darling

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~3,988

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Twenty One: Subject X-17 — Upset and Aggressive

The night air hit sharp after the restaurant’s low hum, biting at your cheeks as you shoved through the doors. The city buzzed on—cabs honking, neon signs blinking, laughter spilling from bars a block away. You didn’t wait for him, didn’t want to, but you strode out into it, heels striking hard against the sidewalk, every step meant to leave him behind.

But you heard him anyway. His footsteps shadowing yours, steady, infuriating.

You stopped. So did he.

Your voice came out flat. “There’s nothing to say anymore. You never trusted me. You never will. So just… stop.”

Johnny’s reply was immediate, sharp enough to sting. “And you’ve given me every reason not to.”

You turned, glare catching the glow of the streetlights. “Right. That’s why you locked me away. Because that was trust.”

His jaw worked, fire sparking at the edges of his voice. “You think I wanted that? You think I didn’t fight—” He broke off, biting the words back like they cost too much.

You pounced. “Then whose choice was it?”

The silence that followed was louder than traffic, heavier than the city pressing in. He didn’t answer. Wouldn’t.

That was all you needed.

Your laugh came bitter, a slice of glass across the night. “Then stop following me.”

Johnny’s hand twitched like he might reach for you, but he didn’t. His voice dropped instead, lower, unguarded. “I can’t.”

You froze. Because he hadn’t said why.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Then you tore yours free, spinning on your heel, forcing distance into the space between you before you could be the one to splinter.

The night air hit you like a slap, cooler than it had any right to be. You didn’t wait for him—you just walked, heels clicking too fast against the pavement.

But you heard him anyway. Behind you. Steady, unhurried.

You stopped. So did he.

“There’s nothing left to say,” you muttered without turning, your voice brittle and sharp. “Just leave me alone.”

Silence. Then, his voice, low: “If that’s what you wanted, you wouldn’t keep stopping.”

Your chest tightened. You spun on him, words spilling faster than you could rein them in. “You don’t get to follow me. You don’t get to—hover, like I’m some mess you have to clean up. You wanted me locked away, fine. You got what you wanted. Congratulations.”

Johnny’s jaw flexed, his hands curling at his sides. “You think I wanted that? You think I enjoyed sticking you down there?”

“Didn’t look like it hurt you much,” you snapped. “Didn’t see you banging down the door. Didn’t hear your voice on the other side of the glass.”

He stepped closer, eyes burning, but his tone stayed calm in a way that made it worse. “And if I had? If I’d been there every night, would it change anything now?”

You hated that the answer tried to claw its way up your throat. So you turned and walked faster.

Johnny followed.

You cut into the first bar you saw, light spilling gold over the cracked leather booths and crowded counter. You ordered the strongest thing they had and downed half before you even turned around.

Johnny stayed near the wall, arms folded, every inch of him radiating heat you couldn’t escape. He didn’t drink. Didn’t talk. Just watched.

Fine. If he wanted to play silent sentinel, let him. You flagged the bartender again, tossing a careless wave toward Johnny. “Put it on his tab,” you said, loud enough to draw a few chuckles from nearby. The bartender gave you a look but nodded, sliding another glass your way.

You raised it in mock salute toward Johnny, daring him to stop you. He didn’t.

The burn in your throat steadied the shake in your hands—or maybe just numbed it. Either way, you welcomed the haze creeping in at the edges of your thoughts.

The next few hours blurred into neon and laughter. You danced when the music shifted, let strangers spin you in circles, laughed too loud at jokes you didn’t fully hear. Every time you tilted back another glass, Johnny stayed in the corner—arms folded, posture carved out of stone, eyes never leaving you. He didn’t move, didn’t join, didn’t stop you. He just watched.

That’s when you saw him—the man from the gala.

Well-dressed, smirk sharp as the rim of his glass, sliding onto the stool beside yours like it was inevitable. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he said, voice all smooth edges. “Guess it’s my lucky night.”

A flash of recognition caught your breath, but the alcohol softened it, dulled the alarm. He smiled like you’d been expecting him all along, sliding easily into your orbit.

You stiffened, pulse tripping. Out of all the bars in New York—

He leaned closer, the scent of expensive cologne curling between you. “You looked like you were having the time of your life back there. Shame you slipped away before we finished our conversation.”

Your laugh came out too sharp, too brittle, but you forced it anyway. “Guess you bored me.”

“Guess you’ll have to let me try harder.” His hand brushed the bar top, fingers inching closer to yours.

You let him.

The two of you danced, words tumbling out between spins and half-laughed jabs, but his questions cut deeper than his smile suggested.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he said lightly, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “How Doom’s name keeps showing up in the wrong places. Makes you wonder what kind of hands are moving his pieces.”

Your steps faltered, but the alcohol kept the warning from fully sinking in. Before you could think it through, your gaze slid past his shoulder—straight to Johnny. Still in the corner. Still watching. Heat curled in your stomach, not from the liquor this time, but from the way his eyes hadn’t left you once.

So you leaned closer to your dance partner, made it look like whispering. If Johnny wanted to watch, let him think it was something worth glaring at.

Another round landed in your hands—amber fire that slid smooth down your throat. You laughed at something meaningless, your hand brushing the man’s arm like you meant it, and that was when his smile shifted. Sharper. Knowing.

From across the room, you felt Johnny’s eyes spear into you. His stance hadn’t shifted, but the air between you thrummed hotter, heavier. Watching. Waiting.

You should’ve stood up. Should’ve walked out. Instead, you swirled the dregs of your drink, fighting the urge to flinch under the stranger’s gaze.

“So,” the man murmured, tilting his glass toward you. “Tell me—off the record. What were you really doing at a gala like that?”

You toyed with the rim of your glass, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “What makes you think I don’t belong at galas?”

The man smirked, lifting his drink. “Because you actually listen when people talk. Everyone else is too busy showing off their diamonds. You? You looked like you wanted more than champagne and gossip.”

You tipped your head, feigning curiosity. “And what exactly did I look like I wanted?”

He chuckled, leaning in like he was sharing a secret. “Answers.”

Your pulse jumped. You hid it with another sip, tilting your chin in practiced boredom. “Bold assumption.”

“Not really,” he said, watching you too closely. “Especially considering what they were hiding under that cloth. Rare stone, too rare to be on display without a reason. And you were circling it like you knew exactly what it was.”

The laugh you forced out nearly cracked. “A rock? Please. I’ve seen shinier ones in a kid’s fish tank.”

The stranger’s smile faltered as his eyes searched yours. Then, softer, almost in shock:

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Your pulse stumbled. You forced a scoff, lifting your drink like a shield. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I meet a lot of people.”

He blinked once, then let out a low laugh—half amusement, half disbelief. “Wow. You’re serious.” His gaze sharpened, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle. “Here I thought you were just keeping a good cover. I mean, come on—” he tipped his glass subtly toward the wall, toward Johnny, “you’ve got Johnny Storm himself trailing after you like a damn puppy. If that’s not running cover, I don’t know what is.”

The words slipped under your skin like ice water.

In the mirror behind the bar, Johnny hadn’t moved. Arms still folded. Eyes still locked on you. But his jaw was tight, his reflection as sharp as a blade.

You narrowed your eyes, the words sticking sharp in your throat. “Cover for what?”

The stranger tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle missing pieces. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “The late nights. The trials Doom pushed you through. The promises. You don’t remember what you asked him for?”

Something twisted in your chest. A wrong note, discordant, like hearing a melody you half-recognized but couldn’t place.

Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

But his smile only sharpened. “Funny. That’s exactly what you used to say in the beginning.”

From across the room, Johnny shifted his weight, still posted at the wall. To him, it would look like harmless small talk—maybe even flirting. But your pulse roared like warning sirens in your ears.

You forced a scoff, too loud, too bright, hoping it carried across the room. “Sounds like you’ve had a few too many.”

The stranger didn’t flinch. His smile only deepened, slow and sharp, like he’d been waiting for that answer. He leaned in, voice pitched soft, lazy, almost teasing—harmless to anyone listening.

“Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t like being reminded who you used to be.”

Your fingers went rigid around the glass. The words landed wrong—too heavy, too sharp—like a puzzle piece that should’ve fit but didn’t. You swallowed, forcing air back into your lungs.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You tried to laugh again, brittle as glass. “You really should quit while you’re behind.”

The stranger rose, slow, sliding his coat over his shoulders. But as he passed, close enough that only you could hear, he dipped his head.

“When the time comes, you’ll remember. You always do.”

The words burrowed cold into your spine, threading unease through the alcohol haze.

Your pulse stuttered when you caught movement—Johnny pushing off the wall at last, his gaze cutting straight across the bar to you. His shoulders were squared, his jaw locked tight, the kind of look that meant trouble.

What the hell was he doing? Charging in like you needed saving? From what?

Before he could close the distance, you plastered on your brightest, fakest smile and snagged the stranger’s hand, tugging him toward the dance floor. Laughter spilled from your mouth like it belonged there, though your stomach churned ice. You let him spin you under the bar’s dim lights, close enough for Johnny to see every step.

The music thudded low, the floor sticky beneath your shoes, the stranger’s hand warm where it pressed against your back. You let yourself lean into the rhythm, let the liquor blur the edges until it felt like floating. Laughter slipped from your throat too easily, as if you weren’t choking on questions.

He bent closer, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “If you really want answers,” he murmured, velvet and sharp, “we don’t have to stay here. We can step out. I’ll tell you everything.”

The words pierced through the haze, sobering you in an instant. Your feet slowed, then stopped altogether. You stared up at him, the world tilting as though the ground had dropped.

For a heartbeat, you swore you remembered—sterile light, the scent of metal and ozone, a voice like his saying we’ll make you stronger, you’ll be untouchable. A flash of equations scrawled on glass. Your own handwriting. A contract you couldn’t quite see, only the weight of the pen in your hand.

It was gone just as fast, leaving your pulse jagged and your stomach hollow. You blinked hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to piece together whether it was memory or just the liquor twisting your head.

“Alright, fun’s over.”

Johnny’s voice cut through the music, low and threaded with steel. You jerked back to find him right there, heat radiating off him like a warning. His hand clamped around your wrist, pulling you away before the stranger could get another word in.

“You’ve racked up quite the tab, sweetheart,” Johnny muttered, dragging you toward the edge of the floor. His smirk was razor-thin, but his eyes were pure fire. “Time to call it a night.”

You yanked at his grip, stumbling a little but glaring up at him all the same. “I don’t need a babysitter—or a damn bodyguard. Go back to your corner and brood if you’re so miserable.”

That did it. His jaw flexed, muscle ticking, and for a moment you thought he might actually snap right there.

Instead, he bent, swift as a strike, and before you could react you were hauled clean off the floor.

“Johnny—!” The word cracked into a yelp as he slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The bar tilted upside down, the crowd’s laughter and whistles crashing over you.

“You don’t get a say anymore,” he growled, his hand braced firmly against the back of your thighs to keep you in place. “You want to drink yourself sick, fine. But you’re not doing it here.”

Your fists thudded weakly against his back, the liquor making your swings sloppy. “Put me down, Storm! I swear to God—”

He didn’t. He just shouldered through the crowd, ignoring every cheer, every curious glance, until the night air hit like ice on your flushed skin. The heavy thump of the bar’s bass cut off behind you, replaced by the muted buzz of the city.

“Put me down,” you snapped, pounding once against his back.

Johnny didn’t answer. He strode another few steps down the block, then finally set you on your feet, steadying you with one hand before letting it fall.

For a beat, you just stood there—breath clouding between you, the streetlamp painting him in gold and shadow. His chest heaved once, like he was trying to get something under control.

Your voice cracked first, sharp as glass. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That was bullshit.”

His laugh was short, humorless. “What do I think I’m doing? Dragging your ass out before you drained the whole bar on my tab.” His eyes cut down at you, fire burning under his calm. “Six shots in and cozying up to strangers—what, was I supposed to stand there and clap for you?”

Your jaw clenched, heat rising up your throat—not from the alcohol, but from him. “I wasn’t your problem to fix, Johnny.”

He stepped closer, close enough you had to tilt your chin to keep glaring. “Yeah? Funny. Looked a lot like a problem to me.”

The glow of a streetlamp cut sharp lines across his face, and you hated how familiar it felt. “What do you want, Johnny?”

He didn’t answer at first—just stared, jaw working, like he couldn’t decide which version of himself to be tonight. The easy one. The cruel one. The one who kept looking at you like he didn’t know whether to drag you closer or shove you away.

Finally, he said, “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was low, edged with something that almost sounded like hurt. “You sit there with your little bar games and your stranger conversations like you don’t know how close you’re cutting it.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. You—the guy who thrives on reckless—telling me I’m pushing too far.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s different.”

“Why?” You stepped closer, venom sharpening every word even as your chest ached. “Because it’s me? Because you can’t stand the thought of me being the one who doesn’t need saving?”

He flinched—just barely, but enough. Enough for you to see it land.

“That’s not what I—”

“Then what?” Your voice cracked before you caught it, heat flooding your throat. “Because all I see is you hovering like you can’t decide whether to burn me or bury me.”

The silence stretched, hot and thick, until Johnny finally dragged a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the ground. When he looked up, his voice was softer but rougher too, scraped raw.

“You think I like this? You think I like watching you wreck yourself just to prove a point? You’re impossible, and it’s…” His breath hitched, words faltering like they were too big to fit past his teeth. “It’s driving me insane.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening like he’d just shoved his fist through it. For a second, you almost believed he meant it—that the heat in his voice was more than anger. But then the bitterness surged back, stronger than the ache.

“Good,” you snapped. “At least we’re even.”

His brows knit. “Even?”

“You think you’re the only one losing your mind here?” You took a shaky step forward, pointing at him like the accusation could hold you together. “You vanish when it matters. You push when I’m already falling. You play the hero until it’s me paying the price. And I’m supposed to just smile and say thank you?”

Johnny’s lips parted, like he had a dozen things to throw back, but none made it out. The silence stretched, broken only by the rush of a passing cab and the pulse pounding in your ears.

“Say something,” you demanded, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

But he just stood there, jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you. His eyes searched yours with a kind of desperation that only made you angrier, because if he cared that much, then why—why did it always feel like he was the one breaking you?

You shook your head, laugh brittle. “That’s what I thought. You’ve got all the fire in the world, Johnny, but when it comes to me? You’ve got nothing.”

The words landed like a slap, sharp enough that for a breath you thought you’d gone too far. His face flickered—hurt, fury, something else you couldn’t name—and then he masked it again, like he always did.

Your words hung between you, jagged and cruel, and you almost wished you could snatch them back. Almost.

Johnny’s chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d just come out of a fight. He dragged a hand over his mouth, the laugh he let out hollow. “You really think I’ve got nothing?” His voice dropped, ragged at the edges. “You have no idea what I’ve been holding back.”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach pitch. “Then say it,” you shot back. “For once in your life, stop hiding behind the jokes and the heat and just say it.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that the air between you burned. His jaw worked like he was fighting himself.

“You want answers?” His voice was low, rough. “You’re looking for them in the wrong places.”

The words landed like a slap, harsher than if he’d actually raised a hand.

The words sliced clean through you, leaving your pulse roaring in your ears. You hated the way your throat went tight, hated that you wanted him to keep going, to rip it all open.

The laugh caught in your throat, turned raw. You swayed back a step, arms wrapping tighter around yourself. “You don’t get it,” you muttered, eyes burning hot.

Johnny shifted, like he might move closer, but stayed planted. “Then tell me. Make me get it.”

You shook your head, dizzy. “You think I’m just—what? Angry? Bitter? You think it’s easy, living like this? Waking up every day with… with him in my head, reminding me of what I was supposed to be?”

His brow furrowed, sharp. “What do you mean—”

“I thought you knew,” you cut in, voice breaking over the words. “You acted like you did. Like maybe you understood what it’s like to fight yourself every second. To want something so bad and hate yourself for it. To wonder if you’re already too far gone to stop it.”

Johnny’s chest rose, hard, like the air had been punched out of him. He took a step forward, then stopped, eyes locked on yours.

You dragged a hand down your face, trembling. “God, I shouldn’t—” The words tangled in your throat, thick with liquor and exhaustion. “Just… forget it. You don’t get it. Nobody does.”

His hand shot out, closing around your arm before you could stumble another step. Heat flared through your sleeve, steady, grounding.

You jerked out of his grip, breath catching. The cold night air stung your cheeks, sharp enough to steady you just enough to stand taller. You smoothed your dress like armor, chin lifting. “Just stop, Johnny. Stop pretending you care.”

His jaw locked. “Pretending?”

You laughed, brittle, too loud on the empty street. “You moved me. You ignored me. You hated me the second I came back. And now what—you get to play watchdog? Play hero? Please. You don’t want to save me. You just don’t want to feel guilty when I fall.”

That did it. His eyes darkened, mouth tightening in a line that promised the last of his patience had snapped. He stepped in close, heat rolling off him like a furnace about to blow.

“You’re done,” he said, clipped, final.

Before you could protest, his arm hooked around your waist and he hoisted you clean off the ground.

“Johnny—”

“Save it.” His shoulder dug into your stomach as he slung you over like you weighed nothing. “You’ve had enough for one night.”

The city spun upside down, streetlights blurring as he started walking. You pounded your fists against his back, but it only made his grip firmer, steps longer.

“Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” His voice was fire and iron, edged with frustration but steady underneath. “You can hate me tomorrow. Tonight, you’re done.”

By the time your shoes scraped pavement again, the spinning had dulled to a dull throb in your skull. He set you on your feet at the Baxter’s glass doors, one hand still on your arm like he didn’t trust you not to bolt.

The lobby swallowed you in sterile light. Johnny pushed the door wider with his shoulder, guiding you inside whether you wanted it or not.

A mechanical whir cuts through the quiet, and HERBIE zips into view, its eye-light flickering red.

“Warning. Johnny Storm’s core body temperature is registering at a dangerously low threshold. Immediate corrective action required.”

Johnny’s jaw tenses. He shuts his eyes like he’s counting to three, then lets out a breath through his nose.

“Great. Thanks for the update, toaster.”

You catch the wince he tries to smother, the stiffness in his shoulders. Something about it gnaws at you, but you don’t say anything.

“You don’t have to play bodyguard,” you mutter, hand hovering over the knob.

“Maybe I want to,” he says, tone light but gaze unreadable in the low light.

Something in your chest tugs hard, like a warning. You force a scoff, half-assed armor. “Then do me a favor.”

He arches a brow. “Name it.”

You swallow, lift your chin like the words don’t matter. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

It lands heavier than you meant it to. For a beat, neither of you move. His grin flickers, softer than it should be.

“Sure thing,” Johnny murmurs. But the way his voice curls around the word makes you wonder if he’ll keep it.

You slip inside before you can think too much about the answer.

─────

a/n: i apologize i made you guys wait so long, i fought myself with this chapter for awhile idk why i was tripping over it, i think it was the turning point for a few plot holes and getting more answers and i was afraid to get to that point of the story

AS ALWAYS let me know your thoughts and opinions <3 if its a rough chapter once again sorry :(

─────

⟢ Chapter Twenty Two

TAGLIST

i am okay and ngl i got some writers block and was nervous yall were gonna hate the next part BUT alas the show goes on

thank you for checking in, nothing bad happened i just got busy with work and think i might be going through a breakup fr

Chapter Twenty: Subject X-17 — Almosts BLOOPERS

Since chapter 20 is now posted i can start sharing things i’ve written for flashpoint that i ended up taking out in editing but loved too much to delete entirely, bloopers i suppose

1. “

Johnny whistles low, stepping closer to a gilded frame. “Guess this is where they stash the real treasures.”

You glance at him, pulse still unsettled from the bar. “Surprised you noticed.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head toward a sculpture, “I’ve got taste. Refined.”

You snort. “Right. Refined.”

But he isn’t looking at the art anymore. He’s looking at you, shadows carving something softer into his grin. For a beat too long, it feels like you’ve stepped over an invisible line—like the secret between you (the stolen rock, the hand at your waist, the way his thumb lingers on your knuckles) has tilted into something else.

You break the moment, stepping ahead toward the next painting. “Don’t get used to it.”

“

2. “

Your jaw tightens. “If I had a knife, you’d be bleeding.”

