briennemurdock

[briennemurdock]

You guys really don’t know how much it means to me to hear Johnny say he “loves space”, to be so absolutely enthralled with it. He’s the one pushing Reed to make new space suits, the one to come to Reed’s lab, going so far as to “schedule a meeting” because he cares so much. He’s the one looking like a kid hopped up on sugar when they’re launching - despite what happened to them last time, he’s ecstatic to get back up there. He’s the one obsessed with the alien communications they keep intercepting, the one who solves it and teaches himself a whole new language - in only a few months, mind you!

You can see how absolutely completely in love with it all he was. He wants to go up there, he wants to explore and understand and discover their universe. And he’s smart enough to do so! They jab at him sometimes, of course Reed is the genius, that hasn’t changed, but Johnny is smart too and they show that!

It makes sense that he would be included in the original mission, he doesn’t feel like Sue’s little brother just tagging along for the ride. He may not have the mathematical brain like Reed, but he learns a whole language, or at least enough to reach Shalla-ball, in the span it takes the world to mobilize and build the transporters. And when he realizes the worm hole is bending the blaster shots, he thinks out loud and works out what angle he would need to fire at to hit her. He’s quietly smart in all the ways the others forget until he’s putting it on display in the middle of Times Square and I love that! Yes, he’s still the lighthearted one of the group, the one to try to crack a joke, but it’s not at the expense of his intelligence most the time, more at his age. He’s the annoying little brother, he’s the goofball uncle, he’s the kid who solves an alien language through sheer commitment and passion and he is perfect.

He felt so much like the Johnny I fell in love with in the comics, the one who loves the attention, but loves his family and their job so much more.

[briennemurdock]

Best Uncles Ever

-> requested by anon

[briennemurdock]

We need to talk about how this dork has this big painting of himself in his room sjskdj (I haven't seen anyone mentioned that in fanfics btw 👀)

Like, I loved that so much sjskf lol. Everytime there was a scene where it was shown, I laughed so much and I was the only one who laughed at the screennings I went to 😅

Also, I just love his bedroom so much. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy 🧡

[briennemurdock]

being johnny's wife mood board ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

[briennemurdock]

Morning? Routine?

[briennemurdock]

SPECIAL GUEST

PAIRING: johnny storm x female reader

RATING: none

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

SUMMARY:

where getting caught after spending the night with johnny storm leads to breakfast with the fantastic four.

(or: H.E.R.B.I.E. is a snitch)

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

consider this a sort of prologue to an eventual full fic about these two, but @birdie-birdie-birdie sparked this in my brain and i had to get it out. and also, thank you to @munsonstorm for giving this a read for me!

WARNINGS/TAGS:

johnny storm - fantastic four: first steps, female reader, no use of y/n, established relationship (or situationship?), getting caught trying to sneak out, awkward encounters, fluff.

Reed enters the kitchen with a yawn, tying the belt of his robe into a knot at his waist. H.E.R.B.I.E. has already started to prepare breakfast — eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove, slices of toast stacked neatly on a plate, the juice maker churning fresh orange juice and, most importantly, coffee steaming in the carafe. He grabs a mug and fills it to the brim to combat the exhaustion Franklin’s middle of the night cluster feeding has caused.

“Good morning, H.E.R.B.I.E.,” he says after a sip. The robot beeps back at him as he rolls by with a stack of plates and placemats to set the table. Reed finds the morning paper in its usual spot on the counter and flips through it, skimming the headlines between more sips of coffee. H.E.R.B.I.E. beeps to let him know the table is ready and he looks up, brows pinching together when he notices a fifth table setting.

“Does your programming need to be updated again?” He wonders aloud. H.E.R.B.I.E. responds with a series of beeps that Reed interprets as “no” and “guest”. “We don’t have any guests coming,” he adds.

H.E.R.B.I.E. beeps again, robotic arm pointing up. Reed frowns, unsure of what it means. 

You tip toe down the stairs, your shoes clutched in one hand and your bag in the other, dressed in the same clothes from the night before, now slightly wrinkled from being left in a pile on Johnny’s bedroom floor. 

Staying the night is not usually part of the routine when you visit Johnny at the Baxter Building. The risk of getting caught together was too high, given the fact that he shared the apartment with his family, but for the first time since starting whatever this thing between you was, he had asked you to stay. And you, being a sucker for his big blue eyes and warm hands and sinful mouth, agreed. He kept you wrapped up in his arms all night, his face pressed against your neck and his legs tangled with yours beneath the sheets. 

Pulling yourself away from him this morning had been torture, especially when Johnny let out a little whine when you escaped his hold, but with the sun already up and the chances of making a clean escape dwindling by the minute, you knew it had to be done.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and peek around the corner, cursing to yourself when you saw Reed Richards, Mister Fantastic himself, standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. You press yourself back against the wall, trying to think of an alternative. Maybe you could just go back upstairs and hide in Johnny’s room until the coast was clear?

You take a couple steps back in the direction you came from, heading for the stairs, but freeze when you hear Reed clear his throat. Turning slowly, you find that the man is now standing a few feet away, watching you curiously.

“Uh…hi,” you say, giving a little wave. Beside Reed, H.E.R.B.I.E. beeps, waving back at you. He looks down at the robot.

“This is the guest?” He asks. The robot nods. Reed’s attention returns to you. “Hello. I’m Reed Richards.”

The idea of Reed Richards introducing himself to you, like he’s not the most well known man in the world, is almost enough to make you laugh but you bite your tongue and introduce yourself.

“Reed, honey, who are you—“ 

Sue Storm appears behind her husband with her son on her hip, looking far too beautiful for how early it is. She’s dressed for the day in a smart pair of pants and a soft looking sweater, hair already styled and makeup applied, though the dark circles beneath her eyes are becoming harder to cover as Franklin’s sleep regression wears on. Her sentence trails off when she sees you. 

