#mutated oc

⟢ 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

───

⟢ Chapter Three

TAGLIST

(i hope i did this right)

Daily doodles until the sun is black day 30

I made a fishie sona/oc

meet Finnbait, a mutated angler fish who wants to leave the depths of the oceans to see what else is out there. The strange plastic things from the oceans above interest them.

I will have more lore for them but you gotta wait teehee

⟢ 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: ~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.

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

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⟢ 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

the temperature at which something ignites.

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: ~3,026

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Chapter Seven: Subject X-17 — Controlled Exposure

You woke still thinking about what Johnny had said last night.

Or more specifically, what he hadn’t said.

We could work on it.

The words had stuck, refusing to leave you alone, dragging you right back to the way he’d looked at you, like he actually meant it. Like he wanted to.

You pushed yourself up on the cot and glanced at HERBIE’s idle blue light. “Hey,” you said, “this… holding cell… it’s indestructible, right?”

HERBIE’s voice was smooth, patient.

“The containment unit you currently occupy is constructed from a reinforced vibranium-composite alloy. It is designed to withstand all known force types — kinetic, thermal, elemental, psychic — to ensure zero containment breaches.”

“So… supposed to never break.”

“In theory.”

You gave a humorless little laugh. “Good to know.”

Your fingers drifted to the glass without thinking, the pads pressing flat against its surface. Cold bit into your skin, the chill leeching through your bones in a way the air never quite managed. You shifted your weight and rapped your knuckles against it, the sound was small, dull, swallowed before it could bounce back. No echo. No give.

You trailed your fingertips along the seam where glass met floor, feeling for imperfections. Just smooth, unbroken surface. HERBIE’s answer hung in the space between you, clinical and unyielding, but your mind kept pulling at the edges.

What would happen if you really tried? If you stopped holding back and put everything into one strike?

HERBIE’s idle blue light blinked in the corner, steady and unblinking, like he was reading the thought before you could bury it.

By morning, breakfast slid through the panel without a note.

By midday, you’d decided Johnny had just… forgotten. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal—though the quiet where his words should have been sat heavier than you wanted to admit.

Reed came by, running through his usual tests, but something was different. He was quieter. Still thorough, still taking readings, but his attention felt… split. Like he was already halfway out the door. He didn’t even notice the faint spidering fracture crawling along the base of the glass — the one you’d noticed after Johnny left last night.

His visit was short. Too short.

When he was gone, it hit you—HERBIE hadn’t announced Johnny’s arrival or departure all day.

You glanced toward the bot. “Is Johnny here?”

“Mr. Storm was denied location updates to Subject X-17.”

You stilled. Mr. Storm. Not Johnny.

“Resigned,” you repeated under your breath. Which meant… those updates hadn’t been standard protocol. HERBIE had just decided to give them to you—unofficial, unlogged, maybe even unsanctioned. A kindness to keep you sane. And Johnny had approved it. He’d wanted you to know where he was.

Your heart skipped, sharp and unsteady, for reasons you didn’t care to unpack.

HERBIE’s voice cut back in after a pause, softer than his usual clipped delivery.

Something in your chest tightened.

You started pacing. The sticky note wall stared back at you, cluttered with crooked squares in his handwriting. Maybe he’d just gone somewhere suspicious, somewhere he didn’t want HERBIE reporting to you.

Fine. You’d leave him a note instead.

You sat on the floor, pulled a fresh square from the pad, and wrote something teasing.

Too soft.

Another one.

Too obvious.

Another.

Too much.

Your gaze lingered on the letters scattered across the area around you — the pale yellow of sticky notes, the curling edges of folded paper. The ink bled in different shades: black when he was in a hurry, blue when he’d swiped a pen from somewhere else. Some letters leaned hard into the page, leaving ghost impressions on the sheet beneath; others were loose and slanted, almost lazy, like he’d written them half-smiling.

