Hello, my fellow travellers, call me Froggie!! Welcome to my humble swamp where stories are crafted by you and I :DD
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I have been writing for years, but I hope to expand my knowledge and skills with this little blog of joy. I write for Sonic the Hedgehog, Lackadaisy, Ghost CBS, Avatar (Blue People), One Piece Live Action, and some Hazbin Hotel!!
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Masterlists - Upcoming
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What I WILL write:
- Romantic
- Fluff
- Angst
- Comfort
- Headcannons
- One Shots
- Platonic/Familial
- GN, Fem, and Male Reader
- WLM, WLW, MLM
- Multiple Part Series (Keep in mind that I burn out quickly though)
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What I WON'T write
- Smut!!! But I will do spice/suggestive (The lead up beforehand)
this is,,, a really weird and specific question. but what sort of baby names does everyone prefer?? if they had a child, what would they name them?
This is a hard one because honestly so many factors go into naming a baby. I would never have predicted in a million years that Tony would pick some random Uncle of Pepper’s we’ve never heard of to name a kid after. A lot of the Avengers don’t consider having children so they have hardly got a list of names on hand for kids they don’t think about having. Also, the other parent gets a say so even if they do love the name, they might not get what they want.
So what I’m going to do is break these up with ones we know, and one that I think they might use if they were handed a baby and told it was there’s good luck.
Steve Rogers - Kind of did have this happen to him in the comics. He found a baby and adopted it. He named him Ian after his Maternal Grandfather. I would like to think if he had a daughter she’d be named Sarah after his mother.
Tony Stark - weirdly in the comics despite knowing his granddaughter’s name we don’t see future kids much. I think there is a daughter but I can’t find anything about her. Also, a son named Howard comes up but once again no info except deceased. MCU he chose the name Morgan (which in the comics is his 2nd cousin’s name) after Pepper’s Uncle. So he definitely seems to favor family names with meaning. I like to think if it was just up to him he might name a son after Jarvis.
Thor - Marvel Thor has no kids at all, whereas mythology Thor has three. Magni and Modi, and Thrud. Given that Marvel tends to go with the myths with naming at least, that’s probably what they’d be.
Clint Barton - has so many kids in so many universes. Cooper, Lila, and Nathaniel in MCU. Ashley in 807128. Nicole, Callum, and Lewis in 1610. I think they all just seem pretty random. So names he and the mother like. Nate is the only one that isn’t and he’s named for Natasha and Pietro. So he can get sentimental at times.
Wanda Maximoff - has twin boys, Billy and Tommy. Those names don’t come from anywhere. So I guess she likes cute names she likes.
Pietro Maximoff - Has a daughter named Luna. I think that name more came from her mother though given who her mother is. I’d say Piet is pretty easy going with names and would just go with a name he liked.
Vision - Wanda’s kids are his. As he has nothing to get sentimental about they’d just be very normal names he liked I think.
Scott Lang - we know Cassie. Cassie doesn’t come from anywhere particularly. I think they probably just read the baby book and went that one.
Peter Parker - is getting very sentimental when he names kids in comicverse. His daughter is always gonna be named after May in some way and a son would be after Ben.
T’Challa - any kids T’Challa has will be named something traditional Wakandan and possible speak to their royal line.
Loki - has a million kids and there’s no theme running through the naming system given they’re everything from Jormungand to Tess. So like everything else with Loki, you just can’t predict it.
Carol Danvers - has a son called Marcus (who we never speak of because yikes). But the name isn’t of significance. Just one she liked. I think she might name a daughter after Maria if she had one.
Hope Van Dyne - might name a daughter after her mother Janette. Otherwise, I think it would just be a relatively standard name she liked the sound of. A name that didn’t stand out.
Stephen Strange - has a daughter named Sofia. Once again no special significance. It’s a name that almost resembles his though. Which I think speaks a lot for what he would do.
Nick Fury - Named a son after himself.
Bucky Barnes - Might go sentimental just as a way to connect who he is to who he was. Maybe Rebecca for his sister. Steven possibly (though I think only if Steve isn’t around anymore).
Sam Wilson - I think would go sentimental too. He’s lost a lot of people and would like to honor them in some way. Paul after his dad or Riley maybe.
James Rhodes - Isn’t super sentimental. I think he’d just pick a name he likes the sounds of.
Bruce Banner - Has a lot of kids but no role in naming any of them. I can’t see him naming any of his kids after family. I do love the idea he might choose a famous scientist he loves for their name.
Natasha Romanoff - Depends on who she has the kids with. She has canon kids with Clint off the 616 branch (not 616 but a future that comes from it) but they don’t have names. In a different reality completely she has one with Steve named James (I assume after Bucky, once again showing Steve’s sentimentality). I like to think she would name a kid after Clint because it happened the other way around, but that wouldn’t be one of her kids with him. Otherwise, I think it will just be a name she likes the sound of.
Maria Hill - God I so can’t even picture her with kids. It wouldn’t at all be sentimental. It would be a little unusual but would still sound like a name. Like Jax or Gio.
Phil Coulson - Would name a son Steve and a daughter Stevie. And you can fight me.
