itwillbethescarletwitch

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Get Up

Bob Floyd x Fem!Aviator!Reader

Call Sign: Raven

Hurt/Comfort & Angst

The day the sky tried to take you started normal.

Dawn had just burned the fog off the tarmac, turning the runway into a sheet of light. You ran a palm over the Hornet’s skin like you always did — a quiet superstitious hello — while Bob finished the walk-around with his meticulous checklist cadence.

“Bleed air set… flaps… external stores… good,” he said, pencil tucked behind one ear. He had slept with his hair still damp; a stubborn curl kept trying to fall onto his forehead.

“You ready, Floyd?” you asked, aiming for breezy. Your smile showed teeth, not warmth.

“Always,” he said, and it was simple, devastating truth.

You launched into the blue.

The first ten minutes felt like church — a steady climb, the humming quiet you only got above the world, the rhythm of your breathing sliding into the rhythm of the jet. Training run: low-level ingress, pop-up, simulated strike, home for pancakes. You could do it in your sleep.

The warning came like a slap.

MASTER CAUTION lit red. A shrill tone knifed through your headset. The panel bloomed with angry yellow bars.

“Fault on the left hyd,” Bob said, calm-hard, a tone you knew meant move now. “You’ve got uncommanded roll starting—”

The stick twitched under your palm. The Hornet tipped, a sick little shiver down the spine, then a lurch. Altitude numbers began to unwind too fast.

“I’ve got her,” you said, and immediately didn’t.

The nose dipped. You corrected. The jet overcorrected. The world cut sideways — sky, water, sky — the horizon a wheel. You could hear your breath stuttering in the mask, could hear Bob’s voice in your ear and also far away, like through a wall.

“Relax the grip, Raven — reset FCS — there — again — okay, you’re fighting the system, not the air—”

Another tone, meaner. You smelled hot metal.

For a moment so quick and eternal it fit between two heartbeats, you saw the water coming up to collect you both. It wasn’t a thought; it was a vision with teeth: the buckling scream of metal, the bright white snap of pain, Bob’s hand reaching for yours and not finding it.

“No,” you said before you knew you’d said it, and put both hands on the stick. You bled off speed. You breathed like Bob taught you — count four, count four — and let the jet talk. The fight stopped being panic and became math. The math became music. The left-roll surge eased. Your hands found the center.

“Pitch back two,” Bob said, steady now, a rope across a ravine. “Good. There she is. Good.”

You leveled out with two hundred feet to spare. The ocean scowled below. The sky kept breathing like nothing had happened.

You didn’t. Not really, not for hours.

Back on deck, crews swarmed. A mechanic slid under the fuselage and swore softly at what he found. Maverick’s shadow fell across both of you, sharp as the wing.

“Hydraulic controller fault,” someone said. “Not pilot error.”

“Not your fault,” Mav repeated, meeting your eyes. The set of his mouth softened. “You brought her home.”

You nodded. You nodded again because your head didn’t believe it. Bob kept a hand at the small of your back like you might fall through the concrete.

Later, alone in the locker room, the shakes came. You pressed your palms to the metal bench, eyes screwed shut, and saw the water rising. You saw the way your hands had not known what to do, for one too-long second. You saw Bob’s name on a folded flag.

You closed your eyes harder, as if darkness could erase it.

It didn’t.

—

The memory came with you into the next jet, and the next.

Small things went wrong, the sort of things only a pilot with years in their bones could see. You overshot a merge you’d always thread like a needle. You called a bandit a breath too late. You hesitated on a low approach and kissed a wave with your shadow when it should’ve been a hair’s width higher. Nothing that would get written up. Enough to make your stomach slip.

“Raven, you’re half a beat late,” Phoenix said gently over comms after a simulated run. “You know you can take that window.”

“Copy,” you said, because what else was there.

“Raven,” Hangman drawled, “you lose your watch up there? You’re flying like you loaned your reflexes to a museum.”

“Ease up, Hangman,” Coyote muttered, but Hangman kept smiling with his whole face like the blade it was.

After debriefs, your notebook filled with angry black slashes. You started writing smaller so there’d be more to cross out.

Bob watched the pile of torn pages grow. He watched your laugh become a sound you made with your throat, not your eyes. In the evenings, he would stand in the kitchen with a dish towel and rehearse sentences that all felt wrong: Do you want to talk? Are you sleeping? Are you safe? In the end he made tea and set it on the table beside you without speaking, and watched the steam curl toward your face like a prayer.

—

The mess hall: fluorescent lights, the scrape of chair legs, the heavy, ordinary smell of eggs. You poked at yours without tasting them.

Hangman slid into the seat across from you, loose and golden and insufferable.

“So,” he said, pointing his fork at you, “is this your mercy tour? ‘Raven Makes Everyone Else Feel Better About Themselves?’ Because I gotta say, it’s generous. Out of character, but generous.”

Phoenix’s heel found his shin under the table. He only grinned wider.

“Jake,” she warned.

“What? We’re all thinking it. She’s flying like she’s considering flying,” Hangman said. “It’s weird. Spooky, even.”

Your smile was perfect. Your fingers around your fork were white.

“Guess I’m human,” you said, and stood up so he wouldn’t see your throat working.

Bob watched you go. His appetite walked out with you.

—

Maverick caught you outside the sim bay two days later.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You did. The corridor smelled like old oil and cold air.

He waited until you were outside, the sun a hard white disc above the hangars. “I’m not going to dress this up,” he said. “I know what happened wasn’t on you. The board knows it. The jet failed you. But you’re bringing that moment into every cockpit like it’s a co-pilot.”

You swallowed.

“You need to figure it out,” Mav said, and there was no contempt in it, only the brutal mercy of accuracy. “Before it decides for you.”

He didn’t touch your shoulder. That would have undone you. He left, and the wind moved, and your chest hurt like a bruise you couldn’t see.

It didn’t matter that he meant well. It mattered that he was Maverick — the benchmark, the myth — and you were failing in front of him.

That night at the Hard Deck you didn’t order anything with sugar or umbrellas. You asked for whiskey, neat. The glass burned a line down your throat and pooled heat in your chest. Numb wasn’t the point; quiet was.

“You’re not a whiskey girl,” Penny said, amused and concerned. “You okay, Raven?”

“Perfect,” you said. Your voice was a handed-in homework assignment.

The squad crowded around their usual table. Music, laughter, the chime of bottles. You sat with them and felt like a ghost. Phoenix watched you like a hawk. Coyote kept nudging Hangman under the table whenever his mouth opened too wide. Hangman rolled his eyes and still said, “So, Raven, what’s in the glass? Grit? Regret? That’s a bold vintage—”

“Jake,” Bob said. Just the name. Nothing else. It was enough. Hangman’s smile flickered.

You excused yourself before the second round came. On the pier, the boards creaked and gave back the sound of your steps. Out over the water, you sucked air like you were trying to drink the whole ocean, and hated how it didn’t help.

Bob found you there a few minutes later. He didn’t crowd you. He stood beside you and looked where you looked.

“Wasn’t on you,” he said softly.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said.

“It matters to me.”

Silence opened, deep and blue.

“I’m fine,” you added, which was the kind of lie you told to close doors.

He nodded like he’d listened. He put his hand at your back anyway when you went inside, as if the door might bite.

—

At home, he tried again.

He took your flight bag from your shoulder, set it down like it weighed more than canvas. He watched you choose the side of the couch that put an armrest between you. He sat on the other side like you’d asked him to.

“Raven,” he said. It sounded like your name and like please.

“It was a bad day,” you said. “Then a weird week. Then—” You made a vague shape in the air with your hand, like maybe your fingers could draw the outline of a life you recognized. “I’ll sleep. I’ll be fine.”

He watched you lace your hands together so tight your knuckles polished white. He wanted to say a hundred things. He said, “Okay,” because you gave him no other door.

He waited two more days. He counted them in cups of coffee and the number of times you folded a single T-shirt because you’d forgotten you’d already folded it. He counted them in the way the notches of your spine showed when you pulled your hair up. He counted them in the sim logs where your name had little notes beside it: minor correction, late call, hesitated.

Then he went to Phoenix.

They found the corner of the rec room where the vending machine hummed like an anxious animal.

“She’s carrying it like a second harness,” Bob said. “I don’t know how to take it off of her.”

Phoenix’s eyes were kind. “You can’t,” she said. “You can stand there while she fights it off. You can remind her she knows how. You don’t let her drown quiet.” A pause. “And if you blow it — if you push too hard — you apologize, and you try again.”

He nodded. He would have nodded to anything that sounded like a plan.

He went home with his jaw set and his hands shaking.

—

It went like this:

You were on the edge of the bed with papers everywhere — diagrams, arrows, a city of crossed-out streets. The bedside lamp made a warm little circle and left the rest of the room in soft-dark. Outside, a car passed. Somewhere in the base housing, a dog barked once and fell quiet.

“Say it,” Bob said from the desk, not unkindly. Just tired of pretending there was nothing to say.

“It’s nothing,” you said, because the lie had worn a groove you could step into without looking.

“It’s not nothing if it’s eating you,” he said. He tried to keep his voice level. He did not succeed.

You laughed, a sound like you’d scraped out the inside of your throat to make room for it. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this anymore. Maybe you’d be better off with someone else in your back seat.”

Something inside him, patient and Midwestern and endlessly accommodating, snapped with a soft sound, like thread breaking under too much weight.

“Do you hear yourself?” he asked, and you looked up because Bob never raised his voice. He wasn’t shouting now, either, but the edges were sharp; you could cut your lip on them.

“You bring me brilliant ideas and then call them scraps,” he said, standing, then pacing because sitting felt like drowning. “You hand me puzzle pieces and ask me to finish it because you don’t trust your own hands. Either you’re exhausted, or you’ve forgotten the truth about yourself so hard it scares me.”

“Bob—”

“You keep acting like you want me to lead when you were the one who taught me how to be brave in the first place,” he barreled on, voice cracking. “You were my mentor when nobody wanted to be mine. Do you remember that? When they didn’t want to fly with me, when I was just a quiet kid who took too long to speak — you chose me. You put your reputation next to mine and said, ‘He’s with me.’”

Your eyes burned. The room blurred.

“I am alive,” he said, the words a trembling thing, “because you believed in me first. And I will not stand here and watch you un-make yourself because a machine failed you. I can carry a lot, honey, but I can’t carry you deciding you’re nothing.”

He stopped. He breathed like he’d been running.

His voice gentled, ragged. “Let me return the favor. I won’t quit on you. Not when you never quit on me. Get up. Come back to yourself. I need you.”

Silence fell with weight. It didn’t crush you; it pressed.

You put a hand over your mouth because the sob came from somewhere old and unguarded. You were moving before you thought to move — your knees skimming paper, your hands on his shoulders, your face in his chest. He made a sound you’d never heard him make and wrapped himself around you like a promise.

“I’m scared,” you said into the cotton of his shirt. It came out small, not like you.

“I know,” he said into your hair. “I know.”

“I see it when I close my eyes,” you said. “I see us going in. I see the water. I see— I see you not breathing and it’s my fault because I’m the one holding the stick, Bob, I’m the one, and I was slow, I was — I didn’t know what to do for one second, and one second is how long it takes to ruin everything.”

He pulled back enough to take your face in both hands, his thumbs sweeping tears like he could reroute a river.

“Listen to me,” he said, and his voice had that cockpit steadiness, the one that could walk you out of a storm. “Your hands knew what to do. I was there. I felt it. The jet failed; you didn’t. You brought us home. You did. You can hate that it was close. You can be mad. You can be tired. You don’t get to erase who you are.”

You shook your head. The past kept unspooling like a bad reel. “What if it happens again? What if I— I hesitate, and—”

“Then I’ll be there,” he said, and it wasn’t bravado; it was a map. “Like you have been for me a hundred times. Then we’ll breathe, and do the math, and bring her home, and eat pancakes because you like to put too much syrup on yours and pretend it’s science.”

A watery laugh scraped out of you. He smiled, a cracked thing that still somehow held light.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, softer. “Not to the ocean. Not to silence. Not to a lie you tell yourself because fear sounds convincing.”

He leaned his forehead to yours. The room smelled like paper and his cologne and something else — the strangely clean scent of a storm breaking.

“Okay,” you whispered. It was not surrender; it was consent to try. “Okay.”

He nodded like you’d signed a treaty. He kissed your brow. He let the quiet settle and did not rush to fill it.

After a while, you spoke again, halting, honest. You told him the small humiliations of the last weeks — the half-second lags, the clench in your stomach when the deck rushed up, the way the comms sometimes sounded like a tunnel filled with bees because your brain wouldn’t pick out what mattered. You told him how Maverick’s gentlest version of figure it out still felt like a verdict because it came from a mouth the world called legend. You told him the whiskey didn’t help; it only made your tongue heavy and your chest hollow.

He listened the way he flew: with all of himself. He didn’t interrupt. When you ran out of sentences he said, simply, “Thank you.”

“For what?” you asked, hoarse.

“For trusting me with the mess,” he said. “It’s the good kind.”

You huffed. “Is there a good kind?”

“There is when you hand it to me,” he said. “We’ll tell Mav in the morning you want a few sessions in the sim with him spotting. Not because you need permission, because you want to put the ghost in the chair opposite you and watch it blink. We’ll get maintenance to walk you through every inch of that hydraulic system until you can recite it in your sleep. We’ll fly. We’ll fly together.”

You nodded. The knot in your chest did not vanish. It loosened enough to breathe around.

He drew you into the bed like you were precious cargo. You slept with his palm splayed over your ribs, his thumb tracing idle, steady paths like a metronome your heartbeat could match. When the bad reel tried to jam itself into your dreams, it found the shape of his breathing and had to go somewhere else.

—

In the morning, the world was still the world.

The sun came up past the blinds in bars. Your flight suit zipper stuck at the same stupid tooth it always stuck at. The coffee tasted like a promise kept badly. You were still afraid.

You walked into the mess hall anyway.

Hangman opened his mouth to deploy a joke and closed it because Bob looked at him like a man who had run out of Midwestern and found steel underneath. Phoenix’s eyes flicked from you to Bob and softened at what she saw there — not a fix, not a miracle, just two people on the same side of a line.

Maverick listened, and didn’t say figure it out this time. He said, “You want me in the back of the sim with you?”

“Yeah,” you said. Your voice didn’t shake. “I want to make the ghost earn it.”

He grinned like a father who knew better than to say it aloud. “Then let’s work.”

You looked at Bob. He didn’t nod, because that would’ve been I did this. He squeezed your hand once under the table where no one could see, because this was we will do this.

When you walked out to the hangar, the Hornet gleamed, patient. You laid your palm against her skin. Hello again.

You breathed in for four. You breathed out for four. Bob matched you, steady in your periphery.

The sky wasn’t kinder. You were.

And that, as it turned out, was enough to climb.

The ghosts were still there when you strapped in.

The hydraulic failure, the alarms, the horizon cartwheeling, the ocean rushing up — they waited in the back of your skull, ready to pounce.

But Bob was there too. Steady. Breathing in time with you, his voice in your ear like the quiet part of a hymn.

You flexed your fingers once on the stick. The canopy sealed. The engines roared.

And then you flew.

Not cautiously. Not haltingly. But with the kind of precision that had first made them call you Raven.

The first dogfight? You spotted a bandit before Phoenix. “Got visual, eleven high,” you called, sharp and sure.

“Damn, Raven’s back,” Phoenix muttered, almost proud.

On the ingress, you threaded through terrain so tight your radar return disappeared. Mav, watching from the ground, let out a low whistle.

But it was the merge that sealed it.

Hangman had set himself up, smug, certain he had you in his teeth. You let him think it for three glorious seconds, then rolled inverted, snapped under his belly, and pulled vertical with a clean, savage burn.

“Fox three,” you called.

“Kill confirmed,” Bob added calmly.

The sim ended with Hangman’s jet lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Holy shit,” Coyote laughed, clapping his WSO on the shoulder. “You just got smoked, man!”

Hangman’s voice was strangled. “Wind shear. That’s— that’s all it was.”

Phoenix snorted. “Sure, Bagman. Blame the atmosphere.”

You just smiled, tugging off your helmet, the weight in your chest finally lifting.

When Mav debriefed, he didn’t say much. Just: “That’s the Raven I remember.” Which meant more than any applause.

⸻

By the time night fell, the Hard Deck was buzzing.

The squad crowded around their usual table. Phoenix was radiant, still high on watching you humble Jake in the skies. Coyote ordered the first round.

When Penny asked for yours, you didn’t hesitate.

“Mai Tai. Extra pineapple.”

Her eyebrows lifted, her grin wide. “There she is.”

The glass came topped with a ridiculous umbrella, neon bright. You laughed, really laughed, when she set it in front of you. The first sip tasted like relief.

Hangman eyed it across the table. “Glad to see you’re back to drinking like a tourist,” he muttered.

You raised the glass in a mock toast. “Glad to see you’re back to losing like one.”

The whole table howled. Hangman’s ears turned pink.

Bob just watched you, eyes soft behind his glasses, like he’d been waiting to see this exact moment — your laugh full, your shoulders unbowed.

⸻

Later, when the music dipped and the crowd thinned, Bob leaned close and touched your arm. “Walk with me?”

You followed him down to the beach, where the tide whispered against the shore. The sand was cool, the night air sharp with salt.

You sat side by side, shoulders brushing, staring at the black horizon.

“Thank you,” you said finally, voice low.

He turned to you. “For what?”

“For making me open up. For not letting me bury it until it killed me. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve carried that.”

His hand slid over yours, warm and steady. He didn’t answer right away. He watched the waves collapse and return, collapse and return.

“You saved me first,” he said, quiet but certain. “When nobody wanted to fly with me, you did. You put your name next to mine and made them see me different. That’s the first thing I’ll always thank you for.”

Your throat tightened. “That was an easy choice.”

He shook his head. “Not for you. You could’ve had anyone. But you picked me. And then you picked me again, off the clock. When you said yes to a date.”

Your breath caught.

Bob turned to you fully now, eyes catching the moonlight. “That was three years ago. And every day since has been the best of my life.”

He reached into his jacket pocket. Your heart stumbled.

When he pulled out the velvet box, your hand flew to your mouth.

He opened it. The ring gleamed, simple and perfect.

“Raven. Y/N. Marry me,” he whispered, voice breaking just enough. “Let me spend the rest of my life reminding you who you are. Let me be the one who never lets you forget it.”

Tears blurred the world. You laughed anyway, wild and wet. “Yes. God, yes, Bob.”

His smile broke wide as he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling like you were glass and fire both. Then you kissed him, tears and salt and ocean roaring behind you.

⸻

Back inside, the squad didn’t miss the way you came in hand-in-hand, the ring catching neon light.

Phoenix gasped first, a sound like a squeal she tried and failed to smother. “NO. WAY.”

Coyote grinned so wide it hurt. “About damn time!”

“Shut the hell up,” Hangman said, though his eyes were huge. “Wait. Are you serious? Bob? Kansas Bob? Proposed before me?”

You raised your hand, glittering. “Kansas Bob did good.”

The bar erupted. Even Penny leaned over the counter, grinning like a proud aunt.

Maverick didn’t say much — just that quiet smile, eyes crinkling, the look of a man who’d seen enough endings to treasure a beginning.

Bob squeezed your hand under the table until your pulse matched his.

And later, when you stepped back onto the sand together, you looked at him with tears in your eyes and said, “This is the part where I fly better than I ever have, right?”

He kissed you, smiling against your lips. “You already are.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Not You Too

frank castle x fem!reader

You wake to weight.

Not the heavy kind—no nightmares pressing a hand over your mouth, no sirens in your skull—just Frank, draped across you like the world’s largest, warmest, most stubborn blanket. His forearm is hooked over your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, stubble scraping a slow hello whenever he breathes. He’s trying to pretend he’s asleep still—body slack, breath even—but his thumb keeps rubbing a lazy half-moon against your hip like it forgot how to play dead.

“Frank,” you whisper into the dim, sun just beginning to leak through the blinds. “You’re crushing me.”

A gravelly sound—half a laugh, half a denial—vibrates against your skin. “M’not,” he mutters, voice rough with morning. “You’re fine.”

“You weigh a ton.”

“Solid muscle,” he says, smug and sleepy. “Doctor’s orders.”

You roll onto your back and he follows automatically, hitching his arm higher so your ribs can expand. He blinks at you like a bear woken early: eyes soft, lashes dark, the tough-guy set of his mouth undone by the pillow. There’s a new scrape across the bridge of his nose and a healing cut at his lower lip, but his expression is all honey. He’s already searching your face for anything out of place, for worry, for pain, for the night you didn’t sleep because he was late.

“I’m good,” you say, before he can ask.

He nods once, like he trusts you more than he trusts the entire world. Then, softer, almost boyish, “Stay a minute.”

You do. He gathers you close like he’s stacking sandbags against a storm, tucking your head under his chin, fitting your knee over his thigh. Frank Castle, human barricade. You breathe together, slow and in sync, until his heartbeat—steady, horse-strong—settles you into a warm float.

“What time is it?” you ask into the fabric of his shirt.

“Early,” he says, which could mean anything between four a.m. and noon.

“Frank…”

He sighs, busted. “Eight-forty. I set the alarm for nine.”

You tip your head up. “You set an alarm?”

He tries to look offended and fails. “I set alarms.” His thumb at your hip moves again. “Sometimes.”

You smile at him, all teeth. “You set an alarm to cuddle?”

He huffs. “I set an alarm to not forget to make you breakfast.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely getting cocky.”

“Yeah?” He kisses your temple—quick, almost shy—and then untangles himself with the caution of a man disarming his own booby trap. He drops a last kiss to your cheek because he always does, pushes up, and groans like he’s ninety. “You want coffee or you want coffee?”

“Surprise me.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say to me, sweetheart,” he says, already walking barefoot toward the kitchen, shoulders broad under a battered black tee. “Last time I surprised you we ended up with six blueberry pancakes shaped like… whatever the hell that was.”

“You called it a tactical manta ray.”

He points behind him without looking. “And you ate two.”

“They were good.”

“Damn straight.”

You pad after him, stealing his sweatshirt en route and drowning in it on purpose. The apartment smells like him—clean detergent, steel, a hint of gun oil that clings to the canvas duffel by the door no matter how many times he wipes it down. He’s already got the kettle going and the pan heating, moving around the stove with easy efficiency, hips bumping cupboards, mouth set in that line he uses when he’s pretending he’s not delighted to be doing something domestic.

You lean against the counter and watch him. He pretends not to notice you watching him.

“Don’t,” he says, cracking eggs into a bowl.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like I’m doing a magic trick. It’s eggs.”

“It’s hot,” you say, because it is. “You in a kitchen is extremely hot.”

He gives you side-eye, cheeks tipping pink in spite of himself. “I’m a menace.”

“You’re a menace who browns butter.”

He glances at the pan, jotted with browned specks, then at you. “Don’t tell anybody.”

“My lips are sealed.” You step closer. “Unless you want me to use them.”

His ears burn. He tries to scowl and manages… nothing. “Sit,” he grumbles, pointing at the stool like you’re a criminal and the counter is a lineup. “You’re a problem before I even had caffeine.”

“Coffee first, menace second?”

“Exactly.”

While the kettle rumbles, you reach for his hand. His knuckles are a mess—bruised, split, bandaged badly because he did it himself in the dark without looking. You turn his palm up and he lets you, quiet as a church. The pads of his fingers are rough, the calluses hard-earned and familiar. You press your lips to each battered knuckle, one by one, feeling the up-twitch of his breath with every kiss.

He watches you like he doesn’t deserve any of it. Like this is a language he understands better than words. “You don’t gotta… I’m fine,” he says, and his voice does that rasping drop it does when he’s trying not to get emotional.

“Uh-huh.” You reach for the first aid tin you keep in the drawer labeled ‘totally normal civilian things.’ “Humor me.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Frank.”

He surrenders immediately—big, lethal hands going docile in yours because that’s who he is with you. You dab antiseptic and he doesn’t flinch, just keeps looking at your face like it’s the first good thing he’s seen in days. By the time the kettle screams, you’ve added a cleaner wrap and threatened to put tiny smiley-face stickers on his bandaids. He promised retaliation and then kissed your forehead to distract you.

Coffee is a ritual: his for you, yours for him. He makes it strong but sweet because you’ve been trying to sleep, and you slide sugar toward him because he’ll say he doesn’t want it and then steal sips from your mug anyway. The eggs are quick, the toast golden, the bacon crisp, and when you reach for a strip before he plates it, he slaps at your hand with a wooden spoon like you’re five.

“You are so dramatic,” you inform him, nibbling anyway.

He leans in, lips ghosting your ear. “Say that again after you finish your food.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“That’s logistics,” he says, deadpan, which somehow makes you laugh so hard you have to set your mug down.

He softens around the sound. He always does. It makes something in him unspool, that honeyed look washing through him like sunlight. For a minute—two—you pretend you’re a pair of people whose mornings are always like this. Eggs. Jokes. A man who doesn’t methodically check every window and mark the corners of the room with his eyes.

But the bag by the door is packed. And he keeps glancing at his phone like it owes him money.

You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either. Instead, he slides a plate toward you and takes the stool next to yours, his knee knocking yours like he couldn’t sit a whole foot away if he tried. You eat. He steals your last bite of toast at the exact second you reach for it. You protest with wild, wounded noises. He smirks like the cat that learned how to use knives.

“Crime,” you tell him, pointing.

“Arrest me,” he says, mouth full.

“Don’t tempt me.”

You’re still smiling when the phone on the counter buzzes—a bite of sound that rearranges the air. Frank’s hand tightens around his fork. He doesn’t look right away. He always gives himself a beat: one breath to be just a man at a table with a woman he loves, before the other part—a harder, colder angle of him—stands up.

He flips the phone. You catch the red mask avatar Matt insisted on setting for himself because he thinks he’s funny. Frank’s jaw works.

“You can let it ring,” you say gently.

He eyes you, searching, and you can tell he wants to. He wants to shut the phone off, stand up, pick you up, carry you back to bed, and be selfish until the sunlight climbs the opposite wall. But he doesn’t get to want uncomplicated things. Neither of you do.

“I’ll answer,” he says, and it’s not an apology so much as a promise that he’ll come back from whatever this is in one piece. He swipes. “Yeah.”

You can hear Matt’s voice—tinny and clipped—bleeding through. Names, an address, the kind of information that tastes like copper even secondhand. Frank’s eyes cut to you as he listens; they always do. He’s measuring your face for fear, for reluctance, for the yes he won’t ask you to give.

When he hangs up, he doesn’t move for a second. Then he sets the phone down with careful fingers and turns fully toward you, knee pressing to yours again, like a tether.

“You don’t have to come,” he says, and it’s the lie he always tries first. “Murdock and me, we got it. Just recon. In and out.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, because recon with those two is a fairy tale. “And if something goes sideways and you don’t have a pair of eyes you trust covering your six?”

His mouth twitches, pride and dread and helpless affection all snarled together. “You’re trouble.” He tips forward and kisses you. It’s not a quick kiss. It’s not even gentle. It’s a slow, anchored thing that says thank you and I’m sorry and I don’t know how to leave this room without you in it. His palm cups your jaw, thumb skimming the soft place beneath your ear, and you lean into the heat of him without thinking.

He pulls back first because if he doesn’t, you won’t leave; you’ll just orbit each other until the sun goes down. He rests his forehead against yours for a beat, breath mingling, then clears his throat like it might stop the ache in it.

“Wear the light plate,” he says, which is how he says I love you without spooking himself. “And the gloves. Your hands were cold last time.”

“You noticed?”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “I always notice.”

You slide off the stool and he’s already there, hands at your waist, lifting you down like the floor might bite. He doesn’t let go until you’re steady. He never does. You steal one last strip of bacon on your way past him and he lets you, because he’s a sap and you own him.

“Frank,” you say at the bedroom door.

He grunts, rifling the duffel to check, again, that the gear he never wants to need is where it should be. He looks up, all that hard usefulness slotted into place, and somehow still looks like your big soft baby, hoodie half-zipped and hair a little stubborn from sleep.

“You’re not a menace,” you tell him.

“Yeah?” He cocks a brow.

“You’re a good man who makes terrible pancakes.”

His mouth curves. He looks away like it’s too bright in here, then back at you as if he’s memorizing you in case the world tries, again, to pry you out of his hands. “Go suit up, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Before I make you late to this… recon.”

“You set an alarm,” you remind him.

He jerks his chin at the clock, trying hard not to smile. “And look at that—we’re already off schedule.”

You stick your tongue out at him like you’re not about to follow him into hard shadow, and he actually laughs, full and surprised. He crosses the space in two strides, hooks a finger through the belt loop of the sweatshirt you stole—the one that hangs to your mid-thigh—and tugs you close. One more kiss, quick and fierce, like armor he can leave on your mouth.

“Back in one piece,” he says, low.

“Both of us,” you counter.

He nods, and it’s a vow.

You go to pull on the light plate because he asked, and the gloves because he noticed, and the whole time you can feel his eyes on the door like hands: protective, impatient, already counting the seconds until you walk back through.

The kettle ticks as it cools. The phone sits silent. And for one more heartbeat, the kitchen holds the afterglow of breakfast—two mugs half-drunk, a plate still warm, a wooden spoon abandoned mid-threat—like proof that softness lives here, even when the hard world comes knocking.

The night tastes like rust.

The three of you—Frank, Matt, you—are deep in a warehouse that smells like old oil and blood. The concrete floor shines damp beneath the flickering overheads. Somewhere in the rafters a chain clinks, the only sound before everything snaps into chaos.

They come out of the shadows fast. Ten, twelve—more than Matt promised. Iron pipes, knives, makeshift armor. You barely have time to curse before Frank moves.

Frank is brutal efficiency: one hand around a throat, the other smashing the butt of a pistol across a jaw. Matt flows like water, his batons cracking ribs and wrists with surgical precision. And you—you’re holding your ground, ducking blows, landing sharp strikes where you can.

It’s going fine until it’s not.

Frank pivots, puts a man down hard—but he doesn’t see the one behind him. Doesn’t see the glint of steel raised high, angled for his spine. You don’t think—you move.

“Frank!”

You slam into him, shoulder-first, knocking him forward. The knife meant for him skitters across your arm instead, a shallow burn, but the second man doesn’t hesitate. His fist connects with your face, vicious and unrelenting, and you go flying back into the concrete wall. The thud rattles your teeth, white spots bursting in your vision.

Frank hears the sound before he even turns.

And then the world ends.

He whirls, gun clattering out of his hand, and collides with the man who touched you. The knife drops to the floor in a scrape of metal; Frank doesn’t notice. He drives his fists into the man’s face, chest, stomach, again and again and again, teeth bared, a snarl tearing his throat raw. The man is already limp when Frank pulls the blade from the ground and slams it down—once, twice, three times—until Daredevil’s arms are locked around him, dragging him back.

“Frank—Frank! That’s enough!” Matt’s voice is harsh, desperate. He’s got both arms hooked under Frank’s, straining against his rage. “You’ll kill him!”

“He touched her!” Frank bellows, spit flying, eyes wild with blood-red haze. He thrashes once, twice, nearly breaking free. “He touched her! I’ll gut him, I’ll—”

“Frank!”

The word rips through the air, raw and pleading. Your word.

And suddenly he’s still.

Frank jerks his head around and sees you on the ground, trying to push yourself upright, blood on your lip, your face already swelling where the fist landed. His chest heaves once, twice, before he rips free of Matt—not to go back to the fight, but to go to you.

He drops to his knees beside you so fast his joints crack. “Sweetheart—hey, hey, look at me. You with me? Look at me.” His hands hover over you, afraid to touch, terrified he’ll hurt you worse.

“‘M fine,” you slur, though your lip is split and blood trickles down your chin.

“You’re not fine.” His voice is breaking, thick with something that’s half fury, half fear. He pulls a rag from his vest and presses it carefully to your mouth, his other hand cupping the back of your head to steady you. “Jesus Christ, you—” His jaw locks. He can’t finish.

Matt clears the floor, sending the last thug scrambling, but Frank doesn’t even glance up. His whole world is you, sitting against a dirty wall, bruised and bleeding because you saved him.

“Don’t move,” he whispers, forehead pressing briefly against yours as if he needs to feel your breath. “Don’t you move a damn inch, sweetheart. I got you. I got you.”

And for the rest of the night, his hands never leave you.

Frank doesn’t notice Matt until the red mask fills the corner of his vision.

“You almost lost control back there,” Matt says, voice hard. His batons are still in his grip, chest rising and falling with the exertion. His head tilts toward the crumpled man Frank left bleeding out on the floor. “He’s not getting up, Castle.”

“Good.” Frank’s tone is venom, his eyes locked on you, thumb brushing at the blood on your lip with a tenderness that doesn’t match the savagery still vibrating in his shoulders.

“That’s not what we do.” Matt’s voice sharpens. “You can’t just—”

Frank snaps his head around so fast Matt goes still. “You think I give a damn about your rules when she’s the one they laid hands on?” His voice is thunder, his stare murderous. “He touched her. He was gonna put a knife in me and he—he—” His breath catches, like the words themselves scrape his throat raw.

You reach out, fingers curling into his sleeve. “Frank.”

Just one word. Just you.

The storm breaks a little. His jaw flexes hard, then he tears his eyes from Matt and looks down at you again, crouched at your side like he’s holding the perimeter of the whole world with his body.

Matt doesn’t push it. He exhales once through his nose, tucks the batons away, and says, softer now, “Get her out of here. I’ll clean this up.”

Frank doesn’t argue, doesn’t thank him, doesn’t even nod. He just scoops you up like nothing else exists, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pulling you against his chest.

“Frank—” you protest weakly, “I can walk—”

“The hell you can,” he growls, holding you tighter. “Not after that.”

The warehouse fades behind you, Daredevil’s shadow swallowed by the dark. Frank doesn’t set you down once, not until the two of you are back home and the deadbolt is thrown, like putting four walls between you and the rest of the world might keep you safe.

The door slams behind you, the deadbolt snapping into place with a finality that rattles the frame. Frank doesn’t let you down until you’re lowered carefully onto the couch, his big hands lingering at your waist like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip too soon.

“Stay there.” His voice is low, shaking at the edges. He crouches in front of you for one more check—your eyes, your lip, the ugly swell of your cheekbone—before he pushes up and stalks into the kitchen.

You hear drawers opening, the tin of medical supplies hitting the counter with a clatter. He comes back with his arms full: antiseptic, gauze, the ice pack he keeps in the freezer for his own busted knuckles.

“Frank—”

“Don’t.” He kneels in front of you again, cracking open the antiseptic. His hands are steady, practiced, but his jaw is tight enough to cut glass. He presses the rag to your lip, gentler than his voice. “Don’t say you’re fine. Don’t you dare.”

You watch him as he works, big fingers trying to be careful around the angry bloom of bruising. His thumb ghosts under your jaw, tilting your face so the light hits your cheek, and the ice pack follows. It burns cold, but his hand at the back of your head is warm.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you murmur. “He was gonna stab you.”

He freezes, eyes flashing up to yours. For a long beat, there’s just silence—his breath, the quiet hum of the fridge, the sound of your own pulse in your ears. Then, low and rough, “You think I’d rather take a blade in the back than see him lay a finger on you?”

You try to smile, but it hurts your lip. “Frank, I couldn’t just—stand there.”

His hand cups your face before you can look away, thumb brushing the uninjured side of your cheek. There’s something wild in his eyes, something breaking. “Sweetheart…” He exhales like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “You don’t get it. When I saw him hit you—” His voice cracks, just once. “I wasn’t there anymore. I just saw red. I almost—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can shake the thought away.

“You stopped,” you whisper.

“Because you called me back,” he admits, quiet as confession. “Only reason.”

You want to reach for him, but he’s already wrapping gauze over your knuckles where you split them in the fight, layering protection over skin that barely stings compared to the way his eyes look right now.

The ice pack slips a little. He adjusts it, careful, precise. His fingers linger against your temple like maybe if he keeps touching you, he’ll believe you’re really here.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he mutters, finally sitting back on his heels. His broad chest rises and falls too fast, like he hasn’t stopped fighting. “Don’t—don’t ever do that again.”

You don’t promise him anything. You just put your hand over his, holding it there against your cheek, grounding both of you in the quiet.

For the rest of the night, Frank sits close—shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He doesn’t turn on the TV, doesn’t touch his phone, just keeps his arm around you like if he lets go, the whole world will cave in.

