⤷ You’ve spent two years professionally dragging Johnny Storm's ass in the New York Times. After Reed Richards quoted your article in his speech, you got an exclusive interview- a week in the Baxter Building was supposed to confirm everything you already knew about Fantastic 4. It didn’t, matter of fact, it changed everything.
⤷ fluff, a lot of banter, johnny crashes out pretty much every day, sue is tired of his ass, reader has beef with blond men (self indulgent oops), reader is low-key lois lane coded idk i love her, no freaky stuff here guys sorry i love tension!! might do a part 2 tho
⤷ hi hi hello! first full length fic on this account ayeeee im so excited, hopefully you'll love it! I had this idea ever since watching superman last year and i just love journalist!reader idk. also ive read something like this with johnny a while back and i CANNOT find it to tag the author so please if anybody knows leave a comment! THIS WILL BE SPLIT INTO 2 PARTS BECAUSE TUMBLR IS A BITCH AND I HIT THE BLOCK LIMIT IM SORRY (part 2 link at the end) also not proof read sorry
Johnny Storm knew it was going to be a bad morning the second Ben started laughing before he’d even finished his coffee.
Not a normal laugh either. Not the kind that came from a joke or something stupid on TV. This was louder, sharper—meaner. The kind of laugh that meant Johnny was about to be the punchline.
He didn’t even look up from his watch at first, leaning back in his chair at the kitchen island like he hadn’t just woken up ten minutes ago, hair still a mess, sweater crooked. “If this is about that toaster,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “it wasn’t my fault.”
“It’s not about the toaster,” Ben managed between laughs, which somehow made it worse. He slapped the newspaper down onto the counter in front of Johnny with enough force to make the coffee in his mug ripple. “It’s about you, genius.”
Johnny frowned, finally glancing up. The New York Times sat folded in front of him, the front page already creased from Ben absolutely manhandling it. Nothing unusual there—Reed got featured all the time, Sue even more—but the way Ben was still grinning like he’d just witnessed something life-changing made Johnny suspicious.
Slowly, he reached for it. He didn’t even have to unfold it all the way. His own name was right there.
Of course it was.
Johnny Storm stared at the headline for a long, silent moment, his expression going completely blank as his brain caught up with what he was reading.
Human Torch Adds ‘Public Nuisance’ to Expanding Résumé Following Midtown Incident
There was a beat before Johnny realised what he was looking at. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Across the counter, Ben lost it completely, doubling over as laughter echoed through the kitchen. “Public nuisance,” he repeated, shaking his head. “She got you again.”
Johnny dragged a hand down his face, already scanning the first paragraph with growing disbelief. “This is—this is slander. This is actual slander.”
“Is it?” Ben shot back immediately. “Because it says here you ‘diverted traffic for nearly forty minutes while attempting to land on a moving taxi.’”
Johnny pointed at the paper. “That is not what happened.”
“That’s exactly what happened.”
“I was trying to stop a robbery.”
“By landing on a taxi?”
“It was a strategic decision.”
Ben didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Uh-huh.”
Johnny groaned, slumping back in his chair as he kept reading, each sentence somehow worse than the last. It wasn’t just that the article was critical— it was that it was detailed. Painfully detailed. There were timestamps. Witness quotes. A photo— he stopped there, squinting at the image printed halfway down the page. “Is that me mid-air?”
Ben leaned over. “Yeah. That’s the one where you almost hit the billboard.”
“I didn’t almost hit it.”
“You’re literally inches away.”
“That’s called precision.”
Ben laughed again, louder this time, and Johnny seriously considered setting the paper on fire out of principle.
But the worst part wasn’t the headline.
It wasn’t the photo.
It wasn’t even the fact that this was the third article about him this week.
It was the byline, it was always the byline.
Your name sat neatly beneath the title, professional and unbothered, like you hadn’t just spent two years making Johnny Storm the most consistent target in New York media.
Johnny exhaled slowly, dropping the paper back onto the counter like it had personally offended him. “She’s got a problem with me.”
Ben raised a brow. “Or—hear me out—you give her a lot to work with.”
“I do not.”
“Johnny.”
“I don’t.”
“Johnny.”
Johnny pointed at him, already defensive. “She never writes like this about you.”
“Because I don’t try to race subway trains for fun.”
“That was one time.”
“Three times.”
“That’s not the point.”
From the doorway, Sue’s voice cut in, calm and far too amused. “She wrote a piece about me last week.”
Johnny turned immediately. “Yeah, and what did it say?”
Sue crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “That I ‘demonstrated exceptional leadership under pressure and prevented further structural damage to Midtown.’”
Johnny stared. Then looked back at the paper. Then back at Sue.
“You see what I mean?” he demanded. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a nice article.”
Sue shrugged, clearly enjoying this. “Maybe you should try demonstrating exceptional leadership.”
“I do demonstrate—” Johnny stopped himself, then gestured vaguely at the newspaper. “This is targeted.”
Ben snorted. “You think the New York Times has a personal vendetta against you?”
“I think she does.”
And that was the problem.
Because Johnny didn’t even know you.
Not really.
Not beyond your name, your articles, and the very specific, very consistent way you seemed to single him out every chance you got.
You wrote about Reed like he was a genius— which, okay fine, he was. You wrote about Sue like she was a hero—which, again, fair. You wrote about Ben like he was the heart of the team—which, annoyingly, also true.
And then there was him.
Johnny Storm.
Reduced, week after week, to headlines that somehow managed to be both brutally honest and embarrassingly accurate.
It wasn’t that you lied, that would’ve been much easier on Johnny’s ego. If anything, the problem was that you didn’t. You noticed everything. Every mistake, every impulsive decision, every moment where he chose flair over logic.
And you wrote it down in clean, sharp sentences that the entire city apparently loved.
Johnny leaned back in his chair again, staring up at the ceiling as Ben’s laughter finally started to die down. “This is unbelievable,” he muttered.
Sue hummed. “It’s actually one of her better ones.”
Johnny shot upright. “You read it?”
“Of course I read it. Everyone reads them.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
He dragged his hands through his hair, already annoyed again. “I’m serious. She’s got something against me.”
Sue tilted her head slightly, considering that. “Or,” she said slowly, “maybe you just haven’t given her a reason to write anything else.”
Johnny opened his mouth, paused and then immediately shook his head. “No. Nope. Not happening. I’m not changing how I do things because of some journalist.”
Ben grinned. “Sure you’re not.”
“I’m not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m not.”
Sue just smiled, pushing off the doorway. “Whatever you say, Johnny.”
He watched her walk away, then glanced back down at the newspaper still sitting on the counter.
Your name stared back at him, professional and incredibly annoying.
And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain—
Johnny reached for the paper again just to reread it, to make sure it was as ridiculous as he thought it was.
Which, unfortunately, it was.
And somehow, that only made him more determined to prove you wrong.
The newsroom never really slept.
Even in the early hours of the morning— when most of Manhattan was still dragging itself through coffee and unfinished dreams— the New York Times office hummed with a quiet, relentless energy. Phones rang somewhere in the distance, keyboards clicked in uneven rhythm, and conversations rose and fell in low, constant waves that never quite settled into silence.
You preferred it that way.
Noise meant movement. Movement meant stories. And stories—good ones, the kind that stuck—were the only reason you had fought your way into this building in the first place.
By the time you stepped off the elevator and into the main floor, someone was already calling your name.
“Hey—hey, you’re trending again.”
You didn’t slow down.
“Good morning to you too,” you replied dryly, sliding your bag onto your desk as you set your coffee down beside your laptop.
Your coworker—Daniel, features editor, chronically too enthusiastic before nine a.m.—leaned over the partition with a grin that suggested he had been waiting for you specifically. “No, seriously. It’s everywhere. Someone clipped the taxi photo and now it’s all over.”
You paused mid-motion, one brow lifting slightly. “The Midtown piece?”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “People are calling it ‘the most accurate thing anyone’s ever written about a superhero.’”
A quiet snort came from the desk behind you. “That’s because it is.”
You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch Maria—senior columnist, terrifyingly perceptive—lifting her coffee in your direction. “You’re ruthless,” she added, not unkindly.
“I’m correct,” you countered, settling into your chair and opening your laptop. “There’s a difference.”
Daniel laughed. “No, seriously, you’ve got people arguing all over the city now. Some are defending him, well specifically speaking, the Flaming Hearts Fanclub.”
You hummed, already skimming through your emails. “That’s fine. Obviously his fangirls would defend everything he does”
“That’s fine?” he echoed. “You’re not worried you’re, I don’t know, building a public enemy out of a guy who can literally set himself on fire?”
You finally looked up, because wow, the audacity
“Daniel,” you said patiently, “if he didn’t want to be written about, he could stop doing things worth writing about.”
Maria laughed under her breath.
Daniel, however, seemed unconvinced. “Yeah, but—you don’t go that hard on the others.”