You could tell which ones were from late nights, the jagged lines, the way his handwriting slumped like it was tired too. Others looked like they’d been written in motion, scrawled between steps or sentences.

Somewhere along the way, they’d stopped feeling like instructions or updates. They’d become a conversation you weren’t really having, a thread neither of you acknowledged out loud.

You read them in order sometimes, just to hear what it sounded like when you talked back without meaning to.

By the time you were down to the last sheet, you hadn’t kept a single one.

You sat there, pen in one hand, that last sticky note in the other. Maybe you should just write, I need more notes.

The laugh that slipped out was small and sharp at the same time.

You stood and began pacing again, twirling the pen between your fingers, the sticky note stuck to your palm. Hoping Johnny would show up. Hating yourself for hoping he would.

Time passed, you stayed up later than you would’ve ever before, waiting for Johnny, but he never showed. Your only company for the night: HERBIE.

“Subject appears sad. Would you like to play one of our games?”

The sound that left you was more air than laughter — a short, huffed breath through your nose.

“I thought you didn’t do games,” you muttered, sinking back onto the cot.

“I do not,” HERBIE replied matter-of-factly. “But I am adapting.”

HERBIE didn’t push. He didn’t have to. The silence felt heavier than the game would’ve been.

Day twenty-eight started like any other.

HERBIE’s morning ping. The quiet whirr of servos as the breakfast tray slid into place. The faint, ever-present hum of the containment glass.

You’d developed a rhythm over these weeks, not because you wanted one, but because the sameness was easier to survive than constant change. Count the ceiling tiles. Track the faint scuff marks in the corner where your pacing always turned. Check the sticky notes.

Breakfast came. No note.

By lunch, still nothing. HERBIE spoke less than usual, offering only polite updates in his clipped, pre-programmed voice. Dinner came with the same sterile efficiency. No Johnny. No messy scrawl on yellow paper.

By nightfall, you were pacing the narrow space between the bed and the glass, eyes flicking to the wall of notes like they might multiply if you stared long enough.

When the lights dimmed for “night,” the cold felt sharper. It always did when he wasn’t here. You slid down the wall and sat, arms looped loosely around your knees, gaze drifting over the fragments of handwriting stuck in uneven rows. His handwriting, mostly hurried, sometimes almost illegible. A language you’d learned by tracing every curve and jagged line.

The absence sat heavier than it should.

The thought slid in without warning: the last time you saw him. Johnny—leaning in through the glass, grin crooked, voice pitched just low enough so Reed couldn’t hear. The way he’d rolled his eyes at HERBIE’s interruptions. The faint smell of smoke that always clung to him, a warmth you could only imagine but had never felt.

The glass reflected your face back at you, pale and smudged at the edges. You pushed to your feet when HERBIE finally returned, a thin rectangle balanced on his tray. Dinner. No note.

The thought came sharper now: had you imagined all of it? Or was this what happened when someone decided your usefulness was over?

When you went to bed, the hum of the glass felt louder than usual, like it was filling in for everything he wasn’t saying.

HERBIE’s light pulsed faintly in the corner, cycling through some idle function you didn’t care about. The sticky note clung to your palm like it was mocking you — your last one, your one pathetic attempt to keep the rhythm going.

“Any update?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

“Mr. Storm’s location remains unavailable.”

There it was again. Mr. Storm.

Colder than glass.

You traced the note’s edge with your thumb, weighing whether to write something at all. If he wasn’t coming, what was the point?

You sat, then stood again. Restless. Too much room in your head and nowhere to put it. You thought about the crack in the cell’s wall, the way Johnny had looked at it — at you — the other night. The memory lodged under your skin like a splinter.

Your chest felt tight. Too tight. Thoughts crowded in, one after another:

You’re trapped. You’re never getting out. You’re not a person, you’re an anomaly. A test subject. A hazard with a name.

