ᝰ.ᐟLATEST WORK : 'cause the daylight seem to want you as much as i do
ᝰ.ᐟREMINDER : i purely write for the ahs and mcu fandom on this blog. please keep in mind that i don't write 18+ contents, and i'm more focused on writing female!reader. please always be respectful at all times as this blog is a safe space for everyone.
ᝰ.ᐟDNI : if you're a disrespectful little shit and only here to spread hate or cause really unnecessary stuff. if you don't like or vibe with the fics i write, just fuck off because i won't entertain or tolerate you, and you'll be permanently blocked.
ᝰ.ᐟREQUEST RULES : name of character/actor, make sure to specify the plot you wanted, and dos & don't. no weird stuff, please. i also have the right to reject any requests that makes me uncomfortable in writing it.
my main takeaway from tron ares was not any new thoughts on ai or if computers can feel or even if the movie was good, but instead a harsh reminder that thin pale men having the absolute worst day of their lives will unfortunately always be my type, as demonstrated by evan peters in the role of julian dilinger
EVAN AS JULIAN DILLINGER IN THE NEW TRAILER FROM 'TRON: ARES'.
about the tattoos on the arms: "disney hired temporary tattoo artist love larson, who worked on dune 1 and dune 2. evan peters' character julian dillinger has code tattoos on his arms, neck, and possibly other parts of his body."
'cause the daylight seems to want you just much as i do — johnny storm
masterlist
PAIRINGS: johnny storm x female!reader
SUMMARY: johnny just loves you so much that every time he wanted to express it in words, the english language always fails him.
REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.
WARNINGS: no use of y/n, established relationship, you guys are married, johnny just loves you so fucking much, he adores the shit out of you, soft and cutesy oneshot, and minor typographical errors.
WORD COUNT: 945
AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi, i'm alive. this is just a oneshot that i need to get out of my system, bc i can literally imagine johnny in this song. this is just a really short and cute oneshot that tugged in my heartstrings. anyways, i love johnny storm so much, and feel free to talk to me! enjoy! (i'm still working on the updates for my johnny series, so it may take a while)
Johnny had never been good with words. At least not when it comes to things like this. Yes, he was quick with jokes, sarcastic remarks, and that easy charming banter that he wore like a second skin. But when it comes to you, when it comes to how much he loved you, Johnny always felt like language failed him. No string of sentences, no clever metaphors, no firework display of vocabulary could ever touch what sat heavy and bright in his chest whenever his eyes found you.
Two years of marriage, and still, Johnny would wake with the same flutter in his chest that he had felt the very first night he had kissed you. It never dulled, never faded, and never evened out into something that is ordinary. If anything, it grew stronger and louder, weaving itself into every corner of his life until you were the center of it. The very axis on which his world spun.
But above all things, mornings were his favorite.
The first crack of sunlight creeping through the floor to ceiling curtains felt almost conspiratorial, as though the day itself was rushing to catch a glimpse of you before anyone else could. The rays stretched across the bed, spilling over the sheets until they touched your skin—soft and golden, painting you with a light so tender Johnny swore even the sun was in love with you. He would be there already—awake, sprawled on his side, head propped up on his hand, and just watching.
Sometimes you would stir awake, lashes fluttering as you caught him staring. But instead of teasing him the way you once did when you first discovered his little habit, you would simply smile at him—a soft, sleepy smile that reached your eyes, reaching a hand out gently to his face, and melting into something that matched his. Those moments could last forever—just the two of you, staring at one another in quiet awe, smiling as though the universe had given you both the secret that no one else knew.
Johnny could not describe it, not really, but he tried anyway in his own head. You were not just beautiful, beauty was a word that belonged to everyone—something that is shared, something that is vague, and something that had been seen a thousand times in different faces. But to him, you were untouchable and unrepeatable. Like daylight filtered through crystal, endlessly refracting into something new every time he blinked.
He swore he could spend hours just looking at you. To which Johnny often did. The delicate rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair spread across the pillow, and the faint crease on your cheek from the fabric. He loved the little things—the curve of your lips before a smile is formed, the faint sound you made when you were halfway between sleep and waking, how you always reached for him unconsciously, even in dreams, fingers brushing against his arm as if to anchor him there, and every time, it left him breathless.
Johnny Storm—the human torch, the hotshot, the daredevil who loved the rush of danger and who could not sit still, was rendered completely undone by the simplest thing in the world; watching you, his wife, exist.
Even everyone around him noticed. Reed, in all his logical detachment, once made an offhand comment about how Johnny’s attachment to you seemed to be a remarkable case study in devotion. Sue did not really bother with any analysis, she simply smiled knowingly every time she caught the two of you together, as if she was in on the depth of something she could not quite articulate either. Ben, gruff as always, would just roll his eyes at Johnny’s shameless grin and flirting in your direction, but never without a soft edge to his teasing. They all saw it, even if they could not put it into words.
Because honestly, words are not enough.
Johnny did not just love you. He adored you, worshipped you in every unspoken and unpracticed way. He would bathe you in light if he only could, tear down every wall, crack open every shutter, let the day pour in and wrap around you like it, too, recognizing you as something sacred. There were times he thought the sunlight fought him for your attention, pulling at you greedily, highlighting every single angle, curve, and detail of you that he already knew by heart. But still, he did not mind. Because you deserved to be seen.
Some mornings, when you caught him staring, you would tease him gently, voice still raspy from sleep.
“You’re doing it again.”
Grinning shamelessly, leaning closer to press his lips to your temple. “Can’t help it.”
Then you would laugh softly, the kind of sound that made his chest ache with something that is too big to be contained, and he would tuck that moment away like a treasure, another memory to pull out later when you were not around, just to remind himself of how lucky he was.
Johnny Storm loved you so much it scared him shitless sometimes. But it was never the kind of fear that made him want to run, it was the opposite—it rooted him, grounded him, and made him certain in a way he had never been about anything else. The wilderness inside of him, the part that always chased after chaos and thrill had finally found its peace in you.
So every morning when he wakes up, as the sunlight danced across your face, Johnny knew the truth with absolute clarity—you were and will always be his greatest adventure.
SUMMARY: johnny thought that after your conversation at the rooftop, everything is finally okay, or so he thought. so when doctor strange decided to pay you a visit at the avengers compound, you began to rethink everything and your progress with johnny is back to zero over again.
REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.
WARNINGS: no use of y/n, multiverse, spiderman-esque fic, a little world building, some angst, idk what i'm doing (again) so just roll with it, there are some inaccuracies, everyone is alive!!!!!, some frustrations lol, talks about death (not directly, but implied), and minor typographical errors.
WORD COUNT: 7.3k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i decided to write the part 3 a little bit longer, since i wanna incorporate everything in this update. sorry if the pacing of the story is a little bit rushed bc the next update will be a turning point (?) in the story. again (you guys might be sick of hearing this lol), everyone is alive, nobody died!!!!!! enjoy this update! feel free to talk to me on my ask!
The week had blurred into a strange rhythm of exhaustion and distraction. You had chosen to work remotely inside the compound, keeping yourself busy with conference calls, stockholder meetings, and emergency reviews of Stark Industries’ R&D budgets. It was easier that way—easier to convince yourself that focus was still within your reach, even if every knock at your door or flicker of warmth in the hallway reminded you of Johnny.
Johnny had been relentless. Not in an aggressive sense, but it was the way he would linger, always finding excuses to orbit around your space. Sometimes it was a casual quip tossed through your open door, and other times a coffee mug he accidentally set down on your desk, claiming he forgot where the kitchen was. Ever since that night on the rooftop, something had shifted between you, like it was an unspoken awareness that hung in the air every time your eyes would meet for a beat too long. You feared it, not because it was unwelcome, but because you could already feel it growing into something that is heavier, harder to stop, and so, you always made sure to cut it short.
You had been so deep in the routine of shutting him out that the interruption from FRIDAY almost startled you.
“Miss Stark, Doctor Stephen Strange has requested to see you.”
The name made your hand pause mid-motion, pen hovering above the corner of a document you had been annotating. For a moment, you thought that you had misheard. Stephen Strange, here? Though it wasn't unusual for the Sorcerer Supreme to appear at the compound, and when he did, it was never for you. He and your father had their own brand of begrudging respect—arguments that are veiled in courtesy, alliances cloaked in sarcasm. But you? You had never been the subject of his attention.
Your brows furrowed as you leaned back in your swivel chair, finger tight slightly around the pen. “You sure he asked for me and not my dad?”
