╰┈➤ ✶ — FLASHPOINT ⭑.ᐟ
⟢ 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.
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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
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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.
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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 :(
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⟢ Chapter Twenty Two
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