【 ❝ 𝖲𝗁ɑ𝗋౿ ოɣ ⍵𝗈𝗋ᥣᑯ… ᑲ𝗈ɣ ᑯ𝗈𐓣'𝗍 ɣ𝗈υ ᥣ౿ɑ𝗏౿! 𝖯𝗋𝗈ოꪱડ౿ 𝖨'ᥣᥣ ᑲ౿ 𝗁౿𝗋౿ ⍵𝗁౿𐓣౿𝗏౿𝗋 ɣ𝗈υ 𐓣౿౿ᑯ ო౿ 𐓣౿ɑ𝗋! ❞ 】───𝗌ɦα𝗋𝖾 ꭑ𝗒 ωⱺ𝗋ᥣᑯ ᑲ𝗒 𝐌α𝗋𝗒 𝐉 𝐁ᥣ𝗂𝗀𝖾.
𝖦౿𐓣𝗋౿: 𝐅ᥣυ𝖿𝖿, 𝖾𝗌𝗍αᑲᥣ𝗂𝗌ɦ𝖾ᑯ 𝗋𝖾ᥣα𝗍𝗂ⱺ𐓣𝗌ɦ𝗂ρ, 𝗌υ𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼ⱺ𐓣𝗍𝖾𐓣𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗒ⱺυ 𝗌𝗊υ𝗂𐓣𝗍 𝗒ⱺυ𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝖼ᥣ𝗂𐓣𝗀𝗒 & 𐓣𝖾𝖾ᑯ𝗒 𝐉ⱺɦ𐓣𐓣𝗒 𝐒𝗍ⱺ𝗋ꭑ 𝗌υρ𝗋𝖾ꭑα𝖼𝗒.
𝖢𝗁ɑ𝗋ડ: 𝐓ɦ𝖾 𝐅α𐓣𝗍α𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝐅ⱺυ𝗋 + ᑲαᑲ𝗒 𝐅𝗋α𐓣𝗄ᥣ𝗂𐓣 𝐑𝗂𝖼ɦα𝗋ᑯ𝗌 ꭑ𝖾𐓣𝗍𝗂ⱺ𐓣𝖾ᑯ.
𝖱౿ɑᑯ౿𝗋: 𝙉𝙤 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙔/𝙉❟ 𝙣𝙤 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙚𝙙❟ 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙨.
𝖲ɕ౿𐓣ɑ𝗋ꪱ𝗈: 𝖨𝗍ડ ɑᥣᥣ 𝖿υ𐓣 ɑ𐓣ᑯ 𝗀ɑო౿ડ υ𐓣𝗍ꪱᥣ 𝗁౿'ડ 𝗈𐓣 𝗁ꪱડ ƙ𐓣౿౿ડ ᑲ౿𝗀𝗀ꪱ𐓣'.
𝖠υ𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋౿ડડ 𐓣𝗈𝗍౿ડ: 𝐃ⱺ 𝗒α'ᥣᥣ 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 ωⱺ𐓣ᑯ𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝐉ⱺɦ𐓣𐓣𝗒 𝖼υꭑ𝗌, 𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗍 ɦⱺ𝗍 ᥣ𝗂𝗄𝖾 ɦ𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾 ⱺ𝗋..?
It started off small.
It really did.
You could've sworn it did!
How were you supposed to know he'd be that needy?
The Baxter Building was usually a hub of scientific breakthrough and cosmic calculations, but today, the only thing being calculated was how long it would take for you to finally stop ignoring Johnny Storm.
It started at breakfast. You were sprawled on the living room sofa, tablet in hand, trying to catch up on some reading. Johnny had skated into the kitchen, literally trailing a few sparks behind his heels for dramatic effect.
"So," he began, leaning heavily over your shoulder, his face inches from yours. "I was thinking... the sky is looking particularly blue today. Almost as blue as my suit. Which I’m wearing. Right now. Don’t I look exceptionally aerodynamic?"
"Mhm," you muttered, not looking up. "The drag coefficients on the new weave are impressive, Johnny."
He let out a sharp, dramatic gasp, clutching his chest as he stumbled back toward the fridge. "Coefficients? You’re giving me math? I offer you the 'Human Torch' experience, and you give me algebra?"
"Reed’s calling me for a lab sync in ten minutes, Johnny. Not now."
"Reed!" Johnny scoffed, grabbing a carton of orange juice and drinking straight from it until Sue gave him a Look. "Reed is a rubber band with a PhD. I’m a literal sun! Look at me! I’m glowing! Literally!" He flared his arm just enough to make the air shimmer with heat, trying to catch your eye in the reflection of the tablet screen.
You didn't budge. You just sipped your coffee and kept scrolling.
