Chapter Text
"Why are we here again?"
"We are here to support Reed, I already told you. Shut it." Sue whispered with her lips pressed together. Her eyes were glued to the stage where Reed was explaining things Johnny had already heard over cereal this morning.
Johnny shifted on his feet. The auditorium smelled like stale coffee and too many stressed-out college kids, and it was full of ESU students ranging from “I live for this” nerds to “I’m here for the extra credit” zombies. Somewhere in between was Johnny Storm, who had been bribed into showing up when Sue pulled the we show up for family card.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" he whispered back.
Sue didn’t even look at him.
"Can I go with him?" Ben asked, already sounding like a co-conspirator. He knew Johnny wasn’t going anywhere near the bathroom.
"Stop. Shut up." Sue’s elbow jabbed into both of them with big-sister precision, even though Johnny was sure Ben barely felt it.
Johnny didn’t get why whispering was suddenly outlawed. Behind them, two girls were openly gossiping like they were in a cafeteria, and Johnny—bless his short attention span—had already learned that some guy named Jason had slept with one of them and then her sister. That was soap opera level. And then there was the short-king who had spent ten minutes complaining about not being able to see past Ben, as if Ben was intentionally blocking his line of sight. Johnny had been three seconds away from saying something about not getting too much milk during his childhood before the guy moved to the other side of the room.
Reed’s voice had that careful, steady enthusiasm that made science people swoon, and sure enough, Sue’s whole body leaned forward like she was tethered to him. He started making some joke about quantum whatever, Johnny tuned out after the word “entropy,” and only people with IQs in the triple digits chuckled politely.
Johnny’s gaze flicked over Sue. Still laser-focused on Reed. Good.
He leaned toward Ben, whispering, "Bet you five bucks I can be out the door before she even notices."
Ben smirked. "You’re on."
And with that, Johnny slipped away into the shifting sea of ESU hoodies and dress shirts, the murmur of voices swallowing him up. He didn’t have a destination in mind, just a need to breathe somewhere that didn’t smell like the memories of the last time he tried to get into college.
Johnny looked back over his shoulder to throw Ben a thumbs-up while walking, his victory secured; he grinned smugly, right up until his front slammed into someone else.
"Oh, shi—"
A warm hand closed around his upper arm, steadying him before he could stumble back. Johnny’s head whipped up, ready with some snappy apology, but the words tripped over themselves when he caught sight of who was holding him.
Johnny blinked.
"Hey." His initial surprise morphed into a slow smile when he locked onto a pair of ridiculously big brown eyes framed by lashes that shouldn’t be legal.
The eyes belonged to a guy with thick eyebrows, a tall, sharp nose, and messy, too-many-hours-in-the-wind brown hair. He also had a faint bruise-like mix of colors near the end of his jaw.
Oh, Johnny liked.
"Hey," the guy echoed, his voice casual but warm, like he’d been caught mid-thought and didn’t mind. He had a camera in one hand, the strap looped loosely around his wrist. The other hand was still on Johnny, warm through the fabric of his sleeve.
"Sorry, man. I was just looking for the…" Johnny trailed off, glancing vaguely around them. He let the pause stretch, aware of the guy’s gaze staying on him. "…bathroom."
Cute brunette released him but only to point down a hallway. "Should be all the way through the right hall."
"Ah, thanks." Johnny lingered, because leaving felt like a crime when this kind of eye contact was happening. Up close, he could see the tiny smudge of ink on the side of the guy’s thumb, the faint smell of coffee clinging to his hoodie.
Brown eyes narrowed slightly, like they’d just put a puzzle piece in place. "Oh. You’re Johnny Storm." It didn’t sound like a question, it landed more like a fact he wasn’t thrilled about.
"That would be me," Johnny said, letting a grin spread. "You want an autograph?"
"Pass for now."
"Shame," Johnny shot back easily. "You could sell it."
"Not that currently desperate for money." The guy—Peter Parker, it read on the back of his camera—shifted his weight, fiddling absently with the edge of his sleeve like it was more interesting than Johnny’s face.
Johnny tipped his chin toward the camera. "You’re a photographer?"
"At the Bugle."
That earned him raised eyebrows. "The Bugle? The paper that hates Spider-Man?"
"The reputation precedes them, huh." Peter’s mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Johnny gave a short laugh. "No offense, but they suck."
Peter looked at him for a long beat, eyes glinting. "None taken. Pretty sure you’d say that about most people."
Johnny’s grin didn’t falter, but his brain quietly noted the shift. He’d gotten that tone before, from people who’d already decided they knew who he was. Thing was… that usually made him want to prove them wrong. Or right, depending on his mood. And right now he wasn’t sure which mood he was in.
"Well, I don’t think Spidey sucks."
"D'you even know the guy?"
Johnny shrugged one shoulder, all casual bravado. "Everybody knows him."
Peter gave him a look that totally said don’t play dumb with me. "You know what I mean."
Johnny didn’t flinch. "I know he can’t be all that bad, no matter how much your boss paints him like public enemy number one."
Peter’s jaw worked, eyes narrowing in that way people do when they’ve decided this is going to be a whole thing. "You ever seen the mess he leaves behind? Collapsed scaffolding, busted cars, torn-up roads—"
"Yeah, like the bad guys are real gentle with the city property," Johnny cut in.
"Point is, he’s not exactly making it better," Peter shot back. "Half the time, it’s like he chooses the most destructive way to handle things."
"Huh, sounds like you’ve got some kind of personal vendetta there."
Peter stiffened just enough for Johnny to notice. "I’m saying he’s a vigilante with zero accountability. Lately, he’s been—" Peter hesitated. "—more aggressive. Put a guy in the hospital last month."
Johnny huffed. "Yeah, well, maybe the guy deserved it."
"That’s not really how the law works," Peter muttered, folding his arms. He moved and shifted in a way that didn’t make him seem as confrontational as he was awkward.
Johnny tilted his head, taking his time looking Peter up and down, like he was trying to decide if the guy was really this self-righteous or just had a stick up his ass. "Law’s not really built for people like him."
Peter met his eyes evenly, but there was a little tightness at the corners of his mouth. Johnny wasn't sure he hadn’t just struck something closer to home than he meant to.
"Right. I forgot you benefit out of it too."
The easy smirk slid right off his face. "What does that even mean?"
"You know—he gets all this bad rep while you and your team soak up the glory. Even though you’ve been doing this for what, five months?"
"Six," Johnny corrected automatically, jaw tightening. "And we’re all on the same side here."
"Are you now." He sounded as if he was making fun of Johnny.
Johnny stared at him for a beat too long, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck. It wasn’t the kind of heat he could blame on his powers either. He hated the implication that he was coasting, that the Fantastic Four were just riding the wave of better PR while Spider-Man took the punches.
"You don’t know the first thing about what we do," Johnny said, voice low now, a thread of irritation running under it.
"And you don’t know the first thing about him," Peter countered, tone just as flat. His eyes were locked on Johnny like he was daring him to bite back.
Johnny could’ve walked away. Should’ve walked away. But instead he stepped in, just a little too close for it to be comfortable, testing the air between them. "Maybe I don’t. But I know enough to tell when someone’s got a personal grudge going on."
Peter’s gaze flicked to Johnny’s mouth for the briefest second before he scoffed, stepping back like he needed the space. "Or maybe I just don’t like showboats."
"Funny," Johnny said, recovering his smirk, "I was just thinking the same about you."
Now that he got the last word, he made his way back to his family. Sue barely noticed he had been gone, Ben sent him a weird look when Johnny didn’t gloat as he took the five dollars from his rocky hand. Johnny told himself the itch in his chest was just irritation—not curiosity. Not the disappointment of not even having the chance to flirt with a guy that was just his type.
Man, why were all the cute ones such jerks?
He shot a quick glance over his shoulder anyway, just to be sure Peter hadn’t disappeared into the crowd entirely, but he was cut by people clapping. Reed was done with his TED talk.
Good. He needed to get out of here already.
It was just Johnny’s luck that he would end up a hostage in some bank robbery on the exact day he needed to do something as stupid as unlocking his accounts so he could use his cards. His plan had been simple: get in, grab the card, and get the hell out to buy the parts he needed to fix the car he’d been tinkering with for weeks, easy peasy.
Not today, apparently.
The lady crouched next to him was trembling so badly her bracelets kept rattling. She had her kid locked against her chest like the air itself was going to snatch him away. Johnny leaned sideways, shot her a grin that was supposed to be reassuring. It’s gonna be okay, he mouthed. Her eyes darted to him, then back to the floor. Not exactly a win.
The robbers had big guns, dime-store clown masks, the whole cliché starter pack, and they barely glanced at him. Which was fine. Better for everyone if he stayed anonymous. Except Johnny Storm wasn’t exactly built for anonymous. His leg jiggled against the marble floor, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep from sparking. He was just about to lose patience and flame on when a streak of blue and red flashed on the balcony above.
Oh. That was going to be over real fast.
He had never seen Spider-Man work this close before, and honestly? This was a pretty incredible way to get a front-row seat. Not that he would’ve chosen being trapped in a bank over teaming up with him any day. Johnny had imagined it before, they would make a perfect tag-team. Spider-Man with his lightning reflexes, Johnny with his flames. Both of them liking to talk, throwing out quips that would annoy more than one person. Communication would be easy. He could almost hear the imaginary Spider-Man voice in his head, cracking wise while flipping between walls.
Still, watching him move was always such a captivating sight. It was eye-catching, as if he was a stuntman that was simply putting on a show. Every turn and flip in the air looked effortless. Johnny wondered if the guy ever took pilates classes to get to that point of flexibility. Then again, he looked more like a dancer that anything else. He moved with a weightless grace that demanded attention. And he definitely got Johnny's.
He still remembered the first time he saw Spider-Man in real life; it was funny cause for someone allegedly living in New York, he was a hard guy to point down. He’d seen the guy swing overhead while he stood on a street corner, heard the crowd gasp like they were watching a trapeze act, felt his own chest tighten with something suspiciously like awe. It made him want to follow, to feel the air whip past his ears, to know what it was like to be that free.
To be him.
Then, just like that, the show was over. Robbers pinned to the wall like butterflies on corkboard. Guns stuck up like ugly décor. Johnny hadn’t even gotten to throw a punch.
But then again, he really should’ve known better, Johnny self-admonished. Two arms clamped around him from behind, and something cold and metal dug hard into his temple. He froze. No flames, not unless he wanted to flambé his new friend in front of terrified civilians.
“Let me go, or I’ll shoot him!” the voice barked.
Well. That got Spidey’s attention. He turned, and the second their eyes met through the lenses, Johnny caught a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Recognition, maybe. And not the fun, hey, I love your work kind. More like: Oh God, not this guy.
“Hey now, big guy,” Spider-Man said, raising his hands in that careful, hostage-negotiator way, “we’re all feeling stressed, your mask’s doing that creepy condensation thing—gross, by the way—and I think we should take a deep breath and—”
The barrel pressed harder to Johnny’s head. “Stay the hell back!”
There was a moment where everything went quiet. Johnny’s pulse hammered. He could’ve waited and let Spidey pull his magic trick, end this nice and clean. That would’ve been the smart move. Which, historically, wasn’t his strong suit.
So he deliberately went with the Johnny Storm move. Slammed his head backward into the guy’s nose.
The robber yelped, gun slipping from his grip. Spidey moved in a blur, webbing Johnny sideways out of danger before cocooning the idiot in sticky thread. It took maybe three seconds. Johnny barely had time to taste copper at the back of his throat before it was over.
He rubbed the spot on his head, grinning despite the ache. “Hey. Thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Spider-Man was already sweeping up the scene like an overworked janitor. “Nice job, by the way. Headbutting a guy with a gun to your head. Totally safe. Love that for you.”
"I just saw the chance and took it." Johnny shrugged.
Spider-Man scoffed as he secured the last gun in a web cocoon. "That’s one way to call it. I’d call it a death wish, but whatever." He dusted his gloves off like he was trying to erase the conversation along with the grime. Still wouldn’t look at Johnny.
Johnny smirked, leaning back on his heels. “But you were there. I’m a big fan, by the way. I’m Johnny. But I go by the Human Torch for fellow heroes.”
That earned him the briefest glance, just a jerky move of his head. “I know who you are.”
“Oh?” His smile widened. “You do?”
Another scoff left Spider-Man's lips, more of a habit than an intentional jab at this point. "You’re hard to miss. You’re plastered on every billboard in the city these days."
Johnny’s grin faltered for a split second, but he pulled it back quick. “What can I say? I’m an easy guy to love.”
“Mm.” Spidey’s head tilted just enough to make the ‘mm’ sound like ‘you’re insufferable.’ “Yeah, right. More like a PR department’s fever dream.”
Johnny's smile fell, and it was too late to hide it. Even his brow frowned a little. "Hey, I don't think I ever did something to you."
Spidey gave an unconvincing shrug. “I just find you annoying.”
Johnny’s mouth opened, heat prickling in his chest, his eyebrows drawed together. “Excuse you, I—”
But the wail of sirens cut him off. The police burst in, and Spider-Man was already moving toward the door, fast. He gave the robbers one last look, then was gone with no quip nor goodbye. Johnny stayed where he was, watching him disappear into the light outside, greeting police officers with his usual carefree charm. The back of his throat felt tight for reasons he didn’t care to examine. He blew out a slow breath, ran a hand through his hair, and told himself it didn’t matter.
Because sure, he’d wanted to see Spider-Man. But he hadn’t expected that.
Notes:
I'm on Tumblr too, lets be friends !
Chapter 2
Notes:
i was going to post this as a one-shot, like i said on Tumblr, but it was getting too long. it's mostly finished so might post the few first chapters in a row
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The fire was already roaring when Johnny got there; angry, spitting heat like it had a personal vendetta against Brooklyn. He could see the glow from halfway across the bridge, the air tasting faintly of ash by the time he landed. Two minutes, tops. Long enough for the FDNY to already be in full swing, their sirens still echoing off the surrounding buildings.
Sue’s voice had been in his ear on the way over: “Electrical fire made worse by stored chemicals.” Which was her polite, Sue-ish way of saying, don’t screw around, Johnny, or you’ll blow up half a block.
Johnny’s presence should’ve made the scene safer. That’s what he did in fires after all, swoop in, clear civilians, and use controlled bursts to push the blaze where he wanted it, away from the people who couldn’t take the heat.
He landed beside a firefighter just emerging from the chaos, cradling a trembling little white dog that looked like it had seen better days.
"Anyone else inside?" Johnny asked, already bracing for the answer.
The man nodded his head. "Two of our guys. Looking for civilians."
"Got it." And then Johnny was in, ducking under the sagging doorframe before anyone could tell him otherwise.
The first floor was holding up by pure luck. Smoke clawed at his vision, flames licking along the walls in frantic tongues, but the heat felt like home to him. Like sliding into a bath drawn exactly the way he liked it. He’d never get over how wrong that was.
Two civilians stumbled into view, faces pale behind soot masks. He scooped them up trying to be as gentle and careful as he could because burning the people you were saving was generally frowned upon. Ben would’ve been useful right about now; the guy could bulldoze through debris without a second thought. Johnny had to pick his way through, stepping over rubble and ducking falling chunks of ceiling.
Once outside, he deposited them into the care of waiting medics. "Just need to get everyone out so I can absorb the flames!" he called to the nearest cluster of firefighters.
That’s when it happened. He flamed on to keep a collapsing beam from crushing a kid, and somewhere in his periphery, he caught movement. A firefighter that was too close. The blast of heat flared, and a sharp hiss of pain cut through the noise.
Shit, no no no. That was his fault.
"You okay?!" Johnny shouted over the roar.
"Just get him out of here!" the man coughed back.
So Johnny did, scooping the kid up and bolting before the building decided to finish collapsing on itself. He could feel in his bones that the place had minutes left, maybe less.
Time to end it.
Johnny shot upward, pulling the fire into himself, every lick of it folding into his skin until the blaze was nothing but scorched, blackened walls. It was hot enough to be irritating, that edge where his comfort zone stopped being fun. He needed to release it, so he rocketed higher, higher, until the city looked like a postcard. Then he let it go.
When he landed again, the street was a press of bodies. Firefighters, medics and gawkers were gathered around—and reporters. Always reporters. His gaze swept for the kid. He looked okay, safe, thank God, and then it landed on the firefighter he’d hit with the blast.
The man’s arm and neck were wrapped, skin angry and blistered. And of course, the vultures were already circling him, mics shoved forward like they might draw blood.
“I appreciate the help,” the firefighter said, voice rough, “but we’ve got protocols. We don’t need a showboat with a flamethrower making it worse.”
Johnny froze, eyebrows shooting up before his mouth caught up. Showboat. He’d just kept the guy from becoming human pavement, and now he was being painted like… what? Some overgrown kid playing hero for the cameras? He stepped forward, the heat inside him flaring alive again.
“Showboat?" The name rang something familiar in him. "I just kept you from getting flattened, pal.”
The crowd’s eyes snapped to him with their cameras clicking. Somewhere behind the mob, he thought he saw a very familiar figure with a camera, lurking just far enough away to go unnoticed. Johnny didn’t have time to dwell on it, as the press immediately started screaming questions.
Turns out, as Ben had dryly pointed out the next morning while jabbering a rocky finger at the Bugle’s front page during breakfast, throwing a tantrum at a decorated FDNY veteran wasn’t exactly a crowd-pleaser.
“That’s bullshit. It’s a pile of lies,” Johnny grumbled, snatching the paper from Ben’s casually extended hands.
Sue, unfazed, planted a soft kiss on Reed’s temple before passing him a steaming cup of coffee, totally unconcerned by Johnny’s mounting indignation and the not-so-rare public display of affection playing out right in front of him.
Johnny was too busy simmering to even acknowledge the domestic scene. This was so unfair. Completely provoked. Especially since that wasn’t how things had gone down.
That firefighter—O’Hara, or whatever his name was—had been whining about protocols while Johnny was literally out here trying to keep people from burning alive. And of course, the news ran with it.
The headline was screaming at him from the front page:
MENACE IN TIGHTS ENDANGERS FIRST RESPONDERS
The photo was so-oh-perfect, it showed the exact split-second Johnny was standing over the injured firefighter, still flamed on, face tight with frustration and barely-restrained irritation, while paramedics fussed over O’Hara.
“It’s just a bad angle,” Sue said, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the picture like a nosy mom.
Johnny huffed. “I look like I’m about to roast him like Sunday dinner.”
Ben chuckled to himself. “Heh. I gotta thank that photographer personally.”
Johnny lobbed a crust of bread at him. It bounced harmlessly off Ben’s chest.
“Come on, kids,” Reed said, voice calm as ever, “you know how these things work. The media moves on fast. We just need to focus on doing good stuff now.”
“Reed’s right,” Sue added, always the voice of reason. “We all have our moments.”
Johnny crossed his arms on the kitchen island, scowling. Yeah, they all had their moments. Except he wasn’t the one who screwed up here. All he had wanted to do was to help and now he got this instead.
The thought of Spider-Man seeing this headline and laughing, or worse, agreeing, sat heavy in his stomach. Because even the Bugle had let Spidey off for once, like they’d traded him in for fresher meat. Johnny Storm: today’s public enemy number one.
Ben was right even if he hated to admit it; the blame lay with the photographer. That angle had turned him from hero to villain in one merciless shot.
Grim-faced, Johnny grabbed the paper again and squinted for the name under the photo in looks of the bastard responsible for this.
Peter Parker.
The name looked familiar. With a quick search on his phone he understood why.
"Sis," he said, taking one last bite at his avocado toast before sliding off his stool. "Don't wait for me at lunch."
Sue froze mid-refill, her eyes narrowed as if she knew this wasn’t just a casual errand. “Where are you going?”
Johnny grabbed the front page of the paper, completely ignoring Ben’s half-hearted grumble. And then snagged his jacket too, already half out the door.
"I gotta see someone."
“You,” Johnny said, voice low, finger jabbing through the air as he stormed into the Bugle’s main office, looking all the way like a man on a mission. Chairs scraped, keyboards stilled, heads turned. He didn’t care. His eyes locked on Peter Parker across the room.
Peter blinked, halfway through sipping burnt office coffee from one of those styrofoam cups, brows drawing together. He glanced behind him. Then at Johnny. Then behind him again.
“Yeah, you.” Johnny repeated, closing the distance now, each step practically vibrating with indignation. “You asshole. You are—"
Before he could finish whatever dramatic declaration he’d marched in here with, Peter’s hand shot out, tight grip around his bicep, and tugged him sharply to the side.
“Hey!” Johnny twisted instinctively, but damn, Parker had one hell of a grip. Wiry but strong, tendons flexing under that stupid rolled-up sleeve. Johnny’s brain, traitorous as always, flickered with an intrusive thought about what those hands might feel like on his—
No. No, no. He hated the guy right now. Absolutely couldn’t stand him.
