a SPACE trap ! In the velvet dusk of the 1960s-that-never-was, where chrome rockets hum like jukeboxes and space is just another lounge to drift through, the Fantastic Four find themselves marooned on a forgotten pleasure planet â all neon lights, velvet air, and secrets in miniskirts.
While Reed and Sue negotiate salvation and Ben scowls at gravity-defying furniture, Johnny Storm finds something (or someone) far more difficult to fix than a busted ship.
A bar. A fine babe. And the slow burn of someone who doesn't burn for him.
The spacecraft broke through the shimmering turquoise atmosphere like a cigarette flicked from a Cadillac window. It spiraled once, caught in a current of magnetic shimmer, and skidded belly-down across the velvet dust plains of a strange planet lit by three suns and one lonely moon.
It didnât explodeâit wasnât that kind of storyâbut it did groan like it had just been dumped. The Fantastic Four, seasoned in this kind of thing, braced for impact with practiced indifference.
Sue Storm brushed her hair back into its gentle flip and adjusted her mod-blue uniform with a sigh. Reed was already halfway out of the ship, scanning something invisible with something equally invisible. Ben Grimm just muttered, âThis planet better have chairs that hold me.â
Johnny Storm stepped out of the craft like he was walking onto a soundstage. His boots hit the dusty chrome ground. He popped the collar of his suit. The wind was warm and smelled like grapefruit and gasoline.
âWell,â Johnny said, squinting at the neon horizon. âIf weâre gonna be stranded, at least itâs somewhere fabulous.â
It turned out the planet was called Velveton-9, an unclaimed pleasure sphere popular among ex-diplomats, ex-wives of space kings, and the occasional stoned scientist looking for cosmic solitude. A forgotten colony of the decadent and the disillusioned. Part shopping mall, part myth. Yet it looked magnetic, beautiful and as if you are in a haze of glitter and colors.
Sue and Reed wandered off toward the local consulateâa floating chrome bubble with blinking lights and bureaucrats in high heelsâhoping to trade some tech knowledge for fuel cells. Ben tagged along, grumbling. He didnât trust a planet where everything looked like it had been designed by Twiggy and Salvador DalĂ.
Johnny said heâd âask around.â
The Nebulounge sat just off the anti-gravity highway, glowing like a lava lamp in the dusk. It pulsed to the beat of invisible jazz. Bubbles floated through the air, popping into tiny stardust clouds. Patrons of all species lounged on red velvet or danced slowly in zero-grav booths. There was a cigarette girl with six arms and a bartender with translucent skin that glowed the color of whatever drink he served.
Johnny Storm walked in like he was born to be there, which in many ways, he was. He slid up to the bar, his reflection caught a thousand times in mirrored panels. âTwo shots of whatever smokes when you pour it,â he told the bartender, voice syrup-smooth. âOne for me, and one for whatever happens next.â
The bartender, unimpressed, slid him something neon and fizzing. Johnny toasted to no one.
Then he saw her.
She was across the room, legs crossed, drink untouched, her presence as deliberate as punctuation in a love letter. Hair piled high, not a strand out of place. Cat-eye makeup sharper than an asteroid belt. A lilac velvet jumpsuit zipped halfway down to reveal skin that shimmered like moon milk. She had one earring shaped like a Saturn ring and another like a tiny flame.
She didnât look at Johnny. She didnât need to. She knew heâd seen her. She was Y/N Y/L/N, and she was busy.
He waited fifteen secondsâan eternity by Johnny standardsâbefore crossing the room.
âExcuse me,â he said, leaning on her table. âAre you always this magnetic, or is it just the planetâs pull?â
No response.
He grinned. âIâm Johnny.â
Still nothing. She took a slow sip from her drink, then looked at her nails.
He sat down anyway.
âSo what brings a woman like you to a place likeââ
âIâm working,â she said, voice like silk caught in machinery. Her eyes flicked toward a stack of crystal data tablets beside her. âTry someone decorative.â
âSweetheart,â Johnny said, leaning closer, âI am someone decorative.â
She arched one perfect brow. âDecorative objects donât talk this much.â
Before he could say something both clever and pathetic, three long-limbed creatures slid up to the table. They looked like melted chandeliers and sounded like a barbershop quartet underwater.
âY/L/N,â the tallest one clicked. âThe negotiation files. We donât have all century.â
She handed over the crystal tablets. âBe careful with those. They're encoded to my retinal frequency. Fry them, and your moon goes bankrupt.â
Johnny blinked. âYouâre aâdiplomat?â
She glanced at him. âCourier. Envoy. Occasionally fixer. Currently stuck on this backwater planet just like you.â
âYou couldâve led with that,â Johnny said, leaning in. âThen I couldâve told you all about my own interstellar escapades. Also, how do you know Iâm not from here?â
She stood. âLet me guess,â she said, voice lilting. âYou're with the broken-down rocket crew outside town. Your friends are bargaining. Youâre flirting. And your plan is to charm your way into my coordinates. Also? I donât see baby skin on planets like this.â
He stood too, grinning. âYou make it sound like a bad plan.â
She paused. Her eyes flicked over him just once.
âItâs not bad,â she said. âItâs just outdated.â
Then she walked away, hips swaying like slow satellites.
Johnny watched her go, absolutely floored. âHey! Whatâs wrong with my baby face?â he called after her.