His grin sharpens. “If you had a knife, sweetheart, you’d still miss.”

The silence that follows is electric—too close to something neither of you are willing to name.

You break it first, brushing past him toward the window. “One day, Storm, someone’s going to put you in your place.”

Johnny watches you with that infuriating half-smile, like he knows a secret you don’t. “Maybe. But tonight wasn’t that day.”

“

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~3,510

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Twenty: Subject X-17 — Almosts

A ripple of laughter breaks the tension, the crowd leaning toward amusement instead of suspicion. Johnny looks at you with a flash of surprise—quickly smothered under a lazy grin, like he’s been waiting for this role all along.

His hand finds your waist as if it’s second nature, his palm warm and steady, tugging you infinitesimally closer. “Couldn’t resist,” he murmurs low, almost just for you. The brush of his breath against your ear is far too convincing, and you feel the solid heat of him beneath your hand where it rests on his chest.

The guard scoffs, mutters something about keeping it decent, and backs off. The circle of onlookers drifts, attention sliding elsewhere.

But the case is still locked, still gleaming behind Johnny. And his hand hasn’t left your waist.

“You were almost too good at that,” he murmurs, head tipped toward you, mouth curved like he can’t decide if he’s impressed or unsettled.

Your fingers are still spread against his chest, pulse thudding under your palm.

Johnny’s grin lingers, but you flatten it with a look.

“Of course your genius plan was to waltz up to armed security and ask nicely,” you murmur, voice pitched sweet enough that the crowd only hears pleasantries. The bite beneath it is for him alone. “Seconds away from being dragged out, and you call that improvising.”

He shifts, still playing his part, but you catch the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. For once, Johnny Storm doesn’t have an idea locked and ready.

So you do. You step closer, nails grazing his lapel like you’re smoothing it down, like you’re the doting partner you pretended to be. “Listen,” you whisper, leaning in as though for a kiss, “you’re going to pull me in closer, hand on my waist, maybe under my knee if you’re feeling dramatic. I’ll lean back just enough. We hit the case. It topples. Accident.”

His brows lift. “That’s—”

“Do it,” you hiss, smiling wide enough that anyone watching will think you’re flirting.

For once, Johnny doesn’t quip. His hand slides around your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The other dips lower, bracing beneath the curve of your knee. Gasps scatter from the nearest partygoers, their eyes catching the sudden flare of intimacy. He leans you back just enough that the world tips—

—and the glass case goes with it.

It crashes in a glittering spray, champagne flutes rattling on trays, voices rising in shocked laughter. A guard curses, lunging for the mess. To everyone else, you’re nothing more than a reckless couple too wrapped up in each other to notice the destruction in your wake.

His mouth hovers by your ear, his laugh low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve done this before.”

You straighten abruptly, smoothing your dress back into place like nothing scandalous just happened. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you gush to the nearest cluster of onlookers, flashing a sheepish smile. “We weren’t looking—so clumsy of us.”

You bend, skirts rustling, fingertips brushing shards of glittering glass from the floor. Around you, servers and guards kneel with rags and trays, muttering about the mess. Above it all, Johnny just stands there—bemused, almost impressed, like he can’t quite believe this ridiculous stunt is actually working.

You glance up, catching the dazed curve of his grin, and shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut. When he doesn’t move, you tug at his pant leg—subtle, urgent. The silent order is clear: get the rock.

That snaps him back. Johnny drops into a crouch beside you, broad shoulders angling toward the chaos. His hand dips fast, casual, slipping the stone into his pocket before anyone can see. He flashes a roguish smile at the nearest guard. “Sorry about that. Promise we’ll keep our hands to ourselves.”

“Hopefully,” one of the cleaners mutters.

Johnny chuckles, rising and dusting his palms off. Then he reaches for you—firm but gentle—grabbing your elbow to steady you as if you’re the one who needs saving. “Got it,” he murmurs, the words meant for you alone.

“Let’s get out of here. Now.” Your voice was low, clipped, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit.

But he didn’t move. If anything, his hand found its way back to your waist, like it didn’t know where else to go.

You braced, expecting him to pull you through the crowd and out the door—but instead Johnny slowed. His gaze swept the glittering room like he was starving for it, like he belonged here. “Relax,” he murmured. “Mission’s over. You ever think about staying? Just once?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I did. Stayed once, and regretted it every day after.”

Something flickered in his expression, sharp and unreadable, before the grin slid back into place. “Guess that’s the difference between us,” he said lightly. “You run, I linger.”

You want to argue. You really do. But the warmth of his hand on yours, the thrill of the stolen artifact burning a secret between you—it drags you under. So you let him pull you back into the crowd.

When he presses the cool glass into your hand, his knuckles drag against yours. Not by accident. He waits just long enough for you to flinch or pull away. You don’t.

“Bold move,” you say lightly, lifting the glass to your lips. “Might give people the wrong idea.”

Johnny leans an elbow against the bar, his grin sharp. “Relax. I’ve survived worse rumors.”

You take a long sip, keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but his face. “Your little plan back there was reckless.”

“Reckless,” he repeats, savoring the word. “Or inspired?”

“You nearly got us caught.”

“And yet,” he says, tilting his glass toward you in mock salute, “here we are. Not caught.”

You clink against his drink just hard enough to make the liquid slosh. “One of these days, Storm, your luck’s going to run out.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth before he downs the rest of his drink in one smooth pull. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure I’m standing next to you when it does.”

You down the rest of your drink just to avoid looking at him. Another glass appears in your hand a moment later—he’s already flagged the bartender, sliding it toward you like he knew you’d cave.

By the time you’ve drained the second and touched the third, the adrenaline has eased into something warmer. A pleasant hum under your skin. Your shoulder brushes his arm, his knee bumps yours, and you don’t move away. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the absurdity of pretending you belong here. Either way, you hear yourself laugh at something he says—too sharp to be a joke, too careless to be serious—and it lingers in the back of your throat.

Johnny notices. His grin tilts, smug and knowing, before he downs the last of his drink and tips his head toward the east corridor. “Come on. Let’s make this less boring.”

You narrow your eyes. “Says the man who nearly got us arrested fifteen minutes ago.”

“And yet,” he says, already leading the way, “I didn’t.”

The art wing is quieter, the buzz of champagne-dazed conversation giving way to the hush of velvet ropes and white spotlight. The walls are lined with paintings that stretch centuries—oil portraits, fractured abstracts, canvases so large they seem to breathe. Glass cases guard sculptures: twisted bronze figures mid-collapse, marble torsos stripped of heads and arms.

Johnny stops in front of one; a canvas streaked in reds and blacks, something violent trapped in stillness. He tilts his head. “Looks like Reed after a week without sleep.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You bite it back quickly, shaking your head. “That’s modernism. It’s supposed to capture chaos, not… sleep deprivation.”

“Chaos, sleep deprivation—same thing,” Johnny shrugs. His gaze flicks sideways, catching the faint curve of your smile. “Didn’t know you were an art critic.”

You sip your drink, trying to look unimpressed. “I’m not. I just know more than you.”

He barks a quiet laugh. “Sweetheart, a goldfish knows more than me about this stuff.”

“Finally, something we agree on,” you murmur, but your lips are twitching.

The walk continues like that—your glass emptying, his filling it again, the two of you drifting between marble statues and fractured canvases. You trade small jabs, sharp enough to sting but softened by champagne, the edges blurring until you can’t tell if you’re bickering or…something else.

At a pedestal near the center, you stop. A glass sculpture spirals upward like frozen water, sharp edges catching the light. You study it, fingers twitching with the instinct to touch.

Johnny leans in, voice low. “Bet you like this one.”

You glance at him. “Why?”

His eyes glint. “Because it looks untouchable.”

The music shifted—violins climbing into something sweeping and golden. Couples spilled onto the floor, sequins and suits spinning in time like it was second nature.

You lingered at the edge of the crowd, glass in hand, pretending not to watch. But your eyes kept catching on them: the twirl of a gown, the clasp of hands, the ease of bodies moving in sync. Things you’d never had. Things you’d never let yourself want.

Johnny noticed. Of course he did. He tipped his glass back, eyes flicking from the dancers to you with a smirk curling at his mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a waltz lesson.”

You scoffed, tearing your gaze away. “Please. I’d rather set the floor on fire.”

“I’m usually the one accused of that.” He shifted closer, his voice dropping just enough that the music didn’t drown it out. “C’mon. What’s the worst that happens? You step on my toes?”

You laughed, sharp and derisive, though the champagne smoothed the edges. “You couldn’t handle me stepping on your toes.”

His grin deepened, wolfish. “Try me.”

And then his hand was there, extended toward you—half challenge, half dare. The crowd spun behind him in flashes of silk and crystal, and for one insane second you considered it.

But you didn’t take his hand. You just stared at it, heart hammering too loud for your own liking, before lifting your chin. “I’m not here to dance.”

Johnny didn’t flinch, didn’t let the grin falter. He leaned in instead, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You’ve been watching like you are.”

The music swelled, couples spinning past in a blur of gold. Your pulse thudded in time with it, but you stayed still, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Almost. Always almost.

“But you’d look good out there. Better than half of them, anyway.” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard by the rare… compliment. That’s what it was. A compliment from Johnny Storm. He must’ve seen it, because his grin twisted, boyish and sly. “And for the record? Earlier, I said you looked ridiculous. Not bad.”

Your stomach dipped, stupidly, but you rolled your eyes before he could see it land. “Congratulations, you almost managed a compliment without ruining it.”

“Almost?” he drawled. He held out a hand, a dare wrapped in velvet. “Guess you’ll have to dance with me to be sure.”

Your lips parted, ready with another cutting remark, but instead—you gave in. Just enough. Your hand slipped into his, a surrender laced with stubbornness.

Johnny’s grin flickered wider, smug but softer, as he tugged you a step closer. The crowd spun around you, violins swelling—

—and then the intercom cracked like a whip through the music.

“Attention guests,” a clipped voice boomed, sharp against the gold and glass. “The gala’s centerpiece has gone missing. Security is responding. Please remain where you are.”

The room froze. Murmurs rippled. Heads turned.

Johnny’s hand tightened on yours—not in panic, but in that infuriating way of his, like he was already one step ahead. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear as though whispering some secret vow.

“You hungry?”

Before you could answer, he was already moving, pulling you through the startled crowd. Laughter spilled out of him, low and dangerous, and against your better judgment, a giggle broke past your own lips.

But security had moved faster, forming a line across the exit, black suits stiff and watchful.

One stepped forward, hand raised. “Sorry, sir. No one leaves until we’ve cleared the search.”

Johnny didn’t even blink. He plastered on a smile so charming it made your teeth grind. “Hey, man, look—I get it. But my… girl here’s a little drunk, and if I don’t get food in her soon, she’s gonna make a bigger scene than whatever’s going on with your missing piece.”

Heat shot up your neck. My girl. You yanked his sleeve, leaning into the act with a stumble, a half-laugh. “He’s not wrong,” you slurred just enough to sell it. “I need fries. Now.”

The guard’s eyes flicked between you, suspicious but wavering. Johnny sighed like a put-upon boyfriend, squeezing your waist as if to steady you. “C’mon, man. Do us both a favor.”

A beat. Then the guard groaned, stepping aside. “Fine. But straight out. No detours.”

Johnny shot him a wink. “You got it.”

You tugged him along before his mouth could sink you both. The second the night air hit, the two of you broke—laughing too loud, too sharp, like the whole thing was a dare you’d both just won.

The two of you slipped out under the cover of chaos, like thieves, like traitors, like something almost worse.

You pulled your arm free the second you were past the doors, breath fogging in the cool night air. “For the record, I’m not drunk.”

Johnny jogged to keep pace, grin lazy. “I just called you my girl, and that’s the part you’re yelling at me about? The drunk thing?”

Your face heated instantly. You opened your mouth, then shut it, crossing your arms instead. He caught it, of course—eyes glinting with victory as he fell into step beside you.

“Thought so.”

You didn’t answer, just kept walking, the city buzzing around you. The gala’s glow dimmed behind, traded for the warm spill of lamplight and the hush of late-night avenues. When Johnny finally slowed, you realized he was steering you toward a restaurant tucked into the corner of the block—floor-to-ceiling windows glittering, white tablecloths glowing beneath chandeliers. The kind of place where the waiters wore black vests and the silverware weighed heavy in your hand.

Nothing as loud as the gala. Just… refined. Intimate.

Johnny held the door open, his usual smirk softened by the glow spilling out from the chandeliers. You stepped inside, the hush of the room wrapping around you like silk, quieter than anything you’d felt in weeks. A few couples lingered at tables, low voices blending with the muted clink of cutlery.

The waiter didn’t question you—just guided you both to a small corner table set against the window, the city stretching in lights beyond the glass.

Johnny dropped into his chair with a kind of ease that made it look like he’d been here before. You, though… you exhaled. Shoulders loosening. Arms resting lightly on the table instead of crossed like armor.

For once, you looked like yourself, not the girl carrying a mission on her back. Johnny noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re different,” he said, not even trying to hide it, tipping his chin at the way you’d leaned back in your chair. “Like you actually exhaled for the first time all night.”

You shot him a look, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

He grinned anyway, signaling the waiter with two fingers. “Two champagne cocktails,” he said smoothly when the man appeared, then leaned back like he was already enjoying this little rebellion. “We survived a gala. We deserve it.”

The waiter left, and you arched a brow. “You ordering for me now?”

Johnny leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, grin widening. “Relax. You’ll like it. I’ve got taste.”

“Debatable,” you muttered, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward.

By the time the glasses arrived, condensation beading against crystal, Johnny slid one toward you and lifted his own in mock salute. “To surviving the night.”

You clinked his glass, rolling your eyes. “Barely.”

The first sip burned smooth down your throat, loosening something in your chest you didn’t realize you were holding. And maybe it was the candlelight, maybe it was the alcohol, but when Johnny’s gaze lingered on you—longer than it should have—you didn’t look away.

“See?” he said, his voice lower now, almost teasing. “Knew you’d like it.”

You tilted your glass, pretending to study the swirl of liquid instead of the way his eyes stayed on you, intent, unblinking. It wasn’t the cocky grin or the careless posture. It was quieter, sharper—like he was memorizing you when you weren’t looking.

And for a heartbeat, you let it happen. You let yourself sink into the illusion of normalcy, of warmth, of being someone who could just sit here across from him without the weight of secrets clawing at your spine.

Until his voice cut through, calm but edged.

“What did you mean by decoy earlier?”

The word hit like ice water. You blinked, the warmth of candlelight collapsing into static, into the reminder of what all this really was. Not a date. Not normal. A mission. A cover. A lie balanced on the tip of your tongue.

Your jaw tightened. You let out a sigh, staring past him at the polished silver cutlery instead of his eyes, debating—truth or another mask. Finally, you forced your voice steady, clipped.

“That’s just what I think it is. None of us can figure it out. It feels like a decoy.”

Short. Sweet. Enough to end it.

But the lie curdled in your mouth, sour, because even if he didn’t call you on it, the question had already ruined the night.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, watching you with something unreadable. His glass tilted idly in his hand, ice shifting with the motion. For once, he didn’t press. Didn’t pry. He just gave a small nod, like he’d sensed the change in your tone and decided not to push you further.

The silence stretched too long. Heavy. You hated it.

So you forced a crooked smile, lifting your chin. “What about you, Storm? You’ve got that look.”

He raised a brow. “What look?”

“The one that says you’ve got at least three secrets rattling around in there. Probably stupid ones. Embarrassing. Something about bad hair dye in high school, maybe a closet full of mirrors…” You let the words drip out sweet and teasing, leaning forward just enough to make it a challenge. “So. What are you hiding?”

His smirk returned, slow and dangerous, but his eyes stayed too intent on yours. “If I told you, you’d never sleep again.”

You snorted, grateful for the levity—even if it rang false in your chest. “Please. Try me.”

“Not a chance,” he said, lifting his drink in a mock toast. “Some secrets are lethal.”

The banter sparked again, lighter on the surface, but beneath it, you felt the weight still there. Pressing. Waiting.

The words should’ve landed like another joke, another easy jab. But the way he said it—quieter, throat tighter—made your smile falter.

Johnny’s gaze lingered on his glass a beat too long, then dropped to the table altogether. “Like moving your containment cell,” he muttered, almost too low for you to catch.

Your breath caught.

For a second, you weren’t sure if you’d misheard him—if it was just the alcohol playing tricks on both your heads. But then he dragged a hand through his hair, still not looking at you. “I shouldn’t have let it happen. Should’ve fought harder. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing.”

The room seemed to tilt. A thousand nights of silence behind reinforced walls pressed in on you, sharp and suffocating. You blinked hard, forcing air into your lungs, forcing words out before the spiral swallowed you whole.

“Don’t.” Your voice was brittle, but you made it hold. “Don’t take Reed’s choices on yourself. He probably had his reasons.” You forced a laugh, brittle around the edges. “It’s what he does, right? Always has a reason.”

Please, for the love of god, let this be under Reed’s doing. Let it be his cold, clinical logic that locked you away—because if it was Johnny, if it had been him all along—

Johnny’s jaw flexed. Still, he stayed quiet. Too quiet.

The silence stretched, dangerous, until your pulse started pounding in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you set your glass down. “It was Reed who moved me. Right, Johnny?”

His eyes lifted to yours at last. He didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head. Just stared, lips pressed thin, the non-answer loud enough to split you open.

It was all you needed.

Your chair scraped back before you even realized you were standing. His hand twitched like he might reach for you, stop you, but he stayed rooted.

─────

a/n: CONGRATS YOU MADE IT TO CHAPTER 20, a personal accomplishment for me is how i’ve managed to somehow not use y/n thus far in the story AND this being the longest chapter i have ever written. enjoy :)

i also just learned the word infinitesimally and felt very smart being able to use it here

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⟢ Chapter Twenty One

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~3,464

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Nineteen: Subject X-17 — Spotlight

The ride over was quiet. You’d kept your eyes on the agenda in your lap, mouthing the steps like a prayer, hoping it would all be over quickly. Johnny didn’t say a word, just sat back with his arms folded, gaze fixed on the city blurring past the window. The silence wasn’t comfortable—it pressed down, thick enough to make every page flip sound too loud.

When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of the glittering entrance, you slipped out first. The click of your heels against marble cut sharp through the swell of violins drifting from inside. You straightened, smoothing the edge of your dress, and felt rather than saw Johnny fall into step behind you. His posture was loose, casual, eyes already sweeping the crowd like he’d been born for this sort of stage.

You didn’t reach for him, but he closed the distance anyway, his hand brushing just close enough to make it look intentional. To the crowd, it sold the story. To you, it was infuriating.

Inside, chandeliers spilled light across velvet drapes and champagne glasses. Guests glittered in sequins and gold, laughter bubbling up like champagne foam. You crossed the floor, scanning every corner for the stone, for anything out of place—your arms crossed, gaze sharp.

And then it happened. A voice carried over the strings of violins: “Is that—Johnny Storm?”

Heads turned. Cameras from the press near the entry clicked like firecrackers. Within seconds, half the room seemed to orbit toward him, guests pressing in with flutes of champagne and too-wide smiles. Johnny slid into it without missing a beat, grinning, shaking hands, trading quips like he’d been born for this exact stage. The spotlight bent toward him naturally, as if the room itself had been waiting for him to arrive.

You stayed in his shadow, exactly where the plan put you. Background noise. Invisible. Watching.

The crowd surged toward him, pulled in by that effortless gravity he carried everywhere. Cameras flashed, hands reached, laughter swelled louder around him like fire catching dry brush. You let it happen. That was the point. The more they devoured his attention, the less they noticed you.

Your eyes drifted past sequins and tuxedos, scanning for the case. The pamphlet had promised an exhibition—priceless works from private collections, rare pieces on loan. You caught glimpses of them scattered across the floor: oil paintings in gilt frames, sculptures balanced on white pedestals, glass cases glowing under soft spotlights. Gems, relics, artifacts. All dazzling. All useless.

No stone.

Your jaw tightened. Either Doom had played you, or the prize was hiding in plain sight.

