#flashpoint fic

⟢ 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: ~2,421

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Two: Subject X-17 — Containment Protocol

You wake to a hum.

It’s not harsh, nothing like the burst of static and shattered glass before. It’s low. Mechanical. Controlled. Like whatever’s outside this cell was built to keep things in.

The air is sterile. Cold, but not like before. This isn’t death curling into your lungs. This is designed chill. Stabilized. Observed.

You blink against the white overhead light, eyes adjusting slowly. The walls around you are smooth, semi-translucent. Reinforced. You shift, and the material under you morphs, softening to relieve pressure where your spine meets the floor. The entire cell is reactive. Alive in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

So you’re not in a hospital.

Not in the Baxter building, either.

You’re contained.

Your wrists and ankles are bound by slim cuffs—lightweight, flexible. But every time you twitch, they tighten slightly. Responsive restraints. Monitoring your movement. Watching for spikes.

You’re not alone.

“…all I’m saying is, this wasn’t part of any projected outcome,” Reed says, voice low but wound tight. His footsteps echo in measured strides just beyond the cell wall, too controlled to be calm. “She wasn’t even on our radar. No signs. No triggers. Nothing.”

On the other side of the room, Johnny leans against the far wall—just out of your line of sight. His voice comes quieter, rougher around the edges. “Yeah, well, maybe we missed something. She didn’t exactly walk in throwing ice bombs.”

“She froze an entire block of the city, Storm.”

There’s a pause. Then a sharp exhale through Johnny’s nose, the sound catching in his throat. “I know. But I don’t think she meant to.”

The silence stretches thin.

“She was unconscious,” Johnny adds, his tone softer now, like it costs something to say. “Half-dead, actually. Whatever happened, she didn’t do it on purpose.”

You hear Reed again—pacing slowly now. Calculating. The weight of his silence says more than his words.

“We still don’t know what she is now,” Reed says eventually, the words clipped like he’s trying not to draw conclusions too early. “Or what she’s capable of. And until we do, she stays under.”

He stops pacing—boots planted firmly on the polished floor, the hum of hidden tech pulsing faintly beneath it.

“When you got there,” Reed asks, “what did you see?”

Johnny shifts—his jacket rustling as he pushes off the wall, arms crossed. You can almost hear the tension in his spine. “Wreckage. Smoke. Frost on the walls. Looked like an experiment gone wrong.”

Reed doesn’t let it sit. “Nothing else? No unusual spikes? Reactions?”

A beat of silence.

“No,” Johnny says, too evenly. “Nothing stood out.”

You’re listening now, eyes slitted open, body heavy with fatigue. That pause doesn’t slip past you. He lied.

But why?

You close your eyes again. The fluorescent haze fades, and you force your mind backward — through the cold, through the rupture, through the dark.

You try to remember.

There was the hum of the containment unit. Coolant lines hissing in the walls. The override button just beneath your hand.

Thompson had laughed, “You’re really gonna push it?”

Then the flicker. The shift. A pull like the air was folding inward.

The siphon.

The moment everything inverted.

You exhale, slow and steady, trying to ground yourself.

The wall in front of you fogs over then… frosts.

You jerk back.

Carefully, you push yourself upright. Your body aches, wrists and ankles still bound, joints stiff with cold.

Another breath escapes you, and the frost deepens, branching out across the glass in thin, icy threads.

You frown.

Raising one hand, you press your palm to the surface.

The chill jumps from your skin like it’s been waiting. Spreading in a quiet, intricate bloom across the barrier.

You watch it crawl outward.

Then look down at your arms.

Your suit’s in tatters, fused to your body in places. The veins beneath your skin glow faintly blue. Steam rises where your skin meets air. You flex your fingers, slow and shaky, like they’re no longer yours.

What happened to me?

No—

What am I now?

The Coldskin trial didn’t fail.

It adapted.

It restructured everything—your cells, your nerves, the way your body holds heat. Like it had been waiting for someone to fuse with.

You weren’t meant to survive.

But you did.

And now your body doesn’t just resist flame.

It erases it.

Outside the cell, Reed’s still talking like he’s already solved the puzzle.

“She must’ve triggered an external energy flare,” he says. “Something reacted with the compound. Probably an unstable voltage surge. Not her.”

You blink slowly.

Expression unreadable. Voice steady.

“That’s not what happened.”

Both men turn toward you.

Reed looks startled, like he forgot you were conscious.

Johnny doesn’t move, he just watches you, eyes fixed.

You sit upright, wrists bound loosely in your lap, legs crossed at the ankles. Breath curls against the glass in slow, steady clouds. The frost along the barrier thickens with every exhale.

Calmly, you tilt your head.

“There was no flare,” you say. “The Coldskin compound wasn’t reactive to external energy. It was engineered to absorb it.”

You glance between them. “It failed because the temperature inside the chamber dropped below viable levels during phase transition. Not a surge. A siphon.”

You pause. Let the words settle.

“The environment didn’t explode outward, it collapsed. Like a vacuum. That’s what triggered the breach.”

Johnny’s brow tightens.

He remembers the cold.

Reed recovers quickly. “The Coldskin Compound: Phase Three,” he mutters, folding his arms. “You were lead on that.”

You nod once. “You’d know more about it if you’d read the clearance files we submitted. Twice.”

He scoffs. “They weren’t approved.”

“They weren’t denied.”

That gives him pause.

“So you conducted it anyway?”

“In a sealed chamber. Monitored. Controlled. Every variable was accounted for.”

You shift upright. The cell’s padding adjusts beneath you. A fine mist curls from your skin where it meets open air.

Your fingers throb. You flex them slowly, watching frost trail in the motion. Then glance down at yourself.

“All but one,” you murmur.

“Me.”

Reed shifts his focus, turning back to Johnny like your words don’t matter. “I’m more concerned about what she was trying to accomplish. That level of molecular embedding—there’s no way this was just about fireproofing.”

You cut in, calm and even. “It was. Actually.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Immediate.

Through the cell wall, Reed’s head turns. Johnny takes a cautious step closer.

You lean back against the wall, expression calm even as the air whitens around you. “Phase Three involved bonding the compound to polymer synthetics during active thermal distress. You heat the material, apply Coldskin, and see if it holds.” You glance between them. “Which it did. Just not to the suit.”

Johnny blinks. “Wait, it bonded to—”

“Me.” You tap your chest once. “Somewhere between one hundred degrees and complete thermal collapse, it skipped the fibers and embedded in my dermis.”

Reed narrows his eyes. “That still doesn’t explain why you tested it without clearance.”

“Because waiting would’ve killed the funding,” you snap. “And I didn’t have ulterior motives, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Reed raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think running unauthorized human trials counts as a motive?”

You scoff. “I didn’t plan on turning into a mutated freak like you guys.”

The words leave your mouth sharper than you intended. Johnny flinches. Reed doesn’t.

“Noted,” Reed says. Then his comm buzzes. “I have to take this. Don’t touch the glass. Watch her.”

Reed leaves without waiting for a response.

Silence settles like frost.

Johnny doesn’t speak at first, just lingers by the edge of the glass, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket like he’s suddenly not sure what to do with himself.

You shift, testing the restraints again. They give just enough to make you feel caged. Your breath fogs against the glass — shallow, annoyed. Still cold.

“He always that accusatory?”

Your voice comes out calmer than you feel.

Johnny exhales, mouth tugging into something close to a smile. It’s quiet, a breath of relief or amusement, you can’t tell.

“Only when he feels threatened.”

You glance at the door Reed disappeared through. A flicker of something settles under your skin. You don’t know if it’s pride or something uglier.

“So I’m terrifying now.”

Johnny doesn’t answer right away. He leans his shoulder into the frame beside the cell window, arms crossed over his chest like he’s trying to stay casual — but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s watching you.

“You kind of are,” he says finally.

You meet his eyes.

There’s heat there, not the dangerous kind, but something steadier. It sits low in your chest, unfamiliar. You wonder if he’s searching you the way scientists do: not for danger, but for possibility.

You look away first.

But not before noticing he doesn’t.

It’s not flirtation—yet—but something tugs at the space between you.

Johnny shifts beside the cell wall, his gaze skating over the frost-lined glass before returning to you. His stance changes, a small adjustment, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. He’s edging closer. Like he’s not sure if you’ll snap or disappear.

“Do you remember the experiment?” he asks, voice lower now. Careful.

There’s something in his tone that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s trying to soften it — trying not to provoke. You narrow your eyes slightly, reading too much into it. Reading everything into it.

Your breath slips out in a slow stream. The glass blooms with frost again.

Your mind clicks into motion like muscle memory. “The experiment was a thermoregulation trial designed to test artificial cold resistance in live tissue,” you say, tone flat, automatic. “The compound was meant to—”

“No—” Johnny lifts a hand, not sharply, but enough to interrupt. He steps closer. “I meant after. The fallout. What you remember right before everything went dark.”

“Not everything.”

You lean your head back against the wall, gaze lifting to the sterile lights above. They blur slightly, haloing in your vision as the memory drags closer. Not linear. Not precise. Just pieces. Sensations.

“The pressure came first,” you murmur. “Heavy. Like the air thickened. Like it was pushing down on my lungs.”

Your breath slips shallow, your chest barely rising. You’re back there again.

“And then the cold.”

A pause.

“But not cold the way I expected. It wasn’t a freeze. Not like frostbite or hypothermia. It was… centered. Contained. Warm, almost.”

