sins-write-tragedies

[sins-write-tragedies]

Melting Point (Johnny Storm Fic)

Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

Summary: After accidentally touching a volatile serum in Reed’s lab, your attraction toward Johnny Storm skyrockets. Flirtation turns into fevered desire, teasing becomes desperation, and what starts as a chemical reaction may just ignite something real.

Word Count: 4.1k words

Tags/Warnings: PURE AND FILTHY SMUT, 18+, MDNI, pw a lot of plot, slight dubcon, thorough lovemaking, sloppy frenchies, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), friends to lovers, sexual content, adult themes, adult language, slow burn, cute fluff at the end

A/N: It's my first time writing a full-blown smut, and I caught myself giggling while typing the words (lol). I was listening to Love on the Brain by Rihanna while writing, so it’s heavily inspired by that. Enjoy, sweetcakes! <3

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The lab smelled faintly of steel, ozone, and Reed’s cologne—sharp and clinical, like he’d bottled “do not touch anything” as a fragrance. You were perched on a stool beside him, tapping your pen against your notepad while he went on about the serum in front of you. The beaker sat under a small desk lamp—a viscous, opalescent blue liquid swirled lazily inside the glass, catching the overhead light like liquid sapphire.

Reed stood a few feet away, bent over another workstation, his hands gloved and precise as he adjusted a calibrator.

“It’s a hormone-regulating serum,” Reed was saying, eyes fixed on the little digital reader beside him. “It stabilizes adrenaline, cortisol, dopamine… even libido spikes in prolonged, high-stress environments.”

Your pen paused mid-word. “Libido spikes?”

He just nodded, entirely unbothered. “Yes. Long-term isolation can… cause erratic impulses. This serum would regulate it and smooth out emotional volatility.”

Before you could ask if “erratic impulses” was just science jargon for horny astronauts, the lab elevator doors swished open.

“Well, well, well,” Johnny drawled, leaning against the frame like he was posing for a magazine. “Who’s having libido spikes, and do I need to be worried—or excited?”

You groaned. “Johnny, you’re not allowed in here.”

He strolled in like you hadn’t spoken, grinning. “Yeah, well, Reed’s not allowed to leave the house in those socks either, but here we are.”

“This is a controlled environment, Storm.” Reed said without even looking up.

Johnny’s eyes skimmed the workbenches before landing on you. “Controlled, huh? Looks more like… tense. Are you tense?”

He was suddenly right there, leaning one forearm on your workstation so close you could smell his aftershave—something warm and a little spicy, like he’d been out in the sun.

“What’s this?” he asked, nose scrunching while nodding at the beaker. “Looks like alien mouthwash.”

“It’s experimental,” you muttered, angling your body away from him. “Delicate. Very Dangerous.”

You emphasized very, shooting him a pointed look.

“Dangerous? That’s basically my brand.” He grinned, his lips doing that stupid thing that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just enough to be infuriatingly adorable.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s what you like about me,” he shot back with a wink.

The comment slipped under your skin before you could shove it away. You opened your mouth to tell him off— —and then he bumped the counter with his hip.

The beaker wobbled, tilting toward the edge. Without thinking, you grabbed it. The glass was cool against your skin, but the spill over its rim was warm—unnaturally warm—and slick like silk.

For a second, nothing. Then a tingle bloomed across your palm, running up your wrist like champagne fizzing through your veins.

“No!” Reed’s voice was sharp, almost panicked. He was already striding over. “Don’t touch it with bare hands!”

“I’m fine—” you started, but when you looked down, the liquid had already sunk into your skin, leaving only the faintest shimmer before it was gone.

Reed’s mouth pressed into a line. “You’re not fine. That compound reacts to bare skin—emotional and sexual stimuli can amplify its effects.”

Johnny made a low whistle, his gaze flicking to yours, and there was a spark of something there—mischief, sure, but also curiosity. “So… what you’re saying is Y/N might suddenly get really, really into somebody?”

 “Johnny.” You warned.

“What? I’m just asking for science.” His grin widened, and you hated—hated—how charming it looked.

Reed sighed. “You need to rest in the infirmary while I run some tests.”

Johnny leaned back, hands in his pockets. “Want me to keep an eye on her? You know, in case she gets any… sudden impulses?”

You hit his arm, making him let out a small, “Ow,” but the warmth in your skin hadn’t faded—and the way his voice dipped on “sudden impulses” didn’t help.

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The infirmary wasn’t exactly cozy. Stark white sheets, bright overhead lights, the steady beep of the monitor beside you. Reed had been fussing for the past twenty minutes—blood pressure, heart rate, temperature—murmuring to himself as he typed readings into his tablet.

“You’re fine,” he said, more to the numbers than to you. “Vitals are all within normal range.”

You nodded, though you didn’t feel fine. Your skin was warmer than it should be, like you were standing too close to a radiator, and there was a strange, restless fizz under your skin that you couldn’t shake. Not painful. Not even unpleasant. Just… distracting.

You were just about to convince yourself that it was all in your head when the infirmary door opened.

And in walked trouble in the shape of Johnny Storm.

He was wearing the team’s white fitted shirt with the blue “4” logo etched over the right side. It wasn’t tight, not exactly—but the way the sleeves hugged his biceps made it feel intentional, like the shirt had been made just for him. The fabric outlined the definition of his shoulders, the curve of muscle in his arms…

God, those arms. You could almost feel them hooking around your throat from behind, pulling you back into him while he pounds into your wet pus—

You stopped the thought dead in its tracks; heat rushed to your cheeks. What the hell is wrong with me?

Johnny grinned as he dragged a stool over and sat down beside the bed, leaning forward on his elbows like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. “Wow. All tucked in. Should I grab you a juice box?”

You groaned, shooting him a glare. “You’re supposed to be banned from the lab and here.”

“Banned is such a strong word,” he mused, tapping a finger to his chin as if in deep thought. “I like to think of it as… strongly discouraged.”

“And besides, Reed likes me.”

Reed, still staring at his tablet, didn’t even look up. “No, I don’t.”

Johnny ignored him, his gaze flicking over your face. “You look a little flushed. Are you sick, or just excited to see me?”

The heat in your body ratcheted up another notch. “I’m fine.”

The heart monitor disagreed. Its beeps quickened, and you saw Reed glance at it, frown, then glance at you. “That’s odd.”

You swallowed. “What’s odd?”

“Your vitals just spiked,” he murmured, tapping something on the screen. “Everything’s stable, and then…” He trailed off, clearly trying to puzzle it out.

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “What, like a random adrenaline surge?”

Reed didn’t answer right away, still squinting at the data. “Maybe. I’ll… run a few more checks.”

Johnny smirked at you, and you knew he’d clocked your slight fidget, the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “You sure you’re feeling fine?”

You tightened your grip on the blanket. “I’m sure.”

The monitor beeped a little faster.

Reed muttered something under his breath, still baffled, while Johnny sat there, warm and solid and dangerously close, looking like he knew exactly how much space he was taking up in your head.

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The kitchen was warm, filled with the sound of clattering pans and the savory scent of Ben’s cooking. He stood at the stove in an apron that read Kiss the Cook, flipping something in a massive skillet while Sue chopped vegetables at the counter.

Reed sat at the table with his tablet, his brow furrowed as he quietly murmured to Sue about your “odd vitals” earlier. The word odd felt far too casual for how restless your body still felt.

You stepped inside, willing yourself to act normal, but every movement felt exaggerated, as though you were suddenly aware of how your own limbs moved, how warm your skin was, how every breath seemed a little too quick.