You slipped through the edges of the crowd, weaving past waiters with silver trays and guests locked in shallow conversations. Every smile looked sharp, every laugh too polished. None of it mattered. Not the woman dripping in diamonds near the fountain, not the man loudly boasting about shipping lanes, not the pair of politicians trading backroom deals in plain sight.

Still nothing.

Heat pricked at the back of your neck—not Johnny’s this time, just the mounting frustration. You needed a wider view. A better angle.

The balcony waited like an escape hatch. You climbed the short set of marble steps and braced your palms on the cool rail. From here, the gala stretched out beneath you in a glittering sprawl. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, violins thrummed in perfect rhythm, and Johnny—of course—was already at the center of it all, champagne flute in hand, grin like he owned the place.

You let your arms fold across your chest, the vantage point sharp but isolating. The crowd moved like a living tide, their heads bobbing, their sequins catching the light in dizzying patterns. Somewhere in that chaos was what you’d come for. Somewhere below, hidden in plain sight.

And still, you couldn’t see it.

What you did see was him. Johnny, center stage without even trying, a ripple of guests orbiting his every word. Laughter followed him like perfume, women leaned in too close, men clapped him on the back like they’d known him for years. He thrived there, as if he’d been born for champagne galas instead of fire and glass.

Except you knew better. You remembered him snapping that he hated this part. Hated the mask, the charm, the constant performance. And yet—there he was, grinning like it was oxygen.

As if he felt the weight of your stare, his gaze flicked up. Found you on the balcony. Held you.

He smiled. Slow. Easy. Deliberate.

Your stomach dropped.

Then—he lifted a hand and waved you over.

Heat shot into your face, fury curling hot under your skin. This wasn’t the plan. You were meant to stay in the shadows, unseen, unnoticed. But the moment Johnny Storm waved, half the crowd followed his line of sight. Heads turned. Eyes found you.

Invisible no longer.

You gripped the rail until your knuckles whitened, but the damage was done. If you didn’t move now, you’d draw even more attention.

Jaw tight, you descended the steps, each click of your heels sharp enough to echo over the violins. By the time you reached him, your glare could’ve cut glass.

You smoothed it into a smile before the crowd could see, bright and false, but your eyes stayed cold as steel on him. Sliding to his side, you felt his arm curve around your waist like it belonged there. To anyone watching, it looked effortless. Elegant. To you, it felt like a shackle.

Through gritted teeth, you whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”

Johnny didn’t look at you—he kept his grin trained on the couple in front of you, his voice all charm and champagne. But under it, low and taut, the frustration bled through. “You know I hate this. Don’t leave me with the wolves.”

The crowd laughed at some joke he barely delivered. His smile never slipped.

Johnny drifted closer, his hand tightening at your waist, casual to anyone watching but grounding to him. You rolled your eyes and let frost bloom beneath your skin, sending a pulse of cold into his palm. Silk should’ve iced over, his bones should’ve screamed from the frostbite—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

He only looked down at you, the smile gone. Shock flickered first, then something else—something he didn’t mask quickly enough. His eyes lingered on yours, wide and unblinking, like he couldn’t quite pull himself out of the sensation.

You knew what the cold did to him. How it stripped the heat from his veins, pulled his fire under until it guttered. It should’ve hurt. Should’ve made him recoil.

But he didn’t move.

If anything, his fingers pressed harder into your waist, steadying, like he refused to let go even as the cold seeped through silk and skin. You braced for him to flinch, for the easy grin to falter, but it didn’t. He held on.

And that was when you realized—he liked it. Not tolerated. Not endured. Liked it. The way your power sank into him, sharp and clean, like a line of ice through fire. Addicting. Dangerous. Something he shouldn’t want but couldn’t seem to stop touching. You never once realized he never flinched, or complained about it.

The sound of laughter swelled around you, a glittering wave of champagne and strings, but it felt far away. Johnny didn’t look at them. He looked at you.

The heat of his gaze burned hotter than his hand ever could. You tilted your head, testing, just enough to see if he’d look away. He didn’t.

And then—for a split, charged second—you thought he might lean in. Not to whisper. Not to play a part. Just because he wanted to.

Instead, he cleared his throat and finally dragged his eyes away, leaving the space at your ribs aching with the echo of his touch.

Your lips tilted into the fakest smile you’d ever worn, every muscle aching to snarl instead. From the outside, it looked like polite gala chatter. Inside the bubble of his arm on your waist, it was a knife fight.

“Johnny,” you hissed, the words sharp even through your teeth. “You’ve ruined the entire agenda. I can’t think of a new plan on the fly.”

To anyone else, it looked like you were leaning in close, laughing lightly at something clever he’d said.

But his tone was low, steady. “The agenda doesn’t need to change. I can still get their attention—” his gaze flicked across the crowd, already calculating—“all eyes on me, no one watching you. Simple.”

You kept your smile, though your nails dug crescents into your palm. “If you had a problem with the plan, you could’ve said something before we got here.”

Johnny’s grin didn’t falter for the crowd, but his jaw clenched, eyes sliding away from yours for half a second too long. “What if I didn’t want to give your precious agenda another chance to shut me down?”

He straightened, his easy mask sliding back into place as a woman nearby touched his arm with a laugh. Johnny turned that famous charm on her in a heartbeat, leaning into the role like he’d been born for it.

You stood rooted beside him, smiling like you were in on the joke, when really all you could think was: he’s improvising again—and you’re the one who’ll pay for it if it goes wrong.

Johnny leans down just enough for his words to skim your ear. “Blend in,” he mutters. His hand leaves your waist, the heat of it vanishing like it was never there, and then he’s turning away—smiling, laughing, sliding effortlessly into the orbit of the nearest circle of guests.

“Johnny Storm,” someone says, practically glowing at him. “Of course you’re here. And—who’s this?” Their gaze flicks toward you, curious, lingering.

Johnny doesn’t miss a beat. He tips his glass toward you, voice smooth, practiced.

“She’s the one keeping me in line. Not doing a very good job of it, but…” he lets the pause hang, grin pulling sharp, “she’s here anyway.”

There are chuckles, nods, murmurs of approval. Just like that, the group swallows his answer whole, turning their attention back to him, eager for another story, another grin.

You nearly scoff aloud. Keeping him in line? Like anyone could. Like you’d ever try. Hearing him spin it that way—half-flirt, half-jab—burned hotter than the champagne in your throat. He made it sound effortless, like you were some accessory to his chaos, and you hated how natural it seemed for him to play the room like that.

You stand at his side, glass in hand, playing the role. Smiling when someone looks your way, sipping when you need an excuse not to answer. Inside, though, you’re fuming. This wasn’t the plan. Every second Johnny played Mr. Celebrity was another second the artifact sat in plain sight, waiting for someone else to notice it first.

You’re so focused on trying to rewrite the agenda in your head that you almost don’t notice the man who drifts toward you from the edge of the crowd.

“Strange place for someone like you to linger,” the man says, voice pitched low, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to read you. “Most people come here to be seen. You’re watching instead.”

You should’ve shrugged him off. But something in his tone—curious, not prying—loosens your tongue before you can stop it.

“Old habit,” you murmur. “When I was a kid, I used to sit in the library just to watch people. Not the books—though I pretended it was about the books. It was the way they moved, the way they sat, the way their voices changed depending on who they were with. I filled pages on it, back then. People-watching. Trying to figure out what it meant.”

His brows lift, interest genuine. “Like studying them?”

“Not studying. More like…” you pause, searching, “…collecting. Tiny observations, little fragments. How they laughed, how they fidgeted, what they avoided. I thought if I wrote down enough pieces, I’d learn how to belong somewhere. Or at least how to fake it.”

The man tilts his head, intrigued. “Did it work?”

You huff out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Depends who you ask.”

He smiles like you’ve just told him a secret. “Not exactly gala talk,” he says lightly. “But far more interesting than anything I’ve heard tonight.”

You almost smile back. Almost. Because you feel it—that rush, that spark in your chest you haven’t felt in years. You’re not playing pretend here. Not manipulating. You’re just… yourself, for once.

And when his shoulder brushes yours, leaning closer to ask another question, you almost forget you’re supposed to be looking for anything at all.

Almost.

Until you catch it, Johnny’s eyes on you.

He’s almost across the room, or that's what it felt like, not swallowed up by the laughter and champagne clink of another circle. He’s close enough that you could hear the conversation he was in if you wanted, though the crowd has naturally split you apart. His group is loud, buoyant, hanging on his every grin. Yours is quieter, intimate, sharpened by curiosity.

But Johnny isn’t listening to them. Not really. His glass hovers half-raised, his smirk half-formed, all of it undercut by the way his gaze has locked on you—on the way you’re leaning in, animated in a way you’ve never let him see.

And in that moment, you know he’s heard none of the conversation around him. He’s watching you.

Johnny’s eyebrow lifts—mocking, unreadable—before he turns back to his circle, raising his glass like you weren’t even worth the thought. Heat flares in your chest, the old frustration sparking alive again. What are you even doing? This isn’t a plan.

You excuse yourself from the man with a tight smile, crossing the floor like you own it. When you reach Johnny, you slide into place at his side, fingers curling around the bend of his elbow as if it’s affection when really you’re pulling him down to your height.

Through gritted teeth, you whisper, “This isn’t working. We don’t even have eyes on the stone yet.”

Johnny doesn’t flinch. He tips his glass, smile never wavering. “Seemed like you had a lead,” he murmurs back, just loud enough to sting. “Unless that guy was boring you already.”

Your jaw tightens. “This isn’t a game, Johnny. What the hell are you doing?”

He smirks, infuriatingly casual. “Blending in. Distracting the room. You’re welcome.”

“That’s not the plan,” you hiss, pulling tighter on his arm. “The plan was quiet. Observing. Not… whatever this is.”

His grin falters, just a fraction. He leans closer, voice dropping, sharp edges smoothing out into something you weren’t ready for. “Maybe I didn’t want you stuck in the corner with your arms crossed all night. Maybe I wanted you to actually… try.”

For a second, you can’t breathe. The words are so at odds with the smirk still tugging at his mouth that you almost think you misheard. But the look in his eyes—unguarded for once—hits too close.

You rip your hand off his arm like it burned. “You wanted me to have fun? While we’re risking everything for a decoy dressed up like treasure?”

The words were out before you could stop them, sharp enough to slice through the space between you.

Johnny’s head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “Decoy?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Your pulse kicked hard. Too late to drag it back, too soon to spin it. You opened your mouth—

—but the intercom crackled to life overhead.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice boomed, smooth and rehearsed, “thank you for your patience. Tonight, we are honored to unveil the newest addition to our collection.”

Every head in the room turned. The draped case at the gala’s center shuddered as the cloth was pulled free, spilling gold light across the marble floor. Beneath it, the artifact gleamed—a perfect, glowing stone thrumming with a low, steady energy that made the hairs on your arms rise.

The crowd gasped, applause breaking out in waves. The guards tightened their circle.

You and Johnny stood frozen, shoulder to shoulder, the argument forgotten for one suspended breath.

“Shit,” Johnny muttered under his breath. Johnny’s hand ghosted your arm again. “Guess your plan’s gotta change.”

Your teeth ground together. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” your eyes locked on the artifact. “Now tell me, Storm—how do we steal that?”

Before he could press the question, you caught his sleeve in a tight grip and hauled him toward the edge of the ballroom. Away from the glittering crowd, into the shadow of a column where the music dulled and the chatter thinned. The air was cooler here, quieter, but your chest still heaved.

Johnny only leaned back against the wall, entirely too calm for someone who’d just blown your cover. Arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting like he was entertained by your impending mental collapse.

“Just let me think,” you muttered, pacing a tight circle in the sliver of space between the column and the wall. Two steps forward, two steps back, the hem of your dress brushing marble. The crowd roared just feet away, but here in the dim edge of the room it was only his heat at your side, crowding you even when he didn’t move.

“Thinking looks a lot like panicking,” he drawled.

You shot him a glare. “I am not panicking. I just—okay, maybe panicking a little.” You gestured uselessly at the wall. “There’s too much security. Too many eyes. If I go over there, they’ll know I don’t belong.”

Johnny tilted his head, smug. “And yet you dragged me over here like you had a master plan.”

You groaned in frustration. A few nearby guests glanced over, their conversations dipping for just a beat before resuming, the weight of their stares lingering like static. From a distance, you knew what it must look like: two people standing a little too close, words traded too sharply to be casual. You plastered on a brittle smile, eyes fixed ahead, but your voice when you hissed up at him was anything but pleasant.

“God, you’re impossible.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, the edges of your frantic calm unraveling. “Fine. Fine. I don’t know what to do. The artifact’s sitting in the middle of the damn room in a glowing glass case like some kind of baited trap. Happy? I don’t have a plan. So unless you’ve got one—”

Johnny leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted your ear. “I’ll handle it,” he murmured, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Flash the badge, smile, look important. They’ll let me right through.”

You blinked at him. “That’s your plan? To sweet-talk armed security?”

His grin was infuriating. “Worked on you, didn’t it?”

Before you could spit a reply, he was already moving. Cutting through the crowd with that cocky, unshakable stride—like the room belonged to him. His badge gleamed as he pulled it from his jacket, his other hand gesturing with careless ease as he intercepted the guards posted by the glowing case. You watched, jaw tight, as he leaned in to talk, shoulders loose, tone smooth as silk. For a second, unbelievably, it looked like it might actually work. One guard even cracked a faint smile.

Then everything shifted. The guard’s mouth flattened. His gaze swept down to the badge, back up to Johnny’s face. Another guard stepped closer, hand on his comm, suspicion sharp enough to cut glass. Johnny’s grin faltered—just barely—but you saw it. The moment the plan frayed.

Your pulse spiked. If he was caught here, if the wrong question got asked—this wasn’t just his mess. It was yours.

So you moved. Cutting across the floor, heels clicking like gunfire, every eye swiveling toward you. You pasted on the brightest, fakest smile you could manage, slid right into Johnny’s space, and let your hand flatten against his chest like you were staking a claim.

“There you are,” you said, loud enough for the nearby crowd. Your voice dripped sugar. “Didn’t I tell you, no more lab talk tonight? I send you for champagne and this is where I find you?”

A ripple of laughter moved through the partygoers nearby, tension breaking in an instant. The guards hesitated, their suspicion shifting to amusement. One even shook his head and stepped back.

Johnny’s hand fell casually to your waist, the smirk snapping back into place like it had never slipped. To anyone else, he looked perfectly composed. But when his eyes flicked to yours—sharp, searching—you caught what was underneath: you just saved my ass.

The case stayed sealed, untouched, glowing like bait in the center of the room. For now.

─────

a/n: this was by far my favorite chapter to write AND IT ONLY GETS BETTER FROM HERE

─────

⟢ Chapter Twenty

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~3,337

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Eighteen: Subject X-17 — Gala Heist

The low hush of morning was the first thing you noticed. Light edged brighter against the walls, the faint wash of sunrise seeping through the blinds until it painted your room in pale gold. You blinked awake to find yourself tucked into your own bed, sheets drawn neatly over you.

For a moment, you thought nothing of it. Just another morning. Then panic hit like a slap—you jolted upright.

What time was it? Had you overslept again? HERBIE didn’t wake you—had he even stopped by?

The night before trickled back in pieces: dinner, the lab, Johnny, the power cutting out. Darkness and laughter and—

You froze. You didn’t remember ever walking back here.

Your chest tightened. He’d carried you back?

The thought stuck, sharp as glass, until you pushed it aside with a shake of your head and climbed out of bed. In your rush, you forgot the suit entirely and padded toward the lab in the same clothes as last night.

Reed was already there, hunched over his workstation with half a dozen displays glowing around him. He didn’t look up until you spoke.

“You’ve been at it all morning?” you asked, brows raised. “Why didn’t you call for me?”

He shifted a tablet in his hand, adjusting his glasses. “Johnny said you two had a late night. Figured I’d let you sleep in.”

Your stomach gave a traitorous flip. Johnny said that? Since when did he make excuses for you? Since when did he sound…nice? You chewed the inside of your cheek, overthinking the words until Reed broke through again.

“I’ve located the next stone Doom planted,” he said, voice brisk, clinical. “Tracked it from your coordinates. Actually, I’ve been looking into it all morning. He has it set inside a gallery. Locked up like it’s worth millions.”

You tilted your head, dry amusement slipping out before you could stop it. “So we need to plan a heist now?”

The line skimmed right past him like you hadn’t meant it as a joke at all. Reed didn’t smile. “Well, no. The gallery’s hosting a gala tonight. They’re selling pieces.”

You leaned against the table, eyebrows up. “Nice. So we can just buy it.”

But the look Reed gave you—tight, almost pitying—said it wasn’t going to be nearly that simple.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, trying not to look as disoriented as you felt. “So what, you want me to just waltz into some gallery and grab it?”

Reed barely looked up from his screen, scrolling through security layouts with maddening calm. “Not quite. The gala is A-list only. Security will be doubled. They’re showcasing Doom’s artifact like it’s a Monet, not a weapon.”

You blinked at him. “So… we are planning a heist.”

“Technically,” Reed said, adjusting his glasses, “we’d prefer if it didn’t feel like one. Blending in is safer than breaking in.”

You crossed your arms. “Right, because I look like I belong at an A-list gala.”

Finally, Reed looked at you—flat, matter-of-fact. “You will. Tonight.”

It hit you a half-second too late. “Wait. You’re saying I have to go undercover? In heels? At a fancy art party?”

“Disguise is essential,” Reed said simply, already turning back to his monitor. “And Johnny’s the only one on the roster who can pass as your date without raising suspicion.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. A gala date with Johnny Storm.

For once, Reed didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

“No,” you said flatly, shaking your head. “Absolutely not. I’m not dressing up like some Bond girl and hanging off Johnny Storm’s arm for a night.”

Reed didn’t even look away from his screens. “You don’t really have a choice.”

“Wrong,” you snapped. “There’s always a choice. And mine is not humiliating myself in front of New York’s elite—” You cut yourself off, suspicion hitting like a punch. “Wait. You haven’t already told him about this, have you?”

Reed clicked something on the keyboard. “Of course I have. He’s out right now acquiring disguises.”

You blinked. “Disguises.”

“Formalwear,” Reed clarified dryly. “And appropriate covers.”

You gaped at him. “Johnny Storm. In a tux. That’s your plan? Send in the human torch and hope no one notices?”

Reed made a small noise in his throat, which you realized, with horror, was his version of amusement. “He didn’t argue.”

You slumped back in your chair, trying to picture it. Johnny Storm, suit-clad, pretending to be your date. It was so absurd you almost laughed—almost.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “What happens when this little charade blows up in our faces?”

“That,” Reed said, finally turning to look at you, “is what I’d like you to prevent. Draft an agenda for the evening—arrival, timing, interaction points. Think about how you’ll circulate without drawing attention. Who to avoid. Who to charm.”

You stared at him. “You want me to… make a party plan.”

Without missing a beat, Reed slid two items across the desk toward you: a glossy tri-fold pamphlet stamped with the gala’s crest and a folded floor plan of the venue marked with exits, staff corridors, and staging areas. The neat red annotations were unmistakably his.

“Not a plan,” he corrected, voice clipped. “A strategy. Use these. I expect a draft within the hour. And remember, this is not a night off. You may be in a dress, but the mission is still the priority. We need whatever Doom is planting.”

Your jaw worked silently. Reed was already typing again, utterly uninterested in protests.

You turned for the door, muttering under your breath, “Fake fancy date with Johnny Storm. What could possibly go wrong.”

You stalked back down the hall, every step echoing Reed’s words: not a night off. Like you’d ever been given one.

By the time you shut the door behind you, you were still bristling. The desk lamp cast a harsh little pool of light across the blank page waiting for you. With a sigh, you sat, twirled the pen between your fingers, and scrawled at the top:

Agenda for Gala.

The words looked ridiculous. Pretentious. You added a doodle of a coffin beneath them, because it felt more honest.

Arrival times. Circulation. Avoid so-and-so. Charm so-and-so. Act natural with Johnny Storm in a tux.

Your head hit your hands. “This is a nightmare.”

The soft whirrr of wheels interrupted your misery. HERBIE glided into the room like he owned it. “Reminder,” the bot chirped, “you now have access to the greenhouse facility. You may visit at any time.”

You blinked at him. “The greenhouse?”