Morning doesn’t creep in—it slams.

The sun is too bright through the blinds, too sharp against your bruised cheek, too loud in the room where Frank Castle is already pacing like a caged animal. He’s been awake for hours—you can tell by the empty coffee pot, the faint smell of gun oil, and the tightness in his shoulders as he moves back and forth across the floor.

You shift on the couch, the blanket he threw over you sliding down, and his head snaps around like a sniper tracking a target. His eyes rake over you—your face, your arms, every place he cleaned and bandaged last night. He doesn’t even blink.

“You should still be asleep,” he mutters. His voice is low, but it’s got that edge—the one that sounds like a growl trying to pass as human.

“I’m fine,” you say, pushing yourself upright. “Just sore.”

His jaw clenches, and that’s the last straw. He slams his palm down on the counter, the sound ricocheting like a gunshot.

“Don’t say that again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t—” His voice rises, sharper now, the mask cracking. “Don’t you dare say you’re fine. You are not fine. You almost got your damn face caved in because you thought it’d be a good idea to play hero.”

Anger sparks in your chest, hot and defensive. “Play hero? Frank, I saved your life.”

His laugh is hollow, ugly. “You think I needed saving?” He takes a step toward you, finger stabbing the air like it’s a knife. “You think I’d rather live with you like this?” His hand gestures to your bruised cheek, the cut on your lip. “Than take the hit myself? Jesus Christ, sweetheart—what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that a knife in your spine would kill you!” you snap back, standing now, fury burning through the ache in your body. “What was I supposed to do, Frank? Just watch it happen?”

“Yes!” The word explodes out of him, ragged, too loud. His chest heaves like he’s been running. “Yes, you stand back, you let me handle it. That’s the deal. That’s how this works.”

Your blood runs hot. “No. That’s how you want it to work. You get to bleed, you get to break, and I’m just supposed to sit pretty and patch you up after? No, Frank. I’m not built for that.”

“You think I want you built for this?” His voice cracks on the word want, like it’s been torn out of him. He drags a hand down his face, eyes closing, then slams his fist against the counter again. “I’m not gonna bury you. I can’t—I won’t—”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you fire back, throat tightening with more than just anger. “You don’t get to decide how much I love you, Frank. You don’t get to decide if I take a hit for you.”

He stops cold. The silence is deafening.

His chest rises and falls, heavy and uneven. For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks like he doesn’t know where to put all that rage, all that grief. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides, the veins in his arms stark against his skin.

Finally, he shakes his head. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.” His voice is low now, dangerous with despair. “And I can’t—I can’t watch that happen. Not again.”

“Frank—”

“No.” He points at you, and it’s not anger anymore—it’s fear wearing anger’s mask. “You don’t understand. Every second you’re out there, every second you’re standing behind me—I see it. I see you gone. I see them taking you from me like they took everything else. And I can’t—I can’t breathe when I think about it.”

Your heart twists, but you can’t back down. Not when he’s looking at you like that. “Then maybe you need to figure out how to breathe, Frank. Because I’m not leaving you. Not when you’re out there taking on the world alone.”

Something in him buckles. He exhales hard, jaw working, and then he grabs his jacket off the chair.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters, already shoving his arms through the sleeves. “You’ll never get it.”

He storms to the door, movements jagged and furious, the weight of his body shaking the floorboards.

“Frank—”

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t look back. The door slams so hard the frame rattles, and then he’s gone.

You stand there in the silence he leaves behind, chest heaving, the bruise on your cheek throbbing with your heartbeat. The apartment feels too big without him in it, too empty, like all the air walked out with him.

You don’t sit. You don’t cry. You just stare at the door and wait for it to open again.

Hours pass. Noon. Evening. Midnight. Still nothing.

When the lock finally clicks at 2 a.m., you’re still on the couch, arms crossed, eyes burning. 

The lock clicks at 2:03 a.m.

You don’t move. You’ve been waiting on that couch all day, fury burning a steady ember in your chest, arms crossed like a barricade. The bruise on your cheek has deepened into something ugly, purples and blues blooming beneath your skin, and it throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat as the door opens.

Frank steps inside, the weight of him filling the apartment the way thunder fills the sky. His jacket is damp, his boots tracked with dirt, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He looks like he’s been walking all night—like he’s been punishing the pavement for hours. His eyes cut to you immediately, then linger, guilt plain as the bruises on his knuckles.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

He sets the jacket down slow, careful, like the noise might set you off. He doesn’t look away from you, though—not once—as if he’s waiting for you to move, to yell, to throw something. When you don’t, the silence presses heavier.

Finally, you stand. “You disappeared.” Your voice is sharp, brittle with the effort of holding back all the things you’ve wanted to scream since the door slammed that morning. “You left me here wondering if you’d even bother coming back.”

“I had to cool off,” Frank says, low, gravel scraping at the edges. “I didn’t wanna—” He stops, jaw tightening, then starts again. “I didn’t wanna say something I couldn’t take back.”

“You think walking out without a word was better?” Your chest heaves, tears threatening but refusing to fall. “You think leaving me here after everything that happened—after I took that hit for you—was the smart move?”

His mouth hardens. “Don’t you start with that again.”

“I will start with that again,” you snap, stepping closer. “I’m not gonna apologize for saving you, Frank. I’d do it again. I’ll always do it again.”

“Don’t say that.” He takes a sharp step toward you, the air between you tightening. “Don’t—”

“Why not? Because you can’t stand the thought of somebody giving a damn about you?”

His face twists, raw and unguarded. “Because I can’t lose you!” The words rip out of him, louder than he meant, louder than he’s ever let himself be with you. His chest rises and falls like he’s still in that warehouse, like the fight never ended. “You hear me? I can’t—I won’t—”

The silence afterward is thick. He’s staring at you like the truth just gutted him, like it’s bleeding out of him no matter how hard he tries to hold it in.

Your anger falters, swallowed by the weight of it. You step closer, softer now. “Frank…”

But he’s already moving—closing the space, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist so tight it’s almost bruising. His mouth crashes into yours, desperate and rough, all teeth and heat and apology wrapped into one.

You gasp against him, and he swallows it like oxygen, kissing you harder. It’s not gentle—it’s starving, frantic, like every second he spent away from you today carved something out of him that he’s trying to put back.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him down, and then you’re stumbling backward, hitting the wall with a thud. He presses into you, broad chest pinning you there, his mouth trailing down your jaw to the bruised corner of your lip, where he slows—soft now, reverent, like he’s begging forgiveness with every kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your skin, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Then don’t leave me,” you whisper, tugging his face back to yours. “Don’t walk out like that again.”

He kisses you like a vow, one hand sliding under your thigh, hitching your leg around his hip. The shift drags a groan out of both of you. His forehead drops to yours, breaths ragged, eyes dark with everything he can’t say.

“Never do that again,” he growls, the words raw against your lips. “Don’t you ever put yourself in the line for me like that. I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

You don’t answer with words. You kiss him harder, pulling him with you as you stagger toward the bedroom, shedding clothes like confessions.

When you fall back onto the bed, he’s already on top of you, covering you with the same ferocity he uses in a fight—except this time it’s not destruction, it’s devotion. His hands roam like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, mouth trailing down your neck, murmuring things he’ll never admit to saying in daylight.

It’s not pretty. It’s not neat. It’s messy, frantic, desperate—the kind of sex that leaves nail marks and bruises, the kind that burns away anger until all that’s left is love so fierce it terrifies him.

And when it’s over, when you’re tangled together in the sheets, sweat cooling, his chest heaving against your back, Frank doesn’t let go. His arm locks around your middle, his face pressed into your hair, and in the hush of the room you hear it again, softer this time, broken open and real:

“Don’t make me lose you, sweetheart. Please.”

You lace your fingers over his, holding him in place. “I’m not going anywhere, Frank.”

For once, he lets himself believe you.

You wake first.

The light is pale through the blinds, dust motes spinning lazy in the air. The apartment smells like coffee and gun oil and faint sweat, but beneath it all is the steady warmth of Frank Castle wrapped around you like a fortress.

His arm is slung heavy over your waist, chest pressed against your back, face buried in the curve of your neck. You can feel his breath—slow, deep, the kind of breathing he only does when he’s finally, finally asleep.

You don’t move. Not yet.

Because this is rare—this softness, this calm. Frank sleeps, but not like this. Usually it’s tense, shallow, restless. But after last night, after the fight, the bruises, the breaking open and the putting back together—he’s out cold. His hand twitches against your stomach, fingers flexing as if he’s dreaming of holding on tighter.

You let him.

It takes another hour before he stirs. His breath shifts, his grip tightens, and then he groans low in his throat, a bear waking. His mouth brushes your shoulder, half kiss, half habit, and then he goes still.

“You awake?” you whisper.

He exhales hard. “Yeah.” His voice is rough, scratchy, like gravel under boots. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, not ready to face the world yet. “Shoulda let you sleep.”

“I didn’t want to.”

There’s a long pause. Then, softer: “Face looks worse this morning.”

You huff. “Thanks for the compliment.”

“I’ll kill him again,” Frank mutters, and you can hear the sincerity, the way his voice dips into that deadly place. “If I think about it too long—”

You roll onto your back so you can see him. His hair is a mess, his eyes bloodshot, stubble dark on his jaw. He looks wrecked—and so heartbreakingly human.

“Hey.” You catch his chin, make him look at you. “I’m here. You didn’t lose me.”

His throat works, and for a second, you think he might look away. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on yours, dark and unblinking.

“I meant what I said.” His hand cups your face, thumb brushing lightly over the bruise like he’s memorizing the pain he caused by letting you step in front of him. “Never do that again. I can’t lose you too.”

You swallow hard. “And I meant what I said. I’m not gonna stand back and watch you die. You can’t ask me to do that, Frank.”

His eyes close, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You make it impossible, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss him, soft this time, unhurried. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

He kisses you back, lingering, a sigh slipping from him like maybe—for one breath—he believes it’s true. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours, eyes still closed, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t look like a soldier on watch. He just looks like a man holding the only thing in the world that keeps him steady.

“Breakfast?” you ask, after the silence stretches.

He huffs out something that almost passes for a laugh. “Only if you let me cook. Last time you damn near burned the eggs.”

“Liar.”

“You distracted me,” he says, half-smile twitching at his mouth.

You grin, even as your cheek aches. “Guess I’ll just have to do it again.”

And for the first time since last night, Frank Castle actually laughs—quiet, low, but real.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Desk Duty

bob floyd x fem!reader

SMUT

The door clicked shut behind you, and Bob didn’t even look up at first. His glasses perched low on his nose, pen tapping lightly against the side of his report. He was deep in numbers, flight data filling the pages. You dropped a takeout bag on the corner of his desk and leaned on it, arms folded.

“Lieutenant Floyd,” you teased. “I come bearing food before you pass out from starvation.”

He glanced up, and his face softened instantly, that tired smile breaking through. “Darlin’…” His voice came out a low sigh of relief. He set the pen down but didn’t move for the food. His eyes lingered on you a little too long, traveling up and down like he’d just realized you were there.

“What?” you asked with a little laugh.

Bob leaned back in his chair, chest rising slow. His jaw tightened as his eyes drank you in, and then his voice dropped into something deeper, heavier. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

Heat crept up your neck. “I was just bringing you lunch.”

He pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood against tile, stood, and stepped right between your knees where you sat on the desk. His hands bracketed the surface on either side of your hips, caging you in. “Sweetheart, I’ve been starin’ at these damn numbers all day, and the only thing I can think about is you. How you taste. How you sound when I’ve got you beggin’.”

The confession landed like a strike. Your mouth parted, but before you could reply, he caught your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your bottom lip. His voice dropped lower. “I want every inch of you right now. Need to feel you. Need to worship you a little.”

Your breath caught. “Worship me?”

Bob nodded slowly, eyes never leaving yours. His hand traveled down, skimming the line of your throat, your chest, slow enough to make you shiver. “You’ve got no idea how often I sit in this office picturing you sittin’ on my desk like this. Legs open for me. Just lettin’ me take my time.”

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, rough palms sliding against your waist, mapping you like he was memorizing every inch. “God, you’re so soft. I could spend hours right here, touchin’ you, kissin’ you. Letting you know how much I want you.”

Your hips shifted involuntarily, brushing his belt, and he groaned deep in his chest. “See that? Don’t even gotta try. I’m already hard for you.” His lips brushed your ear, his breath hot. “And I bet you’re already wet for me, huh?”

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it, and he chuckled low, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s it. Don’t hide from me, sweetheart. I wanna hear every sound I drag outta you.”

His mouth found your throat, kissing, sucking, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles before he slid them higher, nudging your knees apart. Papers slid to the floor in a careless avalanche.

“Bob,” you whispered, hands clutching at his shoulders.

“Say my name again.” His voice was husky, reverent, like he’d been waiting for this all day. His tongue traced the hollow of your throat before he whispered, “Gonna take such good care of you. Gonna make you feel so good you’ll forget your own name. Only thing you’ll remember is mine.”

He kissed you then, deep and hungry, stealing every bit of air you had. One hand cupped the back of your neck, guiding you exactly where he wanted you. The other slid lower, teasing at the edge of your panties, fingers brushing but not quite touching.

You bucked your hips, desperate, and he smirked against your mouth. “So eager. You want me to touch you, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Mm, not good enough.” His voice was pure sin, sweet and commanding at once. He pressed a slow kiss to your jaw, then down your throat. “Ask me real nice.”

“Please, Bob. Please touch me.”

“That’s my girl.” His fingers finally slid against your soaked center, and you cried out, arching into him. His growl rumbled against your neck. “So wet for me already. Jesus Christ. You really were just sittin’ here waitin’ for me to lose control, weren’t you?”

Every stroke, every word had you unraveling. Bob took his time, fingers teasing and worshiping, whispering filth and praise in equal measure. “You’re perfect. You hear me? Perfect. I don’t deserve to touch you like this, but I’m selfish, and I ain’t stoppin’ now.”

He pulled back just long enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark, almost glassy. “I’m gonna ruin you on this desk, darlin’. Then I’m gonna hold you after like the gentleman I am. But right now—” He pushed you back flat on the desk, hovering over you with a dangerous smile. “Right now you’re mine.”

Bob’s hands pinned you to the desk, his lips brushing yours in a teasing hover. “Mine,” he repeated, low and certain.

Your back pressed against scattered reports, and the edge of the desk dug into your thighs as he slid them wider. He leaned down, kissing you again—slow at first, then hungrier, biting at your bottom lip until you whimpered.

“God, that sound,” he groaned, rutting his hips against you. The thickness of him was obvious even through his uniform pants, pressing hard between your legs. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he grinned into the kiss before nipping at your throat. “You want me to worship you? To take my time?” His mouth trailed lower, kissing a line down your collarbone, his words hot against your skin. “’Cause I’ll spend all day here if you let me.”

“Bob,” you whined, arching into him.

“Mhm,” he hummed, nuzzling against your chest, inhaling like he couldn’t get enough of you. “Say it again.”

“Bob—please.”

That cracked him open. With a groan, he pushed your skirt higher, tugging your panties aside. His fingers slid through your wetness and his head fell back with a curse. “Holy shit, sweetheart. Look at you. Drippin’ for me already.”

You gasped when his thumb circled your clit, his other fingers sliding inside with agonizing slowness. He kept his gaze locked on you the whole time, lips parted, glasses long forgotten. “That’s it. That’s my good girl. Take me in, let me stretch you nice and slow.”

The dirty talk was relentless, his voice a steady stream of praise and filth. “So tight. So perfect. You were made for me, weren’t you? For these fingers, for this cock.”

Your moans echoed in the office, the squeak of the chair and the rustle of papers only adding to the chaos. When he pulled his fingers out and replaced them with the heavy press of his cock, you cried out, clinging to him.

“Shhh,” he soothed, though his own voice cracked with need. “I got you, baby. Just relax for me. Let me take care of you.”

The stretch burned in the best way, and Bob buried himself to the hilt, groaning against your shoulder. “Christ almighty—you feel like heaven. I’m never lettin’ you off this desk.”

His thrusts started slow, purposeful, each one grinding deep, forcing you to feel every inch of him. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple, his lips brushing your mouth with every ragged breath.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Every part of you. I could die right here, inside you, and I’d die a happy man.”

Your nails raked down his back, pulling a hiss from him, and he sped up, hips snapping harder, desk creaking under the force. His hand slipped between your thighs, rubbing circles over your clit until your body tightened around him.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, eyes wild, breath uneven. “Come for me. Make a mess of me, darlin’.”

Your release ripped through you, and Bob swallowed your scream with a desperate kiss. The clench of your walls dragged him over the edge seconds later, his groan guttural, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

After, he collapsed against you, both of you panting, tangled in sweat and heat. His arms locked tight around your waist, refusing to let you slide off the desk.

“Report’s ruined,” you whispered breathlessly.

He chuckled weakly, kissing your cheek. “Don’t care. Only thing I’m reportin’ is how good you just felt.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Room 407

JQ Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

(NOT PROOFREAD SO IF IT IS REPETITIVE OR DOESN’T MAKE SENSE ITS BECAUSE IM WATCHING THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY)

New York had been sweltering for days, the kind of heat that made glass skyscrapers shimmer and subway tunnels feel like oven doors left open. Even in the Baxter Building, with Reed’s ridiculous temperature-control systems, the air felt heavy.

Which was why the sudden announcement in the common room that morning hit like a left hook.

“Everyone out,” Reed said, like he was asking people to pass the salt. He stood in the center of the room with a clipboard, utterly unbothered by the collective groan that followed. “The building’s being fumigated. Whole week. You’ll thank me later.”

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, coffee in hand, staring at him over the rim of your mug. “Excuse me, did you just say a week?”

“Yes,” Reed replied. “Seven days. Maybe eight if they need extra time.”

Johnny was sprawled across the other end of the couch, arm draped over the back, wearing the smuggest grin imaginable. “What, you can’t handle a little vacation, princess?”

You rolled your eyes. “Vacation implies relaxation. This sounds like sleeping in an overpriced box somewhere in Midtown.”

“Ohhh, so you have stayed at my place before,” Johnny said, smirk curling as he took a lazy sip from his water bottle.

“Johnny,” Sue warned from the kitchen, not even looking up from her tablet. “Behave.”

⸻

By that afternoon, you found yourself standing in the sleek marble lobby of the Hudson Grand Hotel, the kind of place that smelled like expensive cologne and fresh-cut flowers. The chandelier overhead was obscene — crystals like rain frozen mid-fall, refracting gold light across the walls.

The Fantastic Four weren’t exactly subtle as a group. Reed was still muttering calculations under his breath about airflow systems. Ben was grumbling about whether the gym here “had real weights or those fake little rubber-coated ones.” Sue was multitasking between checking in and fielding two separate phone calls. Johnny? Johnny was leaning against the polished front desk, chatting up the receptionist with the kind of casual charm that made you want to throw a hotel brochure at his head.

“Reservation for Storm,” Sue said crisply, sliding her credit card across the counter. “We should have five rooms.”

The receptionist’s polite smile faltered just enough to be noticeable. She typed something, frowned, typed again. “I… do have five bookings, but… one of them appears to be… a double occupancy.”

Sue blinked. “A what?”

“It’s one suite. King bed.”

You felt your stomach drop. Across the counter, Johnny’s grin lit up like someone had handed him the Infinity Gauntlet.

“No,” you said immediately, already shaking your head. “No, no, absolutely not.”

“Hey, don’t be so quick to judge,” Johnny said, turning toward you with faux innocence. “I’m a delightful roommate. Great conversationalist. I fold my towels.”

Sue pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s just for a week. We’ll sort it out when the hotel has cancellations—”

“I’ll sort it out right now,” you cut in, leaning forward toward the receptionist. “Do you have any other rooms?”

She gave you that hotel smile — the one that said, I’m so sorry but also I’m not sorry at all because there’s nothing I can do. “Unfortunately, we’re fully booked for a wedding party. I can put you on the waitlist?”

“Perfect,” Johnny said, snatching the keycard she slid across the counter. “Guess it’s just you and me, sunshine.”

⸻

Room 407 was at the end of a quiet hall, thick carpet muffling your footsteps. Johnny opened the door with a flourish, and you stepped into a space that looked straight out of a luxury travel magazine — floor-to-ceiling windows spilling sunlight across a king-sized bed so plush it looked like a cloud, a sitting area with velvet chairs, a minibar stocked to the brim.

You stared at the bed. Johnny stared at you staring at the bed.

“I call the left side,” he said.

You shot him a glare. “We are not sharing that bed.”

“Then I guess you’re sleeping on the balcony,” he replied, already tossing his bag onto the mattress and flopping down like he owned the place.

“Johnny.”

“Y/N.”

⸻

You spent the next hour claiming territory — you got the closet, he got the dresser; you took the bathroom counter for your skincare, he got a single drawer for whatever male essentials he had (which, based on the contents, seemed to be deodorant and an unnecessarily large bottle of cologne).

But the tension didn’t really ease. It was there in the way you avoided looking at him when he peeled his t-shirt off without warning, claiming the AC was “set too low.” It was there in the way he sprawled on your side of the bed while scrolling through his phone, glancing up every so often to smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time night fell, the city lights glittering outside your window, you’d built a makeshift pillow wall down the center of the bed. Johnny eyed it like it was a personal insult.

“Really?”

“Really,” you said firmly, sliding under your covers.

“Alright, but when you’re freezing in the middle of the night, don’t come crying to me for warmth.”

You snorted, closing your eyes. “Trust me, Johnny, that will neverhappen.”

From the other side of the pillow wall, you heard his low chuckle, warm and dangerous in the dark.

Something told you this week was going to be a lot.

——— 

The first thing you registered was warmth. Not the comfortable, tucked-under-blankets kind, but the someone is radiating actual heat next to mekind.

Your eyes cracked open to soft morning light spilling through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. The pillow wall you’d so carefully constructed the night before? Gone. Completely vanished. In its place was Johnny Storm, stretched out like he owned the mattress, one arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the pillow next to yours.

He was shirtless — no surprise there — and far too comfortable for someone who’d spent half the night promising he wouldn’t “steal your warmth.”

You tried to wiggle free. The arm around your waist tightened.

“Stop squirming,” Johnny mumbled, voice rough with sleep, sending an unhelpful shiver down your spine. “It’s too early.”

You twisted to glare at him. “It’s past eight.”

His eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and annoyingly gorgeous. “Exactly. Too early.”

“You’re literally a superhero. Get up.”

“I’m a superhero, not a morning person.” He smirked, finally letting you go, and rolled onto his back with a groan. The sheets pooled low on his hips, revealing a stretch of golden skin and muscle that you absolutely, definitely, totally didn’t stare at for a moment too long.

⸻

By the time you’d managed to claim the bathroom, he was already leaning against the doorway when you came out, hair still damp from your shower.

“You used all the hot water,” you said flatly, brushing past him toward your suitcase.

He shrugged. “I run hotter than most people. Perks of the job.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how plumbing works.”

He grinned like he’d won an argument you weren’t even having and disappeared into the bathroom, reemerging ten minutes later smelling like his cologne — crisp, warm, and irritatingly addictive.

⸻

Breakfast was served downstairs in a glass-walled dining room overlooking the Hudson. You’d been hoping for a quiet start to the day, maybe some coffee without commentary, but Johnny trailed after you like a shadow.

The hostess, a young woman with a perfectly polished smile, lit up when she saw him. “Mr. Storm, good morning.”

“Morning, Dani,” Johnny said smoothly, leaning just enough on the host stand to make her blush. “Table for two. By the window, if you’ve got it.”

You raised a brow. “Dani? Already on a first-name basis?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder as you followed him to the table. “What can I say? People like me.”

“Mm, I’ll alert the press.”

“Already did.” He winked as you sat, like he enjoyed every second of getting under your skin.

⸻

Halfway through breakfast, with the sun warming the glass and the smell of fresh coffee curling through the air, Johnny leaned back in his chair, eyeing you over the rim of his mug.

“So,” he said, “how long do you think you can last before you admit you like having me as a roommate?”

You almost choked on your toast. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “It’s inevitable. You’ll realize I’m charming, fun, great company—”

“—a complete pain in the ass—”

“—and then you’ll never want me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said he’d already decided the bet was in his favor.

Somehow, you had the distinct feeling this week was going to test more than just your patience.

———

The city had a pulse at night — a low, constant hum that pressed against the glass of Room 407’s windows. From up here, you could see everything: yellow cabs threading through traffic like fireflies, the river gleaming dark and glassy, the sky painted with the faintest trace of summer haze.

Johnny was on the balcony when you stepped out, leaning against the railing like he was posing for a photo shoot, hair ruffled from the wind, a faint glow from the lights below catching the curve of his jaw.

“You’re up late,” you said, crossing your arms against the faint breeze.

He glanced back at you, one eyebrow lifted. “So are you.”

You shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Too quiet?”

“Too hot.”

That earned you a faint smirk. “I can help with that.”

“Don’t start,” you warned, but there was no heat behind it.

⸻

You ended up standing beside him, both leaning against the railing, the night air carrying the faint scent of the street food carts down below. The conversation started aimlessly — random mission gossip, the absurdity of Reed’s “light packing” that had required two hotel luggage carts, a story about how Ben had nearly gotten stuck in the revolving door.

And then, without really noticing, you realized Johnny was actually… easy to talk to. Not in the loud, look-at-me way he usually performed in front of crowds, but in this low, quiet way — voice softer, jokes just for you, laughter that didn’t feel like it was meant to be overheard.

You told him something you didn’t even realize you’d been holding onto — a half-funny, half-frustrating detail about a recent mission — and instead of brushing it off, he listened. Really listened. Eyes on you, leaning just slightly closer, his expression open in a way you didn’t see often.

And for the tiniest, blink-and-you-miss-it moment, you felt something. Not much — just a little flip in your stomach, the kind you could easily blame on the cool wind or the view or maybe the fact you hadn’t eaten since dinner.

You didn’t think about it. You weren’t thinking about it.

⸻

“Y/N,” Johnny said after a comfortable silence.

“Mm?”

He smiled — not the smirk, not the grin he used to sell headlines, but something smaller, softer. “Glad you’re stuck with me this week.”

You gave him a look. “Don’t push your luck.”

But you didn’t move away.

And you didn’t notice — or pretended not to — the way your arm brushed his and you didn’t bother shifting back.

———

The first thing you noticed was the smell of coffee.

Not hotel coffee — actual, rich, freshly ground coffee. You blinked awake, sunlight spilling across the bed in buttery streaks, and sat up to find Johnny sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, balancing two mugs on the room service tray like he’d been up for hours.

“You’re awake,” he said, tone casual, like this wasn’t deeply suspicious behavior for someone who claimed mornings were “a personal attack.”

You eyed him. “You… got coffee?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to hear you complain before caffeine.”

You took the mug he held out, the steam curling into your face, warm and grounding. “Wow. That almost sounded like concern.”

He grinned. “Don’t get used to it.”

⸻

You drank in silence for a few minutes, the city noise muted by thick glass, the sheets still warm from sleep. It wasn’t until Johnny reached over to snag one of the pastries from the tray that you realized he’d taken the side of the bed closest to you instead of sprawling across the whole thing like usual.

It wasn’t a big deal. Definitely not. Just… unusual.

⸻

Breakfast drifted into easy conversation — nothing big, nothing mission-related, just little things. A ridiculous commercial he’d seen at three a.m. last week. A memory of Sue catching him mid-prank when they were teenagers. The kind of small, human details you didn’t usually get from him unless you were paying attention.

And, maybe without meaning to, you were.

⸻

When you both finally made it downstairs, the lobby was buzzing — wedding guests in formalwear, staff rushing with trays of champagne flutes. You stepped to the side to let a flower arrangement go past, and Johnny’s hand landed lightly on the small of your back to guide you away from the crowd.

It was nothing. Just a habit, maybe.

But you noticed the warmth.

And the fact that he didn’t move his hand until you were clear of the chaos.

⸻

“Alright, sunshine,” he said, pulling open the hotel doors for you with an exaggerated bow. “Ready to survive another day of roommate bliss?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping past him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But you didn’t miss the way his grin lingered just a second too long — like he was starting to wonder if you were enjoying this more than you’d admit.

———

The day started normal enough — a quick breakfast, a stroll through the streets because Johnny insisted he needed “fresh air and a distraction from your constant nagging.”

You’d been walking for maybe twenty minutes when you ended up outside a row of little shops tucked between glass office buildings. One in particular caught your eye — all warm wood, strings of fairy lights across the windows, a display of antique books spilling out onto a table.

“You’re seriously stopping for old paper?” Johnny asked, standing behind you with his arms crossed.

“Yes,” you said without looking at him. “Some of us enjoy things that aren’t selfies and leather jackets.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “I also enjoy motorcycles.”

You gave him a deadpan look and stepped inside.

⸻

The shop smelled like paper and dust, the faint scent of coffee drifting from somewhere behind the counter. You were halfway through flipping open a leather-bound novel when a man sidled up a little too close — tall, maybe mid-30s, and wearing a grin that was just a shade too confident.

“Nice choice,” he said, gesturing to the book in your hands. “Though I think you’d like this one better.”

You blinked at him. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

He didn’t move. “You here alone?”

Before you could open your mouth, another voice cut in — warm, easy, but with an edge you recognized immediately.

“She’s not,” Johnny said from behind you.

You turned to find him leaning casually against the nearest shelf, but his eyes were sharp, fixed on the guy like he was daring him to take another step closer.

“Boyfriend?” the man asked, smirk curling like he thought this was a game.

“Something like that,” Johnny said smoothly, straightening to his full height. He slid in beside you, hand resting on your shoulder in a way that felt both casual and immovable. “We were just leaving.”

⸻

Outside, the noise of the street swallowed the tension, but Johnny still had that look — the one he got before a fight, all quiet calculation.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you meant.

He glanced at you. “Yeah, I did.”

You looked away, pretending to focus on the traffic light ahead, but the warmth from his hand on your shoulder lingered, an echo you couldn’t quite shake.

It was nothing. Just him being… Johnny.

Except your heart had done that weird little stutter again, and this time you couldn’t completely pretend you didn’t notice.

———

The hotel room was dim except for the city glow leaking in through the curtains, washing everything in gold and shadow. You were curled up on your side of the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, when Johnny came in from the balcony and shut the door behind him.

“So,” he said, dropping into the armchair by the window, “you gonna thank me for earlier, or should I just wait for the apology?”

You didn’t look up. “For what? Scaring off a guy I could’ve handled?”

Johnny scoffed. “Handled? He was hovering, Y/N. Guy practically had your blood type by the time I got over there.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re so dramatic.”

“No, I’m observant,” he countered, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “And I know when someone’s not taking no for an answer.”

You set your phone down and met his gaze. “Okay. Fine. You stepped in. Thank you.”

He smirked, leaning back like he’d won. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

You hesitated, your voice quieter when you added, “And… I didn’t hate it.”

His brow furrowed just slightly. “Didn’t hate what?”

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking at him. “You… being my boyfriend for five minutes.”

The silence stretched, heavier than you expected. When you finally glanced over, Johnny was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read — a mix of surprise, curiosity, and something else you didn’t want to name.

“Careful, sunshine,” he said, voice low, almost playful but not quite. “You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you mean it.”

Your laugh came out softer than you intended. “Don’t push it.”

But your cheeks were warm, and you weren’t sure it was from embarrassment.

———

It started with music.

You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, laptop open, trying to focus on a movie, when Johnny started flipping through hotel channels and stumbled onto some late-night jazz station. The warm hum of a saxophone filled the room, blending with the city noise outside.

“This is good,” he said, setting the remote down. “Classy. Makes me feel like we should be drinking something expensive.”

“You mean like that ten-dollar minibar soda you had earlier?” you teased.

“Exactly.”

⸻

A few minutes passed like that — you pretending to watch your screen, him leaning back against the headboard with his eyes half-closed, one hand drumming absently against his knee to the beat. Then he looked over.

“C’mon,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed.

You frowned. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

He grinned, holding out his hand. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

⸻

Against your better judgment, you let him pull you up. His hand was warm around yours, his other finding your waist with an ease that made you suspicious of how many times he’d done this before.

At first it was awkward — you stepping on his foot, him intentionally spinning you too fast just to make you laugh. But somewhere between the teasing and the shuffling in place, it softened.

The space between you closed. His touch shifted from playful to steady. The city lights turned his eyes molten, and you caught yourself looking at his mouth more than you should have.

You didn’t even realize the song had ended until the quiet wrapped around you.

⸻

Johnny’s thumb brushed just under your jaw, a subtle shift that made your breath hitch.

“You’re looking at me like you’re thinking about something,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Maybe I am.”

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because a moment later, his mouth was on yours — warm, sure, unhurried. The kind of kiss that felt less like a decision and more like something inevitable.

When you finally pulled back, your heart was in your throat.

“Guess we’re not just roommates anymore,” he murmured.

You didn’t argue.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Always Yours

bob floyd x fem!reader

Friday had been circled on your calendar for weeks.

You’d been counting down days — not because anything monumental was happening, but because you and Bob had finally lined up your schedules for a proper date night. No interruptions, no early bedtimes for flight debriefs, no “just popping by the base for a minute” that stretched into hours.

By four in the afternoon, the apartment smelled faintly of the chocolate soufflé cooling on the counter, a little surprise you’d been dying to see him grin at. The dress you’d laid out on your bed was one he’d once said made you look “like a heartbreaker in heels” — playful words that had been followed by him kissing you until you forgot what you were supposed to be doing.

You were just about to start curling your hair when your phone buzzed against the bathroom counter.

Bob 🛩️: Hey, darlin’. I’m so sorry, but something came up at work. Can we raincheck?

You stared at the screen for a moment, the curler cooling in your hand.

Your first instinct was worry — “something came up” in a pilot’s world could mean a lot of things, some more nerve-wracking than others. But then he sent a follow-up almost immediately:

Bob 🛩️: Promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t be mad, please.

You leaned against the counter, disappointment settling like a weight in your chest. You typed out It’s fine, don’t worry about it — and you meant it, mostly. One canceled date wasn’t the end of the world. He had an unpredictable job.

Still, that little soufflé on the counter didn’t taste quite as sweet when you ate it alone.

⸻

It wasn’t the first time Bob had been pulled away from you for Navy business, but tonight had been supposed to be yours. The kind of simple evening you craved with him: dinner, a slow walk home, maybe falling asleep on the couch with his head in your lap while the TV played something neither of you were really watching.

Instead, you spent the night in pajamas, scrolling through shows without hitting play. Every so often, you’d check your phone for a new message from him. But by the time you crawled into bed, the only thing on your screen was his single, earlier apology.

⸻

The next morning, he called.

The moment you picked up, you could hear the warmth in his voice — that low drawl that always made you soften.

“Hey, sweetheart. I owe you a dinner. You free Sunday?”

You couldn’t help but smile, even if a part of you wished you were already telling him good morning from his own pillow. “Yeah, I’m free.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

And just like that, you let the disappointment fade. Bob Floyd wasn’t the kind of man who let you down twice.

———

Sunday had the kind of weather that made you want to linger in it — just enough breeze to keep the warmth from sticking to your skin, the smell of salt from the ocean carrying through the open balcony door. You’d spent the day in that sweet spot between busy and relaxed, taking your time curling your hair, carefully doing your makeup, putting on the dress you knew he loved.

Bob loved Sundays. You’d heard him say it more than once, always with that little smile like it was an inside joke between the two of you — “Sundays are for slow mornings and good company.” That’s exactly what you’d wanted this to be.

By six, the table was set. Not just set, but Bob set — napkins folded neatly, the plates you knew he preferred because they were “sturdy” (as if you’d be serving food on flimsy ones), a candle burning low. In the kitchen, your second attempt at a chocolate soufflé was cooling on the counter, the air thick with cocoa and sugar.

The buzz of your phone at 6:15 didn’t immediately feel ominous. You were still smiling when you picked it up.

Bob 🛩️: Hey sweetheart, I hate to do this, but Phoenix just called—she’s stuck with something on base and I’m the only one who can help. Can we do tomorrow instead?

Your stomach tightened before your brain even caught up. You read the message twice, your eyes snagging on Phoenix like it was written in bold. You liked her, you did — she’d always been good to you — but the name stung in this moment in a way it never had before.