Peggy Carter - Has kids. We don’t know their name. She’s pretty sentimental though so I wouldn’t be surprised if they were named for her brother or even Steve if her husband agreed to it.
Wade Wilson - has a daughter named Eleanor but he didn’t have a role in naming her. I think if he did, who the hell knows what you’d get. Princess Sprinkles?
watch this be the wrong thing (classic) ⭑ part one
you live in a shitty apartment and your shower stops working. johnny comes up with a solution. (johnny storm x fem!reader)
AN: this has been in my drafts for almost a year lol. also not proofread!
WORD COUNT: 6.4k
It starts with a shower.
You’re freshly awoken and groggy and you had been so tired the previous night that you went to sleep without washing your hair. You, unsurprisingly, woke up with your hair still greasy and unkept which just isn’t right. You curse yourself for not doing anything self-care related the night before, but it’s hard to really care for yourself when you’re teaching five-year-olds for seven hours and then running to the coffee shop for another five hour shift. New York is expensive.
It’s so expensive that you have to work your ass off to make ends meet, and you’re still living in a shitty apartment on the Lower East Side. The type of apartment where you make sure to make a whole show of opening your apartment and slamming the door shut to alert any lingering mice that a human is home and could hurt them (you could never hurt a fly). The type of apartment where you have to make-do with the fact that your front door doesn’t properly shut unless you turn the knob and click the door closed just right. It’s not the ideal living situation. But you make do: your cat, Chester, is a good tool to scare away mice and you installed a second lock on your door just in case. It’s fine.
What’s not fine, however, is you stripping off your pajamas before turning the faucet on your tub.
And no water comes out.
“What the fuck,” you say, a loud declaration to yourself since no one is around and you really don’t have time for this. You turn to your sink and twist the spout. No water.
You press your hands to your eyes and hope this is just an unlucky start to your day. You tell yourself that you’ll leave it alone for a few minutes and you’ll come back to the water working, whether it’s ice cold or lukewarm you will shower. You grab your bathrobe and toe your way to the kitchen.
Thankfully, everything else seems to be working okay. Your toaster perfectly heats the piece of sourdough and you lather it in butter. Everything is going to be okay. You eat your bread silently, eyes double checking that Chester’s bowl is filled with food and water. You smile; as if on queue, the cat makes his way to the bowl and starts eating. At least someone is having a good start to the morning.
When you’re properly fed and manage to look through your closet for an outfit for the day (there's a maxi skirt that you bought last week that you’ve been dying to show off), you trudge back to the bathroom to try again. You say a little prayer to a God you’re no longer sure you believe in if He would let your day start like this, and turn the faucet again.
No water.
You don’t have it in you to pull a string of curses from your throat. You have forty minutes to get to work and you’re completely unprepared, and your eyes still haven’t de-puffed. You think you may cry, but that would do you no good. Instead, you go back to your bedroom and to your vanity and decide that you will cope in any way you can. You place your hair into two braids and secure it with cedar-scented hairspray to mask any smell (gross). You still put on your butter yellow maxi skirt with a matching long-sleeve and slip on your loafers. You use your half-empty cold cream to get rid of any residue on your face before applying your makeup as usual. By the time you’re finished, you check the clock to see that you have thirty minutes to make it to the elementary school.
Before you leave your apartment building, you knock at the apartment across from you. You’re fidgety because you’re running a little late, but you don’t think you’ll be able to function unless your questions are answered.
Frances, your elderly neighbor, opens the door. She has a book in her hand, the corner of a page dog-eared but she still has a finger in the novel to hold her place. Her eyes light up. “Good morning, dear! How are you?”
“Hi, Frances, I’m doing well.” You feel bad for not exchanging the pleasantry back, but you’re in a rush and you were already late to work last week when your train got delayed. “I’m not gonna lie, though, I’m running late for work but I need to ask—is your water working?”
Frances glances back into her apartment. “Well I just washed the dishes, so yes. I would say it’s working pretty well. Although, it was pretty murky when I first turned it on, which happens all the time! My advice is to let it run for a minute or two and the water will clear right up!”
God. How is this building still livable? You wonder how many health code violations your landlord must’ve dodged, or failed to take care of.
Your smile is tight, incredibly forced as you thank your neighbor and wish her a good day.
This, you think, is the worst start to your day that you’ve ever had.
٠࣪⭑
You find Rachel in her classroom, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair. And when she finally takes notice of your presence and smiles, an immediate warmth flushes you over being looked at in a deeply maternal way. She, you think, has that kind of effect. Many years your senior, Rachel has still managed to become your closest friend at work, always spreading some sort of teaching-wisdom from years of doing a profession that you only started two years prior. For a second, you forget about your troubles.
You two move in a synchronized manner, exiting the school doors and walking towards Yancy Street. It’s been a ritual for some time now that you two go to Maisie’s during your lunch hour. You think you’ll soften around the edges once you get your hands on a slice of lemon blueberry cake.
Rachel is the first to break the comfortable silence.
“You look really pretty today.”
You smile. “Thanks. I don’t feel it, though,” you reply honestly. “You wouldn’t believe it—the water in my apartment isn’t working.” You recount your shower story, and the sink, and how you asked Frances only to realize you’ve just been handed the worst luck for the day.