“Yes. Doctor Richards instructed me to inform you. Nutrient systems are recalibrated. Optimal conditions for your powers will be maintained.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “Perfect. Because my social calendar wasn’t already full.”

HERBIE tilted slightly, servos whirring. “Correction: you have had no calendar at all until recently. This is an improvement.”

The corner of your mouth twitched before you caught it. It almost sounded like him again.

You stared down at the blank agenda again, biting the inside of your cheek. Fake date. Artifact retrieval. Keep Johnny alive. Now mandatory plant duty.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Really filling up.”

HERBIE hummed and rolled out without another word, leaving you alone with your pen, your paper, and the creeping suspicion you’d just been volunteered for a suicide mission in heels.

The hours bled together. You scrawled, crossed out, rewrote. By the time you leaned back, the agenda looked less like a plan and more like a battle map:

1. Arrival: blend with Johnny’s entrance—let him pull the spotlight, let yourself slip in beneath it. Smile when needed. No ice.

2. First Circuit: one lap through the floor. Don’t engage. Don’t linger. Just eyes up, ears open. Catalogue uniforms, guard rotations, servant routes. Find the artifact.

3. Second Circuit: target the stragglers. The ones lingering too long near the case, the ones who drink too fast and talk faster. Push a laugh where you need to, bat away suspicion with a smile. Keep the chatter shallow—eyes on the cloth-covered case the whole time.

4. Third: re-sync. Note the time, the exits, the cameras. Check Johnny hasn’t wandered into someone’s orbit he can’t charm his way out of. If he has, extract. Quietly.

5. Final Move: when attention peaks—music, toast, performance—trigger the distraction. One of you draws eyes, the other slips the artifact. Exit clean. Don’t look back.

You stared at it when you finished, the neat lines and clipped bullet points sitting heavy in the quiet. A party plan, Reed had called it. What you’d written wasn’t a party plan. It was survival.

Satisfied enough, you left to dump it on Reed’s desk. He scanned it in silence, expression unreadable. Finally, he hummed. “Acceptable. Stick to it. And remember—”

“Not a night off,” you finished for him. “Yeah. Got it.”

You lingered a beat, eyes flicking to the hologram still hovering over his console—stone schematics, readings spiking faintly in red. “Can I ask you something?”

Reed didn’t look up. “Depends.”

“The artifact. What do you really think it is? Not the neat lab reports—your gut.” You tried to lace it with disinterest, but the question came out too sharp, betraying the weight behind it.

That finally pulled his eyes up. His brow furrowed as he tapped the graph until it flared open, pulsing waves mapped in red across the hologram.

“It isn’t inert, if that’s what you’re asking. The signal’s faint, but consistent. Too structured to be background noise. Which means…” He trailed off, mouth tightening.

He flicked through a series of overlays—power grids, utility schematics, frequency readouts—all cross-referenced against the artifact’s steady pulse. It hit you then: he wasn’t chasing every possibility, every branch of theory like Reed Richards normally would. He was looking only at energy disruption models.

Because that’s what you told him. Doom’s plan: an outage.

For all his careful distrust, Reed had narrowed his genius down to your word.

You leaned forward despite yourself. “Means what?”

Reed exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the projection. “It’s not just broadcasting. It’s syncing. A pulse aligning to something outside our systems. Like pieces waiting for the rest of the circuit to come online.”

Your stomach dropped, Doom’s cool certainty echoing in your head—They’re empty. Harmless shells.

“Don’t get distracted by what it looks like,” Reed added, already turning back to the console. “Focus on the work. If you notice anything, you come to me first.”

You nodded, but the thought stuck like glass splinters. If Doom had downplayed this, what else had he kept from you?

When you came back to your room, the sight stopped you cold.

A dress, perfectly folded, lay across your bedspread. Midnight fabric with a sheen that caught the light. No note, no flourish. Johnny didn’t need to leave one — that was the problem.

It was… comfortable. Domestic. Too much, too soon.

You stood in the doorway longer than you’d admit, arms crossed, trying to will it into just being a uniform. It wasn’t.

Still, you got ready. Makeup. Hair. Every stroke of eyeliner felt like a mask, every pin tucked into your hair a shield. By the time you slipped into the dress, the reflection staring back at you looked like someone else entirely.

Almost someone who belonged at a gala.

Almost.

Your eyes dropped to your feet. Socks. No shoes.

“Perfect,” you muttered.

There was only one person who might save you from committing social suicide barefoot — so you squared your shoulders, gathered your pride, and headed for Sue Storm’s door.

The sound of your heels would’ve been great right about now—if you had any. Instead, socked feet padded down the hall as you hunted for Sue.

You found her in the kitchen, perched against the counter with a mug of tea in hand. The warm light caught her hair, made her look softer than the sharp strategist she usually was.

She looked up, and her eyes widened.

“Oh—wow.” The word escaped before she could stop it. “You look—”

“Like I’d rather be dead?” you cut in, arms crossed.

Sue blinked, then laughed under her breath, setting her mug down. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Well, that’s what it feels like.” You exhaled, glancing down at yourself like the dress might start strangling you if you held still too long. “Do you—uh—have any heels I could use? Because unless barefoot chic is in this season, I’m screwed.”

Her expression softened instantly, big-sister energy radiating off her. “Of course. What size are you?”

You rattled it off, trying not to sound like you were asking her to hand over her actual beating heart.

“Perfect. Come with me.” She gestured, already halfway out across the room to her closet.

You followed, resisting the urge to bolt back to your quarters and torch the dress before anyone else laid eyes on you.

Sue’s smile softened as she led you further inside, toward a standing mirror draped with half-zipped garment bags. “You know… the last time we had to do one of these kind of events, Reed and Johnny nearly tore the place apart before it even started. Reed was obsessing over logistics, Johnny was improvising every second. Total disaster—until, somehow, it wasn’t.”

She pulled a box from the top of her closet and set it on the bed. Inside were neatly kept heels in every possible shade. She nodded at the lineup. “The point is—you don’t need to think too hard. Just… show up. Play your part. The rest will fall into place.”

You huffed a laugh, though it sounded more nervous than anything. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Sue crouched, pulling out a pair of soft black heels that matched the dress without stealing from it. She handed them to you, smiling. “It’s easy because I’ve already watched it happen. Trust me, you’ll figure it out. And—” she lowered her voice conspiratorially as you slipped the shoes on—“I won’t tell Reed if you have a drink or two. Let yourself enjoy it, at least a little.”

The straps clicked into place, and Sue straightened, giving you one last long look. Her expression softened into something almost maternal. “There. Perfect. Now go knock them dead.”

Back in your room, the quiet felt heavier than it should. You slipped the heels on, stood in front of the mirror, and for a moment just stared. The dress looked good, the shoes matched, but none of it felt like you. It was all pretend. A role. In your gut, you knew Reed’s mission was a goose chase—that you’d parade around, smile in the right places, and end up with nothing. But still, you had to play your part.

A knock rattled your door.

“Hey,” Johnny’s voice. “You ready?”

Your stomach lurched. Scrambling, you tugged at the dress, fussed with your hair. “I’ll just meet you there,” you called through the door, hoping your voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt.

“That defeats the purpose of going together,” Johnny argued, footsteps shifting like he was leaning closer. A pause, then the click of the handle. “You know what—”

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside before you could protest. His eyes caught on you immediately. He froze. Looked you up and down—once, then again. His face stayed straight, but there was something tense in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared like he couldn’t quite relax.

You opened your mouth, desperate to break the silence.

“Before you say—”

Johnny cut in fast, voice clipped. “You look ridiculous.” He didn’t wait for your reaction, already turning toward the hall, hand braced on the doorframe. “I’ll be in the lab.”

And just like that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

You sank back against the mirror, heat rushing to your cheeks—not from his words, but from the way he’d looked at you. That stiff, too-long stare. Like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t.

You sighed, brushing your hands over the dress like the motion could smooth away the moment. Johnny. The image of him in that sharp suit still lingered—put together in a way that didn’t feel like him. He wore it too well. You’d never tell him that, of course. Not when every inch of him already carried that effortless arrogance.

Composing yourself, you stepped into the hall. Your heels clicked against the floor, echoing down the corridor like a countdown, each step pulling you closer to the lab. By the time you pushed through the door, Reed was bent over his workstation, fiddling with something metallic and sparking. Johnny leaned casually against the far end of the table, hands tucked into his pockets, posture loose but eyes sharp. He wasn’t watching Reed. His gaze snapped to you the second he heard the heels, catching you before you could pretend you didn’t notice.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction. Crossing to the cleared portion of the table, you spread the papers out in neat rows.

“Here’s the agenda,” you said, tone brisk, rehearsed. “We’re going over it now because once we leave this place, I don’t plan on speaking to you for the rest of the night.”

Johnny scoffed, a sound caught between disbelief and amusement. He pushed off the table, leaning over just enough to peer at the notes you’d laid out. His shoulder nearly brushed yours, close enough for the faint trace of cologne to cut through the scent of machine oil.

“Not even a little small talk?” he teased, scanning the agenda. “Cold.”

You ignored the jab, tapping your pen against the first point. “Arrival. You draw the eyes, big smile, handshake, play the celebrity. That gives me space to move without being noticed.”

Johnny’s brows lifted, smug grin already threatening. “Finally, a plan that recognizes my strengths.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you shot back, flipping to the next note. “First circuit: you keep them entertained, I scan the floor. I don’t want to hear your voice unless you’re covering me.”

He leaned closer, peering at the sharp lines you’d scrawled across the page, shoulder brushing yours. “So I get to be dazzling, you get to be sneaky. Cute.”

“Efficient,” you corrected, pen tapping harder against the table.

He smirked, voice dropping just enough to needle. “Bossy. I kind of like it.”

Your jaw tightens, but you push through. “After that, you keep playing the part; smiles, handshakes, keep the attention. I’ll circle the edges, find the artifact’s trail. No wandering off, no detours.”

Johnny tilts his head toward you, lips twitching. “No promises.”

“Johnny.”

“All right, all right.” He lifts his hand in mock surrender, grin crooked. Then, to your irritation, he bends back over the papers more seriously, eyes narrowing as he traces your notes.

You press on, steadying your voice even though your pulse stutters. “And that’s where we finish. We’re in, we’re out. No improvising. No stunts. We stick to this.”

For a beat, the lab is quiet except for the low thrum of Reed’s equipment. Then Johnny looks up from the agenda, his gaze catching yours in a way that makes your chest tighten—like for once he’s not mocking, just… seeing you.

“You’ve thought this through,” he says softly. “Not bad.”

When you’re done you snap the papers into a stack before his approval can mean anything. “Good. Then we’re done here.” Boundary set. Night outlined. Done.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and head for the door, heels clicking against the floor. In the hallway, you pause, pressing your back to the wall for a moment. A slow, steady breath. The faint hum of the lab equipment is still audible behind you.

You picture him in that suit again — too smug, too effortless, too good-looking for his own good. He’ll be out in a second. He’ll flash that grin, maybe throw some line just to see if he can get under your skin.

You roll your shoulders back, straighten, and steel yourself. Whatever tonight brings — gala, mission, Johnny — you’ll face it head-on.

So you wait.

─────

a/n: are we still trusting the process pls say yes

─────

⟢ Chapter Nineteen

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~2,810

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Seventeen: Subject X-17 — Technical Difficulty 0300

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

Every turn of a page, every scratch of your pen, every soft exhale seemed louder in the still lab. You found yourself too aware of the way Johnny tapped his fingers against the table when he was thinking, or how he kept tilting his head down like he was pretending to focus while sneaking another glance your way.

You didn’t look up, but you noticed.

And from the way his pen stilled whenever you shifted in your chair, you were sure he noticed too.

Your handwriting slowed, curling tighter the longer you felt his attention linger. The numbers you were recording blurred until you had to stop, let out a quiet breath, and start a new line. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Johnny’s mouth twitch, like he was fighting back a grin.

A moment later, his pen rolled off the table and clattered to the floor.

Neither of you moved at first. Then he bent down too quickly, bumping his knee against the metal frame with a sharp thud.

You looked up at the exact moment he sat back upright, pen in hand, pretending nothing had happened.

Your eyes met.

Too long to be an accident.

You were the first to break, turning back to your work, pulse annoyingly loud in your ears.

Across from you, Johnny tapped his reclaimed pen against the paper twice, then finally lowered his head again. But he was writing slower now—messier, like maybe his mind wasn’t on the numbers anymore either.

“Don’t just sit there,” he said without looking up. “It’s your turn to argue with the microscope.”

You raised a brow but didn’t answer, sliding into the chair across from him. The metal legs squeaked faintly against the tile as you pulled it closer. The microscope light glared back at you, sterile and bright, but Johnny didn’t bother glancing up. He just kept scribbling, pen gripped too tight, jaw working like he was chewing on whatever thought he refused to say aloud.

You tugged your tablet closer, tapping the screen awake. The soft hum of the computers filled the space between you, layered with the faint buzz of the overhead lights. A mechanical rhythm—cold, clinical.

He flipped a page in his notes. You adjusted the focus dial.

He cleared his throat. You clicked your pen.

Neither of you spoke.

Minutes slipped by in those tiny exchanges. At one point, he reached across the table and shoved a notepad toward you without looking—his scrawl circling a number he wanted you to check. The page smudged faintly where his palm had pressed too hard, the ink still a little wet.

You dragged it closer with two fingers, the edge catching against the tabletop, and copied down the figure onto your own tablet. When you slid it back, you didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

A while later, your chair scraped back as you went to grab a replacement slide. When you returned, Johnny wordlessly nudged the box of gloves across to you before you even reached for them. His eyes stayed on his notes, but you caught the twitch of his mouth—like maybe he was hiding a smile.

It wasn’t comfortable, exactly.

The air was too thick for that, humming with unspoken things.

But it wasn’t the brittle silence from dinner either.

It was something else.

The détente lasted a good twenty minutes. Until Johnny’s elbow clipped something under the console.

There was a sharp click. The screens went dark. The steady thrum of machinery cut off mid-beat, leaving the room swallowed in silence and pitch-black.

The blackout wasn’t just the lab. The whole city outside had gone dark — no glow from the skyline, no streetlights bleeding through the high windows. Nothing.

It felt like being dropped into a void. You couldn’t see him, not even his outline, but you could feel him. The charged air where he stood. The way every breath you took seemed to echo, as if he was listening for it. And you knew he felt you too.

His voice came low, cutting through the dark like a blade.

“Convenient. Whole grid dies the second you’re here.”

You bit back a scoff. “Yeah, because I control the grid now. Add that to my résumé.”

A chair scraped; he leaned in. “Wouldn’t surprise me. You’ve lied about everything else.”

“Better than burning everything I touch.”

The silence that followed was taut—breath against breath, both unwilling to pull back.

“Wouldn’t put it past you.”

The dark pressed closer, thicker. You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed even though he couldn’t see it.

“If I wanted the lights out, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

A pause. You heard him shift — maybe a step closer, maybe just weight moving in his stance.

“That supposed to sound like a threat?”

You smiled, sharp enough to cut yourself on.

“Take it however you want.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed, like the space between you was alive. Neither of you moved. Neither of you blinked. Only the void, and the knowledge that he was still there.

Without the monitors or the faint ceiling glow, the dark was absolute. A kind of darkness that felt heavy, like it had weight. The kind that pressed against your skin and made you too aware of every sound you made.

Johnny shifted somewhere across from you; you heard the scrape of a chair leg dragging against the floor, then the dull thud of a knee knocking metal. You almost smirked at the clumsy noise, but before you could, your hand brushed over the edge of the table—just a small reach to ground yourself—and caught against his.

The contact was brief, half a second, but it might as well have been a lightning strike. Warm skin, then gone, both of you retreating too quickly, as though touch itself was dangerous.

Silence. Only his breathing, a steady rhythm you couldn’t unhear now that the lab had gone utterly still. He must’ve heard yours too, because the quiet sharpened, thickened, like you were caught in each other’s orbit whether you wanted to be or not.

“Alright, that’s it,” Johnny said suddenly. You heard him stand. “I’m checking the breaker.”

“Go ahead.” You stayed put. “I’ll wait here.”

A pause. Then his hand found your wrist in the dark. You couldn’t feel the warmth you craved, but you felt the strain in him — the way his skin tensed, the subtle tremor of someone used to burning who was suddenly forced to be ordinary. His breath hitched, but he didn’t let go.

“What are you—”

“Not leaving you in here alone with Doom’s rock.”

You scoffed. “Afraid I’ll steal it?”

“No. Afraid you’ll break it. Or sell it. Or…start worshipping it. Whatever people like you do.”

“People like me?” you said, sharper than you intended.

His grip was steady, but you felt the twitch in his fingers — like the cold bit into him even as he held on. He didn’t take it back. Just kept moving, tugging you along until you stumbled into step beside him.

The hallway was worse—narrow, suffocating, sightless. Your world shrank to the shuffle of your own shoes and the faint warmth of his hand closing over yours. The air smelled of dust and metal, old circuits gone still. Every creak of the floorboards was louder than it should’ve been, like the silence wanted to eat the both of you alive.

You bumped his arm the first time by accident, a soft graze that lingered because neither of you adjusted your path. Then again, and again, until your shoulders brushed like it was inevitable. Each contact buzzed sharper in the dark, every touch amplified when you couldn’t see anything else.

“Watch your—”

Too late. Your foot caught on the corner of some unseen rug. You lurched forward, hand darting out on instinct, colliding with his chest. Solid. Warm, even through the fabric. His grip tightened around yours, holding you steady.

Neither of you said a word. Not about the way your fingers stayed spread against him a second too long, or the way he didn’t let go when you righted yourself.

The silence pressed closer. Each step was guesswork, arms brushing, hips knocking once when the hallway narrowed. Every time you veered, he shifted with you, bodies aligning until it felt less like walking beside him and more like being steered in his orbit.

“Shit,” you muttered when your knee banged into something sharp. A table, maybe. He swore too when his shoulder clipped the wall, his hand still locked on yours like letting go wasn’t an option. The frustration built, every blind misstep scraping at your patience.

Finally, you broke. “This is ridiculous. Seriously,” you said after a few turns, “let me go so you can light up and actually see where you’re going.”

“No,” he said, flat. “And I’ll need help if it’s not just the breaker.”

The silence stretched until Johnny’s shoulder clipped the wall hard enough to make him grunt. A second later, his knee hit something low and solid, and the muffled curse that escaped him was so sharp you couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out.

He slowed, head turning toward you in the dark like he could glare without light.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he muttered.

That only made you snort harder. “You’re the one who walked into a wall.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” he shot back, tone dry. His hand tightened on your wrist suddenly, pulling you a half-step closer until your hip brushed his thigh. He didn’t let go this time, didn’t give you room to stumble away. His pace dropped to a slow, deliberate walk, guiding you around what you assumed were more obstacles, his body angling protectively at each turn.

The air grew colder as the hallway finally opened into a small utility space. The faint metallic tang of dust and wires clung to the back of your throat. He reached out, found the switch by touch, and flipped it down with a snap.

Nothing happened.

“Great,” Johnny muttered. “Guess we’re not working tonight.”

“What now? Sit in the dark?”

He exhaled like he was trying not to snap. “C’mon. Back to the lab. Maybe there’s a flashlight or something.”

The walk back was just as brutal, him dragging you along, shoulders knocking into walls, one stubbed toe that had him curse under his breath and tighten his grip on your wrist like it was your fault.

In the lab, the shadows were heavier than before, like the power outage had swallowed every glint of sterile light the place used to have. Johnny rummaged through drawers until—miracle—he pulled out a dusty candle.

He crouched, pressing his fingers to the wick. Sparks caught, flared, and died. Again. Again. Nothing.

He groaned under his breath, then glanced at you.

“You could at least try to rein it in,” he muttered, thumb dragging the wheel again. Another dead spark. “Just a little? I can’t light this thing with you around.”

“Rein it in?” You tilted your head, the words pricking sharper than they should have.

“You know what I mean,” he said quickly, softer this time. “Your…whatever it is. Your radius. You don’t have to kill every flame within ten-feet, do you?”

You bit back a smirk. “Asking nicely might help.”

He scowled, but softened just enough. “Please?”

