23. she/her. yapper.

CLASSICS

Fandom classics that either cooked my brain (positive) or are comfort fics.

What Souls Are Made Of - Emeralds_and_Lilies

The Untouchable - TreacleTeacups

Retreat - Lomonaaeren

I Can't Carry This Anymore - lemonchase 

A Dangerous Game - Cybrid 

Dripping Fingers - May_May_0_0

draw me after you (let us run) - ToAStranger WIP

No Glory - ObsidianPen WIP

Holly & Yew - LovelyLotus WIP

(Going forward, the recs will be split into three categories: fics that set my brain on fire (adrenaline rush), my comfort fics (dopamine rush). WIPS that make my life worth living will be included in part 2. )

BRAIN FIRE PART ONE: LONGFICS

Ills of Murder - EclipseWing

tempor · al | ary - asterismal (asterisms)

Proposal Series - delightfull 

the pleasure, the privilege - asterismal (asterisms) 

Those Made of Lightning and Blood - A_Single_Cactus

the snake, the soul and the lovers -  jjaegerbomb 

vita mutatur, non tollitur - UnbotheredGoose 

But I Can Break You - NeuroWriter14 

Memories of a Killer  - ChemFreak - Harry Potter 

Entwined - purplewitch156

BRAIN FIRE PART TWO: SHORT FICS/ONE SHOTS

Undoing - wynnebat 

Treason - Alissia 

For Voldemort and Valour - Acnara 

Valiance - kyrilu 

The Tattoo - crowthing 

Bend - RudeHellion 

Sola Fide - crowthing 

the loneliest creature in the world - be11etrist

Hungarian Dances - eldritcher 

nothing left to lose - eleven_eaves

Prison Blues - exarite 

Pancakes - Divida 

BRAIN FIRE PART THREE: CHECK THE TAGS LOL (DDNE AND/OR SPANK BANK)

Surrender - Kushimani

you're a parasitic, psycho, filthy creature (finger-bangin' my heart) -  ToAStranger 

Anabiosis - dutch (itsevanffs)

Lover's Cross - frankie01

And all my mother came into mine eyes - cannibalinc 

Thirst - ObsidianPen 

tautological - eleven_eaves

Violent Delights - Katsitting (Nekositting) 

Tom's Dick and Harry - andromaxeoftroy 

From the Cradle to the Grave - Alissia 

Machine Men - CRUXIFIXION 

Monster Fucker - Anonymous 

A Single Love - Vee (Vera_DragonMuse) 

Doubt it's going to change what we are inside - Soulseeker (Laserswordtraining) 

Verboten Vows - A_Single_Cactus

As the French Do - exarite 

the thing lay dead - pwplicity (duplicity) 

awake from a dream into a nightmare - orphan_account 

Infinite - duplicity 

normal schoolboy stuff - Kleina 

Dream to Keep You - Soulseeker (Laserswordtraining)

Уродство -  ArveyMammy

COMFORT PART ONE: LONGFICS

aurora polaris - AGlassRoseNeverFades

consumption - Laeveteinn 

An Epistolary Exchange - Ramabear (RyMagnatar) 

Forever, preferably - JoWithTheFlow

Nobody Special - riddlereading 

At the end of every road - sassysquatch 

soulstice - marvohlo 

Remember When We Ruined - mosiva

COMFORT PART TWO: SHORT FICS/ONE SHOTS/SPANK BANK

Thin Skin -  Iselilja 

uvidimsya zavtra - TreacleTeacups

Your legs give way, you hit the ground - TheOnceandFutureQueenofTarts

Hell Is Your Son and Other Stories - wynnebat 

The Emperor and the Star - wynnebat 

In Bed with the Enemy - Alissia

we who walk in shadows black - Evandar

Pureblood Omega Etiquette - temptresslove 

A Matter of Perspective - lemonchase

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

The first harrymort fic I ever read (saved me from dr*rry hell):

Executor - Qliphoth

My favorite fic that I have written (corny self rec):

from what I've tasted or desire - ictyn

I've read a (frankly) absurd amount of harrymort fics, scouring the ship tag from top to bottom. There are a handful that have been deleted as well as a handful that I couldn't remember enough tags to find...I love this ship and all our amazing writers and fests and artists and I'm so happy to be here FDHLKAHFKHFA.

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive. 

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function. 

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but. 

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead. 

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright. 

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane. 

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease. 

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525. 

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it. 

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god. 

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything. 

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive. 

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago. 

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear. 

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with. 

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee. 

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting. 

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh. 

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together. 

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody. 

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane. 

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out? 

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves. 

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago. 

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart? 

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch. 

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all. 

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face. 

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain. 

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked. 

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated. 

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway. 

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now. 

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office. 

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly. 

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not. 

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces. 

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated. 

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home. 

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park. 

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials. 

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze. 

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off. 

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation. 

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects. 

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab. 

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes. 

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark. 

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant. 

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting. 

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair. 

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly. 

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid. 

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.” 

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?” 

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years. 

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew. 

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment. 

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one. 

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him. 

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek. 

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed? 

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before. 

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever. 

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily. 

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes. 

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time. 

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair. 

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment. 

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him. 

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all. 

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly. 

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him. 

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back. 

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him. 

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts. 

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were. 

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch. 

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions. 

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed. 

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs. 

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body. 

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously. 

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling. 

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth. 

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand. 

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it. 

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands. 

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,” 

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly. 

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass. 

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling. 

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before. 

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt. 

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins. 

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him. 

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open. 

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth. 

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds. 

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in. 

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out. 

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.” 

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach. 

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him. 

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him. 

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm. 

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you. 

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments. 

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you. 

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come. 

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs. 

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior. 

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music. 

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair. 

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it. 

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid. 

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you. 

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch. 

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe. 

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There are still more tests to run,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey-!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You basically live here, too,”

“I don’t-”

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

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

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

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

“Stop it,”

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

“Johnny-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You always have a line, don’t you?”

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

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

“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”

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

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

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

“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, give it a taste,”

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

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

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

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

“...am I interrupting something?”

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

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

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

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

“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”

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

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

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

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

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

“There was nothing happening there,”

“I didn’t say there was,”

“But you’re giving me that look,”

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

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

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

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

“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”

❤︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah–Reed!”

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

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

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

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

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

“But the girl wearing it is-”

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

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

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

“There are no new space suit designs-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you listened to it yet?”

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

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

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

“What’s so funny?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Cool! I got time,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s run it,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Other way-”

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

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

“I’ve upset him,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was quiet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if I don’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

“W-What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So typical of you, Storm,”

“What-? What did I do!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”

❤︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What wasn’t what it looked like?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That catchphrase just kept repeating.

I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!

Flame On!

Flame On!

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

“Flame off!”

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

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

“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.

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

“It’s a sweet gesture,”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop saying what, the truth?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go inside, don’t come out,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here,”

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

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

“You have to talk to me, baby,”

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

“I-I’m scared,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did come to me…why’s that?”

“You know why-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were always his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Johnny-”

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

Space. 

That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.

You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.

“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”

You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.

Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.

“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.

He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.

“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”

The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.

His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.

“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”

His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.

His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.

All that mattered was Johnny Storm.

“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”

“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”

“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”

There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.

Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.

His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.

He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been

“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.

His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.

“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”

You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.

“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”

Your second climax burned hotter than the first.

The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.

He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.

Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.

On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.

None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.

You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.

Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.

Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.

“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.

“I don’t think I would, either,”

His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.

With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.

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

“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.

You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”

It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.

He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.

“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”

He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.

-" You're full of shit, I don't have any porn magazine... "

-" Spare me. You forget to hide them everytime you're done jerking off. Everyday. "

Were you a psychic ? No, they just strangely hang out at yours and Wakasa's place very often.

The sound of you pushing back the chair brought their attention to you, you turned toward them and tilted your head.

-" Could you stop ? I'm tryna study. And by the way, his sexual life is none of your business. "

Your roommate's lips curled in a smirk upon gaining a reaction from you, Shinichiro's cheeks heated from being the center of the attention, and the two others looked at Wakasa.

-" Why ? Did what I said got to you ?"

Narrowing your eyes toward him, you glared at Wakasa but Takeomi answered before you had any chance to.

-" You takin' it too far dude..."

Takeomi was the wisest of the three, only fair that he stood up for you.

Well you thought that, but Wakasa scoffed, he knew Takeomi better, and knew his best way to get into a girl's pants was to playing it nice.

Unlike him, who believed fondly, and since day one that he could pull you by playing cat and mouse.

All of this, and still you were unaware of the fact that every man in that room could not keep their eyes for them everytime you walked in the room.

-" Yeah ? Was I too rude ?"

You could not ignore the mockery in his tone, Wakasa leaned on his elbows, void eyes on yours and the living room seemed to shrunk.

-" Did I offended you by implying you would give yourself some pleasure ? "

Your mouth fell agape and cheeks heated, though you refused to meet anyone's gaze you could see Shinichiro's eyes widened and Benkei holding a smile.

You could not believe he would say something like that, first you two never been beating around such topics and moreover, his damn friends were there... Your hands quickly reached for your books on the table.

-" I'm out of this conversation."

-" Ain't you adorable with that blush of yours ?"

Benkei. You shot him a death glare. What part of privacy they don't understand ?

-" I'm not blushing. "

-" Yeah you do. "

The snake, being none other than your roommate started serpentining toward you, your shoulders curled the slightest bit when he walked around your chair to stand behind you, putting his hands on top of it.

-" or maybe is it because... You've actually never done it ?"

Your silence, and the way you sunk deeper in your chair were enough of an answer for them, as almost all of their faces took a shocked expression, Wakasa leaned closer toward you, brushing his plump lips against your ear.

-" It's a personal choice, okay ? Now cut it out, that's embarrassing. "

Through your peripheral vision, you could see all of their eyes on you, concern showing through, and soon your attention was stolen by Wakasa's hot breath hitting your skin.

-" What a shame... " behind his voice was left a trail of goosebumps on your neck , faux sympathy so obvious it cut through his tone. You failed to notice Takeomi throwing his cigarette and making his way toward you from behind, because of Wakasa's voice echoing again.

-" Bet this cunt never came a single fucking time ".

-" is that true ?" Takeomi's voice startled you, you turned only to figure out they both were, the devils standing on your shoulders, a scene which could almost be comical. " Never creamed ? Don't ya know your roommate's the best at making girls feel good ? Didn't they told you 'bout how nice it is to cum ?"

His breath, heavy with smoke as intoxicating and addictive as his words, then switching to the lavender haze of Wakasa's eyes, a point where his gaze turned from unsustainable to intensely consuming, a point where you knew you'd let him intoxicate you.

-" Can I... "

Your breath hitched, because that damn Wakasa Imaushi brushed his lips against your cheek, closing his eyes and inhaling your perfume.

-" Can I see it ? Check your tight pussy real quick ?"

And when you opened your eyes, they fell on Shinichiro's ones, and the interest you read on them ignited a thousand wildfires in you. As much as you'd like to deny him, his words left footprints on your mind, one's you were dying to follow blindly. Your eyes turned to the one you trusted the most between them, your roommate, biting your lower lip and giving Wakasa the urge to bite it himself. You couldn't believe you were at a hairsbreadth of giving in, what volatile opium could possibly have you that intoxicated on their words to squeeze your thighs together at the simple thought ?

-" Yes. Yes you... You can". Words slipped out of your mouth, almost as if your body took control of its own desire, dropping all reason aside and fighting with swords of lust the rationalism.

Your approval fell as an order, almost instantly, you found yourself into his arms lifting you as if you weighted nothing, and Shinichiro cleared the couch just before your back got laid there gently.

They all gathered around Wakasa who found his way between your legs, sliding your pajama shorts and panties, uncovering every inch of your skin to their adoring eyes.

-" be my good girl and spread these legs for me, wontcha ?"

You threw your head back, following Wakasa's order and meeting eyes with Takeomi who was standing behind the couch. You began spreading your legs carefully, avoiding their gazes, and a grunt left Takeomi's lips all while his his calloused thumb came to caress your lips.

-" So obedient already... " He praised, sliding the tip of his finger inside your mouth.

-" Ya really should see, princess has the prettiest pussy I've seen " you could feel him grin against you, breath hitting your folds and making you squirm, you didn't noticed Benkei until his hand landed on your stomach.

-" Shhh, relax f'me. " He sat up next to you, hands starting to slide under your tank top. " Is this okay, pretty girl?"

You were none but a meer puppet on their strings, with so much demons around you luring you to their tempting sin, how could you even do anything but nod in approval?

Shinichiro gulped down while Benkei stripped you of your shirt, finding yourself thus all exposed to the boys. You had barely the time to feel self conscious, since Takeomi's thumb left your lips, only to be replaced by Wakasa's lollypop.

-" Keep it in for me, 'kay princess ? Got something sweeter down there".

He lowered himself again, this time licking a stripe upon your folds and letting your natural scent lure him closer to you.

-" Oh god !"

Your arousal coated his tongue and he tasted you on his buds, humming and taking a shaky breath out of you.

-" been hiding this sweet pussy from me ? How selfish... "

He ignored his own hard on, pushing his tongue deeper in you and causing you to fist the couch next to you. It was all too much, from Benkei's large hands groping your mounds, to Wakasa's ministrations beneath you.

-" So fucking soft " Arashi's lips grazed your ear, and you granted him with shivers upon your skin, Shinichiro who stood further away since the beginning started shyly making his way toward all of you.

-" and already so wet... " Your roommate's voice vibrations caressed you with the tenderest goosebumps. " Did thinking 'bout Shin jerking off got you so wet ? "

As heat rose to your cheeks, your gaze fell on Shinichiro who kneeled next to you on the ground, shy hand reaching for your thigh. His touch was as gentle as him, a meer butterfly on your skin along with his star-studded stare.

There wasn't any single inch of your skin their hands did not touched, and for those who they did not, their eyes set on fire. All of them drinking on your body and getting high on lust.

-" She's so pretty... " Shin's raw voice hit your skin right before his lips landed gently on your thigh, you arched your back, pushing deeper against Wakasa's tongue and Arashi's hand.

-" hm, better than I ever expected... " Right there, a wave of heat crashed against Wakasa's body, trading his usual jaded eyes against widening ones, noticing how your walls clenched around nothing. " Hm ? Turns you on to hear I touched my cock thinking 'bout your body baby ? What a dirty slut you are... "

-" Prettiest whore ever"

Amidst the blaze, it was hard to understand it was Arashi's statement, he mumbled, mouth around your nipples. Even your hands were a lot in the mix, mind too deep within the pleasure of tongues and hands to think about where you should rest them.

-" how pathetic, she's drooling everywhere" Takeomi pulled the lollipop out of your mouth, leaning closer to your mouth. Lost in pleasure, your glassy eyes rested on him. " How 'bout I keep this mouth busy, babydoll? Can I taste you?"

And you agreed, mindlessly giving the last remnants of you to the burning wind of them. Takeomi tasted like tobacco, something about his fleshy but soft lips was addictive, blowing hot and cold, sucking on your lips here and biting them then, like ocean waves pushing and pulling you.

-" this mouth feels so good " he breathed against your lips once he pulled away, and none of them, not even Wakasa who was under you could prey their eyes off of your face, teary eyes and whimpering lips. The latter inserted a finger inside you, pumping slowly, but then your hand flew to your mouth, covering the prequel of unborn sounds and he frowned.

Wakasa reached for your hand, and in a rather tight grip pinned it above your head.

-" hold back again, and I'mma fuck you, tied up. Got it ? "

Broken sobs were the only answer he got, fairly he seemed satisfied.

-" You scared the pretty, Waka " Benkei chuckled, hand discreetly pumping his length while the other was still squeezing your breasts. The cold amethyst rings of your roommate drifted slightly toward you.

