Summary: An innocent moment of quiet stolen together in the car turns into something completely unexpected, but you certainly aren't complaining.
Word count: 1k
Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicit, but very much hinted at), fluff, established relationship, Bob using his Sentry powers, slightly confident Bob because Lord he deserves it, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+! Minors, please do not interact!
(This was 100% inspired by the photos of Lewis at the Oscars. I have a whole gala fic in the works, but between work and studying, I don't know when it'll see the light of day, so I'm posting this little snippet from the same universe for now. Hopefully it makes sense as a standalone!)
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The car's new. Alexei's new baby. Much more expensive than the limo — tinted windows, far more spacious, bulletproof. A much needed upgrade for the newly christened Avengers.
Bob’s still trying to figure himself out. He doesn’t want to use his powers after…well, everything. The Sentry’s moment in the sun was over and done far too quickly, and no one’s been able to trace The Void back to him, so as far as the public’s concerned, he’s just some guy.
Some guy who spends a lot of time around a group of superheroes. It’s strange being the centre of attention and completely ignored at the same time, but he’s trying to get used to it.
The night of the gala, he ends up drinking just a little too much. Before the serum, it would have been enough to leave him in the hospital, but now? He’s tipsy. He feels warm all over. It's nice.
The company's even nicer, though, he has to admit. You’d said you were stepping out for some air, and he hadn’t exactly been subtle about following you. He’d tried, really he had — but his inhibitions seem to have gone out the window along with his nerves tonight.
Even outside, the place was buzzing with people. He’d innocently suggested taking a breather in the car, and you’d all too readily agreed.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he swears, but he’s certainly not complaining. How could he? When the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on is sitting in his lap in the back seat, knees pressed to his hips and hands on his chest. His own settle on your legs, fingertips running light lines up and down. Head resting against the seat, he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed,” you say, hands smoothing out the slight wrinkles in his shirt.
He hums. He’s sensitive at the best of times, but now? Your touch feels like heat licking at his skin. If he’s not careful, it could become addictive. Maybe he doesn’t care.
“Is that a bad thing?”
You shake your head. “No, of course not. Just wish I could see it more often. You deserve it.”
His smile widens. You always seem to know what to say. He takes your hands in his, gathering them together against his chest and giving you the gentlest little tug. He’s always so careful with you, knows exactly the damage he’s capable of. Would never dream of hurting you.
But even when he’s gentle, he’s still so strong. A squeak of a sound escapes you as you yield all too easily, finding yourself pressed flush against his chest.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, and there’s no mistaking the effect his words have on you.
A shuddered breath against his skin. His nose brushes yours. You’re trembling in his hold, he can feel it. Every minute movement feels like waves crashing over him. It’s intoxicating.
He wants to take his time with you, cherish every single second. Every breath, every glance, every smile — all of it. But there’s a part of him that wants to give in. Let that building urge take over. Leave you overwhelmed and at his mercy in the most delicious way.
His resolve is slipping.
So is yours, from the looks of it. But he has to be sure.
“Y’know, everyone’s probably wondering where we’ve got to…”
He deliberately trails off, holds your gaze. Waits.
You bite your lip. “What’s ten more minutes?”
And that’s all the answer he needs. He gives in, lets that feeling that’s threatening to overpower him take over. The mask falls away. He kisses you like he’s never going to see you again. He can’t help himself — he needs this. Needs you. The one thing that makes him feel safe when he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
His hands slip under your dress, and you don’t stop him, pushing yourself closer as you thread your fingers through his hair. His thumbs press against your hips, anchoring you. A quick squeeze is enough to make you gasp, and his head is swimming. He might be obsessed with you. You do things to him that no one else ever has.
He should reward you.
Focus isn’t coming easy to him right now, but he pushes through, forces himself to concentrate. Find that one spot that'll make you see stars. And when he does — oh, it’s so worth it. He’s never heard that noise from you before — a mix of sheer pleasure and shock. You’re quick to pull away, disbelief written all over your face, his name whispered in a shaky breath. Your hands slide down to his.
“How did you-” you start to ask, but when your eyes meet his, you falter.
And it hits you.
“Your eyes…”
He should feel scared, but he doesn’t. He feels confident. Powerful.
“What about them?” he asks.
As if he doesn’t know. He waits for your mouth to open in reply before he strikes again. Hits that same point. Pulls that same noise from you.
His hands are still securely on your hips. You both know that. And he can’t help himself. He pushes further. Touches you everywhere he knows you like — and not once do his hands move.
He’s never needed you more than he does right now, but he needs to see you fall apart first. Make a mess of you. Ruin you for anyone else.
It’s selfish, he knows that, but how can he help himself? He’s so head over heels for you.
And when you do finally break, when you’re so overwhelmed that you can’t take any more and it all hits you at once, he’s mesmerised. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as you are right now.
He might have the powers of a God, but you? You make him feel so weak. He loves it. Loves the power you have over him.
It takes you a minute to catch your breath. He lets himself bask in it. Just you and him. He couldn’t ask for more.
Until you’re tearing at his suit like you’re possessed, exposing every inch of skin — how could he possibly refuse you?
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Summary: Geta reflects on what it means to be a father, as the Emperor of Rome.
Word count: 1.7k
Tags and warnings: A little fluff with some angst, Geta's POV, mentions of period-typical sexism, brief mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(After tormenting @getaapologist with my sad Geta headcanons, I thought it was only fair that I write something soft as a little apology. I can't promise it won't happen again, though! Also, if anyone happens to have a less blue version of this picture of Geta, please send it my way.)
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From his very first breath, there have always been plans in place for Geta. Rarely has he ever had to think for himself. No matter the situation, no matter how great or small, there has always been someone there to answer for him.
The irony is not at all lost on him - that he is the Emperor of Rome, a lofty position only rivalled by the Gods themselves, and yet rarely, if ever, has his opinion truly mattered to anyone.
His life has been chosen for him. Each step meticulously thought out.
Marry. Sire an heir. Perform the role of Emperor, all for the glory of Rome.
Not once, in all of his years, does Geta remember anyone asking what it was that he wanted.
Not once were his desires, his happiness, ever taken into consideration.
That is, until he met you.
Your union was arranged, of course. As was expected, and not to be contested. For no one could possibly entertain the notion of an Emperor falling in love.
And yet, that was exactly what had happened. Not at once, but through time on his part, and patience on yours, Geta found himself growing more and more enamoured with you.
No one had ever shown him the care that you had, that you do.
Even as a boy, he knew that there was something discordant in how his parents cared for each other. It was sterile at best, and hostile at worst. His father had a ferocious temper, made only worse with age.
Geta remembers it well.
They were the very antithesis of love. As though Cupid's arrow had arched too high, and fell short, some ways away. And yet, what they had was all that he knew. It was what his future held for him, in spite of his reluctance, his fear.
But you...
Oh, you were most certainly a surprise.
And to this very day, you remain so.
You take care to ask his opinion on whatever matter may be at hand, and you listen to what he has to say. Not from a sense of propriety as his wife, but because his thoughts actually matter to you.
In the beginning, it was close to pushing him to the brink of madness, this habit of yours. Surely, you must be mocking him. Hoping that he would falter, stumble in what he had to say. Make a fool of himself for your amusement. You had had as little say in your marriage as he. This must be punishment of some kind. Recompense for this life that had been forced upon you.
When Geta had admitted this to you, in a fury made only worse by sleepless nights and potent wine, you had looked at him with such heartache. As though his words had struck your skin like lashes.
He has never spoken to you in such a manner since that night. And he never will again.
Regardless of how well Geta performs his duties, there is always a hand guiding him to work harder, push further. The demand that he marry was satisfied for no more than a day, before the demand for an heir was placed upon him. The pair of you had looked at each other, with such unspoken trepidation, knowing what was to be expected.
A boy.
Nothing else would satisfy an Empire as greedy and relentless.
Offerings were placed at the Temple of Juno, prayers offered to Priapus, and a statue of the dea nutrix - a goddess who takes the form of a nursing mother - brought to the palace. Medici and midwives were chosen with the utmost care, and your diet was carefully constructed to ensure the health of you and your unborn child.
Geta remembers the hours of labour as though they were a dream brought about by fever - pacing the corridor continuously, back and forth, back and forth, as he waited for news. And all the while, he could hear you, in such unbearable pain, locked away from him. There was nothing that he could do; not even he could go against such a long-standing tradition. Emperor or not, he was not permitted inside. He could not be with you. And so he paced on, for hours on end, until the small hours of the morning.
When the door finally opened, he has never known relief like it in the time since.
He had rushed to your side, to find you in a complete state of disarray, and yet still the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. You had looked up at him with such a warm smile, the one that reached your eyes, before casting your gaze down to the little bundle tucked carefully into your arms. His own followed, and he had felt as though the very earth had been pulled from beneath him.
A girl.
After every offering, every prayer, everything, the Gods had been cruel enough to give him a daughter.
In hindsight, he is able to see what a fool he was. You had held her out to him; this fragile, delicate, little thing, and he is ashamed to admit now that he felt nothing but disdain. Why had the Gods forsaken him?
He held his tongue, allowing you to place her in his arms. Her little hand had stretched out, opening and closing around nothing, until finally she found him. Her tiny fingers wrapped around his, gripping him so tight, as though he were her anchor.
It was only when a teardrop struck her skin that he realised he was crying. In that very moment, all of those feelings of disappointment and anger melted away. He would protect this little girl - his daughter - with his life, Empire and its cruel demands be damned.
There were whispers, of course. Geta knew them well. Poisoned words from forked tongues, of you, of your infidelity, your unfaithfulness. How else could the Emperor have been cursed with a daughter? Geta was merciless in his retaliation, and those tongues soon fell still.
He would not have your name sullied in such a manner. In spite of his fear, he knew that you were devoted to him, and only him.
How you have never wavered; stood only steadfast and loyal by his side.
On days such as today, long and arid, he finds that his mind is prone to wandering as it has. He rouses himself from his meditations, watching as you slowly pace the marble floors of your living quarters. Your child lies in your arms, her head resting against your chest as she continues to defy sleep. You hum softly to her, a soothing breath of a sound that would surely defeat a much stronger being.
It has been the undoing of Caracalla on many an occasion, and though he would be reluctant to admit it, Geta himself.
During your pregnancy, there had been talk of finding a suitable nutrix, but you had been quick to dismiss it. You would not have another person take the responsibility of raising your child from you. You had spoke with such ferocity that Geta knew it was a losing argument, and no more was ever said on the matter.
He rests his chin in his hand, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. To think that there was a time when the very scene playing out before him would have made him recoil in disgust.
How he pities the man he used to be.
"Geta," you call softly, pulling him from his thoughts. "Perhaps you might try for a while?"
You cross the room to where he sits. Your child is still fussing, refusing to allow Somnus to cast his spell over her. Without a word, Geta rises, reaching out to take his daughter in his arms. When he looks down at her, it is to find her bright gaze already fixed on him.
"Whatever is the matter, little one?" he asks in a murmur.
Slowly, so as not to startle her, he rocks from one foot to the other; a gentle, back and forth rhythm. Her hands grasp at his robes, as her feet kick lightly at him. She is nearing the age where she is close to her first steps, but not quite. How it frustrates her.
He continues on in this manner, quietly placating her with gentle words, and rocking her slowly in his embrace.
"How she fights," you whisper from where you now sit.
Geta cannot help but smile. "She is truly Caracalla's niece."
It is some time before her eyes finally fall closed, her head pressed against Geta's chest. Her faint little snuffles are the only sounds to be heard, as the pair of you collectively hold your breath, so as not to disturb her. Carefully, Geta sits down next to you. You lean close to press a kiss to his cheek.
"And you were worried that you would not be fit for such a role," you say softly.
Geta frowns. "I said no such thing."
You gently wipe a dot of drool from your daughter's lip. "It does not matter. A wife always knows."
Geta cannot argue with you; at least, not without having to lie to you. So often has he worried that he is too much like his father. He wonders if given the choice, would he have ever become a father in the first place.
"Do not retreat too far, dulcissime," you say, your gaze still fixed on your child. "You are needed here."
There have many times throughout your marriage that Geta has been close to accusing you of witchcraft. For how can a mere mortal always seems to know what he is thinking?
"Shall I take her? Your arms will tire if she is to grace us with a long sleep," you tell him.
Geta shakes his head. "Not yet. Let me stay as I am for a little while longer."
You do not argue with him, merely resting your head against his shoulder, as you bask in the quiet of the late afternoon.
Just for a moment, Geta can pretend that this is his only responsibility. That he is but a man. A husband. A father. All of this, and no more. It is a quiet delusion that brings him a fleeting feeling of peace. For here, with you by his side and his daughter asleep in his arms, he finally has something that he can truly call his own.
Summary: You finally come face-to-face with the shadowy figure that Bob’s desperately been trying to hide from you.
Word count: 3.2k
Tags and warnings: First meeting with The Void, a little angst, very vague horror elements, mentions of Bob’s mental health (anxious thoughts), a little fluff, happy ending because Bob deserves it, no use of Y/N.
(I’ve been rotating The Void in my mind for weeks now, he’s so interesting. Thank you as always to @getaapologist for sitting in the Bob brainrot with me. Honestly, I'm nervous about posting this, but I put a lot of time, love and research in, and I hope it shows. Title is from Wonderful Nothing by Glass Animals.)
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It’s been a few hours since you last saw Bob. It’s not uncommon for him to disappear for a little while. He’s still getting used to being around so many people - people who care about him - and he finds it overwhelming. A couple of hours is about all he can take before he needs to retreat somewhere quiet to recharge.
It was worrying in the beginning, considering everything that had happened in Manhattan, but now, no one really gives it a second thought. It’s just how Bob is. He’ll come back when he’s ready.
It’s around dinnertime when you decide to check on him. He’s most likely in his room, since there aren’t many other places he would go, and you know he hasn’t left the Watchtower. It’s not that he’s not allowed, more that he prefers not to.
“It’s not just me going out there, is it?” he’d explained to you with a nervous smile, one hand clasping the other a little too tightly.
Maybe he’s taking a nap. He’s never been a great sleeper, from what he’s told you. The light in the hallway is dim as you make your way to his bedroom, but it’s a familiar walk now, so you don’t really think much of it.
Maybe you should.
You gently knock on his door.
“Bob?” you call softly. “Dinner’s almost ready if you wanna come down.”