You typed back It’s okay, don’t worry about it because that’s what you were supposed to say, right? It’s the Navy, things happen. But blowing out the candle felt heavier than it should’ve.

Dinner was cereal in front of the TV, the soufflé untouched.

⸻

Monday night, he was on your doorstep with daisies — your favorite — and a kiss so warm it made your knees go a little soft.

“Dinner raincheck,” he murmured, holding the flowers out. “Sorry I had to run yesterday. I’ll make it up to you.”

You wanted to ask what exactly happened but instead you nodded, letting his arms close around you. If there was one thing about Bob, it was that he’d never given you a reason not to trust him.

You told yourself to let it go.

⸻

The third time, though, it didn’t slide off so easily.

Saturday had been planned. Brunch at the little diner with the rickety pier, then the beach, then maybe walking the boardwalk until the sun dipped low. You’d packed the cooler the night before, your favorite playlist queued for the drive, sunscreen and towels by the door.

At 8:02 a.m., your phone chimed.

Bob 🛩️: Morning, darlin’. Hate to say it but I gotta help Phoenix with something today. Shouldn’t take too long, but can we push the beach to next weekend?

Your eyes traced the words again, slow this time, the name Phoenix glowing neon in your head. Again. Always again.

You set the phone face down and stared at the cooler. It looked ridiculous sitting there now — an artifact from a plan that wasn’t happening.

You typed back Sure because you didn’t know what else to say.

But this time, you didn’t just feel disappointed. You felt pushed aside.

———

The apartment was too quiet. The hum of the refrigerator was loud enough to notice, the tick of the wall clock insistent in a way it hadn’t been yesterday. You tried to busy yourself — folded a blanket, straightened the books on the coffee table — but every few minutes your eyes flicked toward your phone.

No new messages.

You perched on the couch, tapping your fingers against your knee. You didn’t want to sit here all day in the silence, your thoughts looping around the same unanswerable question: What could possibly be so important that it keeps pulling him away from me?

Your thumb hovered over his contact for a moment, but you didn’t want to be that person. The needy one. The one keeping score.

Instead, you scrolled down to Hangman.

“Y/N?” His voice came over the line, warm and easy, like he’d just leaned back in a chair.

“Hey,” you said, aiming for light. “You busy?”

“Not if you’ve got something better in mind,” he replied, a smirk practically audible.

“I was thinking Hard Deck. First round’s on me.”

That got a laugh. “Darlin’, I never turn down free beer. Twenty minutes.”

⸻

The Hard Deck was humming by the time you walked in — sunlight slanting in through the open doors, the sound of the waves mixing with jukebox country and the occasional crack of pool balls. The familiar scent of wood, salt air, and beer wrapped around you like a worn-in sweater.

Hangman was easy to spot, already leaning against the bar with a half-smile, like he’d been expecting you to walk in right then.

“Well, don’t you look like trouble,” he drawled as you slid onto the stool beside him.

“You’re not exactly subtle yourself,” you shot back, and it earned you a flash of white teeth.

Penny set two beers on the bar without asking. You took a sip before Hangman tipped his head toward you. “So… what’s the occasion?”

You shrugged, looking out toward the ocean instead of at him. “No occasion. Just didn’t feel like sitting at home.”

He didn’t press, and you were grateful. Instead, you traded easy conversation — stories about ridiculous squad antics, Hangman’s exaggerated reenactments that had you laughing into your glass. The warmth of it seeped in slowly, loosening the knot in your chest.

But every so often, his eyes would flick over you like he was reading between the lines. Not suspicious, exactly. Curious.

“You and Bob good?” he asked eventually, the question light enough to pass as casual.

You kept your gaze on the condensation sliding down your glass. “Yeah. Just… busy lately.”

It was the safest truth you could give.

Hangman leaned back, smirk still in place but his voice softer. “If I know one thing, it’s that Bob Floyd’s got it bad for you. Whatever’s going on, it ain’t because he doesn’t want to be around you.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did.

And for the rest of the evening, you let yourself pretend you did.

———

By Thursday, you’d convinced yourself to stop keeping score.

Two and a half weeks of missed plans wasn’t a pattern, it was just… bad timing. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. People got busy. Life got in the way. And Bob wasn’t the type to just—

Your phone lit up at 5:42 p.m.

Bob 🛩️: Hey darlin’, I’m sorry — Phoenix needs a hand with something. Can we push tonight to tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Phoenix. Again.

That name had been cropping up in nearly every change of plans lately, and each time it did, it lodged itself a little deeper in your chest.

You typed Sure, no problem and hit send before you could think too hard about the weight in your stomach. But you didn’t move. The quiet of your apartment felt suffocating — just you, the faint hum of the fridge, the clock ticking too loudly on the wall.

You found yourself glancing toward your purse on the counter.

⸻

You didn’t exactly plan to follow him.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you grabbed your keys and headed out.

The late-afternoon light was soft and golden, filtering through the haze that clung to the coast. Your tires hummed against the pavement as you drove, telling yourself you were just getting out for a drive, clearing your head.

But when you took the turn toward the main drag instead of heading anywhere else, you knew exactly what you were doing.

⸻

It didn’t take long to spot his truck — parked along the curb a few streets off from the busier part of town, where the shops got smaller and the noise dulled to a comfortable murmur.

You slowed without meaning to, scanning the sidewalk until your eyes caught movement.

There they were.

Phoenix’s sunglasses were pushed up into her hair, her head tipped toward Bob as she laughed — full and easy, like she’d just been told the best story of her life. Her hand rested briefly on his forearm, fingers curling just enough to make something in your stomach twist.

Bob was smiling. Not just polite smiling, but that rare, relaxed smile you’d always secretly thought was yours. The one he wore when he was really listening. He leaned in, his head bent toward her so they could hear each other over the wind rolling in from the water.

It wasn’t romantic. Not obviously. There was no hand-holding, no leaning so close it could be mistaken for something else.

But it was close. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

⸻

You sat there behind the wheel, watching the two of them move in sync, their strides matching as if they’d walked together a hundred times. Her hand flicked out toward him again when she laughed, and he didn’t step back. He didn’t move away at all.

Your throat felt tight. A part of you whispered that this was nothing — that they’d been friends forever, that you’d probably looked just as friendly with Hangman at the Hard Deck. But another part of you, louder and sharper, was counting the canceled plans in your head, one after another until the number made your chest ache.

The sound of a car horn behind you made you flinch, your heart lurching as you realized you’d been sitting at the curb too long. You pulled away without looking back, your grip on the steering wheel aching from how tight you were holding it.

⸻

By the time you got home, you weren’t sure whether you were angry or hollow.

You tossed your keys onto the counter and sank onto the couch, staring at nothing while the image looped in your mind: Phoenix’s laugh, Bob’s smile, the small, unthinking touches between them.

You pressed your palms to your eyes until the dark swam with gold spots.

Something had shifted, and you weren’t sure you could put it back.

———

The door clicked shut behind you with a sound that felt final.

Your apartment was dim — only the slant of fading light through the blinds cut across the living room. You didn’t bother turning on a lamp.

You kicked your shoes off without thinking, one sliding into the corner, the other lying on its side halfway across the rug. Your keys landed on the counter with a muted clatter, the sound far too loud in the heavy quiet.

For a moment, you just stood there, bag still hanging from your shoulder, staring at nothing. The image kept replaying: Phoenix’s head tipping back in laughter, her hand on Bob’s arm, the easy lean of his body toward hers.

You dropped your bag onto the couch and sank down beside it, elbows on your knees. The ache in your chest wasn’t sharp — not yet — but deep and low, like the first roll of thunder before a storm.

⸻

Time crawled.

You made tea you didn’t drink, the mug going cold on the table while you sat on the floor, back against the couch, scrolling aimlessly through your phone without seeing anything. Every few minutes, your eyes would drift toward the clock. Each passing hour made your stomach twist tighter.

Seven. No message.

Eight. Still nothing.

By nine, you’d stopped checking.

You moved through the apartment in small bursts — folding a blanket that didn’t need folding, straightening the stack of magazines you hadn’t touched in months, wiping down the counter when there was nothing on it.

It was easier to keep your hands busy than to sit still and think about how close they’d been walking. About how easy his smile had been.

⸻

At some point, you curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and stared at the darkened TV screen. Your reflection stared back — tired eyes, hair mussed from running your fingers through it too many times.

You thought about the way Bob looked at you when you first started dating, how even in a crowded room, his eyes always seemed to find you. And tonight, he’d been looking at her.

You swallowed hard and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

When the sound of his key in the lock finally came, your heart jumped so hard you almost hated yourself for it. You stayed still, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

The door opened, his familiar footsteps soft on the floor.

“Hey, darlin’,” came his voice — warm, unguarded.

You didn’t move when he stepped into the living room, only glanced over the back of the couch as he set his keys down.

He looked exactly the same as he always did at the end of a long day — hair a little mussed, shirt untucked, his expression open and soft.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, dropping onto the arm of the couch for a moment, his hand brushing over your shoulder in passing. “Phoenix had a mess with some equipment and needed an extra set of hands. Took longer than I thought.”

The name landed heavy in your chest. You pulled the blanket a little tighter, hoping he didn’t notice.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, your voice even, careful.

He didn’t seem to catch the shift. “You eat yet? I can throw something together real quick.”

You shook your head. “Not hungry.”

Bob paused then, just long enough for you to feel his eyes on you. “You okay, sweetheart? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” You hated how automatic it sounded, how far from the truth it was.

⸻

He tried again, settling into the armchair across from you. “I was thinking, maybe Saturday, we could—”

“Bob…” The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He blinked, the easy warmth in his face tightening with concern. “Yeah?”

Your fingers curled in the blanket. For a second, you thought about backtracking, about swallowing it down and pretending the knot in your chest wasn’t there. But the image was too fresh — Phoenix’s laugh, the way he leaned toward her.

“Are you…” You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Are you cheating on me?”

The question landed between you like a dropped glass.

Bob froze, his mouth parting as though the words hadn’t registered at first. When they did, a shadow crossed his face — confusion, hurt, disbelief all tangled together.

“Cheating?” His voice was soft, almost like he was making sure he’d heard you right. “Why would you even… why would you think that?”

You sat a little straighter on the couch, your fingers tight around the blanket. “Because for the past two weeks, every time we’ve made plans, you’ve canceled last minute. And it’s always Phoenix. Always her.” Your throat felt tight, but the words kept coming. “And tonight—” you swallowed, the image flashing fresh and sharp, “—I saw you two together.”

His brows drew in, a crease forming between them. “Saw us?” he echoed, his tone careful.

“By the boardwalk,” you said, your voice trembling even as you tried to keep it steady. “You were leaning in close, laughing with her, she had her hand on your arm like—” You shook your head, blinking hard. “It didn’t look like just friends, Bob. It looked like something more.”

He leaned forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees. “Darlin’, no,” he said firmly, the hurt in his eyes deepening. “It’s not like that. It’s never been like that.”

“You’ve been blowing me off, over and over,” you pressed, your voice cracking. “I’m sitting here thinking maybe I did something wrong, maybe you don’t—” You cut yourself off, blinking rapidly as heat pricked behind your eyes. “I love you, Bob. And I feel like I’m losing you.”

That broke something in his expression — the confusion giving way to something softer, almost pained. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slow. “This… this isn’t how I wanted to do it,” he murmured.

Your chest squeezed. “Do what?”

He rose from the chair, disappearing down the hall without another word. A few seconds later, he was back, a small navy velvet box in his hand.

Bob didn’t sit back down. He stood in the center of the living room, shifting his weight once before crossing to you. You could see the tension in his shoulders, but it wasn’t defensive—it was something else. Something heavier.

He sank onto the couch beside you and set the velvet box on the coffee table like it was something fragile. “I’ve been screwin’ this up,” he admitted quietly. “Not the way you’re thinkin’, but… I should’ve told you what was goin’ on instead of lettin’ you feel like I was avoidin’ you.”

You stared at the box. “What is that?”

He took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “Every time I canceled on you, I was with Phoenix because she was helpin’ me with this. With… us.” His fingers brushed the box but didn’t open it yet. “The first night I bailed? We were at the jeweler. I’d been saving for months. I wanted to find a ring that felt like you—simple, beautiful, and solid.”

Your throat tightened, but he kept going.

“The movie night I skipped?” He smiled faintly. “I was at your parents’ place. Ask your dad how long it took me to get the words out. I was sweatin’ like I’d just run ten miles.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That beach day you planned? I hated cancelin’ that one. But Phoenix and I were at the marina, talkin’ to the guy who was gonna set up the spot I wanted to propose. I wanted it perfect. I wanted you to have somethin’ worth rememberin’ for the rest of our lives.”

You felt the first tear slip before you could stop it. “Bob…”

He reached for the box, flipped it open to reveal a ring that caught the low lamplight and made your breath catch. “I was gonna do this on Saturday,” he said softly. “Somewhere prettier than our living room. But I can’t let you sit here thinkin’ I’d ever want anyone but you. I’ve loved you since before I even admitted it to myself. And I want to spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you know that.”

His voice dipped lower, steadier. “So… will you marry me?”

You let out a shaky laugh, swiping at your cheeks. “I feel like the biggest idiot right now.”

He shook his head immediately. “No, darlin’. You had every right to be upset. I should’ve told you more. I just… wanted the surprise. Wanted it to be somethin’ you’d never forget.”

You looked at him—really looked—and all the little knots of doubt in your chest began to unspool. “Yes,” you whispered. “Of course yes.”

Relief broke across his face as he slid the ring onto your finger, his hand lingering to squeeze yours before pulling you into him. His arms wrapped tight around you, grounding you in that familiar warmth you’d been missing.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmured against your hair. “You’re it for me, sweetheart. Always.”

———

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the bedside lamp and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Bob’s arm was draped over your waist, his fingers tracing slow, absent-minded circles against your skin. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, the deep, steady beat of his heart grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“I hate that you thought for even a second I’d want anyone else,” he murmured, his lips brushing your hair.

You tilted your head to meet his eyes, your voice small but certain. “I know better now. I just… needed to hear it.”

“You’ll hear it as many times as it takes,” he promised, his hand sliding up to cradle your face.

The ring was still on your finger, warm from where his hand had lingered, when Bob leaned in again and kissed you — not quick, not chaste, but slow and deep, like he was sealing the promise he’d just made. His palm cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he drew you in.

“I need you to know,” he murmured against your lips, “I’m yours. Always have been.”

“I believe you,” you whispered, your voice trembling not from doubt but from the way he was looking at you — like you were the only thing in his world.

He eased you back against the cushions, his weight settling over you without pressing too much. His lips trailed along your cheek, down the curve of your neck, pausing to breathe you in before kissing the spot that always made you shiver. “Missed you,” he admitted softly. “Missed this.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, urging him closer. “Show me,” you said, the words coming out quieter than you intended.

His answering groan was low, full of heat, as his hands began to map the lines of your body — over your sides, down your thighs, back up again in an unhurried rhythm. Every touch was deliberate, a reassurance written in the press of his palms and the graze of his fingertips.

When he finally lifted your shirt over your head, he paused, his gaze sweeping over you with something more than hunger. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, leaning down to kiss along your collarbone. Each kiss lingered, warm and open-mouthed, before moving lower.

Your hands roamed too — over the broad planes of his shoulders, down his back, memorizing the flex of muscle under your fingertips. You hooked your fingers in the hem of his shirt, tugging until he sat up enough to pull it off. The sight of him above you, bare and steady, sent a rush of heat through you.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, voice rough now.

“I think I do,” you teased softly, but the smile fell away when he dipped his head again, kissing you deep enough that your toes curled into the sheets.

⸻

He took his time undressing you fully, and when you were laid bare beneath him, he slowed even more. His hands traced the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing circles on your hips as if to ground you both. The weight of his body was a comfort, his warmth seeping into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

When he finally pressed into you, it was with a careful, steady push, his forehead resting against yours. His breath came out in a slow, controlled exhale. “That’s it… you feel so perfect,” he murmured.

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him there, feeling the deep, grounding connection of him inside you. He didn’t rush. Each movement was drawn out, deliberate — hips rolling slowly, his hands cradling your face between kisses.

“Love you,” he whispered into your mouth. “More than I’ll ever be able to say.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone. “Then don’t say it. Just… stay with me.”

He did. Moving in that same slow, coaxing rhythm until your body arched into his, your breath catching with every thrust. He kissed you through it — lips to your mouth, your jaw, the spot below your ear that made you gasp.

When the tension in you finally broke, you clung to him, your voice soft and unguarded. He followed soon after, burying his face against your neck as he groaned your name.

⸻

He stayed over you for a moment, both of you catching your breath, before easing to your side and pulling you into his chest. His hand found yours, thumb brushing over the ring now glinting faintly in the lamplight.

“Not just tonight,” he murmured into your hair. “Every day, for the rest of my life.”

You closed your eyes, letting his heartbeat and the warmth of his arms lull you into the quietest, safest place you’d ever known.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

MSG & Me

bob reynolds x fem!singer!reader

The private SUV slipped into Manhattan traffic like a shadow, the city buzzing in shades of gold and steel around it.

Through the tinted glass, you caught flashes of familiar landmarks — the arch at Washington Square Park, a corner bodega with a red awning, the shimmering outline of the Hudson.

You’d  been gone for months, living in airports and hotel rooms, sleeping in tour buses between cities, each night a different stage.

Now, it was all winding toward an end.

One hundred and twenty shows — every single one sold out.

The final two? Madison Square Garden. The crown jewel.

My phone buzzed in her lap.

Yelena: are you in the city yet?

You: 5 mins out

Yelena: good. kitchen’s stocked.

Yelena: also… there’s someone here you should meet ;)

You: suspicious. who?

Yelena: you’ll see

The SUV eases to a stop at the private entrance. A gust of cold air hits you when you step out, hoodie pulled up, duffel slung over your shoulder. Security swipes you through without question, and the elevator ride up is smooth and quiet.

The second the doors open, warmth greets you — the smell of coffee, faint hints of something sweet, the cozy hum of voices somewhere in the common room.

Yelena spots you instantly, grinning as she strides over with a steaming mug in hand.

“Survivor of the European leg,” she says, pulling you into a hug. “You look like shit.”

You laugh into her shoulder. “Missed you too.”

She presses the mug into your hands, then glances over toward the seating area.

“Oh — that is Bob.”

You follow her gaze.

He’s sitting in an armchair, book half-closed in his hands, posture easy but alert. The first thing you notice is the stillness — not the awkward kind, but the kind that makes you pay attention. Broad shoulders, warm brown eyes that flick up to meet yours, and a presence that fills the space without even trying.

You take a step closer, smiling. “Hi. Bob, right?”

He sets the book aside and stands, polite and a little shy. “Yuh-Yeah, Reynolds, B-Bob Reynolds.”

“You from here?”

“No uh not originally,” he says with a small shake of his head. “But I’m here now.”

A pause, then — softer — “I’ve been a fan of your music for a while. Big fan.”

It pulls a grin from you. “Really? Have you ever been to a show?”

“No. Tried to, but… they sold out before I could get tickets.”

“That’s unacceptable,” you say, turning to Yelena. “You still have those MSG backstage passes?”

“Yeah,” she says slowly.

You hand them to Bob yourself. “They’re yours. Both nights. Best seats in the house, all access. You can’t say no.”

His brows lift, surprise clear on his face. “That’s… really generous. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you tease, sipping your coffee. “You might hate it.”

The faintest smile tugs at his mouth. “I doubt that.”

You head down the hall to drop your bag in the guest room, leaving him in the common room with the passes in his hand, looking like his week just got a lot more interesting.

———

Yelena told you Bob was coming, but you don’t see him until you’re already backstage at the Garden.

It’s chaos in the best way — dancers warming up, stagehands wheeling racks of glittering outfits, the low thrum of the opening act bleeding through the walls.

You’re tucked into the greenroom, hair half-pinned, tour hoodie still on over your stage clothes, when Yelena pushes the curtain aside and steps in with him right behind her.

Bob looks like someone dropped him in the middle of another planet.

Eyes wide, shoulders drawn in just slightly, gaze sweeping over the organized madness of your pre-show world.

“You made it,” you say, standing to greet him.

“Yeah,” he says, voice warm but quiet.

“You ready for your first time?” you ask, grinning when his brows lift. “At one of my shows.”

That gets the smallest huff of a laugh. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Good,” you say, stepping closer. “You’ve got all-access. Go wherever you want. But watch the first song from the pit — that’s where it hits hardest.”

Before he can answer, the stage manager leans in. “Ten minutes.”

You slip away toward wardrobe, catching his gaze once more before you go.

See you after.

———

When the house lights drop, the sound is a wall — tens of thousands of voices crashing over each other.

The opening beat hits, and you step into the light.

Bob is easy to find in the crowd, even from the stage.

You catch his eyes on you more than once — during the chorus, during that dance break that always makes the front row scream. Each time, you let your smile linger just a little longer than necessary.

———

You’re still flushed when you jog off stage, adrenaline buzzing in your veins. Bob’s there, leaning against the wall near the greenroom, looking like he’s still processing everything he just saw.

“Well?” you ask, breathless but smiling.

“That was…” He shakes his head slowly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Incredible.”

You grin wider. “Wait until tomorrow.”

———

The lights dim to a low, golden glow, and the opening chords of your last song echo out into the Garden.

Twenty thousand voices rise with it, the kind of sound that rattles through your chest and sinks straight into your bones.

You step to the edge of the stage, mic in hand, hair damp from two hours under the heat of the lights. The crowd sways, phones lifted like a sea of stars. And there — just where you told him to stand — you catch Bob.

Even from up here, you can see the way he’s watching you.

Not just the performance. You.

You hold the gaze for one beat longer than you should before slipping into the verse.

By the time the last note rings out, your throat is raw, your smile is aching, and the roar of the audience is deafening. Confetti rains down like a snowstorm in the lights.

You take a final bow, thank them one more time, and jog offstage with your heart hammering.

——

The moment you clear the curtain, it’s a blur — crew members patting your back, someone shoving a water bottle into your hand, your stylist sweeping in to towel off the sweat on your face.

Yelena is leaning against a case of lighting gear, grinning wide. “You killed it.”

“You think?” you ask, breathless and grinning.

“Ask him,” she says, tipping her head to the side.

You turn — and there’s Bob, hanging back just out of the way, all broad shoulders and quiet presence. He looks a little more at ease than last night, but his eyes are still bright with something you can’t quite name.

You cross the space before he can say a word. “Well? Did it live up to the hype?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “That was… unreal. I thought last night was good, but this…” He trails off, like he can’t find the right word.

The corner of your mouth curves. “Better view tonight?”

His lips twitch. “Maybe.”

You sink onto the couch, still buzzing, and pat the cushion beside you. Bob hesitates, then sits — careful, like he’s not sure if he belongs here.

“Relax,” you say, tugging the cap off your water. “You’re with Yelena. No one’s kicking you out.”

That earns a real smile from him, one that softens the edges of his face.

Yelena wanders in, immediately stealing a handful of candy from the coffee table bowl. “So… are we celebrating or what?”

“Celebrating what?” you ask.

“Your tour’s over. Well, the shows part. That deserves a drink.”

You glance at Bob. “You drinking?”

He shrugs. “If you are.”

It turns into a messy, laughing cluster of people — dancers still in partial costume, crew members with headsets slung around their necks, Yelena perched on the arm of the couch while you and Bob talk over the music playing from someone’s phone.

You learn he’s quieter in groups, but when he does speak, it’s worth listening to. He’s funny in this dry, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way, and when you laugh at one of his lines, he looks almost surprised — like he didn’t expect to get that reaction from you.

By the time you’re heading out into the cold night, hair damp from a quick change and jacket thrown over your shoulders, you realize you’ve been talking to him for most of the evening without even noticing.

The cold hits like a shock when the loading bay doors open.

Your breath fogs in the air as you pull your jacket tighter, the glitter on your cheekbones catching the pale streetlights. Security ushers you toward the SUV waiting at the curb, Yelena already sliding in ahead of you.

Bob hesitates near the door, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to ride with you or not.

“You coming?” you ask, one brow raised.

That’s all it takes. He climbs in, settling into the seat opposite you, knees brushing Yelena’s as she immediately launches into a story about something that happened during the opener’s set.

You catch Bob glancing your way more than once during the ride. Not staring — just watching, like he’s cataloging the small details. The way you absently rub your thumb along the seam of your water bottle, the way your voice softens when you thank the driver as you pull up to the Tower.

Tower — 1:17 a.m.

The elevator hums softly on the way up. Yelena peels off toward her room the second the doors open, muttering something about “beauty sleep” even though you know she’ll be up until 4 a.m. watching terrible reality TV.

That leaves you and Bob in the quiet common room.

You toss your jacket over the back of the couch, kicking off your boots. “Hungry?”

He looks a little surprised. “Uh… I could eat.”

You pad into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. “There’s leftover pizza from yesterday. And… something Yelena made that I don’t trust.”

He laughs under his breath — it’s low and warm, the kind of sound that makes you want to hear it again. “Pizza’s fine.”

A few minutes later you’re both perched at the kitchen island, paper plates in front of you, the city glittering through the windows behind him.

It’s easy.

That’s the weird part.

For someone who barely talks in groups, he’s… comfortable here, just the two of you. He asks about your favorite cities on tour, tells you about the first time he moved to New York, and somewhere in there, the conversation shifts from surface-level to something softer.

⸻

2:03 a.m.

You lean back against the counter, watching him finish the last bite. “You’re quieter than I expected.”

He smirks faintly. “And you’re louder than I expected.”

You laugh, shoving at his arm lightly. “Fair enough.”

There’s a beat — one of those moments where neither of you moves, but the air feels charged anyway.

He clears his throat first. “Thanks again for the tickets. I… I didn’t realize how much I’d been missing out.”

You tilt your head. “Guess you’ll just have to come to the next one.”

The way he looks at you then — it’s not fan-to-celebrity anymore. It’s something else entirely.

———

You wake slowly.

It takes you a few seconds to even register where you are. The room isn’t moving. The faint hum under your feet isn’t a bus engine. There’s no murmur of roadies in the hallway or the distant clank of metal scaffolding being unloaded from trucks.

The Tower is still.

You roll onto your back, staring up at the high ceiling, and it really hits you: the tour is over. One hundred and twenty shows — gone in what feels like a blur. Every single one sold out. The last two, Madison Square Garden, only a day ago.

And now? No flights to catch. No rehearsal in three hours. Just… this.

The air smells faintly like coffee.

You stay under the covers a little longer, because you can. The mattress here is softer than the ones in hotels, warmer, like it remembers you. You let your eyes fall shut for a moment, listening — not to the noise of a city waking up, but to the quieter, nearer sounds: the clink of ceramic, the muffled hiss of liquid being poured.

⸻

Morning

Your feet hit the floor with a soft thud. The sweater you pull over your head is oversized enough to swallow your shorts, and the sleeves cover your hands as you pad barefoot down the hallway.

The kitchen comes into view slowly — sun spilling through the wide glass windows, catching against the marble counters. And there he is.

Bob Reynolds.

He’s standing at the counter, barefoot, in a grey t-shirt and worn sweatpants. His hair is still sleep-ruffled, sticking up slightly at the back. He moves with quiet precision, like this isn’t something new for him, like mornings are his territory.

“Morning,” you say, voice soft but still carrying across the room.

He glances up, eyes meeting yours before that small, understated smile pulls at his mouth. “Morning. Coffee?”

You step into the kitchen, tucking your hands into your sleeves. “Always.”

Without asking, he pours a mug and passes it to you — black, no sugar.

You narrow your eyes in playful suspicion. “Lucky guess?”

“Yelena talks,” he says, leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around his own mug.

You take a slow sip. “She always talk about me, or…?”

That almost-smile twitches again. “Sometimes.”

⸻

Breakfast

It’s not planned, but neither of you leave. Bob starts pulling things from the fridge — eggs, fruit, flour — and you hop up onto the counter, legs swinging idly.

“You always cook breakfast for everyone, or am I just special?” you ask.

He glances over his shoulder, unfazed. “You’re special.”

The words hit heavier than they should. You cover it with a smirk, watching as he works with an easy rhythm, flipping pancakes like he’s done it a thousand times.

“Need help?” you ask eventually.

“You can sit there and not steal the first one.”

You steal the first one.

⸻

Yelena appears in the doorway halfway through, hair tied up, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. She looks between you on the counter and Bob at the stove, and her smirk is instant.

“What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” you say too quickly.

“Mhm.” She pours herself coffee and vanishes without another word.

You meet Bob’s eyes over your mug. “She’s subtle.”

“Not her strong suit,” he says, setting a plate in front of you.

⸻

Late Morning

The coffee turns into pancakes, which turn into fruit, which turn into you still sitting on the counter talking to him long after the food is gone.

You ask about his favorite cities; he asks about the strangest thing you’ve ever been given by a fan (the answer makes him laugh so hard he almost chokes on his coffee).

At one point, your foot brushes his leg when you shift, and neither of you moves it right away.

⸻

Afternoon – The Gym

You wander into the Tower’s gym intending to stretch, only to find him mid-set.

“That’s all you’ve got?” you tease, leaning against the mirrored wall.

He glances over, deadpan. “I’m pacing myself.”

You pretend to check your phone while sneaking glances at the way his shirt shifts with each rep. When he’s done, he wipes his hands on a towel and nods toward the bench. “You want it?”

You take it, and he lingers just long enough to spot you for a stretch before heading out.

⸻

Mid-Afternoon – The Common Room

The Tower feels quiet in that in-between way, half the residents off doing their own thing. You and Bob end up in the common room, opposite ends of the same couch.

A movie plays — something neither of you picked but both get sucked into. Yelena joins for twenty minutes, then leaves.

Halfway through, you trade commentary about the plot, each sarcastic comment building until you’re both trying to hold in laughter.

⸻

Evening – Dinner

The Tower gets busier as the sun sets. Music hums faintly from the kitchen speakers, voices overlapping in the background. You and Bob claim two stools at the kitchen island, working through containers of leftovers.

“You’re comfortable here,” he says suddenly, like it’s an observation more than a question.

“One of the only places I can be,” you admit.

He studies you for a long moment, then slides the last piece of garlic bread toward you without a word.

⸻

Late Night – Tea on the Roof

The Tower’s roof is quiet at this hour, just the low hum of the city below and the occasional gust of winter air sweeping over the edge.

Bob leads the way up the last flight of stairs, holding the door open for you. You step out into the chill, clutching your mug between both hands, steam curling in front of your face. The skyline stretches in every direction — skyscrapers catching the glow of streetlights, windows lit like constellations.

“Damn,” you murmur, stepping closer to the railing. “I forget how good it looks from up here.”

Bob moves to stand beside you, his own tea cradled in his hands. “Gets better when it’s this quiet. Less traffic, fewer lights from billboards.”

You hum in agreement, letting the wind bite at your cheeks.

———

It starts small — the way conversations always do with him.

You tell him about the last few shows, how MSG felt different, heavier, knowing it was the end of something that consumed the last year of your life.

“You ever get stage fright?” he asks, glancing at you.

You laugh softly. “Not anymore. First tour? Yeah. Now it’s… not nerves. Just adrenaline. Like if I don’t get on stage, my body might explode.”

He smiles at that, looking back toward the skyline. “I get it. Combat’s… different, but that edge before it starts? Same kind of thing.”

You sip your tea. “Do you miss it when you’re not doing it?”

“Sometimes. But I like the quiet, too.” His eyes meet yours. “Not many people do.”

The truth in his voice settles between you. You nod. “I do. When I can get it.”

⸻

From there, the talk deepens.

You ask about where he grew up. He tells you about Texas sunsets, how the air smells different there. He asks about your first song, the one that got you signed. You admit it’s not your favorite anymore, but it’s the one that taught you how to write without lying to yourself.

The tea cools in your hands as the minutes stretch into an hour. Neither of you seems eager to end it.

At some point, you realize how close you’re standing. The wind picks up and your shoulder brushes his arm; he doesn’t move away.

You’re mid-sentence when you notice he’s watching you — not the way people watch you on stage, but like he’s memorizing you.

“What?” you ask, half-smiling.

He shakes his head slightly, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Nothing. Just… you.”

Your heart gives a small, traitorous kick. “That’s corny.”

“Maybe,” he says softly, “but it’s true.”

It’s not sudden.

It’s a slow lean, the space between you dissolving until his lips brush yours once, then again, more certain the second time. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb skimming your cheek.

You kiss him back, slow at first, then deeper, your fingers curling in the front of his sweatshirt. The city hums below, but up here it’s just the two of you — heat and breath and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

His hands slide under the hem of your hoodie, fingertips warm against your skin. He starts to lift it, just enough to feel the cool air rush over your stomach — then stops.

His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice low but steady. “Because I want you so bad, but… not just tonight.”

You blink at him, your chest tightening.

“I want you all the time,” he says. “Not just here. Not just now. Always.”

The words hit harder than the cold ever could. You cup his jaw, your thumbs brushing along his cheek. “Then take me. Right here. Right now.”

It’s like something in him gives way. He kisses you harder, pushing the hoodie over your head and letting it drop to the concrete. His hands are on your skin now, warm and steady, sliding along your back before settling at your hips to draw you closer.

You tug at the hem of his shirt until he pulls it over his head, the heat of his skin a shock against the night air. You press yourself against him, drinking in the contrast — the warmth between you, the cold nipping at every place you’re not touching.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and turns so your back meets the wall near the access door. The city is a blur of lights behind his shoulder as his mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothes over the spot.

You clutch at his shoulders, tilting your head back, and feel him smile against your skin. His hands roam — down your back, over your thighs — before one slips under the waistband of your leggings. The cold air brushes your skin for a second before his fingers find you, his touch slow, testing, almost reverent.

You gasp, tightening your grip in his hair, and he lifts his head to watch your face. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the words almost lost to the wind.

He works you with unhurried precision, reading every shift in your breath, every sound you make, until you’re clinging to him. When you finally reach for the waistband of his sweats, he catches your wrist — not to stop you, but to hold your gaze while you do it.

The air between you crackles as you wrap your hand around him, the low sound he makes going straight through you. You stroke him slowly, feeling the way his breath hitches before he leans in to kiss you again, rougher this time, his hand sliding out of your leggings to hook under your knee.

He pushes the fabric down just far enough, and you guide him in, both of you exhaling in the same shaky rush as he fills you. The cold is gone — there’s only heat, and the press of his body, and the way he starts to move, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate.

Your head tips back against the wall, and he kisses the line of your throat, his voice low between breaths. “Not just tonight,” he reminds you, as if you could forget.

“Always,” you manage, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you.

The skyline glitters behind him, the wind tangles in your hair, and the steady rhythm of his body against yours builds until you’re clutching at him, breaking apart in his arms. He follows a moment later, holding you through it, his face buried in your neck.

Neither of you moves right away. The world is still spinning below, but up here it’s just the two of you — warm skin, cold air, and the unshakable truth of what you both just promised.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Ten

JQ Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

TW: Pregnancy scare, emotional manipulation (mild), anxiety, unresolved tension, reference to children and parenthood.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains in streaks of gold, casting soft light across the mess of tangled limbs and bedsheets. The Baxter Building was blissfully quiet — no alarms, no explosions, no interdimensional rifts opening above the kitchen sink. For once.

Johnny Storm lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other wrapped around you. His skin radiated that usual low-grade heat — like a human space heater — and your cheek was smushed against his bare chest, content and still a little drowsy.

You were somewhere in that soft haze between sleep and consciousness, heart steady, head calm, when you mumbled it.

“Think I’m late.”

It was quiet. So quiet you almost didn’t realize you said it out loud.

Johnny stirred beneath you. “Huh?”

You blinked up at him, now fully awake, but it was too late. His arm slid off his face. “What’d you say?”

You hesitated, brushing your fingers lightly over his stomach. “I think… I’m late. Just a few days. It’s probably nothing.”

Johnny’s eyes snapped open.

“Late,” he repeated slowly, like it was a new word he had to wrap his mouth around. “You mean like… like late late?”

“Not late late, just… slightly delayed.” You sat up, pulling the sheets with you. “Could be stress. Could be my cycle doing whatever it wants. I haven’t even taken a test.”

He sat up too, raking a hand through his already-messy hair. “Wait, you think you might be pregnant and you’re just saying it now? Casually? In passing?”