Your breath misted in front of you, pale wisps curling into the air and vanishing just as quickly. The tips of your fingers tingled, not from touching the glass, but from something blooming outward under your skin. The floor beneath your bare feet had gone slick, the thin layer of ice spiderwebbing in every direction, climbing up the wall like it was trying to escape with you.

Your skin prickled, a cold so sharp it felt like it was threading into your veins. The edges of the room blurred. For a heartbeat, you weren’t in the Baxter Building at all—you were back in the lab, alarms howling, frost crawling over steel and glass while voices shouted from somewhere you couldn’t focus on. The sound dulled, warped, until it was nothing but the pounding in your ears.

You didn’t realize the frost was spreading until HERBIE’s voice cut in again, sharper this time.

“Subject X-17, your body temperature has dropped significantly. Do you require assistance?”

The air itself seemed brittle. You pressed your palms to your thighs, trying to ground yourself. “No. I’m fine. Just—”

“Would you like me to contact Mr. Storm?” HERBIE interrupted, the mechanical politeness almost cruel.

The thought of him — his stupid grin, the warmth he couldn’t give you here, the way he’d said we could work on it — cracked something in you worse than the glass. The frost spread faster. Your hands shook.

“Don’t,” you snapped, but it came out thin. Weak. You weren’t sure if you meant don’t call him or don’t stop me.

The walls felt closer now, like they were leaning in. You sank down onto the floor, elbows braced to your knees, focusing on your breathing. The floor around you was littered with crumpled sticky notes — half-teases, half-confessions — none of them good enough to send.

You didn’t remember closing your eyes. Just the sound of your own breath, slowing from panic to exhaustion. You might’ve gone under for a bit, not asleep, just… away.

When you finally surfaced again, the room was the same—cold, still, and empty. Hours had passed. Enough for you to accept what the silence meant: Johnny hadn’t come by once, let alone twice. He didn’t want to work on your powers. He didn’t care. Even Reed had been distant lately, his visits stripped down to sterile necessity. They’d all lost interest. You weren’t a threat anymore, just something they couldn’t risk letting out.

You finally lifted your head and found HERBIE watching you; or whatever counted as “watching” for him.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“04:56,” he replied.

All night. You’d stayed up all night. For what?

You stared at the door with a glare sharp enough to burn through steel, every muscle locked in a challenge to it to open.

Minutes later, it did.

Not fire and storm this time—just Johnny. Slow. Quiet.

His uniform was a wreck—charred in places, ripped in others, the blue dulled to a weary slate beneath soot and frayed edges. The faint scent of ozone clung to him, threaded through with the smoke that had settled deep into the fabric. His hair stuck up in uneven spikes, half-wild, half-fallen, like it had been raked through with restless hands.

For a few seconds, he didn’t say a word. You took him in—every tired angle of him, the set of his mouth, the way his shoulders held a weight he hadn’t decided to drop. The air between you felt heavier for it, like he’d dragged the storm inside and it had nowhere else to go.

And his shoulders… they were tight enough to snap.

He didn’t waste time.

“What do you know about Doom?”

The question hit like a slap, sharp and out of nowhere.

You blinked. “What?”

Johnny’s jaw was tight. “Are you affiliated with him? Did you work with him?”

You stared at him, trying to figure out where this was coming from. A dozen questions crowded your head — where had he been, why was his uniform torn to shreds, and why the hell did it matter that he was standing here in one piece? Why did you care?

You stared at him, weighing your words. In the end, you kept it simple.

“I don’t know anything about him.”

Johnny studied you for a long moment, like he was trying to read past the glass. Finally, he nodded, almost to himself.

“He was at your lab,” he said quietly. “Going through papers. Weeks ago. I don’t know what he was looking for, but… I found something. Don’t know what it means yet.”

You leaned back, folding your arms. “And you’re telling me this why?”

His gaze flicked over your face, but he didn’t answer that. The silence stretched until you broke it.

“Why hasn’t Reed asked me about this?”

Johnny’s jaw shifted. “Because Reed doesn’t know.”