There’s no answer. You wait a few seconds before reaching for the handle. This isn’t really something you would do with anyone else, but lately, you and Bob have been spending more time together. At the start, you’d had to instigate almost every conversation, and it felt like trying to draw blood from a stone, but more and more now, he comes to you. There have been a few nights where the two of you have stayed up talking for so long that the sun was rising by the time you were done.
He isn’t just as nervous around you anymore, and you’re grateful for that. You want him to feel safe when he’s with you. Because that’s how he makes you feel.
He’d smiled when you’d confessed that to him, in that shy way of his where he ducks his head to hide himself beneath his hair. But you’d seen the worry in his eyes too.
The fear.
He didn’t have to explain it to you. You know. Know what he’s done, what he’s capable of. You’ve seen the footage. How those people just…disappeared. It didn’t look real.
There haven’t been any incidents since then. He’s been trying so hard to keep himself calm, stable. And as chaotic as they all are, being around everyone as much as he is has been helpful. He knows that they’ve seen and heard and done things that most people couldn’t even imagine.
He doesn’t have to face this alone anymore.
Still, he’s cautious. Especially around you. At first, you thought it was because he didn’t trust you. You tried not to take it personally. You knew he wasn’t going to just let you in with open arms. He’s been through too much for that.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he’d told you eventually, whispered words caught between the fingers pressed to his mouth.
“I know,” you’d replied softly. “And you won’t.”
You’d reached for his hand, carefully prying it away from his face. His eyes were brimming with tears.
“But I will,” he’d said in a trembling breath, and the look he’d given you was enough to break your heart.
It had taken some time on his part - and a little coaxing on yours - to pull him out of his shell again. He doesn’t like being vulnerable like that. But you’d treated him as you always did, didn’t try to pry further, and gradually, things felt as though they were back to normal again.
But something in you had shifted. Suddenly, Bob wasn’t the same person as he was before. And it wasn’t fear, or worry. It was something else.
Something you didn’t want to name. Didn’t want to pin your hopes on.
You push the thought aside, turning the handle and opening the door. “Bob? Are you-”
You stop, involuntarily sucking in a sharp breath. The air in the room burns as it slips down your throat.
It’s cold. Too cold.
You know Bob tends to run hot, but the chill in the air is painful. Biting where it touches your skin.
The room is dimly lit, but even in the gloom, there’s something hanging in the air. A mist. Like dust that’s been unsettled.
And in the midst of it all sits a lone figure, right in the centre of the bed. Legs crossed, head lowered. Shrouded in a shadowy fog. You could be forgiven for thinking it was Bob, crudely lit by the faint sliver of light spilling from the open door.
But you know better.
You can’t seem to make yourself move, still gripping the door handle.
“Is he…what?” the figures asks.
His voice is low, quiet, the edge of his words rough in a way that makes you shiver. It sounds just enough like Bob that you could allow yourself to pretend, if you wanted.
But you know better.
The figure raises his head, and whatever thought of escaping you might have had crumbles to nothing. Two sharp pinpricks of bright white focus on you. Magnetic. Hypnotising. You can’t look away.
His head tilts. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he murmurs. “Have we?”
There’s a smirk in his voice. You don’t like it.
“But then…I suppose that’s not strictly true, is it? I know all about you.”
He taps his temple slowly with one finger, before gesturing to the space in front of him.
“Won’t you join me?” he asks.
He pats the bedspread softly, but the sound feels thunderous in the otherwise still room. He asks as if it’s an invitation, but you don’t really feel as if you have much of a choice in the matter.
Cautious, you force yourself to move, your eyes never once leaving him. The door swings shut behind you, far too loud, and you try not to flinch. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how afraid you are.
His hand continues patting, over and over, until you’re sitting on the bed in front of him. A pleased sound leaves him - not quite a laugh, more of a hum.
“I should apologise,” he starts, not sounding in the least bit sorry. “You were expecting Bob, weren’t you?”
The way he says his name - tears at it with his teeth and spits it out like the taste of it disgusts him - makes your chest ache.
“It’s okay,” you reply carefully.
You cross your legs where you sit, laying one hand on top of the other. A perfect mirror image of him.
His eyes narrow, those bright sparks dimming for a brief moment as he observes you. Scrutinising you, as though he has you beneath the lens of a microscope. You fight the urge to look away.
“It’s okay,” he echoes. His tone darkens, drips with mockery. “It’s okay.”
He raises a hand, stopping just short of your face. His fingers flex, mere millimetres from touching your cheek, and he chuckles.
“Oh. You’re scared,” he notes, almost pleasantly.
You say nothing, more focused on keeping your breathing under control as he moves lower, fingers tracing the air along your jaw, across your chin. Stopping at your neck. His gaze follows his movements in fascination.
Another laugh escapes him. Tight-lipped, muted, almost a giggle; if you could call such a vicious sound that.
“He’s scared too,” he tells you, his voice a low sing-song. “The closer I get to you…”
He draws nearer, still not quite touching, but the cold fog that envelops him stings where it licks against your throat.
“…the more he screams.”
Slowly, he withdraws again.
“Easy, Bob,” he purrs into the silence. “I won’t bite.”
His eyes suddenly focus on you again, and the weight of his full attention feels oppressive. As if it could squeeze the life from you.
“Not unless you want me to.”
Your blood runs cold. He seems none the wiser. His words, his actions; all of it is so normal for him.
“I bet you’re wondering why I’m here, hm?” he says. “Why Bobby let me out to play.”
You blink hard. You know how much he hates that name.
“He’s been so sad lately,” he tells you, pretending to wipe a tear from his cheek. “Ever since you came along.”
You stare at him in confusion. Sad? But you’re friends. Surely Bob would have told you if you’d done something to hurt him. Right?
“Poor little doormat that he is, he’s just so afraid of hurting people’s feelings. He can’t be the bad guy. No, that’s my job, isn’t it?”
His voice drops lower, those last few words spoken in a growl. The fabric beneath him rustles as he grips it tightly.
You don’t dare move.
“I bet you’re just dying to know what you’ve done wrong.” he murmurs, his tone now unnervingly saccharine. “How you’ve hurt him, made him lose so much sleep. He’s lost weight lately, have you noticed?”
You had noticed, but you didn’t know how to bring it up without upsetting him. The last thing you want is for him to withdraw from you again. What you have is already so delicately balanced.
“I can feel you searching. Trying to remember. Was it something you said? Something you did?”
He leans forward, and those bright lights feel as though they’re burning into your soul. You desperately want to avert your gaze, but you can’t. You refuse.
“Or maybe it was something you didn’t do. Did you forget something important to him?”
His mouth slides into a smile, exposing the sharp line of teeth hidden from view.
“Poor thing, he always has been so sensitive.”
He moves again, creeping closer and closer to you, until his nose is no more than a hair’s breadth from yours. Not once does he blink.
“Or maybe…Maybe you don’t care,” he says, and his tone turns sour. The smile disappears. “Maybe you just humour him, say all the right things to make him happy.”
Anger starts to swell up in you at his words. It’s one thing for him to insinuate that you’ve done something to hurt Bob when you can’t remember, but how dare he imply that you would be so cruel.
“Act like you give a damn, when really you’re playing pretend.”
He keeps pressing, digging at the wound. You shake your head.
“Do you enjoy getting his hopes up?” he asks, persistent. Aggravating. He wants a reaction. “Leading him on like you do?”
“No, I don’t,” you retort. Pain blooms across your jaw from how hard you were gritting your teeth.“Of course I care about Bob. I-”
You falter. That smile returns. He can smell your fear.
“You…what?” he prompts. “Say it.”
The way he watches you is terrifying. Ravenous.
“If you don’t want to tell me, I could always just…”
He makes a show of walking his fingers across the air, just above your arm. The implication is all too clear. He could just look into your mind. Could have done it right from the beginning. But this, the game he’s playing, is much sweeter to him. Hurting people like this, he craves it, feeds off of it. He wants to keep Bob alone. All to himself.
And then it hits you.
He doesn’t want to hurt Bob. He wants to protect him.
Because while none of you want to admit it - least of all, Bob himself - the shadow that sits in front of you is Bob. His pain, his trauma, all of it, made manifest. A living, breathing thing.
You can’t hate him.
You swallow your anger, taking a breath to steady your nerves.
“You said earlier that you know all about me,” you say softly. “Tell me something about you.”
That seems to catch him off-guard. For the briefest moment, his gaze drifts from yours. Has no one ever shown interest in him like this before?
“Why are you changing the subject?” he asks.
He’s trying to gain the upper hand again, but you can hear how his voice wavers, however slight it might be. The damage has been done.
“Because I want to know more about you,” you tell him. “And I want to hear it from you.”
He pauses, observing you. The room somehow feels colder all of a sudden. Darker.
“You don’t want me,” he spits, his fingers twisting into the sheets again. “No one wants me.”
Tentatively, you reach out, your hand drawing nearer to his face. He snarls, but you hold your nerve, until your palm grazes his cheek. He feels surprisingly solid, like marble. At last, his eyes close, and you foolishly dare to move a little closer. They snap open again as quickly as that, and he snatches your wrist. You wince as he begins to squeeze.
“You want to tame me, keep me calm so I’ll slip back into my cage,” he seethes. His grip is merciless, and tears prick at your eyes. “You want me sedated, just like everyone else.”
He tugs your wrist, dragging you so close that you can feel his breath against your face.
“You’d kill me if you could,” he growls through clenched teeth.
In spite of the searing pain spreading through your arm, you shake your head.
“No, I wouldn’t,” you reply, voice trembling.
He sneers at you. “Then you’re more of a fool than he is.”
“You’re wrong. You’re a part of him. I don’t just love him for what he lets me see, I love all of him. Because that’s what makes him who he is.”
His grip falters ever so slightly.
“You…love me?”
That’s Bob’s voice. It’s small, but it’s there. He’s still there.
“I do,” you tell him sincerely. “All of you.”
His head jerks violently, as though he’s trying to keep control. But he’s failing. Warmth begins to bloom beneath your palm, across your wrist. You know how hard Bob’s fighting.
“I love you,” you whisper. “I really do.”
This was never how you pictured this moment. But then, you never thought you’d gather the courage to even say it. What you have with Bob is so special to you, and you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it. So when those thoughts started to arise, you pushed them down. And pushed and pushed. But no matter how hard you tried, they kept rising to the surface again. Threatening to choke you. To take away everything you had spent so long building. The friendship. The trust.
Slowly, the shadows begin to fade away, the wispy fog and biting chill disappearing along with them, eventually revealing a very tired-looking Bob. His dark eyes meet yours for a moment, before he collapses onto his back on the bed. He’s still holding your wrist, and you find yourself being dragged down with him. You only just manage to stop yourself from knocking the wind out of him, pressing your hands to the mattress to hold yourself up.
“Sorry,” he mumbles nervously.
He tries to wriggle out from under you, but you drop onto your forearms and he stops suddenly, wide-eyed as he watches you.
“It’s okay,” you say, your voice soft and earnest. “You don’t have to run away from me.”
Bob shakes his head. “No, I- I can’t risk that happening again. It’s dangerous. I’m dangerous-”
You can feel the panic rising in him. How scared he is.
“Bob,” you call gently. “Hey. Listen to me. It’s okay.”
You hold his gaze, refusing to look away from him. You need to keep him grounded.
“We’re alright. We’re safe. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”
Despite the fear still thrumming through you, you mean every word.
“I know you’re scared. I can only imagine what it feels like to lose control like that. But you don’t have to hide it from me, okay?” you say. You keep your voice low, as if you’re trying to coax a frightened animal. “You won’t hurt me. You can’t. Because it’s you. And I’m not afraid of you. Not enough that it would drive me away. Maybe that makes me stupid, but I don’t care.”
Carefully, you rest a hand against his cheek. He flinches at your touch, but still reaches for you all the same.
You smile warmly at him. “I love you.”
A tiny, broken sob slips from him, and without a word, he pulls you close to him. You don’t fight him. You wouldn’t dream of it. Not when you’ve wanted this for so long.
It’s some time before either of you speak. Bob breaks first. His breathing begins to even out, his pounding heart beneath your cheek gradually slows to a steady pace.
“I’m, um…I’m sorry you had to be the one to say it first,” he whispers.
You raise your head. His eyes are squeezed shut as he speaks.
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“I wanted to…I wanted to tell you. How I felt. It’s been driving me crazy,” he confesses. He laughs then, a short, nervous sound. “But I was so scared. Scared of…”
He trails off, running his tongue across his lower lip.
“...losing you.”
It’s strange, considering his size, but the way he is now, he looks so small. He seems to have a knack for taking up as little space as he can.
It makes your heart ache. You wish you could make him see himself the way you do.
“Bob, look at me. Please?” you ask quietly.
It takes him a minute, but he opens his eyes. They’re red-rimmed.
“You’re not going to lose me,” you say. “I promise. I trust you.”
He still looks as though he wants to argue with you, but you refuse to hear it.
“You’re still figuring things out. I don’t expect you to have total control over it all. Sooner or later, it was going to happen. And…I’m glad it did. Because I want to get to know all of you. Even the parts you don’t like.”
Something seems to click, and at last, he admits defeat with a little nod. Either that, or he’s too tired to keep fighting. Whichever it is, you’re grateful for it.
“Okay,” he replies, letting out a shuddering sigh. “Okay.”
He’s gentle when he reaches for you this time, tracing along your jaw as if in reverence. You let him lead as he leans in to kiss you. It’s slow, hesitant, and it takes everything to fight the adrenaline rushing through you, to drag him in and kiss him hard like you so desperately want.
Next time. Right now, he needs to be in charge. Needs to feel as though he’s in control.
He’s smiling when he pulls away from you. Not his usual shy smile, or that nervous flash of teeth - this feels genuine. Real.
You rest your forehead against his, allowing yourself a moment. Air brushes against your skin, and you realise that Bob’s saying something.
“...never actually said it back, did I?” he murmurs.
You hold your breath, afraid that you’ll miss it. He leans in to kiss you again.
“I love you too.”
Your heart feels like a hammer in your chest. You’ve never felt as happy as you do right now. You can’t help yourself - you kiss him again, and again, until you’re both breathless and laughing.
This won’t be an easy road, for either of you, but you have each other, and at the end of it all, that’s what makes it worth it. No matter what happens, he’ll always be worth it.
Summary: There's only so long Bob can control the bad thoughts before they become too much for him. Luckily, he isn't alone.