Sue glanced up immediately, frowning. “Are you okay, Y/N? You don’t look too great.”

“M’fine. I’m just… warm,” you said, trying for casual but landing somewhere between nonchalant and liar caught in the act.

“Sweetie, why don't you sit down before you collapse on the floor.” Sue insisted, before giving the chopped vegetables to Ben.

Ben took a quick glance at you and grunted, “Kid, you should eat somethin’. You look like you’re really about to pass out.”

He gave you a steaming bowl of corn soup, the smell warm and comforting. You wrapped your hands around the bowl, more for something to do than actual hunger.

You’d barely lifted the spoon when Johnny appeared in the archway.

Oh Johnny.

He strolled in wearing that fitted white shirt, the fabric clinging in all the right places—skimming over his broad shoulders, tracing the lines of his lean torso, and framing the sculpted definition of his chest and arms. You let your eyes wander down his blue pants that looked tighter than usual, fitting him perfectly—shaping his ass so deliciously and oh god, his big bulging—

You shut the thought down hard, cursing yourself under your breath.

Johnny stopped by the stove, leaning casually against the counter. “Whoa… someone’s been busy. Smells like a five-star restaurant in here.”

“Busy?” Ben scoffed. “I wouldn't have been if you had shown up earlier and actually helped out.”

Johnny grinned. “Sorry, big guy. I was busy saving the city. Again. Not that anyone says ‘thank you’ anymore—”

Ben brandished his spatula like a weapon. “Careful, hotshot. Keep braggin’ and I’ll season you up and toss you in the pan.”

Johnny chuckled, and the sound curled down your spine in a way that was unfairly distracting. He reached for the pot of corn soup on the counter, glanced at Ben, and asked, “This any good?”

“T'was,” Ben said pointedly.

Johnny ignored him, dipping his index and middle fingers straight into the warm, creamy broth before lifting them to his mouth. He slid them past his lips, tongue curling over the tips.

Your brain then short-circuited. In an instant, you were imagining those same fingers curling up inside you, making you gasp for air, pressing until you opened wider for him. And that same mouth moving lower, leaving hot kisses everywhere until you—

Without thinking, you brushed your fingers across your mouth, only then realizing—oh god—you’d actually been drooling.

Johnny caught your dazed look; a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes.

His lips curved, slow and amused. “You’re drooling, sweetheart.”

You blinked, blood rushing to your ears. “I—”

The words jammed in your throat, every coherent thought slipping through your fingers. And then, without thinking—like your brain had just given up—you murmured, soft and almost breathless, “Wanna taste?”

The kitchen went dead silent.

Sue’s eyes went wide, disbelief written all over her face. “Are we interrupting something?” Her tone was equal parts exasperated and incredulous, like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

Reed’s tablet chimed quietly. He glanced at the screen, brows furrowing as his expression turned perplexed, like he’d just confirmed something that made no sense. He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “I… I don’t even—”

Ben, fork halfway to his mouth, froze. His jaw worked, then he muttered, “Y’know, I should’ve just stayed out of this.”

Johnny didn’t flinch. The teasing spark in his eyes darkened into something warmer… heavier. More dangerous. His gaze locked on you like he’d just uncovered a secret you didn’t even know you were hiding.

Your soup sat untouched, but you’d never felt hungrier in your life.

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Reed was firm, almost annoyingly so. “You’re staying here overnight,” he said, scanning the monitors. “Your heart rate’s still abnormally elevated.”

“I feel fine,” you protested, which was only half true. Physically? Sure. Mentally? You were a mess.

“You’re not leaving until I figure out why this is happening,” Reed replied, already logging data.

Hours passed by and the infirmary was quiet. Dim. Just the hum of machinery and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you. You were half-dozing when the door hissed open.

Johnny slipped in, hands shoved in his pockets, still wearing that same white shirt from earlier—the one that made you want to tear it off him and ravish him right then and there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning casually against the doorway. “How’s my favorite patient?”

“You came to check on me?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he smirked, stepping closer. “I was bored.”

“Uh-huh.” Your lips curved, but your pulse jumped again—the monitor betraying you with every beep.

Johnny’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to you. “Still spiking, huh? Guess I must have that effect on people.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but the heat pooling in your lower regions made it hard to play it cool. “Maybe you do.”

“Maybe?” He grinned, stepping into the dim halo of your bedside lamp. “Sweetheart, you’re practically vibrating.”

Sweetheart.

That stupid nickname. The way he said it—amused, low, teasing—made your breath hitch. And suddenly, all the restraint you’d been clinging to snapped.

Your hand reached for his wrist, your grip firmer than you intended. You looked at him through your lashes. “Johnny,” you breathed. “Please.”

His breath hitched at how glossy your eyes looked, yet he let his brow quirk. “Please… what?”

“Please fuck me,” you blurted, the words breaking out in a choked rush. “I can’t—” Your voice cracked, and you hated how desperate you sounded. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t even breathe when you’re this close. I need you.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, watching you with a heat in his eyes that made your skin prickle.

Then you feel his fingers stilled on your cheek, and for a moment, you thought he’d lean in and finally close that aching distance.

But instead, his expression changed—barely, but enough for you to feel the drop in your chest. The playful glint dimmed. His hand fell away.

He straightened and murmured, almost to himself. “It’s that damn serum.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“Your vitals have been through the roof all day. Reed’s running tests. Whatever got on your skin earlier is messing with your head.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh and took a small step back, like distance could cool the heat in the room. “God, Y/N… you’re begging me like—” He broke off, jaw clenching. “It’s not real. Not like this.”

The words hit harder than you expected—not because they weren’t logical, but because there was something in his voice. A disappointment. A thread of hurt. Like maybe he’d wanted to believe you… but couldn’t let himself.

You sat up straighter, heart pounding for a whole new reason. “Johnny…”

He shook his head, looking away. “I’m not gonna be the guy who takes advantage of you when you’re not thinking straight.”

That broke something in you. Not because of the restraint—but because he thought that’s all this was.

“This isn’t just the serum,” you said, your voice trembling but firm.

He looked at you then, brow furrowed like he didn’t quite trust what he’d heard.

“I’ve wanted you for months,” you continued, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting for an opening. “Before today. Before the kitchen. Before… whatever this is. You make me crazy, Johnny Storm, and it has nothing to do with some chemical reaction!”

He just stared at you, his breath slow, almost uneven.

“I’m not saying this because I’m drugged up,” you whispered, eyes stinging again. “I’m saying it because if I don’t, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

His blue eyes searched yours, like he was looking for even the tiniest hint of hesitation. When he didn’t find any, his shoulders dropped—not in defeat, but in surrender.

“Goddamn it, baby,” he muttered, and before you could ask, his hand was cupping your jaw again, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. “Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying not to want you?”

Your pulse leapt. “Not very well,” you whispered.

That earned you a huff of a laugh—short, almost pained—before his forehead rested against yours. “You’re killing me, Y/N.”

“Then stop making it hurt,” you breathed.

Something in him broke then. Maybe it was the way your voice cracked, maybe it was the stubborn shine in your eyes, but the next thing you knew, his mouth was on yours—warm, sure, and devastating. The kiss wasn’t just heat; it was months of unsaid things, of teasing you in the kitchen, of stolen glances and the way your name always lingered a beat too long on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. A thin string of saliva clung between your lips before snapping.

Johnny smirked, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “Finally got to taste it,” he said, like it was a victory he’d been waiting to claim. His voice was low and satisfied.