That landed heavier than you wanted it to. You looked away, staring at the wall like it might give you something better to think about. “Right. So you’re just keeping secrets for fun now.”

His voice was quieter when he answered. “No. I’m keeping them for you.”

He stepped closer, until the frost between you was only a thin blur. His gaze slid past you to the wall, settling on the faint fracture spidering up from the base.

“Reed still doesn’t know,” he said, voice low, almost like it wasn’t meant for you. “Not about Doom being there. Not about what your… condition does to me.”

The air between you felt heavier than the reinforced glass.

The words sank in slow, like ice creeping under your skin.

“If he knew…” you started, voice quiet but certain, “he wouldn’t have tried to get me to work with you guys.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

You let out a slow breath, almost talking to yourself now. “That’s why you said we could work on it. You thought if we figured it out—” Your eyes met his, the truth landing heavier than you expected. “—I could be part of the team.”

For a second, his expression softened, that same flicker of hope you’d caught before flashing in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced with the guarded set of someone who’d been burned before, by trusting too much, by his own misplaced emotions, maybe even by you.

Your voice was quieter when you said, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Just stepped toward the door.

You stayed sitting, your eyes widening when his hand closed around the handle.

HERBIE’s voice cut in, polite but firm. “I advise against this course of action.”

Johnny ignored him. “What would you do,” he asked, his tone unreadable, “if I let you out?”

His hand hovered at the lock, fingers curling, knuckles whitening like he was holding something back, or bracing for you to answer. You watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his gaze stayed fixed on the handle instead of you.

You’d imagined this exact moment more nights than you could count. In your head, it had always been sharp, immediate—your breathless sprint into the open, your voice caught between relief and disbelief. But now, with the air between you thick and still, it felt different. He felt different.

The silence stretched, taut enough that you could almost hear HERBIE gearing up to cut in. But HERBIE didn’t. It let the moment hang, as if even it was curious what you’d say.

You just looked at him—held his gaze until the air between you felt like it might snap. His eyes searched yours, not for the truth, but for the crack where you’d been hiding it. You didn’t give him one.

The lock disengaged with a sound that went straight through you.

The door opened, and the outside air rolled in — real air, layered with something sharp and cool, with the hum of the city somewhere beyond the walls. The lab smelled less clinical from here, warmer, almost like a home you’d forgotten you missed.

And Johnny… Johnny smelled like the sweater he’d given you that night, only ten times stronger.

He stood in the doorway, his presence filling the space in a way the cell never allowed.

When he stepped inside, the difference hit you in pieces. The soft hum of the containment glass vanished, leaving the air startlingly bare, like a quiet that wasn’t supposed to exist here. Every sound carried sharper now, the faint scuff of his boots on the floor, the rustle of scorched fabric as he moved.

The temperature shifted in waves. His heat rolled off him in a way that seemed impossible to ignore, thickening the air until it felt like you were standing at the meeting point of two different climates, his warmth bleeding into your cold. The closer he came, the more the boundary blurred, until you couldn’t tell if you were leaning into it or pulling back.

And for a moment, you couldn’t decide if this was a rescue, a test, or something else entirely.

His eyes caught on the walls of the cell—on the crumpled notes scattered like fallen leaves. He lingered there, just long enough for something unreadable to flicker in his expression before it was gone.

You looked too, but this time the sight was different. Not the same wall you’d stared at a hundred times out of boredom—this was the wall with the door open. The wall you could walk past if you wanted. The realization felt foreign, sharp in your chest.

There was no glass between you now. And for the first time, you felt his heat. Not muted, not dulled, but seeping past your cold like it had to burn higher just to reach you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

He just stood there, close enough that the air between you felt altered — waiting, like he hadn’t decided what came next.

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a/n: it has begun…

also do y’all know how, like, hot johnny had to be for her to feel it off him like that… food for thought…

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⟢ Chapter Eight

TAGLIST