You blink slowly, like it still doesn’t make sense. Like part of you is afraid it does.

“It felt like a fire in reverse. Burning inward.”

You look down at your hands resting in your lap. Still bound. Still faintly glowing where the skin hasn’t quite settled. The light pulses, dim, rhythmic. Not heat. Not cold. Just… energy.

“I couldn’t feel the edge of myself anymore. Couldn’t tell where my body ended. Everything blurred. My skin, the floor, the air. Like I was dissolving into it.”

You flex your fingers slightly. Frost spiderwebs across your cuffs.

“Everything cracked,” you continue, voice nearly gone. “The chamber. My ribs. The silence.”

A breath.

“But I wasn’t afraid.”

That’s the part that won’t let go.

“I should have been. But I wasn’t. It felt like…” You hesitate, then say it anyway. “Like I was becoming something.”

Your eyes lift, finally meeting his.

“And then I woke up in here.”

There’s something behind his eyes—hesitation, maybe guilt—but it disappears quickly.

You notice how close he’s gotten. Just outside the frost radius. Arms crossed now. Tense, but not afraid.

“Are you cold? Now?” he asks.

You smile, just barely.

“What—you want to warm me up?”

That catches him. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something cocky—but then he closes it again, laughing under his breath.

“I… can’t,” he admits. “That’s the thing.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. The tension between you shifts, less combative now. Less guarded.

“Because you’d burn me,” you murmur, more thoughtful than teasing. “I’ve always wondered how that works.”

Your eyes narrow, not with suspicion—but calculation. Curiosity. Scientific instinct.

Then, almost to yourself, “If your body heat ever goes unchecked. Like… do you have to regulate it constantly? What happens if you don’t?”

Your gaze flicks to him, curious now, not mocking.

“Have you ever gotten too close to someone and… scorched them? Or do you just know when to stop?”

A slow smile creeps across his face. Not smug. Not flirty. Just… surprised.

“You really think like a scientist, huh?” he says quietly, eyes never leaving you.

He rests a hand lightly against the edge of the glass. It’s subtle, maybe even unconscious, but you notice. The distance isn’t closed, not really. But something about it feels thinner now.

“I’ve burned people before,” he admits, tone softer now. “Not on purpose. But it happens. When I lose control. When I feel too much.”

His gaze flicks to your hands, still faintly bound, still frost-lined.

“Funny thing is—”

A pause.

“I didn’t feel anything when I touched you,” Johnny says. His voice is lower now, like the truth cost something. “Nothing. Like the heat just… vanished.”

He doesn’t say the rest. Doesn’t say you scared the hell out of me.

But it lingers in the air between you anyway.

You lift a brow.

Silence again.

You look at him a little longer this time. More curious than before. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice low. “Huh.”

Your wrists ache. Your breath still frosts the air. But for the first time since you woke up in this cell, you don’t feel entirely alone.

Johnny hasn’t moved. He’s still watching you, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re a threat, or something else entirely.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says finally.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’d you expect?”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “Something colder.”

You scoff softly. “Give it time.”

Footsteps echo in the hallway before he can reply. Heavy. Purposeful. Reed’s voice, distant.

Johnny straightens. His smile fades. “That’ll be Richards.”

You lean back against the frost-lined wall, gaze fixed on him. “Then I guess we’re done here.”

But he doesn’t move to leave. Not right away.

Instead, he hesitates at the glass, just long enough for you to notice. Long enough to mean something.

Then he turns away.

The door hisses open. You hear Reed mutter something clipped and sharp. Johnny doesn’t respond.

You exhale slowly, watching the cold bloom across the glass again.

Whatever this is—whatever you are now—it’s only beginning.

───

a/n: please be patient with me i write slow burns to be very slow, also i am very new to posting on tumblr — or rather posting my writing in general — and i love hearing feedback !! thank you all for reading, big kisses <3

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⟢ Chapter Three

TAGLIST

(i hope i did this right)

A/N: SHE COMES BACK AND IT’S NOT EVEN ANY OF HER WIPs!! yep I’ve had a shit end of the semester and Hulu brought back Flashpoint and now I’m here. Rewatching everything except for a few episodes that make me cry. So yes I wrote a short fic with one of my favorite characters (Who am I kidding every single one of them are my babies)

Summary: Being terrified after witnessing a bomb go off on the news, knowing your Boyfriend must be there. You rush to the SRU HQ and wait. 

A/N pt2 : I did take the idea a bit from S4 EP7 shockwave but there are no spoliers if you haven’t seen it and want to.

Warnings: none really

Pairing: Spike/reader

Words: 796

⟢ johnny storm x mutated!reader

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

You weren’t supposed to survive the blast.

But you did.

And now, you’re the only one who can stop the fire.

Once, you were a scientist—a nobody in a borrowed lab, designing experimental fireproofing tech for the Baxter Foundation. One unauthorized trial turned into a containment breach. One mistake, and you became something else entirely: untouchable, inhuman, cold enough to kill.

They called it quarantine. Said it was for your safety when they locked you away.

They never came back.

Except Johnny. Once. Long enough to flinch. Long enough to forget.

Now the Fantastic Four need you. There’s something burning through the city that even Johnny Storm can’t contain. But you’re not the same girl they buried in ice.

You used to crave warmth. Now you control it.

He wants to save the world.

You just want to know if it’s worth saving—before you burn with it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter One: Trial X-17

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: ~1,455

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Trial X-17: Stability Test – 00:01:39

The lab is too quiet for a breakthrough.

Usually there’s the click of monitors, someone breathing too loud behind a clipboard, the low hum of barely-legal cooling fans working overtime. But tonight, it’s just the tick of your biometric readouts—and the sharp hiss of heat rising inside the chamber.

This was supposed to be your last trial.

Apply the Coldskin compound.

Simulate thermal load.

Log the results.

Try not to die.

You press your gloved hand to your arm, just over the application site. It doesn’t sting. Doesn’t warm. It just clings—microscopic and perfect—like glass over skin. You designed it to bond to synthetic fibers.

It shouldn’t be working on you.

00:01:40

Thompson—your intern, glorified coffee runner turned assistant tech—leans into the intercom like he’s watching a movie and rooting for you to win.

“Holding steady. You might actually pull this off.”

You don’t answer. You’re watching the molecular scan.

There’s a flicker. A bloom. The compound is integrating deeper than expected. It’s not bonding to the suit—it’s breaking through it.

It’s learning you.

Your chest tightens. You reach toward the emergency override, but before your fingers make contact, the heat disappears.

It doesn’t fade or flicker. It just stops—like someone pulled the plug on the entire room. No warning. No buildup.

It’s like the world forgets what warmth is.

The gauge splinters. The chamber lights short. Condensation forms, then crystallizes, turning the air into frost. The floor. The walls. You.

“Failsafe engaged—core temperature breach detected.”

Thompson’s voice cracks. “What’s happening? What did you do—?”

“I didn’t—” your voice catches, shaky.

The words freeze on your tongue. Your lips are already numb.

You stumble, reaching instinctively for the glass to brace yourself.

It shatters the moment your hand touches it.

The explosion doesn’t feel like impact—it feels like vacuum.

Air rips past you, dragging cold in behind it. The pressure slams you backward. Metal warps. Screens rupture. Lights crack. Somewhere through the haze, you hear Thompson shout.

You crawl toward the sound, dragging yourself across slick tile. He’s collapsed near the console, curled around his arm. Frost spreads quickly across the sleeve of his jacket, turning fabric stiff and white.

You reach for him, desperate to help.

The second your hand closes over his, his chest goes still.

Breath caught. Color draining. His skin flashes grey under your touch like the warmth is bleeding out through your fingers.

His skin pales in an instant. Frost spiders up the side of his neck, threading beneath the surface like veins made of ice. The warmth drains from him visibly, like it’s being siphoned straight through your touch.

You gasp and yank your hand back.

He collapses with a soft thud, body twitching once before he goes still. He’s breathing—but it’s shallow, labored, like his lungs are trying to find heat that isn’t there anymore.

“Emergency response dispatched. Thermal collapse in progress.”

You drag yourself to the far wall, lungs tight, each breath catching on the sharp edge of the air. Steam rises faintly from your skin where it meets the cold, curling like smoke from something still burning underneath.

The compound is still spreading.

You can feel it now—threading through your veins, fusing with something deeper. Changing you.

Not healing. Not killing.

Just remaking.

And all you can do is sit there, flickering at the edges, hoping someone comes.

Or bracing for what they’ll do if they do.

────────────

Midtown — 14 Minutes Later

“Energy spike’s coming from inside,” someone mutters.

Johnny Storm ignores them.

The scene looks like a cryo-bomb went off. Cars iced over. Streetlamps frozen. Frost crawls up the lab walls like fingers, leaving jagged silver veins etched deep into the glass.

“So what, it’s a damn ice storm now?” he mutters.

The city called him in to suppress a fire. But this? This isn’t fire.

It’s aftermath.

The moment he steps through the shattered doors, it hits him.

Not just cold but something deeper. Older. A silence threaded with frost.

This isn’t weather. It’s presence.

His fire doesn’t rise in defense. It retreats, coiling tighter in his chest like it’s been warned.

The lab is ruined. Walls warped inward. Wires split and scorched. Windows shattered outward, like something detonated from within.