“Murky water? Honey, how are you still living there?”
“The rent is so good, someone must’ve been murdered there.” Your mouth had nearly dropped when you saw the ad in a newspaper almost a year ago, bragging to all your friends at the amazing deal you caught. Most of them even seemed impressed by your search. Only, there had been one friend in particular who had seemed skeptical by the cheap price; the same friend who had put in your head that someone was probably murdered for the price to drop that low. You brushed him off at the time.
“Well, until your water starts working again, please know that my place is always open for you.”
You mutter another thanks as you round the corner to Maisie’s, though you know you’ll never take Rachel up on her offer. You never liked the feeling of intruding in someone’s personal space, and to do that to your coworker seems to be the worst case scenario. You follow her into the shop and begin contemplating what exactly you’re going to do with your water not working. You suppose asking Frances if you could use her shower isn’t a terrible idea. She likes company, anyway.
You and Rachel spot Ben Grimm before he can even notice. He’s a few people ahead of you, already ordering at the counter with his form towering over the people in front of you. You don’t hesitate to nudge Rachel with her elbow, to which she nudges you back. She tries to hide her blush. You don’t bother hiding your smirk.
“Hey, Ben!” you call out once he steps to the side of the counter.
He turns his head the wrong way at first, and you laugh. He follows the sound of your voice, turning the other way as he scans down at the crowd of people. His eyes light up when they meet yours, awkwardly shifting through the people around him until he’s next to you. Your name and Rachel’s slip delightedly from his lips as he clutches his bag of cookies to his side. “How are you guys?”
You and Rachel reply at the same time.
“Good—“
“—Horrible.”
Ben’s eyes widen. “Okay, let’s backtrack.”
You and Rachel look at each other, and you motion for her to go first.
“Well, we did finger-painting today. And no fights broke out, no one got paint in their clothes—which is the first year I can say that that’s ever happened. So, I’m feeling pretty great. I’m sure the kids do, too!”
You scoff. “I can’t even get my kids to not get crayon on their uniforms. I don’t know how Leo did it, but his collar is still stained red. Good luck with him in two years.”
Rachel looks like she’s filling that thought into her brain. “Noted.”
Ben shifts his look to you.
You sigh. “My water doesn’t work. I can’t shower.”
“Yikes. You know, I thought I smelt something when you guys entered—“
“Oh, shut up,” you swat his arm. It does more harm to you than him.
The line moves forward, and you step with it, glaring at him despite the smile threatening to break across your face. You know Ben well enough to understand that the teasing is affectionate. You also know him well enough to understand that the more visibly annoyed you become, the more he enjoys himself.
“I’m serious, though,” he says. “What’re you gonna do?”
You just need to get through the day first; to deal with rambunctious kids before your own problems. You shrug, choosing not to answer.
٠࣪⭑
You hear his voice before you see him.
You’re too busy sorting through your array of keys, entering the front of your apartment building. Your mind is half on the pesto pasta you plan to reheat in the oven, half on the fact that you have two hours of alone time until your shift at the coffee shop. You hoped that you would spend it watching television with your reheated food, but now you think it’ll be spent trying to get a hold on your landlord. Who always seems to be on vacation. You climb two flights of stairs, fiddling with your apartment key.
“I wanna see it.”
You jump, a small gasp escaping you as you clutch your chest and follow the sound of the voice.
Johnny is leaning against your apartment door, eyes crossed and giving you a pointed look that leaves no room for questioning.
“Johnny,” you lightly scold. “You scared me.”
He repeats, “I wanna see it. For myself.”
“See what?” You push him to the side and stick your key in the hole, turning it and entering your apartment, already knowing he’s a step behind you. You never questioned when Johnny shows up randomly, you just wish he wouldn’t scare you in the process of doing so. You turn back to him and raise a quizzical eyebrow.
He closes the door behind him, turns the knob and clicks it just right to close. He’s observant like that. “Your water,” he replies. His head tilts as he looks up. “Or lack of.”
You shouldn’t be surprised. “I assume Ben told you.”
“Like a good friend, yes. I didn’t even get a call.”
You fight a roll of your eyes. “Because it’s not your problem, Johnny.” Still, you guide him to your kitchen sink where he stands in front of it, kneeling down dramatically to stare at it close. When you turn the spout, no water comes out. You do it a second, third time for good measure. He continues to stare at it.
After a few moments, he sighs and gets back up to his regular height, towering over you. He looks down at you with a frown, like you’re a puppy found in an alleyway. “Your problems are my problems. And this just won’t do.”
You try—you really do—to ignore the flutter in your chest at his words. After all these years, he still manages to disarm you.
Being best friends with Johnny Storm should be a good thing. While the world only recently discovered his greatness, he’d been your little secret for a bit longer than that. You met when you were still in college, accidentally spilling coffee on his shirt. You’d been more shy back then, less comfortable with his presence, and was sputtering apologies faster than the cars driving by. You guess Johnny had taken a liking towards you, buying you a new coffee despite him being the one with the ruined shirt. He’s just thoughtful like that.