“Yes, Miss Stark,” FRIDAY replied without any hesitation. “Doctor Stephen Strange specifically requested to see you.”
The air inside your office seemed to shift, pressing down on you with a quiet heaviness. You were not entirely sure why the detail unsettled you, but it did. Strange was not the kind of man who wasted his time, if he had sought you out directly, there was an intent behind it.
You capped the pen slowly, setting it aside atop the growing stack of papers. Your office was dimmer than usual, blinds half-drawn to keep the late afternoon sun from glaring across your screens. It suddenly felt claustrophobic, as though the walls themselves were aware of the summons. You stood up, smoothing the front of your blouse with deliberate calm, and let out a quiet breath.
“Please tell Dr. Strange that I’ll be out in a few minutes,” you instructed. “Have him wait at the conference room, I’m just finishing up some documents.”
“Understood.”
“Thank you, FRIDAY.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Stark.”
The silence that followed had carried a weight that you couldn't quite name. You stacked the last of your files, placing some paper tabs on it so that you know where you’ll be resuming your work for later, and then sliding them on the corner of your desk. Anything to delay the inevitable.
Finally, you crossed the office, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, the sound of it was oddly sharp in the quiet. Your hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment before you pulled it open. The corridors stretched ahead, long and sterile, though every step you took towards the conference room seemed to echo louder than it should.
Strange being in the compound was not unusual, but Strange being here and wanting to talk to you was something else entirely. As you walked, you couldn't shake the faint but nagging thought—whatever this was, it wasn't going to be an ordinary conversation.
The door of the conference room hissed open with a soft hydraulic sound, and the moment you stepped inside, the air changed. The space was wide, lined with sleek technology and a faint hum that always lingered in the background. At the center of the room, as though he had been waiting for you all along, stood Doctor Stephen Strange.
Doctor Strange looked almost out of place among the clean lines of the Stark technology—crimson Cloak of Levitation draped across his shoulders, posture both regal and restrained, and hands folded lightly in front of him. His expression softened ever so slightly as his eyes fell on you.
“Doctor Strange.” You greeted politely, offering a faint smile as you crossed the room towards him.
“Miss Stark.” He replied with a nod, voice smooth and deliberate.
Unlike with your father, there was no immediate tension, no barbed wire waiting at the back of his throat. Strange never seemed to have an issue with you. In fact, if anything, he treated you with the kind of quiet courtesy that is reserved for someone he respected—though you were fully aware he saw shades of your father in you at times. But unlike Tony, you chose your battles carefully, and perhaps that was why he never seemed wary in your presence.
You both dispensed with pleasantries almost insanity. There was no need for them because Strange was not a man who wasted any time, and the look in his eyes made it clear it was not just a casual visit.
“I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important,” he began, voice carrying the weight of something pressing, heavy. “There’s been a disturbance, something I sensed weeks ago, it was faint but persistent. I assumed that it was just your father or the Avengers bending the rules of reality again, nothing unusual.”
“But it was not that. It’s stronger, growing, and it doesn't feel like something born of this universe.” He added.
Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting—a little troubled within yourself if you wanted to tell Strange everything that had happened the past few weeks. But you know that there was no point in deflecting, he would just see right through you.
“Yes,” you admitted quietly, after a beat of hesitation. “There…there was a bit of an accident.”
You moved towards the central table, hand brushing across through the smooth glass surface before you leaned against it, using the table to ground yourself.
“A group, four of them. They call themselves the Fantastic Four, and had been dispatched on a mission to neutralize an energy spike that had been flagged as suspicious. We were told that it came from a Latverian outpost, abandoned, but still volatile.”
Strange’s eyes flickered with recognition at the mention of Latveria, tensing and jaw tightening, but he did not interrupt. He just listened, gaze steady.
“They were caught in the surge,” you continued. “And instead of neutralizing it, they were pulled here in 616 from 828.”
The weight of the truth hung heavy inside the room. Strange did not move an inch, but his silence was so loud and pressed at you like an invisible current urging you to go on.
“However, one of them—Jonathan Storm, recognized me.” You admitted after a brief moment, voice softer and careful now. “Apparently, I have a counterpart in 828 and had a deep connection with him.”
“I’ve been managing everything,” you assured, but your tone was careful. “Making sure that they’re not left stranded. My dad doesn't want any chaos in the press, and Reed Richards has been working tirelessly on figuring out how to get them home. They want to go back, and everyone is trying.”
Strange’s gaze lingered on you, it was unreadable, though his expression had shifted into something heavier and sharper. As though beneath the surface of your assurances, you sensed that he already knew the truth. But instead of pressing you about it, he just just sighed.
“I’m not convinced.”
He didn't sit throughout the meeting with you, he remained standing by the head of the table, cloak shifting faintly as though stirred by some current only it could feel. Strange’s presence filled the room in that way only he could—measured, precise, and with a weight that reminded you this was a man who had peered into realities most could never imagine. So when he finally spoke again, voice was now even, low, and deliberate, as though each word was selected with utmost care.
“The multiverse is not a playground.” He began. “It is not something to tinker with, to bend, or to treat it as a curiosity. Every universe is a thread that is woven into a far greater tapestry. Each thread is fragile on its own, but together, they create this kind of balance. The moment that this balance is disrupted, the results are catastrophic. Irreversible.”
You just sat there on the chair, listening to him. The words that came out of his mouth made you unsettled, it was like stones in your chest.
“You’re aware of incursions I presume?” He asked, and you nodded in response even though it was rhetorical. Strange’s gaze didn't waiver from you. “Universes colliding, collapsing. Two realities trying to occupy the same space until one, or both, are destroyed. That’s the natural consequence of anomalies being left unchecked.”
“The Fantastic Four—they are an anomaly here. They don’t belong to this universe, they never did, and that is dangerous. Because their very presence is a contradiction.” He added, voice sharpening slightly.
“Imagine a chessboard, each piece with its place, role, and order. Now, imagine moving four pieces from another board and dropping them onto this one. The game will cease to make sense, and the rules break down.” His fingers flexed at his side, and the Eye of Agamotto glinted faintly in the light as he leaned forward.
“It doesn't matter if they mean no harm, it doesn't matter that they want to return home. Them just being here in 616 has already caused the ripple I felt, a disturbance that stretches far beyond this room, building, or even this planet. The multiverse doesn't tolerate contradictions, it seeks resolution. One way or another.”
Your throat tightened, though you forced yourself to hold his gaze.
“And you,” Strange let the word hang, delibero. “You’re vulnerable to it in ways you don’t yet understand. You carry your father’s brilliance, yes—even his stubbornness.”
“Hey!” You leaned back, a little offended.
“But you’re also aware of the boundaries that shouldn't be crossed, and that awareness makes you a focal point, a target. The multiverse doesn't forgive anomalies, and those who stand closest to them are often the first to bear the cost.”
“You may think that you’re managing this,” he said with finality. “That your efforts to contain the situation are enough, but containment isn't resolution. You can’t simply fold them into this world and hope that the fabric of reality accepts the seam. It doesn't work that way, never has and never will.”
The words lodged themselves in your chest like lead, and each one is a reminder of the gravity pressing in around you. Strange straightened, clasping his hands behind his back, gaze softening slightly, though the warning in it remained unyielding.
“You need to understand this isn't just about them,” he said quietly. “It’s about you too, and what it would cost you if this goes on any longer.”
Leaning on the table, you rubbed a finger to your temple, calming yourself from all of the things he had said. You hesitated before speaking, the words pressed against your lips, reluctant, heavy, but refusing to be swallowed back down.
“There’s something else you need to know,” you murmured, voice quieter, almost swallowing the stillness of the meeting room.
Strange’s eye flickered towards you, the kind of attention that wasn't casual, or indulgent. He was listening, dissenting, and waiting. You exhaled slowly, finger tightening around the edge of the chair.
“When I said Johnny Storm recognized me, it wasn't because of a resemblance alone. It’s because I exist there, or rather, she did.” You paused, letting the words hang in the air. “She’s no longer alive.”
Strange’s brow furrowed faintly, but he didn't interrupt you. His silence gave you space to continue.
“She was engaged to Johnny Storm, and died just minutes before their wedding. In their world, she mattered to not only Johnny, but to the rest of the three as well. Her death left a mark, and when they look at me, they’re looking at her, at what they lost.”
“So, if—if she’s gone there, does that mean…” you stopped yourself before finishing.