Peter all but dragged him down a hallway and into what looked like a supply closet. He shut the door behind them with a soft click and locked it. The sudden quiet pressed in around them, lit only by a flickering overhead bulb and rows of cleaning products.
Peter’s voice was tight. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Let me go.” Johnny yanked his arm free, rubbing at it. “Gosh, you’re such an ass.”
Peter didn’t budge. His jaw was set, eyes dark. “You’re the one who barged into my job like a wrecking ball. What, you think you can just throw a tantrum and everyone’s supposed to bow? Well, newsflash, I don’t work for you.”
Johnny’s heart was pounding. God, why was Parker always so—aggravatingly righteous. And infuriatingly handsome, especially when he was pissed off, those stupid thick eyebrows pulling together like that.
No. He was mad. He was here for a reason.
He pulled a crumpled newspaper page from his jacket pocket and thrust it toward Peter, so close it practically touched his nose. The front page, smeared with ink. His photo.
“This,” Johnny hissed. “You printed this. You made me look like the bad guy.”
“First of all—” Peter stepped back, hands up, as if dealing with a feral animal. “I didn’t print anything. I take the photos. The editor makes the call.”
“But you gave them the pic! It’s—” Johnny spluttered
One of Peter's hands shot up to cover Johnny’s mouth. Words failed him, frustration thick in his throat.
“Can you, for once, use your indoor voice and a functioning brain? Not everyone’s here to listen to your dramatic monologues.”
Johnny scowled, lips pressed tight. After a tense second, Peter finally dropped his hand.
Johnny exhaled sharply, scrubbing a palm over his mouth. “Man, what is your problem?”
“My problem?” Peter’s voice was the one that rose now. “You stormed in here like the world owes you something, and I have the problem? Please. If you’ve got an issue with this—” he snatched the paper from Johnny and waved it in front of him, “—go cry to your lawyers. I’ve got enough shit going on without you making it worse.”
Johnny bristled. There it was again, that tone, that judgement. Just like when they’d first met. Like Peter had him figured out from day one.
“You see? There you go again. You call me a jerk the second you open your mouth. You don’t even know me. Sure, maybe I skip a few lines at clubs, maybe I forget to set the damn table when Sue asks. Big deal. But you? You’re always right there with the first punch.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re rich. You’re famous. Every girl in the city wants you. Forgive me if I’m not falling over myself with sympathy.”
“Oh my God. Is that it?” Johnny’s voice cracked into a bitter laugh. He threw his hands up in frustration, wincing when his knuckles hit metal. Cramped fucking closet. “That’s your issue?”
Peter’s jaw worked. “I just find people like you annoying. That’s all.”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. “People like me?”
“Yeah. Spoiled, rich celebrity kids.” Peter stepped forward, close enough that Johnny could feel the warmth off him now, sharp and sparking between them. “You live in a bubble of money and fame. You get anything you want without even trying. Must be nice.”
“You don’t know half of it.” Johnny’s finger jabbed at Peter’s chest. Firm muscle under soft plaid was all he felt. “And you? You’re just some bitter little asshole with a hero complex and a mountain of self-esteem issues. You tear people down because it’s easier than dealing with your own shit.”
“Oh yeah?” Peter’s tone was low, dangerous. He leaned in, close enough that Johnny could feel the whisper of breath against his mouth. “At least I’m not the one coasting on a trust fund.”
“You—” Johnny’s breath caught. His heart was beating too fast, palms damp. For fuck’s sake, now was not the time to notice the way Peter’s mouth curved when he smirked. Or how warm his eyes were, even when they were spitting fire.
He hated him. He hated him. He did. So why the hell couldn’t he stop looking at his lips?
Peter, infuriatingly smooth, slid a hand behind Johnny’s neck, and then they were kissing. Hard and rough and desperate, like they were trying to fight and fuck all at once.
Neither of them backed down.
Peter shoved him hard against the door, pinning him there, body moving without thought. His hand stayed tight around Johnny’s neck as the kiss deepened, teeth catching Johnny’s bottom lip and tugging until he gasped. Peter dragged his mouth down, wet heat along Johnny’s throat. A terrible idea, but Johnny didn’t really care.
One of Peter's thighs moved between his legs, rough and perfect, and Johnny let out a sharp noise before he could stop it. His fingers dug into Peter’s shoulders, nails biting through thin fabric. Fuck, that was—better than anything he’d imagined. Embarrassing how fast his body responded, but he wasn’t about to dwell on it. Not when Peter’s thigh pressed up again, not when the friction stole the breath from his lungs.
Peter mouthed along his jaw, teeth grazing sensitive skin beneath his ear.
“Don’t leave a mark,” Johnny gasped, breathless.
Peter hummed against his neck, not promising a thing, hands sliding down to grip Johnny’s hips, guiding, demanding. The message was clear: move. So Johnny obeyed. He shut his eyes, head tipping back, hips rolling greedily against Peter’s thigh. Sparks everywhere. He hated him. He wanted him. That was the worst part and the best.
Fingers curling into Peter’s hair, Johnny yanked hard. Peter grunted, pressing in closer, and Johnny twisted a nipple through his shirt just to hear the sound again.
Peter’s hands snapped up, he cupped Johnny’s jaw with just enough pressure to make him focus. His pupils were blown wide, lips flushed. “God, you’re such a—” he hesitated, but his hips kept thrusting against Johnny’s.
Johnny couldn’t help it, a chuckle tore free. He felt wrecked already, mind spinning, body hypersensitive to every grind and drag. He locked eyes with Peter, cocky smile twisting his mouth. “No, c'mon tell me. I'm what?”
Peter’s free hand slid down without missing a beat, grabbing a shameless handful of Johnny’s ass. “You’re… way prettier when you’re,” his voice dropped, eyes flicking to Johnny’s mouth, “not talking so much.”
A gasp punched out of him. Johnny shoved both hands up under Peter’s shirt, nails scraping over hot skin. He had some sharp reply on the tip of his tongue but it was forgotten instantly when Peter thrust harder, rough, fast, grinding against him so perfectly it was almost painful. His cock throbbed, leaking already, trapped tight in his jeans. Barely started and he was close to losing it.
He met Peter’s eyes again. “Quiet me, then.” The words came out hoarse, but they were a clear dare.
Peter crashed their mouths together again, all sharp edges and heat. Johnny kissed him back like he wanted to rip him apart, teeth and tongue fighting for more.
Their cocks rubbed together through tight denim and every movement felt like torture. A filthy image flashed through Johnny’s mind: Peter’s cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. He wanted it. Wanted to bite him and hear him break.
Peter pulled back with a yank of Johnny’s hair, making him whimper. His eyes rolled back, helpless against the mix of pain and pleasure tearing through him. He hated how Peter seemed to know exactly what would undo him, how to pull him apart without trying. Johnny bit down on his lip, desperate for something—anything—to hold on to.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck.” The words spilled from him without permission. He was close. Too fucking close.
Peter’s hips moved faster, grinding him hard against the door. Johnny moaned, shameless, as he chased the friction.
Then, Peter’s hand slipped lower, cupping him under the thigh and pulling him in tighter. The new angle sent Johnny spiraling, body arching. So close. He needed—
Peter’s breath hitched. His hips stuttered, low groan ripping free before he came, head dropping to Johnny’s shoulder to muffle the sounds.
“Fuck—no, no—” Johnny whined, still teetering on the edge. He fumbled with his jeans, hand shoving into damp briefs. One, two, three quick strokes and he came with a broken whimper, hips jerking.
Peter’s hungry gaze pinned him the entire time as Johnny touched himself to the finish. Like watching him come apart was its own reward. And Johnny would take the fact that he found it hot as hell to his grave.
Johnny tugged himself back into his jeans, fingers quick but not exactly steady. He risked a glance at Peter through his lashes, half-expecting the guy to already be halfway out the door.
Peter wasn’t, though he looked like he wished he was. Cheeks pink under the soft, flickering fluorescent light, hair mussed, mouth a little swollen from too much kissing and maybe a little biting. Johnny’s chest gave an unexpected, inconvenient little twist at the sight.
Peter’s hand went to his mouth, knuckles brushing over his lower lip like he was trying to erase the last five minutes. He cleared his throat. “I, um. I gotta get back to—” He pointed vaguely toward the door, looking about as composed as a deer in the headlights. A sheer contrast of how he just looked minutes ago when he was breathing hard against Johnny’s neck and trying to fuck him through the door.
Right. Still on the clock. Johnny had almost forgotten they’d just dry-humped like hormonal teenagers in a Bugle supply closet. Not exactly Pulitzer material, Parker.
“Right, yeah,” Johnny said, zipping up the last inch. “Work. Can’t have your boss finding out you’re screwing their interview subjects in between deadlines.”
Peter made a face, shoulders curling forward like the mental image alone made him want to sink through the floor. “Yeah, uh. About the paper—”
Johnny waved him off with a flick of his wrist. “Forget it.”
And he meant it. Weirdly. The sting he’d felt over the article, the sole reason why he was there in the first place, was already gone, dulled under the afterglow still buzzing under his skin.
Peter hesitated, mouth parting like he had something else lined up. Maybe an apology, maybe another excuse, but nothing came out. He shut his mouth, swallowed. “Aight,” he said finally, voice low. “I’ll get out first, make sure the coast’s clear. If I double tap the door, wait a minute before you leave, okay?”
Johnny gave a short nod. “Got it, chief.”
Peter slipped out, soft-footed despite the squeaky hinges. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Johnny in the stale, paper-and-cleaner-scented air. He leaned back against the wall, listening.
The outing went smooth—a couple of sharp raps on the door, then silence, and when Johnny stepped out a minute later into the hallway, he walked past the cubicles like he’d been in the building for an entirely legitimate reason. By the time he hit the street, the late morning sun glaring off the pavement, he realized he felt weirdly calm. Not guilt, not exactly satisfaction either, more like a pressure valve had been released. He felt lighter.
Maybe he’d just needed to get laid. Maybe he’d needed to do it with Peter Parker of all people. Because whatever sharp, burning frustration he’d been nursing less than an hour ago was gone, burned up, maybe, in the cramped heat of that closet and the taste of Peter’s mouth.
Which was fine. Great, even. Totally fine. He got Peter Parker out of his system and now Johnny could go back to living his life just as it was before they ever crossed paths.
Chapter Text
“Can you stop gazing at him already?”
Johnny blinked, dragging his attention from the skyline where Spider-Man had just disappeared, the red-and-blue blur swallowed by the concrete jungle. Sue’s voice came from much closer than it should have because the last he’d checked, she’d been at the far end of the block.
“What?” He played dumb, which usually worked better when his ears weren’t already hot.
Sue just nodded toward the air as she carefully lowered a slab of broken wall with her powers, setting it down among the growing pile of debris. “At Spider-Man.”
Johnny followed her gaze back to the rooftop where he’d last seen him. Not much left now but the faint echo of motion and the way his brain filled in the arc of those last swings without needing to see them.
He wasn’t even sure you could call it a team-up. By the time Johnny had clocked the guy perched overhead, Ben already had the so-called Puppet Master in a crushing grip, and the puppets were nothing but wreckage around their feet. The fight itself had been chaos. The Puppet Master tried and succeeded to turn Ben into one of his evil marionettes. He had Ben roaring and flinging anything in reach, which unfortunately, included cars, a truck, and a good chunk of the front wall of a perfectly innocent building.
And then there’d been the lady with the sweet voice, dark glasses, steady as stone even with an entire street losing its mind around her. She’d stepped up to Ben, talking low, and it was like someone cutting the strings—he’d stilled, blinked, and came back to himself. Later, they’d found out she was Alicia, Puppet Master’s daughter.
Ben liked her and Johnny could see why. Kindness like that had its own gravity. Sue had been wary at first, reading every shift in Alicia’s expression like a code she might crack, but when the fight went to hell, she’d been right there helping Sue shield the civilians.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Johnny muttered, brushing dust from his jacket.
Sue gave him the kind of smile that said she could see the thought bubble over his head from a mile away. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?” Johnny kept his tone light, aiming for bored, even though his mind was still replaying the quick, fluid way Spider-Man had dropped between rooftops.
“Like you'd like to buy him dinner and maybe ask him what brand of hair gel he uses.” Sue gestured at her hair with one hand.
Johnny scoffed, heat creeping up his neck. He wasn't even that into hair care. A guy mentions he wants to start buying hair masks and they never let it go. “He wears a mask, Sue. For all I know, he’s bald under there.”
Sue arched an unimpressed brow. “And yet you’re still staring at rooftops like a lovesick tourist.”
"Look, the guy doesn’t even like me."
"How do you know?"
Johnny scoffed, shaking his head as he moved toward the smoldering fire truck. Heat radiated from it in waves, but he pulled the flames toward himself anyway, swallowing them down until the metal stopped glowing. "He pretty much told me. Remember the bank incident?"
Sue drifted closer, telekinetically lifting the warped front end of the truck to straighten it out. "Oh. Yeah. Is that why you were sulking at dinner that day?"
"I wasn’t sulking," Johnny muttered automatically. Then, after a pause, "I was processing my emotions."
Sue gave him the side-eye over her shoulder, the kind that told him she wasn’t buying it.
Johnny sighed, dragging a hand over his neck. "It’s just—you know, I thought—" He cut himself off, eyes narrowing at the memory of Spider-Man’s tone that day, sharp as the shards of broken glass scattered across the bank floor.
Sue’s voice softened. "That you’d be friends?"
Johnny huffed out a laugh, but it didn’t have any heat in it. "Yeah. Guess I should’ve remembered he’s New York’s favorite people-person." He meant it as a joke, but it landed flat in his own ears.
That night Johnny found himself thinking about it still as he paced his room, bare feet dragging across the rug, getting ready for bed.
He couldn’t really get Spider-Man out of his head. Which was stupid. The guy had been an ass, and in all humility, Johnny wasn’t even the bad guy here. He knew as much.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down his face. The way Spider-Man had talked to him like he was some kind of joke, some fame-chasing kid who had no business being in the same room as him. Johnny had been surrounded by that silent judgement before. He’d been on the receiving end of it enough times to recognize it instantly.
It reminded him of—
“Ugh,” Johnny muttered to himself, shaking his head hard, like he could knock the memory loose. He yanked a baggy shirt over his head and flopped back onto the mattress.
The second his head hit the pillow, Peter’s face flashed in his mind. Messy brown hair, those eyes that had lingered too long, the sharp set of his mouth when he was irritated. And, Christ, the feel of his breath, hot and close against Johnny’s skin, burned its way back into memory without permission.
He groaned and shoved the pillow over his face. “Get it together, Storm. You’re not thirteen.”
Johnny could get past Peter writing him off as a capitalistic leech. Even though that part stung too, sure, but Johnny wasn’t blind to how people saw him. Spider-Man had gotten under his skin in a way Johnny hadn’t expected. He’d spent the last couple years thinking of him as this larger-than-life figure, a real hero. The guy who had saved one of the most important people in his life when no one else could. That kind of thing left a mark. And now? Now all Johnny had was this version of him that rolled his eyes and dismissed him like he wasn’t worth the oxygen.
He should just let it go. Scratch Spidey off the idol list, forget the guy, and double down on proving himself to everyone else. To the world, to his team. Prove he could be a real hero without the mask giving him approval.
But lying there, staring at the ceiling, the thought curdled. Was that what he actually wanted? Or did he want just Spider-Man to see him differently?
The bed dipped as Johnny rolled onto his side, curling closer to the soft pillow. His chest felt tight, restless energy fizzing in his veins. He could go find Spider-Man. Track him down on some rooftop, force him to look at Johnny and see he wasn’t just some spoiled brat with a flashy power set. That he was worth more than a headline.
“Yeah,” he muttered self-reassuringly into the dark, his lips brushing the pillowcase. “I should do that. Give him a piece of my mind. Make him see.”
Or maybe he’ll just call you a dumbass and swing away, Johnny's treacherous brain offered, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite himself. His eyes slid shut.
Maybe he could prove his point and get the guy’s attention. A win-win.
The next morning, Johnny walked into the Daily Bugle with his favorite sunglasses on and half-wondering if this was a mistake. If Peter wasn’t here, this was going to be a colossal waste of time. Maybe he should’ve given this more thought. Maybe run it by Sue first, get her patented Johnny, don’t be stupid look and then ignore it anyway. But the glowing opportunity had been right there. Johnny had a favor to ask for and if Peter happened to be the man he had to ask it from, oh what a crazy coincidence.
He caught his own reflection in the elevator’s scratched-up mirror and lifted a hand to flatten his hair. The girl standing next to him with a painfully-looking tight ponytail, and clutching a stack of files like they were the last defense against the chaos outside, gave him a side-eye.
He flashed a quick smile at his reflection, then at her. She looked away fast.
The doors opened and he stepped into a whirlwind of noise that included phones ringing, shoes tapping, someone yelling about a deadline. Classic newsroom chaos. His eyes scanned the place for a mess of brown hair.
Instead, a tap on his shoulder pulled him back. A soft voice. “Can I help you?”
Johnny turned, turning on his smile like flipping a switch. “Hi, I’m—”
“Johnny Storm,” she finished for him, lips quirking.
“Yeah,” he said, a touch thrown, but rolled with it.
“Your skin looks even better in person, wow. I wanted to tell you that the last time you were here, but then Peter was dragging you away.”
Dragging him away. The memory of it hit like static down his arms. His cheeks warmed before he could stop them. Great.
“Thank you,” he said, leaning into the compliment because what else was he supposed to do. “I love your hair.”
She laughed, a little flustered. “Oh, you’re a charmer. I can see why Peter likes you.”
That made him blink. Likes? He masked it quick, reaching for her hand. “Betty Brant,” she introduced, and he kissed the back of her hand with exaggerated flourish, earning a pleased smile.
“Are you here for Peter?” she asked.
“Yes, actually. Is he here?”
“Yeah, I’ll go get him for you.”
“Thanks, Betty.”
She turned, heels clicking on the linoleum, and Johnny let out a long breath. He ran a hand through his hair again, the nerves catching up now that it was too late to bail. By the time he thought about reconsidering, Betty was back, pointing, unmistakably, right at him.
And there was Parker.
Something crossed the guy’s face when their eyes locked. He rubbed a hand at his mouth and started walking toward him.
“What are you doing here?” Peter asked, voice clipped.
Johnny rolled his eyes. “Easy. Or are you gonna drag me into a closet again?”
Peter’s face contorted, and Johnny laughed outright. Watching Parker struggle was entertainment in itself.
“Relax,” Johnny said, hands up in mock surrender. “I’m not here to talk about the last time I was here. This is strictly business.”
Peter’s eyebrows pulled together. “What is it?”
Johnny pulled out his phone and flicked to the Bugle’s site he had prepared, holding up a picture. “Did you take these?”
The pic showed Spider-Man, caught mid-swing, the city lights framing him like something out of a movie.
Peter leaned in, squinting. Johnny could see the exact second recognition settled on his face. “Yeah… yeah, I did. Why?”
Johnny swiped through more shots. “You took all of these.”
The confusion on Peter’s face deepened. He looked genuinely lost, and it was almost funny if Johnny weren’t so keyed up.
“Yeah,” Peter said slowly. “I told you, I shoot for the Bugle. Why are you asking?”
Johnny gave a small shrug, but his voice carried weight. “You know Spider-Man. You’ve gotta. You’re basically his personal photographer at this point. These angles? You had to be right next to him.”
Peter shifted, uncomfortable, like Johnny had just nailed him to the wall with words alone. “You have a point?”
Johnny pocketed the phone, leaning in with that easy smile that covered for how fast his pulse was ticking. Peter looked good. “I need a favor.”
“What favor?” Peter asked, arms crossed like he was already preparing to say no.
Johnny drew in a breath, tried to keep it light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I need to talk to him.”
Peter blinked. That wasn’t the response he’d been expecting, Johnny could see it in the way his eyebrows shot up. “You— what? Why?”
“Because—” Johnny glanced around, suddenly hyperaware of the buzz of phones and voices around them. The whole place felt too exposed. His weight shifted from one leg to the other, his confidence faltering. “Well, I can’t tell you. But I need to see him.”
Peter let out this short, disbelieving laugh. “You need to see him? You know I’m not his personal advisor, right? I can’t just call him up.”
Johnny took a step closer before he could think better of it. Too close, maybe, but screw it. “Please?” he asked. “Look—I wouldn’t be asking if the guy wasn't so hard to pin down. And it’s not gonna happen again, okay? Just a one-time thing.”
God, begging Peter Parker felt like a new low. Johnny almost wanted to roll his eyes at himself, but the truth was, he meant it. He needed this. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him, searching, weighing. And Johnny hated how his heart sped up under that look, how stripped bare he suddenly felt.
“And what exactly makes you think he’ll agree to see you?”
“You wouldn’t even have to say it’s me. Just… maybe tell him to go to a rooftop tonight. Um, the top of the Baxter Building?”
That made Peter blink. “Wait, you want him to meet you on the roof of the building your family owns?”
“I promise it’s not a trap,” Johnny said quickly, holding his palms up. “You can tell him it won’t even take long.”