That, at least, made you pause.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but just long enough that you became aware of it.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, folding your arms. “Because the others don’t give me a reason to.”
“Reed literally opened a wormhole over Queens last month.”
“And immediately stabilized it before it caused damage,” you replied.
“Sue leveled half a building during that same incident.”
“And evacuated it first.”
“Ben punched through a subway tunnel.”
“Saving twenty-three people.”
Daniel stared at you and then pointed, accusatory. “And Johnny—”
“—landed on a moving taxi in the middle of rush hour traffic and called it ‘precision,’” you finished.
Maria snorted into her coffee.
Daniel threw his hands up. “Okay, fine. When you put it like that—”
“Because that’s what happened.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “You’ve got something against him.”
“I have standards.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
You didn’t respond to that.
Because, technically, he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t that you hated Johnny Storm, not really. You didn’t know him.
Not beyond the patterns you’d observed, the behavior you’d documented, the consistent, frustrating tendency he had to turn every situation into something just slightly more chaotic than it needed to be.
Cocky.
Reckless.
Careless with the kind of attention most people would kill for.
He made for good headlines.
Very good headlines.
And apparently, very popular ones.
Your inbox proved that within seconds. You clicked open a new email, scanning it quickly, then paused.
Read it again.
“…Huh.”
Maria noticed immediately. “What?”
You didn’t answer right away, eyes still on the screen. Then, slowly, you turned your laptop toward her.
Her brows lifted as she read.
Then lifted higher.
“Well,” she said after a moment, clearly impressed. “That’s new.”
Daniel leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse. “What is it?”
Maria glanced at him. “Promotion.”
That got his attention, rolling his chair closer to take a better look at your laptop screen “What?”
You leaned back in your chair again, exhaling softly as the reality of it settled.
It wasn’t entirely unexpected.
You’d been building toward this for a while—long hours, bigger stories, more responsibility—but still.
Seeing it in writing made it real.
“Senior feature writer,” you said, almost casually.
Daniel blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Maria handed the laptop back with a small, approving nod. “That Reed Richards piece did it.”
You knew immediately which one she meant.
The profile. The one you’d spent weeks on, late nights, endless research, interviews, cross-references, digging past the public persona to find something real underneath, hell, you’re probably an astrophysicist at this point from how much you’ve researched.
Apparently, Reed had quoted it during a speech. Apparently, that mattered.
And being an employed person with a life you did not know about that. Until now.
“Well,” Daniel said, shaking his head again, “guess dragging the Human Torch pays off.”
You rolled your eyes, though there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “That’s not what—”
“Hey.”
A voice cut through the conversation, too firm and professional to consider it one of the normal journalists.
You turned.
Your editor stood a few desks away, watching you with a look that immediately told you this wasn’t casual.
“Can I see you in my office?”
The newsroom didn’t quiet, exactly, but you felt the shift anyway. The way a few heads turned. The way Daniel’s expression immediately turned curious. Maria just raised a brow.
You stood, smoothing down the sleeve of your blazer. “Of course.”
The walk to his office was short.
Long enough for your brain to start working through possibilities. Promotion follow-up, a new assignment, or you’re probably getting told off for not mentioning his name in an article he had nothing to do with, but of course it would’ve looked great for him.
Before you could fire and cuss yourself out mentally, he closed the door behind you once you stepped inside.
A good sign.
Or a very bad one.
“Have a seat.” He said, pointing at the wooden chair in front of his desk
You did, mentally clocking the tone of his voice and already mentally waving bye-bye to that designer bag you were saving up for.
He didn’t waste time.
“You’ve been doing strong work,” he said, leaning back against his desk, arms crossed. “Consistent. Clean. Engaging. Your Fantastic Four coverage in particular—”
“Performs well,” you finished.
“It does more than perform well,” he corrected. “It pulls numbers most of our senior staff would kill for.”
You held his gaze, waiting for the catch that never came.
He smiled slightly. “That’s why I’m giving you something bigger.”
There it was.
You leaned forward, interest sharpening. “What kind of bigger?”
“A week-long feature.”
You frowned faintly. “On?”
“The Fantastic Four.”
You didn’t really react. At least, not outwardly, because internally, what the fuck?
That was new.
He continued, clearly enjoying this. “We’ve secured exclusive access. Full cooperation. Interviews, observation, day-to-day operations—the works.”
That got your attention. You sat up slightly in your chair, “You’re sending me to the Baxter Building?”
“For a week,” he confirmed. “Starting Monday.”
You stared at him processing whatever you just heard. Because this wasn’t just another article. This was access. Actual, real access. Not secondhand accounts, not witness statements, not public appearances and filtered interviews. This was inside, up close, unfiltered. And you would rather get thrown into the Hudson than turn this down.
“What’s the angle?” you asked.
“Human,” he said simply. “We’ve done the headlines. Now I want the people behind them.”
Your mind was already moving.
“You’re good at reading them,” he added. “Especially Storm.”
You didn’t react to that, but he noticed anyway, “Don’t worry,” he said, almost amused. “I’m not asking you to go easy on him.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” You almost laughed.
He spun in his chair slightly, picking up a paper, “I figured. Just make it honest.”
You stood, already nodding. “I always do.”
He smiled. “I know.”
And as you stepped out of the office, back into the noise of the newsroom, one thought settled in clearly.
you were getting that promotion and for sure getting that bag.
The message arrived just before noon.
Reed saw it first.
Of course he did—because Reed saw everything that even remotely resembled information, opportunity, or the possibility of a new intellectual pursuit. He was halfway through rewriting a set of equations on the glass wall in his lab when H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled in, chirping insistently until Reed finally glanced down at the notification hovering in the corner of the robot’s screen face.
He read it once.
Then twice.
Then, without another word, he erased half the equation with the side of his hand and said, “We should have a meeting.”
Which was how, twenty minutes later, all four of them ended up in one of the Baxter Building’s conference rooms.
Sue sat at the head of the table, tablet in hand, already skimming through the email again. Ben leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking vaguely suspicious but not entirely opposed. Reed stood near the screen, pacing slightly as he reread specific lines out loud under his breath.
Johnny was late.
Naturally.
He strolled in a full minute after everyone else, sunglasses still on despite being inside, and a handful of Lucky Charms. “If this is about the toaster,” he started, dropping into a chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, “I already said I’d replace it.”
Sue didn’t even look up. “It’s not about the toaster.”
“Good,” Johnny muttered, taking another bite. “Because that thing was a fire hazard anyway.”
Ben snorted.
Sue finally glanced up, her expression somewhere between amused and mildly exasperated. “We got an offer.”
Johnny raised a brow. “For what?”
Reed answered without turning around. “An exclusive feature. Week-long coverage. Direct observation, interviews, daily operations.”
Johnny blinked. “In English?”
Sue sighed. “The New York Times wants to do a piece on us.”
That got his attention. He lowered the protein bar slightly. “Us as in… all of us?”
“Yes,” Sue said. “Full team coverage.”
Johnny leaned back in his chair, considering that. “Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s actually kinda cool.”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, not bad.”
Reed turned, finally facing them. “It’s a significant opportunity. Their reach is—”
“Massive,” Johnny finished. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been in it. A lot.”
Sue shot him a look but he chose to ignore it.
“So what’s the catch?” Ben asked, ever the skeptic.
Sue tapped her tablet. “A journalist would be on-site for a week. Interviews, observation, day-to-day access. They want something more… personal.”
Reed nodded. “A human perspective.”
Johnny shrugged. “Fine by me. As long as they don’t follow me into the kitchen again. That one guy wrote an entire paragraph about how I ‘hover aimlessly near the fridge.’”
“You do hover aimlessly near the fridge,” Ben said.
“That’s not the point.”
Sue suppressed a smile. “So we’re all good with it?”
There was a brief pause.
Reed nodded immediately. “Yes.”
Ben shrugged. “Sure.”
Johnny leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Yeah, why not. Free publicity.”
Sue nodded once. “Alright, then—”
“Who is it?”
Ben’s voice cut in, casual but curious.
Sue glanced back down at the tablet. “The journalist?”
“Yeah.”
Another tap of the screen. And then she said your name.
The reaction was immediate.
Johnny’s chair screeched violently against the floor as he shot to his feet. “Nope.”
Silence filled the room.
Sue blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said no,” Johnny repeated, already shaking his head as he pointed toward the tablet like it had personally offended him. “Absolutely not. Not happening. Hard pass.”
Ben frowned. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Sue straightened slightly. “Johnny—”
“No. No, I’m serious. You can all do it, that’s fine, I support you, love that for you—but I’m out.”
Reed looked genuinely confused. “You can’t be ‘out.’ It’s a team feature.”
“Then consider me… spiritually unavailable.”
Ben stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Johnny threw his hands up. “I’m talking about her,” he said, like that explained everything.