Smoke curls low across the floor—not from flame, but from the kind of cold that burns in reverse.

Glass cracks beneath his boots. Frost slicks every surface, creeping like veins toward the heart of the disaster.

Then he sees her.

Collapsed in the center of the lab.

Skin pale. Hair damp with condensation. A thin trail of vapor rises off her body like steam off dry ice. Barefoot. Limbs splayed. Eyes closed.

Unmoving.

“Shit,” he mutters, stepping closer.

No wounds. No burns. No signs she even tried to protect herself.

Just a girl lying there, untouched and wrong.

But the moment he steps closer, something shifts.

The temperature doesn’t dip—it plummets. Like a trap being sprung.

His flame, always simmering just beneath the skin, flinches. Then fades.

He flexes his fingers. Nothing sparks.

He tries again. Still nothing.

It’s like the air has turned hostile. Like his fire isn’t allowed here.

“The hell…?”

He kneels beside her, slower now. Cautious. She’s not glowing. Not bleeding. Just wrong. Her body doesn’t give off heat. None. Like someone hit a switch and turned her off.

He pauses. Then reaches out.

The instant his hand brushes her skin, it hits—

A shock to the system. His breath catches. Chest locks up. Heat flares at his wrist, then implodes, vanishing like it’s been swallowed whole.

The air presses in. Heavy. Charged. Still.

His nerves light up like static on the edge of a storm.

Something in him recoils. A primitive, bone-deep warning.

This isn’t just cold.

It’s erasure.

His powers don’t work here.

And his body understands why—long before his mind catches up.

Like the heat is being pulled out of the air, out of him, out of everything, leaving nothing behind but pressure and silence. His body recognizes the danger even if his mind hasn’t caught up yet.

She doesn’t feel like a person.

She feels like a fault in the system.

Something that shouldn’t exist—but does.

He yanks his hand away. Frost already spidering up his sleeve from where they touched.

He stares at her.

“What the hell are you?”

She doesn’t stir.

Unconscious. Unreachable.

And he doesn’t dare move her—afraid one wrong touch might finish what the cold started.

Still, she doesn’t wake.

Johnny stays crouched beside her, breathing hard. His fingers still tingling like they’ve been frostbitten from the inside out. His fire won’t return. The spark just isn’t there.

The heat around her is gone, like it never belonged in the room to begin with.

He shifts backward, slow, hands in view, like she might detonate if startled. His comm crackles in his ear—backup inbound, Reed demanding updates.

Johnny doesn’t respond.

He just stares. At her. At the stillness. At the way the frost creeps up the walls like it’s echoing her breath.

Whoever she is, whatever this is

It’s not over.

And he’s not sure she’s the one who needs containing.

You don’t remember being moved.

But somewhere between the shattering cold and the moment your heart stalled—between the fracture in the walls and the silence in your chest—someone must’ve carried you.

Lifted. Secured. Contained.

You surface now, barely conscious.

Your head lolls against a hard surface. Your limbs are too heavy. Cold hums under your skin like static, but around you… there’s heat. Artificial. Not real. Something controlled.

You force your eyes open, and the light hits like a blade, too bright, too sharp, buzzing above you.

Voices drift in and out, muffled through what sounds like thick glass or reinforced polymer.

“Vitals are inconsistent—she’s spiking again.”

“She shouldn’t be conscious.”

“She’s not. It’s residual. Keep her under.”

You try to move your hand, but it doesn’t respond. You’re not restrained, not exactly—but it feels like you’re buried in snow. Like your own body is a barrier you can’t break through.

Another voice cuts in—lower, sharper. Familiar.

“She burned out a Class IV containment room in under thirty seconds. Get her to the vault before she does it again.”

You flinch at the word. Burned. Vault.

They think you’re dangerous.

You can’t tell if they’re right.

You’re lifted again, briefly. The air shifts—cooler, sterile. A gurney? A chamber? You try to open your eyes again, and this time they slit open just enough to see movement.

A figure moves across your line of sight, half-obscured by light and glass—uniformed, armored, wrong.

Someone notices.

“Her eyes—”

“Get her sedated.”

But you’re already gone again.

Somewhere in the dark, the cold begins to stir.

─────

⟢ 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: ~3,804

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Three: Subject X-17 — Behavioral Drift

The door seals behind Johnny with a hiss.

Reed doesn’t speak at first. Doesn’t even glance your way.

He moves with precision, measured steps toward the main console lining the wall outside your cell. His coat shifts with each motion, clean and clinical, like everything about him has been sterilized for efficiency. The glow from the screen paints faint lines across his face as he begins typing, eyes narrowed.

You stay quiet. Watch him.

Through the glass, you catch glimpses of data spooling across the monitor—genetic breakdowns, energy waveforms, footage from the breach site. Your file. Your body. Your anomaly.

He pulls up molecular scans from your bloodwork. Slows them. Zooms in.

Still doesn’t speak.

Johnny lingers behind him, arms folded. He glances back toward the cell once. Twice. Then shifts uncomfortably.

“What, waiting for me to combust?” you murmur.

Reed answers for him, eyes fixed on the screen. “No. I need him to cross-check the early data with our Phase Three cold-splice simulations. Something’s off.” A pause. “There’s a discrepancy in her vitals I want accounted for.”

Johnny looks like he’s about to push back, but then his gaze flicks to you through the frost. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say a word.

Then he turns and walks out.

The silence that follows isn’t the same as before. It’s colder now. Detached. Like even the room is waiting to see what comes next.

Reed resumes typing, lines of code cascading across the interface. You don’t ask what he’s searching for. You can already tell.. he’s not sure either.

Eventually, he speaks.

“I’m assigning a monitoring unit for the night,” Reed mutters, finishing the last line of code.

A soft mechanical hum rises overhead.

Click.

A small sphere descends from a ceiling port, its glossy white shell catching the low light. A single blue lens calibrates with a quiet whirl, adjusting as it takes in the room.

HERBIE.

“Continuous vitals, temperature sensitivity, stress markers,” Reed mutters, still focused on the monitor. “Alert me if anything spikes.”

The bot beeps once in acknowledgement. Then floats closer to the cell, silent but watching.

You stare up at it, expression flat.

“Great,” you say. “A babysitter.”

HERBIE tilts slightly, scanning your posture.

“Your current heart rate is elevated. Would you like a calming protocol?”

You blink.

“…Pass.”

Reed doesn’t look at either of you as he finishes logging the data. “Try not to destabilize the glass. I want a clean read on your biometrics come morning.”

Then he turns and leaves without another word.

The lights dim behind him.

And you’re alone again.

Not quite.

HERBIE hovers near the ceiling, its soft pulse the only sound left in the room. Watching. Waiting.

The room is quiet. Dim blue lights pulse faintly along the seams of the cell, casting long shadows against the frost-lined walls. You sit cross-legged on the temperature-reactive flooring, your wrists still loosely bound, but the restraints haven’t tightened in a while.

They must’ve decided you’re not a threat.

Not yet.

HERBIE floats in the far corner, sensors glowing soft white. He hasn’t spoken in over an hour—just hovers, watching, recording. Every so often, he emits a light mechanical chirp. Calibration.

You lean back slightly, stretch your fingers. The cold coils underneath your skin, not as sharp as before, something quieter now. Like it’s waiting.

You close your eyes.

Try to call it forward.

At first, nothing happens. The air holds still, sterile and cold. But then, just under your skin, a flicker pulses through your nerves. Cool and silvery. You open your eyes as a thin sheen of frost blooms at your fingertips, slow and delicate.

You exhale.

The glass in front of you responds, misting over.

“Please refrain from agitating the cell’s perimeter,” HERBIE says, his voice smooth and perfectly modulated. “Such actions may be logged as disruptive behavior, Subject X-17.”

You glance over. “I’m not agitating it. Just testing a theory.”

HERBIE inches closer, whirring faintly. “Please confirm. Are you experiencing discomfort, instability, or cognitive detachment?”

You watch the frost at your fingertips.

“Not currently.”

A beat.

“Let’s call it… pending.”

There’s a whirr of internal processing. “Please be advised: this facility is equipped with automated suppression protocols for emergent mutations. Maintaining emotional equilibrium is recommended.”

You smirk faintly, eyes on the frost dancing up your palm. “Duly noted.”

Another pulse from your hand but this time focused. The frost spirals inward, compressing into a small orb, about the size of a marble. It hovers a few inches above your skin, held in place by tension alone.

You hold it there.

Steady.

For a second, it’s perfect. Controlled. Cold without chaos.

The orb shimmers—edges trembling—then vanishes in a soft curl of vapor.

Your breath hitches.

Not in alarm.

In wonder. Possibility.

HERBIE hums, tone neutral. “Notable. Compression at that magnitude suggests advanced neural adjustment. Would you like me to inform Dr. Richards?”

You shake your head. “No.”

A short pause.

“Understood.”

He drifts back toward the corner, silent once more. Observing.

You curl your fingers again, feel the cold settle between your knuckles like a second pulse.

The lights dim again.

HERBIE lowers his brightness settings—part of some automated “sleep” protocol, though you haven’t closed your eyes once. You’ve been sitting still for almost four hours. Breathing shallow. Testing your fingers. Watching your breath fog the air.

You turn toward the nearest wall.

Slowly, you raise your hand and exhale. Frost curls out from your fingertips, trailing along the smooth surface in fractal lines. You press one finger to the wall and begin to trace a symbol. A variable. A memory from the experiment. Just something to hold onto.