And when he kissed you again—deeper this time—you knew you weren’t imagining it: the serum might’ve lit the match, but Johnny Storm had been holding the gasoline all along.

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You didn’t pause long. Clothes became a distant memory, slipping off, tossed carelessly to the side as if the fabric itself couldn’t keep up with the heat building between you. Johnny’s shirt rode up with his movements, revealing more of him with every shift, and your own garments disappeared in tandem, leaving only the two of you tangled together.

Johnny’s lips found yours again, this time with a sense of urgency that made your breath hitch. His hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, tongues dancing in a passionate rhythm. Your hands moved to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

Johnny suddenly slowed—just a fraction—his mouth softening against yours as if to check, to feel if you were still you and not just a serum-dazed shadow. His forehead rested against yours, breathing hard. “Tell me this is real, that it’s you. Not just the serum talking,” he said, and you realized there was the faintest thread of disappointment in him—like he was bracing for you to say this was just the serum talking.

You nodded your head, holding his warm hand. “It’s real,” you swore, your voice shaking. “It’s me.”

The look he gave you in that moment was devastating. A smile—not cocky, not teasing, but raw and unguarded—lit across his face before he kissed you again, slower this time, as if committing every second to memory.

Johnny's hands roamed over your body as he climbed on top of you, removing the paraphernalia attached to you. He traced the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts, as if he couldn't get enough of you. His fingers then found the wetness between your legs, sliding inside you with a slow, deliberate motion.

You moaned, your hips bucking against his hand as he began to move, his fingers sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that matched the pulse of your desire. You reached up and tugged on his golden hair, earning a hiss from him.

His fingers moved faster, his thumb finding the sensitive nub of your clit, rubbing it in slow, circular motions that sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You could feel the tension building inside you, your body on the edge of release. But before you could reach it, Johnny pulled his fingers away, leaving you squirming and whimpering.

“Please," You begged, clenching around air and tears prickling your eyes. "Please, Johnny. I need you."

Johnny's eyes darkened. He stood at the end of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. You watched, your heart pounding in your chest, as he pushed his jeans down along with his boxers, revealing his thick, veiny cock. He was hard, his cock standing proud and tall, the tip glistening with pre-cum. You licked your lips, your mouth suddenly dry.

"You're so big," you whispered, voice filled with awe and a hint of fear.

Johnny’s chest swelled with pride. He moved back onto the bed, his body hovering yours. He kissed you, his tongue exploring your mouth, his hands roaming over your body. Johnny hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down slowly, revealing your most intimate parts. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, his breath coming in short gasps.

"You're beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse with need. "So fucking beautiful."

He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a fierce, hungry kiss. You could feel his cock pressing against your thigh, hard and insistent. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, feeling his cock slide against your wetness. He groaned, his hips moving, his cock rubbing against your clit.

He broke the kiss and smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips. "You're so wet," he murmured, his fingers dipping into your wetness. "Just for me."

Johnny then pushed into you with a slow, deliberate motion, his eyes never leaving yours as he filled you completely. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him, the sensation of fullness overwhelming.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered in your ear, his voice filled with a raw, intense emotion that made your heart race.

He began to move, his hips thrusting against yours with a slow, steady rhythm that sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your nails digging deep into his back as you met his thrusts with your own.

The room was filled with the sound of your bodies coming together, the wet slap of skin against skin, the low moans and gasps. He was sloppy, messy, and his cock sliding in and out of you was sending you into a spiral. You could feel your orgasm building, a slow burn that spread through your veins like wildfire.

He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. Johnny's fingers moved faster, his thrusts becoming more urgent. You could feel him getting closer, his cock swelling inside you.

You felt your mind go cloudy, Johnny’s name rolling off your tongue like a sinful prayer.

“Come for me, baby.” He growled, his voice a low rumble.

And then, with a final, powerful thrust, you were over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure as the orgasm washed over you. Johnny followed soon after, his body tensing as he found his own release, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

You lay there, your body spent, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you tried to catch your breath. Johnny collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his heart pounding against your chest.

He waited for a good minute then rolled off you, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. You lay there, your body still tingling with pleasure, your heart pounding in your chest. Johnny kissed your shoulder, his lips trailing down your neck.

“You’re not walking away from this tomorrow,” he said, low and certain. “I’m not letting you pretend it meant nothing.”

All you could do was smile as you felt yourself drift into slumber.

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You woke to the sound of his breathing—slow, steady, and impossibly close. Your cheek was pressed against the warm expanse of Johnny’s chest, his arm heavy around your waist like he’d anchored you there on purpose.

For a few blissful seconds, you just listened to the rhythm of his heart. Then the weight of reality crept in. You shifted slightly, fingers curling into the sheets.

“Johnny…” you murmured, voice hesitant.

He stirred, blinking at you with a lazy grin that could melt steel. “Morning, beautiful.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname.

Then your throat felt tight as you tried to find the right words. “I… I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed, grin fading into something sharper. “Sorry? For what?”

“Not for last night,” you say abruptly, cheeks heating. “Just… I don’t want you to think that I only wanted you because of the serum. I don’t want you to feel like I—”

His smirk returned, slow and wicked. “Sweetheart, you can use me anytime you want.” Then, softer, almost shy beneath the tease: “But you should know… I want more than just this. I’m not here for one night and done.”

Your chest squeezed, but this time it wasn’t panic—it was relief. “Me too,” you whispered.

His smile softened, and he pressed a kiss into your hair, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Then— A loud knock rattled the door.

Ben’s voice boomed through the room: “Clothes on, you two—we ain’t paying for therapy!”

Johnny groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Unbelievable.”

You were laughing now, hiding your face in his chest. “Guess we should get up.”

“Or we could make ‘em wait,” he countered, tightening his grip like he meant it. “Ten more minutes. At least.”

You caught the sunlight glinting off his hair, and saw how his blue eyes sparkle in the glow. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running.

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[sins-write-tragedies]

Sue: Sorry I accused you of arson.

Johnny: No hard feelings. I was the obvious suspect.

[sins-write-tragedies]

Next Stop, You (Johnny Storm Fic)

Johnny Storm x GN!Reader

Summary: His face is everywhere—on billboards, ads, and even passing reflections. You thought you could escape Johnny Storm. But when life randomly brings him back to you, all the longing, hurt, and desire collide, like a spark that ignites everything you’ve been trying to forget. Word Count: 2.4k words

Tags/Warnings: Mild Smut, 18+, MDNI, exes to lovers, sexual content, adult themes, adult language, some angst, slow burn, fluff at the end.

A/N: I couldn't stop listening to Chappell Roan's The Subway, and it gave me the idea to base this story on some of its lyrics. Hope you guys enjoy!

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You see him everywhere.

Not because your mind is playing tricks—no, that would've been kinder—but because Johnny Storm’s face is plastered across every inch of New York City.

You see him ten feet tall on a billboard in Times Square, with that trademark smirk stretched across his face, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he’s just stepped off the curb to talk to you. You see him on the glowing subway ads, selling sports drinks with a cheesy tagline 'Catch Fire'. You see him on the glossy magazine covers lined up at the bodega counter, with headlines screaming his name in bold letters.

You’ve stopped picking up those magazines. You’ve stopped looking too long at any ad that moves, because those ones sometimes wink, and it would feel like a punch to the ribs.

It’s not enough that he’s in the posters. He’s also on TV in the background whenever you walk past a diner. His laugh echoes in the speaker of a store playing a clip of his latest interview. His voice is in every movie that starts, thanking you for your “support.”