The word sounded strange in his mouth. You tried, focusing, pulling the cold inward until the lighter’s flame finally caught.

You hesitated. Tried. For the first time since the containment cell, you forced yourself to pull in—to shrink that endless, frostbitten tide of yours. The air wavered; if felt like the cold reached out for Johnny and you wouldn’t confess it but it takes a lot to try and get it away from him, the flame hissed as Johnny tried again.

A tiny flame bloomed, stubborn but alive. The candlewick caught. The glow spilled out between you both, painting his face in flickering amber.

He let out a quiet breath, the kind that almost sounded like relief, and set the candle carefully on the floor. For a second, neither of you moved. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. Just close.

Then Johnny slid down with his back against a console, legs stretching out carelessly, the candlelight trembling at his boots. “We will just wait it out,” he said, a little too casual.

The glow stretched weakly across the room, shadows moving like they were alive. He sat down first, back against a console, legs stretched out, sighing like the fight had been knocked out of him.

You circled cautiously around the tiny halo of light and sat down opposite him—closer than you would’ve chosen, but the space was too small to keep distance. The candle flickered between you like it had its own heartbeat.

“Not bad,” he said finally, flicking his gaze toward the candle, then back to you. “Didn’t think you had it in you—playing nice with my fire.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Does it hurt? Being this close?”

For a second, something unguarded flickered across his face. His jaw tightened, then loosened. “No,” he admitted, voice low. “Feels… nice. Calming, almost.”

The word clung to the space between you, heavier than the dark.

Your throat tightened. “Does everyone else feel it?”

He shook his head, almost too quickly. “No. Just me.” A pause, then softer, like he hated himself for saying it out loud: “Just you.”

The shadows moved across his face in the dim light, and for a beat neither of you spoke. Whatever passed between you before—it still clung to the silence now, thick and unsaid.

“Ever notice how quiet it gets when no one’s watching?” His voice was low, like it wasn’t meant to travel farther than you.

You tilted your head toward the warmth of his breath. “You don’t strike me as the type who likes quiet.”

“Depends on the company.”

You scoffed, though your pulse betrayed you. “Careful now, Johnny. Flirting in the dark makes it easy to forget who you’re talking to.”

“That’s the point.” His reply was smooth, but the pause after told you he’d meant it more than he should have.

The flame between you shivered, throwing light across his jaw. He looked like he wanted to say more—about then, about now—but bit it back with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The lab was too quiet, the hum of the equipment dull compared to the sound of his breathing beside you. Johnny sat on the floor with his knees drawn up, arms draped loose over them. You mirrored him without meaning to.

“What were you doing up this late anyways?” he asked.

You shook your head. “If I sleep, I dream.”

That seemed to settle between you. He didn’t push.

After a while, you said, “What about you?”

He gave a crooked smile. “I don’t sleep much either.” Then, softer: “Not when someone might need me.”

You looked at him, the shadows cutting hard angles across his face, making him seem older than he was. “You always have to be the hero?” The words came out sharper than you meant, like you were daring him to flinch.

“Feels easier than being useless.” He said it like he hadn’t meant to out loud.

You let the silence stretch. “I don’t think you’re useless.”

Johnny huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t a deflection this time. He tipped his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

You smiled faintly. “You must hang around the wrong people.”

His shoulder brushed yours when he turned to look at you. Neither of you moved away.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe the right one just showed up in the wrong place.”

The words lingered, unsteady but real. And for once, you didn’t feel like fighting them.

You let the silence breathe, only breaking it here and there with quips sharp enough to make him smirk or soft enough to catch him off guard. Sometimes he got a laugh out of you, low and reluctant. Sometimes you pulled one out of him, brighter than he meant it to be. The banter never really stopped—it just shifted, easier, like the weight between you had been set down for the night.

Eventually the candle burned low, its flame bending thin against the dark. The lights still didn’t return, but neither of you cared enough to notice anymore. Sleep crept in slow, and your head dipped until it landed against his shoulder.

He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t move at all, really—except for the quiet rise and fall of his shoulders under your cheek.

And just like that, the night blended into dreams, the last glow of fire caught between you.

─────

a/n: if anyone has questions my ask box is always open, sometimes ill skim over things when i edit or i forget to explain stuff clearly, and i dont mind if i need to! — it helps my writing in the long run as well <3

─────

⟢ Chapter Eighteen

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~2,057

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Sixteen: Subject X-17 — Volunteer Work

Laughter rolled down the table in an easy, practiced rhythm—like a song they’d all rehearsed together for years. Reed was in the middle of some story about a lab mishap, Sue cutting in to punch up the ending, and Johnny tossing in little comments that made them both laugh harder.

It was the kind of moment you’d never been a part of.

You kept your hands folded in your lap, your smile fixed in place like it might keep you from splintering. The clink of silverware and the scrape of chair legs pressed into you like reminders. They’d sat here every Sunday, warm and comfortable, while you were three floors down—alone, freezing, counting cracks in the walls. The thought of it burned, sharp and bitter, like you were the only one who knew what those dinners had cost.

The thought scraped something raw inside you.

You leaned back, eyes flicking between them before the words slipped out—quieter than you meant, but honed sharp enough to slice through the laughter. “Do you always do this?” The restraint in your tone cost you, every syllable balanced on the edge of anger you refused to show.

The table stilled. Three sets of eyes turned toward you.

“Dinner?” Sue asked carefully, like she wasn’t sure where you were going with it.

You nodded once, keeping your tone even. “All together like this.”

Sue exchanged a glance with Reed, then gave a little shrug. “We did for a while,” she said. “Then we stopped for a few weeks. This is the first one in a bit.”

Her voice was gentle, but it didn’t land that way. There was something else under the words—a pause too long, a flicker of something across Johnny’s face you couldn’t place. His jaw went tight at your question, and his fingers twitched once against his fork before he set it down altogether.

You didn’t know what any of that meant, but you felt it. The air shifted, weight settling low in your chest until it knotted there.

Under the table, your knee brushed his. It was accidental. It should have been nothing. But neither of you moved.

You felt the heat radiating through that single point of contact, so tangible it was almost maddening. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him. Still, it lingered.

You dropped your gaze to your plate. You couldn’t sit here spiraling over whatever this was—not when you had bigger things to worry about. Maybe you could use this. Maybe, if you stayed quiet and let the conversation flow, they’d slip up and say something worth reporting to Doom.

So you went still. Silent. Let them talk.

You heard Reed mention test results, Sue bring up supply runs, Johnny make a dig about how slow Reed worked. You caught small details—times, names, half-formed plans—and stored them away.

Then Sue sighed and shifted the subject. “The greenhouse is becoming a problem again. The humidity’s climbing, and the heat sensors aren’t keeping up. We’re going to lose half the tropical section if we don’t fix it soon.”

“Logged it,” Reed said, not looking up from his plate.

“That’s not the same as handling it.”

Johnny’s voice cut in, lazy but sharp enough to hook your attention. He didn’t even glance at you when he said, “She can do it.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

The table went still. Even the low clink of silverware stopped. Johnny finally met your eyes, leaning back in his chair like he hadn’t just thrown you under a bus.

“What?” he asked, all fake innocence. “You’re… good with plants,” Johnny cut in, leaning against the table like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Greenhouse duty won’t be a problem.”

Your words came out sharper than you meant. “How would you know that?”

He smirked, slow and deliberate. “Call it a wild guess”

But it wasn’t a guess that should’ve landed so close. You’d never told him. Never told anyone that once, a lifetime ago, you used to research plants, tend them, keep them alive just to see if you still could. You hadn’t touched soil in years. So how the hell did he know?

For a moment, it was just the two of you locked there, daring the other to break first. The air around you hummed, not quite hostile but far from friendly.

Sue cleared her throat, cutting the thread between you. “Could you? If you don’t mind?” Her voice carried that careful warmth she always used when trying to keep the peace.

You looked away from Johnny, forcing your shoulders to loosen. “Guess I can try.”

The tension splintered, and Reed began talking about the plants again—something about humidity levels and wilting leaves—but you barely heard him.

Sue’s gaze flicked between the two of you, and there was the faintest ghost of a smirk on her lips. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Just enough to stabilize things until Reed can fix the system.”

You rolled your eyes like it was an inconvenience, but inside, you were already filing it away. A new location. Away from constant eyes. A space you could walk into on your own terms. And if Johnny happened to wander in while you were there… well. He just smirked, like you’d agreed to something you didn’t understand yet.

After that, you went quiet, answering only when spoken to, each word clipped short. You let the rest of the table carry on without you. Reed launched into a story about some anomaly in the Negative Zone, Sue rolled her eyes but smiled, and Johnny… Johnny slipped back into his easy rhythm with them, like this was where he belonged.

You hated how much it stung—the reminder that for months, they’d been doing this without you. Laughing without you.

When the others trickled out, Sue lingered, stacking plates into neat piles while Johnny slipped away.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “we stopped doing these dinners because of him.”

Your brow furrowed. “Because of Johnny?”

She gave a small nod. “He… wasn’t himself for a while. Didn’t want to be around the table. Didn’t want to be around anyone, really.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. The image of him—loud, cocky, always filling the room—was hard to reconcile with someone avoiding it altogether.

You didn’t know what to do with that, so you let the silence stretch until she rose, collecting a few stray dishes. “If you don’t mind,” she said over her shoulder, “check in on the greenhouse tomorrow. Johnny wasn’t wrong, it could use your help.”

You gave a short nod, not trusting your voice. Then, almost against your better judgment, the words slipped out:

“Why are you so nice to me?”

Sue stilled, then turned back with a faint smile—gentle, but steady in a way that made your chest ache. “Because Reed sees more than destruction when he looks at you. And if his judgment is something I trust with the fate of the world, it’s something I trust with this, too.” She set the plates down, folding the towel in her hands. “Being like us… it’s terrifying at first. You feel like you’ve been stripped down to nothing but what you can do. But it isn’t the whole of you. I promise.”

The promise sat in your stomach like a stone, too heavy to swallow, too sharp to spit out.

Sue carried the dishes into the kitchen, the sound of running water and clinking plates fading as you pushed away from the table. The walk to your room felt too quiet.

You went through the motions—door closed, shoes kicked off, lights dimmed—but the weight in your chest only seemed to get heavier. You lay in bed staring at the wall, mind replaying the dinner over and over: the laughter you weren’t part of, the shift in Johnny’s face when you’d asked your question, Sue’s words about how he’d changed.

It all felt wrong. Like you’d been dropped into someone else’s life and told to play along.

After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, you sat up. Sleep wasn’t happening. If you were going to be awake, you might as well be productive.

You padded barefoot down the hallway, the tower’s usual hum settling in around you—distant machinery, the faint pulse of energy in the walls. When you reached the lab, you slowed. A faint light bled from around the door—too soft to be the overheads, more like the shimmer of a monitor or something alive.

For a second, you thought it might be the stone reacting again, some new spike of energy in its containment field. The idea pulled you forward before you could talk yourself out of it.

You pushed the door open.

Johnny stood at the far lab table, shoulders hunched slightly, the glow from the screens painting his face in pale light. His attention was fixed on the monitor in front of him, scrolling through data you recognized immediately—stone readings, scans, field notes.

He didn’t look up. “You lost?”

You let the door swing shut behind you. “No.”

That was all you gave him. You crossed to your own workstation, waking the monitor with a tap. The soft chime broke the quiet, and for a long moment, that was it—the tap of keys from his side of the room, the steady hum of equipment, the faint scratch of paper as you made notes.

But you felt it. The shift.

The prickle at the back of your neck that said someone was looking.

You glanced up.

He glanced away.

It happened again a few minutes later, and this time you caught him. No smirk, no quip—just a flicker in his expression before he looked back to the screen like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence between you wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp either—it just… existed, hanging in the air, threaded through with glances neither of you could quite stop taking.

You sighed, letting your tablet drop onto the desk with a soft thud. Turning fully toward him, you crossed your arms.

“Why did you volunteer me to fix the greenhouse?”

Johnny didn’t even look guilty. “Sue needed someone who could handle it. You can handle it.”

“You don’t know that,” you shot back.

“Sure I do.” He left it there, like it was obvious.

You tried to hold his gaze, but the room suddenly felt too small for it, the air heavier than before. “You could’ve just done it yourself.”

“I didn’t want to.” His chair creaked as he tipped it back, a lazy spin pulling him halfway toward the console again.

You let out a dry laugh. “Right. God forbid Johnny Storm be mildly inconvenienced.”

“Hey,” he said, grinning without looking at you, “I was doing you a favor.”

You blinked at him. “By adding to my workload?”

“By giving you an excuse to leave your room. You’re welcome.”

It should’ve been easy to throw something back at him, but instead you just… stared, trying to figure out if he actually believed that or if he was messing with you. Probably both.

“Whatever,” you muttered, eyes returning to your screen.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the same as before—it was thicker, aware. You could feel his gaze now and then, quick, darting away when you caught it.

After a while, he asked, “You enjoy dinner?”

You didn’t look up. “It was fine.”

“You didn’t look like you were having fun.”

You tapped your pen against the table. “Observant.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, quieter this time, “we don’t do that every week. Haven’t in a while. Don’t get used to it”

You finally glanced at him. “Why not?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking away. “Guess we got busy.”

You didn’t know enough to hear the lie in it. Not yet.

You turned back to your screen before he could say anything else.

Across the table, Johnny did the same.

The lab fell quiet again, save for the faint hum of the lights and the soft scrape of pen on paper. Every now and then, you caught him looking at you from the corner of your eye—never long enough to call him out, but just long enough to notice.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you left.

─────

a/n: I DONT HAVE WRITERS BLOCK BUT I CAN FEEL IT CREEPING INTO MY BRAIN IM TRYING TO FIGHT IT OKAY

─────

⟢ Chapter Seventeen

TAGLIST

(This is not a criticism in any way btw! I think your work is AMAZING and I'm early awaiting the next chapter!)

HAHAHA thank you for reading and sending in feedback bby! i always appreciate it <3

you def read it correct i am in fact going for readers villain era i couldn’t resist it the plot idea was too juicy

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~2,697

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Fifteen: Subject X-17 — Archives

The first thing you noticed was the ache in your neck.

The second was the cold.

A draft slipped through the half-open window, carrying with it the distant noise of the city—traffic like a restless tide, sirens muffled into the night’s leftover quiet. You’d fallen asleep at your desk, head pillowed on an arm stiff from hours spent scribbling equations and scratching theories into the margins of Doom’s schematics. Papers were scattered in a loose arc around you, some smudged where your hand had dragged across fresh ink.

The sound that woke you wasn’t the city—it was HERBIE.

“Good morning,” his voice chirped from somewhere above your head. “Correction: it is no longer morning. Dr. Richards has requested your presence in the laboratory. This is his third request.”

You blinked blearily, lifting your head. “Third?” Your voice was thick, dry.

“Correction,” HERBIE said again, almost apologetic. “Fourth.”

The sight of the clock made your stomach drop. You’d overslept by at least an hour and a half.

You pushed back from the desk, grimacing at the stiffness in your spine. “Could’ve led with that instead of the good morning.”

HERBIE hovered closer, scanning you in that polite, nonjudgmental way it had. “You appear to have slept poorly.”

No kidding.

You ran a hand over your face and straightened, catching a glimpse of yourself in the darkened window—hair mussed, eyes heavy-lidded from the all-nighter, faint crease on your cheek from the sleeve you’d been using as a pillow. Exactly the picture of someone Reed was going to trust with high-stakes tech analysis.

The thought of last night’s conversation with Doom flickered unbidden, his voice still curling at the edges of your memory. Too powerful for the suit. You’d told yourself it was just arrogance. Or miscalculation. But the doubt had sat there all night, chewing at the corners of your focus until exhaustion finally won.

You shoved it down before it could slow you further.

“Tell Reed I’m on my way,” you told HERBIE, already moving toward the door.

“I have already told him that twice,” HERBIE replied. “It did not seem to help.”

You slipped into the lab later than you meant to, hair still mussed from where you’d fallen asleep at your desk. The artifact sat in the center of the main table, suspended in its containment field like a trapped ember, its light slow and pulsing. Reed stood at one console, tapping through diagnostics. Johnny leaned against the far counter, hands in his pockets, pretending not to watch you.

“Nice of you to join us,” he said without looking up. “Learned you can’t freeze time?”

You gave him a flat look. “Learned you can’t mind your own business?”

You didn’t bother looking at him any longer as you crossed to Reed. “Sorry I’m late.”

Reed barely glanced up from his monitor. “You’re here now. Let’s get started.”

Johnny let out a quiet huff, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘bout time before straightening and moving to the opposite side of the table, well out of your immediate space. The distance was deliberate—he didn’t have to say it.

You forced yourself to keep your eyes on the artifact, its surface dull under the lab lights. Even sealed away, it seemed to breathe with its own gravity, pulling at your attention until Reed’s voice cut through.

“I’ve been running initial scans since seven. It’s… unlike anything I’ve seen before,” he said, adjusting a dial. “Composition’s non-terrestrial, but its energy signature’s erratic. Almost reactive.”

which is weird because doom told reader that the stones were empty, useless, they could try but wouldn’t find anything — she’s now on a personal mission to find out what doom really planted but she cant tell reed and johnny too much

Reactive to what? you almost asked, but Johnny’s quiet snort from across the table pulled your focus back.

Reed didn’t glance up from the monitor. “We’ve confirmed it’s not powered by heat, electricity, or known radiation signatures,” he said, voice calm and clipped. “The energy profile’s… different. I’d like to run comparative scans.”

You moved closer, eyes on the slow pulse inside the field. “Different how?”

“Unfamiliar,” Reed said simply, adjusting the containment parameters.

HERBIE’s voice came from overhead, crisp and neutral.

“Dr. Richards, you are requested in Conference Room Two. Priority level: three.”

Reed exhaled and saved the latest readings. “Continue the scan cycles in my absence. Document any fluctuation in the energy output.”

He was already halfway to the door before either of you answered.

The hum of the containment unit filled the space once he was gone. Johnny drummed his fingers against the counter, eyes flicking toward you like he was deciding whether to start something.

Apparently, he decided yes.

Without another word, he crossed to the main console and started inputting commands, the containment field around the artifact shifting to a faint blue tint.

You stayed where you were, arms loosely crossed.

He glanced up, brows pulling together. “You gonna help, or just stand there and watch me do all the work?”

“What’s your angle?” you asked.

“My angle,” he said, drawing the words out like he wasn’t sure if you were joking or just dense, “is running a progressive heat-stress test to see if the thing reacts under—”

You shook your head before he could finish. “That’s not what we should be doing.”

Johnny turned in his chair, the movement sharp. “Really? ‘Cause last I checked, Reed didn’t leave you in charge.”

“And last I checked, you don’t poke at a rock without knowing what triggers it,” you shot back. “You’re literally testing for the thing that could make it blow.”

He leaned back slightly, smirking in that infuriating way that was never just amusement. “It’s contained. That’s the point of the field.”

“That’s the point of the field until you overheat it and we find out the hard way that it’s not enough,” you said. “There’s a reason Reed started with passive scans.”

Johnny’s jaw worked. “You got a better plan, or are you just here to shoot mine down?”

“Yeah. Cross-spectrum analysis on the energy pulses before you go nuking it with heat.”

He let out a short laugh, all bite and no humor. “Of course. Slow and boring. Why didn’t I guess?”

You felt the temperature in the room spike—not because of his powers, but because of the way his tone made your blood heat.

You clenched your jaw, pushing past him toward the terminal on the opposite side of the table. “Fine. We’ll do it both ways—yours and mine. If yours doesn’t turn it into a miniature sun, maybe I’ll admit you had a point.”

Johnny scoffed but didn’t stop you, pivoting back to his controls. The artifact pulsed faintly inside the containment field, light refracting in irregular patterns across its jagged surface.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the soft sound of equipment and the rhythmic tap of your fingers on the screen. You leaned over the console to adjust the calibration—and felt him step in right behind you, reaching for the same control.

His arm brushed yours. Just a faint contact, but enough to send a sharp jolt through the air. You froze, refusing to look at him.

“You’re throwing off the read,” he muttered, low.

“Maybe you’re in my space,” you muttered back.

“Maybe if you actually knew how to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes. Too close. Neither of you moved.