Peter stared at him, his silence heavy enough to make Johnny’s throat dry. This whole thing was a gamble, and a stupid one at that. He’d probably walk away looking like a desperate idiot. But when Peter sighed, shoulders slumping ever so slightly, Johnny felt something loosen in his chest.
“Fine,” Peter muttered. “Fine, I’ll— I’ll ask. But I can’t promise he’ll actually show up.”
Relief hit him like a rush of air. His whole body unclenched, and before he could stop himself, he smiled. “Thanks, man. That means a lot already.”
Before Peter could react, Johnny pulled him into a quick hug, clapped him once on the back, and then stepped away like it was no big deal. His heart was still thudding as he turned, waving over his shoulder with a casualness he didn’t feel.
“Tonight! Baxter Building.”
And then he was gone, stride loose and confident, like he hadn’t just nearly begged Peter Parker for a favor he had no business asking for.
"You came," Johnny said the second the rooftop door clanged shut behind him. The night air bit cool against his skin, carrying that hum of traffic and life from the city below. Spider-Man was a crunched figure at the far edge, knees pulled up, his mask tipped toward the skyline. He didn’t flinch at Johnny’s voice, didn’t even look like he’d noticed him until now.
"You took your sweet time."
Johnny smirked, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he crossed the roof. "I didn’t tell your pal a specific time."
Spider-Man turned to face him, faint reflection of city lights flashing across red and blue. "Aight, I’ll give you that." His voice was tighter than Johnny remembered, strained at the edges, like he was either annoyed to be here or straining to play the part of someone who wasn’t.
"Thanks for coming anyway," Johnny said, closing the distance a little more, boots scraping on the tar. "Wasn’t sure if Parker would actually tell you."
Spider-Man leaned back on his hands, shoulders loose in a way that felt practiced, not natural. "He was vague. And I doubt this is a social visit. Or maybe it’s a job interview. In which case, I pass. I don’t work well in teams."
Johnny let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, I’ve heard that about you. Whole lone wolf, doesn’t-play-well-with-others thing. Can’t tell if it’s PR or you really think you’re that special."
The mask tilted his way again, unreadable, but the weight of that stare was obvious.
Johnny shifted, tongue darting across his bottom lip before he spoke again. "Look, this isn’t about getting you to slap a 'Fantastic Five' sticker on the side of the Baxter Building. I didn’t drag you out here for that. I just needed to talk to you. Without, you know, an AK-47 pressed to my skull or the press screaming in our ears."
"And what exactly did you need to say to me, Torchy?"
Johnny raised an eyebrow at the name. He wished he could just launch into the speech he’d practiced in his head on loop all day. Because the truth was, now that Spider-Man was actually here with his legs dangling off his building like he belonged to the city itself, Johnny couldn’t figure out if what he wanted was to argue, impress him, or do something else entirely.
Johnny rocked back on his heels. "What I wanted to say is you got it wrong. I’m not a showboat. Okay? Despite what the papers say. I’m not out here trying to set the city on fire for the cameras."
Spider-Man gave a slow, exaggerated nod. "Right. Totally. Fire’s just a part-time thing, then."
Johnny scowled. "I’m serious."
"Yeah, me too. 'Human Torch: weekend pyrotechnics, birthdays, bar mitzvahs.'" His voice had that sarcastic lift.
Johnny stepped closer, refusing to let him skate away behind jokes. "You don’t know me. You don’t get to judge how I work when all you’ve seen is one bad night and a headline written by the same guys that hate you."
Spider-Man tilted his head, as if he’d been expecting that exact line. His lenses caught the glow from the city, gleaming white. "Ouch. Somebody’s still sore about his profile piece."
"Because it wasn’t true," Johnny shot back. "I saved people in that fire. And all anyone remembers is some firefighter calling me a showboat. You think that’s fair?"
Spider-Man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Fair? No. Welcome to the club, man. You think I haven’t been painted as a menace every day of my life? You think I haven’t busted my ass just to be turned into the villain in somebody else’s story? Get in line."
Johnny blinked, thrown by the sharpness under the words. For a second, he saw it: the anger, the weight, the thing that Spider-Man carried under all the noise.
"But here’s the thing," Spidey added, forcing the grin back into his tone, "at least when people scream at me, I don’t accidentally roast marshmallows out of bystanders."
Johnny groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re waaaay too easy to rile up. I'm actually having fun," Spider-Man countered, standing smoothly and taking a few steps closer, like he couldn’t help himself. "Great combo, really. Someone should write a sitcom about us."
Johnny pressed his lips together to bite back a smile. This guy was something else.
"Okay no. No. We are getting sidetracked here. Just let me make my incredible, amazing point so you can go catch some flies or whatever you have for dinner."
Spider-Man paused, he made a small sound muffled by the mask.
"This is going to sound crazy, but I used to like you. Yeah. Back before all this— before the Bugle crap, before you decided I was some spoiled brat you could write off. I actually thought you were… someone to look up to." His chest rose and fell hard, the memory alive in his voice. "You saved my sister once. Sue. Years ago, on the Brooklyn Bridge. She told me the story a million times. How you pulled her out when she was dangling in her car."
Spider-Man didn’t move nor joke. He just stood there, shoulders rigid, as Johnny’s words filled the space between them.
"We haven't been to space back then. I was just a dumb kid, but I remember thinking… if someone like you existed, maybe the world wasn’t so bad. Maybe there were people who actually gave a damn."
He stopped and let out a breath into the night.
"So yeah. That was it. Let's not do this again." The fire inside had dissipated and left behind the feeling of having said too much.
“Your point.”
Johnny blinked. “What?”
“You didn’t make your point,” Spider-Man repeated. “Unless your point was storming up here to call me names, in which case you did good.”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed. God, he wanted to torch him. Not a lot—just a little fireball, right at the smug red mask. “My point is you’re a douche, but thanks for coming anyway.” He turned heading for the rooftop door.
“Wait. Johnny—uh, Torch.”
The name made him pause. He turned back slowly, brow arched.
“Look, for the longest time it was just me. Taking the fire, rolling with the punches, all of it.” His voice dipped to something less quippy, more human. “I gotta say, I had some prejudices—”
Johnny huffed a laugh through his nose. “You don’t say.”
“Listen.” The word came out fast, hurried, not risking to lose his chance. “You don’t need anybody’s approval. Not really. That’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way.”
Johnny’s lips pressed together. His throat felt tight, but he forced the words out anyway. “I know... thanks. I guess.”
Spider-Man wasn’t just anybody, Johnny didn’t say. He couldn’t, not when the guy was standing there, all distance and shadows and words that came too late. He shook his head instead, turned toward the door again.
“I’ll see you around.”
For a moment, Spider-Man didn’t move. Just lingered there at the edge, like he wanted to say something else and couldn’t figure out how. Finally, he gave a jerky little nod.
“See you, Torch.”
Johnny pushed through the door and heard the click when it close behind him, leaving the cold and Spider-Man on the other side. That had been something. His chest felt heavier than it had five minutes ago, but that wasn’t Spider-Man’s problem.
"Hey, sis. Where’s Ben?" Johnny asked as he wandered into the common area. Sue was curled on the sofa, book in hand, hair tucked behind one ear. Before Johnny went up, Ben was parked beside her, hollering at the TV about WWE, he enjoyed the brain-rot now and then. Reed was still in the lab, Johnny guessed, he had been spending more and more time down there this past week.
"Hey," Sue glanced up, a small smile pulling at her mouth. "He’s out with Alicia."
Johnny paused mid-step. "Wait. Alicia? Alicia Alicia? The Puppet Master's daughter Alicia?"
"Yeah." She nodded. She had that look on her face she made when she was gossiping about something. "He said something about taking her to Chinatown."
Johnny let out a low whistle as a smile grew on his lips. "Look at him. Young love."
Sue slipped her bookmark into place and set the novel aside, revealing the gaudy yellow Hufflepuff tassel Johnny never missed a chance to mock.
And, right on cue, he smirked. "Still can’t believe you of all people identify with the badger house. Your clearly a Ravenclaw."
"It’s about loyalty and heart, Johnny." She rolled her eyes, then leaned back, folding her arms. "Speaking of loyalty... how did that go?"
Johnny leaned onto the back of the couch looking down her. "Eh. Could’ve gone worse."
Sue gave him the patented big-sister squint. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. It’s not— we didn’t argue. Much."
"Uh-huh," she said slowly, patting the seat like she was luring a cat.
Johnny dropped into it, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just nervous he wouldn’t show up, you know?"
"Did you tell him—"
"About you? Yeah," Johnny interrupted. His gaze flicked toward the floor, uncharacteristically serious. "I told him you were the reason. That you were the one he saved that night. Felt like he should know it wasn’t just about me."
Something softened in Sue’s face, the kind of look she usually reserved for Reed when he forgot to sleep. "That’s sweet, Johnny."
"Don’t make it a thing." His cheeks warmed, so he leaned back with exaggerated nonchalance. "Anyway, I kinda owe it to Peter for even passing the message along."
Sue tapped her lip in mock-thoughtfulness. "So thank him."
"I did, verbally."
"No, like really thank him."
Johnny groaned. "What am I supposed to do? Buy the guy flowers?"
Sue chuckled. "Not flowers."
"Then what d'you buy people?"
"I don't know." She glanced at the ceiling. "Food?"
That actually made Johnny pause. "Food?"
"Everyone likes food," Sue said matter-of-factly. "Something simple. Maybe pastries. You can’t go wrong with pastries."
Johnny tilted his head, picturing it—him—showing up with a pink cardboard box like some kind of weird thank-you date gesture. He couldn’t decide if that sounded charming or humiliating. "So what, I just roll up like, ‘Hey, thanks for playing messenger, here’s a croissant?’" He cringed.
Sue grinned, already reaching for her book again. "It’s a start. Better than going around calling guys a douche, at least.”
Johnny gaped. "You were listening."
"Big Sister Pass Card."
"You already used your Big Sister Pass Card twice this month!"
"Oh, move on." She sent him an amused smile before sinking back into her book like she hadn’t just manipulated him into agreeing.
Johnny spotted Peter before Peter spotted him, which meant he had an extra three seconds to collect himself, or at least pretend he was the kind of guy who didn’t need collecting in the first place. Unfortunately, his heart didn’t get the memo. Peter came into view, all hunched shoulders and easy steps that made it look like he wasn’t aware of every single pair of eyes in the lobby. Johnny was, though. And a good chunk of those eyes had shifted in their direction, probably wondering what was he doing there yet again.
Peter slowed as he approached, stopping just shy of Johnny’s personal space. “I’m starting to think you’re following me around,” he said, his voice aiming for confident and landing somewhere in awkward, like a kid bluffing at poker.
“Not quite yet.” Johnny held up a finger, forestalling whatever Peter was about to toss back. His other hand dove into his designer bag, trying to keep his movements as casual as he could, and resurfaced with a small brown paper sack. “This is for you. For passing my message to Spider-Man the other day. It’s a croissant. I hope you like sweet stuff. I mean, I don’t even know if you eat these things. I asked the girl at the cafe what people bought the most and—”
He didn’t know why he was feeling so self-conscious now that he was here, standing in front of Peter. You had the guy’s tongue down you larynx, come on. For all Johnny knew, Peter hadn’t thought about that day once since it happened. It could’ve been nothing more than the adrenaline taking over him, and Peter had just gone along with it. Which made this feel borderline pathetic. He shouldn’t have listened to Sue.
Peter shook his head lightly and took the bag, his fingers brushing Johnny’s for a fraction of a second. “No, it’s okay. I like it. I’m not really a picky eater, so, um… thanks.”
“Thanks to you, man.” Johnny let a smile tug at one corner of his mouth, trying to keep it casual even as he caught the way Peter’s eyes didn’t quite know where to land. Still in the middle of the lobby, still feeling every glance from the peanut gallery like laser sights on his back.
Peter frowned faintly. “Yeah, well. I did pretty much nothing.”
“But still, you actually did it. I thought you’d just ignore me and not tell him at all, so. You're cool. I guess.” Johnny shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Anyway, I won’t waste more of your time.”
“No?” Peter said, almost too quickly. Johnny caught something flash in his expression before Peter shook his head like he was trying to dislodge it. “Uh, want a coffee before you take off? I mean, I was just clockin' out anyway.” He pointed back with a thumb.
Johnny blinked. That was unexpected. “I mean, sure. I could have some coffee.”
“Cool. Cool, cool. Just let me say goodbye to my friend.”
Johnny watched him cross over to the brunette with the perfect bob, the same one who’d greeted him last time he was here. They exchanged a few words, her gaze flicking toward Johnny with a smile that felt almost conspiratorial before returning to Peter, who shook his head at whatever she said, pressing his lips into a little self-conscious smile, and then came back over.
“Ya ready?”
“Yep.” Johnny fell into step beside him.
Outside, the late October air slapped him in the face, the sharp chill worming right past his thin leather jacket, it would be annoying if he didn’t have his powers. Peter’s jacket was heavier, practical. Figures. He had slipped the croissant bag into his battered black backpack, the straps pulled snug under his hands as they walked.
“Do you have a place in mind?” Johnny asked.
“Uhhh, there’s this place 'round the corner.” Peter let go of one of the straps to gesture vaguely with one arm. “It’s where I usually go when I don’t have time for breakfast at home. It’s not a specialty café or anything, though.”
“Oh no, what would I ever do. My taste buds are going to disintegrate if my coffee isn’t specially picked by Colombian kids by hand and doesn’t smell like I’m drinking the beans themselves.”
Peter shot him a deadpan stare, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “Do you even drink coffee, or is it just hot chocolate in disguise? Tell the truth.”
“Depends on who’s asking. If it’s you—triple shot, extra bold. If it’s my sister, decaf. If it’s my publicist—”
“Liquid gold dust?” Peter guessed.
Johnny grinned. “You’re learning.”
Peter’s mouth twitched again. “Poor Colombian kids, really.”
A group of girls walking the opposite direction glanced up, recognition sparking in their faces before they giggled. Johnny flashed them an easy smile as they passed. If Peter noticed, he didn’t comment. His gaze was on the crosswalk ahead.
“It’s across the street,” Peter said, nodding toward a low brick building with a chalkboard sign out front.
They stopped at a red light, the cars passed by. Johnny’s attention snagged on the faint cut just at the corner of Peter’s lower lip. It looked mostly healed, but still there. Something in Johnny’s brain screamed that this guy was every bit as much trouble as he was enticing. But when had Johnny ever made good decisions for his personal life?
The light flipped green, and they crossed.
The café hit him with the smell of rich espresso, warm pastries, a sweetness that made the air taste like cinnamon if you breathed deep enough. Peter stepped in right behind the last girl in line, his jacket brushing Johnny’s arm.
Johnny leaned in. “How do you take it?”
Peter didn’t look up from the menu. “No milk, no cream, extra sugar.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, Parker.”
“What, sweet tooth?” Peter glanced over, a ghost of a smile playing at his mouth.
“Yeah. I gotta confess, I put everything in mine. Milk, cream, sugar, even caramel if it’s there.”
Peter’s brows rose. “Dude, that’s not coffee, that’s dessert.”
Johnny smirked. “What can I say, it keeps me going.”
Peter laughed for real this time; not just the quiet huff Johnny had been getting all day, but the kind that softened his whole face. He shook his head like he was trying to clear it, though the corners of his mouth refused to behave.
“Right,” Peter said, “remind me not to trust your judgment on food.”
“Bold words from a guy who drinks sugar water.”
“Touché, Storm.”
A part of his brain chose that moment to made him aware of just how easy it was talking to Peter now that they weren't trying to rile each other up. The teasing was still there but without the hint of animosity from past encounters.
When they got their drinks, Johnny made a beeline for a table near the window. Peter followed, sliding into the seat opposite him. They both lifted their mugs at the same time, a mirror movement that made Johnny’s mouth twitch before the first sip even hit. The coffee was perfect, sweet enough to make a dentist weep. Peter looked satisfied with his too, blowing across the surface before taking another sip.The guy at the cashier had greeted him by name, with a grin, which led Johnny to believe Peter hadn’t been lying about being a regular.
“Needed this,” Peter sighed, leaning back in his chair.
“No breakfast today?” Johnny asked. He extended his legs under the table and crossed them by his ankles.
“Nah. Had to run here earlier.” Peter nodded vaguely in the direction the Bugle building should’ve been. “My boss is very… he is something.”
"You don't like your job?"
Peter’s mouth twisted like he was deciding how honest to be. “It’s not that I don’t like it, necessarily, but it’s not exactly my dream job, y’know?”
Johnny leaned back too, watching him over the rim of his mug. “What is it? Your dream job.”
“I’m studying to be a scientist.” Peter shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “I want to invent things. That’s what I do in my free time, just try to build something that doesn’t blow up in my face. I’ve had a few side projects that weren’t a total bust… but I dunno. Being a scientist isn’t exactly lucrative unless you’re the right kind.”
“Not really, just look at Reed,” Johnny pointed out. “He made an empire out of it, and it wasn’t even what he wanted. He’s not money-driven like that. He just loves what he does.”
Peter huffed a laugh under his breath. “Yeah, well. I guess the problem is that I haven’t figured out any formula that’s gonna make me as rich as Reed Richards yet.”
“A good partner who can keep track of your finances would help,” Johnny said, half-joking. “My sister’s amazing at it.”
Peter’s brow lifted. “So you’re saying I’d have to find a friend who loves paperwork as much as I love science?”
“A lover works too.”
The word hung between them like it was heavier than it should’ve been. Peter actually choked on his coffee. Johnny bit back a smile, he wasn’t expecting that reaction, but it was cute in its own awkward way.
“I… yeah, I guess,” Peter said, eyes darting back to his mug as he scratched one of his eyebrows. “Not sure I’m gonna find someone like that anytime soon, though. I’ve not exactly had the best luck in the love department.”
Strangely, Johnny could believe that. Not because Peter was unappealing, but because there was something about him that suggested the solitude.
“Come on,” Johnny said, nudging his foot against Peter’s under the table. “You’re not that bad looking.”
That earned him the tiniest hitch in Peter’s breath, as if he wasn’t expecting Johnny to say something like that, when he had literally watched Johnny stroke himself to completion. Which begged the question: why the hell were they talking about this? Why was he even poking into it? Because he liked the guy physically—sure. Because his whole persona had changed, leaving no trace of shyness behind when he pressed Johnny against the closet door— definitely. But also because there was something magnetic in the mystery; the bruises, the vanishing acts, the lone-wolf thing Peter had going on that made Johnny want to peel back the layers.
Peter shrugged, trying for nonchalance and missing it by an inch. “Not sure that’s enough for anyone to stick around.”
“Is it that serious?”
Peter’s gaze dropped to the table for a fraction of a second, but long enough for Johnny to notice the shadow that passed over his face. “I have some pretty crappy track record.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Not everyone’s like you, you know. You’re—” He trailed off, as if catching himself mid-thought, then redirected. “I mean, how many girls have you dated this month?”
“None.” Johnny’s laugh came easily, but there was a thread of annoyance curling at the edges. He wasn’t sure if it was because Peter assumed he went through people like candy, or simply because it was Peter who was implying it.
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What, are you in recovery?”
“From bad dates? Yeah, there is some pretty weird people in this city. From dating, no. I just haven’t found anyone worth the trouble lately.”
Peter gave a small, dry laugh and gestured with his paper coffee cup like they were two old men clinking beers. “Cheers to that.”
Johnny tilted his head, studying him. “Are you even looking for it?”
“Not… really.” Peter’s gaze flicked toward the window. His voice softened, low. “I just—I had this… relationship—”
“Ooooh.” Johnny leaned forward, mock understanding dripping from his tone, but the grin on his face was softer than usual. He got it. “Yeah, I’ve met guys who just broke up with their girlfriends. Not emotionally available and all that.”
Peter’s lips parted like he wanted to argue, but he closed his mouth again. Johnny got a good look of his profile and of his jaw clenching. “I. Yeah.”
“So, if you were to do something right now, it wouldn’t be jumping back into a relationship again, huh?”
Peter let out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. His fingers tapped the paper cup, restless. “No. Definitely not that.”
And Johnny told himself he wasn’t disappointed by that answer. Not even a little.
“I got it, man. I’ve been through it too,” Johnny said, nodding like he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Peter’s eyes flicked over, skeptical. “Were you.”
“Yeah, sure.” Johnny leaned back, shrugging. He wasn’t lying. “It takes time. Seeing other people in the middle isn’t the best, but sometimes it helps.”
Peter’s brows rose, a spark of amusement breaking through the exhaustion. “Are you suggesting something?”
Johnny smirked, leaning forward on his elbows, voice pitched casual even as his stomach twisted. “Depends. Are you asking?”
Peter huffed a laugh, there was color creeping up his neck. “Wow. That’s subtle. You really don’t waste time, do you?”
“I'd like to waste some with you,” Johnny shot back, and the craziest part was that it actually worked.
