hauntedhowlett-writes

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ONE SHOTS

═══ THIRST TRAP

female reader | explicit

joaquin accidentally sends you a shirtless selfie

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[hauntedhowlett-writes]

SHAWN HATOSY as DAVID KLEIN Tangled (2001) Dir. Jay Lowi

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

JUST US

PAIRING: johnny storm x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

SUMMARY:

visiting your best friend, johnny storm, while he babysits his nephew should be just an average night.

but when your long buried feelings for each other are revealed, the evening gets a lot steamier than you expected.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

this was genuinely just supposed to be a fic about thirsting for johnny after seeing him baby wear franklin but alas, i gave it feelings.

WARNINGS/TAGS:

spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, fantastic four: first steps! johnny storm, best friend female reader, no use of y/n, babysitting, friends to lovers, confessions of love, alcohol consumption, yearning

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact): kissing, dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), mild praise kink, pet names, unprotected p in v, creampie.

“Hello?” You call out, stepping through the door to Johnny’s apartment. H.E.R.B.I.E. wheels into the foyer, greeting you with a happy beep and holding his arms out for your coat and bag, which he takes to one of the nearby closets.

The sun is setting beyond the floor to ceiling windows of the living room, bathing the room in warm tones of orange and yellow and pink, the Hudson sparkling below. Music plays softly, Patsy Cline’s smooth voice chasing away the apartment’s uncharacteristic silence.

“Hey, sorry, little man had a diaper situation but it’s all under control now,” Johnny says, emerging from the direction of Reed and Sue’s room.

It’s a good thing he’s looking at his nephew because you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s got Franklin strapped to his chest in one of those soft carriers, a little tuft of dark blonde hair peeking out above the fabric. Johnny drops a kiss to the boy’s head and your chest tightens almost painfully.

“You okay?”

You blink and realize Johnny is standing in front of you now, brows pinched together and blue eyes filled with concern. You smile, nodding your head quickly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him. You drop your gaze to Franklin. “You’re babysitting?”

“Reed surprised Sue with tickets to that new show that just opened,” he confirms. He pats Franklin’s back. “So Franklin here gets some favorite uncle time.”

You pretend to look around. “I don’t see Ben anywhere.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he says, rolling his eyes. He strolls past you, heading for the kitchen. “Speaking of Ben, he left dinner. You hungry?”

“Starving,” you admit. You trail after him, leaning your hip against the counter. “Need help?”

“We got this. You just go sit and look pretty.”

Traitorous butterflies flutter in your stomach as you take a seat on one of the barstools. It’s gotten easier over the years, pretending that you’re not head over heels in love with your best friend, but sometimes the ache is almost impossible to ignore.

Like now, watching Johnny move around the kitchen with practiced ease. H.E.R.B.I.E. helps him stick the casserole into the oven, which earns the robot a little scratch to his head. He grabs a bottle of wine from the rack that he uncorks, whistling along with the song. You can hear Franklin making noise, to which Johnny responds, “I know, buddy. That was a cool sound, huh?”

You can imagine the same scene, maybe in one of those alternate realities Reed is always talking about, where the kitchen is one you share with Johnny and the baby on his chest has your eyes but his nose. It makes you wonder whether it’s possible to miss something you’ve never had.

He pours two glasses of wine and turns to slide one across the counter toward you. “For the lady,” he adds with a wink.

“Thank you, barkeep,” you reply, taking a sip. “So, did you call me in for backup?”

He scoffs. “I don’t need backup,” he says. “Superhero, remember?”

“How could I forget?” The words sound sharp, even to your own ears. You take another sip of wine, trying to wash away the bitter taste they left in your mouth. “Sorry, I just mean—“

“I get it,” he interrupts. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the Human Torch more than I’m Johnny Storm.” He glances over his shoulder. Quietly, he adds, “That’s why I called. I just wanted to be Johnny.”

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens and closes but no words come out and your brain is filled with unhelpful static.

Your friendship with Johnny has had many phases but this one, where you’ve had to share pieces of him with the entire world, has been the hardest to navigate. Lately, time with him has been very take what you can get — a dinner here, a rare afternoon at the movies there, a walk in Central Park between photo shoots and brand deal negotiations. It’s been a big change from when you were attached at the hip as kids. You were under the impression that the hardship was one sided, that you were the only one missing the easy days before he became a bonafide hero and New York’s most eligible bachelor, a household name splashed across magazines and billboards and commercials.

“Johnny—“

The oven timer goes off. The chance to say something drifts away as H.E.R.B.I.E. rolls into action, taking the casserole out and setting it on a trivet to cool. Johnny brings Franklin over to the table and lifts him from the carrier, setting him into his high chair.

“Could you grab one of his food jars from the fridge?” He asks.

You slip from your seat and cross the kitchen, opening the fridge. Neat rows of different colored purees in little glass jars sit on the top shelf and you choose one that’s bright orange, a handwritten label proclaiming ‘CARROTS’ in Ben’s blocky handwriting.

“Ben’s making baby food?” You ask, stopping at the cutlery drawer for a spoon. Johnny nods.

“He said, ‘Everyone gets a home cooked meal for dinner’,” he replies, making his voice deeper in an impression of his friend.

You pass him the jar and spoon before sitting down across from him on the other side of Franklin’s high chair. H.E.R.B.I.E. serves dinner and the three of you eat together, with Johnny spooning carrots into Franklin’s mouth between bites from his own plate. You catch Johnny up on the drama around the office you work in and he gives you a recap of an interview he had recently.

By the time your plates are clear and half of Franklin’s meal has stained his bib, cheeks, and high chair, the sun has fully set. H.E.R.B.I.E. takes care of the dishes and Johnny whisks Franklin away for a quick bath. You wrap the remaining casserole in tinfoil and put it back in the fridge before moving into the conversation pit to flip the record over.

He returns with a squeaky clean Franklin on his hip, the boy’s hair still damp. He passes him to you and you set him on your lap, bouncing your legs to make him giggle while Johnny prepares his bottle in the kitchen.

He brings you the warm bottle and you shift Franklin into the crook of your elbow, lifting the nipple to his lips. Johnny sits down beside you, close enough that you can feel the unnatural heat of him where his thigh is pressed to yours.

You watch Franklin — the way his eyes begin to flutter as he drinks, the soft noises of contentment he makes, hands closing into tiny fists near his cheeks. He smells like soap and baby powder. Remarkably normal despite being anything but.

You look toward Johnny, who’s got an arm around the back of the couch and a soft expression on his face that makes your breath hitch.

“What’s that look for?” You ask quietly.

“Nothin’,” he says, reaching a finger out to trace Franklin’s cheek. “Just thinking.”

“Careful, you might hurt yourself.”

It’s an old joke, one you’ve said a thousand times before, but it still makes the corner of his mouth twitch.

You’re both quiet, watching as Franklin’s eyelids grow heavier and his long pulls from the bottle slow until the nipple pops from his mouth and milk dribbles down his chin. You pass Johnny the bottle and wipe away the mess with the corner of a burp cloth.

“Sweet dreams, Franklin,” you whisper, carefully handing him back to his uncle.

Johnny takes him to Reed and Sue’s room, transferring him to the crib. He comes back to the living room and sits beside you once more, setting the baby monitor on the table. A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by Patsy Cline, and New York twinkles outside the windows, the city that never sleeps living up to its name.

“You ever think about it?” Johnny asks. You look over at him.

“Think about what?”

He nods toward the monitor. “Kids. Marriage. A family.”

“Yeah,” you admit, a little wistful. “One day. With the right person.”

“What’s the right person like?”

“I’m not sure. I think I’ll know when I meet them.”

“What if you’ve already met them?”

Your brows knit together. The look on his face is intense, something brewing in his blue eyes that you’re not familiar with.

“Where’s all this coming from, Johnny?” You whisper, proud of the steadiness in your voice that you certainly don’t feel. He adjusts his position, turning to face you more.

“There was this moment, when Galactus almost broke through the portal and I just…I knew it had to be me. I had to get him back through there and it would likely mean not coming back,” he says, looking past you toward the window, brows furrowed as he remembers the moment. “And all I could think about was how I’d never gotten the chance to tell you,” he swallows, eyes meeting yours, “how much you mean to me.”

“Because you—Christ, you’re everything,” he continues, standing up, pacing in front of you, like he can’t stand to be still. “You’re the only person outside of my family who’s ever really seen me, you know? I don’t have to be the cool guy with you, I don’t have to be the Human Torch,” he says, looking down at his hands. “I don’t have to save the world or say the right thing or smile for a camera. I get to just…be.”

