Why are so many fanfiction writers incapable of writing in a period setting? Why does everything have to be modern? Why can you not live without a phone, even in a fictional world?
Why did I just try to read a Frankenstein's creature x reader, and it was set in the modern day? I want to fuck that monster in a cabin in the woods in 1890. I want his scarred, patchwork face to be lit by the flames of a stone fireplace.
I believe that if you cannot write a story set in the period in which the original story is set, then maybe you shouldn't be creating fictional content related to it.
it’s rly weird to bash someone for one of their creations… in fandom spaces, everyone can express themselves how they want and they shouldn’t be judged for it.
especially not by someone who isn’t making the effort to produce their own works.
so what you’re saying is that no one should ever be able to critique and dislike content just because they aren’t creating it themselves? is that what you’re saying hmm?
you don’t have the name drop someone to humiliate them. you have used several popular tags that are connected to the frankenstein fandom so obviously this post will eventually get back to them and they will feel ashamed for what they have written.
the last part of your post says that you believe if a writer cannot write in the time period that the original work is set in, they should not create anything at all — that is very rude and discouraging.
I need you to understand that this isn’t just gonna affect one writer, it’s gonna affect anyone that wants to write something that doesn’t match directly with the original work.
the whole point of fanfiction is to create new stories and scenarios that they wanna see come to life. writers are creating for themselves and they want to share these fics so other fans can enjoy these situations as well.
also i’m rly confused why u keep adding in things that i didn’t say 😆
Don't tell me what I "need to understand", I know what I am saying, and no amount of whining in these reblogs is going to change my mind.
If a fanfiction writer is creatively unable to think or write, or even see a scenario, a piece taken from an original story's period setting, then that is a lack of skill on their part. It shows that they do not have the comprehension skills to understand the content they are ingesting.
This point can be made about almost everything within fanfiction. Ooc is a huge problem among fanfiction writers because they either don't pay attention to the original content or have no real interest in it.
Criticism comes in all forms and in all walks of life. If those writers see my post and feel upset, then that is normal and healthy. Because not everything is going to be sugar-coated for you and for them.
If my saying that people who cannot write period-accurate fanfiction is upsetting to you, then maybe it is a reflection on you as a writer, not on me as someone who ingests.
Why are so many fanfiction writers incapable of writing in a period setting? Why does everything have to be modern? Why can you not live without a phone, even in a fictional world?
Why did I just try to read a Frankenstein's creature x reader, and it was set in the modern day? I want to fuck that monster in a cabin in the woods in 1890. I want his scarred, patchwork face to be lit by the flames of a stone fireplace.
I believe that if you cannot write a story set in the period in which the original story is set, then maybe you shouldn't be creating fictional content related to it.
it’s rly weird to bash someone for one of their creations… in fandom spaces, everyone can express themselves how they want and they shouldn’t be judged for it.
especially not by someone who isn’t making the effort to produce their own works.
so what you’re saying is that no one should ever be able to critique and dislike content just because they aren’t creating it themselves? is that what you’re saying hmm?
Why are so many fanfiction writers incapable of writing in a period setting? Why does everything have to be modern? Why can you not live without a phone, even in a fictional world?
Why did I just try to read a Frankenstein's creature x reader, and it was set in the modern day? I want to fuck that monster in a cabin in the woods in 1890. I want his scarred, patchwork face to be lit by the flames of a stone fireplace.
I believe that if you cannot write a story set in the period in which the original story is set, then maybe you shouldn't be creating fictional content related to it.
it’s rly weird to bash someone for one of their creations… in fandom spaces, everyone can express themselves how they want and they shouldn’t be judged for it.
especially not by someone who isn’t making the effort to produce their own works.
so what you’re saying is that no one should ever be able to critique and dislike content just because they aren’t creating it themselves? is that what you’re saying hmm?
Why are so many fanfiction writers incapable of writing in a period setting? Why does everything have to be modern? Why can you not live without a phone, even in a fictional world?
Why did I just try to read a Frankenstein's creature x reader, and it was set in the modern day? I want to fuck that monster in a cabin in the woods in 1890. I want his scarred, patchwork face to be lit by the flames of a stone fireplace.
I believe that if you cannot write a story set in the period in which the original story is set, then maybe you shouldn't be creating fictional content related to it.
Why are so many fanfiction writers incapable of writing in a period setting? Why does everything have to be modern? Why can you not live without a phone, even in a fictional world?
Why did I just try to read a Frankenstein's creature x reader, and it was set in the modern day? I want to fuck that monster in a cabin in the woods in 1890. I want his scarred, patchwork face to be lit by the flames of a stone fireplace.
I believe that if you cannot write a story set in the period in which the original story is set, then maybe you shouldn't be creating fictional content related to it.
multiculturalism is the future. i have never been more disgusted to call myself an australian, than i have in light of these bigoted "anti-immigration" marches. these marches are not against immigration; they are a vehicle for hate against non-white people living in a country that was stolen from indigenous people.
every single person who attends these marches will never be "australian". the "white australia" idea is a disease. english colonialism is a disease. both need to be wiped out.
we live on stolen land, and no one is illegal when living somewhere that will never be "ours". the only way for australia to be great is for us to embrace immigration and multiculturalism; that is the only way forward.
Summary: You were born to die and unlike the others around you, you have accepted that truth long ago. But then, things change. Your father is killed, the Atreides are made royal and you are captured.
Warning (s): Detailed death scene, sick characters, eventual smut, eventual major character death, talks of killing and murder, blah blah blah.
Notes: this is part one bc the doc was getting out of hand 😭 This is 4.8k words. Don't tell me if this is bad, imma burst into tears.
PART TWO!!
Twelve years of planning, scheming, and rebellion was lost in a single night. Twelve years of anger, unrest, and injustice were destroyed because a father loved his daughter too much.
In years time, when you are long dead and your family's legacy is nothing but a story told to warn others, you hope they offer your father grace. That for all his twisted and cruel ways, for all his betrayal plotting— they see that he is, was, a father. One who loved fiercely, who wanted to protect the only family he had left.
His execution is a slow process, The Duke stands dressed in a mix of blacks, greens, and gold behind his kneeling figure. His face set in a grim frown, he speaks of your father's betrayal; he details multiple attacks, and coups set upon the Atreides family and their supporters. He lists the dead, the people your father had killed, and the deaths he played a part in. The Duke talks and talks, and his people listen, they cheer and shout for blood to be spilled. They chant his name, they call him King.
Your father does not take his eyes off of you. He does not cry, he does not beg for mercy. He simply stares straight ahead, his lips pulled into a humorless smile. He may not cry but his eyes shine with unshed tears and his gazes waivers ever so slightly to the chains around your wrists and ankles, to the guards that are pinned to your sides. His grin wobbles and he blinks. But he does not cry. Not in front of you, in front of the Duke soon to be crowned King, and not for the supporters who linger in the crowd.
The executioner's blade rises, the crowd's cheers are near deafening, and the Duke looks away; he looks at you. There is a pity in his gaze but there is also fierce determination. The rebellion ends here.
The blade drops. You see it all in slow motion, the Duke turning his son away, his mistress watching on. The crowd jumping— cheering, mothers shielding the eyes of their children. Your father, he lets his smile drop, his mouth opens—
I love–
The sentence is never finished. His head falls, rolling into the crowd. The guards hold you up as you collapse, screaming.
The rebellion ends here.
➫➫➫
“I refuse.”
There's a hiss of annoyance from the servant. She holds your meal and your medicine on a golden tray, balancing them with the prior doses. It's been three days since the death of your father, two weeks since you last heard from your brother and nearly four days since you've eaten or taken your medicine.
It's starting to take a toll on you, the grief, and your sickness. Your mouth is constantly dry, and no amount of water is enough to sate your thirst. Your hands are constantly shaking, aching with an ancient pain, and most times you are confined to your bed because the ache in your bones is too much to bear.
When your bones don't ache, the pain in your chest takes the stage— making each breath feel like it's pinching its way out of your lungs. Your existence is miserable.
You had begged your captors for death, and they had denied.
The servant shuffles in her place, her face pinched. “The King insisted, Lady.” The title leaves her mouth sour as if she dreads to address you as such. “He wishes to remind you that you are not a prisoner here. That you are free to leave your room with a guard as long as you take your medicine.”
You aren't a prisoner, are you? With a room plated in gold and a constant stream of food and water, how could you be considered as such? You even had a servant— a maid who despised your very existence but was eager to listen to your every command if you so much as said it. You had tried to ignore it, to throw a sheet over the truth. You were more a spoil of war than a prisoner of it.
Still, you hold strong. “Tell the King, I refuse. Tell him the only thing I wish for is death.”
The maid takes a breath, you think she'll slam the try down and storm off. She had done so before, only to shuffle back hours later to do the same song and dance all over again, but she didn't. She places the tray down by the door and stalks further into the room, you watch with wary eyes as she sits to the left of you. In a plush green chair, her hazel eye stare is piercing. “You are being childish.”
You scoff and though the action is painful, you sink further into the bed and look away from her. She only sneers at you, continuing. “You are childish, selfish and ignorant of all those that surround you. The King offers a branch and you refuse to take it?”
“Your King killed my father.” You wheeze, your lungs giving a painful squeeze. “I think I'm allowed to be all those things and more.”
“He is not my King.” She spits, her voice a deadly whisper. “And you are not the only one who's lost people. My mother, my brother and my nephews are dead. Leto Atreides refused to do anything about the sickness sweeping across his settlements and my people paid for it.” She takes a deep breath, cooling the anger that dances across her face. “The rebellion is not lost. We still have a fighting chance.”
You give the servant a tired look. “My father is dead. Your leader is gone and even if he wasn't, he was a monster, he killed hundreds.”
“And what is that compared to this King's thousands?” She retorts. “Your father was not a monster, he was a commander. A voice for the scorned and your brother the sword to his cause. You can pick up where they left off, you can fix this.”