“Hello,” she says, lips curling in a knowing smirk. “Who’s this?”

“She’s a guest,” Reed says, sharing a look with his wife. Some unspoken communication passes between them and you wonder if maybe the universe could help you out and produce some sort of emergency that would call the Fantastic Four away from this painfully awkward encounter. 

“What’s cookin’, H.E.R.B.I.E.?” A booming voice asks, heavy steps coming down the stairs. 

You look over your shoulder just as Ben Grimm appears, stopping short when he spots you. He looks toward Reed and Sue, who must also be able to communicate telepathically with Ben, because his confusion morphs into understanding, rocky mouth now tilted in a sly grin. 

“Come sit,” Sue says, setting Franklin into a high chair at the head of the table. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose—“

“H.E.R.B.I.E. makes a mean breakfast,” Ben chimes in, pulling out one of the chairs and gesturing for you to take a seat. You blink at him.

“Okay,” you acquiesce, sinking onto the chair and setting your stuff on the ground by your feet. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Reed says, taking a seat beside Franklin’s high chair. “Would you care for some coffee? Or fresh squeezed orange juice? We also have milk and tea.”

“Coffee would be great,” you reply. 

H.E.R.B.I.E. rolls up beside your chair a moment later, balancing a tray with a mug of coffee, a pot of sugar, and a tiny silver container of creamer that he sets on the table. You take the mug and add a couple scoops of sugar and a splash of cream. 

“So,” Sue says, sitting down on the other side of Franklin, across from Reed. She gives you a friendly smile. “Tell us about yourself.”

The family listens attentively as you tell them about working as a librarian at the public library. Between bites of eggs and toast, Reed follows up with questions about your educational background when you mention that you have a degree in chemistry in addition to your Master’s in Library Science. Sue, while spooning oatmeal into Franklin’s mouth, asks to hear more about the outreach programs you’ve helped implement.

It’s Ben who asks the question on everyone’s mind.

“So, how’d you meet the hotshot?” 

Your cheeks feel warm as they wait for you to respond. “He comes into the library a lot,” you reply honestly. 

“Really?” Sue asks. Her surprise is mirrored on the other family member’s faces. “Huh. Imagine that.”

Footsteps on the stairs announce Johnny’s arrival. He turns the corner into the dining area, arms stretched above his head and eyes squeezed shut as he yawns. You pretend that your gaze isn’t immediately drawn to the strip of skin revealed when his shirt rides up. 

“Morning,” he says, blinking the residual sleep from his eyes. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolls up with a mug filled with creamer and a hint of coffee, just the way he likes it. He scratches the robot on the head. “Thanks, HERB.”

It takes him a moment to realize that everyone is staring at him and that, more importantly, you’re seated at the table. 

With his family.

Eating breakfast.

His lips stretch into a wide grin as he rounds the table and bends over to plant a kiss on your cheek. You stare at him, wide eyed with surprise, while he settles into his seat. 

Sue hides her smile behind her mug. Reed busies himself with wiping oatmeal off of Franklin’s chin. 

“Nice of you to finally join us,” Ben says, voice smug. “We were just gettin’ to know your friend here.”

“You mean my girlfriend,” he corrects, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “She’s great, right?”

“Sure is,” Ben replies. “What’s she doin’ with you?”

Johnny glares at his friend, flicking his next bite of eggs in his direction. Ben laughs and Reed asks him a question that drags his attention away, allowing you to lean closer to Johnny.

“Girlfriend?” You whisper. He looks over at you, gaze soft and sweet. Your heart pounds in your chest.

“That okay?” He asks, blue eyes suddenly filled with uncertainty. You smile at him, closing the distance between you and kissing him softly, aware of the others at the table attempting to sneak glances at the two of you.

“More than okay.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or drop by my inbox.

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | ao3

[briennemurdock]

Assuming Earth 828 has the same musical history that our earth has, which artists do you think Johnny Storm liked listening to? Would he be fond of The Beatles?

I made a playlist for Johnny Storm! (Some of the songs aren't from the 60s, but they're 60s-inspired.) I think he'd listen to all the songs on the playlist tbh. I can also see him really being into the Beatles and the Supremes. This song reminds me of him so much it's insane!!

I can see Johnny listening to it on repeat! Tbh. If anyone else has any suggestions as to what Johnny would listen to, please feel free to add on! I love 60s music, and I think he'd have a wide variety in music taste, tbh.

[briennemurdock]

best part of the movie was this dude

[briennemurdock]

Usually i feel like in the comics Krypto is Clark’s and Streaky is Kara’s but i hope Gunn switches it for his universe. 2025!Clark seems like he really didn’t like Krypto (not that Krypto is a bad dog, but maybe Clark isn’t that much of a dog person.) i could see him and Lois getting a kitty.

[briennemurdock]

the urge to restart my whole account because i’ve changed my drs up so much… (update: i did it)

[briennemurdock]

Fore!!!!

johnny storm x cart girl!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: johnny storm’s favorite way to relax? golf. his favorite part of golfing? the cart girl who pretends not to notice he only ever buys drinks from her wc: 2.5k

masterlist.

It was 7:45 AM, and the clubhouse smelled like sunscreen, lemon cleaner, and gossip.

You stood at your usual prep station behind the bar, loading bottles of water into the cooler on your golf cart. The other cart girls were buzzing around the back room like bees in matching polos, filling chip baskets, adjusting visors, reapplying gloss.

“He’s coming today,” Riley whispered like it was top-secret intel.

You didn’t even look up. “Who?”

“Johnny Storm,” she hissed. “The Human Torch. Hero of New York. Celebrity heartthrob. Walking tan commercial.”

“And my future husband,” Megan added from the other side of the room, tying her ponytail with a pink scrunchie.