He suddenly flopped onto the sofa, his heavy boots thudding against the cushions. He didn't sit next to you; he sat so close that his thigh was pressed firmly against yours, the heat radiating off him like a radiator set to high. "Whatcha reading? Is it about me? I bet there’s a chapter on my last save in Brasil."
"It's a technical manual," you sighed, trying to ignore the literal Human Torch trying to melt into your side.
He groaned dramatically, sliding down until his head was resting on your shoulder, his blonde hair tickling your neck. "You're so clinical. It’s devastating. Truly. I’m over here, a global icon, a literal sun-god, and I’m being ignored for... what? Schematics for a toaster?"
"It’s a stabilizer for the Fantasticar, which you broke."
Johnny went quiet, but he didn't move. Instead, he started tracing the pattern of your sleeve with his index finger, a tiny, harmless spark of flame dancing on his fingertip just to get your attention. When you still didn't look, he let out a long, theatrical sigh that fanned hot breath against your collarbone.
By noon, the "silly" phase had transitioned into "theatrical."
You were in the common area, trying to help Sue keep an eye on baby Franklin while she handled a remote call with the UN. Johnny had decided this was the perfect time to perform a "routine equipment check." This involved him flying slowly, at eye level directly between you and whatever you were doing.
"Whoops, lost my stability," he sang out, hovering horizontally just three feet in front of your face. He was propped up on one elbow in mid-air, looking like a pin-up model on fire. "Better stay right here until the thermal sensors recalibrate. Might take an hour. Or two."
"Johnny, move. I can’t see the baby."
"Franklin is fine! He’s playing with his blocks. I’m the one in danger! I’m drifting, see?" He drifted an inch closer, his blue eyes wide and searching. "Is my face okay? Do I look... fatigued? Maybe you should check my pulse."
"You’re a superhero, Johnny. You’re fine."
He dropped to the floor with a heavy thud, his flames snuffing out into a pout. "You’re cold. Ice cold. I’m going to catch hypothermia in my own home because of this emotional neglect."
"Go bother Ben," you suggested, finally looking up but only to point toward the gym.
Johnny’s face fell. The bravado flickered. He didn't move toward the gym; he just stood there, his shoulders drooping. "Ben’s busy. Everyone’s busy. You’re the only one who... never mind."
The sun began to set, casting long, amber shadows across the lab. You were finally alone, finishing up some data entry. The silence was peaceful—until the door hissed open.
Johnny didn't come in with a quip. He didn't have a fireball in his hand or a smirk on his face. He walked in quietly, his boots scuffing against the metal floor. He stopped right beside your chair, but he didn't lean over you this time. He just stood there, radiating a low, steady warmth that was almost like a hum.
"Still working?" he asked. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, lacking the usual "Matchstick" spark.
"Just finishing," you said, your fingers stilled on the keyboard. You finally turned to look at him.
He looked... exhausted. Not physically, but his eyes were wide and strangely glassed over with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He wasn't acting anymore.
"Look at me," he whispered.
"Johnny, I am looking at you."
"Johnny..." You reached out, your fingers sliding into his blonde hair.
He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-sob, leaning into your touch with terrifying speed. He began to nuzzle into your palm, his eyes closing as he chased the sensation of your skin against his.
The heat coming off him was intense, but it wasn't the "flame on" heat it was the feverish, needy warmth of someone who was starving for connection.
"Johnny?" you whispered, your hand hovering over his hair.
"Don't get up," he muttered, his voice muffled by your clothes. "Please. Just... stay. Everyone’s always doing something. Reed’s in the lab, Sue’s with the kid... it’s like I’m just a background character in my own house today."
You felt his hands grip your thighs, not with strength, but with a frantic kind of clinging. He looked up, and the cocky, confident Johnny Storm was nowhere to be found. His eyes were wide, darting across your face, looking for any sign of rejection.
"I’ve been trying all day," he whispered, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your pants. "I was being annoying, I know. I was being a brat. But you wouldn't even look at me. Really look at me."
He pulled one of your hands down, pressing your palm against his cheek. He was burning up, his skin flickering with tiny, golden embers that didn't hurt, but buzzed against your skin like a live wire. He leaned his weight into your touch, closing his eyes as a shuddering breath escaped him.
"Just a little bit," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I just need you to acknowledge I’m here. Touch me. Tell me I’m not just a light show. I’m so—" he choked on the word, the ego finally collapsing. "I'm so lonely when you're in the same room and you're miles away."
He crawled up, moving from the floor to the space between your legs in the oversized chair, forcing you to wrap your arms around him or let him fall. He tucked his head under your chin, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back his flames.
He muttered something.
Something hot.
Breathless.
Needy.
Desperate.
Aching.
Yearning.
"Share your world with me. Please. I'd do anything to be in it..."
dont feed my shit to ai or I'll tell bbno$ to dress up as your favorite character with a thong and a tramp stamp tattoo.
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