A laugh spills past your lips, it's damn near hysteric and it jolts the servant in her seat. “Fix what, exactly? I can not raise the dead, my brother is lost and my sickness threatens to claim my life. Preach your hymns to another light, Lady. Preferably not a pyre.”
She doesn't appreciate your joke, she stands abruptly, her lips tight and her brows furrowed. “Your father would not want this for you. Neither would your brother. They talked of you, constantly. Endlessly. They told us you knew nothing of their plans, that they kept you in the dark because they thought you'd risk everything to join them despite your sickness.” She looks to you, searching your face for the girl they spoke of. She looks away when all that stares back at her is a person rotting away. “It seems they were wrong.”
She doesn't let you get another word in before she leaves. The door slams behind her and your eyes struggle to find the movement. To think he would have supporters hid right under the King's nose— it was probably a backup plan; to have the very girl who dotes on you now, saddle up to the King. For her to get close enough to where his guard drops and she could sneak in the finishing blow, or maybe,it was insurance. Maybe, just maybe, your father knew he'd fail in the long run and to have people inside the castle was another way to protect you when he was gone.
Your eyes flutter shut with a huff, who was she to preach to you? To try to convince you to shove the very thing that cripples you to the side to take up the pipedream that was your father's legacy?
You loved your father, you love your brother. But you are no fool, they did not tell you in fear that you'd join them. They didn't tell you because you'd refuse to do so. You were not blind to the sins of Duke— King Leto, but they were things he could not prevent. The very sickness the servant speaks of was something incurable, something unstoppable and yet when the King tried to close borders to limit its reach, every trader rich and poor had complained. They snuck past guards and bribed their way into areas closed off and so, the sickness continued till all that caught it died and the only ones left were those who were immune.
Thousands died but their deaths were something not even the most talented healer could prevent. Thousands died and their King mourned with them, sending out provisions; medicines, food and clean water. He had offered to cut the land tax and offered the family of the dead a hefty amount of silver to help them in trying times. The King, then Duke, mourned his people and yet, some of them blamed him.
The King has his sins and he atones for them. He has to live with them. But your father? Your father had killed people in cold blood for not supporting his cause, he had robbed the sick and poor to fund his rebellion. Your father had cried; retribution! His people answered in blood.
Your father was not a commander, he was a monster and your brother his teeth.
Still, a part of you clings to the image of them they showed you. It clings to the father who'd greet you every morning with your medicine and a smile, it clings to the brother who treated you as if you've never fallen sick— who snuck you out for your planets first snowfall and showed you how to pet the serpents that laid in your riverbeds. It clings to the family, no matter how small and broken it was. Two truths could exist at once.
Your family were monsters. True. Your family was the only peace and safety you'd ever know. The truth.
You don't want to fall asleep but your body works against you, deciding that your pain will be more bearable if you aren't awake to feel every ache in your bones and stab in your chest. You can't fight, you don't really try to— but, as your consciousness fades, you hear your door open with a click. You can't force your eyes open but you hope it's the King, you hope he's granting your wish.
➫➫➫
Paul tries his best to understand his father. He studies his actions, his words and listens to whatever thoughts he chooses to share. He retraces his steps starting from the very moment Leto Atreides was named Duke and ending when he was crowned a King.
His father has suffered tragedy after tragedy, from the death of his own father to the death of his first wife and son.
Paul Atreides likes to think he gets his father, understands him on a level only a son could. But no matter how hard he tries, he can not, for the life of him, understand why his father spares the children of that traitorous Balliol man. Kings before him would have made examples of them— the death of their father wouldn't have been enough, they would have cut the hands off the son and forced him to fight in coliseums. They would have stripped his daughter bare, cut her hair to her scalp and parade her around their kingdoms till the elements took her. There would have been songs, plays made about the fall of the great Balliol family and the rise of the Golden King. His father, who has always told him to look to the past; to learn the stories of his grandfather and all before him, does not do the same.
He turns Paul away from the sight of his death. He sends his son, a man nicknamed The Butcher, away to a planet whose inhabitants were known to never anger or raise a hand in violence. He rids the Butcher of his weapons and collars him so any violence is punished with a painful zap. He keeps his daughter, a sickly girl, locked away somewhere deep in the castle with servants waiting on her hand and foot. He thinks it's a waste of resources— you were dying anyway, so why not cast you aside and let you rot instead of trying to cure you? He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand.
His father tells him it's because he's not thinking like a ruler. His father looks disappointed, horribly so, when he voices his thoughts and tells him, in a kinder way, to grow up. That he is no longer a future Duke, but a future King. With the defeat of Balliol and all his supporters, came a responsibility much bigger than the planets they left behind.
“It is a cycle, Paul.” His father rasps, his voice thick as he nurses a cup of liquor and a cigar to dull his migraine. His mother, ever diligent, ever loyal, is at his side. Her hands rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “A pattern, even. Of endless hurt. I cut the head off the Hydra. That should be enough.”
“No,” Paul protests, his voice hard. “When you cut off one head, two more grow in its place–”
“A cycle,” Leto says again, his eyes distant. “What shall I do when I cut those two heads and four sprouts in its place? Should I respond with violence every time? When does it end, Paul? Why must my hands be stained with blood endlessly when I can allow the two living heads to learn from the priors’ mistakes?”
For a moment, Paul is speechless. He looks to his mother for some type of support only to wilt when she has her head bowed away from him. She agrees with his father. Paul doesn't get it, endless possibilities run through his mind— his dreams do not hold solid answers, nor does Duncan when he turns to him. He doesn't get it and wants to desperately. So, he tries a different angle.
“Balliol was a monster.”
His father hums, he doesn't disagree. “He was a friend, once.”
“And because he was a friend, you pardon his children? His son?”
Leto takes a sip from his cup, chuckling humorlessly. Jessica sighs. Both sounds make him bristle. He watches as his father places his cup to the side, and his cigar in a tray before looking at him. Truly looking at him. “Would you kill for me, Paul?”
Paul blinks, chest tightening. “What?”
“If I asked it of you, would you?” Leto asks again, “If I told you it was the right thing to do, that if it'd save your mother, that you would never have to hurt again, would you kill for me?”
Jessica makes a noise of protest, her eyes flickering between the two of them but Leto holds up a hand, his gaze never wavering. Paul hesitates, only for a second before swallowing. “Of course, I would.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked me to,” Paul answers, slowly. He looks at his father unsurely, “I don't–”
“Why would it matter that I asked, Paul? Would you have answered differently if someone else asked?” Leto presses.
“Of course, I would–”
"Why?”
“Because you're my father!” Paul snaps. Jessica lets her eyes fall shut, taking a shuddering breath. Leto slumps into his chair, Paul continues unsteadily, “I would do it because you're my father. I would do anything you asked of me.”
Leto picks up his glass, his hands shake almost unnoticeably but the ice rattles like a snake in his cup. “ Exactly. So, why should I punish another son for doing what my own would do? Why would I punish a girl whose only sin was being her father's daughter?”
Paul doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, Leto's words sit heavy in his chest, on his soul. He squirms in his seat, under his father's gaze then—
“Paul–”
He's on his feet before he can think, storming away like a petulant child. His father grabs his mother by her arm before she can follow him, and he tells her to let him go. It is something he's never done before. But, it is something he is thankful for. He needs to think, he needs time.
He needs to think like a future King and not a boy.
➫➫➫
The air is cool when you wake. The ceiling is a glittering, sparkling silver, and the blankets that cover you are not blankets at all— instead, a thin gray sheet spills over you messily, bunched in some areas and dips to the floor in others. You turn your head just slightly, squinting as a glow orb floats over your head, it pulses at you almost curiously before floating off deeper into the room.
You blink. Your mind is trying its best to shake off the fog that clings to it. This is not your room. Well, not the room you were in before. This room is silver and white, its floor carpeted instead of marbled and every possible sharp edge of the room is rounded. Your eyes fall to your body, taking in the thick white nightgown that now covers your body to the IV embedded in the crook of your arm. Your lips part and your body shivers, for the first time in a long time, your constant thirst is bearable, the ache in your bones is nothing but a memory and your chest doesn't pinch painfully.
You take a breath, a deep one, and let it go. You stir under the sheets, trying to sit up but you struggle— days without food have made your body weak and most unwilling to respond.
“Here,” A voice starts and suddenly gentle hands are helping you upright. You blink at him, in shock, staring at his face wide-eyed and Paul avoids your stare, fluffing the pillow behind you. Though, when you don't look away, his eyes meet yours with a frown. “What?”
Yours snap away instantly and you flinch away from his grasp immediately, “Sorry. I'm–” Your heart pounds, you dare to peek at him again but he's staring above you at a monitor that displays your vitals. He watches the jump in your pulse with the same frown, if not deeper than before. Your hands grip weakly at the sheets, should you bow? Could you bow? There was a prince in your presence, towering over your bed. It was something of romance novels, of fantasy long lost and, it makes you sicker than you are. You wish for space, you wish for the room before and where they left you to rot. “Where–”
Paul steps away as if he was never close in the first place, his gaze trailing away from you and to a tray. It's smaller than any of the other ones, it only has a small bowl of oatmeal, paired with diced berries and a small cup of juice. Your medicine is nowhere to be seen but the sight of the IV in your arms tells you they resorted to other methods to get you to take it. Methods that were always out of reach for you when your father was alive. He waves a hand and the bot holding the tray rises with a whirring noise and wheels till it's near your bed and slowly, lowers the tray into your lap. You look at the tray, the food, and the bot, which lets out a delightful little beep then at Paul who is watching you with a careful look of indifference.
“You are still in the castle.” He answers your unfinished question from before. “We had you transferred to a smaller, safer room when you refused to wake. It has only been a day, you are lucky. They were considering a feeding tube.” He pauses, smiling listlessly. “They still are. Eat.”
You give the oatmeal a look. It's bland, even with the berries and juice. It smells of wet paper and paste and it makes your stomach turn on itself. “I’m not hungry.”