You didn't want to ask it outright, could not really bring yourself to shape the words into something concrete. The implication lingered between you and Strange, unspoken but undeniable. He drew in a long breath, his expression shifting—not in a pity way, but something that is more solemn, more deliberate.
“I won’t soften this for you,” he finally said, tone measured, each syllable cutting like a scalpel. “The death of a counterpart in one universe does not guarantee the same fate for you. These threads, while connected, are not identical. Your choices, circumstances, relationships—those things matter. They create divergence.”
“With that being said,” Strange’s voice deepened, and you began to feel that the room seemed to grow smaller around you. “Patterns do exist, echoes ripple across realities. When a soul carries weight in one universe, the multiverse has a way of weaving that significance into others. However, it doesn't always end the same way, but it can. The danger, tragedy, it finds new forms.”
His gaze locked onto yours. “So yes, it is possible. Not inevitable, but possible. To deny that would be dishonest, and to pretend otherwise would be a cruelty I refuse to commit.”
Your breath caught, and you sat frozen, the edges of his words slicing cleanly through every fragile layer of denial that you had been building since the moment Johnny Storm first looked at you like he had seen a ghost. Strange softened only slightly, enough to remind you he was not there to punish you with the truth, but to prepare you.
“You deserve to know the risks, to understand the stakes of entangling yourself too deeply with them, especially him. The multiverse is not merciful, it remembers, repeats, and tests the seams until something gives.”
You looked down at your hands, at the faint tremor in your fingers you couldn't quite still.
“Don’t mistake me,” Strange added, tone easing a little bit. “I am not saying that you’re doomed to follow the same fate as her. But what I am saying is that you cannot afford to ignore the shadow of it, not when reality itself is already under strain.”
You sat there for a long moment, frozen beneath the weight of his words. Your throat tightened as though the air itself had turned heavier, sinking into your lungs and refusing to let go. You wanted to tell Strange that he was wrong, that he had to be exaggerating, that this couldn't possibly be more than a temporary ripple, but you couldn't. You knew he was not a man to exaggerate, Stephen Strange didn't waste words. But when he did speak, his words carried the precision of a blade.
The silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint hum of the compound’s systems through the walls. You stared down at your hands in your lap, nails pressing into your palms until little crescents of pain bloomed. At least that grounded you in something that is tangible when everything else felt like it was teetering on the edge of collapse. Finally, you lifted your gaze back to Strange. Your voice, when the words came out of your mouth, was softer than you expected, hesitant but threaded with a kind of desperate resolve.
“Is there a way that you can help them?” You asked carefully. “If they don’t belong here, if they’re an anomaly, is there something you can do to send them back? To fix it?”
“They don’t deserve to be trapped here because of some accident, and the longer that they’re here, the more dangerous it becomes. Not just for them, but for us, for everyone. They need to go back to their universe, Doctor Strange. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
You had not realized until you finished speaking how tightly your chest had constricted. The urgency in your tone surprised even you—it was as though admitting it out loud had loosened something you hadn't allowed yourself to feel until now. This wasn't just about the integrity of the multiverse anymore, it was about them. About the way Reed Richards’ face had hardened with guilt, Sue’s protectiveness, Ben’s silent patience, and Johnny’s gaze lingered on you as though he were torn between two realities.
Strange leaned back slightly, folding his hands together in front of him. His expression didn't shift much, still calm as ever, still composed, but there was a flicker of something inside his eyes—calculation, perhaps caution.
“You’re asking me if I can undo a tear in the multiverse as though it’s as simple as drawing a doorway between two rooms.” He said, tone even. Not unking, but firm. “It isn't, Miss Stark.”
“The kind of rupture that brought him here isn't something that can be neatly stitched shut with a spell. I’d need to know the origin, the frequency, and the resonance of the rift itself. Magic can stabilize and can bind, yes, but what tore them from their universe in the first place was not my work, it wasn't yours. It was something older, deeper. With the Latverian thing you said, that complicates matters.”
Strange let the words hang for a moment, his gaze boring into yours as though he were weighing how much truth you could stand in a single sitting.
“Miss Stark, understand this—I can help, search for a way. But if they’ve already altered the balance by being here, if bonds have already formed, if events have already changed, then sending them back is not a clean equation. Something will give, something will always give.”
You felt your breath hitch, your mind stumbling over the edges of his meaning. You wanted to ask what he meant, what would be lost, but part of you was afraid of the answer. Still, you leaned forward slightly, gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled determination.
“Even if it’s difficult, even if it costs something, please. Please, just try.”
He gave a single, deliberate nod. “Very well, I will try. But you must prepare yourself. If this succeeds, it may not be the clean resolution that you’re hoping for, and if it fails…” Strange trailed off, his gaze lingering on you. “Then the cost may not be theirs to bear alone.”
Your heart stuttered at the implication, but you forced yourself to meet his eyes and nodded firmly. Because no matter what it meant for you, you couldn't shake the certainty that they didn't belong here, and that it was your responsibility, somehow, to help them find their way back.
The familiar whir of servos and sharp hiss of a welding torch greeted you before the doors had even finished sliding open. The smell of scorched metal and oil clung to the air like a second skin, wrapping around the cavernous workshop in that strangely comforting way you had grown up with. For a moment, you just stood there, leaning against the frame as Tony bent over a workbench crowded with scattered parts, wires, and half-assembled tech that looked both genius and chaotic at the same time.
He was humming under his breath, completely absorbed, the bright arc light bouncing off the protective lenses on his face. The hydraulics of the door had hissed when you entered, he didn't hear it. You smiled to yourself, shaking your head fondly. Some things never changed.
You lifted a hand to your mouth and cleared your throat. “Ahem.”
The torch sputtered out immediately, and his head whipped towards you. “You trying to give your old man a heart attack?”
You laughed softly. He tugged the lenses off and squinted in your direction. Tony’s tone was sharp, but the corners of his mouth softened the moment his eyes landed on you.
“You know, normal people say hello.”
“Well, normal people don’t usually get so lost in their work that they forget doors make noise.” You smirked.
He raised his hands in mock defeat and the tool he was holding down on the table. “Fair point. Alright, what’s up kiddo? If you’re here, it’s either important or you’re finally ready to admit that I was right about your last quarterly projections.”
Rolling your eyes at him, you crossed the room and sank into the swivel chair beside his bench, spinning it lazily as you looked up at him. Tony stayed perched on the edge of the table, giving you his full attention now, hands resting on his knees.
For a moment, you didn't jump straight in. Instead, you let your gaze drift over the mess of tools, half-built drones, and sketchpads littering the surface. Memories began to creep in—sitting at one of your father’s workshops as a child with your feet barely touching the floor, watching him sketch the bones of new armor, his voice low and steady as he explained why certain alloys worked better than others. You could still remember the nights you would fall asleep in the same chair while he worked, waking up to find a blanket draped over you because he never had the heart to send you away.
“You know,” you began softly, fingers fiddling with a stray gear on the table. “I used to think there was nothing more cooler than sitting here and watching you build. Half the time I had no idea what you were doing, but it didn't matter to me. I just liked being here, watching you work.”
Tony raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, so now you admit that your old man was cool once. Say it again, I’m going to record it for future purposes.”
“Don’t let it get to your head, dad.” You laughed under your breath. “I’m saying it to ease you into the conversation I’m about to have with you.”
Your words made him straighten a little, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to curiosity. “Ah, so there’s an actual conversation hiding under all that flattery. Alright kiddo, hit me.”
You leaned back slightly, drawing in a breath. “Doctor Strange came to the compound today.”
Immediately, his mouth opened. No doubt to launch into some sharp comment or argument about sorcerers showing up unannounced. But before Tony could even get a word out, you lifted your index finger, sassily pointing it in front of him.
“Nope, uh-uh. Don’t even start,” you said firmly. “You’re going to listen to me first, dad.”
That earned you a look, a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement. But he snapped his mouth shut, gesturing with his hand in a silent fine, go ahead.
“Strange knows,” you continued carefully. “About everything that happened in the past few weeks, about them. He didn't think much of it at first, thought that it was you again or any of the Avengers doing your usual thing, bending the rules of reality thing, so he brushed it off.”
Tony leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you. His expression had shifted into something unreadable, no longer playful, but not defensive either. He was listening, really listening, and that in itself felt heavier than you expected.
“But it’s getting bigger,” you went on, voice steady but low. “Everyday. The effect of them being here, it’s spreading. Strange can’t brush it off anymore, and neither can I. He said it’s not just an accident that can be ignored, it’s becoming something more dangerous.”