Ben appeared beside him, sipping something purple. âYou crash and burn?â he asked.
Johnny smirked. âI crashed. But I think Iâm still burning.â
Johnny was still watching the door. She hadnât looked backânot once. Not a smirk, not a flicker. Just a clean burn of disinterest.
He hated that he liked it.
He stood, brushed space-dust from his sleeves, and told himself it wasnât about her. He was here to help the team. He was here for fuel. He was not following a woman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut subspace. But then her silhouette slipped through a shimmering beaded curtain across the loungeâwhere the lighting was lower, the music smokier, and the stakes somehow higher.
Johnny followed.
She was already halfway across a mezzanine level filled with creatures in metallic suits and sunglasses worn indoors. She spoke to a pair of floating heads dressed like French diplomats. She gave them a flash drive and a smile, and they bowed like she was royalty.
He waited until they drifted off before catching up.
âOkay,â he said, sliding up beside her like a secret. âThat was cool. I meanâwhat was that? Spy stuff? Government stuff? Secret rendezvous with space ghosts?â
Y/N didnât stop walking. âJust business,â she said flatly. âWhich you are currently interfering with.â
âIâm not trying to interfere,â he said quickly, stepping in front of her and walking backward. âIâm just stranded, resourceful, and incredibly charming.â
âTwo of those things might be true.â
âLook, our shipâs busted. We need power cells, or converters, orâReed said something with âionicâ in it. Heâs the science guy. Iâm the guy who talks to people. And youâyou look like a person with connections.â
She finally stopped.
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and for a second he swore he saw something flicker in her. Amusement? Annoyance? Attraction?
âAre you trying to get me to help you,â she asked, âor trying to get me to like you?â
âCanât it be both?â
âNo.â
She walked on.
Johnny followed.
Everywhere she went, he went. When she stepped into the hologram vault to deliver encrypted data to a glowing jellyfish, Johnny was outside the curtain, trying not to eavesdrop but doing it anyway. When she passed through a hallway of zero-g mirrorsâeach one reflecting your most shameful memoryâJohnny got stuck reliving prom night â61, but shook it off and caught up.
She talked to dealers, smugglers, ex-princesses. She gave them codenames and crystal chips. She adjusted her earrings to transmit sound. She wore her importance like perfume.
Johnny trailed behind her like static.
At one point, she stopped at the bar again, leaned over, and ordered something with a name he didnât catchâsomething in alien tongue that tasted, apparently, like heartbreak and blue raspberry.
He sat down next to her. Said nothing. Just let the synth-jazz hum between them.
After a minute, she sighed.
âPersistent,â she said.
âI like things that shine,â he answered.
âYou donât even know my name.â
âSure I do,â he said, sipping something fizzy. âY/N Y/L/N. Envoy. Courier. Probably a Libra.â
She didnât smile, but the edge of her lip twitched like maybe it wanted to.
He leaned closer, voice low.
âIâm not trying to be a pest. But youâre the only person here who doesnât seem either high, hostile, or halfway to another galaxy. If you canât help me, fine. Iâll flirt for sport. But if you canâŠâ
She looked at him fully now, her eyes silver in the loungeâs glowing dark.
âThereâs a black market trade dock on the edge of this moon,â she said. âThey sell converted plasma cores meant for imperial skiffs. Your ship could adapt it. But itâs off-registry. Youâd need an introduction.â
He blinked.
âYouâre giving me an in?â
âIâm giving you directions.â
âWhy?â
She stood, swirling the last of her drink, not looking at him.
âBecause youâre annoying. But not useless.â
Johnny stood too, grinning like a man who just won a game he didnât know he was playing.
As she stepped away again, he called after her.
âSee you around, Y/N?â
She didnât turn. Just flicked a hand lazily behind her.
âOnly if youâre lucky.â
Johnny stood there, bathed in the barâs light like he was lit from inside.
The chase wasnât over. Not even close.
And honestly? He didnât want it to be.
âïžâËâčâhi everyone! yes I wrote a jonathan lowell Spencer storm one shot, yes it is super galactic and sparkling as if I wanna dive into a cocktail with glitter in it. yes if you guys like it-- there will be a part two with flirting of y/n as well. yes I watched barbarella recently too.
I hate when I read smut then they say daddy and I'm like no just no u know I can get by good girl just daddy or mommy and it's always the good smut this happens to have mommy or daddy in it I just pretend like it's never there
also while iâm ranting about gender i always see debate about whether girls are rewarded for being tomboys or not and itâs like. actually girls are rewarded for mirroring whatever the situation demands of them. girls canât be too prissy and refuse to play in the creek, but girls also canât show up to girly events covered in mud. girls canât have makeup art as a hobby or else theyâre superficial, but if they never wear makeup theyâre a slob and dumpy, etc. itâs not that girls are universally rewarded or punished for being tomboys, theyâre rewarded for bending over backwards to always be exactly right for any given situation and punished for breaking those boundaries. so yes a classically pretty girl who cleans up nice is rewarded when she can ALSO be a tomboy. but a girl who is a tomboy all the time is definitely punished for never being able to achieve that prerequisite feminine side. this debate is over now thanks
this is spot on. A woman's masculinity is rewarded as long as it doesn't conflict with being heteronormatively attractive and as long as the masculinity plays harmonising second fiddle to the masculinity of the men around her.
origamiaround
ellievsbear
stormborns
snowghoul
