archivequinn

[archivequinn]

Fake Dating Johnny Storm (Unfortunately Works Too Well)

You are not dating Johnny Storm. That’s the first thing you remind yourself every morning—before you brush your teeth, before you scroll through your phone, and especially before you open the door to find him leaning against the hallway wall with two coffees and a grin that looks like it was designed in a lab to ruin your life.

This entire situation? It’s temporary. Professional. Practically a PR stunt.

Johnny needed a date. Not just any date, but someone smart, reliable, grounded. Someone who wouldn’t melt under the pressure of flashing cameras and social media storms and who could handle the heat—both literal and metaphorical—that came with being seen on his arm.

He swears he picked you because you’re “the only person he knows who can roll their eyes and explain quantum field theory at the same time,” but you’re pretty sure it’s also because you didn’t say yes right away. You hesitated. You asked for conditions. You made him work for it.

And somehow, that only made him more insistent.

Your fake relationship begins with an emergency gala. Reed and Sue are off-world, Ben refuses to wear anything that isn’t sleeveless, and Johnny… Johnny needs to show that he’s not the reckless, immature wildcard the tabloids keep painting him as. Stark Industries is watching. S.H.I.E.L.D. is watching. The press is watching. So, of course, he shows up at your lab with a custom suit and a sparkle in his eye, saying, “Come on, I promise it’ll be painless. And I’ll even let you pick the safe word for dealing with the paparazzi.”

You say no.

And then, because you’re an idiot with a soft spot for golden retriever smiles and self-sabotage, you say yes.

That was nineteen days ago.

You're now in week three of this very real-feeling fake relationship, and things are… complicated. At first, it’s easy to remember the boundaries. There are rules. You don’t stay past midnight. You don’t hold hands unless you're being photographed. You certainly don’t kiss unless someone else is watching.

But then he starts texting you in the middle of the night just to tell you that the moon looks weird. He starts remembering how you take your coffee. He laughs a little too hard at your jokes, starts brushing imaginary lint off your shoulder in the elevator, starts calling you “sweetheart” in a way that makes your stomach flip and your brain go static.

There’s no safe word for this.

He touches your lower back when you walk into a room. He leans into you during interviews, whispers jokes under his breath just to make you smile on camera. He always looks at you when you’re not looking at him.

And the worst part? You start looking back.

He invites you to brunch with his sister, casually drops your name into conversation like it belongs there, like you belong there. The line between pretend and maybe-not-pretend is blurring so fast you can barely see it anymore.

Every time he grins at you, you feel the script you wrote in your head disintegrate.

And still, you keep playing your part.

Because Johnny Storm might flirt like it's his superpower, might charm the whole world with a wink and a smirk—but sometimes, in the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you and there’s no camera in sight, he looks at you like he’s scared to blink.

Like if he does, you’ll disappear.

And you? You’re starting to wish the whole thing wasn’t fake at all.

It’s supposed to be simple. A charity auction downtown, a red carpet moment, a few staged smiles, and a ride home before midnight. Easy. Controlled. Predictable. You’re even in your favorite dress—deep jewel-toned silk, sleek heels, the kind of outfit that makes you feel untouchable.

Johnny hasn’t stopped looking at you since you stepped out of the elevator. “You sure this is fake?” he whispers at one point, eyes raking down with the kind of reverence that makes your pulse trip. You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

Everything is almost perfect.

Until the engine dies three blocks from the venue.

Johnny slaps the dashboard twice, like it’s a stubborn vending machine. “Come on, babe, don’t do this to me in front of my girl,” he mutters to the car. You lean forward, poking at the touchscreen. “Is this thing actually voice-activated or are you just flirting with your own car?”

“Can’t it be both?” he says, flashing that cursed smile.

But the dashboard flickers once, groans pitifully, and dies for good.

And that’s when the rain starts.

Not a gentle drizzle. Not a cinematic mist. No. This is full-blown, monsoon-style, apocalyptic-level downpour. Within seconds, the windshield is streaked, the city lights blurred into watercolor, and your perfect night is officially drenched.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

“We should’ve just teleported,” you deadpan.

“Yeah, well, next time remind me to date a mutant with better timing,” he says, already reaching into the glovebox for an umbrella that definitely does not exist.

You're both laughing now, a little delirious, a little undone.

And then—just to add insult to soaking injury—a group of pedestrians on the sidewalk catches a glimpse of Johnny through the window. There's a second of silence, like their collective brain short-circuits, and then—

“IS THAT THE HUMAN TORCH?!”

The entire crowd pivots toward the car.

People start taking pictures, rushing closer, umbrellas bouncing. There’s no room to open a door, no space to breathe. Someone knocks on the window. Someone else yells, “Johnny, say FLAME ON!” A kid waves a Sharpie through the downpour, asking for an autograph on his forehead.

You sink lower in your seat. “We’re not getting out of here, are we?”

Johnny turns to you, calm as ever. “I mean, we could try. Or we could admit defeat, accept that the universe clearly wants us to have a disaster date, and go get greasy burgers in our fancy clothes.”

Your brows lift. “Greasy burgers?”

“Greasiest,” he promises. “There’s a place across the bridge with melted cheese so illegal it’s probably banned in five countries. We eat in the car. You steal all my fries. I tell you your lipstick makes you look like a femme fatale. Boom. Best fake date ever.”

You laugh—really laugh, the kind that fills your chest and makes your cheeks hurt.

“Fine,” you say, tugging off your heels with dramatic flair. “But if the rain ruins this dress, you’re buying me a new one.”

“Sweetheart,” Johnny grins, already starting the ignition again with a spark of literal fire, “if the rain ruins that dress, I’m buying you three.”

Johnny doesn’t hesitate. The moment the crowd spots him—flashes of recognition lighting up one face after another like dominoes—he throws open the car door and steps out into the chaos with a kind of easy grace that only he could pull off. One foot on the pavement, the other still in the car, he turns back to you with a roguish grin and a wink. “Be right back,” he says, like he’s stepping out for a stroll, not into the middle of a miniature flash mob of screaming fans.

You blink. “Johnny—wait, what are you—”

Too late.

He’s already swallowed by the crowd. People rush forward, a sea of outstretched hands and excited voices. Phones are whipped out at lightning speed, someone’s holding up a comic book, someone else a lighter—because of course they are. And Johnny? He eats it up. He’s laughing, shaking hands, signing everything that’s handed to him. His smile is bright, effortless. His flame tattoos glow faintly at his wrist in the late afternoon light, like his body can’t help but respond to the attention.

And then he does that thing.

With a casual flick of his wrist, a small flame blooms in his palm. It swirls, takes form, and rises into the shape of a flaming heart—hovering midair, spinning slowly. The crowd gasps. A couple people scream. Someone yells, “Do it again!” and he obliges, now forming your initials in flickering, molten light. You groan softly, covering your face with your hands as the blush creeps up your cheeks.

“Johnny, oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, slumping lower in the seat.

He’s insufferable. Absolutely, irredeemably full of himself—and you’re not even surprised. What surprises you is the warmth that floods your chest when he looks back at the car, eyes searching for you through the crowd until they land right where you are. And when they do, he smiles—different this time. Not showy, not for the cameras. Just soft. Real.

You swallow hard.

Eventually, he pulls himself away with practiced ease—still charming, still laughing, still leaving a trail of awestruck fans in his wake. When he slides back into the car, the scent of faint smoke and expensive cologne follows him in.

“I signed a sneaker,” he says casually, tossing a half-empty Sharpie onto the dashboard.

You arch a brow. “Was it at least off the person’s foot?”

He grins. “It was. Eventually.”

You sigh, but you’re smiling. You don’t mean to be. It just happens around him.

“Alright, Miss I-Told-You-This-Would-Be-A-Disaster,” he says, shifting gears and pulling out of the crowded lot. “Let’s go get those burgers. I owe you that much.”

“You owe me so much more than a burger,” you say dryly, “but I’ll settle for greasy food and a quiet place to eat it.”

Johnny drives without a destination for a while, the city slowly melting around you. Neon signs flicker past the windows, streaks of gold and red and white. Traffic thins as he turns off the main streets and climbs higher into the hills, the roads getting narrower, more secluded. It starts to rain—soft, gentle droplets tapping against the windshield like fingertips. The kind of rain that makes the world feel hushed. Intimate.

“Where are we going?” you ask eventually, looking over at him.

“You’ll see.”

You do. About ten minutes later, he pulls into a clearing at the top of a hill, where the entire skyline of the city stretches out below you like a painting. Buildings shimmer beneath the drizzle, lights twinkling like fallen stars. The kind of view that makes you forget where you are. Who you are.

“Wow,” you breathe.

Johnny cuts the engine and leans back in his seat, the bag of burgers resting in his lap. “Figured you deserved a reward for surviving the storm. Pun intended.”

You glance at him. His profile is quiet in the soft light, jawline sharp, hair a little damp from the rain. There’s a burger already halfway unwrapped in his hand, and he’s watching you more than he’s watching the view.

You take yours with a small smile. “You’re not half as annoying when you’re feeding me.”

He chuckles. “High praise.”

You eat in silence for a moment, the radio low, playing something old and jazzy. The rain taps gently on the roof. Your windows fog slightly. The city sparkles like it doesn’t know how to stop.

Then Johnny turns toward you fully, one arm draped over the back of your seat, gaze soft but unreadable. “I know this was supposed to be fake,” he says, voice lower now. “But I gotta admit... sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Not with you.”

Your heart skips.

You open your mouth to respond—but what are you supposed to say to that?

So instead, you lean back, let your head rest against the car seat, and stare out at the glittering city below. You don’t say it, but he’s right. Somewhere between dodging fans and sharing fries, something’s shifted. This might have started as a show, but now... you're not so sure either.

[archivequinn]

Heat Signature | Johnny Storm

Summary: You are a brilliant young scientist, recently recruited to collaborate with the Fantastic Four on your most ambitious project yet. The mission? Present your prototype to the world, secure funding, and finally prove your ideas right. Everything was supposed to go smoothly. But nothing is ever easy when Johnny Storm is involved.

As he offers his surprisingly insightful support and insists on becoming your personal assistant (because of course he does), you're pulled into an unexpected partnership filled with banter, brainpower, and barely contained sparks. Things get even more complicated when a hotel mishap forces you to share a room, and long nights working together start to blur the lines between professional and... something else entirely.You’re supposed to be focused on the mission—but how do you stay scientific when your assistant has cheekbones that should be illegal and a smile that feels like setting the world on fire?

Words: 5,760

ao3 link

part 1

You are a scientist. Not just any scientist.