-" 's that right ? Is my princess scared of daddy ?"

Contempt dripping from his tone, you ignored him and focused on the feeling of the second finger he added inside you. There was a knot forming in your lower belly, tightening every time he grazed your lips, thus making you unaware of the filthy things Takeomi was whispering in your ear.

-" can't stop thinking 'bout how these lips would feel 'round my cock, babydoll... "

Insidious indeed, the way their words slipped under your skin and poisoned your senses, how every one of their fantasies lured you into temptation. Wakasa's body betrayed him for the first time, making him buckle his hips against nothing at the feeling of your walls closing around his fingers tighter.

-" Damn, dude. She's clenchin' o'mme "

The green eyes of the one above you widened before he chuckled.

-" Oh yeah ? Wanna lemme fuck your throat baby ?"

-" Yes, jus'... Just do it " you closed your eyes and arched your back, feeling your high at the tip of your finger's reach. Hand grabbed the blonde locks of Wakasa who grunt at the tightness of your grip.

-" How 'bout... How 'bout I make you cum ?" The first time hearing Shinichiro's voice got you lifting your head abruptly, looking into his half-lidded dark eyes, then toward the visible stain in his tight pants. " Can I be the first to be inside you ?"

His dark hues laid a crimson sparkle over you, promises of passion snaking around your body until choking on your own desire. Next thing you knew, Wakasa reluctantly pulled out from you and was replaced by Shin, all while Takeomi's tip nudged against your lips, smearing the precum along. Curiously licking the arousal of the scarred man got their already hardened shafts throbbing from pleasure.

-" Uh, feels so good " Shin threw his head back, sinking inch by inch inside you. All thanks to your roommate and how good he prepped you, the pain was nearly unborn before the pleasure of being full replaced it all. " You so perfect, can't believe my fuckin' eyes ".

-" R-right ?" Takeomi stuttered, also sliding deeper in your mouth, you tried unconsciously relaxing your throat and taking as much of him as you could. " Babydoll's too damn good for only one cock "

The next seconds were a blurry chapter, stained by hands and mouths, stuffed with praises and sugar coated words. They gravitated toward you like planets around their sun, craving the heat. Or more like moths to a flame, running gladly to their fatal end.

A flame they however ignited themselves. And truth be told, they got you swimming in a bottle of emotion, with mind-blowing kisses and dulcet touches, you've never felt so loved, worshipped as a goddess and desired as the forbidden fruit.

-" yeah, just that way... " Takeomi praised, caressing your hair and wiping some tears from your eyes, with every thrust of Shinichiro's hips against you, your voice caressed his shaft deliciously and sent him higher.

-" 's way too tight, this pussy's a damn vice... Can't get enough " the Sano's eyes drank in every crumb of you, and sunk deeper within the lure. Never has he felt such a lust and he felt it devouring his guts, although the need of closing his eyes and focusing on his sensations was there, Shinichiro got mesmerized by you, just your sight like cigarette ashes dusting his mind, God was it hot.

Arashi didn't see it coming, until you gripped the pain in his guts. He nearly was sent to overdrive by your soft hand around his obviously bigger length, stroking it and taming his raging despair.

-" Shit- " he swore, thrusting in your hand that you tightened. " Can you feel what you doin' to me ?"

You could only nod, hollowing your cheeks to welcome more of Takeomi.

Like smoke of that blaze around, time flew by, then grandiose was the eruption. Takeomi was the first to let the thunder roar in his lower parts, pulling out just before painting your breasts white. Your meer sight milked him dry, swearing he'd never came that much.

Shin was soon to follow, flying you high with him and carrying you through the delicious loss of gravity. You clenched around him so hard while cumming that he thought he would easily come again.

-" Babe- Fuck relax, this too fucking good-"

Your cries were music to their ears, but Arashi, the strong and big Benkei was no more than a violon you played, making him hit the highest notes with your tender hands until he came with strangled moans, burying his head and bliss in your neck.

-" That was damn... Wow" he chuckled, thumb grazing your heating cheeks as you shyly closed your eyes.

In a hell of a room dripping with sin, an angel coated in desire and surrounded by devils. What they saw was art to the root, white ropes dressing your breasts, hair like sunshine sprayed around a beautiful wild gaze and swollen lips, you were spreading fetch, and were a holy evil seeping through each and every one of them.

-" Princess, eyes on me".

Turning your still unfocused gaze toward Wakasa, you've been swallowed in the epiphany, seeing the camcorder he was holding.

-" 's it okay if I keep this ? If I keep you in ?"

You loathed how the idea of him preciously keeping that record talked in such a tempting language to your heart. Biting your lower lip, you tilted your head to the side.

-" would you... Share it with other people ?"

Oh fuck, he had thought. A man as unmoved as a mountain found himself thrown and blown by a whisper from swollen rosey lips. The fragrance of your perfume, your teary eyes and dazzling beauty intoxicated him into the need of a kiss, leaning towards you, he captured your lips and grunt against your mouth at the blissful feeling.

-" look me in the fuckin' eyes, and dare saying I'd let anyone ever see how precious my princess looks " he gripped your chin, mindless of his friends watching and panting hard from their mind-blowing high. " Not after tasting you. Bitch you're addictive ".

A giggle erupted from your lips, sparkling your already pretty face to them and glowing under their eyes.

-" you can only keep it if you stop being so cheesey ".

Wakasa's gaze darkened, turning indigo under the living room's light. Takeomi who was just done unzipping his pants placed a kiss on your cheek, while Arashi found himself behind you.

- " He's not cheesey " tough hands which were not strangers to throwing fists and drawing blood gently cupped your hair, taking it into a ponytail before kissing your neck. " He's just pussy drunk ".

-" You've done so well for us" Shin was next to find your lips, letting his mouth linger a little longer on yours before pulling out, staring at you with star dust in his dark sky eyes.

You went for standing up, leaning on your elbows but a shocked gasp traversed the barrier of your lips when Wakasa's rough hand pushed you back on the couch, resting on your lower belly.

The purple haired man leaned closer toward you, jaded bored eyes building a whole new gut devouring feeling in your stomach. His gaze drifted toward your bare body, making his cock throb with pain before he focused back on your eyes.

-" Did I said I was done with ya ?"

Your eyes widened, painting an invisible smirk on his face.

-" What... ?"

-" Did I stutter ? " Getting closer to you, he buckled his hard on against your bare skin, grunting along with a gasp coming from you. " Ain't letting you go before I'm stretching this pretty pussy real good ".

He swallowed you whole with his deep hues, taking in the blush on your cheeks before he freed himself from his pants and underwear. And the minute those hit the ground, a new wildfire rose inside you.

The white leopard, in all its majesty standing raw in front of you. Pumping his cock twice before closing the distance between you two, his other hand flew to your forehead, pushing your hair away.

-" Daddy's gonna go down on ya until your fucking legs are sore. Have ya walk around the apartment with my cum dripping from your cunt".

I'M HIDING THAT WAS SO AWKWARD! I've never wrote a smut with more than one partner and I'm such A BITCH THAT I DIRECTLY JUMPED INTO WRITING A FIVESOME ? REALLY ?

Anyway... ANYWAY.

I hope it was fun to read, anon !

Next will be a Draken request ( finally ) then a Mikey request from one of my dearest moots, goodnight !

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence  than all of these other assholes  kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos. 

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama. 

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag: 

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! 

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal. 

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity. 

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again. 

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor. 

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries. 

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all  soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

.

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser. 

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano. 

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. 

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away. 

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice. 

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped. 

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now. 

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern. 

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys. 

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes. 

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

.

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much. 

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too. 

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the  bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it  If he stays.

The book your fingers curled around now was honestly impressively hand-bound, the pages remarkably well typeset for being… independently produced, in a way.

You’d found Grate Expectations upstairs in the attic, off to the side of Hector’s HVAC shell. It looked so official that you’d mistaken in for one of the saucier books from your early twenties in Lady Memoria’s boxes, until you saw your beloved’s name on the cover. Upon realizing what it was, you’d recalled the time he’d read you just a snippet when you’d half-jokingly requested it, and left you out of breath on unsteady knees when he’d finished. It shouldn’t be a real surprise, you reasoned, that you’d ended up smuggling it out of the attic, deeply curious to see just where the rest of the book went from where he’d left off.

And now, at every small sound in the hall or the adjacent rooms, you found yourself looking up with a guilty start, pulling the book closer to your chest so no one would catch a glimpse of just what was on the page. It’s not that you were ashamed to be reading it — there was nothing wrong with romance or erotica, and you still enjoyed both a great deal, obviously.

It just felt… different. This was Hector’s, and he’d written it about you. About the pair of you, together. It was private. Intimate.

It was that same sense of privacy that was the cause of your current guilt; he hadn’t told you that you could take it, or that you could read beyond what he’d shared. Even though it was about you, he had likely written it just for himself. To read it without his knowledge felt like a betrayal of his trust.

But even the guilt was outweighed by the way the prose had you pushing your thighs together without realizing, swallowing thickly, your hips squirming slightly against your mattress as you read the very detailed, very vivid fantasies of just what he’d longed to do with you — and to you. Over and over, with a passion that threatened to scald your fingertips at the edge of the pages.

At one point, you simply had to close the book over your thumb, your thighs pressed tight against each other and your face hot to the touch. The embers of curiosity had turned to a gnawing heat in the deepest part of you, your pulse racing even though you were lying perfectly still.

Staring at your ceiling, you bit your lip and calculated your options. Handle this yourself, and save your beloved any potential embarrassment from your snooping…

Or come clean, with all that might follow.

You gazed at the grate on the wall across from you, chewing your lip slightly as you did so. It was honestly kind of surprising he hadn’t already been there to notice the heat on your face, the way your breathing was already shallower than usual.

After a moment, you cleared your throat and willed your voice to sound light, casual. “Hey, Hector?”

There was the briefest pause, followed by a sound of motion in the ducts above you. A moment later, a familiar pair of adroit hands emerged from the grate, and a flash of clever, kind eyes in the darkness. 

“Hello, my love.” Hector’s voice was sweet, as though somehow still surprised you’d call on him. “Enjoying your day? I’ve heard it’s quite harsh outside. I’ve been minding the temperature in here accordingly; I know you you prefer things on the cool side.” The little note of pride in his voice was downright precious; it was as though your new relationship had made him even more committed to keeping you comfortable at all times.

You barely had time to open your mouth when you saw the dark eyes narrow, and you could picture his brow furrowing above them. You couldn’t help a bit of a smile — he was nothing if not attentive.

“Are you alright?” His voice sounded concerned. His hands moved, wrapping around the vent slats as if to support him leaning closer to inspect you.

“Why do you ask, babe?” You raised an eyebrow as you sat up to face him, hoping your smile didn’t give away your guilt. Your hand was holding the book face down on your mattress, hoping his attentiveness would be on your face for now.

“I — well.” Hector’s eyes glanced askance as he searched for the words. “You look lovely, don’t get me wrong — you could never not look glorious to me, just as you are. It’s only…” he paused. “You look… piqued, my sweet. A little more flush than usual. Is it still hot in here?” His frown was almost audible, and it was adorable. “I could’ve sworn I had this room cooler than the others…”

“I’m fine, Hector,” you reassured him. You scooted closer to the vent on your mattress, hoping he could see your smile was genuine. “The room has been perfect, as usual. Thank you.”

Hector made a concerned noise, and you got the feeling he didn’t want to contradict you outright. “You just look… warm,” he said, a hand reappearing to gesture towards you. “Your hair on your neck, and your skin… are you feeling alright?” His eyes searched your face. “If you’re feverish, I could get Farya—”

“I’m okay, Hector.” You moved so you were sitting on the end of your bed now, peering up into the vent. “I promise you, I’d tell you if I wasn’t. Believe me?”

The grate made a noise as Hector leaned against it again, looking you over more thoroughly… before he seemed satisfied, if not entirely convinced. “I do. But is there still something I can do for you, darling? You did call me,” he reminded you.

“So I did.” You looked down for a second at the back cover of the book, debating if you were really going through with this, then back up at the grate. “Would you mind… coming in here, for a sec? If you’re not busy,” you added quickly.

“I’m never too busy for you, love,” he said, and you recognized the more fervent fire in his eyes that came in his particularly inspired moments. “That’d be like being too busy to breathe. But…” He paused, again somewhat uncertain. “I am… already in here, am I not?” He gestured loosely to your bedroom, his voice a tinge worried like you’d somehow forgotten where you were.

“No, I meant, like… physically, in here.” When there was still a hesitant silence, you nodded towards the doorway. “Like, all of you. In here. With me.”

“…As in, leave the attic?” Hector said, clearly fighting to keep his voice from going up an octave.

You nodded, widening your eyes to look as innocuous as possible. “I’m just right down the hall — there’s only the closet between us, right?”

“And the entirety of The Breaker Box,” Hector pointed out. His hands were antsy, fingers fidgeting with each other. “Are you sure I can’t just… talk to you here? As we already are? Or you could come to me,” he suggested, voice brightening. 

It was your turn to hesitate — despite the breakthrough the two of you had made together, Hector still didn’t like running the risk of being perceived if he didn’t have to be. While he seemed to even enjoy you seeing him, now, other people seeing him was iffy at best. You imagined the proximity to one of the flashier clubs in the house didn’t help, especially with Volt and Eddie around. He knew you were seeing them just as he knew about all your other relationships, and while he wasn’t given to jealousy (at least, not in front of you), you had to imagine that if being in Volt’s gaze still gave you a tingling feeling in your stomach, then it would send Hector running for the rafters.

“I was actually hoping…” You chose your words carefully, knowing how ‘hope’ would be a loaded one for him. “To spend some time with you… alone.” You gestured loosely to your empty bedroom. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate with the weather and all,” you said, doing your best to sound innocent. “But I was just thinking, if you had a few spare moments… maybe I could impose and steal you away? While things are quiet?”

“You could never impose,” Hector said quickly. “Nothing you could ask of me could be an imposition, love, I assure you. My time is yours, entirely.” But his hands were still moving, fingers lacing and twisting anxiously even as he said it.

You watched his hands for a long moment, your teeth grazing your lip. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all. “…I wouldn’t want to  ask anything that would make you uncomfortable,” you said after a moment. “If you’d rather not, it’s okay. I can always come by yours another time—?”

“No!” Hector said it so immediately, it took you both by surprise. “No, really, it’s not… it’s not an issue,” he went on, and though you couldn’t see him, you could picture the pained smile he was forcing. “Not at all. In fact, I’d love to visit you. I was just thinking about… a change of scenery,” he ended flatly, and it was so unconvincing you had to try not to giggle.

“Just, uh.” His eyes roved around the vent, clearly trying to figure this out. “Give me a few minutes, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” you said quickly. “And really, Hector, if it’s not something you want to do—”

“Oh no, I want to!” Hector cut you off, his voice climbing again as he fought to sound light and carefree. “Very much! Honestly, I should’ve done it ages ago! I’ll just... be right there!”

“Take your time, babe,” you called after his retreating hands.

“I’ll see you soon!” Hector called back, and while you could hear him trying to sound eager, you could also hear the little anxious groan he let slip as he got further away from the opening of the vent.

You’d honestly lost track of time, having returned to the book to keep yourself occupied while you waited. It hadn’t taken long before you were sprawled on your stomach, devouring page after page, trying to ignore the way your hips were subtly pushing against your mattress when you read a turn of phrase you found particularly… stirring.

It was the shuffle of some sort of fabric that made you look up, accompanied by a low, nervous humming, and someone muttering quickly under their breath. The sounds came closer and closer to your room, causing you to sit fully upright, though your finger still marked your place. “Hello?”