“And I'm not the son of a King.” He refutes. “You will get better food in time, when you prove you can handle this type first. We can't give you big portions or season it– it will only cause more pain.” When you make no move to grab the spoon, Paul considers you for a moment. His eyes search your face, fluttering in thought, “Can you move your arms?”
“Barely.” You admit, you can barely muster the energy to unclench your fist let alone raise your arms to eat. It is utterly embarrassing.
Paul sighs, “I shall fetch your maid and–”
Your pulse spikes, fast enough to make the silent monitor beep in warning. You do not want to deal with that woman again, she'll only rant about your father again or perhaps she'd refuse to feed you till you agreed to help her. She seems like the type. “No.” You hiss. Paul watches you shift in your bed, your face twisting in pain, “I can– I can do it myself, there is no need to get her.”
“You are being stubborn.” He says, his voice softening when you flinch again. His lips seel shut for only a moment, considering his words before he speaks. “She is meant to help you, my father assigned her, himself. She will not hurt you–” Your pulse spikes, and the monitor beeps in warning again. Paul falls silent, his face taunt. His mouth opens but the words catch in his throat, like he doesn't truly want to ask, he does so anyways. “Has she hurt you?”
“No.” You answer but his eyes aren't on you, it's on your pulse.
“You are lying.” He says, not accusing but shocked that you are doing so. He looks away from the monitor and back to you. “Why are you lying for her if she hurt you?”
“Because she hasn't hurt me, not physically. It doesn't matter. You don't need to get her, I can feed myself.” You respond, you urge your arms to lift, your fist to unclench and they're slow to listen. It feels as if you are lifting blocks of concrete but you push through it till your hands rest on the tray, your fingers only inches away from the spoon. “Thank you for the meal, my… my Prince. But I am sure I am keeping you from other duties, you are free to leave.”
Paul doesn't budge, he watches you disbelieving. “Eat.”
“I will–”
“No. Show me that you can bring the spoon to your mouth and I shall leave.” He takes a step towards you, his hair falling into his face. “Eat.”
How stubborn your new prince is. You swallow your annoyance and inch your fingers closer to the spoon, it's a snail's pace but you are moving and that's enough. Your fingers are slow to wrap around the handle of the spoon, even slower to lift— your arm shakes furiously, your wrist nearly gives out, it takes longer than you like to get the spoon in the bowl and when you try to lift it again, your body protests. You clear your throat, and narrow your eyes on your hand and try again, it doesn't move.
Paul sucks in a breath and walks towards you once more, he pulls a chair close to your bed and plops down gracelessly. Your eyes slide to him, ready to question him but he leans forward, snatching the spoon from your hand and pulls the try closer to him with his free one. “What are you–” He doesn't let you finish the sentence before placing a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth.
You blink rapidly and swallow, opening your mouth again whilst leaning back, away from him. “Your majesty–?” Paul leans forward again and gives you another spoonful. He does this everytime you try to speak, looking faintly pleased to shut you up and most annoyed when you try to talk with your mouth full. So, you give up and let the Prince feed you,he makes quick work of it once he realizes you are no longer trying to talk and the bowl is quickly emptied and is placed to the side as he stands and grabs the cup and gently brings it to your lips. Your nose crinkles as you stare through the clear glass of the cup at him and he only raises his brows.
“You are very persistent.” You murmur, taking a small sip of juice. The taste of berries and hibiscus is sweet enough to make your stomach turn upon swallowing. Weakly, you turn and lean away from the cup, allowing yourself to fall back on your pillows. Paul lets you do so, grabbing the tray and handing it back to the small robot who beeps again. He places the bowl and cup on the tray and dismisses the bot.
He watches it roll out the room with his lips pressed together, then turns back to you. “You’re… sick.”
You blink tiredly at him, “Obviously.”
He lets out a huff, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile before he smothers it. Shaking his head and tucking the messy strands of his hair behind his ear, he tries again. “I mean– How long have you been sick? There was no mention of it on any medical records.”
“I’ve been sick since I was a child.” Longer, if you were being honest. You were a sick baby, a sick newborn, sick in your mother's womb. “My father thought it would be best if we kept it a secret. We were a powerful warehouse and a sick daughter is a weakness that can not be fixed. Cured.”
Paul's hands drop, folding behind his back as he tilts his head. “Interesting choice of words. Do you truly believe you can't be cured or is that something your father drilled in your head?”
Your eye twitches, just slightly and you try to pull the sheets higher up your body. Eating food has made you drowsy, you can feel your body urging you to sleep once again. When the sheet doesn't budge, Paul pulls it up your body without much thought, waiting for your answer. You take a small breath, eyes closing, “It's something that I know. My sickness is incurable, I am dying and my medicine only pushes the date further and further out. It is a waste of resources to keep me alive. Something I told my father, something I tried to tell the King.”
Paul hums, considering, then, “Nothing is incurable, Lady.”
A tired snort leaves you. “Do you know how my father was caught?” Paul doesn't answer, your eyes crack open and there's a thin smile on your lips, “He believed he had found it, a cure for me. He wanted me to live, he had already lost his wife, he could not bear to lose a daughter. So he willingly covered his eyes with wool and ignoring the pleas of me and my brother, he went out to secure it. Do you know what he found? He found your father's men.” You sigh, “And now we are here.”
Paul shakes his head. “There is a cure for you, Lady Balliol. We will find one and when we do, I ask a favor from you.” You let out a questioning hum, your eyes falling shut. Paul ignores the way his heart thunders at the sight of you. Truly, you are sickly, horribly so. “Your father left behind files… we can not open them without active DNA from his bloodline. You are his closest living relative with your brother being light years away, will you open them for us?”
You murmur tiredly and Paul shifts, calling your name again. You stir sluggishly, your words slow, “And if you don't cure me? What do I get in return?”
“Well, you'll be dead if we don't cure you.” He snorts, smothering another smile when you chuckle in agreement, “But…but I give you full permission, with the void as my witness to haunt me endlessly. There will never be a day where my thoughts stray from you. Is that good enough for you?”
You can only muster a nod, your chest rising and falling steadily as you fall into an easy sleep. Paul doesn't leave right away, he lingers at your doorway, his eyes trailing over your face. Over the slope of your nose and the hollowness in your cheeks, he pictures you healthy, cured. Plump with fattening foods and with the very existence of life, you were already pretty but that image of you makes a much prettier sight. The robot rolls back in, beeping to itself in a sweet little tune and stops right before Paul, its mismatched eyes flickering up at him.
“Do send me a message when she wakes, Cricket.”
Cricket beeps in understanding and Paul lets him in, watching for only one more moment before shaking his head. He has things to do.
just started watching a film and it turns out joseph quinn is in it! my life couldn’t get any better in this moment! i want to thank me for picking this film and seeing happiness in my future❤️
Summary: You were just supposed to cover the press conference. Write a clean, professional piece. Get in, get the quote, and definitely not fall for the city’s most flammable superhero.
You swore you were the one woman in New York who wouldn’t fall for the Human Torch.
Oh, how wrong you were.
Tags: Fluff, witty banter, “I Swore I Wouldn’t Fall For Him”, Johnny is a loverboy at heart, she doesn't know he had her at first interaction, getting together, no spoilers for FF:FS. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N
A/N: I'm back!! And as expected Johnathan Lowell Spencer Storm has infiltrated my head and living in it rent free. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.
Word Count: 10.7k
masterlist
The cameras clicked like cicadas on a summer night, all chirping in rhythm to catch the perfect angle of the Fantastic Four. You stood near the back of the Baxter Building’s press room, notebook in hand, heels clicking softly against the polished floor as you edged closer.
This was your first time covering them — the Fantastic Four. Three years into their rise, and still, they looked like they’d stepped out of a comic strip and into technicolor reality. The press called them explorers, heroes, geniuses. You called them your assignment.
Reed Richards, ever the picture of precise intellect, adjusted the microphone like he was recalibrating a telescope. Beside him, Susan Storm stood poised in light blue, all calm and practiced charm. Ben Grimm, rock-skinned and stone-faced, gave the occasional grunt that counted as a full sentence in his world. And then — of course — there was him.
Johnny Storm leaned back, with his arms crossed. He didn’t even blink. He looked like he belonged in the sky — or maybe just on the front cover of a magazine. Probably both.
You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself.
“Thank you all for being here,” Reed began, his voice clipped and professional. “We’re happy to report that the Mad Thinker has been officially turned over to the authorities, along with his robotic enforcers and classified tech. As of 0600 hours this morning, he is in custody.”
A round of polite applause followed, tinged with the kind of awe that only came with the phrase “Mad Thinker neutralized.”
You took notes. Clean, detached. That was your job. You weren’t here to fawn or flirt or feed the fandom. You were here to write a clean feature for The Daily Observer. One that made your editor forget that this was your first major assignment. One that didn’t give the Human Torch a single ounce of the attention he so obviously craved.
Except, when it was time for questions, and Johnny finally leaned forward to speak, your pen hesitated mid-stroke.
"Guess he didn't think that far ahead," Johnny said with a smirk, referring to the Mad Thinker. A few reporters laughed. His smile deepened — satisfied, but not smug. “Not even his big brain could predict the Human Torch flying through his security grid at Mach 2.”
You didn’t laugh. But your eyes flicked up, just for a second.
And he caught you.
His gaze landed on yours like sunlight through a magnifying glass — warm, focused, too sharp for comfort. He cocked his head slightly, curious. Amused. Like he already knew you didn’t like him, and he found it funny.
Your spine straightened. You looked down, scribbled something unimportant, and didn’t look up again.
Not even when he said, “We’ve got time for one more question,” and Reed nodded.
Not even when he added, “Let’s hear from the new face in the back.”
You froze.
Oh, you hated him already.
You lowered your notebook slowly. The entire room turned toward you, the chorus of murmurs dying into anticipation. Damn him.