Word count: 2.1k
Tags and warnings: Angst with a fairly happy ending, The Void, mentions of Bob's mental health (mainly anxiety, low self-esteem and fragmented self-talk), mutual attraction, no use of Y/N.
(Bob, I'm so sorry I keep writing miserable fics about you, you deserve to be happy. This is quite similar to one I wrote before, but with this one, I wanted to explore The Void as more of a quieter presence in Bob's mind.)
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It’s only a matter of time.
They’ll realise what you are. What you really are. And one by one, they’ll leave.
They’ll leave you alone. Like you deserve.
Clock’s ticking.
He thought he was getting better. He really did.
Thought he had a better handle on the voice in his head. He keeps arguing with it, shoving it down, trying to ignoring it, but he's tired. God, he's so tired.
Tired of his own mind beating him down, again and again. Maybe it's right. That voice that slithers around him. Gentle at first, always so gentle. Luring him in, allowing him respite.
It's only a matter of time before it starts to tighten its grip. Pull him closer. Squeeze the air from his lungs. Leave him gasping and screaming. Begging.
He'd give anything to make it go away. He's sick of the pain it brings. But it doesn't matter how far he runs or where he hides. It's all the same. Because he can't outrun himself. Can't outrun what he is. This darkness that festers in him. Like a sickness. Rotting him from the inside out. Infecting everyone around him.
He wants to be alone. But he is alone. That voice…It's his own. Thoughts and words picked up from other people — people who should have been kinder, better — but the voice is his. No matter what he does, he's destined to lose.
Soon they'll see. Wouldn't it be better if you left before they realise? You've been feeding them so many lies. They don't know you like I do. I see you for what you really are.
He tried to leave. He really did. But there's always an excuse to stay. A late night talk with Yelena, a training session with Ava, a silly inside joke that Alexei loves to make with him.
Always an excuse. He's so weak. He's going to hurt them. How long can he keep lying to himself? How long can he keep pretending that he isn't dangerous?
And then there's you. God, if he hurt you, he'd never forgive himself. The rest of them are like a family to him, but you…
He can't say what you are. If he lost that…
But you will. You always hurt the ones you love.
So he does what he knows best. He retreats. Locks himself away in the furthest room of the Watchtower, away from concerned questions and worried eyes.
If you really cared for any of them, you'd leave. Disappear. Let them forget all about you. But you're a coward. You always have been.
He just wants it to stop.
Bob's been disappearing more and more lately, and it's becoming hard to ignore. You try to give him his space - he's quieter than the others and needs more time to himself - but it's becoming too much, even for him.
The Watchtower is an enormous building, even for the amount of people who occupy it, and some of the rooms furthest from the common area are gathering dust from lack of use.
You're willing to bet that's where Bob's hidden himself away.
You leave under the pretence of wanting to spend some time alone in your room. Whether anyone believes you or not remains to be seen, but depending on Bob's current state, you know that he likely won't appreciate the entire team descending on him like a flock of mother hens. Even just one of you is probably pushing it. But you need to know if he's okay. Call it selfish, but you really miss his company.
You keep as quiet as possible as you make your way across the building. Bob's hearing is sensitive at the best of times, and you don't want to alert him to your presence too early. You can't let him run away before you've even found him.
When you reach the end of the hall, you expect to find the door locked, but you're grateful to find that it opens easily. The room is dark, which doesn't come as a surprise. It's easier for him to hide this way.
Slowly, you close the door behind you, conscious of making any sudden sounds. You close your eyes, letting the silence wash over you. This is the last room. He has to be in here.
There. A sniffle, from the far corner of the room.
"Bob?" you call in a hushed voice.
Muted shuffling against the wooden floorboards. A stifled whimper.
Your stomach drops. Is he hurt?
"Bob?" you call again, soft and low. "Can you make another sound for me? So I know where you are."
You hold yourself still, poised for any minute sound. The silence is unnerving.
"Go away." His voice is hoarse, as if he's been crying.
The room is fairly small and sparsely decorated, and with some concentration, you're able to make your way around the furniture without too much of an issue. Faint lines of evening light fall through the cracks in the curtains, dimly illuminating your way.
Another muffled sniffle, and you've found him. A hunched silhouette on the floor, huddled against the wall.
"Bob?" You carefully crouch down in front of him. Not so close that you might startle him. "Are you hurt?"
A shuffling sound. Shaking his head, perhaps. If he's hurt, you need an answer. You try again.
"No- No, you need to leave. I need you to leave," he begs. "Please."
You squint in the low light, and as your eyes adjust, you begin to make out the shape of him. His head's lowered, chin tucked behind his knees as he hugs them tight to his chest.
Like a frightened child.
"Bob, I'm worried about you," you say gently. "We all are. I know you need your space, and that's okay. But this isn't healthy, you're isolating yourself."
You stretch your hand out to him, to comfort him in some small way.
"I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm going to stay right here with you, for as long as you need me to. Will you let me?"
He flinches as you touch his arm. His head snaps up suddenly, and in one swift movement, your back collides with the floor. The air's forced from you in one quick breath. Bob leans over you, heavy hands pressed to your shoulders. His eyes are wild. You've never seen him like this before. He's scaring you.
As quickly as that, he's gone. Retreats back into his corner liked an animal that's been spooked. He clutches tightly at his hair, whispered sorries tumbling from his trembling lips.
Carefully, so as not to startle him again, you pull yourself upright.
"Bob?" You keep your hands to yourself this time. "Bob."
Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
"Bob," you say again, firmly. Willing your voice to remain steady. "Listen to me. Please?"
His grip tightens. If you don't stop him, he's going to hurt himself.
"I know you didn't mean what just happened." Every word is chosen carefully. "You're scared. I know. But it's okay. I'm here with you."
His head shakes. You're not sure if he can even hear you.
"You- You have to leave," he mumbles. "Before he- Before I-"
There are parts of Bob that you still don't fully understand. Parts that he does his best to keep hidden. Everyone has secrets. But his can turn people into shadows with barely a thought.
The Void. All of Bob's pain - his rage, his sadness, his despair - brought to life by the Sentry serum. Sometimes it's it, sometimes he. But never I.
"You're not going to hurt me," you tell him. Fear still runs like a current through you, but you believe what you say. "I know you won't. Because you're strong."
A barely stifled sob slips from him, and you press on.
"You are. You're so strong. You don't want to hurt me, and you won't. And I won't leave you."
"But what if I do?" he whispers. "What if I hurt you? What if I lose control and- and-"
He shakes his head again.
"Please. Just- Just go."
Pushing through the thrumming anxiety, you reach for Bob's hands. He clutches harder at himself, reluctant to let go. So you stop trying, lightly running your thumbs back and forth across his skin instead.
"It's okay," you murmur, in an attempt to soothe him. "It's okay."
It takes some coaxing, but gradually, his grip loosens, and his hands slip from his hair. You gently guide them down so he doesn't hurt himself.
"If anything happened to you and it was my fault…"
He stops, swallowing another lump in his throat.
"I- I can't let that happen. You…You mean too much to me."
It's the first time he's ever said anything like this. Bob's always been more of a listener than a talker, and it can be hard to tell what he's really thinking. But this…
This feels like an admission. A confession.
Something you've been wanting to hear for a long time. What you've been desperately hoping for.
You take a breath, hoping that you can keep yourself together for a little while longer. For his sake.
"And you mean too much to me to let you fight through this alone," you tell him. "So let me help you. And it's not because I feel like I have to. It's because I want to."
You pause, giving your words the time to sink in. Hoping that Bob's letting them.
"I want to help you, Bob."
You want to keep talking, keep pushing, anything to make him give in and let you care for him. But you know that'll only scare him away. So you wait, sitting quietly in the dark with him for as long as he needs.
It's some time before Bob finally moves, and when he does, he all but collapses into your arms, clinging to you as if he's worried you'll disappear. He's heavy, and the angle is awkward and painful, but none of that matters right now. All you care about is that he's letting you in.
The light outside is gone completely by the time you and Bob leave. He trails after you in the dark, neither of you saying a word. He's exhausted after what he's been through, and you're not faring much better.
Bob's room is your first stop. Even if he knows the Watchtower as well as you - better, perhaps - you wouldn't feel right leaving him to find his way alone.
You're about to say goodnight when Bob reaches for you, a trembling hand clutching at your sleeve.
"I- I can't," is all he manages.
I can't be alone.
You place your hand over his, gentle and reassuring. "Can I stay with you tonight?" you ask softly.
You've learned from experience that wording what Bob wants as something you want makes it far easier to get a straight answer from him.
He quickly nods in reply. You give him a little squeeze, not letting go as you lead him into his room. He follows you readily without a word. You're already in your pajamas, and Bob doesn't even stop to undress - he just climbs right into bed with you.
Normally, he's hesitant around other people touching him, but he falls easily in your arms. Maybe he's too tired to care, or maybe you've finally proven yourself trustworthy enough. Either way, you're not about to question it.
"Promise you'll still be here in the morning?"
His voice is so small that you find yourself suddenly fighting the urge to cry.
"I promise," you murmur.
His hold on you tightens for a moment, before slowly, it begins to relax.
"Try and get some rest, okay? You're safe here. I'm not going anywhere."
It takes Bob a while before he settles - you can feel every minute twitch and warm sigh - but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him, and his breathing gradually starts to even out into quiet snores.
Your mind is still racing, and you let yourself breathe properly for what feels like the first time tonight - in slowly, out slowly. There's nothing to do right now except sleep. You rest your cheek against the top of Bob's head, trying not to think about soft his hair is.
Whatever's waiting for you can be dealt with in the morning. Right now, the only thing that matters is that Bob's safe. That's all you can ask for.
|| Owner of a Lonely Flaming Heart (Fan Club Card) ||
Pairing: Johnny Storm/Reader
Summary: Johnny finds out that you're a member of his fan club, and no, you're not going to hear the end of it anytime soon.
Word count: 2.3k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, Johnny's a nuisance (affectionate), established relationship, no use of Y/N.
(Once again, thank you so much to @getaapologist for the brilliant idea! And you should definitely check out @glassbxttless for her amazing version of this!)
Johnny Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
There's not a lot that Johnny doesn't know about you.
For starters, it never seemed fair for you to keep secrets from him. Almost every detail of his life is plastered all over tabloid articles and gossip magazines. He's even got his own billboard downtown, which he's very proud of, by the way. Needless to say, you knew more about him before you'd even had the chance to introduce yourself, and so you thought it was only fair that he knew just as much about you - even if most of it wasn't remotely as interesting. (Johnny begs to differ, but then he always does have to be different.)
Not only that, but you couldn't keep a secret from him even if you tried. Once he sets his mind on something, he just can't leave it alone. He reminds you of a hunting dog sometimes - as soon as he catches the scent of something interesting, he's on it in seconds. You made the mistake of telling him as much once, and he made such a embarrassing show of barking and howling at you in response that you've never done it again. Ever the exhibitionist.
But there's one thing he doesn't know about you, and you'd rather like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
You're a member of the Flaming Hearts Fan Club.
Johnny's fan club.
Look, you know how it sounds. A diehard fan who managed to keep the obsession under control long enough to get the job as his assistant, and as luck would have it, actually catch the eye of the Human Torch himself? It's ridiculous, it's entirely unbelievable, and yet here you are.
But the thing is, you're not obsessed with him. Never have been. You just thought he was cute. A friend had pointed out the advertisement for his fan club in a magazine. Why not? you'd thought to yourself. It was just a bit of fun.
And when you were invited for the job interview, you'd known that if you were successful, you'd be working in the same building as literal superheroes, which, while obviously an incredible thing to brag about, wasn't exactly your main reason for applying.
The field you were trained in was pretty specific; you knew this even while you were in college, with a class that was barely in the double digits. But you had no idea how difficult it was going to be to get hired after you graduated, save for setting yourself up independently, which seemed a little (okay, a lot) out of your current financial budget.
So when you'd seen the job listing, you'd jumped at the chance, the thought of where you'd be working not really occurring to you at all.
Until you'd gotten the job, and walked in to find Johnny Storm himself waiting for you.
That was two years ago now. And well...things have definitely changed since then. The biggest one being that the two of you are now dating.
If you're honest with yourself, you're still not entirely sure how it happened, but you wouldn't change how things are for the world.
Well, except for one little thing.
One little, rectangular, laminated thing, that is now lying on the floor, right at Johnny's feet.
You'd been trying to pay Johnny back for getting you coffee (not that he would take it, but you're nothing if not persistent), and it had slipped right out of your purse. You'd forgotten it was even in there.
"Is that...?" he begins to ask, before trailing off.
He crouches down to pick it up, and all hope that he hadn't noticed it goes right out the window.
"Oh my God, it is," he says, with a breathless laugh.
"Johnny..." you start, wringing your hands together nervously.
"I can't believe this," he says, with a shake of his head. "You're a member of my fan club. You."
You let out a sigh. Hell truly is other people.
He flips the card over, and his face lights up like it's his birthday.
"Oh, you signed it," he says, his smile only growing wider. "That is so cute."
He looks up at you then. He's clearly having the time of his life. At least one of you is.
"When were you gonna tell me about this, huh?" he asks, turning the card over and over between his fingers.
"Um, probably never?" you manage to reply, your face burning.
Johnny tilts his head at that.
"You know, I thought the vetting process for this job was pretty strict, and now I find out you've been a Johnny nut this whole time?"
He's kidding, you know he is. It still doesn't stop you from wanting to slap the smug smile off his face.
"Cut it out," you reply, trying to snatch the card from his hand, but he's too quick for you.
He moves out of your reach, turning on his heel and walking away.
"Man, I can't believe this is the photo they went with," he says. "I look like Captain Kirk here. Though he's a handsome guy, so I guess I can't complain."
He turns around again, holding the card up to his face and striking the same pose.
"You see it too, right?" he asks, as he pushes his hair to one side in an attempt to style it the same way. "Captain Storm. I like the sound of that."
He's having so much fun, he's completely ignoring the fact that you've been glaring daggers at him the entire time.
"Are you done making fun of me?" you ask, holding your hand out.
Johnny frowns at you in confusion.
"Oh, that's what I was supposed to be doing," he says, as if in sudden realisation. "Thanks for the reminder, doll."
This is it. This is the day you murder him. It's finally arrived.
Johnny's expression softens slightly.
"Hey," he says gently, crossing the short distance between you. "You know I'm kidding, right?"
You let out a little sigh, before nodding.
"I know, it's just...Well, it's embarrassing," you admit quietly.