“And I—I think about you constantly. I’ll be getting ready for a photoshoot and I’ll start wondering what joke you would make about the sweater they put me in or I’ll pass by the store and stop in to check if they have that chocolate you like, just so I have some when I finally get to see you again.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You know, I get called a heartbreaker for never asking anyone on a second date,” he says, words coming out in a rush, “but that’s because I spend the whole time comparing them to you and getting disappointed when they don’t even come close!” He pauses. “In hindsight, that really should have been my wake up call. Not a space giant trying to eat our planet.”

Your heart is damn near beating out of your chest. He takes a deep breath, dropping his head back to look at the ceiling and putting his hands on his hips.

“I just—I love you. That’s what I’m trying to say. I am in love with you,” he says. He holds his hands out toward you, palms up. The expression on his face is full of open honesty and a touch of apprehension. “Say something. Please.”

You stand from the couch, crossing the distance between you in a few quick steps and crashing into him. His arms wrap around your waist, steady and solid and warm, while yours settle around his shoulders.

“You were always the brave one, Jonathan Storm,” you murmur.

You tilt your face to press your lips to his. He remains perfectly still, like maybe he’s worried the moment might shatter if he dares to breathe. You pull back, just slightly, only enough to open your eyes and find him staring back at you.

“You kissed me,” he says.

“I did.”

“Does that mean—“

“I love you, too,” you confirm. You smile at him, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “Johnny, I’ve loved you for years.”

He frowns. “Years? Plural?” You nod. “We could have been kissing for years?”

“We could be kissing now if you would stop—“

Your sentence is cut off when Johnny kisses you again.

It’s a little messy, his mouth catching yours before you have the chance to angle your head just right. Your noses bump and your teeth click together but it makes you both laugh, smiling against each other. His hands slide to your hips, tugging you a little bit closer.

You tilt your head and there, that’s it. Your lips slot together perfectly with his and everything narrows down to where you’re connected — the softness of his lips, the warmth of his body, the squeeze of his hands on your hips. You lose yourself to it, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, a small gasp escaping when he licks across your bottom lip and his tongue slips into your mouth to tangle with yours.

He pulls back first and you try to commit the look on his face to memory — his spit slick, kiss swollen lips, the flush high on his cheeks and the look in his eyes, bright blue eclipsed by darkness. He reaches between you for your hand and tugs you along behind him as he makes his way out of the living room and toward the stairs.

“Wait—,” you tell him, pulling your hand free. You rush back into the conversation pit to grab Franklin’s monitor, holding it up. “Almost forgot this.”

He gives you a soft smile and presses a lingering kiss to your lips before taking your hand in his once more and leading you upstairs.

You’re no stranger to Johnny’s room. You’ve been in it more times than you can count, have spent full afternoons lying on the floor in a patch of sun with a magazine spread out in front of you. But tonight, with the lights off and the city glow coming through the window, it feels like a whole different world.

Johnny takes the monitor from you and sets it on the small table beside his record player. He turns to face you and you find yourself caught in a silent staring contest with him, neither of you willing to break first.

“Music,” he says suddenly. He drops to one knee in front of his record cabinet, sliding it open. “You want music?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, shuffling through his organized collection with quick fingers. You stifle a laugh.

“You seem nervous,” you observe. He pauses, turning his head to look at you over his shoulder.

“That’s because I am,” he admits.

“Why? It’s just me.”

He stands, crossing the room until he’s in front of you, reaching for your hand. “I’m nervous because it’s you.”

You reach up, cradling his face between your hands. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer.

“It’s just me,” you repeat, smoothing your thumb across his cheek. “Just us.”

You catch a glimpse of his smile before he’s leaning in and kissing you again, slow and sweet. Your fingers play with the fine hair at the nape of his neck and his hand finds your hip, squeezing once before venturing lower until he finds the hem of your dress, fingertips teasing the bare skin of your thighs.

“Can I take this off?” He asks. You nod, turning around to give him access to the zipper in the back.

He pinches it between two fingers and slowly drags it down, the sound loud in the quiet room. His knuckles brush against your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

When he reaches the end of the zipper, you turn back around, pulling the sleeves down your shoulders and shimmying the dress past your thighs until it hits the floor in a heap, leaving you in just a matching cotton bra and panty set. It’s nothing spectacular, no frills or lace or silk, but Johnny’s gaze is dark, pupils blown black and leaving only a thin ring of familiar clear blue. His hands hover but he doesn’t touch, like he’s unsure where to start.

His throat bobs with a harsh swallow. “You look—I mean—wow.”

Your skin feels hot as his gaze slowly moves over your figure. He finally touches you, one hand curling around the back of your neck to pull you in. His mouth crashes into yours and you gasp, trying to keep up with the filthy way his tongue twists with yours.

Johnny urges you backwards until your legs hit the mattress and he slowly lowers you down. He starts to kiss across your jaw, down your neck, sucking the thin skin over your pounding pulse between his lips, hard enough to drag a needy whine from you. You can feel his smile against your sternum as he continues to leave a hot trail of kisses across all the exposed skin he can find.

He reaches beneath you, pinching the band of your bra together until it releases. You lift your eyebrow when he looks up at you with a satisfied smirk, clearly pleased with his talents.

You lift up enough for him to remove your bra and he tosses it somewhere behind him. He palms one of your breasts, squeezing gently, and you arch into the touch with a breathy sigh.

“So pretty,” he says, voice low and dark.

He drops his head to your chest, tongue laving at your nipple before he takes the bud in his mouth. You moan, grabbing his shoulder, twisting the fabric of his shirt in your fist.

He’s relentless, alternating between your breasts so that each gets equal attention, licking and sucking at your nipples until you’re writhing beneath him, equal parts desperate to get away and for more, more, more.

“Johnny,” you moan, reaching down with shaking hands to grab the hem of his sweater. “Get this off.”

He pulls back, the cold air of the room hitting your spit slick skin and making you shiver. He tears the sweater over his head, revealing the tight muscle and smooth skin beneath. You press a hand to his chest, right over his heart that beats wildly against your palm, and drag it lower, over the dips and curves of his abs.

“Like what you see?” He asks, words cocky but tone breathless. You bite your lip and nod.

“You’re gorgeous, Johnny,” you tell him. “Always have been.”

“Even when I tried to grow that mustache in high school?”

You laugh, curling your fingers into the waistband of his pants. His hips flex at the contact.

“Even then,” you confirm.

He reaches for his belt, undoing the buckle and pulling it free from the loops. Then he stands, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them down to the floor along with his briefs, leaving him completely bare. Your gaze drops to his cock, where it hangs heavy between his thighs, and your brain suddenly feels fuzzy, the only thought bouncing around is that of course Johnny would be perfect all over.

You expect him to come back on the bed but he drops to his knees on the floor and reaches for your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the mattress, your legs over his shoulders. You prop yourself up on your elbows, staring down at him.

“What are you doing?” You ask. He pushes your thighs further apart, face level with your center. You try to close your legs but his grip is firm, his expression determined.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he says, kissing the inside of your knee. One of his hands travels higher, fingers teasing the edge of your panties. “With my mouth.”

You blink at him. “I—I don’t—“ you hesitate, embarrassment making your face feel hot. “I mean, I’ve heard of guys doing…that…but I’ve never—“

His brows lift in surprise but his smile is soft “We can stop,” he assures you, “if you don’t like it. But…can I? Please?”

And you’ve never been good at saying no to Johnny Storm, have never been immune to his big blue eyes and his sweet smile. You fall flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling as heat rushes to your skin.

“Okay.”

He’s quick to respond, tugging at your panties with clumsy hands. You lift your hips and he slides them off, leaving you completely bare. Your breath catches when you feel his lips on your inner thigh.

“Relax,” he says. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

His warm breath on your slick skin is the only warning you get before he’s licking you, tongue dragging from your leaking entrance to your aching clit. You gasp and he groans, pinning your hips to the mattress with a hot and heavy palm, holding you steady as he does it again and again.

Johnny’s tongue circles your bundle of nerves in a maddening rhythm, making your toes curl. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly on the strands and he hums, the vibrations making you arch your back as you cry out his name.

“Oh my god,” you gasp when he sucks your clit into his mouth and swirls his tongue. The pressure, the friction, the warmth — it’s all too much and suddenly you’re falling, stars bursting at the edges of your vision. “Johnny!”