You snorted and shook your head, double-checking your cooler inventory. “You guys say that every time he shows up.”

“That’s because it’s true,” Riley said. “He’s hot. Like, literally. And he tips so well.”

“Ten bucks for a soda,” Megan sighed dreamily. “It’s better than what most people tip here and almost romantic.”

“Well,” Riley added, loading up her cart with suspicious speed, “We would know if he ever bought from anyone but you.”

That made you pause.

You turned. “Huh?”

“Come on, don’t play dumb.” Riley leaned on the cart’s edge with a teasing grin. “He only ever buys from you. Every time he comes in. Doesn’t matter if we’re closer, he waits. And then he pretends to be ‘so thirsty’ he needs, like, five drinks at once.”

You blinked. “Maybe he’s just…not thirsty when you drive by?”

They both gave you the flattest look imaginable.

“Girl.”

“I’m serious!” you laughed, pulling on your hat. “He’s nice. He tips generously. That’s it.”

“Sure,” Megan muttered. “And next you’ll tell us the sun rises because it feels like it.”

You climbed into your cart and turned the key, the motor humming to life beneath you.

“You’ll see,” Riley called as you started to drive off. “He’s gonna flirt with you so hard today.”

You waved it off, steering out toward the fairway.

“If he buys anything,” you called back over your shoulder, “it’s because he’s thirsty!”

You didn’t know it yet, but Johnny Storm had already been spotted in the parking lot, hair wind-blown and sunglasses too expensive, asking the front desk what time your shift started.

By the time you hit hole six, the sun was fully up and the course was starting to hum with early morning players. Golfers waved as you passed, some flagging you down for waters or sports drinks, others just offering a nod or a tip of their cap.

And then you spotted him.

Or rather, he spotted you.

Johnny Storm stood at the edge of the green, squinting toward your cart like it was a mirage. He was wearing a baby blue polo that somehow made him look like a country club ad and a celebrity at the same time. His sunglasses were too expensive, his smile too white, and his hair was just…unfair.

He raised both arms in the air like he was greeting a long-lost lover.

You snorted and pulled the cart to a stop beside him. “You act like you haven’t seen me in years.”

“It’s been twelve days,” he said gravely. “I counted. They were dark times.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Did you come here to play golf or flirt with the staff?”

“Yes.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the cooler. “So. What’ll it be? Gatorade? Water? Lemonade? All of them, like last time?”

“Ooh, you remembered. I feel special.”

“You make it very hard to forget.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Say more things like that. I want them printed on a t-shirt.”

You handed him a cold bottle and raised your palm expectantly. “Four dollars.”

He handed you a twenty.

You frowned. “Johnny.”

“Tip included,” he said with a grin. “Plus, emotional damages for how cute you look in that visor.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Also,” he added, grabbing a second drink and holding it up like a prize, “I’ll take a backup hydration bottle. Just in case I pass out from, you know…looking at you too hard.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “Medical emergency. Got it.”

“You’d rescue me, though,” he said, leaning against the cart like he was posing for a calendar. “Right? You’d swoop in and revive me with one of those little pink drinks you keep in the back.”

You gave him a long look. “You’ve never bought the pink drinks.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen you drinking one. And I trust your taste.”

You blinked.

He winked.

Before you could reply, one of his golf buddies called out from down the fairway. “Yo, Romeo! Are you buying drinks or writing sonnets?”

Johnny turned slightly and shouted back, “Both!”

Then he looked at you again, soft, almost sheepish now.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his voice just a touch. “Thanks for always stopping for me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden sincerity. “Of course. It’s literally my job.”

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “But you make it feel like it’s just for me.”

And with that, he grabbed his drink, gave you one last grin, and jogged back toward his group—leaving you stunned, smiling, and not quite sure what just happened.

Back at the clubhouse, Riley and Megan were not going to let this go. You rolled back into the clubhouse around ten, a little sun-dazed and already craving lunch. You parked the cart, unplugged your handheld payment reader, and headed inside with a quiet sigh—only to be met with the sound of whispered chaos.

“Oh my God, look at her. She’s smiling.”

“Did he say something? What did he say?”

“Tell me he finally gave you his number. Please. I need to live through you.”

You paused in the doorway.

Riley and Megan were standing near the ice machine, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, grinning like wolves in visors.

“What?” you asked warily.

“Don’t play innocent,” Megan said, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it your way. “We saw the whole thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We may or may not have started staring from the window when we saw you pull up to hole six,” Riley said sweetly. “You two looked like you were filming a romance movie.”

“He was buying drinks,” you said flatly.

“He bought two drinks and gave you a twenty,” Megan pointed out. “And then lingered. There was leaning. There was eye contact.”

“There was a wink,” Riley added. “Like, a devastatingly flirty one.”

You tried not to smile. Failed.

“He’s just…like that,” you said, cracking open your water. “He flirts with everyone.”

They looked at you like you’d grown three heads.

“He does not flirt with everyone,” Riley said. “He flirts with you. Exclusively.”

“You know how many times I’ve circled past his group?” Megan added. “He doesn’t even blink at us. But the second he sees you, he turns into a lovesick boy with a credit card.”

You walked around the counter, pretending to reorganize the snack bins just to avoid their eyes.

“He’s nice,” you said, shrugging. “And maybe he’s just…really hydrated.”

“Oh my God,” Riley groaned, slumping onto a stool.

“You think he memorized your favorite drink because he’s dehydrated?” Megan asked.

You froze. “Wait, what?”

They both stared. “Oh my god, you didn’t even notice.”

“Notice what?”

“He only buys the pink lemonade ones when you’re drinking them,” Megan said, “Literally. Never before. We started tracking it.”

“There’s tracking?”

“Of course there's tracking.”

You dropped your face into your hands.

“You guys need hobbies.”

“You need to wake up girl,” Riley said. “Or maybe you just need a date with Johnny Storm, who is clearly in love with you.”