And it should be a good thing—he’s a good friend! He knows your coffee order by heart, even knowing how to make it himself with just the right amount of cream and sugar. He cooks for you when you’re sick, and does your laundry when you’re fully healed to get rid of the excess germs and grossness that comes with the flu. He brings over leftovers of Ben’s cooking when you’re too tired from work to come to family dinner. Hell, he’s become an amazing hat trick when it comes to career days at school—he came in once with printed science worksheets that he somehow managed to convince Reed to help him put together.
Being best friends with Johnny Storm should be a good thing.
Except for the fact that you think you’re in love with him. Which may be the dumbest non-decision you’ve ever made in your life.
And his words don’t really help.
“It ‘won’t’ do’?” you manage to choke out. You hope he doesn’t hear the change of inflection in your voice. The way your words sound like it had to do somersaults in your throat before exiting.
“No,” he says, thankfully still in his head, “it won’t.” His head snaps up, eyes locking on you. Your heart races. “Where’s Chester?”
You both do a once-over of your apartment, eyes lighting up when you spot Chester by the window, soaking up the fall sun. His head instinctively turns, as if sensing the two pairs of eyes on him. He purrs, and turns back to the window. You smile.
“Okay, headcount complete,” says Johnny, clapping his hands once. “Pack your bags.”
Your face contorts. “Huh?”
“Pack your bags,” he says, the way a person would say obviously. “You’re not living here.”
“And why is that?”
He looks at you deadpan. “You don’t have working water.”
“And where would we stay?” you reply defiantly. “I hope whatever hotel you’re thinking of will come out of your pockets.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly. You’re staying with me—with us, I mean. Me, Reed, Sue, Ben. At the Baxter Building."
You’ve been to the Baxter Building a handful of times, more than a handful. You do remember, though, a time you actively avoided the entirety of the building, too intimidated that Johnny lived there and you were still living with your parents in their two-bedroom at the time. The first time you entered was when you and Johnny were supposed to catch a floral exhibit at the MET, but he’d forgotten a coat. He barely spared you a second glance before pulling you into the building, nodding at the lift attendant and entering the elevator. You thanked God that day that no one was home, and you tried your best to not stare in awe at the floor-to-ceiling windows and slick sofas, waiting for Johnny to return from his bedroom. After that day, you’d been invited to family dinner because Sue was just extremely upset that she missed you the first time. Then, family dinners had become a regular occurrence for a while, until you finished your degree and you got a job—two, at that—and the dinners dwindled. You were too tired for the commute and traded Ben’s stellar cooking for your cooking that’s… less so.
So you’re quite familiar with the layout and sense of comfort Johnny’s home can bring.
But you gulp. You don’t think you can live there.
“Johnny—“ you heave a breath, trying to piece your words together carefully. If you say the right things, he might leave this issue alone. “I’m calling my landlord later. He’s going to get my water fixed, I don’t need to go anywhere. I promise.”
He scoffs. He’s walking to your bedroom before you can stop him, “What, your landlord that’s always surfing in California? Yeah, let’s give him a call!” He opens your closet and reaches up on the top shelf where you keep your suitcase, lifting it down with ease. Your eyes turn away from where his shirt rides up, instead turning to stare at your bed because, wow, your throw blanket is super pretty.
“I’m not asking you to move in with me,” he tries to rationalize the thoughts in your head. “Just pack the essentials, you know, some clothes, cat food, shower supplies, obviously. We’ll call your surfer landlord, and knowing him, he won’t get to it in at least five business days. Once this is all fixed, you’ll come back. Simple as that.”
“I just—I just really don’t think this is a good idea.” The thought of living with Johnny makes your stomach churn, to be so close to him. Not only do you not want to do it for obvious reasons, but you don’t want to get in his way. His head is always in the clouds, and when it’s not, there’s something to get done. You imagine your perfume getting in the way of blueprints on his dresser. Chester sniffing at his clothes and leaving cat hair in his wake. It’s not a good idea.
“It’s a great idea,” he says. “I’ve decided. You can’t change my mind, you know that.”
You do know that. He’s always been the stubborn one. And you thought your stubbornness for not wanting to live in the Baxter Building would rival his own, but you feel your resolve slipping—as it always seems to do around Johnny.
“I don’t want to get in your way, Johnny,” you say honestly; a last resort that will hopefully make him come to his senses. He’ll hopefully realize that you’re right, that he is very meticulous to how he spends his time and he doesn’t want you there for most of it. It’ll hurt, yeah, but it’ll stop him from doing something he’ll regret.
He mulls over your statement, arms crossing as he eyes you. You look away, feeling suddenly scrutinized under his gaze. You contemplate if it’s a bad time to ask him to put your suitcase back above your closet (you can’t reach it).
Finally, after moments that stretch out, he exhales. “Is that really what you think?”
“I mean, I don’t know. I’m just trying to be realistic.”
“Well,” he takes a step closer to you. “I would argue that I function better when you’re around. Johnny loves company, didn’t you know?”
Your nose scrunches. “I hate that. When you refer to yourself in third person.”
“I’m just stating the obvious! Since we’re being realistic.” He places a hand on your shoulder and it’s searing hot, not from any of his abilities. “I’m offering you to stay because I want you too. It’ll be like a really long sleepover—we barely have those! You’re always busy.”
