kaila (20)

Quarry Camp:

In the early days, the world was fresh in its death, nerves raw with everyone on edge. 

Daryl was a ghost at the edges of the group, crossbow always in hand, resentment simmering under his skin from Merle’s absence and the constant babysitting of these soft strangers. You were useful, another set of eyes, a decent shot and not afraid to get dirty. That was all it was.

He didn’t talk much, never did but one night after a supply run gone tense, the quarry’s humid air thick with insect noise and distant moans of the dead, he cornered you behind the tree line, away from the flickering campfires. His hand landed heavily on your hip, callused fingers digging in as yours did the same over the tent in his jeans.

“Need this,” he growled low, more a statement than a question. 

He spun you against a thick trunk, rough bark scraping your palms as he yanked your pants down just enough. His own jeans were shoved low on his hips, cock already hard and leaking from the day’s pent-up rage and there was no kissing. 

He spat in his palm, slicked himself once and pushed in a raw and thick, burning stretch that made your teeth clench. He fucked like he was punishing the world with brutal, shallow thrusts at first and then deeper, hips snapping with frustrated force. One hand fisted your hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as grunts and low curses spilled from him.

“Fuck…tight…f–shit,” voice gravelly and breathless.

It was quick and ugly. He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he forcefully pulled out, then quickly tucked himself away while you were still catching your breath, slick dripping down your thighs. He quickly wiped you with a rag from his pocket, offered a nod and he was gone back to his tent. There was no aftercare or additional words because it was a matter of convenience and release, in the same way he would scratch an itch or hunt for food.

CDC:

The CDC felt like false hope wrapped in sterile walls. Everyone was drunk on wine and the illusion of safety while Daryl was still on the outside of the main room, distrust thick in his veins but the alcohol loosened his tongue just a fraction. You ended up in a dim side corridor after everyone else had passed out or paired off.

He was a little less feral here, still no tenderness but the frustration had changed into survival-fueled need mixed with the knowledge that tomorrow might be the end. He pulled you into a shadowed lab room and bent you over a cold metal table, pushing your jeans down and shoving your shirt up so he could look at your strengthening back muscles. His mouth was on your neck this time, biting more than kissing, teeth scraping skin as he lined up and sank in with one rough thrust.

“Keep quiet,” he muttered against your ear with a thick voice. His pace was steadier but still punishing, hips slapping loud in the empty room as the table creaked under you.

He reached around, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing in messy circles, it was in no way skilled, mostly effective. You clenched around him and he cursed, low and filthy, pounding in harder as sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. When he came it was with a bitten-off groan, hips flush against your ass as he pulsed inside.

He lingered a second longer than at the quarry, forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder while he caught his breath but then he pulled out, helped yank your pants up with a grunt and left. This time, it was convenience with the faintest edge of mutual reliance now since you watched each other’s backs out there more than once.

Hershel’s Farm:

The farm brought fragile stability as days blurred into chores, patrols and quiet nights. Daryl was more integrated but still prickly, especially after Sophia. You hunted together now as silent but efficient partners in the woods and inevitably, that shared competence started bleeding into everything else.

Sex wasn’t random anymore. It happened after long days tracking, in abandoned barns  or deep in the woods where no one wandered. He still didn’t do ‘soft’ but there was more of a rhythm now and he made sure you came at least once.

One evening after a successful hunt, blood still under his nails, he tugged you up the ladder into the hayloft, moonlight filtering through the slats. He stripped you slowly, your shirt went first but he still hesitated to touch anywhere else. When he pushed inside, you were on your back in the hay, legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts were deep and grinding, less frantic than before but still very blunt. Skin slapped and heavy breathing filled the space with the occasional low “Yeah…like that,” when you moaned or tightened around him.

He watched your face more, studying reactions like he studied tracks. One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could hit deeper. Sweat-slick and grunting, he fucked you until your legs shook and when you came, he didn’t stop, just kept that relentless pace until he followed, burying himself with a ragged groan and staying there longer, hips twitching.

Afterwards, he didn’t leave right away. He rolled off but stayed close, one arm draped heavy over your waist while you both breathed heavily. There was no ‘love talk’ or any real cuddling but there was a quiet acknowledgment, you were not just a warm body anymore. You were the one who moved silently with him through the trees, the one who didn’t flinch at his scars or his moods.

Respect was starting to root, even if feelings were still buried deep under layers of loss and survival.

The road after the barn burned:

The farm was ash and the group was scattered on the road, exhausted, hungry and hunted while nights were cold and the days brutal. You and Daryl fell into a rhythm of scouting ahead, hunting small game and watching each other’s backs without needing words. 

The sex became less about pure frustration and more about grounding each other in the chaos, two hardened survivors stealing heat and release when the weight of leadership and loss pressed too heavy.

One night the group camped in a tight circle of cars off a forgotten highway. You slipped away together into the tree line, far enough for privacy but close enough to hear if walkers or threats appeared. Daryl pulled you behind a thick oak, his crossbow leaned nearby within easy reach. 

The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. He was dirt-streaked and tense but his hands were sure when he turned you to face the tree. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel though you were starting to like it. He tugged your pants and underwear down to your knees in one motion, then freed himself, he was already hard, thick and flushed, veins prominent from the day’s adrenaline. He spat into his palm again, an old habit but this time he reached around and worked the slickness over your entrance with two rough fingers, opening you up properly for the first time in weeks.

When he pushed in it was still shallow, still a stretch that burned so good, too good, but slower. He bottomed out with a heavy exhale against the back of your neck while one arm braced on the trunk above your head, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steadily against him. His thrusts started deep and rolling, in long strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, yet the slap of skin was muffled by the night. He grunted softly with each thrust, breath hot on your skin.

“Fuck…you feel good,” he admitted between clenched teeth. It definitely wasn’t sweet talk, it sounded more like pure honesty, a bit surprising. His hand slid down, callused fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm, steady circles in time with his hips. 

He was learning your body now, paying attention to the way you clenched and gasped, so when your legs started to shake, he didn’t speed up, he kept that relentless pace until you came hard around him, biting your own arm to stay quiet.

Only then did he let go, hips snapping sharper as he chased his own release. He came with a low, broken groan, pressing deep and staying buried while he pulsed inside you, forehead dropped to your shoulder. 

For a long minute he just breathed there with you, arm still banded around your middle like he just remembered what came after this. He pulled out carefully, helped you fix your clothes with surprisingly gentle hands, then wiped himself with a rag before offering it to you. 

You hunted together the next morning like always and the respect was palpable now. He trusted you with his life out there and the sex had become another way you took care of each other in a world that took everything.

The prison (Before the Governor):

Prison walls finally offered something like safety with its cells, fences and routines. Daryl was more settled but still carried the weight of the group on his shoulders. 

You two shared a cell more often than not as the weeks passed and the sex reflected that. It was still rough around the edges but laced with intimacy born of partnership since you had bled together, killed together and kept the group alive together.

Late one night after a long watch shift, the prison was quiet except for distant walker groans outside the fences. You were in the lower bunk of a cell in another block, the place you usually went to when you needed to get away from the group. Daryl climbed in after you, his body heavy and warm as he pressed you into the thin mattress. No words were needed before he stripped you both efficiently, hands roaming your sides and mapping scars he had memorized by now.

He settled between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking against your soaked pussy. This time he took his time entering, thick inch by inch, watching your face in the dim light filtering through the bars. Once he was fully seated he paused, hips flush, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. “Good?” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded and he started moving deeply with precise thrusts that rocked the bunk frame quietly. His mouth found your neck then, sucking marks that would be hidden by a high-neck shirt in the morning.

He fucked you like a man who knew exactly what you needed after a hard day. One hand pinned your hip while the other braced beside your head and the angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust. His grunts were low and guttural, “That’s it…take it…fuck, too good of a habit to quit.” The words slipped out heavily with the truth of your partnership as he was claiming you in the only way he knew how.

When you came he rode it out, stroking you through it until you were trembling, then he let himself go, burying deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he filled you. He collapsed half on top of you afterward, breathing hard against your neck with one arm wrapped around your waist. He didn’t pull out immediately, he stayed inside you, softening, while his thumb stroked lazy circles on your skin, yet there were no grand declarations but the protectiveness was there in every touch. You were his hunting partner, his cellmate, the one person he let see the cracks and he realized how respect had become bone-deep loyalty.

The prison (After the Governor):

The Governor’s attack left scars, literal and otherwise. The prison was damaged, the group fractured and trust in short supply. Daryl was darker now, angrier and more withdrawn after losing so many, as a result, the sex turned fiercer, punishing in its intensity but it was still the one place where the two of you could reconnect without the weight of leadership crushing you.

After a brutal day reinforcing defenses and scouting for revenge, he found you in that same secluded cell block and tension rolled off him in waves, same with you. He pushed you against the cold concrete wall, removing your boots, yanking your pants down roughly while his own were haphazardly shoved low by you. He was rock hard, angry-hard and he spat on his cock before hiking your thigh up and driving into you in one brutal thrust.

“Need you,” he growled against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. There was no warmup that time, he fucked you hard and fast with deep, punishing strokes that lifted you onto your toes. The slap of skin echoed as his hand wrapped around your throat lightly, holding you possessively while the other remained at your thigh, fingers gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me too,” he snarled between thrusts, voice cracking with everything he wouldn’t say outright.

It was desperate and sweat dripped. Your moans mixed with his grunts as he angled to hit that spot inside you relentlessly until you shattered around him, clenching so tight he cursed viciously. He followed right after, slamming deep and staying there, cock pulsing as he spilled hot and thick inside you with a long moan.

He stayed pressed against your front for a long time, breathing ragged, arms caging you in until he softened and pulled out, resting his forehead against yours for a silent moment, allowing rare vulnerability. Then he helped clean you up with hands steadier than his mood. 