You’re trying to catch your breath when Johnny’s grinning face appears above you, his chin is shiny with your release and his hair is sticking up thanks to your hands. He dips his head to press his lips to yours and you can taste yourself on his tongue when he slips it into your mouth, earthy and surprisingly sweet.

The kiss deepens, hot and messy, his weight pressing into you, his scent surrounding you, his intense warmth suffusing through you to your very marrow. You can feel the hard line of his arousal against your thigh and the sticky smear of precum on your skin when his hips flex against you.

“Johnny,” you slur into the kiss, “I want you.”

“You’ve got me, sweetheart,” he breathes, dropping his head to your neck and sucking the sensitive skin between his teeth. His cock slides between your folds, the thick head bumping against your clit and making you moan.

“Inside,” you demand, reaching a hand between your bodies. You wrap your fingers around him and he jolts at the contact, eyes fluttering. “Want you inside.”

“Okay—yeah—“

His sentence trails off as you position him at your entrance and he pushes forward, sinking inside of you. Wide blue eyes stare down at you, unblinking and unbelieving. The stretch is exquisite, a pinch of pain that dulls into an ache the deeper he goes until finally, his hips are flush to yours.

He holds himself still, chest heaving. You lift your shaky hands to his face and pull him in for another kiss, another desperate tangle of your mouths. The demand forces him to settle more of his weight on you, though he keeps himself propped up on an elbow digging into the mattress beside your head.

You lift your hips up, just slightly, and Johnny takes it as the invitation it is, drawing his own hips back, dragging his cock out until just the tip remains inside of you before sliding slowly back inside of you.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. His hand traces your neck, his touch reverent as he moves lower over the curve of your breast and your waist. “You feel—I never—“

His arm slips beneath your lower back, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. He keeps the same slow and agonizingly deep pace, dropping his head to mouth at your neck and chest, licking the sweat from your skin. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders and raking down his back, earning you a low groan that he muffles between your neck and shoulder.

“Johnny, I—“

Your words die on a moan when he picks up the pace, your eyelids fluttering and the familiar twist of pleasure coiling in your belly.

“That feel good?” Johnny asks, punctuating his question with a sharp snap of his hips that has your back bowing from the bed. “Talk to me, baby.”

“So good,” you whimper. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

“Not going anywhere,” he assures you. “Not when you feel this perfect.”

He lowers your hips back to the mattress and brings his hand to your arm, lifting it from his shoulder, kissing the inside of your wrist before he folds his fingers between yours and presses your joined hands to the mattress beside your head.

You tighten your legs around his waist. He looks at you, the same blue eyes from every happy memory now shining with open adoration, and the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, every muscle drawing tight.

Johnny gasps, his rhythm faltering, thrusts growing sloppy as he comes just as your own orgasm begins to fade. He presses in deep, cock pulsing, filling you in a way you’ve never experienced before.

He collapses, mostly on top of you, his breathing labored. He turns his head to press slow kisses against your neck.

“We should do that again,” he says after a long moment, rolling himself onto the mattress to lay beside you. You turn towards him with wide eyes and he laughs. “I don’t mean, like, right now. Give me ten minutes.”

“Just ten minutes, huh?” You ask. “I might need a little longer to recover.”

His answering grin is smug, self-satisfaction rolling off of him in waves. He opens his mouth to reply but he’s interrupted by a short cry coming from the monitor across the room.

“Franklin’s due for his last bottle,” he says, sitting up. He stands up and crosses the room to his wardrobe, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. “I’ll be right back.”

You take a quick trip to the bathroom while he’s gone before climbing back in bed. His voice, low and soft, can be heard from the monitor.

“She’s going to be your aunt, Franklin,” Johnny says, just as exhaustion begins to make everything feel fuzzy. “Don’t tell your mom, though. She’ll just say, ‘I told you so’.”

Reed and Sue return to the apartment a couple hours later. It’s dark, quiet — a good sign, when you have a baby that wakes every few hours.

Reed heads for the bedroom to check on their son while Sue opens the hall closet. Inside, she notices a familiar coat and purse.

“I’m going to grab the monitor from Johnny,” Reed says, returning to the foyer. Sue places a hand on his arm.

“Perhaps you should send H.E.R.B.I.E. instead,” she suggests. When her husband’s brows pinch together in confusion, she tips her head toward the closet. “Johnny’s got a guest.”

“Really? Who—oh.”

“See? I told you so,” Sue says. “It was only a matter of time.”

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, dropping an ask, or reblogging if you enjoyed this fic🥰

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | ao3

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

JUST US

PAIRING: johnny storm x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

SUMMARY:

visiting your best friend, johnny storm, while he babysits his nephew should be just an average night.

but when your long buried feelings for each other are revealed, the evening gets a lot steamier than you expected.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

this was genuinely just supposed to be a fic about thirsting for johnny after seeing him baby wear franklin but alas, i gave it feelings.

WARNINGS/TAGS:

spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, fantastic four: first steps! johnny storm, best friend female reader, no use of y/n, babysitting, friends to lovers, confessions of love, alcohol consumption, yearning

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact): kissing, dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), mild praise kink, pet names, unprotected p in v, creampie.

“Hello?” You call out, stepping through the door to Johnny’s apartment. H.E.R.B.I.E. wheels into the foyer, greeting you with a happy beep and holding his arms out for your coat and bag, which he takes to one of the nearby closets.

The sun is setting beyond the floor to ceiling windows of the living room, bathing the room in warm tones of orange and yellow and pink, the Hudson sparkling below. Music plays softly, Patsy Cline’s smooth voice chasing away the apartment’s uncharacteristic silence.

“Hey, sorry, little man had a diaper situation but it’s all under control now,” Johnny says, emerging from the direction of Reed and Sue’s room.

It’s a good thing he’s looking at his nephew because you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s got Franklin strapped to his chest in one of those soft carriers, a little tuft of dark blonde hair peeking out above the fabric. Johnny drops a kiss to the boy’s head and your chest tightens almost painfully.

“You okay?”

You blink and realize Johnny is standing in front of you now, brows pinched together and blue eyes filled with concern. You smile, nodding your head quickly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him. You drop your gaze to Franklin. “You’re babysitting?”

“Reed surprised Sue with tickets to that new show that just opened,” he confirms. He pats Franklin’s back. “So Franklin here gets some favorite uncle time.”

You pretend to look around. “I don’t see Ben anywhere.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he says, rolling his eyes. He strolls past you, heading for the kitchen. “Speaking of Ben, he left dinner. You hungry?”

“Starving,” you admit. You trail after him, leaning your hip against the counter. “Need help?”

“We got this. You just go sit and look pretty.”

Traitorous butterflies flutter in your stomach as you take a seat on one of the barstools. It’s gotten easier over the years, pretending that you’re not head over heels in love with your best friend, but sometimes the ache is almost impossible to ignore.

Like now, watching Johnny move around the kitchen with practiced ease. H.E.R.B.I.E. helps him stick the casserole into the oven, which earns the robot a little scratch to his head. He grabs a bottle of wine from the rack that he uncorks, whistling along with the song. You can hear Franklin making noise, to which Johnny responds, “I know, buddy. That was a cool sound, huh?”

You can imagine the same scene, maybe in one of those alternate realities Reed is always talking about, where the kitchen is one you share with Johnny and the baby on his chest has your eyes but his nose. It makes you wonder whether it’s possible to miss something you’ve never had.

He pours two glasses of wine and turns to slide one across the counter toward you. “For the lady,” he adds with a wink.

“Thank you, barkeep,” you reply, taking a sip. “So, did you call me in for backup?”

He scoffs. “I don’t need backup,” he says. “Superhero, remember?”

“How could I forget?” The words sound sharp, even to your own ears. You take another sip of wine, trying to wash away the bitter taste they left in your mouth. “Sorry, I just mean—“

“I get it,” he interrupts. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the Human Torch more than I’m Johnny Storm.” He glances over his shoulder. Quietly, he adds, “That’s why I called. I just wanted to be Johnny.”

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens and closes but no words come out and your brain is filled with unhelpful static.

Your friendship with Johnny has had many phases but this one, where you’ve had to share pieces of him with the entire world, has been the hardest to navigate. Lately, time with him has been very take what you can get — a dinner here, a rare afternoon at the movies there, a walk in Central Park between photo shoots and brand deal negotiations. It’s been a big change from when you were attached at the hip as kids. You were under the impression that the hardship was one sided, that you were the only one missing the easy days before he became a bonafide hero and New York’s most eligible bachelor, a household name splashed across magazines and billboards and commercials.