You bite your lip, contemplating. You feel the weight of his gaze, eyes searing into yours as if they’ll help convince you (they do, that’s the problem). You think about your morning, how pissed you were when the water wouldn’t work. How if it did, it still probably would’ve been cold and you’d be shivering your way into your robe.
You think of the Baxter Building, considerably more luxurious than yours. You’ve been inside their bathroom before—there were multiple shower heads.
You think of how much closer the building is to your school.
You look back up at him, a conclusion beating into your brain. “Permission to be selfish?”
Johnny smirks. “The floor is yours.”
“… A shower at your place does sound nice.”
“Yes!” Johnny pumps a fist in the air, face contorting in a way that has WINNER plastered on it. “Yes! Keep being selfish! You can use Sue’s fancy soaps, and we have really nice towels. Hell, we can even try to give Chester a bath if he's down for it!” He places his hands on your shoulders and levels his head with yours. “This is going to be good. Think of it like a getaway. From this shitty apartment. That I’m still going to try to convince you to move out of, by that way.”
You laugh at that. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll stay with you.”
His smile has been lighting up your world for a couple of years now, grin always made up of sunshine and a softness you could never properly place. It’s disarming, and magical—for lack of a better word in your vocabulary. It’s the reason he’s always been easily convincing you of his antics over the years. It’s the reason you go out of your way to do things you wouldn’t normally do, like picking him up an apple turnover at Maisie’s, just to see a glimpse of the upturned corners of his lips and sparkle in his eye.
You file the smile he gives you under Top Five Johnny Smiles and grin back.
“Okay, okay,” his words echo yours, but with the bewilderment of someone who finally got through to someone (does he know you never stood a chance?), “let me help you pack.” He turns back to your closet and eyes the array of clothes. “What shirts do you bring? Oh—what about that red sweater your kids love? The one they said is soft when they hug you.”
You exit your trance now that he’s preoccupied with something else. You quickly scan the suitcase and eye how much you can actually fit because you’re known as a chronic over-packer. You went on a weekend trip with your girls last month, and two days at a hotel in Montauk translated to two suitcases and your purse filled to the brim. You just operate like that, unfortunately.
“No, not that one,” you reply. “I spilled yogurt on it two days ago.” It’s currently sitting on your ever-growing laundry pile, left unkept as you went about your week.
Johnny turns to you and rolls his eyes, no bite behind it at all. “We can wash it, anyway. Bring it.”
The next thirty minutes of your life are taken up by going through your closet with Johnny. He holds up various pieces of clothing from your closet and flashes them at you, waiting for your hum of yes or your shake of the head no. If it’s a no, he places it neatly back into your closet. If it’s a yes, he takes it off the hanger and unceremoniously tosses it over your suitcase. He probably thinks he’s being the pinnacle of a helpful best friend—and while yes, he is—but in reality, his trivial sifting gives you a chance to pack more personal matters, like your underwear and bras and journal that you never let Johnny read. Then, you go into your tiny bathroom and collect all your soaps because you’re not actually going to use Sue’s fancy ones, despite what her brother offered.
He peaks his head into the bathroom door, brows furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t want to bring your green cardigan?”
You side-eye him, zipping up the small pouch you’re using to pack toiletries. “Because I already said yes to two other ones! I’m only staying for a few days, not moving out.”
Your words settle to him as he looks away thoughtfully. “I’m just trying to give you options while you’re there,” he says, “You’re pretty indecisive—“
“Thanks.”
“But anyway, can I switch out your yellow cardigan for this one? This is my favorite.”
You try to stomach the thought of Johnny noticing you enough to have a favorite anything of yours. “I didn’t know my wardrobe was your personal fashion catalogue,” you manage to reply.
“It’s fall,” he says plainly. “Green is perfect.”
The rest of your packing journey is uneventful. You make your bed because you don’t want to leave your apartment a disaster while you’re gone. Johnny does your dishes. You manage to stuff Chester’s food and a few toys in the sliver of room left in your suitcase, having to sit on the top to zip it shut. You silently congratulate yourself, though, since you managed to fit everything you need into one suitcase this time.
Johnny dusts off his hands as he comes out of your bedroom, shutting off the light after he did one last sweep of the area.
He picks up your suitcase without difficulty, muscle flexing under his t-shirt (not that you noticed). “Lesson plans?”
“Got it.”
“Chester’s food?”
“I somehow managed to stuff it in his suitcase.”
“Laundry you want to wash?”
You hum, more focused on wrangling Chester into his cat carrier. Surprisingly, he goes in without much of a push. He must know something is wrong with the apartment, or maybe he’s excited about spending a few days in the Baxter Building.
“Good,” mutters Johnny. “I don’t wanna come back here if you forgot something.”
You let Johnny think that he’s involved in a life-or-death situation, as if the distance between your apartment and the Baxter Building isn’t a thirty minute commute. You wander off to double-check that every light is closed, your lamp is unplugged, and the little water stain Chester left is cleaned. You don’t even contemplate the fact that you might be stalling until Johnny is grabbing your wrist from where you were gonna float past him to make sure perishables aren’t out on your kitchen counter.