Tony stayed perched on the edge of the workbench, arms still crossed over his chest in that stubborn way you had seen a thousand times before. His eyes, sharp and restless, stayed on you, waiting for the next words to drop. You took in a slow breath, trying to keep your voice calm, even though the frustration simmering beneath your ribs was starting to bleed into your tone.
“It’s already the third week,” you began, voice edged with exasperation. “Come on dad, three weeks. That’s almost a month! There’s still barely any progress. I know that everyone's pitching in. Everyone’s been working, pushing, throwing everything they’ve got at this. But every single time we think we’re close or feel like a breakthrough is right there, something snaps us right back to square one. Over and over again.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't interrupt. That in itself was progress. You leaned back in the chair, voice lowering but far from softening.
“You know I trust all of you completely, even with my life, I bet on that. But if Stephen Strange shows up, if he comes to me saying that day by day it’s getting worse, then I can’t just sit around and pretend it’s fine. I can’t standby idly while the ground under us keeps cracking wider.” You shook your head.
“It’s not just about me anymore. This whole thing—it’s not just us that is going to be affected, and if it keeps snowballing, it’s going to spill over into everything. Everyone in this universe could get caught in it.”
Your words landed heavy in the air, but the silence that followed was even heavier. The faint hum of machinery filled the space, a constant reminder that life kept moving while the weight of the problem loomed. You stared at him, waiting, daring him to dismiss what you were saying.
“I don’t want that to happen,” you added finally, quiet but firm. “Not when we have the chance to stop it before it gets there.”
Tony shifted slightly, lips parting with the beginning of a sharp retort. You knew that look, the storm gathering in his expression, gears already turning towards an argument you weren't in the mood for. You lifted your index finger again, cutting him off before he even got a word out.
“Nope, not yet finished.”
His brows lifted in disbelief, but bit his tongue. You didn't let the moment slip.
“So I asked Strange for help.” You said flatly, watching the immediate change in his face.
His eyes widened, shoulders stiffened, and you could practically see the defensive explosion loading like a missile about to fire. You raised your hand to stop him.
“Don’t start. Don’t even start.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, expression was an odd mix of irritation and restraint. You leaned forward, not giving him the chance to derail you.
“It’s better this way,” you continued, tone measures but firm. “Because like it or not, Strange knows the universe in ways none of us can, he’s the Sorcerer Supreme. He deals with things outside the laws of physics you work with, he’s seen and fought—not that you didn't, things beyond anything in our lab manuals or Stark schematics.”
“And yeah, he may be infuriating and rubs you off on you the wrong way, but none of that changes the fact that he knows what he’s talking about.” You let the work sink in, eyes holding him, daring him to challenge you.
“Hell he even has the time stone, and I don’t think I need to explain to you why that matters. You know very well that Strange doesn't waste his time unless something is serious. His main priority is not his ego, or getting credit, or outsmarting anyone, but it’s protecting earth from mystical threats. That’s his job, and that’s literally what he exists for.”
You leaned back in the chair, arms folding across your chest now in perfect mimicry of him. “So yes, I asked for his help. Because if this is as bad as he says it is, then we can’t afford not to.”
Your words cut clean and final, you could also see the sparks of argument in Tony’s eyes, the battle between pride and logic playing out behind them. For once, though, you didn't let yourself feel small under that gaze. You stayed steady, waiting for him to realize that this time, there was no deflecting his way out of it.
It felt almost cruel, with how things had reset between you and Johnny—it was as if some invisible clock had wound itself backward and dragged you both with it. After that night on the rooftop, where words had been exchanged, with the stars and night sky as your witness, you thought that something between you had changed. Enough to ease the tension, to steady the constant storm he had been carrying around you. Johnny had left that night with an expression that bordered on relief, even something hopeful, like the walls you had built had finally cracked.
But then, it was back to zero. Your demeanor towards him was deliberate, calculated even. Every time Johnny tried to catch your attention, you would dodge him—softly, almost politely, but with an efficiency that stung more than cruelty ever could.
In the compound corridors, you would slip past with a quick ‘sorry, busy,’ tapping the files against your chest as if they were proof. In the lab, where Reed often commandeered your attention with endless talks of data streams and calculations, you would use his presence as your shield. When Johnny would linger, leaning against a counter with that casual charm he wore like a second skin, you would mutter excuses—incomplete reports, diagnostics to double check, updates Tony was waiting on. There was always something with you, always just enough to keep him at arm’s length, and Johnny noticed. Of course he did.
Johnny tried to be patient. He thought that maybe you just needed some space, that your mind was tangled with the stress of everything else, because, truthfully, there were a lot of things weighing on you all. A few days passed, then days turned into a week. His confusion grew, and he replayed the rooftop conversation in his mind over and over, trying to find where he went wrong, or what he had failed to say.
By the second week, Johnny’s patience was fraying. He would catch glimpses of you laughing faintly at something Reed said, or leaning comfortably into one of your father’s sarcastic remarks, and honest to god, it twisted something in his chest, because that easy familiarity, warmth, seemed directed at everyone else but him.
Johnny can’t take it anymore, so he snapped. It was not dramatic, not at first. He didn't storm inside the lab or shout across the compound. Instead, he waited—waited until you were alone, until he caught you moving through one of the quieter corridors or the compound, your arms clutching a datapad and folder of documents that needed to be revised. Your pace was brisk, like you were deliberately trying not to be caught by anyone who might slow you down, and you didn't notice Johnny until it was too late. Before you could even take another step, Johnny took his chance and reached out for you, catching you by your wrist—not harshly, but firm enough that it made you freeze.
You blinked, startled, lips parting as if to immediately craft another excuse. But this time, Johnny didn't give you a chance to get away from him. With one fluid motion, he guided you towards the nearest empty corridor, cornering you with his back braced against the wall and his hand still around your wrist. The expression on his face was different, gone was the usual smirk and playful glint in his eyes. Instead, it was filled with frustration—raw and unfiltered, but beneath all of it, it was something else. Something heavier.
“You’re not walking away from me this time.” He said, voice low and steady. “You’ve been dodging me for days, weeks actually. Always too busy, too tired, and always somewhere else you need to be. I let it slide because I figured you needed some space. But this? This is more than space. You’re shutting me out completely, and I want to know why.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, jaw tight, cutting you off before you could even let a word out—before you could deliver the same tired line about your never ending workload.
“Don’t tell me it’s work. Don’t give me that same excuse again, because we both know that’s not it. You’ve been making time for everyone else—Reed, Ben, Sue, Tony, for literally anyone who isn't me. So what is it? Did I do something? Did I screw up that badly?”
Johnny’s words tumbled out, each one heavier than the last, and for the first time, he looked less like the cocky Human Torch and more like a man that is genuinely afraid of what answer you might say.
“You don’t get it,” he continued, voice not softer. His grip loosening just enough for you to pull away if you wanted to. “That night on the rooftop, I thought we were good. I thought we’d moved past all the walls you keep building between us, and now it’s like we’re right back to the start, like none of it even happened, and I…” he trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration spilling over into a helpless laugh.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”
For a moment, there was only silence between you and Johnny. It was the kind of silence that passed heavily against your chest and made breathing difficult. His words lingered in the air, raw and unpolished. You had no immediate answer for him, not because you didn't want to speak, but because you couldn't. You knew exactly why you had been holding him at a distance again, and the truth had been gnawing at you since the day Strange showed up in the compound to talk to you.
Strange did minced words. He rarely ever did, and day by day, the rift was growing. It was becoming unstable, volatile, worse. It was not just a threat that loomed over you, it was a threat that loomed over everyone. The longer you fail to contain it, the greater the risk became, and Strange, with all his wisdom and authority, had given you a warning that felt less like advice and more like a countdown.
Of course you hadn't told Johnny, you couldn't. Because once you did, once he knew, the weight of it would fall on his shoulders too, and if there was one thing you had learned about Johnny Storm, it was that he was not built to stand still in the face of danger. He would throw himself into it without hesitation, with that reckless grin and fiery energy, determined to prove that he could help, and you—selfishly and foolishly, did not want to see him burn out because of this.