“Johnny—“

The oven timer goes off. The chance to say something drifts away as H.E.R.B.I.E. rolls into action, taking the casserole out and setting it on a trivet to cool. Johnny brings Franklin over to the table and lifts him from the carrier, setting him into his high chair.

“Could you grab one of his food jars from the fridge?” He asks.

You slip from your seat and cross the kitchen, opening the fridge. Neat rows of different colored purees in little glass jars sit on the top shelf and you choose one that’s bright orange, a handwritten label proclaiming ‘CARROTS’ in Ben’s blocky handwriting.

“Ben’s making baby food?” You ask, stopping at the cutlery drawer for a spoon. Johnny nods.

“He said, ‘Everyone gets a home cooked meal for dinner’,” he replies, making his voice deeper in an impression of his friend.

You pass him the jar and spoon before sitting down across from him on the other side of Franklin’s high chair. H.E.R.B.I.E. serves dinner and the three of you eat together, with Johnny spooning carrots into Franklin’s mouth between bites from his own plate. You catch Johnny up on the drama around the office you work in and he gives you a recap of an interview he had recently.

By the time your plates are clear and half of Franklin’s meal has stained his bib, cheeks, and high chair, the sun has fully set. H.E.R.B.I.E. takes care of the dishes and Johnny whisks Franklin away for a quick bath. You wrap the remaining casserole in tinfoil and put it back in the fridge before moving into the conversation pit to flip the record over.

He returns with a squeaky clean Franklin on his hip, the boy’s hair still damp. He passes him to you and you set him on your lap, bouncing your legs to make him giggle while Johnny prepares his bottle in the kitchen.

He brings you the warm bottle and you shift Franklin into the crook of your elbow, lifting the nipple to his lips. Johnny sits down beside you, close enough that you can feel the unnatural heat of him where his thigh is pressed to yours.

You watch Franklin — the way his eyes begin to flutter as he drinks, the soft noises of contentment he makes, hands closing into tiny fists near his cheeks. He smells like soap and baby powder. Remarkably normal despite being anything but.

You look toward Johnny, who’s got an arm around the back of the couch and a soft expression on his face that makes your breath hitch.

“What’s that look for?” You ask quietly.

“Nothin’,” he says, reaching a finger out to trace Franklin’s cheek. “Just thinking.”

“Careful, you might hurt yourself.”

It’s an old joke, one you’ve said a thousand times before, but it still makes the corner of his mouth twitch.

You’re both quiet, watching as Franklin’s eyelids grow heavier and his long pulls from the bottle slow until the nipple pops from his mouth and milk dribbles down his chin. You pass Johnny the bottle and wipe away the mess with the corner of a burp cloth.

“Sweet dreams, Franklin,” you whisper, carefully handing him back to his uncle.

Johnny takes him to Reed and Sue’s room, transferring him to the crib. He comes back to the living room and sits beside you once more, setting the baby monitor on the table. A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by Patsy Cline, and New York twinkles outside the windows, the city that never sleeps living up to its name.

“You ever think about it?” Johnny asks. You look over at him.

“Think about what?”

He nods toward the monitor. “Kids. Marriage. A family.”

“Yeah,” you admit, a little wistful. “One day. With the right person.”

“What’s the right person like?”

“I’m not sure. I think I’ll know when I meet them.”

“What if you’ve already met them?”

Your brows knit together. The look on his face is intense, something brewing in his blue eyes that you’re not familiar with.

“Where’s all this coming from, Johnny?” You whisper, proud of the steadiness in your voice that you certainly don’t feel. He adjusts his position, turning to face you more.

“There was this moment, when Galactus almost broke through the portal and I just…I knew it had to be me. I had to get him back through there and it would likely mean not coming back,” he says, looking past you toward the window, brows furrowed as he remembers the moment. “And all I could think about was how I’d never gotten the chance to tell you,” he swallows, eyes meeting yours, “how much you mean to me.”

“Because you—Christ, you’re everything,” he continues, standing up, pacing in front of you, like he can’t stand to be still. “You’re the only person outside of my family who’s ever really seen me, you know? I don’t have to be the cool guy with you, I don’t have to be the Human Torch,” he says, looking down at his hands. “I don’t have to save the world or say the right thing or smile for a camera. I get to just…be.”

“And I—I think about you constantly. I’ll be getting ready for a photoshoot and I’ll start wondering what joke you would make about the sweater they put me in or I’ll pass by the store and stop in to check if they have that chocolate you like, just so I have some when I finally get to see you again.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You know, I get called a heartbreaker for never asking anyone on a second date,” he says, words coming out in a rush, “but that’s because I spend the whole time comparing them to you and getting disappointed when they don’t even come close!” He pauses. “In hindsight, that really should have been my wake up call. Not a space giant trying to eat our planet.”

Your heart is damn near beating out of your chest. He takes a deep breath, dropping his head back to look at the ceiling and putting his hands on his hips.

“I just—I love you. That’s what I’m trying to say. I am in love with you,” he says. He holds his hands out toward you, palms up. The expression on his face is full of open honesty and a touch of apprehension. “Say something. Please.”

You stand from the couch, crossing the distance between you in a few quick steps and crashing into him. His arms wrap around your waist, steady and solid and warm, while yours settle around his shoulders.

“You were always the brave one, Jonathan Storm,” you murmur.

You tilt your face to press your lips to his. He remains perfectly still, like maybe he’s worried the moment might shatter if he dares to breathe. You pull back, just slightly, only enough to open your eyes and find him staring back at you.

“You kissed me,” he says.

“I did.”

“Does that mean—“

“I love you, too,” you confirm. You smile at him, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “Johnny, I’ve loved you for years.”

He frowns. “Years? Plural?” You nod. “We could have been kissing for years?”

“We could be kissing now if you would stop—“

Your sentence is cut off when Johnny kisses you again.

It’s a little messy, his mouth catching yours before you have the chance to angle your head just right. Your noses bump and your teeth click together but it makes you both laugh, smiling against each other. His hands slide to your hips, tugging you a little bit closer.

You tilt your head and there, that’s it. Your lips slot together perfectly with his and everything narrows down to where you’re connected — the softness of his lips, the warmth of his body, the squeeze of his hands on your hips. You lose yourself to it, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, a small gasp escaping when he licks across your bottom lip and his tongue slips into your mouth to tangle with yours.

He pulls back first and you try to commit the look on his face to memory — his spit slick, kiss swollen lips, the flush high on his cheeks and the look in his eyes, bright blue eclipsed by darkness. He reaches between you for your hand and tugs you along behind him as he makes his way out of the living room and toward the stairs.

“Wait—,” you tell him, pulling your hand free. You rush back into the conversation pit to grab Franklin’s monitor, holding it up. “Almost forgot this.”

He gives you a soft smile and presses a lingering kiss to your lips before taking your hand in his once more and leading you upstairs.

You’re no stranger to Johnny’s room. You’ve been in it more times than you can count, have spent full afternoons lying on the floor in a patch of sun with a magazine spread out in front of you. But tonight, with the lights off and the city glow coming through the window, it feels like a whole different world.

Johnny takes the monitor from you and sets it on the small table beside his record player. He turns to face you and you find yourself caught in a silent staring contest with him, neither of you willing to break first.

“Music,” he says suddenly. He drops to one knee in front of his record cabinet, sliding it open. “You want music?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, shuffling through his organized collection with quick fingers. You stifle a laugh.

“You seem nervous,” you observe. He pauses, turning his head to look at you over his shoulder.

“That’s because I am,” he admits.

“Why? It’s just me.”

He stands, crossing the room until he’s in front of you, reaching for your hand. “I’m nervous because it’s you.”

You reach up, cradling his face between your hands. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer.

“It’s just me,” you repeat, smoothing your thumb across his cheek. “Just us.”

You catch a glimpse of his smile before he’s leaning in and kissing you again, slow and sweet. Your fingers play with the fine hair at the nape of his neck and his hand finds your hip, squeezing once before venturing lower until he finds the hem of your dress, fingertips teasing the bare skin of your thighs.

“Can I take this off?” He asks. You nod, turning around to give him access to the zipper in the back.

He pinches it between two fingers and slowly drags it down, the sound loud in the quiet room. His knuckles brush against your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

When he reaches the end of the zipper, you turn back around, pulling the sleeves down your shoulders and shimmying the dress past your thighs until it hits the floor in a heap, leaving you in just a matching cotton bra and panty set. It’s nothing spectacular, no frills or lace or silk, but Johnny’s gaze is dark, pupils blown black and leaving only a thin ring of familiar clear blue. His hands hover but he doesn’t touch, like he’s unsure where to start.