You shook your head and muttered, “He’s not.”

But the heat creeping up your neck said maybe, just maybe, you weren’t totally convinced anymore.

The next few days followed a pattern.

A stupid, suspicious pattern.

Johnny kept showing up to the course. Not every day, that’d be too obvious, but often enough that Riley and Megan kept score on the whiteboard in the breakroom. “Storm Watch: Day 3,” complete with tally marks and doodles of flames.

And every time he showed up? Same routine.

He waved at you, not anyone else. Waited for your cart to circle around. Ordered the same exact drink as whatever you were sipping.

Once, you were chewing watermelon gum and he pulled out the same kind from his pocket like it was totally normal.

“Wow,” you’d said, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re in sync,” he’d replied, grinning. “You’re the trendsetter. I’m just trying to keep up.”

You rolled your eyes. But your face had felt warm for the rest of the afternoon.

Today, it was even weirder.

You’d just pulled into hole fourteen when you spotted him, not at his usual tee spot, but loitering by the water cooler, clearly waiting.

You slowed the cart.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on hole fifteen?” you called out.

“Took a shortcut,” he said, stretching his arms overhead in a way that was definitely on purpose. “Was hoping to run into you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You realize we sell drinks at every hole, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But they’re not your drinks.”

You blinked. “…That’s the dumbest line I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re smiling, though.”

You were. Damn him.

He leaned an elbow against the cart roof, getting a little too comfortable.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping just slightly, “you could let me take you out for a drink sometime.”

Your stomach did a weird little flip.

“Is that a line, or…?”

“It’s an invitation,” he said.

“Right,” you muttered, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler.

He took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours.

“Hydration and heartbreak prevention,” he said, grinning. “You saying yes might save me.”

You scoffed. “You’ll survive.”

“Maybe. Barely.”

He lingered for a second too long, then turned and jogged off, turning around twice to wave at you, like he couldn’t help himself.

Back at the clubhouse, you stared at the cooler for a long time.

You didn’t say anything.

But the next morning, you made sure to stock extra of his favorite drink. Just in case.

The course was quiet that morning.

Overcast skies meant fewer players, and the usual buzz of golf carts and distant cheers was replaced by birdsong and the occasional low rumble of thunder somewhere far off.

You were parked under a tree by the edge of hole nine, flipping through your phone and sipping a half-warm coffee, when footsteps approached from the fairway.

You looked up.

“You again,” you said, trying not to smile.

Johnny jogged over, hair pushed back by the wind, no sunglasses today. Just him, his face open, unguarded. His polo sleeves pushed up. A little less “celebrity,” a little more boy next door.

“You’re hiding,” he said, stopping at your cart.

“I’m on break.”

“Break from selling drinks or from being the most popular girl on the course?”

You rolled your eyes. “Still trying to flirt?”

“No,” he said, softer now. “Just…trying to talk to you.”

You paused.

He nodded toward the passenger seat. “Can I sit?”

You motioned for him to hop in.

He did, folding his arms loosely and leaning back. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked out at the trees, the pale gray clouds, the stillness of the course.

“This is my favorite part,” he said eventually. “When it’s quiet. Before it gets loud again.”

You glanced at him. “Didn’t take you as a ‘quiet moment’ type.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah, most people don’t. They think I like the flash, the attention. And I do. I mean…I did. Kind of still do.”

He picked at the label of the water bottle in his hands.

“But this place? It’s the only place I don’t have to be on.”

“You come here to hide?”

“Not hide. Just…breathe.”

You watched him for a second, heart slowing.

He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t trying. He was just being.

You took a sip of your coffee, watching a leaf swirl across the grass. “Why me?”

“What?”

“You could buy drinks from anyone. But you wait for me. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Because you don’t treat me like a headline.”

That caught you off guard.

“You’re funny,” he continued. “You’re smart. You’re not trying to get anything out of me. You see me, and I think… I think I like the version of me you see. It feels better than the one everyone else wants.”

Your chest tightened.

He turned to look at you, eyes warm, a little nervous.

“And okay, yeah, you’re gorgeous, and I like your smile, and you say things that make me spiral in the best way, but it’s more than that. You make this place feel real. You make me feel real.”

The silence after was soft. Not awkward. Just heavy with truth.

You fiddled with the corner of a napkin in your lap.

“You’re not what I expected,” you murmured.

“Is that a good thing?”

You met his gaze.

“Yeah. I think it is.”

It happened at the end of your shift.

The sun was low, casting long shadows across the course. Your cooler was empty, your sleeves smelled like sunscreen and lemon Gatorade, and all you could think about was getting off your feet and into your car.

You were wheeling your cart back to the clubhouse when you saw him.

Johnny was leaning against one of the wooden posts near the exit path, hands in his pockets, still in that slightly rumpled polo like he hadn't moved since his last round.

You slowed the cart.

“You lose something?” you asked, teasing.

“Kinda,” he said, pushing off the post. “I was waiting for you.”

You stepped off the cart, tilting your head. “You already bought four drinks and a granola bar. You can’t possibly be that thirsty.”

He gave you a small smile, but it was different this time, nervous. Real.

“I figured if I waited until you were off-duty, you’d have to talk to me like a person and not a customer.”

“You’ve never acted like a customer,” you said softly.

“Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was kind of hoping you’d notice.”

He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to you.

A drink.

One of your pink lemonades.

Only this time, written across the label in marker were five simple words:

“Call me if you’re ready.”

And beneath it? His phone number.

You looked at it. Then at him.

“This is cute,” you said, smiling. “A little cheesy. But cute.”

“Yeah, well. I panicked. I was gonna say something cooler, but then I thought maybe you’d like this better.”

You ran your thumb over the writing.

“I do,” you said. “Like it better.”

He brightened.

“Does that mean…?”