He reaches for your hand, giving it a little squeeze.
"Nah, it's hardly embarrassing. I've seen worse. God, I've done worse," he replies, without his usual bravado.
You can't help but roll your eyes at that. Oh, you're well aware of Johnny's antics.
"I just...I don't want you to get the wrong idea," you tell him. "I didn't apply for this job because I'm some delusional fan."
Johnny gently tugs you close to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
"Hey, come on," he murmurs. "I know that. You're nothing like my fans, and I love that about you. You don't treat me like I'm some sort of God. Which, if I'm honest, is fun up to a point. You treat me like me, and I appreciate it. Really."
You look up at him. You're one of the few people lucky enough to see him like this - without his usual cocky stance and snarky one-liners. Full of sincerity.
Human.
It reminds you why you fell for him in the first place.
"So, how did you end up becoming a member, anyway?" he asks.
So much for that, you think to yourself, albeit fondly.
"A friend of mine had seen the application form in a magazine, and we thought it'd be fun," you tell him. "I did always think you were kinda cute."
Johnny blinks at you in disbelief.
"Sorry, kinda?" he asks, tone exasperated.
"Okay, very cute," you reply, relenting. "Unbelievably cute. The cutest."
Johnny looks down with a little breath of a laugh. Rarely do you see him shy - you're not sure he even knows the meaning of the word.
"And, um, there was another reason I joined," you say softly.
At that, Johnny's focus is immediately on you again.
"Oh, yeah?" he asks, trying and failing to sound casual. "What's that?"
You lean in close to him, making sure you have his full attention.
"Reed's fan club wasn't taking any more applications," you whisper in his ear, and while he's spluttering to find a response, you manage to yank the card out of his hand.
You step out from under his arm, safely putting the card back in your bag and zipping it up. Johnny's face has turned very red, and you can't help but laugh. It's nice to have the upper hand for a change.
"C'mon, we really should get back to this," you say, nodding your head in the direction of the blueprint that's been all but abandoned.
Johnny just shakes his head in disbelief, and you bite back a smile, trying to refocus yourself on your work.
"This isn't over, by the way," he mutters, reaching for a pen to write something down. "Reed's fan club. Unbelievable."
Despite his little "threat", Johnny doesn't mention the card again. You find yourself a little on edge, waiting for him to bring it up, but eventually, you start to settle, pushing it to the back of your mind.
Not a great idea. You should really know better than to believe that Johnny has the capacity to let anything go.
You're in the middle of laying out the notes the two of you have been working on one afternoon, enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet with Johnny still out on lunch, when the door opens behind you.
Speak of the devil.
"That eager to get started that you couldn't even wait for me, huh?" he asks, his tone light as his footsteps grow closer.
You shake your head, your attention still focused on the task in front of you.
"Just setting up," you reply.
You can sense him standing next to you, but he doesn't say anything more. Something's not right when Johnny's quiet, and you turn to look at him.
His hands are behind his back.
"I've got something for you," he says, with a coy little smile.
Knowing Johnny, this could either be very good, or very bad.
"What is it?" you ask, trying not to sound concerned.
Judging by how Johnny chuckles, you've clearly failed. He theatrically moves his hands so they're now in front of him.
He's holding a little card. You pull a face.
"Were you going through my bag?" you ask, tone exasperated.
Johnny shakes his head, his smile only widening as he holds the card out to you.
"Maybe you should take a closer look," is all he says.
You tentatively take the card from him, and immediately burst out laughing.
"Is this- Johnny, this is ridiculous," you try to chide, but there's no denying the smile still on your face.
It's a fan club card. For you.
You know it's supposed to be a joke, but he's clearly put a lot of thought and effort into it. He even chose a photo of you that doesn't make you want to kick him in the shins, which, for Johnny, is a surprise.
"Turn it over," he says.
On the back is his signature. He signed it. Even drew a little heart.
"And if you'll look at what it says underneath..." he says, trailing off as he points to the small, bold print under his name.
Fan Club President.
It's so silly, and yet you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed. Johnny's a hard one for you to understand sometimes; the polar opposite of you in so many ways. You don't know how many times you've thought that your relationship shouldn't work, and yet somehow, despite everything, it does.
He knows when you need dragged out of yourself for your own sake, and he knows when he needs to rein himself in. There's the Johnny who poses for the fans and paparazzi, and then there's your Johnny, who goes out of his way to get dinner for you from that cute little pizza place you love that doesn't deliver, and makes himself the president of the fan club that he made up just for you.
He might drive you crazy at the best of times, but no one has ever made you feel as special as Johnny does.
"Y'know, the one downside of being the first member of your fan club is that I have to get all the other stuff for myself," he says cryptically.
You stop for a second.
"Wait, what other stuff? What do you mean?" you ask.
Johnny won't meet your eye. Like a dog that's been caught doing something it shouldn't have.
"Well...It's just..."
He taps the card with his finger.
"I know my fan club membership comes with posters and stuff," he says, still too vague for your liking. "I mean, you would know."
"And...?" you press.
"Well, all I'm saying is...When am I gonna get a poster of you?" he asks, finally meeting your gaze.
With his signature shit-eating grin on his face, of course.
Your eyes widen. So does his smile.
"You're not serious! You're- Johnny, you're in your uniform in that poster. It leaves nothing to the imagination!" you hiss in embarrassment.
"And...? What's your point?" he asks, leaning on the table with his arms folded.
His tone is innocent, but his eyes are half-lidded, and he's giving you that look, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.
"Can we...Can we please get back to work now?" you ask, almost desperate for this conversation to end.
Before you do something completely out of character.
Johnny rolls his eyes, but he relents. Much to your relief.
"Sure thing, doll," he replies, leaning in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.
He turns back to the notes spread out across the desk, and the pair of you fall into a comfortable silence for a while. Until-
"Okay, so maybe not a full poster spread, but how about some polaroids?" he asks, with a sly glance in your direction.
If the pen in your hand just happens to slip out of your grasp and hit him on the forehead, well...
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Summary: Ben meets a girl at his favourite shop, but he's convinced she’s only being nice to him because it's her job. He tries to figure out his feelings, while Johnny secretly plays messenger.
Word count: 5k
Tags and warnings: The fluffiest thing I’ve written in a long time, Ben is the biggest sweetheart, Johnny’s a menace (affectionate), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. The teensiest spoilers for the movie, technically? It's literally the name of the place and the street name, that's about it.
(Is there an audience for Ben? Well, there damn well better be, because I’m in love with him. He cooks and gardens and dresses well and he's the sweetest guy on Earth? He’s the best.)
Ben Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
If you were to ask anyone who lives within a two block radius where Ben's favourite place to eat is, they'd all give you the same answer.
Maisie's Delicatessen, down on Yancy Street.
He's there so often that even the paparazzi who dedicate themselves to following the Fantastic Four around have given up on staking it out.
'The Thing Spotted at Maisie's for the Twentieth Time This Month' isn't exactly a big scoop.
Ben doesn't care. He's a man of routine, always has been. People might think he's boring, but after everything that's happened to him, he needs some things to stay the same.
And then you came along.
You must be new, because Ben's sure he would recognise you otherwise. He's on first name basis with everyone here. They even have a framed photo of him with the staff on the wall. He was embarrassed when they first showed it to him, but now, he finds it endearing.
"Morning! What can I get for you?" you say, as he steps up to the counter.
Your voice is a little too loud, the cheerful expression on your face just a touch manic. He smiles to himself. First day nerves.
"Morning. Can I get three half-moon cookies?"
He points to the display's middle shelf.
"And uh, throw in one of those little lemon things."
He watches you rush around, trying to find everything. The glass door on the display jams when you try to open it, one of the cookies falls apart the second you try to lift it with the tongs, and the paper bags are all stuck together and end up scattered all over the floor when you try to pry them apart.
"God, I'm so sorry-" you start, but Ben just shakes his head.
He bends down to gather up the bags that have fallen at his feet, placing them back on the counter.
"Don't worry about it," he says gently. "First day?"
You let out a shaky breath.
"Yeah, and I'm so nervous," you admit in a whisper. "There's just so much to remember."
Ben nods knowingly. He gives you a smile, hoping that he looks reassuring.
"Don't beat yourself up, alright? You're doing a great job," he says. "We all make mistakes. You should see me before I've had my coffee in the morning. Trust me, it ain't pretty."
You laugh, wiping your hands on your apron.
"Okay, let's try this again," you say resolutely.
You lift another cookie from the tray, sliding it into the bag with the others. You take your time with the lemon slice, careful not to disturb the swirl of icing at the top as you box it up.
Ben can't help but think how sweet it is that you're trying so hard, even if it is your job.
"Can I tell you something?" you ask. "You're gonna think it's so silly."
You press the paper bag closed, running your thumb along the fold to flatten it.
"All the guys have been telling me about you. You're like a celebrity here," you tell him, gesturing to the picture on the wall.
"Nah, I'm just a guy with a sweet tooth who doesn't know when to call it quits," Ben replies with a chuckle.
He hands you a couple of bills, lifting the box and bag from the counter. He shakes his head when you try to give him his change.
"Don't worry about it," he says, gesturing towards the tip jar. "I just realised I never asked you your name."
You introduce yourself.
"It's nice to put a name to a face," he says. "I'm Ben."
He knows he doesn't have to say it - of course you already know who he is. But sometimes he likes to pretend that there are some people left in the world who don't know him. That you only know him from the picture.
"It's nice to meet you too," you say with a warm smile.
He stops for a moment, finding himself a little taken aback. He can't for the life of him figure out why.
"Okay. Well, uh, I should get going," he says, wincing at how awkward he sounds. "Thanks again. And good luck for the rest of your first day."
"Thank you, I think I'm gonna need it," you reply, fussing with the mess of paper bags in front of you. "Hopefully I'll see you again?"
"Yeah, 'course. You too," Ben says, with a stiff little wave as he heads for the door.
He could kick himself. Really, he could.
Get it together. What's the matter with you?
It bothers him all day. Granted, he's never exactly been a socialite. Thankfully, he has Sue and Johnny to help with fielding most of the talking.
But he can handle a bit of small talk. He might not like it - who does, really? - but he can get through it, at least.
He tries to push it to the back of his mind. Really, he does. But it keeps coming back.
Or rather, you keep coming back.
It's when he's getting ready for bed that night that it finally hits him. The toothbrush drops out of his hand, hitting the sink with a loud clatter.
He stares at himself in the mirror.
"Oh, no," he whispers, letting out a long groan.
It's been about a month since you started working at Maisie's, and almost every morning, Ben stops by.
At first, it was for his usual order - the cookies that put the shop on the map. Then he started asking for your recommendations.
And now, more often than not, the two of you get to chatting for so long that he ends up causing a line right out the door.
He can't really explain what it is, you're just so easy to talk to. Despite what you said the first day you met, you don't treat him like a celebrity, you don't ask him questions about what happened or "what it's like". You're just...you.
And the scary thing is, he could kid himself into thinking you actually like him. That you're not just being kind, or worried about keeping your job. That you actually care.
He knows how dangerous that thought could become if he's not careful, and so he keeps trying to squash it down as best he can. But it's persistent, and he's finding himself struggling with it more and more as time goes on.
It's not long before it starts to become obvious.
"Ben, you okay?" Sue asks him one evening, while they're preparing dinner.
He flinches, almost sending the chopping board flying off the kitchen counter.
"God, Suze, you scared the hell outta me," he says with a wheeze.
Sue gently pats his arm in apology.
"You've been chopping that same piece of potato for about five minutes now," she says softly. "I think it's about as small as it's going to get."
Ben looks down. The potato is practically mush now. He sets the knife down with a sigh.
"Sorry, just...had something on my mind," he admits quietly.
"You wanna talk about it?" Sue asks, taking the board from him and tipping the potatoes into a pot of water on the stove.
Ben turns around to face her, leaning his elbows against the counter. He knows better than to tell her that he doesn't want to bother her.
Because he's never a bother to Sue. And he knows by now that she's not just being kind. She means it.
"It's just..."
Where does he even start?
"You and Reed. You've known him for about as long as I have. How did you know that...?"
He falters, unsure as to how to word it.
"That he was the one?" Sue offers.
Ben nods. Even when he can't say it, she always knows. He's always admired that about her.
"Honestly? I didn't," she says. "Not right away. It took some time, and then it was like..."
She pauses for a second, giving the potatoes a stir.
"I had this moment. We were talking, I can't even remember the conversation now, but I looked at him and I thought..."yeah". That was it. But that's when I knew."
She smiles to herself, before turning her attention to Ben.
"I wish I had a better way of describing it. But sometimes it's not always as romantic-sounding as the movies make it out to be."
"I dunno, sounds pretty romantic to me," he says with a shrug.
"So, what's got you thinking about me and Reed, hm?" she asks.
Suddenly the floor has never seemed more interesting.
"Oh, y'know, I was just wondering..."
Sue tilts her head, levelling him with that look - the one that says "don't even bother". He sighs.
"There's no point in me lying to you, is there? Okay, look, I, um..."
He lowers his voice.
"I might have met someone. There's a new girl at Maisie's, and...well, she's really nice."
"Oh my God, is it my birthday?" comes a voice from behind him, and Ben's elbows slip right off the counter, almost sending him crashing to the ground.
He turns around, gripping the counter with a glare in his eyes that would send a man twice his size running in the opposite direction.
Johnny just gives him a big smile.
"We need to put a damn bell on you," Ben grumbles to himself as he straightens up.
"So, what's this I hear about you having met someone?" Johnny asks, undeterred.
"It's none of your business," Ben retorts. "Your sister and I were in the middle of a private conversation."
"In an open-plan kitchen. In the house I live in," Johnny says, pulling a face. "Yeah, real private."
Sue rolls her eyes with a sigh. "Johnny, do you think you could give us five minutes? Alone?"
Johnny slides his hand along the counter nonchalantly as he walks past.
"Oh, sure, sure, no problem," he says airily.
He looks directly at Ben.
"But you're gonna tell me everything afterwards, right?" he mutters to Sue.
"No, I am not."
Johnny shrugs, arms raised theatrically as he backs out of the kitchen.
"That's fine, I'm going," he says, too loudly. "I know where I'm not wanted."
"Do you?" Ben asks. "Coulda fooled me."
He doesn't move, watching until he's satisfied that Johnny's completely out of earshot.
"Ignore him," Sue says.
She takes the pot off the stove, setting it to one side.
"Tell me about this girl."