You cleared your throat, standing straighter. “Johnny Storm,” you began, deliberately skipping the title, “your maneuver through the Mad Thinker’s drone grid — you mentioned flying through it at Mach 2. Given the adaptive AI those drones are equipped with, what was your contingency plan if the AI recalibrated mid-flight and blocked your exit trajectory?”
Silence.
It hung in the air like static — thick and heavy with implication.
Johnny blinked once.
Then leaned into the mic.
“Well,” he drawled, grinning, “I figured if it came to that, I’d just punch through the wall and make my own exit. Y’know, big flamey boom — very cinematic.”
A few people chuckled. You didn’t.
Reed, however, stepped in without missing a beat. “To clarify — the team ran multiple simulations prior to Johnny’s entry. I programmed a counter-scrambler pulse that temporarily blinded the AI’s recalibration process. It wasn’t just a brute force plan. Johnny was operating with full sensor override and two automated failsafe routes if the main trajectory failed.”
You nodded, polite. “Thank you, Doctor Richards. But the question was for Mr. Storm.”
Reed hesitated — just long enough for you to feel the ripple of surprise move through the room. Then he nodded once, stepping back from the mic.
Johnny leaned forward again, that lopsided grin creeping back onto his face like it lived there.
“Well,” he said, voice lower now, just for you, “guess I gotta brush up on my tech lingo if I wanna impress the press.”
“You could start with not dodging questions,” you replied, just loud enough for him to hear.
The smallest twitch touched the corner of his mouth. Not offense. Not irritation. Just interest. Huh.
“Duly noted…?” He dragged the word out like an invitation.
You flipped your notebook shut. “You’ll read it in the byline.”
And with that, you sat back down.
You didn’t see him watch you as the next question was called — but you felt it. Like heat from a fire you weren’t supposed to enjoy.
The morning after the press conference, the Baxter Building’s kitchen smelled like burnt toast. Johnny lounged in the living room, flipping through the day’s stack of papers.
Reed was already dissecting a gravity anomaly from the upper stratosphere, Sue was reviewing her own quotes with the cool detachment of someone used to headlines, and Ben was elbow-deep in a bowl of protein-enhanced cereal. Johnny skimmed until his name popped out.
“Fantastic Four Thwart Thinker’s Terror Once Again!”
One paper described Reed’s leadership as “flawlessly calculated.” Another hailed Sue as “a vision of grace and tactical finesse.” Even Ben got a glowing paragraph about “raw strength tempered with loyalty and control.”
Then came his part.
Johnny’s jaw moved a little slower as he read.
“—while Johnny Storm, ever the Human Torch in name and temperament, played his usual role of chaotic spectacle. Though undeniably brave, one wonders how much longer recklessness can be mistaken for confidence.”
He blinked. Re-read it. His chewing stopped altogether.
“Hey, Stretch,” he said, lifting the paper and squinting at the byline, “you remember that new reporter? The one with the notebook and the spine made of steel?”
Reed didn’t look up. “Hmm? The one who cornered you about the AI drones?”
“Yeah. She wrote this.”
Ben grunted without looking. “What, she get your flame-retardant undies in a twist?”
Johnny folded the paper and tossed it onto the counter. “Just funny how I save the day in a ball of fire, and all I get is ‘reckless spectacle.’”
Sue took a sip of her coffee. “Maybe she’s not wrong.”
He turned. “Et tu, sis?”
She shrugged. “She didn’t say you weren’t brave. She just said you’re the kind of brave that forgets plans exist.”
“She called me a ‘spectacle.’ That’s basically ‘show pony’ in journalist speak.”
Reed finally looked up, adjusting his glasses. “She also made you sound like you belong in a pulp serial. That kind of language sells papers.”
“Thanks, that really soothes my ego.”
But he wasn’t angry.
If anything, he was... annoyed that it got under his skin at all.
He'd been flamed before, literally and figuratively. But something about the way she wrote it — so clean, so sharp, like she wasn’t trying to insult him… just calling him out — it stuck.
Johnny leaned back, arms folded behind his head.
“All right,” he muttered to himself, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “game on, byline.”
The Daily Observer newsroom buzzed with the usual mid-morning chaos — the clack of typewriters, hum of fax machines, and cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling like it had deadlines of its own. Reporters darted between desks, arguing over column space or chasing coffee that tasted like burnt despair. Your desk was tucked near the back, wedged between the city beat editor and a storage closet that had mysteriously started leaking toner last week.
You were rereading your latest draft when a shadow fell across your notes.
You didn’t even need to look up.
The air smelled faintly of fire.
You sighed, set your pen down, and slowly lifted your gaze.
Johnny Storm stood there — in the middle of the bullpen — like he hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den with zero clearance and a ridiculous amount of self-confidence. Dressed in a bomber jacket and aviators pushed up into his hair, he looked more like someone on his way to a photoshoot than a surprise visit to a newsroom.
He gave you a smile that probably melted at least three interns behind him. “Hey.”
You stared at him for a long beat.
Then: “You’ve never had PR training, have you?”
He blinked. “Wow. Not even a good morning?”
You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing slowly. “You think walking straight into the bullpen of the city’s most stubborn newspaper — unannounced, by the way — is the best idea to change my opinion of you?”
“Maybe not best, but I’d say boldness counts for something.”
You tilted your head. “So does common sense.”
His grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of hesitation behind it now. Just a second. Just enough to tell you that he didn’t come here only to be charming — he actually cared about what you wrote. That stuck with you more than it should have.
“I just figured,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice so only you could hear, “since you already called me a reckless spectacle in print, maybe I should live up to the part.”
“You know that wasn’t personal, right?” you replied, quiet and cool. “That was professional observation.”
“And here I thought journalists were supposed to be unbiased.”
“I am.” You pointed to the article. “You think I wrote that to get under your skin?”
“Mission accomplished,” he said, with a smirk.
You studied him — really studied him this time. The golden-boy posture was still there, but something else simmered underneath. Less flame, more... frustration? Not anger. Not arrogance. Something genuine.
“Sit,” you said, motioning to the empty chair across from you. “If you’re going to try to argue your way into a rewrite, you’ll need better lines.”
He looked surprised for a second. Then he pulled out the chair and sat down like it was a negotiation table at the Future Foundation.
You picked up your pen again, tapping the end against your notepad.
“Start talking, Torch.”
He sat down like he’d just won something. Legs spread, arm slung casually over the back of the chair — like he didn’t just march into a den of cynical columnists with a mission taped to his chest.
You raised a brow. “So. Talk.”
Johnny opened his mouth… then closed it again.
You watched him falter, just slightly, like the words weren’t lining up the way he rehearsed them. The bravado dimmed by a notch, the way a flame might lower when the wind shifts.
“I guess I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, expression almost sheepish. “I thought maybe you misunderstood me.”
“I quoted you exactly.”
“Right, no, I mean—not the words. Just… what they meant.” He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice. “I’m not trying to be some reckless hothead out there.”
You didn’t say anything. Let the silence stretch.
He looked down at your notebook, like maybe it would help him organize the jumble in his brain.
“You write like someone who actually thinks before they speak,” he said. “And the way you wrote about the others — you got them. Sue’s calm. Reed’s brain. Ben’s grit. It was… fair. It was real.”
You tilted your head. “And you didn’t feel represented?”
He hesitated again.
“I didn’t feel seen.”
That surprised you. Not because it was dramatic — but because it wasn’t. There was no fire in his voice. No defensive snap. Just quiet truth. Like he was finally saying something he didn’t let out often.
You watched him carefully. “So you came here to… what? Change my mind? Charm me into writing a nicer paragraph next time?”
He met your eyes. “No. I came because I don’t want to be a punchline in the press just because I don’t talk like a science textbook.”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
“Maybe stop acting like one, then.”
That made him laugh — a real laugh. Not the smug kind from press conferences or photo ops. This one was low, quick, and caught him off guard.
“I walked right into that,” he said.
You finally leaned back in your chair, tapping your pen once more before setting it down.
“I’ll say this,” you murmured, voice softer now, “you care more than you let on.”
Johnny looked at you — just looked — and for once didn’t smile. He just nodded.
“I care about the mission. I care about the team. And yeah,” he added, eyes flicking to your notepad again, “I care about how we’re remembered.”
You sat with that for a moment. Then picked up your pen.
“I’m not rewriting the article,” you said flatly.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“But…” You met his gaze again. “If you’re really not the guy I described, then prove it next time you’re out there. Show me something I have to write about.”
He stood, slower this time. “You got it, Byline.”
“And for the record,” you added as he turned to go, “you’re lucky none of the editors saw you walk in. A man literally on fire would’ve caused less panic.”
He grinned, one foot already backing toward the hallway. “Then I’ll save the fire for next time.”
You rolled your eyes again, but this time… you were smiling too.
The streets still smelled like scorched pavement and ionized air.
Broken glass glittered on the sidewalks, cordoned off by bright orange pylons and the occasional floating police drone buzzing around like oversized flies. The Red Ghost had made a mess of Midtown with his intangible tricks and hyper-intelligent apes — again. But the Fantastic Four had driven him off before anyone was seriously hurt.
Now the smoke was clearing, the crowd was thinning, and your notebook was nearly full.
You were crouched beside a frazzled street vendor whose hot dog cart had been overturned by an invisible monkey. She spoke with a tremble in her voice but kept glancing down at her half-burnt umbrella like she wasn’t sure what to be more upset about.
You nodded, murmured something comforting, and jotted down the last of the quotes. Then you stood, brushing soot from your pants and squinting up through the haze.
That was when you felt the heat before you saw him.
“Careful,” a familiar voice called above you. “Your shoes are standing in the middle of a melted bike rack crime scene.”
You turned slowly, not surprised in the slightest to see Johnny Storm hovering just a few feet above the street, his body still faintly glowing with post-battle embers. He landed with a soft thud beside you, steam curling from his shoulders like breath on a winter day.
You stared at him.
He grinned.
“Hey, Byline.”
You raised a brow. “Are you gonna keep calling me that?”