Sue narrowed her eyes. “Johnny.”
“That’s the article woman.”
Recognition clicked immediately.
“Oh,” Ben said, slow and understanding dawning all at once. “Oh, that one.”
“That one?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “She’s not just ‘that one,’ she’s the one. The one who’s been dragging me through the mud for two years.”
Sue crossed her arms. “She’s a respected journalist.”
“She’s a menace.”
“She’s accurate.”
“That’s not the point.”
Ben leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained now. “She did call you a ‘public nuisance’ this morning.”
Johnny pointed at him. “Thank you. Exhibit A.”
“You did land on a moving taxi.”
“It was strategic.”
“Sure it was.”
Sue stepped in before it could spiral further. “Johnny, this is a major opportunity. We can’t just turn it down because—”
“Because she hates me?”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“She absolutely hates me.”
“She criticizes you.”
“Consistently.”
“Because you give her material.”
Johnny stared at her deeply offended.
“Wow,” he said. “Okay. So we’re victim-blaming now.”
Ben choked on a laugh.
Sue pinched the bridge of her nose. “That is not what—”
“She’s going to be here for a week, Sue. A week. Do you have any idea what she’s going to write?”
Reed, ever unhelpful in these situations, spoke up thoughtfully. “If her previous work is any indication, it will likely be thorough, well-researched, and—”
“Devastating,” Johnny cut in.
“—insightful,” Reed finished.
Johnny turned to him. “She once compared me to a golden retriever with superpowers.”
Ben lost it again.
“That was funny,” he managed between laughs.
“It was not funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“It was character assassination.”
Sue was trying not to smile now. “Johnny—”
“No. I’m serious. I refuse. I am formally refusing to participate in my own public humiliation.”
“You don’t have that authority.”
“I absolutely do.”
“You really don’t.”
Johnny ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “This is a terrible idea. A terrible idea. You’re basically inviting her in here to watch me mess up in real time.”
Ben raised a brow. “So… nothing changes?”
Johnny stopped.
Glared at him.
Then pointed again. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Sue stepped forward, voice softening slightly. “Johnny. Look at me.”
He didn’t want to.
That was obvious.
But he did anyway.
“You’re overreacting,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“She’s been targeting me for years.”
“She’s been writing about what you do.”
“There’s a difference.”
Sue tilted her head. “Then prove her wrong.”
That made him pause.
Just for a second.
Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t need to prove anything.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. And then opened it again.
Because the problem wasn’t that you were wrong, that would’ve been easy.The problem was that you weren’t and that made it a hundred times worse for poor Johnny’s ego and public image.
Johnny exhaled sharply, dragging his hands down his face. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered again, quieter this time.
Ben grinned. “This is the best idea we’ve had all week.”
Reed nodded absentmindedly. “Statistically, the engagement metrics alone—”
“I’m not doing it.”
Sue smiled knowingly. “Yes, you are.”
Johnny looked at her.
Then at Ben.
Then at Reed.
Three against one.
Of course.
He groaned unnecessarily long loud and dramatic for an issue so small.
“This is how I die,” he announced, dropping back into his chair. “Not in battle. Not saving the world. No. I’m taken out by a journalist with a grudge and a deadline.”
Ben snorted. “Yeah, real heroic.”
Johnny pointed at him without looking. “When she writes about this, I want it on record that I was against it.”
Sue stood, already gathering her things. “Noted.”
Reed turned back to the screen. “I’ll confirm our acceptance.”
Johnny dropped his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.
Somewhere in New York you were probably already preparing your pens and pencils and whatever journalists need to ruin his life.
Monday morning arrived far too quickly. You had been awake before your alarm. That, more than anything, should have been your first clue that this wasn’t just another assignment.
By the time you stood across the street from the Baxter Building, coffee in hand and press badge clipped neatly to your coat, you were already mentally running through the same checklist for the fifth time—questions prepared, recording equipment charged, notes organized, angles mapped out in your head with the kind of precision that had earned you your promotion in the first place.
It was just a story. A big one, yes. A rare one. The kind most journalists would spend years chasing. But still—a story.
You had done this before. Interviews, profiles, high-profile subjects. You did not get nervous.
But still when your eyes flicked up toward the building again, tall, imposing, glass catching the early morning light in a way that made it look almost untouchable.
The Baxter Building wasn’t just another workplace, it was the workplace. The center of some of the most advanced research in the world. The home of the Fantastic Four. The people you had spent the last two years writing about from a distance.
Your grip tightened slightly around your coffee cup, you exhaled and stepped forward.
The entrance was quieter than you expected. No crowd, no reporters, no chaos—just a sleek, controlled space that felt more like a private facility than anything open to the public.
There was no receptionist, of course there wasn’t. Instead, a small panel beside the door lit up the second you approached.
A camera. Watching.
You straightened instinctively, brushing an imaginary crease from your sleeve before leaning slightly toward it.
“Hello,” you said, voice steady despite the faint tension in your chest. You held up your badge, angled so it would be clearly visible. “I’m here from the New York Times. For the—uh—exclusive interview?”
There was a brief pause. Long enough for you to wonder if you’d said it wrong. Long enough for your brain to start overthinking. And then you heard it.
A soft mechanical hum.
A click.
And somewhere deep inside the building, something unlocked.
You stepped back instinctively as the massive doors in front of you began to slide open, revealing a wide, polished interior that felt almost too clean to be real.
Then, something small rolled out to meet you.
You blinked. A robot. Not large or intimidating. Actually… kind of adorable. It paused in front of you, its digital face lighting up with a cheerful expression before emitting a series of soft beeps.
“Hi,” you said automatically.
It beeped again, then turned and paused. And looked back at you just standing there.
You stared at it for half a second before realization clicked. “…Right. Follow you. Got it.”
The robot— the infamous H.E.R.B.I.E., you assumed—let out another approving sound before rolling forward, leading you deeper into the building.
You followed, because at this point, turning around would’ve been insane.
The interior of the Baxter Building was even more impressive up close. Clean lines, open spaces, technology woven seamlessly into every surface. It didn’t feel cold, exactly—just… precise. Intentional. Like everything existed for a reason.
H.E.R.B.I.E. led you straight to a set of elevators that looked far too advanced for the time you were living in, but again, this is the Baxter Building, everything is too advanced. These were glass, offering a full view of the city as the doors slid open with a quiet hiss.
You stepped inside, clutching your bag a little tighter as the robot rolled in beside you. There was no button panel, the doors closed on their own, and then you were moving up very fast, the kind of fast only elevators at the building would have.
The city dropped away beneath you in seconds, the skyline stretching out in every direction. For a brief moment, your focus shifted entirely to the view—Manhattan waking up below, sunlight catching the tops of buildings, traffic already threading through the streets like veins.
You almost forgot why you were here. Almost. Until the elevator slowed and then stopped. The doors slid open and everything changed.
The space you stepped into didn’t feel like a lab, or an office, it felt lived in. A mix of high-tech equipment and something softer—furniture, personal touches, the quiet evidence of people who actually spent time here beyond saving the world.
And they were already there waiting.
You saw Sue first. She stood near the center of the room, posture relaxed but attentive, her presence immediately grounding in a way that matched everything you had ever written about her. Reed stood nearby, already half-focused on something else, his attention split between you and whatever thoughts were currently occupying his mind. Ben leaned casually against the back of a chair, arms crossed, expression curious but not unfriendly.
And then, Johnny Storm. He was there too, standing there next to his sister like he’d been dragged into this against his will—which, if your understanding of his personality was even remotely accurate, he probably had.
For a split second, neither of you moved because recognition was immediate. You obviously knew his face. You had studied it, analyzed it, attached it to headlines and quotes and witness statements. But seeing him in person was… different.
And judging by the way his expression shifted,so was he. Johnny had been mid-thought, mid-complaint, mid whatever internal argument he’d been having about your presence–
And then he looked at you, like really looked. And everything else stopped, because…oh. That was certainly not what he expected. Not even close.
The woman who had spent two years dismantling his reputation in perfectly structured paragraphs was—
Well.
She was standing right there…and she was...
Johnny blinked once...then again.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a very unhelpful thought surfaced.
…Zoo wee mama.
He forgot, very briefly, that he hated this, that he had been strongly against this. That you had written approximately forty-seven articles at his expense.
For a moment, the room held its breath. Not in any dramatic, cinematic way—nothing that obvious—but in the subtle shift of attention that happens when something new enters a space that’s usually controlled, predictable. You stood just inside the threshold, bag still slung over your shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the fact that four of the most recognizable people in the world were currently looking at you.
Then Sue stepped forward. She moved first, smiled warm and easy, hand already extended as if this were just another meeting, another normal day. “Hi,” she said, and there was something immediately reassuring about the way she said it. “You must be—”
You introduced yourself, returning the handshake, your tone just as steady as you’d practiced. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course,” Sue replied. “We’re glad to have you.”