Ben lifts a tea towel, worrying one of the corners between his fingers.
"I don't meet many people who seem to see me for me, y'know? But it's like...I'm just a guy to her. I'm not a superhero. I'm not..."
He makes a vague gesture towards himself.
"It's been a while since I've felt like this. To be honest, I've missed it."
"And that's got you worried," Sue prompts gently.
Honestly, her ability to do that is a superpower in and of itself.
"Yeah. Yeah, it does," he admits quietly.
Sue crosses over to him, placing her hands on his arms.
"You, Ben Grimm, are one of the most amazing people I've ever met," she says earnestly. "And I've met a lot of people. So trust me when I tell you that anyone would be lucky to have you."
She looks at him with such kindness in her eyes, and Ben forces himself to nod.
He knows she means it. But it's not as easy as she makes it sound. They all came back from that mission different, but at least they can hide it, pretend that they're "normal" for a while.
Ben doesn't have that luxury. He tries not to dwell on it, he's been getting so much better at it, but now? He can't let it go.
He likes you, he's finally said it out loud. But to say it to you? And for you to reject him? It'd break his heart.
But he can't stop thinking about you. About what could happen.
What if it goes wrong?
But what if it goes right?
Despite everything, he can't stop himself from going to see you. He makes sure to go at a time when the shop's not as busy, so at least he knows he's not getting in the way of other customers. The last thing he wants is to get you in trouble.
You always seem so happy when he stops by, and it's getting harder and harder to convince himself that you're not just being nice to him.
He's tormenting himself, he knows he is, but somehow it feels even worse when he's not with you. Either way, he can't win, can he?
"There he is, my favourite customer," you call, as he steps through the door. "How've you been?"
Is it any wonder Ben's heart feels like it does, when he hears you saying things like that?
"About the same as I was yesterday," he jokes, with a little wince the second he says it.
Way to ram it home that you're never out of here, huh.
You laugh, none the wiser.
"I like that you're here so much," you tell him.
The way you say it, it's so casual, and yet it makes Ben's chest feel tight.
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?" he dares to ask.
"Because you're a regular. And if you haven't been put off by me, then I can't be doing too bad a job, right?"
Ben stops for a moment. You're joking, he knows you are. About how nervous you were on your first day.
And yet-
"How could I be put off by someone as nice as you?" he says, before he can stop himself.
His eyes widen. It's too late, he's already said it. He can feel himself starting to panic, and you're just staring at him now. Your lips part, and Ben cuts you off before you even get the chance, desperate to change the subject.
"What, uh, what are you working on?" he asks quickly, gesturing towards the notepad sitting on the counter.
You frown slightly, as if thinking, a look of confusion on your face.
"'Working on?' Oh, right, this. Well, I've been listing some ideas for new specials," you say, tapping your finger against the page. "It's good timing that you came by, actually. I could do with some suggestions."
Ben nods. Anything to get as far away from what he just said.
"Of course. What have you got so far?" he asks.
You lift your pen, absentmindedly fidgeting with it, as you read down the list.
"We've got sandwiches covered, cakes, some new pastry ideas...But I'm wondering if there's something else we're missing. Any thoughts?"
Ben thinks to himself for a moment.
"Y'know, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for those chocolate slices, the ones with the biscuit and marshmallow inside them. Y'know the ones I'm talking about?"
"Rocky Road?" you offer.
Ben clasps his hands together.
"That's it! That's the ones."
He chuckles to himself.
"I know, I know. The big guy made of rocks likes Rocky Road. I heard it."
"No, no, it's good," you say, as you scribble it down. "It's a pretty easy one to make too."
Ben does his best to scan down the list, in spite of it being upside-down.
"What about you?" he asks. "You put down anything you like?"
"Yeah, I wanted to," you reply. "You know those little sponge cakes, with the jam and cream in the middle? The mini ones, about the size of cupcakes. But we already sell slices of the regular cake, so it seemed a bit pointless to write it down."
"What's wrong with the regular cake?"
"Nothing! It's so good, it's just..."
You trail off.
"It's a me thing, but sometimes a full slice is a bit much, you know? The cream gets a bit sickening after a while."
You glance at him then.
"I'm rambling on, aren't I?" you ask nervously.
"Hardly," Ben replies gently. "I asked, didn't I?"
You cast your gaze down, wiping your hands on the end of your apron. Ben could swear you looked a little flustered. Wishful thinking, maybe.
"Okay, well, I think I've kept you waiting long enough," you say, a bit too loudly. "What can I get for you?"
Ben frowns, then he realises.
"Oh...just my usual," he replies weakly.
He can't bring himself to tell you the truth, and he feels like a coward.
But as he's leaving, a little idea starts forming in his head.
The next few days, Ben puts himself to work, trying to figure out how to make mini sponge cakes. The regular-sized cake he can handle no problem, but the little ones are a bit tougher to figure out, in terms of adjusting the ingredients.
And a certain someone is not helping matters at all.
Ben made the mistake of stumbling over his answer when Johnny asked who the cakes were for. And true to form, he will not drop it. He's spent the better part of the day making a nuisance of himself.
"Haven't you got something better to do?" Ben grumbles, as he spoons jam out of the pot in his hand.
"Nope," Johnny immediately replies, dragging out the 'P' sound to make himself as irritating as possible.
Even when Ben does finally get rid of him, he just can't resist poking the bear cage one last time.
“I’m headin’ out,” Johnny says, swiping his finger through a bowl of cream as he passes.
Ben glares at him, but says nothing. He's better than that.
“Might stop by Maisie’s while I'm out,” he adds, turning to give Ben a big, shit-eating grin. “See how your friend’s doing.”
Ben just waves a hand at him, trying not to take the bait.
But Johnny being Johnny, he makes it so damn difficult.
“You think she’s free?” he asks, making an annoying show of sucking the cream off his finger. “‘Cause I got nothing on for Saturday night. And she’s cute. Don’t you think she’s cute, Ben?”
Johnny just manages to slip out the door as a whisk goes flying across the room.
Sue gives him a sympathetic look from where she sits at the dining table, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Try not to let him get to you,” she says. “Johnny’s harmless, you know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Ben sighs tiredly.
“I know, he’s just…He’s infuriating, Suze.”
Sue shakes her head with a smile.
“You're preaching to the choir there.”
Ben manages to get a full two hours of peace and quiet, completely Johnny-free. The latest batch of sponge cake experiments were a success, and he was able to add the finishing touches and box them up neatly.
Now all he has to do is gather the courage to go and actually give them to you.
Which he can definitely do. Absolutely. No problem at all.
He's leafing through a book, trying to keep his mind occupied, when he hears the door open. He glances up, before lifting the book closer to his face with a sigh.
Well, it was nice while it lasted.
"Stopped by Maisie's, like I said," Johnny says, as he shrugs off his jacket and sits down.
He just can't read a room, can he?
"That's nice," Ben says, with an air of total disinterest.
He hears what sounds like a paper bag rustling, as Johnny sets something on the table.
"And I got you a little something."
Ben hums noncommittally, turning the page. Being ignored never deters Johnny. He should know this by now. Doesn't stop him from wishing.
"Or rather, I, um, was given something. For you."
That gets Ben's attention. He peers over his book, spotting the paper bag.
He'd know that paper anywhere.
"Oh, yeah?" he asks airily. "What is it?"
Johnny pushes the bag across the table.
"Open it."
Ben tries to keep up the façade, but he's struggling. He forces himself to take his time, pretending to mark his page before setting the book aside.
When he opens the bag, he can't help the smile that spreads across his face.
Inside are four big squares of Rocky Road. You remembered.
Johnny leans in to take a look too. The colour immediately drains from his face.
"Okay, I know what you're probably thinking, and yes, this definitely looks like one of my jokes. But for once, I swear to you, it's not-"
Ben holds up a hand, to stop him before he winds himself up any further.
"I know," he says softly.
He's still smiling.
Johnny waves a hand in front of Ben's face.
"Hello?" he calls impatiently. "Earth to big guy. You okay in there? I don't think I've ever seen you look this happy before. It's weird, if I'm being honest."
Ben hasn't moved, hasn't said anything. Johnny sighs, letting his hand drop down onto the table.
"Listen, I know I've been giving you a lot of crap about this...whole thing. And I'm not gonna apologise for it, by the way, because it would be against everything I stand for. But..."
He stops for a moment, as if to figure out what to say next.
"You really like this girl, don't you?" he asks.
Ben gently drums his fingers across the table top, before he finally nods.
"I do," he murmurs. "God help me, I do."
Johnny slings an arm over the back of his chair.
"Have you considered the possibility that she might like you back?"
Ben grits his teeth. "No, actually, I haven't," he snaps.
"Why not?" Johnny asks, and Ben wonders if he's being stupid on purpose.
He gestures to himself in frustration.
"Because look at me, Johnny!" he says, exasperated. "I don't exactly have people lining up 'round the block to date me. I'm not her type. I'm..."
He sighs. God, he's tired.
"I'm not anyone's type."
Johnny bangs his fist down on the table suddenly, and Ben almost falls out of his chair.
"You cut that out right now," he says lowly.
His eyes are so intense, even more than usual. Ben doesn't think he's ever seen him so serious.
"Look, you know how much I love annoying you. If it was a paying job, I'd be CEO. But I can't listen to you talk about yourself like this. You're "not anyone's type"? Seriously? You're..."
Johnny blows out a long breath, as if he's gearing himself up for something difficult.
"I'm never gonna forgive myself for anything I'm about to say, just FYI, but you...You're like the perfect guy, Ben. Stop looking at me like that, I mean it. You cook, you don't leave your shit everywhere, your dress sense is...Well, you try."
Ben doesn't know whether to kiss him or kick him. He decides he'll let him finish first.
"That girl likes you, Ben. And I'm not messing with you on this. That's too far, even for me. You know the first thing she did when I went down there? She asked me how you were. She was so excited to give me those too."
He taps the paper lightly.
"I could have been anyone, it wouldn't have mattered to her. Because all she cared about was you."
Ben runs a hand over his face. He doesn't know what to say.
"The way I see it, you've got two choices here," Johnny says. "One, you can just sit there and be miserable for the rest of your life. Or two, you can take a chance. Go down there and talk to her. It might be the best thing you've ever done."
Ben sits quietly for a moment, letting it all sink in. Finally, he nods.
"Yeah. You're right," he murmurs. "Thanks for that. Seriously."
Believe it or not, sometimes Johnny's not so bad.
Johnny gives him a warm smile. "Anytime, big guy."
He stands up, swiping a Rocky Road slice before he leaves.
"Thanks for this, by the way," he says with a mock-salute.
Ben glares at him as he goes.
Sometimes.
It takes a little - okay, a lot - of coaxing to push Ben into going to see you the next day. He spends most of the day pacing about the house, grumbling to himself and getting on Johnny's nerves.
"Not so fun when the shoe's on the other foot, is it?" Ben gripes, after Johnny tells him to knock it off for the third time.
He finally decides on going down just before closing time. That way he won't be bothering you too much, he thinks.
He hopes.
It's been threatening to rain all day, and as luck would have it, not five minutes after Ben's set foot outside, the skies open up. He picks up the pace, tucking the box in his hand safely under his coat.
He sees you standing under in the doorway of Maisie's, holding a newspaper over your head. You look as though you're contemplating making a run for it in the rain. He's halfway across the street when you spot him, and he'd have to be completely oblivious not to see how your face lights up.
"Forgot my umbrella this morning," you say with an awkward laugh. "The one day I leave it at home-"
You gesture to the rain that's still coming down in sheets.
"-and this happens. Just my luck."
You glance up at him.
"Glad I got to see you, though," you say.
Ben can’t help but smile at that. He holds his umbrella out over you.
“Where do you need to go?" he asks. "I can walk with you.”
You shake your head.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that-“
“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” he insists gently.
You adjust the strap of your shoulder bag, tapping the wilted newspaper against your leg before you make up your mind.
“My car’s just down the street, if you could walk me there.”
Ben gestures in front of him.
“Lead the way.”
It’s a little awkward, with the height difference between you, but he manages to get you to your car at least somewhat dry.
“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it," you say, rummaging in your bag for your keys. “I’d, um, I’d offer you a ride home, but…”
You trail off with an apologetic look. Ben waves a hand dismissively.
“Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t fit in that tiny thing anyway.”
He saves you the trouble of saying it.
“Listen, before you go…I wanted to say thank you. For the Rocky Road."
Your face lights up at that.
“Oh, yeah? How were they?”
“I think I need to ask you for the recipe, because otherwise I'm gonna have you hounded for more," Ben replies with a chuckle. "Best I’ve ever had.”
The smile on your face right now is going to be the end of him.
"Actually, I, uh, I wanted to repay the favour," he says.
He manages to take the box out from underneath his jacket without dropping it. It's a bit dented, but otherwise fine. He holds it out to you.
"You were saying about those little sponge cakes, and I thought since I had some free time and all…"
He's trying to make it all sound so casual, like it's not that big a deal, but he can feel his heart hammering against his chest.
Because it is a big deal. At least, to him.
You carefully take the box from him, staring down at it. The rain's still pouring down around you.
"I...Oh my God, I don't know what to say."
Worry starts to creep in then. Was he too forward? Was this a weird thing to do? Realistically, he doesn't even know you all that well.
What if he's ruined everything? What if-
"Do you wanna go for coffee sometime?" you blurt out, peering up at him.
Rarely is Ben ever really taken aback, considering everything he's been through in his life, but this...
This leaves him struggling for words.
Eventually, he manages to make himself nod.
"Yeah, I'd...I'd love that," he replies.
He can't help himself from thinking it, but you're so cute when you smile like that, the way it reaches your eyes.
"Great! Stop by when I'm working, and we'll figure out a time and place, okay?"
"It's a date," Ben says, before he can stop himself.
His eyes widen. Probably about as wide as yours are right now.
"Sorry, I meant like- It was just-"
"It's a date," you echo.
You both stand there for a moment. Ben's about to tell you to go, so you don’t catch your death of cold, but you beat him to it.
You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, before turning to unlock your car.
"See you later," you say, completely flustered. "And thanks again for these!"
Ben just waves, closing the car door for you as you get in. He stands there for a while, not caring that his shoes and the bottoms of his pants are soaked through now, before he heads home.
His hand is pressed to his cheek the entire time.
There's a flower shop on the route Ben takes to Maisie's. He can't remember how many times he's passed by it and barely taken notice of it, but this time, he finds himself slowing down.