However, that left you with a problem. Because ever since that night on the rooftop, Johnny had been different. He sought you out constantly, as though he had made you his personal project. You would be working remotely in your office in the compound, drowning in data and projections, and out of nowhere, he would appear with two cups of coffee, one that is already sweetened just the way you liked it. He would lean against your desk like he had every right to be there, tossing casual comments that danced the line between teasing and flirting. Sometimes, it was subtle, like an offhand remark about how focused you looked, paired with that infuriating smirk. Other times, it was blatant, something about how the compound lighting really did nothing for your eyes.
Then there was the name. How you would often call him Jonathan. The first time you said it, it had been out of habit, it was your natural tendency to use formality as a shield. But he would grin like you had handed him the world. From that moment on, it became a game for him, that every time you called him Jonathan, he would stop whatever he was doing and remind you that his name was Johnny—every single time. You would often fire back at him that Jonathan was still his name, so you didn't know why he doesn't want to be called Jonathan. Sometimes, he would lean in close, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Say it again. Johnny. Just once.”
Other times, he would announce it loudly in front of whoever happened to be there, like he was daring you to give in. You never did, not once. But you couldn't deny it, there was warmth to it, the way Johnny’s eyes lit up every time you slipped and said it. He loved it, and you knew he did. So the more you thought about it, the more dangerous it felt. Because somewhere along the line, his presence had started to make you feel things that you shouldn't be feeling.
Your chest would tighten when he leaned too close to your liking. Your lips would twitch into reluctant smiles when he delivered one of his ridiculous jokes. How your heart would quicken when you caught his gaze lingering on you longer than it should, and all the while, you reminded yourself of what was at stake—not just the rift, but with everything.
Johnny Storm was not supposed to be a part of that equation. So you did what you always do best when emotions threatened to pull you off course—you completely shut down. You limited your interactions with him, carefully rationing your words, offering polite smiles in place of real conversations. You convinced yourself that keeping him at arm’s length all over again was for the best. That indulging in whatever this was—whatever fragile thing seemed to be growing between the two of you, would only make everything worse when the universe was already threatening to fall apart.
But standing there, in that corridor, with Johnny’s hand still loosely holding your wrist and eyes searching yours, you realized how close you were to breaking your own rules. Because in spite of everything—fear, restraint, and desperate attempts to keep control, you wanted to let him in, and that was the problem. That was why you had no words for him now, not because you didn't know the answer, but because admitting it out loud would make it real, and once it was real, you weren't sure you would be strong enough to stop it.
“You know, I don’t get you,” Johnny started, voice low but edged with frustration that only builds when someone’s been biting back for too long. “One second you’re there—actually there, talking to me, laughing with me, not acting like I’m some stranger crashing your party, and then the next? It’s like you slam the door in my face and pretend none of it ever happened.” His hand lifted in exasperation.
“I don’t know what I did, I don’t know what I said. But I can’t keep playing this back and forth game when I don’t even know the rules.” He added.
Johnny’s words hit you with a force that you were not prepared for, not because they were cruel—they weren't, but because they were honest. Painfully, nakedly honest. Johnny Storm didn't usually do vulnerability—he was fire, bravado, an endless stream of smirks, quips, and self-assured confidence. But now, standing in front of you, blue eyes pinned to yours, he looked lost. For someone like Johnny, admitting that loss was not easy.
You stayed still, letting him speak. You knew that he needed this, to let it out, to spill everything that is sitting heavy on his chest, and maybe you need it too. To hear the truth straight from the horse’s mouth instead of piecing everything together from stolen glances and forced smiles.
“I thought,” he paused, swallowing hard. “I thought after the rooftop, things were finally different. I thought maybe we’d figured something out. But you’re shutting me out all over again, and if you think I’m just gonna stand by while you keep running away from me, I can’t do that. I won’t.”
His words lingered in the air, heavy, and charged. It was your turn, and when you finally spoke, you didn't bother coating your words in softness. That was not you, it never had been. You came from a family where bluntness was not just a simple trait—it was almost as if it was a tradition, sharpened like an heirloom and passed down through bloodlines. You never liked dancing around truths, you speak of them—plain and bare, not caring if they cut. So you lifted your chin, squared your shoulders, and let it spill.
“You’re right. I am shutting you out, because I don’t know what this is supposed to be. One moment you’re teasing me like it’s some game, the next you’re…” you paused, biting back the tremor in your voice. “You’re doing things that makes it hard to breathe, and I don’t want that. I don’t want that. Not from you.”
Johnny’s expression flickered, confusion knitting his features, but you still pressed on. The words tumble faster and sharper from your mouth.
“You push, then you pull. You make me think I can trust you, then you make me question why I ever did. It’s like you’ve got this pull to you, this thing that drags me closer no matter how much I try to resist, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.”
You hadn't realized how tightly you had been clenching your fists until your nails bit into your palms. Your chest rose and fell, each breath you take is harder to control, each word heavier than the last.
“I hate that you get under my skin, I hate that you can walk into a room and suddenly nothing else matters. Most importantly, I hate that I catch myself thinking about you when I shouldn't be. Because you’re not—” you stopped abruptly, throat closing around the rest of the sentence.
You weren't supposed to say it, you weren't supposed to even think about it. Because the truth was that he wasn't the one you were meant to believe in. Not with everything you had sworn, not with everything you had built your life around. Johnny Storm was not the person you should have been looking at like this, with your heart pounding and thoughts spiraling. With god as your witness, you should not have been thinking about him at all.
The silence that followed was deafening. You just stood there, words half-spilled and half-swallowed, your chest tight with the weight of everything you hadn't said. Johnny’s gaze searched your face, his features etched with a storm of confusion, hurt, and something else that you couldn't name. You had cut yourself off just in time, but barely. One second longer, one word more you would have said too much, and you couldn't afford that.
You dropped your gaze quickly, so he wouldn't see the storm that was flickering inside your eyes as well. The air began to feel heavy and suffocating, it’s like the walls were pressing down on you. Your instinct screaming at you to run, to put a distance between you and Johnny before you let out the truth slip out completely.
Then, without giving him any chance to respond, you quickly turned on your heel, heart pounding like a war drum against your ribs as you walked away. Johnny did not call after you, he didn't move. He just stood there, watching in silence, as if your bluntness had finally succeeded in silencing him too.
I’m absolutely loving your series with Johnny Storm and Stark!reader.
I loved how you gave her a distinct identity from Tony and made her more involved in the business operations side of the company, kind of like she’s a blend of Pepper and her father. That was such a realistic and unique way of developing her character instead of just presenting her as a mini-Tony, which is something I see in a lot of other stark!reader fics. I wouldn’t say that’s a bad thing, (I’m definitely not insulting those stories or their authors) but the way you’ve given her other interests and shown her having her own life, away from the Avengers and Tony, really made this story shine for me. It bumped the Stark!reader persona up a notch, turning it into something more complex and entertaining.
I’m really enjoying the story. You’re an excellent writer!
Also, if possible, could you include me on your taglist? I don’t want to miss any new chapters!
This ask got me kicking my feet. I read this ask two times omggg and I was like: 😩🥺🥹😭🥰 hahahaha but thank you so much for your very kind words, I really really appreciate it so much!!!
And of course, I'll add you on my tag list for the series!
ngl i thought bucky and stark!reader were together when i read through the first part. my bad. i’m in love with the angst, it’s soooooo good. and papa tony? i miss that 🥹
👀👀👀 (jk!!) but omg thank you!!! Yes, I missed papa tony too sm 😔💔
i drive myself crazy, wanting you the way that i do — johnny storm
masterlist
parts: one , two , three
PAIRINGS: johnny storm x stark!female!reader
SUMMARY: you tried your best to avoid long interactions with johnny, but one night while you were at the rooftop, you didn't expect the both of you to confide in each other.
REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.
WARNINGS: no use of y/n, multiverse, spiderman-esque fic, a little world building, a little angst for some zing, idk what i'm doing (again) but just roll with it, there are some inaccuracies, everyone is alive!!!!!, talks about engagement, mention of murder, johnny just being vulnerable with you, soft!johnny, and minor typographical errors.
WORD COUNT: 5.7k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i'm back with part 2. i'm planning on making this a series (while i'm still motivated hahshsha), i already have this fic planned out just yesterday. 90s boybands (backstreet boys, *nysnc, westlife, a1, and boyzone) made me write this fic just bc and again, everyone is alive bc i said so!!!!! plus, idk what's with 'y/n stark we are so back' (someone explain it to me, i'm afraid to be cancelled) on the comsec or reblogs but yes!!! 😭 enjoy!