Behind her, Reed nodded absently, like he agreed in theory but was already thinking three steps ahead. “Your work is very thorough,” he added, almost to himself. “I referenced your Richards profile during a symposium last quarter.”
You blinked. You hadn’t expected him to say that out loud.
“I—thank you,” you managed, a little caught off guard despite yourself.
Ben stepped in next, offering his huge rocky hand in a handshake that was somehow both gentle and solid at the same time. “Yeah, don’t mind him,” he said, jerking his head toward Reed. “He reads everything. You do good work.”
“Appreciate it.” You said with a polite smile, shaking his hand.
It was easy. Talking to them, you realized quickly, it was easy, natural, exactly the way you’d imagined.
And then, there was him.
Johnny hadn’t moved from where he was leaning, arms crossed now, watching the whole exchange with an expression that was very clearly trying to be unimpressed and failing just slightly at it. He looked exactly the same, and not at all the same.
The confidence was there, obviously. The easy posture, the careless way he occupied space like it belonged to him. But there was something else underneath it now—something sharper, more aware, like he was studying you.
You met his gaze, and for a split second, neither of you spoke.
Then he started walking towards you slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice carrying that familiar edge you recognized instantly from interviews and offhand comments. “We’ve met.”
Sue didn’t even hesitate. “Johnny—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” he continued, stepping forward, a hand lifting in a vague gesture toward you. “This is the—what was it—public nuisance specialist?”
You raised a brow slightly. Ben snorted, Sue closed her eyes for exactly one second. “That’s not—” she started.
“She knows what she did,” Johnny added quickly.
You tilted your head, expression carefully neutral. “I write what I observe.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
There was the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes. You didn’t miss the way his jaw tightened when he noticed.
“Oh my God,” Sue cut in smoothly, stepping between the two of you before it could escalate into whatever this was turning into. “We are not doing this right now.”
Johnny looked offended. “I’m just saying—”
“You’re not saying anything,” she interrupted, her tone still light but firm enough that even he paused. Then she turned back to you, smile snapping back into place like nothing had happened. “Sorry. He’s—”
“I’m right here,” Johnny muttered.
“—excited,” Sue finished, ignoring him completely. “Anyway. We should probably go over how this is going to work.”
You nodded, shifting your bag slightly on your shoulder, slipping easily back into professional mode. “Of course.”
Sue gestured toward the space around you. “You’ll have full access to the building for the week—common areas, labs, observation decks. We’ll coordinate interviews individually, but you’re also welcome to observe day-to-day operations. Nothing is off-limits within reason.”
“Within reason,” Ben echoed.
Johnny scoffed quietly.
Sue shot him a look before continuing. “We just ask for basic boundaries—no recording in restricted research zones without permission, and if anything sensitive comes up, we’ll address it as needed.”
“Understood,” you said, already mentally cataloging everything.
“And we’ll all make time for formal interviews,” she added. “Reed, myself, Ben, and—”
“Public nuisance,” Johnny muttered again.
Sue didn’t even look at him this time. “—Johnny.”
You nodded once, then glanced toward Reed. “If it’s alright, I’d like to start with Dr. Richards.”
Reed lit up immediately. “Yes, that would be efficient,” he said, already turning as if the conversation was over. “There’s a data set I can show you that contextualizes—”
“Great,” Sue said quickly, clearly used to this. “We’ll start there.”
You followed Reed without hesitation, slipping into step beside him as he launched into an explanation that immediately jumped three levels ahead of anything you’d expected.
Behind you, the room shifted again.
Ben leaned back against the table, watching you disappear down the hall before glancing sideways at Johnny.
“Well?”
Johnny didn’t answer, didn't move. He was still staring at the doorway you’d just walked through, expression unreadable for once.
Ben smirked slightly. “Not what you expected, huh?”
Johnny blinked, like he’d just remembered where he was. Then scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean—she’s—whatever. That’s not the point.”
“Sure it’s not.” Ben hummed, knowingly.
“She still hates me.” Johnny said matter-of-factly, even if he himself started not believing that fact.
Ben raised a brow. “You just met her.”
“I didn’t just meet her,” Johnny shot back. “She’s been writing about me for two years.”
“And you’ve been reading every single one,” Ben pointed out.
Johnny opened his mouth.
Paused. “…That’s also not the point.”
Ben laughed under his breath, pushing off the table. “Yeah. You’re in trouble.”
Johnny frowned. “I’m not in trouble.”
Ben just grinned wider.
Meanwhile, two floors up, Reed was already halfway through explaining something about dimensional stress points, and you were nodding along, taking notes, asking questions and probably hearing unnecessary facts about black holes.
The rest of the day went by faster than you expected.
Reed’s lab had that effect on people. One minute you were asking a simple question, and the next you were somehow thirty minutes deep into a conversation about energy fields, dimensional stress, and a machine that definitely should not have been making that noise.
You followed him around for most of the afternoon, notebook in hand, jotting things down as fast as you could while he explained experiment after experiment. Some of it you understood immediately, some of it you had to ask him to repeat twice, and some of it you were pretty sure no one but Reed Richards could fully explain.
Still, it was… good.
Really good.
He didn’t simplify things for you, which you appreciated. He didn’t treat you like you were just there to write something pretty—he actually answered your questions, went into detail, even got a little excited when you followed along.
It made your job easier.
And by the time you finally stepped out of the lab, your brain felt full in the best way possible.
Also tired.
Very tired.
You checked the time and blinked. “Oh.”
Later than you thought, of course. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and headed back toward the main living area, already thinking about how you were going to organize your notes when you got home.
Sue spotted you first. “How was it?” she asked, leaning slightly against the kitchen counter.
“Good,” you said honestly. “A lot. But good.”
Reed, who had followed you out without realizing the conversation had technically ended, nodded. “We only covered a fraction of what would be relevant.”
“That’s fine,” you said. “It’s more than enough for today.”
Ben glanced over from the couch. “You look like you just took a final exam.”
You let out a small breath of a laugh. “Feels like it.”
Sue smiled a little at that, then straightened. “You should stay for dinner.”
That made you pause. That was nice. Too nice. And also exactly the kind of thing you were trying to avoid. You shook your head lightly. “I appreciate it, but I should—”
“We can’t have a journalist staying over for dinner.”
You didn’t even need to turn your head.
Johnny.
Of course it was Johnny.
You did turn anyway, just in time to see him leaning against the counter again like he hadn’t moved all day, arms crossed, expression doing that thing where he was pretending not to care while very obviously caring.
Sue didn’t even look at him at first. “Johnny,” she said, very calmly.
“What?” he replied, already defensive. “I’m just saying—professional boundaries. You know. Ethics.”
Ben made a sound that was definitely a laugh.
Sue turned slowly. “Ethics?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding like he’d made a strong point. “We shouldn’t influence the press. That’s, like, a thing.”
“It’s dinner,” Sue said.
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
You watched the exchange for a second, one eyebrow lifting slightly before you stepped in.
“I was going to head out anyway,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “I have notes to go through.”
Sue looked back at you, clearly annoyed—but not at you. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” You said quickly.
Johnny opened his mouth again, but you beat him to it. “Goodnight.”
You gave them all a small nod—Reed, who had already half-zoned out again, Ben, who looked like he was trying not to laugh, Sue, who looked like she was two seconds away from committing a crime—
And then Johnny.
You met his eyes for a second. Just long enough to notice that he was already looking at you again.
“…Goodnight, Storm.” Then you turned and walked out before he could say anything else.
The door closed behind you. There was a beat of silence after. And then because what the hell was that–
“Oh my God, what is wrong with you?” Sue didn’t even try to hide it this time, turning around towards her idiot brother who embarrassed her in front of you, a journalist who is quite literally writing about them.
Johnny frowned immediately. “What?”
“What was that?” she asked, turning fully toward him. “Seriously. What was that?”
“I didn’t do anything.” Johnny shrugged, feigning innocence.
“You told her she couldn’t stay for dinner.” Sue looked seriously irritated, her eyes wide from frustration.
“I didn’t tell her,” Johnny argued. “I implied.”
Ben lost it, “IMPLIED?” he repeated, laughing. “You literally said we can’t have a journalist staying over.”
Johnny nodded, holding out his hand towards Ben matter-of-factly, “Yeah, that’s implying.”
“That’s not implying.” Sue crossed her arms. “You embarrassed her.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“She was going to say no anyway.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is the point.”
“It’s not.”
Johnny ran a hand through his hair, already getting annoyed. “She hates me.”
Sue blinked. “…What?”
“She hates me,” he repeated. “Have you read anything she’s written about me?”
Ben snorted again. “Yeah. Front page, actually.”
“She called me a public nuisance.”
“You landed on a taxi.”
“That’s not—” Johnny stopped, then pointed at him. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to.” Ben shrugged, shaking his head because how stupid can a guy be.