He buys a bouquet of sunflowers before he can talk himself out of it, practically marching himself down the street out of sheer nerves.
But when he sees you through the window, it all just melts away. You're laughing, and it warms his heart like nothing else ever has. He's never seen anyone as pretty as you.
Your gaze meets his when you turn, and you look so happy, giving him a smile and a big wave.
Ben waves back, with a small smile of his own.
He'll never admit it. But Johnny was right.
Clutching the sunflowers a little tighter in his hand, he lets out a small, contented breath, and opens the door.
Summary: Geta has some very traditional views that are not to your tastes. You decide to put him in his place. (Request fill)
Word count: 4k
Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicitly described, but still obvious!), period-typical sexism, bickering, submissive Geta, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!
(I wrote a little blurb a while ago and decided to make it in a bigger fic. I had to scrap the original idea because I was getting way too into the lore, and let's be real, we're not here for that, we're here for Geta smut. Also read up a Lot on sexuality in Ancient Rome, and wow, did they have Opinions.)
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Of all the men you have encountered in your life, your husband is perhaps one of the most frustrating at times.
It is not often that you argue, you are patient enough that you are willing to agree to disagree on many matters. But there are occasions when it feels as though you are on the brink of war with him.
He is stubborn, infuriatingly so, and there are times when it takes everything in your power to hold your tongue.
However, even you, diplomatic and gracious as you are, have your limits.
Geta holds certain views that are...traditional, to say the least. You are not of the same mindset.
It had started over a passing remark. A mere flight of fancy that you had had late one night, as you had laid together in bed. Of being brought to release by your husband's mouth. At worst, you assume he will think nothing of it.
How full of surprises he is.
He is rather quick to remark that he does not believe a man of his rank and status should subject himself to something so...unbecoming.
It is not so much his words, but the manner in which he says them. As if his archaic opinion is fact. How your blood boils. Then, an eerie feeling of calm washes over you. You hum in response, teeth clenched behind a tight smile.
Oh, you are most certainly at war now. And you, you will be the victor, you are certain of it.
He does not notice at first, as on the surface, you are treating him no differently than any other day.
Eventually, it starts to click into place. You will not stay long in his embrace, you shy away from his touch, you turn your head with a tight-lipped smile when he tries to kiss you.
“Wife,” he demands one night as you are readying yourself for bed. “You are angry with me. Why?”
You lay down your hairbrush on the table, turning to face him.
“Whatever has led you to that conclusion?” you ask in turn, in an unassuming tone.
“You have been treating me with disdain for the better part of two days now. I tire of it,” he tells you, with all the grace of a spoiled child.
“Surely you are imagining things,” you say airily.
“Do not insult me,” he spits.
You give him a look of feigned surprise. “As if I would ever do such a thing.”
“You will tell me what I have done,” he insists.
You brush past him on the way to bed, slipping under the covers.
“You will figure it out for yourself,” you reply. “Goodnight.”
You turn your back to him, leaving him to stand there and process your words. It is a while before he joins you. You feel his hand hover near you, but you ignore it under the pretence of sleep. Eventually, he moves away, and you cannot help the smile that creeps onto your face as he lets out an irritated sigh.
His mood only worsens from there. When you wake the next morning, he is already dressed for the day ahead.
"Did you sleep well?" you ask with a yawn.
Geta glares at you with tired eyes, but does not allow himself to fall prey to it, turning his attention to more pressing matters.
"I trust you remember that we are to attend a banquet tonight," he tells you. "I will have you by my side, as my loving wife."
You do not miss the warning that lingers in his words.
“Would you have me any other way?” you ask, the very picture of innocence.
He does not reply, instead reaching across the bed to kiss you before he leaves. You conveniently choose that moment to get up, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the bed as he misses you entirely.
The quiet snarl that escapes him is quite the reward, you must admit. Embarrassed, he storms out, leaving you alone to your morning routine. You smile to yourself. Perhaps you should not be enjoying this as much as you are, but he does make it so easy for you.
You do not see Geta again until early evening, as he is kept busy for much of the day with meetings with senators and patricians. When you arrive at the grand hall, he is already seated and deep in conversation. You cannot help but notice how decadently he is dressed, in robes of the richest reds and golds, adorned with the most beautiful jewellery, and golden laurels sit atop his fiery hair. It is far too much, even for an event such as this, and you bite back a smile. Geta only dresses in such a manner when he is upset. And judging by the look he has now levelled on you, he is furious.
He quickly schools his expression into something more fitting of a loving husband as you draw near, taking the fawning and flattery of the surrounding crowd in your stride as always.
"Wife," he murmurs, with a smile that is reminiscent of a shark.
He takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it.
Your attention wanders as he does so. He attempts to pull you towards him, but you do not budge.
"Come, you will sit by me," he says pleasantly.
You shake your head, slipping your hand from his tight grasp.
"Oh, no, I could not possibly interrupt your conversation," you reply, "Please, you must stay with the senator."
Geta opens his mouth to argue, but you have already turned away. Caracalla has been watching the entire scene unfold before him from across the table with rapt attention, and he grins at you.
"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me," you say politely, with an incline of your head.
You take the seat next to Caracalla, who in turn looks to his brother to find him seething. Never one for subtlety, Caracalla giggles loudly, turning his attention to you.
“My dear sister, whatever has your poor husband done now?” he asks, inelegantly swirling the wine around in his cup before taking a drink.
His voice carries far enough across the table for the guests to glance up curiously. Geta looks as though he wishes for nothing more than to throw himself across the table and strangle his brother.
You smile as you pat Caracalla’s arm in a good-natured manner.
“Now, now. Is it not enough for me to sit by you and enjoy your company?” you ask innocently.
His eyes are on you then, his gaze sharp and scrutinising. A wide smile slowly breaks out across his face.
“Of course,” he replies, almost giddily.
He leans in to you, his voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.
“What games you play,” he whispers slyly.
You laugh then, your eyes drifting to where Geta sits. To a mere bystander, he would look the very image of a man deeply engrossed in political conversation, but you know him better than anyone. He is clutching the cup in his hand with such ferocity that his knuckles have lost all colour, and his jaw twitches from clenching so hard.
You are beginning to feel pity for him. But he must learn.
You are rather quickly distracted once again by Caracalla, who is making quite a spectacle of himself by reaching over people who are trying to eat to acquire food for Dondus. She is perched on his shoulders, her little hands clutching at his messy hair to balance herself.
He unceremoniously falls back into his seat, arranging his spoils in front of him. He lifts a grape up and Dondus greedily snatches it from him, pawing at it before she bites into it.
"Would you like to feed her?" he asks, holding out some walnuts.
"Of course," you reply, taking one and holding it out to the little monkey.
Dondus sniffs at it for a moment, not as familiar with your scent, before she takes it from you.
"What a sweet girl you are," you coo at her.
"Isn't she?" Caracalla agrees proudly, as he scratches under her chin.
The evening continues to pass as pleasantly in Caracalla's company. He regales you with stories, making you laugh until there are tears in your eyes. You have almost forgotten about your husband.
Almost.
As if on cue, Geta rises from his seat.
"Excuse me," he announces to the table. "I must withdraw for the evening. Please, stay and enjoy yourselves."
You watch him leave, his agitation evident in how he holds himself.
Caracalla tilts his head closer to you. "Do you think he has suffered enough?" he asks mischievously.
Not quite, you think to yourself.
It is another hour or so before you retire for the night as well. As you had suspected, Geta has returned to your chambers and is very much awake, pacing back and forth across the length of the room, as he has likely been doing since he returned.
"You finally grace me with your presence, Augusta," he says.
Beyond the public's prying eyes, he only ever calls you by your title when he is angry with you.
"I thought you would be asleep by the time I returned," you reply.
You cross the room to your vanity table, sitting down to begin your nightly routine. Geta drags the chair out to stand in front of you, demanding your attention. You look up at him. He is seething. You, by contrast, are quite unaffected.
"You seem to have forgotten your place," he says through gritted teeth.
He will not be ignored.
You tilt your head with a feigned look of confusion. "And where, exactly, is that?" you ask.
"Wherever I wish it to be," he replies. "If I want you by my side, you will be by my side."
He bends down, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he looms over you. His expression is glowering, his intense eyes made all the more so by the flickering lantern light.
"If I command you, you will obey," he says lowly.
There is a side to Geta that will rear its ugly head when he has been slighted. It craves power and control, and will not rest until both are firmly in its clutches. In the beginning, it was persistent, constant, as he was terrified of allowing you to see him for who he truly is. With time and patience, you were finally able to tame the raging beast, to prove to him that you would not hurt him, that you loved him.
The beast is raging once more, but you are no longer frightened of it. You are more than equipped to put it back in its place.
You merely smile in response. He does not like that. He straightens then, drawing himself up to his full height. His stubborn petulance is almost endearing, if not growing a little tiresome.
“You will kneel for your Emperor,” he commands.
You cross your legs as you look up at him with a serene expression. Even with the advantage of height between the two of you, he looks like a little boy in the midst of a tantrum.
You feel powerful. It is intoxicating.
“If you wish something of me, husband,” you say, “you will ask nicely.”
Geta’s eye twitches at your words, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation.
“I will do no such thing,” he says at last.
“Oh, you will,” you reply, your voice light and airy, as if you are discussing something as mundane as the weather.
You stand up, not bothering to push the chair back, uncaring of the close proximity between the two of you. Your hands slide from the arms of the chair and up along his stomach, his chest - light, teasing - before they fall at your sides once more.
“Because I tire of this discussion, and I am quite certain you have had more than enough of this argument of ours."
You hold his gaze.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” you ask.
Geta laughs, but it is without a trace of humour.
"At last you admit it," he says. "You are angry with me."
You tap your finger to your chin, as if in contemplation.
"What was it that you called me? 'Unbecoming', was it?" you ask.
Geta blanches. Now he remembers, and too late he is.
“Wife-” he starts, but you shake your head to silence him.
“No, I quite understand," you say readily, as if you truly agree with him. "I can only imagine how unbecoming it would be, to have me in such a manner.”
You lean in closer to him, your breath ghosting along his ear. He shivers.
“Beneath you, undressed and unmade, entirely at your mercy and in the throes of pleasure,” you continue.
You let out a pitiful little sigh.
“How…vulgar,” you finish, pulling away from him.
Geta watches you carefully. For once, he is without words. He swallows thickly. His eyes dart to one side for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze once more.
“This is a fool’s errand,” he says through clenched teeth.
It would sound threatening, if the waver in his voice wasn't his undoing.
“Then I am a fool,” you reply simply. “But I am a fool of my convictions.”
You try to brush by him when his hand suddenly lashes out, grabbing your arm. You stop quickly in your tracks, your heart beating at a racing pace. You keep your expression as neutral as you can manage.
“Oh, by all means, you may command me again,” you murmur. “But the victory will not be as sweet, I assure you.”
You have him there. Gently, you pluck at his fingers. To your surprise, he lets go as easily as that. For a moment, you watch each other, as if neither of you can dare to look away. To show weakness. Time seems to slow.
Geta is the first to break.
“What do you want of me?” he asks.
You pretend to think about it for a moment, before fixing him with a determined stare.
“Kneel," you reply simply.
Geta’s eyes widen, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger.
“How dare-“
“Kneel, or leave me,” you say, as if he had not spoken. “Those are your choices.”
He opens his mouth again, and you wait for the inevitable chastising for daring to suggest that an Emperor commit such a lowly act that was to come.
But it does not.
Without breaking away from your gaze, Geta slowly sinks to his knees in front of you.
Surely the Gods have called you to them earlier than planned. You were insistent on breaking his resolve, but you had no idea that he would actually listen to you.
You must be dreaming. And what a beautiful dream he makes. His dark eyes are fixed on you; small, shallow breaths falling from his trembling lips.
Truly, he is a sight to behold.
Slowly, you reach out a hand, your touch light as you hook your fingers under his chin.
“Good boy,” you murmur, and the shudder that runs through him at your words will surely stay with you until your last mortal breath.
"What would you have me do?" he asks in a whisper.
You do not answer. Instead you run your thumb gently across his chin, back and forth, back and forth. He is trembling under your touch, you realise with a smile to yourself.
"What was it that you would have had me do?" you ask in turn.
You lean in closer to him, your grip on his chin tightening ever so slightly.
"When you came here, and so crassly asked me to kneel for you," you continue. "What was it that you desired of me?"
You drag your fingertips along the column of Geta's throat. He swallows thickly, and you feel the sensation against your skin.
"I…" he begins to say.
His voice cracks, and he falters.
“I wished to have you as you have me now,” he says at last, his voice rough.
“Go on,” you insist. “What was I to do?”
His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Shame burns at his cheeks. How it amuses you to see him like this.
“Is it not enough that you have humiliated me-” he starts, his temper flaring up once more.
You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.
“I have done no such thing,” you reply. “I have held no sword to your throat, no poison to your lips. I am but a woman before a God.”
You move closer still, your lips dangerously close to brushing against his.
“Though I did not know that Gods could be broken so easily,” you whisper with a wide smile.
You feel him lean in and you quickly pull back. He loses his balance and his hands reach out, pressing against your thighs to steady himself. You step out of his range entirely and he falls on all fours with a snarl.
You are enjoying yourself far too much.
“Please, finish your tale,” you say as you sit down once more.
Geta clenches his fists, but does not move.
“I would…I would have had you undressed. On your knees and entirely at my mercy,” he spits.
“Quite the picture you paint,” you muse. “But I wonder…”
You reach forward, your hands plucking the delicate laurels from atop Geta’s head. You gently twirl them back and forth in your grasp, admiring the craftsmanship of each detail.
Geta looks as though he wishes to squeeze the life from you. He does not move.
Without breaking his gaze, you gently place the laurels on yourself.
“I wonder if it would be as pleasurable as you say,” you finish with a mischievous smile.
You crook your finger in a pedantic manner at him, beckoning him closer to you. To your surprise, he obeys, crawling the short distance between the two of you.
You run your hand gently through his hair. His eyes slip closed at your touch. You drag your hand down to the base of his neck, where your grip suddenly tightens and you wrench his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his throat, but he does not move to stop you.
"You will undress," you tell him. "And you will not keep me waiting."
Geta looks at you with wide eyes, as if wondering where you have been hiding this side of yourself. You are wondering that yourself.
You hold his gaze, looking down the length of your nose at him from where you sit. Unblinking, unwavering. Daring him to defy you. The very image of an Empress.