“Only when you’re working,” he said, brushing soot from the sleeve of his uniform. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here this fast.”
“I’m a journalist. You lot punch holes in buildings, I show up to document it.”
“Fair.” He looked around at the half-destroyed plaza, then back at you. “So… I was thinking. If you’re not too busy cataloguing melted lampposts, maybe you could do something different.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Different how?”
He gave a small shrug, more casual than cocky. “Interview me.”
You blinked. “You’re asking me to interview you?”
“I figured I owe you one good headline before you make me the villain in another paragraph,” he said with a half-smile. “Besides, Reed’s great, Sue’s diplomatic, and Ben’s Ben. I’ve got stuff to say, too. Might as well say it to someone who doesn’t let me off the hook.”
You studied him for a moment, then flipped open your notebook to a fresh page.
“All right,” you said, uncapping your pen. “What are the team’s plans on catching the Red Ghost? Or are you just going to wait around until he crashes another brunch hour?”
Johnny’s posture shifted, just slightly. Straighter. Focused. His grin faded — not into a scowl, but something serious. Intent.
“We’re triangulating the residual energy signatures from the primate phasing tech,” he said. “Sue’s helping Reed map out a possible pattern in the Red Ghost’s movement based on his prior attacks. It’s not random — he’s testing different types of tech defenses, seeing what reacts to his phase modulation. He’s not just stealing — he’s scouting.”
You blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone. It wasn’t over-explained, but it was technical. Clear. Strategic.
“So this wasn’t a one-off.”
“No,” Johnny said, meeting your gaze. “He’s escalating. And next time, we won’t just be reacting. We’ll be ready.”
You stared at him a beat longer than you meant to, then jotted the words down — slower this time.
“Well,” you said, a touch more genuine than you’d planned, “you obviously came prepared.”
He gave a crooked smile, but didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence settle.
Then: “Told you I wasn’t all spectacle.”
You gave him a sideways glance. “One quote won’t change my mind overnight.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep giving you better ones.”
Then, casually — too casually — he said, “Maybe… we could talk more. Over some coffee?”
You looked up at him. Not sharply. Not cruelly. Just… professionally.
“No.”
And just like that, the moment cracked.
He blinked once, fast, and straightened a little like he’d been bracing for impact. There it was — the end of the attempt, the polite rejection. You could see it settle behind his eyes.
But before he could nod, turn it into a joke, or retreat behind the easy charm—
“Maybe ask me,” you said, sliding your pen behind your ear, “while I’m not at work.”
His head tilted slightly. Brows lifted.
The faintest flicker of a smile returned, slower this time. A little stunned. A little boyish. Like the fire hadn’t gone out, just dimmed long enough to make room for surprise.
“Oh,” he said. “Right.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of boundaries, haven’t you, Storm?”
“Vaguely,” he said. “I’m trying this new thing where I respect them.”
You hummed, not fully smiling — but not hiding the twitch at the corner of your mouth either. “Let me know how that goes.”
He took a step backward, hovering just an inch off the ground now, arms crossed like he was resisting the urge to take a victory lap.
“I’ll see you around,” he said, warmth curling into his voice.
“Not if I see you first.”
He laughed — short and surprised — before blasting off into the sky, a streak of orange light burning through the last of the smog.
The city hummed in low light as the workday dissolved into evening. Neon signs flickered to life, casting their glow on chrome bumpers and damp sidewalks. The Daily Observer office emptied out one tired body at a time, heels clicking and shoulders loosening under trench coats and rolled-up sleeves.
You stepped out the glass doors with your bag slung over one shoulder, rubbing the back of your neck as you finally — finally — clocked off.
And there he was.
Johnny Storm, leaning against a deep blue Pontiac GTO parked just outside the building like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread. The headlights were off, the street quiet. He wore a bomber jacket over a white tee, no flame in sight — just a casual confidence, hands in his pockets and a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
You stopped on the last step and stared at him.
“You’re really persistent, aren’t you?”
Johnny pushed off the car with a shrug that was almost bashful — almost. “I waited until you were off the clock, didn’t I?”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s dangerously close to ‘stalking.’”
“I prefer the term ‘timed entrance,’” he said. “And before you accuse me of another headline-worthy stunt — this isn’t an ambush. It’s an invitation.”
“To what?”
He nodded toward the passenger door. “Coffee. Conversation. Possibly a slice of pie so good it makes you rethink your whole evening.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You drive around with a backup pie plan?”
“Wouldn’t you, if you were trying to win over someone who called you a cocky spectacle in print?”
You exhaled through a quiet laugh, surprised even at yourself. The part that would’ve bristled, retreated, shut the whole thing down — it didn’t speak up this time. Instead, you glanced at the car, then back at him.
This was definitely a date.
And surprisingly, you didn’t mind.
You stepped forward and opened the passenger-side door. “Just so you know,” you said as you slid into the seat, “if the pie is bad, I’m writing a review.”
Johnny grinned as he rounded the front of the car and climbed in. “That’s fair. But you’ll probably be too impressed to hold a grudge.”
You shot him a look as he started the engine. “Don’t push it, Storm.”
He just chuckled, the engine rumbling to life beneath the neon skyline, and pulled away from the curb like he had all the time in the world.
The diner Johnny picked wasn’t flashy. It sat tucked between a laundromat and a 24-hour flower shop, its windows fogged just enough to make the neon signs outside blur like watercolor. Inside, it smelled like coffee, butter, and cinnamon — a place where time moved slower. A place you didn’t expect Johnny Storm to know about.
You slid into the booth across from him, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a joke or some bet he’d made with Ben Grimm. But then the waitress came over, already knowing his order. You raised a brow at him.
He just shrugged. “Told you. Great pie.”
The first few minutes were casual — light teasing, a few too many glances at the menu you weren’t actually reading. Then your reporter instincts kicked in.
“So,” you said, leaning forward a little, “why hero work? Out of all the paths someone could take after getting hit with cosmic radiation—”
Johnny cut you off with a grin. “Hold up. Nope. Not tonight.”
“What?”
“I’m not letting you interview me,” he said, pointing his fork at you. “You do that with everyone else. I wanna flip it this time.”
You leaned back, crossing your arms. “You wanna ask me questions?”
“Exactly.” His smile softened. “I mean… if that’s okay.”
You blinked, surprised. “Fine.”
He took a sip of his coffee like he was preparing for something important. Then:
“Where are you from?”
You blinked again, not expecting such a normal question. “Syracuse.”
He nodded like he’d guessed right. “Upstate. Cold winters, right?”
“Brutal,” you said with a slight smile. “Scraped ice off windshields half my life.”
Johnny laughed softly. “Okay. And what’d you study?”
“Journalism. Minored in international studies.” You glanced at your pie, cutting it slowly. “I thought I wanted to be a foreign correspondent. Cover wars, revolutions... real stories.”
“Is that why you became a journalist?”
You hesitated. It was rare someone asked that and actually wanted to hear the answer.
“Sort of,” you said. “I guess I liked the idea that people could read something and understand the world differently. That I could help make sense of the chaos, even a little. Shine a light on things people didn’t want to look at.”
Johnny watched you closely. Not in that performative, flirty way he had in front of cameras. It was quieter now — like he’d turned something off and let something else show through.
“That makes sense,” he said. “You’ve got that kind of presence.”
You smirked. “What kind?”
“The kind that gets people to talk. Even when they weren’t planning to.”
The conversation had drifted to music by the time his watch beeped.
It wasn’t loud, just a sharp beep-beep that cut through the low hum of the diner. Johnny glanced at it with a sigh, and just like that, you saw his posture shift. He was still sitting in front of you, but something behind his eyes had already left.
“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“You have to go,” you finished for him, not even mad—just… mildly surprised. “Right. Saving the world and all that.”
He looked sheepish, standing up, pulling out his wallet to toss a few bills on the table. “I really didn’t want to leave. Not now. This was—” he paused, then grinned. “Fun.”
You tilted your head, fingers tapping the side of your coffee mug. “Is this gonna be a pattern?”
You didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But his smile turned lopsided, cocky in that infuriatingly charming way.
“So there’s gonna be a next time?”
You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s not what I said.”
“Didn’t have to.” He took a step back, right before pushing out the door. “I’ll make it up to you, Syracuse.”
You shook your head, watching him flame on in front of the diner and fly away with style.
You didn’t know what surprised you more — that he had to leave… or that you kind of hoped there would be a next time.
You were halfway through transcribing your notes from a city council hearing when a voice called out from just beyond your cubicle wall.
“Someone’s got fancy mail today,” the mail guy sang, leaning over the divider with a mischievous grin. “Baxter Building, huh? You got friends in high places or something?”
You blinked, reaching for the envelope he held out. Thick, expensive stock. BAXTER printed in bold navy lettering at the top.
“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath.
“Is this what happens when you write about superheroes? They write back?” he teased, laughing as he walked away.
You tore it open. Inside was a folded card—of course it was glossy, and of course there was fire-printed trim on the edges. Typical.
You scoffed. But your lips tugged into a smile before you could stop them.
It was so Johnny.
Ridiculous. Dramatic. Bold.
…Charming.
You tucked the note into your drawer before anyone could sneak a peek, and returned to your typewriter, trying to remember what the deputy mayor said about parking enforcement while your brain was already halfway to Saturday.
The Baxter Building loomed as impossibly tall and sleek as she remembered—though it felt different this time, somehow. Less like the intimidating center of scientific innovation and more like… a place she was invited to.
You approached the security desk, where a man in a dark suit stood behind a glass panel. He looked up, not unkindly.
“Can I help you?”
You held up the invitation. “I—uh. I have an appointment. With the Human Torch.”
He arched a brow, then glanced at the envelope in your hand. The moment he saw BAXTER in bold font and the ridiculous fire-themed trim of the invitation, something flickered in his expression. Recognition. Amusement, maybe.
“Name?”
You gave it. He checked his screen, nodded.
“You’re on the list. Elevator to your right. It'll take you straight to the top level. Enjoy your… lunch.”