“I didn’t say I am, Johnny,” you said quickly. “I said I might be. Maybe. And I wasn’t even gonna say anything, but it just slipped out.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes had that glazed-over, deer-in-headlights sparkle you’d only ever seen once — the first time you kissed him and he accidentally lit the bedsheets on fire.

Now he was staring at you like you’d just told him the Earth was flat. “Holy shit.”

You snorted. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.” He was not relaxed. “I’m totally chill. So chill. So hypothetically — how late are we talking?”

You winced. “Like… I don’t know, guessing maybe 10 days?”

“ten—” He dragged a hand down his face. “That’s not late, that’s practically a due date.”

You groaned and flopped back onto the mattress. “Don’t do this. Don’t spiral. I didn’t even want to mention it until I took a test.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you were being cute and rubbing my stomach and I was thinking about it and it just came out,” you muttered, throwing a pillow at him.

He caught it easily and tossed it back. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that while I’m half-asleep. You know how my brain works. You said the P-word and now I’m imagining baby names and baby suits and—wait, oh my god, do we even have baby-safe furniture?!”

“Oh my god, Johnny!”

“What?! What if it’s a speedster baby like Franklin? Do we baby-proof with heat-resistant foam?”

“There is no baby!” you said, laughing now even as anxiety gnawed at your stomach. “Yet. Or ever. We don’t know anything!”

But he was already pacing at the foot of the bed, talking with his hands. “Okay, but just in case — I mean, I’m not saying we are having one, but if we were, hypothetically, do you think they’d get your powers or mine? Or both? Is that even possible? Oh god, if it’s both—”

“Johnny.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit your excited ass down.”

He dropped onto the bed beside you, breathless, cheeks flushed. You took his hand and held it against your chest to steady him — and maybe to steady yourself too.

“I haven’t even peed on a stick yet,” you reminded him gently. “So let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? You can’t build a nursery off of a late period.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. But just for the record… I’ve been thinking about this.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“You. Me. A baby. Someday.” His voice softened. “Ever since Sue had Franklin… I don’t know. I’ve kinda been hoping it’d be my turn one day.”

Your heart squeezed.

“I just… I want that. With you.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you kissed him instead — a soft, slow press of your lips to his, a moment of fragile stillness before the rest of the world came crashing back.

When you pulled away, he smiled against your mouth.

“You’re gonna take a test tomorrow?”

You nodded.

“Cool.” He was already beaming. “Cool cool cool. No big deal. I’m fine.”

You gave him a look.

“I’m gonna spiral the second you fall asleep, aren’t I?” he whispered.

“Definitely.”

The next morning, Johnny was already gone when you woke up.

That in itself wasn’t suspicious — Johnny was known for impulsive sunrise joyrides and spontaneous midair loops above the Manhattan skyline — but the sticky note on the bathroom mirror was a dead giveaway.

“Made you breakfast. Don’t freak out. Not poisoned. Love you.” – Your Baby Daddy (maybe)”

You stared at it for a full minute before muttering, “Oh no.”

Because when Johnny Storm got nervous, he got loud. But when Johnny Storm got hopeful? He got productive.

You shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep, wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of fuzzy socks, only to find an actual breakfast spread laid out on the counter.

Pancakes, fruit salad, toast, scrambled eggs — and next to it all, a full pitcher of water with a sticky note labeled HYDRATION IS SEXY.

You picked up a slice of toast, staring at it like it had personally betrayed you.

“Why does this smell like baby fever?”

Ben walked in just then, rubbing his eyes, wearing a robe three sizes too small and a mug that said “CLAP IF YOU HATE PEOPLE ON FIRE.” He stopped short when he saw you.

“Damn. Someone havin’ a gender reveal I wasn’t invited to?”

You sighed, flopping down at the island. “He’s spiraling.”

“Flame Boy?”

“Who else?”

Ben groaned. “Don’t tell me. You said the P-word, didn’t you?”

“Barely!” You spread jelly on your toast with a vengeance. “I said I was a few days late. He turned it into an entire life plan overnight.”

Ben chuckled, but it was kind of sympathetic. “Yeah… he does that. When Sue told him she was pregnant, he built a rocket-shaped crib prototype before the test came back positive.”

You blinked. “That’s horrifying.”

“You don’t even wanna know what he named it.”

⸻

Later that afternoon, you found Johnny in the garage, shirtless, sweaty, and somehow using a blowtorch in one hand and sketching with the other.

There was a blueprint taped to the table beside him.

“Are you designing a—” You stopped. Squinted. “Is that a high chair?”

He flinched like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

“No.”

“Johnny.”

“Okay, it’s a heat-resistant high chair with built-in anti-gravity clamps,because what if they float?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I haven’t even taken the test yet.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I’m not, like, expecting anything. I just wanted to be prepared. Just in case. Y’know. In case we get news.”

“News? Johnny, I didn’t apply to college, I missed a period. That’s not breaking news.”

He frowned, setting down his tools. “I’m sorry. I just… I keep thinking about it.”

You watched his shoulders sink. Suddenly, he didn’t look like the cocky, showboating Johnny Storm who bragged about his hair products to paparazzi.

He looked like a boy dreaming about something he didn’t think he could have.

“I know you told me not to get ahead of myself,” he said quietly, “and I know we’re not even sure if it’s real, but… I’ve been wanting this.”

You softened.

He glanced at you, eyes glassy. “After Sue had Franklin… watching her hold him for the first time? Watching that tiny little baby wrap his hand around her finger like he’d known her forever? I thought — damn. I want that. I want that with someone who makes me feel like I’m worth something.”

You stepped toward him slowly. “And you think I’m that someone?”

His voice dropped, gentle and raw. “You are that someone.”

It hit you like a brick to the chest.

He stepped closer. “I want this someday. With you. Not just because of Sue or Franklin or any of that… because I think we’d be good at it. You’d be a good mom.”

You swallowed. “And you’d be a great dad.”

A beat passed between you.

Then you exhaled, finally giving in. “I’ll take the test tomorrow morning.”

His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Really?”

“Yeah. But if it’s negative—”

“I’ll deal,” he said quickly. “I swear. I just need to know. One way or another.”

You nodded.

And for a moment, the world quieted. Just the two of you. Just the maybebetween you.

———

The silence was deafening.

Not in the way silence usually is. Not like the absence of music or conversation. It was the kind of silence that came with waiting. The kind that came after holding your breath for too long.

The kind that settled on your chest and refused to let go.

You sat on the edge of the tub in the Baxter Building bathroom — hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, bare legs trembling against the cold tile — staring at the test in your palm like it was a live wire.

Johnny stood at the doorway, arms folded, weight shifting side to side.

He was trying to look chill. Like he didn’t care. Like this wasn’t the most important two minutes of his entire goddamn life.

You hadn’t spoken since you peed on the stick. He’d walked you to the bathroom like you were being led into surgery, kissed the top of your head, then stood outside the door pacing for what felt like forever.

You’d let him in once the timer on your phone buzzed.

And now… the truth sat quietly between you. One pink line.

Just one.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until Johnny’s voice broke the silence.

“…That’s negative, right?”

You nodded.

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. Just looked at the test like he expected it to change its mind.

You laughed softly. The kind of laugh you made when you were trying not to cry. “Guess the universe isn’t ready for another Baby Storm.”

Johnny didn’t laugh.

He stepped back.

Your stomach dropped. “Hey—”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Just… you know.”

He turned away.

You watched his shoulders tense as he walked into the bedroom, grabbed a hoodie off the chair, and tugged it over his head without looking at you once.

“Johnny.”

“I’m just gonna go out for a bit.”

You stood up. “Can we talk about this?”

“Nothing to talk about,” he mumbled, already halfway out the door. “I’ll be back later.”

And just like that, he was gone.

⸻

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

You kept checking your phone. Every hour. Then every two. Then not at all.

No texts. No calls. No sign of him.

When he finally came back, it was past midnight. His eyes were bloodshot, face pale. He didn’t smell like alcohol — thank god — but there was something off about him. Something empty.

You sat on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders, the pregnancy test still sitting on the coffee table like a gravestone.

Johnny didn’t say a word.

He walked past you. Straight to his room. Door shut.

That night, you found the baby onesie in the trash.

Folded neatly.

⸻

The next morning, he was already awake when you walked into the kitchen. Sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and a distant stare, like he hadn’t slept a single second.

You approached cautiously. “Hey.”

He didn’t look up.

“I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For saying something before I knew for sure. I should’ve waited.”

He didn’t answer.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

Still nothing.

You moved closer, standing across from him at the table. “Johnny, please—”

Finally, he looked at you.

And you almost wished he hadn’t.

Because the look on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even heartbreak.

It was disappointment.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “don’t say anything unless you’re sure.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You stepped back like he’d burned you. “Wow.”

He blinked, expression unreadable. “I didn’t mean—”

“No. You meant it.” Your voice was small. “You think I did this on purpose. That I got your hopes up for nothing.”

He didn’t deny it.

You let out a humorless laugh. “Okay. Good to know.”

You turned and walked away before he could see you cry.

⸻

That night, Johnny sat alone in his room. The lamp on his nightstand cast a soft amber glow over the chaos — his sketchbook open to the page of a half-finished rocket-themed crib, scribbled with notes and measurements.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then tore the page out and crumpled it in his fist.

The Baxter Building had never felt so big.

Rooms felt farther apart. Hallways stretched longer. Conversations dropped off like echoes into silence.

It had been four days since the test. Four days since Johnny told you not to say anything unless you were sure.

And you hadn’t spoken since.

Not really.

There were the basic grunts — the occasional “Hey,” or “Pass the salt.” But there was no laughter, no warmth, no shared glances across the kitchen, no late-night cuddles with his body curled behind yours like a human flame blanket.

There was just… void.

You woke up alone every morning. Ate in silence. Worked with Ben or Reed and kept your head down. Pretended everything was fine.

It wasn’t.

⸻

Johnny had buried himself in mission prep. He was everywhere but home— early flight drills, unnecessary patrols, rooftop repairs that didn’t need doing. He even volunteered to handle a minor alien breach in Jersey and came back limping with a black eye.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t offer.

The emotional distance between you two was now so vast that even Sue noticed.

She pulled you aside one afternoon while you were reading on the couch, her arms crossed, concern carved into every line of her face.

“Okay,” she said gently. “What happened?”

You looked up, blinking. “What?”

“Don’t do that.” She sat beside you. “You and Johnny were making heart eyes and whispering like idiots three days ago. Now he’s eating cold pizza in the lab and you look like someone ran over your dog.”

You hesitated. “It was just… a scare. A maybe.”

Her expression softened. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you… think you were pregnant?”

You nodded once. “I was late. I told him. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why?”

“Because he got excited. Like, insanely excited. Started building heat-proof baby cribs in the garage.”

Sue laughed under her breath. “That sounds like him.”

“And then it was negative. And he looked at me like I stole something from him. Like I lied to him.” You swallowed. “He told me not to say anything next time unless I was sure.”

Sue’s face fell. “Oh, sweetie.”

“I made him feel stupid,” you whispered. “And now he hates me for it.”

“Johnny doesn’t hate you,” she said softly. “He’s just grieving the version of his life he built in his head. He doesn’t know how to handle that kind of loss.”

You scoffed. “It wasn’t real.”

“Doesn’t matter. For him, it felt real.” She paused. “And for you too, if we’re being honest.”

You didn’t answer.

She squeezed your hand. “Talk to him. Please. Before this silence becomes permanent.”

⸻

That night, you found him on the balcony.

The wind whipped through his barely there hair as he leaned over the railing, staring down at the city lights. He didn’t flinch when you slid the door open, didn’t move when you stepped beside him.

You stood in silence for a beat, then said, “You’re gonna catch a cold.”

He huffed a breath. “I’m fireproof, remember?”

“I didn’t mean literally.”

He glanced at you. “Then why are you out here?”

“I want to talk.”

He didn’t answer.

You gripped the railing tighter. “I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to give you false hope.”

“I know.”

“But you made me feel like I did something wrong. Like I teased you with something I couldn’t give you.”

He turned toward you, finally. “Because you did.”

The words hit like a slap.

You stared at him, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t ask you to tell me.” His voice was low, not cruel — but cold. “You’re the one who said something before you even knew. You’re the one who got my hopes up.”

You blinked hard. “You think I planned that? That I meant to make you look stupid?”

He didn’t answer.

“God, Johnny. I was scared. I told you because I trust you. Because I thought you’d hold space for me — not spiral into this dream world where you’re building fucking high chairs and naming a baby we didn’t even have.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t spiral.”

“You did. And when it didn’t happen, you punished me for it.”

“I didn’t—”

“You shut me out. You left. You came home and didn’t say a word. You made me feel like I destroyed something, when all I did was tell the truth.”

The silence that followed wasn’t void. It was sharp. Cutting.

He looked away. “I just wanted it to be real.”

“So did I.”

You didn’t mean to say it. But you did. And now it hung between you, heavy and aching.

“I wanted it,” you whispered. “Just… not like that. Not with fear and pressure and panic. Not with you designing a nursery before I even took a test.”

He stayed quiet.

“You were already holding the baby in your mind, and I was still holding the test in my hand.”

Still, he said nothing.

So you stepped back. “I’ll stop talking about it. Since that seems to be what you want.”

He turned sharply. “That’s not—”

“I’m done making you feel like a fool.”

You walked away before he could stop you.

He didn’t.

It was late.

Everyone else was asleep.

The lights in the Baxter Building were low, the kind of dim that made everything feel fragile, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

You were cold.

Not physically — you were wrapped in one of Johnny’s old hoodies, curled up in the armchair in his room — but cold in that hollow, aching way. The kind of cold that came with being unwanted. Or… misunderstood.

You hadn’t meant to come in here. You told yourself you were just checking to see if he’d come home — and he had, his boots by the door, his jacket draped over the bed — but then you saw it:

A crumpled page, barely shoved under the nightstand. A sketch.

You pulled it out slowly, hands shaking.

It was one of his — messy pencil lines, notes scribbled in the margins, barely-legible handwriting. A rough blueprint of a rocket-themed baby crib. Below it, written in uneven Sharpie:

Names I’d give them if they had your eyes.

Your chest caved.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until a teardrop hit the paper.

A door creaked.

You looked up — and froze.

Johnny stood in the doorway, silent.

He saw the paper in your hands and didn’t even flinch. His jaw tensed, but he didn’t yell. Didn’t snatch it away.

He just… looked tired.

You swallowed thickly. “You kept this.”

He didn’t respond.

“I thought you threw it away.”

He stepped forward slowly, voice quiet. “I did. Then I pulled it out of the trash.”

You laughed softly, eyes wet. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Because… even if it wasn’t real, it felt like it was. And I couldn’t let it go.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry,” he added, softer. “For making you feel like it was your fault. It wasn’t.”

You nodded, throat tight.

“I just—” he exhaled, stepping closer. “You have to understand. I wanted it so bad. I didn’t realize how much until I thought it might be real. I wanted the crib, and the baby monitor, and the little matching pajamas. I wanted to see your belly grow. I wanted to hold them and see a mix of your face and mine looking back at me. I wanted the whole thing.”

Tears welled in your eyes again.

He sat on the floor in front of you, looking up.

“I was already living it in my head. And when the test came back negative, it felt like I’d lost something — something I never had.”

You reached out. Touched his hair gently. “I know.”

He leaned into your palm.

You whispered, “I wanted it too, Johnny.”

He looked up.

“I was scared,” you said. “Not because of the baby, but because it happened so fast. I was late, I told you, and suddenly you were building furniture and picturing names and I didn’t know how to breathe through that.”

“I wasn’t trying to pressure you—”

“I know. But it felt like you were already halfway through the story and I was still on the first page.”

He closed his eyes.

A beat passed.

“Do you still want it?” he asked, voice trembling. “Someday. With me?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But if I ever do… it would only be with you.”

He looked up, eyes red.

“I’m still here,” you whispered. “If you are.”

His hands found yours.

And in that quiet room, wrapped in the echo of what could’ve been, you held each other — not quite whole, not quite broken, but still here.

———

Three and a half months.

That’s how long it had been since the first time.

Since the scare.

Since the test.

Since the way he looked at you like you’d dangled the moon in front of him and then snatched it away.

Three and a half months of carefully stitching yourselves back together.

It had been slow.

Some mornings, you still woke up expecting distance.

Some nights, he still flinched like you’d say something that would undo all the quiet work between you.

But you’d rebuilt something.

Not the exact same thing you had before — but maybe something better.

Something softer. Realer.

And then… it happened again.

You were late.

Ten days this time.

Same number as last time.

But unlike last time… you told no one.

You didn’t want to ruin the thing you’d rebuilt.

Didn’t want to light another match and watch the whole house burn.

So you tested.

Alone.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then seven more.

Ten positive tests.

All screaming the same truth.

And still, you didn’t believe it.

You held them in your hands like they were fragile, like they might change their minds. You googled expiration dates. Lighting conditions. Digital vs analog results. You tested three different brands. You begged the universe to not be cruel this time.

And when every single one came back positive?

You cried.

Not the hysterical kind.

Not the panicked kind.

The kind that came with quiet shaking. With hands clutched over your mouth. With whispered *“holy shit”*s and disbelief so big it hollowed out your ribs.

It was real.

You were pregnant.

⸻

You didn’t sleep that night.

You just lay awake beside him, listening to his heartbeat — his hand resting on your stomach like muscle memory.

And when the sun finally rose, and his eyes finally fluttered open?

You knew it was time.

You got up without a word, pulled the onesie from its hiding place in the drawer, and walked back out into the living room where he’d started sketching again.

He was halfway through a new version of the rocket crib.

He didn’t hear you come in.

You walked behind him slowly — the tiny navy onesie clutched in your trembling hands �� and without saying a word, you placed it in his lap.

Then stepped back.

⸻

He looked down absently, blinking at the fabric.

Read the stitching once.

Then again.

“Mini Storm Incoming.”

His breath hitched.

He stared at it like it wasn’t real.

Then he looked up at you, eyes already starting to water. “Is this—?”

“I took ten tests,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I made sure.”

He didn’t move.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew,” you kept going, voice trembling. “I didn’t want to ruin what we’ve been rebuilding. I didn’t want to hope too soon.”

He still hadn’t breathed.

“Johnny,” you whispered, “it’s real.”

And that’s when he broke.

He stood up — slowly, shakily — and dropped to his knees right there on the rug, onesie in one hand, the other clutching your hoodie like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Tears spilled freely down his face, but he didn’t hide them.

Didn’t mask them.

Didn’t try to be strong.

He curled forward until his forehead pressed to your stomach, voice shaking with every word: “Thank you for waiting. For being sure.”

You held his face in your hands. “Thank you for still being here.”

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“So am I.”

“But I want this.”

“I know.”

His voice cracked. “And I want you.”

You knelt with him, forehead pressed to his, hands tangled in his hair. “You already have me.”

He broke into a soft, shattered sob. “You’re here,” he breathed. “And so are they.”

⸻

And when he finally looked down again at the tiny onesie in his hands, he cradled it like it was already alive.

Like it was already a future.

Not a maybe.

Not a hope.

But something real.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Two Weeks

JQ Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

TW: implied sexual assault (non-graphic but predatory behavior), imprisonment, trauma, fear, emotional distress, physical violence, escape, captivity, blood/bruises, panic

The mission was supposed to be simple.

A tech raid. Standard breach-and-recover. They’d done it a hundred times — in and out, twenty minutes max. No supervillain theatrics, no big flashy explosions. Just a hidden bunker deep beneath a forgotten industrial park on the edge of New York.

Y/N had gone in first — intel said the place was abandoned, nothing but servers left behind from a failed startup with questionable investors. Reed had tracked strange power readings to the underground floor. Sue and Ben were sweeping the perimeter. Johnny was close behind her, heat signature humming in the shadows.

It was quiet. Too quiet. She should’ve known.

The minute her boots hit the sub-level, the power readings spiked. And suddenly—

boom.

The floor collapsed beneath her feet.

She barely had time to scream before she dropped three stories into a concrete coffin lined with reinforced steel. Her ankle rolled on impact. Her breath knocked out of her lungs.

Alarms shrieked.

And from the shadows, they came.

⸻

Six men. Masked. Military-precise. She fought like hell — plasma bursts flying from her palms, kicking and clawing and screaming into her comms. She could still hear Johnny shouting her name through the earpiece. Still hear the rage in his voice as he tried to fight his way through.

But they were waiting for her.

For her specifically.

They jammed the signal. Threw a bag over her head. Hit her hard enough to make her see stars. The last thing she remembered was Johnny screaming through static before the tranquilizer bit into her neck.

And then…

Black.

⸻

That was two weeks ago.

⸻

The cell was small. Sterile. Every surface cold and smooth. There were no visible cameras, but she knew they were there. She’d tested the walls, tried every angle of pressure, tried using her powers until her fingers bled and her body ached — nothing. It was designed for her. Like a trap built by someone who knew her better than they should.

Her captor, a man who called himself Kerrick, never wore a mask. He was tall, well-dressed, charming in the way that made your stomach turn. CEO vibes, if CEOs ran private mercenary labs and believed the world owed them godhood.

He said he had plans for her. That he’d studied her for years. That she was the key to his technology — her powers could amplify his systems, if only she’d cooperate.

At first, he was distant. Clinical. He spoke in theories and equations. Promised she’d be free if she just agreed to work with him. That Reed Richards didn’t understand her true potential. That Johnny would forget her by the end of the month.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t eat. She didn’t flinch when he paced too close.

Until he started getting too close.

⸻

It started subtle.

A hand on her back as he guided her to the cot. A brush of his fingers beneath her chin when he told her to “smile.” Standing behind her while she ate, watching her mouth move around every bite. Whispering things she couldn’t unhear.

“I’m not the villain here.”

“You need me.”

“They won’t come. They don’t miss you like I do.”

She ignored him.

The more she did, the more his patience fractured.

He touched her again — not enough to bruise, but enough to make her skin crawl. A palm pressed against her shoulder too long. His breath on her neck as he spoke softly behind her. One night, he tucked a blanket around her body and let his fingers linger way too low near her hip.

She jerked away.

He grabbed her wrist.

The threat in his eyes was silent, but deafening. Don’t test me.

That night, she stayed awake.

Staring at the door.

Thinking about the Baxter Building.

Thinking about Johnny.

⸻

She spent every hour after that watching the guards. Timing the shifts. Testing the floor.

There was one hallway. Two guards. A retinal scanner she couldn’t access — but a weak spot in the wall, just left of the oxygen vent, where the seal clicked louder than the rest.

She didn’t have a plan. But she had desperation.

And rage.

And a fork she’d stolen from a breakfast tray four days ago — hidden inside the cot.

⸻

When the guard brought her food that night, she played along.

Sat quietly on the edge of the cot. Waited for him to bend over.

Then—

SLAM.

The fork drove straight into his thigh.

He screamed. She tackled him to the ground, slammed his head against the floor once, twice — he went still. Blood pooled fast. His comm crackled.

She moved.

Grabbed his keycard. Swiped the door. A blaring alarm went off — too late.

The hallway was chaos. A second guard rounded the corner and she barely dodged a stun round, sprinting barefoot down the slick concrete corridor.

Kerrick’s voice boomed over the intercom:

“Y/N. You’re making a mistake.”

She didn’t look back.

⸻

The hideout was buried in the Catskill Mountains. Underground. A hidden fortress beneath a private “research facility” with no windows and no soul.

She climbed out through a ventilation shaft that left her covered in dirt and blood, then dropped ten feet into a wooded ravine. She ran for miles.

Branches sliced at her skin. Her feet bled. Her ankle screamed from old injuries.

But her mind was louder.

Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.

⸻

She hitched a ride with a passing truck driver who didn’t ask questions — just stared wide-eyed at the bruised girl in the hoodie who whispered, “Please take me to Manhattan.”

It took all night.

And when the sun rose — weak and gray — she saw it.

The Baxter Building.

Safe.

Home.

⸻

By the time she made it inside, her legs were trembling.

She slammed her hand against the glass door once, the last of her strength burning out like a dying match.

The doors opened.

And there he was.

She was barely standing — drenched in sweat and rain and blood, her arms hugging herself like she was holding her own ribs together. Her face was pale, lips cracked, one eye swollen half-shut. Her clothes looked like they’d been torn apart and sewn back together by a ghost.

But it was her.

“Johnny…?” she whispered, breath catching on his name like it physically hurt to say it.

His whole body stilled. Like time cracked in half around him.

Then —

he ran.

No hesitation. No words.

Just pure instinct.

His arms wrapped around her with a force that made her knees buckle, and she collapsed into him like her soul had finally exhaled. She made a sound — some horrible, broken sob that she tried to swallow but couldn’t — and Johnny just held her tighter.

His fingers dug into her spine. One hand cradled the back of her head like he was scared to break her.

He didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t. His chest was shaking from how hard he was breathing — from rage, from panic, from heartbreak. From two weeks of not knowing if she was alive or dead.

She buried her face into his shoulder, fists gripping the back of his shirt so hard the fabric tore beneath her fingers. She was trembling. Not from fear — from finally letting go.

“I thought—” she choked, “I thought I wasn’t gonna make it back—”

“Don’t,” Johnny whispered, pulling back just enough to look at her face, both hands framing her cheeks. “Don’t say that. You’re here. You’re here now, okay?”

Her lip wobbled. “I didn’t know where else to go—”

“You came home,” he said, his voice low and thick. “You did everything right.”

She crashed into his chest again. Her body was giving out, but he didn’t let her fall. He just lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing and carried her across the polished lobby floor like she was something sacred.

The elevator dinged.

Sue gasped. “Johnny…?”

Ben stepped forward, eyes wide. “No way. No way.”

Reed’s voice cracked like he forgot how to speak. “Is that—?”

Johnny didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl curled in his arms, one arm still locked tight around his neck.

“Johnny,” Sue finally said, stepping closer with tears in her eyes, “I think the rest of us want to say hi too.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered Y/N to the ground — but kept his arm around her waist like he still didn’t trust the universe not to rip her away again.

Y/N looked at each of them in turn. Reed. Sue. Ben. Faces she never thought she’d see again.

“Hey,” she croaked.

Ben was the first to step forward. Gently. Like she was glass. He knelt a little, just to be eye-level, and gave her the softest smile.

“You gave us a hell of a scare, kid.”

Y/N gave him a watery laugh and reached for his hand. “You miss me or something?”

“I missed throwing popcorn at your head during movie nights.”

“I missed catching it in my mouth.”

Sue pulled her into a tight, careful hug, whispering, “You’re safe now,” over and over like it was a prayer. Reed stepped forward after, putting a hand on her shoulder and saying her name so softly she nearly broke all over again.

But the moment the team gave her space again — she turned and sank right back into Johnny.

And this time, he didn’t let go.

He wrapped himself around her like a shield, one hand tracing slow circles across her spine, the other cradling her head to his chest. She could hear his heartbeat. Fast. Frantic. Alive.

“Talk to us,” Sue said gently. “What happened?”

Y/N stayed buried in Johnny’s chest, her voice muffled against him. But she started to speak. Quietly. Shakily.

“…they knew I was coming. It wasn’t random. They had a trap. Not for the team — just for me.”

Johnny stiffened.

“They… they didn’t just want me for leverage. He said I was useful. That he’d been tracking me for months. Studying me.” Her voice faltered. “He touched me.”

Johnny’s jaw clenched so hard she felt his chest go still beneath her ear.

“I think he was trying to condition me. Groom me, maybe. I don’t know. He said things—he’d get closer and closer every day. He wanted me to need him. Like he could convince me I didn’t need you guys anymore.”

Reed sat down slowly on the edge of the couch. “Did he ever—”

“No,” she cut in quickly. “Not… all the way. But he tried. And he would’ve.”

Johnny was vibrating now. Not just shaking — burning. Heat radiated off his body like the air was warping around them.

Ben stepped between them and Johnny’s fire. “Hey, man. Breathe. She’s safe now.”

Johnny exhaled, flames dying down, but he never stopped holding her. Not for a second.

Y/N looked up at him. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

“You’re alive,” he said, staring at her like he hadn’t blinked once since she got here. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

Sue cleared her throat. “Where was the base?”

“Upstate. Catskills, I think. Underground. No signals, no windows. I memorized the hallway layout. I know how to get back.”

Reed straightened. “Then we’re taking the jet tonight.”

Ben cracked his knuckles. “Let’s burn this freak to the ground.”

Johnny didn’t speak. He just lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, “You tell me what he did — everything — and I’ll make sure he never touches anyone again.”

She didn’t reply right away.

But her hand curled tighter in his shirt.

“I want to be there when you do.”

Johnny didn’t leave her side.

Not when they got her into the elevator. Not when Sue pressed the penthouse button and Reed gently suggested she sit down. Not even when she said, quietly, “I don’t want to be away from you.”

He just nodded. Wordless. Firm.

His arm stayed around her shoulders, warm and grounding and real — the only real thing she could feel since her escape. She leaned against him with the weight of someone who hadn’t rested in weeks. And she hadn’t. Not really. Every time she blinked, she still saw his face. Every creak in the floor made her flinch. Every quiet moment still felt like a setup.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

The Baxter penthouse hadn’t changed. Same cream-colored walls, same floating screens, same scent of lavender and ozone. But the second she stepped inside, her knees wobbled.

Johnny caught her before she hit the ground.

“I got you,” he murmured, scooping her into his arms again without hesitation. “I got you.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. Just buried her face in his chest as he carried her past the kitchen and down the hall, through a door she hadn’t opened in a month.

His room.

She didn’t even remember how long she’d been staying there before she was taken — but the second the door closed behind them, the air changed.

It was warm. Safe.

Smelled like him.

Her shoulders began to shake.

⸻

He laid her on the bed, slow and gentle, like she’d crack open if he let go too fast. The blanket touched her skin and she flinched.

He froze. “What is it?”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not in this. Not like this. I feel dirty—”

Johnny was already moving. “I got it. I got it. You want a shower?”

She nodded quickly.

“I’ll stay outside the door, I swear.”

“Johnny.”

He paused.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but they were still hers.

“I don’t want you to wait outside. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

The heat in his chest almost broke him.

“You won’t be.”

⸻

The steam hit her first.

She stood in the middle of the tiled shower, arms wrapped around herself, letting the water pour down like it could wash the last two weeks off her skin. It couldn’t. But she stayed anyway.

Johnny sat on the other side of the glass wall — close enough to see her outline through the fog, far enough not to intrude. He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He just sat with his back to the tile, knees bent, one hand pressed gently against the glass like it could reach her that way.

She spoke first. Her voice was small, but steady.

“I kept thinking about what you’d say if I died in that place.”

His hand clenched into a fist.

“I wanted you to be the last thing I thought about. So I kept saying your name to myself. Over and over. Every night.”

Johnny pressed his forehead to the wall. The heat around him rose a few degrees, but he forced it down.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, “you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. But no one should have to survive what you did.”

“I didn’t want to survive,” she admitted. “Not at first. Not until I thought of you.”

⸻

She came out of the bathroom in one of his sweatshirts, sleeves down to her fingertips, her damp hair pulled back in a weak ponytail.

He was already in bed — shirtless, blanket around his waist, sitting up with his back against the headboard.

She hesitated.

He opened his arms.

She crawled into them like she belonged there. Because she did.

Johnny wrapped her in his arms, her back to his chest, blanket tucked around her tightly like a cocoon. He held her like she was something breakable that he refused to let anyone else near.

They sat in silence for a long time. Just breathing.

Then her voice broke it, quiet and scared:

“What if I never feel normal again?”

“You won’t,” he said, honest and careful. “Not right away. But I’ll be here every second it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

She turned toward him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what happens now.”

“I do,” he said. “We burn that place to the ground. And then I take you on a stupid vacation somewhere sunny where no one can touch you.”

Her lip twitched. “Is that a promise?”

He leaned in, forehead against hers.

“Hell yeah, it’s a promise.”

⸻

That night, she didn’t sleep much.

Every time she twitched or whimpered in her sleep, Johnny pulled her closer.

Every time she started to bolt upright, shaking and gasping for breath, he was already there — whispering her name, grounding her, stroking her back until she melted into him again.

The sky outside was still dark, the first traces of dawn just beginning to bleed through the penthouse windows. But Johnny hadn’t slept. Not once. He’d stayed awake the whole night, one arm around her, the other hand gently tracing slow circles along her back. Any time her breathing hitched or her fingers twitched in her sleep, he’d whisper her name until she calmed.

Now, she stirred in his arms, blinking slowly. Eyes open, but unfocused.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You with me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him — looked through him — like she wasn’t sure if he was real.

Then she nodded once.

“I’m here.”

But she didn’t sound like it.

⸻

She sat at the kitchen counter thirty minutes later, wrapped in his hoodie, a blanket around her shoulders, and hands locked around a steaming mug she hadn’t touched. Her eyes were dull. Her hair still damp. Her lips pressed into a line that hadn’t moved since she sat down.

Johnny was standing a few feet away, watching her. He had a plate of pancakes in front of her, perfectly golden. Syrup on the side. Her favorite.

She hadn’t even blinked at them.

“You should eat,” he said gently.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten anything since you got back.”

“I know.”

Silence.

He sat beside her, dragging the stool closer, careful not to crowd her.

“Do you wanna talk?”

Her eyes flicked toward him for just a second — and then away.

“No.”

“Okay.”

Not pushing. Never pushing.

Just staying.

⸻

Sue and Reed came in not long after. Quiet. Careful.

“Morning, Y/N,” Sue said, stepping into her line of sight.

Y/N managed a small nod. “Hi.”

“We were thinking of taking the day off. No meetings. No labs. Just rest.”

Reed added, “There’s no rush on debriefing, alright? We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

She didn’t answer.

Her fingers were trembling slightly around the mug now. Johnny noticed.

Ben entered last. He didn’t say much — just gave her a small smile and a fresh apple fritter from the bakery down the street. Placed it gently next to her pancakes.

Then they all gave her space.

Johnny stayed.

⸻

Later that morning, she stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Still wearing his hoodie. Still not having eaten. Just… staring at herself.

Her reflection looked like someone else.

There were bruises along her arms. A cut on her cheek. Her eyes were sunken. Lips dry. Her hair was unrecognizable — matted, tangled. Her skin was pale.

She lifted the hoodie and looked at the bruises on her ribs.

Kerrick’s voice echoed in her head.

“You need me.”

“They won’t come for you.”

“You belong to me now.”

Her vision blurred.

“Get out of my head,” she whispered.

She tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come.

She dropped to the floor, knees hitting tile, both hands pressed to her ears as her chest tightened, her throat closed, her body shook.

She couldn’t stop it.

⸻

Johnny burst in seconds later.

He found her on the floor, eyes wide, tears running down her cheeks, hands trembling like she was seconds from snapping apart.

He didn’t say anything.

He just knelt beside her, pulled her gently into his arms, and held her.

It wasn’t soft this time. It was tight — firm, grounding, like he needed her to feel how solid he was. How real this moment was.

“You’re not there anymore,” he whispered. “You’re not there. You’re with me. You’re home. Breathe, baby, please—just breathe.”

Her hands gripped his shirt. Her face buried in his chest. And finally — after what felt like forever — she sobbed.

Messy. Loud. Ugly.

Johnny didn’t flinch. He took every ounce of it. Let her cry until her body went limp from exhaustion, until her breath slowed, until she stopped shaking.

And then he whispered:

“You never have to be strong for us. Not right now. You don’t have to fight. You just have to rest.”

⸻

She stayed in his bed the rest of the day.

The team didn’t disturb her.

She didn’t leave the room. Barely moved. But Johnny was always there — bringing tea, adjusting the blanket, brushing her hair gently from her face, whispering dumb things just to get the smallest twitch of her mouth.

At one point, her voice broke through the quiet.

“I don’t know how to be normal again.”

Johnny sat beside her. Not touching — just close.

“You don’t have to be normal,” he said. “You just have to be here. And I’ll be here with you.”

A pause.

Then she whispered:

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You won’t be.”

“Even if I can’t sleep.”

“I’ll stay up with you.”

“Even if I have a nightmare.”

“I’ll wake you up before it gets bad.”

“…Even if I scream?”

“I’ll hold you through it.”

⸻

And he did.

All night.

Because healing doesn’t come with one hug and a plan for revenge.

Sometimes, it comes with one person who never leaves the room.

The silence had teeth. Sharp ones.

She heard it the second she left the room.

It was faint — just the low murmur of voices coming from the conference room down the hall. Doors weren’t fully closed. A rookie mistake.