Geta moves to stand, and you shake your head.
"Surely you can manage from where you sit," you say airily. "I have been witness to you doing so in much worse states."
He starts slow, dropping each piece of jewellery to the floor with a loud clatter, in the hopes of irritating you. You, by contrast, are thoroughly enjoying yourself. Finally, he begins to remove his robes, leaving them in a scattered heap on the floor.
He looks up at you again, feigning an air of disinterest. It does not fool you. The flush that runs from his neck to his chest speaks volumes. You lean forward, running your hands from the curve of his hips up across his torso to his chest, your fingertips skirting just shy of the places he desperately wants you to touch.
"How long do you intend to shame me like this?" he demands of you.
His voice is strained, choked even. He has never looked more beautiful to you than he does now.
"My dear husband," you coo, "You act as though this is torture."
Geta glares at you, and you laugh, a soft breath of a sound.
"You will give me what I want," you tell him, leaning back in your chair. "And we will have no more of this silly argument."
He opens his mouth to speak, when his gaze drifts downwards, to where you have begun dragging your stola up along your legs. You part your thighs, unable to hide the smile on your face at the sight of Geta's mouth dropping open.
"Wife," he manages to whisper, his mouth dry.
"Yes?" you ask innocently. "Whatever is the matter, husband?"
Geta has entirely given up on trying to remain angry with you. You know that look on his face all too well. He is a starving man, and you, you are a banquet laid out for him to indulge in.
You hold out your hands to him, and he tentatively takes them, allowing you to pull him closer. You can feel him trembling against you.
"I will show you what to do," you tell him in a patronising tone. "But you are a quick study, I am certain you will not disappoint me."
You place your hands on his face, nails gently scratching at his skin. He shivers, a soft moan involuntarily escaping him.
"Do not keep me waiting," you warn with a roguish smile.
You presume he will drag things out further, continue to argue, dress himself and storm out in a rage - but he surprises you, rough hands pushing at your thighs to give you exactly what you want from him.
A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the feel of his tongue against you. He is frantic, messy, pathetically inexperienced in his movements. But oh, how filthy he feels against you.
You drag your hands through his hair, gripping hard as you press yourself closer to his mouth. He groans then, and the vibration of it has your eyes rolling back.
You have never felt pleasure quite like it. It vexes you that he has kept an experience such as this from you for so long. All because of something as pitiful as his pride.
As you had suspected, Geta is indeed quick to learn, and he finally finds a rhythm that soon leaves you shaking against him. It's so much, too much all at once, and you try to press your legs closed, but his hands hold firm against you, keeping you open and pliant for him. Gods, how you adore him like this. As wanting and hungry as he has left you.
"That's it," you tell him, a tremor in your voice as your nails scratch at his scalp. "Good boy."
Your words elicit another moan from his pretty throat, and the sound of it, his mouth, his tongue, his desperation, has you falling from the precipice you have been so precariously dangling from. Your climax hits you like a shockwave, leaving you trembling and breathless against him. Geta does not stop, not until you release your grip on him.
He slowly sits up, still kneeling between your legs as he looks up at you. He has the audacity to look pleased with himself, but it is you who has truly won. After all, you were finally able to wear your prideful husband down to seeing how ridiculous he has been, even if he will never admit it.
He runs his tongue across his lips in a crude attempt to clean himself up, his dark eyes almost black with desire. You let out a breathless laugh, allowing yourself to slump into your chair.
"Surely you have something to say to me, do you not?" you ask, propping your chin against your hand.
Geta briefly breaks your gaze, a heavy breath escaping him. This is torment for him, and you know it. Knowing how desperate he is for your touch in this very moment, and here you are, demanding that he tell you that you were right.
How you revel in it.
"Wife," he starts.
It is an attempt to warn you, but he is so choked up in his need for you that it falls flat.
"Husband," you reply with a lazy smile.
"What would you have me say?" he says, words all but catching in his throat as you lean forward to take him in hand, touching precisely where he needs you right now.
"Tell me that I was right," you reply, stroking him in the exact manner that has him arching into your touch.
"You were-" he begins, stumbles, "Gods-"
"Say it," you murmur, "And I will give you exactly what you desire."
"Please," he whispers desperately, placing a hand on your cheek. "Wife, I-"
"Say it," you hiss, your touch teetering just on the edge of too much.
"You were right," he gasps, "You were right, I was wrong, just please, please-"
Never have you seen him in such a state. He is mesmerising, his eyes glassy as he aches for release.
And who are you to deny him, when he begs so prettily?
"Such a good boy you are, Geta," you whisper in his ear, and just like that, the sound of his name falling from your lips in such a sultry tone has him falling apart, unravelling in your grasp.
Geta all but collapses into your arms, a trembling mess.
It takes him a moment to return to himself, shaky little breaths escaping him as you hold him. Eventually, he rights himself, looking up at you. All of his rage, his fury, all of it has been washed away. He kneels before you not as a merciless Emperor, but as a mortal, who has been thoroughly put in his place.
You lightly brush your nose against his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"Well?" you ask. "Have you quite learned your lesson?"
Geta attempts to glare at you, but the fight has truly left him. He places his hands on your face, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.
"Perhaps...I will reconsider my opinion on the matter," he replies, almost shyly.
Summary: You and Johnny tentatively broach the subject of children. Babysitting Franklin for an evening seems like a good place to start.
Word count: 5k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, broody Johnny, established relationship, babysitting, brief mention of Johnny’s childhood and parents, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(I am the least maternal person on the planet, and yet here I am, writing this. I don't think I've written anything here that the trailers didn't already show, so hopefully there are no spoilers! A massive thank you as always to fellow Johnny sufferer, @getaapologist, for letting me waffle on so much about this idea! Title is from Can't Pretend by Tom Odell.)
Johnny Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
“I want one.”
It's late one Sunday evening. Ben had truly outdone himself with dinner, and now you're desperately fighting the urge to fall asleep on the couch. Johnny's voice, close to your ear as it is, rouses you a little.
You turn to look at him. He's resting his head against your shoulder, half-asleep himself.
"Want one of what?" you ask, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.
Johnny lifts his hand, pointing across the room, to where Franklin is currently turning his poor father into his own personal jungle gym.
Your eyes widen. Oh, you’re definitely awake now.
"You know anyone who's giving one away?" you joke, desperately trying to sound casual.
Johnny looks up at you then, his eyes meeting yours.
"I'm serious," he replies.
His voice is quiet, sincere. You narrow your eyes, hoping to spot even the faintest hint of a smirk. A tell-tale sign that this is one of his jokes.
Nothing.
Oh God, he is serious.
You push yourself upright.
"Johnny," you say carefully, trying to find the right words as quickly as possible.
When Johnny gets an idea into his head, Hell freezing over is a more likely possibility than him dropping it. He's persistent. Stubborn. You love him for it.
But this is a different matter entirely.
“You know it’s not all fun and cute little outfits, right? Babies are a lot of work. A lot of work.”
Johnny hasn't said a word. He's really worrying you now.
“It’s sleepless nights and teething and dirty diapers, so many dirty diapers, and-“
You trail off, distracted, as Franklin's happy laughter carries across the room. You and Johnny sit there, unmoving, quiet. Transfixed.
Reed lifts Franklin up, blowing raspberries onto his belly. The sound of his delighted shrieks tugs at something in you.
Something you didn't even know was there before.
You feel Johnny reach for your hand, giving it a squeeze. You don't pull away.
“Tell me you don’t want that,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
Before this, you would have. Told him no, and that would have been it. End of discussion. You've never really seen yourself as maternal. If anything, the thought of having children has always scared you.
It still does. But now...
"I can't," you reply softly. "I can't tell you that."
The couch shifts underneath you suddenly as Johnny sits up. You can already feel the excitement coming off him in waves, and you know you have to rein him in, and fast.
"Before you say anything else, we need to talk about this," you tell him.
He opens his mouth, and you shake your head, holding a finger up for him to let you finish.
"I'm serious. This isn't just something we can rush into."
Johnny gently takes your hand in his, holding it tight.
"I know," he replies.
He still sounds serious, which is reassuring, at least.
You nod, taking a breath to calm yourself. Your gaze wanders back to Franklin.
"Let's start small," you say. "And we'll take things from there."
Small, you both decide, is babysitting Franklin for an evening.
You pick a night when Ben will be out visiting friends. You need to know if you can do this together, without any help from anyone else.
After that, you need to suggest the idea to Sue and Reed.
Sue is more than happy to let you look after Franklin. She trusts the both of you, and you know that as much as she adores her son, she's been wanting to spend some time with her husband - just the two of them.
Reed, on the other hand, takes a little more convincing. Even on the night itself, he's still making a fuss.
"I've left the number for Franklin's doctor, and three of the closest pharmacies nearby," he tells you.
You catch Johnny pulling a face out of the corner of your eye, and do your best not to laugh. Reed's too busy worrying to notice.
"Actually, you should just contact me directly, I have all of Franklin's records to hand. Let me just-"
Sue tugs on his arm before he has the chance to go looking for a pen.
"They have the restaurant's number, they can call us there if they need to."
She places her hands on the lapels of Reed's suit jacket, her eyes soft as she speaks.
"But they won't need to, okay? They're adults, we trust them, and Franklin will be fine," she says, her tone calm and reassuring.
It takes Reed a moment before he nods, finally admitting defeat. He fishes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to you.
"My pager number, just in case," he mutters, as Sue takes his arm and drags him towards the door, blowing kisses to Franklin as they go.
Johnny takes Franklin's wrist in his hand, making him wave to his parents.
"Don't worry, Reed, he'll be fine," he says.
He looks at Franklin, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"We're not gonna party too hard, are we, buddy?" he asks. "Just a couple of beers, right?"
Reed's about to open his mouth to argue when Sue pushes him towards the door. She shoots Johnny a glare, but she's clearly trying not to laugh.
"Bye, sweetheart," she calls, "Be good while we're gone."
The door closes behind them, and then that's when it hits you. You're doing this. You exhale a tiny, nervous sigh.
It's not like you haven't been left with Franklin before. But this is different, and it's not because there isn't anyone else here. You know Johnny is more than capable of looking after his nephew.
It's the implication. It's what all of this could maybe lead to someday, and that's the part that scares you.
Johnny's clearly none the wiser, his hands under Franklin's arms as he gently swings him around. Franklin shrieks happily, kicking his legs as Johnny makes faces at him.
There it is again, that little tug. Slowly, the fear starts to settle back down.
"Let's see what boring night your dad has planned for you," Johnny says.
He holds Franklin out to you.
"You're in charge of taking care of your auntie for me while I'm gone, okay?" he says, with a wink aimed at you.
He heads to the kitchen, finding the pad of paper Reed had been meticulously writing on earlier. He blows out a breath as he holds it up to show you.
"Have you seen this?" he asks incredulously. "How does she put up with him?"
The page is a mess, of both Reed's instructions and Sue's little notes.
Have fun! : ) is written at the bottom in Sue's writing, under a list of emergency contact numbers in Reed's.
Johnny holds the page closer to his face, muttering to himself as he tries to decipher what he's looking at.
"First up is...dinnertime," he says. "Great, off to an easy start."
He gestures towards the dining table with the pad of paper.
"You guys get yourselves comfortable, I'm all over this."
You raise your eyebrows, but say nothing as you make your way across the room. It's not that you don't trust Johnny, but there's a reason why Ben is usually shooing him out of the kitchen when he's cooking. And it's not just because he's always getting in the way and stealing bites before anything's done.
"Don't worry," he calls, as if he can hear you thinking. "Sue left food for Franklin, and Ben left food for us. I'm not gonna burn the house down, I swear."
You set Franklin in his high chair, sitting down next to him.
"We'll believe it when we see it," you reply, talking to Franklin. "Won't we, honey?"
Franklin's too busy trying to pull your necklace into his mouth, and you gently pry his fingers from the chain.
"Can't hear you, baby, you'll have to speak up!" Johnny says, far too loudly, as he deliberately makes as much noise as possible.
He's an idiot, you think to yourself. It's been a long time since you've thought that about him and meant it with anything other than love.
You concede defeat just this once, letting Johnny make a mess of the kitchen, while Franklin coos and babbles at you. You nod along intently, pretending to agree, as if you have any idea what he's saying.
"Hey, buddy, if you're gonna tell the lady all your problems, at least buy her a drink, huh?" Johnny says, as he goes back and forth with cutlery and glasses.
"You need some help?" you ask.
"Nope, I got this."
And in his defence, he actually does. Dinner isn't undercooked or burnt right through, and the fire alarm is mercifully quiet. He did somehow manage to turn the kitchen into an absolute disaster zone, but you'll worry about that later.
"Why do you look so surprised?" Johnny asks, as he sets the dinner plates down on the table.
"Surprised? Why would I be surprised?" you reply in mock-offence. "That you didn't destroy dinner because you think you can do a better job than the oven?"
Johnny points an accusing finger at you, as he goes back for Franklin's dinner. This is not the first time you've had this conversation.
"Hey, I can do a better job than the oven," he insists. "I just...didn't feel like it tonight."
You roll your eyes, saying nothing as you take a bite of casserole.
It's perfect. As if you would expect anything less from Ben.
Johnny returns with a plastic bowl and spoon in hand. A tea towel is neatly folded over his arm. He stands perfectly straight next to Franklin, setting the bowl down in front of him with a dramatic flourish.
“Good evening, sir,” he says, putting on an approximation of a posh English accent. “Our special tonight is some sort of green slop with carrots.”
You hold your hand over your mouth, trying to hold back a snort of laughter.
“Would you prefer it airplaned into your mouth or would you like to throw it all over the floor instead?”
Franklin reaches for the spoon in Johnny's hand, babbling at him.
“Excellent choice, sir,” Johnny says, as he sits down.
He spoons a small mouthful out of the bowl, and makes a big show of flying it around the air - with all the noises included, of course. As soon as it goes into Franklin's mouth, it comes straight back out, landing all over his bib.
"Come on, buddy, this is the good stuff," Johnny mutters, carefully wiping Franklin's mouth.
He tries again, and the next mouthful goes in easily - before coming straight back out again.
He lets out a huff, giving his nephew an offended look.
"I spent ten whole minutes preparing this for you, and this is the thanks I get?"
He dips the tip of his finger into the bowl, trying it himself. He grimaces slightly.
"You know what? Can't blame you, kid. That's, uh...Yeah, that sure is something."
He turns to you then, holding the spoon out.