His throat bobs with a harsh swallow. “You look—I mean—wow.”

Your skin feels hot as his gaze slowly moves over your figure. He finally touches you, one hand curling around the back of your neck to pull you in. His mouth crashes into yours and you gasp, trying to keep up with the filthy way his tongue twists with yours.

Johnny urges you backwards until your legs hit the mattress and he slowly lowers you down. He starts to kiss across your jaw, down your neck, sucking the thin skin over your pounding pulse between his lips, hard enough to drag a needy whine from you. You can feel his smile against your sternum as he continues to leave a hot trail of kisses across all the exposed skin he can find.

He reaches beneath you, pinching the band of your bra together until it releases. You lift your eyebrow when he looks up at you with a satisfied smirk, clearly pleased with his talents.

You lift up enough for him to remove your bra and he tosses it somewhere behind him. He palms one of your breasts, squeezing gently, and you arch into the touch with a breathy sigh.

“So pretty,” he says, voice low and dark.

He drops his head to your chest, tongue laving at your nipple before he takes the bud in his mouth. You moan, grabbing his shoulder, twisting the fabric of his shirt in your fist.

He’s relentless, alternating between your breasts so that each gets equal attention, licking and sucking at your nipples until you’re writhing beneath him, equal parts desperate to get away and for more, more, more.

“Johnny,” you moan, reaching down with shaking hands to grab the hem of his sweater. “Get this off.”

He pulls back, the cold air of the room hitting your spit slick skin and making you shiver. He tears the sweater over his head, revealing the tight muscle and smooth skin beneath. You press a hand to his chest, right over his heart that beats wildly against your palm, and drag it lower, over the dips and curves of his abs.

“Like what you see?” He asks, words cocky but tone breathless. You bite your lip and nod.

“You’re gorgeous, Johnny,” you tell him. “Always have been.”

“Even when I tried to grow that mustache in high school?”

You laugh, curling your fingers into the waistband of his pants. His hips flex at the contact.

“Even then,” you confirm.

He reaches for his belt, undoing the buckle and pulling it free from the loops. Then he stands, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them down to the floor along with his briefs, leaving him completely bare. Your gaze drops to his cock, where it hangs heavy between his thighs, and your brain suddenly feels fuzzy, the only thought bouncing around is that of course Johnny would be perfect all over.

You expect him to come back on the bed but he drops to his knees on the floor and reaches for your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the mattress, your legs over his shoulders. You prop yourself up on your elbows, staring down at him.

“What are you doing?” You ask. He pushes your thighs further apart, face level with your center. You try to close your legs but his grip is firm, his expression determined.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he says, kissing the inside of your knee. One of his hands travels higher, fingers teasing the edge of your panties. “With my mouth.”

You blink at him. “I—I don’t—“ you hesitate, embarrassment making your face feel hot. “I mean, I’ve heard of guys doing…that…but I’ve never—“

His brows lift in surprise but his smile is soft “We can stop,” he assures you, “if you don’t like it. But…can I? Please?”

And you’ve never been good at saying no to Johnny Storm, have never been immune to his big blue eyes and his sweet smile. You fall flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling as heat rushes to your skin.

“Okay.”

He’s quick to respond, tugging at your panties with clumsy hands. You lift your hips and he slides them off, leaving you completely bare. Your breath catches when you feel his lips on your inner thigh.

“Relax,” he says. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

His warm breath on your slick skin is the only warning you get before he’s licking you, tongue dragging from your leaking entrance to your aching clit. You gasp and he groans, pinning your hips to the mattress with a hot and heavy palm, holding you steady as he does it again and again.

Johnny’s tongue circles your bundle of nerves in a maddening rhythm, making your toes curl. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly on the strands and he hums, the vibrations making you arch your back as you cry out his name.

“Oh my god,” you gasp when he sucks your clit into his mouth and swirls his tongue. The pressure, the friction, the warmth — it’s all too much and suddenly you’re falling, stars bursting at the edges of your vision. “Johnny!”

You’re trying to catch your breath when Johnny’s grinning face appears above you, his chin is shiny with your release and his hair is sticking up thanks to your hands. He dips his head to press his lips to yours and you can taste yourself on his tongue when he slips it into your mouth, earthy and surprisingly sweet.

The kiss deepens, hot and messy, his weight pressing into you, his scent surrounding you, his intense warmth suffusing through you to your very marrow. You can feel the hard line of his arousal against your thigh and the sticky smear of precum on your skin when his hips flex against you.

“Johnny,” you slur into the kiss, “I want you.”

“You’ve got me, sweetheart,” he breathes, dropping his head to your neck and sucking the sensitive skin between his teeth. His cock slides between your folds, the thick head bumping against your clit and making you moan.

“Inside,” you demand, reaching a hand between your bodies. You wrap your fingers around him and he jolts at the contact, eyes fluttering. “Want you inside.”

“Okay—yeah—“

His sentence trails off as you position him at your entrance and he pushes forward, sinking inside of you. Wide blue eyes stare down at you, unblinking and unbelieving. The stretch is exquisite, a pinch of pain that dulls into an ache the deeper he goes until finally, his hips are flush to yours.

He holds himself still, chest heaving. You lift your shaky hands to his face and pull him in for another kiss, another desperate tangle of your mouths. The demand forces him to settle more of his weight on you, though he keeps himself propped up on an elbow digging into the mattress beside your head.

You lift your hips up, just slightly, and Johnny takes it as the invitation it is, drawing his own hips back, dragging his cock out until just the tip remains inside of you before sliding slowly back inside of you.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. His hand traces your neck, his touch reverent as he moves lower over the curve of your breast and your waist. “You feel—I never—“

His arm slips beneath your lower back, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. He keeps the same slow and agonizingly deep pace, dropping his head to mouth at your neck and chest, licking the sweat from your skin. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders and raking down his back, earning you a low groan that he muffles between your neck and shoulder.

“Johnny, I—“

Your words die on a moan when he picks up the pace, your eyelids fluttering and the familiar twist of pleasure coiling in your belly.

“That feel good?” Johnny asks, punctuating his question with a sharp snap of his hips that has your back bowing from the bed. “Talk to me, baby.”

“So good,” you whimper. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

“Not going anywhere,” he assures you. “Not when you feel this perfect.”

He lowers your hips back to the mattress and brings his hand to your arm, lifting it from his shoulder, kissing the inside of your wrist before he folds his fingers between yours and presses your joined hands to the mattress beside your head.

You tighten your legs around his waist. He looks at you, the same blue eyes from every happy memory now shining with open adoration, and the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, every muscle drawing tight.

Johnny gasps, his rhythm faltering, thrusts growing sloppy as he comes just as your own orgasm begins to fade. He presses in deep, cock pulsing, filling you in a way you’ve never experienced before.

He collapses, mostly on top of you, his breathing labored. He turns his head to press slow kisses against your neck.

“We should do that again,” he says after a long moment, rolling himself onto the mattress to lay beside you. You turn towards him with wide eyes and he laughs. “I don’t mean, like, right now. Give me ten minutes.”

“Just ten minutes, huh?” You ask. “I might need a little longer to recover.”

His answering grin is smug, self-satisfaction rolling off of him in waves. He opens his mouth to reply but he’s interrupted by a short cry coming from the monitor across the room.

“Franklin’s due for his last bottle,” he says, sitting up. He stands up and crosses the room to his wardrobe, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. “I’ll be right back.”

You take a quick trip to the bathroom while he’s gone before climbing back in bed. His voice, low and soft, can be heard from the monitor.

“She’s going to be your aunt, Franklin,” Johnny says, just as exhaustion begins to make everything feel fuzzy. “Don’t tell your mom, though. She’ll just say, ‘I told you so’.”

Reed and Sue return to the apartment a couple hours later. It’s dark, quiet — a good sign, when you have a baby that wakes every few hours.

Reed heads for the bedroom to check on their son while Sue opens the hall closet. Inside, she notices a familiar coat and purse.

“I’m going to grab the monitor from Johnny,” Reed says, returning to the foyer. Sue places a hand on his arm.

“Perhaps you should send H.E.R.B.I.E. instead,” she suggests. When her husband’s brows pinch together in confusion, she tips her head toward the closet. “Johnny’s got a guest.”

“Really? Who—oh.”

