright it is, silly." They bonked him, like a disapproving cat owner. He planted a kiss on their forehead taking the opportunity to nestle his nose in their hair.

“Well you wish on the star. I’ll follow the exact wording and trust the Starlight.”

“That’s not the p-”

“Point I know, stubborn. I’m not egomaniac enough think I can fix this without you. My Starlight .”

The star and its light. Two parts of a whole and a semantic argument about the difference between them. It fit them perfectly, at least he thought so. They we still gripping his hand, playing with his fingers absentmindedly.

"We’ll work it out - we have to." They were determined. anxious

"Of course we will my Starlight. We'll get out of here, I promise."

And when he had his chance he did. No matter what it cost him.

***

Body broken, lungs filled with smoke, Avior could only look up and see his Starlight through bloody tears. Safe. In the real world. He had kept his promise. They were free.

He was wrong of course. Their wish was that they would both get out. If they still had their memories they would've ripped the Meridian apart to get him back. That wasn't an option though.

pain

[reticent-writer]

Heeeeyyaaa can I request for a Tanjiro x Rengoku! Sibling Reader? They can be like GN!

this would be like where Rengoku survives. Where Reader gives their thanks to Tanjiro for saving their brother, poor boy is in awe of Reader but of course he’s always polite.

basically while Tanjiro is doing the hashira training arc I imagine Rengoku going like “Haha! You seem fond of my sibling!”

ʜᴇʟʟᴏ(•̀’◡’•̀)ﾉ

I wrote this on paper at work and it kinda got off topic but the story is still there.

✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･**･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　

The day started like any other. You woke up feeling uneasy as you always did whenever your brother was on a mission.

'He hasn't been gone for too long, I'm sure he's fine you told yourself as you braced yourself to leave the house. Like Senjuro, you aren't well with a sword, but that didn't stop you from going to the master's house and asking for a job. the master painted you to the insect Hashira, and that's how you because the butterfly estate's physical therapist. Your father said it was a shame that you couldn't fight with a sword. Just Useless. But you didn't there what he had to shy cause he was a good for nothing drunk.

When you arrived at the butterfly estate you were greeted by shinobi, "Good morning Y/n" she greeted,

"Is something wrong, Ms. Shinobu? You seem upset." You commented, the fact that Shinobu waited for you was enough to set alarms off.

"Always so observant." She chuckled but her being nervous was making you nervous. "Your brother successfully completed his mission but he is in critical condition with multiple life changing injuries. I believe that he will make it but I wanted to warn you before you see him."

As she trailed on your mind wandered to has you were gonna tell your little brother, what would your father say, would this prove him right? NO. Kyojuro is strong and fight with his entire body. He will pull through because he is the flame Hashira and you are gonna help through the full healing process. Yes you can and will, you-

"Y/n... Are you okay?" Shinobu broke your train of thought.

"Hm?"

"I was asking you if you wanted to work today, you don't have to, I'll understand."

"I want to, I know that my brother is gonna make a full recovery and I'll be here everyday untill he does." You beamed.

"Well alright then. Oh before you see your brother would you mind checking on some patients? They're in need of your positive attitude." She smiled as she lead you to a room.

She opened the door to reveal Tanjiro, Zenitsu and Inosuke. You had met them after what happened with the spider demon.

You locked eyes with Tanjiro and saw how he started to tear up causing you to rush by his bedside to comfort him.

"Woah woah its okay, its gonna be okay. What happened?" You said while patting his head.

"We were on the train with Rengoku. We watched as he fought an upper moon and now hes' gravely injured." He cried.

"Rengoku's alive, and he did his job as a Hashira. You also did your job as a slayer. Everything done to save lives is important. You made sure my brother came back, and that's all I could ever ask for.

"He told me that If he dies-"

"He's alive." You cut him off. "And he will pull through, he's too stubborn to die. So focus on getting better. I'll worry about my brother, okay?" You looked over at the other two, who looked too depressed to look at you. "That goes for all of you. We all have jobs to do. Heal up so you can fight."

You chuckled as you heard them groan in reply. There has been many times where people have told you that your positive attitude reminded them of your brother, your role model. It was the best compliment you could receive.

A moth had passed since Kyojuro had been back and he recovered fast.

"N/n I have told you many times that I am fine. You should spend your energy on someone else." Kyojuro sighed as you fussed over him.

"I just want to make sure. You were in really bad shape when you arrived."

"As you can see I'm fine now."

"Really? Then get up and walk home."

"Really Y/n.... Just go." He said as he jokily pushed you away from him.

You were glad to see him in good spirits. You stepped outside to take a breath. For the past month you've been working yourself to the bone to distract yourself for the pain your brother had to face while you don't even have the stamina to be a kakushi. It might not look like it on the surface but your fathers words struck deep, way deeper than you were comfortably admitting.