A figure covered in blue tarp rounded the corner into your room, which you only recognized from the eyes peeking out beneath a makeshift hood. “Can I close the door?” It spoke in a rush, sounding out of breath.

You blinked, trying to understand what you were seeing. “Hector?”

“Please?” he wheedled just slightly, his voice up an octave. “If- if you don’t mind, that is?” he added, remembering himself.

It took you a second to process what he was asking. “Yeah, of course.” You nodded, waving a hand. “Go ahead, if that makes you more comfortable.”

Hector quickly closed out the rest of the house, only letting the tarp slide backwards from his head when the two of you were alone in the room. He let out a sigh of relief as his head fell back against the wood with a ‘thud’, smiling weakly as he caught his breath. “I made it.” His eyes met yours, sparkling with triumph. “I’m out of the attic.”

“You are!” You beamed, pushing off your bed to meet him where he stood. “That’s a big step for you, darling. Congratulations.”

His eyes only brightened as you approached, and when you kissed him hello, he more than eagerly reciprocated. The tarp rustled as he let go of it, and it fell off his shoulders like an odd cape. You meant to ask about it, but his arms encircled your waist, and you found yourself pressing your hands against the cabinet doors of his coat, sliding down until your fingers curled around the handles. With his mouth on yours and the passion of his writing fresh in your mind, you used them to tug him even closer, deepening your kiss.

Hector made a small noise of surprise, but clearly found this agreeable, one hand sliding up your back to squeeze gently at the nape of your neck — one of his favorite places on you, as it always made you shiver slightly when he did so. For a moment, you were caught up in how his form felt against yours, how he held you like you were something precious, until you both at last parted for air.

“…Hi,” you said at last, unable to help a shy grin.

Hector grinned himself, his arms still hugging you close. “Hello, my love.” He reached up to trace lightly at the strap of your top, his eyes gleaming. “I must say, I’ve always thought these were… something.” His eyes flicked back to yours. “I like them.”

“Well. Thank you.” You felt your skin heat, and you played cool by reaching up to rest your arms on his shoulders. “I… like yours too?” You glanced over at the blue tarp, trying for an encouraging smile. “It’s very avant garde.”

Hector laughed nervously, nudging the tarp closer to the door with his foot. “Ah. Yes. That. It’s…” He paused, clearly trying to think quickly. “A… cloak? Of sorts? Or at least, that’s what it’s inspired by? Not that anyone really wears those anymore, of course, but, uh…” The longer he talked, the more a blush spread across his face, and that familiar self-conscious look of his with it.

“Hey.” You kissed his cheek, distracting him. “If it got you here to me, I’m all for it. You do whatever helps, angel.”

Hector seemed to catch his breath, his expression unmistakably relieved. “I appreciate your understanding, as always.” He kissed your cheek in turn, never one to let affection go unreciprocated. He then wandered lower, his lips grazing your neck. “Now, before I get too ahead of myself… did you have something in mind for this visit, amor?”

Ah, right. This part.

“…Yes, actually.” You fidgeted with a lock of his hair, trying to decide on your approach. Would he be angry? He’d shared it with you before, but he’d never outright said you could read all of it…

Hector’s lips stilled just under your chin, his eyes meeting yours. “…Yes?” He prompted, a note of concern creeping in.

You bit your lip, taking a steadying breath before you spoke. “I… owe you a bit of an apology.”

Hector stood back up to his full height, searching your face. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said, laughing a bit uneasily. “Whatever for?”

You kept biting your lip, worrying it between your teeth. “Well. It’s... a little awkward —”

“Please tell me you haven’t changed your mind,” he cut you off, his voice abruptly strained.

You paused, looking up to see his suddenly wracked expression. “I - What?”

“Me. Being here. Out of the - the vent.” Hector’s eyes darted to said vent and back to you. 

“Oh! No, Hector.” You shook your head, your hand falling from his hair to stroke his cheek. “No, love, I really wanted to see you” Your brow furrowed. “Why would I change my mind?”

He gave you a half-smile, and while he reached up so his hand covered yours, he still couldn’t quite meet your eyes. “I just thought… With the light and all, well.” He gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Hector.” You moved your other hand to cup his face in both of yours, forcing him to look at you. “Nothing could be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, I asked you here because I wanted…” You paused, your eyes slipping to the floor as you tried to figure out just how to say ‘you to rail me stupid like in the multi-chapter erotica you wrote about us’ in a manner befitting the artist in front of you. It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t been intimate-ish, before now. Hector was just as gifted with his hands as he was with his words, and he loved the sounds you made, now that he could give you his full attention without the grate between you. But he’d been hesitant to go much further than that, still seemingly too anxious to let you reciprocate his physical affection.

Was this too much? Were you basically ambushing the guy because you wanted to fuck him? Were you finally going to out-weird him, like you always knew you eventually would?

“What is it, my love?” Hector tilted his head to catch your gaze again and to lean his face against your palm. “Anything I can do for you, I will, you know that.” His fingers intertwined with yours. “You need only ask. There’s no need to apologize for that — nothing would please me more.”

His face was so sweet, so earnest and open, that you felt a twinge of guilt amidst the heat pooling in your gut.

“…That’s a little bit what I’m concerned about,” you mumbled. You held up a finger as his brow knit together, confused, and walked over to where the book still lay on your blankets. You picked it up, taking a breath, and when you turned to face him, you were holding it up for him to see the cover.

Hector frowned for the few seconds it took him to recognize the cover, at which his eyes widened — with surprise or concern, you couldn’t quite tell.

“So.” You shifted slightly where you stood. “I kind of… borrowed this, without your permission. And I’ve been, well, reading. Also without your permission.” Your tongue wet your lips. “Hence, I owe you an apology.”

“…Oh.” Hector’s voice was faint, and you could see him desperately trying to keep his anxiety in check and failing. “I — no need to apologize, amor, really. I did share it with you before, after all.” He attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were trying to read your face as desperately as you were trying to read his.

“You did,” you acknowledged. “But I still should’ve asked. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and that wasn’t fair of me.” You waited for a moment, before shifting so you were now hugging the book against your chest. “But I’ve been… really quite enthralled.”

Hector perked up immediately, though his eyes were still cautious. “‘Enthralled’?” he repeated.

You nodded. “I started it this morning, and I just… haven’t been able to put it down.” You turned it slightly to reveal the dozens of pages you’d pored through already. 

“Oh,” Hector repeated, even softer than before. He looked from the pages, to your eyes, all too briefly to your lips and back up again. “I’m glad to hear, my love.” A blush was settling over his cheeks and moving up towards his ears. “You have always been my most… inspiring muse.” His tongue darted out over his own lips. “I often find myself unable to write of anything else.”

You pressed the book tighter against your chest subconsciously, and his eyes dropped immediately, definitely noticing. “I’m honored.” You found yourself whispering, though you were the only ones in the room. “To occupy the mind of such a talented writer… I can’t even begin to put into words how flattered I am, Hector.” You couldn’t help a smile. 

Hector’s eyes were saucers, for once struck silent.

Your eyes dropped again, the weight of what you were about to ask suddenly sinking in. “I just… I can’t help but worry, a little,” you spoke slowly, choosing your words. “Because on the page, I’m everything you want, and I don’t know if I can even begin to measure up in the flesh. I desperately want to try, but I don’t… I don’t want to rush you,” you explained. “Or ask anything of you before you’re ready or comfortable, I want to respect your boundaries. But I also just want… well. You.” You looked up at last, hoping that made sense.

Hector’s pupils were blown black, and it took you a second to fully register his expression —

Before you realized it was the starkest look of outright hunger you’d ever seen.

On anyone else, it would’ve tinged the fire at your center with fear. But now, on him? You wondered if you’d burn before he even put his hands on you.

“You could never,” he whispered. “Not be what I want. I want you exactly as you are, as you’ll have me, always.”

He closed the distance between the two of you, his lips mere inches from yours. His eyes jumped from those to meet your gaze and back again, clearly torn. You felt his hands brush yours — warmer than usual, and faintly shaking — before he swallowed hard.

“If we’re to- to proceed,” Hector said, forcing a tremor from his voice. “I’d ask three things of you, my love.”

“Name them,” you said instantly, and for a moment, his hunger gave way to something much softer at your willingness.

Hector took another breath, as though he was having trouble keeping up. “First,” he said, and his hand reached to move your hair away from your cheek. “Is that you’ll put your total and complete trust in me.”

You caught his hand in your own, turning to press an open-mouthed kiss into his calloused palm. “You have that already,” you said quietly, your lips not totally removed from his skin as you did so. “You know that, Hector.”

Hector’s tongue darted over his lower lip, and he stepped between your feet so there was barely room to whisper between the two of you. “I’m asking,” he breathed. “That you give me control, mi vida.” His thumb traced your mouth. “Just for a little while, just... just so I can take care of you. Like you deserve. Like I know I can, with precision.”

His eyes were so deadly serious, so fathomless, that for the span of a heartbeat you kind of forgot to breathe.

Instead, when your brain took over and nudged you abruptly, you responded by taking Hector’s thumb into the heat of your mouth and nodding.

Hector made a sound somewhere on the cusp of a groan and a gasp, and as your tongue laved at the rough whorl of his fingerprint, his other hand cupped the other side of your jaw.

“The second,”  he went on, his voice softer now. “Is that you’ll let me blindfold you.”

You paused in your attention to his hand, your tongue actually freezing in place on his skin for a second as your brain shorted out once more.

Hector smiled, but his brow wrinkled just enough to betray his concern. “Which is why I required your complete trust, first and foremost. Remember?”

When you pulled your mouth off his digit, a delicate string of saliva connected you still to his skin. You went to wipe it away, feeling heat return to your face in embarrassment, but Hector was faster, pulling it back from your mouth and onto his thumb.

You blinked, for a second taken by just how quickly he moved, before you met his gaze again. “…I do actually want to see you, at some point,” you said quietly. You reached up, your hand stroking his hair lovingly. “You’re the major draw for me here, after all.”

Hector let out a short, abrupt laugh that was somehow startled and amused all at once.

“It’s true,” you protested, your hand coming up to cup his face. “Even if you refuse to believe it, despite my many, many declarations to the contrary.”

Hector leaned his face into your palm and closed his eyes like he was resting against a sun-warmed window pane. “I believe you, my love,” he murmured. His eyes opened, and his familiar sweet-but-slightly frazzled expression returned. “Even if it takes the rest of me a while to… agree.”

You smiled back. “I’ll take that, for now.” You stroked your fingers along the soft line of his jaw. “…Right. Blindfold, yes, but you have to let me take it off when it’s my turn.”

It was Hector’s turn to pause, his eyes giving him away by going slightly wide. “Your- your turn?”

You stepped into Hector’s space as he had into yours, standing up slightly on your toes to put your mouth a tantalizing space away from his. “I’ll surrender my control and my sight,” you said, your eyes moving slowly from his eyes to his lips. “But at some point, I’d want reciprocation.” You tilted your head to look at him while his jaw dropped ever so slightly. “Is that something you’d be okay with?”

Hector took a sharp, shallow breath, his mouth soundlessly trying to form words before at last he simply closed it and nodded eagerly. As if to emphasize this, he licked his thumb where you’d sucked it, cleaning your saliva from his skin and making a show of swallowing.

You turned back to your nightstand, grabbing a black silk sleep mask from where it rested on the surface, and held it out for him to inspect. “Acceptable?”

Hector tilted his head, then took it gently from you to hold it up to the light and rub the fabric between his fingers, before he nodded at last. 

“And the third thing?” you asked as you took it back, remembering.

Hector shook his head once. “Blindfold first. The two are connected.”

You prevaricated for an instant, fiddling with the sleek fabric in your fingers. This was going to be your first time with him, fully, and not knowing the third condition first only heightened the crackling nervousness that came with this milestone.

But the way he looked at you with a gentle, hopeful smile, his eyes bright as he looked you over with an obvious tenderness… you found what little tension there was easing from between your shoulders. This was Hector, after all. He was downright devoted to you. The idea of causing you any sort of discomfort had been sacrilege to him on multiple occasions.

“So…” You paused, looking down at your pajamas. You were grateful you’d at least picked a nicer pair for laying around than your usual worn out t-shirt and underwear. “Before I put this on, should I—”

“I’ll be handling that,” Hector interrupted. Though his voice didn’t change, he stated it more than said it, and the unexpected confidence was, honestly, quite hot.

“Oh, well. Be my guest.” You winked, trying to match him, but the way he blushed hard as the heat rushed back to your face reminded you that you were both still… yourselves, at the heart of it all.

You bit your lower lip for a moment more, the jitters of anticipation clashing with the smooth heat at the pit of your stomach. But you saw Hector’s eyes drop immediately to your mouth, the hunger back in his gaze, and the jolt it sent through you made you at last settle the dark silk over your eyes.

In the ensuing black, it was hard not to immediately become more aware of every other sensation: how the fabric of your clothes settled against your now hyper-sensitive skin, the feeling of the floor pressed up into the soles of your bare feet, the utter silence that settled over the room —

The way the temperature of the room seemed to climb two or three degrees almost immediately.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. One of the fun parts of having your HVAC as your boyfriend was the fact that the very air often gave away what he was really thinking.

Hector had been so still, so quiet, you’d been wondering if this was an opening move on his part. But then you heard the susurrus of fabric moving from over in his direction, the soft thuds of him shedding what you were betting were his sandals. After another moment, you heard cautious footsteps on your floorboards, until there was an undeniable presence directly behind you.

Something light ghosted across your hair, stroking it lovingly, before oh-so-carefully shifting it to expose the side of your neck as much as possible. You couldn’t help the pleasurable shiver that ran down your spine, and you tilted your head to expose your neck even further, part of you worried Hector’s insecurity would’ve read the reflex in bad faith.

A heat radiated close to your back, and another came to rest delicately against the skin of your breastbone. Hector’s hand, broad and impossibly warm, seemed to take up the entirety of your sternum -- palm first, heavy and sure, before his fingers stretched across your skin like they wanted to take up as much space as possible. A longing sigh brushed your shoulder, the unexpected warmth causing your head to turn as though to look --

He made a soft noise of denial, his other hand coming up to guide your jaw with the barest pressure of his fingertips so you faced forward again.

“The third condition,” Hector rasped, his mouth right next to your ear. “Is that you indulge me, and I might speak as I used to.” 

You smiled, immediately recognizing what the two of you had jokingly referred to as “Vent Voice” in the time his attic face reveal.“Like when you first started courting me, huh?” you teased, knowing that Hector was actually a sucker for the concept. The man was nothing if not a romantic. 

“The very same,” Hector said, and you could hear the smile of his own underneath the words. His hand pushed you gently back a step, and when you were met by a solid warmth against your shoulders, your brain stuttered to realize he’d taken off his insulating coat. His bare chest was against your skin, and you could feel the coarse hair that covered it, along with the soft stomach now pressing into your lower back. The heat at your center threatened to overwhelm you, so strong was your desire to turn and slide your hands down his torso, to explore what he'd never shown you. 

He pressed against you, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck before he lowered his lips to your exposed skin.

Your breath hitched, and your head fell backwards, until you were resting it against what you realized was his shoulder. You made a sound of want through your bitten lip as Hector kissed your own shoulder around the strap of your pajama top, then moved towards the juncture of your neck. 

“I l-like your real voice, though,” you managed, your hands clenching and unclenching in thin air as he kissed up the column of your throat. “It’s so quintessentially you. And I love you.”

Hector hummed softly against your skin before licking a small expanse up the side of your neck, his scalding tongue causing you to gasp before you could catch yourself. “I love you too,” he said simply, a slight note of smugness creeping in. "And I also adore the face you make when I play to your voice kink." He kitten-licked the shell of your ear. "So if I'm going to satisfy you, I'm going to do it completely." 

And before you could disagree, his splayed fingers were pushing the thin strap off your shoulder entirely.