“Yeah, Johnny. I think I’m finally thirsty.”

He broke into the biggest grin you’d ever seen, sun-drenched and boyish and so obviously relieved.

“Cool,” he said. “Cool cool cool. So I’ll, uh, be ready whenever you are. No pressure. I can wait. I’ve been waiting. Just didn’t want to keep showing up and not say something because my friend Ben said I was acting like a sap with no game and-”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek, warm and quick.

He froze mid-ramble.

You smirked. “Maybe bring me a drink next time.”

“You got it,” he breathed. “I’ll bring a whole cooler.”

[briennemurdock]

Johnny Storm fanfics are 1000X better when they have little technology.

Is this just me realizing Retro Futurism is my fav aesthetic? Yes.

They have robots like H.E.R.B.I.E. but they still have tiny tv screens and read newspapers and use chalkboards and have pagers and real books and put their space sounds on vinyl records.

Like? Oh but they have flame resistant clothes that don’t burn when Johnny uses his powers like he’s the sun incarnate.

IT’S SO GOOD.

[briennemurdock]

i'm so tired

johnny storm x reader

summary: johnny hasn't been able to sleep for days, missing you and being unable to fight with the team in the rain. he visits you in the middle of the night to take care of both you and himself.

a/n: joseph quinn in said in a recent red carpet interview that he thinks johnny's favorite beatles song would be "i'm so tired" so i wrote a fic around the song!

content: fluff, a little angst, mentions of insomnia and absent fathers

Johnny stood resting his forehead against the floor to ceiling windows of his room. He watched with bloodshot eyes as rain doused Manhattan. It had been doing so for days already. Usually he didn’t mind the occasional rainstorm– good and bad guys alike typically didn’t want to catch a cold. It was a nice break and gave him a few hours, sometimes a whole day, where he didn’t have to be on call as the Human Torch. He liked to spend the time with you: he could truly give you his undivided attention. It meant he could treat you the way you deserved. No imminent threats to handle. 

Just you and him and now.

But you had been gone for three weeks on a work trip, too tired most nights to talk on the phone. Johnny hated feeling so clingy, but it had been hard without you. He missed the sound of your voice, of your laugh, the lilting tone you teased him in. From what little you were able to tell him, it sounded like your trip was hell. Your boss demanded that you be on call for every little asinine demand your clients made in order to clinch the deal. It made Johnny boil with rage, but he didn’t express that to you. He knew it would only stress you out more, thinking he disapproved of your professional life— which wasn’t the case at all. He just wanted you to be treated with the respect you deserved.

On the evenings where you couldn’t call, Johnny took to flying through Manhattan instead. Feeling the New York air feed his flames as he wove through the streets was almost as refreshing as the sound of your voice. It sufficed for a bit, until it started raining incessantly— not just a twenty-minute drizzle here and there, either, no. Full blown thunderstorms bled from one day to the next. The world grew gloomy and the sky grumbled constantly.

The weather’s mood started to rub off on Johnny after the fifth day of rain. He couldn’t even help his family fight in this weather. He grew restless, which soon turned into sleepless nights. He tossed and turned for days, worrying about his family, worrying about you. Not even his records could lull him to sleep.

Now, he could see your apartment from his room if he strained his tired eyes in the dark. Your flight home had landed at midnight; it was nearing two a.m. now. The light in your room flicked on an hour ago and he had since been resisting every muscle that screamed at him to call you and ask to come over. But he already knew what you would say:

“Stay home, Johnny. It’s two in the morning. I’ll see you in the afternoon, anyways.”

But he didn’t want to see you in the afternoon. That was twelve hours away and you were home. Alone, jetlagged, probably hungry. Realistically, eating one of those shitty TV dinners you kept in the icebox for occasions like this.

Johnny pushed away from the window and made up his mind. Heading to the kitchen, he began to pack some things in a backpack. H.E.R.B.I.E. woke up from sleep mode at his loading dock and rolled over to see if the blonde man needed help. He beeped sweetly when he recognized the ingredients Johnny was assembling.

“Blast from the past, right, Herbert?”

“Bwee bwa bwu bwaeb.”

Johnny’s mouth quirked up into a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah.”

You sat nursing a lukewarm cup of tea, waiting for the oven to heat up, when your buzzer went off. It startled you so badly that you spilled your drink. Good thing it wasn’t hot. Your mind was a bit dazed from the exhausting work trip and even worse flight back home, so it took a moment for you to think of who would have the audacity to buzz you in the dead of night.

He buzzed again when you made no sign of answering the door, which made you sigh. You answered the receiver finally.

“Who is it?” You asked as if you didn’t already know.

“Just the love of your life,” he answered sweetly. Even through the crappy intercom, you could hear a strained tremor in his voice. Without responding, you let him in and in a few seconds, he had run up the handful of flights to your apartment. He knocked in the insistent way he always did: taptaptap-taptaptap. When you unlocked the door, he was leaning on your doorframe in an attempt at nonchalance. It fooled the masses, but never you.

“Hi, sugar,” he breathed excitedly, a light glimmering in his eyes. 

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Mister Storm?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s raining,” he dipped his head to kiss you on the cheek.

You hummed happily at the contact. “Is it now?”

“Mhmm,” he responded, too busy finding your mouth to use his words. When his lips met yours, the need for words fell away. You could taste the longing. You could feel how he had missed you. Johnny pulled you close to him and his hands pulsed with warmth that began to melt the knots in your muscles. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You shouldn’t have come all this way,” you whispered to him. What you really meant was, thank you, I missed you too.

“No one else was awake for me to annoy,” he said, but you knew he meant, I’d do anything for you.

When you pulled away, he came further into your apartment and you shut the door softly behind him. He sniffed the air thoughtfully.

“You’re preheating the oven, aren’t you?”

“...Yes.”