But the moment your fingertip drags down, the frost thickens—cracks—and blooms outward, erasing what you tried to write.

You try again. A formula this time. Heat-to-mass ratio. Phase stability metrics. Anything.

Each attempt ends the same: the equation doesn’t stick. Your control slips. The wall either steams under your touch or freezes over until the symbols vanish completely.

You drop your hand, frustrated. Breath shaky.

HERBIE chimes gently behind you. “Temperature irregularities detected. Would you like to re-center with mindfulness protocol?”

You glare at him over your shoulder. “I said I’m good.”

“…Acknowledged.”

He resumes his idle hover, softly spinning in the background like an anxious drone trying to act calm.

You lean your head against the wall again, hands in your lap, letting the cold settle beneath your skin. Still there. Still claiming parts of you, you’re not sure you want to give up.

HERBIE hovers near the corner of the room, just outside the containment barrier, his optical sensor glowing faintly. His hum is faint. Constant. Watching.

You rest your forehead briefly against the glass.

Then, without looking: “Are they going to let me out?”

HERBIE’s lens whirs quietly. “Current protocol does not permit biological transfer across containment boundaries.”

“Not what I asked.”

Another pause.

“There are no scheduled release procedures at this time.”

You finally look over at him. “How long does a ‘procedure’ take to schedule?”

HERBIE’s response is fast, clinical. “That depends on observed stability, data collection benchmarks, and Dr. Richards’ authorization.”

You stare at him for a moment, then turn back to the glass.

“…Where am I, exactly?”

A beat of silence.

“You are in Facility 03, Sublevel B. Thermo-biogenic containment unit. Reinforced.”

You press your fingers lightly to the wall again, letting frost bloom.

“And outside that?”

HERBIE hums. “Unclassified. Limited access.”

You sit back, annoyed. “You mean you don’t know.”

“I am not cleared for topographical navigation beyond designated sectors.”

Of course not.

You shift, letting the frost climb further up your palm.

“Do you ever get bored?”

HERBIE’s eye flickers. “Negative. I am programmed for continuous monitoring.”

A dry smile tugs at your mouth. “Must be nice.”

Silence settles again, heavy and still, only broken by the sound of your breath fogging the glass.

The lab is quiet at night.

HERBIE hovers by the control panel, occasionally emitting a soft whir or click as his sensors recalibrate. You sit on the floor, knees drawn up, the padded surface shifting to cushion your weight. The wall across from you still carries faint traces of frost — the remnants of your failed equations.

Your stomach grumbles. You ignore it.

HERBIE doesn’t.

“You have not eaten in thirteen hours,” he notes, voice gentle, clinical. “Would you like a nutritional tray?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you have one that doesn’t taste like recycled chalk?”

A pause. Then: “No.”

You almost smile. Almost.

Before you can respond, the outer door slides open.

You don’t move at first. Just glance toward the silhouette in the entryway—broad-shouldered, familiar stride, lit faintly from behind.

Johnny slips in, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He looks… tired. Not in the exhausted way Reed does, but like something’s been churning behind his eyes all day. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes you in — the frost blooming faintly near your shoulder, HERBIE pulsing quietly by the glass.

HERBIE reacts first.

“Unauthorized entry after designated hours. Please state your clearance level.”

Johnny holds up a hand, sighs. “Relax, HAL 9000. I’m not here to breach containment.”

HERBIE buzzes. “I do not understand that reference.”

“I know.” He crosses to the glass and glances at you.

“Midnight check-in?” you say, voice dry.

“Something like that.” He steps closer. The motion-activated floor lights follow him in a gentle arc. “HERBIE give you any trouble?”

HERBIE responds politely. “Supervision protocol remains active until further notice.”

Johnny mutters, “Of course it does.” He huffs a laugh but doesn’t move closer than a few feet from the glass.

HERBIE swivels toward him. “Unauthorized visitation outside of supervision protocol is discouraged.”

You tilt your head, suddenly curious. “Did Reed not send you down here?”

Johnny shakes his head. “No. Just… wanted to check on you.”

You raise a brow.

Johnny pulls something from under his arm. A sweatshirt—navy, worn soft at the collar. It’s folded, but the embroidered “4” is visible at the edge.

“I’m not sure if it’ll.. warm you,” he says. “But I thought, maybe something to hold onto.”

You stare at it a beat too long.

Then nod.

HERBIE buzzes gently. “Unregulated item introduction. Logging transfer.”

Johnny smirks. “Snitch.”

You retrieve it slowly, unfolding it with restrained hands. It’s warm. Worn in. Smells faintly of heat and ash and whatever cheap laundry detergent he uses. Comforting in a way that shouldn’t be allowed down here.

You don’t put it on. You just hold it.

HERBIE hovers nearby. Watching.

“You gonna tell on him?” you ask.

“I am monitoring,” HERBIE replies. “For safety.”

“Yours or his?”

“Both.”

Johnny snorts.

The silence stretches again, not awkward but… weighted. Something about the low hum of the room, the flickering of frost near your fingertips, the way the glass doesn’t fog when Johnny exhales anymore.

Johnny drops into a sit on the floor across from you—legs stretched out, shoulders relaxed against the wall. “Didn’t want you to be alone.”

You glance at the frost still curling faintly across the opposite wall.

“I’m not. HERBIE and I are bonding.”

HERBIE chirps: “Subject X-17 is attempting sarcasm. Noted.”

Johnny grins. “Tough crowd.”

You give a soft exhale, closer to a laugh than anything you’ve made all day.

A beat. Then the bot drifts toward the far end of the room like it’s reluctantly giving them space.

You and Johnny sit in silence for a few seconds. He glances toward the wall behind you—the one you frosted over earlier—and sees the faint marks still lingering. Half-equations. Melting attempts. It’s messy. Like you were trying to rebuild something and couldn’t hold onto it long enough.

Johnny nods toward the frost. “You were writing earlier.” His eyes flick to your hands. “Wanting to leave a trail?”

“Trying to write,” you say. “The numbers keep slipping. Equations don’t stay right. My control’s off, if I press too hard, the frost spreads. If I don’t press enough, it disappears.”

He leans back. “Still. Kind of beautiful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A broken formula is beautiful?”

He shrugs, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “Not the formula. Just… the fact that you keep trying.”

You blink.

To cover the pause, you say, dryly, “Is that your tactic?”

“I know,” he says, smile widening. “Did it work?”

You roll your eyes.

HERBIE hums from the corner. “Observation logged. Mutual amusement. Elevated heart rates.”

“HERBIE,” you mutter.

Johnny laughs.

And for a moment, it almost feels like you’re not a locked-away anomaly.

You shrug. “There’s just stuff in my head that doesn’t feel like it belongs. I keep thinking if I write it down, I’ll figure out what changed.”

He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “Are you scared?”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches, heavy between you.

“Yeah,” you say eventually. “But not the way you’re thinking.”

Johnny watches you closely. “Then how?”

You meet his eyes. There’s something there—not warmth exactly, but something familiar. A quiet understanding between two people who know what it feels like to burn and still be cold.

“I’m scared that whoever I was… isn’t coming back. And whatever I’m becoming might not stop.”

Johnny’s gaze drops. His hands shift at his sides, loose but tense.

“I get that,” he says quietly. “When my powers came in, I kept thinking it’d pass. Like a glitch or a phase. But it didn’t. Every day I woke up wondering what else had changed.”

You exhale. The frost along the glass fades slightly. “So what, this is your way of giving a pep talk?”

His gaze drops, voice quieter.

“Sometimes being near the unknown feels easier than pretending I understand everything else.”

You study him through the misted glass.

His voice is softer now. Less guarded. He keeps a little distance, but it’s obvious he’s here for you—not for data, not for Reed. Just you.

You let a small, tired smile slip. “That’s comforting.”

A beat passes.

“Why’d you really come down here Johnny?”

Johnny leans his head back against the wall with a quiet thud. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You glance at him, brows slightly raised. “Didn’t peg you for the restless type.”

He exhales through his nose. “I’m not. Most nights.”

“So… what then?” Your brows draw together, a flicker of uncertainty in your voice. “Came to check on the icebox girl?” You’re gauging his intention before reading into it more.

He tilts his head. “You think that’s all I see when I look at you?”

You pause. Then answer without looking at him.

“I think I’m inconvenient. Fascinating. A scientific curiosity wrapped in panic and skin. And you’re the charming one they send in to get me talking.”

He doesn’t deny it.

You study him for a second longer, waiting for the sarcasm, the easy smile. It doesn’t come. Just silence. Just him, sitting there like he belongs on the other side of this glass. Like he’s not supposed to be anywhere else.

You finally look at him. “So? What did Reed want to know tonight?”

You keep asking yourself why he’s really down here. Why he keeps coming back. None of his answers so far have felt right it’s too easy, too rehearsed. Like he’s stalling for something he won’t say.

“I didn’t ask.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

Johnny’s gaze lingers on the frost-lined glass. His voice, when it comes, is quieter. Slower.

“Because sometime I come down here for reasons that don’t need to be written down.”

You study him for a long moment. “HERBIE’s recording.”

Johnny shrugs. “Let him.”

HERBIE lets out a mechanical sigh.

“Was that… a sigh?” you ask.

“I am adapting my emotional feedback systems,” HERBIE replies. “Dr. Storm is testing my patience.”