The thin top fell away with no resistance, Hector tugging lightly so the fabric slid past your hips and landed on the floor. You were now also topless, and just as you moved reflexively to cover your chest, Hector’s free arm gently bumped yours away.

“No, no,” he murmured. “I want a good look at you, my beauty. I’ve only been…” He pressed a kiss to your other bare shoulder now, his stubble rasping across your skin. “Aching for you like this, since I first set eyes on you. You must understand.”

So you curled your fingers into your palms, your thumbs rubbing a knuckle on each hand as you made yourself stand still.

It had been more than a small shock whenever the Dateviators revealed a not-small contingent of beings who found you desirable in your own skin. You were so used to being... well, yourself, that you had an admittedly difficult time seeing what they found attractive in you. Real beauties like Amir, Volt, and Betty left you feeling a bit lost with their kind words, their flirting. You couldn't help but feel underwhelming despite their lingering looks.

Hector's desire for you had been another kind of unexpected entirely; his devotion, his hunger from afar -- while you couldn't understand it directed at you, per se, you definitely were more familiar with this model on your end than anything else. The two of you spoke the same language of the heart. So if it pleased him to have you like this, you were more than happy to let him take his time with you, white-knuckling through your own self-consciousness to let him soak you in.

You felt Hector’s hands settle on each of your shoulders before they traced down your full arms, then over your chest with a tender slowness. You felt his breath on the back of your neck catch and stutter as his hands lingered over your sides, before sliding down onto your hips with what could only be described as reverence.

“God,” he half-whispered, half groaned, and it sounded agonized. “God, you are so… unspeakably soft.” His fingers ran up and down your sides before settling on your hips again, where he couldn’t resist squeezing the plush flesh there. “This is heaven beyond my wildest imagination, my heart, you have no idea.”

You couldn't help a little helpless laughter as his touch ran over the ticklish parts of your stomach, and you flexed your back against his chest, leaning further into him. You lifted a hand to his jaw, and turned your head to kiss him there. "And when do I get to take you in, hm?" 

Hector's hands ghosted over the sides of your breasts, and then for a moment cupped their considerable weight in his hands with a soft moan. When his thumbs ghosted over your nipples, you shivered, biting back a whimper -- while the area normally wasn't your favorite, due to the dysphoria it sometimes inspired, his touch here was so careful, you found yourself able to relax into it. Even more so when he laid his arm across them to put a comforting pressure there, a warm echo of your compression tops. 

You hummed gratefully, leaning as best you could to kiss his soft bicep.

He returned it with a kiss to the side of your neck. "I have you," he said, his lips against your skin still. "I promise."

You couldn't help but smile, resting your head back against his shoulder again. "I know." You kissed his jaw again, one of your favorite parts of him in its softness. "I trust you."

The way his breath shuddered slightly against your neck at this was heart-wrenchingly adorable.

He angled his hand back to your breastbone to pull you more firmly back against him, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest against your shoulder blade. His breath was bordering on ragged as one hand caressed your lush stomach while the other held you fast.

“You’re so warm” he moaned, and his hand slid lower, thick fingers brushing the waistband of your flimsy cotton shorts. “You’re like the sun on my fingertips, love, you’re celestial.”

Your arms came up to wrap around the one holding you to him, hugging him as best you could and leaning fully into him. “Hector, you’re gonna kill me with anticipation,” you mumbled, your skin screaming to be touched everywhere at once. “At least let me kiss you, or someth—”

Your words were lost amidst the blood rushing to your face as Hector hooked his thumb in the side of your shorts and yanked brusquely downwards, letting them also settle on the floor. You were all too aware you were now fully naked, pinned against him and fully at his mercy.

“Allow me this, please.” His lips were against your ear before he kissed your cheek, then lower down your neck again. “I swear to you, all I want to do is please you… let me at least worship at the altar I’ve admired for so long.”

His hand slid up from your chest to cover your throat, and his kiss to your shoulder became a sharp bite. Your inhale hissed through your teeth, your back arching against his grip.

“All I want is to make you come,” he said, his longing strangling his voice. His other hand slid down your stomach and towards your cunt, stopping short enough to make you squirm in search of any sort of contact. “And come, and come, until you’re a mess in my arms. To fulfill you so completely, you’re too wrecked to find the words to ask for more.” He angled your head to press a searing, messy kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Tell me I can, love, and I will.”

“Please.” If you were still in your right mind, you’d be embarrassed at how quickly you said it, or how you practically whined for it. “Please, Hector, I’ll beg if you want me to, I’ll—”

Two of Hector’s thick fingers slid into your slick folds, and you spasmed against him as they barely brushed your swollen clit.

“Fuck.” Hector’s teeth were gritted, and you felt his hips buck sharply against your ass. The thermostat belt buckle threatened to bruise your back, and you felt something achingly hard through the fabric of his pants, pressing into the soft squish of your flesh. You pushed back against it, and the hand over your throat tightened ever so slightly, as if to hold you still.

“You’re so wet.” Hector’s moan threatened to crack through his Vent Voice entirely, and his fingers traced your slit with an ease that made the heat in your face spread down to your chest. “Fuck, you’re already soaking wet, love, what—”

“What can I say?” You turned your head against his shoulder to face him as best you could. “Your work—” You choked for a moment as his fingers brushed your clit again, the sound desperate and shaking. “I-inspired me.”

Hector’s mouth was hot and greedy and open when he kissed you in response, as the rough pads of his fingers began circling your clit in a way that made you gasp helplessly. “Be careful,” he warned, pulling away from you just enough to speak. “It’ll go straight to my head if you tell me that. That I could possibly have this effect on you, my angel.”

“This is all you,” you said against his lips. “This is what you do to me, I swear.”

You felt his breath shake as he inhaled, his heart threatening to pound through his chest and into yours as he kissed you again. Christ, he’d only just started and you were already overwhelmed, between his tongue demanding in your mouth and the careful hand on your throat keeping you prone and exactly where he wanted you, your hips twitching and flexing into his hand. 

When your legs began to shake, he broke the kiss to only to hiss a single word as he pushed you lightly against your bed frame: “Kneel.”

You complied, realizing he’d lined you up perfectly with the end of your bed as you sank onto your knees on your mattress. Now with no fear of your legs giving out, you let Hector support your back against his chest, your breath already turning to short, desperate pants as he worked the most sensitive part of you.

Hector was murmuring feverishly into your hair when he wasn’t kissing you everywhere he could reach. “Yes, love, you’re doing so well for me, that’s perfect, you’re perfect, just let me— let me take care of you, please, let me make you feel a tenth of what I feel for you, even that.” His smooth facade was chipping away, sounding like he was just as desperate as you were as the coil of white-hot want at your center twisted tighter and tighter. While he fought to keep his voice steady, the moans that escaped him when you gasped and arched back against him sounded more like the him you knew outside the vent.

You grabbed at the hand at your throat, intertwining your fingers tightly with his. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop Hector, please—”

“Let go, love, I have you,” Hector rasped, the voice back in place. “Come for me, show me how you feel, please.”

You came with a shudder and an embarrassingly loud groan from deep in your chest, shaking against Hector’s torso as you ground your hips down onto his fingers without an ounce of shame. Though you couldn’t see them, your were certain your thighs were already glistening, and this was only one orgasm in.

Hector squeezed the sides of your throat with a fraction more pressure as you writhed, and you could feel him pressing his clothed erection against your ass, perhaps without even realizing it. 

Before you could catch your breath or even come down, Hector spun you lightly by your shoulders and barely nudged you backwards. Your lack of equilibrium and the fact that you felt weightless meant this left you sprawled out on your back, on top of your covers.

“What—” You started to sit up, confused, before Hector’s hand rested firmly over your stomach.

“Stay there,” he said, and the relative curtness of it compared to his usual eloquence made your thighs twitch all the harder.

You heard more fabric rustling, and the thud of something metal and heavy hitting the ground — his belt, you realized, and you parted your thighs before you fully realized what you were doing.

Hector chuckled shakily. “Oh, amor. Don’t tempt me before the second course.” He leaned down, tilting your chin with a finger to kiss you as you dazedly looked up.

 You heard him drop to the floor, muttering to himself so quickly you couldn’t catch it, before you heard something clicking closed. He gave a full-throated groan, as though pained, but before you could sit up to check on him, two hands dragged you roughly down your mattress by your thighs.

“Wait, hold on — are you okay?” You reached out blindly until you felt his hand, concerned. “What was that?”

“I’m fine, my love, I promise.” Hector’s free hand swept down your other thigh to soothe you, followed by his lips against your skin and the rasp of his stubble. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just - ah.” Another soft gasp, and a low moan as he adjusted whatever it was. “Something to help me not lose myself with you entirely. Not until the proper time.”

Before you could try to puzzle out what that meant, you felt his hands squeeze your thighs, before manipulating each one onto one of his shoulders.

“You have no idea,” he said, tracing a gossamer finger across their sensitive inner flesh. “No earthly idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He traced the inside of your thigh towards your cunt with the tip of his nose, occasionally pausing to sample now and then with a nipping kiss you knew would leave a small bruise, causing you to whimper at each. “How often I gazed down on you on this very bed, watching you alone, aching to touch you. I would’ve traded the rest of my life just to taste you.” 

You could feel his breath on the mess he’d left with just his fingers, seeming to drink you in before he pressed a delicate kiss to either side of your slit. He lingered there, and you could feel him panting lightly as his nose pressed into your pubic hair, until he groaned with unfiltered need.

“You’re divine,” he whispered, and before you could respond, the scalding flat of his tongue parted your lips.

“Fuck!” You arched your back against your mattress, your hands jumping to anchor in your lover’s dark, curly hair. “Fuck, Hector, oh my god—” But he was merciless against your still-sensitive clit, and when you tugged his hair without realizing, his resulting moan made you dizzy and light-headed. 

For all his beautiful words, Hector’s tongue was a menace in its own right. He ate you out like a man possessed, his fingers tight enough to bruise on your plush thighs as his tongue circled the innermost part of you, his nose nudging your clit in a way that made your hips buck against his face. But this only seemed to spur him on, his hands moving to pin you down as he devoured you with zeal.

Your hips trapped in his surprisingly strong grip, you moaned in frustration, and when he echoed you, it seemed to vibrate through your core. “Hector, it’s too much,” you begged, and tears threatened at the corner of my eyes. “I can’t, I can’t—”

But Hector only shook his head, his tongue moving in a way that sent sparks racing through your veins. Whereas all this time he’d been sitting off your bed, he only broke your connection to climb up onto your mattress, shifting your thighs on his shoulders before he sank his tongue into you. His ferocity left you keening raggedly, short of breath and desperate.

You gave up trying to resist, grinding yourself against Hector’s face, and as you did so, you felt the motion echoed further down your bed. It took a minute to orientate his relative position, but when you did, you realized with a jolt of heat that Hector must have been grinding into your mattress. The idea of his cock already leaking just from going down on you left you clenching with want around air, and Hector made a sound like a whine in response, shoving the flat of his tongue against your clit in a way that set your veins ablaze. He brought two fingers to your hole, sliding them inside with so little effort that you nearly started to cry, your face impossibly warm. He was utterly ruining you, and with frightening efficiency.

After a few minutes of slowly, steadily fucking you on them, he unexpectedly curled them inside you. You let out something close to a wail, throwing your head back against the sheets.

Your nails scraped his scalp, and his chin and stubble were absolutely soaked against your thighs. He only lifted his tongue from you to pant for a second, before rasping brokenly:

“Come on my face. Comeonmyface, amor, I’m begging, bless me with even that—”

This crack in his control, combined with the last crook of his fingers inside you, left you powerless. You came again, messily, nearly sobbing his name.

True to his word, he groaned as you ground your cunt against his tongue, holding completely still so you could use him as you wished. Your face absolutely seared at just how much your cunt was drooling into his mouth, tears creeping out from under your blindfold from both embarrassment and raw want. when you finally fell limp against the mattress, he laid wet kisses along your lower abdomen, whispering praises against your skin as he stroked your twitching thighs.

You could swear your ears were ringing and your skin was on fire. If you took off the blindfold now, you might still be seeing black, your vision a hazy swirl as your brain tried to figure out which way was up. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you mumbled, your voice shot.

“You’re one to talk of holiness,” Hector mumbled back, and you felt him rest his chin on one of your thighs. You could hear him sucking clean the fingers he’d fucked you with, like he hadn’t just had you coming all over his tongue. “You’re a sight, mi vida. You’ve never been more beautiful. If I died tomorrow, I would die utterly content.”

“…How the fuck,” you managed. “Are you still so…” You gestured uselessly, struggling for words. “…Together, right now?”

Hector let out an amused huff of air through his nose. “You can’t see me,” he said, and in that moment, you could hear just how strained his Vent Voice was. “If you could, you’d know how paper-thin my composure really is. How much you’ve already shattered me.”

“But I haven’t even gotten to touch you yet, you’re the one fucking me,” you protested weakly. “And fucking me... really, really well, actually. Like. Oh my god, Hector, your writing was one thing, but this—”

Hector pressed a finger to your lips, shushing you gently. “Don’t let me get cocky,” he said, and you could hear the pleased grin in his tone. “Not when I haven’t ravished you fully, yet. Not to my standards.”

Your lips started to form a question, but he seized your hips in his broad hands, pulling you further down the mattress again until you were flush with—

Your face felt like it was burning, realizing he was kneeling between your spread legs, his flesh impossibly warm against your own.

“I can’t,” you mumbled, hiding your face in your hands. “I’m already wrecked. I’ve got nothing left, Hector, I'm —”

Hector was crooning soft assurances as he delicately pulled your hands apart with his own, and you felt your fingers interlacing with his. He kissed each of your cheeks, the tip of his tongue tracing the salt that was surely leaking from under the blindfold by now. “Once more,” he murmured. He pressed each of the backs of your hands to his lips in turn, before stretching them over your head and pinning them to the mattress. “Once more, my heart, my darling, trust me just that much longer."

Slowly, you felt something pressing against your folds, and before you could register fully what it was, something hard and hot dragged itself against your slit. You exhaled raggedly, what little oxygen had returned to your brain leaving immediately.

"Let me fuck you, love,” Hector whispered, grinding his cock along your soaking wet cunt. "Like you deserve. Like I've wanted to since I first set eyes on you." He was already panting, his breath only getting shallower as he lost himself rutting against you. "...Oh, god." His voice echoed off your ceiling, near feverish and cracking through his carefully constructed tone. He continued like this for a minute, and you could feel his stomach moving against yours, the course hair at his base growing wetter --

Until something unexpectedly smooth and steel nudging your clit made you gasp, then thrash in his grip. "What… is that?"

Hector froze for a second, and it was obvious both of you were having problems with the powers of speech. "...Something to keep me ready for you," he said, though the Vent Voice unsteady. "So I can be what you need, when you need it. So I don't - ah," he whined, mindlessly grinding against you again. "Lose myself, as soon as I'm inside you."

You shuddered at the electric contact, his dick sliding through your folds, the metal catching lightly against your clit again in a way that made your hips buck. 

"...Is that a cock ring?" you asked, at last putting two and two together in your haze.

Hector's hips faltered again, and you could tell he was struggling to proceed. "Uh. ...Yes?" he said, his true voice back and uncertain. "Is... is that okay?"

Jesus, this man.

You strained against his grip, leaning up, desperate to kiss him. "Hector, oh my god," you said, your fingers squeezing his palms when you couldn't quite manage it. "You're going to kill me, you really are. Please, please, let me touch you."

Hector laughed softly, the relief evident, and he squeezed your hands back before he brought his lips to yours. "Not yet," he murmured in the Voice again, kissing the corners of your mouth and down your throat. "Not yet, lover, this is still just about you."