“We double-checked everything,” he says softly. His eyes are boring into yours again your brain goes haywire for a moment because, fuck, his eyes are so blue and soft and staring at you with a tenderness you would give a small kitten. “I know you’re nervous. You don’t need to be.”
You open your mouth to argue—to say you’re not nervous, that you just don't like change, or that you’re fine here in your broken, waterless apartment. But the way Johnny is looking at you makes every excuse dry up before it reaches your tongue. His thumb lingers where it caught your wrist, rubbing small circles at your pulse point. You try to stop your mind from clouding.
Thankfully, Johnny spares you from having to reply. He clutches your suitcase tighter and guides you to the front door. “C’mon, let’s go before you change your mind on me.”
You mindlessly follow him, nerves building up in your stomach. But also something else entirely. Something more selfish, excitement. At the idea of being in Johnny’s vicinity for a period of time longer than you ever had before.
“Mice!” Johnny calls out for one last time, turning his head to the expanse of your apartment with a boisterous voice. “Don’t ruin the place while we’re gone!”
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You really could not focus for the duration of the train ride, your mind blended with a mix of excitement and sheer nervousness.
You don’t know why you’re so nervous. The Baxter Building isn’t some new, unlocked setting. The last time you entered the living quarters of the Fantastic Four was merely a month ago, following Johnny across the expanse of the floor to the dinner table. Ben made whiskey grilled ribs, and the night was filled with quiet giggles because Johnny kept getting sauce in his face. At one point, you grew tired of the mess on his mouth and used your napkin to reach over and wipe the excess sauce on his lips. You remember the moment vividly, your proximity to Johnny slowly growing less and less in your head as you reached over to delicately tap his lips. His eyes had widened considerably, mouth sealed shut as he let you clean his mouth. You tried to make the moment less intimate, tossing the napkin to his lap and muttering to him something about having manners. You blamed the wine you consumed for the flush of your cheeks and the boldness you carried that night.
You had gone home that night and mulled over your life choices and how they all somehow led to wiping Johnny’s mouth. It felt silly, really. Your face still felt hot.
You think hard at that moment because something like that may happen again—God forbid a few drinks are in your system—only this time, you would have no private area to return to and question everything. No, you would still be in the same vicinity as Johnny. You pray you don’t embarrass yourself.
The train stops at 43rd and Madison Avenue. Johnny is hauling you up from your seat before you can further question yourself. Chester meows tragically at the sudden stop.
“Johnny,” you ponder, mindlessly following him as you peer down at your furry friend. You dodge a few people getting onto the subway cart as you’re exiting. “Will Chester get lost in there?”
“I doubt it,” replies Johnny. “It’s not like the floor is messy, there’s nowhere he can really hide—Ben keeps it as sleek as possible. And we can have H.E.R.B.I.E. follow him around for the first day so we can know any of his hiding spots.”
You nod, satisfied with his response to keep your cat safe. “Sounds good.”
The Baxter Building immediately takes form the second you step up from the stairs of the subway, looming over every other building. It’s daunting, but you’re behind the self-confidence of Johnny Storm, so you let him take the lead. As you get closer to the building, you take notice of the amount of people—tourists, most likely—taking pictures on their cameras of the building. Their eyes can’t even inch away from the spectacle to notice that the Human Torch is in front of them, nearly blocking their shot.
Johnny takes notice of the overcrowded space in front of the building and leads you to the side entrance—the fancy kind where you need to put a specific pin in to unlock the door. He doesn’t even try to block the numbers he types in as he gets the door open, though you don’t bother trying to remember it.
You make your way through the expanse of a hallway, coming to a stop where a security guard sits behind a desk. Johnny doesn’t spare him a glance. And, because you’re with him, the guard doesn’t spare you one. You don’t recognize the guard and were moving too fast to catch a glimpse of his name tag, but you assume he must be new. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a favorite security guard you’ve come across (his name is Robert, and he’s got one of those curly mustaches and kind eyes and his eyes don’t glaze over you, instead giving you hellos and trading conversations).
Once you’re in the elevator, Johnny shifts your luggage from one hand to the other and places his free hand on the small of your back. He leans down, breath fanning your face that has you wanting to squirm where you’re standing.
“Final moments of peace before you’re part of the family,” he mutters softly, a grin playing at his lips.
The way Johnny is saying it can make a person think you got hitched in between the time you saw Ben earlier in the day to now. You’re thankful you’re the only person to hear it, or else there might be an innuendo from Ben or one of those knowing looks from Sue that has you feeling nervous.
The elevator chimes and the doors open, and you immediately spot the two people who had been at the forefront of your mind. Johnny ushers you in, hand still warm on your back.
They don’t notice you at first. Ben is farther away, balancing two cups in one hand as the other nurses a boiling pot. He lightly mutters a curse to himself as he stares down at the stove. And Sue is sitting on the couch, surprisingly languid for a woman who has the entire world at the palm of her hand, flipping through pages of what looks like notes in her hand.
You think for a second that you and Johnny will manage to slip past them without being noticed. It’s not that you don’t want to greet them, but you’re already a bundle of nerves and feel out of place at the thought of staying with them.
But Johnny clears his throat and the two look up from what they are doing.
