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The night was calm, one of those lazy evenings where the world outside didn’t seem to matter. Eddie’s trailer smelled faintly of coffee and turpentine — a combination that somehow worked because it was yours.
You sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook propped against your knees, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Eddie sat on the floor in front of you, tuning his guitar. The soft pluck of strings filled the quiet.
He glanced back at you with a crooked grin. “You’re starin’ at me again.”
You smiled faintly, pencil moving across the page. “I’m drawing.”
“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head, curls falling over his face. “Do I get to see this one, or do I have to wait until I’m dead and famous?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’ll tease me.”
Eddie put a hand to his chest. “Sweetheart, I would never.”
You snorted, but you turned the sketchbook toward him anyway.
He blinked — then laughed, bright and surprised. “Holy shit, I’m a pirate.”
You bit your lip, watching his eyes scan over the drawing.
There he was, standing on a ship under a twilight sky, coat billowing, one boot on a barrel, sword at his side. You’d given him a mischievous grin and that same sparkle in his eyes he got whenever he talked about music.
And in the water beside the ship — surrounded by swirls of deep blue and silver — was you. A mermaid, reaching up toward him, your fingertips brushing his.
Eddie’s laughter softened. “This is beautiful.”
You shrugged, shy. “I just thought it fit you.”
“A pirate?” He looked up, grinning. “What, because I’ve got bad manners and questionable hygiene?”
You rolled your eyes. “Because you’re brave. And stubborn. And you always look like you’re ready for an adventure.”
That made him pause. His grin faded into something softer. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “And I made me a mermaid because…” you hesitated, words caught in your throat, “…because you see me when other people don’t.”
Eddie stared at you for a long moment — quiet, searching. Then he set his guitar aside and climbed up beside you on the couch.
“You realize,” he said gently, “that makes this the most romantic thing anyone’s ever drawn of me, right?”
You laughed under your breath. “It’s just a doodle.”
He shook his head. “No way. It’s us. You and me, sweetheart. You saved the pirate.”
You smiled. “And he didn’t even steal anything.”
“Oh, he did,” Eddie said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “He stole a mermaid’s heart.”
You tried to hide your blush, but he was already leaning in, kissing your forehead, his thumb still resting against your jaw like he was afraid you might drift away.
When he pulled back, he whispered, “Can I keep it?”
“The drawing?”
He nodded. “Gonna hang it up in the van. So everyone knows I’m taken by a sea goddess.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You’re impossible.”
He grinned, kissing your cheek. “And you love me for it.”
Not a literal one — no supervillains, no explosions, no alien invasions tearing through the Baxter Building. Just a different kind of chaos. The kind that smelled like formula and baby powder, sounded like soft newborn cries at 3 a.m., and came in the form of a six-pound bundle wrapped in a yellow knit blanket.
You were asleep, finally. Curled on your side in bed, one hand still resting on the empty space where Daisy had been lying before Johnny gently scooped her up.
Now he stood in the nursery, bathed in the low glow of the nightlight. No flames, no spotlight — just him and Daisy. Just quiet.
She was staring up at him, wide-eyed, like she was trying to figure him out.
He was doing the same.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he whispered, rocking her slowly in his arms. “I’m terrified of you.”
She blinked.
“I’ve flown into black holes. Literally. I’ve pissed off Galactus more times than I can count. I’ve saved this world and others. But you? You’re this tiny little person and somehow... you scare me the most.”
He let out a soft, shaky laugh.
“Because I don’t wanna mess this up. You deserve someone who gets it right the first time. Someone who knows what they’re doing. I’m... I’m not that guy. Not yet.”
Daisy made a soft sound, a yawn maybe, or just a newborn noise. Her fingers curled near her face.
He sat down in the rocking chair, slowly, holding her like she was the most fragile thing the universe had ever made. And to him, she was.
“Everyone knows me as the loud one. The hothead. The screw-up.” He looked down at her. “But you… you don’t know that version yet. You just see me. Just your dad.”
His voice broke a little on the last word.
“God, that’s weird to say out loud.”
You were standing in the doorway now, watching — quiet, unseen. You didn’t want to interrupt. Not yet.
“I’m gonna make mistakes, Daisy,” Johnny whispered, forehead resting gently against hers. “I’m gonna forget where I put your socks, and I’m gonna burn pancakes. I’ll probably cry the first time you fall off your bike. But I swear, I’m never gonna stop trying to be better. For you.”
You stepped forward then, not saying anything — just resting your hand on his shoulder.
He didn’t look surprised. Just reached up and placed his hand over yours, like he’d known you were there all along.
“She’s listening,” you said softly.
“She’s judging,” he whispered with a smirk. “Pretty sure she already thinks I’m a dork.”
“She’s right.”
You both laughed quietly — the kind of laugh you only share when everything’s so new and delicate that even sound feels sacred.
Johnny looked down at Daisy again. Her eyes were closed now, her chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths.
He kissed her forehead.
Then yours.