It had been a week. Seven days since the Fantastic Four had been pulled into your universe. Seven days since the rift tore itself open like an angry seam across the fabric of Earth-616 and deposited four displaced individuals into your reality, dragging their personal traumas and multiversal baggage along with them. Seven days since Johnny Storm looked at you like you were a resurrection, and seven days of you refusing to let it mean anything.
Tony had made his decision early on—if Reed Richards was smart enough to break through the walls of the multiverse, then he was certainly smart enough to help repair it. So he had given them free reins to Stark tech almost immediately. It had surprised you, but you know that it shouldn't have. Your father had a soft spot for people who reminded him of himself, and Reed Richards fit the bill alarmingly well—brilliant, insomniac, and singularly focused.
What followed was a quiet, methodical collaboration that had filled the lower levels of the Avengers compound with controlled chaos—plasma scanners, refracted particle simulators, and compressed anti-phase generators. Sue had taken to helping Vision in monitoring quantum rift readings from the main compound systems, Bruce had insisted on building an oversight loop, and Tony had installed quantum firewalls to keep things in check. But over the week, it became clear that Earth-616’s Tony Stark and Earth-828’s Reed Richards were beginning to understand each other in the one way that men like them always did—through science, possibilities, and what ifs.
As for Johnny, you kept your distance from him. It was not out of rudeness, it was never the reason. You were polite, and would greet or speak with him when you crossed paths. But you would always refuse to sit in a room with him for more than a few minutes. You never lingered when he sought conversation. You always had someplace to be, and conveniently, you truly did.
The Stark Industries demanded your time more than ever—endless meetings, investor briefings, tech summits, and energy program negotiations. You spent most of your days in glass rooms overlooking the Manhattan skyline, swiping through holograms and finance reports, delegating Stark Industries affairs with practiced dispassion. Some nights, you sleep on the couch inside the common room, with FRIDAY’s voice reminding you of your nightly rest schedule.
In the compound, you passed Johnny in the corridors occasionally, always brief moments. You saw how he would look up, bright blue eyes, as if there were something he wanted to say, and you would offer a small nod—a polite, professional greeting. Sometimes he called out to you, tried to ask a few questions about the meeting you had just come from or if you had already eaten. You never lied, but you always ended your interaction with him quickly, shutting out potential questions he might end up asking.
“I’m heading out.”
“Have a meeting my dad, maybe some other time.”
But that some other time never came.
Wanda noticed, she always did. It was impossible for you to hide your thoughts from her, even if she pretended to respect your silence. She had become the only person you could truly confide in, mostly because she already knew, and there was no point at all of pretending with her. You didn't fear her reading the surface of your mind, in fact, there was some twisted relief in it. Because if someone else could hear the constant, unspoken chaos in your head, then maybe you weren't losing any control.
Johnny invaded your thoughts without even trying. Not in a romantic way—not that you would admit, at least not yet. It was more complicated than that. A sense of displacement, a feeling that something in the air shifted whenever he was around. Grief that did not belong to you but somehow weighed on your chest as if it did. Every time he would look at you, you felt a knot in your stomach. It was not because of attraction, not exactly—it was something deeper, foreign. As if you were supposed to feel something for him, because a version of you already had.
You hated it. Resented it, deeply and privately. The idea that your emotions could easily be influenced by a life that you never lived. That someone else’s grief could seep into your life and make everything feel so complicated. You told Wanda all of it, everything, through your thoughts when words would fail you, or spill the truth in a way that your mouth refused.
“He looks at me like I’m the same person, but I’m not.”
Wanda’s voice in your head would calm. “He knows you’re not her, but grief doesn't follow logic.”
“I don’t want to be haunted by someone else’s life.” You would tell her while sipping your coffee in the kitchen while she prepares her own food.
“You’re not haunted by her life,” Wanda responded gently. “You’re haunted by his love for her.”
Oh boy, you fucking hated how accurate that was.
“You’re afraid that he’s going to make you feel something that matters.”
You would close your eyes and breathe through the noise. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to stop him.”
Still, despite everything, you maintained the barrier. You made sure that no one could accuse you of emotional involvement. You were cordial in the morning briefings, helpful only when it is necessary, and efficient. You were kind, even, but never more than that. Johnny had caught on eventually, and you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders slackened whenever you excused yourself. In the way he watched you leave with something akin to resignation, brushing the edges of his features.
Johnny did not chase, didn't push. He didn't even ask you why, maybe because he already knew the reason. Maybe because he remembered the last time he held you too tightly, and how that ended for him.
The Avengers didn't pry. They trusted you enough that you’re handling everything properly and accordingly. Tony would occasionally ask if everything was still stable with Reed, Sue, Ben, and Johnny. You would automatically respond with their data and behavioral analysis, tactical updates, but nothing personal—for you it is always professional.
But that didn't really stop the reality of it from echoing every time you walked past the east wing. You would feel his presence—soft and full of quiet devastation. It was as if every second of this week had been a second chance for him that he just didn't know what to do with it, and you didn't know what to do with it either—so you stayed busy. You buried yourself in tons of work, after all, emotions can’t hit a moving target. You kept your foundation steady, while you kept Johnny at arm’s length, praying that eventually the feeling would fade, or that he would leave, that Reed would succeed in sending the four of them back to their own universe, and that this aching feeling would go away with them.
The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of arc reactors that was buried deep within the compound and the occasional gust of wind that swept across the concrete ledge. It was late at night, but for you, time had stopped mattering to you somewhere between your third meeting of the day and your fourth untouched coffee.
your platform heels clicked softly against the surface as you stepped to the edge of the roof, arms crossing loosely over your chest as you exhaled. Finally, no boardrooms, no decision making, no one needs your signature, opinion, or confirmation. It’s just you and the world that is laid bare below you in a wash of moonlight and steel. From the rooftop, the sprawling grounds look so peaceful, perfectly still and organized, like your mind hadn't been for days.
It was subtle at first, like the sun rising behind you before it ever hits the horizon, but there was no mistaking it. That heat, a warmth that wasn't from the wind or the building’s insulation. It was the kind of warmth that rolled in like a tide, soft but steady, not unpleasant but just deeply familiar. You could almost measure the temperature shift by the beat of your own pulse.
He didn't say anything, you didn't need him to. You knew that it was him the moment the air changed. Johnny Storm.
You kept your eyes trained on the city skyline just beyond the compound, on the soft blinking lights and slow gliding aircraft that cut through the night. Your fingers tapped silently against your forearm, as you heard his footsteps approaching slowly—unhurried, before he settled beside you. It was a respectful distance apart, not to close, not anymore.
Johnny didn't radiate like a flame, at least not at the moment. But the heat was still there, seeping from his skin like he was always on the edge of ignition, and still, it wasn't the fire that made your chest tight—it was the way silence was not awkward with him. For a few long moments, neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the world turn underneath your feet.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Johnny decided to jump start the conversation, voice low and lacking its usual teasing lilt.
He wasn't performing tonight. There was no smirk in his tone, no cocky edge to it, just something quiet. Something real. You didn't respond to him right away, not at first. Your gaze remained fixed outward, chin slightly lifted in your usual guarded stance.
“I needed air,” you said eventually, voice sounding foreign to your own ears, roughened by fatigue. “And silence.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Been a long day.”
That was a big understatement. You had been pulled from a board meeting at Stark Tower to deal with logistics issues in Berlin, then came the emergency conference call with the Wakandan liaison team, and the unexpected press leak involving a subsidiary of Stark Industries that had you running damage control for the rest of the remainder of the day. Through all of it, Johnny’s presence had been there, lingering at the back of your mind like a static—warm, intrusive, and steady.
“I don’t sleep much these days.” Johnny admitted, eyes still forward.
You didn't answer. You didn't answer because you couldn't, and if you did, you would have to admit that you barely did either. That your dreams were being invaded by flickers of memories that were not even yours, that your hands sometimes shook in the quiet moments—thinking of a version of yourself that had worn a dress meant for vows she never got to say, a version who died on a day that should have begun a life.
“You look tired.” He added softly, glancing at you.
“I’m fine.” You replied automatically.
“I didn't say you weren't.” Johnny countered.
There was something in the way he had said it, it was gentle but firm, that made the words settle differently in your chest. The breeze started to pick up, pulling a few strands of your hair into your face, and you brushed them away with an exhale that tasted vaguely like defeat.
“I haven't exactly made it easy to talk to me, huh.” You said, surprising even yourself.
Johnny did not speak right away, but when he did, he wasn't bitter about it, and wasn't wounded. Instead, it was pure honesty.