You laugh—quiet, surprised. It fades fast, but it lingers in your chest, a warmth that doesn’t quite melt the frost.

Johnny notices. He doesn’t say anything about it, but something in his expression softens. Like he’s storing the sound for later.

Johnny’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and tentative. “You said you didn’t mean to do it. But if you could go back… would you still have run the trial?”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Ah. There it is.” You sit up straight and proper now, clearing your throat to put a false professional tone on. “Is that an official question, Dr. Storm?”

He doesn’t smile this time. Just watches. “No.”

You consider it. “Then no. I wouldn’t have.”

Johnny looks surprised. “You wouldn’t?”

“I would’ve made someone else do it.”

You sit back, pressing your bound hands against your lap. “Let them ruin their nervous system. Let them forget how warmth feels.”

He goes still. “You don’t feel warmth… at all now?”

“Not even close.” Your throat tightens around the truth. “Not even when I focus on it. Not even when I think I should.”

Johnny leans forward, elbows on knees. “That’s messed up.”

You shrug. “So is freezing half the city.”

A pause.

Then softly, “I don’t think you meant to. I don’t think that makes you dangerous.”

You meet his gaze. “That’s not your call.”

He doesn’t look away. “No. But you’ve been in here, and I haven’t seen you try to hurt anyone. I’ve only seen you try to understand it. Control it.”

Silence stretches.

You glance toward HERBIE, who’s rotated toward the far wall like he’s giving privacy, but definitely still recording.

Johnny’s voice returns, quieter. “What did you do before all this? Before Coldskin?”

You hesitate. “You’re not supposed to ask that.”

“Guess I’m not great at following protocol.”

You exhale slowly, watching the frost stretch along the glass again.

“I worked under grant funding. Moved between labs. Led a few teams here and there, but never got full credit for anything. I preferred theory over people anyway.”

Johnny huffs, not unkindly. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You almost smile. “And you? Were you always the reckless golden boy?”

He tilts his head. “You mean before the cosmic radiation and spontaneous combustion?”

You nod once.

He leans back, gaze drifting upward. “Honestly… yeah. I kind of was. But it’s not as fun as people think.”

You study him. “Why not?”

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s weighing whether to answer.

“Because it isn’t real,” he says eventually. “The interviews. The stunts. The nonstop flirting—it’s just noise. A distraction from the fact that I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

You watch him closely now. “So you’re stuck?”

“Yeah,” he says, softer. “Everyone expects me to have it all figured out. To be fearless. To be… more.”

You lean back. “Maybe we’re both just bad at being what people expect.”

His eyes find yours. There’s something steady in them.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

A quiet pause settles between you. Not awkward just… full.

Outside, night deepens. The lab hums in its sterile rhythm. HERBIE remains silent.

And in the cold, between the frost and glass, something else settles: not comfort exactly. But recognition.

Time blurs after that.

The frost settles, soft and quiet across the glass. HERBIE occasionally chimes in—correcting equations, offering unnecessary commentary, even reciting a few awful jokes. At some point, you almost forget the restraints. Almost forget what you are now.

You and Johnny talk, about nothing and everything. Old music. Bad movies. The worst foods NASA ever sent to space. He makes fun of your terrible taste in snacks. You call him a sellout. It’s easy. Normal.

And for a little while, you feel like yourself again.

Eventually, you stop responding. Head resting lightly against the padded wall. Eyes closed. Breathing even. His voice had faded into something softer, background noise, almost—but not unpleasant. Steady. Warm. You didn’t say it out loud, but something about it calms the static in your chest.

“…you know, we used to camp out on the roof of the Baxter Building. Me and Ben would haul up blankets and chips and pretend we weren’t scared of anything. Sue hated it—said we’d set something on fire or fall off in our sleep.” He chuckles softly. “She wasn’t wrong.”

He shifts a little, voice lowering.

“I used to think if I burned hot enough, I could melt off the parts of me that felt wrong. The guilt. The pressure. All the noise.” He exhales. “But fire doesn’t fix anything. It just pushes people away.”

A pause.

“There’s still this moment, right before I ignite… where I hesitate. Just for a second. Like—what if this is the time I don’t come back? Or the time I come back as something else?”

HERBIE hums softly, the quiet whir of his system blending into the stillness. Then, in a near-whisper: “Subject X-17 has fallen asleep.”

Johnny glances toward you.

Head tipped slightly to the side. Hands relaxed. Breathing slow and even.

He goes still.

For a moment, he says nothing—just watches you through the fading frost. His jaw works once, like he’s caught between words he won’t speak.

Johnny doesn’t move.

Then HERBIE adds—just loud enough, and smug— “I am logging elevated heart rate and prolonged visual fixation, Johnny Storm. Should I alert Dr. Richards?”

Johnny sighs, muttering, “You get one laugh, HERBIE. One.”

He rises slowly. Each step backward feels careful, measured. The frost on the glass fades a fraction as he moves, like it’s reluctant to let him go.

He looks back at you.

Your breathing is steady now. Head tipped slightly to one side, lashes low against your cheek. Your hands are relaxed, the tension you always carry melted away in sleep. It’s the first time he’s seen you like this; unguarded, unaware.

The hoodie catches his eye.

It hangs loose on you, the sleeves too long, the fabric soft where it’s curled beneath your hands. You must’ve pulled it on while he wasn’t paying attention. You hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had he.

But something about seeing you in it—his—lands heavier than he expects.

For a moment, the glass doesn’t exist. Neither does the caution. The mission. The warnings. There’s just this—this strange, quiet ache in his chest that has no name.

You don’t look volatile like this. Or dangerous.

You look… still.

Human.

And something in that undoes him more than he expects.

Because it’s not just the way you look. It’s the way he understands it. The quiet you wear like armor. The exhaustion in your silence. The way you sleep like someone who hasn’t felt safe in a long time.

It’s more than attraction.

It’s familiarity.

It’s guilt.

His jaw shifts, like he’s working through a thought he won’t speak aloud. Then he turns toward the exit, head low, steps quiet.

He doesn’t look back.

The door seals shut behind him with a soft hiss.

And just before the hallway light spills across his shoulder—

A flicker.

The warmth comes back to him like a breath held too long. A pulse of heat blooms in his palm. A faint glow catches his knuckles, crawling halfway up his wrist before disappearing.

He flexes his fingers. Pauses.

Frowns.

But he doesn’t ask what it means.

Doesn’t let himself wonder how your presence—confined, restrained—still reaches him.

Not yet.

───

a/n: i dont have an update schedule yet but i do know ill be busy this week and next update will most likely be saturday so enjoy this monster of a chapter for now <3 and trust the slow burn process i beg

lastly i wasn’t able to add everyone for the taglist so double check your mention settings if you didnt get tagged and asked to be :( ill do a taglist post soon to get everyone all together !

───

⟢ Chapter Four

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: ~3,988

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

⟢ 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: ~2,107

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Four: Subject X-17 — Field Retrieval

You wake to muffled voices beyond the door, the cell otherwise quiet except for HERBIE’s faint hum in standby mode. The soundproofing warps the words, but the sharpness in their tones cuts through.

Silence follows, broken only by the scrape of a boot on the floor.

“It’s not a big deal,” Johnny says, voice edged with frustration.

“It is when it compromises the work. We’re here to contain, not coddle. You’ve already blurred too many lines.”

A beat passes, and though you can’t see him, you can picture Johnny’s jaw tightening.

“…You can’t be her safety blanket, Johnny,” Reed says, clipped.

“She’s not a project,” Johnny fires back. “Imagine if it were you coming back altered and locked up like this.”

Reed’s reply is quick, almost dismissive. “You think sentiment is going to fix what she’s capable of?”

“She’s a person, not a containment risk.”

There’s a pause before Reed’s voice drops to something cooler. “That hoodie you gave her says otherwise.”

You hear Johnny shift again, the faint rustle of fabric, a scuff against the floor. His tone dips low, weighted. “Imagine coming back different, Reed, and the first thing they do is shove you in a box.”

A longer silence this time, then Reed’s final order:

“Go back to the lab. Find anything. Logs, reports, whatever’s left. If your theory about her is right, we’ll confirm it. If mine is… we’ll deal with it.”

No answer. Just footsteps retreating — heavy at first, then fading until the corridor is still. He doesn’t open the door. Doesn’t even look in.

HERBIE stirs, lenses warming to life. “Your breakfast is losing optimal temperature,” it informs you politely.

The words barely register at first. You’re still listening for more footsteps, some sign he might double back. But the hall remains silent. The fabric at your shoulders still holds his faint warmth, the scent of smoke and something sharper clinging to it — proof he was here, and that he left without a word.

And on the tray in the wall slot — untouched — sits the standard, sterile meal. Except for the paper cup with a folded note tucked beneath the lid.

You slide it free. The handwriting isn’t Reed’s. It’s messier, slanted. A single line sprawled in black ink — not words, but an equation. One you’d scrawled in frost days ago.

A slow, reluctant curl pulls at your mouth. He’d noticed. He’d understood enough to send it back to you, unspoken.

Reed doesn’t return right away. The room stays still but for HERBIE’s faint whirr as it pivots toward you.

“Would you like me to reheat the tray?”

You shake your head, nudging the cup closer. “No. Just… keep me company for a while.”

HERBIE tilts slightly, processors clicking. “Define ‘keep company.’”