And in that small nursery, with a worn-out rocker and the scent of lavender in the air, Johnny Storm — the Human Torch — finally felt something he’d never truly felt before.
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the castle was alive with music, laughter, and silk-draped nobles dancing beneath glittering chandeliers. but you stood by the open balcony, away from it all, your fingers gripping the stone ledge, eyes scanning the stars as though they might offer an escape.
you didn’t want to be paraded around like a prize. not tonight. not ever.
and you weren’t alone for long.
a quiet figure stepped from the shadows, boots soft against marble. you didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“sir edward,” you said softly.
“princess,” came his reply — low, gravel-edged, and reluctant, as always.
he never said more than he had to. aman of discipline. of duty. but beneath the iron and chainmail, there was something in edward munson that called to you. something wild. caged. like you.
“you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered. “if someone saw you—”
“no one did,” he said, stepping closer. “and you looked like you needed air.”
you looked up at him then, really looked.
he wasn’t like the other knights. no polished armor or preened hair. his dark curls were always a little wild, a scar ran down the edge of his jaw, and his armor bore the signs of actual battle. not ceremony.
he was real. and when he looked at you—it was you he saw, not the crown.
“i’m supposed to dance with lord ashbourne,” you muttered bitterly. “he smells like wine and wants to buy land in my name. my father calls it a match.”
eddie’s jaw clenched.
“then maybe your father should wear the dress and marry him himself.”
you let out a breath of laughter. “that’s the first time you’ve said more than five words to me all month.”
“i’ve been trying not to.”
“hy?”
he met your gaze, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“because i’d rather be whipped than be caught wanting what I can’t have.”
you froze.
he stepped closer, voice quiet but fierce. “you think I don’t feel it? every time you walk past me, smiling like the sun, asking questions no princess ever dares ask her knight? you’ve haunted every moment since the day I first knelt before you. and I can’t—” he stopped himself. swallowed. “i’m not supposed to want you.”
“but you do,” you whispered.
he didn’t answer.
he didn’t have to.
you reached for his hand — gloved and rough — and he let you.
“tell me to go,” you said. “tell me I’m just your duty.”
he didn’t.
instead, he pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice a ragged breath against your skin.
“if I kiss you,” he murmured, “there’s no going back.”
“then don’t stop.”
and he didn’t.
the stars above bore silent witness as steel met silk, and a knight broke every rule to taste the one thing he swore he never would.
it was a sacred place — where your pod returned once every moon cycle, far inland from the briny shores. Here, the waters were still. fresh. blessed. hidden beneath hanging moss and tall reeds.
you were brushing kelp from your hair when the nets fell.
you didn’t hear them coming. the men didn’t shout or stomp — they crept like wolves. the first scream rang out from your sisters, it was too late. you turned in the water and saw flashes of fins, tails — movement. then the awful silence that followed.
they were gone.
you surfaced — too late — and were met with ropes instead of air. rough hands. a boot against your side. you thrashed, your tail flipping wildly as the net dragged you to shore. the sun stung your eyes. the earth felt like fire against your skin.
men jeered. joked. called you “it.” one reached to pull your hair, and you hissed, snapping like a cornered animal.
and then — a voice.
not loud. not cruel. just quiet. almost disbelieving.
“…she’s real.”
the men fell silent as he stepped forward — long black coat, sword at his hip, curls damp from the mist. his name passed between the crew like a warning.
captain eddie munson.
he looked nothing like a monster, yet everything like someone who walked the edge of the world.
he crouched near you, dark eyes curious, not greedy. “you’re one of them,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “a sea-daughter.”
you snarled at him.
but his expression didn’t twist like the others. He didn’t laugh or reach to touch you. instead, his brows pulled together in something strange.
regret.
“she’s scared,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “get her out of the sun. slowly.”
one of the crew scoffed. “we’re really bringin’ her on board, captain? she’s a siren.”
“exactly,” eddie said, turning toward him. “which means she’s worth more alive than dead. and if any of you bastards lay a hand on her, i’ll gut you with a grin.”
they carried you aboard.
you didn’t speak. you didn’t cry. but inside, terror bloomed like poison. the wood of the deck scraped your skin. the sails above you blocked out the sun. you had never felt so far from your ocean, your sisters, your world.
you were lowered into a saltwater barrel below deck — eddie’s idea. “she’ll die without water,” he told them. “she’s not some trinket.”
but even as your tail settled into the small pool and the pain eased… the fear didn’t.
he returned later that night — alone.
no armor. no orders. just a man.
he sat across from your barrel in silence, resting his arms on his knees. “i’ve hunted sea myths my whole life,” he said. “but I never thought I’d catch one.”
you stared at him, cold and silent, hair floating in the water like seaweed. your brown eyes glared through him like he was nothing.