The pause was deliberate. You didn’t blame him.
“Thanks,” you muttered.
As you stepped into the elevator, the doors closing around you, you took a breath and tried not to think about the fact that you were on your way to have lunch—with Johnny Storm.
Not an interview. Not a headline.
Just… lunch.
And maybe that was what made your pulse skip a little.
You stepped into the living quarters, still holding onto the last remnants of skepticism—because no way Johnny Storm had actually cooked anything himself.
But there he was.
Dressed in a now-spotted white shirt, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel hanging off one shoulder like he was hosting a cooking segment instead of whatever this chaos was. The smell hit you first—something tomato-based, maybe? It wasn’t awful, just... suspicious. A sleek robot you recognized from news clips—HERBIE—stood beside him, handing over utensils with mechanical grace.
Johnny turned when he heard your footsteps. His face lit up immediately, a little too brightly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“You’re early!” he said, then caught himself. “I mean—you’re right on time. Totally on time. I just thought I had, like, five more minutes to make this less of a disaster.”
You raised an eyebrow, arms folding across your chest as you took in the scene—the splatter on the stovetop, the open container of sauce, the cutting board with... were those strawberries?
“You call this cooking?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, Ben’s usually the one who handles the food part. But I thought I’d try.”
HERBIE beeped and rolled over to you, offering a glass of water. You accepted it without breaking eye contact with Johnny.
“At least someone here knows what they’re doing,” you muttered.
Johnny put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Herbert’s just following my lead, thank you very much.”
HERBIE beeped again—this time, with a tone that sounded oddly like an apology.
You bit back a smile. This was already ridiculous.
He finally declared the meal done—with an exaggerated “Ta-da!” and a proud look at his slightly overcooked but still recognizable pasta dish. Then he pointed at his stained shirt, muttered something about “presentation,” and jogged upstairs to change, leaving you alone in the sleek Baxter kitchen with HERBIE watching over the food like a judgmental sous-chef.
You leaned against the counter, eyeing the plates. The food didn’t smell bad, but you weren’t getting your hopes up. Still, the thought of Johnny Storm actually making you lunch—not catered, not restaurant takeout, but his own clumsy, messy attempt—made something flutter in your chest. You pushed it down.
He came back ten minutes later in a clean tee that hugged him in ways that felt a little unfair for lunchtime. He moved like he hadn’t just nearly set the place on fire twenty minutes ago, sliding into the seat across from you like this was just a regular Saturday. Maybe it was.
You took your first bite, preparing yourself for the worst.
It was... edible.
Actually, kind of decent.
You blinked at him across the table. “Wait—this isn’t terrible.”
Johnny grinned, leaning forward like he’d just won a bet. “High praise. I’ll take it.”
“Did HERBIE actually cook it while you stood nearby and took credit?”
He put a hand to his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.”
You both laughed. It came easy. Effortless.
The conversation flowed just like it had at the gala. He asked about your week, what stories you were working on, and you asked about his latest mission—though he kept it vague. The banter was there, the teasing, the gentle nudges. It felt like another date, not that either of you had called the first one that out loud.
He never made it feel like he was showing off. Not the apartment, not his name, not the security you had to pass just to sit across from him. He just looked at you like he genuinely wanted to be here. With you.
You hadn’t expected that. But here you were.
And you weren’t rushing to leave.
Somewhere between the last few bites and your second glass of water, the conversation drifted into quieter, more thoughtful territory.
“So,” you started, poking at the last piece of garlic bread with your fork, “what was it like… the first time you went to space?”
He blinked, caught off guard—not because you asked, but because of how gently you had. You weren’t asking for the spectacle or the news headline. You really wanted to know.
And something in him shifted.
Johnny leaned back in his chair, eyes softening, mouth tugging into a quiet smile that wasn’t showy or flirtatious. Just real.
“It was… insane,” he said after a beat. “But not in the way people think.”
You tilted your head, curious.
“I mean, yeah, it was loud and chaotic. Reed was spouting numbers no one but him understood, Sue was trying to keep everyone calm, and Ben was yelling about how the thing looked like it was held together with duct tape. And maybe it was.”
He laughed a little to himself. His gaze wandered—not away from you, but somewhere just behind your shoulder, like he was watching a memory replay.
“But then we broke through,” he said. “Past the clouds. Past the blue. And it just… opened.”
He gestured vaguely with his hands, like he was trying to shape the size of the universe.
“It was the quiet that hit me. The kind of silence you can’t even describe. And the stars—they weren’t twinkling or cute or whatever. They were alive. Like watching a fire that never went out. There were so many of them, and I felt like I was just… nothing. A spark. A breath.”
You stared at him, almost forgetting to blink.
“I’ve never felt so small in my life,” he continued. “And I loved it. That kind of smallness—it humbles you. And then…” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Then we got hit with cosmic rays and everything changed. But that moment—that first break into space—that still lives in my chest.”
His voice had softened by the end. He looked at you again and found you watching him with quiet awe.
You’d seen Johnny Storm smirk and pose for cameras. You’d seen him flirt and laugh and play up his reputation.
But this—this was the fire.
And it had nothing to do with his powers.
After lunch—surprisingly edible, despite your doubts—Johnny wiped his hands on a towel, told HERBIE to “clean up,” then he offered his arm dramatically and said, “Madam Journalist, would you care for the grand tour?”
You tried not to smile, but didn’t stop yourself from accepting.
He led you into the common room first—the one you’d seen in pictures but never expected to step foot in. The sunken lounge area was a cozy crater of plush teal seating, curved like a spaceship’s command deck. A fireplace on the center, doubling as a TV console. The tables were sleek white, dotted with forgotten magazines and half-eaten snacks. The walls arched in warm wood panels that made everything feel strangely futuristic and homey.
Johnny jumped over the back of the couch to land beside one of the yellow stools, grinning like a kid in a candy store. “This is where Ben and I fight over the TV and Sue pretends not to be watching.”
Then it was the lab—less cozy, more “ANSA meets mad scientist.” He showed off a few gadgets he claimed to have helped build, tossing around science terms like he actually knew what they meant, you suspected he did, but exaggerated for flair. He hovered near buttons he didn’t press and screens that blinked codes you couldn’t read.
When you raised a brow at one of his particularly grand gestures—something about a neutrino stabilizer—he caught it.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me like that,” he teased, nudging your arm as you walked. “You know I’m impressive.”
You rolled them anyway. But it came with a quiet little smile.
Eventually, the tour wound back to the elevator near the front. You checked your watch, sighing. Time to go.
“Thanks for today,” you said as you stopped at the elevator, bag slung over your shoulder.
He leaned on the frame beside you, arms crossed casually, looking every bit the boyish hero with too much charm for his own good. “Anytime. Seriously. I mean that.”
You nodded, reaching for the elevator button. Then—impulsively—you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Just a soft touch, a flash of warmth.
By the time he turned toward you in surprise, you were already stepping into the elevator, calm as ever.
“See you around, Storm,” you said as the doors started to close.
He stood there stunned, his hand drifting up to where you’d kissed him, the faintest smile blooming on his face like it couldn’t help itself.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “See you.”
With every date, the walls came down.
Not all at once, of course. You still rolled your eyes when he got too smug, still shot down his more ridiculous one-liners with a well-placed look. But the lines between professional skepticism and personal affection blurred a little more each time.
Eventually, you exchanged telephone numbers. Written on the back of a matchbook you kept in your purse, and his scrawled on a napkin that lived pinned to your corkboard.
You told yourself you were just getting to know him better.
You told yourself someone needed to stay objective around all that fire.
You told yourself you were the only woman in the city who wouldn’t fall for Johnny Storm’s charm.
Oh, how wrong you were.
You got spotted together a handful of times. First, coming out of a downtown restaurant, laughing at something he said. Then again in the park, sharing a hot dog under the early autumn sun. And then at a late-night movie, when he tried to wear a hat and sunglasses as if that would stop anyone from recognizing him.
The headlines started coming fast after that.
“The Human Torch’s New Flame?”
“Johnny’s Got a Girl—But Who Is She?”
“Blazing Romance!”
Your name appeared in fine print under photos where your face was slightly turned, or blurry, or hidden by sunglasses—but that didn’t stop it. A few gossip rags even tried to dig through your background. One misspelled your name. Another called you “plucky.” You were still mad about that one.
Your coworkers had a field day.
Every time you walked into the newsroom, at least one person would clear their throat and hold up the morning paper like it was a trophy. The whispers weren’t cruel—just amused. Wide grins. Wiggling eyebrows. A few wolf whistles when you passed the bullpen.
Even your editor joined in once, muttering, “Better make sure our fire alarms are up to date.”
You’d sigh, flick your press badge onto your desk, and mutter the same thing each time, fighting a smile.
“Mind your own business.”
Of course, that only made them laugh harder.
But in the quiet moments—when the tabloids were silent, and the crowds were gone—it was just you and Johnny.
Talking on the phone late at night, your voice low as you curled the spiral cord around your fingers. Sitting close on your couch, listening to one of his records crackle while he tried to explain how a rocket launch works in too much detail. Sneaking glances at him across diner booths, thinking about how stupidly warm he always was, like he was made to be held.
Each date stitched the two of you closer together.
You, the no-nonsense journalist. Him, the fireproof heartthrob.
And even if the whole city had their opinions, you knew the truth of it:
You hadn’t fallen for the idea of Johnny Storm.
You’d fallen for him—messy, loud, brilliant, kind.
And there was no denying it now.
You were supposed to be covering a gala.
That was the entire reason you were here—tucked into a sleek, borrowed dress, notepad and micro-recorder hidden neatly in your clutch, playing polite while industry bigwigs talked about progress and philanthropy like they weren’t drinking champagne that cost more than your monthly rent. The venue gleamed, all chrome and glass, bathed in soft light from floating chandeliers and robotic servers weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. You were halfway through mentally drafting your opener—“Progress is plated in gold and served with a smile.”—when the windows rattled.