And because the universe is cruel, you still sometimes catch him in person—up high on a screen at a charity gala you weren’t even invited to, flames curling around his figure in slow motion. The same flames that used to keep you warm on the nights he’d wrap around you and swear you were his favorite place to be.

You couldn't turn a corner without seeing him. You couldn't breathe air without breathing him in.

The last time you saw him in the flesh—the real him, not his curated, public version—wasn’t dramatic. No rain, no sirens, just the cold bite of the evening air and one streetlight overhead.

He’d been leaning against the hood of his car, that infuriating grin playing on his lips like this was just another one of your spats.

"Come on, baby, it’s not like I meant anything by it," he’d said, the words dripping casual charm. Like the fight was nothing. Like you were overreacting.

But you’d already been worn thin by a hundred little cuts—the way bartenders knew his drink before yours, women leaning over the bar laughing too loudly at his jokes, his eyes wandering and lingering in ways that made you feel like a prop in your own relationship.

"Because that’s just the way you are, right?" Your voice had cracked, and you hated that it did. "You flirt with everyone, and I’m supposed to just smile and pretend I don’t notice."

His grin had faltered. His gaze sharpened like he was seeing you for the first time in months.

"I thought you knew me," he’d said quietly.

"I did," you’d answered, before you turned away.

You hadn’t let him see you cry until you were gone.

Now, months later, it’s like everyone in the city is conspiring against you. Johnny Storm smiles at you from every wall, every screen, every product. He’s in the perfume ad across from your subway seat, his hand reaching forward like he’s about to pull you in.

You look away, but the train lurches, and his face follows you in the glass reflection of the window.

-----------------------------------

It was late when it happened.

The kind where the station is almost empty, the air cool and stale, the lights overhead buzzing like tired bees. You’re on the platform waiting for the downtown train, trying not to look at the backlit perfume ad across from you—the one with him, grinning in a suit you remember taking off him once, in a hotel room you can’t think about without your stomach twisting.

You shift your gaze to the tracks. The tunnel exhales warm air.

When the train arrived, it screeched, the doors hissed open, and you stepped in without looking at anyone. Your body moved to your usual corner seat, the one where you could watch the dark rush past. The doors close and the car lurches forward.

And then you felt it.

He was there.

At first you thought he was just another trick—a too-perfect lookalike, and that your tired brain was playing another cruel joke. But there he stood—the real Johnny Storm, near the doors, one hand holding the rail above him. He was wearing a red Harrington jacket left open over a white shirt, and a black cap pulled low. There was no mistaking him. You could pick him out of a thousand faces, in the dark, and in your dreams.

His piercing blue eyes were already on you.

For a moment, your brain insists it’s another mirage. That if you blink, he’ll be gone. But the train rattles, the fluorescent light catches the gold in his irises, and your heart slams once, hard.

You looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the blur of the tunnel.

Then you saw him move out of the corner of your eye. You hear the soft shift of his boots on the floor. And a second later, he’s standing in front of you, one hand still braced on the rail, close enough that you catch the faint smell of smoke and something sharper—that cologne you swore you’d never forget.

“Hey...” He says, like it’s only been a week instead of months.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You keep your voice low, steady. “You’ve got an audience somewhere to charm.”

Something flickers in his eyes—quick, but not quick enough for you to miss it. “I’ve been seeing you everywhere lately. Thought maybe it was time to see you for real.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “That’s rich.”

His mouth opens to protest, then stops. His eyes scanned your face, searching. “You look tired.”

“I wonder why,” you murmur.

The train begins to slow. You stand up before the doors open, determined to step past him. But when you tried, his hand brushes your wrist—warm, almost too warm, and not from the air.

“Get off with me,” he says, not as a command, but like it’s the last thing he’ll ask of you.

Your brain is screaming at you to say no. That you should walk away like you promised yourself you would.

But when the doors part and the cool night air swept in, you find yourself following him onto the platform.

The station is almost empty, the hum of the train fading into the distance. You stand a few feet apart, the tiled wall behind you, him in front of you, his cap now in his hands—revealing his messy blond hair that triggered a rush of memories.

He looks both exactly the same and nothing like the man you left—worn down at the edges, maybe, but still carrying that dangerous kind of warmth that once made it hard to walk away.

“We need to talk,” he says quietly. “Somewhere... Not here.”

-----------------------------------

The Baxter Building felt exactly the same and nothing like you remember.

It was too bright in the lobby, the polished floor reflecting gold light that makes you want to look anywhere but at him. Johnny keeps pace with you without speaking, the heat of him close enough to feel, even though he’s not touching you now.

The elevator ride was silent except for the faint hum of the machinery. You stare at the numbers as they climb up, forcing your pulse to slow. His reflection in the mirrored walls watches you anyway, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, jaw clenched.

When the doors slide open, he leads you down the familiar hall. His room is the same—messy in a way that’s almost artful. Blue denim jacket thrown over the arm of the couch. Boots kicked halfway under the bed. A stack of magazines with his face on the cover on the desk, some half-crumpled.

“What do you want, Johnny?” you ask, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“I was an idiot,” he says, quick, no hesitation.

“That’s not news.”

“I thought…” He exhales, raking a hand through his blond hair. “I thought you could live with… me being me. The flirting. The crowds. The act. I thought it couldn't touch what we had. That it’s part of the job, part of—”

“Part of you,” you interrupt. “And you thought I’d put up with it, no matter how small it made me feel.”

His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “I know that now. Took me losing you to figure it out, but—” He huffs a humorless laugh. “Turns out I don’t like the version of me that exists without you.”

You wanted to tell him that it was too late. That you’ve built an armor around the places he had burnt.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about me,” he says, voice low. “Tell me you haven’t missed me so much, it made you angry.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

Something in your chest twisted, ugly and aching. You wanted to tell him you couldn't do this again. But he was standing so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, and the look in his eyes wasn’t the cocky show he gives the world. It was raw.

“I missed you,” he says, low. “Every day. Every night. I kept thinking I’d see you on the street, and I’d get to tell you that I was wrong. That I’d give up every stupid headline, every flirt, every wink, if it meant you’d look at me the same way you used to.”

Your breath catches at his confession.

“Johnny…”

The sound of his name in your mouth is all it takes. Before you know it, his hands are on your face, warm enough to make you shiver, his mouth crashing into yours before you can think to stop him.

It’s messy. Desperate. Months of unsaid words poured into teeth and tongue. You clutch at his jacket, dragging him closer, and he stumbles you both back toward the bed.

When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he pulls away just enough to look at you, chest heaving. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You don’t. Instead you connected your lips with his again.

His jacket was gone in seconds; his t-shirt tugged over his head and tossed aside. His skin felt hot under your palms, the heat pulsing from him in waves. You tug him down again, mouths sliding, his hands already sliding under your shirt, fingertips skating over your ribs.

He pulls your top over your head and swears under his breath when he sees you. “Fuck, I missed this. Missed you.”

Your jeans were gone next, his hands greedy and reverent all at once. He kisses down your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp, his hands settling on your hips like he’s grounding himself.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down, and his breath stutters against your skin. Then he presses you back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, his gaze drinking you in like he had been starving.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, and before you could roll your eyes at the line, his mouth was on your chest, with his hand sliding between your thighs.

The heat of him makes you moan before he was even inside you. He groaned at the sound, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes until you’re clinging onto him.

When he finally thrusted into you, it was with a low, wrecked sound like he was breaking apart. He buried his face in your neck, hips snapping, and every movement is laced with months of longing and regret.