“No. No, you haven't,” he let out a slow breath. “But I get it.”
You glanced at him slightly, finally meeting his eyes. They were softer tonight, the moonlight was bringing out the blueness of his eyes. It wasn't burning with fire, but with something else—something worn and weighty.
“I don’t want to be someone you feel obligated to,” you told him, voice quieter now. “I’m not her, I can’t be.”
“I know that,” Johnny said, turning to look at you fully, shoulders squared. “You don’t owe me anything.”
That admission made by Johnny hung between you like a smoke—thick, unspoken, and heavy. You just nodded at him, your fingers curling slightly around the edge of the concrete ledge.
“She meant a lot to you.”
“You meant everything to me,” he corrected you gently and carefully. “She did.”
A beat of silence passed, and it hurt in a way that you couldn't explain.
“Sometimes, I think I remember things that I shouldn't be remembering,” you whispered, eyes narrowing slightly towards the skyline again. “Fleeting things—dreams, feelings I know I’ve never lived through, but they feel—”
“Familiar?” He offered, and you nodded.
Johnny looked back out towards the compound. “I don't know how this all works. Different worlds, variants, and all that shit. But one thing I know is that I know what it feels like to lose you. I remember that too clearly to ever forget it.”
“But…” he trailed off as he turned back to you, slower this time. “But I’m not here to pull you into that, or make you feel responsible for a ghost.”
“Though that’s exactly what I am to you though, isn't it?” You asked, voice more raw now. “A ghost in reverse.”
He smiled faintly, there was sadness to it. A sad, crooked curve of his lips. “No, no. You’re real, you’re here, and I’m not trying to rewrite anything.”
You didn't know what to say to him, or what to respond to. Your walls had held strong for so long, but fatigue was starting to crack them. You could feel the heat from him even now, curling against your side, but it was not suffocating, it was oddly comforting.
“I just want to know you,” Johnny said quietly. “Even if it’s only from a distance.”
You met his eyes again. The man in front of you looked nothing like a stranger, and yet, he was. So were you, but the ache in your chest didn't lie.
“Okay.” You said at last.
Johnny nodded once, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you.
The breeze picked up again, it was now cooler this time as the clouds rolled lazily across the night sky. When you decided to speak again, your voice was quieter—not tense, just softer. It was vulnerable in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be.
“You know, it’s silly how people think growing up as a Stark means everything is handed to you,” you started, eyes still forward on the expanse of the compound. “Endless money, legacy, power, all that tech, and attention. I mean those people were not entirely wrong, but that’s not what it really is.”
Johnny decided not to interrupt you and he just listened. The warmth of his presence is steady by your side.
“My dad never forced me into anything,” you began. “He wanted me to have a normal childhood, if that was even possible for a Stark. He didn't expect me to be his heir, and eventually, to slowly take over the family business.”
You inhaled slowly. It felt strange, letting these words out of your mouth and into the open. But at the same time it also felt necessary for you.
“He traveled, fought battles, and he wasn't always there physically. But he always tries, because he lost mom the same day he gained me. He never once made me feel responsible for it, and he did everything he could to give me more than just a last name. He gave me an entire support system.”
Johnny watched you silently, eyes heavy with understanding you were not really sure you wanted to fully see.
“I grew up surrounded by people who came and went in with suits of armor and battle gears,” you said with a small exhale, not quite a laugh, but something faint. “They taught me things that school never could. That it didn't matter if you had the world at your feet if you didn't know what to do with it.”
“It really does take a village, you know. I had Bruce teaching me quantum finance at fifteen because he thought that I’d get bored of algebra. Steve made sure I actually ate something that wasn't lab food. Nat taught me how to hold my ground in a room full of men twice my age. My dad, he taught me patience even when he had none, and always reminded me that nobody can make me feel inferior without my consent.”
You glance at him briefly and shake your head slightly at the memory. “I chose this path for me—business, numbers, and strategy. I wanted it, I wanted to prove that I can build something that was mine, not just inherited.”
Johnny’s voice was soft. “And you did.”.
“I started college early and graduated early,” you gave him a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. “MBA while my high school friends were deciding what to major in, and doctorates before I turned twenty-four. People started calling me a prodigy, but the board of Stark Industries—majority of them were men my father’s age, or older, didn't want to believe that I’m capable of running an empire as big as this. To them, I was just a spoiled little brat with a famous last name.”
Johnny’s jaw tensed a little, as if even the idea of someone diminishing you had sparked an irritation inside of him.
“So I did what I do best. I proved them wrong,” you said, glancing him with a soft smile. “I took the reins from my father when he got too busy handling and saving the world. I closed deals they could never land, built projects they didn't even understand, tripled our annual earnings, expanded clean energy programs in twelve countries, and rewrote half of our inter-corporate bylaws.”
You turned and looked at Johnny fully this time. “I had to be better than every single person inside of that room just to be seen, not praised, just seen. But I’m my father’s daughter, I don’t back down because someone thinks that I shouldn't exist in their world.”
“And you’d do it again, wouldn't you?” He said after a moment. “Even if it meant burning yourself out.”
You let out a quiet sigh. “Yeah, I would. Over and over again.”
“That’s exactly why you’re…you,” he said softly. “Brilliant. Terrifying, but brilliant.”
You finally let a small laugh slip, dry but real, nonetheless. “Terrifying?”
“In the best possible way,” he replied, a faint and genuine smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “You’re everything people pretend they want to be, and that scares them.”
You leaned your elbows against the concrete ledge and exhaled deeply. “It’s exhausting, you know. Trying to live up to a name you didn't ask for, but it’s also the greatest responsibility that I could have. Because it came from someone who loves me, and I want to be someone he’s proud of.”
“He is,” he said gently. “Anyone would be.”
To be completely honest, you hadn't planned to say anything more to Johnny after talking about your father. In fact, you were sure that you had already shared more personal history with Johnny than you had with most people outside your family. But something about the silence between you felt different now—no longer heavy with avoidance, but open. Safe, in a way you couldn't quite name.
Maybe it was just the exhaustion kicking in, or maybe it was the fact that Johnny wasn't looking at you with pity or awe, just something real and human. Maybe it was that his grief spoke louder than anything he could verbally articulate. But whatever it was, you found yourself speaking again.
“Two years ago, I was engaged,” you said quietly. “It’s a part of my life that no one knows. The public definitely doesn't, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
You felt the words leave your mouth like a confession. Being spoken for the first time in a long time, words that held weight, dust, and grief. Johnny’s expression softened instantly, he was not shocked—knowing that you are a gorgeous woman, and it’s normal that you’d be engaged.
“His name was Henry, he’s a tech founder. Just a normal guy, no powers of any kind, no armor, and no government oversight. He’s just smart and driven, brilliant in his own way. Kind. Everything felt easy with Henry.”
You leaned your elbow down on the concrete ledge, intertwining your fingers together.
“It was a Tuesday morning, I was woken up by a phone call,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper. “It was the paramedics. Henry had me listed as his only emergency contact. They told me that Henry had been murdered. No details, or explanations, just gone.”
The rooftop was silent except for you and Johnny’s breathing. You stared down at your hands.
“I didn't want this whole thing blowing up in public, I didn't want the world speculating or digging or turning someone I love into a headline.” You paused. “The more I would know, the more it would fester, and I didn't want to get down in it.”
You felt your throat tightening, but kept your composure. “After that, I wasn't the same. I didn't bother on going on dates, I decided not to let anyone get close to me. I buried myself in work, because I know that it was easier that way. Dad knew, the Avengers knew, but that was it. The world just assumed that I was too busy or too focused on the family business to bother myself in having a new relationship.”
Johnny’s features were soft, pained. But it was not for himself this time, it was for you.
“So when I met you,” you said, almost letting out a breath of laughter at how absurd it sounded when you said it aloud for the first time. “Knowing that you had gone through the same thing, I thought that the universe really has a sick and twisted sense of humor. Two people that had two most important people in their life got left behind.”
“You lost someone, so did I. But you still kept going.” He met your eyes with something fragile and honest.
You gave him a smile, a tired smile. “So did you.”
“Yeah.”
There was a brief moment where you both understood—in a way that nobody else could, the specific kind of grief that came with planning a lifetime with somebody that you loved with your everything and just losing everything with a snap of a finger before it even began.
“I don’t really know why I told you all of that.” You confessed softly, feeling strangely lighter but also somehow more exposed.
Johnny stared at you, not like you were some kind of ghost that haunts him every waking day, not like someone he had lost, but he was seeing you for who you are.