Sue stepped closer, lowering her voice just slightly. “Johnny.”
He looked at her. “What?”
“She doesn’t hate you.” Sue reassured
“Oh she definitely hates me.” Johnny laughed which sounded more like a scoff, crossing his arms again.
“She writes about what you do.” Sue said, "That's what journalists do.”
“She writes about what I do,” Johnny emphasized, pointing at himself. “Not Reed. Not you. Not Ben. Me.”
Ben shrugged. “We don’t give her material.”
Johnny stared at him, then at Sue, then back at Ben. “…I don’t give her material.”
Ben just looked at him, like really looked at him.
Johnny paused. “…Okay, maybe a little.”
Sue sighed, shaking her head. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being targeted.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being a child.”
Johnny opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then muttered, “She started it.”
Ben leaned back into the couch, grinning. “Oh yeah. You’re done for.”
“I’m not done for.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“She’s gonna be here all week.”
Johnny froze like it was his worst nightmare come to life. “…Don’t remind me.”
Tuesday went… smooth.
Almost suspiciously smooth.
You showed up at the Baxter Building already a little more relaxed than the day before—still professional, still focused, but no longer standing outside psyching yourself up like you were about to take an exam. H.E.R.B.I.E. greeted you again like you were a regular, which felt weirdly nice, and this time the elevator ride didn’t feel like a whole event.
Sue met you first.
And honestly? Exactly what you expected.
Organized, calm, efficient—she walked you through her day like she’d done it a hundred times before, balancing actual leadership responsibilities with the kind of small, human moments most people never saw. You followed her through meetings, watched her coordinate with city officials, and sat in on a call where she somehow managed to sound reassuring and authoritative at the same time.
At one point, she paused mid-conversation, glanced at you, and said, “You can write that down if you want,” like she already knew what you were thinking.
You did.
Of course you did.
By the end of the day, your notes were filled with phrases like measured response, clear communication, and how does she make this look so easy?
Johnny, for the most part, stayed out of your way.
Mostly.
You caught glimpses of him—passing through the room, grabbing something from the kitchen, once leaning over Ben’s shoulder just to comment loudly about something on the TV before disappearing again.
Every time, you felt his eyes on you for half a second too long.
Every time, he didn’t say anything.
Which, somehow, was more noticeable than if he had.
Wednesday was louder.
And by louder, you meant Ben.
Ben didn’t do anything quietly.
Not talking, not walking, not existing.
He walked you through his day with the kind of easy honesty that made your job ridiculously simple. There was no filter, no overthinking—just straight answers, a few jokes, and the occasional “yeah, don’t write that part” which you absolutely wrote down anyway (mentally, at least).
You followed him through a training session, watched him help fix something that had definitely not been built to survive being punched, and somehow ended up sitting with him in the kitchen while he told you a story about a mission that slowly turned into three different stories.
You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you checked the clock.
“See?” Ben said, noticing. “Told you my stuff’s more interesting.”
You smiled a little. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Johnny, again, was… around. He was in the room more on Wednesday.Not really participating, just there, present. Leaning against things, sitting on counters, interrupting exactly twice—once to argue with Ben about something completely unrelated, and once to grab a drink and very obviously not look at you while doing it.
At one point, you caught him watching you write something down.
You didn’t react.
He looked away first.
Thursday was supposed to be his day.
You showed up with that expectation already in place—questions ready, notes organized, a clear plan in your head for how you were going to approach the interview.
And then—
“Yeah, so… he cancelled.”
You blinked.
Sue stood in front of you, arms crossed, expression somewhere between tired and deeply unimpressed.
“…Cancelled,” you repeated.
“Cancelled.” Sue nodded, looking insanely exhausted in the way only an older sister could be.
You glanced around instinctively. “He’s not here?”
“Oh, he’s here,” Ben said from the couch. “He just thinks waxing his car is more important than talking to you.”
You stared at him. “…He cancelled an interview for a car?”
Sue’s smile was tight. “A convertible.”
“Of course it is,” you muttered.
There was a brief pause, and then you nodded once, already adjusting. “Alright. That’s fine. I can—”
“You are not rearranging your schedule because he’s being an idiot,” Sue cut in immediately. “We’ll reschedule.”
“That’s okay,” you said. “I can still use the time.”
Ben perked up. “Oh, you wanna see the ship?”
That got your attention. “…Yes.”
“Thought so.”
And just like that, your Thursday shifted.
Instead of sitting down with Johnny, you spent the afternoon with one of the staff members going through the technical side of the building—systems, structure, and eventually—
The Excelsior.
It was… impressive.
Even by your standards.
You took notes, asked questions, walked through details you definitely weren’t going to understand fully until you rewrote them later, but it gave you something else—context.
Scale.
Perspective.
By the time you wrapped up for the day and went home, you had more than enough material to work with. But there still was a gap shaped suspiciously like Johnny Storm.
The garage was a different story.
“Are you serious right now?”
Johnny didn’t even look up. “What?”
Sue stood in the middle of the garage, hands on her hips, staring at him like she was genuinely reconsidering every life choice that had led her to this moment.
“What do you mean what?” she said. “You cancelled your interview.”
“I postponed it.”
“You cancelled it.”
“I rescheduled.”
“You didn’t reschedule anything.”
Johnny finally glanced up from where he was crouched next to his car, a fiery red convertible with “T0RCH4” on the license plate—cloth in hand, clearly mid-wax. “I’m busy.”
Ben, who had been watching this unfold from the doorway, snorted. “Busy doing what? Giving your car a spa day?”
Johnny pointed at him. “This is maintenance.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is important.”
Sue stared at him. “You cancelled a professional interview to polish your car.”
Johnny shrugged. “Priorities.”
“Your priorities are wrong.”
“My priorities are fine.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
Ben laughed under his breath. “You know she’s writing about this, right?”
Johnny paused, just for a second. Then went right back to what he was doing. “She better not.”
“Oh, she is,” Ben said. “Headline writes itself.”
Johnny frowned. “…It does not.”
Sue crossed her arms again. “You’re doing the interview tomorrow.”
Johnny shook his head. “We’ll see.”
“You’re doing it.”
“We’ll see.”
“Johnny.”
“We’ll see.”
Sue took a step forward.
Johnny immediately straightened. “Okay, okay—fine. I’ll do it.”
“Tomorrow.” Sue pointed.
Johnny’s pants would probably be on fire. “Tomorrow.”
“At a normal time.” Sue insisted, which sounded more like a threat.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not cancelling.”
“I won’t cancel.”
Sue narrowed her eyes. “Swear.”
Johnny hesitated. “…I strongly intend not to cancel.”
Ben lost it loudly in the corner, leaning carefully on one of the sports cars Johnny probably sold his soul for, not to crush it under his weight.
Sue just stared at him, contemplating throwing a wrench at Johnny’s head. “…I’m going to lose my mind.”
Johnny went back to polishing his car like none of this was his problem. Which unfortunately, it was.
Friday was supposed to be easy.
It was your favorite day for a reason—end of the week, brain already halfway checked out, just enough motivation to finish what you started but not enough to care too much about anything new going wrong. Normally, Friday meant wrapping things up, organizing notes, maybe ignoring a problem or two until Monday.
Unfortunately, this Friday came with a very specific problem. His name was Johnny Storm. And, as you had already unfortunately confirmed in person earlier this week, he was very much still blond. Which, in your opinion, was already working against him.
You stood in the Baxter Building lobby, notebook in hand, pen tapping lightly against the page as you checked the time again.
And then again.
Five minutes late.
Not surprising.
Ten minutes late.
Expected, honestly.
You shifted your weight slightly, glancing toward the elevators before looking back down at your notebook. If he was going to be late, you might as well use the time. You flipped to a fresh page, scanning over your questions for the day, then jotting down a quick note in the margin.
Chronic lateness—pattern or personality trait?
You paused.
Then, without really thinking about it, muttered under your nose, “Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, a blond man pulls up.”
“Why’s that?”
You froze for exactly one second. Then slowly turned your head.
Johnny was standing right behind you, not close enough to be weird, just close enough to absolutely have heard that.
Of course he had.
Because apparently that was how your week was going.
He had his hands in his pockets, hair still slightly messy like he hadn’t fully committed to being awake yet, and there was a look on his face that was halfway between amused and offended.
“…How long have you been standing there?” you asked.
“Long enough,” he said easily.
You closed your notebook.
Very calmly.
“Good morning, Storm.”
“Morning,” he replied, still watching you. “You wanna explain that, or should I just assume you’ve got a personal issue with blond people?”
You held his gaze for a second, then shrugged lightly. “Just an observation.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Based on what?”
You glanced at the time again, then back at him. “You’re late.”
“I’m eight minutes late.”
“You’re ten.”
He frowned slightly. “No, I’m not.”