"Hector," you whined, petulantly writhing against your mattress. "It's not fair! I want to see you, I want to feel you, I--"

That last thought was interrupted by something thick sliding into you, the heat and the unexpected fullness causing your sentence to die on your lips.

“You were saying?" Hector was teasing, his thrusts slow and languid, and your jaw dropped as your brain went utterly blank. The feeling of him inside you was electric, his shaft dragging along your walls, his stomach warm and soft against yours as he fucked into you. The wiry hair on his body felt like static against your skin, and you pushed your hips desperately back against his.

"More," you moaned, the one word left in your brain. 

Hector inhaled sharply through his teeth, and he finally let go of your hands, grabbing instead once more onto your thighs. "Of course," he said. "Of course, my darling, anything you ask." 

He pulled you towards him so your hips were flush together, bottoming out in you with a strangled, desperate sound. Whereas before his pace had been sensual, lingering, his thrusts now were sharp and precise. He kept a punishing grip on your hips, and with your hands now free, you reached up to grab the back of his neck and pull him down so your chests were pressed together.

Hector groaned but adjusted the angle of his hips to compensate, and he took the new proximity to leave soft, longing bites along your clavicle, like he was restraining himself from devouring you even now. You, meanwhile, were shamelessly chasing your third orgasm, your hands moving with minds of their own -- squeezing his soft upper arms, clinging to his shoulders, anywhere you could try to find an anchor point.

"Hector." You were starved for air, your moans short and breathless. Everything felt siphoned by the muscles tensing again in your abdomen, the ache at the center of you that only resolved when he bottomed out. "I love you, I love you fucking me, please don't stop--"

"As long as you want." There was no room between the two of you, and his mouth was everywhere -- leaving bruising kisses on your neck, laving at the junction of your shoulder. "Until the breath leaves my body, I'm yours to use." He buried his face against your neck, a broken breath shuddering against your skin. "Whatever you need, I'll give you all of me."

You got your arms around his chest, and when you raked your nails down his back, he let out a guttural sound of pure want, his breath hot in your ear. 

You had no filter left between your mouth and your brain. "I want to come on your cock," you managed, and you heard him outright whine, felt him spasm inside you. "Please, Hector, I want to, please?"

"You will," he groaned, and his grip was iron as he pulled one of your thighs up along the curve of his hip. "I have you, amor, you will."

The room was already filled with the obscene sounds of his skin on yours, but for a second, it was punctuated by the staccato of your headboard hitting the wall. The knowledge that this was caused by your shy, nervous sweetheart pulled the coil of want at the center of you all the tighter, and your hips met his, greedy and seeking.

Between the metal of the ring against your aching clit and Hector's borderline punishing tempo, your unraveling wasn't long. You felt the pressure of his stomach against yours, felt it tensing, heard his own desperate moan -- only to remember that he was denying himself his own orgasm in pursuit of yours, near-punishing himself until he could give you everything you wanted.

This made you finally break for a third time, you felt your release hot and wet down your own thighs, borderline screaming Hector's name to the ceiling before he muffled you with his tongue in your mouth. He kept fucking you through your aftershocks, but slower now, sweeter. You were gasping into each other's mouths, you outright shaking, Hector running his hands soothingly up and down your sides and whispering to you between kisses to your face and forehead.

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." His words were rapid, feverish as his forehead pressed against yours. "I love you, angel, divine, whatever soul I have belongs to you."

You couldn't speak yet, but your nails hooked into his shoulders, desperate for anything to ground you. You could hear him hiss sharply at the feeling, but he kissed you heatedly, coaxing your mouth open as you caught your breath.

For a long few minutes, the two of you just lay there, him still inside you, unwilling to give up contract with the other's skin. His kisses were soft across your face and chest with whispered, effusive praise, but you kept steering him back to your lips, wanting him to feel firsthand how much you adored him.

As soon as you were capable of speech again, you let him know. "I'm in love with you," you managed, punctuating this with a gentle bite to his lower lip. "I love you so much, Hector, tell me you know that."

"Yes," he sighed, and you could feel him smiling as he kissed you back. "I am no less thunderstruck to be loved by the object of my every thought, but I know." He kissed each of your cheeks in turn, the corners of your mouth, and his arms caged your waist. "Are you satisfied, mi vida?" You could hear the pride in his voice, like he couldn't tell by taking in how you were only just catching your breath, your hair clinging to your skin with sweat.

"Mm." You smiled against his mouth as you crushed it in a kiss. "...Not quite, my love."

The sound he made in response would've made you giggle, were you not so committed to your bit. It reminded you of the time you asked him for a photo; a mix of confusion and mild shock. “…No?” he managed at last, the Vent Voice finally falling away entirely.

Grinning, you reached up and lifted the blindfold from your blisteringly warm face. "I want my turn, Hector."

His expression was adorable, flushed and perplexed, his hair clinging to his damp forehead. He stared at you, his mouth once again left scrambling to form words. He had no time to prepare before you pushed upwards against his chest, maneuvering your weight so he was abruptly underneath you.

Before he could get his bearings, you grabbed both his wrists, pinning them to the pillow above his head. The noise he made was an exhale of confusion laced with something close to a whimper, and you sat back as much as you could, taking in your prize. "Is this okay?"

Hector's flush extended down his chest and shoulders, his hair a mess against the pillow. He glistened slightly with a soft sheen of sweat from his earlier efforts, and his pupils were still blown wide, threatening to eclipse the dark iris you adored. For a solid minute, he merely gazed up at you like you were something holy, still at a loss for words.

"...Hector," you cooed, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. "I need a verbal answer. Is it okay if I hold you like this?" You jerked your chin towards where you still held his wrists, your grip lighter now in case he needed to get out.

"Yes," he breathed, and you could swear his pupils somehow widened further. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple moving in his throat. "Yes, my love, anything you want--"

“Not the answer I need,” you cut him off softly but firmly, shaking your head. “I want to make this about you now, darling.” You released his wrists and shifted your hips so you were finally two separate beings again, and he actually whimpered at the loss of contact. 

Moving to sit just to his side, you exhaled, feeling the new emptiness inside you again. He didn’t move an inch, following you with wide eyes.

You couldn’t help but smile at him watching you like that, tilting your head to finally take him all in. Your eyes traveled down his broad torso, the arms that had held you through feeling like you would shatter completely, the adorable stomach with the trail of dark hair that you wanted to kiss and nip all the way down to…

The glint of the modified metal wrapped at the base of his cock, which was still laying achingly erect and flush against said stomach.

The air left your lungs all at once, a sharp spark of need causing your still-sensitive clit to positively throb. You turned back to meet his eyes, only to see him still watching you like an especially anxious hawk, trying to read your reaction from your face.

You blinked, remembering that yes, this was actually the first time the two of you had been this… vulnerable, around one another.  “Can I touch you?” you asked quietly, looking shyly from him to the metal and back. “Is that okay?” You had lost all concept of subtle, only half-aware of how you were biting your lip in your eagerness.

The tension in Hector’s shoulders seemed to ease, as if relieved, but the flush across his cheeks and down to his chest renewed. “I… if you want to.” He nodded, shifting slightly where he was laying, like he was suddenly all too aware of your gaze. 

You laughed a little, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Of course I want to. I’m more concerned about if you want me to.” You moved to kiss the other corner, one hand going to his chest to push him back to the mattress when he tried to meet you halfway. When you had him pinned again, you angled your head so you were looking down into his eyes. “You took care of me, love, and in spades. Now I want to take care of you.” You thought for a moment, trying to figure out just how to frame this — he was nothing if not selfless, and he wasn’t always the best at knowing quite what he wanted at turn. “ And I want you to tell me how to do it properly.” You stroked his hair, watching him swallow thickly.  “Can you do that for me, Hector, please?”

“Please touch me,” he said without hesitation, his voice now fully back to its usual pitch and already a bit shaky.

You beamed. “Excellent start.” You leaned down, kissing him fully again. “Thank you.” 

You went to move, but paused halfway, looking back to where he was now sitting up slightly to watch you. “…Tell me something—” you began.

“Anything,” he said immediately, nodding just a little in his eagerness.

You couldn’t help a giggle, reaching over to stroke his hair. “You’re so cute.” Off his responding small smile, you turned back to face him fully, supporting yourself over him so he had to lean back to look into your eyes. “I was going to ask,” you went on. “Did you like it when I had your wrists pinned earlier? Or do you want to be able to move?”

Hector bit his own lip as he gazed up at you, and you could see him weighing his options. “…I love touching you, amor, you know that,” he said at last. “But that was… new.” There was a hopeful note at the end of the sentence, a curiosity there. 

“Okay, I can work with that.” You nodded, holding eye contact until the poor man’s flush revived itself, and he looked shyly away. “You know, I have wondered…” 

His eyes were partially eclipsed by his hair, now; the visible one looked your way again. “Wondered, amor?”

You moved all at once, straddling his thighs, and noticing just how his mouth fell open as you did so. “Do you remember, love, when you told me you can’t relax for yourself?”

“…Somewhat,” Hector said, clearly distracted as he looked between your eyes and where your thighs were back in contact with his skin again.

You took his wrists in your hands, moving them so they were back on the pillow above his head. “Do you need to be made to relax, do you think?”

Hector’s eyes went impossibly wider, something in your phrasing clearly clicking for him. “…Define ‘made.’” His voice was cautious, but the subconscious way he licked his lips gave him away.

You felt yourself mirror the gesture, a lascivious smile spreading. “Like we agreed to earlier,” you reminded him. “My turn will be me asking what you want, and giving it to you until you can’t take it anymore.” You squeezed his wrists gently.

His fists clenched in response. “I think we - phrased that differently,” he said, his breathing starting to shallow out.

“But do you object to my phrasing now?” You raised an eyebrow, both teasing and challenging.

“Not in the least,” he said, so quickly it was cute.

You giggled. “Then do me a favor,” you said, lifting your hands off his wrists. “And keep those right where I left them, or I stop. Agreed?”

“Yes.” Hector nodded, then paused. “…With one addendum.”

“Oh?” You sat back, curious.

“Don’t — don’t blindfold me.” Hector’s eyes roved over you, his gaze so hungry it felt like a caress. “Let me see you. Let me at least have that.”

Your face felt hot again with how unabashed he was, but you played to it, holding eye contact as you leaned forward again across his torso. You carefully avoided any skin contact with his neglected cock, instead placing your hands over Hector’s chest. “Whatever you want, love.” You only looked down to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his bare clavicle.

Hector’s hands moved off the pillow as he made a soft sound of longing, but you sat up, giving them a sharp look.

He froze, to his credit, and tamely let them fall back against the fabric. When you returned to kissing your way up his neck, he groaned in frustration, and you could hear them moving on the pillowcase. “I - I might have not thought that through,” he admitted, already breathless.

“No?” You laved the sweat from his skin, enjoying the salt before you left a bite sure to bruise — one that mirrored a similar mark he’d left on your own shoulder. 

Hector hissed through his teeth. “No,” he agreed. “How could I not want to touch you?”

“But look, darling.”  You sat up, shaking your hair away from your face, then shrugging your marked shoulder. “We’ll match now.”

Hector’s cock visibly throbbed, his eyes infinitely black as he looked between the two with utter reverence, like he was seriously considering getting his tattooed on him. 

You took your time kissing your way down his chest, lingering to kitten-lick the nipples that had been hiding under the metal of his coat. He positively writhed at this, turning his hands back on the pillow to grip it in frustration. You watched him bite his lip until you feared blood, the small noises he failed to muffle speaking to just how it likely wouldn’t take much to wreck him at all…

Unless.

You pondered something as you kissed down his soft stomach, caressing his sides, making a point to lick a hot stripe through the trail that led down, down…

“I love this,” you mumbled, pausing to run your nails lightly down the skin of his stomach. Hector gasped, squirming underneath your hands, and you drank in the sight. “You’re so soft, Hector, but so solid. You make me feel safe, supported, always.” You leaned down, licking another stripe where his stomach met his hip, only just managing to hold him down when he bucked against the feeling. “And when I felt you against me, pushing into me, putting me exactly where you needed to to make me lose my mind…” 

You angled where you were leaning to grind your cunt along one of his hips, and Hector moaned in agony, his head falling back into the pillow and his hands twisting on the cloth of the case. 

“I know you’re too much of a lover, darling,” you said, licking a nipple again to watch his chest rise and fall raggedly. “But I did think about how you could easily have me any way you wanted, all for your own pleasure.” You grinned, watching that ragged breathing stutter, the way his jaw dropped soundlessly at the idea. 

“Blasphemy.” Hector’s eyes were wild, and he had to physically grab one of his wrists with his other hand to keep them both down. “You’re divine to me, I could never— I wouldn’t dare—”

“But what if I asked you to?” You sat back on your knees, drawing a line down the inside of one of his thighs with a nail to watch it twitch and shake. You weren’t sure if the whine was from the contact, or from the idea of using you. When you met his eyes again, he looked on the verge of pain. “It’s not like I’m not all yours, anyway.”

You watched his eyes, already overly bright with how you were torturing him, as you calmly positioned yourself next to his twitching cock, still trapped in the ring. 

“Am I correct,” you said slowly. “That you can’t come until this is off?” You merely tapped a nail on the steel, and his hips bucked sharply upwards.

“Y-yes,” he managed, his voice already shredded with want.

You pursed your lips, considering this. “Duly noted.” You looked back up at him. “Spread your legs for me?”

He did so with such alacrity, your heart ached.

You settled yourself between them, making a show of reaching to your still-drooling cunt to gather the slick there onto your fingers — his breathless whimper making you crack and smile after all. You took your time taking in his cock, wretchedly hard with neglect, still thick from where he’d made you come so hard you’d cried. The pre was practically dripping off the tip, and when you took it in hand at last, you felt it flex against your palm as Hector groaned from the depths of his chest.

You pumped your hand over the shaft with a slowness that made Hector throw his head back in frustration, his hips desperately trying to meet your palm.

“Easy there, love,” you soothed. When your hand was near the head, you spread the pre over his slit with your thumb, and he was already making a sound akin to a sob. “I have you now. I promise.”

“I love you,” Hector managed brokenly, his eyes squeezed shut from overwhelm. “I love you, please, please keep touching me—”

You leaned forward while he wasn’t looking, and when you took the head alone in your mouth, Hector had to visibly fight not to thrust into it. You teased him, swirling your tongue around the glans as you continued to pump the shaft, watching his breathing shallow out and his knuckles nearly turn white on his wrist. As you took more, your tongue tracing the hot vein along the underside, Hector’s back arched as he fought not to make you gag.

You let go with a soft ‘pop’ of suction, another strand of saliva linking your mouth to his skin. “Hector,” you said, your voice soft and innocent. “I want you to look at me.”

Hector complied immediately, sitting up just enough to see you —

As you took the most of him into your mouth yet, your other hand coming up to cup his balls as you did so. 

You could feel him throbbing in your mouth as he moaned in utter agony, his abdomen tensing, his balls tightening against your palm. “Mi vida, amor, please, please please I’m begging you, gorgeous creature, mercy—”

You took him as deep as you could, your nose brushing the dark, coarse hair at the base, and when his reflexes finally won out, you gagged around him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He sounded on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t mean—”

But you put a hand on his stomach to soothe him, sitting up to breathe. “I’m fine,” you managed. “I wanted to gag on you, it’s okay.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Hector mumbled, eyes glazed and hazy from lust, tears at the corners to match those in yours. “I’m going to die right here in your bed, at this rate.”

“Tell me where you want to come first,” you said, back to pumping him as you waited for your throat to relax again. 

Hector blinked, and for a moment you thought you’d finally broken him. “What?”

“My mouth?” You prompted. “My chest? My stomach?”

Hector’s hands were twisted into your sheets, but you didn’t want to wreck your momentum by punishing him appropriately. “I…” He struggled for words, before finally admitting in a cracked whisper, “Inside you.” He swallowed hard. “Please. I have to be inside you, now, or I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.”