The partnership was ironclad now, he would kill for you without hesitation and the sex was how he reminded you and himself that you were still here, still his to protect in this brutal world. There weren’t any feelings yet but the foundation was set, layered with deep respect, fierce loyalty and a bone-deep need that only grew stronger with every loss.

Alexandria (Before Negan):

Alexandria’s walls felt like a different world between the clean houses, running water and the people still trying to pretend the dead weren’t out there. Daryl was uncomfortable with the softness and domesticity but he was adapting. You two had a house now, a shared space and inevitably, the sex changed noticeably. The frustration and pure convenience were gone since respect had deepened into vulnerability and feelings started to surface in the quiet moments after, now that there was a space they could live in safely.

One night the house was quiet and the neighborhood asleep. You were in the bedroom you shared, moonlight cutting through the curtains when Daryl came back from a late watch, still wired. He found you already in bed and stripped slowly, eyes locked on you the entire time and when he climbed over you, his touch was still callused and sure but there was a new reverence in it.

He kissed you now in deep, hungry kisses that tasted like want and something softer. His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks you no longer hid and he took his time undressing you, hands mapping every inch like he was memorizing you all over again. 

When he finally pushed inside, it was slow and thick, stretching you open with a groan that vibrated against your throat, though you didn’t need to be quiet now.

“Goddamn…always so good for me,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. His hips rolled in deep and steady thrusts, they had grown confident and controlled, hitting every spot that made your back arch. He was fully present, watching your face and adjusting his angle whenever your breath caught. 

One hand laced with yours above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper.

The pace built gradually making your skin slick with sweat as the bed creaked softly. He ground against your clit with every thrust, low grunts mixing with your moans. “Been keeping those sounds away from me? Those are mine now,” he whispered against your lips, it was the first time he said it quite like that, claiming in a way that carried weight. When you came he rode it through, kissing you through the tremors, then let himself follow, burying deep with a ragged groan as he filled you, hips stuttering with the intensity of it.

He stayed inside you for a long minute, then rolled you both so you were draped over his chest, arms wrapped around you as one hand stroked slowly up and down your back. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, small and hesitant but at least there was no more bolting and no more walls to keep up. The feelings were there now, quiet and extremely terrifying for a man who had lost everything. He held you like you were the one thing in this world he refused to let slip away.

The Hilltop:

Hilltop brought new alliances, new dangers and new responsibilities. The relationship had settled into something solid by then as sex reflected his growing confidence, he knew what he wanted, knew what you needed and he gave it without hesitation.

You stole a night in one of the smaller trailers on the outskirts. The air was cooler, tension from recent runs still humming under his skin as he pulled you onto the narrow bed, stripping you both with practiced hands. He was harder and more assured now in what the two of you had built.

He went down on you first, something that had become more common. His rough stubble scraped your inner thighs, tongue and lips relentless and skilled from practice before two thick fingers curled inside you while he sucked on your clit until your hips bucked and you came against his mouth with a muffled cry. Only then did he climb up, cock heavy and dripping as he slid into your soaked pussy in one smooth thrust.

“Fucking…perfect,” he growled, voice low and gravelly. His thrusts were powerful and confident in deep, rolling strokes that made the bed frame knock against the wall. He pinned your wrists lightly, mouth on your neck, sucking fresh marks while he fucked you steady and hard. He changed angles until he found the one that made you keen, then exploited it mercilessly, hips snapping with precision.

The possessiveness was stronger now, mixed with open care. “Stay with me,” he rasped between thrusts. “Ain’t losin’ you out there.” When you clenched around him and came again he groaned loudly, following you over the edge and burying himself to the hilt as he spilled hot and deep, hips grinding through the pulses.

After, he cleaned you both with a warm cloth from the basin, then pulled you tight against him under the thin blankets. His hand rested on your hip, thumb stroking lazy circles and he talked more now, just quiet murmurs about the day, about worries for the group and about how you made the weight feel bearable. The man who once fucked you against a tree and left was gone, this Daryl held you like you were home.

Alexandria (After Negan):

Negan’s shadow had left its mark of blood, loss, captivity and war. Daryl was harder again in some ways but with you he was open like he never was before. The sex, when he could finally indulge in it, was emotional, a release and a reaffirmation that you both had survived. He had lost too many and the fear of losing you fueled everything.

Back in your shared house in Alexandria, the first night after Negan and the Saviors were successfully defeated by the group, he was on you the moment the door closed and he kissed you like a man drowning with deep and desperate hands roaming everywhere. Clothes came off in a frantic trail to the bedroom and once you reached it, he lifted you onto the bed, spread your thighs wide and buried his face between them first, eating you out with single-minded hunger until you were shaking and oversensitive.

Then he was inside you, thick and stretching you out perfectly. He fucked you with deep, shallow strokes, hips snapping against yours with control. Every thrust carried the weight of relief, love he still struggled to name and inevitably, the fear of tomorrow. 

“Can’t lose you,” he growled against your mouth, voice breaking. “You hear me? You’re it for me.”

He laced your fingers together, pinning your hands beside your head while he drove into you. The pace was relentless and the sound of skin slapping obscene as sweat-slick bodies moved together. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every moan and flutter like it was the first time and when you came he didn’t stop, he kept fucking you through it until you were sobbing his name and cumming again, then finally let go with a deep, guttural moan, emptying himself inside you in long, pulsing waves that sounded painful.

He collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you so tight it was almost bruising. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in and apologizing for being so “gone” which you immediately corrected even as he pressed soft kisses to your temple and shoulder. His hand stroked your hair, your back and anywhere he could reach because there was no hiding anymore, the feelings were overflowing and terrifying. He whispered rough promises against your skin, about how he would always come back to you and how he would protect what you had built together.

This Daryl was confident, devoted and deeply in love, even if the words still came slowly. The evolution was complete in its own way, from frustrated quick fucks in the woods to this raw, emotional and unbreakable connection without a place to hide.

The Commonwealth:

Years had carved their marks deep into both of you. The Commonwealth offered structure, safety, even a fragile sense of normalcy with its bustling streets, electricity and attempts at governance but Daryl had seen too many utopias crumble. You were the one constant he refused to lose, the one person who had walked every mile of hell beside him, from quarry dirt to these polished Commonwealth streets. The sex between you now was no longer just release or partnership, it was love made physical and intricate, a language only the two of you fully understood. It was slow when time allowed and desperate when the ghosts pressed close, always profound.

One night in your shared apartment, modest by Commonwealth standards but private and secure, Daryl returned from a long day helping with outer perimeter checks. The weight of old habits lingered in his shoulders, his crossbow still strapped nearby even there. 

You met him at the door and the moment his eyes locked on yours, the tension changed. He pulled you into a deep, claiming kiss, hands sliding under your shirt to feel warm skin, thumbs brushing the familiar scars he knew by heart and clothes were shed without rush but with purpose, leaving a trail through the living room into the bedroom. The bed was larger than any you had shared before, dressed in soft sheets that still felt foreign against skin used to rough blankets and forest floors.

Daryl laid you down like something precious, his body covering yours, heavy, solid and safe while his mouth explored with patient hunger, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, sucking one nipple until it pebbled under his tongue while his callused hand palmed the other breast. He moved lower, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wide as he settled between them.

His stubble scraped deliciously against sensitive skin while his tongue parted your folds, licking long, slow stripes before focusing on your clit with precise, relentless circles. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right, pumping steadily as he sucked and licked until your back arched and your fingers fisted in his long hair. He didn’t stop when you came the first time, drawing it out and savoring every flutter and gasp, murmuring low praises against your slick flesh, “Tha’s it…let me hear ya…so fuckin’ beautiful f’me.”

When he finally climbed back up, his cock was heavy, flushed dark and leaking. He held your gaze as he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.

A deep groan escaped him at the tight heat and for a long moment he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air. “Can’t lose you,” he whispered, voice rough and cracked with years of unsaid terror. “Lost too many…not you, never you. I’ll be selfish ‘bout tha’” 

Then he began to move in deep, rolling thrusts that ground against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips moved with confident precision, the years of learning your body were evident in every stroke. One hand laced with yours, pinning it beside your head as  the other gripped your hip, tilting you just right so he could sink even deeper.

The rhythm built gradually, skin sliding hot and slick together as the wet sounds of sex filled the room alongside his low grunts and your moans. He kissed you through it, messily and open-mouthed, tongues tangling as his pace turned harder and more possessive. He moved to hook one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle until you were crying out with every thrust. “Gonna marry ya,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing the skin he had marked a thousand times before. “‘S always been ya. My home…my reason.” The words were sparse but heavy with everything he felt, the love, the fear and devotion of a man who had finally found something worth living for after the world ended.

When you came again, clenching hard around him, he rode it out with gritted teeth, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he let go, thrusts turning deep and erratic, hips snapping as he buried himself as far as possible and came with a long, broken groan. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt of thick cum as he filled you, marking you from the inside like he always had. He stayed buried deep, hips making tiny, involuntary rocks while he softened, savoring the connection. His arms wrapped around you, rolling you both so you were draped across his chest as his hand stroked slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

“I can hear you,” Johnny grumbled from his spot on the floor in the living room, his back to his betraying family who were jesting at his expense. The glow of the holographic screen in front of him illuminates the wrinkle in his forehead, brows creasing as he swipes his finger to switch between dozens of open tabs—gold bands, solar reactive gems, vintage settings—none of them satisfying his very specific taste. They simply weren’t right.

He let out a frustrated groan before flopping backwards dramatically, head landing on the couch cushion. The carpet was starting to feel prickly under his thighs. Online shopping was starting to get him real heated. “Why are all of these so ugly?” he shouts, hands flying up in frustration. 