Your name slips warmly from Sue’s lips, who immediately puts down the stack of papers in her hand and stands up. She’s swift in a way not a lot of people are when kicking her feet off the coffee table. “I feel like it’s been forever.”
“Feels like it,” you reply as she walks up to you. “Teaching children can make seconds turn into minutes.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” She takes you into your arms, slightly towering over you in her red heels. She has a similar aura to Johnny, a comforting one that makes you feel warm and safe in her arms—though, for completely different reasons. She hugs like a fresh blanket from a dryer, or your favorite mittens in the winter time. “And Johnny says that you’ll be staying with us?”
You part from her and smile. “I hope that’s okay?”
“More than okay,” she replies, eyes going wide at the thought of you even questioning it. “You’re welcome anytime. I should be upset that it’s under these circumstances, but I’m a bit more excited that there’s someone to babysit Johnny.”
“She’s not a babysitter!” he interjects. “… she just happens to control me better than any of you ever could.”
“Yeah,” Ben calls out from the kitchen. “We know.” He calls your name and motions you over with his now-free hand.
You smile at him, motioning your pointer finger, gesturing that you’ll only be a moment. You look at Johnny. “Is this a good place to put down Chester?”
“A perfect place,” he replies. “H.E.R.B.I.E.!”
The robot slides over at the call of his name.
“You’re in charge of watching Chester,” says Johnny, rubbing his head softly. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”
A few beeps of agreement that you don’t necessarily understand, and you’re unzipping Chester’s bag.
The three of you, and Ben from afar, watches curiously to see what the feline does next. He starts by peeking his head out and sniffing. His nose crinkles in a way you’re all too familiar with, like when you change his kibble to something more healthy or bring home a new toy from the store. When his eyes finally land on H.E.R.B.I.E, he steps out, in a trance at the small robot. He sits in front H.E.R.B.I.E and observes.
“Well, looking after him will be easy,” says Johnny.
“He’s never seen a robot before,” you say.
“Clearly.”
“I’ve always wanted a cat,” says Sue. “This will be exciting.”
You grin up at her, happy that Chester will be welcomed warmly by the family. When you’re sure that your cat isn’t going to run off to the nearest hiding spot, you turn your head back to Ben and make your way over to him. He traded staring at Chester for continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
“Hi,” you say once you reach him, rounding the corner of the stove to stand beside him.
If you were to rank your closeness with everyone in the Fantastic Four, you think you rank Ben second to Johnny. Your fondness for him happened by chance, really. You both frequent the same bakery and he seems to orbit around Rachel, who you’re constantly with. This allowed for more moments between you two outside the Baxter Building, often sharing a four-pack of meringues while you wait for your lunch hour to end. You exchange baking tips, the kind your grandma passed down onto you, like butter over margarine and adding a pinch of salt to brownie batter. He keeps them in the small notebook he carries everywhere. You feel a comfortability in his presence that you don’t get from Sue, trading maternal for friendly.
“Try this.” He picks up a spoon from beside the stove and dips into the pot. The red concoction covers the spoon. He leans down to bring the spoon to your lips.
You don’t hesitate to encompass your lips around the spoon, taking in the savory taste as you hum. The spice hits after you’ve swallowed. And, once again, you’re wondering why Ben doesn’t run a cooking show. You certainly know that he can just snap his orange-stoned fingers and have top producers waiting for him. “That’s really good!”
“Right? It’s for dinner,” he says. “So you better shower, stinky, I can’t have your aroma powering my dish.”
Your nose scrunches. You’re quite used to Ben’s teasing, you like it in a way. No one ever is quite close enough to you where they can comfortably jab you without it hurting a little (Johnny certainly can, but he never does. He saves his digging for Reed). With Ben, you know it’s without malice. “Got it, Captain,” you say.
“Speaking of a shower,” a voice cuts in.
You and Ben jump, not even noticing the Johnny had materialized behind you. He looks at you both pointedly before eyeing the spoon that’s still being held up by your mouth.
“She can be your taste tester later. Let me show her around.”
You ignore the fact that you already know the Baxter Building quite well, and nod. Johnny and Ben exchange a conversation with their eyes that you don’t even try to decipher.
You’ll ask Johnny about it later if it still mattered in your brain.
Peter's phone screen is perpetually broken. He doesn't even try to fix it at this point and just reads between the cracks (his friends consider it another superpower)
Tony uses hand lotion and lip balm obsessively. He may forget to eat but his sensory issues won't let him forget his chapped lips
Steve doesn't trust dishwashers, even when Tony explains the science and why they're actually cleaner
Natasha stretches constantly. Whenever she's bored, tired, standing around. The conversation gets dull and the next thing you know she's touching her toes
Bucky is actually very funny but he always has a dry, straight-faced delivery so nobody knows he's joking. He gets sad when no one laughs
Bruce apologizes to inanimate objects when he bumps into them. He bumps into them a lot.