You tilted your head. “You are.”
A pause.
“…Okay, maybe I am.”
“Thank you.”
Johnny watched you for another second, then huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You wrote that down, didn’t you?”
“Possibly.”
“Wow.”
You slipped your notebook back into your bag. “Are you ready, or should I schedule this for next week?”
“I’m ready,” he said immediately, straightening a little like he’d just remembered he was supposed to be cooperating. “I’ve been ready.”
“I was told you were waxing your car yesterday.”
“That was important.”
“It was not.”
“It was to me.”
You gave him a look.
He ignored it.
“Alright,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the elevators. “What do you wanna know?”
You stepped forward, pressing the call button without hesitation. “Everything.”
Johnny let out a small breath, following you inside once the doors opened. “That’s a lot.”
“That’s the job.”
The elevator started moving. There was a brief silence, only the low jazz was heard through the built-in speakers. But much to your dismay, instead of the saxophone solo you heard Johnny’s voice.
“You really think I’m rock bottom?” He said, feigning a casual look, hands in his pockets but you could clearly tell it was bugging him.
You didn’t even look at him. “I think you’re consistently involved in situations that suggest poor decision-making.”
He finally looked at you confused, “That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when it happens repeatedly.”
Johnny leaned back slightly against the glass, watching you now instead of the view. “You’ve been writing about me for two years.”
“Yes.” You nodded.
“And you still think I’m the problem.” Johnny said, again very bothered.
You finally glanced at him. “One of them,” you said.
He blinked, then laughed. Actually laughed.
“Wow,” he said. “You’re brutal.”
“I’m honest.” You said, smoothing your hand over your blazer.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” He said, almost mockingly, but it was too early for you to get on his ass.
The elevator slowed, then stopped. The doors slid open, and you stepped out first, already pulling your notebook back out. Johnny followed, running a hand through his hair like he was mentally preparing himself. “Alright,” he said, exhaling. “Let’s get this over with.”
You paused and turned slightly. And for the first time that morning, there was the faintest hint of a smile on your face.
“Try not to give me a headline,” you said.
Johnny grinned. “No promises.”
Johnny’s “workshop” was not what you expected.
Which, at this point, was becoming a pattern.
You had gone in fully prepared for chaos—something loud, messy, probably half-broken, maybe a few scorch marks on the walls for dramatic effect. And yes, there were scorch marks. Of course there were. But underneath that, the space was… organized.
Not Reed-level organized, but intentional.
There were tools laid out where they were supposed to be, parts labeled, equipment that looked like it had actually been built and rebuilt more than once. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t careless.
It was his.
Johnny walked ahead of you like he owned the place—which, technically, he did—gesturing vaguely at different stations as you stepped further in. “Alright, so this is where all the important stuff happens.”
You glanced around, already pulling your notebook out. “Define important.”
“Anything I say is important,” he shot back.
You hummed, jotting something down anyway. “Noted.”
He noticed that.
Of course he did.
“Hey—what are you writing?”
“Observations.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
Johnny narrowed his eyes slightly but let it go, turning back to one of the worktables. “Okay, so—this,” he said, tapping a piece of equipment that looked like it had seen better days, “is part of a containment system I’ve been working on. Helps regulate output when things get… intense.”
You paused then looked at him. Then at the device.Then back at him. “…You built this?” You asked, almost disbelieving.
“Yeah.” There was no hesitation from his side. No joking. No exaggeration. Just—yeah.
You stared at it a second longer than you meant to because that? For sure didn’t fit the version of him you’d been writing.
You stepped closer, leaning slightly to get a better look. “How does it work?”
Johnny’s grin came back immediately. “Oh, you wanna know how it works?”
You didn’t look at him. “Yes.”
“Alright, so—” He shifted beside you, launching into an explanation that was… surprisingly coherent. Not Reed-level, obviously, but clear. Thought out. He walked you through it step by step, pointing things out, explaining what he’d adjusted, what hadn’t worked the first time, what he’d had to fix.
You asked questions, he answered them.
And somewhere in the middle of it you realized something mildly annoying.
He wasn’t dumb. Not even a little.Which, frankly, complicated things. You wrote that down. He noticed again.
“You’re doing that thing.” He wiggled his finger pointing at your notebook.
“What thing?”
“The writing thing. Every time I say something remotely impressive, you write it down like you’re surprised.”
You looked up at him, expression neutral. “I’m documenting.”
“You’re judging.”
“I’m documenting.”
He pointed at your notebook. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s journalism.”
Johnny sighed dramatically but let it go again, moving on. “Come on,” he said after a second, gesturing toward the next area. “I’ll show you the good stuff.”
The “good stuff,” apparently, included him talking about the space mission. That part you paid attention to. Really paid attention to. The way his tone shifted slightly, less joking, more focused. The way he described it—not like a headline, not like a story for the public, but like something he had actually lived through.You didn’t interrupt much.Just enough to keep him going.
“And then,” he finished, leaning back slightly against the table, “we came back, everything went wrong, and—boom. Powers.”
You tapped your pen lightly against the page. “And you immediately decided to set yourself on fire.”
He grinned. “Well, yeah. I had to test it.”
“Of course you did.”
“Also,” he added, pointing at himself, “I am literally the hottest man alive. So it worked out.”
You didn’t even look up this time. “You winked when you said that.”
“I did.”
“I’m writing that down.”
“Don’t write that down.”
“I’m writing it down.”
“Wow.”
He watched you for a second, then shook his head, pushing off the table. “Alright, come on. One more thing.”
You followed him again, this time down a short hallway that led to....Oh. His room.
You paused just slightly at the doorway before stepping in, eyes immediately scanning the space out of habit. It was exactly what you expected, and also not. There was a large bed, obviously, a few scattered clothes that he very clearly hadn’t bothered to pick up, a record player set up near the window, and—
You stopped in your tracks. “…Is that—”
“My portrait?” Johnny said, way too proud.
You stared at it.
Big.
Very big.
A full self-portrait of Johnny Storm. Looking exactly the way he probably thought he looked at all times.
You blinked. “…It’s large.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It counts.”
You shook your head slightly, moving further into the room, your attention shifting to the windows instead.
Panoramic, floor-to-ceiling. Looking directly over the city and the spaceship.
“Excelsior,” Johnny said, stepping up beside you. “Best view in the building.”
You nodded once, taking it in for a second before jotting something down again.
“Wow,” he muttered. “You’re really gonna write about my room, huh?”
“I’m writing about everything.”
“Even the portrait?”
“Especially the portrait.”
“Unbelievable.”
You finished your note, then closed your notebook with a soft snap. “Alright,” you said. “I think that covers the technical side.”
Johnny perked up immediately. “Oh, no, no—now we get to the good part.”
You raised a brow. “Which is?”
He grinned. “Personal exclusive interview,” he said, spreading his arms slightly like he was presenting himself. “The Flaming Hearts fanclub is gonna go crazy for this.”
You stared at him for exactly one second. Then nodded. “Sure.”
Johnny blinked. “…Wait, really?” There was no way you just agreed to it without any questions. That got Johnny wondering if you maybe changed your opinions on him? But that certainly couldn't be right?
“Personal questions,” you clarified, already opening your notebook again.
His grin widened. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
You clicked your pen and looked him dead in the eye. “Johnny Storm.”
“Yeah?” Johnny said, the smug smirk returning to his face, highlighting those smile lines and dimples on his cheeks.
“Why, as a man, are you blond?”
Silence.
Immediate.
Absolute.
Johnny stared at you. His head turned to the right almost unnoticeably but you caught it. “…What?”
You didn’t even blink, seriously waiting for an answer. “I’m serious.”
“That’s your first question?” Johnny said in disbelief, there goes his hope.
“Yes.” You nodded, trying very hard to keep a straight face and not burst out laughing. Truth be told, yes you had everything against blond men, might be a preference, might be trauma from an ex, who knows? But you did love to bully men about it.
“That’s not even—what does that mean?” Johnny actually could not believe anything that was happening right now. What the hell was that question? Was it real or were you just messing with him? Or did you actually hate his hair? He stood there, brows furrowed and hand frozen halfway in the air.
You however, did not budge. “It’s a valid question.”
“It’s not a valid question.”
“It is to me.”
Johnny ran a hand through his hair, visibly offended now. “I was born like this.”
“Unfortunate.” You said, writing something down in your notebook not even sparing him a glance.
“Unfortunate?” Now Johnny sounded utterly offended. Being blond was his whole thing! He was named “Sexiest Blond Alive” last year, girls swooned, hell even guys did, but now you– a New York Times journalist who has been on his ass for two years now– are hating on him for being blond??
“Yes.” You said, very very casually, but you were actively fighting your giggles that could burst at any moment.
He stared at you like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. “You’ve been holding that in all week, haven’t you?”
You let a small smile creep in, tilting your head slightly, “Maybe.”