“i don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “but I need to understand you.”
your voice was soft — hoarse, broken. “i will never speak to a thief.”
he blinked, surprised you could talk in his tongue. “then I guess i’ll just keep talking until you do.”
he stayed that night — didn’t speak much after that. just sat, watching you like he was trying to solve a riddle carved into the hull of the world.
you didn’t trust him.
you were still afraid.
but as the days passed, the crew stopped mocking. they stopped coming down at all.
because captain munson didn’t treat you like a prize.
he treated you like a secret he wasn’t ready to share.
the hotel lobby was quiet, polished, and private—the last moment of calm before the storm. y/n adjusted her oversized sunglasses and smoothed a hand over her baby bump. she was glowing in an effortless way—loose curls framing her face, a long flowy black dress that billowed slightly as she walked.
eddie walked beside her, fingers laced with hers. he wore a worn denim jacket over his vintage , beanie over his messy hair, corroded coffin tee, boots scuffed from the tour, his guitar case slung across his back like armor.
they both knew what waited outside. fame wasn’t new to them—but since the pregnancy announcement, the media frenzy had gone into overdrive. everyone wanted a shot of the “rock royal couple” and the bump.
as the glass doors opened, the flash of cameras hit like lightning.
“EDDIE! Y/N!”
“LOOK HERE! Y/N, IS IT A BOY OR GIRL?”
“EDDIE, HOW DOES FATHERHOOD FEEL?”
“IS IT TRUE YOU’RE BOTH PERFORMING AT THE GRAMMYS?”
and then—sharp, pointed:
“y/n, how’s the pregnancy going? any complications?”
y/n instinctively stepped closer to eddie. he stopped walking.
a few security guards tensed.
eddie’s jaw flexed as he looked directly at the photographer who asked it. “hey,” he said, voice calm but with that dangerous edge that only came out when someone messed with what was his. “next time you wanna ask about my wife or my kid, try using some damn respect.”
the crowd quieted slightly.
y/n gently squeezed his hand and smiled at the cameras, defusing the tension with grace. “the pregnancy is going perfectly. she’s healthy and kicking like she’s headlining her own tour already.”
click. flash. click.
a few people laughed, and eddie exhaled slowly, letting her answer smooth over the moment.
“She gets her fight from you,” y/n whispered to him as they reached the car.
eddie opened the door for her, helping her in with care. “she gets everything good from you,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead before climbing in after her.
inside the car, silence cocooned them.
“you didn’t have to go full metalhead on them,” y/n teased, resting her head on his shoulder.
“they can yell about me all they want,” eddie said, slipping his arm around her. “but they come for you or the baby? i bite.”
y/n smiled, eyes fluttering closed as she whispered, “lucky for them i’ve got a bodyguard who plays guitar.”
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the crowd is wild. a sea of bodies, roaring for blood. dust rises from the sun-scorched sand, thick with the scent of sweat and death.
from the imperial box, you sit between emperor geta and caracalla, your golden silk dress draped elegantly over the marble seat. you barely feel it. your pulse is too loud in your ears.
below, in the arena, the gladiator stands victorious.
lucius.
you grip the arms of your chair, watching him. He is covered in sweat, streaked with blood—but alive. the last man who stood against him lies motionless in the sand, throat slit, another fallen pawn in this game of survival.
caracalla leans forward, amused. “he fights well. the people love him.”
geta exhales slowly, eyes narrowing at the man below. his expression shifts—calculating, cruel.
“they love their champions until they don’t,” he says. then, a smirk. he turns to you. too close. “don’t they, princess?”
you ignore the weight of his gaze, keeping your eyes locked on the arena. “he has won,” you say, voice steady. “you must let him live.”
geta chuckles. “must I?”
the crowd roars, waiting for their emperor’s verdict. the moment of judgment is here.
geta stands. the colosseum holds its breath.
lucius, breathing heavily, lifts his head—his eyes find yours.
and then—
geta raises his hand.
his thumb points up.
the crowd cheers. a flicker of hope sparks in your chest.
then—he turns his thumb down.
a heartbeat of silence.
then chaos.
the crowd erupts in shouts, some roaring in approval, others in shock.
your stomach drops.
“no!” you lurch forward, but geta grabs your wrist, fingers tight, bruising.
he doesn’t even look at you as he speaks. his gaze remains fixed on lucius, on the execution order he has just given.
“THE GODS HAVE SPOKEN !,” he yells raising his arms . “and so have I.”
in the arena, the executioner advances.
lucius stands still, sword hanging at his side. not afraid. never afraid.
the executioner raises his blade—
lucius moves.
a sharp sidestep. a cloud of sand. a dagger wrenched from the fallen body of his last opponent.
steel flashes. blood sprays.
the executioner falls.
lucius lives.
the colosseum goes silent.
geta’s smirk fades.
lucius stands tall, breath heaving, dagger dripping red. and then—he looks up.
straight at you.
his eyes burn with something undeniable. something that terrifies geta.
defiance.
the people—those same people who had screamed for blood—begin to chant.
“hanno! hanno! hanno!”
it builds. louder. fiercer. the name of a man who should be dead. a man who has defied an emperor’s will.
caracalla lets out a low cackle beside you. “well,” he muses, leaning back, “this should be interesting.”
geta’s fingers dig into the arms of his throne. tension coils around him like a snake.
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