You lean back against the padded wall. “I’ll think of something… a game?”

HERBIE doesn’t move, but the lenses adjust, a faint red blink passing through them. “I do not engage in games.”

“That’s a shame,” you murmur. “You’d probably be good at them.”

A soft mechanical click. “Elaborate.”

You stretch your legs, toes brushing the opposite wall. “Fine. We’ll make one up. I’ll describe something I’m thinking of, and you guess what it is. Only rule — you get three questions.”

HERBIE hums, the sound precise and even. “Probability suggests I will succeed within two.”

“Confident, huh?” You smirk faintly. “Alright. I’m thinking of something.”

HERBIE’s first question comes without delay. “Is it within the containment unit?”

“No.”

A pause, a small shift of servos. “Is it… an equation?”

Your brow lifts. “No.”

Another hum. “Is it Johnny Storm?”

That gets you to laugh — a quiet, sharp sound in the sterile room. “No, HERBIE. And three guesses means you lose.”

“I do not ‘lose.’ I have simply gathered insufficient data.”

You nudge the paper cup with the note, your voice softening. “Yeah… welcome to the club.”

HERBIE emits a soft chime, lenses pivoting toward the door. “Dr. Richards is en route.”

The bot nearly spins in place before returning to its post, its whirring a shade higher than usual.

You sit up, tucking your legs under you as the seal releases and the door slides open. Reed steps inside without a word, tablet cradled in one hand, the other clasped behind his back. His gaze flicks from HERBIE to you, then lingers — deliberate, measuring.

He doesn’t start talking right away. He circles the perimeter instead, tapping something into the tablet every few steps. Occasionally, his eyes lift to you again, not quite suspicious… but not neutral, either. Like he’s searching for confirmation of a theory only he knows.

“HERBIE,” he says at last, “run a full metabolic and cellular scan.”

The bot hums to life, sensors passing over you in slow sweeps of warm light. You stay still, watching Reed’s eyes track the data feed on his tablet. His brows don’t knit, but they don’t relax either.

“Readings are within acceptable ranges,” HERBIE reports. “However—” A soft chime. “There is mild irregularity in subject X-17’s vascular conductivity.”

Reed’s mouth pulls to one side. “Not harmful. Not yet.”

You watch him scroll through results, his thumb hovering over the display like he’s reluctant to commit to the next line of thought. He mutters, almost to himself, “Could be environmental carryover… but nothing else points to that. Residual mutation markers are stable. No fluctuation in core temperature. So why the conductivity shift?”

HERBIE offers, “Unknown variable detected?”

“Or,” Reed says, ignoring the bot, “a false positive from the last disruption event. But if that were the case…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t line up.”

You lean forward slightly. “What about interference from your own equipment?”

His gaze lifts — sharp, surprised you’re weighing in.

“Electrical conductivity can skew vascular readings,” you say, keeping your tone even. “Especially if the subject’s baseline has already been altered.”

Reed studies you for a long beat, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a smile. “That’s… not impossible.”

You shrug. “Not the answer, but maybe the wrong question.”

Something in his posture eases. The tablet lowers a fraction. “You know,” he says, almost conversational now, “most people in your position wouldn’t be interested in the questions at all.”

“Maybe they just didn’t know which ones to ask,” you counter. “Or maybe you never gave them the chance.”

That earns you a pause, the kind that says he’s turning the words over instead of dismissing them. His gaze flicks to the hoodie draped over your shoulders, lingering just a beat too long before shifting back to his tablet. The movement is small, but it feels loaded.

Reed exhales through his nose and gestures for HERBIE. “Run another full-spectrum scan. Compare it to yesterday’s readings.”

HERBIE hums to life, the soft sweep of sensors brushing over you in invisible arcs. “Preliminary results indicate stability,” the AI reports, “though variances remain outside baseline parameters.”

Reed’s mouth tightens. “Not dangerous,” he says to himself, “but not… right, either.” He begins pacing again, muttering half-formed theories under his breath — rapid protein degradation, unstable thermal equilibrium, even neural interference — each one discarded with a terse shake of his head.

You watch him work in silence. Not because you have nothing to say, but because he isn’t talking to you yet. The rhythm of his steps is almost hypnotic, the same pattern over and over until, finally, you break it.

“What about subzero cellular adaptation?” you ask.

Reed stops. Just for a second. Then he turns, eyes narrowing with interest rather than suspicion. “That’s… not implausible.”

You shrug, trying to look casual, though his attention feels like a spotlight. “If the structure changes at that level, you wouldn’t see the full impact right away. It could explain the delays in your readings.”

Something in his posture shifts, less rigid, more engaged. “You’ve thought about this.”

“Occupational hazard,” you say lightly.

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost — almost — a smile.

“That’ll be all for now,” he says, tone still clipped but lacking the earlier bite. He steps toward the door, pausing just long enough for his gaze to flick to the tray. “Eat what you can. It’ll make the next round of tests easier.”

You tilt your head. “That your way of saying thanks?”

“Consider it… professional advice.” The panel beeps under his hand, the door unlocking. “Rest while you can.”

It’s not warm, not really — but the door seals with a muted hiss instead of its usual jarring slam, and the silence that follows feels less like isolation and more like a reprieve.

HERBIE hums back to life, lenses tracking you again.

The trip back to the lab is quiet, too quiet for Johnny’s liking.

Reed’s order still echoes in his head, irritating like a splinter.

Go back to the lab. Find me anything. Logs, reports, whatever’s left.

“Yeah, because digging through ice is real high on my to-do list,” he mutters under his breath as he rounds the next corner.

The street leading to the building is still cordoned off. Yellow caution tape snaps lightly in the wind, but nobody’s guarding it now. The frost hasn’t melted. Sunlight slides over it without touching, leaving a ghost-white glaze that still crawls up the outer walls. Even the air feels denser here… sharp in the lungs, as if the cold is choosing to stay.

Johnny ducks under the tape. His boots crunch over glass and ice crystals as he steps inside.

It’s worse than he remembered.

The lab’s front windows are jagged teeth of ice and steel. Desks sit buried under uneven layers of frost, wires frozen mid-coil like they were caught mid-breath. He kicks aside a pile of cracked glass slides and keeps moving, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning for anything Reed would care about.

On one table, a small stack of papers catches his attention. He brushes frost away and sees your face staring up at him from a newspaper clipping — a photo of you and an assistant, both in lab coats, shaking hands with some smug-looking sponsor. The headline is half-obscured, but he can still read Breakthrough Promises New Energy Model.

There’s more beneath it. Other clippings, some yellowed with age, some glossy and recent, you accepting an award, speaking on a panel, caught mid-interview with a microphone in hand. They’re the kind of things Reed would probably skim over, but Johnny pauses a beat longer than he means to before folding them and tucking them away.

Underneath that: lab notes. Your handwriting, sharp, deliberate, with equations running in neat, obsessive rows.

And next to it all, a worn leather journal, the corners bent from years of use. A thin strap of suede holds it closed. Without thinking, he slips it into his jacket.

On another desk, a scattering of personal photographs is frozen into the surface like bugs in amber — he pries one loose carefully. You, younger, mid-laugh at some gala, holding a champagne flute and clearly not paying attention to the camera. The kind of photo he knows he could get mileage out of teasing you about. That goes in his pocket too.

He’s halfway across the lab when a sound stops him cold.

A faint scrape. A shift of weight against ice.

Johnny moves toward the shadowed hallway, silent as he can manage.

And then he sees him.

Dr. Doom — crouched by a shattered file cabinet, his cloak dusted with frost. He’s moving papers aside with a slow, deliberate care, gloved hands turning each page like it might bite.

Johnny ducks behind a support column, watching.

Doom stops. Stares at one page a moment too long. His voice is low, but in the icy stillness it carries.

“So… it was true.”

Johnny’s jaw tightens.

What the hell was true?

Doom folds the paper, slipping it inside his armor, and rises to his full, imposing height. For a moment, Johnny thinks Doom might turn toward him — but instead, he steps over the debris and disappears into the hall.

Only after the echo of his footsteps fades does Johnny move. He goes straight to the drawer Doom had been working through. Frost clings to the folders, stiff and unyielding, but he yanks them open. Most are useless — shredded, soaked, illegible.

One, though, has a sealed envelope inside. No name on it, just a dense pattern of geometric lines stamped across the front, like a code. He doesn’t think, just shoves it in with the rest of what he’s gathered.

When he finally turns to leave, the air feels heavier than before. He’s got the journal, the clipping, the photo, the envelope. All of it burning a quiet hole in his jacket.

─────

a/n: i lied here’s another update surprise and if you didnt get tagged again i sincerely apologize pls tell me asap :(

─────

⟢ Chapter Five

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: ~1,963

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter 6: Subject X-17 — Contact Point

You stopped counting the days in scratches on the wall after the first week. Now you track time in sticky notes.

The “Johnny wall” started as a stack of yellow squares he’d slid onto your breakfast tray — Ladies first. It should’ve been nothing, a throwaway joke to make the morning less quiet. But then there was a pen balanced on top, like he’d been daring you to respond.

You did.

At first, it was just snark traded back and forth, your handwriting looping sharp retorts, his scrawl returning with quick-fire comebacks. Equations, theories, then the notes got oddly specific, like he’d been paying more attention to what you said than you realized. A note about your habit of circling the same three steps when you thought, a doodle of HERBIE with angry eyebrows, a list of song lyrics you’d been humming under your breath.