'At least its a nice day out' You thought as your skin soaked in the heat from the sun. As walked further into the butterfly estates' courtyard you say the perfect spot to destress. A tree not to far from the engawa and with a perfect amount of shade. You sat of the side facing away from the estate and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Y/n?"

You jumped at the sound of a voice and whipped your head around to face the culprit. Your eyes locked onto a equally startled Tanjiro.

"Sorry I didn't mean to scare you." He sweat dropped.

"Its fine, what are you doing here?" You asked while making space for him. He sat.

"Aoi said we were done for the day and this is my favorite spot."

"Oh I didn't mean to jack it from you, my bad."

"no no no it's okay, I actually wanted to talk to you... I can't help but notice that you make sure everyone is okay and you keep a positive attitude while doing it. I couldn't even smell a hint of sadness from you from you when Rengoku came back. You fully believed that he would recover. You are incredible Y/n. I don't know how you do it."

"Thank you, Tanjiro, I could say the same about you. You put your life on the line for your sister even though she is a demon. If anyone's incredible, it's you."

"Don't discredit yourself like that, you might not be a swordsman, but you make sure all of us are fighting at our full ability and it's thanks to you that Rengoku is making such a fast recovery.

You were about to argue, but the determination on Tanjiro's face told you that he wasn't going to stop, so you laughed and thanked him instead. A scream interrupted your peaceful moment, and you and Tanjiro ran towards it.

Tengen was in the process of kidnapping Aoi while the triplet and Kanao watched. You weren't strong enough to take Aoi back by force, so your first thought to go get Shinobu.

"Don't panic, he's not taking anyone anywhere." You turned to Tanjiro and told him you were going to be right back, then ran inside to find Shinobu, but by the time you came back, the girls were all here, but Tanjiro was gone.

"He traded himself to help instead of us, Inosuke and Zenitsu went with him."

"Wow."

"Well seeing as the problem solved itself, Y/n can you help me make some medicine please?"

"Uhhhhh sure." You followed her back inside. You couldn't help but wonder when he was going to be back.

.

.

.

He's back and Tengen is retiring.

"Who'd you fight this time." You asked as you massaged his arm muscles.

"Uppermoon 6 and they split into 2." He winched in pain.

"Jeez no wonder Tengen is retiring."

"Y/n~ you spend all your time doting on Tanjiro. We're hurt too, ya'know." Zentisu whined from his bed and Inosuke huffed.

You chuckled before giving Tanjiro a sympathetic glance only to see him looking up at you. His eyes were filled with something you couldn't even name but as soon as he realized you noticed he looked away. You didn't think much of it and went to work on the other 2.

When it came time for Hashira training Shinobu sent you to work with your brother. Some people can't handle his never give up attitude.

As you were going around the training ground and helping the slayers who were on the verge of passing out, you noticed Tanjiro sparing against your brother. He noticed you too, it distracted him.

Your brother also noticed, "has my sibling caught your attention... Haha! You seem fond of my sibling! Don't worry, they are fond of you too!"

"Kyojuro!"

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[iwannadancewithcharlisangels]

Sex, lies, and videotape.

Megumi Fushiguro x Female Reader.

01: Hollywood Dream

Tw: Slut shaming, Body shaming, ed(?), he is a bully. Check out the main list for more!

Mainlist

Megumi had been in the industry almost as long as he had been alive.

He was a prodigious artist, a child star. Megumi Fushiguro had cultivated a career that had earned him the respect of the industry. He wasn't just another heartthrob, he was a real actor, and now at just 23, he had a career most people could only dream of.

But that didn't give him the right to be rude to you.

"We're not friends, got it? You're just the new young pussy in the industry. I don't know who you spread your legs for, but 'm not interested in receiving the same treatment."

You were just trying to be nice, and he decided you weren't good enough to breathe the same air as him.

This was your first role, it was a golden opportunity; you felt like you'd won the lottery. You were surrounded by the greatest, people you thought you'd only be able to see through the screen. The best part? They trusted you; they'd given you the opportunity because they believed you were right for the role.

But Megumi just didn't seem to understand why give a chance to someone who had no experience whatsoever just because the director "saw something in you." For Megumi, cinema wasn't a game; it was a job, a very serious one, and he knew that you didn't belong there. Maybe you'd be better off starring in some commercial trash teen movie.

"Oh please, she's not all that, next time you want to put one of your sugar babies on the screen try to get one who knows what she's doing."