The moment stretched tight until he exhaled sharply and stepped back. “You know what? Do it yourself.”

He moved toward the door, every stride sharp with irritation. But halfway there, he stopped dead, shoulders tensing. A long breath dragged through his lungs before he turned around, stalking back to the table.

“Not running away this time?” you said, your tone dripping with mock surprise. “Shocking. That’s new.”

For a beat, neither of you said anything. He knew what you were implying. Johnny just stood there, hands flexing at his sides like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking, and when he did glance your way it was for a fraction too long—sharp, assessing, like he was looking for something you weren’t offering. The lab unit seemed louder in the silence.

Then he dragged his gaze away and reached for the panel in front of him. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

You stepped closer, ignoring the invitation in his voice to just shut up and work. “You still haven’t told me what you think it’s doing.”

“I told Reed already.” His hands moved over the controls with quick, clipped precision. “You were late, remember?”

You leaned on the edge of the table, eyes narrowing. “Humor me.”

He exhaled like it physically pained him, then finally looked at you again. “I think it’s a conduit. Pulls energy, stores it, amplifies it—kind of like a battery, but meaner.”

“That’s cute,” you said. “Except you’re wrong.”

Johnny’s head tilted, slow and deliberate, like he couldn’t believe you just said that. “You got a better theory?”

“I’ve got data,” you countered, jabbing a finger toward the scrolling readouts on the monitor. “Those energy spikes aren’t random—they’re reactive. Something’s feeding it commands, not just juice.”

“Or,” he said, leaning in just enough to crowd your space, “you’re reading it wrong because you think you’re smarter than the room.”

The heat in your chest had nothing to do with his powers. “Maybe I am.”

For a heartbeat, you were both too close, his arm brushing yours as you both reached for the same dial. Static snapped through the air—whether it was from the artifact or from the proximity, you weren’t sure.

Johnny didn’t move his hand right away, eyes fixed on the glow in front of you. “You keep forcing it like that, you’re gonna crack it.”

“That’s the idea,” he muttered.

Your brow lifted. “Interesting tactic. Break it before you even know what it does.”

He finally looked at you, mouth twitching in that almost-smile that never meant anything good. “Better than letting it sit here collecting dust while we pretend it’s harmless.”

“It’s called being careful.”

“It’s called wasting time.” His tone was light, but there was a weight under it. “Or is that the plan—stall until someone else figures it out for you?”

You angled toward him, heat rising in your chest. “And you think bulldozing through it will get you there faster?”

“Sometimes it’s the only way to see what it’s really made of.” His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long before he turned back to the controls. “And if it breaks under the pressure… maybe it wasn’t worth keeping in the first place.”

The hum of the unit deepened, like it could feel the shift between you. The words hung in the air, and you both knew neither of you was talking about the artifact anymore.

You leaned in, just enough for him to notice. “Sounds like you’ve had practice throwing things away when they don’t hold up the way you want.”

It was clear neither of you were just talking about research now. For a second, you thought he might actually explain. His mouth parted, his expression unguarded in a way you’d never seen—but then the shutters came down, and whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.

“Forget it,” he muttered, turning back to the panel like you weren’t worth the effort.

The argument didn’t resolve so much as burn itself out, both of you withdrawing into a brittle, uneasy truce. The only sounds left were the low whir of the artifact’s containment and the scratch of pens on paper.

You worked in parallel now, trading readings without speaking, your notes sliding across the table into his space, his into yours. It was… functional. Efficient. Almost. Every now and then, your hands would brush as you reached for the same tool, neither of you looking up.

By the time the door eased open, the tension had settled into something deceptively calm.

Sue leaned against the frame, warm smile in place. “Sunday dinner’s starting. You two coming?”

You looked up at her, then at Johnny—

only to find him already looking at you.

Sue caught it, her smile widening by a fraction.

“Not tonight,” you said quickly, tearing your gaze away. “We’re… close to something. I think.” You gestured vaguely at the mess of notes and instruments. “Just a little more time.”

Sue didn’t even bother asking Johnny. “Alright,” she said, still looking at you as she tipped her head toward the hall. “C’mon, hotshot.”

Johnny hesitated, but pushed his chair back, following her out. The door shut behind them, leaving you alone with the quiet lab.

You reached for Johnny’s notebook to continue where he left off via notes before you could talk yourself out of it. At first, it was exactly what you expected—straightforward logs. Heat responses. Containment stability. Calibration tweaks.

Then… not.

One line in the margin:

tilts her head before she disagrees. doesn’t know she’s doing it.

Another, buried between temperature graphs:

bites her lip when she writes notes.

Your pen hovered above the paper, throat tightening.

Further down, the words were colder, sharper, like he’d been cataloging something he didn’t understand:

no flame powers. no body heat. prolonged contact dangerous.

The words made your chest tighten. It wasn’t about the artifact at all. It was about you—about the way you moved, the way you thought, the way your presence rewrote the rules of his own powers.

The notes weren’t just about the work.

The notes weren’t just about the artifact.

It was almost thoughtful… if it didn’t feel like he was collecting them to throw back at you later. Little tells, little habits—it read less like research and more like containment. But a small, treacherous part of you smiled anyway, hoping—ridiculously—that in some corner of his mind, it wasn’t malicious at all. That it was… charming. Cute, even.

You sank into the nearest chair, flipping to the start of the day’s entries.

Anything earlier felt… too far. Too invasive.

Today was fair game.

You turned the pages slowly, letting the small details soak in—his shorthand sketches of the artifact’s core, numbers in the margins, little bursts of handwriting that strayed into something else.

It was like reading a bigger, unfiltered version of those sticky notes he used to leave—except now there were entire paragraphs you weren’t supposed to see.

A post-it could never hold this many thoughts.

You started to spin the chair in slow, lazy circles, one heel on the floor to keep it steady as your eyes traced each line. Notes on temperature spikes. A stray observation about how you never flinched when the artifact crackled. Another wondering what you’d do if you found out “the truth.” No context. No explanation.

The door must’ve opened at some point, but you didn’t hear it.

“You know,” Johnny’s voice cut clean through your concentration, “Sue isn’t taking no for an answer. She wants you at dinner.”

You froze mid-spin, the chair jerking to a halt. His notebook nearly slipped from your hands, your fingers tightening before it could fall.

He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, like he’d been standing there for a while. Watching.

No smirk. No familiar spark in his eyes. Just something unreadable, the kind of look that made you feel like you’d been caught doing more than just reading.

“I’m busy,” you said finally, the words sounding steadier than you felt. Heart beat still thundering from what felt like being caught.

Johnny didn’t move from the doorway. “Yeah, well… she’s not asking.”

The air between you stretched thin, weighted with all the things neither of you were willing to say.

Finally, he pushed off the frame and stepped back into the hall, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Five minutes.”

The door clicked shut, leaving you with the artifact and the echo of his gaze like static against your skin.

─────

a/n: how y’all think thats gonna gooo?

─────

⟢ Chapter Sixteen

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~1,917

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Fourteen: Subject X-17 — Faultlines

The walk back to the Baxter Building felt longer without him. Not because you missed him—hardly—but because he’d left you alone. Again, might you add. The streets were quieter now, the mission’s adrenaline bleeding into an odd, restless emptiness you refused to fill with thoughts of him. The sun had long since dropped behind the skyline, leaving streaks of orange and blue painted across the glass and steel above you. Every step echoed sharper in the cooling air, the artifact’s weight a steady anchor in your hands.

By the time you reached the lobby, and then the lab, he was already there—leaning against the railing, arms crossed, speaking low to Reed. You couldn’t hear every word, but the tail end drifted over.

“…and you’re sure about this?” Johnny’s tone was sharp, like he was holding back more than he was saying.

Reed’s reply was calm, measured. “We’re not having this conversation again.”

Johnny spotted you then. His jaw clenched, and whatever thought he’d been biting back died on his tongue. Without another word, he pushed away from the railing and strode past you, the heat of his shoulder brushing yours.

It felt less like he’d left the room and more like he’d taken all the air with him.

Reed didn’t waste time once Johnny left. “Report,” he said, already pulling up the mission feed on the nearest console.

You stayed standing, arms crossed, eyes on the footage. “I don’t know what it is or what it does, but I found it exactly where Doom’s coordinates led.”

You pulled the small, rock-like object from your pocket and set it gently on the table between you and Reed.

Reed’s head tilted slightly, like he was assessing you more than your words. “You’re certain?”

You nodded. “That’s what I promised you, right? A lead.”

For a moment, his eyes flicked up to yours. There was the smallest shift—approval, maybe—but it was gone before you could pin it down. “We’ll need to investigate that. Soon. Tomorrow, if the schedule allows.”

The door slid open, letting in a wash of warm light from the hall. Sue stepped in, moving with the kind of quiet that always softened a room’s edges.

“You did good today,” she said simply, giving you a once-over that lingered just long enough to feel like reassurance rather than judgment. “Even when things went sideways.”

Something about her tone—gentle but knowing—hit deeper than you expected. You just gave a small nod.

Behind her, a faint heat pressed into the space. Johnny had returned, leaning against the doorway, arms folded, listening without a word.

Your jaw tightened. Of course he was here now. When it didn’t matter.

“Excuse me,” you said flatly, brushing past him without slowing.

He shifted just enough to let you through, a flicker of something, guilt… maybe, passing over his face. “You made it back fine, didn’t you?”

You didn’t look at him. “No thanks to you.”

The hall stretched quiet beyond him, and you let it swallow the words as you kept walking.

The tower was dead quiet at this hour, your favorite part of the day. No Reed’s lectures, no Johnny’s commentary. Just the hum of the lights and the low city noise through the glass.

You peeled out of the suit piece by piece, leaving it in a heap by the closet. A hot shower chased away the ache in your shoulders, well as hot as you could get it that is, steam curling against the mirror until your reflection was nothing but a blur.

After, you lingered by the window, arms braced on the sill. The city stretched wide and glittering, the sky fading from dusky blue into the deep indigo of night. You’d hate to admit it, but the view was… nice. Too nice for a place you didn’t plan on staying.

You let yourself just stand there, watching the traffic threads wind through the streets far below. At some point, you sat on the edge of the bed, flipping the small beacon between your hands like a coin, letting its weight anchor you.

When you looked up again, the skyline had shifted, more lights, darker streets, the kind of stillness that only came hours after sunset. Your stomach gave a low, impatient twist.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, already eyeing the fridge, only to freeze at the sound of a faint crunch.

Johnny was at the counter, leaning on one elbow, eating straight from a box of cereal. No bowl in sight.

“Real classy,” you muttered.

“Better than ice chips,” he said without looking up.

You moved to the other end of the counter, pulling open a cabinet. “Didn’t realize the kitchen was claimed after hours.”

“It’s not,” he said, “You just showed up during my peace and quiet.”

A silence fell—tense, but not quite hostile. You caught him glancing over when he thought you weren’t looking.

“You still mad about the mission?” you asked, pulling a glass from the shelf. You figured he was—mad that you hadn’t been able to control it, mad your suit failed, that you’d nearly messed everything up.

“Depends. You planning to make my job twice as hard again?”

You scoffed. “I didn’t mean to, you know that—”

He cut you off with a shake of his head, setting the cereal box down. “You run cold even when you’re not trying to.”

The comment stuck, heavier than it should have.

Johnny glanced away, almost under his breath, facing away from you like it would hurt him to look. “I’m not mad… about the mission, anyway.”

You frowned, leaning a hip against the counter. “Then what?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you can’t guess.” His fingers tapped a slow, restless rhythm on the counter—less like he was thinking and more like a time bomb waiting for someone to cut the wrong wire.

“If you’ve got something to say, maybe just say it,” you shot back, even though a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted the answer.

“No,” he said after a beat, shaking his head. “Because if I do, you’ll get all worked up, and I happen to like my room—and the rest of the building—without the freezing cold.”

The words slid under your skin like ice. It wasn’t just about the powers—it never was with him—it was about keeping you at arm’s length, like proximity itself was dangerous.

You exhaled through your nose, forcing your shoulders loose. “Then maybe don’t push me there,” you said, voice low enough to keep it from sounding like a challenge.

“Cute,” he muttered, pushing away from the counter, still refusing to meet your eyes. “You keep talking like that, we’re definitely not a team.”

Cute?? No. Not cute. Not anything. He’s smug and reckless and full of himself — and probably knows exactly how close he’s standing right now. That’s not charm, that’s strategy.

You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference even as the words landed sharper than you wanted them to. “Good thing we were never one.”

That got him to glance at you—brief, unreadable—before he straightened, snatching the cereal box off the counter. “Glad we understand each other.”

He left without waiting for a reply, his footsteps softly trailing down the hall before the sound of his door shut, too loudly for the time of night. The faint smell of smoke lingered in his absence, mingling with the cold you couldn’t seem to shake.

The hum of the fridge filled the empty space. You stood there a moment longer, eyes scanning the shelves for anything worth eating. For a split second, you caught yourself wondering what Johnny would go for,, then shoved the thought out faster than you’d meant to.

Minutes passed. The silence thickened, wrapping around you until you were left with nothing but your thoughts—and the sting of his words.

You didn’t even hear the footsteps until Sue appeared in the doorway, soft smile in place.

“Didn’t expect to see you up,” she said lightly, moving to the counter. “The kitchen’s usually Johnny’s territory at this hour. Well… his and Ben’s.”

You managed a faint smile. “Guess I’m invading then.”

Sue set her mug down, leaning against the counter like she had all the time in the world. “From what I hear, you pulled your weight today. That’s not nothing.”

Her tone wasn’t loaded. No suspicion, no judgment; just a simple fact, given freely. And for some reason, that made your stomach knot tighter.

“I don’t know,” you said, glancing off toward the floor. “Kind of screwed up the plan. Johnny didn’t exactly seem thrilled about it.”

“It still got accomplished, didn’t it? And no one died or got hurt?” She lifted a brow, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “That’s a win for me.”

Sue’s gaze softened and she sighed. “I know this can’t be easy. New place, new people—working with powers that still feel like they’re working against you. But you’re here. And you’re helping, you did the right thing. Don’t forget that.”

The words sat heavy in your chest, warm in a way that felt dangerously close to guilt.

Sue reached over and touched your arm, light but sincere. “Really. Thank you for helping us today.”

It felt like the final nail in the coffin—another reason you couldn’t let her, any of them, see the truth.

You pushed off the counter, mumbling, “Thanks,” because anything more felt too raw.

“Family dinner’s tomorrow,” Sue said as you reached the doorway. “It’s tradition around here. You’re invited… if you want to be.”

You glanced back. She wasn’t pushing, just offering. And for some reason, that made you smile—, mall, but real. “I’ll…think about it.”

The corridor outside was quiet, your steps light. That little ember of warmth lingered in your chest.

Then your pocket buzzed. Once. Twice. Relentless.

You slid the small comm from your pocket, its weight already familiar and unwelcome. The comm Doom had given you for “communication” cutting through your thoughts.

The smile was gone before you even realized it.

By the time you reached your room and shut the door, your pulse was already quickening. You answer.

“Report,” Doom’s voice came, low and direct.

You sank onto the bed, keeping your tone flat. “The mission went as expected. Richards suspects something—he’ll be looking. I kept them focused on the wrong thing.”

“Good,” Doom said, the faint hum of machinery in the background. “Continue to earn their trust. And call me the moment you find anything.”

“Wait— What happened out there? My suit cut out, twice.”

Doom took so long to reply you almost thought he had ended the comm, “Your performance exceeded the suit’s specifications. I’ll need to reinforce it.”

A pause. “Have you worked with Storm yet?”

You hesitated, the lie coming easier than it should. “No... He keeps his distance.”

A lie, to what? Protect Johnny? Pitiful, really. The line went dead.

Too powerful for Doom’s suit? Sounded like complete bullshit. He’d planned every detail of this arrangement down to your pulse rate, he didn’t underestimate. Which meant he was hiding something. Of course he was. It was Victor Von Doom.

With your thoughts spiraling, you set the comm aside and moved to the desk, the city stretching out beyond your window. You unlatched it, letting in the hum of traffic and the occasional wail of a siren, letting the noise keep you awake while you ran out possibilities, equations, theories—circling the same conclusions until the hours blurred and the sky began to pale.

What did you get yourself into.

─────

a/n: surprise 2am update

─────

⟢ Chapter Fifteen

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~3,175

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Thirteen: Subject X-17 — Cooperative Systems Test

You woke to the mechanical shift of your quarters simulating “morning.” Not sunlight—never sunlight—just the Tower deciding when you should wake.

A perfectly ordinary guest room in the Baxter Building, with a neatly made bed, a desk tucked by the window, and shelves that had never known a book. Nothing chained down, nothing sinister. Just… bare. The kind of space that felt prepared for anyone, which made it feel like it wasn’t really hers at all. Reed’s version of kindness was efficiency: clean lines, neutral colors, comfort that never risked crossing into cozy.

The only break in the monotony sat on the desk: a small stack of books and printed papers. Titles you’d cited in containment. Research you’d mentioned in passing. Proof Reed had been listening, even when you’d assumed he wasn’t.

A familiar whir and glide drew your eyes to the door. HERBIE floated in, one sensor sweeping the room before turning toward you.

“Good morning,” HERBIE said, tone polite but stripped of the easy warmth it once had. “Doctor Richards requests your presence in the control room for mission briefing.”

You already knew what this would be about. As part of your deal to help them, you’d given Reed your first lead: Doom had planted something in Calder’s industrial district. Today, the team was going to retrieve it before anyone else could.

“Already?” you echoed, pushing the blanket aside.

You reached for the suit without thinking, fingers finding the familiar fabric where you’d left it folded at the foot of the bed. You didn’t want to risk missing the chance to not feel cold for once. To feel normal again. Maybe you were starting to rely on it more than you should.

HERBIE didn’t elaborate. He never did anymore.

By the time you reached the control room, Johnny was already there, lounging against a console like he’d been born to drape himself over expensive equipment. He glanced up, eyes catching yours, but there was no smirk — no easy greeting. Just an assessing look, sharp enough to feel like it could find seams in your armor.

Reed didn’t bother with small talk. “This will be a controlled field assessment,” he said, fingers moving over the holographic display. “The objective is simple: retrieve the item Doom has planted, return, and avoid unnecessary damage. We’ll be monitoring you closely.”

You crossed your arms. “So, no warmup? Straight into the field?”

“A monitored mission,” Reed corrected. His eyes flicked to Johnny. “With supervision.”

Johnny let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Try not to turn me into an ice sculpture.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t get in my way, and you won’t have to worry about it.”

Reed’s gaze lingered on you both, measuring the static in the air. You kept your face even, repeating Doom’s order in your head, they need to believe you.

The elevator ride down to the hangar was quiet enough to hear the faint click of its floor sensors. You stood on one side, Johnny on the other, a gulf of polished steel between you.

The hum of the lift pressed in, louder with every passing floor, until it felt like it was pulsing in your ears. You forced yourself to break the silence. “How was Reed’s debrief?”

Johnny didn’t look at you—just kept his gaze fixed on the panel, the muscle in his jaw ticking once. “Riveting. Like always.”

You hesitated, lowering your voice. “Did he… tell you everything?”

That earned you a scoff, and finally, a glance. A single, cutting sweep of his eyes over you. “Everything you wanted him to know, yeah.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. For the first time since you’d met him, nothing came—no jab, no half-smirk to fill the space.

The hum filled it instead, stretching taut.

“Just because Reed trusts your judgment,” Johnny said at last, his tone clipped enough to draw blood, “doesn’t mean that I do—if that’s what you’re getting at. You’re still hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.”

“I don’t need you to believe me,” you bit back, pulse spiking.

His gaze didn’t waver, hard as the metal walls boxing you in. “Good. Because I don’t.”

You pulled in a breath, words lining up sharp on your tongue, ready to tell him he didn’t know the half of it—

The elevator doors slid open with a clean metallic whisper. Johnny stepped out like the air inside had been choking him, but not without a glance back over his shoulder, a flash of something between suspicion and… something else.

You followed, matching his pace, feeling the echo of Doom’s promise in the back of your mind like a hand at your spine: Freedom. Control. Normal again.

The building looked like it had been abandoned mid-breath, half-gutted walls, exposed wiring dangling like veins, the air sharp with dust and something faintly metallic.