It was not careful. It wasn't slow. It was desperate and consuming, the kind that blurs the line between anger and love until you couldn’t tell them apart anymore. You dig your nails into his back, pulling him deeper, and he releases a guttural groan like he’s coming undone.

“Not letting you go again,” he breathes against your mouth, over and over, like a prayer.

When you finally come, it was with his name on your tongue, his heat flooding through every inch of your body as he follows through right after.

He doesn’t pull away. Just holds you, breathing hard, lips pressed to your hair.

-----------------------------------

You wake to the low hum of the city through the Baxter Building’s windows, the warmth of him at your back, his arm heavy across your waist. The sheets smell faintly like smoke and the soap you always used to steal from his bathroom.

For a few moments, you just lie there, eyes half-closed, listening to his breathing. It’s steady, deeper than it ever was when you used to sleep here—like he’s not afraid you’ll be gone when he wakes.

You carefully slide out from under his arm, but he stirs anyway, eyes blinking open, voice thick with sleep. “Where’re you going?”

“Coffee,” you murmur, pulling on his t-shirt from the floor. It hangs halfway to your knees.

He smiles, slow and lazy, then lets himself fall back into the pillow. “Don’t be long.”

The hallway feels familiar under your bare feet. You padded down toward the kitchen, the scent of brewing coffee already in the air. You were halfway through the archway when you realize you’re not alone.

Reed’s at the counter, reading something on a tablet. Sue’s by the sink with a mug in hand, and Ben is leaning against the fridge, arms crossed. All three of them look up when you appear—wearing Johnny’s shirt, hair a little messy, cheeks warm from the memory of the night before.

Sue’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. Reed’s is more subtle, a quiet flicker of relief in his eyes. Ben grins outright.

“Morning,” Ben rumbles, voice low but teasing. “Sleep well?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Johnny strolls in behind you, still shirtless, one arm looping around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. He pressed a kiss to your temple without a hint of embarrassment.

The team doesn’t say anything after that. They didn't have to. The air was warm with unspoken approval, the kind you don’t need to earn, only accept.

You sipped your coffee, leaning into Johnny’s side, and for the first time in months, you didn't feel the city pressing in with his face everywhere.

Because he’s here. And this time, he’s not letting go.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

[sins-write-tragedies]

More Than Fire (Johnny Storm Fluff)

Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

Summary: How do you even tell one of the world’s most famous superheroes that you’re hopelessly—and maybe foolishly—in love with him?

Word Count: 3.8k words

Tags/Warnings: None, really. just a very long Pure Fluff, with a sprinkle of angst (mentions of insecurities), and some inaccuracies of what life was in the 60s, especially the song creep.

A/N: I'm just obsessed with Johnny Storm right now and I can't stop myself from writing fics about him. Pretend that you have curly hair in this fic.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The Baxter Building is bigger than you expected.

Not just tall—though the glass facade stretches so high you have to crane your neck to see the rooftop—but imposing. Sleek, futuristic lines, tinted windows reflecting the New York skyline, and a security desk in the lobby that looks more like it belongs to ANSA than in a commercial building.

You hug your duffel bag tighter to your side, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as the receptionist makes a quick call upstairs. You know you don’t look like you belong here—your curls are frizzing from the humidity, your glasses slide down your nose every few seconds, and your sneakers are already squeaking on the polished floor.

Then you hear it—

“Y/N!”

Your cousin, Ben Grimm’s gravelly voice echoes through the lobby.

You look up to see him—huge, orange, smiling warmly as he makes his way toward you. You don’t even hesitate to wrap your arms around him; he’s always been the steady, grounding presence in your life.

“Hey, kid,” he rumbles, patting your back gently. “Welcome to the madhouse.”

You laugh nervously. “It’s… huge.”

“Wait ‘til you see the lab.”

Ben walks you to the elevator, filling the short ride with small talk—how was your trip, how’s your mom, did you eat. You try to relax, but your nerves buzz under your skin. You’re here for a job, not a vacation. And your boss? None other than Reed Richards himself.

The elevator doors open directly into the heart of the Baxter Building’s upper floors. You’re instantly greeted by sleek metal walls, glass partitions, and the low hum of high-tech equipment.

Reed is at the far end of the hall, bent over a tablet. He looks up when Ben calls his name.

“Ah, you must be Y/N,” Reed says, offering a quick smile. “Ben’s told me you’re good with detail work. I could use that.”

You nod quickly. “I—I’ll do my best, Mr. Richards.”

He waves a hand. “Reed’s fine. Come on, I’ll show you your desk.”

And that’s when he walks in.

Johnny Storm enters like he owns the place—messy blond hair, a confident grin, dark denim jacket slung over his shoulder. When his gaze lands on you, it’s like a spotlight switches on.

“Well, well,” he drawls, sliding a hand into his pocket. “And who might this be?”

“Johnny,” Reed says without looking up, “this is Y/N. Ben’s cousin. My new assistant.”

Johnny steps closer, that infamous smirk tugging at his lips. “Welcome to the Baxter Building, gorgeous.”

Your heart skips—but not in the way you want it to. Not excitement. More like panic. You’ve seen the way women react to Johnny Storm. You’ve also seen the type of women he flirts with—magazine covers, red carpets, legs for miles.

You’re… not that.

“Hi,” you say shortly, shifting your bag and stepping aside so Ben can lead you past him.

Johnny blinks like you’ve just spoken a language he doesn’t understand. His grin flickers—just for a second—before he recovers. “Alright then,” he murmurs, amused.

You don’t turn around. Yet you could feel his piercing blue eyes on your back all the way to your desk.

---------------------------

Months have passed but working for Reed Richards is exactly as exhausting as you expected—and somehow, even more so. Your days blur into a steady rhythm: early mornings, coffee runs, sorting lab reports, logging data, keeping Reed from getting so lost in equations that he forgets to eat lunch.

It’s good work. You’re good at it. And it keeps you focused. Focused means you don’t have time to think about… other things. Like the fact that you live in a skyscraper with The Human Torch.

Not that Johnny Storm is easy to ignore.

The man is a hurricane in human form—he blows into the lab without warning, smirking like every second he exists is a gift to the universe. He has a way of making the air feel warmer just by walking into the room.

You keep your eyes on your work. Every time.

And still— “Hi, Y/N!” Johnny’s voice rings out from the doorway one afternoon. “You look—”

You brush past him, carrying a stack of sample trays to the storage cabinet.

“—like you’re going to ignore me,” he finishes flatly, his tone a mix of disappointment and amusement.

You don’t reply. Because you know that if you do, you’ll just encourage him.

He sighs—loudly, just in case you didn’t hear it—then saunters toward Reed, who’s hunched over a holographic model of the atmosphere.

“Reed,” Johnny says, leaning on the counter, “you gotta talk to her. She’s killing me.”

Without looking up, Reed replies dryly, “I told you to stop flirting with my assistant, Johnny.”

“At her,” Johnny corrects. “I flirt at her. She never flirts back.”

Johnny then looks at you while you were cataloguing samples on the other side of the room, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

Still, Johnny keeps trying.

Sometimes it’s big gestures—dropping by with a bag of cookies from Maisie's, “just because,” or hovering over your shoulder pretending to read your notes.

Sometimes it’s small—quick comments, a wink when you catch his eye across the lab, tossing you an energy bar when you’ve been working too long.

You tell yourself not to read into it. This is just who he is. Johnny Storm flirts with everyone. And women usually flirt back—women who aren’t you.