Sue raised a brow at his dramatics, giving Reed a pointed look before looking over at her baby brother, whose tuft of blonde hair was barely visible over the back of the couch. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer before the proposal even happens.”

“Well, why can’t any of the rings just be perfect?” Johnny grumbles, voice completely earnest as it carries through the room. “Is that too much to ask for?” 

“Is what too much to ask for?” a familiar voice cuts through Johnny’s haze. Carrying a stack of books for Reed, you adjust them in your arms as you flicker your gaze across the room, only to be met with guilty stares at every turn. Everyone seems to be avoiding eye contact with you for some strange reason. A frown finds a way onto your face, suspicion creeping up your spine.  

“Nothing!” Johnny shouts, waving away the graphics in front of him with frantic arms, the images dissipating in a mist. 

Your frown deepens. 

Trailing behind you, HERBIE rolls past you and into the kitchen, letting out a series of beeps that sound oddly similar to a snicker.

“It’s nothing.” Johnny insists before letting out a casual scoff, masking the panicked expression on his face with a poor attempted-smirk. He props himself against the couch, giving you a shrug that seemed way too forced to be casual. “Just some space…science mystery thing…” he explains poorly, before letting out a rushed, loud laugh. “But what’s uh—” his eyes shift around the room, “What’s going on with you?” 

You part your mouth, head tilted as you analyze him with profound confusion. When his gaze finds itself fixed to the ceiling, you purse your lips. “Mhm.” Breaking your attention away from your weird, bumbling boyfriend, you instead choose to focus on Reed. Sometimes it was easier not to ask any questions. You’ve learned that the hard way. “Anyways,” you dismiss Johnny, turning to his brother-in-law instead. “I’ll meet you in the lab?” 

Reed clears his throat, patting a giggling Franklin on the back as he murmurs, “Yes. Lab. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” 

A curt nod is your only reply. 

Just as you spin on your heels to exit, a whoosh of air fans your face as Johnny suddenly takes his place next to you, prying the stack of books from your hands as he effortlessly matches your pace. 

All you can do is offer him a warm laugh, shaking your head at his silly antics as the two of you walk with your shoulders pressed against each other. 

Turning back to shoot a pointed look at his family, Johnny offers a wide smile, one that reads ‘Flawless, right?’ only to be met with Sue’s tired blink and Ben’s slow thumbs-up. Reed doesn’t even bother to look at him. Awkwardness hangs thick in the air. 

Speaking out of only the corner of his mouth, Ben couldn’t help but whisper to your future in-laws, “I have no idea what she sees in him sometimes.” 

The chorus of murmured agreements fell deaf on Johnny’s ears as he turned all of his attention to you. 

-

You and Johnny didn’t mean to fall in love with each other. In fact, you hadn’t even intended to stick around for this long.  

Reed had been looking for an assistant. 

Well, kind of. 

Reed didn’t exactly want an assistant, if he were being entirely honest. At least…not at first. But Sue had insisted. The idea had only come up when the two of them began discussing the possibility of trying for a child, and the more serious the conversation became, the more persistent Sue had become in Reed finding a way to delegate some of his roles. 

“You can’t solve all the world’s problems and be a dad at the same time, you know,” Sue would comment. 

“Yes, I can,” Reed replied, voice carrying genuine confusion at his wife’s words. 

But he relented anyway. Not because he wanted to, but because he wanted Sue to be happy. 

And so the search began.

It was only supposed to be temporary: find someone who can help out around the Baxter Building and with Reed’s experiments to take the weight off a bit while the married couple focused on their personal lives. Give it a year—then said assistant would disappear. Someone qualified. Efficient. Someone who would just be an employee for the next twelve months. It would have been simple enough.

But no one could predict how difficult Sue and Reed’s journey to parenthood would be. The first six months flew by with you quickly proving how fast you were on your feet with a skilled brain to match. Then nine. Then the full year had passed. It carried a heavy tone for everyone, the realization that Sue and Reeds’ dream may stay as just that. 

But at least one good thing came out of it—you.

“I don’t like it,” Johnny states bluntly. He holds the tiny, glistening setting in the light, inspecting it with a magnifying glass he’s wearing over one eye. 

The only sound he hears in response is Reed’s long sigh. “Johnny—” 

“It’s too fragile. And choppy.” Johnny’s posture is exaggeratedly critical as he studied every facet of the band the gem would sit in. Just the band. Don’t even get Johnny started on the gem itself. No, seriously, please don’t—Reed can’t handle it.  

“It’s composed of the strongest chemical compounds on Earth,” Reed argues with a raised brow. “The molecular structure has been stabilized for maximum durability. It’s practically indestructible.”   

“Looks weak.” Johnny tosses the ring over his shoulder before flipping a magnifying piece of glass away from his eye with a flick of his wrist. With hands on his hips, Johnny asks, “What else you got?” 

Reed rubs his templates, turning away from Johnny and towards the opposite work bench to pull out another design buried underneath piles of material, blueprints, and sketches. “Your girlfriend is much more enjoyable to be in the lab with,” he mumbles under his breath. 

“What was that?” Johnny whips around, cupping a hand to his ear. 

All Reed can do is let out another sigh before turning around with a forced smile. “What about this one?” 

Reed’s patience has to be commemorated, he’s indulged Johnny much more these past two weeks than he has in the entire time he’s known the boy. They’re both aware of how long the process has been dragging out and they both know it’s not because Johnny had this specific of a taste. Johnny was scared. 

The decision has been weighing heavily on the usually light-hearted kid, and Reed understood that. Johnny didn’t know how to say it out loud, but…Reed understood.

“Hm,” Johnny hums, taking a precarious step towards Reed as he tilts his head to one side to examine the ring. Delicately, he picks it from between Reed’s fingers and twists it around. “Better. Not perfect, but better.” 

“You’ve said that about nineteen prototypes.” 

Johnny shrugs. “You should see how long it takes me to buy a new pair of shoes.” 

“I don’t want to.” Reed adjusts his glasses before turning his back to Johnny and starting to fiddle with stuff at his workstation while the annoying hero continues examining the ring. 

He wouldn’t admit it, but Johnny knows what’s been holding him back. The simple act of picking a ring just felt like more than just choosing metal and stone. It was a promise. A decision you couldn’t just… flame out of if you got scared. 

It’s quiet for a moment—at least, quiet for them—before Johnny says, almost too casually, “You know, I was so convinced I wouldn’t get attached.”

Reed pauses his tinkering, glancing over. “No?”

“Mm-mm.” Johnny grins faintly, but it’s softer than usual, his eyes catching on the glint of the ring. “She only started working here because Sue forced you to get help, right? And then you hired her, I had just come back from that mission with Ben—” He waves a hand in the air. “Boom. She’s here, I’m here. Sue warns me to stay away. It was temporary. But then…” Johnny trails off thoughtfully, a cloudy look in his eyes when he remembers how turbulent things were before Franklin. “You know the rest.”

Reed does know the rest. The bickering in the halls, the way you rolled your eyes at Johnny but somehow always ended up sitting next to him at lunch, the night you two got locked in the containment lab because of a faulty door sensor and fell asleep talking. 

The love that was slowly unraveling between the two of you were some of the only pieces of light the family saw during that time. 

It was hard to be so upset about their hurdles into parenthood when in parallel something so sweet was blossoming. 

“I’m just saying…” Johnny turns the ring in his hand again, voice quieter. “If Sue hadn’t made you hire her, I might’ve never met her.”

Reed doesn’t smile often. Not genuinely. But he does now.

“You would’ve found each other eventually,” Reed says simply. “People who belong together tend to.”

Johnny doesn’t respond right away—he just stares at the band one more time before setting it down gently on the bench, almost reverently this time.

“This one’s close,” he says.

It’s the first time he hasn’t immediately rejected a design.

-

“I get it,” Johnny said animatedly with his hands as he trails after Sue. “Johnny loves space. Johnny loves women,” he mocks. “Now there’s this beautiful, smart, space-loving girl hanging around Baxter Building and Johnny thinks they’re meant to be.” 

All Sue does is offer a pointed look back, making her way towards her and Reed’s shared wardrobe, neatly placing clean laundry into their respective drawers.  

“I promise,” Johnny huffed. “It’s real.” He raised his brow, licking his lips as he waited for Sue’s response. 

“Johnny—” the sigh expelled from her lips just as her hip slammed the compartment shut. “She doesn’t like you.” 

“Um, yes. She does,” Johnny protested, closing the space between them by rounding the bed. “She said yes to a date!” he declares. A pregnant pause ensues. When he met Sue’s narrowed eyes, Johnny caved and rushed out, “It’s a scheduled calibration test for Reed’s new scanners.” 

His words overlap Sue’s very loud scoff-mixed laugh. 

“It’s a six hour overnight task!” he justifies over his sister’s clear dismissal. “A lot can happen. I can charm her, watch.” 

Sue busied herself with miscellaneous tasks, tidying here and there, just as a way to ignore Johnny. He watched her with cautious eyes, daring her to argue. 

“What could you possibly do in six hours that you haven’t been able to achieve in the three months that she’s been here? Face it Johnny,” Sue shrugs, “You’re not her type.” It’s simply declared. 

Johnny grinned. “I’m everybody’s type.” 

The laugh she let out was sharp. She passed by Johnny, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “You keep telling yourself that, kid.” 

“Watch!” Johnny shouted as Sue walked out of her own room, away from him. “She’s gonna love me!” 

“No harassing our employees, please!” she waved over her head as she disappeared down the hallway. 

And in that moment, no one even realized how right Johnny would truly be. Not even him.

“Ow!” Johnny shouts, “That hurts!”