“Maybe,” he said gently, “because I’m the only person in this universe who would never use it against you. Because I know the exact feeling of what kind of loss feels like.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, almost imperceptibly, you allowed yourself to lean just slightly against the concrete ledge again, closer to him. Not touching, but just close enough that it didn't feel like distance anymore.
“Or maybe,” you said quietly, “maybe because I needed someone who understands it. Not just in an intellectual sense, but really, really understands it.”
“I do. More than I wish I did.” Johnny answered. “You know, you don’t have to carry everything alone, even if you want to. I know what it’s like waking up with the same feeling every day. Thinking that it’ll get better, lighter, but it doesn't—it just gets familiar.”
Something about Johnny’s words wrapped gently around your defenses. You did not respond, but you didn't pull away either. You both looked out across the compound again, side by side—two people with different histories, and grieving mirroring shapes of the same wound. The silence between you was no longer suffocating, it was not comfortable either, but it just was, and as strange as it was to admit it, you felt a little less alone.
“You know, she was just like you.”
You didn't look at Johnny when he spoke again, but your head tilted enough that he knew you were listening.
“We met back in college, back when the four of us are still normal people,” he said calmly, a far cry from the volatile energy he usually gave off. “It was stupid, really. I’d go visit Reed in the science building whenever I got bored, he had his lab space even back then, and it was always too damn cold in there.”
“She’d be in there, she was Reed’s assistant. Doing all the technical work with simulations and readings while Reed rambled about quantum tunneling. I didn't understand half of it, I still don’t, by the way. But I never cared about any of that, I just kept going back—only to see her. Nobody batted an eyelash about it. Reed and Sue had already been dating at that time and working together, so everyone thought that I was there all the time because of my sister.”
You can hear the fondness in his voice, the warmth that radiates from it that came through painful remembrance.
“She was brilliant, but quiet most of the time. But when she started to speak, everyone would listen. She could shut me up better than anyone.” Johnny smiled to himself. “She was also the only daughter of some rich man from Europe, fought with her family all the time because she didn't want to be sheltered her whole life. She wanted her own life, and didn't want to be treated like some glass doll.”
Johnny looked directly at you again. His gaze was soft, blue eyes glowing in the dim rooftop lights, there was a sense of vulnerability reflecting in his eyes.
“You remind me of her. Not just because you two look exactly the same.” His voice grew gentler. “She never told me much about her family, never talked about them, I don’t even know her mother’s name. But I didn't care, I just knew I loved her, and she loved me.”
“She actually saw me as a person, and not the playboy front page tabloid version of the magazines, not the flaming and arrogant hothead. She saw me as Johnny Storm—Johnny Storm as a normal person.”
Your gaze remained over the horizon, chest light as you listened to him unravel.
“She used to say that the thing people hate about me the most was the thing she loved the most—that I loved too much. That I felt everything too loud, and maybe she was right. Because I would have given her the world. I was going to.”
He swallowed, voice low and sounding a little broken now. “And then she died. I never got the chance to save her, to marry her, and I didn't even get to say goodbye properly. Everything after that felt pointless.”
“So when I first saw you in that room, it was like someone ripped me out of my own body. Because for one second, I thought that I got her back, only to realize that I didn't. I hated myself for even hoping.”
“When I love someone…” Johnny’s voice trailed off. “I love with everything that I have. Every stupid part of me gets thrown into it, she knew that, and would tease me for it. But she still chose me—I know how reckless, arrogant, and impulsive I am. But she chose me anyway, and I would've spent my life proving she made the right choice.”
You turned your face just enough to meet his gaze. Johnny looked at you like someone who had lost everything and somehow was still willing to offer pieces of himself. Then you realized something painfully intimate—you were not just mirroring each other’s grief. One lost a life before it truly started, and the other locked away their heart from the world entirely. It was cruel, and strangely poetic, that somehow you both ended up on this rooftop under the same universe, under the weight of parallel tragedies.
Johnny studied your expression, and maybe he could see that something in you shifted. He gave you a small, tired smile—the kind that doesn't ask for anything in return.
“You love…very intensely.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.
His smile turned sad. “Yeah, I know.”
“It’s terrifying, but it’s also kind of beautiful.”
He huffed a soft laugh through his nose, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “She used to say that too.”
You remained quiet, but didn't move away from him. Not this time. You stayed beside him as the wind blew past, and for the first time since they were pulled in your universe, you felt warmth that was not just from the fire in his blood, but it was from something deeply human.
The rooftop air had grown sharper, it was the kind that pressed against your skin until it almost stung. The longer you stood there, the more you realized how late it had become. When you finally glanced down at the silver glint of your wristwatch, the hour confirmed what your body had already known. Midnight had long since crept, bringing with it the kind of chill that seeped into your bones no matter how much you ignored it.
Johnny shifted beside you, his posture still easy, and his presence warm in more ways than one. He must have noticed the way your shoulders hunched slightly, or how your arms instinctively wrapped closer to your frame, because before you could so much as comment on the lateness of the hour, his leather jacket was already draped over you. The action was so natural, that you didn't have the chance to stop him.
The feeling of warmth settled over you immediately, accompanied by the faint smell of smoke, jet fuel, and something that was uniquely Johnny—an energy that was both chaotic and oddly comforting. For a second, you stiffened, caught off guard by his actions. His hand lingered at the collar of his jacket for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he realized what he had just done. Johnny’s face shifted, guilt flickering as quickly as the flames that sparked at his fingertips.
“Sorry,” Johnny muttered, scratching the back of his neck, voice carrying a nervous edge you weren't used to hearing from him. “Force of habit. Didn't even think about it.”
You turned your head slightly towards him, lips curving at the corners despite yourself. The surprise of his action hadn't really upset you, but it had disarmed you, leaving you unsure of what to do with the sudden softness he had shown.
“It’s alright,” you replied softly, voice on a gentler note than usual. You pulled his jacket tighter around yourself, slipping your hands into the deep pockets of it where the warmth from him still linger. “Really. Thank you.”
Something changed in his expression, it wasn't his usual smirk or the boyish grin he wore like an armor. It was something smaller, something genuine. You didn't hold his gaze for too long, afraid of what it might stir in you, so instead, you looked forward, keeping your pace steady beside him as you and Johnny turned towards the exit.
The walk back down from the rooftop was unhurried. But the silence between the two of you wasn't strained, rather, it was oddly comforting—filled with the quiet hum of two people who had shared pieces of themselves that they rarely let the world see for the first time. You could feel Johnny’s warmth beside you, even without his flames. It clung to him like a second skin, always radiating outward, and brushing against you as you walked side by side.
“You know,” he began, tone light and teasing. “I think the jacket looks better on you than it does on me. Might have to let you keep it.”
You glanced at him, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t push your luck, Storm.”
That made Johnny chuckle, sound low and unguarded, like he was genuinely amused rather than putting on a show. He shoved his hands into his jean pockets, shoulders relaxed in that casual way of his, yet his eyes still flicked towards you every so often, catching the faint curve of your mouth that betrayed how hard you were working to maintain composure.
The corridors of the compound stretched ahead, dimly lit and quiet at this hour. When you reached the west wing, the footsteps you both carried seemed louder, echoing softly against the polished floors. Your room was further than this, tucked away in a wing designed to give you your personal space from the constant energy of the main compound. Johnny slowed his pace without you asking, matching your stride until you reached the door.
Johnny lingered, one hand braced casually against the doorframe, though his eyes flickered briefly over your face before settling on the ground.
“Guess this is your stop.” He said, voice soft.
You nodded, adjusting the jacket around your body once more. “It is.”
Neither of you spoke for a moment, silence stretching between you, charged with something you couldn't quite define. But soon enough, Johnny’s teasing grin returned, but this time, it was muted—softer at the edges. As though he didn't want to ruin the quiet comfort that was enveloping the two of you.
“Well,” he finally said, stepping back just enough to give you space. “Try not to stay up all night doing whatever billion-dollar geniuses do. Even people like you need sleep.”
You rolled your eyes faintly, though the smile you gave him was softer than any you had before. “Goodnight, Jonathan.”
“Goodnight,” he smiled, winking at you for using his government name.
With that, Johnny turned around, walking back down the corridor towards the east wing. You watched his back retreat for just a second too long before slipping into your room, with the weight of his jacket still wrapped in you, providing you warmth.
It was not your intention to let him in this far. But for some reason, Johnny was already there.