You laughed as much as you could manage with a slightly sore throat, charmed. “Of course, love. Just— give me a moment.”

You doubled back to plant kisses up the insides of his thighs, nipping the inside of the left so gently, he fully whined above you. When you let yourself take his balls in your mouth, appreciating just how swollen they were, you felt him clawing at your blankets, speaking too fast for you to quite make out what he was saying besides the fact that it sounded like a prayer.

After a few more agonizing moments, you straddled his hips, his cock resting just against your cunt. You let it drool onto his skin, his hips bucking and twitching underneath you, him fully babbling at this point.

“My love, my angel, please, please oh god I can’t take this please—”

“Come here,” you murmured, and he sat up like a man reanimated, his hands flying to your torso to run over as much of your skin as he could reach.

You met his lips with yours, exploring his mouth as you rocked your hips so your clit caught one last time on the metal ring. Hector’s hips jerked back, tears escaping from his lashline down his cheeks at the friction.

When at last you slid onto him, Hector hid his face in your shoulder, panting openly against your skin. You rolled your hips together, and he met yours eagerly, his nails digging into your back in turn.

You stayed there for a few minute, feeling him spasm inside you as you moved, him clinging to you like he never wanted to be apart from you again.

“I love you, Hector,” you whispered, your lips against his ear as you reached between the two of you two find the place where the ring came apart —

And as soon as you’d gotten it loose, Hector came with a broken sob of your name, the heat of his release molten inside you.

You rode him through it, feeling it easily overflowing you so it dripped down your thighs, mixing with your own orgasm from earlier. Your skin felt impossibly hot, Hector crushing you against his torso as the two of you moved, and the slick sounds between the two of you were utterly obscene.

You kept riding him until at last he was totally spent, the two of you collapsing in a sweaty tangle to your mattress.

Hector’s lips were on yours, on your face, along your hairline. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice still broken.

You were still trying to catch your breath, but you kissed him back. “So you enjoyed yourself, then?” you teased.

“You exceeded my every desire,” Hector said, fully earnest, and the sweetness of it made you lose your breath all over again. “I’m never letting you go, I hope you understand that. I can’t bear to, not now.”

“Not even to put clothes on?” you joked, resting your glistening forehead against his.

“Especially not that,” Hector grinned. “We’ll simply resign ourselves to be here, forever.”

“No more vents for you?” You grinned back, but there was hope underneath the words.

“I live in your bed now.” He kissed your cheek, beaming at you. “Betty will just have to understand. It simply cannot be helped.”

You actually giggled, hugging him tightly and rolling so you were laying on his chest.

The two of you stayed that way for a while in sweet, fulfilled silence, the room filling with the warm honey of the golden hour through your window.

You rolled onto your side to admire him in the light, gazing as though you wanted to memorize every inch of him — which you did. “…You’re really hot when you’ve just finished wrecking me, you know that?” You reached up, gently stroking some of his hair away from his face, then tracing his cheek with a fingertip. 

His eyes immediately looked down, away, back up to the safety of his vent — anywhere but at you. “Don’t tease,” he mumbled. His whole demeanor changed from the afterglow of a moment ago, and he finally went to pull his arms in to cover his soft torso.

“Hey.” You bumped his arms away as he had yours earlier, moving on the mattress so you were chest to chest again. You kissed him earnestly, hoping to soothe the anxiety you could see gathering like a storm at his brow. “I’m not teasing,” you said, pulling away just enough to speak while looking him in the eye. “I think you’re hot, and I’m madly in love with you.”

Hector rolled his eyes ever so slightly, even as a smile tugged begrudgingly at his lips. “Amor. You don’t…” He trailed off, lips pressed together as he chose his words. “Have to… tell me that.” He nodded slightly, trying to keep the smile on. “It’s really okay.”

“Hector, forgive my arguing, love — but you literally just made me scream your name,” you said bluntly. You set a fingertip on his chest, making a point. “Nobody else has ever actually achieved that.”

His face flushed furiously again, and for an instant, the smile became more solid. Real. With just a hint of the pride you knew was in there somewhere.

“Have they?” you pressed, raising an eyebrow. “You would know,” you added quietly. “I know now you watched me with others.”

Hector made a quiet sound of discontent, any confidence disappearing as he looked away. “I’m sorry, I know I—”

“Don’t apologize. I’m into that too,” you said quietly, a sly smile creeping in. “I consider it part of your… unique form of dedication.” You drew a line with your nail up to his jaw, tracing his lower lip. “But you’re still not answering my question, love.” You tilted your head to catch his eye. “It’s only you, isn’t it?”

“…You deserve that and more,” he said at last, eventually looking up at you through his lashes. “I’m only lucky it was me who had the honor.”

“But why can’t I be lucky to have it be you?” you asked plaintively. When he didn’t answer right away, you sat up to put a little space between the two of you, realizing something. “…Do you not believe me, when I say I’m in love with you?”

“No,” he said immediately, and his hand gently caught on to your upper arm, keeping you anchored to him. “No, my love, I do.”

“Really?” You were watching his face now, searching for a telltale sign in his eyes, in the way his mouth moved. The idea that he didn’t believe you filled you with a cold, hollow dread that left you slightly sick. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No!” He caught your other arm as you moved further away, pulling you down to him again. “No, I believe you. I promise,” he pleaded, his eyes wide. “It’s just…” He pressed his mouth into a line, his eyes moving along the ceiling as he tried to find the words yet again. 

“…Am I… doing something to make you think I’m not?” you asked quietly. You swallowed — everything had been so beautiful, until you’d… what? Told him you were attracted to him? You’d just wanted to make him feel as loved as he made you. “…Is it me?”

“No.” Before you could blink, Hector had pulled you flush to his chest again, his eyes holding the same strange brilliance you’d seen upon your first meeting in the dark vent. “Listen to me: I have never loved anyone more than I love you,” he said quickly, nose to nose with you now. “You are my heart made human, you are the anchor of my animus. I’m yours, every part of me.” The light in his eyes changed, pained now. “But it’s me. Do you understand? You are beautiful,” he said, his hands sliding up to squeeze your shoulders. “You are my muse, my light.” He swallowed hard, like there was a lump in his throat. “And the only way I can show you how much I adore you is by giving myself over to you completely, satisfying you so thoroughly that you never have reason to think--” His voice caught, and he broke your gaze. “…To think about how you could do better.”

“What are you talking about?” You shook your head, perplexed. “Hector, I’m just… I’m only me. I’m completely ordinary. You’re the one who could do better, I’m sorry.” You managed a laugh, but it burned your throat. “…And I’m so afraid one day you’re going to realize that, you know?”

He looked up sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t you ever say that.”

“Hector, listen to me,” you argued, straddling his lap so he couldn’t look away. “You’re literally an artist.” You held up a finger when he opened his mouth to argue, and he closed it again, albeit hesitantly. “Your prose breaks my heart and melts me, all at once. You’re sweet, you’re sensitive, you’re one of the most thoughtful people I’ve ever met — when you first told me how you felt, I could barely breathe,” you confessed, and it was hard to keep your voice steady. “Because I had no idea how I had captured the eye of someone so -  so passionate.” You swallowed, your mouth feeling full of ash. “When I was just… here,” you gestured limply around your empty bedroom. “Alone. Trying to justify what I was doing with my life, what I was thought I could prove to anyone. Trying to convince myself to keep… hell.” You looked away, your eyes stinging for a different reason. “Keep trying at all, I guess.”

You blinked hard. You would not cry and totally ruin this, you would not. 

“…My love?” Hector was all concern, which made it so you couldn’t look at him lest you definitely break. But when his hands slid to your hips, you still set yours on top of his, giving them a reassuring squeeze. He waited then, seemingly content with this sign.

“…And then suddenly, I put on these glasses and realized you were in my vents, of all places,” you said at last, keeping your eyes down. “And you were in love with me, and I didn’t really know what I did to - to earn it. But you made me feel seen in a way that… no one else really had. Ever.” You felt yourself shrug, a wavering smile managing to form on your face. “You make me feel like… whatever force animates the pair of us, whatever stardust we might be made of, ours is the same.  I could… belong here. With you.” You chewed your lower lip, feeling your skin catch fire again.  “And that’s what I’m saying, when I tell you I’m in love with you. ‘Please let me stay here. Please let this be home.’” You forced yourself to take a breath. “‘Please don’t think about it and realize otherwise.’”

You were interrupted by Hector suddenly seizing the back of your neck, and pulling you against his bare chest in a crushing hug. His other hand was planted firmly against the center of your spine, and when he buried his nose in your hair, you realized you could feel him shaking against you. His voice threatening to crack, he managed only a single word:

“Never.”

He pulled the pair of you down to the mattress, keeping you tightly curled in his arms, his legs entangling with yours to keep him completely in contact with your skin. You shifted your arms so they encircled his chest, your fingertips lightly tracing the scratches you’d left in his back at the height of your passion.

For a while, the two of you just stayed there, the only sound the other’s breathing and the opening salvo of the crickets outside.

And for a minute, it felt like you were the only two left in a house full of people.

Maybe even in the world.

He was the first to pull back, eyes intense like he was trying to memorize your own. “My love, I’m sorry.” He cupped your cheek in his hand with the utmost softness. “I didn’t intend to make you think I doubted you. The only person I doubt between us is myself;  you have never had to earn my love. You never will. I love all of you, even the parts you don’t — for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, but that’s another talk entirely.” He kissed your forehead, then your lips, before holding your gaze again. “You have the whole of my heart. You have since I first came into your service, you know that. I couldn’t imagine giving it to anyone else — adoring anyone else, the way I do you.”

“Then please trust me,” you said quietly. You reached up to stroke his hair yet again, then trailed your hand down his cheek and to his shoulder. “Please, if you love me as much as you say you do — and I know you do,” you added, off the way his eyes briefly went dark. “Know that it’s reciprocated wholeheartedly. That I love you, and how you love me,” you went on, smiling now. “And I would do anything to make sure you felt it returned just as ardently, because you deserve that and more. I love who you are, exactly as you are.” You kissed his forehead. “You cannot let the version of me in your head be cruel to you. I refuse to allow such heinous falsehoods to leave my lips, even my imaginary ones.”

As Hector listened to this, you noticed his eyes taking on a liquid shine, which he quickly tried to hide by looking down and away. After a long pause, he leaned up to kiss your forehead, then tucked you under his chin and against his chest.

“…You’re going to put my prose to shame if you carry on like that,” he said softly, but you could hear the smile there yet again.

“Yeah, well.” You kissed his chin, his soft jawline, the spot by his ear that made his breath catch. “What can I say? You’ve met your match, Condicionado.”

Hector hugged you even tighter, a blissful sigh ruffling your hair. “Even for as long as I watched you from afar, I had no idea just how well we suit each other.” He traced the bite marks he left in your shoulder with a fingertip, making you shiver pleasantly. 

You paused then, something occurring to you. “…Speaking of which.”

Hector raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Hold on.” You kissed his cheek before you gently removed yourself from his grasp, rolling over to the other side of your bed and reaching behind your nightstand.

You could feel the mattress shift as he sat up slightly, looking over your shoulder. “What do you have there, amor?”

“Okay, so.” You pulled a fairly thick, worn notebook out of a crevice, wiping away a smidge of dust before turning back to him. You hugged it slightly to your chest, feeling a bit… protective, even with him. “It’s not as nicely bound as yours, for one.”

Hector blinked, looking from you to the notebook and back again. “‘Mine?’” He sized it up, a glint of curiosity and hope in his eyes. “…Is that—”

“So after I met Mac,” you explained, unable to meet his eyes for a moment. “And they mentioned they had, uh… read my previous work,” you phrased it carefully. 

“‘Previous work?’” Hector repeated, looking more and more interested by the minute. 

“Well,” you said, shifting in place. “I figured… I didn’t want to take the chance of them discovering this one. Especially since, you know.” You chewed your lip, hoping you didn’t lose your nerve. “They, um. Know you. And all. It just felt… you know, like an invasion of privacy, so I figured I’d, um. Write it by hand. So it’s a little messy—”

“It’s handwritten?” Hector looked positively giddy when he looked back to you. “You wrote? About me?”

“Oh my god, do I write about you,” you muttered, having to look away when your face started to feel hot again. You cleared your throat slightly. “I… tend to use it as a way to work out some of my… more… obsessive feelings, shall we say?” You glanced at him from under your lashes. “So, uh. Just be advised--”

“PleasecanIreadit?” Hector’s tone was indistinguishable from when he’d asked you to come on his face, and his expression just as besotted.

“It gets better as it goes, I swear,” you said, passing the notebook into his eager grasp. “It just took me a minute to figure out just how to write you, after the first day—”

“The first day?” Hector looked up from where he’d immediately opened it. “That soon?”

“…Well, yeah,” you said, like this was obvious. “You were eloquent and mysterious. I was intrigued and… honestly super aroused,” you added in a shy mumble.

“Oh. Well. So that really was mutual.” Hector blushed even as he grinned, and his eyes eagerly fell back to the first page.

After you kissed his cheek again, you slipped to the bathroom to grab something to clean you both off.

A few quiet, content minutes passed as you let the water warm up, you idly running your fingers under the faucet — Winnifred must have been entertaining, so you didn’t mind waiting.

It wasn’t long after before Hector called your name.

“Yeah?” you called back, your mind still in a half-dreamy haze.

“I’m going to need you to get back here,” Hector said, his voice returned to its lower register. “And show me exactly what you mean about — does this say ‘ankles’?”

“…Oh! Yeah. That.” You smiled to yourself at the memory of writing that particular scene, shutting off the sink and heading back to your room with a warm washcloth in tow. “Well, okay, so we’re going to need some ice and a shibari rope for this chapter.”

“This chapter?”

“Yeah, you’ll see what I mean.”

“My god, my love, I hope so.”

I'm hoping I'll write some fluff of him too oh shit and spit kink I forgot that in this one, but. I wrote this when I was on my period and ran out of ice cream, what can I say.

IT HAD STARTED AS A QUIET MORNING, just you, the sink full of dishes, and the hum of the house stretching itself awake.

"Daisuke," you giggled, squirming as a cold hand brushed the exposed skin just beneath your shirt hem. "Stooop—I’m trying to give the dishes a bath."

You were elbow-deep in suds, fighting a hardened chunk of rice that refused to let go of the ceramic plate. The faucet hissed, warm steam curling around your face. But even through that, through the clatter of dishes and the citrus scent of dish soap, you felt him before you heard him. He pressed in behind you, quiet as always, but present. The faint scent of warm porcelain and stainless steel polish clung to him like cologne.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low and smooth like ceramic, "you neglect me."

His breath was cool against your nape, sending goosebumps scattering across your spine.

You laughed as you squirted soap onto a plate. "You are not one of the dishes."

"Is that so?" he replied softly. 

One hand slid past your waist, plucking a mug from the drying rack. His fingers, pale and long, traced the rim as if it were a sacred object. "A forgotten favorite. Used, scrubbed, and left to dry without affection."

"Oh my god," you muttered, trying and failing to hide your smile. "You are so dramatic."

He said nothing, but you could feel the ripple of amusement beneath his stillness. A moment later, both hands returned to settle at your waist.

"You’ve been standing for too long."

You blinked. "I’m fine?"

"Your back will ache. Again." He paused, gaze dropping deliberately down the line of your spine, as though mentally cataloging every knot of tension waiting to bloom. "Sit. I’ll handle the rest."

You turned to face him, suds clinging to your forearms, a soft frown tugging at your brow. "You’re such a worrywart."

Daisuke’s expression barely shifted, but you caught it. That tiny pull at the corner of his mouth. 

"You exhaust yourself," he said, voice low and clipped. "Running about this house, tending to everyone but yourself. It has been less than twenty-four hours since your last injury, and already you are moving."