“Oh quit being such a baby,” Sue hushes as she combs her fingers through his hair, scissors snipping away in neat, practiced motions. Her voice is quieter when she follows up with a soft, “You’re twitchier than usual.” It comes out slow as she angles his head to trim the sides. 

Johnny caught her eye in the mirror, and at the sight of the small, knowing quirk of her lips, Johnny quickly breaks away. He bites on the inside of his lip before attempting to play it cool. “I just want to look good,” he mumbles. 

“Hm. For what I wonder? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the proposal you’ve been dragging out for a month, now does it?” she teased, spraying the back of his head with some water. 

“No,” Johnny quickly protests, before slouching back into the chair Sue has him perched on. He plays with his fingers that are sitting in his lap, gaze set on the chunks of hair falling onto Sue and Reed’s tiled bathroom floor. “Maybe.”

“Does this mean you’re finally going to do it?” 

“It hasn’t been that long,” Johnny continues to deflect. “I’ve just been…strategizing. Preparing.” 

“Preparing?” Sue gasps, faking an inquisitive tone. “Johnny? The Johnny Storm?” 

“Ha. Ha.” He replied sarcastically. 

“You’ve dived into wars with less strategizing than this, Johnny.” Sue shakes her head. “You tried to throw yourself into a portal that would take you to the edge of the universe with a cosmic being.” She muses. “You made that choice in less than, what, twenty seconds?”

Pointed a finger is thrown at her through the mirror. “Okay, first of all, I had a plan—” 

“You had a death wish,” Sue corrects smoothly, snipping a little more off the back.

“A heroic death wish,” he shot back with a smirk. “I would’ve been memorialized. She would’ve loved me forever,” Johnny refers to you. 

Sue’s brow arched, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward. “Uh-huh. But now you can’t ask her to marry you and love you forever while both of you are alive because…?”

He shrinks in on himself. “It’s different,” the boy insists. No other explanation is offered. 

Sue’s gaze softens as she combs through his hair. “What are you so worried about? Honestly.” Her voice carries a tone of exasperation, as though she’s truly at her wits end. The older sibling doesn’t wait for him to answer as she continues, “This girl has been through the worst of you. And with you. Remember that time you burned a hole through the rooftop during that meteor shower because you thought she’d find it ‘romantic’?”

Johnny’s smirk was faint, but there. “Yeah.” 

“She wasn’t even your girlfriend yet,” Sue points out. “Heck, we were all convinced she didn’t even like you.” 

His expression transforms into a gentle smile. “Yeah, me too.” 

“But then,” she continues. “She spent the next two hours pulling every charred shingle out of your hair and off your clothes.” 

Johnny chuckles at the memory.

“And she still stayed afterwards to watch the meteor shower with you.” 

“Yeah, I guess she did,” he remembers fondly. 

“So you’ve already done the hard part,” she shrugs, as though it were obvious. 

His brows furrow. “What do you—”

“I mean, if she’s seen past all…this—” she gestures to him vaguely. 

“Hey, wait a minute—”

“At your dumbest, your messiest, your most combustible—” Sue lists off with no remorse despite Johnny’s ample protests. “Then she’s not going anywhere.” 

The teasing lingers in the air for a moment, but Sue watches as something in Johnny’s face changes. The small grin he bore falters, and the room seems to grow a bit quieter than it was a few seconds ago. Sounds of the snipping scissors felt so much louder than they did before, and Sue notices. She always notices. 

Her hands slow in his hair, stilling. “Johnny?” She asks softly, a different kind of question in her voice now. 

When he looks up at her through the mirror, there’s a glossiness in his eyes that weren’t there a second ago and a flash of something that looks like vulnerability has her heart cracking wide open. “What if she says no?”

Sue’s chest tightens, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she puts the equipment down on the counter with deliberate care before gently resting her hands on his shoulders. 

“Johnathan Storm,” she says, leaning down just enough that their eyes meet in the mirror. “I promise she won’t.”  

-

“No, no, I’m not doing that,” you managed to get out between laughs, the sound of your giggles mixing with everyone else’s around the table. “That has Reed’s name written all over it.” 

“Uh, no.” Reed shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink. He swallows before tilting his cup towards you, “You’re the assistant for a reason. You take all the unwanted meetings.” 

“I’m sitting right here,” Johnny tosses his hands up before the land on his lap, leaning back in his chair with a look of absolute shock on his face. “I mean come on, I scheduled it. It’s on the calendar,” he emphasized while shooting a pointed look at you, the person who insisted on creating one in the first place. All he was met with was a cheeky grin as you glanced elsewhere.  

“I signed up to be a scientist, not a babysitter,” you tease. 

Ben barks out a loud laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

Johnny can only sputter in protest. “Seriously, why am I the only one defending myself here?” 

“Because you’re the only one who thinks you need stickin’ up for.” Ben claps Johnny on the back in a false gesture of sympathy.

Your grin stretches wide, shoulders shaking as you attempt to quiet your laughter. The room feels warm. Full and lively—like all of their family dinners do. The conversation moves along quickly, Reed delving into a spiel about something overly complex as he always does. Sue tries to, and fails, to keep the peace between everyone. Ben gulfs down half of the roasted potatoes while HERBIE tries to suck up any food dropped on the ground.

And Johnny watches you.

You don’t usually join their dinners. In fact, you had declined every single one of his invitations for the better half of a year—back when you were just an employee. But over time, things shifted. Not just between you and him but between you and everyone. Slowly but surely, you fell into their routine. Like a missing piece to a puzzle that no one knew was lacking until it clicked.

Johnny’s breath hitches. Just for a second. A second long enough that the laughter around him dips beneath the thrum of his pulse. 

Because this…this stupid, chaotic dinner. With you teasing him, smiling at his family, fitting into this space like you’d been molded for it—

His heart skips a beat. 

This is more than a crush. 

Johnny knows—this is it for him. 

“Johnny, no, no no,” Ben intercepts, plucking the random spice jar Flameboy had picked up when Ben’s back was turned. “Please, don’t. Just—” Ben ushers Johnny into a stool across the kitchen island like he’s herding sheep. “Sit here.” 

Flopping dramatically, as he’s been doing a lot lately, Johnny sighs. “I was helping!” he insists. 

“No, you were trying to give your fiancée-to-be food poisoning,” his friend deadpanned. 

“Alright,” he retorts sarcastically. “It’s a seasoning, I don’t think—”

“This is cinnamon.” Ben holds up the bottle. “Johnny, you grabbed cinnamon for pasta.”

His lips just purse in response. A beat of silence falls between the two before a loud slam of Johnny’s palms against the counter makes Ben drop the bottle in exasperation. “Well! That’s okay,” the blonde quickly averts from the previous conversation. “Listen, it has to go perfectly today, okay? The food won’t matter—” A sharp glare from Ben has him retracting his statement. 

“Okay, it matters, but the main point is I’m taking her to our spot. I’m gonna do it today Ben. No more messing around. This is it.” Johnny exclaims. 

From across the counter, Ben can’t help the way he softens a little. His shoulders unknot as he slices through some vegetables with a care that seems to be reserved only for you. “I know you want this to be perfect.” He pauses. “And it will be. But only because I’m helping you make her favorite pasta without the cinnamon.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, but he can’t get too mad knowing that he’s the one asking for a favor. 

Ben stirs the sauce with a wooden spoon before bringing it to his lips. 

Suddenly, the sound of choking overwhelms the room. 

“Oh my—” Ben manages to sputter between coughs. “Johnny—” he continues to hack. Ben slaps a hand over his nose, the utensil that was previously in his grip clattering onto the countertop. Surely Sue will lecture them about the stains later. 

“Wow,” Johnny leans back, tongue in cheek with his brows raised. “You didn’t even try to appreciate it.” 

Ben coughs again, loud and aggressive. “What—” hack “What did you put in the pot?” he gasps. 

“Nothing bad!” The accused defends himself, shoulders reaching his ears. Pointing at the array of ingredients between the two of them, he begins to list, “Salt, pepper, garlic, some chili—”

“Chili?” Ben rasps before he frantically searches for any sort of beverage to wash down what could only be described as the epitome of regret in barely-consumable form. “That—” a large rock finger points, “That is not chili. That’s lava, Johnny. What did you—” 

WHOSH!

“Woah!” 

“Oh!” 

The two of them jump back, watching as the previously inconspicuous pot bubbles, no, erupts. Spilling all over the counter top in the process, the flame beneath the pot only seems to grow larger. Forget the stain from the spoon, Sue’s surely going to kill them now. 

“Johnny, did you turn up the heat when I wasn’t looking?” Ben shouts, immediately placing the blame onto his counterpart, back pressed to the fridge as a means to get as much space between him and the creation as possible. 

Panicked, on the other side of it, Johnny shouts back, “No! I mean…a little! Look, I didn’t think it would—”

“Johnny!”

The sauce spurts into the air, hitting the ceiling, once. Then…

Multiple violet shots flare into the air. 

“Ben! Ben, it’s attacking!” Johnny screams, shielding his head with both of his arms. He runs around to Ben’s side, tucking himself under the large man to use him as a shield. 

“It was supposed to be a simmer, Johnny! A simmer!” Ben barks back, jumping as a large glob lands dangerously close to his shoulder. 

WHOOOSH!

“It’s getting angerier!” Johnny screams, utterly distraught. 

“That’s it! Move!” Ben shoves Johnny away from him, sending the boy flying across the room before lunging for the fire extinguisher. He rips it off the wall in one smooth motion before pivoting around with a scream. Aiming straight at the stove, Ben lets out a loud cry before white foam explodes across the kitchen. 

It swallows everything in its path: the stove, the walls, the floor, their souls. 

Skittering away, Johnny slips in the process and lands squarely on the floor in a mountain of puff. 