Peter offered him part of the croissant when they were inside the cab. It was weird. Peter was weird as a whole. He hummed around it, pleased, and then looked vaguely guilty about it, like the pastry was a crime scene.
And still, Johnny was weirdly into it.
He watched the way Peter’s fingers tore the flaky bread, the way his eyes flicked toward the window instead of at Johnny. He was fidgety, a little awkward and yet he had trailed after Johnny like some kind of skittish stray the second they stepped out of the cab. He even nodded at Johnny’s doorman, that stiff, jerky sort of nod people gave when they weren’t sure how polite they were supposed to be. Then he flashed this awkward press-lipped smile that didn’t fool anyone.
Johnny passed by, pressing the elevator button straight to his floor. No need for his family to know who he was sneaking upstairs.
"Nice place. Very… clean," Peter said once they were inside, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other and staring at the sleek chrome walls like he had never been in an elevator before.
Johnny smirked. He looked out of place here, lanky frame folded into itself, drowning in clothes that had seen better days. Johnny wanted to strip those rumpled layers off him already. “I sure hope so. Mrs. Marino would definitely complain if it wasn’t. And trust me, she can go for hours.”
Peter’s mouth twitched. “Can she?”
A startled laugh burst out of Johnny. “Wow, that sounded dirty.” He elbowed him lightly in the side. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Peter’s ears went pink.
“Relax, Parker. I’m impressed.”
The ding of the elevator spared Peter from further teasing. The doors slid open and they stepped into the quiet hall. Johnny’s shoes clicked confidently on the polished floor as he slid his F4 card and pushed open the door to his apartment.
He stepped aside with one hand gesturing toward the open space. “Welcome to mi casa.”
Peter hesitated at the threshold like a vampire who needed an invitation. His gaze swept the place while he let his backpack slide from his arm, the high ceilings, sleek furniture, a whole wall of glass that looked out over the city. For once, he didn’t try to cover the look on his face. “Wow. Yeah. Uh… this is definitely a step up from my place.”
He took a second to enjoy the real view in front of him. “Hope that means you’re staying a while then.”
Johnny closed the door behind him, the lock clicking softly, and Peter walked up with those careful, uncertain steps, sneaking into forbidden territory. Johnny’s eyes still caught a good look at his long legs.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Peter asked, voice low, a little hoarse.
Johnny tilted his chin up, forcing a smirk he hoped didn’t look as shaky as it felt. “Trust me, I can do the casual thing. My heart can take it.” He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of Peter’s jacket collar. “Promise.”
Peter’s hands cupped his cheeks. For a split second, he swore he saw relief flicker over Peter’s face. Like he’d been holding his breath and only now let it out. Johnny wanted to laugh. If Peter kept being like this, it was going to be a problem. But that was fine, future Johnny could deal with that train wreck.
For now? He leaned into the touch, let Peter claim his mouth in a kiss that tasted like croissant crumbs. Everything he’d been holding back since the closet incident seemed to melt out of him, loosening his shoulders until all that was left was heat. He pressed closer, chasing that relief like oxygen. They kissed through the hallway, toeing their shoes off, Johnny backing them toward his room, Peter’s hands steady on his hips, guiding. Johnny was seconds from ramming into the doorframe, but Peter nudged him sideways without breaking their mouths apart. Johnny’s pulse spiked—God, that was hot.
By the time they hit the bedroom, Johnny was already breathless, sprawled back on his bed with Peter hovering over him. He slid eager hands under Peter’s layers, tugging at shirts, hoodie, jacket. Seriously, how many did this guy own?
Peter laughed into the kiss, muffled and shaky. “You in a rush or something?”
“Obviously,” Johnny muttered, trying to yank the damn hoodie over his head. “You’ve got, like, fifty layers on. Are you hiding an entire winter wardrobe under here?”
Peter pulled back just long enough to peel the hoodie off himself, cheeks flushed. “Sorry. New York’s drafty.”
Johnny grinned up at him. “Guess I’ll just have to keep you warm, then.”
Peter tugged Johnny’s pants off and let them drop forgotten to the floor. Johnny spread his legs, shameless, until Peter fit right where he wanted him, their hips slotting together. He hooked his ankles behind Peter’s back and pulled him in closer, greedy for more weight.
Their mouths stayed locked, tongues sliding, until the friction got too good, cocks straining, dragging against each other through thin layers of fabric. Johnny’s hand shoved between them, undoing Peter’s fly with fumbling urgency, pushing his underwear down just enough to get him out. He was already leaking when Johnny wrapped his hand around him, stroking hard and fast. Peter bit into his shoulder with a low groan, hips jerking helplessly into Johnny’s fist.
“Wanna top?” Johnny whispered against his ear.
“I can do whatever you want,” Peter breathed, and it was so earnest Johnny nearly lost it on the spot.
He laughed, short but sharp. “I’m saving that line for later.”
While Johnny dug in his nightstand, Peter stripped the rest off, bare skin brushing his thigh as he came back over him. Johnny pulled out the glaringly bright Wild Cherry lube and winced at his own choices. Peter raised his brows, eyes flicking from the bottle to Johnny with way too much amusement.
“Not a word,” Johnny snapped, tossing it at him.
Peter caught it smooth, almost smug, and popped the cap. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, slicking up his fingers with ease.
Johnny’s cock twitched at the sight, and he thought—not for the first time—yeah, this was going to be a problem.
Peter’s lubed finger circled Johnny’s rim first, careful, coaxing him open. When he finally pushed in, slow and steady, Johnny’s body clenched around the stretch, a sharp breath dragging out of him.
“Fuck,” Johnny hissed, legs twitching.
“You good?” Peter murmured, and his other hand wrapped Johnny’s cock, stroking him in slow, grounding pulls. It worked, Johnny nodded and let go.
The second finger burned at first, then melted into something heady. Peter curled them, hunting, and then he found it, his fingertips brushing that spot.
“Right there,” Johnny gasped, grabbing Peter’s hair and tugging hard like he could anchor himself that way. Peter kept pressing it, again, again, until Johnny was almost writhing beneath him.
By the time Peter pulled out, kissing the inside of his thigh, Johnny was wrecked, hole fluttering and needy.
“Condoms?” Peter asked.
Johnny blinked, brain lagging. “I’m clean. Can’t really catch anything. But, yeah, I do—”
“I’m clean too,” Peter cut in, nodding.
Something hot rolled through Johnny’s chest. He nodded back. “I trust you.”
Peter lined up and pushed in, and Johnny’s breath stuttered hard. It felt so full, stretching him open, dragging slow until Peter bottomed out. He couldn’t stop the strangled sound that ripped out of his throat.
“Jesus,” Peter groaned above him, already rocking shallowly like he couldn’t help himself. “You feel really fucking warm.”
Johnny’s legs went up when Peter shoved them back against his chest, forcing him open even more. The angle changed and the blunt head of Peter’s cock smashed into his prostate. Johnny’s cry cracked into a broken whine. His hands clawed at the sheets, then scrambled back to Peter’s curls. Peter smiled against his mouth, breathless, hips pounding exactly where Johnny needed. His hands squeezed Johnny’s thighs hard enough to bruise as he drove in over and over, relentless.
It was too much; Johnny couldn’t hold it. He reached down, wrapping his own fist around his cock and jerking furiously in time with Peter’s thrusts. Heat pooled tight in his belly, snapping all at once as he came hard across his stomach, vision white-edged.
Peter swallowed Johnny’s moans with a messy kiss, fucking him through it, grinding deep until he shuddered and spilled inside, filling him up. He didn’t pull away, just collapsed half on top of Johnny, lips still brushing his, open-mouthed and panting.
Johnny’s chest heaved under the weight of him, sweaty skin sticking together. And still, his fingers were curled in Peter’s hair, holding him close.
Peter pressed a lazy kiss on his cheek and suddenly, future Johnny’s problem wasn’t looking so far away anymore.
Chapter 4
Notes:
i promise fucking is not all they're gonna do. im working on it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Johnny didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
Which was rich, coming from a guy who’d once followed his brother-in-law into space on a stolen spaceship. But this—this was a new kind of stupid. A private, humiliating, self-inflicted kind of stupid, the kind you didn’t even get a cool story out of. No aliens, no cosmic rays, just Johnny Storm slowly melting into leather upholstery outside a Midtown office building, waiting for Peter Parker to get off work, feeling all the way like a sad, over-committed booty call.
He glanced at his phone. There were still no messages, Johnny’s has been the last one around half an hour ago. No calls, also. Nothing but the creeping realization that he’d been waiting long enough for his dignity to evacuate the premises.
Johnny leaned back in the seat, shutting his eyes, trying not to think about how far he’d fallen. He used to have standards. Taste. A backbone.
This? Sitting alone in his car, parked outside Peter Parker’s job like some loser with hope and unresolved sexual tension? Absolutely degrading. Not matter just how much of a good time they had together at Johnny’s place a few weeks ago.
Tap tap.
A double tap on the passenger window startled him back into his body.
Peter was standing there, shoulders hunched against the wind, giving a sheepish little wave through the glass.
Johnny unlocked the doors with a click.
“Hey,” Peter said as he slid in, breath puffing in the cold air before the heat kicked in. He immediately shoved his overstuffed backpack between his feet with no care whatsoever. “Good, uh… good to see you didn’t bail.”
Johnny turned the key in the ignition, eyes rolling forward. “I don’t bail.”
Peter nodded, humming as if he totally believed Johnny. “Right. Yeah. Never. Totally buying that.”
“I was giving you time to finish work and stuff,” Johnny added, hand on the gearshift, trying not to look too long. Peter wore a dark, double-breasted peacoat with large buttons, the collar was still turned slightly up against the breeze from outside. He looked all the way like a grad student who’d gotten dragged into a photo shoot against his will, still carrying the faint, dorky air of someone who didn’t quite realize he was pulling it off.
Johnny didn’t let his eyes linger for long. “So,” he said, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel, as he merged into the traffic, “how was work?”
Peter let out a short laugh. “Wow. You’re actually doing the small talk thing. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“It’s not small talk,” Johnny said. “It’s— okay, yeah, it’s small talk. People do it when they’re, y’know, going out.”
Peter tilted his head, mouth curling into that sideways half-smile. “Going out, huh? That what we’re calling this?”
Johnny shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road.
Peter leaned back, arms folding, as he continued, “Well, if we are doing small talk... work was brutal. Triple shift at the Bugle because my editor thinks coffee is a substitute for sleep. Got yelled at twice for being late, once for filing too early, and somehow still got asked to cover another story tomorrow.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Sounds glamorous.”
“Oh, it’s very glamorous. Nothing sexier than chasing down some guy who swears he saw yet another reprile-man jaywalking.”
“And here I thought you were out there capturing the soul of the city.” Johnny darted his eyes towards Peter for a second to find him already smiling back.
Peter shrugged, trying for modesty but looking faintly pleased. “Sometimes I get a shot worth keeping.”
Johnny drummed his fingers against the wheel. “You mean the Spider-Man ones.”
The grin faltered, just for a second. “Maybe.”
After a contemplative moment, Peter spoke again, "Still, I thought this is more like... we’re going in, not out. To my place. To, uh,” He half-muttered more to himself than to Johnny, and gestured vaguely between them, lips pressing together like he was trying not to laugh. “…y’know.”
Johnny did know. And the fact that Peter refused to say fuck out loud was strangely amusing. If Johnny didn’t know better he would just call him a giant prude.
Jokes aside, though, Johnny was aware that’s all this was. And yeah, maybe Peter was great in bed, frustratingly dedicated. Attentive in the quiet, focused way only scientists could be. But that didn’t mean anything, he was just a good lover.
Johnny adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Well, the two aren't mutually exclusive.”
Peter leaned back, watching the city lights pass them by. “Hmm. You wanna talk about your day too?” he said, feigning innocence. “How was the thrilling life of Johnny Storm, golden boy of the tabloids?”
Johnny scoffed. “Now I know you’re playing with me.”
“What?” Peter blinked, all mock-offense, pitched-high voice. “I’m genuinely asking. I’m being nice. I can be nice.”
Johnny shot him a look. “Okay, I’m telling you. Ready?”
Peter made a grand gesture with his hand. “Please, regale me.”
“I argued with my sister about lunch, argued with Ben about the TV, and arg—”
“Argued with Reed too?” Peter cut in, eyebrow raised.
“You know me so well, sugarbumps.”
Peter rolled his eyes, clearly regretting asking. Johnny smirked as they pulled up to a red light.
“And now you’re arguing with me?”
“We don’t argue anymore,” Johnny glanced at him. “We fucked it off.”
That shut Peter up. He turned back to the window, and Johnny caught the way his mouth twitched in either a smile or something he didn’t want to deal with.
Johnny took it as a win.
The light turned green. Johnny eased back into the street, silent for a beat too long. He focused on the road, this was a part of the city he didn’t frequent much. It had taken him by surprise when Peter had suggested his place over text the night before, but Johnny jumped right into it. As if Peter inviting him in this time meant he actually wanted Johnny around, even when it was about whatever they were doing.
By the time they got to Peter’s building, Johnny was already questioning his life choices. Which wasn't new.
He parked the car in front of a structure that looked like it had been featured in a low-budget noir film at least once. The bricks were faded, the paint on the fire escape was flaking off in sheets, and there was what Johnny assumed was ivy climbing up one side, though it looked more like mold with ambitions. He trailed a few steps behind Peter as they approached, giving the facade a once-over and mentally filing it under Shit I'm Pretending Not To Judge.
Inside, the lobby smelled like wet dog and chlorine. He thought it was weird but that was before Johnny noticed the actual dog—an aggressively trembling chihuahua with murder in its eyes, perched next to an old man reading the Post. Neither of them looked up.
Peter nodded. “Evenin', Larry.”
The man grunted. The dog growled. Johnny suddenly missed the spaceship.
And then, of course, Peter made a beeline past the elevator.
Right.
Peter glanced back at him, already halfway up the first flight, his expression was a kind of sheepish charm. “Sorry about the climb. I swear the view’s worth it upstairs. The elevator doesn’t exactly, uh, work.”
“Yeah, I clocked that.” Johnny muttered, gripping the rail with a melodramatic sigh. “You know there are buildings in this city with functioning vertical transport, right? Some even have—wait for it—laundry in unit.”
“Wow,” Peter said, turning to walk backward up the steps like a smug little bastard. He didn’t miss a single one. “Next you’ll tell me there are places with doormen.”
“They give you mints and a therapy dog at the door,” Johnny said, biting back a smile. “Also air that doesn’t smell like burnt toast and public bathroom.”
Peter laughed. Johnny hated that he liked the sound of it.
By the time they reached the top floor, Johnny’s thighs were burning and he probably looked like he’d just jogged to the bodega. Peter, on the other hand, looked fresh. Maybe because he did this everyday and this was just his stupid science-boy cardio.
Peter fished his keys out of his pocket and stood fiddling with the lock, making a whole production out of it.
“I’d offer ya a cup’a coffee,” Peter said over his shoulder, his thick Queens accent coming out, “but I’m all out— same as my dignity and decent lighting.”
The lock finally gave in with a groan. Peter pushed the door open and stepped aside, giving him a mockingly gentlemanlike bow. “After you.”
Johnny rolled his eyes but stepped in.
It wasn’t awful. In fact, it was cleaner than expected. Studio-style, obviously. Bed tucked into the far corner near the window, kitchenette on the right with mismatched mugs on the counter, and a beat-up couch in front of a tiny TV. It looked lived-in. Real. Like someone actually came home here at the end of the day.
“Nice,” Johnny said, and meant it, mostly because it didn’t look like a frat cave. It also smelled better than the first floor.
Peter stepped inside behind him, nudging the door closed with his foot and dropping his backpack next to it. “It’s cozy,” he said with a little shrug, like that alone was worth something.
And honestly? Johnny got it. There was something kind of impressive about the whole barely surviving in New York thing, grit and all. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.
“Make yourself at home,” Peter added, already toeing off his shoes and removing his jacket.
Johnny didn’t exactly know how to do that here, but he nodded and followed him in deeper anyway, looking around with idle curiosity. There were a couple takeout boxes on the coffee table and a hoodie hanging off the back of a chair. Peter scooped up the boxes, face flushing a little.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, dumping them into the trash. “Meant to clean earlier but, uh... I didn’t.”
“You shock me,” Johnny deadpanned, though his heart wasn’t in the tease. He was too busy peeking at the fridge.
There were pictures held up by colorful magnets. Some of them looked recent; a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a warm smile, an older man with glasses, a few candid shots of Peter grinning mid-laugh. Kid versions of him too, skinned knees and missing teeth. Then there were the skyline shots too, beautifully composed, surprisingly moody. Johnny liked them.
He felt something tighten in his chest. A weight he didn’t ask for.
And then, a pair of long arms wrapped around him and he was spun around and gently pushed up against the counter before his brain caught up.
Oh.
Right.
This part.
Peter leaned in, mouth close, breath warm. Johnny tensed for a second, a reflex, but then tilted his head, giving Peter better access, letting the familiarity of the moment settle over him like a blanket.
Hands settled on his hips, and lips brushed against his neck. Measured, careful, intimate in a way that made Johnny’s stomach twist in anticipation.
“This okay?” Peter murmured, voice low, almost shy.
“A bit too late to ask, don't you think?” Johnny's hands traced all the way up Peter's back, feeling the tension of the hard muscles underneath.
“Mm. Good point,” Peter shifted closer, mouth opening against Johnny’s throat, and then he bit down right there.
Johnny let out a sharp gasp, instinctive, caught off guard by the heat of it. Peter smiled against his skin like he’d just won something.
“Still okay?” he asked again, cocky now.
Johnny threw his head back as a response. Peter’s hands slid down his sides, rough and sure. His breath caught just as Peter gripped his hips tightly with strong hands and lifted him like it was easy and Johnny weighed nothing. A small gasp escaped him before his ass hit the counter with a dull thud, cool laminate meeting hot skin through the denim. Before he could think to react, his legs wrapped around Peter, ankles locking behind his back in a move he’d never admit was muscle memory.
Peter pressed in closer, and Johnny’s body responded instantly, arching toward the heat. Their mouths found each other again, a slow slide of lips. Peter was so passionate about it, and he was good. It made Johnny want to melt. He didn’t really want to notice things like that, but Peter made it impossible not to. The warmth of his hands was anchoring him by the waist. The way he tasted faintly like coffee and something sweet—candy? tea? sugar packets stolen from a café? Whatever it was, it clung to his lips, and Johnny let himself indulge, let his tongue trace it, memorizing.
When Peter pulled back, just slightly, his breath ghosted over Johnny’s lips. His gaze flickered down, pupils blown wide, eyes glassy.
Johnny tugged Peter’s shirt, a fist curling in the fabric just below his collarbone. He needed more. Hands slid into messy brown hair, threading and pulling just enough to drag a raw moan from Peter’s throat. That sound lit Johnny up like gasoline to flame. Peter gave a shallow thrust in response. Breathing was suddenly hard. Thinking, even harder. And that was exactly what Johnny liked about being with him.
He tilted his head back, giving Peter more room as kisses mapped his jawline, then down his neck. Little gasps slipped from him before he could shut them down. His skin felt hot everywhere. Peter’s touch had ignited something beneath the surface.
This should’ve been over. That was the deal. It was supposed to be a one-off. Scratch an itch, burn the tension off. Move on. But Peter had buried himself under Johnny’s skin and stayed there like one of those annoying little bugs. And God, Johnny had never been touched like this before, not with this quiet intensity, this unspoken urgency. Peter touched, he claimed, he memorized.
Johnny knew this was good. It couldn't be anything else. The way his toes curled, the way Peter kissed like he meant it, like he was trying to learn him with his mouth. Johnny’s stomach fluttered when their chests met again, Peter’s fingers sliding beneath the hem didn’t help.
It never stopped surprising him, the contrast of the person Peter turned into when they were having sex. When his touch became confident and his words rough.
Then suddenly, Peter was pulling back just enough to lift Johnny’s hoodie, and taking his shirt with it, fingers teasing at his skin. Johnny let out a frustrated noise and yanked at Peter’s own shirt in retaliation.
“You too,” he muttered, fumbling with buttons.
Peter leaned back, arching a brow with a grin that made Johnny want to slap it and kiss it at the same time. “So bossy.”
But he didn’t fight it. Instead, Peter shrugged off his shirt, let it fall to the floor and used his foot to push it away like it didn’t matter. He looked so good, unwrapping himself for Johnny like a fucking present.
Johnny’s hands skimmed from his abs up to his chest, lingering at the sharp lines of his collarbones and the slope of his shoulders.
“Dude. What’s your secret?” Johnny asked, low and teasing, but with genuine curiosity curling at the edges of his voice. Because damn.
Peter met his gaze and grinned. “I work out.”
Johnny let out a breath and rolled his hips against the hard length pressed between them. Peter groaned, full-bodied, his head fell forward and his forehead pressed against Johnny’s cheek. The warm breath hitting his skin made Johnny shiver.