“See? I told you so,” Sue says. “It was only a matter of time.”

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, dropping an ask, or reblogging if you enjoyed this fic🥰

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | ao3

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

I absolutely ADORE Joaquin smut that you wrote , would you ever write more about him?

thank you for reading, i’m so glad you enjoyed it!!

yes, i would definitely write more! i’ve got a couple of other wips for him. his humor makes him such a fun character to write and he’s just so cute 😭 i love him so much

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

and please send asks about any that tickle your fancy!

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

THIRST TRAP

PAIRING: joaquin torres x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY:

joaquin accidentally sends you a shirtless selfie

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

my first joaquin fic! he is my sweet cheese. if you want to see more of him from me, please let me know in the comments or drop me an ask 🥰

WARNINGS/TAGS:

explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), no use of y/n, coworkers to lovers, phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, mentions of choking and face sitting, pet names.

Your phone lights up with a text, dragging your attention away from your laptop perched on your thighs. You reach for it on your nightstand and see Joaquin’s name, your stomach fluttering for a brief moment before you bury the reaction in your mind.

It wasn’t unusual for him to text you outside of work. Sometimes it’s work related — he’ll message you when he’s thought of something he wants you to research for his next mission with Sam or when he has a suggestion for your programming that he doesn’t want to forget. Other times, he’ll send you a funny video or a recipe he thinks you’ll like. He’s your coworker but he’s also become what you would consider a friend over the six months you’ve been working with him and Sam Wilson as part of Captain America’s growing team.

A friend that makes your heart race a little bit when you see him. It’s fine, you have it under control. You are the picture of professionalism.

You swipe open the text and nearly drop your phone in surprise because there, on your screen, is a shirtless photo of Joaquin.

He’s standing in front of a mirror in a locker room, probably at the gym, his phone held up in one hand to take the picture while the other lifts his shirt, exposing his toned stomach and chest that glistens with sweat. He’s smiling, all perfect white teeth and boyish charm that makes your pulse flutter, even through a screen. Another couple messages come through while you’re too busy drooling over the photo.

I’m so sorry, the first text reads.

I didn’t mean to send that to you.

Pretend you never saw that.

You frown, an unbidden wave of jealousy coursing through you at the thought of him sending the picture to someone else. Despite the logical part of your brain screaming at you to stop, you quickly type out the first thing that comes to mind.

That’s too bad.

You hit send and your flash of jealousy shifts into overwhelming anxiety. You tap the phone against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut, regretting your decision immediately.

In the midst of your moment of self-loathing, your phone rings. You panic when you see Joaquin’s name scroll across the screen and consider flinging the phone across the room in the hopes that it shatters in a million pieces and you can forget this ever happened.

But you’re an adult and despite feeling like you’re going to combust from embarrassment, you slide your thumb across the screen to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“What did you mean by that?” Joaquin immediately asks.

“Mean by what?” You reply. He chuckles, the sound low and gritty in your ear. You swallow nervously.

“‘That’s too bad’,” he quotes, poorly mimicking your voice.

You frown. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You’re deflecting,” he says. “Answer the question.”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“No way. Not happening.”

You groan. “Why? I’ll forget about the unsolicited shirtless picture if you forget about my poor attempt at flirting.”

“So you were flirting,” he says. You can practically hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice. “Interesting.”

There’s a brief silence and you consider using it to hang up and fake your death so that you never have to look Joaquin in the eye again but before you can do that, he says something that you don’t quite catch.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeats, “What are you wearing?”

Your mouth opens and shuts as you struggle to find the words to respond. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m being very serious right now,” he says. “I’m shirtless, by the way. I’ve got on some grey sweatpants, though. You know the type.”

“Joaquin—“

“Look, we don’t have to,” he assures you, “but I’m open to it, if you are.”

“What if it makes work awkward?” You ask, despite the growing ache between your thighs.

“I promise it won’t, baby.” The way the endearment is said so easily makes your head spin. “But like I said, if you don’t—“

“Just a t-shirt and underwear,” you say quickly, squeezing your eyes shut. “That’s uh…that’s what I’m wearing.”

“Send me a picture,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You know me, I’m a visual learner.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

You set your laptop to the side and throw your covers off, slipping out of bed and crossing the room to turn the lights on. You look around your room, considering where to take the photo, and settle for the full length mirror propped in the corner.

Sinking to your knees, you sit back on your heels and spread your legs a little in a pose that makes your t-shirt gather at top of your thighs, exposing your underwear. You open your camera, playing with the angle a bit before finally taking the picture and sending it to him.

You lift your phone to your ear at the same moment Joaquin groans your name. The sound makes your mouth go dry.

“Now what?” You ask, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“You ever done this before?”

“Not really,” you admit with a nervous laugh. “Have you?”

“A few times. You learn to get creative during deployments.” There’s a pause and you can hear the rustle of fabric on the other end of the line before he adds, “You want me to take the lead?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

“I thought you would,” he murmurs, low and dangerous. “Get comfortable for me.”

“Okay.” You climb back in bed, lying on your back, holding the phone to your ear. “I’m in bed.”

“I want you to put the phone on speaker and set it next to you,” he says. “You’re going to need both hands for what I want you to do.” You do as he says, placing your phone on your other pillow. “Take your shirt off.”

“Jesus,” you mumble, your face growing hot. You lift your shirt up, the fabric bunching under your arms. Cold air hits your skin and makes your nipples tighten. “Okay, it’s off.”

“Good girl.” Your breath hitches and a wave of arousal washes over you at the praise. “Touch yourself. Start just above those cute panties and work your way up to your neck, nice and slow.”

You close your eyes and rest your hands on your stomach, taking a deep breath before you start to gently drag your hands upward. You keep the touch light, the barest whisper of your fingertips over your skin.

“How’s it feel?” Joaquin asks, voice low beside your head. With your eyes closed, you can almost imagine him there, that it’s his hands on your body.

“Good,” you whisper. “Feels good.”

“You want more?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Tease your nipples for me, baby. Give ‘em a little pinch.” You pinch both nipples, the sensation making you hiss. “A little pain feels good, huh?” You hum your agreement. “Do it again. Harder.” Your back arches off the bed and you whimper, clenching your thighs together. Joaquin groans.

“Are you always this sensitive or am I just lucky?” You grasp one of your breasts, massaging it roughly, eyelids fluttering at the teasing tone of his voice. “Answer me.”

“‘I’m just sensitive,” you manage to reply through gritted teeth.

“Yeah? Could I make you come just by playing with your nipples?” You gasp.

“N-No,” you stutter. “Need more.”

“I can give you more, baby,” he says. “Reach a hand down to your pussy and tell me if she’s nice and wet.”

You slip your fingers beneath the elastic of your underwear, dragging them through the slick mess that’s gathered between your thighs. The friction against your clit makes you moan.

“‘M so wet,” you tell him.

“Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s steadying himself. “Put your fingers in your mouth.”

You lift your sticky fingers to your lips, sucking them into your mouth, groaning at the taste of yourself. Joaquin’s breathing grows ragged on the other end of the line and you can hear the faint sound of skin against skin over his breaths.

“Are you touching yourself?” You ask.

“‘Course I am,” he says, voice strained. “You think I’d just sit here, doing nothing when you sound like that?” He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, immediately adding, “Get your panties off and spread your legs.”

You move quickly, shoving your underwear down your legs and kicking them off, losing them somewhere in your sheets. Your thighs are sticky and your skin is hot, making you squirm. The earlier hesitancy you felt has pretty much disappeared, replaced with the slow burn of arousal in your veins.

“Touch yourself for me,” he demands. “Tell me how you like it.”

“I like to start slow,” you tell him. “Like I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Mm,” he hums. “I can do slow. I’m real patient.”

Your answering laugh is a little breathless. “No, you’re not.”

“I could drag this out for hours, sweetheart. Just say the word.”

You whine, back arching from the bed as you circle your fingers over your clit.

“I don’t think you want that, though,” he continues. “Sounds like you’re already almost there. Just from being told what to do, huh?”

“Joaquin—“

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. You close your eyes, picturing him in bed, sweatpants shoved down his thighs and one of his strong hands wrapped around his leaking cock. “Say it again.”

“Joaquin,” you moan, moving your fingers faster. You dip your index finger inside of you, clenching around it. “God, I wish—“

“Wish what?” He asks quickly, a little breathless. “Tell me.”

“Wish you were here.” You add a second finger, keening at the slight stretch.