Silence gradually replaces the shriek of the alarm and their screams. Slowly, Ben slides down the wall, too, until he also sits in the mess they’ve created. A calloused hand drags down Ben’s face, smearing the white substance over his rocky features. 

Across from him, Johnny lifts his head just enough to spit out a bubble of extinguisher product, the mouthful that he had accidentally ingested when he fell. It pops pathetically. 

“So…” Johnny slowly starts, lifting his hand before smacking it down onto the floor. “Not the worst kitchen disaster we’ve had…”

Ben turns his head at the same rate a snail would move, like it pains him. Like he’s worried it would snap if he moves any faster before his eyes land squarely on Johnny. 

He stares for one beat. Then another. 

“Johnny…”

The aforementioned grimaces. “Yes?”

A deep, deep sigh reverberates through the room. “Let’s regroup tomorrow.” 

A loud splat of space lands squarely between them.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

-

“I feel I haven’t seen you in ages,” a familiar voice calls out before soft arms wrap around Johnny from behind. Instinctively, he leans back, melting into the familiar safety. 

Your chin hooks over his shoulder, and the warmth of you settles something restless inside him. For the first time in weeks, Johnny fully exhales. 

“I know,” he murmurs, turning his head just enough to brush his cheek against yours. “I’m sorry. Things have been…a lot.” 

Missions. Meetings. Reed’s chaos. His chaos. 

Your arms tighten a little as you acknowledge his words with a hum. “Yeah, I know. I’ve still missed you, though.”

He lets his eyes close for just a moment, he hadn’t realized how far apart the two have been until his chest started aching just by being in your arms. An innocent embrace—that was all it took from you before he started unraveling. 

It’s been a week since the kitchen fiasco, and Johnny felt so defeated from the whole ordeal he had scrapped the picnic idea entirely. The kitchen is still stained in ways that are simply unspeakable (the excuse that he gave you as to what happened was believable enough) and Sue’s still gives him glares for it from across the dinner table. He couldn’t step foot in that kitchen even if he tried.

Naturally, he’s decided to focus his efforts elsewhere, but the weight of the ring in his left pocket just seems to get heavier and heavier with each passing day that he waits.

Ironically, despite all of his efforts being focused on you (aside from the time he spends saving the world), he hasn’t actually seen you. It was killing him.

Which is why today when he woke up next to you, streams of sunlight brushing across your face in a way that has his whole world spinning, he decided enough was enough. 

Today was the day. 

No, really. He swears, he said to HERBIE, right after promptly shushing his friend and swearing him to secrecy.  

For the first time in months, and without the insistent aid that he sought from his family, Johnny finally has things settled into place. It’s not as fancy as he originally wanted, no, and the string quartet he hired did ghost him after he rescheduled so many times, but with the scent of you enveloping him and gentle strands of your hair brushing against his face, Johnny knows that he can’t wait any longer. 

Which is why he has been waiting upstairs for you for the past twenty minutes, anxiously bouncing his knee and rocking Franklin’s crib from side to side to soothe both his nerves and his nephew. He’d like to think that part of Franklin’s peace was attributed to the one-sided conversation they were having just before you had walked in. Namely, a conversation where he filled Franklin in on all of his plans tonight, and he made the child swear to be on his best behavior with the promise of him being in the wedding if so.

Fortunately, Franklin seemed to be receptive to the bribe. He’s been easy enough, quietly sleeping in his crib since Johnny came up to relieve Reed. 

This wasn’t exactly how Johnny planned for things to go tonight, but when everyone suddenly ran out the door with last minute plans, he was left with no choice but to be forced into Uncle Duty. Honestly, the timing could have been a bit better, but he didn’t exactly have the chance to tell everyone no. 

Johnny debated telling everyone of his plans at first, but after reminiscing about how disaster struck every time he tried to propose the last few months, he decided to keep quiet. 

He only snaps out of his daze when your warmth disappears from his back, and just as Johnny was about to protest, his gaze snaps over to you leaning over Franklin’s crib. Bent over the side, your hand softly brushes over Franklin’s hair, and Johnny feels something in his chest tug. It’s tender in a way that terrifies him. 

You haven’t said a word, but he can feel the atmosphere in the room settle. 

You’ve always had that effect on him. 

“Has he been good?” you quietly ask, voice barely higher than a hushed whisper, mindful not to disturb the sleeping baby. 

Johnny straightens in his chair, pushing his hands into his pockets in a move that’s meant to look casual, even though he’s anything but. His fingers brush the small box tucked into the seam of denim and his pulse spikes. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. He quickly clears his throat. “He’s been great. Total top-tier baby behavior.” 

You glance back at him, closed-lips curving into a skeptical, but amused smile. 

But much like it’s often been lately, Johnny’s timing isn’t exactly great. Because just as the words leave his lips, Franklin chooses to let out the tiniest, pre-cry whimper. One that everyone in the Baxter Building knows dangerously well. 

You blink once before your eyes go wide. “Oh no.” 

Johnny winces, eyes shutting tight as though that will prevent the next sequence of events. “Please, don’t—”

The whimper becomes a sniffle. Then another. Then all of a sudden—

“WAHHH!” Franklin screams at the top of some very tiny lungs. 

“No, no, no,” Johnny scoops him up instantly, cradling him the way he’s seen Sue do it, except his grip is significantly more panicked and has much less maternal grace. “Oh man, come on buddy, please don’t do this. What about our deal, huh?” 

When five seconds of rocking doesn’t work, Johnny immediately starts to shake his head in horror. Muttering to himself, he rationalizes, “Right. Okay. I’ve seen Sue try, uh—” he shifts Franklin in his arms, only for the screams to get louder. “Okay, okay. Not that. Reed’s done, um, well no Reed never does anything, nevermind.” 

Franklin lets out another earth-shattering shriek. 

Your nose scrunches, wincing when Franklin’s cries somehow get even louder, reverberating off the walls. “‘Top-tier behavior,’ huh?” you tease Johnny, managing to shout over Franklin. 

When Johnny shoots you a look that could only be described as utterly pleading, you laugh under your breath. He truly looked like he was one minor step away from negotiating peace terms with the eight month old. 

“Here, let me try,” you murmur gently, hands already coming up to grab a wailing Franklin, who has not soothed from Johnny’s insistent back pats. 

It only takes one second between the transfer from Johnny’s arms to yours that Franklin just…stops. His screaming dies down almost immediately, transforming into a calm silence that makes the both of you freeze. 

The moment he’s tucked safely into your arms, he melts. Small face burrowing into your shirt like you’re clearly and undeniably his happy place, Franklin’s fallen back asleep faster than the tears on his face have dried. 

You can’t help the small laugh of disbelief you let out before you turn your back on Johnny to sway Franklin in your arms to comfort him. 

From behind you, Johnny’s hands are now placed squarely on his hips as he watches the two of you with a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Are you kidding me?” he whispers, voice cracking between awe, betrayal, and the quiet despair of a man who has so obviously been officially knocked out of the #1 spot of Franklin’s favorites list.

You look over your shoulder with the worst possible expression—smug. “Some of us,” you whisper back, gently bouncing the babe in your arms, “Just have a special touch.” 

At first, Johnny feels a flicker of defensiveness flash through him, his competitive fire rearing its ugly head for a split of a second, even though it’s the love of his life he’s talking to. 

But then…he pauses. 

Franklin’s face is relaxed against your chest, head tucked in the crevice of your elbow as a tiny hand fists gently in your shirt. The soft sway of your hips as you rock him—so calm and sure, like you always are. Something warm and unshakable settles in Johnny’s chest, smothering every ounce of ego he carries in his bones. Shoulders dropping, his gaze softens. “Yeah,” he admits, earnest as ever as he states, “You really do.”

You glance back, surprise in your eyes. “Is that defeat I hear?”

He lets out a soft chuckle, shoving his hands into his pockets as he takes a closer step towards you. The pads of his finger brush against the box again, and Johnny’s heart crawls up his throat. Carefully, he peers at Franklin’s face in your arms. 

Glancing up at you, Johnny tilts his head toward the door in a quick motion, silently asking you to step out with him. “Come with me,” he whispers, unhurried but sure. 

You blink, glancing down at Franklin who’s still knocked out cold. “I can’t just put him down again. What if he wakes up—” 

“He won’t,” Johnny reassures, voice warm and steady. His hand comes up again, palm hovering just under Franklin’s back, not quite touching but just there. “Trust me,” he adds. 

You sigh, gaze flickering between Johnny and the peacefully sleeping baby. “...Fine,” you relent. “But if he starts screaming again, you’re taking the heat.” 

“No pun intended, I assume,” your boyfriend can’t help but quirk, only to be met by your fiery glare. The corner of your mouth twitches upwards, though. Johnny sees it. 

With the slow precision of someone handling a temperamental eight month old, you lower Franklin onto his mattress. His tiny body shifts, and for a second, it doesn’t seem like he’s letting go of your sweater. The two of you hold your breaths in anticipation. Thankfully, Franklin’s small but mighty grasp slowly releases, his nose scrunching in the process, allowing you to place him down successfully. 

You and Johnny share a silent, wide-eyed victory celebration. Adjusting the thin blanket around Franklin, you gently brush his cheek one more time before standing upright. Before you can turn, Johnny’s already intertwined your fingers in his. 

Slowly and quietly, the two of you make your way out of the nursery and Johnny shuts the door behind him with exaggerated care. Paused outside, the two of you stop for a second to listen in. Once nothing but silence was all you were met with, the two of you let out a sigh of relief. 

Right on cue, HERBIE rolls up to the two of you in the dimly lit hallway with a series of beeps. 

“He’s all yours buddy,” Johnny scratches the top of his frame before quickly dragging you behind him. 