Johnny was hard, aching for actual contact and Peter was right there, perfect and frustrating, pushing into him with little, desperate sounds that hit Johnny harder than they should’ve.
“You—” Peter started, but the rest came out in a choked gasp when Johnny arched, grinding into him with more pressure. “Fuck.”
Peter’s hands slammed down on either side of the counter, holding himself up, his face buried itself in Johnny’s neck again, and Johnny felt the heat of every exhale right before a wet tongue traced the vein on the side of his neck.
Johnny let his head fall back against the cupboard behind him, catching his breath. And then—oh.
"I think your counter was wet,” Johnny mumbled, blinking at the damp spot under his ass.
Peter choked on a laugh, hips stuttering. “Sorry,” he said, half-moaning through it. “Didn’t get a chance to put away the dishes.”
Johnny hummed, dragging his fingers lazily through Peter’s hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “A real bachelor place, huh?”
Peter didn't answer right away. Just pressed closer. The apartment was too warm. Or maybe it was just him.
"Can I blow you?" Johnny asked, suddenly. Except it wasn’t because he had been thinking about it for days.
Peter’s eyes snapped open. His gaze met Johnny’s, mouth parted as if words had short-circuited behind his teeth. He looked stunned. Pathetic. Johnny wanted to watch him come.
"Sure," Peter finally said, nodding as he leaned back against the opposite counter, already breathless.
Johnny bit down on a smirk and hopped down from the counter. He landed a little too hard, the floor spinning for a second, but he steadied himself. He didn’t bother playing coy, just dropped to his knees in front of Peter and let his hands trace down his thighs.
The look on Peter’s face—wide-eyed, jaw slack—was almost enough to make Johnny second-guess it. Almost.
Johnny’s hands moved to his waistband, but Peter beat him to it, helping tug his own pants and underwear down with shaky hands. Eager. That figured. His tongue flicked against the head of Peter’s cock, just to feel him twitch. Peter bucked like it surprised him and Johnny filed that away for later. He was hard, flushed, leaking and Johnny could only think about how so not weird it was to be doing this, how so not self-conscious he felt on his knees with Peter standing in front of him, dick out.
He tried to turn his mind off. Johnny let his mouth fall open, and gave him an experimental little suck on the head before sinking down on him, feeling Peter grow heavier on his tongue, pulsing. Peter was already panting, one hand buried in Johnny’s hair. Johnny let him. He took Peter in as deep as he could until his throat tightened, then slid back up, leaving Peter’s cock wet and gleaming.
While he sucked, he wrapped a hand around the base of Peter's cock, jerking him slow, tugging just enough to make Peter shiver.
This felt good, Johnny decided. He liked it. He enjoyed the little grunts Peter let out and the way his fingers ran through his hair. But he could do better. Johnny gripped Peter’s hips and pulled him forward, guiding him. Peter hesitated for half a beat, then caught on. His grip shifted to something firmer, controlling but careful in the way he cupped Johnny’s head, and then he began to thrust into Johnny’s mouth.
Yes, Johnny thought, yes yes.
His eyes fluttered closed. His jaw ached, but he didn’t stop. He let Peter chase whatever he was looking for. Saliva ran down his chin and Peter pushed deeper, messier, until Johnny had to suppress the sounds threatening to rise in his throat. He sucked harder, cheeks hollowing.
Peter grunted something, Johnny's mushy brain understood the warning. He didn't pull back anyway. His hands kept Peter's hips exactly where they were and he pushed foward until the whole lenght of Peter's cock was inside his mouth. The soft tip hit the very back of his throat and Johnny did the best he could not to choke even though he coughed a few times, and felt his eyes filling up with unshed tears. Luckily, he didn't have to force his throat much longer because Peter came not long after that. He was letting out low puffs of breath, his head was thrown back and his eyes squeezed together in pleasure while his hips were giving shallow thrusts into Johnny's wet mouth as if he was chasing completion. The expresion on his face made Johnny want to moan out loud and almost pushed him to the edge as well.
Johnny swallowed as much a could and pulled away with a gasp. His tongue came out to lick his lips. The taste of Peter was still right there, salty, but not quite bitter. He sank back on his hunches and used the back of his hand to wipe his face from residual fluids. When he looked up, Peter was already looking down at him with a hazy expresion, cheeks flushed. Johnny like it the best.
Gentle hands helped him up and they kissed as soon as Johnny was on his feet.
"Do you have any lube?" Johnny whispered, his lips sliding against Peter's.
Peter nodded. "Figured we were gonna need it."
"Look at ya, boy scout."
Peter’s mouth curved as he jabbed a finger into Johnny’s side. The startled yelp that came out of Johnny was embarrassingly high, which only made Peter grin wider before turning and heading for the next room.
Johnny leaned back against the counter, teeth catching on his bottom lip to keep from grinning too hard. He could still taste Peter, still feel the ghost of his hands on his hair. It was insane, honestly, standing in this guy’s kitchen, waiting for round three, when two had already been more than his unofficial personal record. He’d never gone back for thirds with anyone who wasn’t on the brink of turning into something serious. Not that there were many to begin with.
Just one more time, he told himself. One more time wouldn't hurt.
"Found it." Peter reappeared, holding up the small bottle of lube in a little ta-da gesture. There was something about how utterly un-slick Peter was that made him almost sweet.
"You don't have a bed?"
"The bedroom it's, kinda. It's a mess, really."
Johnny shrugged. Honestly, he didn’t care, but part of him had expected Peter to be the sort who insisted on a proper surface with sheets, pillows, the works. Then again, he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of Peter pressing him down into a mattress and just taking him apart. The memory made heat rise inside his stomach.
“If you’re cool with potentially setting a new health code violation record,” Johnny said, pushing off the counter, “then the kitchen’s fine by me.”
Peter’s lips quirked, eyes flicking down as Johnny’s fingers made quick work of the button on his jeans.
Johnny removed the last of his clothing and kicked it away, the fabric skidding across the floor to land in a messy heap beside Peter’s discarded pants. Before he could even breathe, Peter’s arms circled his waist, pulling him close into a kiss. His lips parted slightly and Peter slid his tongue inside.
The sharp chill of the lube bottle pressing into his side made Johnny jolt, earning a low chuckle from Peter against his mouth.
Then their cocks slid together, skin on skin. The shock of it sent a sound out of Johnny he’d never admit to making. Peter wasn’t much quieter, though.
“God—feels so good,” Johnny rasped.
Peter put the lube away before his hands tightened at Johnny’s hips. “Turn around.”
There was no question in the tone, just quiet insistence. Johnny found himself obeying without thinking, his stomach grazing the counter as he braced his elbows against it. The surface was cold, unyielding, his cock pinned between his abs and the countertop, throbbing.
Peter’s palms mapped his spine in a slow and deliberate movement, dragging goosebumps in their wake. A shiver rippled through him when Peter’s lips ghosted over his shoulder, warm and wet against his skin, the faint scratch of stubble made Johnny twitch. Then came the nudge of Peter’s knee, urging his legs further apart.
Johnny swallowed hard. He could feel him moving, shifting behind him. The sound of knees hitting tile, the air cooling as Peter lowered himself. And then he felt teeth, a gentle catch at the back of his thigh, paired with firm hands gripping his ass, kneading it.
Johnny’s breath hitched. His head dropped forward between his shoulders.
He squeezed his eyes shut, the thoughts just kept coming fast and scattered. Okay. Fine. I showered. I’m clean. It's good. Not exactly my usual Tuesday night activity to have some guy's face between my—
Peter’s fingers spread him apart with a confidence that punched the air out of his lungs.
“Holy—” Johnny bit his lip hard. “You’re just going for it, huh?”
Peter’s voice was low, smug. “Tell me to stop.”
The worst part was that Johnny couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
“Didn’t say that,” he muttered, heat creeping up his neck.
He could hear Peter’s smirk without looking, could feel it pressed against his skin.
And then Peter’s mouth was on the rim of his ass, hot and wet and nothing like Johnny had been braced for. The first swipe of his tongue had Johnny’s elbows threatening to give out.
“Shit—Peter,” he groaned, half-laughing, half-melting. “Warn a guy.”
Peter hummed in answer, the vibration shooting straight up Johnny’s spine. His tongue circled his rim in slow, deliberate swipes, teasing without rushing.
Johnny’s breath caught every time the slick heat brushed over that sensitive skin. Peter’s hands stayed firm on his ass, keeping him spread, the pads of his thumbs pressing into the meat of him like he was making sure Johnny couldn’t wriggle away even if he wanted to.
The warm puff of breath between licks made Johnny’s thighs twitch. It was—yeah—strange, at first. Someone’s tongue right there, a part of him no one had been this close to before. He almost made a joke about buying Peter dinner first, but then Peter pushed in.
The tip of his tongue pressed past the tight ring of muscle, flicking inside him, and Johnny’s brain short-circuited.
When Johnny instinctively rocked his hips back, chasing it, Peter groaned into him and the sound vibrated right where it mattered. Then Peter’s mouth opened wider, sucking at him in messy, wet pulls, saliva slicking him up until Johnny could feel it dripping down, hot and obscene.
One of Johnny’s hands reached back blindly, desperate for something to hold. His fingers found Peter’s soft hair and he fisted it, trying to anchor himself as Peter worked him over. Peter’s tongue rolled against him in tight, perfect motions, every press making Johnny’s knees weaker, until he pulled back far too soon. Johnny whined before he could stop himself, the sound embarrassingly needy.
Peter didn’t comment, he just reached for the lube. The quiet click of the cap made Johnny’s stomach flip.
He stayed folded over the counter, breathing hard, feeling flushed all over. His cock throbbed against the cool surface, every beat of his pulse loud in his ears. He wanted to reach down, stroke himself until the pressure eased; but more than that, he wanted Peter to tell him no, to hold him there, hard and aching, until Peter decided he’d earned it.
The thought barely had time to form before something slick and cold pressed against his entrance. Johnny gasped, muscles tightening on instinct.
Peter’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “Relax for me.”
Johnny tried to keep his muscles loose, to focus on the drag of air in his lungs instead of the way Peter’s hand shifted against him. The pads of his fingers rubbed slow circles over his rim, testing him, before the first one pressed in. Johnny’s breath hitched. It didn’t hurt, far from it; the mix of Peter’s spit and the cool glide of lube made it almost too easy, and the lingering stretch from Peter’s tongue had already coaxed him open.
The finger curled inside him, stroking, and Johnny’s body answered before his brain could catch up. His hips pushed back, greedy for more.
“Yeah,” Peter murmured, low and approving, and suddenly there were two fingers working into him, knuckle-deep, filling him so perfectly it made Johnny’s thighs tremble. The stretch was sharper now, but good. So good.
His hips moved on instinct, small thrusts forward that only ground his cock against the unyielding countertop. The shock of hard wood under such sensitive skin made him groan, frustrated, his whole body caught between wanting more and not being able to get it.
“Peter—” His voice cracked on the name. He dropped his forehead to the counter. His lips parted around shaky breaths that fogged the cool surface beneath him.
Peter’s fingers kept moving, slow but deliberate, curling just so, and Johnny swore he could feel every ridge of his calluses inside him. They reached deeper and touched something inside him, something that made Johnny’s knees nearly give out. His body melted against the countertop, his cheek dragging over the cool surface as a sound broke from him, raw and startled.
“There?” Peter’s voice was low, coaxing, already knowing the answer.
“Yes—yeah, right there,” Johnny panted.
Peter pressed a kiss to the back of Johnny’s thigh, a brief sweetness before his fingers started working his prostate relentlessly, over and over, until Johnny’s head spun.
When it broke, it broke hard. Johnny came untouched, his cry muffled against the counter as his whole body trembled. He barely registered Peter’s hand sliding free until the loss left him shivering. Soft kisses trailed up his leg, over the curve of his ass, along his lower back, each one pulling him back to himself. Johnny lay slumped, chest rising and falling, using the counter like it was the only thing holding him up.
Johnny heard the quiet pop of a cap, the slick sound of lube being spread, and it filled his stomach with something between readiness and want. He widened his stance, feet braced, waiting.
Peter came up behind him, the heat of his body pressing flush against Johnny’s back. His nose brushed Johnny’s cheek, a fleeting nuzzle that almost distracted him from the slow, deliberate push of the blunt head of Peter’s cock against his entrance.
Johnny’s eyes fluttered open, his breath catching at the pressure. His hips pushed back instinctively, desperate to take all of Peter inside him.
They groaned in unison when Peter bottomed out. The first few thrusts were slow, shallow, almost tentative, each drag of Peter’s length against Johnny’s walls sending sparks of heat through him. Peter’s hands found his hips and gripped, he guided Johnny and made him move as he pleased.
When the pace picked up, Johnny tried to tilt back, to shield his cock from banging against the unforgiving counter, but Peter’s control was absolute. Every pulse, every angle, every rub of skin against skin landed on every sensitive point inside him. The kitchen filled with the wet, frantic chorus of their bodies colliding. Johnny’s hands scrambled blindly for anything to hold onto, but nothing offered relief.
A particularly fast thrust sent Peter sliding out, slick and sloppy, and they groaned together at the loss. Johnny twisted over his shoulder, meeting Peter’s eyes for a brief second before Peter pressed back in, driving forward without hesitation.
Peter leaned closer, hot, sweaty, heavy against Johnny’s back, his lips grazed Johnny’s neck, moving slowly until his teeth nipped on his earlobe. One hand wrapped around Johnny’s cock, each stroke in sync with the thrusts. It took only a few pulses before Johnny’s knees threatened to buckle when he reached his orgasm for a second time. His ass clenched reflexively, welcoming Peter fully as a shudder ran through him.
A strangled, broken sound ripped out of Peter, muffled against Johnny’s shoulder, and then warmth spilled inside him, hot. Johnny sagged against the counter, breathless, mind spinning, completely undone.
Peter held him close with his arms wrapped around Johnny’s midle, still moving inside him, letting him ride out the waves of his climax, every stroke a cruel mixture of control and care, leaving Johnny panting, wet, and utterly wrecked in the kitchen.
“Ugh.”
Johnny pushed up on his palms as Peter pulled out, wincing when a slick trail ran down his inner thigh. The heat had barely faded from his skin, and now a mix of sticky lube and sweat reminded him just how messy that had been. Grimacing, he glanced over his shoulder.
“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked, voice rough.
Peter gave a nod, tugging at his waistband. “There,” he said, pointing toward the doorway.
Johnny stepped past him, grabbing his scattered clothes off the floor on the way. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against it for a second, trying to catch his breath. Man… that was wild. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look much better. His hair was messy and sticking out at odd angles, his lips flushed, pupils darkened from overstimulation. There was a faint red mark on his right cheek where he’d pressed it against the counter too long, and a flush that stretched all the way down to his chest.
He tore off a wad of toilet paper, fumbling a little as he cleaned himself up. The motions felt mechanical, but the thoughts in his head were anything but.
God, Peter… why did I let him do that again?
Heat crept back into his cheeks just thinking about the way Peter had taken control, that smug, patient little smile whenever Johnny whimpered or tried to push back.
Once he was cleaned, Johnny slid his underwear back on and grabbed his jeans, holding them in front of him. He noticed the wet patch on the back pocket from whatever had dripped onto the counter. Nothing he could do about it. He pulled them up, his shirt went on after, sticking slightly from the earlier chaos but nothing that would make him care.
As he leaned back against the sink, Johnny let out a slow, shaky breath. Okay. Definitely not how his average night would go, but he had fun. He shook his head, trying not to think too hard about how Peter’s hands had felt on him, or worse, how much he’d liked it.
A knock on the door made him jump. “You okay there?” Peter’s voice called out.
Johnny grinned despite himself. He made a quick work of finishing to fix his hair in the mirror. “Yeah, you done disinfecting your kitchen?”
There was a pause followed a low chuckle. “Pretty much,” Peter admitted. “But you take your time. Don’t want you thinking I’m rushing you.”
Johnny shook his head and muttered, “Right. Just who raised you?”
Peter laughed softly from the other side of the door. “Hey, the savages were very good parental figures.”
"Figured."
Johnny opened the door. Peter was wearing a pair of sweatpants and pretty much nothing else. His hair was mussed, a few stray locks falling into his eyes, and his chest was pale and it showed the faint hint of muscle that made Johnny’s stomach flip.
“Hey,” Peter said, voice soft.
“Hey,” Johnny echoed, voice catching just a little despite himself.
They stood there, a few long seconds, just looking at each other. He wanted to say something witty, something smooth, but his brain was on strike.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”
Peter shook his head, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. “It’s okay, I didn’t have much to do.”
Johnny’s eyes flicked to the counter, remembering he’d left his phone in the car. “Do you have time? I gotta make it to dinner at eight.”
Peter picked up his own phone, showing it to Johnny. The screen was cracked, jagged lines running across the glass, but the clock read 7:38. “Uh, yeah. You’re good.”
Johnny snorted, taking in the default fabric wallpaper on the screen. “Dude, who even uses this anymore?”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up, mock-offended. “Me. See, 'cause I’m ahead of everyone else.”
Johnny tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “Or behind.”
“Yeah. Hmm, maybe a little both.”
Johnny noticed how Peter’s hands fiddled with the edge of the phone, thumbs tapping nervously, like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.
It was too much. Johnny Storm didn't do awkward.
"Hey, text you later, yeah?" His hand clapped Peter’s bicep as he passed him, his lips pulled up in a smile.
It was only when he was driving back to the Baxter that he wished he had kissed Peter’s dumbfounded expression instead.
Chapter Text
By the time the Fantasticar touched down on the streets of Midtown, Johnny was already craning his neck, searching the chaos from above. The air was buzzing with fire alarms, screaming civilians, the low rumble of cars being smashed around like toys. Normal Wednesday.
“It looks like… another lizard guy,” Johnny announced, landing in a flare of flame that singed the asphalt.
“What?” Ben squinted at the destruction, arms crossed like he was staring at a crossword puzzle that insulted him personally.
“He’s green and has a long tail! What do you want me to think?” Johnny shot back, defensive even though he knew he sounded ridiculous.
“Maybe you need to take biology classes, Torchy,” a voice cut in smoothly.
Johnny’s head snapped up, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. Spider-Man, perched upside down like some showoff gymnast, his silhouette sharp against the skyline.
“That's clearly a scorpion.”
Of course it was. Johnny’s stomach gave an unhelpful little swoop that he refused to acknowledge.
“Hilarious, Webhead,” Johnny muttered, though it came out a bit softer than he meant it.
Spidey didn’t miss a beat. He huffed, flipping mid-air like it was nothing, webbing an old man out of the path of an oncoming car before sticking the landing. Effortless, cool, annoying. Everything Johnny hated about him and also—if he was being honest—everything that made it impossible to look away.
“Leave the nicknames to me, hotshot,” Spidey tossed over his shoulder before sprinting into the fray.
Johnny’s jaw worked, a retort bubbling but going nowhere. Hotshot. Not bad, actually. He’d take it.
“So your boyfriend showed up,” Ben grumbled when Johnny landed beside him, as if Spidey’s appearance was the most predictable thing in the world.
Johnny’s flames flared, heat curling under his skin, more from embarrassment than fire. “You’re so lucky we have a villain to stop right now,” he shot back.
Ben smirked anyway.
Meanwhile Reed was already stretching halfway across the street, pulling civilians out of danger while muttering about the arachnid versus arachnid taxonomy, soft spots on the carapace, and strategies to neutralize the tail. “If we can destabilize the chitin reinforcement at the joints—" he grunted, while trying to a void a laser bean coming from the guy's tail. That was freaky. Sue put a force field up to shield him. "Soft spots, people, focus on the soft spots.”
Johnny barely listened.
The screams behind him dragged his attention sideways for a beat too long. Johnny’s head jerked up, eyes darting through the chaos, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of Peter in the crowd. Maybe standing on the sidewalk with his camera raised, maybe shoved by the tide of people running for their lives, maybe just unlucky enough to be walking home with his stupid backpack slung over one shoulder, collar turned up against the cold. The thought made Johnny’s chest twist. He shook his head hard, trying to clear it. Peter was the last person he should be thinking about right now; especially when the guy had ghosted him, just radio silence since a few days ago. Not that they talked all the time or anything. But usually, Johnny got at least one of those weird-ass memes from him every few days, the kind that only a sixteen-year-old or a seventy-year-old could think were funny, no in between. They always landed in his inbox at the dumbest times, half nonsensical, sometimes not even in English, but they made Johnny smile.
He really needed to focus.
His eyes tracked the red-and-blue blur swinging through the debris, flipping in front of Scorpion while webbing shot out in quick bursts, tangling the villain’s arm as he quipped, “Wow, somebody skipped leg day but went real hard on tail day, huh? Did you just walk into a RadioShack and say, ‘give me your angriest parts?’”
Scorpion roared and swung, tail lashing through brick. Johnny heard Ben laughing through the comms.