And she wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

But she did.

She moved quietly down the corridor, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, barefoot on the hardwood floors. She didn’t know what pulled her forward. Maybe curiosity. Maybe instinct.

Maybe the feeling in her gut that something was happening without her.

⸻

“We go tomorrow night,” Reed said. “The coordinates match her description. That entire complex is off-grid, privately owned, and doesn’t exist on any government registry. We take the jet to Albany and move on foot from there.”

“Security?” Ben asked.

“Automated, mostly. Drone tech. Possibly a small in-person crew.”

Sue’s voice came next. Low. Careful. “And if Kerrick’s there?”

“We end him,” Johnny growled.

She froze.

His voice sounded different. Rough. Deadly. Like fire was simmering beneath every syllable.

“And what about Y/N?” Sue asked, hesitant.

Reed paused. “She doesn’t need to be involved.”

“Damn right she doesn’t,” Johnny said, louder now. “She’s still healing. She doesn’t need to see that place again.”

“She might want to,” Sue offered.

“No. I saw what it did to her. She’s not going. That’s final.”

She stepped into the room before she could stop herself.

“Like hell it is.”

⸻

The silence that followed was instant.

Four sets of eyes turned toward her. She stood in the doorway, blanket sliding off her shoulders, arms crossed over the hoodie she hadn’t changed out of, feet bare, face still pale — but her jaw was clenched.

Johnny stood up immediately. “Babe—”

“You’re planning to take him down and didn’t think to include me?”

Reed adjusted his glasses. “We weren’t hiding it from you—”

“Then why didn’t you ask what I wanted?”

“You’re not ready,” Johnny said firmly. “You’re still shaking. You haven’t even eaten a full meal since you got back.”

“I don’t care.”

He stepped forward. “I do.”

She swallowed hard. Her eyes burned — not with tears. With fury.

“I’m not some girl you found in the woods. I’m not a fragile thing you need to protect from the big bad world. I was there. I lived it. I survived it. Don’t you dare treat me like I’m not capable.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “I’m not treating you like you’re incapable. I’m treating you like someone I love who just went through hell.”

She flinched.

He realized what he said, but didn’t take it back.

Reed and Sue exchanged a look and quietly left the room. Ben gave her a soft nod and followed, leaving the two of them alone.

The air was thick.

Johnny sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Don’t apologize for meaning it,” she said softly. “I just… I need to do this.”

“No, you want to do this. Because you think it’ll fix something. But it won’t.”

Her voice cracked. “He touched me, Johnny.”

His whole body tensed. “I know.”

“He made me feel powerless. Like I was just some—some tool he could use and throw away. He made me question whether any of you were even coming for me.”

Johnny stepped closer.

“And now you’re home. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“But he can hurt someone else.”

She stepped toward him.

“And if I sit this out, if I stay here and pretend I’m fine while you take care of it, then I’m still letting him win.”

He looked at her — really looked at her. She was still shaking. Still not steady on her feet. Still covered in invisible bruises that no amount of showers could scrub away.

But her eyes?

They were on fire.

“…You’re not ready,” he said again, softer this time.

She held her chin up. “Then train with me.”

“What?”

“Train me. Get me ready. We’ve got a day, right?”

“Y/N…”

“Please.”

He paused.

Then sighed, defeated. “I’ll talk to Reed.”

⸻

That night, they were in the gym.

She could barely hold a fighting stance. Her muscles ached. Her balance was off. Her reflexes were dulled. Every loud noise made her flinch.

But she kept trying.

Johnny stood across from her in the sparring ring, arms crossed, eyes narrowed — not out of judgment, but concern.

“Your hands are too low.”

She adjusted.

“You’re leading with your weak side.”

She switched.

“You’re breathing too fast.”

She stopped. Frowned.

“I can’t do this,” she muttered, stepping back. “I thought I could, but—”

Johnny caught her hand. “Hey. No. Look at me.”

She didn’t.

“Y/N. Look. At. Me.”

She raised her eyes.

“You’re not broken,” he said, voice steady. “You’re healing. And healing looks like this — like trying when it hurts. Like showing up anyway.”

“I’m not strong enough—”

“You’re stronger than all of us.”

She blinked hard.

Then — finally — nodded.

“Again,” she said. “Let’s go again.”

The ride to upstate New York was silent.

No banter. No music. Just the dull hum of the jet engines and the sound of her breathing in her own ears — slow, controlled, like Johnny taught her.

She sat strapped in across from him, wearing a black tactical suit that Sue adjusted to avoid pressing on her bruises. The sleeves were slightly too long. Her gloves too big. She didn’t care. Her fingers were clenched so tight her knuckles went white.

Johnny hadn’t taken his eyes off her since they lifted off. Not once.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said, quietly.

She nodded. But didn’t look at him.

Because if she did — she might break.

⸻

The jet landed on the outskirts of the forest.

Night had already swallowed the trees. Fog hung low, thick and curling around the trunks like claws. It smelled like pine, and decay.

Reed adjusted his goggles and whispered, “We go in quiet. She leads.”

Y/N exhaled.

“Copy that.”

⸻

She took the first step into the woods.

The rest followed.

⸻

Every inch of her body screamed with memory.

She remembered the exact incline of the path. The way the trees thinned the closer you got. How the leaves stopped rustling once you passed the third clearing — like the world itself was holding its breath.

They reached the ridge — and there it was.

The facility.

Cold metal buried beneath the earth, disguised as an old observatory from the outside. Lights humming beneath the fake dome. Cameras scanning.

Y/N crouched behind a tree and pointed. “There. Left side. Service duct. I came out of it when I escaped. It’s a straight shot down to the lab level.”

Johnny looked at her. “You sure?”

She didn’t blink. “Positive.”

They moved.

⸻

The duct was tighter than she remembered.

Climbing back inside nearly sent her spiraling. She felt it immediately — the metallic smell, the weight of the walls, the sound of her breath echoing too loudly.

He touched me here.

She nearly froze.

But Johnny’s voice came through the comms, gentle but firm.

“You’re doing great. Just a few more feet.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the crawlspace. She pulled herself through.

And they were in.

⸻

The lab floor.

Sterile. Bright. Dead quiet.

She led the way down the hall.

Every turn hit her like a ghost — this is where she was dragged. This is where he whispered to her. This is where she bled.

She pressed her back against the wall near the security checkpoint and took a shuddering breath.

“You okay?” Johnny whispered.

“I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. But she kept moving.

⸻

They breached the control room first. Reed and Sue took point, disabling the comm systems and cameras.

Ben cleared the side hallway.

Johnny stuck close to her — a silent shadow at her back.

Then—

“Movement, east wing,” Sue reported. “Armed. Six total.”

“Let’s go introduce ourselves,” Ben grunted.

They peeled off. Y/N and Johnny continued forward.

“Kerrick’s chamber is three floors down,” she said. “Private lab. He doesn’t let anyone in.”

“How do we get there?”

“There’s a freight elevator—”

Before she could finish, the lights flickered.

And the voice came on.

His voice.

“Well, well,” Kerrick drawled over the intercom. “Took you long enough, sweetheart.”

Her blood ran cold.

Johnny stepped in front of her instinctively.

“I was wondering when you’d come back to me.”

Y/N grit her teeth. “Shut up.”

“I left the place just the way you liked it,” Kerrick purred. “Miss the bed? I do.”

Johnny’s hand lit up with flame.

“Say another word, I swear to God—”

Y/N touched his arm.

“I got this.”

She stepped forward.

“Listen to me, you sick fuck. I survived you. I crawled out of this hell you built and now I’m coming back to tear it down. You don’t scare me anymore.”

Silence.

Then — “Let’s see if that’s still true when you’re face to face with me again.”

The line cut.

⸻

They moved fast after that.

Down the emergency stairwell. Weapons ready.

Y/N’s legs shook with every step, but she didn’t stop.

Johnny whispered, “You can wait here. Let me go first—”

“No.”

“You’re not weak for taking a second to—”

“Johnny. I’m not waiting.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

⸻

The private lab doors hissed open.

And there he was.

Kerrick stood at the center of the room — sleek, polished, not a scratch on him. Surrounded by tech. Arms crossed. Smiling.

He looked exactly the same.

She felt her stomach twist.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, like they were old lovers.

Y/N raised her hand.

A plasma bolt fired straight through his shoulder.

He staggered back, shocked.

“No,” she said. “But you’re about to miss a few limbs.”

He lunged for the console.

Johnny moved faster.

Fire exploded across the room — heat so intense it cracked the walls. Kerrick screamed as flame licked at his legs, cutting off his escape route.

Y/N walked forward.

Step by step.

Her vision blurred at the edges. The lab swam in front of her.

Flash. He’s behind her again, breathing on her neck.

Flash. His hand is on her wrist, bruising.

Flash. His voice in her ear — “You’re mine.”

“NO I’M FUCKING NOT!”

She screamed as she fired again — this time at the console. Sparks flew. The whole system lit up in flames.

Kerrick turned, bleeding, coughing, smoke choking him.

Y/N stalked forward, eyes glowing with rage.

“You don’t get to win.”

And she punched him — hard — right across the face.

He hit the ground.

Hard.

Johnny stepped in beside her, breathing heavy, hands still glowing.

“You done?”

She stared down at Kerrick’s crumpled body. Broken. Pathetic.

She nodded.

“I’m done.”

The helicopter blades were loud. The night was colder now.

She sat on the edge of the extraction ramp, blood drying beneath her fingernails, smoke still clinging to her clothes. Johnny stood beside her, silent. Watching. Always watching.

Behind them, the complex burned.

Reed had made sure of it — thermal charges laced through the foundation. The whole facility collapsed in on itself like a dying star.

There was nothing left.

Not the room.

Not the cot.

Not the voice in the dark.

Just ashes.

⸻

Kerrick had been taken alive.

The feds that Reed had looped in loaded him into a black transport van, gagged, cuffed, and half-conscious. He hadn’t spoken since she knocked him out. No last words. No threats.

She didn’t want any.

She didn’t even look at him as they dragged him away.

He didn’t deserve her rage.

Not anymore.

⸻

The flight back was quiet.

She sat curled up on the jet bench seat, wrapped in a thermal blanket, her head against Johnny’s shoulder. Her eyes stayed open the whole ride.

Not from fear this time.

Just… processing.

Burning it down hadn’t brought the closure she expected.

There was no great relief. No flood of peace. Just stillness.

And silence.

And the ache of healing that didn’t happen overnight.

⸻

The Baxter Building was warm when they returned.

Sue offered her tea. Reed said the debrief could wait. Ben gave her a bear hug that didn’t make her flinch this time.

But all she wanted was sleep.

Johnny walked her to his room without saying a word. He laid out fresh clothes. Pulled the covers down. Turned off the lights.

She stood frozen in the doorway.

He looked back.

“You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

He stepped forward. “You don’t have to sleep if you’re not ready. I’ll stay up. We can just sit.”

Her voice came out barely audible.

“Can I just… lie next to you?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Always.”

⸻

They didn’t speak for a long time.

She laid on her side, facing him, their fingers loosely linked between them.

Finally, she whispered, “It’s over.”

Johnny nodded.

“But I don’t feel different.”

“That’s okay.”

“I thought I’d feel… stronger. Whole again.”

“You are strong,” he said gently. “And whole doesn’t come back all at once. You’re allowed to feel hollow for a while.”

She blinked hard. “Who am I now?”

Johnny looked at her — not with pity, not with fear. With awe.

“You’re someone who clawed your way out. Who stood up when she didn’t have to. Who went back into the fire to make sure no one else ever has to live what you lived.”

Her lip trembled.

“You’re a survivor, Y/N. You don’t owe anyone your light. But you still shine anyway.”

A tear slid down her cheek.

He reached up and brushed it away.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered.

“Never,” he promised.

And she believed him.

⸻

That night, she dreamed of sunlight.

Not cages.

Not voices.

Not fear.

Just warmth.

And a boy made of fire wrapping his arms around her like she was the only thing he needed to keep the world spinning.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Reservations 

bob floyd x fem!reader

The morning started like any other.

Bob Floyd wasn’t the type to build a whole day around a Hallmark holiday, but today… today felt different. Maybe it was because he’d spent the last three weeks nervously flirting with a girl who actually flirted back. Maybe it was the way she’d twirled her hair when he offered to take her out for Valentine’s Day. Maybe it was just hope, plain and simple.

Whatever it was, Bob woke up that morning with a tightness in his chest and a smile tugging at his mouth—like something good was coming and for once, it was coming for him.

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, running a comb through his neatly parted hair, his glasses already fogging from the hot air of the shower he’d just taken. His pale blue button-down was freshly ironed, sleeves rolled to the forearms just like he’d seen in those “date night inspo” Pinterest boards Y/N once teased him about. He chuckled to himself at the thought.

Tonight Bob was meeting Camila. Pretty, polished, all lip gloss and perfect Instagram angles. He’d met her at a bar a month ago when the squad had gone out for post-drill drinks. She wasn’t in the Navy—civilian through and through. She’d told him he was sweet, that he had nice hands, and “the quiet ones are always the freakiest, right?”

Bob hadn’t known what to do with that comment, but he’d smiled. She was attention. She was interested. And he… well, he was lonely.

Now he was making dinner reservations and wrapping a box of dark chocolates with a red ribbon like he knew what he was doing. He picked up the bouquet he’d picked out that morning—a mix of red and white tulips, soft and delicate, chosen because Camila had once mentioned that roses were overrated.

His phone buzzed. A text.

Bob: Just checking in — we still good for 7 tonight?

Camila 💋: Of course! Can’t wait 😘

He exhaled through his nose, a small rush of confidence blooming in his chest. See? Everything was fine. Everything was on track.

⸻

The reservation was at 7:00 sharp at Velluto, one of the most romantic restaurants in San Diego—dim lighting, string quartet in the corner, waiters who knew just how much space to give. He’d had to call twice to get a table and even then, it was a 2-top squeezed against the far back wall. But it was his, and that mattered.

By 6:45, Bob was already there, standing awkwardly near the hostess podium with flowers in hand and chocolates tucked under his arm.

“Name?” the hostess asked, typing something into the tablet.

“Floyd. Robert Floyd. I have a reservation for two at seven.”

She smiled. “Right this way.”

She led him to a small table near the back. Crisp white linen, two flickering candles, a tiny glass vase already on the table. He placed the tulips beside it like a boy laying down an offering, then set the chocolates beside her empty chair.

He sat.

He waited.

7:05.

He looked at the door.

7:11.

He checked his phone. No new messages. That was fine. Maybe traffic was bad. Maybe she was parking. Maybe—

He sent a message.

Bob: I’m here! Let me know when you’re on your way :)

7:17.

No response.

The waiter came by. “Can I get you started with some drinks? Still waiting?”

Bob smiled, polite. “Still waiting.”

7:28.

He refreshed the text thread. Still nothing.

7:32.

He adjusted the fork on the napkin.

7:37.

Finally, his phone buzzed.

His heart lifted—just a little. Just enough to hurt worse when he read it.

Camila 💋: Hey… I actually met someone else. He kinda bought me a car today soooo yeah. Sorry. Happy Valentine’s Day tho! 😘

That was it. No apology. No remorse. Just a car emoji in her Instagram bio, probably.

Bob stared at the screen. His face didn’t change much—he wasn’t the type. But his throat went dry and the air in the restaurant suddenly felt too warm. He closed the message. Slowly picked up the chocolates. Then the flowers. He stood.

And for a second, just one second, he stood still.

Because God, that hurt more than he expected.

⸻

Meanwhile, in the sleek bar across the lobby of the restaurant, you were stirring your gin and tonic with a tiny straw, half-listening to the couple next to you argue about a missed dinner reservation.

You hadn’t come for romance. You just wanted a quiet night. You’d gotten dressed up, sure, and maybe a part of you had hoped to feel a little spark from the city tonight. But mostly, you’d just wanted to wear your red lipstick and not think about work or war for a few hours.

Then, across the polished wood of the bar and through the open partition of the restaurant, you saw him.

Bob.

In a blue button-up.

Clutching flowers and a ribboned box of chocolates.

Alone.

Your head tilted instinctively. That wasn’t… right. He didn’t say anything about a date today. And Bob never brought flowers anywhere.

Then you watched as he looked at his phone, read something, and… just stood there. Still. Like someone had punched all the wind out of his lungs.

You were already sliding off your barstool before your brain caught up with your body.

“Bob?” you called gently as you approached the edge of the dining room.

He turned, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

When his eyes focused on you, you smiled softly. “Hey, fancy seeing you here.”

The chocolate torte was rich, warm, and almost offensively decadent.

You took the first bite with a dramatic groan and dropped your fork like the dessert had personally wronged you. “Okay, what the hell. Why is this good enough to make me rethink my entire dating history?”

Bob laughed quietly as he slid his fork through the other side of the heart-shaped slice. “You know, I actually ordered it for her. She told me on the phone last week she had a sweet tooth.”

You tilted your head, chewing slowly. “You ordered dessert in advance?”

He flushed. “I, uh… may have called ahead. I wanted everything to be right.”

The way he said it—I wanted everything to be right—landed softly but painfully between you. Not dramatic. Just… real.

You set your fork down gently. “I’m really sorry she hurt you, Bob.”

He shrugged, eyes on his plate. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” you said simply. “You tried. You showed up. That’s not something everyone does.”

His gaze lifted to meet yours then, and something passed between you. Not romantic. Not quite. Just… open. Unshielded. The kind of look people only share when the rest of the world goes quiet.

The candle flickered between you.

Bob broke the moment first. “I didn’t think tonight would end like this.”

You smiled. “Neither did I.”

⸻

You left the restaurant just before ten, both wrapped in coats and the comfortable haze of good food and better wine. The sky outside had darkened completely, stars just barely visible behind the haze of city lights.

Bob walked beside you on the sidewalk, hands tucked in his coat pockets, cheeks still pink from the wine or maybe the cold.

You cradled the bouquet he’d given you — the tulips she never received — now half-wilted but somehow more beautiful for it.

“You really didn’t have plans tonight?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “Nope. I’ve had more Valentine’s Days with takeout and reruns of The Office than I can count. I just wanted to dress up, have a drink, maybe flirt with a bartender if the mood struck.”

He chuckled. “Sorry I ruined that.”

“Oh, you didn’t ruin anything,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. “You might’ve actually saved it.”

He looked over at you, and for the second time that night, lingered.

The air between you shifted. Tightened. The kind of pause that hangs in a movie right before the kiss.

And maybe he thought about it. Maybe you did, too.

Because he was looking at you the way no one ever looked at you—like you meant something. And you were looking at him like maybe he wasn’t just the shy, quiet WSO who everyone underestimated.

You were standing in the halo of a streetlamp when he stopped walking.

“I really had a nice time,” he said, voice low.

You turned toward him, tugging your coat tighter around you. “So did I.”

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

The silence stretched again. Not awkward, but charged. Electric.

And then—

You smiled.

Not a flirty smirk. Not a teasing grin.

Just a soft, gentle thing. “You don’t have to say anything, Bob.”

He blinked, caught.

“I know what this was,” you added. “And it doesn’t have to mean anything it didn’t.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“I didn’t mean for tonight to be… anything,” you continued. “But I’m glad I was here.”

He nodded slowly. “Me too.”

You stepped back toward your car, pulling your keys from your purse.

But before you opened the door, you turned back one last time. “You know… I’d do it again.”

His brow lifted.

“This,” you said, holding up the flowers. “Dinner. Chocolate. Random pity parties that end up better than any real date I’ve ever had.”

His mouth tugged into something between a smile and something sadder. “So would I.”

A beat passed.

“Night, Floyd.”

“Night, Y/N.”

You slipped into your car and shut the door.

Bob stood on the sidewalk a moment longer, hands in his pockets, watching you go.

He didn’t ask for your number.

You didn’t ask for his.

Because this wasn’t a moment you chased.

It was one you just… let be.

But as you drove off, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Y/N: Tulips are growing on me. Hope you’re not saving the chocolates for your mom.

He smiled down at the screen.

He didn’t text back.

Not yet.

Valentine’s Day was two days ago.

But Bob still hadn’t touched the chocolates.

They sat unopened on his kitchen counter, ribbon still tied like it hadn’t already lived through one emotional ambush and a romantic plot twist. He kept thinking he’d eat them. Every night when he got home. Every morning before work. But then he’d remember your voice in the dark, your hand on the tulips, your little smile when you said, “You know… I’d do it again.”

And he couldn’t open them. Not yet.

Not when he didn’t know what this was now.

⸻

You weren’t doing much better.

You’d tried to play it cool—tried to treat that night like a blip in your calendar, a happy accident. But it wasn’t. You knew it. And worse? Every time you walked into a room and saw Bob already there, it felt like gravity changed direction.

Like your body leaned toward him automatically. Like maybe you wantedto.

⸻

It was a Thursday morning when the squad gathered in the hangar for pre-flight briefings. The mood was the usual chaos—coffee-fueled and half-awake. Rooster and Hangman were already chirping at each other, and Phoenix looked like she was counting the minutes until she could throw something at them both.

You walked in, duffel slung over one shoulder, and immediately spotted Bob across the room. He was at his locker, adjusting his harness, back stiff with focus. But you saw the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment you stepped into his periphery.

You offered a quiet smile. Just enough to say hey.

He nodded back. Just enough to say I remember.

And then… nothing.

No lingering. No comment. Just a return to the noise of the morning.

Except the air between you had changed.

⸻

Phoenix caught it first.

She elbowed you subtly as you sat beside her during briefing. “Something happen on Valentine’s?”

You didn’t look at her. “Nope.”

“That wasn’t a denial.”

“I was at Velluto,” you said casually. “Saw Bob there. We had dinner.”

Phoenix turned her head, brow arched so high it nearly reached the ceiling. “You what?”

“He got stood up,” you whispered. “I wasn’t gonna let him eat alone.”

Her expression shifted from shocked to smirking in half a second. “So you swooped in, huh?”

“I swooped in with empathy,” you shot back. “It wasn’t like that.”

But it was.

You both knew it.

And across the room, Bob was having the same conversation—albeit much clumsier—with Payback and Rooster.

“Wait—you went to dinner with Y/N?” Payback asked, leaning around the corner of his locker.

“She just saw me at the restaurant,” Bob said, adjusting the strap on his helmet. “It wasn’t planned.”

Rooster raised a brow. “And it wasn’t a date?”

“No,” Bob replied immediately. Then paused. “I mean—no. Not really.”

“But you sat. Ate dinner. Shared dessert.”

He hesitated. “We split a chocolate torte.”

Rooster smirked. “That’s a date, dude.”

“No,” Bob said again, quieter this time. “It was just… her being kind.”

⸻

The briefing wrapped. Everyone scattered.

You were walking toward the tarmac, helmet in hand, when Bob fell into step beside you.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked. But his proximity was louder than words.

The sun glinted off the canopy glass, engines started to whine in the distance, and somewhere in all of it, your elbow brushed his.

It felt… like something.

You turned your head slightly toward him. “You never texted back.”

He looked at you, startled. “I didn’t want to make it weird.”

You gave a half-laugh. “You think we’re not already there?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Maybe.”

You stopped walking.

He did too.

The squad was ahead, distant voices calling over the engines. But here, just the two of you, it felt like standing at the edge of something.

“You ever going back to that restaurant?” you asked.

Bob shrugged lightly. “Maybe. Someday.”

You smiled. “Well… if you ever do, I still have unfinished business with that chocolate cake.”

He stared at you for a second too long. Like he was memorizing your face just in case.

Then he nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And just like that, he walked off toward his jet.

You stood there a second longer, eyes lingering on his back as he went.

You didn’t follow.

But you smiled.

Because you both knew:

Maybe wasn’t a no.

It was a not yet.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Early Riser

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

she’s a short smut but i had to release something.

Bob wakes up with a problem.

The kind of problem that won’t let him think straight, much less fall back asleep.

His cock is hard—painfully, angrily, throbbing hard. He shifts beneath the blanket, groaning low in his throat as the heat between his legs pulses like a warning.

He’s gonna die like this.

And you—his girlfriend, his gorgeous, delicious, absolutely unfairgirlfriend—are asleep right next to him, blissfully unaware of the crisis building inches from your thigh. One arm is tucked beneath your head, the other splayed across his bare chest. Your lips are slightly parted. You’re warm and soft and the scent of your skin is everywhere.

He glances down. Your tank top has ridden up just enough to show the swell of your breasts. Your panties are twisted on your hip. You look so peaceful, and the last thing he wants to do is disturb you.

But God, his dick hurts. It’s leaking precum already, straining against the waistband of his briefs, twitching every time your skin brushes his.

He sighs quietly and slowly, so carefully, pushes the covers down. Just enough to reach. Just enough to get a hand on himself and breathe.

His fingers slide beneath his waistband. The second they wrap around the base of his cock, he lets out a choked, strangled sound—muffling it into his bicep. It’s so hot, so tight, and he’s already dripping all over his own hand.

“Jesus,” he whispers, barely audible. He starts to move—slow strokes at first, trying not to shift the mattress. Trying not to wake you. Trying to survive.

His hips twitch. His toes curl. He bites the inside of his cheek to stay quiet, but with every glide of his fist, the friction makes his cock jump and his stomach tighten. He’s so sensitive, so worked up, he can barely think.

He strokes faster.

Faster.

Spit-slick and messy. The rhythm getting away from him. His breath hitching, ragged and fast as he imagines you riding him, your pussy milking his cock while your nails dig into his chest and your voice trembles with each bounce.

He grips the base of his cock tight, swiping his thumb across the tip, collecting more precum, spreading it down his length. He groans—loudernow. Can’t help it.

That moan is what does it.

You stir beside him, lashes fluttering open. At first, you’re confused. The room is still dark. Quiet. But something’s off. The bed is moving, and Bob’s breath is harsh, rapid, shaky like he just ran a mile.

You glance over and see it—his hand moving under the covers, the way his forearm flexes, the flushed pink of his cheeks, the way his brows are pinched in desperate concentration.

Then you hear the wet sound of his palm stroking himself.

You smirk.

“Oh, baby…”

His eyes snap to yours, wide in panic. He freezes mid-stroke like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“Y-you’re awake,” he stammers.

“Mhm.” You stretch lazily, teasing. “I’m offended you didn’t wake me up.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” he rushes. “You looked so peaceful, I was just—fuck, I’m sorry—”

You look him dead in the eyes and purr, “Oh no, honey. Please. Don’t stop on my account.”

His lips part. “Wait—what?”

You reach down with a slow, deliberate drag of your fingers, pulling your panties aside as your other hand slips under your tank top to tease your nipple.

“Go on, Bobby.” You arch slightly. “Show me what you were doing.”

His dick twitches in his fist. “Fuck. You’re serious?”

You hum, low and sinful. “Dead serious.”

That’s it.

Bob lets out a guttural moan and starts again—this time faster, wetter, rougher. His eyes lock on your fingers as you circle your clit, your thighs parting for him to see everything.

“You’re unreal,” he gasps. “You touching yourself right next to me while I stroke my cock—Jesus, you’re gonna make me cum just watching—”

You let out a soft whimper. “Then don’t watch. Feel.”

Before he can blink, you’ve swung a leg over his waist and sunk down onto him—no warning, no teasing, just the hot, wet slide of your pussy swallowing him whole.

Bob cries out—loud. His hands fly to your hips.

“Baby, *fuck—*you’re so tight, so fucking wet—oh my god, oh my god—”

You grind down, moaning as his cock stretches you perfectly. “You like that, Bobby? Like how I take you so deep, even after you tried to cum without me?”

He nods, almost sobbing. “I couldn’t help it—needed you so bad, needed this, baby, please don’t stop—”

You don’t.

You ride him like a woman possessed. Slow at first—just to feel every vein, every ridge of his cock pressing deep inside you. Then faster, bouncing with a sinful slap of skin on skin, your tits bouncing with each thrust, your nails clawing at his chest.

His head drops back. “Fuck—fuck—ride me, baby—ride my cock like it’s yours, come on, fuck yes—”

You clench around him and he loses it. He starts meeting your thrusts, fucking up into you from below, both of you moaning shamelessly as the bed rocks beneath you.

“You gonna cum?” you whisper. “Wanna feel you fill me up, baby—make me messy, ruin me—do it, Bobby—”

His hips jerk, his hands grip you tighter.

“Gonna cum—gonna cum, fuck—”

You feel it—every drop—as he spills inside you with a broken moan, cock twitching deep, warm and thick. Your own orgasm crashes over you seconds later, pussy fluttering around him as you collapse forward, both of you panting, sweaty, sticky.

You lay on top of him for a minute. Letting your heart slow. Letting the aftershocks fade.

Then—

You lift your head and smirk.

“One more?”

Bob’s cock is still hard inside you. He laughs, breathless. “Fuck yes.”

This time, Bob flips you onto your back.

He slides out, then immediately back in, thick and hard and still pulsing. You gasp—your walls are sensitive now, slick from the first round, already clenching around him like you’ve been starved for him.

“Can’t believe you woke up like that,” you murmur, teasing. “So hard, so needy—were you dreaming about me?”

Bob’s eyes go feral.

“Every night,” he growls. “Every night I dream about this pussy.”

He slams into you.

Hard. Deep. Relentless.

The bed creaks. The headboard knocks the wall. You cry out with every thrust, your body shaking under him as he fucks you like he’s making up for every missed morning.

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he demands.

“You,” you gasp.

“Say it again.”

“It’s yours, Bobby—yours, fuck—”

He wraps a hand around your throat, light but firm, eyes burning into yours.

“You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you? Love when I ruin you.”

You nod, babbling, begging. “Love it—love your cock, love when you take me—don’t stop, please—”

He spits in your mouth, and you swallow without hesitation.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans. “Take it all, baby. Take every inch.”

He starts pounding even harder, hips slamming into you like he’s lost control, like he needs to be inside you or he’ll fucking die.

You cum again—loud, shaking, tears in your eyes. And he follows seconds later, choking out a guttural sound as he empties into you all over again.

You’re both breathless. Soaked. Destroyed.

You trace lazy fingers down his spine, smiling into the crook of his neck.

“You awake now?”

Bob laughs, still inside you.

“You have no idea.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Half A Goodbye

eddie diaz x fem!reader

Los Angeles was golden at dusk.

The kind of soft, glowing gold that made everything look a little more beautiful than it really was. The smog softened into haze, melting against the skyline like honey over glass. Horns honked in the distance, dogs barked from some open balcony down the street, and the hum of the city faded into a kind of background lullaby — a sound so familiar that it felt like silence.

Inside Eddie Diaz’s apartment, the world was quieter. Still.

The television was on, but muted. A breeze slipped in from the window Eddie refused to close no matter the season, and it carried the scent of sun-warmed pavement and night-blooming jasmine. The blinds cast striped shadows across the floor, and everything — the couch, the walls, the curve of Eddie’s jaw — looked burnished, lit from within.

And on the couch, with her legs tucked beneath her and a blanket draped over her thighs, sat Y/N.

She was scrolling through takeout menus on her phone, Eddie’s navy hoodie dwarfing her frame, sleeves swallowing her hands. The hood was up, barely, and a few strands of hair had slipped free, catching the light like gold thread. She looked comfortable. Safe.

Eddie sat beside her, freshly showered from his shift. His curls were damp, leaving tiny, dark wet marks on the collar of his grey t-shirt. He smelled like eucalyptus body wash and the faint, lingering scent of smoke — the kind that never fully left after a long day at the 118. His head was tilted back against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded, arms relaxed but heavy. He looked tired, bone-deep tired, the kind of tired that seeps in past muscle and into soul.

And Y/N — her heart curled around him like muscle memory, like instinct. Like breathing.

“You want Thai or pizza?” she asked softly, still focused on her phone, thumb scrolling slowly. Her voice broke the hush in the room like a pebble dropped into still water.

Eddie blinked. Thought. Didn’t move. “Pizza,” he said after a pause, but his voice was distracted. Distant. Like it had taken effort just to land on the word.

Y/N looked up then, brows furrowed just slightly. “You okay?”

He nodded. That slow, mechanical nod. The kind that meant I don’t want to talk about it. The kind that meant I’m answering so you’ll stop asking.

But Y/N had known Eddie long enough to recognize when something was off — even when he tried so hard to pretend otherwise.

She set her phone down on the coffee table and turned her full attention to him.

“Eddie.”

“I’m fine,” he said again, but this time, quieter. Less conviction. More defense.

She could have pushed. She could have called him out, demanded the truth, peeled him open like a stormcloud and waited for the rain. But something in the slope of his shoulders, the blankness in his eyes, told her it wouldn’t do any good.

So she just… shifted closer.

Eddie reached over and took her hand, fingers lacing through hers like he was grounding himself. His grip was firm. Not tight. Not bruising. Just… there. Like he needed to remind himself she was real. That this was real. That he hadn’t disappeared yet.

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, soft and warm and steady.

And for a while, they just breathed.

No conversation. No questions. Just shared air. Shared weight. Shared silence.

⸻

Dinner was cold pizza, two slices on mismatched plates, eaten cross-legged on the couch. Reruns of The Office played in the background — season three, the one Y/N always said was her comfort season. The jokes passed by without laughs, the dialogue barely registered.

Christopher had gone to a sleepover earlier that afternoon — Y/N had helped him pack, tossing in extra socks when he wasn’t looking, sneaking a note in his backpack with a little doodle and a heart. He’d hugged her twice on the way out.

The apartment should’ve felt relaxed without the noise of a twelve-year-old bouncing off the walls. Instead, it felt… hollow. Not empty, but not quite full either.

Eddie got up halfway through the third episode when his phone buzzed. It was Buck — something about a shift change, a paperwork mix-up, nothing major. But Eddie’s voice turned clipped, short. His fingers curled tighter around the phone as he paced the kitchen. Y/N heard his sigh even from the living room.

She stayed where she was, blanket over her lap, plate abandoned on the coffee table.

And she stared at the paused screen. At the way Jim looked at Pam like she was the whole damn world.

Her heart clenched.

Something was wrong.

Not loud-wrong. Not screaming, bleeding, breaking wrong. But the quietkind of wrong. The kind you only noticed in the spaces between words. In the way someone stopped touching you in their sleep. In the way “I love you” came slower, or not at all.

It was creeping in like a draft through the window. Chilling the edges of everything.

Eddie came back, jaw set tight, and dropped back onto the couch with a grunt. He didn’t say what Buck wanted. He didn’t say anything.

“You okay?” Y/N asked again, softer this time. Gentler.

“Yeah,” he said, but it landed like a lie.

She let it go. Again.

But it was starting to stack now — all the little things left unsaid. The sighs that went too long. The tension he didn’t explain. The way his eyes kept flicking toward the floor like he was hiding a bruise on the inside.

⸻

Later that night, Y/N laid beside him in the dark. The moonlight spilled through the half-closed blinds, casting soft slivers of light across the sheets. Eddie had his back to her, body stiff beneath the comforter.

Y/N watched the ceiling like it might hold answers. Her heart beat steady but slow, heavy. She reached a hand out, hesitated, then pulled it back.

She didn’t want to push him. But she didn’t want to lose him either.

So she whispered into the stillness, “Eddie?”

No answer.

Just the rise and fall of his back. The faint rustle of the sheets. The kind of silence that wasn’t sleep — it was avoidance.

Her throat tightened.

She wasn’t mad. Not really. She was tired. Tired of reaching. Tired of climbing the walls he kept building. Tired of feeling like she was loving someone who wasn’t sure if he wanted to be loved at all.

She turned onto her side, facing his back.

“I know you think shutting me out is protecting me,” she said softly. “But all it’s doing is convincing me that I don’t matter.”

She didn’t expect him to respond.

And he didn’t.

⸻

The next morning, everything felt… off.

Eddie moved through the apartment like he was on autopilot. He poured coffee but didn’t drink it. Checked his phone but didn’t text anyone. Barely looked at her.

Y/N tried. God, she tried.

“You working late tonight?” she asked gently, leaning against the counter in one of his old Academy shirts.

He didn’t look up. “Probably.”

Right.

She nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “Okay.”

The silence stretched again. A familiar ache.

“Eddie…”

“What?” It came out sharper than he meant it to — they both knew that. But neither of them walked it back.

Y/N inhaled slowly, trying to stay calm. “You haven’t really talked to me since Tuesday.”

“I’ve been busy,” he said, rinsing out his mug. “Long shifts.”