"You wanna give it a shot?" he asks.
“What, eating it or feeding him?” you reply with a laugh.
Johnny just waves the spoon back and forth. You take it from him, moving your chair a little more to face Franklin.
“Maybe you’re not a fan of airplanes, huh?” you ask.
You move the spoon through the air, making train engine noises. Franklin watches you, fascinated. He opens his mouth, and the food stays in this time.
You look at Johnny smugly. He rolls his eyes, folding his arms with an exaggerated sigh.
"First point goes to Mom," he says, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
That stops you in your tracks. Whatever joke you were about to make is gone, and you just stare at him.
“What?” he asks with a quiet chuckle.
You shake your head, turning your attention back to Franklin.
“Nothing,” you reply, trying to sound light.
But it's not nothing, and you know it.
Dinner is a success - no crying, no tantrums, and most of it is actually eaten. Johnny makes a big deal out of checking it off the list, putting a massive tick next to it.
"Step one of 'We can keep a baby alive', done," he says, with a look that's bordering on triumphant.
You shake your head at him.
"What?" he asks, oblivious.
"Don't call it that," you scold. "I need you to take this seriously."
"I am taking it seriously," he replies, right as he sticks his tongue out at Franklin. "When have you ever known me to not be serious?"
It's bait and you know it, but it doesn't stop you from opening your mouth to argue anyway.
"Okay, point taken," he says, before you even say anything. "But I am serious about this."
He looks at you, and God help you, you know he's telling you the truth.
"I promise," he murmurs. "And to prove to you that I'm serious..."
He lifts Franklin into his arms, blowing a raspberry onto his rosy cheek. Franklin squeals, his little hands slapping at Johnny's arms.
"...I am going to take diaper duty. Because someone in this room - not naming names - is getting a little stinky."
Johnny tilts his head, giving Franklin a serious look.
"Can't have your auntie thinking I'm only onboard for all the "cute little outfits", can we?" he says.
He gives you a smirk, leaving before you can say anything. For a moment, all you can do is watch them go, and that feeling from before starts gnawing at you again. You place your hand over your heart, trying to soothe yourself, as you sit down on the couch.
You feel so overwhelmed, and the fear is still there, but it's not just that. You can't explain it, but underneath that layer of anxiety, something else is blooming. Something...nice. It's the only word you can think of to describe it, whatever it is.
Johnny's far less smug when he returns. In a different shirt, you notice. Franklin, on the other hand, looks very pleased with himself. He's now dressed in his pyjamas. You can't help but wonder why.
"I don't wanna talk about it," Johnny mutters.
It takes every ounce of your willpower to stop yourself from laughing. You bite your lip, focusing your attention on Franklin, who's insistently trying to wriggle out of Johnny's hold to sit with you.
"What's next on the itinerary?" you ask.
Johnny checks the notepad again, trying to figure out what he's even looking at.
"Uh...Story time," he reads, with some difficulty.
He scans through Franklin's shelf on the bookcase, tracing a finger along the spines of the books. They vary wildly, from children's bedtime stories to medical journals and encyclopaedias.
Part of you wants to believe that some of them were put there by accident, but knowing Reed, it's intentional.
"I'm all for giving the kid a head start in life, but come on, Reed," Johnny gripes, pulling one of the books out and flipping through it. "Some of these encyclopaedias don't even have pictures in them."
Franklin looks up at you intently, making little noises as if he's trying to tell you something important.
"You're right, honey," you say in a stage-whisper, glancing slyly at Johnny. "We should pick something a bit more your uncle's speed, shouldn't we?"
Johnny glares at you. "Wow, you're ganging up on me now, is that it? Not cool."
He chooses a book - a very colourful, very unacademic-looking one - and plops himself down next to you.
"Is this what's gonna happen when we have our own kid?" he asks, pretending to sulk.
"If, Johnny," you correct.
"Right. If," he replies, with the faintest smile on his face.
He pulls Franklin into his lap, making sure he's comfortable before opening the book.
You prop your head up with your hand, leaning your elbow against the back of the couch, watching him as he begins reading.
You've never really pictured Johnny as a father. It's not so much that you don't think he's cut out for it, it's more that so much of who he is has never quite fit the role, in your eyes. He's impulsive, and downright reckless at times. You can't count how many nights you've stayed up into the early hours, glued to the news with your stomach in anxious knots. He cares, of course he does, but sometimes you think he cares too much. You know how quickly he'd throw his own life away to save someone else's.
You know who he is, you know what you signed up for when the two of you got together, but it still scares you. It's one thing if he doesn't come back to you, but what about your child? How is that fair on them?
You can't change who Johnny is, you know that. You would never try to. Okay, maybe the little things, like his annoying habit of leaving his shoes at the top of the stairs.
But this? This is who he is.
Even if the accident had never happened, you know Johnny would still be out there, risking his life to help other people. It's the kind of man he is. It's what makes you love and admire him as much as you do.
You feel a hand on yours, and you jolt, as if you've just been woken out of a sleep.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Johnny asks softly, with a concerned expression.
"Hm? Oh, yeah, of course," you reply hastily. "I'm just listening to you read, that's all."
You both heard it - the tremor in your voice. Johnny looks at you for a moment longer, before he lets it go, turning back to the book.
That's one thing you've always loved about him - he never pushes you. He knows you'll always tell him what's wrong when you're ready.
"I've never liked when people push me like that," he'd told you once. "I'm not always ready to talk when other people are. So, if you need that space...it's there."
It's hard not to worry. Sometimes it feels like that's all you do. But watching Johnny as he is now, with Franklin in his lap, shifts your perspective a little more.
It's too soon to tell. Far too soon. But maybe...
Maybe things will be okay.
"I think someone's getting a little sleepy," Johnny whispers to you, doing his best not to move.
You look down. Franklin's chin is pressed into his chest, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to stay awake. Both of you sit completely still, watching him as he slowly nods off.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh at how cute he looks right now. Johnny carefully passes the book to you, as he gently lifts Franklin into his arms and stands up. You follow after him, neither of you saying a word.
Johnny carefully lays him down in his crib, giving you space to pull his blanket around him. He's the very picture of innocence, his hands clenched loosely into fists as his chest rises and falls. Johnny wraps an arm around your shoulders, giving you a little squeeze, and you stand there for a while, basking in the peace and quiet.
It feels like a perfect end to a lovely evening.
And then Franklin's eyes open again.
The two of you look at each other, unsure as to what to do. Maybe if you just stay quiet, he'll settle down again. After a few minutes, Johnny points to the door. He moves no more than an inch before Franklin's face starts to screw up.
Johnny's over by the crib again like a shot, gently shushing him.
"Hey, buddy, it's okay. It's okay. I'm right here," he murmurs softly.
That seems to work, but only so far as to stop him from crying.
"I know you're tired," Johnny says, as Franklin stares up at him with wide eyes. "Your mom and dad will be back soon, and it'd make me look real good if you were fast asleep before then."
He turns to you sheepishly.
"Sorry, it would make us look good," he corrects.
He leans his arms on the side of the crib.
"Come on, little man, you gotta close those big eyes for me. Please? It's so easy, you just gotta..."
Johnny lets his eyelids slowly drop, before closing them completely. He waits for a few seconds. Franklin's still staring at him.
"Man, I'm so tired," Johnny says, through a loud, exaggerated yawn. "Sure would be nice to just...drift off right now..."
He closes his eyes again, placing his hands under his cheek as he pretends to snore, like something out of a cartoon.
He peeks an eye open. Nothing.
Franklin blows a big raspberry, clapping his hands together. He kicks his legs, and his blanket falls away from him.
"Now he's mocking me," Johnny mutters. "Did your dad teach you that?"
He leans over the railing to tuck him back in.
Big mistake.
Franklin's face starts to screw up again. Neither of you are quick enough to stop the tears this time.
"Oh, no, no, c'mon, buddy," Johnny says, scooping Franklin up. "You win, okay? You can stay up as long as you like."
He holds him close, slowly rocking from one foot to the other. His hand gently runs up and down Franklin's back, as he softly shushes him with little murmurs of "it's okay". Eventually, Franklin starts to settle, his fingers digging in the fabric of Johnny's shirt as he sniffles. His red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and you wave and coo at him until you finally manage to coax a smile onto his face.
"There we go," Johnny says quietly.
He turns to you with a wry smile. "Guess someone wants to keep partying, huh?"
You nod. "Guess so."
You head back to the living room, getting yourselves comfortable on the couch again. Franklin sits safely between the two of you, now as alert and happy as ever. Johnny, on the other hand, is starting to look as though he could doze off any minute now.
You lightly poke him in the arm.
"When you said someone was getting sleepy earlier, I think you meant you," you tease.
Johnny clutches at his arm like he's been badly injured. "Watch yourself, Franklin. You don't wanna get on your auntie's bad side. She's vicious."
You glare at him. He sticks his tongue out at you.
"For your information, I am not falling asleep. I'm just...conserving energy, that's all," he insists.
You snort. "I never said you were falling asleep. But thank you for admitting it."
The two of you fall silent, and those thoughts that have been following you around for the better part of the evening start to creep in again. You don't want to talk, if you're honest with yourself, but you know that you need to.
Because this isn't just some throwaway thing.
Having a baby will change everything. You need to be honest with each other.
"How long have you been thinking about it?" you ask.
"Having a baby?" Johnny prompts, running a hand through his hair. "Um...A while now, if I'm honest."
He looks down, to where Franklin's amusing himself by pulling at the feet of his pyjamas.
"I hadn't really considered it before, you know? It didn't really feel like something I was meant for. But then I never thought I was meant for saving the world, and look how that turned out."
He laughs to himself.
"And then I met you. And this little guy came along, and I...God, I dunno. It wasn't until I told you that it clicked. Before that, I hadn't been able to put it into words, how I was feeling. But it's been there."
Johnny's gaze meets yours.
"I wasn't trying to keep it a secret from you. I didn't even know what it was."
"I know," you tell him. "And it's okay, I'm not worried about that. I'm just..."
You pluck at the sleeve of your sweater worriedly.
"I'm scared," you admit.
There. You've finally said it. There's no taking it back now.
"Things will change. A lot of things. And it's not just how my body's gonna change, it's..."
"You're worried something's gonna happen to me," Johnny murmurs.
You nod, blinking hard to stop the tears that are suddenly welling in your eyes. Johnny rests his hand on your knee.
"I wanna be able to promise you that nothing bad will ever happen. I wanna be able to promise you that I'll stop, hang up my suit and call it quits. But I can't."
"I don't expect you to," you reply in a trembling voice. "I just need you to promise me that you'll be more careful. Because if we make this decision, there's no going back on it. It's not just you and me we have to think about anymore."
"I know. Believe me, I know. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. All the bad things that could happen. But I also keep thinking about all the good things too. Deciding on names, putting together the nursery - and yes, I will build the crib myself, unlike some people I could name."
You can't help the laugh that escapes you at that. Franklin laughs too, none the wiser.
"Can I tell you something?" Johnny asks.
"Sure," you reply.
Franklin tries to lean forward to start crawling, and Johnny grabs him, pulling him into his lap and pretending to eat him. Franklin slaps at him, his chubby cheeks turning red with his giggles.
Whatever it is must be serious. You know from experience that Johnny's usually at his most disruptive when he has something important on his mind.
He huffs out a breath, as if psyching himself up. "You know my story. I think everyone does at this point. But you've never really heard it from me, have you? Properly, I mean."
You shake your head. Johnny's not really one for hiding things, but when he gets upset, he tends to distract from it. He's told you things, but he always stops at a point.
"You know what happened to my mom. My dad, he...he did his best, but even though I was only a kid, I could see he was struggling. So Sue stepped up. Y'know, it's funny, there's not that much of an age difference between us, but she practically raised me. And yes, I'm still kind of a big kid, you don't have to remind me, but..."
He falters, pressing a kiss to the top of Franklin's head. You stay quiet, giving him the time he needs. It's hard for him to be this vulnerable.
"I know in my heart that this is what I want. Am I ready for it? Honestly? I don't know. And I don't know if I'll ever know. But I'm willing to try. I'm willing to learn, and make mistakes, and put the work in. Because I know it's not gonna be easy. But when I think about it, I mean really think about it, God, it...It makes me so happy. You know why?"
He reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. His eyes are watering. You aren't faring much better.
"Because I know I'm not alone in this. I've got you. There's no one on this planet that grounds me like you do. And at my worst? You keep me together. You keep me sane. And I...I don't know what I'd do without you."
You can't trust yourself to speak right now. You pull at your sleeve, wiping around your waterline.
"I upset you," Johnny says. "Sorry, wasn't my intention."
"No, it's not that, it's just..."
Franklin's starting to doze off again, his head resting against Johnny's chest. You smile, in spite of the tears still threatening to fall.
"It's like you knew exactly what I needed to hear," you tell him.
"I've never been the best at this sort of thing," he admits. "But I think I know my girl pretty well."
You laugh then, shaking your head. He's impossible, but you wouldn't have him any other way.
By the time Sue and Reed get home, you’re both exhausted. Franklin, on the other hand, is having the time of his life, after his nap of fifteen whole minutes. He’s lying on Johnny’s stomach, pulling at his poor uncle’s worn-out face.
“Hey,” Sue calls softly.
She reaches for Franklin, who’s more than happy to be back in her arms.
“What are you still doing awake, hm?” she coos.
“He won’t let me sleep,” Johnny mumbles, half-sunk into his chin. “Is this punishment for all the nights I woke you up? Because if it is, I’m sorry.”
Sue laughs, balancing Franklin on her hip.
“That’s babies for you, Johnny,” she says. “They’re hard work.”
She leaves to put Franklin to bed, Reed following close behind her. They look so lovely together like that, you think to yourself. A little family.
Johnny tucks himself closer to you, letting out a self-pitying groan. You smile to yourself, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“You still want one?” you ask, your tone teasing.
He looks up at you, eyes bright with sincerity. Just like that Sunday evening that started all of this in the first place.
"Yeah," he murmurs, his hand tracing tiny patterns along your knee. "I do."
You let out a little breath, to steady yourself for what you're about to say.
"But maybe...Maybe not right now," Johnny says quietly. "We've still got a lot of talking to do, and I wanna make sure this is right. For both of us."
How does he always know?
He moves his hand to rest on your stomach, and you can’t help but smile as you place yours over his.
“But someday, right?”
You nod, looking down at your hands, fingers entwined against your stomach.