His flames flared higher as he aimed at Scorpion again. The bastard’s tail whipped like a wrecking ball, but Johnny twisted away and shot another burst of fire, lips pulling into a sharp grin. He needed to prove he could keep up, specially now that Spider-Man was here.
The thought tightened something in his chest. He rocketed forward, right into the chaos. “I’ve got this one, Spidey!” he shouted, more for the man in red than for his team
Johnny moved, circling Scorpion in tight arcs, flame crackling at his heels, trying to blind him with heat. Timing was everything. Ben had just landed a punch that rattled the street, throwing the guy off-balance. Perfect opening.
Reed had told them to aim for the weak spots, Johnny could do that. He dove. Fire shot straight into the segmented metal of the tail, right at the part he thought could spit that ugly green beam. And when it sparked, when Scorpion staggered with a hiss of pain, Johnny felt it, the sharp thrill of nailed it. A win.
Except it wasn’t.
The tail twitched, jerking unnaturally while sparks bled out of the seams. The hum of energy went from steady to unhinged. And Johnny’s gut sank.
“Oh, great,” he muttered, already realizing his shot hadn’t disabled it, it had scrambled it instead.
Spider-Man was suddenly behind Scorpion, webbing him tight, trying to hold the thrashing metal appendage down. But the thing screamed alive, louder, wilder, the glow building until it was unstoppable. Spider-Man let go.
The blast tore loose. A jagged beam of light raked across the street, cutting into concrete, walls, glass. People screamed when buildings cracked. Sue’s forcefield snapped into place to stop the raining debris, her teeth grit from the effort. Reed and Ben lunged at the tail, Spider-Man too, all three trying to hold it down.
Johnny didn’t think. He just moved, flames roaring back to life as he dove from the sky. He was going to help, he was going to fix what he’d screwed up—
“Torch—!” Spider-Man’s voice, sharp, urgent.
“Johnny!” Sue’s followed, high and terrified.
He didn’t even see the next beam until it carved straight into him. White-hot pain cracked through his body, ripping the air out of his lungs. It felt like being set on fire from the inside out, an insult, really, when fire was supposed to be his thing. The force flung him down, hard, into unforgiving asphalt. His vision splintered and he saw the edges darkening. The last thing he registered before passing out was red and blue in motion, a blur of Spider-Man reaching for him, hands outstretched like he could still catch him in time.
The fridge door thudded shut behind him as Johnny pressed a half-melted bag of frozen peas to his temple. It was the best he could find there, the gel packs were all in Sue’s weird color-coded emergency cabinet and he wasn’t about to risk triggering a lecture.
The pain had dulled to a stubborn throb, but his pride was still taking a nosedive every time the memory surfaced. Which was constantly.
"I've got this one, Spidey!"
The memory hit him like a slap and he groaned, dragging a hand down his face in mortified defeat. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
What had that even been? He hadn’t stuck the landing, that was for sure. And the worst part wasn't the bruised ribs or the matching bruise to his ego, it was knowing that he'd done it all to impress Spider-Man of all people, and instead, he'd handed the internet pure meme material.
Johnny barely refrained from banging his head against the kitchen counter, opting to lean against it, the ice pack slipping slightly as he reached for his phone. Just touching it filled him with a fresh wave of dread. He hadn’t opened any social media since the fall, hadn’t even checked texts. He didn’t want to see it because he knew someone had recorded it, there were probably a dozen angles by now.
At least he’d managed to escape Sue’s maternal instincts before she could frog-march him into the Baxter Building’s medbay. That would’ve ended with wires attached to his skull and Reed explaining concussions using five-syllable words. Worse, he’d also narrowly dodged Ben’s relentless teasing, though he knew that was only a temporary reprieve. The second Ben realized Johnny wasn’t concussed enough to be spared, it was over.
The doorbell rang and he frowned. Just thinking about his family—he might have summoned them. Great.
Johnny padded toward the door. “If this is a surprise intervention, I swear to God—”
He opened it.
Peter Parker stood there, looking a little hesitant and very much not his sister. He was wearing his usual beat up navy green jacket and a purple bruise on his right cheek. Johnny blinked, surprised to see him in front of his door out of nowhere, while his heart did that stupid fluttering thing.
“Rough day at the office?” Peter said before Johnny could even open his mouth to ask about the bruise; or maybe where the hell has he been.
Johnny forced a half-smile, masking the sting with bravado. “You know me. Always aiming to impress.”
Peter snorted under his breath. “Right. Very impressive.”
“Ha ha,” Johnny muttered, but he stepped aside and let Peter in anyway. “Just get in here before the neighbors find something to gossip about.”
Because even if Peter had definitely seen the video, even if he’d probably already made five sarcastic comments in his head about it, and even if Johnny was still dying inside—
"It's not as if your looking any better." Johnny added, gesturing at the bruise on Peter’s face.
Peter brought his hand up to touch it as if he just forgot it was there to begin with. "Oh. It's nothing. Fell on the, uh, skate."
"Learning a new trick?" Johnny asked, skeptical, because this was definitely not the first time Peter spotted one of those on his face. He doubled this would be the last.
"You could say so."
Peter followed Johnny into the living room but didn’t take off his jacket or even sit down, just stood there with his usual hunched posture and his hands in the pockets of his pants. Which was weird. Usually, when they crossed paths it meant they were heading for a bed, a closet, or maybe a kitchen counter. Casual visits weren’t exactly their style.
Peter scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight from one leg to the other like he couldn’t decide if he was here to check in or deliver the final blow. “Just wanted to see if you were alive,” he said.
“Oh, I’m alive,” Johnny said, going for nonchalance. “Regretfully.”
Peter huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.
Johnny stood near the bookshelf, the bag of ice slipping slightly as he looked Peter over again. He had hat kind of permanently half-distracted expression, so same as usual. Nothing screamed guy who’d show up after a public humiliation just to twist the knife, but still.
“What are you actually doing here, Peter?” he asked, a little too tired by now. His aching head might be at fault for that.
Peter shrugged, like that explained everything. “Thought you could use a friend.”
Johnny blinked again, caught off guard by the word. “Do I look like I need a friend?” he asked, not unkindly, just curious.
“You look like someone who said ‘I got this’ and then hit the pavement like a sack of wet laundry,” Peter replied, deadpan.
Johnny narrowed his eyes. “You here to help or to heckle?”
Peter smirked faintly. “Can’t it be both?”
Johnny pursed his lips to the side and took a slow step toward the couch, his hip bumping lazily against the back of it, before leaning completely on it. “Whatever. This might be not the best time because I'm actively trying to forget about it as we speak."
However, he let his eyes drag back to Peter’s face; and then lower, a lazy flicker of heat disguised as a once-over. His legs stretched out in front of him, unfolding, while balancing his weight casually on the hand that wasn't holding the ice. “But I could use a lover.”
A distraction, he didn’t say.
Peter didn’t move right away. His thick eyebrows arched a touch. Skepticism, surprise—it was hard to tell with him. His mouth parted slightly like he was about to object or ask a question, but nothing came. Instead, he stepped forward, slow and steady. Acceptance looked good on him.
Johnny didn’t flinch when Peter reached for the ice pack still clutched in his hand. Their fingers brushed, and Peter took it from him gently, setting it aside without breaking eye contact. Then his palm came up, broad and warm, and far too careful for someone who looked as if he got into street streets brawls for fun, if his bruises were anything to go by. He cradled Johnny’s cheek like something fragile.
“Maybe I could help, then?” Peter’s voice was low, right against Johnny’s lips. His breath was cool mint, as if he had been chewing gum right before coming here. “You can stop me anytime,” he murmured.
“I’ll pass,” Johnny whispered back, already tipping his head up. It was almost funny, pretending there was a choice in this when his whole body was leaning toward Peter, devoted to his touch. He nipped at Peter’s mouth before wrapping his arms around his neck and dragging him down.
Peter went willingly. His tongue brushed Johnny’s lips before sliding in, his hands finding Johnny’s waist. It felt like such a contrast to the frantic, half-biting kisses they usually fell into that Johnny almost groaned in surprise.
His fingers curled into Peter’s shirt. He tried to pushed his jacket away while pulling him closer at the same time, his teeth catching on Peter’s bottom lip. It was playful but demanding, because Johnny had never really been good at waiting his turn for anything.
“Hey,” Peter broke the kiss, his breath warm against Johnny’s cheek, “bed?”
He nodded and stole another kiss like punctuation. “Bed sounds good.”
Peter didn’t make him walk. His arms were suddenly under Johnny, lifting him with that impossible mix of strength and gentleness, and then he was being set down on the mattress with just the same care. It made Johnny want to roll his eyes. He was fine. His head barely ached anymore, he didn’t need to be treated like he was going to break on the spot.
Johnny didn’t say anything but he didn’t let go either. He yanked Peter down with him until the weight of him settled between his thighs, grounding and electric all at once.
“Yes, c’mon.”
“Are you sure you feel okay?”
Johnny shot him an unimpressed look. The kind of look he'd shoot a particularly stupid paparazzi who'd gotten a little too bold after the third question about his rumored love-life. Oh yeah, that look said, I'm really thinking deep thoughts about my health after you offered to take my clothes off.
"Yes. Now stop asking questions," he said instead.
Johnny didn’t want to think about the fall, or the bruise, or the mess in his head. Or Spider-Man for that matter. He wanted to focus on the man between his legs.
Peter made quick work of Johnny's sweatpants and underwear, tossing them aside. His hands slid up Johnny’s thighs, pushing them open without rush nor hesitation.
Johnny exhaled hard and melted into the pillows. One of his hands tugged his shirt up until his chest was exposed, Peter seemed to appreciate it, if the look on his face was anything to go by. His eyes watched Peter’s head dip lower, until the first slow press of lips against the inside of his thigh had him shutting his eyes and gripping the sheets. Peter kept at it, slow and deliberate, until he reached Johnny’s cock, flushed and heavy against his stomach. He licked a single, deliberate stripe from base to tip.
It made Johnny hiss, unsure if it sounded more like a wince or a moan. His back arched, his thighs twitching when Peter’s hand wrapped around the base. A sharp, breathy “ah” tore out of him when that mouth finally closed around him, warm and wet and perfect. His fingers slid into Peter’s locks, holding him there—not that Peter needed convincing.
Peter groaned against him, his free hand tightening on his hip, while his tongue worked over the head before sucking.
“Jesus,” Johnny breathed.
Peter didn’t slow down. He stroked what his mouth couldn’t reach, every touch confident. Johnny’s body burned, restless and desperate, his head rolled against the pillow as his grip in Peter’s hair tightened. Peter took him deeper, his free hand sliding up Johnny’s chest.
When Peter pulled back just enough to wrap his hand around him again, stroking fast, slick with spit and precome, Johnny's body gave out.
That did it.
Johnny’s voice broke on a cry as he came, hips jerking up into Peter’s hand. His vision went white for a moment, and he buried his face in the pillow, breathing hard until the shudders passed.
After a few moments, Peter reached over to Johnny’s nightstand for the tissues, cleaned the mess on his stomach up without fuss, and then flopped down next to him.
Johnny felt boneless, every limb pleasantly heavy. It took him a second to realize Peter hadn’t gotten off. “You didn’t—”
“M’fine,” Peter said, eyes closed.
The bruise on his cheek was still sharp against his skin, Johnny noticed as he studied him. He looked tired.
I don’t want him to leave. I missed him, I missed him.
Peter never stayed, but maybe—
“Uh… so,” Johnny started, and then stopped, because he didn’t even know what he was asking. He shifted, tugging his sweatpants back up with a wince. The room went quiet. “D’you wanna make pizzas?”
“We made a good team. I’m surprised.” Peter looked up from his slice, cheeks full of pizza.
The sweet onions Peter had made were still lingering in the air, warm and buttery, clinging to the steam coming off the pizza settled between them. They’d somehow migrated to Johnny’s bed with the food and drinks, sitting cross-legged facing each other. Some old episode of The Office played low in the background, mostly because it was the first thing Johnny found on the streaming app, and the room had felt too quiet otherwise.
Cooking with Peter had been surprisingly nice. Johnny had expected him to be a disaster in the kitchen, like the type to drop the spoon handle-first into the sauce or cut his own thumb trying to slice mushrooms. But no, Peter was weirdly neat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, washing dishes as they went like someone’s favorite husband. It was disarming. And apparently Peter had been thinking about the same thing.
Johnny tried to keep his voice dry, sarcastic even, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He was smiling before he knew it, which kind of ruined the effect. He lifted another slice and took a bite. “What, did you think I’d blow up the kitchen or something?”
“I mean, blowin’ up is kinda your thing.”
Johnny made a face at him, chewing, swallowing. “Yeah, well. I learned how to be a normal person, what do you know. And I only set my kitchen on fire once.”
Peter’s eyebrows jumped. “Do I wanna know?”
When he leaned back against the headboard, a forgotten napkin on his lap slid off it, leaving a streak of tomato sauce on his sweatpants. He grimaced but kept going. “Took home ec sophomore year ‘cause there was this girl. Thought I’d impress her. Spoiler, I set the curtains on fire. Sprinklers went off, kitchen turned into a fountain.” He crunched another bite. “Didn’t get the girl.”
Peter nearly choked on his slice, covering his laugh with a napkin. His eyes squinted shut, mouth hidden but still unmistakably grinning. “Actually reminds me why my aunt banned me from the kitchen.”
Johnny tilted his head, lips quirking as he tried to picture it, a younger Peter getting reprimanded while the kitchen was a mess behind him. “Really? You? What’d you do—blow up the microwave with ramen or somethin’?”
Peter flushed, ducking his head. “...I’m just gonna say it involved a toaster and somehow, eggs.”
“Wow.” A soft chuckle escaped him, he shook his head. “How the hell am I into you? You’re hopeless.” At this point, he wasn't even trying to mask the affection creeping into his voice. “So… you used to live with your aunt?”
Peter’s smile softened, gaze dropping briefly. “Uh, yeah. My uncle and her. They raised me.”
“And what are they like?” Just as he asked, Johnny realized how little he actually knew. How many blanks there were in the story of Peter Parker. He wanted to fill them in. Piece them together.
Johnny’s eyes flickered down at the movement of Peter’s throat when he swallowed.
“Well… my uncle died when I was in high school. It was—” He cut himself off, shaking his head like he’d said too much already. “But my aunt… she’s strong. Strongest person I know. I don’t even know how she put up with me, honestly.” He gave a small shrug, but his voice carried the weight of memory. “I’m grateful. For both of ‘em.”
The guilt hit Johnny almost instantly—guilt for asking, for tugging on something raw without meaning to. He shifted, scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah?” He cleared his throat, hating how stiff he sounded. Maybe he wasn't the great conversationalist he thought he was. “I mean… I get it. My parents didn’t raise me either. Mom died in a car crash, dad went to jail. So, yeah. My big sister basically did it all. She’s… the best. Except if she asks."
The tight pull of Peter’s mouth softened. “That’s… I always wanted siblings.”
“People think that ‘til they gotta share a room.”
The words were automatic, but Johnny’s mind flashed back to Sue. Sharing a twin bed when storms rolled in, Sue keeping an arm wrapped tight around him, never complaining when he needed the light on all night, even when it hit her straight on the face.
“That bad?”
“With one tiny mattress? Yeah.” Johnny smirked faintly through the lie, though his chest felt tight. After a beat, he shrugged, deciding to lean into the honesty. “It wasn’t all bad. She’s smart. Tough. Only one who doesn’t put up with my crap. But… she raised me. So now she acts like my mom, and I’m the baby of the team. Which—” He sighed, rolling the crust in his fingers. “—sometimes makes me feel dumb.”
Silence. The kind that made Johnny immediately regret opening his mouth. His chest went hot with insecurity, like he’d just ruined a perfectly good night by oversharing. He tossed the crust back onto the plate, appetite gone, and crossed his arms.
“I, uh—I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“It’s not.” Peter’s voice came quickly, firm. His knee brushed Johnny’s like he was trying to anchor him. “I like talkin’ with you.”
That certainly caught Johnny off guard. “You do?” He tried to play it cool, but the nervous laugh slipped out anyway. “About what? Me being the baby of the superhero world?”
Peter shook his head, biting his lip. "Nah." The word shaped his mouth around it like it was heavy. "Makes me see how much of an asshole I was when we met. Y’know, I had my prejudices and stuff." His accent thickened again.
Johnny didn’t know what to do with that. It stung in places he didn’t expect, though, honestly, he’d been kind of a jerk himself back then. He wasn’t good at not taking things personal—hell, he usually did take things personal—but there was something in Peter’s voice, the way it tipped into self-deprecation, that bothered him more than the words themselves.
So he leaned over and nudged Peter’s knee with his foot, trying to shake him out of it. “Not just an ass,” he corrected, mock-serious. “You were a complete dick. Smug, overconfident, arrogant, smartass dick with a massive ego.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “And that’s me being nice.”
Peter tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. Johnny caught the curve of his mouth. “Wow. That’s, uh… glowing CV review. Five stars. And still you managed to sound nicer than my boss.”
"Funny." His voice softened before he realized it had, and then, “You don’t think that anymore? Of me.”
“I think it’d be weird if I did.”
Johnny searched his face for more—something sharp, something biting—but Peter didn’t look angry, didn’t look annoyed. He just looked thoughtful, a little pensive. It made Johnny’s pulse kick up like it was trying to beat out of his throat. He grabbed his soda, hiding behind a long sip because he suddenly needed something, anything, to keep his hands busy.
“I guess.”
“Johnny.”
When Johnny’s gaze moved from the TV back to Peter’s face, he found him watching him instead of the show, and the look he gave him made him want to squirm on the bed.
Then Peter’s hand came up, fingers brushing his jaw, thumb catching under his chin, and Johnny froze. Peter kissed him, soft, tentative, but with that usual eagerness underneath it all. And God, Johnny melted instantly. A low moan slipped from him without permission, and his hand shot up to the back of Peter’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair.
It was safe, natural in a way that scared him more than fire ever had.
“You taste like my aunt’s onion sauce,” Peter whispered against his lips, breath still shallow.
Johnny nipped his bottom lip in retaliation. Just who said that in the middle of making out? “You’re the weirdest person I know.”
“Is that good?” Peter murmured back.
Johnny brushed hair off his forehead, let his fingertips trace down the line of his jaw, lingering. At this point he doubted he could find something to give him the ick about this guy.
“Yeah. I’m kinda into it.”
They leaned back in at the same time.
Chapter 6
Notes:
this is long and a roller-coaster lol it's also the last happy chapter, if you will. no further comments about that
also, i suck at making plans. really. thankfully, as we saw in tasm 1, infiltrating oscorp is not hard at all (peter got bit thanks to that ha) so, this is basically canon stupidity
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ben was hunched over a half-dismantled generator on the workbench, big rocky fingers surprisingly precise as he sorted through screws with the delicacy of someone used to breaking things without meaning to. Johnny was leaning against the same bench, fiddling with a soldering iron and pretending he wasn’t just waiting for something to spark so he could laugh at Ben swearing.
Reed, of course, didn’t notice either of them. His mind was elsewhere, his lanky frame bent over a holographic projection of Scorpion’s suit. The green outline rotated lazily in the air, tail flicking back and forth like a warning. It had been a few weeks since that fight but apparently, his brother-in-law hadn't stop thinking about it just yet.
“There’s something… familiar about this design,” Reed murmured, half to himself. His voice carried that distant tone he got when his brain was six steps ahead of the room. “The way the tail’s neural interface is connected—the choice of alloys—this isn’t just brute force engineering. It’s… elegant. Corporate, even.”
“Yeah?” Ben grunted, not looking up. “Looks like a bug on steroids to me.”
Johnny tapped the iron against the bench, eyes flicking to the hologram. He hated to admit it, but Reed was right. The thing looked way too polished for a guy who fought like a rabid animal. “So what, someone’s makin’ these freaks custom suits now? Villain couture?”
Reed’s lips pressed thin. He zoomed in on a cluster of circuitry in the hologram’s tail. “This chipset. The serial markers were partially scorched in the fight, but I salvaged enough to trace a pattern. Oscorp. Older line, but unmistakable.”
That got Johnny’s attention and he straightened from the bench. Oscorp was a name that carried weight in the city. Aside from of course, money, power, all wrapped up in the kind of shady experiments Sue always said Reed should be keeping closer tabs on.
“You’re saying this guy’s running around with Norman Osborn’s toys?”
“Not just Osborn’s toys.” Reed adjusted his glasses. “Prototypes. Designs that never hit the public market. Which means either Oscorp’s vaults have been compromised, or someone inside is supplying these… individuals.”
Johnny whistled low, leaning back on his heels. “That’s not just a problem. That’s a damn pipeline.”
Ben finally looked up from his work, his rocky brow furrowed. “And you’re thinkin’ Scorpy’s just the first to crawl outta the woodwork.”
“Precisely.” Reed’s gaze sharpened. “I need confirmation. Someone needs to trace the chain back to see who’s pulling the strings. But Oscorp doesn’t exactly open its doors to me these days.”