“This is it?” you muttered, eyeing the jagged doorway Reed’s coordinates had led you to.

Johnny stepped ahead, scanning the shadows. “Yeah. Looks like a fixer-upper. You could ice it over, call it home.”

You didn’t take the bait, stepping in after him. The floor groaned under your boots, loud enough to echo up the empty stairwell. Somewhere deeper in the structure, metal shifted like it was remembering its shape.

HERBIE’s voice crackled in your ear, calm as ever. Data core is located three floors up, north wing. Structural integrity compromised—exercise caution.

“Translation,” Johnny said, glancing over his shoulder at you, “try not to knock the place down with your… whatever it is you do.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Same to you.”

The hall narrowed until you had to fall in step behind him. Close enough to catch the faint heat radiating off him, even through the layers between you. The smell of scorched metal followed him, sharper in the stale air.

A half-collapsed wall forced you both under a bent steel beam. Johnny ducked first, one hand braced above his head, the other automatically held out to steady you. You ignored it, slipping under on your own.

One floor down from target, HERBIE reported. Thermal readings suggest multiple active traps remain online.

Johnny shot you a look over his shoulder. “Hear that? Reed’s trust exercise just got interesting.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes swept the corridor instead, tracing the walls and floor for irregular seams, faint scorch marks, or the telltale bulge of hidden wiring. Every possibility logged itself in the back of your mind—details you’d carry later, Doom didn’t say anything about traps?

The stairwell was barely wide enough for one person, but Johnny took it two at a time, his heat rolling back toward you in quick bursts every time his boots struck metal.

“Slow down, Hotshot,” you called, forcing the edge out of your voice. “Some of us aren’t flamethrowers with legs.”

“Not my fault you’ve got ice in your veins,” he shot back without even glancing over his shoulder. “And probably your heart, too.”

“Better than fire in my head.”

That got you a short, disbelieving laugh, more bite than humor. “You’re hilarious.”

The next landing groaned under your boots, the sound sharp enough to make you freeze. Before you could get a warning out, the ceiling above trembled, a fine curtain of dust sifting down like ash.

“Move!” he barked—no banter this time, just the snap of command and the heat of him surging past.

A steel beam sheared loose overhead with a scream of metal. Johnny was on you before you could react, shoving you toward the wall and throwing up an arm. A rush of heat flared as his power surged, slowing the beam’s fall just enough for you to slam your palms against it. Frost raced over the metal, locking it in place with a violent hiss as fire and ice clashed.

The debris froze mid-drop, but the rest of the ceiling came down around it, sealing the stairwell in a tangled mess of steel and concrete.

“Well,” Johnny said, stepping back to survey the wall of wreckage, “guess we’re not going that way.” He shot you a look. “Go on, Frost it over. Make it brittle so it breaks.”

You arched a brow. “Or you could light it on fire and melt it.”

“That’ll take too long.”

“Your idea’s slower.”

He scoffed. “Not if you’d stop half-assing it.”

“Maybe if you stopped barking orders like I’m one of your interns—”

“Maybe if you actually listened—”

The words hit sharp, quick, layered with all the other things you weren’t saying. The air between you felt hotter and colder all at once.

Johnny stepped closer, chin tilting like he was about to drive the point home.

“I can’t believe Reed’s letting you do this,” he said, low and sharp. “You’re one bad turn away from freezing us both in here.”

The words slid under your skin in a way you hated, because they weren’t just an insult. They were doubt, and they sounded too much like something Reed might actually think.

You opened your mouth to throw something back, but the faint whine of your suit’s regulator cut through the air. A red light blinked at your wrist.

Johnny’s eyes flicked down. “What is that?”

Before you could answer, a pulse of cold ripped through you, so sudden your knees buckled. Frost spiderwebbed from your boots across the floor, climbing the wall behind him. Johnny swore, heat flaring instinctively off his skin. The temperature between you plummeted and spiked in the same breath, your powers and his clashing hard enough to make the air crackle.

“Shut it down!” he barked, backing a step but holding his ground.

“I’m trying!” You gritted your teeth, fighting the surge, fingers numb inside the gloves. The regulator gave a sharp pop, a faint trail of smoke curling out.

“Great,” he snapped, voice edged with more worry than he’d ever admit. “We’re trapped, and you’re about to ice over this whole building.”

“Then maybe get out of my way!” you shot back, breath misting between you.

Neither of you moved, both locked in place—heat and cold fighting for the same air, the wreckage around you groaning under the strain.

A sharp crack split the sound, and the frozen beam between you buckled, shards skittering across the floor. Heat flared off him, instinctive, colliding with the sudden surge of cold you couldn’t hold back. The mix churned into a blinding steam that swallowed the corridor.

You coughed, squinting through it. “Perfect. Just what we needed.”

“Yeah, another mess to clean up because you can’t keep it together,” Johnny shot back, his silhouette a restless flame in the haze.

Your retort burned the tip of your tongue—not because you didn’t have one, but because the hiss of stressed metal above said you were out of time.

The stairwell groaned again, louder this time, the sound ricocheting down the shaft like a warning you didn’t have time to heed. Concrete dust sifted down in a steady curtain.

Johnny moved first, throwing a blast of heat toward the fractured section above—but the cold pouring off you, sharp and wild, devoured the edges before the flames could take.

“Damn it—” He cut himself off, eyes snapping to you.

“I’ve got it—” you started, the words breaking with your breath.

“No, you don’t.” In two strides he was in front of you, hands closing on your shoulders as he shoved you back against the wall just as a slab of cement sheared away from the ceiling and slammed into the stairs where you’d been standing.

The impact rattled through your spine. Johnny stayed there, braced over you, one hand still on the wall beside your head, the other anchoring you in place. Even through the insulated suit, you could see the way his jaw tightened, a faint shiver rippling over him.

“Regulate,” he bit out, close enough you felt the heat of the word against your cheek. “You’re radiating so much cold I can’t get a damn thing to stick.”

Your chest locked, the fight draining just enough for you to realize—he was right. And the suit… the one thing you thought would let you stand close to him without hurting him—wasn’t.

You stared at him, startled, your breath catching in the thin space between you, his voice still echoing like a strike you hadn’t braced for. The longer you held his gaze, the more something in you gave way—unwilling, instinctive. The cold leached from your skin, frost retreating from the railing in slow, trembling rivulets. His shoulders loosened; his breath came easier.

Something flickered in his eyes, warmth, sharp and sudden, like a flame catching where it shouldn’t. The air between you felt stretched thin, charged enough that you almost leaned in without meaning to. And then he broke it, stepping back, the heat rushing in to fill the space you left behind.

Without another word, he turned toward the collapsed stairs, a burst of flame spilling from his palm. The debris went up in a hiss and roar, clearing the path in seconds.

“Come on,” he said over his shoulder, already moving. No warmth in the words. No glance back to see if you followed.

And you did.

You made it to the next checkpoint without another near-death collapse, though the floor here sloped at an uneasy angle, forcing you both to brace against the wall.

“Hold up,” you said, catching Johnny’s arm before he moved ahead. “Let’s cut through that side hall”

He gave you a confused look, one brow ticking up.

“There’s less chance of the building collapsing that way,” you added quickly, “and there’s no traps.”

He didn’t ask how you knew that, but the look on his face told you he wanted to.

He hesitated, eyes narrowing like he wanted to argue, but after a beat, he gave a short nod and shifted course.

Reed’s voice crackled in your ear:

“Hold position. We’re running a scan for more traps before you proceed.”

Johnny leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes tracking you like he was looking for a crack in your armor. The silence pressed in, heavy enough to make you shift your weight.

“So,” he said finally, “how’s Doom these days?”

You didn’t flinch. “Didn’t realize you cared.”

“I don’t.” His tone was flat, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Just wondering if he’s the one feeding you routes through the building. Because the detour you pushed for back there? Not in Reed’s playbook.”

You shrugged like it was nothing. “Maybe I just have better instincts.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Instincts? Please. You knew that route cold. Which makes me wonder, who’s still giving you orders?”

That landed harder than you wanted to show. You forced a scoff, matching his stance against the wall. “Right. Because obviously I’ve got Doom on speed dial.” Except… you do, but thats besides the point, “Hate to disappoint you, I barely talk to anyone these days.”

Johnny didn’t press, but he didn’t look away, either. It was the kind of silence that didn’t fade—it just burrowed in.

Reed’s voice broke through again. “Clear ahead. Proceed to the next section.”

Johnny pushed off the wall, brushing past you. “Let’s just get this done.”

The stolen data core sat in your hands like it might start humming at any second—sleek, cold, and heavier than it looked. You turned it once, then again, trying to see what Doom had sworn was nothing more than a “harmless mineral sample.” But minerals didn’t carry coded light veins beneath their shell. They didn’t pulse like something alive waiting for the right touch.

Johnny stayed a step ahead on the walk back, keeping his comms chatter to a minimum while Reed and Sue ran final checks from base. You tightened your grip, forcing the question back down: if this wasn’t just a rock, then what the hell had Doom really put in your hands?

By the time you stepped into the extraction point, Reed’s voice crackled over the comms.

“Mission complete,” he said, almost begrudgingly. “Though your pathing data shows multiple deviations from the optimal route.”

“Had to improvise,” you replied, shifting the core in your hands like a peace offering he couldn’t even see. “You know—terrain, collapsing ceilings, the usual.”

A pause crackled through the line before he answered, tone flat. “We’ll review it later.”

You felt Johnny’s gaze before you saw it. He didn’t speak, didn’t accuse—just stood there, watching you with an expression that said I know exactly what you were doing.

For a second, you almost told him he was wrong.

For a second, you almost wanted him to be.

But you just let the faintest smile tug at your mouth before moving past him, taking the path that would lead you back to the building.

Let him think what he wanted.

The stolen data core sat cold in your hands, throwing your reflection back in warped metal. Johnny kept pace beside you, unusually quiet, the scuff of his boots the only sound between you.

“You take a lot of detours for someone on their best behavior,” Johnny said finally.

You didn’t answer.

He glanced down at you, not smiling this time, eyes narrowed like he was weighing whether to call you out or just wait for you to hang yourself.

“You know,” he added, voice low, “the problem with side missions is… someone always notices.”

You kept walking. The data core felt heavier. And for the first time since agreeing to Doom’s deal, you wondered if maybe Johnny was the one you should’ve been afraid of.

“Maybe we do make a good team, though,” you said, a thread of hope slipping into your voice before you could catch it.

Johnny’s steps didn’t slow. “We’re not a team,” he said flatly, glancing at you just long enough to make sure you heard it. “We’re two people stuck on the same job. Don’t confuse the two.”

By the time you reached the street, heat flared in the air between you. Flames curled around him in a rush, and then he was airborne—gone in a streak of light that left the street colder than before.

It was clear he wasn’t waiting. You didn’t bother to watch him go. You just walked the rest of the way back alone.

Ahead, the city stretched dark and indifferent. Behind, the mission site smoldered; Johnny had left the air smelling faintly of smoke and frost.

The artifact sat heavy in your hands, its polished surface catching the weak glow of streetlights. You turned it over, tracing the strange etchings like they might explain more than just its purpose—like they might distract you from the echo of his words.

We’re not a team.

Maybe you were trying too hard. Filling silences with banter he didn’t want. Pushing into a space he’d already decided you didn’t belong in. Every time you thought you’d found some common ground, he reminded you it was just a fault line waiting to split.

You gripped the artifact tighter, not because it mattered, but because it was the only thing you could hold onto that wouldn’t pull away.

─────

a/n: some cliches will be making an appearance in this story i cant help myself

─────

⟢ Chapter Fourteen

TAGLIST

ty for ur work ure so talented 😭😭😭

WHY DO YOU DENY YOURSELF HEAVEN

ty for reading what you can my love, i know its hard reading a wip; its been a hard realization even for me, that it takes me days to a week to write one chapter that can be read in 10-15 minutes but trust im stocking up on them bitches

on the flip side we’re lookin at about 20-30 more chapters for the whole thing and i cant wait for you to binge it <3

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~2,878

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Twelve: Subject X-17 — Conditional Integration

“…and that’s where it ends,” you said, the words steady but hollow in your mouth. You held Reed’s gaze, not flinching. “I didn’t escape. Doom broke me out. I heard his plans and decided to come here.”

Reed’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was a fractional pause before he spoke, like he was counting the seconds it took for him not to tell HERBIE to escort you back downstairs.

“If you’re here to help,” Reed said tightly, “then understand—this isn’t your operation to run.”

“Then let me be clear,” you cut in, fingers curling against your palm as if to ground yourself. “I’m not here to protect him. I’m not here to protect myself. I just want to stop him. And if you’re going to have any chance at all, you need what I know.”

You drew in a slow breath, eyes fixed on his. “He’s planning an outage. Citywide. He’s already planted devices—stone-like, small, forgettable enough to hide in plain sight. I saw the maps. He’s got them across the boroughs, set to trigger at the same time. One switch, and the grid collapses. That’s phase one. Whatever comes after—” you shook your head, voice dipping lower, “—you don’t want to see it.”

The lie poured out smooth as glass. Too smooth. Like silk slipping over a blade. You didn’t add the part Doom made sure you understood: the devices were nothing but shells. Hollow. Harmless. Pretty distractions designed to keep Reed’s eyes on the wrong prize.

Reed’s jaw set. “You know where they are? The exact sites?”

“Exact,” you confirmed, chin tilting higher. “There are five in total.” Another lie, stitched clean into the truth—bait to keep their eyes on you, not on the places that mattered.

Reed didn’t answer right away. You could almost hear the machinery in his head turning over, calibrating the story you’d just given him against whatever model of you he’d built in the past weeks.

“If what you’re saying is true,” he said finally, “we’ll need to find those devices before they’re active. That means city schematics, traffic grids, public utility maps—things you don’t get from a cell.” His gaze sharpened. “You’ll work here, under our eyes. Every note you take, every lead you follow, I see it.”

You kept your expression neutral, even as the quiet part of you admitted this was exactly the access Doom had wanted.

Sue’s brow softened just enough to make it sound like an olive branch. “We’ll set you up with a room. Equipment. But don’t mistake this for trust.”

“If you don’t trust me, fine—lock the doors, tag me, track every breath.” You forced the next words out, each one tasting like it didn’t belong to you. “But I’m here to help.”

Reed’s eyes narrowed, the way they did when he was testing a hypothesis he didn’t like. You could almost see the equation running behind them—variables, risks, the shadow of the last time he’d decided you were too dangerous to be in the room.

After a long moment, he nodded once, as though committing to the experiment despite the margin for error. “HERBIE will issue an access badge. Level four clearance. You’ll be on monitored floors only. HERBIE will log your location at all times. You so much as step where you’re not supposed to be—”

“I won’t,” you interrupted, because you both knew you what would happen if you did.

Reed didn’t push back. Maybe he knew he couldn’t stop you, maybe he was testing whether he’d been wrong about you before. He stayed after the others had gone, running through ground rules with a precision that felt more like stalling than structure. His tone was measured, but the way his gaze lingered on you between points made it clear, he was nervous, whether at you or at himself for letting you in.

When he finally left, the space felt almost foreign. The Baxter Building at night wasn’t quiet so much as open—a far cry from the airtight hum of the containment cell. Here, the air moved. The city leaked in through floor-to-ceiling glass, streaked in ribbons of neon and sodium gold. Cars whispered along the avenues below. Somewhere far off, music thumped like a pulse.

Your badge sat on the table, its blinking red light an unblinking reminder of Reed’s trust; conditional and fragile.

You pulled the comm from your pocket, let it hum against your palm before opening the channel.

“Report,” Doom’s voice came, low and crisp.

“They bought it,” you said. “I have limited access, but I’m inside. I’ll map the floors as I go. Reed’s predictable. Sue’s harder to read. Ben’s watching me like I’m about to steal the furniture.”

“And the hothead?”

You hesitated. “Haven’t spoken to him yet.”

You hated how easy it was to picture him.

Johnny—leaning in through the glass, grin crooked, voice pitched just low enough so Reed couldn’t hear. The way he’d rolled his eyes at HERBIE’s interruptions. The faint smell of smoke that always clung to him, even though you’d only felt his heat once—brief, fleeting, before it slipped away like it had never been there at all.

It had been… nice. Comforting, even.

But Doom’s voice threaded through the memory now, cold and certain: They only wanted what you could do.

You clenched your jaw.

If you wanted to see him again, you told yourself, it wasn’t because of the way those moments had felt. It was because you had a role to play. And Johnny—soft edges or not—was where you’d start.

“You will,” Doom said. “Remember why you’re there.”

You closed the comm and set it down, the faint echo of his voice still in your ear—just as the sliding door behind you hissed open.

You turned.

Johnny stepped in from the balcony like he owned the skyline, the night wind still clinging to him. He stopped just inside the threshold, gaze locking on you and staying there—sweeping over you once, slow, as if taking inventory. Not just your face. Every inch the suit covered. Every place you might be hurt.

His hair was longer now, the edges brushing where they hadn’t before. Broader through the shoulders, steadier in the way he stood—like a real hero. You almost didn’t recognize him in that instant. Had it really been months? Could so much change in that time?

For a long beat, he didn’t speak. His expression was tight, unreadable, but the air between you felt wired, like it might snap if either of you moved.

When he finally did, his voice was low, almost disbelieving.

“I didn’t even know you were here. I couldn’t—” he cut himself off, jaw working. “I couldn’t feel you. Not your… condition.”

The word hooked in deeper than it should’ve. Condition. Like you were a malfunction to be monitored, not a person. Like you were back in containment, logged on Reed’s clipboard.

“Why do you always call it a condition?” you asked, the word flat but edged.

Johnny didn’t flinch. “They’re not powers unless you use them like it. Didn’t think you wanted to be a mutated freak like us anyways” The words hit sharper for being yours first—thrown at Reed and Johnny in a different lifetime, back when you’d thought distance could keep you safe. Now, coming from him, they felt less like a joke and more like a door slamming shut.

That stung more than you let him see. You kept your chin high, even as something in your chest twisted.

His gaze swept the room once, then returned to you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said—quiet, but coiled tight. Not rage, just the kind of frustration that comes from wanting to stop someone and knowing you can’t.

“I know,” you said, the admission raw enough to sting. “Doesn’t change anything.”

His eyes narrowed, not missing the way your voice wavered under the weight of your own choice.

His gaze dropped, lingering on the sleek lines of Doom’s suit. “Nice outfit. Let me guess—Doom’s idea of a welcome home gift?”

The words should have slid off you like water, but they caught. You wondered what they’d told him. Wondered if he believed it. Wondered why a part of you still cared.

“Reed will fill you in in the morning.” you said, shifting your weight.

He gave a humorless laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting without warmth. “Can’t wait.”

You tilted your head. “Careful. That almost sounded like enthusiasm.”

You tried to lace it with the same sharp edge you used to, to pull the air between you back to where it had been. But the words felt hollow in your mouth, like a joke told in the wrong room.

“It’s not.” He moved past you toward the kitchen, the heat of him brushing your arm but never touching. “I’m just dying to see how long it takes before you make us regret this.”

“Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out,” you said.

“Not my call,” he tossed back over his shoulder, already halfway to the fridge. “But if it was, you wouldn’t be here.”

You didn’t rise to it. “Anything else you want to get off your chest?”

He turned, bottle of water in hand, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. What’s the real story?”

You arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t wear Doom’s colors and stroll back into our place because you suddenly feel civic duty calling.” He twisted the cap, the plastic snapping like punctuation. “So, what’s your angle?”

You held his gaze. “I’m helping stop what’s coming.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s that? Or do I have to wait for story time with Reed tomorrow?”

“You’ll know when you need to.”

“That’s what Doom would say,” he shot back, and there was something ugly in his tone. “Funny, huh?”

You didn’t answer.

Johnny leaned a shoulder against the counter, watching you like you were some unstable chemical Reed had decided to store in the living room. “You could’ve come with us, you know. That night.”

You froze. The words landed like a blade, too close to a thought you’d had yourself in the dark hours after—what if you had? What if you’d run with them instead of staying?

But hearing it from him? From him? It felt like an accusation. Like he’d seen the weakness you never let show.