“You’d let me between those pretty thighs, right?” You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Bet you taste so fuckin’ good.”

You slow your fingers, just enough to drag you back from the edge you’d been balancing on. “I want that.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles. “Want my tongue so deep in your pussy you can’t think straight?”

“Jesus,” you groan, speeding up again. “Yeah, yes, please.”

“I’d have you sit on my face,” he says, voice strained, “hands on the headboard, riding my tongue until you come all over me.”

You have to stop, squeezing your legs shut and trapping your hand between your thighs.

“Then, I’d get you on your back,” he continues, “‘Cause I wanna see your pretty face when you come on my cock.”

You circle your clit again, a shiver running down your spine. “How would you fuck me, Joaquin?”

“You said you like it slow, baby.”

“What if I don’t want to go slow anymore?”

“Yeah?” The sounds from his end of the line are obscene, slick skin and quick breaths and the sound of your name murmured like a prayer. “How do you want it then? Tell me.”

“Hard,” you tell him. “Fast.” You sink two fingers into your cunt, setting the pace you’re describing. “Deep.”

“Fuck—“

“And I want your hand on my throat,” you add. His breath hitches.

“You want me to choke you?” He asks. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You hum, chasing your fingers with your hips, eyes shutting as the wave of release starts to build again. “Not hard. I just want to feel—“

“Like you’re mine,” he finishes. “All mine, right?”

“Yes,” you moan. “All yours.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “I need you to come.”

“I’m so close—“

“Come for me, baby.”

The wave crashes, rolling through you from the top of your head to your toes, your muscles tightening and your pussy pulsing around your fingers as you come. Sweat begins to cool on your skin while you try to catch your breath.

“You okay?” Joaquin asks. You pick up the phone, switching the speaker off and holding it to your ear.

“Yeah,” you murmur. Some of that earlier anxiety returns, making your stomach sour. “Uh, are you…okay?”

“I’ve never been better,” he says. You press your lips together.

“Good. That’s…uh…good.”

“You’re overthinking. Quit it.”

“I’m not!”

He huffs a laugh and says, “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”

“Like a date?” You ask.

“Exactly like a date. I’ll even wear that one cologne you like.”

You blink. “How did you—“

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he teases. “So, six o’ clock?”

“That works for me.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

The call ends. You sit up slowly and make your way to the bathroom for a shower. When you’re done, there’s a new message waiting for you.

For the record, I sent that pic on purpose.

And here’s another one. Just because.

You open the attachment.

Tomorrow night can’t come fast enough.

Thank you for reading! 🥰

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | ao3

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

THIRST TRAP

PAIRING: joaquin torres x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY:

joaquin accidentally sends you a shirtless selfie

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

my first joaquin fic! he is my sweet cheese. if you want to see more of him from me, please let me know in the comments or drop me an ask 🥰

WARNINGS/TAGS:

explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), no use of y/n, coworkers to lovers, phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, mentions of choking and face sitting, pet names.

Your phone lights up with a text, dragging your attention away from your laptop perched on your thighs. You reach for it on your nightstand and see Joaquin’s name, your stomach fluttering for a brief moment before you bury the reaction in your mind.

It wasn’t unusual for him to text you outside of work. Sometimes it’s work related — he’ll message you when he’s thought of something he wants you to research for his next mission with Sam or when he has a suggestion for your programming that he doesn’t want to forget. Other times, he’ll send you a funny video or a recipe he thinks you’ll like. He’s your coworker but he’s also become what you would consider a friend over the six months you’ve been working with him and Sam Wilson as part of Captain America’s growing team.

A friend that makes your heart race a little bit when you see him. It’s fine, you have it under control. You are the picture of professionalism.

You swipe open the text and nearly drop your phone in surprise because there, on your screen, is a shirtless photo of Joaquin.

He’s standing in front of a mirror in a locker room, probably at the gym, his phone held up in one hand to take the picture while the other lifts his shirt, exposing his toned stomach and chest that glistens with sweat. He’s smiling, all perfect white teeth and boyish charm that makes your pulse flutter, even through a screen. Another couple messages come through while you’re too busy drooling over the photo.

I’m so sorry, the first text reads.

I didn’t mean to send that to you.

Pretend you never saw that.

You frown, an unbidden wave of jealousy coursing through you at the thought of him sending the picture to someone else. Despite the logical part of your brain screaming at you to stop, you quickly type out the first thing that comes to mind.

That’s too bad.

You hit send and your flash of jealousy shifts into overwhelming anxiety. You tap the phone against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut, regretting your decision immediately.

In the midst of your moment of self-loathing, your phone rings. You panic when you see Joaquin’s name scroll across the screen and consider flinging the phone across the room in the hopes that it shatters in a million pieces and you can forget this ever happened.

But you’re an adult and despite feeling like you’re going to combust from embarrassment, you slide your thumb across the screen to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“What did you mean by that?” Joaquin immediately asks.

“Mean by what?” You reply. He chuckles, the sound low and gritty in your ear. You swallow nervously.

“‘That’s too bad’,” he quotes, poorly mimicking your voice.

You frown. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You’re deflecting,” he says. “Answer the question.”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“No way. Not happening.”

You groan. “Why? I’ll forget about the unsolicited shirtless picture if you forget about my poor attempt at flirting.”

“So you were flirting,” he says. You can practically hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice. “Interesting.”

There’s a brief silence and you consider using it to hang up and fake your death so that you never have to look Joaquin in the eye again but before you can do that, he says something that you don’t quite catch.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeats, “What are you wearing?”

Your mouth opens and shuts as you struggle to find the words to respond. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m being very serious right now,” he says. “I’m shirtless, by the way. I’ve got on some grey sweatpants, though. You know the type.”

“Joaquin—“

“Look, we don’t have to,” he assures you, “but I’m open to it, if you are.”

“What if it makes work awkward?” You ask, despite the growing ache between your thighs.

“I promise it won’t, baby.” The way the endearment is said so easily makes your head spin. “But like I said, if you don’t—“

“Just a t-shirt and underwear,” you say quickly, squeezing your eyes shut. “That’s uh…that’s what I’m wearing.”

“Send me a picture,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You know me, I’m a visual learner.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

You set your laptop to the side and throw your covers off, slipping out of bed and crossing the room to turn the lights on. You look around your room, considering where to take the photo, and settle for the full length mirror propped in the corner.

Sinking to your knees, you sit back on your heels and spread your legs a little in a pose that makes your t-shirt gather at top of your thighs, exposing your underwear. You open your camera, playing with the angle a bit before finally taking the picture and sending it to him.

You lift your phone to your ear at the same moment Joaquin groans your name. The sound makes your mouth go dry.

“Now what?” You ask, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“You ever done this before?”

“Not really,” you admit with a nervous laugh. “Have you?”

“A few times. You learn to get creative during deployments.” There’s a pause and you can hear the rustle of fabric on the other end of the line before he adds, “You want me to take the lead?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

“I thought you would,” he murmurs, low and dangerous. “Get comfortable for me.”

“Okay.” You climb back in bed, lying on your back, holding the phone to your ear. “I’m in bed.”

“I want you to put the phone on speaker and set it next to you,” he says. “You’re going to need both hands for what I want you to do.” You do as he says, placing your phone on your other pillow. “Take your shirt off.”

“Jesus,” you mumble, your face growing hot. You lift your shirt up, the fabric bunching under your arms. Cold air hits your skin and makes your nipples tighten. “Okay, it’s off.”

“Good girl.” Your breath hitches and a wave of arousal washes over you at the praise. “Touch yourself. Start just above those cute panties and work your way up to your neck, nice and slow.”

You close your eyes and rest your hands on your stomach, taking a deep breath before you start to gently drag your hands upward. You keep the touch light, the barest whisper of your fingertips over your skin.

“How’s it feel?” Joaquin asks, voice low beside your head. With your eyes closed, you can almost imagine him there, that it’s his hands on your body.

“Good,” you whisper. “Feels good.”

“You want more?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Tease your nipples for me, baby. Give ‘em a little pinch.” You pinch both nipples, the sensation making you hiss. “A little pain feels good, huh?” You hum your agreement. “Do it again. Harder.” Your back arches off the bed and you whimper, clenching your thighs together. Joaquin groans.

“Are you always this sensitive or am I just lucky?” You grasp one of your breasts, massaging it roughly, eyelids fluttering at the teasing tone of his voice. “Answer me.”

“‘I’m just sensitive,” you manage to reply through gritted teeth.

“Yeah? Could I make you come just by playing with your nipples?” You gasp.