Eventually, the notes came with every breakfast, then every lunch. You started tacking them to the far wall, a messy constellation of paper squares. Some were silly enough to make you roll your eyes. Others lingered longer — questions half-asked, sentences that didn’t feel finished, like he was telling you something without saying it out loud. When you had nothing else to do, you’d sit and stare at them, reading the arrangement like it was some secret message you hadn’t cracked yet.

Over the last twenty-five days, the pattern had stayed mostly the same: Reed’s sterile check-ins in the morning, Johnny showing up when he felt like breaking the monotony, HERBIE hovering in the background with his “polite but unshakable” brand of surveillance.

Reed still poked and prodded, still asked more questions than he answered, but somewhere along the way, the edge had dulled. Lately, their sessions felt less like interrogations and more like puzzles — you’d trade ideas, solve equations together, even slip in the occasional dry joke that almost made him smile. He was still distracted, though; his focus would drift mid-sentence, his gaze flicking toward some invisible problem only he could see. But when he was present, he was… tolerable. Almost easy to talk to.

Johnny filled the rest of the gaps — showing up with news you weren’t sure you believed, random scraps of conversation, or just enough heat bleeding through the glass to make you feel something other than cold for a few minutes.

HERBIE’s voice cuts in more than it used to, especially at night.

“Johnny Storm departed at 23:04.”

“Johnny Storm returned at 02:19.”

And sometimes, with far too much precision for a house robot:

“Heart rate elevated in response to current topic. Would you like me to record?”

You’ve stopped trying to hide it. It’s pointless. You liked it and you cared. That was that.

A few weeks back, HERBIE had started giving you updates on his location — “Johnny Storm is in the gym,” “Mr. Storm is in the lab,” “Johnny Storm is returning from an external mission” — small, clinical reports tucked between temperature readings and containment status. It should’ve been meaningless. Instead, it became a quiet countdown you looked forward to. No matter where he’d been or what Reed had him doing, Johnny hadn’t missed a single night stopping by. Not one.

You weren’t sure how to explain it, even to yourself. You told yourself it was just friendship, or the closest thing you could get in here. He kept you company. Broke the monotony. Maybe it was guilt on his part, or pity, because dullness after Reed had warmed up, he still hadn’t let you step one foot outside the cell. And Johnny… Johnny seemed like the kind of guy who couldn’t stand watching someone sit in a cage.

“Johnny Storm returned at 24:08.” HERBIE chirped from the corner.

Your gaze flicked to the sweater folded neatly on the cot beside you. You’d already decided you were giving it back tonight. He’d left it here weeks ago, and you’d kept it longer than you should have.

The truth — the part you weren’t about to say out loud — was that it didn’t smell like him anymore. The faint trace of smoke and something warm had been replaced by sterile air and too many days pressed against you for warmth that never came.

You slid the sweater onto your lap and waited, listening for his footsteps in the hall. When he finally appeared, he was backlit by the corridor lights, hair a little messy, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You doing laundry service now?” he asked when you held the sweater up.

“Thought I’d save you the trouble,” you said, casual as you could manage.

He stepped closer, pressing his palm flat to the glass. You didn’t feel heat. Just a hint of it, like the memory of sunlight.

“You sure you don’t want to keep it?”

You shook your head, leaning back on the cot. “It’s yours. I planned to give it back when Reed finally let me out… whenever that is.”

You watched him carefully, like maybe he’d have an answer.

Instead, Johnny’s mouth twitched into that half-grin. “You know he actually considered letting you join the team? Powers and all. But…” He shrugged. “Doesn’t want to change the name.”

You snorted. “Creative branding problem.”

For a moment, you let yourself imagine it — being out there, working alongside them — before reality pulled it back. “If I did join you guys, you and I wouldn’t exactly be able to work together.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the sticky note wall, lingering there like the cluttered paper said something he couldn’t.

Then he looked back. “Have you ever tried to turn it off? You know… like I can?”

You tilted your head at him. “Turn it off? That’s not how it works.”

“How do you know?” His brow arched, voice just cocky enough to be a challenge. “You ever tried?”

You laughed under your breath. “I’m pretty sure if I could, I would’ve by now.”

Johnny didn’t move from the glass. “Humor me.”

You rolled your eyes but stood, closing the distance until you were a foot away. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

“That.” He pointed to your hands. “No frost. No temperature drop. Just… normal. Pretend you’re not you for a second.”

“HERBIE, are you recording this?” you asked.

“Always,” HERBIE replied, far too cheerfully.

Johnny smirked. “See? We’ve got a control.”

You inhaled slowly, focusing on keeping your pulse even. For a moment, the air between you felt still — not warm, not cold. His gaze tracked your face like he’d notice the exact second you failed.

Then the faintest swirl of frost curled over the glass where your fingertips hovered.

Johnny grinned. “You’re terrible at this.”

“Shut up. You’re distracting.”

Johnny tapped two fingers against the glass. “Okay, try this. Don’t think about stopping it. Think about… redirecting it. Like pulling a curtain over it instead of shutting the whole thing off.”

“That’s not how science works.”

He smirked. “Maybe not in your lab.”

You huffed but humored him, closing your eyes. You pictured the frost curling back under your skin, hiding in the bones. The cold was still there, coiled tight, but you tried to keep it from touching the surface.

When you opened your eyes, the glass between you was clear for almost a whole breath before a haze of frost spread across it again. You could almost feel, for a millisecond, the heat radiating from Johnny.

Johnny’s grin was lazy but genuine. “Better. Almost like you listened.”

“Or almost like you explained it right.”

He ignored that, leaning closer until you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. “You find out anything on your own these last few weeks?”

You shrugged, but he didn’t move until you answered. “The frost isn’t… constant. It spikes when I’m stressed. Or pissed. Or—”

“—or talking to me,” he cut in with a satisfied tilt of his head.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “Maybe.”

Johnny caught it instantly. “Knew it. You’re warming up to me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He grinned, already stepping closer. “Alright, one more test, Ice Queen. Just humor me.”

You sighed but mirrored him. “If Reed catches us—”

“I’ll tell him you begged me for lessons.”

He pressed his hand flat to the glass, fingers splayed. “Alright, mirror me.”

You rolled your eyes but matched him, palm to palm with the barrier between.

“I’m gonna push some heat through,” he said, tone mock-serious, like he was teaching you how to drive. “Your job is to try pulling your cold back. Just enough to feel it. Think you can manage that?”

“Wow, a whole lecture. Do I get a certificate when I graduate?”

He smirked. “Depends on how much extra credit you’re willing to put in.”

You huffed, pretending you weren’t hiding a smile. “Fine. Go.”

The glass under your hand warmed, faintly at first, like it had been sitting in sunlight. You focused, imagining the frost receding, curling inward. It felt… unnatural, like holding your breath.

The frost between your palms thinned, and for a second, you swore you felt his heat, real and steady. Then—crack—a thin fissure shot up from the base of the glass.

You both blinked at it.

“…Was that you or me?” you asked.

HERBIE hummed from his perch near the ceiling, announcing: “Seismic stress reading: elevated.”

Johnny shot the bot a sharp look. “Mute.”

The bot went quiet instantly.

You frowned. “Seismic what?”

Johnny opened the door halfway, hesitating in the frame. “Don’t worry about it.”

You tilted your head, letting a grin edge into your voice. “I’ll take that as confirmation that if we ever worked together, the whole world would… crack.”

Johnny didn’t laugh. Not really. He just held your gaze for a second too long, like you’d said something truer than you knew.

His mouth twitched like he might argue, but instead he leaned in, lowering his voice as if HERBIE might be listening harder than usual.

“…Maybe we could work on it.”

The words hung there, quiet but heavy. You couldn’t tell if he meant your powers, the crack in the glass… or something else entirely.

“We?” you echoed, like you needed him to say it twice.

He nodded once, slow. “You get better at this… maybe Reed changes his mind.”

The thought made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge. “Or maybe he keeps me in here just to see how many sticky notes it takes before you run out of bad jokes.”

Johnny’s mouth twitched, but there was an edge to it now, like he was thinking of something else entirely. He tapped the glass twice, a small rhythm you’d started recognizing as his goodbye.

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he glanced over at HERBIE, who had been unnervingly silent since muting. “You didn’t record that last part, right?”

HERBIE whirred in what could only be described as robotic guilt. “Data retention is part of my—”

“Delete it,” Johnny interrupted.

The bot beeped in protest. “That would be—”

“HERBIE.” His tone was sharp enough that even you sat up.

A pause. Then a reluctant, “Deleted.”

Before you could ask, he stepped back, dragging his hand away from the invisible spot where yours still hovered.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You almost pressed—almost—but then he gave you one last look over his shoulder and slipped out.

The latch sealed. The room felt colder.

You lay back on the cot, staring at the sticky note wall, trying to decide what worried you more—what he’d said, or the fact that you wanted him to mean it.

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a/n: felt bad for the short one so here’s another :( what you guys think is gonna happen? 👀

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⟢ Chapter Seven

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, enemies-to-allies tension, slow burn romance potential

status: ongoing

word count: ~1,938

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Five: Subject X-17 — Informal Communication Log

The cell had been quiet before, but tonight it felt… empty.