He walked into your kitchen with an air of authority and pointedly shut off the oven. “Have you eaten anything in the past three weeks that was not frozen at some point?”

You looked at the ceiling trying to think, which made him frown. “It’s a toss up.”

He tsk’d. “Lucky for you, I had a feeling you’d be heating up one of these atrocities and came prepared. I’m going to make you a Storm specialty.” He began to empty out the backpack he’d brought onto your counter. 

“A Storm specialty?” You tiptoed over to look, but he shielded the ingredients from your view.

“It’s quick–” he winked at you jokingly, but it made you blush all the same “–easy, and filling, ok? All good stuff I promise.”

“Only if you promise.” You leaned closer to his face. Now that he was here and had given you a taste of him again, all the neediness you had stored away during your trip came crashing into you.

“I swear on the life of my love,” he whispered gravely.

“Hmm, I hope you don’t swear on that often.”

“Only when I have to prove I mean what I say.”

You reached a hand up to run through his hair. Johnny’s eyes fluttered shut at the feeling and you stole a kiss from him. He made a sound somewhere in between a whimper and a groan before pulling away.

“Hey, now, don’t— don’t distract me. I came here with a mission.”

“And what was that mission exactly?”

“To take care of you. And before you argue–”

“I don’t need to be taken care of!”

“–I know, I know. Just… let me, alright? I want to.”

You sighed. “Fine, fine.”

“Now go cozy up on the couch,” Johnny commanded. You refused this, though, with a soft “mm-mm” you buried into his shoulderblade and hugged his waist.

“Alright, I’ll allow it,” he whispered. You settled your hands on his slender waist. Maybe it is good to have him here after all. You didn’t realize until he stood in your doorway how lonely coming home to an empty apartment after weeks of being away could be. 

Finally seeing the ingredients on the counter made you want to question what exactly this meal was, but you figured Johnny would have a grand story to tell you while you ate. For now, you were content to watch over his shoulders and shift away wordlessly when he searched for a new pot or pan. 

Although the two of you were typically quite chatty, exhaustion had clearly settled over the both of you. He did, at least, hum and sing under his breath. Some Beatles song that had come out while you were away.

“...you know I can’t sleep, I can’t stop my brain…”

After fifteen minutes of concentrated cooking– cut in half by not having to wait for water to boil or pans to get to temperature— Johnny wriggled out of your grasp and shooed you to the living room. But he followed you two minutes later, a bowl in each hand.

“I present to you, my beloved, a Storm sibling classic.”

With a flourish and a bow, he placed the bowls on your coffee table. One held boxed mac ’n’ cheese, the other, seared hot dog slices. The corner of your mouth quirked up in a smile. You could just see little Johnny eating this. Blonde hair a mess, wrinkled uniform trousers, a bandaid on his elbow, fork laden with things you would never conceive to put together yourself.

“I put them in separate bowls because I know you don’t always like mixing things, but I personally always tossed the hot dogs in with the mac,” he said.

You laughed through your nose and pulled him down to sit on the couch with you. You kissed his favorite spot that wasn’t his lips, right below his temple and beside his ear. 

“Tell me the story,” you said and began to eat.

It was his turn to smile. You knew him so damn well. “When Sue and I were little, our dad, y’know, wasn’t the same after mom died. Wasn’t present, even when he physically was. Before we had to move in with our aunt, Sue would cook on the nights he didn’t come home. She hated cooking but wouldn’t let me help because I was seven and could barely see over the stove. By the time she gave up on waiting for him on those nights, it’d be pretty late. So she’d make something fast, but semi-balanced– knowing two growing kids needed protein and stuff like that. Hence the hot dogs.”

“It’s pretty damn good,” you conceded around a mouthful.

“Nothing but the best for my baby.”

This meal was, to Johnny, the definition of being taken care of. Whatever had been going on in his brain while you were away seemed to have convinced him to open up a bit. He wasn’t what one would call closed off or aloof the rest of the time, of course not, but he also wasn’t one to dwell much on his past. He just wasn’t that kind of guy. Perhaps he could admit that, without you and without his powers in this weather, he’d been feeling like an unmoored ship, tossing around in the torrential storms. Helpless. And he hadn’t felt so helpless since those nights with Sue, watching his big sister try her best to feed them.

Sometimes there isn’t much you can do to help the people you love. Johnny knew this. He couldn’t help Sue back then, too small and childish to be trusted with fire (ironic, right?) or sharp objects. He couldn’t help you at work now, either; he knew that was a battle you had to fight on your own. But he could help by making the rest of your life a little easier. 

So he washed the dishes when you finished up and carried you to bed when you inevitably fell asleep watching TV with him. You opened your sleep-heavy eyes to see him backing away towards the door.

‘Don’t go,” you whined groggily, reaching for him.

He chuckled quietly. “Just turning off the light, sugar.”

Johnny was all too glad to slide into bed to spoon you from behind, warming you to your core. This didn’t satisfy you, though, since you couldn’t see his beautiful face. So you flipped over to sling your left leg over his waist, half hugging him, head on his chest. With less than half of your mind working, you noticed the rain had stopped. The only music was the slow synchronizing of your breathing with Johnny’s and the steady thumping of his heart. 

For the first time in several days, Johnny was able to succumb to sleep. The sweetest dream already lay in his arms.

thank you for reading! if you saw me post and accidentally delete the entire thing, no you didn't! LOL. let me know what ya think :3

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[briennemurdock]

actually freaking about about early season barry allen

bring back his makeup era

[briennemurdock]

For anyone confused i found a better pic! I’ve come to the conclusion that yes he DOES wear his own Aftershave line (because come on?!) but he ultimately smells like black pepper/cinnamon. Cinnamon more for Fall/Christmas time because he’s dramatic and likes to be “on theme” with the holiday season.