“Cruel,” you giggle from behind him, stumbling through the building blindly, trusting Johnny on wherever this endeavor was leading. 

He doesn’t stop once you’ve made it past the living room, the kitchen, or the staircase you’d take to get to your frequently shared room. You haven’t officially moved in yet, but Johnny’s hoping that’ll change in the next thirty minutes. 

“Johnny, where are you taking me?” you laugh. 

He glances back with a small, secretive smile, his dimples just visible in the fading light. “I want to show you something.” 

Your confusion only grows when he pulls the two of you into the elevator and hits the button with a giant ‘R’ on it. 

“The roof?” you ask with a soft sigh. “Jonathan Storm, what are you up to?”

“You’ll see,” he answers mischievously, and there’s something in his voice, almost shy, that makes your heart kick just a little harder. 

Fingers tightly wrapped around one another, he sways your arms in between the two of you as he guides you off of the lift. 

The rooftop is bathed in the most beautiful shade of dusk—dark purples melting into soft blues, the last hints of orange lingering behind the skyline. Parts of the city lights are starting to flicker to life, sparsely lining the horizon like tiny stars settling into place with a gentle breeze. 

You haven’t made it far off the elevator, only a few steps before Johnny stops in front of you. Turning, he breathes out, shakily. 

It makes you frown, face masked in concern as you ask him, “What is it?” with your head tilted curiously. 

He doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you, for a long, full moment. His chest rising and falling like he’s trying to commit every detail of you to memory. It’s an attentive and careful look that makes your cheeks warm, a sharp contrast to the cool New York evening air. “Johnny?” you question, unable to handle his unrelenting gaze. You can’t help it—he still makes you nervous. 

“I love you,” he declares confidently. 

You blink. “I…love you, too, Johnny.” It’s a cautious response. “What’s going on? You’re starting to worry me now.” 

He lets out a small breath—almsot a laugh, but one weighed down by deep emotion rather than true amusement. His hand slips from yours as he takes a single step back, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

“This isn’t how I planned it,” Johnny begins to confess, and your brows only furrow further as your confusion grows. “I wanted something…bigger. Fancier.” 

What began as a strongly toned speech slowly began to dwindle into something softer, more vulnerable, as Johnny’s nerves got the better of him. 

“I was going to take you to dinner at your favorite restaurant but then that giant space octopus knocked it down. Which…honestly, that was my bad. I probably should have aimed him somewhere else.” He said so sheepishly with a nervous quirk of his lips and a slight shrug of his shoulders. 

“And then we were going to take that trip down to the coast and I thought it’d be the perfect time, but Reed got that huge grant proposal and we had to finish that project ASAP. God, he was such a pain that week,” he mumbles the last part to himself. 

“So, I thought, maybe I'd take you on a picnic down by the lake. Maybe write it in the skyline but Ben was a complete mess in the kitchen.” He quickly breaks eye contact when you squint at his words in suspicion. 

“I just—” he sighs, shoulders dropping. “The timing was never right. And you deserve better than rush and chaos.” Johnny swallows, building up his courage. “You deserve everything. But tonight…” he gestures faintly, toward the sky, the quiet rooftop, toward you standing there in the dusky purple glow with the city lights catching in your eyes. “I had this moment when I woke up, and you were there, and I just thought…”

His voice lowers—quiet, reverent. “Why am I waiting?” 

Your breath stutters, mouth parting slightly as you take in his words. “Waiting for what?” you manage to ask.

Johnny steps closer. Slowly. Carefully. There’s a small, knowing smile on his face, the look of someone carrying a secret only they know. Brushing past your words, Johnny admits, “I don’t need a perfect setting or a perfect plan. I just need you.” His chest expands with the deepest, steadiest breath yet. “And I don’t want to wait another second.”

Johnny reaches out to grab your fingers again. Giving you a gentle squeeze, he nods towards the open stretch of the roof. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice small. 

You let him guide you forward, breathless, with your footsteps echoing into the night. It’s just you and Johnny now, with him glancing back every half-second like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. 

“Johnny—”

“Just one more step,” he hushes. 

And just when you’re about to question him again, the rooftop opens up. Past all the vents and the metal frames, squarely in the middle of it all:

A small, round table, draped neatly in white. 

Two chairs. 

Silverware set properly. 

A single, fresh flower in an old glass bottle. Your favorite flower. 

And just when your mouth falls open, barely managing the sudden tears in your eyes, Johnny drops your hand. He takes one last step back, giving himself just enough space to turn on his heels and flip a switch behind one of the rooftop vents. 

The roof lights up. 

Fairy lights wrapped around clunky metal pipes, spilling a soft golden glow across the rooftop. They drape from railing to railing, transforming the industrial skyline with something warm and impossibly intimate. Candles are found at every turn in thick jars filled with flickering wicks, giving a gentle pulse of light that dances along the concrete floor. 

“Oh…” is all you manage. 

Johnny stands behind you, his large palm landing on the small of your back—a steady and grounding presence that makes your heart beat faster. He leans in a little, close enough to feel the soft brush of his exhale against your temple. 

“Do you like it?” he whispers, soft and boyish. 

You turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral and his expression is nothing short of hopeful. His gaze isn’t on the lights or the decorations. It’s on you. 

It’s only ever been on you. 

“I know it’s not a five star restaurant,” his words brush against your hairline, his lips nearly peppering soft kisses there as he talks. “And there aren’t any pyrotechnics because Reed said it’ll be too much of a headache if I burn the building down—” 

You let out a shaky laugh, tears lining your eyes. 

“But I hope you love it anyways,” he tells you earnestly, arms wrapping around you. 

“Johnny,” you shake your head, “This is insane.” 

He stiffens for half of a second—just long enough for you to feel the flicker of fear run through him. But then you turn fully in his arms, palms coming up to cradle his cheeks before he can jump to conclusions. “It’s perfect,” you manage to whisper, voice trembling with emotion. 

His shoulders drop, visible relief washing over him so intensely he almost sags into you. A laugh escapes him like he’d been holding it in for hours. But then Johnny smiles. 

Not the flashy Johnny Storm smile he gives to the cameras when he knows the world's watching. 

A smaller one. Soft. Real. Private. Just for you. 

He whispers your name like it’s something sacred. His thumb brushes your cheek, and he swallows hard, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. “I love you,” he promises. 

“Oh, Johnny,” you lean your forehead against his own, “I love you, too.” 

“If someone told me two years ago that the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on would be standing in front of me today, telling me she loved me, I would’ve called them crazy,” he confesses. “You were…so far out of my league. Still are,” he admits. 

You huff out a laugh, but he just shakes his head like he needs you to understand—really understand. 

“No, I mean it,” he continues. “I had no idea what I was getting myself into that night when I walked up to you in Reed’s lab.” 

You start to roll your eyes, already knowing what he’s going to say. 

“And you told me to ‘back off’ because you ‘weren’t impressed’ by my whole ‘hotshot celebrity thing,’” he says with a laugh, but you only groan and bury your face in his chest.

“Johnny, please,” you grimace. 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “We’re not skipping over that. I still think about it every night.” His teasing tone shifts into something more gentle, “Because I think that was the first time in my entire life someone’s had the nerve to just…shut me down like that. And I just knew, right then and there, I’d do anything to impress you.” 

Johnny locks eyes with you, brushing a stray piece of hair that fell into your eye. “And I’ve been trying ever since.” 

He blows out a shaky breath before taking one small step back. 

Your chest tightens, air turning thick and warm and impossible to swallow as you watch him. His hand slips from your cheek. His other hand moves into the left pocket of his jeans. And when Johnny looks back up at you, there’s a fear in his eyes that tells you exactly what’s happening before he even says a word. 

“I told myself I’d wait for the perfect moment,” he admits. “Something big. Something spectacular. Something that would prove how much you mean to me.” He gives a helpless laugh and shakes his head. “But I don’t need a perfect moment. I have you.”

Your breath leaves your lungs. 

Johnny slowly sinks to one knee. 

His hands are trembling, not from the cold, but from the raw, unguarded emotion as he opens the small velvet box that’s been hidden in his pocket for months. 

A ring catches in the evening light—beautiful and real. Like this. Like him.

“You’ve seen every version of me. The loud, the obnoxious, the guy who’s trying so hard not to screw up the only thing that’s ever mattered this much—and you stayed. I love you. More than I ever thought I could love. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” 

Your tears start to slip free, hand over your mouth as you try to blink away the tears. 

“Will you let me be the man that you see when you look at me? Be the man that you deserve…and marry me?”

The world stands still.

Your heart is beating so loud you can almost hear it over the soft hum of the city below. The glow of the night illuminates Johnny. The Johnny Storm—New York’s golden boy—is kneeling in front of you with his heart wide open. 

Your hand trembles as it slowly falls from your mouth, tears streaming down and tracing warm paths down your cheeks. Your knees feel weak. “Johnny,” you breathe—barely a sound. 

His eyes search yours anxiously, waiting and bracing. 

You never make him wait long. 

You drop to your knees, too—right in front of him. “Of course I’ll marry you!” you exclaim, voice cracking with emotion. 

He blinks once. Then twice. Before his face flickers, like he’s finally processed your words and you’ve just realigned his entire universe. “...Yeah?” 

You nod.

“Yeah? You’ll marry me?” his voice gets louder with each passing word, and all you can do is nod in agreement, smile wide on your face. 

“Yes, Johnny, a thousand times yes!”

The shout he lets out is euphoric, and Johnny can’t help but scoop you into his arms. He pulls the two of you up along the process as he spins you around letting out loud shouts of celebration. He laughs loudly, bright and explosive in a way that echoes across the rooftop, mixing with your own set of giggles. 