Your nails bit into your palms. “What?”

“When you got out of containment. You had a choice. But instead of coming to us, you walked straight to Doom.” His voice was quieter now, but sharper. “So tell me why. Why him and not us?”

Your throat felt tight, but your words came out before you could stop them. “A choice?” you snapped. “That wasn’t just containment, Johnny. That was a cell. That was imprisonment.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

His jaw flexed, the muscle there ticking once before he looked away. “Fine. Just… don’t expect me to pretend we’re on the same side yet.”

“Fine.” you said, the word sliding out smooth. You wanted to spit the truth instead—that you weren’t, that you never would be—but the façade had to hold.

He brushed next to you toward the hallway, then paused. “Reed still doesn’t know about what your “power” does to me.” The word landed heavier than it should have, sharp enough to feel like a jab—especially in this suit, after everything that had led you here. He glanced back over his shoulder, something unreadable in his eyes. “Don’t tell him.”

As he passed you without another glance, the heat rolling off him like a warning flare. You stood there longer than you meant to, staring at the space where he’d been, before the quiet swallowed you again.

The apartment felt bigger without him in it—quieter, cleaner, like the air wasn’t suffocating under his heat. But it didn’t make breathing easier. It only made you want to slam the door harder when he came back, to remind him how much easier it was without him.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the space he’d walked out of, Johnny’s last words still lodged somewhere under your ribs. Reed still doesn’t know. Don’t tell him.

You didn’t like secrets you hadn’t chosen.

By the time you slid the balcony door open, the night had gone cool, the city pressing in with its faint hum and pockets of silence. You sat on the low ledge, knees drawn up, forehead resting briefly against them before you made yourself look out. Lights moved like neurons in the dark, traffic drifting along arteries you didn’t belong to anymore.

You ran the scenarios again. What to tell Reed. What to leave out. Where the probabilities tilted in your favor and where they ended in a locked cell. You built contingency after contingency, but the branches kept curling back toward the same choke points.

You tried talking to HERBIE once, just to break the spiral. He answered, voice as polite and neutral as ever, but something in it felt… further away. Calibrated. Less like the companion who used to murmur observations into the quiet of your glass cell and more like a security measure watching from across the room. You shut the connection down halfway through a sentence.

Hours slipped by without asking your permission. The air smelled faintly of concrete and rain; a breeze curled over your skin like memory. You never thought you’d miss the containment center, but at least in there you knew the boundaries. The walls were honest about what they were. Out here, every inch of space felt like a test.

When you finally stood to go inside, the balcony door caught for a second before giving way, like it didn’t want to let you back in. The shift in temperature made you shiver—cold air giving way to the warmer hum of the tower.

Reed was there, leaning against the frame as though he’d been debating whether to interrupt. His gaze was sharper than usual, but not in that scalpel-like way that made you feel dissected.

“It wasn’t easy trusting you,” he said without preamble. “Not completely.”

You opened your mouth to cut back, but he kept going. “Over these past months… I’ve seen the way you think. How you see patterns others miss. That’s an asset I can’t afford not to trust.”

He paused, just long enough for it to sting like intent. “And this time, I hope I won’t make the same mistake I did before.”

You knew what he meant. Not an apology, not exactly, but for Reed Richards, it was close enough.

The words landed heavier than you expected, scraping against the raw edge of Doom’s lingering whispers. You wanted to ask if he meant it. You wanted to believe he did.

He pushed off the frame. “Get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

You nodded, though it felt like agreement to more than just sleep.

JOHNNY’S POV

Johnny’s room still looked like a crime scene no one bothered to tape off — half yours, half his, and all the things he never put away. The sweater you’d forgotten, the half-burned note card you’d shoved under his door once, the stupid pen you insisted on keeping because it “wrote mean.” He’d told himself a hundred times he’d box it all up. He never did.

He hadn’t fully accepted you weren’t working with Doom, but he also couldn’t let his guard down. Not now.

The odd envelope sat on his desk again — the one he’d found in the lab weeks ago, edges soft from being handled too much. Inside were those weird shapes, sketched in the kind of penmanship that didn’t belong to Reed or Sue or Ben. He’d seen them a hundred times, traced them in the margins of paper, tried to break the pattern. He never figured out what they meant. Today he almost took them to you. Almost.

He’d kept every note you ever wrote him. Even the dumb ones. Especially the dumb ones. When you vanished from containment, he went down to your cell. Your half was stripped bare, except for his notes — and some of those were missing. Others had his handwriting crossed out, like you were trying to erase his words but couldn’t bring yourself to burn the paper. He sat there for days re-reading them all, searching for an answer he never found.

He still wondered why you hadn’t walked out the night he opened the door. It had been a bad call on his part — but at least then he would’ve seen it coming. When you stayed, a small, reckless part of him hoped everything he’d heard about you and Doom was wrong. Just coincidence.

The day you escaped, he’d planned to see you again. It had been months by then. Months since the sound of your voice was the last thing he heard before sleeping. Months since the cold bite of your presence had been something he didn’t mind.

He missed the company.

Not that he’d ever admit it. Seeing you there just made him furious at himself—for leaving you in that place at all. Like he’d forgotten. He hadn’t. Not once. He thought about it every night, and some nights he even found himself walking that hallway again, slowing by the door to your containment cell. Never going in. Just standing there, staring at the handle, telling himself he shouldn’t.

─────

a/n: TEHE i missed writing johnny tbh — we are now in the good parts thank you for sticking around for 12 chapters for emotional impact, i appreciate every one of you <3

─────

⟢ Chapter Thirteen

TAGLIST

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

⟢ enemies to lovers | slow burn | tragic mutation arc | betrayal themes | doctor doom subplot

Flashpoint (n.)

flash·point

1. the temperature at which something ignites.

2. a moment of ignition, conflict, or irreversible change.

The breach wasn’t the beginning—it was the flashpoint, and she’s been unraveling ever since.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

genre: enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutation arc

warnings: body horror elements, captivity, restrained movement, power mutation, medical containment, mild panic, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~3,014

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Eleven: Subject X-17 — Asset Integration

You found him where the shadows pooled thickest, hunched over a half-built device that hummed like it had a heartbeat.

You hadn’t meant to walk there. You hadn’t even remembered deciding to move.

The air felt thick, charged, pressing against your skin until your thoughts slowed and blurred at the edges. Somewhere beneath it all, something whispered—low, insistent, curling into your skull.

Will you accept?

It wasn’t your voice.

It wasn’t your thought.

Your lips parted before you could stop them. “If I help you… you can take it away? The cold skin, the way it never stops? You can make me normal again?”

Doom didn’t look up from his work. “If that is what you want.”

There was the faintest pause before he added, “Like I said before, you might not wish to go back. Give it time, you can still decide.”

The words sank in, warm and dangerous, wrapping tight around something inside you. And before you could think better of it, you heard yourself say—

“I-I’ll do it.”

Doom didn’t smile, but you felt the answer settle over you like a seal pressed into hot wax—final, binding, impossible to take back.

His voice was calm, but it struck through you like metal on stone. “The city falls when I decide it does.”

Your head felt heavy, nodding before you even realized you’d moved. The hum in your ears swelled, drowning out anything that wasn’t him.

“You will return to them,” he continued, each word deliberate, anchoring itself into your mind. “They will believe you escaped—from me. You will not contradict it. You will tell them what I give you to tell. A lead. A trail. A shadow of the truth.”

Your pulse slowed, your breaths matching the rhythm of his voice.

“You will begin with Storm,” he said, the name hitting somewhere deep, twisting. “Distract him. Disarm him. Keep him from looking too closely at the rest.”

The edges of the room seemed to fade, until there was only his voice, his will, the steps unfurling in your head like they’d always been there.

From within his cloak, he produced a sliver of black metal, no larger than a coin. It shimmered faintly, as if it drank in the light instead of reflecting it.

He pressed it into your hand. Cold. Heavy. Alive.

“This is for me alone,” Doom said. “It listens only when I speak. When I call, you will answer. And you will be ready.”

The device clicked into the weave of your suit as though it had always belonged there. Hidden beneath the seam at your wrist [or: nested flat against your collarbone / fitted into the inside of your glove]. Invisible to anyone else. Inescapable to you.

You didn’t question. You didn’t hesitate.

“I understand,” you murmured, the words not entirely your own.

“Good,” he said, voice final, sealing it. “You start tonight.”

It was like a string being cut. The hum in your head dimmed, the haze lifting just enough to let you breathe on your own again—except the thoughts that filled the space didn’t feel entirely like yours.

Doom turned away, the dim glow catching the planes of his mask, and led you deeper into what used to be your lab.

It wasn’t the room you remembered. The clean lines and careful order were gone, replaced by a field surgeon’s practicality. Benches had been reforged into workstations bristling with unfamiliar instruments; half-melted tubing ran like veins along the ceiling; a wall of cracked whiteboards had been overwritten with neat lattices of notation—his hand, not yours—tight, mathematical, merciless. The smell of ozone lingered, braided with steel and old coolant and something faintly antiseptic, like the place had been sterilized by fire.

On one table, he’d laid out components with ritual precision: ceramic mesh, micro-valves, glinting lengths of treated alloy. Beneath it, a salvaged monitor flickered with a ghost of the city grid. Your grid, once. Not anymore.

Doom didn’t look back to see if you were keeping up. He never did. You followed because there was nowhere else to go that wasn’t a lie.

You thought about how easily you’d said yes.

You thought about how he hadn’t needed to persuade; he’d only needed to show you the right angle, the exact plane where your anger and your logic intersected.

You thought about Johnny, and then you forced yourself not to.

When you emerged, a cloth was waiting, folded with exact corners. Beside it: the suit.

Not new to you anymore, but the effect of it still was.

The moment you stepped inside, it tuned to you—micro-filaments in the weave adjusting to your body’s natural temperature gradient, compensating for heat loss before it reached your skin. The pressure was balanced, almost invisible, until you moved. Then it pressed, supported, and shifted with you, as if mapping the intention before the motion.

Thin, hidden conduits ran the length of your limbs, syncing with the cadence of your pulse. The instant your temperature spiked, they rerouted it—feeding excess cold into storage cells threaded beneath the plating, holding it like coiled wire until you were ready to release it. No waste. No bleed.

For a second, you wondered what would happen if those cells ever overloaded. The thought slid away just as quickly.

The gloves were more than insulation—they carried micro-resonators in each ridge, turning raw bursts into surgical precision. The moment you flexed your hand, you felt the subtle feedback hum along your fingertips, as if the suit itself was asking: Where do you want this to go?

The hum was… eager. You weren’t sure if that was good.

You straightened, and the shift in balance was immediate. Not lighter, not heavier—just aligned. Your body’s edges felt sharper. The constant low ache of your cold was… managed. Not gone, but channeled.

“You’ve been busy,” you said.

“I do not improvise,” Doom replied from the doorway. “I prepare.”

You didn’t ask how long he’d been preparing for you.

You slipped into the suit. It mapped to you at once, not stiff, not heavy—no feeling of being inside a shell. If anything, it removed a layer you hadn’t known you were carrying. When you straightened, the plates settled into a geometry that made a new kind of sense: your sense. Your body remembered where to stop, where to press, where to pull.

A mirror had survived near the corridor, its edges spiderwebbed. You caught your reflection from the collarbone up: clean face, wet hair, a line to your mouth that hadn’t been there before. The high collar framed your jaw. You looked—if not like yourself—like the version of yourself you might have sketched in the margins when you were still allowed to fantasize.

“Sit,” Doom said, gesturing to a cleared bench.

You did. Paper waited there—real paper, not a tablet. A pen lay across it, heavy and precise.

You began to write.

You didn’t try to dress it up. No flourishes, no academic softness. Probability trees, assumptions, branches.

If Reed is primary contact → posture rational; data-driven appeal.

If Sue → untested variable; likely protective, possibly distrustful (intel limited, mostly secondhand).

If Ben → untested variable; probable pragmatist, potential hostility (intel minimal; Johnny’s tone suggested guarded).

If Johnny → volatile; high emotional variance. You noted likely constraints: internal security (moderate to high), HERBIE access (restricted; unknown loyalty), public optics (fragile), recent press (poisoned). You wrote what you didn’t want to write: Emotional interference: non-zero. Then you underlined it, because pretending otherwise would get you killed.

Doom stood behind you, reading as you worked. “Confidence level?”

You capped the pen, considered. “Fifty-eight percent they don’t re-cage me outright. Thirty percent they monitor. Twelve percent they pretend to trust me so they can watch me fail.”

“And your preference?”

You looked up. “Whichever gets me inside.”

His head inclined, shadow sharp against the mask.

“And when they ask why you’re there?”

You drew in a breath. “Because I heard you. Devices—planted around the city. I know where. The coordinates.”

A pause. His silence pressed like a hand around your throat.

“I’ll tell them I didn’t go with you,” you continued, forcing the lie into shape. “That I came back because I’d rather help stop you. Because I overheard more than I should have—and I know things they don’t. Things they’ll need me for.”

His head tilted, deliberate. “And Richards will believe this?”

You met his gaze, steady. “He’ll have to. You want him chasing shadows—let me be the one to hand him the map.”

He accepted that without comment, as if the past tense were merely a unit in the equation, a variable you’d already solved. “And if they force containment?”

You tapped the pen against the page, measuring. “Then the suit will have to earn its keep.”

“Try it,” he said.

You frowned. “Here?”

He gestured, palm open toward a warped pane of reinforced glass he’d propped against the wall. “This is a scrap of what once held you. Break it—without shattering the room.”

The challenge hung between you, sharp as ice.

When you hesitated, he tilted his head, studying you. “Have you learned to control it yet?” His voice was calm, almost clinical. “Or will it still consume everything around you?”

Your jaw tightened. A test. A taunt. Both.

You closed your eyes, drew in a breath, and felt the cold settle—not as an avalanche, but as a current you could shape.

You stood. Breathed. Lifted your gloved hand and found—the feel of the conduit lines waiting for you, the way they asked to be used. Cold rose on cue. Not the blind, tidal surge that had ruined a lab and a life; not the anxious spike that had frosted your breath in a cell. Something measured. Your focus found a seam no wider than a hair. You exhaled into that seam.

A needle of frost drew itself across the glass in a single, clean stroke. No bloom. No explosion. A straight white vein.

It felt… good. Not in the way it used to feel to be right, but in the way a wound feels when a splinter finally slides free.

“Again,” Doom said.

You did. This time, a curve. This time, an arc so fine the light had to catch it twice before it appeared.

He watched without praise, which you preferred. When you finished, you lowered your hand and waited for instruction.

“This plan,” he said, “relies on you being more useful to them free than captured.”

He folded his hands behind his back. “Then go. Make yourself indispensable. Bring me what they will not put in the papers. Schedules. Algorithms. How they decide. Where they fail. And if the Torch—”

“I’ll handle him,” you said, too quickly. Then, slower: “I’ll handle it.”

Something amused shifted under the mask. “Sentiment is a luxury of the warm. Remember that.”

You picked up your calculations and folded them twice. “Sentiment,” you echoed, sliding them into the inner seam of the suit, “is a variable. Not a constant.”

“Do not let it become your vector.”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer. You only lifted the hood attached to the suit’s collar—not a shroud, not a disguise, just a line of fabric that shadowed your hair and softened your silhouette—and stepped out into the corridor that had once been yours.

You didn’t go straight to the Baxter Building.

The city met you in layers—wet pavement, a siren three streets over, a bakery burner kicking on for the morning bread. It was still dark enough that the windows reflected back at you when you passed. You didn’t look at yourself. You looked at everything else. At the way steam lifted from manholes. At the way people in cabs leaned forward at red lights as if proximity could urge them green. At the way heat pooled at exhaust vents, palpable on your face, only to evaporate the instant it reached you.

You cut through four blocks of habit you didn’t remember deciding. A newsstand hawker lifted his chin at the sight of you and then looked away again, filing you under stranger-not-my-business. A dog barked at nothing you could see. In the space between your shoulder blades where anxiety had lived these last months, something else unfolded—calm, or its more dangerous sibling.

On the edge of Midtown, you stopped at a service entrance. The door was painted a dull grey that seemed to swallow the light, a color you didn’t recognize from anywhere except your cell walls. A crooked strip from a label-maker clung to the metal: DELIVERIES ONLY. HEROES USE FRONT.

You stared at it, uneasy. You had no memory of this door, no map in your mind that told you it should exist. All you knew—all you’d ever known—was that cell. This felt wrong, like a stage set someone had dropped over your life.

Reed was probably awake. You figured he collected silence the way other men collected clocks.

Johnny—no telling. He could be on the roof trying to outrun his own head, or sprawled across a couch with one arm over his face, or already halfway here, because trouble and morning had always had an understanding.

HERBIE would know you were outside the moment your shadow touched the sensor.

You didn’t ring. You stood there and built the vectors again in your mind. If Reed answered first → controlled candor. If Sue — only known through secondhand mentions — answered → controlled vulnerability. If Ben — a name and a reputation more than a person to you — answered → controlled humor. If Johnny answered → undetermined...

You breathed. The suit breathed with you, a faint redistribution whispering along your ribs, subtle as the beginning of snow.

You crossed the street and walked around to the front.

The glass installed was so clear it almost didn’t exist, polished to the point your reflection looked like it was already on the other side. It gave the sense you could just keep walking and pass through on momentum alone, like nothing here could actually stop you. The revolving door turned on an almost silent axis. For a second, your palms itched with a phantom feeling, as if they already knew the give of glass beneath them. You curled your fingers into your thigh until it passed.

Inside, the lobby was all polite architecture and tempered bravado: light rising from floors cut to look like ice, walls that curved in a way that guided you without making you feel guided, a reception desk that didn’t need a person to run and didn’t apologize for it.

You realized, distantly, that you’d never seen this part of the building before. It should have been nothing, just another hallway, another room—but the air felt… wrong. Like stepping into a place you’d been told your whole life didn’t exist.

The security node pinged—one soft tone, then another. You didn’t know the code anymore. You stepped into the camera’s eye and let it look.

“Identify,” HERBIE said.

“Subject X‑17,” you replied, letting the old designation land. “Requesting intake with Reed Richards.”

There was a beat. Then: “Proceed to lift C.”

You smiled, once, without humor. He could have said Welcome back; he chose Proceed. Of course he did.

The elevator recognized your weight with a minute correction in its floor. You watched the numbers climb, watched yourself in the polished steel of the door, watched the exact line where resolve and fear met and stayed.

When the doors opened, the air changed in the particular way it always did up here—cleaner, sharper, thinner, as if a different altitude began on this floor alone.

Reed stood at the far end of the room, tablet in hand, head bent, pen clenched between his teeth. Sue was to his left, hair half-captured in a tie, the tilt of her body already turned toward you, not away. Ben filled a doorway like a promise.

Johnny wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t there. A part of you was almost glad—because you didn’t know what your face, your voice, your heart might give away if he had been.

Sue saw you first. Her fingers froze mid-motion, whatever she’d been holding now just air. Reed’s head lifted at the sound of her breath catching, his gaze locking on you like he was already mapping variables.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

You didn’t fill the silence. You let them take you in.

The suit, the collar, the stillness you wore like a challenge.

When you finally spoke, your voice was steady, measured enough to pass for calm.

“I’m here to help,” you said, keeping your voice even. “If you’ll let me.”

Reed’s gaze didn’t waver, but you caught the fractional pause; the one that meant he was already running probabilities in his head.

“Then start talking,” he said. “No gaps. No selective memory. From the top.”

You hesitated, long enough to make it look like the truth cost you. Then you let the lie bloom, wrapping it in something Reed couldn’t ignore.

“He’s not where you think he is,” you began, low and steady. “Midtown’s a distraction. While you’ve been watching the obvious fronts, Doom’s been seeding the city with devices. I know the coordinates—every single one.”

Behind you, the elevator whispered shut. The sound felt final, like the click of a locked chamber.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t search for Johnny’s reflection in the glass. You kept your focus on the people who decided whether you were a liability or a weapon.

HERBIE’s voice spilled soft from the ceiling, too quiet to be neutral. “Proceed.”

It felt less like permission and more like a test.

You stepped forward anyway.

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a/n: ANDDDDD… we’re almost there

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⟢ Chapter Twelve

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