To a certain extent, you could understand the lack of confidence in your work. He was a respected actor, and he didn't want to risk a rookie's performance affecting the film's reviews. Yes, he had a point, and sometimes you didn't trust yourself either, but you weren't taking this lightly. You were giving more than just your best, and Megumi simply preferred to continue belittling you every chance he got.

Hollywood wasn't a playgroud. You learned that really soon.

Megumi Fushiguro wanted you out of the picture.

Your brain and tongue had decided they weren't going to work together anymore, and now you were repeating the same line over and over again, each time becoming more pathetic. You didn't understand what was wrong with you; it wasn't even a complicated scene, but you seemed completely incapable of getting it right.

You were tired, your co-stars were tired, the crew were tired, and it was all because of you.

"Cut, cut. Everyone go to a break!" the director yelled, and instead of feeling like you could finally breathe, you felt your chest tighten—it was your fault. "Come here, Y/n." His voice was always softer with you, and that made you feel even more pathetic, as if he were talking to a child, as if he felt he couldn't be so hard on you. "Is everything okay, sweetheart? You seem a little... distracted."

You sighed. You weren't okay, but you didn't want to stop. You didn't want to show that maybe this was too much for you. "I'm fine, Satoru." You tried to smile.

"You don't look fine, darling." He placed his hands on your shoulders, massaging gently. "You know you can talk to me."

"I just- I just don't know," your voice cracked a little, but you refused to cry. It was pathetic to cry just because you couldn't say a few lines. "I feel stupid."

"No, no, don't say things like that 'cause you're not stupid. It's normal to feel overwhelmed sometimes." He gave you a small smile. "Go to your dressing room and rest a little, okay? Get some air and eat something. It'll help clear your mind."

Arguing with Satoru was useless, so you simply nodded and went to your dressing room. It was nice to have some space away from the cameras. You took the first bite of your sandwich when you heard the door crack open behind you. You didn't bother looking; it was normal for the staff to come and go constantly.

"Are you really going to eat all that?" You'd recognize that horrible voice anywhere. You put your sandwich aside and turned, frowning.

"What's your problem, Fushiguro?" He shrugged and sat down in one of the armchairs. This was your place and he was invading it.

"I'm just saying you should watch your calories a little. You have an image to maintain."

"I think I know what to eat."

You'd convinced yourself that his words were worthless. He was a bully, and bullies are stupid. He just wanted to get under your skin, and you were determined not to let him.

"If you really knew, you wouldn't be eating all that." You suddenly felt self-conscious. You didn't think much before choosing your lunch, you just choose what you wanted in the moment. Maybe it wasn't the best choice. "But I guess that's your problem. You're the one who's going to have pictures of your cellulite all over the internet. I'm just giving ya some advice." He was completely calm like his words were nothing, and that made you think that maybe he was right, that maybe what he was saying was true. Maybe you should start taking care of your image a little more.

When Megumi left you couldn't take another bite, your lunch ended up in the trash can.

"Is everything okay now, sweetheart?" Satoru greeted you with his big charming smile as you came out of your dressing room. You gave him your best fake smile as if Megumi hadn't just ruined your entire day.

You nodded. "All good."

"Perfect, let's start over."

-Megumi has been acting since he was like 4. His dad had bills to pay.

-Most of his projects have been with Satoru.

-He is just jealous about Satoru having a new muse tbh. (He would never admit it)

-The next chapters are going to be longer (I think)

-If you have feedback for me I would really appreciate it.

-Thanks for reading.

[apiswitchcraft]

okay so like i know no one asked but i feel like i need to make some things clear because i can word things pretty strongly sometimes and i don't wanna be misinterpreted. remember that these are OPINIONS and i don't give a shit if you disagree, im not debating you

sometimes my friends have takes that i disagree with, we're still friends.

sometimes i do decide to not be friends with people for their opinions, and that is just as much my right as it is yours. unfollow or block or just ignore me if you want to, i will not care

anyways, this is just a quick list, if you have questions, ask away! i don't mind clarifying

-i don't care about godspousal

-localising your practice is cool and you should do it too

-i don't care about self-identifying seers or clairvoyants or like,, anything else in that vein

-BUT that doesn't mean im automatically gonna believe you. lots of seers are/have been wrong, and that's fine! i don't feel like the future is set in stone and anything predictive is automatically just speculation and that does not invalidate you

-i will always value my health over my practice. worship can be tabled for a better time, mental or physical health Cannot

-i don't worry about miasma

-i don't use khernips (lustral water), but i don't care if you do

-helpol is whatever you make it to be, and if you're going to be overly concerned about offending the gods or doing something "wrong," you're not going to have much better of an experience than with any other religion

-i DO care about not respecting closed practices or cultural origins

-xenia does NOT mean i have to be nice to you, it just means im going to match your energy