Your breath caught at the softness buried beneath his deadpan delivery.

"…You’re such a dork," you whispered.

He leaned in, tapping his forehead gently to yours.

"And you are a menace to dishware. The plate you’re holding is from my spring collection. Irreplaceable."

"Then don’t leave it where I can touch it," you challenged, even as you let him pluck it gently from your hands.

"Exactly my point."

You rolled your eyes and huffed, but didn’t protest when he dried your hands with a towel, fingers brushing yours with infuriating tenderness. He guided you away from the sink with a hand at the small of your back, leading you toward the dining table.

When he pulled out a chair and sat down, you didn’t bother with the other seat. Instead, you just flopped sideways across his lap, limbs loose, arms slung around his neck like it was your throne by birthright. Daisuke let out a quiet, almost exasperated sigh, but his hand came up without hesitation to steady you, palm resting warm and certain against your back.

You tilted your head toward the other end of the dining table, where Timothy sat primly on one of the chairs. Legs crossed, clipboard angled just-so, and his sleek golden timepiece cradled delicately in his gloved hand.

His ears twitched once. Tail flicked twice.

Without glancing up, he announced in his smooth, static-laced cadence, "Thirty minutes, thirty-nine seconds until the next schhhhedule."

You leaned over Daisuke’s arm to reach Timothy, your hand settling between his twitching ears. His fur bristled beneath your touch, but he let out a soft, involuntary purr as he leaned into your palm.

"Morning, baby," you cooed, scratching gently behind one velvety ear. "What schhhhedule?"

Timothy rolled his eyes at your teasing but didn’t dignify it with a response, not right away. He just exhaled, slow and pointed, then flipped the clipboard toward you with a flat glare.

"The one you instructed me to note." His ears twitched. "Precisely thirty minutes from now. A meeting schhhheduled to take place here, in your residence."

It hit you all at once, like a cold glass of water hurled in your face.

Your brain stalled. It completely locked up. You could practically hear the internal hard drive spinning, whirring uselessly in search of a backup you never bothered to make. The rest of the room blurred into background static. All you could see was the clipboard in Timothy’s hands… and the slip of paper pinned dead center like a death warrant.

Your handwriting. Your pink gel pen. That dumb, cheerful to-do list, scrawled.

Pick-up for clothes – 7:00 AM. Don’t let it get weird.

It was already weird.

Your chest tightened, and then you launched off Daisuke’s lap. The chair leg caught your ankle mid-motion, nearly sending you sprawling face-first into the hardwood. You caught yourself just in time, one hand gripping the back of another chair, breath coming fast and uneven.

The living room snapped into focus, and now that you were seeing it, really seeing it, every flaw screamed at you.

No vacuuming. Of course there wasn’t! Why would you think ahead like that? A fine layer of dust still clung to the side table, right where you’d been chatting with Dolly last night.

Three jackets were flung over the coat rack, thanks to Dirk. Sock ropes, actual tied-up sock ropes, dangled off the couch, remnants of the "couch climbing" the Hanks did two nights ago.

The coffee table was a disaster zone from your last drink experiments with Kopi and Beverly. Powdered creamer clung to the surface like a dusting of snow, several half-empty cocktail glasses were scattered across limp napkins, and one mug of oat milk sat forgotten, slowly spoiling, still bearing a lipstick stain on the rim.

No coaster, of course.

And worst of all, you hadn’t told anyone your ex was coming over.

"Tim!" you finally choked out. "Why didn’t you remind me earlier?!"

Timothy, unfazed by your panic, tilted his head and reached calmly into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small black cube, thumbed the side, and clicked it once. Your own voice crackled out in tinny audio:

"If I forget, that’s a sign from the universe that I wasn’t meant to remember."

You stared at him, jaw open. "You’re supposed to override me when I’m being stupid!"

Timothy sniffed, flipping the clipboard closed with a tidy little snap. "Beloved, if I overrode you every time you were being stupid, I wouldn’t have time to wind myself."

You nearly screamed.

Behind you, Daisuke shifted in his chair. You heard the quiet rustle of fabric, followed by the soft clink of a plate being set down on the counter with care.

"Who’s coming?" Daisuke’s voice came from behind you, but you couldn’t get a word out. Just stood there like an idiot, mouth working uselessly, opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water.

Timothy, sensing the spike in tension like a radar ping, clicked his stopwatch again. The sound was sharper this time, more clipped.

"Twenty-nine minutes, seventeen seconds," Timothy murmured. His ears flattened, and unease flickered in his eyes as he shot you a quick glance from the corner of his vision. "You’re unraveling? You are never this worried over your schhhedules."

You let out a shaky, half-laugh of a breath and dug your fingers into your hair, close to spiraling.

"Oh my god," you rasped. "Oh my god, I gotta—I have to shower. I have to get ready. My ex is coming over here!"

The silence that followed hit like a dropped weight.

Timothy froze, every line of his body drawn tight and still. Similarly, Daisuke’s hand slipped slightly, fingers curling hard around the edge of the chair like he’d just remembered it was there. Neither said a word, but something bristled in the air.

You didn’t stick around to explain. Your heart was already thundering in your chest as you turned on your heel and bolted up the stairs, two at a time.

As your footsteps faded up the stairs, Timothy’s expression soured. He stared down at his clipboard, ears still flat against his skull. The pen in his hand clicked once, twice, three times. Each press sharper than the last until he slashed angry lines of ink across the scheduled meeting on the page.

Daisuke glanced over, brow raised, but said nothing. 

Timothy’s tail gave a single flick behind him. 

"Well," he muttered, voice clipped and cool, almost mechanical in its precision, "perhaps I ought to have let them forget."

You burst into the laundry room mid-strip, breath coming fast, one arm still jammed halfway through your shirt sleeve. A towel dangled from your teeth, and your socks made a pitiful slap-slap against the tile as you skidded to a halt. 

"Hey," Dirk said casually, without even glancing up. He had a hip propped up against Drysdale, folding a towel one-handed.

You made a sound that was meant to be words but came out closer to a dying goose. Then, in your frantic tangle of limbs and laundry, one of your socks decided to fling itself from your foot and strike Dirk squarely in the chest.

"Wow," Dirk said flatly, holding the sock between two fingers. He held it between two fingers, arm fully extended as if the thing might bite him. His nose wrinkled ever so slightly in mock disgust, and he gave you a look. "Bold choice. Weaponizing laundry."

"Emergency," you wheezed, still halfway trapped in your shirt like it was trying to strangle you. "Defcon Five. Incoming Ex-Situation. Shower critical."

Dirk quirked a brow. "Oh, so we’re panicking."

"I’m not panicking!" You finally yanked the shirt off, hair sticking up like static. You flung the shirt towards Harper. It missed. Badly.

With a frustrated groan, you started unzipping your pants with one hand while rummaging through a pile of your towels with the other. "Okay, I didn’t plan for this. Obviously. I forgot. I forgot on purpose. And now I have to de-gremlin myself in under twenty minutes before they walk in and think I’ve been living in a hoarder den slash emotional bunker!"

Dirk raised both hands in a slow, exaggerated shrug. "So... Thursday."

"Dirk."

"I’m just saying, baby," he said, completely unbothered, swinging one leg over the edge of Drysdale. "You keep describing your normal day and calling it an emergency."

Before you could throw a quip back, you tripped over your half-peeled jeans and slammed shoulder-first into the open dryer door with a loud thunk.

Dirk cringed. He straightened immediately, legs dropping to the floor as his relaxed posture vanished in an instant. 

"Okay," he said slowly, "let’s not concuss ourselves in a towel. That’s a very unsexy way to die."

You groaned, wincing as you pressed a hand to your shoulder and used the washer to keep from sliding straight to the floor. "Fantastic. Just kill me. Honestly. I’d prefer that to facing my ex."

"Don’t say that." His voice cut in fast, sharper than he meant it to be. He paused, then sighed through his nose, arms folding. "You know I hate it when you make jokes like that."

There was a beat of silence. Then, like flipping a switch, he looked away and rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," he muttered, "if you do keel over, I’m not dragging your corpse upstairs. I’ll throw a blanket over you and call Farya. Let her deal with it."

"I’m fine," you groaned, "Look. If they get here before I’m out of the shower… stall them, okay?"

"Define stall," Dirk said blandly. "I’m literally a pile of clothes."

You let out a strangled noise and buried your face in your hands, palms digging hard into your eyes. "Oh my god. This is such a mess!"

Dirk’s smirk cracked just slightly. He crossed the room and slung an arm around your waist, draping himself over your barely-toweled form. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Then another, soft and slow on your jaw. Then lower, trailing warm across your neck.

"Does he really have to come get those clothes?" Dirk murmured, low and careful, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. "I mean… we could throw them in Cam. Or leave them in the front yard. Let him fetch. Like the dog he is."

You turned to glare at him, but your breath hitched before you could speak because his lips brushed under your ear again.

"You could stay," he said, quieter now, fingers tightening at your waist. "Forget the damn guy. Stay here. With me."

Then his mouth dragged slowly along your jaw, the scrape of his teeth light. His next kiss landed just below your ear, then lower. He sucked a mark into the soft skin at the curve of your neck, and the sound that left your throat wasn’t voluntary.

Your hand shot out to grip the edge of the dryer, knuckles white. Your knees barely held.

"Maybe bring the Hanks in," Dirk added, his breath hot where it ghosted across your skin. "Make it a whole event. Let them watch while I remind you how his name hasn’t come out of your mouth once while you were under me."

You swallowed hard, mind blanking. The tension between your bodies was molten, heavy. The towel was barely staying on.

"Are you—" you tried, throat dry, "—are you seriously seducing me out of taking a shower?"

Dirk just smiled. That crooked, lazy smirk of his that always spelled danger. His thigh slid between yours, hand still low on your towel, thumb brushing the dip of your spine.

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he said smoothly, tilting your chin so you met his eyes. They were dark now, full of unspoken things. "And honestly? If it keeps him from seeing you like this… I’ll do a hell of a lot more than kiss your neck."

Your breath stuttered. Every nerve in your body seemed tuned to his touch.

Dirk leaned in, mouth brushing just below your collarbone now. "Why should he get a version of you I have to live without?"

You exhaled hard, arms crossing over your towel. 

"Dirk…"

"I know," he snapped. "I know. You’re not going back to him. You’re just... doing the responsible thing. Tying up loose ends."

You nodded, barely.

Dirk’s jaw clenched. "Still feels like hell."

You reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the skin just beneath his eye. "It’s not about him," you murmured. "You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you a moment longer, then finally stepped back.

"Fine. Whatever. Go on," he said, voice flatter now, retreating into something colder. "Get cleaned up."

You hesitated. Then kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "No loose ends."

And then you turned and disappeared down the hall. Behind you, Dirk stayed rooted in place. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a low, shaky breath.

"Don’t take too long."

The shower was already running, the room thick with steam and the scent of soap clinging to the air like a second skin. You barely managed to close the door behind you before the heat kissed your cheeks, curling the edges of your hair and drawing sweat from your skin. You tossed the towel aside and stepped in without ceremony, urgency buzzing under your skin.

"Well, well," came that slow, familiar drawl. Slick as honey over warm porcelain. "Ain’t you just the prettiest little storm I ever did see?"

Johnny stood inside, already half-formed from mist and heat, one hip propped against the fogged glass wall like he’d been expecting you. His eyes swept over your naked form with zero shame.

"Thought maybe you were ignorin’ me today, darlin’," he went on, voice slow and syrup-thick. "But here you are. Lookin’ like heaven and hell got together and made a mess just for me."

"Johnny," you groaned, stepping in and letting the spray slam against your shoulders. You tipped your head forward, water tracing down your spine. "This is not the time. I am officially spiraling."

"Mm," he hummed, unconcerned. "And you spiral so pretty. Plus, that’s cruel, baby. Walkin’ in here all glistening and flushed and expectin’ me to act like a gentleman."

"My ex is on the way," you hissed, yanking open the shampoo. "I forgot. I literally blocked it out. And now I have—" You stopped mid-sentence, scrambling through your mental schedule with wild-eyed dread. "—Five minutes. Maybe."

Johnny let out a low whistle, folding his arms across his chest. "Mmm. Sounds like you need a deep soak and a whole lotta Johnny love." 

Then, stepping in a little closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I s’pose I can work with five."

You gave him a flat look. "Johnny. I am naked. In you. That does not mean this is a flirt window."

He raised both hands in mock surrender. "What? You always look like you got it together, sweetheart."

Johnny’s voice dropped, warm and low like the water wrapping around your shoulders. "Even when you’re fallin’ apart, you shine. Makes me wanna hold you ’til the world forgets how to hurt ya."

You blinked up at him, just for a second. Just long enough to feel your pulse slow beneath the heat and the quiet care in his gaze.

"Johnny…"

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Ain’t gonna stop ya from washin’, baby," he murmured. "But don’t you go thinkin’ you gotta face that fool out there without knowin’ there’s a whole mess’a people in this house who already worship the ground you trip over."

You sighed, letting your shoulders relax. "Thanks, Johnny."

He hummed softly, then slipped into one of his off-key tunes—just for you. The melody wobbled all over the place, a half-sung mess, but it made everything feel a little less frantic.

A few minutes later, you stepped out of the shower, towel cinched tight around your body. Your hair dripped steadily onto the tile, and water still clung to your arms and shoulders. You were halfway to the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, when Johnny’s fingers brushed across your collarbone.

"Hold up, sugar," he said, stepping into your space. "You got somethin’ right here…"

He tapped just below your neck with the back of his knuckle, casual as anything. "Little love bite, bloomin’ like spring."

You froze. Then turned sharply on your heel, bare feet squeaking slightly on the tiled floor as you leaned in toward the mirror. The glass was fogged up, but not enough to hide the purpling splotch on the side of your neck. It was front and center, impossible to miss.

Your jaw dropped. "DIRK!" you shrieked, voice bouncing off the walls. "I swear to God!"

Right on cue, Barry’s voice drifted in, light and sing-song. "Darling, breathe. Stress gives you texture."

You spun toward him, panicking. "Barry, I have four minutes and a full-on hickey on my neck!"

"Four minutes? Four? Hun, that is nothing. Right, then! Let's start moving. We are focused and we’re fabulous under pressure!" He was already hovering near the vanity, makeup brushes orbiting his shoulders like tiny satellites. 

"Brush... where’s your brush? No, not that one, that one—!" He snatched a toothbrush from the cup, passed it to you, then shoved a bottle of foundation into your palm in one seamless motion. "Toothpaste. Yes. Open—mouth, not complaints."

You blinked. Then sighed through your nose and obeyed as he popped the toothbrush between your lips.

Mouth full of foam, you grumbled around the bristles, "I hate this."

"Oh, I know, darling, and I cherish you for it," he said breezily, already rearranging his brush set. "Hate gives you an edge. Very retro."

After brushing, you leaned over the sink and spat, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. When you looked up, your eyes went straight to the blotchy mark blooming across your neck.

You jabbed a finger at your reflection. "When this is over," you said flatly, "I’m slapping Dirk’s smug little grin clean off his face."

Barry didn’t even blink. "He’ll love that. Start with the left cheek. It’s his better side. You’ll get a cleaner echo on the second slap."

You just shook your head and started fumbling with the bottle of foundation, the cap already halfway off, ready to slap some dignity back onto your neck. But before you could even squeeze a drop, the weight disappeared from your hand.

You blinked. "Huh?"

Your eyes darted to the counter just in time to catch Barry sliding the bottle back into the drawer. The soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have. His fingers lingered on the handle, but his gaze was fixed on Amir.

"…Did you just take that away from me?"

He didn’t flinch. "Mm. Yep."

"Why?!"

"I changed my mind, darling."

"I need that."