Clint needs reading glasses but he simply refuses this fact and instead squints at everything
Thor loves reality TV but doesn't really understand the concept. Either thinks it's the news or a soap opera. His favourite is Dance Moms
Steve has a piggy bank filled with just pennies and is really proud of it. Tony once gave him a penny from 1918 for his birthday and it is still his favourite present
Peter has a ton of commercials memorized and always repeats them when they come on. Including around others when he can hear them but most people aren't even aware the TV has any volume ("it tastes awful and it works", he says out of nowhere, while the Avengers all stare at him eat another forkful of spaghetti)
Bucky hates being perceived and once almost choked to death in public because he just let himself suffocate for a bit. Silently coughing and panicking
Tony hates Bob Ross. It freaks him out how nice and effortlessly talented he is
Natasha adds hot sauce to everything
Clint usually eats kids cereal for breakfast. Especially the chocolate kinds
Steve makes his bed every morning and silently judges those who don't (Tony)
for the people who think it’s cliche to write Bruce going to galas in fics because they think it’s overblown: it’s not, I promise.
galas happen ALL the time. they’re fundraisers or silent auctions for non-profits or charities, they’re a networking event for club members, they’re for anniversaries or commemorating important milestones, they’re for police or military organizations to give awards, they’re for election campaigns or high profile donors in a certain charity league. hell, sometimes people have galas just to make money off the tables and schmooze.
the problem is assuming that a “gala” is one very specific thing. these days, a gala can refer to a variety of scenarios where people are dressed up and speeches and/or music feature at some point. it can be black tie, but it isn’t always. sometimes it’s an afternoon gala (yes these exist) or the environment is a bit more relaxed, so the dress code is “formal.”
so when I say that someone as important as Bruce Wayne is probably invited to a dozen galas every week, that’s not an exaggeration. the better question is, will he go, and why?
little mortal is the first name that loki gives you that isn't your own. you bristle at it in the beginning, because you think that it's a cruel way that loki wants to remind you about the differences between you.
as time goes on, you start to believe the fondness in his tone. you notice when he says it—when you're being stubborn, when you're feeling bad, when you're on the cusp of doing something just because you can.
dear heart is when he's being patient—either with you, or with himself. when you're ranting, and he wants to pull you back to the point of the matter—"dear heart, come back."
chaos bringer appears the day that you brought home a duck.
"it's hurt," you tell him.
"it's messy," he says.
"so are you. so am i. just until it's healed!"
he sighs, knowing the battle was lost. "very well, chaos bringer."
lovely one is for first thing in the morning. or last at night. when his guard is down and he thinks that he's gotten lucky in a way that has tricked the universe.
when you roll over in the morning, face still crumpled from sleep, and he reaches out—"good morning, lovely one."
cleverness sounds like immense pride, even when he's not thinking about it. especially when he's not thinking about it.
or when he notices your restlessness in the evening, and you've paced a hole in the living room floor as he reads—"come, cleverness," he says, shifting in his chair, "tell me what troubles you so that i may concentrate."
Dude I wanna open a writing blog so badly. The problem with that is I’m into such obscure fandoms, and if that wasn’t bad enough, there’s like one specific character per fandom that I feel like I can only really write for and I’m hitting myself with a steel chair for it
Hello!! I assume this is an ask on advice on how to open a writing blog, so here is my bit of wisdom (If this isn't what you meant to ask, please correct me the comments)
Honestly, I think writing for obscure fandoms is a good thing, because you get good activity from the little people that are in that fandom and you can get a good community, especially if you only write for one or two fandoms that are relatively close (in media). I mix between the two, as I write for some fandoms with a decent mix of fanfiction, as well as niche fandoms, so I can appease the people of the niche fandoms as well but as well as enjoy the feeling of 'you liked MY fic even though there are many others out there' with more popular fandoms. But it is completely fine to just write for niche fandoms, I just like validation
For the character thing, I mostly just write for the characters that have the most content or are the main or side characters and I completely understand only really finding little characters that you feel you can write for. But! That's the fun challenge of writing Character x Reader fanfiction, finding the voice of the character in you.
If you want to try and write for more characters, I recommend watching scene packs or edits of them if they are a tv show or movie, or reading the speech bubbles carefully if they are in a book, and trying to observe their speaking pattern. Eg, if they use 'I am' or 'I'm', if they speak more formally like 'cannot', 'I see', 'What do you mean?' Or more informally like 'can't', 'its great to meet ya' etc.
Once you get their speech pattern, it is pretty easy to write down them talking. Tip if you have a decently active brain, try and picture them in your head saying your sentence, if you can't hear them seeing it, then change it around a bit until it sounds like something plausible that they would say (maybe I just have maladaptive daydreaming tho lmao)
My overall advice is just go for it!! Writing is super fun and customising your blog and posts are always so goodddd
I hope this helped!! Also super duper happy you came to me because like whatttt little old me 🤭🤭 you came to me for advice, I am legally obliged to give you my first child now
Let me know if you need more tips or advice!! (My dms are open if you need)
i think many readers underestimate the power of comments. sure likes are amazing too and it got me smiling all big when one of my stories reaches 1k or more likes. but comments? woah. asks (anon or not)? my heart is beating like crazy. funny reblogs with tags/comments/pics? i’m kicking my feet for 3 business days. it’s the interactions that has me motivating primarily. i know i know mostly i just like the comments, but that’s more of a time issue rather than i don’t appreciate you issue. i promise. 🩷🫶🏼