He holds you so tight that your feet barely touch the ground, the two of you a blur of happiness and dizzy adrenaline as you kiss in the glow of candles and fairy lights. 

When Johnny finally slows, his chest is heaving. He places you down gently, forehead dropping against yours as he tries to catch his breath. His hand cups your cheeks, thumbs brushing away fresh tears that you didn’t even realize had fallen. 

“You said yes,” he whispers again, shrouded in disbelief. “Oh man.” Johnny quickly wipes away his own tears, sniffling before pulling back. Shakily, he pulls the ring out of the box and slips it onto your finger. 

The two of you watch intensely at the ring that now sits against your skin. His ring. 

“There’s no take-backsies,” Johnny says with a fake stern tone.

You laugh, “I think I’ll manage.” 

Johnny sighs, “You’re going to be my wife.”

The words hit you all over again—sweet, surreal, overwhelming. Your eyes sting as you nod. “And you’re going to be my husband.”

Johnny looks like he might combust right then and there. He pulls you gently, toward the table he set up, still beaming. 

“Okay Mrs. Storm,” he announces, voice warm with pride as he tugs you close. “I hope you’re hungry because I made dinner.” 

You freeze in his arms. “...You cooked?” 

Johnny pauses. “I…got takeout from the restaurant down the block.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts out of you. 

He tightens his arms around your waists and dips his head to kiss your cheek. Against your skin, softly he whispers, “I can’t wait to marry you.” 

Downstairs, against the better knowledge of the two of you, Reed holds the security monitor up for everyone to see. The entire rooftop feed plays across the living room as HERBIE records. 

“Aw, see, I knew he could do it,” Ben lets out a small laugh, wiping a tear away with a large finger. 

“Good job, Johnny,” Sue whispers to herself more than anything, bouncing a happily giggling Franklin on her hip. 

“We’re going to have to help him plan the wedding, aren’t we?” Reed sighs, mind already spinning. 

But that was all to be dealt with later. 

Tonight, and forever, Jonathan Storm was all yours. 

-

10/4- Wet Dreams, Johnny Storm

-wet dreams - masturbation - fantasizing-

10/11- Aphrodisiacs, Dick Grayson

-aphrodisiacs - sex pollen - semi!non-con-

10/18- Dry Humping, Dean Winchester

-dry humping - semi!public sex - quickie-

10/25- Reversed Roles, Reed Richards

-dom!reader - stretching - overstimulation-

10/32- Threesome, Bucky Barnes + Steve Rogers

-threesome - double penetration - breeding-

****************************************************

This is my first time posting for Kinktober and anything remotely smutty so bear with me here.

Fics will be posted the night of the date stated (or I will at least try to).

She stood before a wall of translucent crystal, the moonscape glowing beyond, her hand pressed flat to the cool surface. The Vyra responded immediately, flaring in faint violet light beneath her palm, eager to claim her. It always had been.

Her reflection gazed back at her from the crystalline wall, both alien and familiar. To her people, she appeared every inch a princess—wrapped in ceremonial splendor, untouchable. Robes of deep amethyst cascaded in layered drapes around her body, each seam threaded with glowing silver runes of protection. A tall, ornate collar framed her throat, and across her brow hovered a delicate circlet crowned with a single Vyra crystal that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. At a glance, she was regal, sacred, destined.

But this was not truly Selara.

Beneath the weight of cloth and crystal lay the form her father had forced her to conceal since birth. Her Amaralian body was not flesh but radiance, as though sculpted from galaxies themselves. A slender, elongated silhouette glowed with deep amaranth violet, every curve shimmering with drifting constellations of starlight. Veins of neon magenta and lavender streaked across her form like rivers of fire, flickering and pulsing like living constellations beneath her skin. Around her shimmered a faint halo of energy, scattering sparks that clung to her chest, hands, and feet where her glow was brightest, as if her very body were alive with rhythm.

And her eyes—her eyes were the most striking of all. Irises burned with a saturated, magenta-pink hue, neon-bright and edged toward violet, so luminous they seemed carved from raw light. The brilliance of them stood out violently against the black pools of her pupils, creating a gaze both beautiful and unnerving, as though she were not simply looking at the world but through it. The color was unearthly, ethereal—powerful in its intensity. When Selara turned her eyes upon the universe, it felt as though she pierced it open.

From her head streamed ribbons of luminous energy, rippling backward like solar flares caught in motion. They shifted constantly—at times radiant and fiery, at others liquid and fluid—forming the crown of a being suspended between matter and light. Even in stillness, she seemed to pulse in rhythm with the heartbeat of the cosmos.

Selara was a constellation given shape, luminous and transcendent. And yet, her father had commanded her to hide all of it—her glow, her power, her very self—beneath robes, collars, gloves, and crowns, as though she were a flame too dangerous to be seen. To Amarune, she was sacred. To herself, she was imprisoned.

And her father had ordered her covered since childhood, afraid of what a single unguarded touch might ignite. Her gloves, her collar, her endless layers of ceremonial fabric—all shackles meant to ensure no accidental Amaranth Bond would ever tie her to another. She was to be a Source, not a woman.

____

Selara’s magenta eyes dimmed faintly as she drew her gloved hand from the crystal. She felt like a caged flame.

The chamber doors sighed open.

King Theryn Veyara entered, the glow of his blue Vyra aura preceding him. His robes were plated with crystalline armor, runes glowing faintly at his chest, his presence filling the room with gravity. He had once been a man of warmth—stories told of his youth, of laughter, of his bond with Queen Aivara—but decades of leadership had hardened him. He carried himself not as a father, but as a sovereign.

And yet, when his gaze fell upon Selara, something flickered there—something old and buried.

He had loved once.

He had known the Amaranth Bond. With Aivara, his queen, he had felt what no Amaralian could feign: the true link of heart and soul, the Eternal Flame. She had been fire where he was stone, gentle where he was unyielding. She had taught him that leadership was not merely command, but care. He had loved her.

But he had loved his people more.

When Aivara refused the procedure—when she saw the danger of altering the child in her womb, when she feared what forcing Vyra into unborn veins might do—he had stood against her. He had told himself it was duty, not betrayal. He had ordered her captured. He had allowed the council to proceed.

Selara was born powerful beyond measure. Aivara was not. The queen had died bringing her into the world.

____

The pendant Selara now wore, a shard of crystal bound in silver, was all that remained of her. Some said Aivara gave it willingly as a final gift. Others whispered it had been hidden away by a nursemaid loyal to the queen, smuggled into Selara’s hands when she was old enough to understand. Selara had never known the truth. She only knew the pendant was warm in her palm when nothing else was.

She pressed it to her chest now, its edge sharp against her skin beneath the gown.

Her father’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his tone ritual, rehearsed, inevitable, “Amarune will endure because of you. The Binding will secure our people for centuries. Your name will be carved into eternity. You will be sung forever.”

Selara turned from the window, meeting his gaze head-on. Her voice was quiet, but it cut cleanly.

“And what will be left of me?”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Theryn’s eyes—regret, perhaps, or the ghost of the man Aivara once loved. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

“What remains of you,” he said slowly, each word heavy, “remains in us. You will live forever, Selara. But not as yourself.”

The silence that followed was colder than any void.

____

He stepped closer, his hand heavy on her shoulder. His touch was firm, meant as reassurance. To Selara, it pressed like a chain. She stiffened beneath it, her glow dimming.

When he withdrew, he turned and left without another word, his robes whispering against the crystalline floor. The doors closed behind him, sealing her in silence.

Selara stood trembling, the chants of her name echoing faintly through the crystal walls. Her father had loved once. He had known the Eternal Flame. But even that had not stopped him from choosing Amarune over Aivara. And now, he would choose Amarune over her.

Her hands clenched. Her pendant burned warm against her palm. She whispered into the silence, “Aruna’shai… Aruna.”I love you. Love.

The words were not for her father. They were for her mother.

Outside, the celebration grew louder—music swelling, lanterns rising higher, voices chanting her name. To Amarune, this was the eve of salvation. To Selara, it was the night of her burial.

____

The sounds of the city reached even the highest chamber of the palace.

From the plaza below, drums thundered in a steady rhythm that mirrored the planet’s pulse, deep and resonant. Crystalline strings chimed high above them, singing sharp and pure, filling the air like starlight poured into sound. The crowd swelled with voices, their chant rising in waves:

“Selara! Selara! Selara!”

Every syllable carried upward through Vyra channels woven into the architecture of Luminaris Spire, the towers themselves acting as conduits, amplifying her name until the very walls of her chamber quivered. Vyra lanterns floated overhead, drifting on unseen currents, casting violet and silver halos across the city. Their glow reflected in the crystalline streets below, where Amaralians pressed shoulder to shoulder, their garments alive with reactive light. Anticipation shimmered gold, reverence burned silver, pride glowed violet. To the eye, the crowd was a living aurora.

And all of it was for her.

Selara turned from the window. The sound pressed against her ears, the light against her eyes. She felt smothered, not celebrated. Their joy was not for her life, but for its ending. They did not cheer Selara Veyara. They cheered the fountain she would become.

The weight of her robes bore down on her shoulders. She moved across the chamber, the gown’s layered drapes whispering like liquid light against the floor. Each step was an echo of duty, each thread a shackle. Her magenta-pink eyes caught the glow of the crystal walls, the neon hue so striking it seemed to paint the chamber brighter. Yet to her father, to her people, even her eyes were dangerous—too radiant, too evocative of the Eternal Flame. They had ordered her gaze to be lowered in public, taught her to conceal even the direction of her stare.

____

She sat at her desk, a low arc of crystalline stone carved smooth, and laid her gloved hands across its surface. Here, hidden beneath ceremonial bindings and endless protocol, was her rebellion.