It started with a low boom.
Then a tremor.
Then screaming.
The crowd moved like a single, terrified organism—heels clattering, glasses shattering, voices rising in chaos. Someone yelled about the Red Ghost. Someone else screamed about the apes.
And that was when you saw them.
Out past the crushed cars and fractured pavement, under the strange glow of the city’s skyline, the Red Ghost stood like a specter reborn—gaunt, furious, with that deranged spark behind his eyes. His super-powered apes crashed through structures with terrifying ease, one of them ripping a streetlight from its socket and flinging it toward the building like it weighed nothing. The gala crowd surged again, pushing toward emergency exits and shattered doors. You tried to follow, but something caught your eye—a child, maybe six or seven, crying near the base of a toppled sculpture.
You didn't hesitate.
Your heels cracked against the marble as you ran toward him. You scooped the boy up and covered his head with your hands just as another explosion ripped through the street outside. The blast knocked you clean off your feet, sending you tumbling across the floor. Marble crumbled beneath your palms. The child wailed and clung to your arm, but he was alive. You were alive.
Barely.
Smoke filled the air. Your ears rang. Somewhere above you, the ceiling groaned.
And then—
A streak of fire tore through the sky.
The building's front cracked wide open in a burst of light, and figures descended like gods. Sue’s forcefield shimmered in the dust, Ben’s voice boomed as he barreled into one of the apes, and Reed stretched across the wreckage, directing civilians to safety.
Then came Johnny.
He flew in a comet of flame, banking hard through the ruined archway, flames licking at the smoke. His expression was tight—focused—until his eyes swept across the wreckage.
And landed on you.
There was a flicker of disbelief on his face, then something sharp—panic, maybe—cutting through the bravado. He dropped the flame mid-air, landing hard in front of you. You could see the moment he registered the dust on your face, the scrape on your brow, the child clinging to your side.
“You?” he breathed, stunned. “What the hell are you doing here?”
You blinked at him through the dust, chest rising and falling.
“I was working,” you rasped, your voice hoarse. “I didn’t exactly plan for gorilla warfare.”
Johnny swore under his breath. Then he knelt beside you, his hands checking your arms, your side, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing major.”
He looked at you like that wasn’t good enough.
Another crash echoed from outside. He flinched, eyes flicking toward the chaos, then back to you.
“Stay behind the barrier,” he said, rising to his feet. “Reed’s pulling people out. I’ll be back.”
You nodded, still holding the child.
Then Johnny turned, and with a roar of flame, shot back into the smoke.
You didn't have time to process the way Johnny looked at you—not when the building groaned again, not when another blast from outside shattered the last intact window. He was gone in a flash of flame, and the child in your arms whimpered as you stumbled to your feet.
“Come on,” you whispered, voice rough as you tightened your grip. “We’re getting out of here.”
Smoke swirled in thick waves as you made your way through the ruined lobby, weaving past debris and toppled furniture. Your heels were long gone, left somewhere in the chaos, and your knees stung with every step, but adrenaline kept you moving. Emergency responders were beginning to push through from the far side—drones first, scanning for vitals, followed by medics calling out over the noise.
You passed the boy to one of them, ignoring the sting in your palms as you steadied yourself against a cracked column. You were shaken, bruised, and probably inhaling a lifetime’s worth of concrete dust—but alive.
Outside, the air was sharper, colder. The sky above the city flickered in orange and red, lit not by the neon lights of the skyline but by fire. You joined the crowd of survivors gathering at a safe distance, behind hastily raised barriers and the metallic hum of a forcefield dome deployed by ReedTech units. People clutched each other, crying, coughing, whispering in disbelief. Cameras from hover news drones blinked red as they hovered, broadcasting the chaos to every home in the city.
And there, right in front of it all, they stood.
The Fantastic Four.
Ben charged first, unstoppable in a suit that barely held together over his rocky frame. He tackled one of the apes—a massive one with cybernetic implants along its spine—sending both of them crashing through a concrete wall like it was paper.
Sue moved like light itself, her shields flaring in perfect synch with every attack. She pushed back rubble with invisible force, guided civilians to safety, protected a pair of officers pinned under a crumbling awning without breaking stride.
Reed extended high above the scene, body arcing and twisting as he flung some kind of tech device toward the Red Ghost—a trap, maybe. A pulse erupted from it, briefly flickering through the air, but the Red Ghost phased just in time, his form flickering like static. His maniacal laugh echoed across the block.
And then Johnny.
You spotted him above the others, a streak of fire trailing behind as he looped through the air, darting between attacks, drawing the apes’ attention like a comet refusing to fall. Every burst of flame from his body lit up the street like fireworks—controlled, precise, nothing like the chaotic flair you remembered from the first time you saw him in action. This wasn’t showmanship.
This was war.
You couldn’t tear your eyes away.
He banked hard to avoid a projectile, then scorched down the side of a building to protect a group of people still trying to flee. He shouted something to Ben—then flicked a blast of flame so fast and sharp it seared the ground in a line, forcing one of the apes to retreat.
A woman near you gasped. Someone whispered, “That’s the Human Torch,” like they were seeing him for the first time.
And for some stupid reason, your heart skipped, and you smiled.
You swallowed hard and stayed behind the barrier, watching the chaos unfold with a journalistic eye—but this time, it wasn’t just about the story.
It was about him.
And whether or not he made it out in one piece.
It last longer than you'd hope.
The Red Ghost had fallen, neutralized by one of Reed’s devices. The apes—what was left of them—were either tranquilized or subdued, dragged into containment pods that sealed with a heavy hiss. Emergency lights painted the scene in flashes of blue and red as more responders arrived, swarming the wreckage with stretchers, scanners, and press drones.
You stayed where you were, arms crossed tightly against your chest, watching the dust settle with a hollow thrum in your ears. Your dress was torn at the hem, your knees scraped, and your hair probably looked like you’d crawled through a wind tunnel. But none of that mattered.
You scanned the sky for flame.
And then you saw him.
Johnny dropped out of the air in a smooth arc, landing just beyond the emergency barrier with his suit still smoking faintly around the collar. His hair was tousled, soot streaking across his cheek, and his brow glistened with sweat. But he was upright. Whole. Breathing.
Your heart punched your ribs in relief.
He looked around—eyes darting past crowds and medics and shattered architecture—until they landed on you.
You didn’t hesitate.
You shoved past the barrier and met him halfway, the momentum pulling you forward until your arms wrapped around him, solid and warm and alive. You didn’t care that he was sweaty or scorched or smelled like smoke. Your cheek pressed against the fabric of his suit, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.
He hugged you back instantly, arms winding around your shoulders like muscle memory. “You’re okay,” he murmured, half to himself, half to you. “God, you’re okay.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him, checking for injuries, burns, bruises—anything. “Did you get hit? Broke anything important? I swear if you—”
Johnny grinned.
That maddening, familiar grin.
“You were worried about me,” he said, smug and sing-song.
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t let go of him. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“You care,” he teased, voice warm and soft now. “That’s cute.”
You gave him a gentle shove, but your fingers curled back into the sleeve of his suit like they didn’t quite want to let go. “You almost got vaporized, Torch.”
“Almost is the key word,” he said, then added with a wink, “Besides, can’t die before we make it official.”
You gave him a look.
He wiggled his eyebrows.
And despite yourself—despite everything—you felt your lips twitch upward.
The office buzzed in that usual midday lull—typewriters clacking, phones ringing, someone two desks down arguing with a source who apparently “didn’t say it like that.” You sat hunched in your cubicle, half-finished coffee going cold beside your elbow as you typed out a rough draft for an exposé that had nothing to do with supervillains, collapsing buildings, or fiery superheroes.
You were almost grateful for the normalcy.
Almost.
Then a shadow loomed over your desk.
“‘A blaze of brilliance—controlled, focused, the Human Torch proved himself more than just a hothead that night.’”
You turned, already cringing a little.
Johnny Storm stood there in a leather jacket, tousled hair, and the unmistakable smirk of someone who knew they were being quoted.
Tucked under his arm: a folded copy of The Daily Observer. Your paper.
“Let me guess,” you said dryly. “You read it fifteen times and had someone frame it already?”
“Twenty-three, actually. And I’m still waiting on the frame,” he replied, pulling the paper out with a flourish. “But really—‘a blaze of brilliance’? You’re gonna make me blush.”
You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “I was being professional.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That was professional?”
“Yes.”
“Because it read more like someone with a slight crush.”
Your eyes narrowed. “I could’ve just called you ‘reckless’ again and left it at that.”
“But you didn’t,” he said, stepping into your cubicle like he owned the place—which, technically, he did not, but Johnny had never let small things like boundaries stop him. “You called me focused. Smart. A hero. That’s basically poetry, coming from you.”
You grabbed your coffee, took a sip, and made a face. Cold.
“I call it ‘objective reporting,’” you said.
“Right,” he said, tapping the paper. “Totally objective. Nothing at all to do with the fact that I saved a bunch of people, including you—and maybe looked insanely cool doing it.”
You let the silence hang just long enough to make him twitch.
Then you smirked. “You did look cool,” you admitted.
He blinked.
“Oh my God—say it again,” he said, clutching his heart like you’d just proposed.
“Don’t push your luck, Storm.”
Too late. He was beaming now, folding the paper carefully like it was a love letter. “I’m getting this laminated.”
“Great. Hang it in your bathroom.”
“I was thinking above my bed, actually.”
You rolled your eyes. “You came all the way here just to fish for compliments?”
“Nah,” he said, shrugging. “I came to ask if you’re free for dinner. But the compliments are a very nice bonus.”
You paused. Your fingers curled slightly around your mug.
“You’re asking me out. Again.”
He tilted his head. “You gonna say yes?”
You studied him—still smug, still cocky, still every bit the firestorm he’d always been—but underneath it, there was something softer in his eyes. The same look he gave you after pulling you out of rubble, after promising you he was okay.
You set your mug down.