But little cracks start forming in the wall you’ve built around yourself.

One night, you’re alone in the lab, surrounded by the low hum of machines, your hair falling into your face as you type up Reed’s latest readings. You don’t hear him at first.

“Brought reinforcements,” Johnny’s voice says gently.

You look up to see him holding two mugs of hot cocoa. He sets one down by your elbow, then leans casually against the desk—not crowding you, not teasing. Just… there.

“I thought you were out with friends,” you say, wary.

He shrugs. “Was. But then I thought about you, stuck up here alone in this lab, drowning in equations.”

You snort softly, taking a cautious sip. “It’s data, not equations.”

“Still looks like alien to me.”

For once, he doesn’t launch into another round of innuendo. Instead, you talk—about your work, about his fascination with space, about things that have nothing to do with the tabloids.

At one point, you murmur, “I’m not really… part of this family. I mean, I’m just Ben’s cousin who happens to work here.”

He straightens, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Don’t say that. You are part of this family, Y/N. I’d do anything for you. Protect you, even.”

You laugh lightly, trying to deflect, but your chest feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the cocoa.

You’ve seen Johnny Storm in the public eye—loud, reckless, charming to the point of arrogance. He’s the man women trip over themselves for. The man who makes headlines just for smiling.

But this—sitting on the edge of the lab counter, sipping cocoa with you in companionable silence—isn’t the man you’ve read about in gossip columns.

This Johnny is quieter. Softer.

He talks about how he used to lie on the roof at night as a kid, staring at the stars until his neck hurt. How space makes him feel small in the best way. How he reads astrophysics articles when he can’t sleep, even if he pretends otherwise.

And the thing that makes your chest ache most of all—he’s smart. Not just “he can talk about planets” smart, but truly brilliant. You see it in the way he asks questions, connects ideas, lingers over your explanations like he’s memorizing every word.

You’re painfully aware of the moment it hits you—

You like him.

You really like him.

But it’s not the glossy, smirking Johnny the world sees. You like the man who’s sitting here now, legs swinging, smiling softly into his mug like you’re the only person in the room.

And that’s why it hurts. Because this version of Johnny? The one who loves space and listens intently and doesn’t have to be “on” all the time?

He still wouldn’t go for someone like you.

Not when the rest of the world is full of women who look like they’ve stepped out of a magazine spread. Women who belong next to The Human Torch.

You’re just… you. The shy assistant with messy curls, glasses sliding down her nose, and ink stains on her fingers.

So, you bury the feelings deep inside.

You smile when he offers you another sip of cocoa.

And you tell yourself it’s better this way.

---------------------------

You’re balancing a takeout tray in one hand and Reed’s latest printouts in the other when the main doors open to the Baxter Building lobby.

The sound hits you first—low laughter, warm and easy, the kind that makes you want to lean in and hear more. Then you see him.

Johnny.

He’s leaning against the marble reception desk, leather jacket draped over one shoulder, hair just messy enough to look perfect. And in front of him.

Well.

She’s gorgeous.

Not in a subtle way, either. In a “could stop traffic” way. Long legs, bouncy hair, a dress that probably costs more than your rent. A slim notepad rests in her hand, a pen twirling between her fingers.

You recognize her instantly—not from TV, but from bylines. She’s a journalist. The kind who writes profile pieces that make celebrities look human in the most flattering way possible.

They’re close.

Too close.

You watch as she laughs at something he’s whispered—her fingers brushing his arm like she can’t help herself. He leans in, his mouth near her ear, and she blushes.

Your stomach twists so hard you have to grip the coffee tray tighter.

Of course.

Of course this is who Johnny Storm flirts with.

Not you, with your lab goggles and frizzy curls and sweaters two sizes too big. Not you, who keeps her head down and hides behind her work.

This—

This is his type.

And you’ve been stupid enough to let yourself forget that for even a second.

He spots you over her shoulder. His eyes brighten instantly.

“Y/N! Hey—”

You don’t stop walking.

His voice follows you as you head toward the elevator, sharp with confusion. “Y/N, wait—”

But the elevator doors slide shut between you before he can reach you.

You make it to your room before the tears spill over.

You set the coffee and papers on your desk with shaking hands, your chest so tight you can barely breathe.

You move to collapse on your bed, but your hip catches the corner of your little vinyl player stand. The needle arm jolts and drops onto an old record you’d been meaning to put away.

I don't care if it hurts

I want to have control

I want a perfect body

I want a perfect soul

I want you to notice

When I'm not around

You're so very special

I wish I was special

Your breath hitches. It’s too on the nose, too perfect in the worst way.

You press your palms to your face, but the music keeps going, digging into every raw part of you until you can’t tell where the song ends and your own thoughts begin.

You’d been so stupid.

Every shared cocoa, every quiet conversation, every time he made you feel like maybe you weren’t invisible—

None of it meant what you thought it did.

You cry until your pillow is damp and your chest aches, and you promise yourself—no more. No more hoping. No more falling.

---------------------------

You’d almost forgotten about the gala.

Not because it wasn’t important—Reed had mentioned it three times this week, muttering something about sponsors and funding—but because you had no intention of attending. Events like that weren’t for people like you. They were for Reed’s colleagues, Sue’s friends, and Johnny’s adoring fans.

You’d planned on staying in your room, maybe catching up on work.

That plan ends when Sue knocks on your door.

“Come on,” she says, sweeping in without waiting for you to answer. “You’re coming with us.”

“I don’t—” You start to protest, but she’s already setting down a garment bag.

“Nope. You’ve been cooped up in here for weeks, and you work harder than anyone in this building. You deserve one night to feel… special.”

Special.

The word sits uneasily in your chest.

But Sue is relentless. She gets you into the gown before you can argue—a soft, midnight-colored dress that skims your frame without being overly revealing. Then she’s at your curls, coaxing them into smooth, glossy waves instead of the messy halo you usually give up on taming.

Your glasses? Swapped for graded contact lenses that make your eyes look bigger.

She dusts a little shimmer across your eyelids, gloss on your lips.

When you look in the mirror, you almost don’t recognize yourself.

“You’re beautiful,” Sue says simply, smiling in the way that makes you almost believe her.

The ballroom is already buzzing when you arrive with the team. Ben and Reed are near the entrance, deep in conversation with a couple of important-looking men in tuxedos, but they both stop talking the second they see you.

Ben’s face lights up. “Kid, you look… wow, different. You look good.”

Reed nods in agreement, his usually distracted eyes actually focusing on you. “I wouldn’t have guessed it was you if Sue hadn’t been standing right there.”

You laugh softly, embarrassed, and murmur a thanks.

And then you feel it.

That prickling awareness of eyes on you.

You turn, and there’s Johnny.

He’s frozen in place a few feet away, a drink in hand, mouth slightly open like he’s forgotten how to speak. His gaze sweeps over you once, then twice, lingering in a way that makes heat crawl up your neck.

“You’re…” He swallows. “You’re beautiful. I mean—wow. Just… wow, Y/N.”

Something in your chest flutters before you can stop it.

But then you remember.

The journalist. The laughter. The whispered words and the blush.

The way you’d promised yourself—no more hoping.

Your throat tightens. You force a polite smile and murmur something about needing air before slipping away toward the nearest balcony.

The night air is cool against your skin, a relief after the heavy warmth of the ballroom. You grip the stone railing, trying to steady your breathing, but your chest feels too tight, like the dress is squeezing all the air out of you.

You should have stayed in your room.

You should have known better.

“Y/N?”