Okay - as seen in this edit if you pause it on the pic before Johnny’s Time Magazine pic it looks like he has his OWN cologne/aftershave line.

(The tagline is “even hotshots have a sensitive side” AGHHHHH)

So my question is simple- does Johnny smell like his own flaming cologne? Or does he wear something else? And if it’s something else, what does he smell like?

I want all thoughts and opinions- I’ve got brain rot.

[briennemurdock]

Blabbermouth

johnny storm x fem!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: on a mission, Johnny gets sprayed with something that makes him way too honest. you try to keep him quiet, but he blurts out all the things he’s been holding back, especially how long he’s been in love with you. wc: 2k

masterlist.

It was supposed to be a standard sweep.

Alien bunker. Low threat. Weird tech, strange symbols, and enough glowing crystals to make Reed’s voice crack with excitement. Johnny had been bored from the start—hovering in the back of the group, tossing a ball of flame between his fingers while Ben kicked open doors and Sue cleared the path.

“I could be on a beach right now,” Johnny muttered, singeing the edge of a scorched blueprint with his pinky. “I deserve to be on a beach.”

“You got terrible sunburn last time,” Sue reminded him without looking back.

“It was a controlled burn.”

The air in the corridor felt stale, like something hadn’t breathed in there for centuries. They moved cautiously through the underground chamber, scanning for trip wires or pressure plates. Nothing. Just strange writing etched into the walls, humming with quiet energy.

That was the first sign something was off.

The second?

The pod.

It sat in the corner of the room. Dull silver, cracked slightly open, leaking a strange violet mist that curled and floated like it had a mind of its own.

Johnny, naturally, poked it.

“Johnny.” Ben snapped, too late.

The mist shot upward in a perfect puff—like a firework in reverse—right into Johnny’s face.

He blinked. Coughed once. Waved the smoke away.

“What the hell was that?” Sue asked, backing up with her arm half-raised for a shield.

“I’m fine,” Johnny said, squinting. “That was barely a breath. Not even spicy. Smelled kind of like lavender.”

Reed was already scanning him with some handheld monitor, muttering calculations under his breath.

Johnny grinned. “Relax, I’m fine. I feel great, actually.”

Then he looked at Sue and said, completely deadpan:

“By the way, your meatloaf sucks.”

A beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” she said, affronted.

“I’ve been pretending for years. I’m sorry. It’s bad. It’s like sadness in a pan.”

And that was when Reed declared the mission over.

The Baxter Building lobby smelled like smoke.

Not the scary kind. No alarms, no shouting, no flaming holes in the ceiling. Just a lingering warmth in the air, like someone had lit a match and forgot to put it out. You looked up from your notebook as the elevator doors slid open and the Fantastic Four filed in, one by one.

Reed had a sample tube in his hand. Sue was wiping green goo off her shoulder with a sigh. Ben was muttering something about “next time, I swear I’m bringing a flamethrower.”

And Johnny…

Johnny was beaming.

“Hey, guys!” he said way too brightly, his eyes going wide when he spotted you. “Look who it is! It’s the prettiest person in the tri-state area. No, the planet. Actually, the universe. Easy.”

You blinked. “Johnny?”

He marched right up to you with zero hesitation and zero regard for personal space.

“Hi,” he said, grin full blast, cheeks flushed. “You look amazing. I love that shirt on you. And your hair? Perfect. Is that a new lipstick? It’s making me go crazy. In a good way.”

“…Are you okay?”

“Me? Never better,” he said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Got sprayed with a weird puff of alien gas in a tunnel, but I feel fantastic. And also, I’ve been thinking about how your laugh sounds like windchimes, and how it makes my chest all floaty and-”

“Johnny,” Reed interrupted from across the room, brows furrowed behind his glasses. “I need you to sit down.”

“I am sitting down,” Johnny replied.

“You’re standing.”

“Well, emotionally I’m sitting. Emotionally I am in a beanbag chair. Staring at-” he turned back to you, “a literal work of art.”

Sue groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Reed, tell me he didn’t breathe that stuff in.”

“He did,” Reed said grimly. “And based on his current behavior, I’m hypothesizing a psychochemical compound similar to a truth serum. But stronger. Less filtered. More impulsive.”

“Sweet,” Ben said. “So he’s just gonna be running his mouth until it wears off?”

“Correct.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good.”

You turned back to Johnny, whose attention hadn’t wavered once. He looked like a golden retriever that had just discovered affection. His smile was stupid. His eyes were shining. His hair was a little windblown and he had a small scratch on his cheek, but he looked annoyingly good.

“I am so sorry,” you whispered, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You probably don’t feel like yourself right now.”

“I feel great,” he replied. “Your hand is soft. Did you know that? Have I told you that before?”

“Johnny-”

“And I love that perfume. It’s not too much. It’s, like, subtle but deadly. I would let it kill me.”

“Okay-”

“I’m in love with you, by the way.”

Silence.

Your mouth dropped open.

Sue choked on her coffee.

Ben muttered, “Aw, hell.”

Johnny blinked. “Oh. Should I not have said that?”

The words just…hung there.

Like a balloon popped in the middle of a silent room. Time slowed. You felt your ears go hot, your heart skip. Johnny stood there, blinking at you like he didn’t just say that, like he hadn’t just detonated the emotional equivalent of a nuclear bomb in the middle of the Baxter Building.

“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “Okay. So you’re, uh. You’re drugged. That’s cool. That’s fine. Everything’s cool-”

“I’m not drugged,” Johnny said proudly. “I’m just finally free.”

Sue set down her coffee with a loud clunk. “Johnny, shut up.”

“I won’t!” he declared, like he was giving a toast. “I have been in love with her for, like, six months- maybe more, who’s counting, not me, except that I definitely wrote it in my notebook at one poin=t”

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

“And I didn’t say anything because I thought, hey, you’re normal, right? And I’m me. Human torch. Fire boy. Disaster man. I figured if I told you, you’d run for the hills or laugh or worse. But I think about you all the time.”

“Johnny-”

“Like, all the time. Like, embarrassing amounts. Like I have quotes you’ve said stuck in my head like song lyrics.”

"Johnny can you-"

“I memorized the way you say my name,” Johnny added, eyes wide, honest to God sincere. “You say it different than everyone else. It’s like…softer. Like you’re letting me be someone else when you say it.”

You wanted to disappear.

No. You wanted to melt into the floor.

Or maybe fly into the sun.

But instead you stood there, frozen, while Johnny kept going, still not done.

“One time I flew over your apartment window to make sure you got home okay after that dinner with that guy you didn’t like. And I pretended it was a patrol run, but really I just wanted to make sure your lights turned on. And I saw them. And I smiled for, like, an hour.”

“Oh my God,” Sue muttered into her hands.

“Also!” he added brightly. “I have a collection of vinyls in a box labelled ‘If She Ever Lets Me Kiss Her’ and I will be playing it in full if that moment ever comes."

Ben was red in the face now, shaking with laughter. Reed just looked concerned.

You finally grabbed Johnny’s arm and pulled him into the hallway with a rushed, “I just need to talk to him, excuse us.."

Once the door clicked shut behind you, Johnny looked up at you with a dreamy smile.

“You’re holding my arm,” he said, like it was the best part of his whole day.

You stared at him. “Johnny.”

“Yes?”

“You are not in your right mind.”

“I’m in love.”

“No, you’re chemically compromised.”

He grinned wider. “Wow. That’s my favorite way someone’s ever said that.”

You ran a hand down your face, trying not to laugh. Trying not to feel the way your heart was pounding.

“You can’t just…say all that to me,” you whispered. “You can’t say things like that and not mean them.”

Johnny paused.

The smile softened. For the first time all afternoon, he looked a little serious. A little still.

“I do mean them,” he said quietly. “Every single word.”

You stared.

He wasn’t grinning now. He wasn’t performing. He was just looking at you like you were the only real thing in the room. No sparks. No flash.

Honest.

Open.

Yours, if you wanted.

“But,” he added, blinking slow. “If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. I can…walk that back. Just, like, tell me, and I’ll make myself forget. Or I’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll do whatever you want. Just…don’t stop being in my life. I need you. Even if I don’t get to have you.”

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your hand was on his face, fingers cradling his jaw, thumb brushing the side of his cheek.

He leaned into it instantly, heat curling off his skin like instinct.

“You didn’t even ask if I feel the same,” you said softly.

“Do you?”

You nodded. Barely.

He didn’t say anything.

He just kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fiery.

It was warm. Solid. Real.

He tasted like cinnamon gum and something a little electric. He sighed into it like it was the one thing he’d been holding his breath for all this time.

When you pulled back, he looked dazed.

“You taste like strawberry chapstick,” he whispered. “I knew it.”

You laughed, breathless, forehead pressed to his.

“What happens when the serum wears off?”

“I panic. Sue makes fun of me. Reed writes a report. I pretend I don’t remember any of this.”

“And then?”

He looked at you again.

“Then I kiss you again,” he said. “But on purpose this time.”

By the time Johnny woke up the next morning, the serum had long worn off, and the crippling realization of everything he’d said had kicked in.

He lay on his back in his bed, arm over his face, replaying it all in horror:

“I think about kissing you, like, constantly.” “I flew past your window to make sure you were safe.”

He groaned. Out loud. Into the void. Into his pillow.

“Oh my god.”

There was a knock at the door.

He flinched. “Go away.”

The door opened anyway.

“Morning, lover boy,” Ben said, way too cheerfully.

“I said go away.”

“Too bad. I brought company.”

Sue followed behind, sipping her coffee. “How’s our little truth bomb?”

Johnny rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. “Dead. Gone. I’m quitting the team.”

“Aw, come on,” Ben said. “You were adorable. Real rom-com material.”

“Kill me.”

“I didn’t know your middle name was ‘romance’” Sue added.

“I swear to God-”

“And Reed says he’s almost done charting your ‘emotional spike timeline,’” Ben said. “Apparently you got more honest every time she smiled at you.”

“I will burn this entire building down.”

A soft knock interrupted his growing spiral of despair.

You stepped into the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. One of them had little flame doodles on the side. Johnny peeked over his pillow, eyes wide like a scared cat.

You gave him a slow smile. “You, uh…remember yesterday?”

He groaned. Again. “Please say it was all a dream.”

“Nope.”

You walked over and handed him the flame mug.

“But it was a very good dream for me.”

His ears turned red. Bright red. Like the serum had activated all over again.

You sat gently beside him on the edge of the bed.

“I liked hearing the things you said,” you added. “Even if they were…sudden. And chaotic. And a little concerning.”

“So…you’re not never speaking to me again?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“Definitely not.”

You leaned in, brushed your hand across his cheek, and kissed the corner of his mouth, warm and quick and real.

“I kind of want to hear more of the truth,” you murmured. “This time without the alien chemicals.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“Only if you promise to show me that collection of records.”

Johnny grinned, wide and stunned, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“I’ll even throw in choreography,” he said. “But I’m warning you—it’s a lot of finger guns and dramatic pointing.”

“Perfect.”

And for the first time in twenty-four hours, Johnny Storm thought:

"Yeah. That wasn’t so bad after all."

[briennemurdock]

Okay - as seen in this edit if you pause it on the pic before Johnny’s Time Magazine pic it looks like he has his OWN cologne/aftershave line.

(The tagline is “even hotshots have a sensitive side” AGHHHHH)

So my question is simple- does Johnny smell like his own flaming cologne? Or does he wear something else? And if it’s something else, what does he smell like?

I want all thoughts and opinions- I’ve got brain rot.