Scattered across the desk were pages of intercepted transmissions: blueprints of combustion engines, sketches of towering human cities, photographs of crowded streets. She had built the receiver herself, splicing together scraps of disassembled devices smuggled from the engineering halls. Officially, she was forbidden from such work. Her father had barred her from all hands-on creation, declaring it “beneath the dignity of a Source.” But Selara had always hungered to learn. She had pulled the transmissions through the Veyora’s star-beacon network and hidden them in her chamber, sifting through fragments of alien worlds late into the night.

And one night, while rerouting the channels, she had intercepted something strange. Not crystalline archives or flawless projections, but fragile sheets of thin paper bearing human faces. A Veyora-shan. A magazine.

The first time she held it, she whispered the word aloud, tasting the foreign syllables. Her tongue shaped it awkwardly, but she kept it. Magazine. Imperfect, temporary, fragile. Amaralians would have dismissed it as waste, but to Selara, its impermanence was what made it alive.

The clipping she treasured most lay at the center of her desk. Smudged slightly at the edges, ink uneven where she had pressed it to Amaralian crystal-paper, it still burned brighter in her eyes than any archive she had ever studied.

The caption read: EBONY – Beauty of the Week: Janie Burdette.

Selara lifted the page with trembling fingers, her magenta eyes burning brighter as they traced every detail.

Beauty.

It was a word she had whispered to herself many times since discovering this fragile artifact. Amarune had its own word, Shairen—used rarely, reserved for symmetry, for function perfected. But here, in this human woman’s smile, Selara had glimpsed something different. Beauty was not function. Beauty was not duty. Beauty was freedom.

____

She had studied the image for hours, sometimes days. The luminous warmth in Janie Burdette’s eyes fascinated her, so full of a life lived and claimed. Her skin reflected light not with the clinical gleam of Vyra but with the softness of flesh, with the richness of something fleeting and therefore precious. Her smile was imperfect in its humanity, yet more powerful than any statue carved on Amarune.

To Selara, Janie was not just a woman. She was proof. Proof that existence could be chosen. That a life could belong to itself.

She whispered the word again, softly, reverently: “Beauty.”

Her thoughts drifted to the pendant at her chest. She unclasped it and held it in her palm: a delicate teardrop-shaped gemstone that glowed with a soft, radiant pink hue, suspended from a fine silver chain. Its faceted surface caught and scattered light in subtle flashes of lavender and magenta, as though it held a fragment of crystallized starlight. Four small prongs of silver cradled the stone in a minimalist setting, its brilliance left unobscured, timeless and unyielding.

It was not merely jewelry. It was her mother.

Stories told of Queen Aivara’s gentleness, of the fire in her eyes when she challenged the council, of her refusal to allow experiments on her unborn child. Selara had been told those refusals were treason. That her mother had offered her life willingly, “for the greater good.” But in secret whispers, she had learned the truth: Aivara had been taken. Forced. Silenced. Her death during childbirth had not been sacrifice but consequence.

And yet, her pendant remained.

Selara clutched it tightly, her gloved hand trembling. Against her skin, it seemed to hum faintly, as though echoing her heartbeat. She wondered sometimes if her mother had touched it last, if her fingers had left some fragment of love etched into the crystal. She had once found it hidden in a box of old garments, tucked away by a nursemaid who had looked at her with wet eyes and whispered, “This was hers. She would want you to have it.”

It was more than an heirloom. It was proof that Aivara had lived. Proof that she had resisted. Proof that Selara’s life was not hers to surrender.

Her neon-magenta eyes lifted from the pendant to the magazine page. One relic from her mother. One from a world she longed to see. Both reminders that she did not belong to Amarune.

Outside, the festival raged brighter. Vyra lanterns filled the sky like stars set loose, music echoing as the crowd sang her name. Amaralians believed the Source was already theirs, that tomorrow would mark the beginning of their endless salvation.

But Selara Veyara knew the truth.

It would mark the end of her.

____

The moons reached their zenith at midnight, twin orbs crowning the sky like pale guardians. Their light poured through the crystal walls of Selara’s chamber, washing her in silver and violet. The hum of Vyra, ever-present in Amarune’s bones, deepened into a thunderous resonance, as if the entire planet were holding its breath for the dawn of her Binding.

Selara sat alone at her desk, the pendant and Veyora-shan clipping spread before her like two halves of a choice. Her gloved fingers traced the teardrop gemstone, its radiant pink glow soft but insistent, as though alive. Her magenta-pink eyes reflected in its facets, twin fires burning brighter than the stone itself. She thought of her mother’s touch, imagined it pressed into the chain, a final act of resistance hidden in plain sight.

The magazine clipping lay beside it, edges curling slightly, ink smudged at the corners where she had pressed too often. Janie Burdette’s smile glowed faintly in the moonlight, her gaze steady, daring. Beauty. The word throbbed in Selara’s chest like a second heartbeat.

The pendant whispered of the past, of sacrifice and chains. The clipping whispered of the future, of choice and freedom.

She knew which she would claim.

But fear wrapped her like a cloak. Her magenta eyes dimmed as she pressed both items to her chest, breathing in shaky bursts. What if the portal failed? What if she was cast adrift in nothingness, her body torn into stardust? What if Earth was not what she imagined—what if it rejected her, as alien as her people had always claimed outsiders to be?

Her father’s voice echoed in her skull. What remains of you will remain in us. You will live forever, but not as yourself.

Her mother’s silence echoed louder.

Selara rose. The ceremonial gown, heavy with runes and tradition, slithered from her shoulders and pooled at her feet like chains shed. Beneath, she wore the suit she had crafted in secret—sleek, close-fitted, woven with thin Vyra channels she had etched herself. Its surface glimmered faintly violet, light enough for speed, strong enough to endure hyperspace. Against her collar, she fastened the pendant, the teardrop stone resting warm against her skin.

The gown lay abandoned. She did not look back.

____

She moved through the palace corridors like a shadow. Guards stood at every archway, their armor glowing faintly, but none stopped her. They bowed their heads, believing her steps were part of ritual preparation. No one imagined the princess would defy destiny. No one believed she could.

Selara’s footsteps carried her downward, deeper into the palace’s hidden veins. The air thickened with the scent of ozone, sharp and metallic, tinged with the sweetness of Vyra blossoms cultivated in the inner courtyards. The hum of energy grew louder the deeper she went, vibrating in her chest, until she felt her own heartbeat syncing with it.

At last, she reached the chamber she had discovered as a child: the Core of Echoes. A place where Vyra pooled raw and untamed, restless beneath the planet’s crust. It was forbidden, unmarked on maps, guarded only by the assumption that none would dare approach.

Selara dared.

She stepped inside. The chamber pulsed with violet light, crystal walls jagged and alive, veins of Vyra writhing like serpents beneath translucent stone. The air was charged, thick enough to raise gooseflesh along her arms even through her suit. Sparks danced across the floor in lazy arcs, crackling against her boots. It felt less like a room and more like the inside of a star.

Her breath caught. Her hands shook. But she dropped to her knees, pressing her palms flat against the crystalline floor.

The Vyra answered instantly, flooding upward in a violent surge of light. Her magenta eyes blazed neon, her entire body igniting in radiant glow. Her luminous hair flared behind her in streams of living energy, whipping and sparking like solar fire. The chamber trembled, shards of crystal rattling loose, the hum rising to a deafening pitch.

Selara gritted her teeth. The portal would not open easily. The Veins resisted, demanding her submission. They wanted her for the Binding, not for freedom.

She screamed and pressed harder. Streams of violet-pink light erupted from her hands, etching a burning circle into the floor. The air warped above it, twisted, split. A crack of amethyst fire tore through the chamber, silver threads webbing outward like lightning.

The portal began to form.

Her veins burned as though molten Vyra raced through them. Sweat streamed down her brow. Her muscles trembled, every nerve screaming. She felt as if she were tearing herself in half. The pendant seared hot against her chest, its pink glow blazing in tandem with her eyes. Her mother’s defiance surged through her, urging her onward.

She thought of Janie’s smile. Beauty.She thought of her mother’s whisper. Love.She thought of her father’s silence, his chains of duty.

And she roared, “No!”

____

The portal burst open like an eye.

Amethyst fire licked its edges, silver tendrils writhing at its core. It pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, her fear, her will. Its light was blinding, spilling across the chamber like dawn breaking in a place that had never seen a sunrise.

Selara staggered to her feet, gasping. The chants of her people thundered faintly above, echoing even here, her name sung as if she already belonged to them. Her father’s shadow stretched long over her mind, but her mother’s pendant pressed sharp and warm against her skin, grounding her.

She looked back once. Her chamber. Her people. Her prison.

She whispered low in Amaralian, “Vyra thal’in.” May your Vyra shine.

Her farewell.

Then she stepped into the light.

____

Cold struck first—the endless void of space, airless and merciless. But her body adapted, Vyra weaving over her skin like a cloak. She did not choke. She did not freeze. She was Amaralian.

Her form blazed in the darkness, a humanoid constellation trailing violet-pink fire. Her magenta eyes cut through the void, burning brighter than stars. Her luminous hair streamed behind her in radiant arcs, marking her path like a comet streaking across eternity.

Stars wheeled infinite before her. She turned once, saw Amarune glowing like a jewel in the distance, twin moons watching in silence.

Then she faced forward. Threads of Vyra stretched outward, rivers binding world to world. And there, faint and flickering like a candle in the dark, she felt the pulse of the planet she had studied through stolen nights.

Earth.

Her lips curved into something between a sob and a smile. She launched forward, violet fire exploding in her wake, streaking into hyperspace.

Behind her, the portal collapsed with a thunderous crack, sealing the path.

And so the princess who was never meant to rule, who was never meant to live for herself, tore her destiny apart with her own hands.

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson