violetrainbow412-blog

[violetrainbow412-blog]

fucking shit this is so good

spring seventeen.

tags: owen taylor x reader. the starling girl. sexual acts. a/n: so… mr. red flag owen taylor has been stuck in my mind for the past few days and i’m kinda sad there isn’t any fics of him out there. i hope you like it! :)

(masterlist)

Lord Jesus, forgive me. I confess I have been offering myself over to sin, and now I am its slave. I renounce it; I renounce my sins.

You were no stranger to bruised knees. The purples and greens were a familiar sight since the day you were old enough to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Now, at seventeen, there is a newfound fascination with the numbness under your skin.

Your eyes trace the discoloration, fingers poking and prodding at where your blood clots underneath. Knees pressed to your chest, white socks warm around your ankles, your eyes move from your skin to the man pacing the hardwood floors. Phone pressed against his ear.

He runs a hand through his hair, and then down his mouth. Itching at his jaw.

You stare, gaze unflinching when his eyes meet yours. And then, like a flicker of the light, his shoulders lose its tension. He pockets his phone, and then moves slowly, almost hesitant. A warm, calloused hand wraps around your ankle.

“You alright?”

“Mhm,” you hum. Gaze tracing the veins on his hands. The sinew and muscle up his arm.

Thumbs rub against skin above cloth. You shiver at the familiar touch.

“Those hurtin’ you?” His other hand moves to cup your knee. You follow his movements as he guides your legs down to hang against his desk.

Parting your thighs, you welcome him into your warmth.

“Not much. I like them.” His lips quirk at your confession.

“Yeah? You look pretty with them,” you take a breathy inhale when his hands move from your knees to your thighs. The skirt of your light dress making way for worshipping hands. The feel of his thumbs rubbing into your inner thighs makes you want to curl your toes in.

“Of course you think so. You caused ‘em.”

“It takes two, my darling girl.”

Your hands skim his waist, skin against skin under cotton. You grip into the denim of his jeans, thumbs inches away from the dimples on his back. The leather of his belt presses against your palm. Cool to the touch, you shiver at the memory of it stinging your arse.

Pulling him closer, thigh to thigh, you close your eyes as you bury your cheek against his chest. His hands move to wrap around your waist. You feel the miniscule pull of his arms to bring you even closer against him.

“You needed at home?”

You sigh into his chest, “Not in a couple hours. Told them I was helping prepare for youth group.”

His head turns, nose pressing against your temple. He takes his time to breathe you in.

“We don’t have that long, my father said he needed to talk to me.”

Your grip around him tightens.

“Think he wants to talk about my courtship.”

You lift your head to look him in the eye, “They tell you who they want?”

“Misty, I think.”

You chase his eyes, angry at the way they try to run from you.

“You’re not even gonna bother?”

His brows furrow, the confusion on his face feeds your rage.

“Bother with what?”

“Telling them you want me?”

He stifles the want to scoff. You just don’t get it sometimes.

“And what do you think they’ll say?”

You recoil, “You saying they don’t like me?”

He won’t allow you, hands tightening around your frame. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then why won’t you come clean to them?”

His eyes narrow, “Why won’t you?”

“You said you didn’t want me to.”

He gets that look on his face. The triumph of being right. Being older. More knowledged. As if this all made perfect sense.

“You not saying anything just proves it, doesn’t it?”

Your weak attempt at pushing him away is futile.

Lord, my savior. Please forgive me. Shrouded in my lies and in my sin, I have found my salvation.

But an angry beast inside you snarls.

“If you won’t tell them, I will.”

His grip on you almost turns painful.

“Don’t be stubborn. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do,” he tries to cut in but you won’t let him, “But I love you more than I trust you.”

The harsh, biting, and desperate way he presses his lips against yours catches you off guard. You welcome it nonetheless. The way he moves, how his hair curls behind his ear. The way his hands cup the back of your head, pushing you in as if hoping to take more. More than what you have already given.

If this is a sin, then let me burn in the hottest of hells.

“I’ll tell them,” he whispers, lips shining, red, and raw-bitten.

Your fingers gently trace his face. His jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. You don’t believe him.

Before you turned fifteen, your parents started to have you help out at the family business. For every church event or cookout, it was your family that handled the catering. Of course, church-goers would help pitch in and bring their own dishes, but as the only functioning restaurant within the parish of Pastor Taylor, almost all of the food can be expected from your family.

After the service, you begin your task of helping to set up the picnic tables. Turning the corner to get chairs from the storage room, you get jolted by a grip on your forearm. Back pushed against the brick wall, your mouth parts to scream, but a big, warm hand is quick to press itself against your lips.

“Shh,” you meet Owen’s laughing blue eyes, “It’s just me.”

Trying to calm your racing heart, you give a slight shove against his shoulder, “You scared me.”

“I missed you,” he whispers against your lips. It’s instantaneous and heady. Eager and impatient hands move to push the skirt of your dress higher up your thighs. Your own nimble fingers, practiced, in unbuckling his leather belt. You grip him in your hand, relishing in the sound he makes, burrowed in your neck.

“Fuck,” he’s pushing your panties to the side. Hitching your leg up against his waist, he wastes no time in thrusting into you. Your moan is silenced against his kiss. “We don’t have much time,” you hasten him. Desperation makes him wrap his hands around your thighs, hoisting you up so both your legs can wrap around his waist.

It’s rushed, ending in a few minutes. But you relish in the moans he sings into your ear. Face hidden into the crook of your neck, he shudders. A second passes, a bird chirps from its perch in its nest. And then, he’s putting you back down on your feet. Your hands move to between your thighs, fingers brushing against the slick between.

Owen’s busy with his belt. Your eyes are transfixed with the way your fingertips glisten.

There’s a quick, careless kiss being pressed against your temple, and then a murmur of an “I love you,” before you hear the leaves crunching beneath Owen’s boots.

A week from now, Owen will marry Misty. It will be a beautiful affair with Pastor Taylor presiding over the ceremony. In two weeks, you’ll realize that you haven’t bled. The next day, Owen will leave for Puerto Rico.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Clark Kent save me😞

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Today I watched Thunderbolts* and Fantastic Four in a row and well… I could take them both (not in a fight)

Sun and Storm

[Bob Reynolds x fem!reader x Johnny Storm]

warnings: smut MDNI, threesome (M/F/M), voyeurism, oral (f receiving), jealousy, emotional tension, aftercare, established relationship, friends with benefits, full consent.

It was at a party. One of those nights in the tower where everything seemed lighter, where jokes ran freely and glasses were refilled without question. She said it with a laugh, answering Yelena's question; as if it were something distant, an unimportant fantasy.

But he heard it. And he didn't forget it. Not out of jealousy. Not out of insecurity. It turned out to be something more awkward: curiosity, fear, and, above all, love.

For days he thought he'd misinterpreted it. That maybe it had just been a joke, a provocation. She didn't mention it again. She didn't even seem to remember it. But he did. He thought about it so much that he ended up wondering how bad an idea it was.

He didn't like imagining someone else touching her. Much less seeing her enjoy it. But the possibility of giving her something she wanted, of offering her an experience without judgment or consequences, seemed... powerful. And terrifying. One of those things that, if done right, can strengthen a relationship. The kind that, if done wrong, can tear it apart.

So he planned everything in silence.

An intimate dinner for her birthday. Just the two of them. Soft lights, their fingers intertwined, the kind of atmosphere where he felt comfortable looking at her without the world interrupting. He kissed her hand throughout dinner, listened to her talk, laugh. He pretended everything was normal. That there was nothing more.

Until dessert.

That's when Johnny appeared. Smiling, relaxed, too well-dressed to be a coincidence. She was surprised to see him, even tensed for a moment, as if afraid something had happened. As if it were a mistake.

Bob was the one who explained that he'd invited Johnny, and at first, she was confused. She didn't understand what the blond boy's role was during the evening, since this was supposed to be a private date, not a get-together with friends.

Then, rushed words came out of her boyfriend's lips, saying that—if she wanted it—Johnny would be part of her surprise gift.

It had been his idea.

She blinked, her initial confusion turning to surprise. And then there was silence. Bob watched her carefully, with that expression he used when he didn't know if he'd done the right thing. He hadn't pushed. Johnny made it clear that if she didn't want to, he could leave without a problem. Everything was under her control.

But it was she who sought his gaze. She who asked him, wordlessly, if he was really okay with this. And he, still trembling, held her hand tightly. He was afraid of not being enough, of not being able to bear it. But stronger than fear was love.

The idea of seeing her happy, desired, adored. Not by another man. But by him, through another, like a gift. Like an offering. It wasn't about sex, nor about Johnny. It was a matter of trust, of knowing that she was loved even in the midst of the unexpected.

She nodded, very slowly, and from then on... the night changed.

Everything was slow. Carefully orchestrated.

At home, the atmosphere was already set. The lights were dimmed, the room warm, the bed freshly made, with soft sheets spread out like an invitation. Nothing was improvised. Bob had thought everything through in more detail than he would ever admit out loud.

The tension was evident, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of tension that arises when something intimate is about to happen and no one wants to make the first move without being completely sure. Bob was the first to approach her, as always.

He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her jawline. As if he needed to remind her that, no matter what, he loved her. That she was his, even if he shared her tonight.

Before they began, Bob gently reminded her of one rule. A boundary he wasn't going to budge from, even if everything else was possible:

Don't kiss her on the lips. That's just for me.

And Johnny nodded seriously, without joking, without sarcasm. He understood the weight of those words and didn't question them. He only added, in a calm and honest voice, that if at any time either of them felt uncomfortable, they just had to say so. Nothing was obligatory; it all depended on how they felt. That security was part of the gift.

The clothes didn't disappear suddenly. Layers fell away one by one, amid soft caresses, lingering gazes, and increasingly deep breaths. She was at the center of it all, between them both.

When she finally lay naked on the sheets, it was Bob who held her, who helped her lie down, who sat beside her to hold her hand while Johnny settled between her legs.

And then, without a word, Johnny began.

The first touch was like an electric shock. He touched her with his tongue with the confidence of someone who knows what he's doing, but with the delicacy of someone who understands the importance of doing it right. She tensed, her back arched, and a whimper escaped her lips, which she couldn't contain.

Bob held her instantly. His hand on her waist, his lips against her cheek, his voice close to her ear. Soft words. Sometimes not even words, just sighs, murmurs. The way he told her he was there. That he loved her. That he saw her.

Johnny didn't stop. He worshipped her with his mouth, with his hands. With every movement, she trembled. With every sound that escaped her throat, Bob kissed her more. Her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. He caressed her tenderly, as if he couldn't bear how beautiful she was, seeing her like this: lost between pleasure, between two bodies, between two different forms of affection.

And yet, in the midst of it all, she was looking for her boyfriend.

She cupped his face, stroked his beard, returned his kisses with trembling lips. She wanted him to know she was with him, that she hadn't let go, not even now. That even though Johnny touched her, even though her body trembled for another mouth, her heart was anchored to Bob's.

Her hand then descended, slowly and carefully, seeking Bob's erect member. It wasn't an impatient or covetous touch, but a subtle caress, an act of tenderness amidst the hurricane of sensations.

Bob looked at her for a moment, that look filled with doubt and fear he always tried to hide. No, it's not necessary... he tried to say, trying to push away the feeling of vulnerability that was growing in his chest.

But she didn't let go. With a soft sigh and a smile, she replied wordlessly, as if the skin itself spoke: But I want to.

Bob swallowed deeply. It was an unexpected shock, a mixture of nerves and excitement he hadn't anticipated. The experience was far more intense, more complex, more real than he'd ever imagined.

That simple insistence, that small act of wanting to give him something back, of including him in everything, lit a spark that seemed to burn inside him.

Bob whispered things to her that made her moan differently. Not because of the physical contact, but because of the devotion with which he said it. I love you so much, baby. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'm here. I'm with you.

She gasped, her eyes closed, as waves of pleasure coursed through her. Johnny didn't just use his mouth; his fingers moved carefully, exploring and stimulating, deepening the pleasure he offered her. Each touch was measured, respectful, attentive to her every reaction, seeking nothing for himself, only for her.

Bob, for his part, never stopped showing her how much he loved her. His trembling hand rested on her boobs, caressing them and occasionally squeezing them gently, as if to reassure her that he was there, present, holding her every moment. He didn't avoid contact; on the contrary, he clung to her with tenderness and desire.

Bob kissed her neck, with warm lips and fingers slowly running over her curves, while she clung to him, as if that contact was the only anchor to keep her from losing control.

He leaned closer, wrapped his arms around her, held her steady as her hips began to move rhythmically, carried along by the pleasure that surged through her and overwhelmed her.

And when her climax reached her, it was with a smothered cry against Bob's neck, her body shaking uncontrollably. Johnny didn't stop until she was still, her body relaxed and exhausted, until she stopped shuddering.

She opened her eyes with a mixture of tiredness and satisfaction, and with a gentle smile, she asked Johnny to sit up. His lips glistened with the juice he had extracted from her, and she took his chin, turning his face, placing a light kiss on his cheek. It was a playful gesture, a small token of gratitude and complicity that lightened the intensity of the evening. Without letting the situation become too serious, she softly invited him to snuggle up next to her, just as she had done with Bob.

Johnny approached, with a kind and somewhat amused smile, settling in beside her. But she, tenderly and firmly, turned her face toward Bob to give him a deep, warm kiss, the one she had reserved just for him. Between the kisses, she whispered, I love you.

Bob held her tightly, returning that love with the same intensity, feeling his chest fill with relief and emotion.

He hugged her silently. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her wet eyelids. His breathing was ragged too. Not from jealousy or anger; but from love. From the shock of having seen her like that.

And for the relief that, at the end of it all, she was still looking at him with those eyes.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Sun and Storm

[Bob Reynolds x fem!reader x Johnny Storm]

warnings: smut MDNI, threesome (M/F/M), voyeurism, oral (f receiving), jealousy, emotional tension, aftercare, established relationship, friends with benefits, full consent.

It was at a party. One of those nights in the tower where everything seemed lighter, where jokes ran freely and glasses were refilled without question. She said it with a laugh, answering Yelena's question; as if it were something distant, an unimportant fantasy.

But he heard it. And he didn't forget it. Not out of jealousy. Not out of insecurity. It turned out to be something more awkward: curiosity, fear, and, above all, love.

For days he thought he'd misinterpreted it. That maybe it had just been a joke, a provocation. She didn't mention it again. She didn't even seem to remember it. But he did. He thought about it so much that he ended up wondering how bad an idea it was.

He didn't like imagining someone else touching her. Much less seeing her enjoy it. But the possibility of giving her something she wanted, of offering her an experience without judgment or consequences, seemed... powerful. And terrifying. One of those things that, if done right, can strengthen a relationship. The kind that, if done wrong, can tear it apart.

So he planned everything in silence.

An intimate dinner for her birthday. Just the two of them. Soft lights, their fingers intertwined, the kind of atmosphere where he felt comfortable looking at her without the world interrupting. He kissed her hand throughout dinner, listened to her talk, laugh. He pretended everything was normal. That there was nothing more.

Until dessert.

That's when Johnny appeared. Smiling, relaxed, too well-dressed to be a coincidence. She was surprised to see him, even tensed for a moment, as if afraid something had happened. As if it were a mistake.

Bob was the one who explained that he'd invited Johnny, and at first, she was confused. She didn't understand what the blond boy's role was during the evening, since this was supposed to be a private date, not a get-together with friends.

Then, rushed words came out of her boyfriend's lips, saying that—if she wanted it—Johnny would be part of her surprise gift.

It had been his idea.

She blinked, her initial confusion turning to surprise. And then there was silence. Bob watched her carefully, with that expression he used when he didn't know if he'd done the right thing. He hadn't pushed. Johnny made it clear that if she didn't want to, he could leave without a problem. Everything was under her control.

But it was she who sought his gaze. She who asked him, wordlessly, if he was really okay with this. And he, still trembling, held her hand tightly. He was afraid of not being enough, of not being able to bear it. But stronger than fear was love.

The idea of seeing her happy, desired, adored. Not by another man. But by him, through another, like a gift. Like an offering. It wasn't about sex, nor about Johnny. It was a matter of trust, of knowing that she was loved even in the midst of the unexpected.

She nodded, very slowly, and from then on... the night changed.

Everything was slow. Carefully orchestrated.

At home, the atmosphere was already set. The lights were dimmed, the room warm, the bed freshly made, with soft sheets spread out like an invitation. Nothing was improvised. Bob had thought everything through in more detail than he would ever admit out loud.

The tension was evident, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of tension that arises when something intimate is about to happen and no one wants to make the first move without being completely sure. Bob was the first to approach her, as always.

He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her forehead, her cheek, her jawline. As if he needed to remind her that, no matter what, he loved her. That she was his, even if he shared her tonight.

Before they began, Bob gently reminded him of one rule. A boundary he wasn't going to budge from, even if everything else was possible:

Don't kiss her on the lips. That's just for me.

And Johnny nodded seriously, without joking, without sarcasm. He understood the weight of those words and didn't question them. He only added, in a calm and honest voice, that if at any time either of them felt uncomfortable, they just had to say so. Nothing was obligatory; it all depended on how they felt. That security was part of the gift.

The clothes didn't disappear suddenly. Layers fell away one by one, amid soft caresses, lingering gazes, and increasingly deep breaths. She was at the center of it all, between them both.

When she finally lay naked on the sheets, it was Bob who held her, who helped her lie down, who sat beside her to hold her hand while Johnny settled between her legs.

And then, without a word, Johnny began.

The first touch was like an electric shock. He touched her with his tongue with the confidence of someone who knows what he's doing, but with the delicacy of someone who understands the importance of doing it right. She tensed, her back arched, and a whimper escaped her lips, which she couldn't contain.

Bob held her instantly. His hand on her waist, his lips against her cheek, his voice close to her ear. Soft words. Sometimes not even words, just sighs, murmurs. The way he told her he was there. That he loved her. That he saw her.

Johnny didn't stop. He worshipped her with his mouth, with his hands. With every movement, she trembled. With every sound that escaped her throat, Bob kissed her more. Her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. He caressed her tenderly, as if he couldn't bear how beautiful she was, seeing her like this: lost between pleasure, between two bodies, between two different forms of affection.

And yet, in the midst of it all, she was looking for her boyfriend.

She cupped his face, stroked his beard, returned his kisses with trembling lips. She wanted him to know she was with him, that she hadn't let go, not even now. That even though Johnny touched her, even though her body trembled for another mouth, her heart was anchored to Bob's.

Her hand then descended, slowly and carefully, seeking Bob's erect member. It wasn't an impatient or covetous touch, but a subtle caress, an act of tenderness amidst the hurricane of sensations.

Bob looked at her for a moment, that look filled with doubt and fear he always tried to hide. No, it's not necessary... he tried to say, trying to push away the feeling of vulnerability that was growing in his chest.

But she didn't let go. With a soft sigh and a smile, she replied wordlessly, as if the skin itself spoke: But I want to.

Bob swallowed deeply. It was an unexpected shock, a mixture of nerves and excitement he hadn't anticipated. The experience was far more intense, more complex, more real than he'd ever imagined.

That simple insistence, that small act of wanting to give him something back, of including him in everything, lit a spark that seemed to burn inside him.

Bob whispered things to her that made her moan differently. Not because of the physical contact, but because of the devotion with which he said it. I love you so much, baby. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'm here. I'm with you.

She gasped, her eyes closed, as waves of pleasure coursed through her. Johnny didn't just use his mouth; his fingers moved carefully, exploring and stimulating, deepening the pleasure he offered her. Each touch was measured, respectful, attentive to her every reaction, seeking nothing for himself, only for her.

Bob, for his part, never stopped showing her how much he loved her. His trembling hand rested on her boobs, caressing them and occasionally squeezing them gently, as if to reassure her that he was there, present, holding her every moment. He didn't avoid contact; on the contrary, he clung to her with tenderness and desire.

Bob kissed her neck, with warm lips and fingers slowly running over her curves, while she clung to him, as if that contact was the only anchor to keep her from losing control.

He leaned closer, wrapped his arms around her, held her steady as her hips began to move rhythmically, carried along by the pleasure that surged through her and overwhelmed her.

And when her climax reached her, it was with a smothered cry against Bob's neck, her body shaking uncontrollably. Johnny didn't stop until she was still, her body relaxed and exhausted, until she stopped shuddering.

She opened her eyes with a mixture of tiredness and satisfaction, and with a gentle smile, she asked Johnny to sit up. His lips glistened with the juice he had extracted from her, and she took his chin, turning his face, placing a light kiss on his cheek. It was a playful gesture, a small token of gratitude and complicity that lightened the intensity of the evening. Without letting the situation become too serious, she softly invited him to snuggle up next to her, just as she had done with Bob.

Johnny approached, with a kind and somewhat amused smile, settling in beside her. But she, tenderly and firmly, turned her face toward Bob to give him a deep, warm kiss, the one she had reserved just for him. Between the kisses, she whispered, I love you.

Bob held her tightly, returning that love with the same intensity, feeling his chest fill with relief and emotion.

He hugged her silently. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her wet eyelids. His breathing was ragged too. Not from jealousy or anger; but from love. From the shock of having seen her like that.

And for the relief that, at the end of it all, she was still looking at him with those eyes.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

I know how wonderful it feels to have your thoughts expressed. I love it! I always try to do so with such magnificent work. I'm so glad it made you feel good! 😙💗💗

Flaming Hearts Fan Club

summary: you, a shit-out of luck reporter, are stuck following around the world’s most self-centered superhero for his fan club’s magazine.

OR

Johnny Storm sees a challenge… and you just can’t help but resist him, right? You’d never kiss and tell.

[Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader] [WC: 12.3k]

Warnings: SMUT! MDNI! 18+ hesitant lovers, love at first sight, both have preconceived notions of one another, fluff, flirtation, Johnny is more than a flirt people! explicit language, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), a lil bit of edging.

Quick Links: Masterlist

“No.”

“Come on,” she begged. Her puppy eyes were glinting in the office lights. “Please. Pretty please? I’ll even say it with a cherry on top.”

“No!” You laughed at her absurdity. You interviewing Johnny Storm on behalf of that magazine? Non-heroic immolation sounded more grand at that very moment.

“What if I tell you I’ll throw in a bonus?”

Swiveling around in your chair, you looked at Lucy’s comically large black cat-eyed glasses and blinked once.

“Nothing on planet Earth could get me to step foot in the Baxter building. The goddamn sky could be falling and I would rather be crushed by the weight of gravity than spend ten minutes in heatwave’s presence.”

“He’s called The Human Torch.”

You nodded unenthused. “Wonderful.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. She laid herself dramatically atop your desk’s perched edge. Her frown deepened; eyes wallowing in self-destruction at your refusal.

“What about a big bonus?”

“Fifty dollars isn’t a “big bonus” no matter how many times you emphasize that it will cover my groceries for a month. I’d rather starve.”

“Good grief,” she wailed. “You’re a lost cause!”

“I’m the lost cause?” You feigned offense. “You are all in love with the same womanizing astronaut who spontaneously bursts into flames and cries hero when he destroys ten apartment buildings with a shallow “sorry!” You are lost causes.”

“Maybe you actually have a giant crush on him and you just don’t want all us girls to know about it.”

“Mhm,” you feigned and turned back to your work.

Materials laid askew before you in the most unorganized manner. Articles half edited remained inked in red while photographs of worthy news were plagued by post-it notes with reminders of what, where, and why.

Lucy walked around your desk. Her fingers gliding along the top of it before stretching out in observation.

“I think you actually like him,” she said matter-of-factly. “Is it the eyes? They’re so blue that they just swallow you whole like the sea. Or! Or is it that he’s a funny guy? I love men who can make me laugh.”

“Yeah, well,” you scoffed, “you laugh at everyone’s jokes so it’s not that impressive.”

“But he’s a hero! And a rich one—you see the tower? And the car… don’t even get me started on the car.”

You hummed. “Every girl just wants to be picked up in an invisible floating object.”

She narrowed her eyes accusingly. “Do you just hate fun or what?”

Shrugging, you picked up a photo and held it to the light. Lucy took you in as you distracted yourself from answering her accusatory question.

By all standards of the word, Lucy thought you fit the definition of “beautiful woman” but your beauty stumped her with your lack of social life. You had no husband, no boyfriend, no guys circling on the side. You lived alone in a decent apartment where your late nights in the office were more important than getting home at a reasonable hour to someone willing to treat you right.

You were good at your job—great, even. But you were lonely and even a single star in the farthest galaxy could see it.

Lucy wasn’t implying that Johnny Storm was going to sweep you off your feet or ride in on a golden carriage to save you from a desolate nature. You weren’t going to fall in love with him after one interview. She took your vocal objection to as a win, however. Getting you out of your comfort zone, exploring something new, and hell, he just happened to be the attractive guy at the subject of your piece.

It was different, new, and it was perfect for you.

“$300.”

You kept your eyes glued to the photograph.

“$350,” Lucy propositioned instead.

“$400?”

Your face curled up in polite decline. “I mean, I’d go through so much trouble. Not to mention the traffic and then the extra fare for the train ride home… I’m losing free time and precious seconds I could be completing other articles for Friday’s edition…”

“$500 extra, final offer.”

Dropping the photograph, you folded your arms in front of you seriously.

“There are twenty other girls who would love to be an inch away from his breathing space. Why are you asking me?”

Lucy gawked, looking around the cubicles for other reporters to share an incredulous look but no one dared look at their boundary-crossing boss. Her curly black hair whipped back around to you in seriousness.

“They don’t have a spect of talent that you do. And besides, what story is going to benefit from a fan writing about their idol or someone they wish to become their husband?”

“You think the other girls would try to… you know, sleep with him?”

“I think every person who had a mutual attraction with Johnny Storm would try and fuck him.”

“Jesus,” you muttered. “We’re at work you know.”

“I know you won’t though,” she smiled mischievously. “Even though you won’t admit he’s cute.”

“Lucy,” you sighed heavily. You put a hand to your forehead as if she was stressing you out.

“But I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I mean get it where you can.”

“I’m a professional,” you reminded her.

“Exactly.” Her eyes told you a million reasons to take the job against your better judgement.

Do it: there was plenty of money involved. Do it: imagine the publicity your writing would gain if you did. Do it: it may be published in a fan club publication but it will fly off the shelves and will bring money into the organization.

Do it: it’s only one, fifteen-hour session following around Johnny Storm for a “Day in the Life” feature that would be the first of its kind for any of the Fantastic Four.

Why couldn’t it have been Ben? Or Reed? You thought. At least with them you fathomed you’d be treated like an actual reporter, not just a set of eyes, boobs, and ass with two legs and a mouth that smiled pretty.

“$800.”

Shit.

Your eyes flicked up immediately, locking onto Lucy’s with a determination you didn’t have ten minutes ago. Now that was a bonus.

“Alright,” you sighed and nodded your head in agreement. “You’ve got a deal.”

The Baxter Building was a towering shadow in the center of the city. Scaling into the sky with reflective glass, the world bounced back from it like a mirror. Anyone could spot it from the edge of the river—the spaceship docked in its back lawn didn’t help hide it from view.

The four residents were something of a spectacle. In your opinion, they were the center of the universe when it came to politics, space exploration, and the general news. They brokered deals and were looked to by actual leaders to just about anything regarding the world’s most serious problems.

And they were handed that because they once rode through a cosmic storm and were transformed with abilities that brought forth a more dangerous era of life on Earth. You didn’t know how to reconcile the fame they achieved when dangers now lurked everywhere. You wished Earth would go back to the way it was. Boring news stories, a few interesting STEM articles, and an entertainment section that didn’t make the front page everyday.

It was easier. Simpler.

But there you were: standing anxiously outside of the Fantastic Four’s home to write an entertainment feature for the front page.

You adjusted your bag’s strap on your shoulder, straightening your spine and titling your chin higher in faux confidence. Finger lifting to the call button, you breathed out, breathed in, and pressed.

“This is the Baxter Building. Please state your name and matter of business at the tone,” a robotic voice responded.

As instructed, you relayed the information necessary. You tried to focus in on the glass before you but nothing of its contents inside appeared. Just you, your reflection, and the city still bustling behind you. The faint whizz of a police ship passed by above.

“Mr. Storm has been informed. Please wait patiently at door number 2.”

You stepped back to eye the numbers above the doors. You were at door number six and in your purview, another police ship flew by in the sky. Was it always this noisy for them?

Nevertheless, you positioned yourself outside of door two with space left for it to swing open and not hit your toes. Your heels were shiny, catching the light of day in polish while the woolen fabric of your dress beneath your coat caught the February chill.

How long would he make you wait? You fathomed he would take his time. Slowly descending from his golden palace, swiping at his hair to land in a perfect Ivy League wave, he’d wink at the few building employees he’d cross paths with along the way and send their body’s into nothing but a puddle of wooed soup to step over.

He was a hothead—that much you knew, or heard, rather. Boisterous, self-centered, and expectant. It was the why of Lucy’s ask of you. You wouldn’t melt into a puddle. Johnny would surely sense your displeasure of being there and give an honest, professional interview… at least, you imagined that was her “why.”

A minute ticked by and then two. You shifted again on your feet before giving up at standing straight and relaxing with a slouched hip. Three. Four. Five. A third police vehicle soared by and in a flash, a searing heat erupted from the middle of the building and poured down onto the street below. Your head whipped up so fast it gave you whiplash as the brightness of Johnny Storm’s body consumed by a fiery blaze flew off the side of the building.

You’d never been in the presence of any of the Four in their element, but it was magnificent, if not inconvenient. The heat melted snow around you and you realized that no one ever talked about it. He couldn’t touch anyone with the flames even if he wanted to. There was no way he wouldn’t seriously injury someone while fully lit.

However, for as quickly as he followed after the police, you knew the clock was ticking again. Service over duty, a little reporter isn’t going to halt the saving of those in danger. You looked around the courtyard and set at its center was an art piece depicting the powers of the family. It sat elevated enough for you to sit and you did: for fifty-three minutes while Johnny Storm saved the city.

Goodness was it cold outside.

Your feet had lost feeling long ago and your hands were locked together frozen. Your shoulder’s shook, legs bouncing to keep the blood flow alive.

At fifty-five minutes, the door to the Baxter Building opened with a start.

And by the heavens were you irritated by the tiny sliver of relief the intrusion offered. A small white and blue robot with eyes made of film reels appeared in the doorway.

It beeped at you from afar. You looked around. You were alone and the sole focus of the robot. With a finger, you pointed to yourself.

It sounded a robotic cheer and pointed a metal finger back.

“Hello,” it said loudly.

Alright then.

The robot had a four at the center of its chest and as you approached another decal became clear. In zigzagged letters it spelled out H.E.R.B.I.E.—its name.

“H.E.R.B.I.E.?” You inquired. It beeped. You were familiar with its design and its features. H.E.R.B.I.E. had been featured in a recent edition of Good Housekeeping and the “Four Favorite Meals” of the team were entombed into the social strata.

“I’m here to interview Mr. Storm. It was supposed to have begun an hour ago but—“

H.E.R.B.I.E. sounded again in acknowledgement.

“Johnny,” it said clearly. “Follow.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. led you through the doorway and into the spacious lobby you recognized from press conferences aired on the nightly news. The room was empty sans another lone robot watering a potted tree near a set of steps.

H.E.R.B.I.E led you to a bank of elevators and pressed the button labeled “up”.

“Upstairs,” H.E.R.B.I.E.’s static voice relayed.

“Upstairs,” you repeated. “Is Mr. Storm in now? I would rather wait—“

“Saving people,” H.E.R.B.I.E. answered. “Helping people.”

You nodded and it must have registered it as the end of the conversation because the bot wheeled itself to the panel, stuck its hand in a slot, and pressed floor twenty.

When the doors reopened, they opened up to a home.

The floor was magnificently built with floor to ceiling windows stealing the most treasured views of New York City. It was furnished and colored in aesthetic perfection. A central television, a sunken living space, the art of science hanging on the walls. It was gorgeous.

You logged a mental note at the lived-in nature of the vicinity. It didn’t feel unapproachable. This space and the rooms that flocked it were a true home. It wasn’t flaunting wealth or power, just a space to live and build the strange life they walked.

And it wasn’t what you had expected.

As someone without pomp and circumstance or a penny to spread far, you’d only seen the Fantastic Four as “heroes” and not “people.” That was a hard admission to swallow when the familiar heat met the side of your face again and the man of the hour landed softly on the balcony just outside of the tall living room windows.

When his flames extinguished, your breath caught in your throat.

Johnny Storm was handsome. He was the kind of handsome that the word seemed too light to apply—beautiful was more apt. His blond hair was perfectly molded in a suave, stylistic groom that left his face framed for viewing. Beneath the high swoop of his gelled bangs, his blue eyes shined brightly. The winter did nothing to dull them. The flames only ignited them to glow orange until he showed his true self and back to blue they went.

They seemed to go right through your skin and into your bones. Blue meeting the red blood inside of you only to make your heart jolt and pick up its pace.

As your eyes trailed his figure now landed and walking inside, his lips curled into a small, barely there smirk before attempting to play at professionalism. His tongue wet his lips; catching your eyes and pinpointing exactly what shape they took when pulled back and forming into soft curves again.

My. Your palms grew sweaty, back taut in sudden speechlessness. Johnny entered the living room and jogged up the small set of stairs to meet you. Jogged. He rushed up knowing his duty prevented you from doing your job.

“Hi,” his voice was out of breath.

Johnny held out his hand for you to shake. You glanced down at it, registering its purpose before wiping your palm on your coat discretely and filling the space between you.

A singe of heat lingered from his power.

“Hello,” you introduced yourself. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“It’s not a problem,” he waved off but his eyes, God… his eyes… they seemed to keep your feet planted to the floor. They gleamed further, crinkling at the sides. “I wanted to apologize for… that,” he jabbed his thumb toward the window. “We never know what it is they need us for.”

“I see.”

“You’ve met H.E.R.B.I.E. I take it?”

Johnny motioned to the robot beside you and put his hands on his hips. H.E.R.B.I.E.’s head looked from Johnny, to you, and back to Johnny.

“I think he saw me freezing to death outside and felt a little bad about it,” you admitted and bristled at the thought of being left outside for so long. “Are any other members of the team around today?”

Johnny gave a click of his tongue and walked around you to the kitchen just off the living room. H.E.R.B.I.E. followed after him obediently with a whirl.

“Reed’s in his lab today and Sue and Ben are off… somewhere. I’m afraid it’s just you and me today, sweetheart.” He shrugged in normalcy.

He didn’t comment on leaving you outside for an hour in the cold. You didn’t want to make it a problem but your toes were icicles even inside and your coat still burrowed the chill.

And sweetheart. He didn’t even know you! You were there for work and only work. Even if addressing your question, sweetheart wasn’t going to cut it.

You repeated your name. “It’s not sweetheart.”

Johnny pulled a box of cereal from a shelf and turned back around. “Force of habit. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” It wasn’t. But you wondered, unprofessionally, if you’d be alright with him saying that off the clock.

“What paper do you write for?”

“For the New York Chronicle,” you replied and putzed with the strap of your bag to keep your hands busy. “We own the Flaming Hearts magazine.”

“I was expecting…” he didn’t finish the sentence.

“An adoring fan?”

He nodded and pulled a bowl out from a top shelf. As he reached, his shirt pulled on the muscles of his arms and your eyes attached to them like magnets.

Get a grip, you thought.

Johnny was handsome, you knew it—you got it. You weren’t blind and your body registered it in the way that the world already knew, you were just catching up. It just took you until this very moment to admit that Johnny Storm was perhaps the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on.

That realization was distracting.

It didn’t stop you from thinking of your purpose here or the fact that superheroes weren’t really your trademark of writing, however.

“I’m here to write about you truthfully. My editor didn’t think a fan could write without bias.”

“That’s nice,” he said sarcastically while pouring himself a bowl. Did you sour it? By not admitting you’re a fan of his? “I guess you’ve got a list of questions for me then?”

“I do,” you joined him the counter with ease as he settled on the other side by the sink.

His eyes tracked you like a foreign object. A woman, a pretty woman, here for him with a very different intent than he was familiar with. You hadn’t even bothered to take off your coat as you sat on a stool and unearthed a pad of paper and a pen from your bag.

The muted colors of your clothes differed from the space around you. You looked like a journalist, he thought. Yet you were pretty and the way you straightened out your back and brushed at your forehead with a manicured nail captured his attention more than he was expecting.

Gorgeous. He wasn’t sure of any other word.

“My editor said that this is supposed to be a… informal, formal interview. I will ask you questions that are casual and people want to know, make you seem like an everyday guy, and then write it as a feature piece of the magazine.”

“I think I’m an everyday guy,” he quirked his head to the side.

You looked up from your paper and gazed at him seriously. Johnny was eating a bowl of cereal after igniting into flames and saving a small part of the city. That was not normal. It didn’t make him an “everyday guy” and maybe he, like you, also has some grappling to do.

“Yeah,” you lightly snickered. “I think we have different ideas of what makes someone normal.”

You didn’t mean to call him abnormal. But it came out and he took it that way.

Shit.

“What I meant was—“ you attempted to clarify yet his face already merged into one of abject offense. The interview hadn’t even started, you only met not five minutes ago, and you already know your name was at the bottom of the Do Not Let These Reporters In List.

“I know what you meant,” Johnny said chewing. “I’ve heard it before just not from someone cute.”

“Mr. Storm—“

“Johnny,” he clarified.

“Mr. Storm,” you insisted, “I didn’t mean offense. I think it’s clear that we lead two very different lives and I am just here to get a story.”

It didn’t even register to you that he called you cute.

His spoon clattered to the edge of the bowl. You wanted to do nothing more than climb into Sub-Terrania and hide forever. Why did you take this job? Why did Lucy have to offer that much money?

“You’d think a reporter from my own magazine would at least like me a little bit,” he said and you furrowed your brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you don’t exactly look like you want to be here right now.” He gestured to your coat and rigid body.

“I told you,” you reminded him, “I work for the Chronicle, not your magazine. And it’s not yours, per se. It’s just about you. And what does my dress have anything to do about wanting to be here? I am here, aren’t I? I waited outside in the cold for an hour just to do this job.”

“Take off your coat,” he ordered passively and walked back around the corner. From your sitting position, he leaned up against the chair beside you. He was so close now.

His body heat radiated. It was natural now, the warmth he gave off absentmindedly.

“I like my coat,” you answered as the frigidness melted away.

“You’re going to be here all day and I would rather you not snag it on any of our projects while we take a tour.”

“A tour?” He was being considerate—not something you considered about him at all.

“What better way to figure out who I am?” He looked down at you. He wasn’t towering as he stood beside you but he wasn’t short either.

Your eyes met. Both meeting a challenge of what this day was going to be like.

A girl who doesn’t like heroes or abnormal attractive guys with flirtatious banter battling a boy who doesn’t like being underestimated and thinks said girl is the most attractive reporter he’s ever seen.

“All the secrets that make Johnny Storm brilliant are hidden here,” his gave small smile and leaned in close. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how the magic happens?”

“I’m a bit afraid of what magic you’re implying.”

His mouth shifted into a truthful grin. It was the kind that pulled at the edges of a person and cracked them open wide for the world to see.

“And I thought I was the one with the dirty mind. I guess trait belongs to you, sweetheart.”

That name again. You sucked in a fast breath.

“That’s not my name.”

Johnny tapped the back of the stool he stood at in a melodic pattern. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled up beside him like a dog beside its owner.

“I know.” He tilted his head toward the staircase to the left. “Come on. Leave the coat. I promise it’s warmer here.”

The only thing you knew for certain was the warmth didn’t spread from the outside in. It was felt in your cheeks and your face, burning at his comfortable commands that would certainly be replayed in a different manner once this interview was done.

You had to keep reminding yourself that Johnny Storm was not a man who you wanted to woo you. This was all work and no play. None.

You just had to promise yourself that this was it all it was going to be.

“Out of all of the rooms in the building, this one is my least favorite.”

Johnny paused before a door labeled “Do Not Enter” about an hour into the tour.

Every room that you had passed thus far had been accompanied by a lengthy description of what was beyond the door and if you were lucky, Johnny would open it for a tiny peak. You were informed that three weeks ago, the apartment had been deep cleaned for an interview that Reed and Sue had done which featured the home.

It seemed everyone and their mother wanted to know where the family ate, slept, and spent all their free time.

You’d asked how he felt about being at the center of the universe but he just smiled at you and neglected to answer—only leaving the door open for you to follow through to the gym on the seventh floor.

Reed’s office was closed off when you went by but you could hear the static going off behind the door.

“Any reason why?”

Johnny wiggled the handle. It didn’t budge.

“My brother-in-law loves to keep me out when the experiments get too… involved.”

“Aren’t you a scientist too?” You asked and he turned his head with a surprised amusement.

“Scientist?”

“Well you did go to space so I assumed.”

“Mechanic,” he clarified. “Or I guess an engineer of sorts. I shoot pretty good too. And I can fly a spacecraft, if asked.”

You wrote down his reply and he waited silently as you carefully worded the response. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled up to his legs, knocking into him slightly with the loud beep.

“I swore I read you have a degree somewhere,” you mumbled.

“I do,” Johnny’s eyes widened in surprise. “A couple years back, before… you know, everything, I studied in California.”

“Stanford.”

“That’s the school,” he replied lightly. He was impressed to say the least. You knew something about him and remembered it enough to bring it up.

“Question,” H.E.R.B.I.E. output to Johnny.

H.E.R.B.I.E. was the most intelligent of robots but neglected to understand that this was an interview. H.E.R.B.I.E. nudged Johnny again expecting him to ask you questions in return.

“What about you?” Johnny asked uncertainly as he looked down at the robot and motioned in confusion at the question he posed.

“What about me?” You replied still writing.

“Are… you? A…” again, he looked down at H.E.R.B.I.E., “scientist?”

H.E.R.B.I.E. groaned and you laughed. You laughed. For the entirety of the interview he’d come to expect you to never give in to his jokes and while his question was worded poorly and he didn’t actually mean to say scientist, he felt his world relax at the sound.

The melody of your laughter laid softly inside of his mind like a lullaby. It was natural and free and completely you—something you’d yet to show him during the short time you’ve spent together.

You’d been professional and kept your kindness at an arms length. You were curt and serious, not playful nor buying into his comments that bordered on suggestive.

“If you consider writing a science, sure. Most people would consider it an art. So, I’m an artist.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat and patted H.E.R.B.I.E.’s head as he stepped past.

“But about the mechanic thing,” you looked up from your paper and Johnny forgot what he said before.

Every time you looked at him, he felt himself grow fonder of the way it made him feel. The silly feeling of love at first sight being marred as ridiculous in his perspective yet he swore that’s what it was.

He could listen to you talk all day.

“Do you have a shop or anything here? Or is it more isolated to here,” you motioned to the lab door. “Does he let you in to work?”

“I have a room,” Johnny said quickly. His excitement poured through his speech. “It’s not here. It’s a shop just off 4th and Wash Square—“

“I know of it.” Your eyes lit up in recognition. “I take the train from there to work everyday.”

Small world.

“Really?” He said honestly.

“That’s a far way from here,” you added. “Any reason why?”

“I guess because it’s my own little place.” He put his hand on the door handle again casually. His grip was strong.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand as it strained on the handle nervously, like he was admitting something for the first time. Had he never talked about this before? You knew he had talked about vehicles and that he’d love to race cars one day but that was Q & A session on the back of an entertainment rag at the grocery store.

“There’s nothing but me and the car and it’s kind of peaceful. It’s peaceful here but it’s a fishbowl, you know? Everyone feels like they know us when we are here but when I go there, it makes me feel like they don’t really know me. They just know The Human Torch, not Johnny. The shop makes me feel like me.”

“I’m not going to write that.”

His face dropped.

“Why? Didn’t you say you wanted this to be human? Or that you’re trying to make me sound more personable?” Johnny grew defensive.

“I’m not going to write that because once they,” you tipped your head to the windows, “know about that little shop, you won’t have one day of peace for the rest of your life.”

Oh. Oh. He hadn’t thought about that.

“That’s…” he tried to find the words.

The shop was his little slice of paradise. He could tinker away and no one would come looking because they knew that not only was he safe, he was alone.

Sue let him have his space there because it made him happy. It was the most happy she’d seen him since they were kids and while you might not have known that, it meant more to him that your integrity wasn’t going to jeopardize his peace.

He’d given you a part of his humanity and you’d shown him mercy. A trade off of the hour.

“That’s real nice of you.”

“It’s what a decent person would do,” you brushed it off casually and held the pad of paper to your chest.

“You’d be surprised by how few of those exist.”

You smiled at him softly. A blush bloomed on his cheeks and he looked off towards the city outside his home. H.E.R.B.I.E. whirled by toward the direction you were heading next.

Breathing in deep, you took the first step and barely brushed Johnny’s shoulder as you walked by.

“Can’t keep H.E.R.B.I.E. waiting, can we?”

Johnny shook his head and bit back his smile, peaking down at his shoes to hold it in. He played with the handle of Reed’s lab once more before turning on his heel and walking a step behind you.

“Did you always want to be a reporter?” He felt his confidence return in bounds.

You hummed. “Since I was a little kid.”

“Why the news and not books?”

“I’m not that creative,” you admitted. “And aren’t I supposed to be asking you these questions?”

“Just curious.” Johnny pulled his hands together behind his back. “Besides, this isn’t going to be fun if I don’t learn about you too.”

“But that’s not the purpose of this.”

“Are you always a rule follower or only when interviewing superheroes?”

You stopped walking and turned around. He caught himself before crashing into you.

“I’m not a rule follower,” you told him. Johnny wasn’t convinced. “I’m on the clock.”

“I’m always on the clock but I have a good time too,” he skirted around you and began his walk backwards.

You huffed and followed.

“It’s inappropriate.”

“It’s prudish,” he countered, hands still bound behind his back.

“It’s a boundary,” you challenged.

“It’s an imprisonment.”

“That’s a strong word.”

It was Johnny’s turn to shrug. “I don’t take it back, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“I didn’t ask you to take it back. That’s your opinion, not mine.”

“So you’re making this a challenge for me?”

“A challenge?” Your brows shot up and then came together.

“For you to admit you had a good time hanging out with the one and only Johnny Storm by the end of the today.” He referred to himself in third person and you weren’t sure if that was inducing a wince in response or a short track to the answer.

You already knew what your response would be.

Your heart hadn’t stopped thumping, hands still sweaty. Your stomach grew with butterflies every time he looked in your direction and no matter if you sat in silence the rest of the day, today would be the most entertaining experience you’d ever had.

But Johnny didn’t need an ego boost right now.

“We are already a couple hours in,” you checked the small golden watch at your wrist. “You have twelve hours to change my mind it appears.”

“I could have sworn I had gotten a smile out of you earlier.” Johnny’s teeth grazed over his bottom lip. “And maybe even a laugh too. Those are pretty good signs to me that I’m winning this.”

“I don’t recall—“

“Yes you do.” His voice grew louder in amusement. You peered away from him, not willing to gaze into those blue beacons because you knew that he’d see a liar.

You did smile and laugh with him. That was a sign of enjoyment if there ever was one.

“You smiled and laughed and you don’t want to admit it because it means you’ve already lost and I’ve won.”

“You didn’t win anything. I don’t even know what we’re playing for!”

“To prove that you—“

“No,” you let a breathless chuckle escape your lips as his misunderstanding and his eyes pinned you in the hallway laughing again.

Point: Johnny.

“I meant the prize. What’s the prize if you win or if I win?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I didn’t think that far out yet.”

“Oh,” you played disappointment. “So, I guess that means the smarts only extend to engineering then?”

Johnny’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Did you just make an attempt at a borderline offensive joke that he would totally love to hear?

You did.

“You’re going to wish you never said that,” he teased.

Were you really doing this?

“Well you didn’t name your price, Mr. Storm.”

“Mr. Storm,” he muttered like he’d never been called that before. “You’re obedient, you know that?”

“Like a dog.”

“Fine,” he put his hands on his hips. “You wanna know my price?”

“Name it.”

“If you enjoyed yourself by the end of today—really, truly enjoyed yourself—you gotta let me take you out on a date.”

“A date?” You confirmed.

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d have the gall to banter with Johnny. If Lucy could see you now she’d be asking to collect her winnings in the office betting pool. You were emotionally weak to Johnny’s charm and you hadn’t expected that.

“That’s all? Just a date?”

Both of your minds raced to that appetizing place. It stirred with from within, billowing into full blown fantasies of the dark. Imaginations painted a lustful affair; the tugging of lips and the grasping of skin. Polished nails digging into heated flesh and the sounds of two bodies combining rung deeply in echos of the hallway.

“I mean,” his face turned pink and his right hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Too late.

There was far more interest in the fantasy than either of you let on. You let the blushes fall apart and dared your minds to venture into that place again.

“Fine,” you agreed. “But if I have a terrible time… a really, horribly agonizing time, you have to… be my assistant for a day. Like come to the office and everything. Get my coffee, make my copies, all of it.”

Amused, Johnny dropped his hand. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“Your assistant? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Well… yeah,” you replied. “I don’t have time to think of something worse.”

“Either way I think I win, though,” Johnny stepped forward again but this time with his hand extended similar to how he had greet you two hours before.

Yet his hand was offered with a renewed sense of enthusiasm. Every time he reached for it, the purpose was different.

“And why’s that?” You accepted his hand and relished the way it perfectly encapsulated your own. His hand was soft and cooler than it was prior.

You wondered if he could still feel the sweat the settled in your palm.

“Because no matter what I get to spend more time with you and I think that’s a win.”

You didn’t know what to say to that but your heart surely responded with a thump.

Johnny’s bedroom is not where you thought you’d end up after imagining what it would be like to fuck him.

He had lingered by the door at the end of the hall with his own curiosity threatening to change the atmosphere. It wasn’t like being in his bedroom was automatically leading you to a rumble in the sheets.

His room was the essence of him. If Johnny really wanted the world to see a normal guy, his bedroom is where he surely showed it.

It was clean and shared the same views overlooking the city as the rest of the apartment. Amidst the wooden paneling and the filled shelves, a round bed sat centered and an elevated seating area with the nicest record player you’d ever seen was placed adjacent.

It was well used based on Johnny’s collection of vinyls that bathed the room on either side.

He offered you the chair overlooking the city and made himself comfortable on the floor across from you. Having taken off his shoes, his socked white feet were constantly moving from side to side like he couldn’t sit still with every question you asked.

The clock ticked away.

“Sports team?”

“I’d say the Mets but I don’t want to make anyone mad, so Yankees.”

“If you could have any other job in the world, what would it be?”

“Race—“

“—car driver,” you finished his words for him. “I should have known that one.”

“Yes.” Johnny’s fingers traced the edges of his lips as he fought a grin. “You know me so well.”

His lips pulled and you thought about how nice they’d be to kiss. They appeared soft and pink, just plush enough to leave a lingering tingle in the spots he’d lay delicate memories to your skin.

Someone once said that the beauty marks on a person’s body were the remnants of places their lovers had once kissed.

Maybe in another lifetime the ones on your own were lives lived with Johnny. You shook away the thought when reality snapped back in. You were rushing and only fools did that.

You read through question after question to get a full extent of who Johnny was. These questions, the mediocre ones, were the kind that people wanted to read about.

“First love?”

“Oh.” His tone dropped an octave. “Look who’s trying to learn about my exes now.”

“It’s not me,” you reminded him, again. “It’s the readers, remember?”

“I don’t think they’re the ones coming up with them.”

“Then it’s my editor. She’s obsessed, move along. First love?” You asked again.

“Ramona Mitchell—second grade. She shared her animals crackers with me and broke up with me at the water fountain.”

“Tragic,” you fought the indulgence chuckle.

“Favorite food?”

“Anything Ben makes.”

“That’s not a food,” you countered.

“He makes a mean pasta,” he thought on it. “But I’m from Long Island and you can’t beat some restaurants there.”

“I’ve never been to Long Island.”

You said it passively. Solely focused on writing his response down, your face inclined toward the paper and not to him. Watching him sit there casually was making this feel more and more like a choice rather than a job.

He sat up straighter on the floor.

“What do you mean you’ve never been to Long Island? It’s like… right there!?”

You put the pad of paper down on the table beside you. Crossing your legs, Johnny’s eyes followed them as you settled into the new position.

“I’ve been to Brooklyn before.”

“That’s not Long Island,” he said as if he was a geography expert.

“It’s on Long Island so maybe it counts a little.”

You leaned back into the chair and folded your arms across your chest. This was comfortable. Johnny was surprisingly easy to talk to and you’d be remiss if you said you weren’t loose to the idea of someone to talk to. He listened, he asked, and he looked like he was interested in anything and everything you had to say.

“But you wouldn’t say that Manhattan is the same as Brooklyn as to Queens or as to the Bronx.”

“No,” you agreed. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“And I’m talkin’ deep Long Island,” he emphasized his words with an extension of his hand. “Like the kind where your favorite deli is owned by the cousin of the ex-boyfriend of your mother’s best friend and they know you by name kind of deep.”

“That sounds like it’s from experience, not a universal trait.”

“I guess we’ll have to go see and ask them then,” he smirked as though he knew he’d prove you right.

“Time isn’t on our side today.” You glanced down at the watch on your wrist. You’d been talking in his room for nearly five hours—seven hours to go.

“Another day then.” Johnny crossed his feet at his ankles. “I’ll show you our old stomping ground and take you to one of those delis.”

You laughed not out of amusement but out of nerves. It sounded a hell of a lot like a date.

“Is this the part where I ask you what you think is the perfect date? According to the survey, our readers really want to know how Johnny Storm would make them fall in love.”

“What’s your ideal perfect date?”

“I’m not the one being interviewed here.”

“Amuse me,” Johnny bartered. “And then I’ll ask H.E.R.B.I.E. to make us some lunch.”

You sighed, gazing out the window in thought at the question. What constituted the “perfect date?” You weren’t entirely sure there was one concrete answer because everyone had a different opinion.

However, if Johnny could be open and honest for the sake of a magazine, you could be honest for him.

“I guess it would be doing something that interested me.”

“Go on,” he urged. Those interested blue eyes bore into you.

“I don’t know… I would hope that before I am asked out on a date that a guy would listen to me. Ask me about my interests and discover things I like so that when we go, they choose a place that I would like to go to. Someone says they like art and they go to a museum; someone likes music, they go to a show—that kind of stuff.”

“But what about you? Not someone else, you.”

“I like going to the pictures. Museums and the city zoo is nice too. But sometimes I don’t want to make a big fuss about it all and a diner is nice. Just a little hole-in-the-wall place where the coffee is stale but the food is good and the company doesn’t care that it’s not a five star establishment.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he nodded his head in agreement.

“Dating doesn’t have to be flashy. I see the kinds of things that are written about your sister and her husband. I couldn’t imagine being under that microscope.”

“It’s a choice they made—to be open about everything. I’m not sure they like the constant guessing of what the baby is going to be, but they don’t mind the interest in their lives.”

“What about you?” You asked him. “The perfect date? Being in the public eye?”

“I don’t mind it,” Johnny said with little thought. “It’s just part of the job and people have been pretty nice about it all. It’s not everyday you have to trust someone like me to help out.”

“So you admit it,” a small, rewarding grin played at your lips. You saw his gaze flick to them and back to your eyes. “You’re not normal then?”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Was that a trick question?”

“No. Just an honest one. Date?”

He sat with his response for a minute, falling back against the record player’s built-in. Johnny liked having you here. It felt normal and easy and not like anyone else he’d ever known.

“Mr. Storm?” You pressed.

“You don’t give a guy any time to think, do you, sweetheart? And it’s Johnny.”

“I don’t have forever,” you reminded him. He wished you did.

“What you said.”

“Excuse me?”

Johnny’s smug face was rewarded with your surprise. His head tilted up as he rephrased, “you described my perfect date.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes,” he dug in further, “you did.”

“But that’s my perfect date. We are two very different people.”

“Opposites attract and all,” he commented. “I want her to feel comfortable and safe. If I take her race car driving on the first date, she might never speak to me again or if she’s someone I really, really like, then I want her to feel like I’m making an effort to get to know her. Getting to know me can come later. Preferably here, in this room, with a record on and very little taking.”

You felt that warmth invade your body once more.

Your band of resistance was starting to snap.

“Mr. Storm,” you started.

“Johnny.”

“You know I can’t write that down.”

“It wasn’t for you to write down,” he said seriously. “It was for you to know.”

“Why would I need to know that?”

The space inside of his room shrunk. The only thing that existed was the small, elevated section you both sat upon: you in the chair, he on the floor.

Your comment sat heavy in the hair. Hanging there above your heads, it twirled into a storm of those savory thoughts from a few hours ago. Neither of you had forgotten about it—how your minds automatically raced to imagine what it would be like to sit just a little closer, inch your hands toward the other.

He knew what your palm felt like in his and it was perfect. Slotted to a perfect puzzle piece and he knew this feeling was the ultimate one that Sue told him about. It was the universe opening portals to emotions he didn’t know existed and stretching him in directions he didn’t anticipate going.

“I know we don’t know each other well,” Johnny started slowly as he broached the topic.

“We don’t know each other at all,” you clarified.

“People have done a lot more knowing a lot less.”

“I feel like I’ve had to remind you that I’m working several times,” you uncrossed your legs and moved to stand.

Johnny scrambled to his feet and that line had been crossed. He didn’t know how to return to the other side and wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

All that talk of a perfect date and he just wished someone would give him a real chance to show off. You listened and maybe right that second you didn’t feel like you knew him, but you did.

Johnny had given you more answers in seven entire hours than he’d allowed anyone else to hear in his life besides his family. You cracked a part of him open without waving the slightest finger in attempting to do so.

“I’m sorry if I gave you an impression that it wasn’t professional.” You gathered your paper and pen from the table and aimed for the door.

He rushed toward you frantically. Johnny cut off the path to the door by standing in front of it. The look on your face immediately sent him into orbit. He was spiraling.

“Sorry!” He said quickly. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I just… I just thought that, well, I don’t know! I felt something, okay?”

“Mr. Storm, please—“

“You gotta stop with that Mr. Storm shit.” He let out a stressed groan, a hand wiping over his face in duress. “You’re tellin’ me that you haven’t felt it too?”

God did you feel it. You felt the pull so strong that it was sending your own synapses into overdrive. You couldn’t be here any longer. He pushed open the flood gates and allowed those feelings to spur deeper, rising into that forbidden territory you couldn’t come back from.

This was what all those other reporters wanted and the one thing that you weren’t expecting. You were attracted to Johnny. Immensely. He was charming and sweet—far more interesting and curious than you realized. He was the one guy that was as engaged with your own answers as he was with his own and it was a drug. A highly addictive drug that wouldn’t last because he was a hero and you were a journalist.

Those two things didn’t mix.

They couldn’t mix.

It was wrong. It was inappropriate. But fuck, did it sound so, so good.

“It’s not appropriate. I don’t sleep with my clients.”

“Then end the interview,” he said like it was easy. “I’m not a client anymore.”

“Is this just for you to get your rocks off?” Your eyes narrowed and he held up his hands defensively.

“No! No!” He exclaimed. Maybe you were being too harsh. “If you want to leave, go ahead.” Johnny backed away from the door and settled at its side.

There was a pathway out now.

“I’m not trying to make you break any rules,” he said softly. “That wasn’t my intention. But tell me you don’t feel it too. It feels like you stuck dynamite in my chest and it’s ready to explode.”

You knew the sentiment well. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t be what Lucy and all the rest of them wanted to be.

“I can’t, Johnny.” He melted at the sound of his name falling from your lips. “I’m not trying to be like those other girls.”

“So you’re not like the rest of them, huh?” He joked.

“No,” you replied painfully. “Unfortunately I’m just like them it seems because I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you.”

You threw your hands up in defeat and paced around his room in circles. He just stood by the door and watched amused as you worked through what he already figured out.

“I guess that means you won, right? It’s not even the goddamn end of the day and I’m already throwing in the towel because I don’t have a little more self control.” You let out a rueful snicker. “And to think I was so certain that I could do this!? I mean, it’s not like you’re my type or anything.”

“And that is…?”

“Nice!” You answered loudly. “And not one to say crude things all the time.”

“They weren’t crude, they were suggestive. For a writer I would hope you would know the difference.”

You stopped pacing and looked at him with your mouth agape. “Why you—“

“Careful,” he held up a finger, “your name calling game isn’t that strong. Might I suggest ‘most handsome man on the planet’ or ‘hero of my heart’ instead?”

“Oh my god,” you wailed. “I can’t believe I am even the slightest bit attracted to you!”

“I think it’s a little more than slight, sweetheart. You were ready to burn this building to the ground at the mere thought of sleeping with me and I think that means you’ve at least thought about it before.”

“I have not!”

“You’ve thought about kissing me.”

“That’s different,” you emphasized. Of course you thought about fucking him too. He’s Johnny fucking Storm and he’s been giving you “fuck me” eyes for the last five hours.

“It all leads to somewhere else in the end.”

“So you were implying that. I’m not crazy.” Your eyes widened like you were.

“I didn’t say you were. And you’re not, by the way.”

Johnny just settled against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest. The muscles of his biceps strained at the short sleeves of his white tee and invited you in.

“Having a little bit of fun doesn’t make you less of a journalist,” he said your name for the first time. Not sweetheart or any other pet name.

Johnny. You. It was personal now.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not that kind of guy and I hope you didn’t get the idea that I would be that kind of guy. You’re nice, real nice, and I really enjoy talking to you. There aren’t many people who are willing to listen and take things with an open mind.”

God. He needed to stop talking.

“Plus I think H.E.R.B.I.E likes you. He felt real bad about leaving you out in the cold like that.”

Stop talking, Johnny.

“And I do too. Sorry about that, by the way,” he laughed slightly at the predicament. “I’m not used to putting people that aren’t my family first but I’m open to the idea…”

His blue eyes beat you down. Stop fucking talking.

“If we had more time I would have—“

You couldn’t take it anymore. Dropping your pad of paper and pen to the ground, you closed the distance between the two of you in a few long strides and grasped his face between your hands, planting your lips onto his in a heartbeat.

His words halted.

Fusing together like atoms, the electricity of your mouths falling into sync quieted both minds. It was tranquil. His face cupped between your hands tilted, angling to the side and opening up further. Johnny’s tongue begged for mercy between your lips, melding together with yours in tune to the beating of your hearts.

Something sprouted inside of you. Building from your toes to your mind, it tingled your limbs into numbness where nothing else but Johnny’s hands weaving around your waist and cradling the back of your head mattered.

This is what it felt like—attraction.

It was all consuming and all knowing. It recognized parts of you that had been sleeping and awoken to a giant tower ready to climb. His smooth face fell from your hands as they dropped to his neck; trailing the edges of the scoop of his shirt and feeling the molds of his chest before settling there. One hand turned into a fist to gather his shirt with a tug, drawing him closer and leaving no space between you.

His lips were as you imagined: soft and inviting. There were no words needed to accept the fact that you were holding everything back for nothing. This was as it should be. He was kind. He was considerate.

He was charming, funny, nervous, clumsy, confident, handsome, smart, entertaining, and didn’t force you into this.

It fell into place. As two objects in motion collided, the motions continued on.

Johnny’s hands groped you tightly, barely allowing you time to breathe as your lips parted. His hands paved a path down your body and tested the waters with bated breath. You didn’t stop him. You craved the feeling of his hands on your body.

You pulled back from his lips but he chased after them, drunk on the feeling. You knocked your nose gently into his as you breathed in deep breaths.

“You can touch me,” you reassured him. His eyes stayed focused on your mouth.

“As long as you’re sure.”

“More than sure.”

Johnny’s hands slid down to your ass and cupped you roughly. His grip pulled you flush against him and with a groan, your lips caught his chin and dotted kisses along the column of his neck.

He thought he was dreaming. Five minutes ago he was certain you were going to flee the apartment and speak his name into forbidden existence because of his brash assessment. Here you were, kissing him mad and he was imprinting a picture of your body forever in his mind. You were luxurious and finite. There was only ever going to be one of you and he was never going to forget what this moment caused.

The rapture within him was cemented.

“You know,” he murmured against your kisses when your lips returned to his. “I did really want to take you out on a date before all this.”

“I told you that I don’t follow the rules,” you nipped at his chin playfully.

“You surprise me.”

“Good,” you smiled. You backed away from him and his hands fell to his sides loosely. “And I’m not going to write an article about you anymore either.”

“No?”

You hummed and shook your head. “Can’t now. I’m too biased in my storytelling to be truthful.”

Johnny took a step forward and you took one back.

“And the honest truth is what, sweetheart?”

“That Johnny Storm isn’t the man everyone thinks he is.” Another step forward, another back. “He’s a good man with a good family and similar morals. He likes to have a fun time but within the bounds of his duty and he’s a romantic at heart—not a womanizer.”

“I would really like to womanize you, however.”

Johnny bit down on his bottom lip. You extended your hand and he gladly took it, leaping into your space again and tumbling with you onto his bed at the center of the room. You fell back with a thud and his body weighed heavy on top of yours.

“Johnny Storm defies the expectations we have of him,” you continued on.

The hand not entwined with his own came back to his face and brushed stray blond bangs from his forehead.

“And the lucky few who get to know the real Johnny will always know his true heroism lies within.”

Johnny’s smile widened. “That’s real cheesy—you know that, right?”

You grinned back and returned your hand to the back of his head where the shortened hairs weaved between your fingertips. Johnny pulled your intertwined hands up above your head.

“I think it’s a perfect story.”

His story or this one playing out now, he wasn’t sure which was better.

“Yeah,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips. “Me too.”

“You’d sacrifice the world for your family and I admire that.”

“Now you’re getting sappy on me,” he laughed. He laid a peck beside your ear. “You don’t need to butter me up to make something happen.”

“I’m not buttering you up.”

You titled your head to the side to give him access to the side of your face, neck, and when his hand tugged at the top of your dress, the bit of clavicle he was able to reach.

His touch set you ablaze. Burning from the sensations his gentle lips left behind, Johnny knew how to touch a woman and make her feel good. It was something he’d perfected in his thirty years on Earth.

“You remember what I said about my perfect date?” His voice was muffled by the wool of your dress.

“Oh,” you gave an awe inspired sigh. “Was that you buttering me up? How you got me here?”

“You did that all on your own.”

Johnny’s head turned back up to face you and he rested his chin at the curve of your breasts. You hadn’t realized he had moved down that far on your body. He slowly slipped his lean frame to the edge of the bed, kneeling at its base and letting his hands fall to the backs of your knees. They glided down your calves and to your ankles, playing with the straps of your shoes.

“Tell me that you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

You sat up on your elbows. His hands grasped your right foot. Slowly pulling at the buckle of your heel and undoing the strap to where you shoe fell off your foot with a small clunk when it hit the floor.

Johnny’s gaze didn’t escape yours. He waited for you to change your mind. The anticipation of your soft rejection pounding at his ribcage.

His hands moved to your left leg and when the second shoe dropped, Johnny’s hands caressed the skin of your shin.

“I wouldn’t have let you do that if I didn’t,” you told him.

“When I said that your perfect date is how I see my perfect date, I also should have said that I want her to be satisfied when it’s all over.”

You swallowed a lump that had formed in your through from the promise. God. You couldn’t believe you ended up here.

“I’m not asking you to give out to me,” he nodded at you. Johnny asked you to give him the confirmation he needed. “So if it’s not today, it will be another time.”

The ghosting of his fingertips on the backs of your knees sent a chill up your body.

“Don’t you think that’s a little presumptuous?”

“I mean…” he smirked, lips placing peppered kissed along your kneecap. “I think I may have won the bet.”

He did. He knows he fucking did.

Johnny’s hands roamed to the end of your dress. His thumbs pushed the fabric that had grown far too warm on your body upwards, watching you in permission that every inch higher was not crossing the boundary of what you were willing to give to him.

His position between your legs prevented them from closing in bashfulness. His tongue wet his lips as the curve of your hips forced his hands harder to give him access. Johnny paused again.

“You’re sure?” He asked quietly.

You nodded, running a hand through his short hair. The hesitancy you had yesterday seemed like a distant memory. Johnny enraptured you and while you were breaking every rule in the book, you couldn’t stop here. Not when he was kneeling for you. Not when he wanted to taste you.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Putting your free hand atop his, you guided it to the top of your panties in invitation.

“Lay down,” he ordered and you complied. Obedient. “Relax.” Came next and in a mere whisper as the fabric slipped from your body and the cool air now exposed to your body made you aware of how wet you were.

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

Kissing the inside of your thigh, you stared at the ceiling in disbelief. You felt his piercing gaze upon you; he measured your body in the way it folded and it heaved.

And he kept a promise of taking care of you—not himself. As much as the sight of you, bare and wanting before him made his soul burn, he knew this wouldn’t be your last meeting.

His kisses drew closer. Johnny’s hot breath met the crux between your legs before any other part of him did. His lips barely grazed you and your thighs trembled with his head stuck between them.

Johnny didn’t miss the sharp intake of your breath when he finally lowered his mouth to you. And my, he had never tasted someone as sweet as you. His tongue glided along the wetness that had already gathered and focused his attention to your clit. He gave in to a merciless pace; circling and sucking—your toes curled to hold you back.

Your hand wrapped into his hair and tugged at the strands. His arms held onto your sides and tracked the curve of your body as he pulled you closer. The response he was receiving was Pavlovian. Forever he’d bend at the sounds of your sighs, of the feel of your nails raking against the base of his skull. He’d dream of the flesh he devoured and sing songs of the pleasures he took.

Johnny Storm hadn’t believed in love at first sight until today.

And you hadn’t imagined giving him a chance until he had greeted you that morning.

His tongue increased its pressure on your bud. Pressing down as he lapped the wetness of his saliva and your arousal into his method and used it to lower himself smoothly.

A whine escaped your lips when his fingers left your side and helped open you up to him. Splitting you open and allowing his tongue to pin you to the bed. Your knees shook, legs coming to bend beside his head as his shoulders lurched to catch them. Johnny’s opposite hand held you down, settling at the base of your stomach.

“Holy mother of—“

He hummed and it sent a vibration through you.

As he had kissed you before, his tongue flicked inside of you in a passionate rhythm. His eyes closed to relish in the sounds of your neediness. Johnny didn’t tell you to be quiet because he didn’t want you to be. You could shout, scream, or cry out and he’d ask you for more. Give him everything, he wanted to imply, but he couldn’t ask for everything at that very moment.

You were taking everything he was giving like it was made for you. Hell, maybe he was.

The fingers he had used to help open you up remained rubbing up and down the sides of your pussy while his tongue explored the horizons beyond it. You felt one move, his middle finger, and it joined his tongue, curling into you gently.

“Oh god,” you groaned. His mouth curved into a smirk, backing away centimeters.

“Johnny is fine,” his voice had turned gravely. “But I’ll take being a god any day.”

And that laughter. It filled him so deeply that not even the strain in his jeans could distract him from the innate pleasure of hearing you respond to him. He continued on, letting his finger work against your plush walls and master the craft of you.

His mouth refocused to your clit which he did not abandon on purpose. Johnny quickened his pace, unrelenting and fixed on assisting you to the end. It built, like a flame kindling from a spark and tingling every cell in your body.

Your shoulders tensed, anticipating a release but infatuated with the way his ministrations only pulled back when he knew you were getting too close. He was keeping you on your toes. Johnny let you feel and experience the pleasure outside of simply working toward an orgasm.

Earn it. You had to earn it.

“You gonna keep teasing me like that or what?” You whined.

“I’m just not done with you yet.” His finger left you empty before coming back with its neighbor. “We’ve got time.”

“I don’t think we have time today,” you seemed to always remind him that you had a deadline. “Maybe another day.”

“Now who’s asking for a second date?”

“This isn’t a date.” His fingers reached lengths you were unable to do yourself. Your back arched in his grasp and his grasp tightened.

“Then our first date will be amazing.” Cocky son-of-a-bitch.

“Jesus,” you couldn’t help the spattering of words that flew from your lips as the precipice gained on you again.

“Johnny,” he repeated.

“Johnny,” you cried back. “I—“

“I can feel you, sweetheart.”

The familiarity of your orgasm climbed the mountain of your thrill rapidly approached. Recalling the minutes he spent prior being agonizingly slow, then picking up his pace, your ears captured the most bawdy sounds of excitement. His fingers were coated in your slick, chin glistening in the slightest with remnants of what he’d take as a prize.

You turned your head to watch his fingers disappear inside of you and your chest nearly caved.

“Come here,” you breathed in heavy. Johnny’s brow furrowed.

“Wha—“

“Just kiss me.”

With his fingers still pumping frantically inside of you, Johnny pushed up from the ground and let your hands pull his face toward yours. You had never tasted yourself on the lips of a lover before and you cherished the intimacy of the notion.

He felt your shoulders stutter, your body shaking in need. His mouth opened to allow you in.

One. Two. Three additional thrusts of his fingers and he felt you tighten around him. A wave of immense pleasure washed over your body in bliss. Arching into him, Johnny held onto you tightly, never once letting you fall apart without him.

You could hear him whisper words of praise in your ear except nothing but a kaleidoscope of colors seemed to match the tremors of your lower body. Legs shaking, toes curled as one leg wrapped around his own waist and laid lax once the shaking subsided.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. He retracted the two fingers. Resting them on your thigh, he patted the skin there. “You’re fine, sweetheart.”

Johnny laid his forehead against yours and let you breathe before his mouth couldn’t help but run again.

“I would have called you a good girl but I think sweetheart is the only nickname you can take right now.”

You opened your eyes and met his glinting with amusement. Did you want to take back everything u out said? Pretend this never happened and go find someone who can keep a moment serious for longer than a minute?

“You are—“ the words couldn’t form. There were too many words to describe Johnny Storm and even a journalist as great as yourself couldn’t come up with one.

The next morning you were at the office bright and early. No article had been prepared, no pictures of Johnny in his space, and nothing to report to Lucy.

Your mind was racing, however.

When you unlocked the door to your apartment later that night, you did so with a smile plastered to your face. You felt like a school girl with her first crush. Johnny enamored you and left you feeling like jell-o and your limbs acting on their own accord was proof of it.

But you had to keep a lid on it. So, when you sat down at your desk and flipped on the light to wait for the inevitable, you pretended you weren’t hopelessly crushing on the hot-headed hero.

An hour after you settled in, Lucy rushed to your desk to gossip. Her eyes were wide, expectant for you to spill all of the details of what makes Johnny tick. Every secret you gathered from the contents of his bathroom cabinet to the food he liked to eat, she wanted to know.

“So?” She said incredibly fast. “How was it? Where is it?” The draft.

“I don’t have it.” You preoccupied yourself by typing out a different article. The keys on your typewriter filled the space of her mouth hanging wide open in confusion.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?”

“I didn’t it write it,” you clarified. “It’s not happening.”

“We—“ she started and stopped in a stutter. “What, well… what happened? Did you even go??”

“Of course I went.” The page reached its end with a ring and you shot it back to the opposite side. “I just don’t have the story for you. I’m not going to write it so ask someone else.”

Lucy watched you carefully. “Please tell me you didn’t make our paper look bad.”

“Oh just awful,” you drawled. “I think we’re banned from ever covering them.”

She didn’t catch the tone. Lucy had been so preoccupied with wanting a big, newsworthy feature that she didn’t think of anything else. She joked about you falling into bed with him but figured you were too much of a straightened arrow to try it.

You didn’t have a hickey, you weren’t sweating at the temple, or drinking the largest coffee. In fact, you didn’t even have a coffee.

“Did you…” she trailed off, neck jutting out in curiosity.

Before you could look her in the eyes and lie, a delivery man with a bouquet of flowers was making a b-line to your desk caught your eye.

Shit. So much for discreet.

He said your name aloud and held up the flowers as if you didn’t see them. They were magnificent. A collection of winter favorites perfectly curated in a massive bouquet.

“I have a delivery.”

“From?” Lucy asked bewildered.

“There’s a card,” he informed. The man set the flowers on your desk and you stood, straightening out your blouse as you plucked the card from the small spokes elevating it above the petals.

“Who’s it from?” Lucy pressed.

“Geez,” you mumbled. “Care to give me a minute or would you rather just read it yourself?”

“Go ahead,” she motioned.

You slipped the card from the envelope and slid it out. In personal handwriting, a short message relayed a simple message without a signature.

You couldn’t fight the grin this time. It filled your face with a joyous, girlish glow and Lucy smacked her hand on the surface of the desk.

“Holy shit!”

And holy, flaming fucking shit indeed.

Saturday, 9 AM. My shop. Wear something nice, it’s a date.

And you knew right where to go.

A/N: a Joe Quinn character breaking me out of a writing slump? 2022 me is not surprised. His Johnny is *chef’s kiss* and I love him, your honor.

P.S. all writers love to hear from readers and it’s the one thing I love more than anything. Thank you for taking the time to read this!

Liked this one? Here’s another Johnny fic!

[violetrainbow412-blog]

This has literally become one of my favorite fics. It's so well-crafted, I love your writing, and everything feels so organic that it's delightful to read. I mean, I was blushing the whole time, and you described Johnny SO WELL. He's flirtatious, but not lewd, disrespectful, or misogynistic. A round of applause for you!

Flaming Hearts Fan Club

summary: you, a shit-out of luck reporter, are stuck following around the world’s most self-centered superhero for his fan club’s magazine.

OR

Johnny Storm sees a challenge… and you just can’t help but resist him, right? You’d never kiss and tell.

[Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader] [WC: 12.3k]

Warnings: SMUT! MDNI! 18+ hesitant lovers, love at first sight, both have preconceived notions of one another, fluff, flirtation, Johnny is more than a flirt people! explicit language, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), a lil bit of edging.

Quick Links: Masterlist

“No.”

“Come on,” she begged. Her puppy eyes were glinting in the office lights. “Please. Pretty please? I’ll even say it with a cherry on top.”

“No!” You laughed at her absurdity. You interviewing Johnny Storm on behalf of that magazine? Non-heroic immolation sounded more grand at that very moment.

“What if I tell you I’ll throw in a bonus?”

Swiveling around in your chair, you looked at Lucy’s comically large black cat-eyed glasses and blinked once.

“Nothing on planet Earth could get me to step foot in the Baxter building. The goddamn sky could be falling and I would rather be crushed by the weight of gravity than spend ten minutes in heatwave’s presence.”

“He’s called The Human Torch.”

You nodded unenthused. “Wonderful.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. She laid herself dramatically atop your desk’s perched edge. Her frown deepened; eyes wallowing in self-destruction at your refusal.

“What about a big bonus?”

“Fifty dollars isn’t a “big bonus” no matter how many times you emphasize that it will cover my groceries for a month. I’d rather starve.”

“Good grief,” she wailed. “You’re a lost cause!”

“I’m the lost cause?” You feigned offense. “You are all in love with the same womanizing astronaut who spontaneously bursts into flames and cries hero when he destroys ten apartment buildings with a shallow “sorry!” You are lost causes.”

“Maybe you actually have a giant crush on him and you just don’t want all us girls to know about it.”

“Mhm,” you feigned and turned back to your work.

Materials laid askew before you in the most unorganized manner. Articles half edited remained inked in red while photographs of worthy news were plagued by post-it notes with reminders of what, where, and why.

Lucy walked around your desk. Her fingers gliding along the top of it before stretching out in observation.

“I think you actually like him,” she said matter-of-factly. “Is it the eyes? They’re so blue that they just swallow you whole like the sea. Or! Or is it that he’s a funny guy? I love men who can make me laugh.”

“Yeah, well,” you scoffed, “you laugh at everyone’s jokes so it’s not that impressive.”

“But he’s a hero! And a rich one—you see the tower? And the car… don’t even get me started on the car.”

You hummed. “Every girl just wants to be picked up in an invisible floating object.”

She narrowed her eyes accusingly. “Do you just hate fun or what?”

Shrugging, you picked up a photo and held it to the light. Lucy took you in as you distracted yourself from answering her accusatory question.

By all standards of the word, Lucy thought you fit the definition of “beautiful woman” but your beauty stumped her with your lack of social life. You had no husband, no boyfriend, no guys circling on the side. You lived alone in a decent apartment where your late nights in the office were more important than getting home at a reasonable hour to someone willing to treat you right.

You were good at your job—great, even. But you were lonely and even a single star in the farthest galaxy could see it.

Lucy wasn’t implying that Johnny Storm was going to sweep you off your feet or ride in on a golden carriage to save you from a desolate nature. You weren’t going to fall in love with him after one interview. She took your vocal objection to as a win, however. Getting you out of your comfort zone, exploring something new, and hell, he just happened to be the attractive guy at the subject of your piece.

It was different, new, and it was perfect for you.

“$300.”

You kept your eyes glued to the photograph.

“$350,” Lucy propositioned instead.

“$400?”

Your face curled up in polite decline. “I mean, I’d go through so much trouble. Not to mention the traffic and then the extra fare for the train ride home… I’m losing free time and precious seconds I could be completing other articles for Friday’s edition…”

“$500 extra, final offer.”

Dropping the photograph, you folded your arms in front of you seriously.

“There are twenty other girls who would love to be an inch away from his breathing space. Why are you asking me?”

Lucy gawked, looking around the cubicles for other reporters to share an incredulous look but no one dared look at their boundary-crossing boss. Her curly black hair whipped back around to you in seriousness.

“They don’t have a spect of talent that you do. And besides, what story is going to benefit from a fan writing about their idol or someone they wish to become their husband?”

“You think the other girls would try to… you know, sleep with him?”

“I think every person who had a mutual attraction with Johnny Storm would try and fuck him.”

“Jesus,” you muttered. “We’re at work you know.”

“I know you won’t though,” she smiled mischievously. “Even though you won’t admit he’s cute.”

“Lucy,” you sighed heavily. You put a hand to your forehead as if she was stressing you out.

“But I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I mean get it where you can.”

“I’m a professional,” you reminded her.

“Exactly.” Her eyes told you a million reasons to take the job against your better judgement.

Do it: there was plenty of money involved. Do it: imagine the publicity your writing would gain if you did. Do it: it may be published in a fan club publication but it will fly off the shelves and will bring money into the organization.

Do it: it’s only one, fifteen-hour session following around Johnny Storm for a “Day in the Life” feature that would be the first of its kind for any of the Fantastic Four.

Why couldn’t it have been Ben? Or Reed? You thought. At least with them you fathomed you’d be treated like an actual reporter, not just a set of eyes, boobs, and ass with two legs and a mouth that smiled pretty.

“$800.”

Shit.

Your eyes flicked up immediately, locking onto Lucy’s with a determination you didn’t have ten minutes ago. Now that was a bonus.

“Alright,” you sighed and nodded your head in agreement. “You’ve got a deal.”

The Baxter Building was a towering shadow in the center of the city. Scaling into the sky with reflective glass, the world bounced back from it like a mirror. Anyone could spot it from the edge of the river—the spaceship docked in its back lawn didn’t help hide it from view.

The four residents were something of a spectacle. In your opinion, they were the center of the universe when it came to politics, space exploration, and the general news. They brokered deals and were looked to by actual leaders to just about anything regarding the world’s most serious problems.

And they were handed that because they once rode through a cosmic storm and were transformed with abilities that brought forth a more dangerous era of life on Earth. You didn’t know how to reconcile the fame they achieved when dangers now lurked everywhere. You wished Earth would go back to the way it was. Boring news stories, a few interesting STEM articles, and an entertainment section that didn’t make the front page everyday.

It was easier. Simpler.

But there you were: standing anxiously outside of the Fantastic Four’s home to write an entertainment feature for the front page.

You adjusted your bag’s strap on your shoulder, straightening your spine and titling your chin higher in faux confidence. Finger lifting to the call button, you breathed out, breathed in, and pressed.

“This is the Baxter Building. Please state your name and matter of business at the tone,” a robotic voice responded.

As instructed, you relayed the information necessary. You tried to focus in on the glass before you but nothing of its contents inside appeared. Just you, your reflection, and the city still bustling behind you. The faint whizz of a police ship passed by above.

“Mr. Storm has been informed. Please wait patiently at door number 2.”

You stepped back to eye the numbers above the doors. You were at door number six and in your purview, another police ship flew by in the sky. Was it always this noisy for them?

Nevertheless, you positioned yourself outside of door two with space left for it to swing open and not hit your toes. Your heels were shiny, catching the light of day in polish while the woolen fabric of your dress beneath your coat caught the February chill.

How long would he make you wait? You fathomed he would take his time. Slowly descending from his golden palace, swiping at his hair to land in a perfect Ivy League wave, he’d wink at the few building employees he’d cross paths with along the way and send their body’s into nothing but a puddle of wooed soup to step over.

He was a hothead—that much you knew, or heard, rather. Boisterous, self-centered, and expectant. It was the why of Lucy’s ask of you. You wouldn’t melt into a puddle. Johnny would surely sense your displeasure of being there and give an honest, professional interview… at least, you imagined that was her “why.”

A minute ticked by and then two. You shifted again on your feet before giving up at standing straight and relaxing with a slouched hip. Three. Four. Five. A third police vehicle soared by and in a flash, a searing heat erupted from the middle of the building and poured down onto the street below. Your head whipped up so fast it gave you whiplash as the brightness of Johnny Storm’s body consumed by a fiery blaze flew off the side of the building.

You’d never been in the presence of any of the Four in their element, but it was magnificent, if not inconvenient. The heat melted snow around you and you realized that no one ever talked about it. He couldn’t touch anyone with the flames even if he wanted to. There was no way he wouldn’t seriously injury someone while fully lit.

However, for as quickly as he followed after the police, you knew the clock was ticking again. Service over duty, a little reporter isn’t going to halt the saving of those in danger. You looked around the courtyard and set at its center was an art piece depicting the powers of the family. It sat elevated enough for you to sit and you did: for fifty-three minutes while Johnny Storm saved the city.

Goodness was it cold outside.

Your feet had lost feeling long ago and your hands were locked together frozen. Your shoulder’s shook, legs bouncing to keep the blood flow alive.

At fifty-five minutes, the door to the Baxter Building opened with a start.

And by the heavens were you irritated by the tiny sliver of relief the intrusion offered. A small white and blue robot with eyes made of film reels appeared in the doorway.

It beeped at you from afar. You looked around. You were alone and the sole focus of the robot. With a finger, you pointed to yourself.

It sounded a robotic cheer and pointed a metal finger back.

“Hello,” it said loudly.

Alright then.

The robot had a four at the center of its chest and as you approached another decal became clear. In zigzagged letters it spelled out H.E.R.B.I.E.—its name.

“H.E.R.B.I.E.?” You inquired. It beeped. You were familiar with its design and its features. H.E.R.B.I.E. had been featured in a recent edition of Good Housekeeping and the “Four Favorite Meals” of the team were entombed into the social strata.

“I’m here to interview Mr. Storm. It was supposed to have begun an hour ago but—“

H.E.R.B.I.E. sounded again in acknowledgement.

“Johnny,” it said clearly. “Follow.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. led you through the doorway and into the spacious lobby you recognized from press conferences aired on the nightly news. The room was empty sans another lone robot watering a potted tree near a set of steps.

H.E.R.B.I.E led you to a bank of elevators and pressed the button labeled “up”.

“Upstairs,” H.E.R.B.I.E.’s static voice relayed.

“Upstairs,” you repeated. “Is Mr. Storm in now? I would rather wait—“

“Saving people,” H.E.R.B.I.E. answered. “Helping people.”

You nodded and it must have registered it as the end of the conversation because the bot wheeled itself to the panel, stuck its hand in a slot, and pressed floor twenty.

When the doors reopened, they opened up to a home.

The floor was magnificently built with floor to ceiling windows stealing the most treasured views of New York City. It was furnished and colored in aesthetic perfection. A central television, a sunken living space, the art of science hanging on the walls. It was gorgeous.

You logged a mental note at the lived-in nature of the vicinity. It didn’t feel unapproachable. This space and the rooms that flocked it were a true home. It wasn’t flaunting wealth or power, just a space to live and build the strange life they walked.

And it wasn’t what you had expected.

As someone without pomp and circumstance or a penny to spread far, you’d only seen the Fantastic Four as “heroes” and not “people.” That was a hard admission to swallow when the familiar heat met the side of your face again and the man of the hour landed softly on the balcony just outside of the tall living room windows.

When his flames extinguished, your breath caught in your throat.

Johnny Storm was handsome. He was the kind of handsome that the word seemed too light to apply—beautiful was more apt. His blond hair was perfectly molded in a suave, stylistic groom that left his face framed for viewing. Beneath the high swoop of his gelled bangs, his blue eyes shined brightly. The winter did nothing to dull them. The flames only ignited them to glow orange until he showed his true self and back to blue they went.

They seemed to go right through your skin and into your bones. Blue meeting the red blood inside of you only to make your heart jolt and pick up its pace.

As your eyes trailed his figure now landed and walking inside, his lips curled into a small, barely there smirk before attempting to play at professionalism. His tongue wet his lips; catching your eyes and pinpointing exactly what shape they took when pulled back and forming into soft curves again.

My. Your palms grew sweaty, back taut in sudden speechlessness. Johnny entered the living room and jogged up the small set of stairs to meet you. Jogged. He rushed up knowing his duty prevented you from doing your job.

“Hi,” his voice was out of breath.

Johnny held out his hand for you to shake. You glanced down at it, registering its purpose before wiping your palm on your coat discretely and filling the space between you.

A singe of heat lingered from his power.

“Hello,” you introduced yourself. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“It’s not a problem,” he waved off but his eyes, God… his eyes… they seemed to keep your feet planted to the floor. They gleamed further, crinkling at the sides. “I wanted to apologize for… that,” he jabbed his thumb toward the window. “We never know what it is they need us for.”

“I see.”

“You’ve met H.E.R.B.I.E. I take it?”

Johnny motioned to the robot beside you and put his hands on his hips. H.E.R.B.I.E.’s head looked from Johnny, to you, and back to Johnny.

“I think he saw me freezing to death outside and felt a little bad about it,” you admitted and bristled at the thought of being left outside for so long. “Are any other members of the team around today?”

Johnny gave a click of his tongue and walked around you to the kitchen just off the living room. H.E.R.B.I.E. followed after him obediently with a whirl.

“Reed’s in his lab today and Sue and Ben are off… somewhere. I’m afraid it’s just you and me today, sweetheart.” He shrugged in normalcy.

He didn’t comment on leaving you outside for an hour in the cold. You didn’t want to make it a problem but your toes were icicles even inside and your coat still burrowed the chill.

And sweetheart. He didn’t even know you! You were there for work and only work. Even if addressing your question, sweetheart wasn’t going to cut it.

You repeated your name. “It’s not sweetheart.”

Johnny pulled a box of cereal from a shelf and turned back around. “Force of habit. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” It wasn’t. But you wondered, unprofessionally, if you’d be alright with him saying that off the clock.

“What paper do you write for?”

“For the New York Chronicle,” you replied and putzed with the strap of your bag to keep your hands busy. “We own the Flaming Hearts magazine.”

“I was expecting…” he didn’t finish the sentence.

“An adoring fan?”

He nodded and pulled a bowl out from a top shelf. As he reached, his shirt pulled on the muscles of his arms and your eyes attached to them like magnets.

Get a grip, you thought.

Johnny was handsome, you knew it—you got it. You weren’t blind and your body registered it in the way that the world already knew, you were just catching up. It just took you until this very moment to admit that Johnny Storm was perhaps the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on.

That realization was distracting.

It didn’t stop you from thinking of your purpose here or the fact that superheroes weren’t really your trademark of writing, however.

“I’m here to write about you truthfully. My editor didn’t think a fan could write without bias.”

“That’s nice,” he said sarcastically while pouring himself a bowl. Did you sour it? By not admitting you’re a fan of his? “I guess you’ve got a list of questions for me then?”

“I do,” you joined him the counter with ease as he settled on the other side by the sink.

His eyes tracked you like a foreign object. A woman, a pretty woman, here for him with a very different intent than he was familiar with. You hadn’t even bothered to take off your coat as you sat on a stool and unearthed a pad of paper and a pen from your bag.

The muted colors of your clothes differed from the space around you. You looked like a journalist, he thought. Yet you were pretty and the way you straightened out your back and brushed at your forehead with a manicured nail captured his attention more than he was expecting.

Gorgeous. He wasn’t sure of any other word.

“My editor said that this is supposed to be a… informal, formal interview. I will ask you questions that are casual and people want to know, make you seem like an everyday guy, and then write it as a feature piece of the magazine.”

“I think I’m an everyday guy,” he quirked his head to the side.

You looked up from your paper and gazed at him seriously. Johnny was eating a bowl of cereal after igniting into flames and saving a small part of the city. That was not normal. It didn’t make him an “everyday guy” and maybe he, like you, also has some grappling to do.

“Yeah,” you lightly snickered. “I think we have different ideas of what makes someone normal.”

You didn’t mean to call him abnormal. But it came out and he took it that way.

Shit.

“What I meant was—“ you attempted to clarify yet his face already merged into one of abject offense. The interview hadn’t even started, you only met not five minutes ago, and you already know your name was at the bottom of the Do Not Let These Reporters In List.

“I know what you meant,” Johnny said chewing. “I’ve heard it before just not from someone cute.”

“Mr. Storm—“

“Johnny,” he clarified.

“Mr. Storm,” you insisted, “I didn’t mean offense. I think it’s clear that we lead two very different lives and I am just here to get a story.”

It didn’t even register to you that he called you cute.

His spoon clattered to the edge of the bowl. You wanted to do nothing more than climb into Sub-Terrania and hide forever. Why did you take this job? Why did Lucy have to offer that much money?

“You’d think a reporter from my own magazine would at least like me a little bit,” he said and you furrowed your brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you don’t exactly look like you want to be here right now.” He gestured to your coat and rigid body.

“I told you,” you reminded him, “I work for the Chronicle, not your magazine. And it’s not yours, per se. It’s just about you. And what does my dress have anything to do about wanting to be here? I am here, aren’t I? I waited outside in the cold for an hour just to do this job.”

“Take off your coat,” he ordered passively and walked back around the corner. From your sitting position, he leaned up against the chair beside you. He was so close now.

His body heat radiated. It was natural now, the warmth he gave off absentmindedly.

“I like my coat,” you answered as the frigidness melted away.

“You’re going to be here all day and I would rather you not snag it on any of our projects while we take a tour.”

“A tour?” He was being considerate—not something you considered about him at all.

“What better way to figure out who I am?” He looked down at you. He wasn’t towering as he stood beside you but he wasn’t short either.

Your eyes met. Both meeting a challenge of what this day was going to be like.

A girl who doesn’t like heroes or abnormal attractive guys with flirtatious banter battling a boy who doesn’t like being underestimated and thinks said girl is the most attractive reporter he’s ever seen.

“All the secrets that make Johnny Storm brilliant are hidden here,” his gave small smile and leaned in close. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how the magic happens?”

“I’m a bit afraid of what magic you’re implying.”

His mouth shifted into a truthful grin. It was the kind that pulled at the edges of a person and cracked them open wide for the world to see.

“And I thought I was the one with the dirty mind. I guess trait belongs to you, sweetheart.”

That name again. You sucked in a fast breath.

“That’s not my name.”

Johnny tapped the back of the stool he stood at in a melodic pattern. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled up beside him like a dog beside its owner.

“I know.” He tilted his head toward the staircase to the left. “Come on. Leave the coat. I promise it’s warmer here.”

The only thing you knew for certain was the warmth didn’t spread from the outside in. It was felt in your cheeks and your face, burning at his comfortable commands that would certainly be replayed in a different manner once this interview was done.

You had to keep reminding yourself that Johnny Storm was not a man who you wanted to woo you. This was all work and no play. None.

You just had to promise yourself that this was it all it was going to be.

“Out of all of the rooms in the building, this one is my least favorite.”

Johnny paused before a door labeled “Do Not Enter” about an hour into the tour.

Every room that you had passed thus far had been accompanied by a lengthy description of what was beyond the door and if you were lucky, Johnny would open it for a tiny peak. You were informed that three weeks ago, the apartment had been deep cleaned for an interview that Reed and Sue had done which featured the home.

It seemed everyone and their mother wanted to know where the family ate, slept, and spent all their free time.

You’d asked how he felt about being at the center of the universe but he just smiled at you and neglected to answer—only leaving the door open for you to follow through to the gym on the seventh floor.

Reed’s office was closed off when you went by but you could hear the static going off behind the door.

“Any reason why?”

Johnny wiggled the handle. It didn’t budge.

“My brother-in-law loves to keep me out when the experiments get too… involved.”

“Aren’t you a scientist too?” You asked and he turned his head with a surprised amusement.

“Scientist?”

“Well you did go to space so I assumed.”

“Mechanic,” he clarified. “Or I guess an engineer of sorts. I shoot pretty good too. And I can fly a spacecraft, if asked.”

You wrote down his reply and he waited silently as you carefully worded the response. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled up to his legs, knocking into him slightly with the loud beep.

“I swore I read you have a degree somewhere,” you mumbled.

“I do,” Johnny’s eyes widened in surprise. “A couple years back, before… you know, everything, I studied in California.”

“Stanford.”

“That’s the school,” he replied lightly. He was impressed to say the least. You knew something about him and remembered it enough to bring it up.

“Question,” H.E.R.B.I.E. output to Johnny.

H.E.R.B.I.E. was the most intelligent of robots but neglected to understand that this was an interview. H.E.R.B.I.E. nudged Johnny again expecting him to ask you questions in return.

“What about you?” Johnny asked uncertainly as he looked down at the robot and motioned in confusion at the question he posed.

“What about me?” You replied still writing.

“Are… you? A…” again, he looked down at H.E.R.B.I.E., “scientist?”

H.E.R.B.I.E. groaned and you laughed. You laughed. For the entirety of the interview he’d come to expect you to never give in to his jokes and while his question was worded poorly and he didn’t actually mean to say scientist, he felt his world relax at the sound.

The melody of your laughter laid softly inside of his mind like a lullaby. It was natural and free and completely you—something you’d yet to show him during the short time you’ve spent together.

You’d been professional and kept your kindness at an arms length. You were curt and serious, not playful nor buying into his comments that bordered on suggestive.

“If you consider writing a science, sure. Most people would consider it an art. So, I’m an artist.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat and patted H.E.R.B.I.E.’s head as he stepped past.

“But about the mechanic thing,” you looked up from your paper and Johnny forgot what he said before.

Every time you looked at him, he felt himself grow fonder of the way it made him feel. The silly feeling of love at first sight being marred as ridiculous in his perspective yet he swore that’s what it was.

He could listen to you talk all day.

“Do you have a shop or anything here? Or is it more isolated to here,” you motioned to the lab door. “Does he let you in to work?”

“I have a room,” Johnny said quickly. His excitement poured through his speech. “It’s not here. It’s a shop just off 4th and Wash Square—“

“I know of it.” Your eyes lit up in recognition. “I take the train from there to work everyday.”

Small world.

“Really?” He said honestly.

“That’s a far way from here,” you added. “Any reason why?”

“I guess because it’s my own little place.” He put his hand on the door handle again casually. His grip was strong.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand as it strained on the handle nervously, like he was admitting something for the first time. Had he never talked about this before? You knew he had talked about vehicles and that he’d love to race cars one day but that was Q & A session on the back of an entertainment rag at the grocery store.

“There’s nothing but me and the car and it’s kind of peaceful. It’s peaceful here but it’s a fishbowl, you know? Everyone feels like they know us when we are here but when I go there, it makes me feel like they don’t really know me. They just know The Human Torch, not Johnny. The shop makes me feel like me.”

“I’m not going to write that.”

His face dropped.

“Why? Didn’t you say you wanted this to be human? Or that you’re trying to make me sound more personable?” Johnny grew defensive.

“I’m not going to write that because once they,” you tipped your head to the windows, “know about that little shop, you won’t have one day of peace for the rest of your life.”

Oh. Oh. He hadn’t thought about that.

“That’s…” he tried to find the words.

The shop was his little slice of paradise. He could tinker away and no one would come looking because they knew that not only was he safe, he was alone.

Sue let him have his space there because it made him happy. It was the most happy she’d seen him since they were kids and while you might not have known that, it meant more to him that your integrity wasn’t going to jeopardize his peace.

He’d given you a part of his humanity and you’d shown him mercy. A trade off of the hour.

“That’s real nice of you.”

“It’s what a decent person would do,” you brushed it off casually and held the pad of paper to your chest.

“You’d be surprised by how few of those exist.”

You smiled at him softly. A blush bloomed on his cheeks and he looked off towards the city outside his home. H.E.R.B.I.E. whirled by toward the direction you were heading next.

Breathing in deep, you took the first step and barely brushed Johnny’s shoulder as you walked by.

“Can’t keep H.E.R.B.I.E. waiting, can we?”

Johnny shook his head and bit back his smile, peaking down at his shoes to hold it in. He played with the handle of Reed’s lab once more before turning on his heel and walking a step behind you.

“Did you always want to be a reporter?” He felt his confidence return in bounds.

You hummed. “Since I was a little kid.”

“Why the news and not books?”

“I’m not that creative,” you admitted. “And aren’t I supposed to be asking you these questions?”

“Just curious.” Johnny pulled his hands together behind his back. “Besides, this isn’t going to be fun if I don’t learn about you too.”

“But that’s not the purpose of this.”

“Are you always a rule follower or only when interviewing superheroes?”

You stopped walking and turned around. He caught himself before crashing into you.

“I’m not a rule follower,” you told him. Johnny wasn’t convinced. “I’m on the clock.”

“I’m always on the clock but I have a good time too,” he skirted around you and began his walk backwards.

You huffed and followed.

“It’s inappropriate.”

“It’s prudish,” he countered, hands still bound behind his back.

“It’s a boundary,” you challenged.

“It’s an imprisonment.”

“That’s a strong word.”

It was Johnny’s turn to shrug. “I don’t take it back, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“I didn’t ask you to take it back. That’s your opinion, not mine.”

“So you’re making this a challenge for me?”

“A challenge?” Your brows shot up and then came together.

“For you to admit you had a good time hanging out with the one and only Johnny Storm by the end of the today.” He referred to himself in third person and you weren’t sure if that was inducing a wince in response or a short track to the answer.

You already knew what your response would be.

Your heart hadn’t stopped thumping, hands still sweaty. Your stomach grew with butterflies every time he looked in your direction and no matter if you sat in silence the rest of the day, today would be the most entertaining experience you’d ever had.

But Johnny didn’t need an ego boost right now.

“We are already a couple hours in,” you checked the small golden watch at your wrist. “You have twelve hours to change my mind it appears.”

“I could have sworn I had gotten a smile out of you earlier.” Johnny’s teeth grazed over his bottom lip. “And maybe even a laugh too. Those are pretty good signs to me that I’m winning this.”

“I don’t recall—“

“Yes you do.” His voice grew louder in amusement. You peered away from him, not willing to gaze into those blue beacons because you knew that he’d see a liar.

You did smile and laugh with him. That was a sign of enjoyment if there ever was one.

“You smiled and laughed and you don’t want to admit it because it means you’ve already lost and I’ve won.”

“You didn’t win anything. I don’t even know what we’re playing for!”

“To prove that you—“

“No,” you let a breathless chuckle escape your lips as his misunderstanding and his eyes pinned you in the hallway laughing again.

Point: Johnny.

“I meant the prize. What’s the prize if you win or if I win?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I didn’t think that far out yet.”

“Oh,” you played disappointment. “So, I guess that means the smarts only extend to engineering then?”

Johnny’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Did you just make an attempt at a borderline offensive joke that he would totally love to hear?

You did.

“You’re going to wish you never said that,” he teased.

Were you really doing this?

“Well you didn’t name your price, Mr. Storm.”

“Mr. Storm,” he muttered like he’d never been called that before. “You’re obedient, you know that?”

“Like a dog.”

“Fine,” he put his hands on his hips. “You wanna know my price?”

“Name it.”

“If you enjoyed yourself by the end of today—really, truly enjoyed yourself—you gotta let me take you out on a date.”

“A date?” You confirmed.

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d have the gall to banter with Johnny. If Lucy could see you now she’d be asking to collect her winnings in the office betting pool. You were emotionally weak to Johnny’s charm and you hadn’t expected that.

“That’s all? Just a date?”

Both of your minds raced to that appetizing place. It stirred with from within, billowing into full blown fantasies of the dark. Imaginations painted a lustful affair; the tugging of lips and the grasping of skin. Polished nails digging into heated flesh and the sounds of two bodies combining rung deeply in echos of the hallway.

“I mean,” his face turned pink and his right hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Too late.

There was far more interest in the fantasy than either of you let on. You let the blushes fall apart and dared your minds to venture into that place again.

“Fine,” you agreed. “But if I have a terrible time… a really, horribly agonizing time, you have to… be my assistant for a day. Like come to the office and everything. Get my coffee, make my copies, all of it.”

Amused, Johnny dropped his hand. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“Your assistant? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Well… yeah,” you replied. “I don’t have time to think of something worse.”

“Either way I think I win, though,” Johnny stepped forward again but this time with his hand extended similar to how he had greet you two hours before.

Yet his hand was offered with a renewed sense of enthusiasm. Every time he reached for it, the purpose was different.

“And why’s that?” You accepted his hand and relished the way it perfectly encapsulated your own. His hand was soft and cooler than it was prior.

You wondered if he could still feel the sweat the settled in your palm.

“Because no matter what I get to spend more time with you and I think that’s a win.”

You didn’t know what to say to that but your heart surely responded with a thump.

Johnny’s bedroom is not where you thought you’d end up after imagining what it would be like to fuck him.

He had lingered by the door at the end of the hall with his own curiosity threatening to change the atmosphere. It wasn’t like being in his bedroom was automatically leading you to a rumble in the sheets.

His room was the essence of him. If Johnny really wanted the world to see a normal guy, his bedroom is where he surely showed it.

It was clean and shared the same views overlooking the city as the rest of the apartment. Amidst the wooden paneling and the filled shelves, a round bed sat centered and an elevated seating area with the nicest record player you’d ever seen was placed adjacent.

It was well used based on Johnny’s collection of vinyls that bathed the room on either side.

He offered you the chair overlooking the city and made himself comfortable on the floor across from you. Having taken off his shoes, his socked white feet were constantly moving from side to side like he couldn’t sit still with every question you asked.

The clock ticked away.

“Sports team?”

“I’d say the Mets but I don’t want to make anyone mad, so Yankees.”

“If you could have any other job in the world, what would it be?”

“Race—“

“—car driver,” you finished his words for him. “I should have known that one.”

“Yes.” Johnny’s fingers traced the edges of his lips as he fought a grin. “You know me so well.”

His lips pulled and you thought about how nice they’d be to kiss. They appeared soft and pink, just plush enough to leave a lingering tingle in the spots he’d lay delicate memories to your skin.

Someone once said that the beauty marks on a person’s body were the remnants of places their lovers had once kissed.

Maybe in another lifetime the ones on your own were lives lived with Johnny. You shook away the thought when reality snapped back in. You were rushing and only fools did that.

You read through question after question to get a full extent of who Johnny was. These questions, the mediocre ones, were the kind that people wanted to read about.

“First love?”

“Oh.” His tone dropped an octave. “Look who’s trying to learn about my exes now.”

“It’s not me,” you reminded him, again. “It’s the readers, remember?”

“I don’t think they’re the ones coming up with them.”

“Then it’s my editor. She’s obsessed, move along. First love?” You asked again.

“Ramona Mitchell—second grade. She shared her animals crackers with me and broke up with me at the water fountain.”

“Tragic,” you fought the indulgence chuckle.

“Favorite food?”

“Anything Ben makes.”

“That’s not a food,” you countered.

“He makes a mean pasta,” he thought on it. “But I’m from Long Island and you can’t beat some restaurants there.”

“I’ve never been to Long Island.”

You said it passively. Solely focused on writing his response down, your face inclined toward the paper and not to him. Watching him sit there casually was making this feel more and more like a choice rather than a job.

He sat up straighter on the floor.

“What do you mean you’ve never been to Long Island? It’s like… right there!?”

You put the pad of paper down on the table beside you. Crossing your legs, Johnny’s eyes followed them as you settled into the new position.

“I’ve been to Brooklyn before.”

“That’s not Long Island,” he said as if he was a geography expert.

“It’s on Long Island so maybe it counts a little.”

You leaned back into the chair and folded your arms across your chest. This was comfortable. Johnny was surprisingly easy to talk to and you’d be remiss if you said you weren’t loose to the idea of someone to talk to. He listened, he asked, and he looked like he was interested in anything and everything you had to say.

“But you wouldn’t say that Manhattan is the same as Brooklyn as to Queens or as to the Bronx.”

“No,” you agreed. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“And I’m talkin’ deep Long Island,” he emphasized his words with an extension of his hand. “Like the kind where your favorite deli is owned by the cousin of the ex-boyfriend of your mother’s best friend and they know you by name kind of deep.”

“That sounds like it’s from experience, not a universal trait.”

“I guess we’ll have to go see and ask them then,” he smirked as though he knew he’d prove you right.

“Time isn’t on our side today.” You glanced down at the watch on your wrist. You’d been talking in his room for nearly five hours—seven hours to go.

“Another day then.” Johnny crossed his feet at his ankles. “I’ll show you our old stomping ground and take you to one of those delis.”

You laughed not out of amusement but out of nerves. It sounded a hell of a lot like a date.

“Is this the part where I ask you what you think is the perfect date? According to the survey, our readers really want to know how Johnny Storm would make them fall in love.”

“What’s your ideal perfect date?”

“I’m not the one being interviewed here.”

“Amuse me,” Johnny bartered. “And then I’ll ask H.E.R.B.I.E. to make us some lunch.”

You sighed, gazing out the window in thought at the question. What constituted the “perfect date?” You weren’t entirely sure there was one concrete answer because everyone had a different opinion.

However, if Johnny could be open and honest for the sake of a magazine, you could be honest for him.

“I guess it would be doing something that interested me.”

“Go on,” he urged. Those interested blue eyes bore into you.

“I don’t know… I would hope that before I am asked out on a date that a guy would listen to me. Ask me about my interests and discover things I like so that when we go, they choose a place that I would like to go to. Someone says they like art and they go to a museum; someone likes music, they go to a show—that kind of stuff.”

“But what about you? Not someone else, you.”

“I like going to the pictures. Museums and the city zoo is nice too. But sometimes I don’t want to make a big fuss about it all and a diner is nice. Just a little hole-in-the-wall place where the coffee is stale but the food is good and the company doesn’t care that it’s not a five star establishment.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he nodded his head in agreement.

“Dating doesn’t have to be flashy. I see the kinds of things that are written about your sister and her husband. I couldn’t imagine being under that microscope.”

“It’s a choice they made—to be open about everything. I’m not sure they like the constant guessing of what the baby is going to be, but they don’t mind the interest in their lives.”

“What about you?” You asked him. “The perfect date? Being in the public eye?”

“I don’t mind it,” Johnny said with little thought. “It’s just part of the job and people have been pretty nice about it all. It’s not everyday you have to trust someone like me to help out.”

“So you admit it,” a small, rewarding grin played at your lips. You saw his gaze flick to them and back to your eyes. “You’re not normal then?”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Was that a trick question?”

“No. Just an honest one. Date?”

He sat with his response for a minute, falling back against the record player’s built-in. Johnny liked having you here. It felt normal and easy and not like anyone else he’d ever known.

“Mr. Storm?” You pressed.

“You don’t give a guy any time to think, do you, sweetheart? And it’s Johnny.”

“I don’t have forever,” you reminded him. He wished you did.

“What you said.”

“Excuse me?”

Johnny’s smug face was rewarded with your surprise. His head tilted up as he rephrased, “you described my perfect date.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes,” he dug in further, “you did.”

“But that’s my perfect date. We are two very different people.”

“Opposites attract and all,” he commented. “I want her to feel comfortable and safe. If I take her race car driving on the first date, she might never speak to me again or if she’s someone I really, really like, then I want her to feel like I’m making an effort to get to know her. Getting to know me can come later. Preferably here, in this room, with a record on and very little taking.”

You felt that warmth invade your body once more.

Your band of resistance was starting to snap.

“Mr. Storm,” you started.

“Johnny.”

“You know I can’t write that down.”

“It wasn’t for you to write down,” he said seriously. “It was for you to know.”

“Why would I need to know that?”

The space inside of his room shrunk. The only thing that existed was the small, elevated section you both sat upon: you in the chair, he on the floor.

Your comment sat heavy in the hair. Hanging there above your heads, it twirled into a storm of those savory thoughts from a few hours ago. Neither of you had forgotten about it—how your minds automatically raced to imagine what it would be like to sit just a little closer, inch your hands toward the other.

He knew what your palm felt like in his and it was perfect. Slotted to a perfect puzzle piece and he knew this feeling was the ultimate one that Sue told him about. It was the universe opening portals to emotions he didn’t know existed and stretching him in directions he didn’t anticipate going.

“I know we don’t know each other well,” Johnny started slowly as he broached the topic.

“We don’t know each other at all,” you clarified.

“People have done a lot more knowing a lot less.”

“I feel like I’ve had to remind you that I’m working several times,” you uncrossed your legs and moved to stand.

Johnny scrambled to his feet and that line had been crossed. He didn’t know how to return to the other side and wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

All that talk of a perfect date and he just wished someone would give him a real chance to show off. You listened and maybe right that second you didn’t feel like you knew him, but you did.

Johnny had given you more answers in seven entire hours than he’d allowed anyone else to hear in his life besides his family. You cracked a part of him open without waving the slightest finger in attempting to do so.

“I’m sorry if I gave you an impression that it wasn’t professional.” You gathered your paper and pen from the table and aimed for the door.

He rushed toward you frantically. Johnny cut off the path to the door by standing in front of it. The look on your face immediately sent him into orbit. He was spiraling.

“Sorry!” He said quickly. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I just… I just thought that, well, I don’t know! I felt something, okay?”

“Mr. Storm, please—“

“You gotta stop with that Mr. Storm shit.” He let out a stressed groan, a hand wiping over his face in duress. “You’re tellin’ me that you haven’t felt it too?”

God did you feel it. You felt the pull so strong that it was sending your own synapses into overdrive. You couldn’t be here any longer. He pushed open the flood gates and allowed those feelings to spur deeper, rising into that forbidden territory you couldn’t come back from.

This was what all those other reporters wanted and the one thing that you weren’t expecting. You were attracted to Johnny. Immensely. He was charming and sweet—far more interesting and curious than you realized. He was the one guy that was as engaged with your own answers as he was with his own and it was a drug. A highly addictive drug that wouldn’t last because he was a hero and you were a journalist.

Those two things didn’t mix.

They couldn’t mix.

It was wrong. It was inappropriate. But fuck, did it sound so, so good.

“It’s not appropriate. I don’t sleep with my clients.”

“Then end the interview,” he said like it was easy. “I’m not a client anymore.”

“Is this just for you to get your rocks off?” Your eyes narrowed and he held up his hands defensively.

“No! No!” He exclaimed. Maybe you were being too harsh. “If you want to leave, go ahead.” Johnny backed away from the door and settled at its side.

There was a pathway out now.

“I’m not trying to make you break any rules,” he said softly. “That wasn’t my intention. But tell me you don’t feel it too. It feels like you stuck dynamite in my chest and it’s ready to explode.”

You knew the sentiment well. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t be what Lucy and all the rest of them wanted to be.

“I can’t, Johnny.” He melted at the sound of his name falling from your lips. “I’m not trying to be like those other girls.”

“So you’re not like the rest of them, huh?” He joked.

“No,” you replied painfully. “Unfortunately I’m just like them it seems because I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you.”

You threw your hands up in defeat and paced around his room in circles. He just stood by the door and watched amused as you worked through what he already figured out.

“I guess that means you won, right? It’s not even the goddamn end of the day and I’m already throwing in the towel because I don’t have a little more self control.” You let out a rueful snicker. “And to think I was so certain that I could do this!? I mean, it’s not like you’re my type or anything.”

“And that is…?”

“Nice!” You answered loudly. “And not one to say crude things all the time.”

“They weren’t crude, they were suggestive. For a writer I would hope you would know the difference.”

You stopped pacing and looked at him with your mouth agape. “Why you—“

“Careful,” he held up a finger, “your name calling game isn’t that strong. Might I suggest ‘most handsome man on the planet’ or ‘hero of my heart’ instead?”

“Oh my god,” you wailed. “I can’t believe I am even the slightest bit attracted to you!”

“I think it’s a little more than slight, sweetheart. You were ready to burn this building to the ground at the mere thought of sleeping with me and I think that means you’ve at least thought about it before.”

“I have not!”

“You’ve thought about kissing me.”

“That’s different,” you emphasized. Of course you thought about fucking him too. He’s Johnny fucking Storm and he’s been giving you “fuck me” eyes for the last five hours.

“It all leads to somewhere else in the end.”

“So you were implying that. I’m not crazy.” Your eyes widened like you were.

“I didn’t say you were. And you’re not, by the way.”

Johnny just settled against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest. The muscles of his biceps strained at the short sleeves of his white tee and invited you in.

“Having a little bit of fun doesn’t make you less of a journalist,” he said your name for the first time. Not sweetheart or any other pet name.

Johnny. You. It was personal now.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not that kind of guy and I hope you didn’t get the idea that I would be that kind of guy. You’re nice, real nice, and I really enjoy talking to you. There aren’t many people who are willing to listen and take things with an open mind.”

God. He needed to stop talking.

“Plus I think H.E.R.B.I.E likes you. He felt real bad about leaving you out in the cold like that.”

Stop talking, Johnny.

“And I do too. Sorry about that, by the way,” he laughed slightly at the predicament. “I’m not used to putting people that aren’t my family first but I’m open to the idea…”

His blue eyes beat you down. Stop fucking talking.

“If we had more time I would have—“

You couldn’t take it anymore. Dropping your pad of paper and pen to the ground, you closed the distance between the two of you in a few long strides and grasped his face between your hands, planting your lips onto his in a heartbeat.

His words halted.

Fusing together like atoms, the electricity of your mouths falling into sync quieted both minds. It was tranquil. His face cupped between your hands tilted, angling to the side and opening up further. Johnny’s tongue begged for mercy between your lips, melding together with yours in tune to the beating of your hearts.

Something sprouted inside of you. Building from your toes to your mind, it tingled your limbs into numbness where nothing else but Johnny’s hands weaving around your waist and cradling the back of your head mattered.

This is what it felt like—attraction.

It was all consuming and all knowing. It recognized parts of you that had been sleeping and awoken to a giant tower ready to climb. His smooth face fell from your hands as they dropped to his neck; trailing the edges of the scoop of his shirt and feeling the molds of his chest before settling there. One hand turned into a fist to gather his shirt with a tug, drawing him closer and leaving no space between you.

His lips were as you imagined: soft and inviting. There were no words needed to accept the fact that you were holding everything back for nothing. This was as it should be. He was kind. He was considerate.

He was charming, funny, nervous, clumsy, confident, handsome, smart, entertaining, and didn’t force you into this.

It fell into place. As two objects in motion collided, the motions continued on.

Johnny’s hands groped you tightly, barely allowing you time to breathe as your lips parted. His hands paved a path down your body and tested the waters with bated breath. You didn’t stop him. You craved the feeling of his hands on your body.

You pulled back from his lips but he chased after them, drunk on the feeling. You knocked your nose gently into his as you breathed in deep breaths.

“You can touch me,” you reassured him. His eyes stayed focused on your mouth.

“As long as you’re sure.”

“More than sure.”

Johnny’s hands slid down to your ass and cupped you roughly. His grip pulled you flush against him and with a groan, your lips caught his chin and dotted kisses along the column of his neck.

He thought he was dreaming. Five minutes ago he was certain you were going to flee the apartment and speak his name into forbidden existence because of his brash assessment. Here you were, kissing him mad and he was imprinting a picture of your body forever in his mind. You were luxurious and finite. There was only ever going to be one of you and he was never going to forget what this moment caused.

The rapture within him was cemented.

“You know,” he murmured against your kisses when your lips returned to his. “I did really want to take you out on a date before all this.���

“I told you that I don’t follow the rules,” you nipped at his chin playfully.

“You surprise me.”

“Good,” you smiled. You backed away from him and his hands fell to his sides loosely. “And I’m not going to write an article about you anymore either.”

“No?”

You hummed and shook your head. “Can’t now. I’m too biased in my storytelling to be truthful.”

Johnny took a step forward and you took one back.

“And the honest truth is what, sweetheart?”

“That Johnny Storm isn’t the man everyone thinks he is.” Another step forward, another back. “He’s a good man with a good family and similar morals. He likes to have a fun time but within the bounds of his duty and he’s a romantic at heart—not a womanizer.”

“I would really like to womanize you, however.”

Johnny bit down on his bottom lip. You extended your hand and he gladly took it, leaping into your space again and tumbling with you onto his bed at the center of the room. You fell back with a thud and his body weighed heavy on top of yours.

“Johnny Storm defies the expectations we have of him,” you continued on.

The hand not entwined with his own came back to his face and brushed stray blond bangs from his forehead.

“And the lucky few who get to know the real Johnny will always know his true heroism lies within.”

Johnny’s smile widened. “That’s real cheesy—you know that, right?”

You grinned back and returned your hand to the back of his head where the shortened hairs weaved between your fingertips. Johnny pulled your intertwined hands up above your head.

“I think it’s a perfect story.”

His story or this one playing out now, he wasn’t sure which was better.

“Yeah,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips. “Me too.”

“You’d sacrifice the world for your family and I admire that.”

“Now you’re getting sappy on me,” he laughed. He laid a peck beside your ear. “You don’t need to butter me up to make something happen.”

“I’m not buttering you up.”

You titled your head to the side to give him access to the side of your face, neck, and when his hand tugged at the top of your dress, the bit of clavicle he was able to reach.

His touch set you ablaze. Burning from the sensations his gentle lips left behind, Johnny knew how to touch a woman and make her feel good. It was something he’d perfected in his thirty years on Earth.

“You remember what I said about my perfect date?” His voice was muffled by the wool of your dress.

“Oh,” you gave an awe inspired sigh. “Was that you buttering me up? How you got me here?”

“You did that all on your own.”

Johnny’s head turned back up to face you and he rested his chin at the curve of your breasts. You hadn’t realized he had moved down that far on your body. He slowly slipped his lean frame to the edge of the bed, kneeling at its base and letting his hands fall to the backs of your knees. They glided down your calves and to your ankles, playing with the straps of your shoes.

“Tell me that you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

You sat up on your elbows. His hands grasped your right foot. Slowly pulling at the buckle of your heel and undoing the strap to where you shoe fell off your foot with a small clunk when it hit the floor.

Johnny’s gaze didn’t escape yours. He waited for you to change your mind. The anticipation of your soft rejection pounding at his ribcage.

His hands moved to your left leg and when the second shoe dropped, Johnny’s hands caressed the skin of your shin.

“I wouldn’t have let you do that if I didn’t,” you told him.

“When I said that your perfect date is how I see my perfect date, I also should have said that I want her to be satisfied when it’s all over.”

You swallowed a lump that had formed in your through from the promise. God. You couldn’t believe you ended up here.

“I’m not asking you to give out to me,” he nodded at you. Johnny asked you to give him the confirmation he needed. “So if it’s not today, it will be another time.”

The ghosting of his fingertips on the backs of your knees sent a chill up your body.

“Don’t you think that’s a little presumptuous?”

“I mean…” he smirked, lips placing peppered kissed along your kneecap. “I think I may have won the bet.”

He did. He knows he fucking did.

Johnny’s hands roamed to the end of your dress. His thumbs pushed the fabric that had grown far too warm on your body upwards, watching you in permission that every inch higher was not crossing the boundary of what you were willing to give to him.

His position between your legs prevented them from closing in bashfulness. His tongue wet his lips as the curve of your hips forced his hands harder to give him access. Johnny paused again.

“You’re sure?” He asked quietly.

You nodded, running a hand through his short hair. The hesitancy you had yesterday seemed like a distant memory. Johnny enraptured you and while you were breaking every rule in the book, you couldn’t stop here. Not when he was kneeling for you. Not when he wanted to taste you.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Putting your free hand atop his, you guided it to the top of your panties in invitation.

“Lay down,” he ordered and you complied. Obedient. “Relax.” Came next and in a mere whisper as the fabric slipped from your body and the cool air now exposed to your body made you aware of how wet you were.

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

Kissing the inside of your thigh, you stared at the ceiling in disbelief. You felt his piercing gaze upon you; he measured your body in the way it folded and it heaved.

And he kept a promise of taking care of you—not himself. As much as the sight of you, bare and wanting before him made his soul burn, he knew this wouldn’t be your last meeting.

His kisses drew closer. Johnny’s hot breath met the crux between your legs before any other part of him did. His lips barely grazed you and your thighs trembled with his head stuck between them.

Johnny didn’t miss the sharp intake of your breath when he finally lowered his mouth to you. And my, he had never tasted someone as sweet as you. His tongue glided along the wetness that had already gathered and focused his attention to your clit. He gave in to a merciless pace; circling and sucking—your toes curled to hold you back.

Your hand wrapped into his hair and tugged at the strands. His arms held onto your sides and tracked the curve of your body as he pulled you closer. The response he was receiving was Pavlovian. Forever he’d bend at the sounds of your sighs, of the feel of your nails raking against the base of his skull. He’d dream of the flesh he devoured and sing songs of the pleasures he took.

Johnny Storm hadn’t believed in love at first sight until today.

And you hadn’t imagined giving him a chance until he had greeted you that morning.

His tongue increased its pressure on your bud. Pressing down as he lapped the wetness of his saliva and your arousal into his method and used it to lower himself smoothly.

A whine escaped your lips when his fingers left your side and helped open you up to him. Splitting you open and allowing his tongue to pin you to the bed. Your knees shook, legs coming to bend beside his head as his shoulders lurched to catch them. Johnny’s opposite hand held you down, settling at the base of your stomach.

“Holy mother of—“

He hummed and it sent a vibration through you.

As he had kissed you before, his tongue flicked inside of you in a passionate rhythm. His eyes closed to relish in the sounds of your neediness. Johnny didn’t tell you to be quiet because he didn’t want you to be. You could shout, scream, or cry out and he’d ask you for more. Give him everything, he wanted to imply, but he couldn’t ask for everything at that very moment.

You were taking everything he was giving like it was made for you. Hell, maybe he was.

The fingers he had used to help open you up remained rubbing up and down the sides of your pussy while his tongue explored the horizons beyond it. You felt one move, his middle finger, and it joined his tongue, curling into you gently.

“Oh god,” you groaned. His mouth curved into a smirk, backing away centimeters.

“Johnny is fine,” his voice had turned gravely. “But I’ll take being a god any day.”

And that laughter. It filled him so deeply that not even the strain in his jeans could distract him from the innate pleasure of hearing you respond to him. He continued on, letting his finger work against your plush walls and master the craft of you.

His mouth refocused to your clit which he did not abandon on purpose. Johnny quickened his pace, unrelenting and fixed on assisting you to the end. It built, like a flame kindling from a spark and tingling every cell in your body.

Your shoulders tensed, anticipating a release but infatuated with the way his ministrations only pulled back when he knew you were getting too close. He was keeping you on your toes. Johnny let you feel and experience the pleasure outside of simply working toward an orgasm.

Earn it. You had to earn it.

“You gonna keep teasing me like that or what?” You whined.

“I’m just not done with you yet.” His finger left you empty before coming back with its neighbor. “We’ve got time.”

“I don’t think we have time today,” you seemed to always remind him that you had a deadline. “Maybe another day.”

“Now who’s asking for a second date?”

“This isn’t a date.” His fingers reached lengths you were unable to do yourself. Your back arched in his grasp and his grasp tightened.

“Then our first date will be amazing.” Cocky son-of-a-bitch.

“Jesus,” you couldn’t help the spattering of words that flew from your lips as the precipice gained on you again.

“Johnny,” he repeated.

“Johnny,” you cried back. “I—“

“I can feel you, sweetheart.”

The familiarity of your orgasm climbed the mountain of your thrill rapidly approached. Recalling the minutes he spent prior being agonizingly slow, then picking up his pace, your ears captured the most bawdy sounds of excitement. His fingers were coated in your slick, chin glistening in the slightest with remnants of what he’d take as a prize.

You turned your head to watch his fingers disappear inside of you and your chest nearly caved.

“Come here,” you breathed in heavy. Johnny’s brow furrowed.

“Wha—“

“Just kiss me.”

With his fingers still pumping frantically inside of you, Johnny pushed up from the ground and let your hands pull his face toward yours. You had never tasted yourself on the lips of a lover before and you cherished the intimacy of the notion.

He felt your shoulders stutter, your body shaking in need. His mouth opened to allow you in.

One. Two. Three additional thrusts of his fingers and he felt you tighten around him. A wave of immense pleasure washed over your body in bliss. Arching into him, Johnny held onto you tightly, never once letting you fall apart without him.

You could hear him whisper words of praise in your ear except nothing but a kaleidoscope of colors seemed to match the tremors of your lower body. Legs shaking, toes curled as one leg wrapped around his own waist and laid lax once the shaking subsided.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. He retracted the two fingers. Resting them on your thigh, he patted the skin there. “You’re fine, sweetheart.”

Johnny laid his forehead against yours and let you breathe before his mouth couldn’t help but run again.

“I would have called you a good girl but I think sweetheart is the only nickname you can take right now.”

You opened your eyes and met his glinting with amusement. Did you want to take back everything u out said? Pretend this never happened and go find someone who can keep a moment serious for longer than a minute?

“You are—“ the words couldn’t form. There were too many words to describe Johnny Storm and even a journalist as great as yourself couldn’t come up with one.

The next morning you were at the office bright and early. No article had been prepared, no pictures of Johnny in his space, and nothing to report to Lucy.

Your mind was racing, however.

When you unlocked the door to your apartment later that night, you did so with a smile plastered to your face. You felt like a school girl with her first crush. Johnny enamored you and left you feeling like jell-o and your limbs acting on their own accord was proof of it.

But you had to keep a lid on it. So, when you sat down at your desk and flipped on the light to wait for the inevitable, you pretended you weren’t hopelessly crushing on the hot-headed hero.

An hour after you settled in, Lucy rushed to your desk to gossip. Her eyes were wide, expectant for you to spill all of the details of what makes Johnny tick. Every secret you gathered from the contents of his bathroom cabinet to the food he liked to eat, she wanted to know.

“So?” She said incredibly fast. “How was it? Where is it?” The draft.

“I don’t have it.” You preoccupied yourself by typing out a different article. The keys on your typewriter filled the space of her mouth hanging wide open in confusion.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?”

“I didn’t it write it,” you clarified. “It’s not happening.”

“We—“ she started and stopped in a stutter. “What, well… what happened? Did you even go??”

“Of course I went.” The page reached its end with a ring and you shot it back to the opposite side. “I just don’t have the story for you. I’m not going to write it so ask someone else.”

Lucy watched you carefully. “Please tell me you didn’t make our paper look bad.”

“Oh just awful,” you drawled. “I think we’re banned from ever covering them.”

She didn’t catch the tone. Lucy had been so preoccupied with wanting a big, newsworthy feature that she didn’t think of anything else. She joked about you falling into bed with him but figured you were too much of a straightened arrow to try it.

You didn’t have a hickey, you weren’t sweating at the temple, or drinking the largest coffee. In fact, you didn’t even have a coffee.

“Did you…” she trailed off, neck jutting out in curiosity.

Before you could look her in the eyes and lie, a delivery man with a bouquet of flowers was making a b-line to your desk caught your eye.

Shit. So much for discreet.

He said your name aloud and held up the flowers as if you didn’t see them. They were magnificent. A collection of winter favorites perfectly curated in a massive bouquet.

“I have a delivery.”

“From?” Lucy asked bewildered.

“There’s a card,” he informed. The man set the flowers on your desk and you stood, straightening out your blouse as you plucked the card from the small spokes elevating it above the petals.

“Who’s it from?” Lucy pressed.

“Geez,” you mumbled. “Care to give me a minute or would you rather just read it yourself?”

“Go ahead,” she motioned.

You slipped the card from the envelope and slid it out. In personal handwriting, a short message relayed a simple message without a signature.

You couldn’t fight the grin this time. It filled your face with a joyous, girlish glow and Lucy smacked her hand on the surface of the desk.

“Holy shit!”

And holy, flaming fucking shit indeed.

Saturday, 9 AM. My shop. Wear something nice, it’s a date.

And you knew right where to go.

A/N: a Joe Quinn character breaking me out of a writing slump? 2022 me is not surprised. His Johnny is *chef’s kiss* and I love him, your honor.

P.S. all writers love to hear from readers and it’s the one thing I love more than anything. Thank you for taking the time to read this!

Liked this one? Here’s another Johnny fic!

[violetrainbow412-blog]

vintage magazines 🔥

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐲 (+𝟏𝟖 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢)

masterlist

𝐑𝐨𝐥𝐞-𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐞

Peter has always had that adorable mix of nerdy and shy, and when he talks about his role-playing with you, he does so with enthusiasm. He loves the idea of creating worlds where they can be anything, because in those moments, he feels that intimacy becomes a shared adventure. For him, role-playing isn't just dressing up or acting, but a way to connect with you on another level, where logic and imagination intertwine.

Little by little, you discover that Peter can be incredible at that, he takes his roles very seriously, but always with a shy smile. In those moments, the introverted nerd transforms into someone full of confidence, and it's beautiful to see him like that.

The soft bondage probably stems from his spider-like powers: silk scarves, thin ropes, nothing too tight, just enough for him to fully trust and feel that controlled surrender. When it's your turn to tie him up, he closes his eyes and concentrates on the sensations, on how every movement, every sigh, becomes more intense because he can't move as much. It's a contrast that fascinates him.

Peter's kink is about using creativity to create an intimate space where trust, fantasy, and gentle control blend. Soft ties are a symbol of that trust, a way of showing that he's willing to surrender without fear, to explore together, with respect and affection.

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐦, 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤

Bob seems reserved on the surface, but when you get to know him for a while, he reveals a deeper, more complex side. His soft dom kink means that he likes to dominate calmly, without rushing or being aggressive, creating an environment where tension builds slowly, and he can patiently guide the pleasure.

When he controls edging, he takes you to the edge of pleasure and waits patiently for you, making you feel that he's in complete control of the situation, which gives him a powerful and protective feeling. He likes to see you shudder and surrender to him.

But when you apply edging to him, it's a different story: Bob becomes almost unable to stay calm. He whimpers intensely, begs quietly that you won't let him go, that he wants more, and that total surrender drives him crazy. That mix of frustration and desire is a source of immense pleasure and a profound form of connection for him.

Plus, praise kink is what really melts him. He doesn't tell you; you discover it. Half-playing, you whispered “That’s it, atta boy…” to him once and he almost came. When you express in words how much you enjoy what he's doing, he completely melts; as if those simple words were a powerful aphrodisiac.

However, when Bob decides to be completely freaky and take the initiative, he becomes someone totally different. He can be more direct, daring, and playful, surprising you with new ways to explore control and pleasure, breaking through his own calm barrier with an intensity you never expected.

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲

He likes playful domination, that mix of being bossy but not taking himself too seriously. Soft impact play, especially light spanking, is his favorite way to add spark to intimate moments without it becoming painful or serious.

He loves using his hands to playfully spank, with a rhythm that ranges from subtle to firm, eliciting from you a delicious mix of nervous giggles, deep sighs, and a tingle that runs through your entire body. For Joaquín, each spank is like a caress that says, "I'm here, enjoying you, wanting you," and that makes him irresistible.

From the beginning, you notice how he can't help but drop a naughty comment while he caresses or marks you with his hands. He's completely obsessed with your ass, and when you're together, he can't seem to think of anything else. That fixation is felt in every touch, every light, precise bite that leaves you with a small reminder of his desire. Those bites, right at the perfect moment, mix a little surprise with a lot of pleasure, and you know they're his way of telling you how much he loves you and how much you turn him on.

He so enjoys giving you those small doses of power and physical play, but always with respect and attention to limits.

𝐖𝐚𝐱 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Johnny is pure fire, literally and figuratively, and that's reflected in his favorite kink: wax play. When he worked up the courage to tell you, he explained that he loves the mixture of pleasure and surprise that comes from dropping drops of hot wax onto your skin, especially if it's his hand that melts it.

He also complements this practice with sensory deprivation, covering your eyes to intensify every sensation, every caress. Without seeing, every touch becomes deeper, more intimate, and Johnny knows how to use that advantage to play with desire.

His dominance isn't authoritarian, it's mischievous. He gives you orders with a smile on his lips and a spark in his eyes, but he's always attentive to your reactions, always asking wordlessly if you're okay, if you want more.

He loves to see you shudder, to hear a nervous laugh escape you between moans, to know that you're enjoying what you're building together. And when something feels too much, he's the first to stop, to gently kiss the place that burned, to murmur that you're okay, that he's here.

You realize that Johnny can be intense and sweet at the same time: his fire not only burns, but also warms with tenderness. For him, they are not just erotic practices, but a language of their own where heat and darkness blend to create a unique and unforgettable connection.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

masterlist

His first reaction is to get nervous. Actually, he gets nervous when he knows he's going to meet anyone, but learning that it's a group of super-powered and experienced men only makes that nervousness skyrocket. He doesn't know whether to dress more formally, make jokes, or stay quiet. He rehearses greetings in his head.

Peter is used to feeling out of place, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. He doesn't want to seem like a child in front of them, or a beginner, or someone who needs approval. Although, deep down, he does.

Still, he connects quickly with Johnny. It's almost immediate, as if their energies recognize each other. They talk about science and movies, and in less than ten minutes they're already discussing technology.

After a while with everyone, Peter relaxes. He laughs. He's surprised to be laughing like this. He feels included, part of something. He's happy to have friends again, because he'd forgotten what that felt like.

He likes listening to Joaquin talk. He doesn't always understand how he moves from one topic to the next, but he finds it entertaining. There's something about his way of speaking that puts him at ease. As if it were impossible to get bored or feel ignored while he's there.

He literally freezes. From the first moment, he feels overwhelmed by the three boys' strong energy. It's not that they're rude or aggressive, on the contrary. It's just that their way of being in the world is loud, lively, expansive. And Bob isn't used to that.

He doesn't know where to stand. He doesn't know whether to speak or remain silent. He watches in silence, as if he were watching a movie he wasn't invited to be in.

But Joaquin notices. He begins to slowly draw him out of his shell. He doesn't force him, doesn't pressure him, just includes him with random questions in the middle of the conversation: "What do you think, Bob?" "Has something like that happened to you?" "What would you do?"

At first, Bob just nods. Or he mumbles something. Then he answers in full sentences. Then a laugh escapes him. And then another.

Although he gets a little overstimulated by the noise and the multitude of voices, he enjoys spending time with them. He feels welcome. Not as an obligation, but as a choice.

As he gains more confidence, the others realize he's funny. He has a humor all his own: dry, unexpected, sometimes absurd. Johnny says Bob is like a comedian too shy to get on stage.

And beyond that, everyone starts to see him as trustworthy. There's something about his way of listening, about his silence, that brings peace. When they tell him this, Bob blushes completely.

No one has ever described him like that.

He's euphoric. Ever since they told him he'd be meeting new colleagues, he's been thinking about what to wear, what to tell first, what anecdotes to avoid. He arrives with his energy at its peak, excited to meet them, to be part of something new.

He connects with everyone in his own way. He talks to Peter about cult movies and superhero gossip. With Johnny, he exchanges sarcastic jokes. He treats Bob with care that seems natural.

Within an hour of meeting, there's already a group chat with the four of them, created—obviously—by Joaquin. He sends memes, videos, links to random things. And every day, without fail, he writes: "How r u today?" or "Everything kay?"

He feels protective of Bob. He's one of those who "adopt introverts" without meaning to. It doesn't bother him that Bob is quiet; it makes him more curious. He's incredibly intrigued by his powers, but even more so by his way of thinking. He listens to him attentively. He respects him greatly. He sees him as someone sensible, very focused, so different from him. And sometimes he finds himself wishing he was a little more like him.

With Peter and Johnny, he finds someone to wreak havoc with. They're intense, loud, restless. But they're also very loyal, and that's enough for him.

From the first second he sees Peter, he knows he loves him. It's not romantic, but it's a certainty. He loves him in the most chaotic sense of the word. It's like looking in a mirror that bounces light off each other.

They connect immediately. They're nerdy, scientific, and noisy. Unbearable if they're together for more than half an hour. They have the same energy. They talk nonstop, interrupt each other, and jump on each other's sentences, but they don't get upset about it. It's as if they've been waiting to meet for years.

Sometimes Peter says something so absurd that Johnny almost chokes with laughter. Sometimes Johnny spills a fact and Peter looks at it with genuine admiration. They're the same.

And although neither of them says it, they both tacitly agree that Bob must be protected. Not because he's weak. Quite the opposite. They know perfectly well that Bob could disintegrate them with a snap. But they also know he's not entirely comfortable, that he's not entirely safe.

And they are. At least, when they're together. So they decide to be that safe place for him. Without saying it, without planning it; just being.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲

masterlist

When Peter feels jealous, his first reaction is to shut down. Not because he wants to distance himself, but because he doesn’t know how to express what he feels without sounding vulnerable or desperate. He stays silent, avoids direct eye contact, and sometimes answers with monosyllables when you ask him what’s wrong. That distant attitude hides a storm of insecurities he doesn’t know how to control.

His mind starts replaying what he saw or heard over and over, exaggerating small details until they become a threat. “Does she not like me as much anymore? Is there someone better than me?” are questions that torment him in silence. However, he never confronts you directly, fearing that he might sound possessive or risk what you have.

To compensate for his insecurity, Peter becomes more affectionate and protective, albeit clumsily. He hugs you tighter, makes sure to stay close, prepares your favorite snack, or sends you messages to say he’s thinking of you. But behind that sweetness is a knot in his chest that’s hard to undo.

When the situation gets too intense—like if someone crosses a line with you—Peter might momentarily lose control. Without raising his voice, he puts himself between you and the other person, with a serious and determined look, as if that’s his way of saying “don’t touch her.” Afterwards, he always apologizes for being impulsive, but deep down, he knows his reaction comes from fear.

In the end, Peter needs you to remind him that you’re with him because you want to be, not because you have to be. That your feelings aren’t measured by who’s around but by what you share with him. That security is what helps him break out of that shell of doubt and become the boy who smiles at you with confidence again.

Jealousy for Bob is a silent and deeply painful battle. He doesn’t usually express it openly because he fears showing vulnerability might push you away. Instead, he retreats into himself, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions fighting to come out without causing harm.

His biggest fear isn’t losing you to someone else but losing you because of his own inner darkness. That constant struggle with his identity makes him feel insufficient and afraid you’ll eventually get tired of him. So, when he feels jealous, his reaction is to withdraw, become distant and cold, even though inside he’s falling apart.

Sometimes he finds himself watching how you talk or think about other people, interpreting every word as a sign of impending abandonment. That hypersensitivity makes him question his place in your life and his ability to be worthy of your love.

When he finally gathers the courage to speak, his words are a mixture of confession and plea: he admits his fears, his insecurity, and tells you that even though he loves you with all his being, he’s afraid he’s not enough for you. It’s a vulnerable and raw moment that demands understanding and patience.

The beautiful thing about Bob is that despite everything, when you show him that you keep choosing him, his silence fills with gratitude and hope. That gesture, as small as it may seem, is proof for him that love can conquer his inner demons.

Joaquín experiences jealousy with a mix of calmness and honesty that makes him unique. He doesn’t usually make scenes or lose control, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it. Instead, he prefers to analyze the situation calmly and then approach you to openly talk about what he saw or felt.

For him, jealousy is more about protection than possession. He doesn’t want to control anyone but wants to make sure you’re in a safe space and that no one makes you feel uncomfortable or undervalued. That’s why his words aren’t complaints but sincere questions that seek to understand and strengthen trust between you.

When someone crosses the line, Joaquín doesn’t need to raise his voice or cause scenes. His firm posture, direct gaze, and calm tone convey more power than any shouting. Those who know him understand he’s not someone to provoke.

Although his jealousy is less dramatic, when he talks to you about it, he does it from a place of vulnerability. He confesses that what matters most to him is maintaining the connection with you and that he prefers to talk things out rather than hold grudges. His emotional maturity allows him to handle those feelings without damaging them.

In the end, Joaquín is a partner who prefers honesty and open communication, and when he feels jealous, he looks for ways for both to grow together so those moments don’t become cracks in their relationship.

ohnny can’t hide anything, and jealousy brings out his most impulsive and proud side. As soon as he feels someone’s paying attention to you, his expression changes, the smile becomes a grimace, and his voice raises a few tones. He doesn’t hesitate to throw sharp jokes or hints to call attention, although sometimes those words hide a deep fear of losing what he has with you.

His way of marking territory is obvious: he grabs your waist firmly, kisses you intentionally, or makes loud comments so everyone hears how much he loves you. He doesn’t care if he seems intense; for Johnny, being passionate is part of his nature, and at that moment, it’s his way of saying “you’re mine.” Although he can seem aggressive or possessive, beneath it all he’s fighting his own insecurity and the idea that someone could replace him.

If you interact with someone else, even jokingly, Johnny takes it personally. He might make a bit of a scene, with sarcasm or a sharper tone, but without losing his characteristic humor. When the storm passes, he knows how to apologize, though always with that “this is how I am and this is how you love me” smile.

What really hurts him isn’t so much that someone looks at you, but that you pay attention to someone else. That’s why, when you make him feel important and remind him he’s your priority, Johnny softens and becomes the warm, playful guy you know.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Me divirtió escribir esto porque ahora mismo está lloviendo y porque parte de lo de Joaquin es algo que pasa muy seguido (lo de usar llantas como flotadores, jajajaj)

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 🌧️

masterlist

Peter is the type who associates rainy days with movie marathons. Star Wars is his obvious choice, but he'd also give you the option of choosing a series "for equal marathon rights." Either way, you almost always end up watching his picks just because it makes him happy.

His apartment is small, damp, and cold, but you two make it work. When it rains hard, he curls up with you without saying anything. Sometimes he'll put his arm around your shoulders, and you'll lean into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the old Midtown High t-shirt he refuses to throw away.

He likes it because it represents a brief respite from everything he is. In those moments, he's not Spider-Man, nor the underpaid employee of the Daily Bugle—it's just Peter, with you, enjoying the shared warmth. If he's lucky, he can do home office, which means not having to deal with his grumpy boss and instead spending time with his beautiful girlfriend.

The sound of rain relaxes him only if he's with you; for some reason, he has a hard time relaxing alone.

Bob is lazy by nature. Much of this is due to his mental state, as his bouts of depression cause him to sleep all day and still feel like he didn't get enough rest. Rainy days make him melancholic—not in a bad way, but introspective.

He likes hot coffee and has a sweet tooth, so you two almost always eat Krispy Kreme or Pillsbury Grands! Cinnamon Rolls that you make in the oven. He prefers warm lighting and watching movies in the kitchen, on one of the tablets designated for viewing mission details. He likes classic movies; some of his favorites have been: The Iron Giant, E.T., Back to the Future, and The Princess Bride, which, although he tells you is "ridiculous," he smiles through every scene.

The constant sound of rain unsettles him a little because it can remind him of his own mental noise, but if you're there, it's as if that external noise is muffled. He invites you to sit close, doesn't say much, but holds your hand and gives it occasional kisses, as if to make it clear how much he appreciates sharing those moments.

As soon as he sees a few clouds, he's already looking for his rain boots. He's fascinated by the feel of the drops on his skin, the freedom, the connection to the earth. If you're in his apartment, he literally drags you to the rooftop or the patio and laughs when you complain about the cold. He has that "this is life too" energy, and he wants to share it with you.

After the first time, he buys you boots in your favorite color and a matching raincoat, which he carefully keeps in his closet. To tell the truth, you both have a lot of fun.

Later, when you enter the house, all soaked, he hands you a towel so you both can shower. Nothing sexual, just a little warm water to keep you from catching a cold.

When you leave, he cuddles you on the couch and tells you stories from his childhood, about how in Mexico it's common for little kids to go out and play in the rain. He tells you about a time his street flooded completely—apparently a common occurrence—and he and his cousins used old tires as floats. You laugh a lot.

Rainy days take him off a bit because he can't go outside to "flame on," but it doesn't depress him.

Almost always, when it rains, he sits by the window. He rests his bare feet on the frame and wraps himself in his satin robe. It's identical to yours, in a deep blue he chose. It was his idea to have matching robes, though he acted disinterested when you bought them. Still, every time he puts it on, he smiles a little as if that small shared gesture makes him feel that you're getting closer to being married.

He likes watching the raindrops run down the glass, sometimes he plays with tracing shapes with his finger, and he's obviously the type to organize “raindrop races.” Most of the time, he tells you this to make you laugh.

He wants you to sit with him, maybe on his lap or simply next to him, and just be there. He asks H.E.R.B.I.E. to play some soft jazz for you. He'll probably tell you something intimate without making it seem like a big deal, as if the rain is giving him permission to let his guard down.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 🌧️

masterlist

Peter is the type who associates rainy days with movie marathons. Star Wars is his obvious choice, but he'd also give you the option of choosing a series "for equal marathon rights." Either way, you almost always end up watching his picks just because it makes him happy.

His apartment is small, damp, and cold, but you two make it work. When it rains hard, he curls up with you without saying anything. Sometimes he'll put his arm around your shoulders, and you'll lean into his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the old Midtown High t-shirt he refuses to throw away.

He likes it because it represents a brief respite from everything he is. In those moments, he's not Spider-Man, nor the underpaid employee of the Daily Bugle—it's just Peter, with you, enjoying the shared warmth. If he's lucky, he can do home office, which means not having to deal with his grumpy boss and instead spending time with his beautiful girlfriend.

The sound of rain relaxes him only if he's with you; for some reason, he has a hard time relaxing alone.

Bob is lazy by nature. Much of this is due to his mental state, as his bouts of depression cause him to sleep all day and still feel like he didn't get enough rest. Rainy days make him melancholic—not in a bad way, but introspective.

He likes hot coffee and has a sweet tooth, so you two almost always eat Krispy Kreme or Pillsbury Grands! Cinnamon Rolls that you make in the oven. He prefers warm lighting and watching movies in the kitchen, on one of the tablets designated for viewing mission details. He likes classic movies; some of his favorites have been: The Iron Giant, E.T., Back to the Future, and The Princess Bride, which, although he tells you is "ridiculous," he smiles through every scene.

The constant sound of rain unsettles him a little because it can remind him of his own mental noise, but if you're there, it's as if that external noise is muffled. He invites you to sit close, doesn't say much, but holds your hand and gives it occasional kisses, as if to make it clear how much he appreciates sharing those moments.

As soon as he sees a few clouds, he's already looking for his rain boots. He's fascinated by the feel of the drops on his skin, the freedom, the connection to the earth. If you're in his apartment, he literally drags you to the rooftop or the patio and laughs when you complain about the cold. He has that "this is life too" energy, and he wants to share it with you.

After the first time, he buys you boots in your favorite color and a matching raincoat, which he carefully keeps in his closet. To tell the truth, you both have a lot of fun.

Later, when you enter the house, all soaked, he hands you a towel so you both can shower. Nothing sexual, just a little warm water to keep you from catching a cold.

When you leave, he cuddles you on the couch and tells you stories from his childhood, about how in Mexico it's common for little kids to go out and play in the rain. He tells you about a time his street flooded completely—apparently a common occurrence—and he and his cousins used old tires as floats. You laugh a lot.

Rainy days take him off a bit because he can't go outside to "flame on," but it doesn't depress him.

Almost always, when it rains, he sits by the window. He rests his bare feet on the frame and wraps himself in his satin robe. It's identical to yours, in a deep blue he chose. It was his idea to have matching robes, though he acted disinterested when you bought them. Still, every time he puts it on, he smiles a little as if that small shared gesture makes him feel that you're getting closer to being married.

He likes watching the raindrops run down the glass, sometimes he plays with tracing shapes with his finger, and he's obviously the type to organize “raindrop races.” Most of the time, he tells you this to make you laugh.

He wants you to sit with him, maybe on his lap or simply next to him, and just be there. He asks H.E.R.B.I.E. to play some soft jazz for you. He'll probably tell you something intimate without making it seem like a big deal, as if the rain is giving him permission to let his guard down.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

THIS

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

masterlist

[violetrainbow412-blog]

REQUEST!

I've been making some preferences, so if you have any ideas that you would like to read (preferences), send it to me! I'll be happy

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐏𝐁&𝐉𝐉: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞…

masterlist

It is common that his dreams are about his life before the global memory wipe. He dreams of May, of her death. He dreams of his old friends and of Tony’s death. Sometimes he dreams that Thanos returns and no one is there to stop him. The worst dreams are always related to you, where he loses you like he has lost so much and so many in life.

That night is one of those nights. He wakes up sweating cold, barely aware of where he is and that he is no longer dreaming.

Under other circumstances, he wouldn’t bother you this way, but as soon as he calms down, he looks for his phone to call you. He waits patiently for a few seconds, listening to the dialing beeps, until your hoarse voice replaces them.

You sound scared, and the first thing you ask him is if something bad has happened. Peter answers no, but from his tone you sense something is wrong, so you ask if he is okay. The boy holds back from crying, and when he finally manages to speak, he tells you how much he loves you. That only worries you more.

You ask if he feels sick, but he says no, that he only had a nightmare. That makes you understand everything, and your voice becomes gentler when you speak again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I just… wanted to hear your voice. To know you’re okay.”

You sense what his nightmare was about from those words and understand his desperation. You suggest you can talk to him until he falls asleep, to which he gladly agrees. You start telling him about your day, your plans for the week, and from time to time you take the opportunity to tell him you love him, assuring him that the next morning you can go have breakfast together to get over that bitter moment.

After a few minutes, you stop hearing his humming during your words, replaced by soft snores.

The whole atmosphere freezes immediately. You’ve been trying for months this thing to sleep in the same room, but this is the first time you experience such a sudden temperature change. You assume Bob left the window open and you move in bed, ready to get up to close it or look for a blanket that works. However, you are surprised to notice that the room has darkened almost completely; a clear sign that Void is present.

When you turn to him, you realize his face contorts involuntarily and low moans come from his throat. His eyelids are still closed, but you can see his eyes rolling inside their sockets.

You call him once, but he doesn’t respond. The second time, you gently shake his arm with your hand. But when your hand rests on his chest and you repeat his name, you travel from the comfort of your room to one of the shame rooms that exist in his mind.

The air becomes thick. The world around is in ruins: broken buildings, dense smoke, muffled screams. Bob is in the middle of the street, with bloodstained hands, eyes overflowing with guilt. Void’s shadow crawls over his back, growing with every breath. He is trembling and murmuring something.

You say his name a fourth time. And finally, he sees you. From your place, you smile softly, indicating that it’s only a dream.

You return abruptly to reality, where Bob breathes heavily and looks around in all directions, until his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, sun, are you okay?”

“I had a nightmare,” he exhales, as if it hadn’t been obvious to you.

Suddenly he is already upright and collapses against you, demanding a hug that you give without hesitation. He clings to you as if he needs you to stay anchored to the world, breathing against the fabric of your pajamas in a way that makes it seem your essence is the oxygen he requires to live.

When his heartbeats slow down, his grip also becomes gentler. Clumsily, his face seeks yours, still trembling inside. His lips find yours with a silent need and your mouth receives him with the same tenderness with which you embraced him, making him feel safe.

It is something very unusual. Or at least, when it happens, he usually doesn’t remember it. He has always said that his mind is kind to him in that sense, that it prefers to leave him only the beautiful parts of the dream and discard the rest upon waking. But that night there are no cuts. No censorship. Only images too sharp, too real: the wing’s failure, the sharp whistle of the wind, the brutal certainty that he is falling. And then, you. Waiting for him. Looking at the sky with a face full of questions. And him, unable to return.

He wakes up abruptly, with shortness of breath and his heart pounding against his chest. He takes a moment to remember that he is safe, that you are at his side, still sleeping. The room is calm, the city too. But inside him, everything trembles.

He sits on the edge of the bed, runs his hands over his wet face, and then turns on the lamp, as if the light will erase what remains of the dream. When he moves, he unintentionally wakes you, and as soon as you open your eyes, your body seeks his by reflex. Joaquin feels guilty for interrupting you, but he can’t keep quiet.

“Jo, is everything okay?”

In a low voice, almost scared, he tells you he dreamed of a fall. He tells you it’s not about the physical pain or the accident itself, but the feeling of helplessness, how he could see you from afar, so clear, so still… and not being able to tell you he was sorry. He says it all tangled, but sincere.

You don’t say much. You just listen, and that’s enough. You bring your body closer to his, wrap him in your arms without him having to ask. Joaquin lets himself be held, leaning his head back to rest on your shoulder. His heartbeats are still uneven, but begin to calm with your closeness.

He murmurs something more, something superstitious about how “if you tell a bad dream, it doesn’t come true.” And even though he says it with a shy smile, there is something true in his belief.

A few seconds are enough for him to come back to bed with you, entangling his legs with yours, already breathing more calmly. And even though he doesn’t say it out loud, he’s grateful you’re there to hold him even when he’s the one who falls.

He dreams he is running on a burning road with cracked and broken asphalt under his feet, but without feeling any of it. He only feels the unbearable weight of despair and urgency. The road stretches before him like an open crack in the earth, slowly consumed by black flames that rise like fingers wanting to trap and stop him.

Ahead, an old car moves forward without brakes. Inside, the figure of his mother stands out in shadows, blurry and distant, like memories that fade when trying to touch them. His mother, with a dim smile and eyes that don’t see him, drives with firm but lifeless hands. His father remains silent beside the son, his face hidden in shadows, trapped in his own guilt and silence.

In the passenger seat, you are there, though not as he knows you. Their eyes meet for a moment, and in that silence all the melancholy of an impossible goodbye is trapped.

The car continues its course, indifferent to the edge that approaches with relentless speed, and plunges into the infinite abyss, disintegrating into a dark and cold void. Johnny is left alone on the burning road around him. Fear and guilt envelop him, a shadow he cannot shake, while the cold of abandonment wraps him mercilessly.

He wakes up startled, his heart beating strongly, the air dense in his lungs. For a moment, the line between dream and reality dissolves, and his first impulse is to find you. He finds you asleep, intact, right beside him.

While he tries to recover, he watches you. Whenever you sleep, you do so hugging one of the stuffed animals he has given you, curled up as if something hurt you, but he knows it is not so. Your features are soft, except for the small wrinkle that always forms between your eyebrows, one you have even when you are awake.

His hand travels to your arm, rubbing it up and down. The warmth of your skin is like a reminder that you are there, alive and safe; that you are still his.

“Johnny?” you whisper drowsily, feeling his gentle caresses.

You don’t bother to ask what’s wrong, but let the tiredness speak for you and throw your arms over his shoulders, lazily pulling him back to bed with you as a replacement for your stuffed animal. He smiles quietly and melts into you, leaving a light kiss against the bare skin of your collarbone, thinking that, for once, reality is a thousand times better than dreams.