You turn to the sound of his voice. Johnny stands there in the doorway, the soft golden light of the ballroom at his back, turning him into something out of a dream. He looks… different out here. Not the cocky, charming Johnny Storm the public knows, but quieter, his eyes shadowed in a way you’ve only glimpsed in rare, unguarded moments.

You grip the railing tighter. “You should go back inside. People will notice you’re gone.”

He takes a step forward, then another, until he’s close enough that the faint scent of his cologne—something clean, warm, and just a little spicy—wraps around you. “Let them. I noticed you were gone.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

You look away, down at the city lights twinkling far below. “You’re not supposed to notice me, Johnny. Not like that.”

“Why not?” His voice is softer now, almost uncertain.

You shake your head, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Because you’re… you. And I’m just…” You let the sentence die in the air. Just an assistant. Just someone ordinary. Just someone who’s seen too much to get caught up in things like this.

But the truth is deeper than that.

You don’t love him for the headlines, the smiles, or the flashes of attention. You love him for the quiet things no one else seems to see—the way he stares out at the stars when he thinks no one’s looking, the genius-level theories he mutters under his breath when Reed isn’t around, the surprising gentleness in his hands when he fixes something broken.

And that’s the worst part. Because that real Johnny? That beautiful, hidden man?

You know he would never choose someone like you.

You’re about to step past him when his hand brushes your arm—light, careful. “Y/N… what’s really going on?”

The words you want to say—I love you, but it’s killing me—tangle in your throat. Instead, you give him the easiest lie you can. “Nothing. I just needed some air.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his brow creases. But he lets you go.

---------------------------

Later that night, after the gala, you’re in the records room, your little sanctuary—still wearing the dress because you couldn’t bring yourself to take it off yet. You’re pulling a folder from the shelf when your elbow knocks into the turntable you keep there.

The vinyl arm jolts forward. A record you’d forgotten was on it spins to life, and the needle drops in the middle of a track.

Just a few seconds of a song—raw, aching lyrics about wanting someone you can’t have.

Johnny’s voice comes from behind you, low and careful. “I didn’t know you liked this song.”

You freeze.

You whirl around, heart lurching. He’s leaning against the doorway, jacket gone, bow tie loose, looking at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“I—” You swallow. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to play it.”

But the way his blue eyes linger on you tells you he’s heard more than just the music.

You fumble for the tonearm, desperate to lift it before it gets to the part you know will hurt, but Johnny’s already crossed the room.

His hand lands gently on yours, stilling it.

“Don’t.”

The single word—quiet, almost pleading—freezes you in place.

You glance up, and it’s not the smooth, untouchable Johnny Storm looking back at you. It’s the man you’ve been secretly falling for—the one who talks to you about constellations like they’re old friends, the one who fixes broken coffee machines at 2 a.m. without anyone asking.

The one you could love too easily if you let yourself.

“It’s just a song,” you whisper, though it feels like the most transparent lie you’ve ever told.

“It’s not just a song.” He takes a step closer, his voice low and threaded with something raw. “I saw your face when it started. Like it… hit somewhere you didn’t want me to see.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Y/N…” His tone is careful now, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “You keep looking at me like there’s something you want to say, and then you bury it. You’re the one person I can’t figure out, and it’s driving me insane.”

You laugh—a soft, broken sound. “Johnny, you’re not supposed to figure me out.”

He shakes his head, stubborn. “I want to.”

“You should stop flirting with me,” you say suddenly, the words sharper than you intended. Your heart hammers in your chest, but you force yourself to hold his gaze.

“Just because I’m timid, doesn’t mean I’m naive. Or an idiot.”

Johnny blinks, clearly taken aback. “What?”

“It bothers me,” you said, your throat tight. “Because it’s not real. And I’m human, Johnny. You can’t just… play with my feelings. Not when I—” You stopped yourself, heart pounding.

“Not when you what?” he asked, his tone suddenly softer.

You swallowed hard. “Not when I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening. His eyes widened. “Y–you… love me?”

Regret hit instantly, sharp as a blade. “Forget it,” you muttered, pushing past him. But his hand caught your wrist, firm enough to stop you, gentle enough to make you stay.

“I love you too,” he said, and it was so earnest it made your chest ache.

You shook your head. “No. You shouldn’t be with me. You should be with girls in your own league—like the one you were flirting with the other day.”

To your surprise, he smirks, that familiar spark dancing in his eyes. “So… my tactic to make you jealous worked?”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Why would you even do something like that?”

“Because you never notice me,” he said, a frustrated laugh escaping him. “You never seem to reciprocate my feelings.”

Your chest aches. “I love you, Johnny. but not the flashy version you show to the world. I love the real you—the one who loves space, the genius you try to hide under that cocky grin, the one who’s kind without needing an audience. But that’s the thing… you’re you, and I’m just me. The shy, timid assistant of Mr. Fantastic. And you only like me now because I’m all dressed up.”

His expression softens, the teasing gone. He steps closer, voice low and steady.

“No... I love you for you. I love you when an experiment blows up in your face and you’re standing there covered in smoke and ashes. I love you when you say something that makes me realize you’re smarter than half the geniuses I know. I love you when you’re quiet, and when you’re brave enough to tell me I’m an idiot.”

You feel your throat tighten, the air between you charged and fragile.

“I love you, just as you are.” He finished, and before you could say another word, he leaned in.

The kiss was warm, a little hesitant at first, like both of you were afraid the other might pull away—but then you melted into it. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and his arms circled your waist like he had no intention of letting you go.

Somewhere in the background, you heard a muffled voice. “Well, about time.”

You broke apart just enough to glance toward the doorway. Sue was leaning casually against the frame, smirking like she’d known all along.

Beside her, Ben chuckled while Reed silently pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over.

“Told you they’d figure it out eventually,” Ben said, pocketing the money.

You groaned, pressing your face onto Johnny’s shoulder. “You bet on us?”

Sue crossed her arms, smiling. “Sweetheart, we’ve been waiting for this since day one.”

Johnny’s laugh rumbled against you, warm and smug. “Guess we just made ‘em some money.”

You pulled back to glare at him halfheartedly, but his grin softened, his thumb brushing your cheek. And somehow, you didn’t mind that everyone had been watching—because at that moment, it was just you and him, finally where you belonged.

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[sins-write-tragedies]

Ashes and Embers (Johnny Storm Fic)

Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a heartbreaking miscarriage, Y/N and Johnny must navigate grief, love, and hope to find their way back to each other—and their family.

Word Count: 1.6k words

Tags/Warnings: MAJOR ANGST, Miscarriage/pregnancy loss, Grief and depression, Self-harm and sewerslide attempt, Intense emotional conflict within marriage, scenes involving blood and hospital/emergency situations

A/N: I listened to Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls and this was just all I could think about.

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(Y/N’s POV)

I used to think happiness felt like sunlight—warm, endless, effortless. That was before I learned how quickly the sun could burn out.

When I found out I was pregnant, the whole Baxter Building seemed brighter. Johnny’s grin that day could’ve lit up Manhattan without the power grid. He kept calling me “Momma” like it was the most natural thing in the world, like I was already perfect at it.

The next weeks were full of soft touches, late-night whispered dreams about baby names, and Johnny learning to cook actual food so I wouldn’t live on takeout. He’d talk to my stomach like it could already hear him: “Hey, little spark, your dad’s a superhero—and your mom’s the most beautiful genius in the world.”

I let myself believe this was our turning point. That maybe the universe had finally decided to stop being cruel.

It didn’t.