“What time?”
The knock came at exactly six-fifteen.
You were still smoothing down the fabric of your dress, glancing one last time in the mirror, when it sounded—two sharp knocks and a pause, like he was trying to be both confident and considerate. You opened the door with a breath caught halfway in your throat.
Johnny Storm stood there in a white tee and charcoal jacket, hair slicked back just enough to pretend he hadn’t spent five minutes tousling it right after. He held a bouquet in his hands—vivid, almost comically large, all fire-colored blooms in reds, oranges, and golds.
You blinked.
He beamed. “You like them?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Did you rob a botanical garden on the way here?”
“They’re thematic,” he said, holding them out proudly. “Like me. On fire. But in a romantic way.”
You took them, fighting a smile as you buried your nose in the blooms. They smelled like summer evenings and warm hands. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You say that every time you see me.”
“Because it’s still true.”
He offered you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Your ride awaits, Byline.”
Dinner was surprisingly quiet—tucked away in a retro-style rooftop restaurant with soft jazz humming from corner speakers and skyline views so clear it looked like the city had paused just for the night. You picked at a dish you couldn’t pronounce. Johnny ordered something with way too much heat, then insisted it was “barely spicy” until he nearly choked on it.
You laughed. A lot.
And when the check came, he insisted on covering it—said it was his turn, said it like he genuinely meant it, like it wasn’t some macho gesture but just… him wanting to give you something.
Afterward, neither of you were ready for the night to end.
So you walked.
Central Park stretched quiet under the early evening stars, its pathways lit by the soft golden glow of vintage lampposts. Leaves rustled gently, and the buzz of the city felt like a distant hum.
Johnny walked beside you with his hands in his pockets, jacket open to the breeze. Every now and then, your fingers brushed as your arms swung—and each time, he didn’t pull away.
“Y’know,” he said after a few minutes, glancing sideways at you, “I think this is the longest I’ve gone on a date without being interrupted by a supervillain, a fire, or Reed needing me to hold a wrench.”
You smirked. “Don’t jinx it.”
“I won’t. But if a portal opens up and a robot army marches out, I just want it on record that I tried to have a normal night.”
You laughed—soft and real.
Then it got quiet again, but not uncomfortably so.
Just enough quiet to notice the warmth in your chest, the way your steps slowed, the way you wanted to say something before the moment passed.
You stopped near a bench, looking out toward the pond where the moonlight shimmered against the rippling water. He stopped beside you.
“Hey,” you said softly.
Johnny looked at you, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Yeah?”
You hesitated.
Then, with a sigh, you said, “I didn’t think this would happen.”
His brow creased. “Dinner?”
You gave him a look. “This. Us. You.”
Johnny tilted his head, curious but quiet.
“I thought I had you figured out,” you continued, voice low. “Thought you were just ego and fire and headlines. I told myself I wasn’t gonna be the type to fall for that. For you.”
He was silent, eyes fixed on you now.
“And I don’t know how it happened,” you added. “But… I really like you, Johnny.”
Your words hung in the air—bare, brave, and terrifying.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
He took one hand out of his pocket, stepped closer, and said, so quietly it made your heart stutter, “Good. Because I’ve liked you since the moment you called me reckless in front of a hundred reporters.”
You let out a breathless laugh—half-relieved, half-overwhelmed.
Then he cupped your cheek gently, eyes searching yours. “Can I kiss you?”
You didn’t even answer.
You leaned in.
And the kiss that followed was warm and slow, more tender than either of you expected. It tasted like rooftop wine and burnt pepper, like all the things you hadn’t let yourself feel until now. His hand slid to your waist, anchoring you gently. Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket like maybe you’d melt without something to hold onto.
When you finally pulled apart, your forehead rested against his, and for a second, the world stopped spinning.
Then you smiled—soft, teasing, fond.
“Well,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “The Flaming Hearts is really gonna hate me now.”
He laughed, arms looping around your waist. “They already do. I read the forums.”
You snorted. “You read your fan forums?”
“I like to stay informed,” he said with a wink.
You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “God, I’m dating a dork.”
“You’re dating this dork,” he corrected, smug as ever, resting his chin atop your head.
You stayed like that under the Central Park sky—wrapped in warmth and something that felt like maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.
It had been a few months since that first kiss under the quiet glow of Central Park.
Since the night you let your guard down and finally let him in.
Now you were his. Officially.
Not that the tabloids had let you forget it. Every coffee run, every blurry sidewalk kiss, every slightly windblown post-battle cuddle was plastered across newsstands like you were part of a pulp serial. You’d stopped reading them after “The Torch and the Truth-Teller: A Love Story in Flames” hit the stands.
But today wasn’t about that.
Today, the city was nervous.
The Frightful Four had made themselves known in a very public, very destructive way the day before—leaving Central Avenue cratered, several civilians injured, and even the Fantastic Four pushed to their limits. The new villains weren’t just chaos for chaos’s sake. They were calculated. Aggressive. Dangerous.
So, of course, the press conference at the Baxter Building was standing room only.
You stood near the back, arms folded around your notepad, trying not to feel weird about covering a press event for a team you technically had dinner with twice a week. Your press badge still held weight, but now it hung alongside a relationship that blurred lines more than you liked to admit.
Still, you kept it professional. You always did.
Even if Johnny winked at you the second he spotted you in the crowd.
The conference began like any other—Reed detailing the attack in his usual clinical tone, outlining the measures they were taking to analyze the threat, reinforce the city’s defenses, and “neutralize the ongoing presence of the Frightful Four.” Sue followed up with diplomacy and calm reassurance, while Ben added something about “clockin’ that wizard wannabe next time he shows up.”
Then came the Q&A session.
You didn’t plan to raise your hand. Not at first.
But the question burned at the edge of your tongue, and when Reed nodded to the press corps, your hand lifted almost instinctively.
You saw a few heads turn.
So did Reed.
He gave a tiny smile. “Yes, you—go ahead.”
You stood tall. “In light of the Wizard’s tech matching several known Fantastic Four signatures, is the team considering the possibility of a breach in security—or worse, that the tech was reverse-engineered from a previous mission?”
The room went silent.
Tough. Fair. Pointed.
A few reporters turned toward Reed, pens poised. Reed, after all, was the one who usually answered tech-related questions with a thousand syllables and no punctuation.
But then—
Johnny stepped forward.
He didn’t wait for Reed. Didn’t look back for a signal.
Just shifted to the mic, adjusted it once, and looked straight at you.
“We’ve already considered that,” he said, voice steady—not cocky, not performative. “And Reed’s running diagnostics through every system in the Baxter Building as we speak. We’ve seen tech imitation before—it’s not new. But this was something else. The Wizard wasn’t just copying us—he was testing us. Learning our limits.”
He paused. The room leaned in.
Johnny continued, hands relaxed on either side of the podium. “That’s why we’re not just going back to old defenses. We’re adapting. Evolving. If someone wants to play smart, then we play smarter. That’s what we do.”
A flicker of surprise rippled through the crowd.
You felt your lips curve, slow and warm.
He wasn’t improvising. He wasn’t trying to steal the spotlight.
He was stepping up.
And it wasn’t just about being brave. He was prepared. Thoughtful. Clear.
God, he really had been listening all those nights you stayed up editing stories and picking apart soundbites. He’d absorbed it all.
When he stepped back from the mic, Sue gave him a quick side-eye that was both impressed and suspicious. Reed nodded, faintly approving. Even Ben muttered something like “Look at Flamebrain, gettin’ all articulate.”
Johnny didn’t look at them.
He looked at you.
And when he saw you smiling—really smiling—he smiled back like that had been the only audience he was trying to impress.
You shook your head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock disapproval, but your grin didn’t fade.
You didn’t leave when the press conference ended.
While the others packed up their cameras, chased quotes, and filtered toward the elevators, you lingered near the edge of the Baxter Building’s main hall, pretending to reread your notes. In truth, your pen hadn’t touched paper since Johnny spoke. You just stood there, professional façade cracking at the edges, watching the crowd thin and the team scatter toward their usual post-briefing routines.
Eventually, the lights dimmed to their usual state and the last guest reporter filed out. The hush that settled over the room felt different—less urgent, less public.
Just quiet.
And then you heard footsteps.
Booted, sure, and too familiar by now.
Johnny appeared from the side corridor still in his white and blue suit, the chest insignia slightly scuffed from yesterday’s battle. His hair was tousled, his cheeks still a little flushed from the heat of the day, but his eyes—those troublemaking, earnest, too-honest eyes—found yours instantly.
You didn’t wait.
You crossed the space between you and your arms looped around his neck before you could stop yourself, pressing your lips to his without a word.
He kissed you back just as easily, as if he’d been holding his breath through the entire press conference and this was the first time he got to exhale. His hands rested gently on your waist, grounding. Warm.
When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his for a moment, both of you breathing slow in the dimming room.
“You really gotta stop asking me the hard ones,” he murmured, his voice low and a little playful, but still soft around the edges.
You smiled, brushing your thumb lightly along the seam of his suit at his shoulder. “It’s my job.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle your temple once, “remind me to start bringing a flashcard with smart-sounding words. Just in case.”
You laughed quietly, still close. The suit was warm under your fingers—not from his powers, just from him. Being near him always felt like this now. Like a space you didn’t realize you needed.
Then, softer, you said, “You did a great job.”
His eyes flicked back to yours, and for a second, all the cocky charm vanished. What was left was raw and real.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He smiled at that—not his usual smirk, not a teasing grin, but something gentler. Something that belonged only to you.
“You looked proud,” he said. “When I answered.”
“I was proud,” you whispered.
Johnny leaned in again, kissing you this time with less urgency—just warmth. Familiarity. Gratitude.
You let your hands slide from his collar to the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the edge of his hairline.
“You keep doing things like that,” you murmured when the kiss broke, “and I’m gonna run out of critical things to write about you.”
He laughed against your cheek. “Guess I’ll just have to do something reckless again. For balance.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already full.
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