“N-No,” you stutter. “Need more.”

“I can give you more, baby,” he says. “Reach a hand down to your pussy and tell me if she’s nice and wet.”

You slip your fingers beneath the elastic of your underwear, dragging them through the slick mess that’s gathered between your thighs. The friction against your clit makes you moan.

“‘M so wet,” you tell him.

“Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s steadying himself. “Put your fingers in your mouth.”

You lift your sticky fingers to your lips, sucking them into your mouth, groaning at the taste of yourself. Joaquin’s breathing grows ragged on the other end of the line and you can hear the faint sound of skin against skin over his breaths.

“Are you touching yourself?” You ask.

“‘Course I am,” he says, voice strained. “You think I’d just sit here, doing nothing when you sound like that?” He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, immediately adding, “Get your panties off and spread your legs.”

You move quickly, shoving your underwear down your legs and kicking them off, losing them somewhere in your sheets. Your thighs are sticky and your skin is hot, making you squirm. The earlier hesitancy you felt has pretty much disappeared, replaced with the slow burn of arousal in your veins.

“Touch yourself for me,” he demands. “Tell me how you like it.”

“I like to start slow,” you tell him. “Like I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Mm,” he hums. “I can do slow. I’m real patient.”

Your answering laugh is a little breathless. “No, you’re not.”

“I could drag this out for hours, sweetheart. Just say the word.”

You whine, back arching from the bed as you circle your fingers over your clit.

“I don’t think you want that, though,” he continues. “Sounds like you’re already almost there. Just from being told what to do, huh?”

“Joaquin—“

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. You close your eyes, picturing him in bed, sweatpants shoved down his thighs and one of his strong hands wrapped around his leaking cock. “Say it again.”

“Joaquin,” you moan, moving your fingers faster. You dip your index finger inside of you, clenching around it. “God, I wish—“

“Wish what?” He asks quickly, a little breathless. “Tell me.”

“Wish you were here.” You add a second finger, keening at the slight stretch.

“You’d let me between those pretty thighs, right?” You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Bet you taste so fuckin’ good.”

You slow your fingers, just enough to drag you back from the edge you’d been balancing on. “I want that.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles. “Want my tongue so deep in your pussy you can’t think straight?”

“Jesus,” you groan, speeding up again. “Yeah, yes, please.”

“I’d have you sit on my face,” he says, voice strained, “hands on the headboard, riding my tongue until you come all over me.”

You have to stop, squeezing your legs shut and trapping your hand between your thighs.

“Then, I’d get you on your back,” he continues, “‘Cause I wanna see your pretty face when you come on my cock.”

You circle your clit again, a shiver running down your spine. “How would you fuck me, Joaquin?”

“You said you like it slow, baby.”

“What if I don’t want to go slow anymore?”

“Yeah?” The sounds from his end of the line are obscene, slick skin and quick breaths and the sound of your name murmured like a prayer. “How do you want it then? Tell me.”

“Hard,” you tell him. “Fast.” You sink two fingers into your cunt, setting the pace you’re describing. “Deep.”

“Fuck—“

“And I want your hand on my throat,” you add. His breath hitches.

“You want me to choke you?” He asks. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You hum, chasing your fingers with your hips, eyes shutting as the wave of release starts to build again. “Not hard. I just want to feel—“

“Like you’re mine,” he finishes. “All mine, right?”

“Yes,” you moan. “All yours.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “I need you to come.”

“I’m so close—“

“Come for me, baby.”

The wave crashes, rolling through you from the top of your head to your toes, your muscles tightening and your pussy pulsing around your fingers as you come. Sweat begins to cool on your skin while you try to catch your breath.

“You okay?” Joaquin asks. You pick up the phone, switching the speaker off and holding it to your ear.

“Yeah,” you murmur. Some of that earlier anxiety returns, making your stomach sour. “Uh, are you…okay?”

“I’ve never been better,” he says. You press your lips together.

“Good. That’s…uh…good.”

“You’re overthinking. Quit it.”

“I’m not!”

He huffs a laugh and says, “Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”

“Like a date?” You ask.

“Exactly like a date. I’ll even wear that one cologne you like.”

You blink. “How did you—“

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he teases. “So, six o’ clock?”

“That works for me.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

The call ends. You sit up slowly and make your way to the bathroom for a shower. When you’re done, there’s a new message waiting for you.

For the record, I sent that pic on purpose.

And here’s another one. Just because.

You open the attachment.

Tomorrow night can’t come fast enough.

Thank you for reading! 🥰

LINKS

main blog | masterlists | ao3

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

started writing a johnny fic that was just supposed to be reader thirsting for him after seeing him baby wear franklin but know johnny’s giving a multi paragraph confession of love for his best friend so there’s that

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

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

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

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

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

Ask Game for readers who would like to tell their favorite authors that they love them and their work

copy, paste and send to your favorite writers the phrases that you think best reflect their work and make them smile

👀 eagerly await updates from you every day ⏰ admire how fast you write and that you publish regularly 💀 your scenes of violence grab me by the throat 💌 love your answers to other people's asks about your stories 🤡 love the way your characters use irony 💖 adore literally everything you write 🥵 your smut scenes make me die of thirst 💔 your angst scenes ruins me every time 🍓 your fluff scenes always make me feel pleasantly blissful 🩸 living for your terrifying, disturbing psychos 🎀 you describe tender, soft intimacy wonderfully 🧠 love how your brain works and how you solve plots 🌺 you make me root for your heroes every time 🍄 love how crazy some of the scenes you write are 🩰 have been waiting for a writer like you all my life

🌞 reading your works cheers me up and makes me feel better ⭐️ everything you write draws me in immediately 🎨 Iove your references to art, history, mythology, culture 💡 your ideas are always fresh and surprising 🧸 often go back to your old stories to re-read them 🍀 you can describe emotions and feelings perfectly 📗 when I read your story I feel like I'm reading a book 🧩 adore how you connect different threads together 💐 love your female characters and what they are like 🧶 your dialogues are as if real people were talking to each other 🧊 the changes your characters make don't feel forced 💎 you perfectly portray the mind and thoughts of your characters 💧 there were times when I cried reading your stories 🌌 I love that your stories create whole additional universes 😱 your fics have amazing, unexpected plot twists 🎵 specific songs remind me of your stories 🍇 your intimate scenes are written with great taste 🍆 love the way you write male characters 🪀 your stories are very easy, quick and enjoyable to read 🔮 when I think that nothing will surprise me anymore, you do it 💣 you can build tension in your stories incredibly well 🎬 love to imagine your stories as if I was watching a movie 🎱 you write very satisfying, non-obvious endings 🎩 while waiting for your new chapters I read old ones 🧛‍♀️ crave your new stories like a vampire craves blood

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

Absolutely love Hearing You and Seeing You! 🫶🏼🤩

The way you write Bob Floyd is how I would picture him. Shy and quiet but also not a prude.

Could we get part 3 please!🙏🏼

ahhh thank you! i’m so glad you’ve enjoyed my little bob floyd brain child.

there will be a part 3 titled “feeling you” if that gives you an idea of its direction 😏

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

the fantastic four and their coffee preferences

reed richards - black coffee. lukewarm because he forgot he made any and probably straight from the carafe.

sue storm - light cream, light sugar. definitely in a thermos because she’s always on the go.

ben grimm - no cream, two sugars. definitely uses sugar cubes. has a specific mug he claims makes it taste better.

johnny storm - flavored creamer connoisseur. serving size means nothing to him, he’s pouring it in with his heart. big peppermint mocha guy. uses a cup he got from joining his own fan club.

(brought to you in part by @dindjarinslegs , who always asks the most important questions)

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

← [back to main masterlist]

ONE SHOTS

═══ TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

female reader | explicit

As an IT specialist for The Daily Planet, you’re no stranger to Clark Kent’s struggles with technology.

When he calls you on your personal phone with an after hours emergency, of course you’re willing to help him out. He shows his gratitude in an interesting way.

↳ TUMBLR | AO3

═══ TRAPPED

gender neutral reader | not rated

Clark accidentally locks you both inside the supply closet at The Daily Planet and helps you through a panic attack.

↳ TUMBLR | AO3

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

saw fantastic 4 and boy howdy am i fucking MOTIVATED to write that stranded on a planet with johnny storm fic

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

you wrote a second part to hearing you??? THANK YOUUU😩😩😩❤️❤️❤️❤️

i did!! and i’ve posted it!! you can read it here

i hope you like it 🥹