HERBIE wasn’t gone, exactly—just drifting in and out of your space, whirring past the corners of the room like he had better things to do. He’d pause to scan a wall, then zip away again, the quiet click of his servos fading into the background. Reed was nowhere in sight. The air vents whispered, the lights hummed, but that was it.

You sat cross-legged on the cot, chin propped in your hand, eyes fixed on the faint seam of the door. Johnny’s hoodie still lay rumpled at the foot of her bed where you’d left it, the faded fabric holding the faintest trace of warmth that wasn’t yours. You told yourself you hadn’t kept it there on purpose.

Where is he?

It wasn’t like you could circle it on a calendar—Johnny Storm, after hours. He’d only lingered once. But ever since the dinner trays were cleared, the thought had been pacing at the edges of your mind, restless and impossible to shake.

You told herself it wasn’t about him, just the break in monotony. He brought conversation, heat in the form of sarcasm, a flicker of something human in a place designed to strip it away. Even when the warmth came with barbs. Even when his gaze felt like he was still weighing you on some private scale.

Still… you caught herself replaying the last things he had said, shaping better lines in her head. Something sharp enough to make him smirk. Or maybe something softer—enough to make him stay. You hated the way your pulse picked up at the thought.

You’re not supposed to look forward to people who keep you contained.

By the time the clock display on the wall ticked past midnight, your posture had slumped. Sleep pulled at your eyes. You laid back, stared at the ceiling. “HERBIE?”

The bot rolled in from wherever he’d been, servo motors clicking softly.

“Yes, Subject X-17?”

The corner of your mouth quirking up. “Keep me awake.”

“By what means?”

“I don’t know. Talk. Play a game.”

HERBIE considered. “A probability challenge. I will predict your chances of various outcomes.”

“Like what?”

“Whether Mr. Storm will return tonight.”

Your breath caught before you could hide it. “Cute. What’s my percentage?”

“Seventy-one point six repeating.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

Their conversation carried on in a lopsided rhythm—you tossing out questions, HERBIE answering in his flat, unbothered tone. What’s the probability I’ll be out of this cell by the end of the month? 82 percent. Chance I’ll get my lab back? 0.006 percent. Chance Reed will apologize for locking me in here? Less than measurable.

It was almost enough to keep your mind off the door. Almost.

It was well past the point you’d given up when the door hissed.

You sat up, heart leaping before you could stop it.

Johnny stepped in. Full uniform. Hair a little wind-tossed like he’d been flying just to burn energy. He didn’t speak right away, just let his gaze sweep over the cell.

You finally spoke, casual as you could manage. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

“Were you waiting for me?” His mouth ticked upward, not quite a smile, like he already knew the answer.

You opened your mouth to shoot back a quick denial, but it stalled when you really looked at him.

You started to deny it, but your words snagged when you really looked at him. The uniform was still there, but rumpled, like he’d been in it since morning. His hair fell into his eyes in uneven strands, a little too messy to be deliberate. Something in his stance was wrong—weight shifting like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be here or not.

Johnny’s gaze flicked past you. “HERBIE,” he said, voice light but deliberate, “did she ask about me today?”

The robot’s head swiveled toward him. “Affirmative. Three times between 1900 and 2100 hours.”

Your stomach dropped, one corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed on you like he was measuring the truth in your denial. “Three times? That’s practically an obsession, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back on the cot. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just making sure you hadn’t finally flown into the sun.”

“Aw. You worry about me.”

“You’re not as indestructible as you think.”

He didn’t step closer to the glass like last night, didn’t lean into that comfortable distance. You noticed it immediately— noticed how he kept one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side, like he wasn’t ready to get too close. Which only made you wonder what had him pulling back.

His smirk deepened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

Normally, you’d toss something back without missing a beat. But the way he said it, how he stilled after the words left his mouth, how his gaze hooked into yours, made it feel like something else entirely.

“You’d know if it was,” you said, voice light but not quite a joke.

He tilted his head, the movement slow, eyes never leaving yours. “Is that a promise?”

You felt the tension slip between the words, too sharp to ignore. So you tilted your head, pretending to study him like you were just bored. “Big hero day? Or did you just dress up to come see me?”

“Maybe I just like the way the uniform makes you stare.”

You narrowed your eyes, leaning back against the wall. “That so? Should I be flattered, or concerned you’re fishing for compliments?”

Johnny shrugged, glancing down at the seam of his glove like it suddenly fascinated him. “I’d be more concerned that you're biting.”

“So,” you said, voice casual, “what’d you do today? Save a kitten? Stop a runaway bus?”

His gaze sharpened. “Something like that.”

“‘Something like that,’” you echoed, lifting a brow. “Wow. Thanks for the detailed hero recap.”

“Details ruin the mystique,” he said, still not looking at you for longer than a second. “And besides, you like a little mystery.”

“Maybe,” you allowed, “but I also like the truth.”

Johnny’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile, but close enough to pass for one. “Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes lingering on you a beat too long, “me too.”

The air between you stretched, and then he tipped it back toward something lighter. His tone shifted into that lazy, practiced charm of his.

“So…” he drawled, “been hanging out with any other handsome guys lately? Maybe ones with a full metal wardrobe?”

It was a joke, but not entirely. You caught it in the way his gaze didn’t waver, like he was watching for your reaction as much as your answer.

You let a smirk curl slow at the corner of your mouth. “Can’t say I’ve been invited to many metal-themed parties lately,” you said, leaning back like the thought alone was beneath you. “Besides, I thought I was already monopolizing the most insufferably charming guy in the building.”

Johnny huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Insufferably charming, huh? That’s a new one.”

“You can put it on your résumé,” you offered, tilting your head, “right under ‘likes to dodge questions.’”

The silence stretched, taut and knowing, until you finally broke it. “Is it just me, or did this dynamic change very quickly?”

Johnny didn’t even blink. “No, just you.”

It was a simple answer, but it sat heavy between you, because you remembered the way he’d told you that the charm, the constant banter, was exhausting. That it wasn’t all real. And now here he was, leaning into it harder than ever. You couldn’t decide if it was for your benefit… or his own protection.

HERBIE’s voice cut in, flat but precise. “Both subjects are exhibiting accelerated cooling. Cause: unknown.”

You glanced at Johnny. “Are you actually cold right now?”

He didn’t answer right away, eyes fixed on you like he was weighing something. “Colder than usual,” he said finally, voice low.

“How does it feel?”

The words hung there, heavier than either of you seemed ready for. You didn’t rush to fill the silence, and for a beat, Johnny just let you look at him.

Then his gaze shifted — almost imperceptibly — like something behind your eyes had reminded him of where he was, who you were. The warmth in his expression cooled.

“I’m curious, though…” His voice was lighter again, but it had an edge now. “Who else was in on it? The experiment—your little freezing trick. Where’d the funding really come from?”

The pivot was so quick it almost gave you whiplash. You narrowed your eyes, suspicion threading through the warmth his first answer had sparked.

You crossed your arms, mirroring his relaxed tone. “Maybe I’m just curious, too. What’d you do today? Who’d you save? Or is that classified?”

“Not classified.” His gaze was steady. “Just not your turn to know.”

“Then same,” you said, settling back against the wall. “Not your turn to know.”

His smile was sharp this time—like you’d just confirmed something for him—but he didn’t press.

HERBIE’s voice cut through, brisk and factual.

“Warning: Johnny Storm’s core temperature has decreased by six degrees since arrival. Risk of hypothermia in four minutes if exposure continues.”

Johnny shot the bot a flat look. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

You arched a brow. “Guess that means you should run along before you turn into a popsicle.”

He lingered a beat longer than he should have, something unreadable in his eyes. “Guess so.”

As he stepped toward the door, you leaned back on the cot, casual but deliberate. “Should I expect any notes with my breakfast tomorrow?”

His expression flickering with amusement “Depends. You gonna write me one back?”

The door sealed behind him with a muted hiss.

For a second, Johnny just stood there in the hallway, hands braced on his hips, staring at the floor like he could burn through it if he let his temperature climb. He didn’t. Not in there. Not around her.

Back in his room, the quiet felt different — heavier. The desk was a mess, not with his usual clutter, but with yours. Newspaper clippings from the lab site, blurred photos of the damage, printouts of research abstracts, even scraps of handwriting he’d copied from your notes before Reed locked them away.

Half of it was useless — invoices, power grid data, equipment receipts — but your handwriting was everywhere. Margins crowded with equations. Notes to yourself in looping, impatient script. He found himself tracing one with his thumb before tossing it down like it burned.

He stared down at the chaos, jaw working. He’d spent hours trying to put the pieces together, and none of it looked good.

Somewhere in the middle of all that paper was the truth you weren’t giving him. And maybe, just maybe, the reason he kept going back.

He hated that part of him wanted to believe you. The other part, the one that had stood in a freezing cell while you looked at him like you didn’t have a clue, knew better.

His uniform was still damp at the collar where your cell’s chill had sunk through. He peeled it off, dropping it over the back of a chair. Sat down. Stared at the wall.

You’d looked at him different tonight. Not scared. Not exactly trusting, either. Like you were… waiting for him to decide something.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed both hands over his face.

He’d always been good at heat. Fire. Light.

But right now, it felt like you’d figured out how to burn him back.

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a/n: updating this as i get tattooed for 6 hours, if there’s typos you didn’t see em SORRY THIS ONE IS SHORT

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⟢ Chapter One ⟢ Chapter Two ⟢ Chapter Three ⟢ Chapter Four

TAGLIST