“That’s crazy.” Johnny let out a breath and instinctively ran his hand thru his hair, looking as stressed as ever.
You shrugged. “You asked for personal.”
“I didn’t ask for an attack!” He exclaimed, hands in air
“Same thing.”
Johnny laughed. Actually laughed. Shaking his head as he looked at you again, something in his expression shifting—less defensive now, more… entertained. “Alright,” he said. “My turn.”
You raised a brow.
“You’ve been writing about me for two years,” he continued. “Be honest.”
You waited.
“Am I really that bad?”
You paused just for a second. Honestly you could’ve said the truth, that he wasn’t exactly the problem– well he was most of the time but that’s not the point– it was more of a…fangirl problem. He always kept his image as a ladies’ man, some might even call him a playboy, and that was enough for you to make a conclusion about him. And when his chaotic and stupid acts started to see the light, it just fed the opinion you had on him, which led you to professionally roast him in your articles. So right now, seeing him in real light and not just spotlights, newspapers, television or magazines, he didn’t seem the way you expected him to be like. He was grounded, always helping, invested in his work, cracking jokes to keep his family happy, even if it meant getting scolded or laughed at. Johnny Storm was very different than the public has made him out to be.
“No,” you said.
Johnny blinked genuinely surprised. “…No?”
“No.” You repeated, not an ounce of sarcasm in your tone.
Johnny didn’t move for a second after your answer. He just looked at you, like he was trying to replay the last thirty seconds in his head and figure out where exactly things had gone wrong for him. “…No,” he said slowly, like he didn’t trust what he’d heard. “You said no.”
You nodded once, calm as ever. “I did.”
“And yet,” he continued, gesturing vaguely between you and himself like he was presenting evidence in a case, “every single article you’ve ever written about me makes it sound like I’m one bad decision away from being banned from the state of New York.”
You leaned slightly against the edge of his desk, pen still in hand. “That’s not what I said.”
“It is exactly what you said.”
“I said you have a pattern of questionable decisions.”
“That’s worse,” Johnny said immediately. “That sounds intentional.”
“It is intentional.”
He blinked. “You think I make bad decisions on purpose?”
“I think you don’t think them through.”
Johnny stared at you for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Wow. Okay. So this is just—this is my reputation now. This is what I am to you.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for a character assassination.”
“You asked for honesty.”
He ran a hand through his hair, already pacing a little now, which you were starting to notice he did whenever he got worked up. “Okay, but answer me this—how come every article about Reed is like ‘brilliant mind of our generation,’ Sue’s ‘grace under pressure,’ Ben’s ‘heart of the team’—”
“All accurate,” you said, not even looking up from your notes.
“—and I’m ‘guy who caused a traffic jam and then called it a tactical decision’?”
“You did call it that.”
“Because it was tactical.”
“You were on top of a taxi.”
“I was stopping a robbery.”
“You were also on top of a taxi.”
Johnny stopped pacing and looked at you like he wanted to argue that further, but couldn’t quite find a way around it. “…That’s not the point,” he said finally.
“It is the point.” You let out a breath that suspiciously sounded like a laugh, but Johnny seemed too worked up to notice.
Johnny shook his head, “No, the point is—you only ever write the bad stuff.”
“I write what stands out.”
“So me saving people doesn’t stand out?”
“It does,” you said, finally meeting his eyes again. “But you making it harder than it needs to be also stands out.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly offended but also very aware you weren’t exactly wrong. That seemed to annoy him more. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I do good things.”
“I never said you didn’t.” You said quickly
“You just never write them.”
“I will,” you said simply.
He paused. “You will?”
You clicked your pen, putting it inside your notebook, giving him your full attention, “When they outweigh everything else.”
Johnny frowned. “That’s a terrible system.”
“It’s a very effective one.”
He shook his head like he didn’t even know where to start with that, then suddenly pointed at you again, clearly remembering something important. “Also—what is your issue with blondes?”
You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the shift. “My issue?”
“Yes, your issue,” he said, gesturing at his hair like it was the main topic of the interview now. “You’ve made, like, three comments this week. I’m starting to feel targeted.”
You considered him for a second, then shrugged lightly. “I don’t have anything against blondes.”
He nodded once, immediately relieved. “Okay, good.”
You tilted your head just slightly. “Women.”
He froze. “…I’m sorry?”
“I don’t have anything against blonde women,” you clarified, completely serious. “I have everything against blond men.”
There was a full second of silence. Then another.
Johnny stared at you like you had just personally betrayed him. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “That’s actually insane.”
“It’s a preference.” You shrugged.
“It’s discrimination.” Johnny pointed out.
“It’s observational.” You replied.
“It’s against my entire community,” he added, pointing at himself again like he was representing a larger group. “Do you have any idea how many blond men are out there just trying to live their lives?”
You nodded slowly. “A silent struggle.”
“A real struggle,” he insisted. “We face adversity.”
“Every day.”
“Exactly.”
You held his gaze for a second longer, watching him get more and more serious about something that was very clearly ridiculous—
And then you laughed. Not a polite laugh. Not the small, controlled one you gave in conversations, an actual laugh. Quick, unexpected, and very obviously real.
Johnny stopped mid-sentence like someone had just hit pause on him because that was new.
You hadn’t laughed at him like that all week.
And for a second, he just stood there, watching you, something shifting almost instantly in his expression. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. “Oh, that counts,” he said.
You shook your head immediately, already trying to recover. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You laughed,” he said, like that was all the evidence he needed. “That’s the first real laugh I’ve gotten all week.”
“It was at the situation.”
“I am the situation.”
“That doesn’t make it about you.”
“It literally makes it entirely about me.”
You rolled your eyes, tucking your notebook away. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, leaning back against the desk like he’d just won something, “you laughed.”
You tried not to smile.
You really did. But the corner of your mouth betrayed you anyway.
Johnny caught it immediately. “Oh, yeah,” he added, pointing at you like he was collecting proof. “That too.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Stop.”
“Not happening.”
You sighed, shaking your head, but there was something lighter in your expression now—something that hadn’t been there before.
And Johnny noticed that too.
The knock came right as Johnny was still mid being a pain in the ass about you laughing, which, if you were being honest, was probably for the best.
He paused, head turning toward the door. “Yeah?”
It opened a second later.
Sue stepped in, already mid-thought, like she’d been about to say something before she even fully registered what she was walking into. Then she stopped just enough to take in the scene.
You standing near the desk, arms crossed, notebook tucked under one arm. Johnny leaning against it, looking far too pleased with himself. The general energy of the room—which, if she had to describe it, was… different.
“…Oh,” she said.
You and Johnny both spoke at the same time.
“We’re doing the interview—”
“—she’s just finishing up—”
You both stopped.
Looked at each other.
Then immediately looked away like that hadn’t just happened.
Sue’s eyes moved between the two of you, her expression shifting slightly—not suspicious exactly, but definitely… curious.
“Right,” she said slowly. “Okay.”
Johnny straightened a little, suddenly looking much more cooperative than he had all week. “Yeah, we’re—uh—being productive.”
You nodded once, completely composed again. “We were just wrapping up the personal portion.”
Sue blinked. “Personal portion.”
Johnny opened his mouth.
You spoke over him immediately. “Professional context.”
“Very professional,” Johnny added quickly, nodding.
Sue didn’t look convinced, but she also didn’t question it. Instead, she leaned slightly against the doorframe, crossing her arms in a much more relaxed way than earlier. “Well,” she said, “I actually came to ask if you wanted to stay for dinner.”
You glanced at her.
Then at your watch.
Then back at her.
“I probably shouldn’t,” you started, out of instinct more than anything. “I’ve already—”
“It’s Friday,” Sue cut in gently. “Ben makes pasta.”
There was a brief pause.
Johnny perked up immediately. “Yeah, he does. And he takes it way too seriously.”
“I do not,” Ben’s voice called faintly from somewhere down the hall.
“You absolutely do,” Johnny shot back without missing a beat. “Last week you yelled at me for breathing too close to the sauce.”
“That was because you were breathing too close to the sauce!”
You glanced between them, one brow lifting slightly. “…He yelled at you?”
Johnny nodded, completely serious. “Full volume. Said I was ‘compromising the integrity of the dish.’”
“I was!” Ben called again.
You looked back at Sue, then at your watch. After a second you put your notebook back inside your bag. “Well,” you said, adjusting your bag slightly, “I am technically over my time.”
Sue smiled a little. “Exactly.”
You hesitated for about half a second longer before shrugging lightly. “What’s another hour?”
Johnny looked at you like you had just said something life-changing. “…Wait,” he said. “You’re staying?”
You glanced at him. “For dinner. Not forever.”
“Still counts.”
“It does not count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
Sue exhaled through her nose, already turning toward the door. “Both of you—out. Ben will lose his mind if we’re late.”