-hearing the gods or having a particularly strong relationship doesn't make you any more special than anyone else

-anyone can worship any deity in the pantheon

-prophecies and oracles are for yourself unless EXPLICITLY asked for and even then i believe people largely use them as tools for manipulation against others (like "oh zeus told me he doesn't like you" SHUT UP)

-i believe everyone sees the gods differently, so whether or not Zeus is black (to me he is) isn't an argument im willing to entertain

-you can take myths slightly literally (at least in terms of who's in relationships with who or the lore behind deified mortals) but generally they are anecdotes to explain natural phenomena

-don't get all your information from friends/mentors, do your own research to verify because we're all human and we can all be wrong sometimes

-having some knowledge of greek history is important for cultural context

-same with knowing at least something about greek philosophy

-primary sources are excellent but sometimes referring to secondary or a professional's thesis helps a LOT

-gods from different pantheons can't be worshipped exactly the same way

[synchodai]

I think the problem a lot of people have with a handful of romanced, "good" companion endings is that it has this air of "taming the shrew" surrounding it. The characteristics that defined these companions are all but erased to fulfill a fantasy of quiet and settled domesticity.

Gale's ambition could have been channeled into productive and communal endeavors, but instead it seems like the moral of the Gale professor ending is that any hunger or ambition by itself is wrong. Gale could have been hungry to lead a board that researched non-Weave magic, so he could find a cure or alleviate the symptoms of those afflicted with it. He could have used his ambition into basically being a magical disability advocate — to dare imagine a world where people don't have to suffer because of magic. He could have worked with Halsin to remove the effects of those afflicted with the Shadowcurse, all while still being a professor at Blackstaff.

Shadowheart's appeal was her connection to her faith, her snarkiness (one could even say she had a cruel streak to her insults), and her confidence in her own competence. That's all gone.

In the epilogue, the narrator mentions Shadowheart no longer living in fear because she's escaped the Sharran cult, but the first thing Shadowheart herself tells is that she's nervous. The woman who told you that she wouldn't hesitate to do what needed to be done is acting like a trembling dear at the thought of the equivalent of a high school reunion. Even a non-Sharran Shadowheart can still be confident, because confidence by itself isn't an evil trait. But in the attempt to make her more "subdued," romanced Shadowheart sounds like someone who constantly has to look to their partner for support. This was the character who started out very much willing to accomplish her mission on her own even if she was scared as all Hells.

If she goes adventuring with you, she's still ostensibly a godless cleric after six months. There's mention of you two visiting the House of the Moon, but it isn't clear if she's fully devoted herself to Selûne, is still questioning, or has given up on being a cleric entirely (probably not since she mentions casting Sacred Flame). It was like she was kept in stasis in six months with the only change being that she's madly in love with the PC.

If her parents are alive, this tamed domesticity is even more apparent. Her snark is replaced with harmless and inoffensive dad jokes.

They could have still given her goals and ambitions outside of being lovey-dovey with the PC. Her adventuring ending could have mentioned it being a pilgrimage to solidify her faith and learn more about the truth denied to her by Shar. Her homesteader ending could lean into her being a healer and trying to find a cure for her mother's ailment that she feels responsible for. Have a small community build up around the farm, maybe victims of Shar's memory wipes that are looking, if not to cure it, at least live a life where they can help each other manage it.

I'm not going to talk about Astarion because so many people have already combed over his endings. Personally, I think his personality isn't as smoothed out as much as Gale's or Shadowheart's in his epilogue(s). He still has his own goals and ambitions outside making house with the PC (searching for a cure for vampirism or providing a home for the Underdark spawn). But ironically, he gets the most discourse about people wanting to "fix" him because, well, he just gets the most discourse, period.

For me, I think the most glaring and egregious example of a proverbial "taming" is Halsin. He outright says that his roaming heart has been stilled by romance with the player. A literal "wild" love interest who settles down and stops practicing his non-traditional, non-monogamous beliefs because "he found the right one" is of course going to sound very suspicious to a lot of people.

Does it feel robotic, hollow, and white-washing to those of us who liked these characters for their less "domestic" traits? Yes. Will people stop fantasizing about the power of their true love "fixing" someone or taming shrews? No. A society built around putting the nuclear family on a pedestal is going to condition people to keep seeing having a settled nuclear family as the end all be all.

The point of this game is to serve a power fantasy. It just so happens that a lot of people's romantic fantasies is changing a wild, ambitious, and confident individual into someone content and humble enough to settle down into a domestic happily ever after with the player. But, in my humble opinion, a better-written fantasy should still be able to give you that WITHOUT compromising and abandoning core parts of a person's dreams and beliefs. And failing to do so, I believe, is just a woeful lack of imagination on the writers' part.