Johnny’s mouth curved into a grin before Reed even finished. “Lucky for you, I look fantastic in a suit and I know how to charm a security guard. Send me.”
Reed gave him a long, skeptical look, but he didn’t outright say no. Which, in Reed-speak, was as good as approval. “Be discreet, Johnny. This isn’t about showing off, it’s more about information.”
“Discreet’s my middle name.” That earned him a rumbling snort from Ben.
“Yeah, sure,” Ben muttered. “And mine’s Graceful.”
Johnny ignored him, already imagining the infiltration, the thrill that will bring him to sneak into Oscorp.
The very next day, Johnny found himself strutting through Oscorp’s glass-and-steel lobby. The place smelled like lemon polish and money, all sharp edges and mirrored walls that reflected his every move back at him. He kept his sunglasses on a little longer than necessary, the swagger in his step dialed up just enough to make the receptionist hesitate before asking too many questions.
Infiltration work couldn’t be all that hard, could it? Reed had made it sound like some complicated operation, but Johnny had charisma, charm, and a knack for bending the rules until they worked in his favor. All it took was a winning smile and a line about a “reunion with the CEO regarding a potential collaboration between Oscorp and the Fantastic Four”—whatever bullshit PR campaign Reed would’ve hated him for improvising. And just like that, they waved him toward the elevators with a visitor’s badge that still smelled like the plastic wrap it had come out of.
“Thirty-fifth floor, sir,” the woman at the desk had said, her voice polite but distant, like she already knew she wouldn’t remember his face in five minutes.
Thirty-fifth. That was where they wanted him. Reed, of course, had been very clear: what they needed was on the fifty-sixth. Top-secret research drives that supposedly catalogued Oscorp’s entire internal history, even the files that were supposedly deleted. So Johnny rode the elevator with a dozen suits who smelled like expensive cologne, and pressed fifty-six instead of thirty-five. No one questioned it. He slid his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, leaned back, and hummed under his breath like he was just another guy heading upstairs for a meeting.
And maybe that was the first mistake.
Because when the doors opened, the air was different, colder. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, illuminating hallways that didn’t bother with art or furniture. This floor wasn’t built for guests at all.
Johnny slipped out, scanning for cameras. There were some high-tech ones, sleek little black domes angled at the hall. He kept his stride even, unhurried.
Reed had told him to look for a server room near the east end, reinforced with biometric locks. Johnny wasn’t exactly a tech guy, but he wasn’t stupid either. If Reed was right, one of Oscorp’s research assistants was sloppy enough to leave a back door open in the system. All Johnny had to do was grab the encrypted drive and get out. Simple.
Except the farther he walked, the more the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
His footsteps echoed on the polished floor, bouncing back at him in the silence. Behind one door he caught sight of a lab; rows of glass canisters filled with… something. One of them bubbled faintly, like a living thing was curled inside. He shivered, forced himself not to stop and not to look too close.
At the end of the corridor, he spotted it: heavy doors marked Authorized Personnel Only, with the faint glow of servers bleeding through the narrow glass strip in the middle.
Jackpot.
Johnny grinned to himself. “Too easy. Way too easy” he muttered, reaching for the keypad.
His suspicion was confirmed when he crouched to fry the lock, and a web shot across the room and snapped against his wrist, pinning his hand to the casing.
“Uh-uh,” a voice drawled from above. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, Hot Wheels.”
Johnny’s head snapped up, flames residing. Perched upside down from the ceiling like it was the most casual thing in the world was Spider-Man, red and blue lit up in the sterile server light.
Johnny tugged on the webbing, scowling. “Seriously? What are you, Oscorp’s mall cop now?”
Spider-Man dropped lightly to the floor, crossing his arms. “Funny, I was gonna ask you the same thing. Pretty sure breaking and entering doesn’t look good on your shiny family-friendly record.”
Johnny felt the itch in his chest, that stubborn pull of wanting to impress and punch the guy all at once. “I’m here on business. Important business. Real superhero stuff. You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
Johnny hesitated. He couldn’t exactly tell Spider-Man about Reed’s suspicions without giving away too much. But he also couldn’t back off now either.
He yanked his wrist free with a burst of flame, glaring. “Look, you can either let me do my thing, or you can keep webbing me up and slowing us both down. But either way, I’m not leaving without that drive.”
Spider-Man’s silence stretched a beat too long. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging. “Great. Of course. Forced team-up it is.”
Johnny blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah,” Spidey said, already typing the numbers on the keypad. Oh. “Because if you’re here poking around Oscorp, that means you’ve noticed what I’ve noticed. Also. Don't use flames, they have heat sensors. It would activate millions of alarms.”
"Got it." Johnny nodded and followed Spider-Man’s lead.
The guy clearly had a better grasp on where to look; he moved like he’d been here before, like he already had the map drawn in his head. Johnny tried to march just as confidently, chin high, but the truth was he didn’t have much of an idea about this part of Oscorp. Reed hadn’t exactly handed him blueprints, just vague instructions.
“Is that it?” Johnny tilted his chin toward a big, sleek-looking database at the end of the room, the kind of futuristic setup that screamed important secret files live here.
“I don’t think so.”
Johnny rolled his eyes, making sure Spide caught it. “We’ll never know if we don’t check.”
He’d barely taken a step when a hand clamped tight around his middle and yanked him back around a corner. Johnny’s spine hit something firm, solid muscle under thin fabric, his eyes widened and before he could even get a complaint out, another hand covered his mouth.
His breath hitched.
God. He was completely pressed against Spider-Man’s front. Hard chest flush to his back, the faint texture of the suit rubbing against his shirt. Masked face so close it brushed his cheek. Seventeen year old Johnny was definitely living out one of his fantasies right now.
Of all the times to test his self-control, this was not it.
The warmth of Spidey’s palm over his mouth made his stomach swoop, and Johnny’s traitorous mind couldn’t stop going off about the steady strength in those arms, the faint smell of clean laundry clinging to the suit, the way his body heat seeped through like an anchor holding him still. Why the hell did Spider-Man’s suit smell so familiar? Did everyone in New York use the same Tide?
This was so not the time to be thinking about that. Or about how easily those arms could break him in half if they wanted to.
Through the fog in his head, Johnny caught the sound of footsteps coming closer.
Spider-Man’s masked face tilted toward him, voice pitched low at his ear, hushed enough to vibrate against Johnny’s skin. “Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud.”
Against Spidey’s palm, he managed to mumble, “You’re… really close to me right now.”
There was the tiniest pause, like Spidey wanted to groan but didn’t have the luxury. “Yeah, I noticed.”
And then, cutting through the rush of blood in Johnny’s ears, came the sharp electronic voice of the security system: Access granted. Welcome, Mr. Fiers. The sound of the door sliding open followed.
Spider-Man’s arm tightened around him in warning, holding him flush, like Johnny might blow their cover if he so much as twitched.
“Six, seven, three, zero.”
Johnny blinked, his lips still pressed against the heat of Spidey’s glove. He twisted his head just slightly, whispering, “What?”
“His code,” Spider-Man murmured back, white lenses fixed on the keypad across the room.
Johnny rolled his eyes, a little huff escaping before he could stop it. “So what? You’re the brains, you remember it.” He tried to sound unimpressed, even though his pulse was still racing from having a loaded security door open while he was practically caged in Spider-Man’s arms.
In response, Spidey’s hand shifted slightly, fingers squeezing at his waist firmly enough to make Johnny jerk in surprise.
“Stop that,” Johnny hissed under his breath, squirming against him. “I’m ticklish.”
There was the faintest beat of silence, then a muffled chuckle ghosted against Johnny’s ear. “Are you?” Spider-Man asked, sounding way too curious for someone supposed to be focusing on a stealth op. His tone held this low, pleased note, like he’d just stumbled across a new toy.
Johnny groaned quietly, tilting his head forward. “Yeah. So don’t get handsy.”
I already have someone to get handsy with, he didn't add, but the thought crept in anyway, uninvited. His brain conjured up Peter, leaning across a table with chopsticks in hand, brows furrowed in disbelief when Johnny told him about this ridiculous break-in. God, he wanted to tell him every detail of his day. He remembered with remorse how he already had to cancel on the plans they had for today and tell Peter he would be at a reunion at Oscorp instead.
The quiet whoosh of the door interrupted his thoughts. The man stepped out again, walking briskly down the long hallway while his shoes clicked in measured, even strides.
Johnny held his breath, every muscle strung tight until the sound faded. When the coast was finally clear, both he and Spider-Man exhaled at the same time, bodies sagging in unison like marionettes cut from their strings. He shifted just enough to glance over his shoulder. Spidey’s mask gave nothing away, but Johnny could sense the same unspoken relief in the way his grip loosened.
“Next time, you don’t need to play human straightjacket. I can handle myself.”
“Yeah,” Spider-Man muttered back, releasing him fully. “And next time, maybe don’t announce your presence to the entire building before you even check for guards.”
Johnny scowled, rubbing at his side where Spidey’s hand had been. He wasn’t about to admit how much he still felt the phantom press of those fingers. “Whatever. Let’s just find this damn drive before your bedtime.”
Spider-Man gave him a small, snort-laugh, before gesturing for Johnny to follow. The sound lingered in Johnny’s ears, annoyingly warm, as they crept further into Oscorp’s shadows.
When Spider-Man finally tapped the code, the keypad chirped its approval. The door slid open with a mechanical sigh, a rush of stale air brushing over them like the place had been sealed off for years. Johnny straightened, expecting rows of servers or some sleek drive Reed had sworn would be here. Instead, the space stretched into another hallway, lit with a sickly green glow that made the air feel even heavier.
The walls weren’t lined with computers, they were lined with glass.
Johnny slowed, boots echoing faintly against the concrete floor as his eyes caught the outlines—silhouettes of machines that didn’t belong in a clean corporate lab. The first case held a set of wings, metallic and sharp, spanning wide even in their folded state. They looked lethal, the kind of thing that could slice through steel. Further down, another display showed four mechanical arms, curled in on themselves like waiting predators. The plating was scorched in places, but Johnny could still see the intricate wiring, the way they seemed very much alive even without a host.
“What the heck…?” Spider-Man whispered, more to himself than to Johnny.
Johnny stepped closer, green light glinting off the curve of his jaw as his reflection rippled faintly against the glass. “Reed was right,” he said, the realization tasting bitter. “Oscorp provides these people.”
His words felt too loud in the dead air, bouncing back at him.
Spider-Man moved up beside him. “They’re not just experimenting. They’re stockpiling.” His gloved hand lifted, fingertips brushing the glass like he half-expected it to shatter under his touch.
Johnny’s gaze flicked to him, catching the tension in the set of his shoulders, the sharp edge of his voice. He wondered if Spider-Man had seen things like this before. If he was reliving something he wouldn’t say out loud.
“So it’s true Oscorp’s behind guys like Scorpion?” Johnny asked, trying to keep his voice level, though the unease prickled sharp down his spine. “Like—they just… hand this crap out?”
“Yeah. Hand it out. Lease it. Shove it onto people who don’t know what they’re messing with. Take your pick.” He shook his head, voice dipping. “God, Norman Osborn’s fingerprints are all over this.”
Johnny frowned. “But Osborn’s gone. His kid—”
“Harry.” Spider-Man’s head turned sharply toward him.
Johnny blinked. “Yeah. He’s in Ravencroft, right? Reed said something like that.”
Spider-Man didn’t answer right away. His mask tilted back toward the mechanical arms. “If Oscorp’s still operating like this, then someone’s pulling strings on the outside. And if Harry’s even remotely connected…” His voice trailed off. He sounded angry.
“Look.” Johnny reached out, fingers brushing the fabric of Spider-Man’s suit as he tapped his shoulder. He pointed past the glass cases and down toward the far end of the hallway. In the dim green glow, several tall cabinets gleamed—sleek, steel-lined things that looked out of place next to all the monstrous hardware.
Spider-Man’s head tilted. “Huh.” His voice was muffled by the mask, but Johnny heard the intrigue. He was already moving. “Would you look at that—Oscorp’s a fan of old-fashioned paper files. Very retro. Very hipster chic.”
Johnny snorted and followed. “Well, isn’t it supposed to be safer? No hacking, no power outages.”
“And yet.” Spider-Man crouched, tugged the latch on the first drawer, and it slid open with a hiss of stale air. "Here we are."
Johnny mirrored him, pulling open the cabinet next to it. His fingers skimmed over the edges of thick files, the smell of ink and aged paper wafting up. “Oh, this is better than the drive.”
“Don’t get too excited.” Spider-Man flipped a folder open, scanning quickly. His gloved hand hovered over a blueprint stamped with Oscorp’s insignia, red notes scribbled along the margins. “I’ve got a feeling this is the drive. Just… analog. Reed’s instincts might’ve been right, but Oscorp probably purged all the dirty laundry from their digital network a long time ago.”
“Or maybe it was never there.” Johnny’s voice was low as he turned a page, the scratch of paper against paper loud in the silence. His eyes caught on a sketch of a bulky exosuit, animalistic in design, with penciled notes detailing neural sync trials and rejection rates. He whistled under his breath. “Wait. Hold up.” He pulled the page free and held it toward Spider-Man. “Wasn’t this the guy you took down like two years ago?”
A hulking, horned silhouette stared back at them from the blueprint, thick plating, reinforced hydraulics, crude but powerful. Underneath, a name was scrawled in black ink.
“Aleksei Sytsevich,” Spider-Man said flatly.
"So it’s real. Not just a one-off freak accident. They built that. Him.”
"Yeah, I remember that day. Rhino suit hit the streets like a tank. People could’ve been crushed. And all this time, Oscorp was behind it, like with every single one of my problems. I just couldn’t prove it back then.”
Johnny felt the words lodge chest. It felt like ice, the way Spider-Man said it, like it was a personal grudge. He glanced at the other folders, each labeled with shorthand codes. It was a catalogue.
“And they just… keep going, they’ve got a whole zoo planned.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what it is.”
Johnny shoved the file back into the cabinet, too rough, the metal frame clanging. “So, what—Oscorp’s behind all of it? Every guy we’ve fought, every freak that shows up outta nowhere?”
“No, not every guy. But enough.”
They kept moving down the line of cabinets, drawers groaning as metal scraped against metal. Johnny tugged open each drawer with the impatient rhythm of someone looking for a shortcut.
That was when his hand froze over a folder stamped ERASED in blocky black letters. His brows drew together as he pulled it free, curious. Of course Oscorp would bury something, but stamping it with a label that blunt felt almost arrogant.
The first page wasn’t blueprints or schematics. It was a name. Osborn. He was familiar with Norman’s empire, Harry’s disappearance, Ravencroft. Rich people who never stayed out of the news. The next page was worse. A different name came up, Max Dillon. Johnny’s eyes narrowed as he took in the grainy images clipped inside. A burned body stretched out on a coroner’s table, skin warped and unrecognizable, veins like glowing cracks running under charred flesh. A handwritten note mentioned electric eels and Johnny recoiled.
“Oh, man.” His stomach turned; he’d seen a lot of rough things since joining the team, but this was something else.
Electro, the files classified him.
Yeah, that rang a bell as well. He’d seen the footage years back on the news, of Times Square lit up like hell’s playground, cops shouting, lights exploding. He remembered thinking it had looked like a warzone. Spider-Man had been there, too.
Johnny shot a quick glance at the masked figure beside him, but Spider-Man’s head was bowed low over another file. He flipped another page and the name Gwendolyne Maxine Stacy appeared.
A photo had been stapled to the corner of a blonde girl, maybe college-age, her smile quick and natural, holding up an Oscorp badge for the camera. His stomach twisted. She didn’t look like a test subject or some corporate head. She looked normal in a way that didn’t belong in these folders. His first thought was that she was an employee. Maybe someone caught up in one of Oscorp’s accidents, another casualty they didn’t want the press sniffing around. He glanced at the Electro notes again. Did she…?
The file didn’t spell it out, just a series of references connecting her name to Oscorp’s internal labs, and then, abruptly, nothing. As if someone had cut the thread on purpose.
Erased. The word circled him mind.
This was a goddamn mess and Johnny already found out more that he wanted to.
"Found anything else?" Spider-Man’s voice cut through the charged silence, loud enough to snap Johnny’s head up.
Johnny’s fingers tightened around the folder before he slid it shut with a quiet snap. He turned, trying to school his face, head already shaking before he even thought of a reply. “Nothing new.” He cleared his throat, forced his gaze off Spider-Man and onto the room around them. “We should go, though. Before this place gets, I don’t know, more haunted.”
“Yeah. We should.” Spider-Man conceded.
Johnny bent, scooping up a few files with the cleanest, clearest information. “I’m taking these. Should be enough for Reed to pull something together.”
“How though?” Spider-Man deadpanned, crossing his arms. “It’s not like you brought a bag or anything. What are you, Mary Poppins?”
Johnny snorted under his breath. “Cute.”
Without hesitation, he hooked his thumb into the hem of his shirt, yanking it up enough to expose the sharp V of his hips. The fluorescent green light caught on the skin of his stomach, every line of definition on display as he slid the file down into the waistband of his pants. It pressed cold against the heat of his body, awkward but doable. He glanced up just in time to catch Spider-Man’s head tilt, the weight of his stare burning even through the fogged lenses of the mask.
Johnny arched a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Problem?”
Spider-Man’s pause was just a beat too long, and Johnny swore he heard the smallest exhale from behind the mask. “Nope.”
Johnny patted the folder against his stomach, the smirk turning sharper. “Guess you’ll just have to trust I don’t set myself on fire with important evidence. Don’t worry, happens less than you’d think.”
Spider-Man muttered something under his breath. If he didn't know better, he'd say the guy was flustered. The thought sent a ripple of satisfaction through his chest, even if he didn’t know why. Maybe because the banter was easier than thinking about what he’d just read.
Anyhow, they got what they wanted.
The car unlocked and they got in. The cold air snuck in with them, sharp as glass, but Johnny used his powers to warm up the place almost instantly. The vents hummed and Peter let out this ridiculously content sigh, melting into the backrest like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment.
Johnny had learned by then that the guy ran cold all the time. At first he thought maybe Peter was anemic or something—too many late nights, not enough iron, you know. But then he saw just how much Peter ate and that theory went straight out the window. The man could inhale a buffet. Like right now, his lo mein was already open, chopsticks moving like he hadn’t eaten in days.
Johnny reached for him, cupping his cheeks before he could get too far into his noodles. Peter froze mid-slurp but didn’t pull away. Johnny made his palms just warm enough to thaw the chill from Peter’s face without burning him. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He remembered walking him from the Bugle to the subway weeks ago; Peter’s nose red as as stop sign, striped scarf pulled too tight, voice all scratchy like he was about to keel over. In the train, Johnny had cupped his face, same way as now. Peter hadn’t complained then either, just closed his eyes like he was finally being let in on some secret he wasn’t supposed to know.
And here he was again, doing the exact same thing.
Peter closed his eyes, jaw loosening, lashes brushing his cheeks. He looked so tired Johnny almost felt guilty for touching him at all. But then Peter’s hand slid up, laid over Johnny’s, and he leaned in for a kiss. Soft and quick, but enough to steal the warmth straight from Johnny’s chest.
Johnny smiled against his mouth right up until Peter’s stomach grumbled loud enough to make the windows rattle.
“C’mon.” He pulled back, chuckling. “That smells good.” Johnny went digging in the takeout bag until he got to his dumplings.
Peter groaned dramatically as he dug in. “Man, I’m famished.”
“You think this’ll be enough?”
They shared a look across the center console.
“…We can go to my place after,” Peter admitted, already caving. “I’ve got leftover Mexican.”
Johnny grinned, leaning back smugly. “Nice.” He bit into a dumpling, satisfied with his win.
The car filled up with the sound of takeout cartons cracking open, content chewing, and occasional satisfied hums. Johnny flicked the music on, the radio slipping back into that same independent station Peter had claimed weeks ago. He never changed it anymore, even if sometimes the songs dragged.
Peter shifted in his seat, finally shrugging his jacket off. He tossed it into the backseat without looking, his scarf sliding down to his collar. “So,” he said, licking sauce from his finger with deliberate precision, “what were you saying about Oscorp?” He reminded him of the chat they were having inside the dinner while they waited for the food to be ready.
Johnny swallowed the bite he had in his mouth and leaned back, chopsticks waving lazily. “Oh, yeah. That. Reed’s been digging into the materials for the suits, the providers, trying to figure out who’s really behind it all.”
Peter cocked a brow, wiping his thumb against his jeans like the sauce was still clinging. “And you’re telling a guy who literally works with the press this?”
Johnny rolled his eyes, exaggerated enough Peter couldn’t miss it. “Yeah, I know. You’ve got the sharp nose of a bloodthirsty shark when it comes to shady business.”
“Sharp mind,” Peter corrected automatically, pointing his chopsticks at him like a teacher scolding a kid. He let his lips twitch into a smirk, though, before tossing another noodle into his mouth. “Hey, I could sell this info.”