It was supposed to be a quiet morning. I was at my desk in Reed’s lab, logging data, sipping tea Sue had made for me. Franklin sat in his playpen nearby, gurgling and trying to gnaw on a stuffed giraffe. Sue was feeding him bits of mashed banana, smiling in that knowing way mothers do.

Johnny had left earlier, all swagger and a wink, for some last-minute mission with Ben.

At 10:42 a.m., I felt the first cramp. Sharp, but not alarming. By the second one, I was gripping the desk.

“Y/N? You okay?” Sue’s voice cut through the hum of Reed’s machinery.

I tried to nod, but then I felt it—warm, wet, wrong. I glanced down.

Blood.

A lot of it.

It soaked through my skirt before my brain could catch up. My breath came fast and shallow. I think I called Sue’s name, but my voice sounded foreign. The room tilted as my knees buckled.

Sue caught me halfway to the floor. Her hands were warm, her voice steady, but there was panic underneath it.

“Stay with me, Y/N. Reed! Now!”

The rest came in flashes—Reed barking orders, Franklin crying in the background, the elevator ride to the parking garage. The hospital lights were too bright. The cold sheet under me felt like ice.

And then, the words:

“I’m sorry… there’s no heartbeat.”

It was as if someone had driven a fist into my chest and pulled out everything that made me human. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just… stopped.

(Johnny’s POV)

The mission had been quick—mop up a rogue tech-thief, put out a fire, pose for a few grateful photos. He’d been picturing you all morning, already planning to bring home your favorite pastries.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered as he landed on the Baxter rooftop, heat still clinging to his skin.

Reed was waiting in the living room. That never happened unless something was wrong.

“What’s up?” Johnny grinned anyway, because maybe it wasn’t bad. Maybe—

“It’s Y/N,” Reed said, voice low. “Sue took her to the hospital. She… lost the baby.”

Johnny’s grin fell like shattered glass. “No. No, no—” His feet were moving before his brain caught up. The elevator ride was a blur.

When he saw you in that hospital bed, your eyes fixed on the wall, your face gray and still, he knew.

“Baby?” His voice cracked. “Please… look at me.”

You didn’t move.

And that was almost worse than if you’d cried.

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(Y/N’s POV)

Grief is supposed to come in waves. Mine was more like a black tide that never receded.

The days bled together. I stopped opening the blinds. Stopped eating unless Sue coaxed me to. Johnny hovered like a shadow, sometimes sitting at the edge of the bed, sometimes pacing the doorway.

I didn’t even know how to look at him. Every time I did, I saw the smile he’d worn when I told him I was pregnant—and the hollow ache in my chest doubled.

Ben stopped by with awkward jokes and too many snacks. Reed offered clinical sympathy that still somehow felt genuine. The team kept their voices soft around me, like I might break at any moment.

Maybe I already had.

Sue would bring Franklin into my room sometimes.

I’d take him, my arms automatically curling around his small body. He smelled like baby powder and something warm I couldn’t name. His tiny fist would grab my shirt, and for a few moments, I could almost pretend he was mine.

One afternoon, I sat with him on the floor, stacking colorful blocks while Sue folded laundry in the corner. Franklin giggled every time I knocked the tower over for him.

“See that?” I whispered to him, brushing a curl from his forehead. “You’re so clever. You’d be such a good big cousin…” My voice cracked on the word.

Franklin reached up and patted my cheek like he knew. I fought back a sob that was clawing up my throat.

Sue’s hands stilled on the laundry. She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her eyes on me.

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Sleep didn’t come easy anymore. When it did, my dreams weren’t kind.

I dreamed of tiny fingers and heartbeat monitors, only to wake to the crushing silence.

I’d often wake up reaching for something that wasn’t there, heart pounding, tears already sliding down my cheeks.

The sleeping pills started as a way to quiet my mind. Just one, maybe two. Enough to shut the door on my thoughts for a few hours.

But grief is greedy.

That night, I don’t even remember making the choice. My body felt too heavy, my mind too loud. I just knew I wanted the ache to stop. I swallowed more than I should have, crawled back into bed, and let the darkness creep in.

(Johnny’s POV)

Johnny knocked on your door once. Twice. No answer. His gut twisted.

“Sweetheart?” He pushed the door open—and froze.

You were sprawled on the bed, skin pale, breathing shallow. The empty pill bottle sat on the nightstand.

“No. Oh God, no—”

He was at your side in an instant, shaking you gently, then harder. “Y/N! Wake up! Please!” His voice was raw, frantic.

Your head lolled against his shoulder when he pulled you into his arms. He didn’t remember getting to Reed’s lab, just the blur of movement, the slam of his voice breaking through the walls.

“Help! She’s not breathing!”

Reed and Sue moved fast—monitors, oxygen mask, an injection. Johnny’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He hovered, pacing, running both hands through his hair until they tangled.

And then—a cough. Weak, but real.

Johnny nearly collapsed against the wall, relief flooding him so fast it made him dizzy.

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(Y/N’s POV)

I heard the muffled steady beep of a monitor somewhere near my head. Then, the weight of a warm hand wrapped around mine. Then, Johnny’s voice.

“You scared the hell out of me, baby.”

I turned my head. He was slouched in a chair beside the bed, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot. His grip on my hand tightened when I moved.

“I—” My throat was dry, my voice small. “I’m sorry.”

Johnny shook his head sharply. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say sorry. I thought I lost you.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to my hand. “I can’t lose you too. I won’t.”

The guilt in my chest was so heavy it felt like it might crush me. “I just… I didn’t know how to make it stop hurting.”

He sat back, eyes locking on mine. There was no fire in them now—just devastation. “Then you tell me. You scream, you cry, you throw stuff at me, I don’t care—but you don’t disappear. Not like that.” His voice was shaking now. “You are my whole damn life, Y/N. Don’t take that away from me. Please.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I feel like I failed you. Like I can’t give you what you wanted."

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “What I wanted was you. And I still have you. That’s enough.”

The door opened quietly then, and Sue stepped in with Franklin balanced on her hip. His big eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Someone’s been asking for you,” Sue said softly.

Franklin wriggled until she let him down, toddling over to my bedside. His little hand reached for mine, patting it the way he always did.

I couldn’t stop the tears then. “Hey, buddy,” I whispered. “I missed you.”

He climbed up onto the bed with Sue’s help, settling against my side like he belonged there. His weight was warm, grounding. My free hand curled around him automatically.

For the first time in weeks, the tight knot in my chest loosened, just a little.

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It was raining the day I came home from the hospital. The kind of soft rain that makes the city glow.

Johnny had been fussing since we left the building—insisting on carrying my bag, holding my hand like I might vanish if he let go. When we stepped into our apartment, I saw it immediately: in the corner near the big window stood a small potted tree, green leaves catching the dim light.

I stared at it. “What’s this?”

Johnny rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… for them. For our little spark. Something we can take care of together. Something that grows.”

My vision blurred instantly. I crossed the room and knelt beside the pot, running my fingers over the damp soil.

When I turned back, Johnny was watching me like I was the most fragile thing in the world. I went to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, holding on like I hadn’t in weeks.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured into his shoulder.

“Good,” he whispered back, his voice thick. “Because we’re getting through this. As a family.”

And when I glanced toward the couch, I saw Sue watching from the doorway, Franklin perched on her hip, waving at me with a sticky hand.

For the first time, I smiled—small, but real.

Maybe the sun hadn’t come back yet. But I could feel its warmth, somewhere just beyond the clouds.

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