Johnny pushed off the desk immediately, gesturing for you to go ahead like he was suddenly very invested in this entire situation. “After you.”
You walked past him without comment. But he fell into step beside you almost immediately. The walk downstairs to the kitchen wasn’t long, but it was… loud.
Ben was already there, exactly where Johnny said he’d be, standing over the stove like it was a high-stakes operation. There were multiple pots going, something simmering, something else being stirred with far too much focus for a regular dinner.
“Don’t touch anything,” Ben said the second Johnny walked in.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You always say that.”
“And you always accuse me.”
“Because you always touch things.”
Johnny glanced at you, lowering his voice just slightly. “I touched one thing. One time.”
“You flipped the garlic bread,” Ben said without looking away from the stove.
“It needed flipping.”
“It did not need flipping.”
You watched the exchange quietly for a second before stepping a little further into the room, taking in the scene. It was… normal. Nothing planned, nothing scripted, just non-regular people doing regular things on a regular Friday.
Sue moved around easily, grabbing plates, setting things up like this was routine. Reed wandered in at some point, immediately getting distracted by something on the counter that definitely wasn’t meant for him.
But Johnny stayed close. Not obviously, not in a way that would stand out to anyone else. But every time you shifted, he was there. Leaning against the counter near you, reaching for something just as you did, making some comment under his breath that was clearly meant for you and not the room.
At one point, as Ben started plating everything, Johnny leaned slightly closer. “You’re writing about this, aren’t you?”
You didn’t look at him. “Probably.”
“Make sure you mention I was respectful.”
You glanced at him briefly. “You told me I couldn’t stay for dinner on Monday.”
“That was before I knew you’d say yes today.”
“I didn’t say yes to you.”
“You said yes to dinner.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Johnny grinned. “Still counts.”
You shook your head, but there was no real edge to it this time and Johnny noticed that. Which meant, unfortunately for you, he was only getting started.
Summary: You finally convinced Sue and Reed to go on a date night. That meant you and your boyfriend, Johnny Storm, were responsible for their cranky son.
WC: 1087
A/N: Just rewatched Fantastic 4: First Steps for the 3rd time and could not stop thinking about Johnny Storm as an uncle. I wrote this wayyyy too late at night for someone that needs to be up early. This is also my first fic ever, so please let me know if you enjoy it!
Warnings/tags: No warnings, just domestic fluff. No physical descriptions of reader except for having hair long enough to put in a ponytail. Reader is referred to with she/her pronouns. No use of y/n. Proofread.
It wasn’t very often that Sue and Reed trusted you two to watch Franklin. Yes, they loved you, and yes, they knew you were capable of it. But the new-parent anxiety, partnered with the whole “potentially magic baby” thing, had left them without a date night in far too long. It took you weeks to convince Sue to go out and to let you and Johnny watch the baby overnight. Once you got her on your side, Sue just had to say the word, and Reed agreed. That’s how you and your boyfriend ended up covered in baby spit and surrounded by your attempts to distract the baby from crying. Blocks and toys everywhere, even H.E.R.B.I.E. was having a hard time keeping clean, you could see the marks on him where Franklin had used a marker to try to draw a masterpiece.
Johnny had been holding the boy for at least 45 minutes at this point. His normally pristine, pressed shirt was covered in pureed carrot and wrinkles. “I don’t know how Suze does this every day.” He said, exasperated. His eyes had dimmed from their regular sky blue to a lighter grey. Even through the tiredness, you could see the adoration he had for the boy. “Let me take him, J. You’ve had him the whole night.” Holding your arms out for his nephew, he surrendered with an audible sigh. He had refused every single time you offered, claiming it was his nephew and he should be the one to take care of him. “Fine. But only for a minute, then the magic baby comes back to Uncle Johnny.” He says with his signature smile, albeit slightly exhausted. You laugh, supporting the weight of the baby on your hip and bouncing him back and forth for a few minutes before speaking.
“What’s goin’ on, buddy? We fed you, you already pooped, and you apparently don’t want to go to sleep. Do you miss mama?” At that last part, Franklin settled down, just for a second. Enough for you to catch. “Oh baby– you want mama, huh? Well, too bad, little man. Your mom is getting some well-deserved time off.” Franklin just frowned at you, seemingly not satisfied with your answer, but at least just sniffling now. “What do you say we go for a little car ride, see the stars?” You look up to see your boyfriend beaming at you, a little light returning to his eyes. He had been admiring you the whole time you were holding Franklin, watching the way your sparkling eyes carefully took in the baby’s mood and how you managed to calm him. “How are you so good at that, babe?” He asked, genuine affection leaching through his words. You cross the warm kitchen towards the elevator before responding. “Magic baby,” gesturing to the little boy in your arms, “magic baby whisperer,” gesturing to yourself. Johnny laughed, jingling the Fantasticar keys while shrugging his jacket on. “Let’s go.” He helped you with your sweater, briefly taking Franklin from your arms so you could slip your arm through and handing him back as the baby started to cry again. “Jeez, okay, man, you can go back to her!” You giggle, taking the already quieting baby back into your arms.
The city lights stream underneath you as Johnny drives quietly above the rooftops. You’re sitting in the back with Franklin, his chubby hands wrapped around your finger. You are smiling softly at the boy, cooing back at him whenever he makes a sound. Johnny’s eyes keep flitting back to your face in the rearview mirror. Your hair had fallen out of the ponytail you put in hours ago, the short front pieces perfectly framing your face. The moon was shining on your skin and reflecting in your eyes, making them look even prettier than they usually do. “How did I get so lucky?” Johnny asks himself. He wanted to tell you how gorgeous you were, but did not want to jeopardize Mission: Get the Baby to Sleep.
“Johnny!” You whisper minutes later. “He’s asleep!” Grinning up at him, you see the look of relief wash across Johnny’s face as he turns the car back towards the Baxter Building. He and you sit in comfortable silence, only interrupted by the occasional snore from the now sleeping child. Johnny parks the car and gets out, opening your door for you. As you slip by him, he grabs your arm and pulls you back for a quick kiss. “You’re so great with him,” he whispers in your ear. You pull back, smile, and kiss his cheek before crossing to the other side to get Franklin out of his car seat.
Johnny had already told H.E.R.B.I.E. to get the nursery cleaned up and ready for the baby. You walk up the stairs, Johnny right next to you, holding your waist. Adjusting your grip, you gently set Franklin down, wincing slightly as the baby shifts. Thankfully, he stays asleep. You turn on the baby monitor and take it with you, shutting the door with so much precision so as not to wake him.
As the door shuts, you sigh against it. Johnny wraps his warm arms around your waist, his cheek resting against your head. “You looked so gorgeous tonight. I mean, you always do, but especially tonight.” You turn in his arms, looking down at your stained shirt. You were sure your hair was messy, you could just feel the frizz coming off of it. “Really?” You ask, not insecure, just a little bit in disbelief. “Yes, sweetheart. You were so good with him. He’s so lucky to have you as his aunt.” He kisses you softly, pulling you away from the nursery door down the hall to his room. He wasn't faring much better than you, also sporting a stained shirt, and his blonde hair was tousled from all the times Franklin grabbed at it. ‘Thank you, Johnny. You look… You look good too.” He laughs at your pause, knowing you think he’s actually the most handsome man in the world (which he is, in your opinion. He’s literally THE Johnny Storm). He leans back down, pulling you next to him on his bed. That’s how you two fall asleep, his arms wrapped around you and your head resting in the crook of his neck. There was still a ghost of a smile on both your faces, as there always was when you two were together.
Another A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this one shot as much as I enjoyed writing it.
dividers from firefly graphics, photos from pinterest.
one thing i truly cannot stand is people doing the “kimi is the new max verstappen” thing just because he’s young and doing well in a strong car.
like no. sorry. absolutely not.
kimi is doing exceptionally well and i’m not taking that away from him, but he does not drive like max, he does not have max’s skillset, and he did not have to crawl through the same absolute hellscape max did to become the driver he is.
being young and fast does not automatically make you max verstappen 2.0. sometimes it just makes you a very talented young driver in a kinda illegal mercedes.
In regards of the Trump government scraping all trans inclusion in its queer information portion of its websites I have made this thing. Spread the word. Don't let them pretend we never existed.
P.S: Don't like! Reblog! <3
EDIT: Well this got a lot of attention! I got a few users asking to print or repost my art and I am unimaginably grateful to everyone's interest, especially since it's a really simple drawing I made on a whim haha! Anyone who is looking to print these out to hang or hand out or repost on another platform is free to do so, although I ask you to credit me and let people know it's from my Tumblr profile! If anyone wishes to do anything else with my art or post and wants to clarify what I consent to then they can message me privately and I'll explain! <333 all my love to my queer siblings
EDIT: I made an LGBTQIA+ version with a focus on trans and intersex folks, it's on my pinned if you prefer this version of the acronym.
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
2087