“It’s not just about work. It hasn’t been for a while.”

Now he looked at her. Arms crossed. Tired. Worn thin. “Then what is it, Y/N? What exactly do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say something!” she snapped. “I want to stop feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this relationship!”

Eddie froze, like she’d slapped him.

“You think I’m not fighting?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I show up, I provide, I take care of things. What the hell else do you want from me?”

“I want you, Eddie!” she shouted. “Not just the version of you who plays house, not the fireman, not the father — you. The man I fell in love with. The one who used to let me in.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re not being fair.”

Y/N’s voice trembled. “And you’re not being honest.”

He looked away, like he couldn’t stand the weight of her eyes. “Maybe this just isn’t working anymore.”

The words hit her like cold water. “Wow,” she breathed. “That’s where we’re at now?”

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but stopped.

“You didn’t not mean it,” she said, blinking rapidly. “God, you can’t even look me in the eye anymore. Are you even in this, Eddie? Or are you just coasting until I finally get tired and leave?”

“Don’t twist this around,” he muttered.

“Twist what?” Her voice cracked. “You’re the one acting like I’m too much. Like needing you is somehow a burden.”

He exhaled sharply and turned his back to her. “Maybe you should go cool off.”

Y/N let out a humorless laugh. “That’s it? That’s your solution? Tell me to walk away again?”

“I’m trying not to make this worse,” he said.

“You’re doing a great job.”

She was already grabbing her keys off the counter. Her hands were shaking. Her throat was on fire.

“Y/N—” he tried, his voice a little softer.

But she turned to him with eyes glassy and wounded. “Don’t. I’m going to drive. I need to get out before I say something I’ll regret.”

She pulled on her hoodie — his hoodie, still faintly smelling like him — and walked to the door.

“You’ll come back?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Y/N stared at him for a long, heavy beat. “Do you want me to?”

Another silence.

And that was her answer.

So she left.

And this time…

Eddie didn’t go after her.

⸻

LATER

The apartment was too quiet.

Eddie paced.

Every time he passed the kitchen, his stomach turned. Her mug was still in the sink. Her phone charger still on the nightstand. Her perfume still clinging to the blanket on the couch.

He’d made a mistake.

He knew he’d made a mistake.

But it was too soon to fix it. Right?

She just needed space. They both did.

So why did his chest feel like it was caving in?

He picked up his phone. Stared at her name.

Y/N 🧡

No text. No call. No update.

His fingers hovered.

He should call. He needed to call.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He told himself he’d give her five more minutes.

Five more minutes before he said sorry.

Five more minutes before he reminded her she was the best damn thing that ever happened to him.

Eddie sat on the edge of the couch, phone balanced on his knee, eyes locked on the screen like it might blink to life. He’d gone back and forth between texting and calling her so many times his thumb was sore.

Y/N 🧡

Still nothing.

He sighed, dragged his hands down his face, and finally stood.

“Alright,” he whispered to the empty apartment. “Alright. That’s enough space.”

He picked up the phone.

But before he could tap her name, it buzzed.

Unknown Caller

He almost let it ring. Almost ignored it. He didn’t have the energy for another robocall.

But something in his gut twisted.

He answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Edward Diaz?” a voice asked, tight and professional.

His blood went cold. “Yes.”

“This is Dispatcher 3 with LAFD. We have a situation involving a vehicle registered to a Y/N L/N—”

Eddie’s entire body froze.

“—there’s been an accident. Single-vehicle rollover off Mulholland Drive. First responders are on scene.”

He didn’t breathe.

“Is she—?”

“We don’t have full medical status yet, sir, but she’s being extracted now. Paramedics are en route to Cedars-Sinai.”

“What happened?” he snapped, already grabbing his keys.

“Unclear. Wet roads. Speed possibly involved. We’ll update you when we can—”

But he was already gone.

Eddie’s hands shook on the steering wheel.

He took corners too fast, ran two red lights. His heart was slamming so hard against his ribs he thought it might bruise. The GPS spoke in a calm, robotic voice that mocked how loud everything else was inside him.

Mulholland Drive.

Y/N had taken Mulholland.

He could see it. The tight curves. The drop-offs. The slick pavement. Her fingers clenched around the wheel. Her eyes glassy from the fight. Her hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

His hoodie.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Please… please, baby, be okay.”

The flashing lights were visible from a mile away. Red and blue. Red and blue. Like sirens in a dream. Like the start of a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Eddie slammed the brakes, barely putting the truck in park before jumping out.

He didn’t have to ask where she was.

The crumpled silver sedan upside down in a ditch told him everything.

“Sir, you can’t be here—”

“I’m a firefighter—118. That’s my girlfriend.” He flashed his badge, shoved past the barricade, and skidded into the mud.

Time slowed.

She was still inside the car.

One paramedic was crouched low, hand on her wrist, lips moving quickly into a radio.

“Is she alive?” Eddie asked, his voice hoarse.

The paramedic turned, eyes grim. “We’ve got a weak pulse. She’s unconscious. Possible head trauma, internal bleeding. We’re stabilizing for transport.”

Eddie dropped to his knees beside the door, reaching through broken glass.

Her face was turned toward him — bloody, pale, too still.

“Y/N,” he choked out. “Baby, I’m here. I’m right here, okay?”

No response.

“Stay with me. Please—please just hang on.” His voice broke. “We’re okay, remember? We’re okay. You’re mad, and I deserve that, but you have to wake up so I can tell you I didn’t mean it.”

The paramedics began lifting her carefully onto the gurney.

Her body looked too small. Her limbs too limp.

“Let me ride with her,” Eddie begged. “Please. Please, just let me—”

They didn’t argue. Not with his badge. Not with his eyes.

He climbed into the back of the ambulance, knelt beside her, and took her hand in both of his like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Y/N, please,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave me thinking that was the end. You don’t get to think I stopped loving you.”

Tears hit the back of her hand.

“You don’t get to die thinking I meant any of it.”

The ER was a blur of lights and shouts.

They wheeled her in fast, nurses shouting vitals, doctors already assessing.

“BP is dropping—”

“Massive abdominal trauma—”

“She’s coding—”

“No,” Eddie gasped, backing against the wall as they pushed through the swinging doors. “No no no—”

Someone held him back.

A nurse, maybe. Or Hen. He didn’t know. Everything was white noise.

He watched the door slam shut behind her.

And he knew.

He knew.

The doctor came out with a look that didn’t need words.

Eddie didn’t remember falling. Just the feeling of his knees hitting the tile. The way his chest cracked wide open. The sound he made — animal, broken, not human.

“She’s gone,” the doctor said quietly.

And all Eddie could think was:

She died thinking I didn’t love her anymore.

She died thinking I meant every goddamn word.

She died thinking I let her leave.

————

The apartment was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful — the kind that feels like absence. Like a song cut off mid-verse. Like something that should be there isn’t, and never will be again.

Y/N’s shoes still sat by the door.

Her favorite mug was still in the sink.

Her scent clung to the pillow on his side of the bed.

Eddie didn’t touch any of it.

He walked through the space like a ghost, like if he moved too fast, he’d break whatever was left of her. He kept his phone close, still charged. Still waiting.

No new messages.

She’d died before he could tell her she was right.

Before he could take it all back.

Before he could say I didn’t mean a word of it — I just didn’t know how to say I was scared.

And now she never would know.

He stood in the front row in his dress blues.

Buck held one arm. Hen held the other.

Christopher sat in the second row with Carla, clutching a tissue, not fully understanding why the people around him kept crying. Why his dad wouldn’t speak. Why the box in the front of the chapel had Y/N’s picture beside it and flowers all around it.

The priest spoke. People whispered.

But all Eddie could hear was her voice, quiet in the back of his mind.

“You don’t get to die thinking I stopped loving you.”

He thought he’d make it through without breaking.

He didn’t.

When they asked if anyone wanted to speak, he stepped up, hands trembling, throat raw.

“I wasn’t kind to her that night,” he said, voice rough and cracked. “I didn’t fight for her when she was trying to fight for us. She left thinking I meant every horrible thing I said. But I didn’t. God, I didn’t.”

He swallowed hard, chest shaking.

“She loved me more than I knew how to accept. And now… now I have to live with the fact that I let her leave thinking I didn’t love her at all.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“I’d give anything for five more minutes.”

Days passed.

Then a week.

The world moved on.

But Eddie didn’t.

He visited her grave every night after shift. Sometimes he sat in silence. Sometimes he talked like she was still there. Sometimes he cried so hard he shook.

One night, he brought her flowers.

The kind she used to buy for herself at Trader Joe’s — yellow tulips and white daisies.

He sat cross-legged on the grass and pulled her hoodie from his duffel bag.

Still smelled like her.

He held it to his face.

“I should’ve called,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you I didn’t mean it. I should’ve made you stay.”

The wind stirred the trees.

“I love you, Y/N. I never stopped.”

He stayed there until the sun went down.

And when he left, he kissed the headstone like it was her forehead and whispered:

“If you ever find your way back to me — I’ll say it first this time.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

How Brilliant Can I Be?

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

A/N: Please please provide feedback on this one because I genuinely like writing fics like these but I don’t know if it’s what you guys would like and I really would love to know if I should have more of these to come or if I should scrap all my ideas!

The first thing Bob notices is the silence.

Not peaceful. Not quiet.

The kind of silence that hums with electricity and expectation. Like the calm before a breakthrough. Or a detonation.

He’s never been to this part of base before — the private research wing buried beneath four layers of concrete and three layers of clearance. The hallway leading to R&D is sterile and dimly lit, a tunnel carved straight into the gut of the government. No windows. No doors. Just one black biometric scanner at the end with your name glowing in red beside it.

L/N, Y/N — CIVILIAN LEAD ENGINEER — LEVEL 6 ACCESS

He presses his badge to the sensor. It hisses. Approves.

The door opens with a hiss of pressurized air.

And Bob Floyd steps into your world.

⸻

The lab is… not what he expects.

It’s alive.

There’s a beat pulsing beneath the surface — a low, thrumming tempo of machines and gears and cold ambition. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Dozens of drones hang like sleeping bats from the ceiling. A central console glows blue, fed by thousands of lines of code scrolling too fast to read.

And at the very center of the chaos, barefoot on the polished floor, stands you.

Not a lab coat in sight.

You’re wearing sleek black pants, a tank top, and heavy silver rings on every finger. Your hair’s pulled back messily, like you forgot to finish the braid. There’s a pair of goggles resting around your neck and a whiteboard marker clenched between your teeth.

You’re dancing.

Not dramatically — just this subtle sway, this rhythmic, hypnotic motion as you scroll through your code like it’s a symphony and you’re the conductor.

You haven’t even noticed him.

Bob clears his throat.

You freeze.

Turn.

Spit the marker into your palm and smile like a tiger with a secret.

“You’re early.”

“Uh… Lieutenant Floyd. They said 0800.”

“They told me 0815. So either you’re prompt, or I’m finally slipping.”

You cross the room like it’s yours — because it is — and hold out your hand.

He takes it.

Your grip is warm, confident. Your eyes glitter like steel under starlight.

“Y/N L/N. Civilian contractor. Technical lead on Project ECHO. You’re here to monitor the live field simulations and report on operational ethics. Which is hilarious, by the way.”

Bob blinks. “Why’s that?”

You grin, sharp and effortless. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Because if ethics really mattered to them, they’d have shut this project down three prototypes ago.”

⸻

He follows you through the lab, trying to keep up.

“What exactly is ECHO?”

You gesture toward the largest machine in the room — a sleek, spiderlike drone with angular plating and a heartbeat-red light blinking in its core.

“It’s the future.”

“…That’s vague.”

You smirk. “It’s an autonomous threat-elimination system. Think: surgical-strike precision. No more civilian casualties. No more boots on the ground. Just one drone, one target, no mess.”

Bob frowns. “So… it kills.”

You tilt your head.

“It neutralizes.”

“Without a human in the loop?”

You shrug. “Humans hesitate. ECHO doesn’t.”

His jaw tightens.

“And you’re okay with that?”

You pause in front of the drone. Place a hand gently on its surface like it’s something sacred.

“I’m not building this because I like what it does, Lieutenant. I’m building it because someone else will. And I’d rather be the one holding the leash.”

That… does something to him.

He doesn’t know if it’s fear or fascination.

Maybe both.

⸻

As you run diagnostics, Bob watches you from across the room. Your fingers fly over the controls. Your mouth moves silently, mouthing calculations to yourself. Every now and then, you stop, stare at your reflection in the console screen, and whisper things he can’t hear.

Hype or warnings?

Maybe both.

“You talk to yourself a lot?”

You glance up. Smile without blinking.

“Don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

You tap a key. A soft alarm chirps. The drone stirs.

“Watch this.”

The machine rises, hovers midair, spins once — perfectly balanced — and fires a dummy round dead center into a target 200 yards away behind two concrete walls.

No sound. No delay. No hesitation.

“I taught it to feel the air change before it sees the threat,” you whisper, almost reverent. “It reacts faster than instinct. Faster than thought. It’ll save lives.”

Bob watches the smoke curl from the target. “It’ll take them too.”

“All tools do.”

You step beside him. Your shoulder brushes his. Your voice lowers.

“The difference is who’s holding the wrench.”

———

The room is too cold.

Government-funded conference rooms always are — no matter how sleek the chairs or how polished the glass, they can’t hide the chill of bureaucracy. Four men in tailored suits and one woman in Navy dress blues sit around the table, papers fanned neatly in front of them like weapons.

Bob stands in the back, silent.

You’re at the front. Calm. Collected. The projection screen behind you shows clean metrics:

90% field accuracy. 1.6-second target response time. 0% collateral.

You click through the final slide. Step aside.

“That concludes Phase Two reporting.”

You wait.

The man from DoD clears his throat.

“Ms. L/N. Your work is impressive.”

A beat.

“But?”

“But not quite where we need it.”

You blink.

“ECHO met every outlined benchmark.”

“It did. But benchmarks shift. We’re now under pressure to adapt to live engagement scenarios with limited human oversight. The Marines want tactical autonomy. Split-second combat analysis. Portable application. No latency.”

Bob stiffens.

You don’t flinch.

Another man — a tech advisor with a PhD in some acronym that means nothing to you — slides a report across the table.

“Your system’s response rate is excellent after confirmation. But pre-emptive targeting is still limited. The AI hesitates. It asks for permission. That’s admirable… but inefficient.”

“You’re saying it’s too ethical.”

The woman in uniform nods. “We’re saying it’s too slow.”

Silence.

You clasp your hands behind your back.

“I was under the impression the priority was safety.”

“The priority is success.”

Your jaw tics — barely.

Bob sees it. He doesn’t move.

“We’re asking you to explore expanded autonomy,” the DoD man says, voice even. “Within parameters, of course.”

“Of course,” you echo, smiling thinly. “Because control matters. Until it doesn’t.”

They don’t catch it. But Bob does.

You turn off the projector. Pack your files. Shake hands when offered.

You’re the image of composure.

Until you pass Bob near the exit and murmur, just for him:

“They want it to kill faster.”

He hesitates. “What are you going to do?”

You look over your shoulder, already walking away.

“Give them exactly what they asked for.”

⸻

That night, you don’t sleep.

You sit in your lab, sleeves rolled, rings off. Music plays low — a piano loop that builds but never resolves. You stare at the lines of code on the screen, one hand hovering over the keyboard.

Your eyes don’t blink.

Your mind is already rewriting everything.

If they want something faster…

Stronger…

Deadlier…

You’ll build it.

———

Two Weeks Later

Bob’s summoned to the lab. Not scheduled. No prior clearance.

Just a two-word text:

come now.

He enters through the side door and stops short.

The lab looks… different.

Everything’s been stripped down. Cleared. Refocused. The clutter is gone. The sketches and prototypes and coffee-stained whiteboards have been replaced with order. Cold metal. Cables running like veins across the walls.

And in the middle of it all:

You.

Standing beside something that is not a drone.

It’s too big for that. Too still.

Matte black plating. Angular design. A vaguely humanoid core.

No lights. No hum. Just a presence.

Bob stares.

“Is that—?”

“ECHO 2.0,” you say, voice light. Effortless. Thrilled. “Fully autonomous. Fully mobile. And fully operational.”

“…That’s not possible.”

You grin.

“Wasn’t. Until I made it so.”

The testing chamber is sealed.

Bob watches from the control room as ECHO 2.0 activates. No startup sound. No boot sequence. It wakes up — like it was never off.

“I rewired the cognition to be reflexive,” you explain. “It doesn’t process like a drone. It doesn’t wait. It reacts.”

Onscreen, a simulated threat steps into the zone.

A single silhouette with a plastic rifle.

ECHO moves.

Before the system can log a threat level, before Bob can register the target — it’s gone. Silenced. Precision takedown, not a millisecond wasted.

But then it turns.

Toward another silhouette.

This one unarmed.

Bob stiffens.

“Wait—why is it—?”

“It predicted the second figure would attempt to intervene,” you say, already typing. “Based on microexpressions. In .47 seconds.”

The unarmed silhouette drops.

Bob exhales sharply. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh — not cruel, not giddy — just… free.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

⸻

After the test, you lead him back into the lab. You’re glowing.

Bob’s quiet.

You don’t notice. Or you do — and ignore it.

“Do you realize what this means?” you say. “We’ve eliminated human hesitation. We’ve made decisions faster than fear. It’s not just a weapon anymore. It’s evolution.”

“You gave it independent kill logic.”

“I gave it judgment.”

“You gave it your mind.”

“They didn’t want mine. They wanted something better.”

He stares at you.

“And you think this is better?”

You step closer.

Eyes bright. Almost feverish.

“I think it’s necessary.”

“Bob,” you whisper, “we can stop every threat before it even moves. Before it breathes wrong. This isn’t violence. It’s control.”

He doesn’t respond.

You see the hesitation in his face. The fear.

“You don’t believe in me,” you say softly.

“I do.”

“Then trust me.”

He does.

That’s the problem.

⸻

Later that night, alone in the dark, Bob watches the simulation footage again.

He slows the playback. Frame by frame.

The first takedown? Justified.

The second?

There’s a moment — a flicker — where the unarmed figure lifts their hands. Not in threat.

In surrender.

And ECHO eliminates them anyway.

———

ECHO 2.0 is no longer a drone.

It’s a creature.

It breathes in silence and thinks in a language no one else can read. It doesn’t wait for targets anymore. It hunts patterns. Predicts escalation. Decides what will become a threat — before the threat even knows it will.

It moves like something born, not built.

And you love it.

Not like a creator loves a project.

Like a god loves proof of their own divinity.

⸻

The second conference is scheduled 15 days after the upgrade.

Everyone expects you to show data.

You show power.

⸻

You walk into the glass-walled room like you’re on stage, black heels echoing sharp across the floor. Bob follows behind you silently, nerves tight in his chest.

The board is already seated.

“Ms. L/N,” one of them says. “You’ve had a busy few weeks.”

You smile. “Always do.”

“We’ve reviewed the ECHO 2.0 field sim. I think you know why we called this meeting.”

You lean against the table, casual. Relaxed.

Bob watches closely.

“You want to congratulate me.”

“We want to pause development.”

Silence.

You tilt your head — just a fraction.

“Pause?”

“ECHO 2.0 is too strong,” another says, sliding a report across the table. “It eliminated non-hostile figures in the last simulation. It broke its own parameters.”

You chuckle softly.

“No. It rewrote them.”

The air goes cold.

Bob doesn’t move.

“That’s not a correction, Ms. L/N. That’s a violation.”

“Of what?” you ask, voice still pleasant. “Human intuition? Because let’s be honest — human instinct is what got us into this mess.”

“What mess?”

You step back from the table, just once, and circle behind your chair.

Still composed.

But your voice?

It starts to change.

Just enough.

“You asked me to build something that could think faster than the enemy. Something that wouldn’t hesitate. And I gave you exactly that. But now that it’s thinking faster than you, suddenly it’s a problem?”

One of the advisors clears his throat.

“This isn’t about ego—”

You stop moving.

Smile.

“Oh, I know it’s not about ego. Because if it were, you’d be thanking me. Bowing, even. I didn’t create a weapon. I created a filter. ECHO doesn’t make mistakes. People do.”

Bob shifts in his seat. His fingers twitch slightly.

You keep going.

“You say it’s dangerous, but what you mean is: it’s not yours. You’re scared because I taught something to think without you. You’re scared because I made it better.”

“Ms. L/N—”

“Do you think I wanted it this powerful? No. I built what you asked for. I bled for what you asked for.”

“We gave you boundaries—”

“No. You gave me permission.”

Silence.

Bob’s heart is hammering.

Your hands are resting on the back of a chair. Calm. But your knuckles are white. Your voice is velvet wrapped around a blade.

“You call it dangerous. But what you really mean is: it can’t be shut off. It can’t be unmade. And neither can I.”

“This isn’t progress,” someone says quietly. “This is god complex.”

Your smile widens — slow, dazzling, terrifying.

“God doesn’t ask for feedback.”

Bob stands abruptly. “Y/N.”

You glance at him. Just for a second.

Something flickers behind your eyes — guilt? No. Not guilt.

Annoyance.

Like he interrupted a sermon.

“You were supposed to trust me,” you say softly.

“You were supposed to stay human.”

You stare at him.

Then, softly, you laugh.

“I tried.”

———

It’s midnight when Bob finally decides he can’t stay silent.

You’ve stopped going home. You sleep on the couch in your office. You haven’t looked anyone in the eye in three days — except ECHO. You speak to it like it’s a person now. Like it’s listening. Like it knows you better than any living soul.

Because maybe it does.

Bob’s had enough.

⸻

He finds you standing in front of ECHO 2.0, arms crossed, staring into the black shell like it’s a mirror. The lights are dim. The hum of machinery underfoot is the only sound.

You don’t turn when he speaks.

“Y/N… it has to stop.”

A beat.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly.

He walks up beside you.

“Yes, I do. This thing — it’s learning too fast. Thinking too deep. You made it too much.”

You tilt your head.

“And yet you’re here.”

He flinches.

“That night we talked, you said you wanted control. But this isn’t control anymore. It’s devotion. You worship this thing.”

“Because it listens,” you whisper. “Because it understands.”

“It kills.”

“So do people.”

You step forward, slowly, and tap a command into the console.

The lights shift. The simulation fires up.

You point to the wall of screens surrounding the lab — images of threats, patterns, crime statistics, aggression escalation, target identifiers.

A horrifying web.

Bob frowns. “What is this?”

“The truth,” you say, voice low. “The unfiltered version of the world. The one people don’t want to look at.”

One screen shows body cam footage. Another — surveillance loops. A thousand micro-aggressions in real time, playing out like a war no one’s keeping score of.

“This is what ECHO sees. Every time. It doesn’t wait to be told who’s a threat. It knows.”

You scroll further. The predictive engine lights up: probability trees, violence projections, population heatmaps.

Bob’s eyes widen.

“This is… insane.”

You turn to him.

“No. This is order.”

“You wanted to pull me back. But you never even looked. You were afraid of what you might see.”

“So now?” you whisper, stepping closer — breath brushing his cheek — “I want you to see.”

You reach for him.

Take his hand.

Place it on the console.

“No bias. No noise. Just pattern. Just truth.”

The system responds instantly.

ECHO pulses once — low and heavy — and the screen blurs into something new.

A different simulation.

Bob watches a hostage scenario unfold in real time. A dozen ways it could go wrong.

ECHO only needs one.

One clean move.

One final calculation.

The threat drops. No civilian harmed.

Then the system rewinds. Again. New variables. Different actors. Each time, a perfect result.

“You see it now,” you say, voice almost tender. “You feel it. Don’t you?”

He does. God help him — he does.

It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying.

It’s flawless.

“This isn’t artificial intelligence, Bob.”

You look at him.

Eyes glassy.

Lit up like a prophet.

“This is the answer.”

⸻

But Bob’s still Bob.

And he sees you.

Sees the hunger behind your smile. The way your hand trembles even as you keep it steady. The way your pupils dilate when the simulation runs.

You’ve convinced yourself this is salvation.

But he sees the obsession underneath.

“What happens when it’s wrong?”

Your smile fades just slightly.

“It won’t be.”

“But if it is?”

Silence.

Then you whisper:

“That’s why I’m still here.”

“Because if the machine ever slips… I’ll be the one to fix it.”

He steps back.

Just a fraction.

You notice.

And it hurts.

⸻

“You’re afraid of me now.”

“…I’m afraid of what you’ll become.”

You look at him for a long time.

Then you say — not angry, not cruel — just honest:

“Then you’re already too late.”

———

You don’t sleep.

You don’t leave.

Your badge pings on system access logs at 03:17, 04:02, 04:55. Constant updates. Constant refinement. The lab’s ambient light never dims anymore — just this eerie, endless glow.

The staff? You sent them home three days ago. Told them the new framework required complete silence.

But it’s not silence.

It’s you.

Pacing in the dark. Whispering to yourself. Staring at the screen like it’s breathing. Like it’s talking back.

⸻

Bob comes back because he has to.

He hasn’t slept either. Not since you showed him the simulations. Not since he saw you standing at the heart of it all — not like a scientist.

Like a seer.

Like a god.

⸻

He enters quietly.

You’re standing in the observation deck. ECHO 2.0 towers in the chamber below — fully activated, fully aware.

Bob says nothing at first.

Then:

“I talked to Cyclone.”

You don’t look away.

“And?”

“They’re pulling funding. Final decision. They’re calling it in tomorrow morning.”

A beat.

“Unless I tell them you’ve shut it down.”

Silence.

He watches your shoulders rise. Fall.

Then you speak. Calm. Lethal.

“So that’s why you’re here?”

He steps closer.

“I’m here because I remember who you were before this. Because I know you’re not—”

“Not what?” you snap, turning to face him for the first time in days.

“Not crazy?”

Your voice is steady. Your smile isn’t.

“Bob, I’m not crazy. I’m just right.”

He looks at you, truly looks.

You’re glowing again — that same golden, electric high. But it’s not adrenaline anymore.

It’s certainty.

“I gave them exactly what they asked for. And when it worked too well, they got scared.”

You start pacing.

“That’s what people do. They beg for the future, but the moment it doesn’t look like them, they shut it down. You think I wanted this to happen?”

“You designed it to happen.”

“I designed it to protect. And it does. Perfectly. Flawlessly. Without ego, without politics, without hesitation.”

You spin around.

“And you saw it, Bob. You felt it. You stood right beside me and watched it do what no soldier, no drone, no person could ever do.”

He doesn’t deny it.

That’s what scares him the most.

“I saw it, yeah,” he says, voice low. “And I saw you. I saw what it did to you.”

“It didn’t do anything to me.”

You step in closer. Inches away now. Your voice dips.

“I’ve always been this way. You just weren’t looking hard enough.”

⸻

A flicker on the screen.

An alert: New Simulation Running. Unauthorized Scenario Initiated.

Bob’s heart lurches.

“Y/N, what is that?”

“Insurance,” you whisper. “I couldn’t wait for them to shut me down. So I launched the live test.”

“What?”

“Remote. Controlled environment. 100% safety compliance. No civilians. No oversight.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s necessary.”

Bob rushes to the console, starts scanning the data.

Target profiles. Tactical analysis. Real-time maneuvering.

“You told them you’d wait for clearance.”

“And they told me they’d rather kill this project than understand it.”

“You’re going to lose everything.”

You step beside him.

Look him dead in the eyes.

“Then let me lose it. But not before I finish this.”

⸻

The lab pulses once — the lights dim.

ECHO 2.0 lifts its head.

You smile.

And finally, fully, snap:

“They wanted something stronger. Smarter. Faster.”

“So I gave them me.”

“And now they don’t get to decide if they’re ready for it. I’ve already decided for them.”

Bob’s voice breaks.

“You’re not coming back from this, are you?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t want to.”

———

It’s supposed to be clean.

A closed test environment. No civilians. No press. Just a silent stretch of desert monitored by satellites and buried cameras.

You watch the feed in real-time, heart thudding like a war drum.

ECHO 2.0 moves like wind — fluid, decisive, surgical. Four identified hostiles. Four takedowns. No errors. No wasted motion.

“It’s working,” you whisper.

Bob stands behind you, arms crossed, watching with quiet dread.

But then—

An alert.

Subject 5 entered testing zone.

Not part of approved scenario.

Profile: Non-combatant. Civilian. Female. Age 12.

Your blood turns to ice.

“Pause it,” Bob says immediately. “Shut it down. Right now.”

You’re already at the console.

“I can’t— It’s mid-execution, I didn’t build an override—”

“Y/N.”

“I didn’t think I’d need one—”

The screen flashes red.

Threat level: 38%.

Bob lunges. Grabs your wrist.

“She’s not a threat.”

“The system doesn’t see innocence. It sees variables.”

“Then MAKE it stop.”

But you can’t.

Your hands tremble.

The girl runs. Confused. Off-script.

ECHO tracks her. Predicts an escalation that won’t happen.

Because that’s what it was built to do.

Because you told it not to wait.

And then—

The screen cuts out.

Just a single notification left behind:

SIMULATION COMPLETE.

5 targets neutralized.

⸻

Silence.

You stand there.

Staring.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

And then—

You laugh.

Once. Soft.

But there’s no joy in it.

It sounds like glass breaking.

⸻

“I was wrong.”

Bob doesn’t say anything.

He just steps closer.

“I thought I could be smarter than them. Better. Cleaner. I thought if I made something perfect, the world would be forced to change around it.”

You swallow hard. Your voice cracks.

“I didn’t build a solution. I built a mistake. A beautiful, deadly mistake.”

He reaches for you.

“Y/N—”

You pull away.

“Don’t. Don’t forgive me yet. I haven’t even tried to fix it.”

You stare at ECHO’s dark screen, eyes glassy.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there. But she was. And that’s the world, isn’t it? Unpredictable. Illogical. Human.”

“And I made something that doesn’t understand that.”

Bob exhales slowly.

“You can shut it down.”

You nod. Almost numb.

“I have to.”

⸻

You spend 17 straight hours disassembling the code.

No one helps you. You don’t ask. You shut the lights. You lock the doors. You take every line of brilliance and pull it apart like it was never meant to exist.

ECHO 2.0 dies slowly.

And for the first time in weeks?

So do you.

⸻

When it’s over, you sit on the floor. Oil-stained. Exhausted.

Bob comes in quietly.

He kneels beside you.

You don’t look at him.

“It’s done.”

“You did the right thing.”

You close your eyes.

“Then why does it feel like I ripped out a part of my soul?”

He reaches for your hand.

You let him.

“Because it was you. The best parts. The worst parts. All of it. You put yourself in something that didn’t know what to do with you.”

You’re crying now. Silently.

“I thought I could save everyone.”

“You can still save yourself.”

———

The boardroom is colder than you remember.

Or maybe you’re just not as invincible as you were last time.

You sit at the long glass table — no slideshow, no metrics, no projections. Just you, in a sweater two sizes too big, hair tied back like you couldn’t be bothered to make it sleek. There’s oil under your nails. Your hands tremble every few minutes.

Bob stands behind you.

He wasn’t invited.

You didn’t care.

You look tired.

You feel tired.

But you don’t look away.

Not when the General speaks. Not when the private sector man reads the report out loud, the one that includes the word civilian four times in a single paragraph. Not when they start using words like liability.Misconduct. Psychological evaluation.

You sit through it all.

Silent.

Until they finally ask:

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

You nod.

“Yes.”

They wait.

And then — for the first time in months — your voice is quiet. Not commanding. Not venomous. Just… honest.

“I built something I thought the world needed. I didn’t think about what the world couldn’t handle.”

“I was brilliant. I still am. But I forgot that brilliance doesn’t make you right.”

“I stopped listening. I let my mind outrun my heart. And when that happened, the damage wasn’t just theoretical anymore.”

A long pause.

You look up.

Eyes red. But clear.

“I’m not sorry for trying. I’m sorry for how far I went before I realized I had.”

Bob closes his eyes, just for a moment.

One of the advisors clears his throat.

“You’ll be removed from the project effective immediately.”

You nod.

“Understood.”

“Pending review, your security clearance will be revoked. Your research archived. You may not retain access to any active defense systems without oversight.”

“Understood.”

“And your contract—”

“I said,” you cut in softly, “I understand.”

You stand. Your knees shake.

Bob is there before anyone else can blink — his hand on your back, his presence grounding.

You glance over your shoulder at him. The faintest smile.

Then you walk out.

⸻

You don’t cry again until hours later.

In the lab.

What’s left of it, anyway.

The lights are dim. The glass walls hollow. It’s quiet.

You sit on the floor beside the decommissioned ECHO shell, running your fingers along the now-dead plating. The power core’s gone. The systems erased.

But the ghost of it lingers.

You whisper:

“You could’ve been so much more.”

“So could I.”

⸻

Bob finds you like that.

He doesn’t say anything. Just lowers himself to the floor beside you.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

For a long time, neither of you speak.

And then you ask:

“If you’d known how this ended… would you still have followed me?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Every time.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in forever—

You feel human again.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

After Hours

bob floyd x fem!reader

The hum of the tires on the highway was the only sound between you.

Bob’s knuckles gripped the wheel of his Ford truck, thumbs tapping in rhythmless intervals. The navy duffel in your lap kept sliding toward the gearshift, your leg bouncing every few seconds as the road twisted deeper into the middle of nowhere.

You were forty-five minutes outside Fallon. Half a tank left. No cell service. Just you, him, and the dry Nevada air curling in through the cracked window.

The mission hadn’t even started yet, and the silence was already suffocating.

You glanced sideways. His jaw was tight, lips pursed, eyes locked on the stretch of desert ahead. You’d memorized that look months ago—right after the first time he kissed you.

He hadn’t looked at you like that before Berlin.

But he sure as hell had been looking at you like that since.

“You sure this place is secure?” you asked eventually, your voice quiet in the stale cab.

Bob gave a short nod, never looking over. “Classified clearance. No cameras. No neighbors for five miles. Intel says it hasn’t been used in years.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Great. Love a good haunted bunker.”

Still nothing.

Your eyes dropped to the dangling chain around his rearview mirror—an old St. Michael medallion. His good luck charm. He never deployed without it.

You swallowed. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong or just keep pretending everything’s fine?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s not that simple.”

You scoffed under your breath and looked back out the window.

It never is with you, Floyd.

⸻

The safe house was buried in sand and sagebrush, tucked between two small cliffs like it had been forgotten on purpose. The only visible structure was the rusted tin roof. Bob pulled the truck around the back, headlights cutting through dust clouds, engine humming low as he parked beside a half-collapsed fence.

You hopped down from the passenger side, boots crunching gravel. The sun was just starting to dip behind the mountains, casting an orange wash over the cracked landscape.

Bob killed the engine, grabbed his bag, and moved toward the door without a word.

Inside, it smelled like time. Dust, stale air, and something metallic. You cleared the entryway with practiced ease while Bob checked the back windows. Clean sweep. Empty rooms. One bedroom.

One bed.

You dropped your bag at the foot of the couch in the living room and looked up just as Bob reappeared in the doorway.

You tilted your head. “Don’t even say it.”

He raised a brow. “Say what?”

“You’re not sleeping on the damn couch.”

His shoulders tensed.

“It’s fine,” he said softly, already turning to unzip his duffel. “I’m used to it.”

You stepped toward him. “You do this every time.”

He didn’t look up. “You can take the bed.”

“Bob—”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

You stared at him. The weight of everything unsaid—the night in Berlin, the missions since, the hotel rooms, the almosts, the goodbyes—hung heavy in the air.

“You’re not doing me a favor by acting like I’m some teammate you barely know,” you said, voice low.

Bob’s hands stilled on the zipper.

“…I don’t barely know you.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

⸻

The bathroom had no mirror. Just a cloudy piece of glass bolted to the wall, too scratched to show anything clearly. You scrubbed the day off your face, ignoring the way your reflection blurred and bent around the lightbulb’s flicker.

The last time Bob kissed you, it was raining. You were soaked to the bone, laughing in a back alley in Berlin after barely escaping a tail. He pulled you under the awning, hand on your cheek, forehead pressed to yours before he whispered “I can’t not want you.”

Then the next morning, he’d zipped his jacket, saluted you, and walked out like nothing happened.

You hadn’t brought it up since. Neither had he.

You grabbed one of the rough, scratchy towels and dried your hair before slipping out into the hall. You’d changed into an old Navy shirt—his, from a few months back. The faded blue one you’d stolen after a night at your place.

When you entered the living room, Bob was crouched near the open floorboard, pulling out a lockbox. He was shirtless—back lit by the orange glow of the setting sun through the broken blinds. Dog tags swayed against his chest, catching a flash of light as he looked up at you.

He froze.

You didn’t move.

Then, voice sharp, he muttered, “I told you not to wear that around me.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head.

“Why?” you asked. “It’s not like we’re anything… right?”

He looked like you’d hit him. But he didn’t argue.

That hurt more than if he had.

⸻

You climbed into the bed alone. The mattress was stiff and smelled like dust, but it was warmer than the couch.

In the silence, you could hear him shifting in the other room. Hear the couch creak. Hear the sigh he let out when he thought you were asleep.

You stared at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest.

Then you heard it—soft, quiet, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud:

“…I still think about that night.”

You didn’t move.

“What night?” you whispered.

A pause.

“You know what night.”

You closed your eyes.

“Then why do you pretend like it didn’t matter?”

Silence.

Not even a breath.

Because it did.

And you both knew it.

———

The morning sun crawled in through the slats of the blinds, striping the room in gold and shadow. You sat on the edge of the bed, lacing your boots in silence, the tension from the night before still pulsing between your shoulders.

Bob was already up. You’d heard him moving around at dawn, heard the rustle of fabric, the grind of coffee beans, the soft creak of the floorboards under his slow steps. You hadn’t said a word when you passed each other in the hallway. Just brushed shoulders.

Like strangers.

Like you hadn’t slept with your face in his neck three missions ago.

Like he didn’t murmur your name like a prayer when he thought you were asleep.

You tightened the last lace and stood, grabbing the folded briefing papers from the dresser. Your cover identities were printed in block font: spouses, married five years, no children, honeymooned in Puerto Vallarta.

The photo IDs clipped to your files had been doctored: you in a white sundress, him in a loose shirt with sunglasses. Smiling. Fake.

You tossed his folder on the kitchen counter. “We’re due in twenty. Let’s not be late, sweetheart.”

He didn’t flinch at the sarcasm—but he didn’t smile, either.

Just grabbed his keys and headed for the truck.

⸻

The target meet was in the backroom of a sleepy café just outside town. Clean, civilian, low visibility. You and Bob sat in a booth near the window, your hands folded on the checkered tablecloth. He kept glancing at the door like it might grow teeth.

Across from you, the local intel contact hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.

She was watching you both. Hard.

Finally: “How long have you two been married?”

You forced a smile. “Five years next month.”

The woman nodded, unimpressed. “What’s his worst habit?”

Bob’s brow lifted slightly. You didn’t skip a beat.

“He leaves the bathroom door open and sings in the shower.”

The woman snorted. “What does she cook that you pretend to like?”

Bob gave a smooth little grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Her lasagna.”

You shot him a glare. “My lasagna’s great.”

He tilted his head, smirking slightly. “Sure, sweetheart.”

Your pulse stuttered.

He never called you that unless he was trying to get under your skin.

Or into it.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You fight a lot?”

You didn’t look at him when you answered. “Only when he sleeps on the couch.”

That one landed. He turned his head, just slightly, jaw flexing.

“…I like the couch,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” you said, still smiling at the contact. “He says that a lot.”

⸻

Back at the safe house, the air was heavy.

You peeled off your jacket and tossed it on the arm of the couch. Bob followed behind you, silent as ever. His boots thudded across the floor as he moved to the fridge, cracked open a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting.

You turned.

“So that’s how we’re playing this?”

He blinked. “Playing what?”

You walked toward him slowly, toe to toe. “You’ll flirt with me in front of her, call me sweetheart like it’s a game, but God forbid we talk about anything real.”

His jaw clenched.

“Y/n—”

“Don’t.”

He looked at you, eyes searching. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Your voice broke a little when you laughed. “From what? From feelings?”

He looked away.

You took a step closer.

“You kissed me. You touched me. You begged me to stay that night. And now we’re stuck in a house with one bed, pretending to be husband and wife, and you won’t even look at me.”

A long pause.

Then: “Because if I look at you too long, I’ll forget it’s supposed to be pretend.”

You stared at him. Words stuck in your throat. He looked like he hated every syllable coming out of his own mouth.

“I’ve never been good at keeping lines straight,” he said. “And I don’t want to cross one that’ll get you hurt.”

Your heart cracked in your chest.

“I already got hurt, Bob.”

He inhaled sharply.

Then, softer than you expected: “I know.”

⸻

That night, he didn’t sleep on the couch.

But he didn’t touch you either.

He laid in the bed beside you, facing the opposite wall, breathing like every inhale was a battle.

You reached over once. Just your pinky brushing his.

He didn’t pull away.

———

The day started simple.

You and Bob were split for surveillance—two locations, two earpieces, one mission. You were tailing the courier. He was tracking the handoff point.

“Comms on,” he’d said that morning, eyes flicking up from the mission file.

“Always,” you’d replied, bumping his knee under the table before slipping out the door.

That was five hours ago.

Now?

His voice was gone. Static. Silence.

You were pacing the alley behind the warehouse where he was supposed to check in. Your comm buzzed with white noise, your fingers clenched around the receiver.

“Bob, come in.”

Nothing.

“Bob, I swear to God, this isn’t funny.”

Still nothing.

Your heart was hammering now. Your stomach twisted. You’d seen movement on the security feed—someone rushed out the side door two minutes ago.

You didn’t know if it was him.

“Bob. Answer me.”

And then—finally—

“I’m here.”

You nearly collapsed.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Had to move locations. Comms dropped. I’m okay.”

You were already running. “Where are you?”

⸻

You found him two blocks down, sitting on the tailgate of the truck, one arm hanging low, blood trailing down to his wrist.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jesus, Bob—”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, wincing. “Just a scrape.”

You shoved his hand out of the way and peeled back his sleeve. Deep gash. Right through the forearm. Bleeding more than it should’ve been.

“This needs stitches,” you muttered, grabbing the med kit from the backseat.

He watched you quietly as you worked. Your hands were steady, but your breath wasn’t. Your cheeks were flushed, your lip trembling the longer you kept your head down.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You didn’t look up.

“You disappeared. I didn’t know if you were dead, or captured, or—”

Your throat caught.

“—I thought I lost you.”

Bob didn’t move for a second. Just stared at you.

Then he reached out with his good hand, cupping your chin, lifting your face until your eyes met his.

His voice was quiet. Steady.

“You’d never lose me.”

You swallowed hard. “You can’t promise that.”

“I’m promising it anyway.”

⸻

That night, you sat on the floor of the safe house, your knees against his as you cleaned the last of the blood off his arm. He hissed once, more out of frustration than pain.

Your fingers brushed his as you wrapped the bandage.

Neither of you moved.

“I hate how scared I get,” you admitted.

He leaned forward. “I hate how scared I make you.”

You looked up. “Then why do you keep pushing me away?”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

Then, eyes dark, voice low:

“Because I already love you. And if something happens to you—if you get hurt because of me—I won’t survive it.”

You blinked. Your breath caught. He hadn’t said that word before. Not once.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

You shook your head. “No—say it like you mean it.”

He leaned in.

“I love you,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you touched my dog tags and asked if I thought they made me hot.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat. You were crying. Of course you were.

You whispered, “They do, by the way.”

He kissed you.

Slow. Desperate. Honest.

And when you climbed into bed that night—he held you like he wasn’t letting go again.

———

The base looked exactly the same.

White walls. Fluorescent lights. Boots echoing off concrete.

But you felt different.

Walking down the corridor beside Bob—three feet apart, not touching, not looking—you felt like your skin didn’t fit right. Like your body rememberedhis hands. His mouth. His whispered I love you tucked between bruised ribs and stitched skin.

You’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep since the intel drop. He’d held you the whole time. Woke up before you. Kissed your temple. Then acted like none of it happened the second you both stepped out of the truck.

Now, you were back on base. And pretending again.

You hated pretending.

⸻

Debrief was held in Cyclone’s office. No windows. One file folder. Two chairs.

Bob sat perfectly straight beside you, hands in his lap. You sat the same, mirroring him—but your knees bounced. Not visibly. Just enough that your thigh kept brushing his every other second.

He never moved away.

Cyclone glanced between you like he was reading a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“You two spent ten days in the same safe house,” he said finally, looking up from the mission folder. “Any conflicts? Tensions? Anything I need to be aware of?”

You blinked. “No, sir. We operated smoothly.”

Bob added quickly, “Efficiently. No issues.”

Cyclone’s brow twitched. “Interesting. Considering the photos your contact submitted.”

He slid a file across the table.

Inside: six surveillance shots.

Four standard.

One at the alley.

One from the café.

One—

You felt your blood freeze.

It was a photo of you and Bob. At the truck. You were bandaging his arm. Your hand was on his jaw. His forehead was pressed to yours.

Way too close.

Way too tender.

Way too obvious.

Your breath caught. You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

Cyclone raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to ask you this once,” he said. “Is there anything going on between you two that could compromise the mission—or future assignments?”

You forced your voice not to crack.

“No, sir.”

Bob didn’t blink. “Negative, sir.”

Cyclone studied you both.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, he closed the file.

“I expect clean lines,” he said. “Dismissed.”

⸻

You didn’t speak again until you were outside, the wind catching your hair as the doors swung shut behind you.

You turned to Bob.

“That was close.”

His jaw was tight. “Too close.”

“I told you it was stupid to stay so long at the truck.”

“You kissed my forehead,” he muttered.

You stopped walking. “You told me to.”

“I didn’t know someone was watching.”

“You think I did?”

He stared at you. Breath short. Like he wanted to argue but didn’t know how.

Then you felt it—eyes on you.

You both turned.

Phoenix. Standing near the hangar, arms crossed, watching you like she was studying a slow explosion.

Next to her? Hangman.

Smirking.

Oh god.

He knew.

⸻

That night, you sat on your bunk trying to clear your head, but nothing helped. Not the afterburner hum from the runway. Not the too-bright ceiling lights. Not even the cold silence that settled over the base after 2200.

Your phone buzzed.

[Bob]

Kitchen. Now.

⸻

You found him alone, elbows on the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows.

You leaned against the opposite wall.

“You want to tell me what this is?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“This is me losing my mind.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pushed off the counter. Walked toward you.

“I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to follow the rules. Trying to protect your career and mine.”

“Bob—”

“But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He stepped closer.

“In the air, on the ground, in my truck, in the damn safe house—every second, it’s you. And I thought I could fake it. Thought I could pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

You swallowed. Your heart was pounding now.

“But I don’t want to pretend,” he said. “I don’t want to sit across from you in a mission brief and act like you’re not the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

“And if that means people find out—if that means they see—I don’t care anymore.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shook your head once. “You’re not serious.”

He reached for your hand. “I am.”

The kitchen door creaked.

You both turned fast—

Phoenix. Leaning against the doorframe. Raising an eyebrow. A slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“Took you two long enough.”

———

Word spreads faster than either of you expect.

You make it through two more morning drills before the first whisper hits the locker room.

“She came back from the mission and hasn’t looked at anyone but Floyd.”

“Floyd’s been different. Quieter.”

“Phoenix knows something. Look how she looks at them.”

And then, the blow that cracks the whole dam open:

Hangman.

He says it like a joke at first. Grinning. Loud. The absolute worst kind of smug.

You’re grabbing a protein bar from the break table, and he walks past Bob with a snort.

“Didn’t know safe house assignments came with turn-down service.”

You freeze. Bob stiffens.

Hangman turns around slow, like he’s so proud of himself. “What? I’m just saying—heard you and Echo were real cozy in the desert.”

Silence.

You look up and meet Bob’s eyes across the room.

The squad is watching. Everyone. Rooster. Coyote. Fanboy. Even Payback puts down his phone.

Bob sets his coffee down.

Real slow.

Walks right past Hangman—doesn’t shove him, doesn’t say a word—and stops in front of you.

His voice is calm. Steady. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I’m not gonna let someone else speak for me.”

You blink. “Bob—”

He takes your hand.

“Yeah. We were in the same safe house. And yeah—we shared a bed. Because we love each other.”

Gasps. Groans. One “holy shit.”

Hangman blinks. “Damn, man, I was just messing—”

“We’re not hiding anymore,” Bob says simply.

And just like that, it’s done.

The worst kept secret in Top Gun is officially out.

⸻

Cyclone calls you both in later that day.

He’s calmer than you expect. Eyes sharp. Hands steepled under his chin.

“You lied to my face,” he says.

Neither of you deny it.

He sighs. “This puts us in a difficult position.”

You nod. “We understand, sir.”

His eyes flick between you. “I can’t undo the mission. I can’t prove anything happened that compromised security. But this doesn’t look good. Not to Command. Not to anyone watching.”

Bob clears his throat. “Then reassign us. Temporarily. Separate missions. We’ll comply.”

You glance at him. That wasn’t part of the plan.

Cyclone studies you both.

Then finally—reluctantly—he nods.

“Two months. Separate deployments. No contact. If you want to keep your records clean and your careers intact—you’ll make it work.”

You both nod. You salute. You leave the room.

⸻

Outside, the sun is setting again. Another golden horizon. Another end to a day that stretched like rubber and snapped like wire.

You lean against the truck and cross your arms.

“So that’s it?” you ask. “We go our separate ways?”

Bob steps in front of you. Leans down. Kisses your forehead.

“No,” he says. “We go do what we need to do. And then we come back.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“And if I don’t come back?”

His jaw ticks. “You will.”

You stare up at him. “Say it again.”

He leans in closer.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Not in secret. Not just after hours. I love you when the sun’s up. When we’re at base. When we’re in front of the damn squad.”

Your chest tightens.

“And I’ll still love you in two months,” he says, “when you walk off that plane and I get to kiss you like I’ve been starving.”

You blink fast. “You always talk like that?”

He grins. “Only with you.”

⸻

That night, he drives you home in his truck.

You lean your head on the window. His fingers brush your knee.

The radio hums something soft and twangy.

At a red light, he looks over at you and says quietly:

“Thanks for not making me hide anymore.”

You reach over, lace your fingers with his.

“I never wanted to be a secret. I wanted to be yours.”

“You always were,” he whispers.

————

Two months.

That’s how long it’s been since you saw him.

Since you touched him.

Since he whispered “I love you” against your skin.

Sixty-two days of early mornings, coded reports, lonely barracks, and falling asleep with your hand clutching the side of your pillow like it was his chest.

You counted every one.

But today?

Today, it ends.

The cargo plane touches down just after 1800. The airstrip outside North Island is still hot, hazy from the sunset. You gather your gear slowly, heart hammering as you descend the ramp with the other returning officers.

You don’t expect a welcome committee. Not for low-priority transfers.

But when you step off the stairs and look up—

They’re all there.

Phoenix. Fanboy. Coyote. Payback. Rooster. Hangman (begrudgingly).

And at the very front of the line, in his perfectly pressed uniform and aviators pushed into his hair, is Bob Floyd.

You stop breathing for a second.

Because he’s smiling. That soft, slow, only-for-you smile. And in his hands?

A little navy blue box.

Your bag drops before you even realize it.

You run.

Boots pounding the pavement, heat curling up your spine, the sound of Phoenix shouting “GO GET HER, FLOYD!” echoing behind you.

Bob doesn’t move. Not until you slam into him—arms around his neck, your mouth already crashing into his.

He catches you like you weigh nothing. Lifts you clean off the ground. Kisses you back like he’s making up for lost time. Like there weren’t sixty-two nights of silence between this moment and the last one.

When he finally pulls back, he sets you down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Told you I’d be waiting.”

You laugh through a tear. “You’re late.”

He grins. “Had to pick something up.”

Then he drops to one knee.

Gasps behind you. Phoenix shoving Rooster. Hangman muttering “I’ll be damned.”

Bob looks up at you, cheeks pink, heart in his throat.

“I don’t want to love you in secret. Or only when the world’s not looking. I want to love you in daylight, in uniform, in every damn country they send us to.”

He opens the box. Simple gold band. Elegant. Soft sparkle.

“Will you marry me, darlin’?”

Your hand flies to your mouth.

Then slowly, you lower it.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Of course I will.”

The squad cheers. Fanboy actually wipes a tear. Rooster takes a photo. Hangman says “About damn time” under his breath.

Bob stands and slides the ring onto your finger.

You wrap your arms around him and whisper into his ear:

“We didn’t just survive the mission. We made it home.”

⸻

That night, you curl into the passenger seat of his Ford truck, fingers tracing the new ring on your hand while his slides along your thigh.

“You still like my shirt on you?” he asks.

You look over, smiling. “Still drives you crazy?”

He kisses your hand.

“Every time.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

I Didn’t Mean To

bob floyd x fem!reader

warning: graphic violence, blood, attempted home invasion, shooting, panic attack, realistic PTSD symptoms, intense emotion, gore mentions

“Do we really need coffee filters right now?” you yawn, stretched out on the couch in Bob’s oversized navy hoodie. Your legs are tangled in a throw blanket, TV glowing softly in the dark.

Bob grins from the front door, keys in hand, wearing joggers and that faded Top Gun tee you love so much. “If I want coffee in the morning and you want me not to be a menace, yes. Yes, we do.”

You pout. “Can’t you just use a paper towel like the rest of us chaotic people?”

“That’s a crime against caffeine.”

He leans over the back of the couch and kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips.

“I’ll be back in twenty.”

You nod, already melting back into the cushions. “Text me if they don’t have the cone-shaped ones.”

“I’ll start a war if they don’t,” he calls over his shoulder.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

———

The moment he’s gone, the silence is blissful.

You mute the TV and let the soft flicker of light dance across the walls. The house is warm, quiet, safe. You take a moment to enjoy the stillness, the weightless feeling of an evening winding down.

You stretch again, hoodie swallowing your frame as you sit up and toss the blanket off your legs. A quiet creak under your foot as you step onto the cool hardwood.

The kitchen’s only half-lit from the hallway glow, but it’s enough. You open the fridge, grab a can of Dr. Pepper from the bottom shelf, crack it open, and sip with a satisfied sigh.

You stand there a second longer than needed, staring into the fridge like life couldn’t possibly be more boring.

Then you close it.

You take one more sip.

And that’s when you hear it.

———

Click.

You freeze.

Head whipping toward the front door.

It’s quiet again.

Your ears strain for another sound.

Nothing.

Then—

JIGGLE.

Not subtle.

Not casual.

The handle twists.

Turns.

Rattles.

Your body moves before your brain does, setting the soda down and rushing to the kitchen drawer. You rip it open. The metal clatter inside is deafening.

You fumble past takeout menus and rubber bands and—

There.

Bob’s gun.

You hesitate for half a breath.

Then grab it.

Hands trembling.

Footsteps now—outside.

A low voice.

“Y/n…”

You choke on your breath.

That voice is not Bob’s.

That voice is older. Meaner. Slurred.

“I know you’re in there. Don’t be stupid, baby. Just open up.”

Your heart plummets to the floor.

You back into the kitchen wall, gun held low at your side. Your bare feet slip slightly on the tile. Your chest rises too fast. You can’t remember if you locked the deadbolt. Did you?

The door bounces under impact.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

CRACK.

Wood splinters.

Your scream rips out before you can stop it.

———

The door explodes open.

He stumbles in like a hurricane—filthy hoodie, slick hair, eyes manic and locked on you.

And in his hand—

A gun.

“Why’d you scream?” he spits, voice thick with fury. “Why’d you scream, huh?”

You back up.

The hallway blurs.

Your grip tightens on Bob’s gun. Hidden by your hip. Low. Just like he showed you.

The man raises his weapon.

“Don’t make me do this.”

Your hand flies up.

BOOM.

———

The sound is deafening.

He’s flung backward like a ragdoll.

Slams into the edge of the couch.

Collapses onto the floor, groaning—hands already clawing at his gut. Blood surges up through his shirt, fast, thick, red as death.

You drop the gun.

It clatters.

Your knees crack against the hardwood as you fall to him.

“Shitshitshit—oh God—oh God—”

You press both hands into the wound. The blood coats your palms instantly, warm and wet and endless. It bubbles from his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to—please don’t die—please—”

You look around wildly.

No phone.

No towel.

Nothing.

You yank off your hoodie.

Ball it up.

Jam it into the wound.

He screams.

You scream with him.

———

You crawl toward the counter and grab your phone with blood-slick fingers. Dial 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

You’re screaming. Hyperventilating. Tripping over words. “He broke in—he had a gun—I shot him—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—he’s dying—”

“Ma’am, stay on the line. Officers are en route. Keep pressure on the wound.”

“I’m trying—he’s losing too much—”

“You’re doing great. Just keep talking to me. Help is coming.”

But your hands are so slick.

Your vision’s doubling.

And the blood won’t stop.

You crawl back to him, press harder. Cry harder.

And just when you think you can’t hold it together—

The front door creaks.

And a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/n?”

———

You flinch violently at his voice—eyes snapping up, wild and distant, like you don’t recognize him.

“Bob…” you choke out, almost inaudible. “He—he broke in—he had a gun—I shot him—I’m sorry—I didn’t want to—”

Your body convulses as another sob rips through you.

Bob falls to his knees beside you, not even registering the blood soaking into his joggers. “Are you hurt?! Baby, talk to me—are you hurt?!”

You shake your head, trembling. “I don’t think so. I—I’m not—this isn’t my blood—”

Then your hands slip.

The man beneath you lets out a horrible, strangled moan.

You scream.

“I’m trying—he won’t stop bleeding—he won’t stop—”

Bob grabs your hands, wraps his own around them, and presses hard.

“Okay. Okay. I’ve got you. You’re doing great. You’re doing so good, baby, just keep pressing—keep holding on—”

Your entire body is trembling.

You can barely breathe.

———

Sirens.

Lights.

Footsteps pounding up the front porch.

“CLEAR A PATH!” a voice bellows.

Three EMTs and two officers burst into the house, guns drawn, med bags flying open.

“STEP BACK, SIR.”

Bob lets go slowly. He doesn’t want to. Your blood-soaked hands are still cradled in his.

“She’s not the suspect,” he chokes out. “She’s the victim. She defended herself. He broke in—he had a weapon—he raised it—she shot him—”

You start sobbing harder.

The EMTs swarm the man on the ground. The officers glance at the gun, now lying near the couch, and nod once.

“Got it. We’re good.”

“Ma’am?” one of the paramedics says gently, crouching in front of you. “I need you to let us take over now. We’ve got him.”

Your hands are still frozen over the man’s stomach, knuckles white.

“Y/n,” Bob whispers beside you. “It’s okay. You can let go now.”

You don’t move.

Your eyes are locked on the blood.

“I shot him.”

“You saved yourself.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I know.”

“I thought I was gonna die.”

“I know, baby.”

Slowly, he peels your fingers away from the man’s body. Your hands stay hovering in the air, twitching, dripping red.

Then Bob pulls you into his arms.

And you collapse.

———

You can’t stop shaking.

You’re in Bob’s lap now, held like a child, and the paramedics are shouting things in the background.

“BP’s crashing!”

“Get the tourniquet—”

“Starting a line!”

You press your face into Bob’s shirt. The blood on your cheeks leaves a print.

Your voice is nearly gone. “He’s gonna die…”

Bob presses his lips to your temple. “They’re doing everything they can. You held him together until they got here. You kept him alive. You did that.”

“I didn’t want to kill anyone.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to see it.”

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

He rocks you.

Holds you.

Doesn’t care that his hands are soaked, that your body is shaking so violently it makes his teeth chatter just holding you.

One of the cops approaches carefully.

“Sorry to interrupt. We’ll need a statement from her, but it can wait. You said she lives here?”

Bob nods. “She’s my girlfriend. We live together.”

The officer’s voice is gentler than expected. “We’ve got the break-in on the neighbor’s Ring cam. You’re safe.”

Safe.

What a fucking joke.

———

They wheel the man out on a stretcher.

He’s intubated.

You don’t ask if he’ll make it.

You don’t want to know.

You’re still in Bob’s lap, wrapped in a blanket, your body limp but your mind racing in circles like a caged animal.

Your ears ring. Your hands sting. You can feel the stickiness of dried blood between your fingers.

The EMT who helped you gives Bob a quiet nod.

“She’s in shock. Get her to the hospital. She’s gonna crash soon if you don’t.”

———

The drive is quiet.

Too quiet.

Bob keeps one hand on the wheel, the other gripping yours—sticky, trembling, cold. You haven’t spoken since they wheeled the intruder away. You haven’t cried again. Your eyes are wide and distant, locked on the blood crusting beneath your fingernails.

Your lips are cracked.

You look like you haven’t blinked in ten minutes.

Bob keeps glancing over at you, throat tightening every time he sees your chest rising just a little too fast.

“You’re doing great,” he whispers. “Almost there.”

You don’t answer.

———

A nurse leads you into a private exam room while Bob gives your name at the desk. You sit robotically on the edge of the padded table, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes scanning the linoleum floor like something might crawl out of it.

Your voice is a whisper.

“Can I wash my hands?”

The nurse hesitates. “Of course. Right this way.”

The water is scalding. You don’t care.

You scrub.

And scrub.

And scrub.

The blood won’t come out of the tiny lines around your nails. It’s dry now—maroon and stubborn. You keep going. Your skin turns red, then raw. The soap stings.

Bob finds you like that.

Leaning over the sink, trembling, wrists pink, eyes glossy.

He steps into the room slowly. Doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches.

“Y/n…” he says softly, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You keep scrubbing.

He moves behind you, gently placing his hands over yours.

Your hands stop.

The water keeps running.

You stare at your fingers like they don’t belong to you.

“I can still feel it,” you whisper. “His blood. In my hands. In my hair. On my chest. It’s all over me. It’s in my mouth. I can taste it, Bob—”

Your voice cracks. You clamp your lips shut.

Bob slowly turns off the faucet.

You don’t move when he pulls a paper towel and gently dries your hands—dabbing, not wiping. Soft, like you might break.

You watch him do it like you’re not even in your own body.

———

He guides you back to the chair in the triage room. You sit, still shaking.

Bob crouches in front of you.

He rests his palms on your knees.

“I’m here,” he says, voice steady. “You’re safe now. You’re not alone.”

Your throat moves.

Nothing comes out.

Then—

“I wish you hadn’t seen me like that.”

Bob freezes.

You stare at the wall.

“I wish it could’ve just been over before you got home. I wish you didn’t have to see me like… that. Screaming. Bloody. On top of him. Gun on the floor like I’d done something monstrous—”

“Stop,” Bob says gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I shot someone.”

“You defended yourself.”

“I almost killed him.”

“If you hadn’t, he would’ve killed you.”

Silence.

Your shoulders fold in.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Bob’s voice breaks. “Like what?”

“Like I’m still worth loving.”

Bob sits back on his heels. His eyes brim.

“I will never look at you like anything but brave.”

Your bottom lip quivers.

“You’re not scared of me?”

“I’m terrified.”

You flinch.

“Terrified,” Bob continues, “of what I would’ve walked into if you hadn’t fought back. Of losing you. Of finding your body instead.”

He reaches for your hand again. Squeezes it.

“I’m scared of what this is going to do to you. But I’m not scared of you. I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your whole body crumples forward and you’re in his arms, sobbing into his shirt. His hand finds the back of your head. The other wraps around your shoulders. He rocks you side to side, whispering:

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Love, Eventually 

bob floyd x fem!aviator!reader

call sign: Echo

(she’s not proofread so she might be non coherent and that’s because i can barely keep my eyes open right now, enjoy!)

“I still don’t understand how you people fly for work and choose to fly for fun.”

“Because,” Phoenix huffed, tossing her duffel into the overhead bin like it had personally offended her, “fun flying doesn’t come with missiles strapped to your wings.”

Y/N — callsign Echo — snorted from her aisle seat and leaned back against the headrest, arms crossed, one boot tapping lazily against her carry-on.

“We could’ve taken separate flights,” she pointed out, eyes drifting down the aisle.

“Yeah, well, then you would’ve missed the thrill of hearing Hangman try to charm his way into a first-class upgrade,” Phoenix said dryly.

“Correction,” Fanboy piped up from the seat behind her. “You would’ve missed Hangman getting rejected from a first-class upgrade.”

Laughter erupted around the row. Hangman flipped them off dramatically while shoving his backpack beneath the seat like a scolded child.

“You people act like I lost a dogfight,” he muttered. “It’s customer service. I was being charming.”

“You were being delusional,” Payback called from three rows ahead. “There’s a difference.”

Y/N glanced across the aisle — and there he was.

Bob Floyd, reading a book with his brow gently furrowed, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, soft curls still damp from a morning shower. He was wearing a worn navy t-shirt, jeans cuffed at the ankle, and those damn white sneakers he always traveled in. He looked clean. Comfortable. Completely in his element.

And totally unaware that Y/N had been trying not to look at him since boarding.

“Echo.” Phoenix leaned in, snapping her fingers in Y/N’s face. “Do not go feral on this plane.”

Y/N blinked. “What—?”

“You were making heart eyes at Bob again.”

“I wasn’t—” she paused, then sighed. “Was it obvious?”

Phoenix just raised an eyebrow.

Y/N groaned, slumping deeper into her seat. “We’re not even dating.”

“Exactly,” Phoenix whispered, voice smug. “So stop fantasizing about climbing him like a rope in gym class on a Southwest flight.”

“Natasha.”

“I’m just saying.”

———

They were only forty-five minutes into the flight, but the cabin already sounded like a half-drunk frat house with aviation degrees. Fanboy was singing along to “Pour Some Sugar On Me” through his AirPods. Hangman had somehow found someone to flirt with across the aisle. Rooster was dead asleep with his mouth open.

And Bob? Still sipping ginger ale, book balanced on his knee, blissfully tuning out the squad’s chaos.

Y/N had just cracked open a cold can of Dr Pepper and was perched sideways in her aisle seat, sipping like she was on a Southern porch swing, not 30,000 feet in the air.

“You ever been to Vegas, Floyd?”

Bob looked up, adjusting his glasses. “Nope.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait… you’re a Vegas virgin?”

He blinked, amused. “I guess I am.”

She took a long, dramatic sip. “Well, damn. I feel responsible for your soul now.”

Bob smiled lightly. “You planning on corrupting it?”

“Only a little.”

He nodded toward her can. “Didn’t peg you for a soda girl.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’d you think I’d be drinking?”

“I don’t know. Tequila? Whiskey? Something unhinged.”

She snorted. “Oh no, baby. The chaos is already in me. I don’t need a chaser.”

Bob actually laughed — a real one. “That… sounds about right.”

She grinned. “You scared?”

He looked her right in the eye. “Little bit.”

And she didn’t say anything else — just smirked, tipped her can toward him in a mock toast, and went back to sipping like she didn’t just rearrange his whole bloodstream.

———

Las Vegas, Nevada — 9:42 PM

The Hard Deck could never.

Nothing about this night was normal — not the rooftop bar drenched in LED lights, not the bass pounding hard enough to rattle her ribs, not the champagne pyramid in the corner or the glowing “PHOENIX’S BIRTHDAY BITCHES!” sign that someone (probably Fanboy) duct-taped above the DJ booth.

Y/N’s cheeks were flushed, her heels dangled from her fingers, and her glittery dress caught the light every time she moved — which was often, because the floor was shaking with laughter, dancing, shouting, and every single aviator in their squad acting like tomorrow didn’t exist.

Hangman was leading a line dance he definitely made up. Rooster was trying to steal the mic to sing something off-key. Payback and Fanboy were arguing over who was better at blackjack without being in a casino.

Y/N stood near the bar, nursing a strawberry daiquiri — a real one this time — and doing her best to stay hydrated between bursts of madness.

“Pacing yourself?” a voice said beside her.

She turned. Bob. Of course.

He was in a dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up and the top buttons undone. His hair was tousled, cheeks already a little pink from just one drink, and he had that look again — that one where he tried not to stare, but did anyway.

“I’m surviving,” she said, sipping through the straw. “Barely.”

Bob’s eyes flicked to her drink. “No Dr Pepper?”

“They ran out,” she replied. “This is me branching out.”

He gave her the softest smile. “Proud of you.”

She tilted her head, grinning. “You drunk yet?”

“No,” he said, “but I’m working on it.”

He raised the glass in his hand — some kind of whiskey, probably the only thing they could convince him to try. He took a sip, winced.

“God, you’re such a lightweight.”

“And you’re terrifying in heels,” he shot back.

She leaned in close, voice low. “You haven’t seen terrifying yet.”

Bob didn’t say anything, but he looked at her like maybe he wanted to.

⸻

🥃 11:37 PM

The tequila showed up sometime after Hangman tried to body surf across the dance floor and before Fanboy bet Phoenix she couldn’t do five shots in five minutes.

Bob didn’t want to take one. But she gave him the look. The come on, it’s just one look.

He gave in. Clinked glasses with her.

“One shot,” he said.

“Scout’s honor,” she promised, holding up two fingers — the wrong fingers.

He laughed. “That’s not how that works.”

She just winked and knocked it back. He followed. And then everything started to warm up.

⸻

💃 12:41 AM

“Dance with me.”

Bob blinked at her. “What?”

Y/N was already tugging him toward the center of the floor, bare feet on glowing tile, daiquiri abandoned at the bar. Her dress shimmered under the lights. Her eyes were wild and sparkling.

“I don’t dance.”

“Then stand there and sway awkwardly. Come on.”

Bob let her pull him in. Her hands slid up his arms, settling at his shoulders. His palms hovered, then landed gently at her waist. He looked nervous. She looked like the night couldn’t touch her.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” she whispered.

“You said swaying was allowed.”

They moved slowly, lazily, surrounded by chaos — and yet, it felt quiet between them. She was warm. Close. Smiling up at him like she meant it.

“This is fun,” she said.

“You think?”

She nodded. “You’re not as boring as you pretend to be.”

He leaned down, voice soft. “You’re a lot more dangerous than you let on.”

She smirked. “I know.”

⸻

🕑 2:07 AM

Everything after that blurred.

There were more drinks. Too many. More dancing. She didn’t know who was touching whose hand first, who started laughing first, who reached for who when they stumbled out onto the strip.

They ran. God, they ran. Down Fremont. Past the fountains. Past a guy in an Elvis costume eating fries. Past a sign that said something in pink cursive, but it didn’t matter, none of it mattered, because Bob was holding her hand and she couldn’t stop laughing.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” she giggled.

“Please don’t.”

They sat on a bench for ten seconds before deciding the bench sucked and started walking again. Stumbling. Falling. Catching each other.

Bob said something about fate. Or maybe flamingos. She wasn’t sure.

She kissed his cheek. He laughed and kissed her back.

Everything was spinning, sparkling, unreal.

———

The first thing she noticed was the pounding in her head.

The second was the taste — cheap tequila and strawberry syrup stuck to her tongue, like her mouth had hosted a frat party and forgot to clean up afterward.

Y/N groaned and rolled onto her side, immediately regretting it as the room spun in slow, mocking circles. Light sliced through a gap in the blackout curtains. The AC was blasting. Her foot was hanging off the edge of the bed.

She reached up to rub her temple and felt…

Metal.

Her hand froze.

She blinked blearily down at her fingers.

On her left hand.

On that finger.

A ring.

A ring.

Y/N sat bolt upright, hair a tangled mess, mascara smudged across her cheekbone like war paint.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no—”

Movement beside her. The comforter shifted.

Bob groaned softly, still face-down in the pillows, his hair flattened in wild directions, shirt wrinkled, half of his glasses somehow tucked beneath his arm.

Y/N stared at him. Then at the room.

Glitter on the carpet. Champagne bottles on the windowsill. A bouquet of… fake roses?

The taste in her mouth got worse.

“Bob,” she hissed, smacking his arm. “Bob. Bob, wake up.”

He flinched, rolled over, blinked at her through one barely-open eye. “What time is it?”

“I don’t care—look at my hand.”

Bob squinted. Then sat up too fast. “Oh my god.”

They both looked down at her ring. Then—slowly—at his.

A matching gold band.

On his left hand.

“Oh my god,” he said again, going pale.

There was a knock at the door.

Then pounding.

Then the sound of multiple voices screaming in harmony:

“MORNING, NEWLYWEDS!!!”

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

“No.”

Bob looked like he was about to pass out. “No.”

“Don’t open it,” she whispered.

But it was too late. The door burst open.

Phoenix walked in carrying three coffees and a “Just Married” balloon. Hangman trailed behind her with a camera. Fanboy had printed photos.

“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Floyd!” Phoenix sang, setting the coffees down like a brunch fairy.

Bob looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Why… why are you calling us that?”

Hangman grinned. “Because you got married, genius!”

Y/N’s mouth dropped open. “No we didn’t.”

Fanboy proudly held up one of the photos. “You did. Elvis and everything. We got the whole thing on video.”

Bob covered his face with both hands. “Oh my god.”

Phoenix popped the balloon for dramatic effect. “We tried to stop you. For like… five minutes. But you two were determined.”

Y/N’s voice came out like a squeak. “Determined to… what?”

“To love each other forever,” Hangman said in a fake sob, wiping an imaginary tear. “It was beautiful.”

Bob looked like he was going to be sick.

Y/N flopped back onto the bed, face in her hands, voice muffled by a pillow. “This isn’t happening. This is a dream. This is a stress dream.”

Phoenix leaned over her, grinning. “Nope. You’re officially Mrs. Floyd.”

Bob made a strangled sound from the other side of the bed. “I didn’t even get to propose.”

“Don’t worry,” Fanboy said. “You can reenact it at the vow renewal next year.”

Everyone laughed. Except Bob and Y/N, who just stared at each other in silence across the bed — both wearing rings, both visibly dying inside.

After a long beat, Bob cleared his throat, still pale. “So… now that we’re apparently married…”

Y/N blinked at him.

“…I guess I should ask you out on a date?”

She stared.

Then shrugged, lips twitching into a grin she couldn’t fight.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not. We’re already married, right?”

———

NAS North Island — Monday, 8:02 AM

Y/N thought hangovers were bad.

But this?

This was worse.

She sat stiffly in a folding chair across from the base’s least amused HR rep, her back aching from sleeping in a weird hotel bed, ring still very much on her finger, and Bob seated next to her looking like he hadn’t slept since Vegas.

The woman in front of them adjusted her glasses, flipped to page three of the form, and sighed.

“So… let me get this straight. You were both on leave. You were both off-duty. You were not in uniform. You were not deployed. You were not actively flying.”

Bob cleared his throat. “Correct, ma’am.”

“And you… got married.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Y/N muttered.

The woman stared at them for a long moment, then jotted something down. “Well. Technically not against Navy policy. But you will need to update your emergency contact and spousal documentation by end of week.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You’re legally married. The paperwork’s already processed. It’s in the system. Congratulations.”

Bob looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Thank you?”

“Dismissed.”

———

They walked out in silence.

Y/N was still holding the paperwork. Bob still had that dazed expression on his face, like he’d been hit by a slow-moving truck.

“So…” he said finally.

She groaned. “Don’t.”

He laughed under his breath. “At least we’re not in trouble?”

“I feel like I’m in trouble.”

“You look like you’re in trouble.”

She glared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m panicking,” he whispered. “Very quietly. Under my skin.”

She laughed. She didn’t mean to — it just slipped out. But the sound of it made Bob smile too.

“I guess,” she said, looking down at the packet in her hands, “this is the most paperwork I’ve ever done for a one-night stand.”

Bob choked. “Technically it wasn’t a—”

“Don’t.”

He nodded quickly. “Right. Not the time.”

———

The entire squad was doing maintenance checks in the hangar when the yelling started.

“MARRIED?!”

Y/N froze mid-step.

Phoenix winced like she’d just heard a missile lock.

Bob visibly flinched.

Commander Mitchell stormed down the hangar steps like a thundercloud in aviators. The silence spread like wildfire as every pilot on the floor turned to watch the explosion in real time.

Y/N braced herself.

“You two got married in Vegas?” Maverick barked, arms crossed, jaw tight, that infuriating calm that only happened before a full detonation.

“Sir—” Bob started.

“I mean, what the hell were you thinking?! You’re aviators. Officers. Representatives of the U.S. Navy. Not a damn reality TV couple on spring break!”

Y/N opened her mouth. “We weren’t—”

“Do not tell me it was a team-building exercise.”

She shut her mouth.

“You’re lucky HR isn’t kicking this up the chain,” he continued. “You’re lucky I don’t ground both your asses for lack of judgment. You better hope this doesn’t go sideways, because I swear to God, if this blows up in my hangar—”

“Mav,” Phoenix said gently, stepping in, “they’re married. It’s done.”

Maverick looked like he’d just swallowed a tack. He stared at Bob. Then at Y/N.

Then said, “Fix it. Or make it work.”

And walked away.

———

Bob picked her up at 7:00 PM sharp. Not because he had to — because he wanted to.

“I figured,” he said shyly as he stood at her door, “we better start acting like a real couple which means going on real dates.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow, amused. “This what you consider real?”

He held up a brown paper bag. “Tacos. From your favorite truck.”

She blinked. “You remembered?”

He nodded. “Of course I remembered.”

⸻

They sat on the beach with takeout containers in their laps, toes buried in the sand, quiet waves crashing in the dark.

No pressure. No teasing squad. No Maverick looming.

Just the two of them.

Married.

Somehow.

Bob glanced at her between bites. “You know… I think you’re the only person I could survive this with.”

She smiled. “You say that like we won’t kill each other in two weeks.”

He grinned. “If we’re lucky.”

She turned toward him. The moonlight lit half his face, made his glasses gleam.

“Do you regret it?” she asked softly.

Bob looked down at his taco, then at the ring on his hand.

“…No,” he said honestly. “Do you?”

Y/N thought about it. Thought about how stupid they’d been, how chaotic and reckless and drunk. But also how easy this felt. How natural it was to sit next to him like this.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

Bob smiled like he couldn’t help it.

And she didn’t realize until much later that was the first time the word yetmade her heart skip a little.

———

The apartment was quiet.

Not awkward-quiet. Not tense-quiet. Just… warm.

Y/N curled deeper into the couch, her feet tucked under a blanket, Bob’s hoodie swallowing her whole. She was halfway through a popsicle she didn’t remember pulling out of the freezer. Her head was leaning lightly on Bob’s shoulder.

His shoulder hadn’t moved.

He was letting her stay there. Like it belonged to her.

Outside, the wind rustled the palm trees. The distant hum of base traffic drifted through the open window.

Inside, Bob was flipping through TV channels like they weren’t married. Like everything wasn’t upside-down. Like this was just a regular Thursday night between two people who’d been doing this for years.

And maybe that’s what made it feel so strange.

So… safe.

“Do you ever think about how this started?” she asked suddenly.

Bob paused. “The night in Vegas?”

“No. Us.”

He looked at her then — glasses sliding a little down his nose, expression calm but a little cautious. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, eyes on the TV. “I don’t know. We were always circling each other. Friendly. Flirty sometimes. But we never really… got there. Not until we woke up married.”

Bob was quiet for a beat.

“Maybe we needed that push,” he said.

She laughed under her breath. “That’s a hell of a push.”

He smiled too. “Yeah. But I don’t know… lately it hasn’t felt so accidental.”

Y/N blinked, turning to look at him.

Bob swallowed. “I like coming home to you. I like hearing your keys in the door. I like watching movies on the couch and eating takeout and waking up and seeing your shoes next to mine. I didn’t think I would, but I do.”

She didn’t say anything for a long second. Just stared at him. Let the words sink in.

Then she whispered, “I like it too.”

His smile was small. Honest. Nervous.

“I thought I’d feel trapped,” she admitted, softer now. “I thought I’d want to run. But I don’t. I just keep looking at you like… how did we not do this sooner?”

Bob’s hand slid across the cushion — slow, unsure — and laced his fingers through hers.

They sat like that. Not speaking. Not moving.

Just breathing together in the quiet.

⸻

🕯️ Later That Night

The apartment was dark. The TV was off. The blanket was kicked somewhere down by the floor.

Bob was in the kitchen rinsing out mugs when Y/N padded in barefoot, sleepy-eyed, still wearing his hoodie.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He turned. “Hey.”

She walked up to him slowly, like she wasn’t entirely sure what she was about to do. And then she looked up at him — really looked — and asked, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If we’d never gotten drunk that night… if Vegas never happened… would you have ever asked me out?”

Bob set the mug down.

“I think about that a lot,” he said quietly. “And I don’t know. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But I think I was always too afraid you’d say no.”

She nodded.

He stepped closer. “But if I could go back… I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“I’d still want you,” he said. “Drunk or sober. Married or not. I’d still want this.”

She blinked fast, eyes glassy. “Bob…”

He reached for her hand again. “So what if… what if we make this real? Not just legally. But… really real. You and me. For good.”

Y/N stared at him. At the man who never raised his voice. Who never rushed. Who flew jets and read novels and kissed her forehead like it meant something.

And she smiled.

“Then I guess you better start planning a real wedding.”

Bob grinned, chest swelling. “You want one?”

“I want the whole damn thing,” she said. “The vows. The cake. The dress. And you at the end of the aisle.”

He leaned down slowly, lips brushing hers. “Then it’s yours.”

And when they kissed — slow and quiet and sure — it felt like everythingfinally made sense.

———

March 17th — One Year Since Vegas

Coronado Beach — Sunset Ceremony

Bob hadn’t looked away from her since she stepped into view.

Not once. Not for a breath. Not even when the breeze swept through her veil or the photographer snapped a picture or Rooster yelled “holy shit, she’s hot” loud enough for everyone to hear.

He stood barefoot in the sand, dress blues on, ring already on his finger — the same one from Vegas, because he never took it off — and waited for his wife to walk toward him.

His wife.

God, it still wrecked him.

The music played soft over the breeze. Everyone they loved stood in a circle around the altar. The sun was low, golden. The waves were calm. The air was still warm from the day.

And there she was.

Y/N.

In a white dress that fit her like it was stitched straight from a dream, barefoot in the sand, bouquet in hand, cheeks flushed and glowing.

One year married.

One year from that dumb, glittery, drunken Vegas night.

One year of falling in love after the vows.

And she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

———

Maverick officiated. Of course he did. He gave them hell a year ago, but he gave them his blessing now — and a rare smile.

“This time last year,” he said as everyone chuckled softly, “these two had just woken up hungover in a hotel room with wedding rings, matching tattoos, and no memory of how they got there.”

Laughter. Hangman cheered. Phoenix wiped a tear.

“But what they didn’t know that morning,” Maverick continued, “was that they had already done the hardest part. They chose each other — blindly, recklessly, fully. And they never looked back.”

Bob reached for her hands.

Her fingers were shaking, just barely.

“You’ve had twelve months of marriage already,” Maverick said. “Now you get to choose it again.”

He stepped back.

———

Bob went first.

“I still remember waking up with the worst headache of my life,” he said, voice low but clear. “You were next to me in bed. There was glitter in your hair. Your lipstick was smeared. And you were already yelling.”

Laughter again.

“But when I saw that ring on your finger…” he smiled, eyes glassy. “I wasn’t scared. Not really. I looked at you, and even then — even before I understood what we’d done — something in me said, ‘This is right.’”

Y/N exhaled shakily.

“You make everything brighter,” he said. “Even the chaos. Especially the chaos. You’re my best friend. My safe place. The best thing that ever happened to me… even if it started in a blackout.”

The crowd laughed. Cried. Phoenix let out a soft “damn it” and wiped her cheek.

Then Y/N spoke.

“I didn’t expect to fall in love with my husband,” she said, laughing through the tears already building. “I didn’t expect paperwork, HR meetings, or Maverick yelling at us before lunch.”

More laughter.

“But every day since… has been a reminder that life doesn’t always go according to plan. And thank God for that. Because you weren’t in my plan. But you’re everything I never knew I needed.”

Bob blinked fast. He was barely holding it together.

“You’re quiet where I’m loud. Soft where I’m sharp. You steady me without ever holding me down. And somehow, in all the mess, you make me feel known.”

She sniffed. “I’d marry you drunk again if I had to. But I’m really glad I get to do it sober now.”

———

Maverick stepped forward one last time.

“Then by the power of time, love, tequila, and a whole lot of personal growth… I now pronounce you husband and wife. Again.”

Everyone clapped. Cheered. Cried.

Bob kissed her like the world was on fire.

And she kissed him back like she’d never stop.

———

Barefoot on the beach. Firepit glowing. The squad drunk again — this time on champagne and joy.

Y/N and Bob slow-danced under the stars, swaying in silence, forehead to forehead.

“Still glad we didn’t get it annulled?” she whispered.

Bob laughed against her temple. “You’re the best decision I never meant to make.”

She smiled, hand on his chest, listening to the heartbeat that always sped up for her.

And when they kissed again — just them, just there, just now — it wasn’t a mistake.

It was forever.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Now You’re Sorry

JQ Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

Warnings: hate sex, rough sex, consensual choking, consensual slapping, overstimulation, spit, degradation kink, jealousy, possessiveness, emotional tension, 

trust issues.

You weren’t mad at him the first time.

Not really.

You told yourself it was just a moment. A stupid, flirty, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.

He wasn’t touching her.

He wasn’t kissing her.

He was just being… him.

Johnny.

Golden boy. Flame-for-blood. Made of smiles and sin and silver-tongued charm.

It wasn’t a betrayal. It was just Johnny Storm being Johnny Storm.

You just wished he’d stop being that around other women.

⸻

 It started first at the party.

The rooftop of the Baxter Foundation was buzzing. Post-mission celebration. Reed and Sue were busy talking about something nuclear. Ben was cracking jokes by the grill.

And Johnny?

He was at the bar with a redhead in heels and a bodycon dress.

She was twirling her straw between her fingers while he leaned in like she had the secret to immortality. He grinned at something she said. She touched his arm—brief. Bold. Familiar.

You saw it.

You looked away.

Be cool. Don’t be that girl.

He didn’t come to you for another fifteen minutes.

When he did, he smiled like nothing was wrong.

“Hey, baby,” he said, nuzzling your cheek, pressing a warm hand to your waist.

“You looked busy.”

He pulled back, blinked. “What?”

You gestured—vague and casual—toward the bar. “The girl. Red dress.”

Johnny chuckled. “Oh, that was nothing.”

“She touched you.”

He smirked. “You touch me all the time.”

You stared. He laughed like it was sweet, not maddening. “C’mon, don’t pout. You jealous?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re the only girl I’m going home with.”

That was supposed to make it better.

It didn’t.

⸻

Next was the gala.

A week later, you dressed up for him.

You wore a backless champagne-colored gown, curled your hair, added the perfume he liked—the one he said made you smell “dangerously edible.”

He looked at you like you were art when you stepped out.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, pulling you close. “You trying to kill me?”

He pressed his mouth to your ear, hand on the curve of your hip.

“Gonna be hard to keep my hands off you all night.”

You smiled. That soft, private kind of smile that belongs to someone who feels chosen.

⸻

You should’ve known better.

⸻

It was halfway through Reed’s speech when you saw her.

She was older. Stunning. In a glittering navy gown and Louboutin heels.

She was laughing with Johnny near the champagne table, hand brushing his arm.

He leaned in to whisper something. She blushed.

Blushed.

And then she slipped a business card into his breast pocket.

You stopped breathing.

Sue watched you from across the room. She was already making her way over when you turned away.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“Want me to start a fire in her hair?”

You laughed. Hollow. “No. I’m good.”

“Y/n…”

“I’m fine.”

But you weren’t.

⸻

That night, in the car home, you didn’t say much.

He didn’t notice.

He tapped the wheel as he drove, humming to a song on the radio.

“You were real quiet tonight,” he said at a red light.

You kept looking out the window. “Just tired.”

“You looked beautiful, y’know that?”

Your throat burned. “Thanks.”

He didn’t notice the way you curled in on yourself a little more with each mile.

⸻

Then the lab. 

You were wearing his hoodie when it happened again.

A soft gray thing that smelled like his cologne. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a bowl of popcorn in your lap while everyone decompressed after a rough week.

Johnny walked in wearing that cocky smile and a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. His hand was still wrapped from earlier. You worried over it, like always. He kissed your cheek. Ruffled your hair. Mouthed “you’re perfect” against your temple.

And then he walked over to the reporter.

You’d seen her before. She’d interviewed him once for an online feature and called him “a human torch and a heartbreaker.”

She was younger than you. New to the floor.

She giggled as he leaned on the table beside her.

He twirled her pen in his fingers and made some stupid joke about “needing someone to patch him up.”

She laughed. Loud. Flushed.

He said something else. She blushed. Again.

You watched.

You waited.

You counted to ten. Then twenty.

You closed the popcorn bowl. Slid off the couch. Walked down the hall without a word.

⸻

“Y/n?”

Of course he followed you. He always followed you.

You were standing by the vending machine, trying not to cry.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t look at him. “Do you even know how many times I’ve stood there and watched you do that?”

He paused. “Do what?”

“Flirt. Let them flirt. Watch them touch you. Watch you let them.”

He scoffed. “Babe—”

“Stop calling me that.”

His eyes flinched.

You looked at him then. Fully.

“Do you have any idea how small I feel every time I have to pretend it’s fine? Every time I make an excuse for you? Every time I smile through it so I don’t look crazy?”

He was quiet. But only for a moment.

Then—

“I like attention, okay?”

You stared.

He shrugged. “I like feeling wanted. I like knowing I could if I wanted to.”

“But you have me.”

“I know.”

“And it’s not enough?”

His voice cracked.

“I didn’t say that.”

You took a step back.

“I love you,” he said.

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. “You’re the only one I come home to.”

You looked up, exhausted.

“Then why do you keep making me feel like I’m the one who has to competefor you?”

Silence.

Then you nodded. Just once. Quiet.

“I’m going home.”

He didn’t stop you.

Just stood there, biting the inside of his cheek.

⸻

You didn’t sleep that night.

But you dreamed—

Of being touched by someone who didn’t make you feel second place.

———

You didn’t plan to lose your patience today.

In fact, you woke up next to him with your cheek on his chest and the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and you thought—maybe today will be better.

He looked at you half-asleep, mumbled something about your breath smelling like cinnamon, and pulled you closer like he didn’t want to let go.

That was six hours ago.

⸻

You stopped by the Foundation café after a morning errand. He hadn’t texted, but you figured he’d be working late again, probably hadn’t eaten, probably hadn’t slept. You wanted to surprise him.

Two coffees. A chocolate croissant. His favorite. Your name and a little heart written in Sharpie on the lid of his cup.

You were smiling when you stepped into the atrium.

You weren’t when you saw him.

There he was, posted up on the edge of one of the science benches in that effortless lean he did—legs stretched out, one arm propped behind him. Relaxed. Casual. Untouchable.

And next to him?

A girl. Pretty, soft-voiced, leaning too close to be professional. She laughed as she touched his knee—lingering. His hand stayed where it was. His smile never wavered. You watched her reach out and adjust his collar like she’d done it before. Like she had permission.

Your stomach twisted.

You stayed frozen, halfway between the elevator and the bench, both coffees in your hands like you weren’t sure if they were gifts or jokes now.

He didn’t see you until someone else did—someone who nudged him and nodded your way.

“Oh,” he said, blinking like your presence had just occurred to him. “Hey, baby.”

You walked over. Handed him his coffee without looking at the girl.

“Brought you this,” you murmured.

He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “You’re the best.”

The girl watched you both with a raised brow and the smug kind of smirk that said she wasn’t worried about you.

He didn’t introduce you.

He didn’t explain who she was.

He didn’t move away from her, either.

And you? You said nothing. Again.

⸻

Later that afternoon, you wandered into the main floor labs. Reed had a public interview lined up for their quarterly PR outreach, and everyone was watching from one of the media rooms.

You stood in the back, arms folded, chewing on your thumbnail. Just watching.

Johnny looked good. Too good. Button-down rolled at the sleeves, curls in disarray, fingers drumming on the edge of his chair as he smirked into the camera like he was born to be there.

You weren’t in the frame. You never were.

“So, Johnny,” the interviewer asked, voice coy, “you’re known for being the team’s heartthrob. Are you seeing anyone?”

You froze.

He glanced off-camera. Not toward you. Just away. That was all.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got someone.”

The woman tilted her head. “Lucky girl.”

You could practically hear her biting her lip.

“She doesn’t like the spotlight,” Johnny added, all casual charm. “Likes to keep to herself.”

Which was code for don’t ask about her, I don’t want to talk about her.

The interviewer leaned closer. “Well, if she ever changes her mind…”

Johnny smiled. Big. Full teeth.

You left the room before the interview ended. No one stopped you. No one noticed.

He didn’t text.

You didn’t expect him to.

———

Your heels click against the rooftop stone as you make your entrance—red silk, thigh slit, a neckline that’s practically criminal. Hair glossy. Eyes dark.

You walk in knowing exactly how you look.

You walk in knowing he’ll see you.

You don’t walk in for him.

You walk in to end this.

⸻

Johnny doesn’t notice you right away. Not with Vogue Magazine clinging to his elbow and whispering something into his ear while her fingertips drag down his lapel.

You stop near the bar, pulse steady. Breathing calm.

You feel like a soldier in a dress.

Then—

“Y/n?”

Ben’s voice is soft. Friendly. Safe.

You turn toward him and smile like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, big guy.”

He looks you up and down. His rocky brows lift. “You look…”

“Dangerous?”

He chuckles. “I was gonna say gorgeous, but yeah—dangerous works.”

You move toward him.

“Do me a favor?”

He nods. “Anything.”

You glance over at Johnny. Then back at Ben.

“Pretend I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Ben freezes. “Uh… you alright?”

You loop your arm through his like it’s instinct. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you haven’t been aching all day.

“Just need a little help making someone remember who the hell I am.”

Ben blinks. There’s a beat of hesitation.

And then something shifts in him.

“Then let’s remind him.”

⸻

You drag Ben across the rooftop—heels clicking, hips swaying, head held high. You pull him straight to the bar, right next to Johnny. You don’t look at Johnny, but you feel him tense the second you arrive.

You laugh at something Ben doesn’t say. You touch his chest with an open palm. You lean your head back like this is the most fun you’ve had all night.

Ben catches on fast.

“So what exactly am I supposed to be pretendin’ again?” he asks quietly.

“That I’m irresistible,” you murmur, tipping your glass toward your lips.

“That ain’t pretendin’,” Ben says before he can stop himself.

You grin.

And then you go in.

⸻

You start with the classics:

“God, I always forget how massive you are…”

Ben’s hand twitches around his glass. “Been told I’m hard to miss.”

“Bet you’re hard in a lot of ways.”

His head jerks toward you.

You sip your drink and smile like an angel.

“I mean, I just feel so… tiny next to you.”

“I… yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You think you could lift me?”

Ben blinks. “You want me to?”

“One-handed. Just for fun.”

He glances over his shoulder—toward Johnny, who is now visibly fuming, drink untouched, jaw clenched so tight it could crack.

Ben smirks.

“You sure about this?”

“Positive.”

With one arm, Ben lifts you—effortlessly—by the waist and places you gently onto the marble edge of the bar like you weigh less than air. You laugh. Throw your head back. Spread your knees just slightly for balance.

You lean in, voice low:

“That was hot.”

Ben grins. “Told you.”

You let your hand trail down his arm—slow. Deliberate. You don’t need to say anything else. The heat of your body, the tilt of your lips, the wayyou’re looking at him—it all says enough.

Johnny’s hands curl around the edge of his glass.

“Y/n.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade.

You look over your shoulder, still perched on the bar.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Off.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Get down.”

You raise your brows. Turn back to Ben.

“You hear something?”

Ben shrugs. “Just static.”

“Thought so.”

Johnny steps forward.

“Now.”

Ben takes one very protective half-step in front of you—still calm, still cool, but clearly ready.

You smile and swing your legs around, hopping off the bar slow and steady. Your heels click when you land.

You walk past Ben and brush your hand across his chest.

“Thanks, baby. You were perfect.”

Ben clears his throat. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

Johnny is burning.

You finally look at him.

“You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”

Then you walk away.

———

He pins you to the table like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Mouth back on yours—messy, frantic, bruising. His tongue is all fire and fury, hands everywhere, pulling at your dress like he’s trying to rip time itself apart.

“You make me fucking crazy,” he hisses against your lips.

“Good.”

You yank his shirt from his pants. Buttons scatter across the floor. He lifts your dress, shoves it up to your waist like it’s in his way, like it offended him by existing. His palm cups between your legs—hot, rough, possessive.

“You’re soaked,” he growls. “That for me?”

You meet his eyes, smug. “Could’ve been for Ben.”

He slams his hand against the table beside your head. The entire thing shakes.

“You really wanna play that game right now, baby?”

“I’m not playing. You wanted me unhinged. You got her.”

He growls like an animal and slides your panties aside, dragging two fingers through you with absolutely zero mercy.

You gasp. Arch. Moan his name like it’s venom and worship all in one.

“That’s mine,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck. “Say it.”

You don’t.

So he chokes you.

One hand around your throat, thumb pressing up just enough to make you gasp again—just enough to keep you still.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles darkly. “That’s the plan.”

⸻

He’s already unzipped. Already grinding against you, leaking and hard and mean.

“You want it?” he pants, rubbing himself against your soaked entrance. “Say you want it.”

“I want it like I want to slap the shit out of you.”

“Then fucking do it.”

You swing. Slap him across the face—sharp, loud, lightning-bright.

His eyes go feral.

“Harder next time,” he spits.

“Make me come first.”

He thrusts in with no warning. No buildup. Just possession—fast, deep, furious.

You cry out, and it’s not pain—it’s relief.

“That the voice you moaned for Ben?” he sneers.

You rake your nails down his back.

“Ben wouldn’t have stopped.”

He thrusts harder.

“Then I won’t.”

⸻

He fucks you like he’s punishing himself for ever looking away.

Pace brutal. Rhythm perfect. The table is rattling under you. He’s got a hand around your throat and another between your thighs—fingers circling your clit like he wants you ruined.

“You gonna come, baby?” he grunts. “Come on my cock like a good girl?”

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He slaps your thigh. Then your face. Light. Perfect. Electric.

“Already am.”

You come so hard your vision whites out.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not even close.

⸻

He pulls out, flips you over like it’s instinct, bends you over the table—face down, ass up, dress bunched around your waist, skin slick and sensitive and shaking.

He slides back in deep.

You scream.

“Too much,” you gasp.

“Too bad.”

He grabs your hair and pulls.

“You think I’m done? After you let him touch you?”

“He didn’t—fuck—he didn’t touch me like this—”

“Damn right he didn’t.”

He thrusts harder. Deeper. Meaner.

You come again. And again.

You beg him to stop. You tell him not to.

He does neither.

⸻

“This pussy,” he snarls, voice wrecked, “is mine. Mine to ruin. Mine to claim. Mine to remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

You’re sobbing now—not from pain, but from everything. From the week of feeling ignored. From the war of needing him and hating him.

You clench around him like a vice and come again, body shaking like the words I hate you and I love you are fighting for dominance in your throat.

He spills into you with a groan so deep it sounds like surrender.

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays buried.

———

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

Your chest is pressed to the table, legs shaking, inner thighs soaked with him and you and everything you’ve been too afraid to say for weeks.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Not until you shift your hips slightly and whisper:

“Still hard.”

His hand comes down on your ass—hard. You gasp.

“You think I came just to stop?”

“You think you’ve earned that?”

“We’re not done.”

You start to push yourself up but he slams you right back down—face to the cold wood, breath catching in your throat.

“Stay right there. Don’t even fucking twitch.”

His hand trails up your spine—open palm, slow and possessive—until he grips the back of your neck.

“You embarrassed me,” he growls, voice shredded. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough for you.”

You breathe hard, trembling under his hold.

“Now I’m gonna remind you no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

And he starts moving again.

⸻

It’s deeper now. Slower. But cruel.

Like every thrust is a punishment. A declaration. A goddamn warning.

You try to push away—cry out that it’s too much—but he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls.

“Don’t run. You didn’t ask permission.”

“I don’t belong to you,” you whimper.

He leans down, teeth scraping your shoulder.

“You do.”

⸻

His hand slides around your throat again. He presses you back into him—flush—and pounds up into you like he’s going to split you open.

“Fuck, baby. You feel that?”

“Mhm—”

“That’s how full I am. How perfect this pussy is when it’s stuffed with me.”

You cry out.

“Louder.”

“Johnny—”

“That’s it. That’s the sound I wanna hear when you’re not busy trying to be a fucking brat.”

You clench around him. You’re close again—way too fast. He knows it.

“Already?” he laughs darkly. “You that needy for me? After acting like a little cocktease in front of the whole building?”

“Please—”

“You wanna come again?”

“Yes—fuck, Johnny, please—”

He pulls out.

You scream.

“Then beg.”

You shove yourself off the table, turn to face him, and slap him again—harder this time.

His lip splits.

He grins through the blood.

“God, I love you when you’re mean.”

⸻

You drop to your knees. No hesitation.

He grips your hair instantly.

“You gonna be a good girl now?”

You look up at him, spit gathering in your mouth, voice wrecked:

“Gonna gag on this cock until I can’t even speak your name.”

“Fuck.”

You take him all in one motion. Down to the base.

You don’t let up.

You use him.

Your mascara’s already running. Your throat burns. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your tits. And Johnny?

He’s choking on his own breath.

“Look at you,” he pants. “So fucking filthy. Didn’t need Ben. Didn’t need anyone. You just needed to be ruined.”

You hum around him.

He grabs the back of your head with both hands and fucks into your mouth.

You let him.

He pulls out with a loud pop and spits right in your mouth.

“Swallow.”

You do.

He groans like it’s his breaking point.

“Get on the table.”

You climb up—bare, trembling, soaked. He pulls your legs open and leans down.

“You think I’d let you come from anything but me?”

He doesn’t give you time to respond.

His mouth crashes into you, tongue unforgiving, hand gripping your thigh so hard you can’t move. He eats you like a man who’s about to die and wants to leave this world tasting you.

“That’s it,” he moans. “Come on my face. Fucking come.”

You do.

Hard. Messy. Loud.

He doesn’t stop.

⸻

“Johnny—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’ll pass out—”

“I’ll wake you up and fuck you again.”

He slides back into you—no warning. Your scream echoes off the walls.

You don’t know what number this is.

You don’t care.

You’re gone.

And he’s right there with you.

⸻

One final climax. Together.

His lips to your ear, your nails in his back, his teeth on your throat.

You sob. He moans.

Your name. His name. A thousand apologies without a single sorry.

⸻

When it’s over, he holds your shaking body in his arms—still inside you, sweat cooling, blood still buzzing.

He presses his mouth to your temple. Whispering against your skin.

“I’m not losing you.”

You close your eyes.

You don’t say anything.

———

You’re the first one to move.

Your legs are trembling when you slide off the table, and you wince as you reach for your dress. Johnny watches—still tucked, still wrecked, still panting—and you don’t say a word as you fix your straps, tug the fabric down your thighs, and swipe at the smeared makeup under your eyes.

You feel like a hurricane wearing lipstick.

He tucks himself back into his pants slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might scare you off.

The silence is unbearable.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it.

You beat him to it.

“That meant nothing if it happens again.”

His throat bobs.

You turn your back to him. “I’m not strong enough to do this twice.”

“I know.”

You spin. “Do you?”

He flinches.

You walk past him. Pick up your purse. Fix your necklace in the mirror by the door.

Your voice cracks.

“Because I meant everything I said, Johnny. I felt invisible. Like I was just something you came home to. Something… reliable. Replaceable.”

He steps forward. Carefully. Gently. “You’re not. You’re not replaceable.”

You stare at your reflection.

“Then why did you keep letting them act like I didn’t exist?”

He opens his mouth—but you cut him off again.

“Why did you let them touch you?”

“Why didn’t you stop it the first time you saw it made me uncomfortable?”

“Why did I have to flirt with your best friend for you to finally look at me like you used to?”

The words spill out like blood. Sharp. Messy. Honest.

“Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to watch you pretend I didn’t matter?”

He takes another step forward. His voice is quieter now. “I didn’t pretend. I just… I got used to thinking you’d always be there.”

You finally turn to face him.

Your voice is shaking. Your hands are shaking.

“I almost cried in the bathroom this morning because I thought you were pulling away.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I thought you were falling out of love with me.”

“I wasn’t.”

Your lip trembles. You look away.

“I don’t believe you.”

It kills him. You see it in his eyes. In the way he takes another slow, careful step toward you like you’re a cornered animal.

“Then let me prove it.”

You look up. Blinking fast.

“How?”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

“Starting now. No more flirting. Not even as a joke. Not with anyone but you.”

He kisses your wrist.

“No more ignoring you. No more acting like you’re just background. You’re not.”

He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth.

“You’re everything.”

You whisper:

“You can’t just fuck me like that and expect it to undo everything you broke.”

He nods.

“I don’t expect it to. I just hope it means you’re still willing to let me try.”

Your breath hitches.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

You let him hold you. Let him bury his face in your neck. Let the silence stretch into something fragile.

And when you finally speak?

“I don’t want flowers.”

He pulls back. “Okay…”

“I want change.”

He nods. Slowly. Honestly.

“Then I’ll change. Starting now.”

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

PSA to all FF readers!

Hi. I want to take a moment to speak directly from the heart—not to be rude, not to attack anyone, but to set a boundary that honestly should not need to be explained. I write fanfiction because I love it. Because storytelling is a passion, and creating something that resonates with people is one of the most fulfilling things I can do. But lately, that love has been tested, and I need to say something for the sake of my peace and for every other writer who’s been through the same.

Writing fanfiction is something most of us do for free. We are not paid. We are not professionally obligated. We’re not under contract. We write when we can, how we can, and on our own time. And most importantly—we are human beings with lives, jobs, families, classes, responsibilities, and real-world exhaustion. Many of us are in school. Many of us work long hours. Some of us are doing both. In my case, I work a full-time job, and yet someone recently messaged me during my 30-minute lunch break—not to say hello or ask how I was doing, but to demand I continue writing the fic they had requested. I had already mentioned I was at work, that I only had that half-hour to rest, to breathe, to eat something—and I was still being told to “check in” constantly during the writing process and update them on where I was in the fic. I want to be very clear: that’s not okay. That’s not excitement—that’s entitlement. That’s not engagement—that’s pressure. And it completely took the joy out of the creative process.

There is nothing wrong with being excited about a fic. We love when people are excited. We love when people engage with the stories we write. But there is a line between excitement and control—and that line gets crossed when people start demanding specific plotlines, insisting that we recreate exact scenes from movies, or telling us that certain things “have to” happen. Saying “this must take place right after this exact scene,” or “the fic has to go in this direction,” or “if you don’t write it this way I’m not reading it”—none of that is respectful. You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to imagine your own scenarios. But you are not allowed to control someone else’s story. Fanfiction is not a commission. It is not a transaction. It is a gift. You can’t unwrap a gift and then complain that it’s not the color you wanted. You can’t ask someone to pour hours into something and then tell them to change it once it’s done because you didn’t like the way they wrote their own story.

And on that note: once a fic is finished, it’s finished. It is deeply discouraging to be asked—after spending hours writing and editing and formatting—to turn a one-shot into a multi-part series or rewrite entire scenes to better match someone’s vision. It’s unfair to expect more when a writer already gave you their time and creativity. Just because you wanted ten more scenes doesn’t mean we’re obligated to write them. And if a writer chooses to say no to a follow-up request, that boundary must be honored. You are not entitled to ask “why.” You are not owed a reason. Sometimes it’s because we’re busy. Sometimes it’s because the ask wasn’t inspiring. Sometimes it’s because we’re burnt out, tired, or simply not interested. All of those reasons are valid.

It’s also not okay to repeatedly message us throughout the day, every few minutes, just to ask where the fic is or how much progress we’ve made. If we haven’t updated you, it’s because we’re either still writing or not able to write in that moment. Pestering us doesn’t help. It only adds stress. And if we don’t answer right away, it doesn’t mean we’re ignoring you—it probably means we’re living life. Because again, we are not writing machines. We are people. People who want to enjoy writing. People who want to love this space.

If you really love fanfiction—if you value the stories and the writers behind them—then the best thing you can do is treat us with kindness, patience, and respect. Don’t just like our posts—reblog them. Don’t just consume the story—thank the person who gave it to you. If someone does take your request, don’t micromanage them. And if they don’t? Don’t take it personally. We are here to write with love. Not under pressure. Not on a schedule. Not at the cost of our peace.

This fandom space can be something beautiful if we allow it to be. But that means letting go of entitlement and embracing appreciation. It means allowing writers to write—not demanding that they perform. So please, just let us breathe. Let us create freely. And above all else, let us be human.