"No, no, no—no," Barry said, swatting the air like your argument was a mosquito. "You want that, but what you actually need, boo boo bear, is to strut out that door in the next sixty seconds with your chin high, your energy radiant, and that bite on full, glorious display."

You pointed wildly at your own reflection. "My ex is going to see the mark!"

Barry turned, squinted at your neck, and made a thoughtful noise. "Mmm… yes! Bold placement. Strong colour story. Bit messy around the edges, but honestly? I’ve seen worse lining."

"You’ve lost your mind," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "New plan! After I slap Dirk, I’m slapping you."

"Ooh, spicy," he chirped, already spinning you toward the door by the shoulders. "Just use the wrist, not the elbow. Now go! Shoo! Time is ticking!"

With a groan and a muttered curse, you bolted from the room, towel flapping around your legs, damp footprints chasing behind you.

The moment the door clicked shut, Johnny let out a low whistle, his grin already stretching ear to ear.

"Damn thing’s redder’n a fox in a henhouse," he drawled, arms folded across his chest. "Plain as day. Lookin’ like it was hand-delivered. Hoo—their ex’s gon’ take one look and forget his damn name."

Barry didn’t even glance up. He just gave a hum of satisfaction as he tidied the counter. "Good. I hope he chokes on it. I hope it’s the first thing he sees, and I hope it haunts him in every mirror for the rest of his sad little life."

He reached for a lipstick tube, uncapped it with a satisfying click, and held it up to the light, eyeing the color. "Mm. Should’ve outlined it. Crimson would’ve been stunning. Maybe a little shimmer. No... black. Black with a gloss finish. Or! Oooh! Ombre. Scarlet fading to wine. Very femme fatale, very sexy, very fabulous. Honestly, missed opportunity."

Johnny let out a low whistle, amused. "You’re cold, sugar. Still. Gotta admit. I like the bite. Looks real fine on them. Real fine."

You trudged up the stairs, one hand gripping your towel, the other clutching the banister. Your fingers were damp, still a little pruny from the shower, but it wasn’t the water making them shake.

The railing slipped a little under your palm. Your breath caught.

"Get it together," you muttered under your breath.

At the top landing, you slipped into your room and shut the door behind you, careful not to let the knob click too loudly. Then you just stood there, forehead resting against the wood, letting the silence wrap around you.

Your hair clung to the back of your neck, still wet. Your skin, warm from the steam, prickled in the sudden cool. The air in your room felt sharper than it should have. Colder.

It was stupid. You knew that. Just a box of clothes. Just a simple, civil drop-off. He was coming to get the last of his things. Some stuff you’d forgotten was even his. A hoodie, maybe a book. Socks. Nothing that should’ve been heavy. Nothing that should’ve made you feel like your spine was caving in.

And yet, the thought of hearing his voice again. Of opening the door and seeing him standing there, same face, same tone, that awful familiar pause before he said your name, tightened your throat like a noose. 

You didn’t notice the shift in front of you until your balance tilted just slightly. The door didn’t feel like a door anymore. It was warmer now. Solid in a different way.

You blinked and looked up to see Dorian.

"Hey, love," he murmured, arm already wrapped securely around your waist. And then, gently, the fingers of his other hand slipped into your damp hair, slow and careful, and pressed to the back of your head in the lightest cradle. His thumb moved once behind your ear, and for some reason, that was the thing that unspooled your chest.

"You don’t have to open the door," he said simply. Like he was stating a fact. 

"He’s just coming to pick up his stuff," you said, the words small in your mouth.

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Like he was weighing something he didn’t want to press you with. Then, without shifting his grip, he drew his palm slowly down your back, letting it settle against the middle of your spine. His touch was warm. Centering.

"He’s not coming in," he said finally, like he'd already decided it, and the world would bend to that decision.

You swallowed hard. Your hands were still gripping the towel too tight.

"I can handle it," you said, barely louder than before.

He sighed and just raised one hand and brushed your hair back behind your ear, knuckles trailing lightly along your temple, then let his fingers rest for half a second more before they dropped.

"Fine. Get dressed," he said gently. "You know where I’ll be, love."

With a final kiss to your forehead, Dorian vanished out through the door.

You stood there for a moment, the ghost of his touch still lingering. Then, smiling faintly to yourself, you crossed the room and reached for the closet handle.

But when you opened the door, instead of seeing your closet, you blinked against a sudden change in light.

The soft creak of the door gave way to a humid wave of warm air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus muscle balm, energy drinks, and the faint tang of sweat. The floor beneath your bare feet was no longer the cool wood of your bedroom, but the familiar give of rubber matting. A thunk-thunk of someone hitting a punching bag echoed from somewhere deeper in the room.

"HOUSE BABE!"

A blur shot out from behind the squat rack. Hank 4 practically flung himself across the floor like a golden retriever let off leash. His curls were an unruly tangle of sweat, his tank top clinging to his muscles like second skin, and his grin stretched so wide it nearly split his face.

"You’re in a towel!"

You didn’t break stride. You stepped into the converted closet gym like it was any other day. "Closet gym day again?"

"EVERY day is gym day," Hank 4 declared, sweeping his arms wide. "But now it’s the best gym day! Because you—" He gestured up and down at the towel. "—are here. In that!"

Hank 2 raised a brow from the pull-up bar. "Please tell me they’re not still dripping wet. You’re gonna catch a cold, babe. Seriously. Where are your socks? Did you at least dry your hair a little?"

"Oh, they’re dripping," Hank 3 purred, already sprawled out sideways across the weight bench. His shirt was off and he was grinning wide at you. "Drippin’ like they’ve been marinating in sin. Babe, you step in here glistening like that again, I’m gonna start conducting research."

You raised an eyebrow. "Research?"

"Yeah," he said with a wicked grin. "Wanna come here and find out my methodology, baby? Real handy stuff."

"You’re so cringe bro," groaned Hank 2, letting go of the pull-up bar and dropping to the floor. "You need a muzzle."

Hank 4 cackled, clutching his side. "Lowkey embarrassing, bro! But let him cook! He’s spittin’ truth, no cap!"

From the back of the room, Hank 5 stepped into view with a roll of wrist wraps. "Ignore him," he said simply. His gaze swept over you. "You walk in like that, the whole room tilts, babe."

"All right," came Hank 1’s voice. He clapped once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention back to center. "Five-minute timeout. Let our baby breathe. Hydrate. Focus up."

Across the room, Hank 3 purred, "Hydrate them, maybe."

"Bro!" Hank 2 hissed, scandalized. "Stop talking!"

You couldn’t help but laugh as you shook your head. "Thanks for the group thirst. That’s… very affirming. Really. But I’m just here for clothes."

You padded barefoot toward the corner of the room, past tangled resistance bands and tubs of protein powder stacked like bricks. A pair of laundry baskets waited near the wall. You crouched beside them, fingers curling around familiar fabric. Your voice dropped, quieter now. 

"My ex is here."

Hank 1’s posture straightened. "Wait. Here here?"

You nodded, trying to make it casual and failing. "Just to pick up some stuff. It’s not a big deal. I just need to change. And maybe not cry. Or puke. But mostly get dressed."

Silence settled, the weighty kind that only falls when a room full of idiots collectively decides they’re about to become dangerous.

"Or," Hank 3 said suddenly, voice smooth as ever but with something darker under it, "you cry, puke, and get dressed. At the same time, we go out there and break every bone in his body. Alphabetically."

"Yup," Hank 2 said.

"Sounds fair," added Hank 5, who had already begun rolling up his sleeves. "Honestly. I’ve been itching to hit something."

"These muscles ain’t for nothing, baby!" Hank 4 shouted, flexing both arms. "Let me at him! I’ll fold that man like a gym towel and wring him out!"

"Guys," you started, but your voice cracked halfway through, and you swallowed hard before trying again. "Guys, no fighting. I don’t think he’s here for a brawl. I just… I need to change. Please."

You turned back to the laundry basket, but your hands didn’t quite work right. You reached for a hoodie and dropped it. Picked it up again, fumbled the sleeve. Your fingers were shaking.

Hank 1 crossed the room without a word and knelt behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. His chin came to rest gently on the top of your head, and for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, shielding you from the rest of the world like a wall.

"We got you, baby," he murmured into your hair, his voice low and sure. "You’re safe."

"Yeah!" Hank 4 chimed in, softer than usual but still bright. "Like, for real. Why’d he even come back after fumbling a ten outta ten? Peak dumbass behavior."

You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I just feel stupid."

"Hey," Hank 1 said, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Nah. Don’t. Don’t ever feel dumb for caring. That’s not weakness, babe! That’s heart. And you’ve got the biggest one in this whole damn house. Fo’ real."

He gave your arms a little squeeze. "Dude was just too mid to handle it."

"Certified goober," Hank 3 muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes like he couldn’t bear to witness the stupidity of it all.

"No, seriously," Hank 2 said, spinning in a short frustrated circle before planting his hands on his hips. "I straight-up can’t even believe the guy. Who fumbles someone like that? You break up with us and I’d like… stop going out Hank gliding, brah."

Hank 4 reeled back, hands in his hair. "Not the Hank-gliding!"

"You know I only glide when I’m at peace, brah," Hank 2 said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "That’s sacred."

A wet snort slipped out before you could stop it, and you wiped your eyes with the edge of your towel. "God. You guys are the worst," you mumbled. "But seriously... thanks. I should get dressed."

"You got it, baby!" Hank 1 said, already backing up with a grin.

And just like that, the room broke back into chaos. Foam rollers hit the floor. Someone stubbed their toe on a kettlebell. Hank 3 tripped over Hank 4, who was trying to dive behind the bench like it was cover fire.

"Go! Go! They need pants!" Hank 4 shouted.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help your smile as you slipped past them toward the back of the gym where your actual clothes, mercifully, were still neatly folded on the shelf.

You dropped the towel and stepped into your pants, pulling them up quick. You grabbed a tank top next and pulled it over your head, smoothing it down over your ribs. As you bent to adjust the hem, you heard the soft shuffle of movement behind you.

You turned, instinctively bracing for another Hank being Hank, but stopped short when you saw Hank 5 standing quietly in the doorway. One hand rested against the frame, light and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step further in.

"Hey, babe," he said, his voice quiet and easy in that way only he ever managed.

"Hey," you breathed, surprised but not startled. You offered a small smile, a tilt of your head. "Wanna come here?"

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped forward, slow and steady. Like he was checking in with every step, making sure you were still okay with it. You stayed put, arms loose at your sides, breath coming a little too fast for no clear reason.

A few more steps and he was in front of you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in and kissed you.

His hand hovered for a moment, like he was still giving you the chance to say no, then settled gently at your hip. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, and when you gasped softly against his mouth, he chuckled, tilting his head to press in a little more.

You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were until they started to drop, your body slowly remembering how to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough to speak near your face, his breath still warm against your cheek.

"Thought you might wanna wear this," he murmured, and lifted a familiar jacket between you.

It was his letterman jacket. Green and white, worn at the sleeves, soft in the places where it had been handled a hundred times. The stitched H on the breast was unmistakable, and your stomach did that stupid swoop it always did.

Without saying a word, you stepped into the space between you and let him guide the jacket onto your shoulders. His hands were gentle as he helped you into the sleeves, tugging them down and smoothing the fabric. His fingers hovered for a second longer at the back of your neck, brushing lightly at the edge of your damp hair.

"It looks better on you," he said, barely above a whisper. "No cap."

You huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, the jacket already warm against your skin. "You’re such a dork."

He leaned in again, voice dropping low near your ear, the words brushing over you like static. "Still better than your ex."

You snorted, shaking your head, but the smile that curled your mouth was real this time. "Not exactly a high bar."

His grin curved in reply, but he didn’t press it.

It was already past the time you were supposed to meet your ex, but he hadn’t shown up yet. So instead of waiting around like a chump, you holed up in the gym closet with the Hanks, letting the himbo hive distract you with whatever nonsense they were on about now. 

"You’re wrong," Hank 4 was saying. "Protein powder totally counts as soup."

"It’s not soup!" Hank 2 snapped. "It’s not liquid. It’s dust. You’re drinking wet dust."

"Wet dust in water," Hank 4 argued, throwing his hands up like that settled it. "What the hell do you think soup is, bro? Broth is just seasoned water, brah."

"That’s not—" Hank 2 made a strangled sound and pointed to Hank 3. "Back me up. You meal-prep for us. Is protein powder soup?"

Hank 3 didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He was laid out across your lap like a cat, your fingers moving absently through his hair as his arms curled tighter around your waist. 

"Soup’s a state of mind," he mumbled, voice lazy and content. "’S long as you can chew it, brah."

"You’re not supposed to chew soup!" Hank 2 barked. "If you have to chew it, it’s stew!"

"You’re just scared to think outside the bowl," Hank 4 shot back. "Soup can be thick. Soup can be chunky. Soup can have macros, bro."

Before Hank 2 could explode again, the doorbell rang.

Your chest clenched instantly, and before your brain could catch up, your body had already gone still. Hank 3 stopped drawing absent circles on your thigh. Hank 1 looked up from where he’d been sorting weights, head tilted like he was already listening for movement down the hall. 

You inhaled and slid out from Hank 3’s arms, pushing yourself upright with careful hands as you moved toward the back shelf where you’d stashed his box. 

The worn cardboard felt lighter than it should’ve when you picked it up, like the contents had evaporated into meaninglessness but still managed to drag at your chest all the same. Just a few leftovers: his hoodie, still clinging to that cologne he always overused; the beanie he never washed, soft from wear; socks rolled the way he liked them, even though he probably wouldn’t notice. You’d folded everything too carefully, like maybe if it looked clean and orderly, it wouldn’t sting so much. Like presentation could make any of it easier.

Behind you, the silence stretched like the whole room was holding its breath right alongside you.

Then, after a beat too long, Hank 3 muttered, "…Can we still hit him?"

"No," you said firmly, not slowing your pace as you walked toward the closet door, the box steady in your grip.

"Throw something at him?" Hank 4 asked, hopeful as ever.

"..." You paused. "We’ll talk about it."

"Fuck yeah!" someone whispered, triumphant.

You tugged Hank 5’s jacket a little tighter around your shoulders and turned just enough to flash them a crooked smile. "I’ll see you guys later."

Without saying much, you stepped out of the closet and headed down the stairs. The wooden floor was cool under your bare feet, the letterman jacket heavy around your shoulders. Each step echoed down the hall, louder than it needed to be.

But just before you reached the corner, Dorian stepped clean into your path.

You nearly walked straight into him at the foot of the stairs. "Tryin’ to stop me again?" you muttered, already bracing for whatever speech he had locked and loaded.

He didn’t move. Just looked at you, one brow arched slowly like it was doing all the talking for him.

"Not tryin’, love," he said, dry as old stone. "Just thought I’d head off the trainwreck before it makes it to the bloody doorstep."

You grimaced. "Again. He’s just here to pick up his things. He's been asking for it all week."

"Mm," Dorian hummed, unimpressed. "I liked Dirk’s plan better. Chuck it all on the lawn, let the twat fetch it. Bit of exercise might do him good."

You rolled your eyes, but the box in your arms suddenly felt heavier. "I just want it over with."

His gaze dropped to the box, then up to your face. He let out a slow breath through his nose, then stepped aside.

"You’re stronger than ’im on your worst day, yeah?" he said, voice low, almost a murmur now. "Just don’t let the bastard see you flinch."

You gave a small, wobbly breath and nodded once.

As you walked past, Dorian added. light, but not joking, "I’ll be nearby. Just in case he gets clever. Been dyin’ to see if this umbrella can crack a skull."

You huffed a laugh, and the box in your arms shifted slightly as you adjusted your grip. The doorknob was cold under your fingers. You took one last breath, steadied yourself, and turned it.

The front door opened with a soft creak.

NOTE: suggest characters for the next chapters!