You’re the kind that rewrites blueprints in your sleep and questions the laws of physics for fun—like they’re puzzles left behind by an ancient god daring you to dream bigger. You breathe data, eat uncertainty for breakfast, and wear your curiosity like armor in a world that often underestimates ambition wrapped in a white lab coat. You're driven, tenacious, and just the right amount of arrogant to survive in a building where the average IQ could short-circuit a satellite.

From the moment you stepped foot into the Baxter Building—a towering monument to innovation and impossible dreams—your life has been a whirlwind of experiments, hypotheses, and groundbreaking discoveries. You remember the way the elevator hummed beneath your feet that first day, how your fingers twitched with anticipation, notebook clutched to your chest like a secret waiting to change the world.

Working with Reed Richards himself—yes, Mister Fantastic, the human rubber band with a brain that makes quantum computers look like typewriters—is something that still feels like fiction. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at him mid-sentence, wondering if you accidentally walked into a dream built by sheer intellect and a ridiculous amount of stretch. He’s your mentor now. Endlessly patient, maddeningly curious, and somehow always three steps ahead of a universe that can barely keep up with him. Being in his orbit is like standing in the gravity well of a collapsing star—overwhelming, illuminating, and transformative.

Then there’s Sue Storm. The Invisible Woman. And oh, you could write a thesis on her alone.

She’s brilliance wrapped in calm. Grace under pressure. Arguably the most powerful person in the entire building, and somehow also the most grounded. Her force fields could level a city, sure—but it’s her emotional equilibrium, her quiet authority, and the way she sees people that leaves you breathless. She enters a room and shifts its center of gravity—not by force, but by sheer presence. She listens to your ideas with genuine attention, offers feedback without a trace of condescension, and reminds you, with a soft touch on the shoulder, that even the best minds crack sometimes—and that’s okay. You carry her inspiration with you like a lodestar, stitched between the lines of your every breakthrough.

And of course, there’s Ben Grimm.

The ever-lovable rock wall with a Brooklyn accent and a soul soft as warm bread. He treats you like you’ve been part of the team since the Big Bang, always cracking jokes that are half-groan, half-hug. He brings bagels every Friday morning because, in his words, “science runs on carbs, and you deserve the good stuff.” Sometimes, he’ll hold your tools while you rant about data corruption like a war general, nodding solemnly, adding the occasional “sheesh” for effect. He teases, sure—but there’s respect in his humor. Solid, unshakable. Like you’re one of his own. Like you already passed the test you didn’t know you were taking.

You're one of the youngest researchers to ever be offered a permanent position at Baxter Labs, and let’s be clear—it wasn’t luck. You earned this. Bled for it. Burned through sleepless nights and empty coffee cups and the kind of obsessive perfectionism only a true visionary can afford. Your project—an experimental energy harnessing system designed to convert atmospheric pressure into clean, unlimited power—isn’t just a fancy light show. It’s a revolution waiting to be born. Think: energy towers in the most remote, forgotten corners of the globe. Limitless electricity humming through places that were once cloaked in darkness. No more fossil fuels. No more geopolitical extortion. Just a new world, quietly blooming under the hum of progress.

You know what this means. They know what this means. And for the most part, they support you every step of the way.

Well… almost everyone.

Because then— There’s him.

Johnny Storm. The Human Torch.

Golden boy of the Fantastic Four. The literal hotshot. A walking flame with a jawline sculpted by chaos and a grin so criminally smug it probably has its own SHIELD file. He enters every room like it’s already his, radiating a confidence so infuriatingly casual that it leaves smoke trails in its wake.

He doesn’t technically work in your lab. And yet—somehow, he’s always there.

Perched on counters, stealing your test results to “check your math,” throwing peanuts into your beakers and calling it a “stress test.” Once, he tried to “optimize” your prototype by melting its casing with his finger—purely in the name of curiosity, of course.

“Relax,” he said, watching you panic over days of lost work, “you should thank me. Now you know it can’t handle extreme heat. That’s… like, important data, right?”

You tried not to scream. You really did.

He’s infuriating. A menace in designer sunglasses. The kind of guy who sets off the fire alarm just by entering the room with too much attitude and half a joke tucked behind his teeth.

He calls you things like “Einsteinette” and “Lab Coat Babe,” and once had the audacity to introduce you at a press conference as “the real genius around here—but don’t tell Reed.” You spent the next three days avoiding eye contact with your mentor, convinced you were seconds away from being vaporized by Reed’s disapproval-laced silence.

But here’s the thing: He’s not mean. Not cruel. Not careless in the way that would actually harm.

In fact, there’s something stupidly charming about the way he teases you, like a schoolboy yanking the hair tie of the girl he’s secretly in love with—but doing it with fire-tipped fingers and a smirk that could melt steel. It’s infuriating, honestly. He brings you coffee sometimes—only to immediately steal a sip with the most unapologetic grin you’ve ever seen, as if your caffeine dependency is somehow his business. He fixes your wiring when you're too tired to see straight—then denies it ever happened, like your suddenly functioning equipment just magically repaired itself in the night.

He listens when you talk about your project, even if he leans back dramatically in his chair, yawning and muttering sarcastic comments under his breath. And somehow, he always knows when something's off—like the day your test chamber collapsed and wiped out three months of data and progress in under three seconds. You were seconds away from breaking down.

But he didn’t say much. Just sat beside you on the cold, scuffed lab floor, like it was the most natural thing in the world, handed you a half-melted protein bar, and nudged your shoulder gently until your breath hitched and a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it. No lectures. No false promises. Just presence. Just him.

He’s there. Always somehow... there. Like gravity, like inertia, like a law of nature written into the physics of your days.

And despite how much you pretend to hate it—how you roll your eyes when he bursts in without knocking, or groan when he calls you Einstein in that exaggerated tone—you’ve started to expect him. You’ve started to look for him in the room before you even realize it. You’ve started to look forward to him.

Which is absurd, of course. You’re a serious scientist. A respected one. You don’t have time for distractions—especially not ones with cheekbones like Greek architecture and flames for fingers, ones who walk like they own every room they step into and smile like they know your deepest secrets.

Still, every theory has an exception. And somehow, he’s the one anomaly you can’t solve.

Today is the day you’ve been working toward for what feels like your entire life. The culmination of years of sweat, setbacks, breakthroughs, and breakdowns. The Baxter Building’s main lab has never been this full—scientists from across the globe, advisors from powerful institutions, Reed’s most respected peers, the kind of minds who write the future of science rather than merely follow it.

All seated. All watching. All murmuring in anticipation, their voices a dull thrum beneath the quiet hum of the machines. Cameras hover silently, mechanical eyes blinking red, and the glass panels between you and the audience shimmer faintly—fragile, transparent boundaries separating genius from failure, acclaim from humiliation.

You stand center stage. Your palms are damp. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your ribs. Your pulse roars in your ears like static, like warning—but your voice, miraculously, remains steady as you begin.

“Today I’ll be presenting a working prototype of the Atmospheric Pressure Converter. A system designed to extract clean, renewable energy from weather systems already present in our atmosphere.”

It sounds simple. Polished. Practiced. But you know the weight those words carry. Because behind that sentence are months of grueling research, towers of dog-eared notes, blown circuits, abandoned blueprints, and sleepless nights you stopped counting after week six.

Your hands hover over the console, trembling ever so slightly. You type in the final sequence. Every keystroke feels like a countdown. You glance up once—Sue gives you a firm, encouraging nod, calm and grounded like always. Reed watches closely, already calculating the variables. Ben lifts his chin with a subtle but solid you got this expression.

And far in the back, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, half-shadowed and entirely unfazed, is Johnny Storm. The Human Torch. Your personal fire hazard.

He catches your eye. Raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. Mouths, Go get 'em, Einstein.

You smile. Briefly. Despite everything.

Then press the activation key.

There’s a low hum. A flash of blue light across the console. Something stirs in the core of the machine—you feel it, like the first pulse of a heartbeat. For one perfect second, it looks like it’s working. Like the years of effort have finally, finally paid off.

But then comes the sputter. The flicker. The pop.

Suddenly, the lab fills with smoke. Dense, chemical, stinging your eyes. Alarms whine in high-pitched chorus. Red lights strobe. A gust of cold air pushes through the vents as emergency systems roar to life. The prototype emits one final, sickly whine— —and dies.

Just dies.

You freeze. Fingers clutching the edge of the table. Your eyes sting—not from the smoke, but from something sharp and hot rising in your chest.

You hear someone coughing. Glass scraping. A chair being pushed back too fast. The crowd on the other side of the glass ripples with confusion, then disappointment. Then, worse—amusement. A few people whisper. One of them snorts.

And then comes the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that lands on your shoulders like a lead blanket, thick and heavy and suffocating. The kind that makes your heartbeat sound like thunder in your own head. The kind that feels like failure echoing louder than any explosion ever could.

Your cheeks are burning. Your throat is dry. You try to explain—to speak, to move, to salvage something—but your brain is jammed. Glitching. Stuck in a loop that only says you failed you failed you failed you failed.

And all you can think, over and over, is: I failed. I failed in front of everyone.

You turn on your heel and walk out. Not slowly. Not with grace. Not with some dignified speech.

You bolt.

By the time you reach the smaller lab space you’ve been using as your private workroom, your chest is aching—tight and burning like the embers of something that never quite caught fire. Your legs give out the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a soft but definite sound, like the final punctuation on a sentence you didn’t want to finish. You collapse to the floor, spine pressed to the cold, sterile wall, curling into yourself. You draw your knees up, holding them close like they’re the only thing left that won’t fall apart if you squeeze hard enough.

It’s not fair. You worked so hard. You knew it was ready.

But the world didn’t agree. And now all you’re left with is the ringing silence of failure.

What went wrong?

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your fists, clenched in the sleeves of your lab coat, grow damp. Your fingers tighten around the fabric as if anchoring yourself to this reality might somehow undo it. There’s a wet warmth at the corners of your mouth—a trail left behind by tears you didn’t invite. A quiet, broken gasp escapes, and you clamp your lips shut like you can hold back the flood. But it’s too much. The pressure in your chest builds, thrums like a second heartbeat, demanding release. So, finally, you let it out.

A stack of folders beside you gets the worst of it. They crash to the ground like toppled dominoes, papers scattering in a flurry of disarray—fluttering down like autumn leaves torn too soon from their branches. Some pages catch the edge of your worktable, others skim across the floor as though trying to flee the scene. You lash out at a nearby chair without even looking; it tips, crashes down. A loud, metallic thud. You don’t care. You’re already broken open. What’s a little more mess?

Somewhere behind you, the door creaks open.

It’s a small sound. But in the vacuum of your grief, it feels enormous.

You lift your head just enough to catch the silhouette of someone tall, framed in gold by the hallway’s flickering light. The sharp contrast makes him look almost unreal—like a statue caught between dimensions.

Johnny.

He hesitates in the doorway. He always does when you're like this. Not out of fear—no, Johnny Storm doesn’t know what fear is—but uncertainty. Guilt, maybe. Not knowing if this is a moment where words help or hurt. Not sure if you want to be found.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s so soft, you almost don’t catch it. Like he’s afraid to disturb you. Like he’s learned the language of your quiet and is trying not to speak too loud.

You turn your face away, burying it deeper in your knees. “Go away.”

But of course, he doesn’t.

He never does.

Instead, he carefully steps over the wreckage you’ve left in your wake, graceful despite the chaos. He crouches beside a few scattered pages, gently gathering them up with the clumsy reverence of someone handling old love letters. He holds them in the wrong order, squints at them like they’re hieroglyphs.

“I think this one had a diagram? Or a doodle,” he murmurs. “Maybe both.”

You don’t laugh. Not quite. But something involuntary escapes you—a breath, shaky and soft, caught halfway between a sob and a scoff.

He glances at you, then carefully lays the papers aside like they’re pieces of a broken puzzle he doesn’t know how to fix. “Okay. New plan.”

With a small flick of his wrist, fire blossoms at his fingertip—a spark that dances and then steadies. He draws the flame into his palm, shaping it slowly, almost meditatively. You watch, your tears still clinging to your lashes, as the fire stretches and flickers and curls inward. It breathes. It blooms.

And then, impossibly, it becomes a rose.

Not a cartoonish flame flower, not a haphazard shape—but a rose. Delicate and impossibly precise, petals glowing in shades of orange and gold, pulsing like it has a heartbeat of its own. Alive, but not burning.

“For you,” he says, as if offering you a paperclip instead of a miracle. His crooked smile is familiar, crooked like the rest of him. “Don’t tell Sue I’m using my powers indoors.” He holds it out. “It’s non-flammable. Promise.”

You stare at it—this ridiculous, beautiful, useless thing—and for the first time in hours, something in your chest eases. You smile. Just barely. But it’s real.

“Better,” he says, smug and proud. “Though, to be fair, I thought about making you a tiny fire-dinosaur. But I wasn’t sure if you were more of a T-rex or a stegosaurus person.”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer ‘devastatingly charming.’ But I’ll accept ridiculous,” he says, with a faux-formal bow.

Then he drops down beside you, sitting cross-legged like this is just another Tuesday. His fingers absently spin the flame-rose in midair, making it twirl like a ballerina made of heat.

“I saw the whole thing,” he says after a beat. His voice dips lower, softer. “The presentation, I mean. You were... amazing. Up until the part where your machine kind of... exploded. That part was slightly less amazing.”

You grimace. The memory is still too raw. Too loud.

“I know today sucked,” he says, nudging your knee gently with his. “And yeah, okay, not ideal when your Big Moment goes up in smoke—pun extremely intended—but hey… I’ve torched entire press conferences before. At least yours didn’t melt anyone’s shoes.”

You wince at the reminder, but it’s softened by the sheer absurdity of his tone. Typical Johnny. Bright enough to burn, but somehow always finding light in the ashes.

“But you know what?” he continues, voice laced with something rare—earnestness. “Every single genius I know has had something blow up in their face at least once. Reed’s first interdimensional gate turned his eyebrows green for a week. True story.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. It bubbles up, unexpected and uncontrollable. It cuts through the fog like sunlight.

“There you are,” Johnny grins, triumphant. “Knew you were still in there.”

Then, more gently, with a gravity he rarely shows: “You’re not done. Not even close. Whatever broke today, we’ll fix it. Together.”

You turn to look at him again—and this time, you really look.

His eyes are steady. Still full of mischief, sure—but underneath, there’s something unwavering. Something that says: I see you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.

And somehow… Somehow, for the first time in what feels like hours, you believe him.

“I should look at the internal stabilizer,” you murmur—your voice hoarse, rasping from fatigue and tears, but there’s a steadiness returning to it now. Like the storm in your chest has passed, leaving behind something quieter. Sharper. “It was the last component I installed. If anything misaligned during calibration…”

Johnny raises both brows, that ever-present mischief already flickering to life behind his eyes. With the kind of overdramatic flourish he probably practices in the mirror, he straightens up and extends a hand like a gentleman at a Regency ball.

“Well then, Doctor,” he says, that infamous smirk creeping back into place like it never left, “shall we science the hell out of this mess?”

You blink. A breath. A heartbeat.

And then—you take his hand.

He pulls you up, maybe a bit too dramatically, as if he’s casting you in some invisible movie scene only he can see. It’s absurd, and exactly what you need. Your legs are unsteady, your joints stiff from sitting too long in grief, but the moment you’re standing beside him—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin like a living ember—it’s like your balance resets.

Maybe not hope yet. But movement. That’s something.

Together, you approach the wreckage of your prototype like detectives returning to the scene of a very personal crime. You drop to your knees beside the housing panel, already thinking through component hierarchies and conductivity flow, while Johnny casually starts clearing debris like a man auditioning for America’s Got Magicians.

“Careful,” you mutter, your voice dry. “That’s the focusing ring, not a frisbee.”

He holds the circular piece like it’s a bagel he’s not quite sure how to eat. “Noted. No throwing the glowy donut. Even if it glows really, really temptingly.”

You roll your eyes. But a corner of your mouth quirks upward. You let it.

Time slips after that. The hours don’t tick—they hum.

You adjust calibrations with trembling fingers. He hands you tools without needing to ask. You think aloud, mapping logic into the air like it’s a language only the two of you understand. He listens. Occasionally tosses out a wild theory. Sometimes it’s complete nonsense, other times it sparks something useful—and once, just once, it makes you stop mid-sentence and whisper, “Wait… that could actually work.”

He grins like a kid winning a science fair.

He never leaves. Not even for a second. He doesn’t check his phone, doesn’t get bored, doesn’t make an excuse to duck out. He just… stays. A constant, chaotic flame beside you. Comforting. Steady, in his own unpredictable way.

Eventually, your body starts to give out before your mind does. Your fingers cramp. The numbers stop making sense. You blink too long between thoughts, and equations begin to unravel into meaningless squiggles.

Johnny notices immediately.

“Okay, genius,” he says, nudging your knee with the gentlest pressure. “Time to take five. And by five, I mean horizontal.”

You shake your head, bleary. “I can’t—there’s still a fluctuation in the thermal grid and I—”

“You’re fried,” he cuts in, and—for once—there’s no pun layered underneath the word. Just quiet, unvarnished concern. “Literally and figuratively. You’ve been running on fumes since Tuesday, and I know caffeine is like your fifth vital sign, but even you can’t keep this pace forever.”

You want to argue. Really, you do. But the edge of the workbench is right there, and your skull feels like it’s being held up by willpower alone. So instead of a retort, you let your forehead rest against the desk, eyes drifting shut just for a moment.

Just a moment.

When you open your eyes again, the world is different.

Dim. Quiet. Soft around the edges.

Johnny’s hoodie is draped over your shoulders like a makeshift blanket, its warmth soaked into your skin. You’re curled on the battered couch in the corner of the lab, its cushions lumpy but familiar. You have no memory of walking here, no recollection of lying down.

And it’s morning.

Pale sunlight filters through the blinds in strips, painting stripes across the cluttered worktables and upturned chairs. You shift groggily, blinking sleep from your lashes. Your joints ache. Your mouth is dry.

Then, you see him.

Across the room, Johnny is perched at your desk—hair mussed, back slightly hunched, sleeves rolled up. There’s a graveyard of energy drink cans at his elbow and a small constellation of highlighters scattered like fallen stars across your papers. Your notes are spread out in front of him, messy and brilliant, with his own chaotic scribbles threading between your equations.

He’s so focused he doesn’t even notice you.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he lines up a scrap of circuitry with the schematic you gave up on hours ago. He tilts his head, murmuring under his breath like he’s translating from a language no one taught him. “That’s why the frequency kept looping… it wasn’t the stabilizer. It was the dampener coil.”

He says it like it betrayed him personally.

Then he adjusts something in the prototype, carefully, precisely—and powers it up just enough to see.

A soft blue light flickers across the panel.

And holds.

You inhale sharply. The air catches in your throat.

He… did it.

You slide off the couch in silence, blanket falling around your ankles like shed armor. He hears the soft shuffle of your steps and looks up, surprised.

“Oh—hey. Morning,” he says, as if this is the most casual thing in the world and not a cinematic redemption arc unfolding before your eyes.

You stare at the machine, then back at him. “Did you just…?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I couldn’t sleep, and you were snoring like an angry squirrel, so I figured I’d—”

“Johnny.”

He stops talking.

You approach slowly, reverently, like the prototype might vanish if you move too fast. Your fingers graze the edges of the modified coil. You trace the new connection—precise, subtle, clever.

You see it now.

The loop was too tight. The output needed the tiniest breath of delay. A fractional pause. Something only a heat-reactive element could provide.

He didn’t guess.

He understood.

You turn to him. The weight in your chest expands and contracts at once.

“You stayed up all night,” you whisper. “You fixed it.”

He shrugs, but his voice is softer than before. “Team effort.”

And just like that, your heart trips over itself.

Because this man—this beautiful disaster, this self-proclaimed human sparkler—sat in your failure without trying to smother it or sweep it away. He didn’t run. He learned. For no reward. For no recognition.

Just for you.

You don’t even think. You close the space between you and wrap your arms around him.

He goes stiff—like you short-circuited something. But after a breath, his arms circle your waist and hold on. Not too tight. Just enough. His chin finds the top of your head like it belongs there.

He holds you like someone trying to stay grounded. And maybe… that’s what you both are now. Anchors. Balance. Fire and focus.

“I told you,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and steady. “You’re not done.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever… you smile.

Because maybe brilliance doesn’t come from isolation. Maybe it doesn’t need perfection or applause.

Maybe it just needs someone who stays.

Someone who burns.

The second chance doesn’t come easy. Reed is skeptical—of course he is—and it takes a week’s worth of data reconstruction, hypothesis defense, and shameless begging to get him to approve presenting the repaired prototype. You know he’s only giving in because Johnny keeps popping into the lab mid-meeting with a “Come on, Stretch, don’t be a drag,” and somehow, every time he speaks, Reed sighs like a disappointed professor but waves his hand in reluctant permission.

The new presentation is scheduled at a much larger scientific symposium in another city—higher stakes, bigger audience, potentially career-defining. Naturally, everything needs to be perfect. And Johnny—chaotic, loud, infuriatingly charismatic Johnny—has volunteered to be your assistant this time.

“I still think ‘assistant’ is too humble a title,” he says, leaning casually against the lab bench as you pack your notes into a case. “I prefer ‘co-pilot.’ Or ‘mission specialist.’ Or—wait for it—‘hot sidekick.’”

“You’re literally just carrying the clicker,” you remind him dryly.

“Yeah, and emotional support,” he adds, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “You think Reed approved this trip because of your graphs? No, sweetheart. It’s my winning smile and disturbingly good hair.”

He’s impossible, but at this point, you’ve stopped fighting it. He is helping. He stays up sorting your diagrams while you recalibrate the simulation. He runs coffee during the worst of your breakdowns. And when you stress spiral over whether the new stabilizer will hold, he’s the one who reminds you to breathe.

The trip begins with a six-hour drive in the Fantasti-Car—because Johnny refuses to take a commercial flight when he could, quote, “look this good while flying solo.” And for a moment, it's easy to pretend this is just… normal. Like you're two regular people on a work trip, not one brilliant scientist and a literal supernova in human form.

That illusion shatters at the hotel lobby.

“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk says, blinking at the screen. “There’s only one room under your reservation.”

You frown. “That can’t be right. Herbie was supposed to book two.”

Johnny glances over your shoulder with a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And let me guess… one king bed?”

The clerk checks again, sheepish. “Yes. That’s… what it says.”

You turn to Johnny. “Tell me you didn’t bribe Herbie.”

He gasps, hand over chest. “How dare you accuse me of something so—okay, maybe I suggested he book us somewhere with a hot tub. But that’s entirely beside the point.”

“There is no point. I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Johnny leans in slightly, smirking. “Come on. We’ve literally fought interdimensional threats side by side. You’re telling me this is the line you draw?”

“I like boundaries. And personal space. And uninterrupted REM cycles.”

“Well,” he says, slinging an arm over your shoulders, “good thing I sleep like a log. You won’t even notice I’m there.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they might stick, but the damage is done. There’s only one room, and nothing available for miles thanks to the conference crowd. Begrudgingly, you follow him upstairs.

The room is… fine. Neutral. Corporate beige. Two lamps, one desk, and one very large bed that now feels impossibly small.

Johnny tosses his bag onto it like he owns the place, already kicking off his shoes. “You want left or right?”

“I want a completely different room, preferably on a different floor.”

“No refunds,” he singsongs, flopping back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “This is kinda nice, though. Like a school field trip. Except we’re way smarter. And hotter.”

You sigh and drop your case onto the chair, ignoring how your pulse picks up every time his shirt rides up slightly as he stretches. He doesn’t mean anything by it—he never does—but you’re starting to.

Because somewhere between the jokes and the endless teasing, he’s wormed his way past your carefully calculated walls. And now, trapped in this room with him, it’s getting harder to pretend he’s just a distraction.

Later that night, you're both side by side on the bed, laptops open, notes spread out like a paper sea between you. He’s surprisingly focused—eyes narrowed, fingers tapping as he scrolls through a simulation you coded just yesterday. Every so often, he makes a joke, and you laugh—maybe too loudly. He looks over, and for half a second, the room is silent.

And then he says, “You know… I’ve worked with a lot of scientists. Been to a hundred of these boring tech things. But this one? I actually care about. 'Cause you're in it.”

You stare at him, heart thudding. “That’s… dangerously close to a compliment.”

He smiles, soft and a little too genuine. “Maybe I’m just evolving.”

The room is warm. Maybe it’s the lack of proper AC or the oversized windows swallowing the evening sun whole. Or maybe—it’s just him.

Johnny lounges across half of the bed like he owns it. Which, technically, he doesn’t. The plan was two beds. Two separate sleeping arrangements. Nothing remotely intimate. But somehow, due to Herbie’s enthusiastic but questionable booking skills, there is now one king-sized bed and a very long night ahead.

You stand stiff by the desk, pretending to check tomorrow’s itinerary for the sixth time, your fingers twitching around your tablet like it might suddenly give you a second bed if you poke hard enough.

Johnny glances over his shoulder, his eyes flickering with mischief. “You’re pacing.”

“I am not pacing,” you mutter, very much pacing.

“You are. You’re doing the anxious little professor shuffle.”

You shoot him a glare. “There is no such thing as a ‘professor shuffle.’”

“There is now. You invented it. Congrats.” He grins. That same grin. The one that could probably make flowers bloom or planes crash, depending on the mood.

With a dramatic sigh, he shifts, flopping back against the pillows and folding his arms behind his head. “Look, I know sharing a bed with me must be a tremendous hardship for you.”

“Oh, absolutely agonizing,” you say flatly. “I’m practically trembling.”

He chuckles, soft and smug. “You could just admit I’m kind of charming.”

“I could also admit you’re a narcissistic fire-hazard with a flair for dramatics.”

Johnny mock-gasps. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, eyes fixed on you. “You really think I’m a fire-hazard?”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His hair’s still a little messy from the flight, tousled in that frustratingly perfect way. His eyes glow—not just metaphorically, but with this actual, barely-there amber hue, as if the sun never truly left him. You wonder if he’s always this warm. If it’s a power thing, or just a him thing.

And God, those arms. Not fair. Scientists shouldn't have arms like that. Especially not ones currently folded around a pillow like they’re auditioning for some late-night fantasy commercial.

“I think you’re…” You hesitate. “...a bit much.”

His grin widens. “A bit much?”

You nod. “Loud. Chaotic. Obnoxiously confident. And sometimes—very occasionally—you’re… helpful.”

Johnny blinks. Something shifts in his gaze. Just a fraction. The smile’s still there, but it softens. Like he heard more than you meant to say.

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” he says. “Brilliant. Scary smart. Kind of terrifying when you go full lab-mode. And I like that you don’t let me get away with anything. Makes life interesting.”

You feel your throat tighten a little. You’re not used to this—him being sincere. And it does something weird to your insides. Something uncomfortably fluttery.

He shifts again, this time sitting up, legs folded under him, his presence magnetic in the quiet room. “I know I joke around a lot, but... I’m not clueless. I see the way you look at me sometimes.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I don’t—”

He raises a hand. “It’s okay. I look at you too.”

There’s silence. A heavy, electric pause that crackles between you.

And then he’s closer.

You don’t remember moving. Don’t remember crossing the space. But somehow, your knees are brushing, your breath is shallow, and his fingers are just barely grazing yours like he’s asking permission without saying a word.

Your brain screams to calculate, to classify, to analyze—but your body moves faster. Leans in. Tilts up.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle at first. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you too much. But it deepens quickly—warm and insistent, as if he’s been holding back for way too long.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You’re acutely aware of every inch of him—the way his lips move with yours, the subtle heat radiating from his skin, the fact that he smells like smoke and something golden.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he grins against your lips. “Told you I was charming.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, voice low, fingers still tangled in yours. “It’s already there.”

dividers by @strangergraphics

[archivequinn]

Blue Terror (Pirate Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)

⚠️ Warnings: This fic contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers, including: violence, slavery, captivity, physical abuse, death mentions, degradation, non-consensual power dynamics, psychological manipulation, blood and barbaric acts, themes of war and trauma, and morally ambiguous characters. SMUT +18. ROUGH SMUT. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

I would like to remind you that English is not my first language, and part 2 will be written on request.

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Year 1672.

They say the sea holds more secrets than the sky ever will. Whispers of vanishing ships, blood-soaked decks, and names cursed by both wind and wave. And yet, nothing ever touches your quiet shore. Not until it does.

You grow up in a village so small, it doesn't even appear on most maps. Hidden among the cliffs and tangled trees of the northern coast, it smells of brine and fresh earth, of woodsmoke and rosemary. Your cottage is crooked but warm, tucked between hills that cradle your world like an old lullaby. You and your father—he with calloused hands and a voice like gravel soaked in honey—grow vegetables in the hard, stubborn soil. You sell them at market twice a week, your cart creaking along the muddy path, wheels humming a song of routine and survival. Life is simple.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Everyone has. Blue Terror, they call him—the captain who carves his name into the ocean with a blade of smoke and thunder. A man who sails with ghosts and answers to none. You don’t believe it. Or maybe, you simply choose not to.

Because believing means fearing, and fearing means acknowledging that peace is always borrowed, never owned.

Your nights are quiet. You fall asleep to the crackle of firewood, your father’s snores in the other room, the soft chirr of insects serenading the dark. And you wake each morning with sun on your skin, dew on the window glass, and dirt already under your nails. There’s a rhythm to everything. A comfort in knowing where each step will land before it touches earth.

But comfort is a fragile thing.

You remember that morning well—the one that unravels your world like thread from a torn hem. The wind shifts. The birds fall silent. The air smells wrong, like metal and fire and the breath of something ancient rising from the deep.

You’re just returning from the market, your basket still heavy with coin and leftover herbs. The path curves toward your home, and for a moment everything feels normal—until it doesn’t. Smoke curls above the treetops. The sound of shouts—low, guttural, foreign—rip through the quiet.

You run.

You run until your lungs burn and your feet slip on the gravel. But it’s too late.

The garden is trampled. Your home—splintered wood and ash. And your father…

You don’t let your mind go there. You can’t.

Rough hands find you before you even make it to the threshold. You're dragged backwards, your screams swallowed by the chaos. Faces you don’t recognize, speaking a language you don’t understand. Symbols you’ve only seen drawn in red ink on old sailors' maps. The mark of the Blue Terror.

They tie your wrists with thick rope. Your feet stumble against stone and splintered roots. And all you can think, all that echoes in the hollow behind your ribs, is this:

You’ve heard the stories. But you never thought you’d become one.

They drag you through the ruins of what once was your home. Smoke coils around broken rooftops like fingers refusing to let go. Flames dance in doorways, licking old wooden beams until they collapse into embers. The screams of your neighbors echo through the air—raw, panicked, animal. Mothers clutching their children. Men trying to fight with farming tools, only to be cut down or slammed into the mud. The stench of burning hay, of sweat and iron and salt, clings to your skin.

You stumble past the market stall where you and your father once sold rosemary and turnips. It’s overturned now, crushed beneath the boot of a man shouting in a tongue you don’t know.

Others are tied up like you, their hands bound in rough rope that digs into skin, already turning raw. Some are younger than you. Some older. All with the same wide, unblinking eyes, all walking toward the same unknown horror. A girl near you sobs so hard she can barely breathe. A man falls to his knees and is kicked until he gets up again. One pirate laughs, sharp and cold like broken glass, as he yanks on someone’s rope to make them move faster.

“Move,” another snarls behind you, the command punctuated by a shove between your shoulders. You nearly fall, your knees buckling, but you manage to keep walking. If you fall, you might not get up.

The docks are chaos. Fires reflect on the dark water, turning the sea to molten gold and shadow. And rising from it, like something pulled from a fever dream, is the ship.

It is monstrous.

The hull is made of dark, weather-worn wood, reinforced with iron plates that gleam dully in the firelight. Thick ropes and heavy nets hang from its masts like webs spun by a god. Its sails are down, but you can see the edges—blackened and patched with leather, worn by wind and war. Lanterns hang from the sides, their light swaying gently with the tide, casting ghostly glows on the faces of the men waiting to load spoils. And there—high above, fluttering in the hot breeze—is the flag.

A skull wreathed in red fire. Teeth bared. Empty eyes staring straight into your soul.

The mark of the Blue Terror.

Your breath catches. For the first time, you stop walking. But only for a moment—another shove sends you stumbling forward, onto the gangplank that groans under the weight of so many stolen lives.

Once your boots touch the deck, someone grabs your arm and hurls you forward.

You hit the wooden floor hard, your knees screaming in pain. Splinters bite into your skin. You don’t dare cry out. You barely even breathe.

Above you, the sky spins, grey smoke curling toward stars you can’t see. The world rocks beneath you, and you realize—it’s not the world. It’s the ship. Already shifting with the tide. Already carrying you away.

Around you, pirates bark orders and haul crates onto the deck—crates stolen from your neighbors, filled with food, tools, jewelry, even children’s toys. One man laughs as he holds up a silver mirror, admiring his reflection before tossing it into a barrel.

You're pulled up again, this time into a crooked line of prisoners along the center of the deck. There’s no speaking, only the sound of footsteps, chains, the creak of wood, and the occasional whimper.

They begin to inspect you.

One man lifts your chin with the tip of a dagger, muttering something under his breath. Another tugs at someone’s hair, checking the roots. Teeth are examined. Wrists. Eyes. Bodies.

They sort through you like fruit at a market—testing, prodding, calculating. You can feel it. They’re not just looking for strength or beauty. They’re searching for something else. Value. Use.

You stand still. Your heart pounds so hard it threatens to break your ribs. You want to disappear, to wake up, to run—but the sea waits, endless and black, and the ship holds you like a mouth that has already begun to chew.

You close your eyes. Not because you want to shut out the chaos—though God knows, you do—but because your mind is screaming for stillness. Just for a breath. Just for a heartbeat.

You whisper a prayer, though you’re not sure to whom. Maybe to the sea. Maybe to whatever god is cruel enough to let this happen but kind enough to let you survive it. Your fingers tremble against the rope binding your wrists. Your knees ache from where you fell. And yet, somehow, your thoughts race louder than the screams around you. If I run now, they’ll cut me down. If I jump…

Your eyes flick toward the edge of the ship. The water churns below—black and vast, stretching to the ends of the world. Could you make it? With your hands bound, your legs weak, your lungs tight with fear… could you hold your breath long enough to disappear? To sink before they find you?

But the thought dies as a sharp splash cuts through the night air. Then another. And another. You turn—just in time to see one of the prisoners, a man, hurled over the side of the ship. His scream is strangled mid-air, swallowed by the sea before it can even echo. A woman follows next, her arms tight at her sides, hands tied. She doesn’t scream. She just closes her eyes before the dark water claims her. One after the other, they are tossed like useless cargo, vanishing into the depths without so much as a second glance from their captors.

You feel bile rise in your throat as the brutal reality settles in. It’s barbaric. Inhuman. The kind of cruelty you thought only existed in stories meant to frighten children by firelight. And yet here it is—blood-warm and breathing all around you. But more terrifying than the ones discarded… are the ones they decide to keep.

When it’s over, there are only six of you left.

A pirate walks by, dragging a thick chain that clinks with every step, the sound sharp and final. His face is half-covered in tattoos, his beard tied with clacking beads. He grunts something to another, jerking his head toward your group. You can’t understand the language, but you understand the tone. A moment later, another voice—rough and accented, but in your own tongue—confirms what you already fear. “They’ll go below. Chain them up. We’ll clean them for market when the time comes.”

Market.

The word alone is enough to hollow you out. Your stomach turns to ice. Around you, the others begin to break. One girl collapses in on herself, sobbing. A boy pleads through tears, offering to work, to fight, to do anything if they just let him go. No one listens. No one even looks at him.

You’re pushed forward, toward the ship’s lower deck. The steps are narrow and slick, and the deeper you go, the heavier the air becomes. It smells of rust, damp wood, and despair. And then you see them—cages. Real ones. Iron bars, bolted to the ship’s floor, some already occupied, most waiting.

One by one, you’re shoved inside.

Your cage is barely large enough to sit, let alone stand. Your wrists are still bound, your breathing shallow. The door slams shut behind you with a metallic finality that leaves you hollow.

Above, the ship groans as it begins to move, drifting from the dock, slipping into the sea’s current. Through a gap in the wooden planks, you press your face to the hull, heart pounding. In the distance, you can still see it—your home. Smoke billows into the sky like a mourning shroud. The crooked roof of your cottage. The outline of the garden. The soft hills that once cradled your world.

And then, slowly, it all begins to disappear.

The village gets smaller and smaller, until it is just a smudge of memory swallowed by the dark horizon. You watch it vanish, ash on the wind.

Days blur into one another down there, in the bowels of the ship. You lose count after the third. Time has no meaning beneath the waves. There's only the creaking of the wood, the groans of metal against the tide, the faraway thunder of footsteps above, and the occasional screech of gulls reminding you that the world still exists outside these walls.

You’re fed once, maybe twice a day—stale, sour bread so hard you have to soak it in your own spit just to chew. Sometimes a sliver of dried meat. Often, nothing at all. You’re thirsty more than you’re hungry. Your throat stays dry, your lips cracked. No sunlight touches your skin. The air smells like wet rot and rusting chains. Your hands have started to blister from the ropes that remain around your wrists, and your ankles ache from crouching in the cage that never lets you stand fully upright.

You dream of warmth. Of your father’s voice. Of earth under your fingernails. But even dreams begin to fade when hope starts to die.

Then one morning—if it even is morning—two pirates descend into the dark.

They don’t speak. Just unlock your cage with a screech of iron and grab you by the arms. You barely resist. There’s no point. You’re too weak, too cold, too tired. You’re dragged up the stairs, feet slipping, knees scraping along the worn wood. The sudden brightness stabs into your eyes like daggers. You squint, hiss, nearly cry out as the sunlight pours down on you, unfiltered and blinding.

It takes a long time to adjust.

You feel like a creature pulled from the underworld. Everything is too loud. Too bright. The sea, impossibly vast and blue, stretches in every direction. The sun blazes overhead, gold and cruel. The ship rocks gently beneath you, no land in sight. Just waves. Endless, glimmering waves.

Then something heavy lands at your feet. A bucket. A dirty rag.

One of the pirates kicks the bucket toward you and snarls, “Clean.”

You don’t argue. You don’t even speak. You drop to your knees and dip the cloth into the bucket. The water is lukewarm, tinged with blood and salt. You press it to the deck and begin to scrub.

The rope on your wrists remains tight. Every motion burns. But you keep cleaning.

Around you, the pirates pay you little attention. They drink from metal flasks, loud and rowdy, their laughter sharp and ugly. Some sharpen their blades, dragging whetstones along the curved steel with a sound that turns your stomach. Others throw bones or coins, their games loud, aggressive. The air reeks of sweat, gunpowder, and rum.

You keep your head down. You don’t want to be noticed.

But then—something shifts. The air itself seems to pause. Laughter dims. A hush ripples across the deck like the first breath before a storm.

You feel it before you see him. Boots—black, worn, marked with symbols you don’t understand—step into view. Slow, steady, deliberate. You look up.

And there he is.

Eddie Munson. The Blue Terror. The Ghost of the Tides. Devil of the Azure Wake.

His reputation came long before his face. You’d heard whispers in the market, drunken warnings from sailors leaning too far over barrels of ale. They said his ship hunted without mercy. That he painted his sails with the blood of those who defied him. That his smile came only after screams. And when the wind carried his name, it did so in fear.

But no one ever said he looked like this.

Sunlight catches in the wild halo of his dark curls, tied back loosely with a blood-red bandana. Silver rings gleam on his fingers, worn over calloused hands that rest casually on the hilt of a curved cutlass. Beads and bone trinkets hang from his ear, some braided into his hair. His coat is deep navy, nearly black, lined with faded embroidery and burn marks. It flares behind him like wings, swaying with each step. Around his neck, a chain clinks gently, fastened to a stone medallion the color of a storm cloud.

And his eyes.

Dark, endless, unreadable. They scan the deck like a predator. Slow. Unhurried. Unbothered. When they land on you, your breath catches in your throat. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.

But you feel it in your spine—the sense of being seen, not just as a prisoner, not just as another unfortunate soul caught in a net… but as something else. Something worth pausing for.

Your hands tremble. You don’t know if you should bow your head or meet his gaze. You don’t know if this is salvation or the edge of the blade.

By the time the sun begins its slow descent into the sea, your body is beyond exhausted. Every muscle aches, your skin burns where the chains have rubbed raw, and your knees are numb from hours spent crawling, scrubbing, lifting. They bark orders, and you obey. Not because you’re obedient—but because you’re desperate. You’ll clean bloodstains off the planks, haul damp crates from one end of the deck to the other, carry firewood under your arms until splinters bloom across your palms—anything, anything, to avoid being dragged back into that cage again.

You're too afraid to hope. But still, somewhere deep in your chest, buried beneath the filth and fatigue, a tiny ember flickers.

Just before twilight, you’re led below deck—past the cannons, through the narrow corridors that creak and groan with every shift of the ship—and finally brought into a room that smells of onions, smoke, and old salt. The kitchen, you assume. Or what passes for one on this floating prison.

A woman stands at the far end, hunched over a wooden table where she’s chopping vegetables with a dull iron blade. Her sleeves are rolled up, her greying hair tied back with a piece of old cloth, and her face is lined with years of sun, salt, and sorrow. She doesn’t look up at first. Just gestures vaguely with her knife. “Water’s in the bucket. Start with those,” she says, nodding toward a crate of limp carrots and root vegetables.

You approach slowly, uncertain, and kneel beside the crate. The water in the bucket is cloudy but cool. You begin scrubbing the dirt off the carrots, your fingers working automatically even as your mind races. The woman says nothing for a long while, the only sounds in the room the rhythmic thud of her knife and the distant cries of gulls outside the porthole.

After a while, her voice cuts through the quiet, soft but pointed. “You lasted longer than most. Most break by midday.”

You glance up, unsure if she’s mocking you, but her eyes remain fixed on her task. You swallow, your voice rasped and dry. “Where are we going?” The question comes out barely above a whisper.

She hesitates. Just a beat. Then resumes chopping. “Nowhere you’d want to be.”

A pause. You wash another carrot, your hands moving slower now. “What will they do with us?”

The woman’s blade stills.

She leans slightly closer, her voice dropping into a whisper so low you can barely hear it over the creak of the ship. “Depends. If you’re lucky, you stay here. Work in the kitchens, clean the captain’s boots, empty the piss pots. The ones who survive and keep their heads down—sometimes they get to stay.”

“And if you’re not lucky?”

Her eyes flick toward you then—quick and sharp, like a knife slipping between ribs. “Then you’re sold. Shipped off at the next black market. Or worse.” Her voice softens again, but this time it’s not pity you hear. It’s memory. “I came aboard this ship seventeen years ago. My husband and two sons were killed when we were taken. I was given to the crew as entertainment.” Her hands keep moving, but her gaze is somewhere far away. “I survived by becoming useful. Quiet. Invisible.”

You don’t speak. There’s a sour taste in your mouth that has nothing to do with hunger.

She sets the knife down and moves toward a shelf, gathering ingredients into a wooden tray—bread, a wedge of cheese, a small roasted bird, and something that smells like honey and spice. It’s more food than you’ve seen in days. Her movements are methodical, practiced. She balances the tray carefully, then turns and looks directly at you.

“You’re taking this to the captain’s quarters.”

You blink. “Me?”

The tray is heavy in her hands. She thrusts it toward you. “Yes. You. Don’t drop anything. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look where you shouldn’t.”

Your heartbeat thunders. “Why me?”

She tilts her head. “Because you’re not broken yet. And because someone noticed.”

That sends a jolt through your chest—but before you can ask what she means, she’s already turning away. “Clean yourself first,” she adds over her shoulder, pointing toward a wooden basin and a frayed sponge on the shelf. “Captain doesn’t want to smell the lower decks.”

You step toward the basin slowly. The water is cold, sharp against your skin, but you wash anyway. Your hands, your face, the dirt smudged along your neck and collarbone. You scrub until your skin is pink, until the salt and filth are peeled away and you almost feel human again.

Almost.

You return to the tray, fingers trembling as you slide your hands beneath it and lift. It’s heavier than it looks. The scent of warm bread and meat rises around you like a cruel joke.

The woman opens the door and nods toward the hallway. “Straight ahead. Last door on the left.”

You stand in front of the heavy wooden door, the tray trembling slightly in your hands. The hallway behind you is quiet, the air thick with heat and salt and the weight of what you’re about to do. You hesitate for a breath, then lift one hand and knock—twice, firm and deliberate.

A muffled voice answers from within. “Come in.”

You push the door open with your shoulder and step inside, the scent of cedar, rum, and old smoke washing over you instantly. The room is dimly lit by a series of lanterns swinging gently from the ceiling beams. The wooden floor is smooth but scuffed from years of boots and battle. The walls are lined with iron hooks, some bearing weapons—curved cutlasses, rusted pistols, a strange-looking crossbow. A dark blue coat with gold buttons hangs from the back of a high-backed leather chair.

And at the center of it all is a massive desk, carved from black oak and scarred by time and flame. Papers and maps are spread across it like a fan of secrets. And there he is.

Captain Eddie Munson.

He stands over the desk with one hand braced against the map and the other toying with a small, wickedly curved dagger. His curls are loose now, framing his face in wild shadows, and a single silver ring glints as it catches the lantern light. His brow is furrowed, his focus unshakable, the tension in his jaw sharp as steel. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

You move silently, every footstep calculated, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. You place the tray on a smaller side table beside the desk without a sound. Your eyes never leave the floor. You can feel your own heartbeat—loud, shaky, insistent. And your stomach lets out a low, humiliating growl.

You flinch. He doesn’t seem to notice.

You take a step back, ready to turn and leave as quietly as you came, when his voice slices through the stillness.

“Hey. You.”

You freeze.

“Come here.”

You hesitate, every warning from the kitchen woman screaming in your ears. Keep your head down. Don’t speak. Don’t get involved. But your body obeys before your brain does. You step closer, slowly, until you're standing at the edge of the desk.

He finally looks up.

His eyes are darker than the ocean outside. Piercing. Curious. Calculating. But not cruel.

He taps the edge of the map. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel soaked in wine. “If we cut across this current, we save two days. But the waters are... tricky.”

You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. Is he asking you?

You open your mouth, then close it. You glance at the map, then at him. “I... I’m not sure I should say.”

One dark brow lifts slightly. “And yet, here you are. Looking.”

You swallow. Your heart is galloping. “If you go that way,” you say quietly, carefully, “you might save time, but the wind shifts in that region often. You could be stranded. Or worse. I think you should stay along the outer path. It’ll take longer... but you’ll arrive intact.”

Silence falls between you. You curse yourself internally. You were supposed to be invisible. Quiet. And instead, here you are, giving tactical advice to the most feared pirate on the sea.

But then—he smiles.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But it softens his face in a way that’s almost disarming.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “Most of my crew can’t even read a map.”

You drop your gaze again, your stomach churning with dread and something else—something warmer, sharper, dangerously close to intrigue.

“Are you hungry?” he asks suddenly.

You shake your head. “No, Captain.”

He leans back in his chair, grabs a goblet of deep red wine, and gestures to the tray. “Sit. Eat.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Captain, I—”

“That’s an order.”

There’s no bite to his tone. No cruelty. But it’s firm.

You nod, slowly lowering yourself into the smaller chair across from him. Your fingers tremble as you tear a piece of bread and bring it to your lips. The warmth of it feels unreal. After days of stale crumbs, it tastes like salvation.

Eddie watches you. Not like a hunter. More like a scholar. He takes a sip from his cup, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate, then offer it—softly, like a secret you’re afraid to let go of.

He nods. Repeats it once, like tasting the sound of it. “And when did you come aboard my ship?”

You glance down. “A few days ago. From the last village.”

“Ah.” His fingers trace the stem of his goblet. “That was a good haul. Shame about the fire.”

You say nothing. You’re not sure you can speak.

He gestures toward the map again. “Ever sailed before?”

You shake your head. “No, Captain.”

“But you read the stars? The wind?”

You look at him, cautious. “I read books. My father taught me. I listened. I remembered things.”

Eddie hums, thoughtful, as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You might be useful,” he says softly, but not to himself.

To you.

And you don’t know if that’s a promise, or a threat.

It’s been two weeks since your cage opened and the sea became your ceiling.

Two weeks since the floor stopped rocking under your knees and started rocking under your feet instead. Two weeks since Captain Eddie Munson—Blue Terror, Ghost of the Tides, the name whispered like a curse along every broken shoreline—called you into his chambers and didn’t send you back.

Since then, you’ve spent most of your days—and too many of your nights—within those walls. Studying maps. Reading stars. Learning currents, wind patterns, routes carved by blood and time. You trace inked lines with trembling fingers while he leans over your shoulder, smelling of salt and steel and something darker you can’t name.

He gives you space, but not distance. Kindness, but not trust.

Still, you’ve earned something.

A room of your own.

Small, windowless, tucked deep beneath the captain’s quarters, but it’s clean. The straw-stuffed mattress doesn’t smell like mold. The bucket isn’t shared. And the door doesn’t lock from the outside. It’s not freedom. But it’s a kind of illusion—and for now, that’s enough.

You’re not a prisoner. Not exactly. But you’re not one of them either.

And they know it.

The crew watches you like a splinter under their skin—always there, always itching. You catch it in their eyes when you pass. In the way conversations stop when you walk by. The way they mutter under their breath, clench their knives tighter, throw buckets harder than necessary when they hand them to you. You're protected. Untouchable, even. But you're not welcome.

To them, you’re the captain’s pet. A soft thing with soft hands, whispering advice over maps while they bleed and sweat for the same man.

You don’t defend yourself. Let them think you’ve surrendered. Let them believe you’re playing house in the captain’s quarters like some tamed animal. Let them underestimate you. It’s easier that way.

Because you’re not here to belong.

You’re here to remember.

You think about your village often. At night, especially—when the lanterns go out and the ship groans with sleep. Nightmares. You see the smoke curling above the rooftops. The gardens trampled. The old man who taught you to read the stars crushed under rubble. You see your father’s hands, calloused and trembling as he tried to fight for you. And you feel it all again, fresh and raw.

Eddie Munson sends you clothes now. Silks, leathers, sometimes stained in places he pretends not to notice. He leaves them folded at your door with a strange sort of reverence. Necklaces too—pearls, rubies, emeralds—and you wonder whose throats they were ripped from. You wear them when you must. Smile when he studies you with those unreadable eyes. Say thank you.

But you don’t forget.

You never forget.

Because these aren’t gifts. They’re evidence. Spoils. Everything around you was stolen—from someone, somewhere. Every ring on your fingers, every thread on your back, bought with someone else’s blood.

Still, you play the part. You study the man behind the mask. You watch the way he speaks to his crew—half warning, half performance. You count the number of times he lets his mask slip around you. The way he softens when he laughs. The way he says your name like it belongs in his mouth. The way he listens when you speak, really listens. As if you have something to say that matters.

You wonder if it’s an act.

You wonder if his kindness is a kind of rope, braided with patience and silk, just waiting to tighten.

But part of you wants to believe—no, needs to believe—that there’s more to him than the stories. Because how can a man so feared, so monstrous, look at you like he’s trying to understand you? Like he’s waiting for you to tell him who you really are?

The ship moans softly as it nears the dock, its massive hull slicing through the morning mist like a blade. You’ve grown so used to the rocking of the waves beneath your feet that when the motion begins to settle, your balance stutters—almost as if the world itself has stilled in anticipation.

After dressing, you eat your breakfast in silence, heart pacing with the odd rhythm of something changing. Something ending, or perhaps beginning. The soft roll of bread feels strange in your mouth, the tea too warm for your suddenly dry throat.

You make your way to Eddie’s quarters, feet light against the floorboards. You don’t bother knocking anymore. You just open the door.

He’s already there—standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders relaxed but alert, as though every bone in his body is coiled with knowing. His silhouette is haloed by the thin streaks of morning sun filtering through the dusty glass. He turns his head slightly when you enter, the ghost of a grin curving across his lips.

“Today’s the day,” he says simply.

You blink. “What day?”

Eddie’s smile spreads, slow and knowing. “The day you touch land again. I figured your feet might’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re letting me off the ship?”

He raises an eyebrow. “We all are. There's business to tend to. You didn’t think I’d keep you in this floating coffin forever, did you?”

His tone is casual, teasing—but you’ve learned not to mistake ease for safety when it comes to him.

“Where are we?” you ask, trying to sound curious instead of desperate.

He moves away from the window, stepping over maps and scrolls strewn across the desk. “A small coastal town in Northern England,” he says, casually tossing a leather pouch onto the table with a clink.

You freeze for a moment. So that was it—collections, threats, blood. “Business.”

Eddie notices the shift in your breath, the stiffness in your jaw. And just when you think he’s about to turn away, he lifts something from the chest beside his desk and steps toward you.

You see it glint before it’s fully revealed: a necklace—no, a masterpiece. A heavy silver chain strung with deep green emeralds, blood-red rubies, sapphires dark as the ocean at midnight. Stones cut to catch every flicker of light, glowing with a stolen kind of royalty. It looks like something a queen would die wearing.

Your lips part slightly. “What is that?”

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he moves behind you.

You feel the heat of him first. His body so close, not quite touching—but there, surrounding you. The scent of salt, leather, and something unnameable fills your lungs.

Then his hand brushes your hair aside, slow and deliberate. His fingers graze the back of your neck, calloused and rough, sending a jolt down your spine. He gathers your hair over one shoulder, and you swear his breath ghosts against your skin as he leans in.

Goosebumps rise along your collarbone.

Your heart hammers.

The chain slides against your throat like a cold whisper. His fingers clasp it behind your neck with quiet precision, but they linger—just a second too long. His thumb brushes the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck, a touch light as air, but devastating. And he stays there. Close. His presence heavy against your back, lips nearly grazing the curve of your ear.

“This suits you,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet-wrapped and laced with danger. “Makes you look like you belong to the sea.”

Or to him.

You can’t speak. You’re not sure you’d know how. You feel like your body is betraying you—skin too hot, breath too shallow, heart pounding a rhythm between fear and something darker.

He doesn’t ask for thanks. He just steps away, letting the silence hum between you like a wire pulled tight.

“I sent a new dress to your room,” he adds casually, already turning back toward his desk. “Put it on. We make landfall within the hour.”

You nod, silent, and slip out of the room with the weight of the necklace pressing against your throat like a promise you didn’t agree to.

You return to your quarters with your heart caught in your throat, the weight of that jeweled necklace pressing against your collarbone like a silent anchor. As you open the creaking door, the scent of citrus and smoke still lingers faintly—someone has been here recently.

Your eyes fall instantly on the bed.

Laid out with reverence atop the rumpled blankets is a dress unlike anything you've ever seen.

It's made of midnight-blue velvet, so deep and dark it shimmers like still water under moonlight. The sleeves are long and slit open at the shoulders, revealing skin in sharp, elegant lines. Silver embroidery dances across the bodice like waves catching starlight, delicate vines swirling toward a corseted waist cinched with fine, silken threads. The skirt flows in layers, pooling like ink around your feet when you lift it. At the hem, tiny sapphire-like beads catch the light—tiny constellations stitched into fabric.

You don’t know how he expects you to wear this and blend in.

But then again, maybe he doesn’t.

As you begin to undress, your thoughts race with one single word, loud and pulsing: Escape.

If the ship is docked… if you're on land… maybe, just maybe, this is your chance.

You run through the options in your head like a frantic calculation. If you step away—just for a moment—could you lose yourself in the crowd? Slip between shadows? How long before they realize you’re missing? Ten minutes? Five?

Could you find a weapon before then? Maybe something small, something forgotten—like a knife left on a kitchen table. You’ve been in the galley enough times. You know where the drawers are. But would they notice? Would he?

And even if you made it away—what then?

You don’t speak the local. You don’t know this country’s laws or its streets. And you have nothing but stolen jewels hanging from your neck. Everyone knows pirate plunder. No merchant in their right mind would buy it. They’d report you. Maybe even collect a bounty.

You swallow thickly, pushing those thoughts down like bile, trying to calm your trembling hands as you pull the dress over your body. The velvet clings in all the wrong ways—too soft, too exposed, too not you. But you lace it tight. Stand tall. If you’re going to run, you need to look like you belong.

There’s a knock at the door. You turn sharply, startled, heart skipping. Then you hear it. His voice.

“Ready?”

You open the door. And there he is.

Captain Eddie Munson—Blue Terror—in full form. But this time, he’s not the shadow leaning over a map. He’s not the voice in the dark, or the hand on your neck. He’s myth, legend, and man all at once.

His dark hair falls in wild waves past his shoulders, some strands intricately braided with thin chains and beads that glint like sea glass. A black bandana is tied tightly across his forehead, and atop it, a weather-worn leather tricorn hat casts a rakish shadow across his features. One eye—the good one—is lined with kohl, intense and unreadable. The other is hidden behind a black eye patch, making him look even more dangerous. More untouchable.

He wears a white silk shirt, so bright it almost glows, the first few buttons undone to reveal a constellation of old scars across his chest—faded and brutal. Around his neck, silver chains and sharp-toothed pendants jingle softly when he moves. His black leather trousers are tight, slung low on his hips, and his boots are worn, but polished. Every step he takes is like thunder wrapped in silk.

And the rings—God, the rings—they flash when his fingers move. One bears a serpent. One, a skull. One, a sapphire as deep as his gaze.

He looks you up and down slowly, appraising, not like a man studying a prisoner… but like a king admiring his most precious weapon.

“You wear it well,” he says, voice dipped in smoke. “Let’s make them stare.”

The dock is alive with noise—ropes tightening, sails flapping, wood creaking, seagulls screaming. The moment your booted foot touches the ground, you feel it—stillness. No more rocking beneath your legs. Just solid, unmoving earth.

You almost stumble from the sudden change.

Eddie chuckles beside you. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes scan the crowd. Merchants. Townsfolk. Sailors. Guards. You catalogue faces. Alleyways. Escape routes. Possibilities. Could you disappear here?

He leads you through streets and shadowed alleys until you reach a weathered inn. Its sign creaks above the doorway, half-hanging by rusted chains. Music filters through the wooden walls—lively, off-key, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of boots against floorboards and the clink of mugs.

But the moment Eddie opens the door and steps inside with you at his side, everything stops.

The music falters.

Conversations die mid-sentence.

Every head turns toward you.

And then the whispers start.

“Blue Terror…”

“Munson.”

“Gods be good—it’s him.”

Eddie smiles like he owns the silence. Like it bends for him.

And maybe it does.

He places a hand lightly on the small of your back and leans in, voice low against your ear.

“Welcome to Crowhaven.”

As you step further into the inn, the initial hush begins to fade, replaced once again by the warm swell of life. Wooden mugs clink against battered tables, laughter erupts in pockets, and the music—faster now, wilder—spills from the corner where a ragged group of musicians plays a furious tune.

It’s something rooted in old lands and older hearts—fiddles slicing sharp through the smoke-thick air, bodhráns pounding like war drums beneath them, a wooden flute dancing somewhere high above it all. Irish, you think. The rhythm of fire and footfall. Of sea spray and spilled ale.

You feel eyes still trailing after you, some curious, some lecherous, some wary—but you’re not sure if they follow you or the man beside you.

Captain Eddie Munson draws every gaze.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He walks like a man who owns the floor, the air, the tension between each heartbeat.

He returns to your side with two mugs, frothy and thick. The scent of licorice and dark herbs rises from the surface—licorice beer. You take it with both hands, unsure whether to sip or throw it back like medicine. Eddie watches you over the rim of his own cup, smiling slightly, as if amused by your hesitation.

“Strong,” he warns.

“Everything with you is,” you mutter under your breath.

He laughs softly. Then, without a word, he reaches out and takes your hand.

You startle.

“What are you—”

He jerks his chin toward the center of the room where the space between tables has become an impromptu dancefloor. “Come on.”

“No—I don’t—I don’t know how to dance.”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “Just listen.”

And then he pulls you in.

You're suddenly among the swirl of bodies, of boots stomping and skirts spinning. The music coils around you, fast and urgent, and for a second, you can’t breathe.

Eddie’s hand slips around your waist, firm and unapologetic. His other hand wraps around your fingers, grounding you.

“Feel the rhythm,” he says, his lips close to your ear. “Let it drown out everything else.”

You want to protest, but your feet are already moving—awkward, hesitant steps that somehow fall into sync with his. He guides you with ease, like he’s done this a thousand times. His fingers press into your waist, not harsh, but commanding, pulling you closer as the music rises.

He spins you.

The room blurs.

You stumble, laugh, catch yourself on his chest—and he catches you like it’s nothing.

“See?” he grins. “Told you.”

You shake your head, breathless. “I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re dancing,” he says simply. “That’s all that matters.”

Then his arm tightens. You’re lifted—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing. For a moment you’re in the air, skirt billowing, hair loose and flying, your heartbeat louder than the music itself. He lowers you gently, but with a wild grin and a glint in his eye that makes your skin tingle.

He twirls you again, twice this time, until your body forgets to resist. And suddenly you're laughing—actually laughing—not because anything is funny, but because your body is alive. Because for the first time in weeks, you aren’t just surviving.

Eddie watches you with something close to awe. His good eye sharp, burning, like he’s trying to memorize your joy. And when the music slows just slightly, he draws you in—closer than before. You feel his breath against your cheek. You feel every inch of him, the warmth of his chest, the coarse fabric of his shirt, the chain around his neck brushing against your collarbone.

You don’t dare look up.

Because you’re not sure what you’ll do if you see him looking back.

But you feel it—the shift. Something between you flickering in the candlelight. No longer prisoner and captor. No longer pirate and pawn.

Everything else melts away the moment your eyes meet his. The music, the noise, the flickering candlelight, even the trembling of your own body—all of it dissolves, slipping into the background like a dying echo. There’s only him now. The way he looks at you like you’re the only soul in this damned place that still has a heartbeat. His gaze pins you in place, sharp and raw and hungry, like a flame curling around paper, waiting for permission to burn.

Your chest rises in shallow, unsure breaths, your pulse pounding in your ears so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You’re afraid—and not of him, not really—but of what’s about to happen. Of how badly you want it to.

He leans in slowly, like a wave drawing back before it crashes. His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, rough fingertips ghosting over your skin with a reverence that contradicts the chaos of who he is. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and your breath hitches—then, without a word, his mouth meets yours.

It starts gentle, almost careful, as if he’s afraid you’ll break. But then your lips part—whether from instinct or desperation, you don’t know—and that’s all it takes. His hand grips the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him, and suddenly the kiss turns molten. Urgent. Starved. His lips move against yours like they’re trying to memorize the shape of your breath, the taste of your name, the sound of your soul cracking open. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’s ever felt like air.

Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt as he presses closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, the warmth of his body searing through the layers between you. His other hand curls around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a growl so low and raw you feel it in your spine. There’s nothing delicate left in it now—only teeth and tongues and the heat of something too big, too wild to control.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, biting down gently on your lower lip before soothing it with the slow drag of his mouth. The sensation shoots straight through you, every nerve ending awake and electric. His kisses are not just passionate—they're devastating, filled with something darker, something that feels like possession and longing and fury tangled into one.

And when he pulls back, just for a breath, his forehead rests against yours, and you realize your legs are shaking. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to anchor you there, keep you from floating away.

“You taste like fire,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse and almost reverent.

And then he kisses you again—harder this time. Hungrier.

Like he doesn’t care who’s watching.

Like he’s waited a lifetime for this.

Like he’ll burn the whole world down if you ever pull away.

He pulls back just long enough to whisper against your lips, “Come with me.”

You stumble into the inn room, your bodies tangled together as they make their way towards the bed. Eddie doesn't bother to stop kissing you even as he strips off his shirt and tosses it aside. His fingers deftly work open your buttons, revealing skin that's already flushed from desire.

As you fall onto the mattress, Eddie rolls you over so he can pin you beneath him. His hips grind against yours in a slow circle, building pressure and tension until you feel like you're going to combust from need.

"You're so beautiful when you're angry," he growls into your ear before nipping at your lobe with his teeth.

Eddie's fingers dig into your skin as he kisses his way down your back, leaving a trail of gentle bites and nips in wake. He starts at the base of your neck, working his way down to the curve of your spine, where he pauses to drop tiny kisses on either side of the vertebrae.

As he reaches the small of your back, his hands slide around to cup your buttocks, squeezing gently before releasing. He gives them a few soft slaps, making you jump with surprise.

He then wraps his arms around you waist and pulls you close, dipping low enough that you feel like you're being pulled over him rather than up against him. As you settle into this position, Eddie drops to one knee behind you and begins to kiss along the crease where thigh meets buttock.

The sensation is almost too much for you can't help but feel overwhelmed by the intensity of Eddie's touch. You're acutely aware of every movement he makes - every brush of lips against skin or stroke of hand through hair - and it leaves you feeling breathless and wanting more.

Eddie continues to kiss and nuzzle his way along your backside, his fingers digging gently into the flesh as he explores every inch of you. You can feel him trembling with desire, his body straining against yours in a way that makes you feel like you're being consumed by him.

As he reaches the base of your spine once more, Eddie pauses for a moment before dipping low enough to claim your ass with his mouth. The sensation is electric - it's like nothing you've ever experienced before - and it leaves you feeling helpless but for one thing: wanting more.

As Eddie's tongue dips into the crease of your buttocks, you can't help but feel a shiver run down your spine. He's teasing you, drawing out the anticipation before finally giving in to his desires. You feel his warm breath on your skin as he pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation of being so close to you.

Then, without warning, he dives in with gusto. His tongue is like a flame that sets fire to every nerve ending it touches. It's slow and deliberate at first, tracing the curves of your ass and then dipping lower to explore the tender flesh between your folds. You can feel him licking up every drop of moisture that gathers there, his tongue darting back and forth with an intensity that leaves you gasping for air.

As he continues to eat at you like a starving man at a feast, you start to bend forward slightly, trying to give him better access. Your body is responding instinctively now - it knows exactly what Eddie wants from it - and before long you're practically folded in half over his head.

Eddie takes full advantage of this new position, his tongue and lips working in tandem to drive you wild. He's eating at you like a man possessed, his movements rough and primal as he tries to consume every last drop of your desire. You can feel him trembling with need, his body straining against yours as he tries to get closer.

As the sensations build inside you, you start to feel like you're going to explode from the sheer intensity of it all. Eddie's mouth is everywhere - on your ass, between your cheeks, even dipping down into the crease where thigh meets buttock, on your pussy, in your pussy - and yet somehow it still feels like there's more than just this one spot that needs attention.

You try to push back against him, trying to give him better access or maybe just trying to slow things down a little bit. But Eddie won't be deterred - he's too far gone now for anything but pure unadulterated pleasure. He keeps licking and sucking at you until finally - oh so sweetly - he gives in and lets out a low groan of satisfaction.

Eddie's hands wrap around your waist, pulling you back onto the bed, rolls you over as he climbs on top of you. He claims your neck with a firm bite, his teeth sinking deep into the tender skin before releasing with a soft pop.

As he lowers himself down, his eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. His fingers brush against the delicate chain around your neck, and for a moment it seems like he's going to rip it off again. But instead, he simply wraps his hand around it once more and gives it a gentle tug before moving lower.

His fingers dance across the fabric of his pants, slowly undoing the belt and revealing inches of thick, veined cock beneath. The sight is almost too much to take in - Eddie's body is honed from years of hard work and dedication to fitness, but there's something primal about this moment that makes you feel like you're staring at something truly wild.

He doesn't bother with finesse or subtlety as he pulls out his cock and holds it up like a trophy. It's long and thick and pulsing with desire, and for a moment you can't help but feel like you're staring at something truly magnificent.

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he moves back up the bed, his cock bobbing gently in the air. He dips down to claim your breasts, his mouth closing around them with a soft suction that makes you shiver.

He teases out each nipple in turn, rolling them between his fingers before pinching them hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue darts out to lick away any tears or whimpers that might escape your lips, leaving behind a trail of saliva and need.

As he continues to feast on your breasts, Eddie's hands move lower still. He cups your belly button with one hand while using the other to massage your thighs. The sensation is almost too much - it's like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold winter night.

He just keeps going down.

Eddie's tongue darts in and out of your pussy like a snake slithering through the grass, leaving a trail of wetness and desire in its wake. He sucks gently at first, his mouth closing around your folds like a warm hug on a cold day. But as he continues to feast on your sweetness, his suction grows stronger, pulling harder and harder until you can feel herself getting closer and closer to the edge.

His fingers join the party soon after, slipping inside you with ease as if they've been there before. They dance against the walls of your channel, rubbing against that sensitive spot deep within that makes your shiver with pleasure. The pressure builds and builds until you're sure you'll burst apart at any moment.

But Eddie isn't done yet. Oh no, he's just getting started. He runs his tongue around your clit in slow circles, each pass sending shockwaves through your body like an electric current coursing through wires. "You taste so good I needed to taste you again" becomes "I'm going to eat your pussy all day long" as he laps at you with reckless abandon.

He's a master of the tongue, using every trick in the book to drive you wild. He flicks it against your G-spot, then darts it back and forth across your clit like a madman. The sounds you make are music to his ears - moans, gasps, and pleas for more all blend together into a symphony of desire.

As he continues to ravage your pussy with his mouth and fingers, Eddie can feel himself getting harder by the second. His cock is throbbing with need now, begging him to take things further. But for now, he's content to just keep eating away at this sweet little treat until you come screaming his name…

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he positions himself between your legs, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He takes a moment to tease you, rubbing the head of his dick against your pussy lips before finally sinking inside. The sound that escapes yours is music to his ears - a low moan of pleasure and need.

He begins to move slowly at first, each stroke deliberate and calculated to drive you wild. His hips flex and twist as he pounds into you, the friction building until you're gasping for air. Eddie can feel himself getting lost in the sensation, his own pleasure growing with every passing second.

As they settle into a rhythm, Eddie starts to pick up speed. His strokes become harder and faster, sending waves of ecstasy crashing through their bodies like tsunamis on shore. You wrap herself around him like a vice, holding him close as he buries himself deep within you again and again.

The room around them fades away - all that exists is this primal connection between two people consumed by desire. Sweat drips from your faces as you writhe together on the bed, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Eddie can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his orgasm building like a storm on the horizon.

Eddie's powerful strokes drive deeper into you, his cock a piston pumping in and out of your pussy with reckless abandon. Your legs wrap around him like a vice again, holding him close as he buries himself to the hilt within you. The sound of your bodies slapping together is like thunder on a summer day, growing louder and more intense with every passing moment.

Eddie's hips flex and twist, his body undulating like a snake as he pounds into you. His balls slap against your hips with each stroke, the sensation sending shivers down his spine.

And then it hits - a wave of pleasure so intense it threatens to consume him whole. His vision blurs and his senses fade away as he comes hard inside you. The feeling is almost too much to bear - it's like being electrocuted by pure bliss.

He holds still for an instant, savoring the sensation before slowly withdrawing from your warm embrace. As he pulls free from between your legs, a stream of cum erupts from the tip of his cock, shooting high into the air like a fountain. It lands with a soft splat on your belly, leaving behind a trail of creamy white goodness.

Eddie's eyes never leave yours as he gazes down at you, his chest heaving with exertion. He can feel himself getting softer by the second, but his gaze remains locked on yours - it's like they're connected by some unseen force. For an instant, time stands still as they simply look at each other…

It doesn't take long for Eddie to fall asleep, his arms wrapped around your waist, his warm breath on the back of your neck. He's probably at his most vulnerable right now, and so are you. You have one chance to seize this opportunity, maybe you can take the dagger from his pants pocket on the floor and plunge it right through his heart, or you can quietly slip out of this room and disappear as quickly as possible, before he wakes up.

And maybe you'll just stay there, in his arms.

Will you make your own destiny, or will you stay where fate has brought you? dividers: @/thecutestgrotto

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Joseph Quinn for Port Magazine.

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my edit archive

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Joseph Quinn at Stranger Things SAG Event.

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022 Part 2

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Joseph Quinn at Newport Beach Film Festival 2022. Part 1.

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Joseph Quinn, Catherine the Great Screening 2019.

Part 3

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Joseph Quinn, Catherine the Great Screening 2019. Part 2

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Joseph Quinn, Catherine the Great Screening 2019. Part 1.