“You won’t.” Johnny leaned closer, grinning as he said it, like daring Peter to prove him wrong.
Peter tilted his head, chewed slowly, then sighed through his nose. “But I won’t.” The corner of his mouth softened.
Johnny smiled into his dumpling, biting down on the flaky edge and chewing thoughtfully.
Peter was halfway through telling a story; something about bumping into an old high school friend—or more like “bully who used to shove him into lockers,” turned friend by the end of school. Johnny listened with half a grin, already imagining teenage Peter with the same sharp tongue he had now, giving as good as he got, when the glow of Peter’s phone cut through the dim light of the car.
The screen lit up his face, sharp against the shadows. “That your girlfriend?” he teased, smirk curling around the words.
Peter nearly dropped the damn phone, fumbling with it like it was contraband. “Nah, it’s uh—my… lab partner. Needs notes.” The lie sat awkwardly between them. “I kinda… have to go.”
Johnny raised his brows. “At midnight?”
“Yeah, we’re both overachievers.”
“I guess you could call yourselves that,” Johnny said dryly, flicking his gaze to the clock glowing on the dash, “considering Thanksgiving break is like, next week.”
Peter blinked, almost startled. “Man, already?”
Johnny tilted his head, giving him a look that was half disbelief, half amusement. “Yeah? What, you live on Mars or something?”
Peter’s lips twitched, and for a second he seemed like he might joke back. “Ha, that would be cool.” But the moment faded fast. His hands stacked his almost-empty cartons back into the takeout bag. “Sorry, Johnny. I really have to go.”
Johnny leaned an elbow on the center console, watching him. “I could give you a lift to his place—”
But Peter was already pushing open the passenger door, ducking down to grab his backpack from under the seat. “No, thanks. I’ll, uh, walk. It's not so far. See you ’round.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The door clicked shut, leaving the car hollow. Johnny sat there, staring at the dark shape of the street ahead, fingers tapping against the wheel. Frustration bubbled hot under his skin, followed quick by something smaller, sharper, he hated to name. Rejection had a way of stinging more when it wasn’t loud, when it came soft and fumbling.
“Alright,” Johnny muttered to no one, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was a buzzkill.”
He glanced over his shoulder, maybe just to catch one more glimpse of Peter walking away. The sidewalk was empty, though, it gave the impression that Peter had vanished into thin air. Johnny frowned, sitting up straighter, eyes narrowing at the nothingness. How the hell did he move that fast?
It was then he spotted Peter’s jacket, crumpled in the backseat where he’d tossed it earlier. Johnny reached for it, pulling it over the console and up to his face before he could think better of it. It smelled faintly like detergent, city air, and something warmer he didn’t want to name.
He dropped the jacket onto the seat beside him and stared at the fogging windshield. Somewhere deep in his gut, he knew it, he might’ve just chosen the worst guy in the world to get attached to.
When the door opened, Johnny was left staring at Peter’s nonplussed expression, caught somewhere between surprise and dread, for all Johnny knew he could have just walked in on him mid–tax evasion.
“Hey,” Johnny said, casual on the surface, but his pulse skipped hard.
“Hey.” Peter’s reply was clipped, a little too quick, like he hadn’t rehearsed what to do if Johnny showed up on his doorstep. He stepped forward, out of the apartment, pulling the door mostly shut behind him and leaving it cracked an inch. Blocking the view inside.
Okay. Weird. Suspiciously weird.
Johnny shifted back a step, then edged sideways, trying to peer past his shoulder without making it obvious. “Sorry, is this a bad time?”
Peter scratched the back of his ear, eyes darting anywhere but Johnny. “No, I just… well, yeah. I was kinda busy.” Vowels dragged low in his throat. It made the excuse sound both flimsy and painfully honest.
He’s with somebody, Johnny’s brain jumped straight to the obvious conclusion. And sure enough, muffled sounds spilled from inside in the form of the clang of pans, the unmistakable sound of home-cooked chaos.
Heat prickled at Johnny’s cheeks. God, this couldn’t be happening. He’d shown up with a jacket like a lovesick idiot, and now he was standing in the hallway about to watch Peter’s real life walk up behind him. It was almost as embarassing as the realization that he just walked in on the middle of Peter's date night, maybe with the person he left Johnny for a few nights ago. He felt so stupid.
“I see,” Johnny said slowly, drawing the words out to buy time. He lifted the jacket, showing it to Peter, the embodiment of the dumbest excuse ever. “I just came to give you this back.”
Peter’s eyes flicked down to it, expression hitching like he hadn’t expected to ever see it again. He took it gingerly, fingers brushing Johnny’s as if by accident. “Where—?”
“My car,” Johnny supplied. “The other night. When you had to, uh, unexpectedly leave.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Peter’s voice softened, barely above a mutter. His mouth pressed into a thin line, chewing on something unsaid. "Thanks."
Johnny shrugged it off and gestured vaguely at the door. His throat felt tight. “I, um, I’ll leave you to it.”
Whatever was on his face must’ve betrayed him, because Peter’s eyes sharpened, sudden urgency breaking through the awkward haze. He shook his head fast, hair falling into his eyes. His thumb jerked over his shoulder toward the crack in the door. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Johnny cocked his head, lips quirking into a wry half-smile. “And what exactly am I thinking?”
Peter opened his mouth, fumbling for an explanation, and got cut off.
“Peter!” a voice called from inside, warm and exasperated at the same time.
The door nudged open again and a brunette woman appeared behind Peter's shoulder, apron strings still tied at her waist, hair swept back in soft waves. She was shorter, kind-eyed, smiling with the sort of practiced ease that came from knowing her place in someone’s world. The face familiar from the flashing memories of the photos Peter had on his fridge.
Peter closed his eyes, lips caught between his teeth like he’d been dreading this reveal. “It’s my aunt,” he muttered finally, resigned.
Johnny blinked, the heat in his chest shifting from embarrassment to something else entirely. Aunt. Not a date. His pulse slowed, he felt his face relax. Peter, on the other hand, looked like he might rather crawl into the floorboards than let this moment play out.
"Hey, hi there," the woman said warmly, polite smile landing square on Johnny as she stepped forward. Peter didn’t resist when she nudged him out of the way, just shuffled back like this happened a lot.
Johnny straightened instinctively, reminding his face to arrange itself into something approachable. “Hi.”
“I’m May. Peter’s aunt.” Her voice had the kind of ease that wrapped around the syllables, like she’d been introducing herself to half the neighborhood for years.
“Johnny. Nice to meet you, ma’am.” His grin widened automatically, charm slipping in by habit, though his pulse was still pounding from the sheer weirdness of it all.
Her eyes widened a little, recognition flickering. “Oh—you’re Johnny. We were just talking about yo—”
“May,” Peter cut in, dragging a hand down his face with the kind of groan only humiliation could produce. He looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.
Johnny blinked. Okay. Not what he was expecting. Heat bloomed low in his stomach, the surprise almost knocking him off his axis. They’d been talking about him? He flicked an amused glance at Peter before sliding the mask back on.
“Good things, I hope,” Johnny said, easy as ever, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward, betraying him.
May’s smile deepened, eyes warm with mischief. “Depends on your definition of good.”
Peter groaned again, louder this time, rubbing the back of his neck as though sheer friction could erase the moment.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” May asked, smile bright enough to leave Johnny momentarily stunned.
“I, uh—” He flicked a glance at Peter, searching for some kind of signal, a clue to tell if Peter wanted him gone.
What came out instead was a, “It’s pot roast.”
Johnny’s mouth parted. A beat of silence stretched, then he nodded quickly. “I love pot roast.”
May lit up, satisfied, and ushered him inside with the ease of someone who had already decided he belonged there. “Great, come in, come in. Oh, I forgot the pot. Peter, I was going to ask you where you put the carrots.” She was already halfway to the kitchen, words spilling fast, and suddenly Johnny knew exactly where Peter had gotten it from.
“Uhhh, fridge?” Peter said, completely unconvincing as he hung the jacket Johnny had returned behind the door.
May’s exaggerated eye roll said plenty about how helpful she found that answer.
Johnny lingered by the door, shifting on his feet. He leaned closer to Peter, voice low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to crash your family dinner.”
Peter glanced back, brow furrowing. “Don’t be. Don’t worry about it.”
“I can go,” Johnny offered quickly. “I’ll make an excuse, say I forgot something—”
“I don’t want you to go.” Peter cut him off without hesitation; not traces of the anxiety Johnny had seen flickering in his face before. His hands lifted before Johnny could process it, palms framing his jaw, thumbs brushing against the heat of his cheeks like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes softened, voice dropping low. “It’s okay.”
Johnny couldn’t remember how to breathe, couldn’t remember why he’d thought bringing the damn jacket was a bad idea.
And then May’s voice carried in from the kitchen, cheerful and oblivious: “Peter! The carrots are not in the fridge!”
Peter groaned, forehead dropping briefly against Johnny’s before he pulled away.
Johnny’s lips curved helplessly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I’ll stay.”
The Parkers were pretty much a well-oiled machine. Not perfect or polished, but natural. Maybe it was something that came from being two people left stranded together, learning how to hold each other up when the world kept knocking them down. Johnny recognized it instantly. He saw himself and Sue in it, the quiet shorthand of siblings who’d been through fire and made it out the other side.
May moved through the kitchen like she’d been born there, sleeves rolled, hair pinned up. Peter trailed after her, trying to keep pace, fumbling more than helping, his shoulders hunched in that guilty-kid way he had. And Johnny, somehow, got folded into it—handed a knife, a cutting board, a pile of vegetables.
“Glad at least one of you knows how to cut an onion,” May said with a pointed sigh, eyeing Peter’s mangled attempts at slices.
Johnny barked out a laugh, watery eyes stinging as he chopped neatly. “Guess I’ll take that compliment.”
Peter groaned, dropping his knife with a clatter. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“I need to come here once in a while,” May continued, ladling something into a pot. “Check if this guy hasn’t been living off takeout food.”
Johnny straightened, flicking onion bits off his fingers with mock gravity. “I can confirm, as a key witness, that he has, in fact, been doing exactly that.”
“Hey!” Peter elbowed him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Johnny smirked, leaning just close enough to bump his shoulder. “Sorry, Parker. Jury’s not buying it.”
May laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, like she’d been waiting years for someone to gang up on him with her.
Johnny wanted to keep things light, wanted to keep it safe. He wasn’t sure what May knew, or didn’t know, about him and Peter, and he wasn’t about to be the one to out the guy if he wasn’t ready. So he played it cool, kept his jokes soft around the edges, made sure he didn’t linger too long when Peter brushed against him reaching for the pepper.
“I gotta defend your nephew for a second, though,” Johnny said, knife still in hand as he scraped onion into a bowl. “He did make a killer onion sauce for the pizzas one time.” He caught Peter’s wide-eyed, caught-off-guard look. “True story.”
“Oh, did he?” May’s smile grew, sly and approving all at once, as she stirred the pot simmering on the stove. “I guess I could unban him from the kitchen now.”
“Finally,” Peter muttered, relief laced with a huff.
Dinner was good. Warm bread, rich sauce, vegetables cooked just enough, laughter filling the small kitchen until Johnny almost forgot this wasn’t his home. May carried the table with ease, sliding into conversation as if she’d been holding it together single-handed for years.
Johnny found himself leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes tracking her as she spoke about her early years working endless shifts at a diner before she got her nursing license. The long nights, the aching feet, the exhaustion that never really left. She didn’t talk about it with bitterness. She made it sound like just another step, another thing she endured and got through, like all of life’s hardships.
Peter watched her with a softness that made Johnny’s throat close up. There was so much love there, unspoken but blazing.
Then May tapped her spoon against her glass, the sound sharp enough to pull Johnny out of his thoughts. “I was telling Peter earlier just how grateful the medical staff is for the donations Doctor Richards has made these last few months.”
Johnny blinked, startled at the turn. He stabbed a carrot, chewed, swallowed. “Oh, uh—yeah. Reed does that. Tries to.”
“And not just Reed,” May said, her smile settling warm on him now. “The whole team’s made such a difference for the city. People notice that, even if you don’t always hear it.”
The words hit heavier than he expected. He glanced down, rolling his fork between his fingers. Compliments weren’t new but this one felt different. He shifted in his chair and smiled. “Thanks, ma’a—May. It’s nice to know people trust us.”
Her gaze softened. “I never thought I’d be into the hero stuff so much… not after everything. But with Spider-Man and all—”
Peter suddenly found his plate fascinating, stabbing at a piece of meat like it had wronged him. He got that same closed-off look Johnny had seen before anytime the bug came up.
Johnny didn’t press, and May, bless her, didn’t press either. But she did throw her nephew a look, the kind only family could get away with. A look that said she knew more than she let on. Johnny caught it, and tried not to think too hard about it.
After dinner, they drifted to the couch, stomachs warm and full, where May unveiled a pie she’d brought, home-made. Johnny almost laughed, because she said it like she didn’t know exactly how much sugar her nephew could inhale in a single sitting. It was apple, buttery crust golden and flaking everywhere as May sliced it. Johnny took his portion, savored it, and found himself wondering how the hell he’d ended up here. Sitting cross-legged on Peter Parker’s couch, eating pie like he’d been invited over for Sunday dinner for years.
At one point, May leaned over, hand light on his arm, and told him he should come by her house sometime, “for a proper meal.” Johnny smiled at her, big and stupid, heart swelling in his chest before he could stop it. He wanted to tell her he wished this thing with her nephew lasted long enough for that invite to mean something. Instead, he just said, “I’d like that,” and left it hanging in the air, a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.
By the end of the night, Peter’s fridge looked like a miniature catering business. Stacks of Tupperware filled every shelf with stews, casseroles, soups, salads. Enough food to last a normal person two weeks. Enough food to last Peter, maybe, five days. Johnny found it ridiculously sweet, the way May fussed over him. The way Peter let her. It was so obvious how much they cared for each other that it tugged something uncomfortable in Johnny’s chest.
When May finally pulled her coat back on and declared herself ready to head out, Peter immediately started bundling up to take her downstairs.
Johnny offered, but May waved him off with a smile and a, “You stay, sweetheart. I’ve got Peter for this.”
So he stayed.
The apartment went quiet the moment the door shut behind them, the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the radiator filling the silence. Johnny glanced around, restless, before standing up and carrying plates into the kitchen. Both May and Peter had told him not to bother— that he was the guest, that Peter'd get it later, but Johnny wasn’t built for sitting around while someone else’s sink was piled with dishes.
So he rolled his sleeves up, ran the water hot, and got to work. Soap bubbles foamed over his hands as he rinsed plates and stacked them neatly to dry. The rhythm of it soothed him, though he couldn’t help but think about how domestic it all felt, like he was slotting himself into a space that didn’t belong to him, pretending for a second that he could.
He hated how much he wanted to belong there anyway.
When he was done with the last fork, the door opened. He reached for the discarded kitchen towel and dried his hands before moving towards the small hall.
“I could’ve given her a ride home,” Johnny said, arms crossed over his chest as Peter toed off his shoes. He tried to sound casual, but his eyes betrayed him, following every small movement Peter made as he walked back over.
Peter’s face softened the second the door clicked closed, shoulders slouching, a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth. He looked younger like this. Stripped down. Johnny had the selfish thought that he wished he could be the only one who got to see him like that.
“She would’ve made a big deal out of it,” Peter said, slipping into an eerily good imitation of his aunt’s voice. “‘Don’t you worry, dear. I can take care of myself.’”
Johnny barked out a laugh. “Reminds me of someone.”
“Oh, shut up.” Peter rolled his eyes but grinned, looping his arms snug around Johnny’s waist.
Johnny let himself be pulled in, chests pressed flush, his own arms curling over Peter’s shoulders. “She’s cool.”
“You don’t gotta sugarcoat it. I already like you, y’know.”
Johnny tilted his head, knowing smirk spreading. “So you’d still like me if I said I hated your aunt?”
Peter squinted like he was actually considering it. “…Okay, you’ve got a point.”
“Thought so.” Johnny’s smirk widened into a grin.
Peter’s hands squeezed at his waist, grounding. “Wanna watch a movie?”
The bedframe cracked against the wall in relentless rhythm, Johnny’s back arching with every thrust. The headboard was probably seconds away from snapping off, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Peter’s voice, low and breathless, spilled hot across his lips as their mouths broke apart only long enough to pant.
“You close?” Peter asked, words spilling ragged against Johnny’s mouth.
Johnny managed a jerky nod, teeth catching his lower lip as he scrabbled for purchase—Peter’s back, his shoulders, anything to keep from unraveling too soon. His whole body tensed, eyes screwing shut as Peter drove into him again and again, nailing that spot inside him like he had a goddamn map of Johnny’s body.
Then suddenly, Peter’s grip shifted. Strong hands clasped his hips and maneuvered him easily, flipping Johnny onto his side like he weighed nothing. A startled gasp punched out of him, partly from the loss of Peter inside him, partly from the sheer shock of how easily the guy handled him.
“Pete—” Johnny started, but the words melted into a hiss as Peter slid behind him, chest pressed flush to Johnny’s back. One arm hooked under Johnny’s leg, pulling it up and open. The other hand gripped himself steady and made the blunt head of his cock rub against Johnny’s rim in teasing and dragging motions, making Johnny push back desperately.
“Quit playing,” Johnny panted, pushing his ass back harder.
Peter’s laugh was wrecked and breathless in his ear. “Not playing.”
And then he pushed in, finally. Slow, steady, filling him again. The new angle wasn’t as deep, but it was devastating in its own way; the way Peter’s hips rolled forward, the way his arms locked Johnny in, close, like he couldn’t stand to let go. His lips brushed Johnny’s ear, jaw, cheek, whispering half-coherent praise between moans.
“—so good, Johnny, feel so good—”
The words made Johnny shudder, made his cock twitch against his stomach. When Peter’s hand slid down, curling around his aching dick, Johnny almost sobbed with relief. A few messy strokes, Peter’s palm slick from sweat and precum, and Johnny was spilling hard, crying out Peter’s name as heat shot through his whole body.
His vision went white at the edges, his chest heaving against Peter’s arm where it squeezed around him like a vise.
Peter didn’t stop. He pressed in harder and bit into the curve of Johnny’s neck, fucking him through his orgasm until Johnny’s muscles trembled with overstimulation. And then Peter groaned, desperate, before his hips stuttered, cock pulsing hot inside him. Johnny could feel it flood him, could feel Peter clutch him closer, just as he could feel his heart pound wildly against his spine.
For a moment, neither of them moved, it was just their ragged breathing, their damp bodies pressed together. Johnny turned his head blindly, searching, and Peter met him halfway, kissing him with something that was sloppy and too much and just right.
Johnny pulled back, breathless, forehead resting against Peter’s. “You—” He swallowed, words catching on the lump in his throat. “You ruin me, man.”
Peter’s answering grin was tired but real, his long dimples flashing as he pressed a softer kiss to Johnny’s cheek.
When Peter pulled back, Johnny rolled onto his back with a long, exhausted sigh. The sheets were damp and wrinkled, so Johnny nudged him with his knee.
“C’mon, rockstar. New sheets.”
Peter groaned like Johnny had just asked him to dismantle a bomb. “We just—seriously? You’re killing me.” His voice was muffled against Johnny’s shoulder, but eventually he dragged himself up with a halfhearted grumble. Johnny smirked to himself, because of course Peter complained, but he still changed the sheets anyway, grumbling under his breath while they tugged corners into place like some weird domestic comedy routine.
When they finally collapsed back onto the bed, the cool fabric felt like heaven on Johnny’s overheated skin. The half-open window let in the city breeze—damp, carrying the faint sound of traffic, cooling the sticky air and the lingering, heady scent of sex.
Peter stretched out with a soft sigh, tucking one arm beneath his head, and with the other, pulled Johnny closer until his head was laying on his chest. Johnny bit down on his lower lip, staring up at the cracked ceiling. This. This was the shit that messed with him every time.
Peter held him like he wanted him there, like Johnny was more than just a body, more than just a distraction. But as soon as they were apart, the silence crept in and Johnny started to feel like Peter forgot he even existed. Calls unanswered, texts late or not at all. Peter was definitely a hard man to find when he didn't want to be found.
The thing was, when they were good, they were really good... and still, Johnny couldn't deny Peter’s behavior was inconsistent at best.
He remembered his own words, sharp and confident at the time: Yeah, I can do the casual thing, Peter. My heart can take it. In his head, the line replayed like a mocking laugh. He should’ve known better.
Was it even Johnny’s fault, though? How the hell was he supposed to guard himself when Peter turned out to be this sweet guy?
It was easier back when Peter was just an asshole with big brown eyes, easier to dismiss him as uptight and judgmental, but then Johnny had started noticing things. The way neighbors in Peter’s building called out his name when they passed on the stairwell, like he was everybody’s kid brother. The way old Mrs. Kowalski from the second floor had pressed a Tupperware container into his hands once, thanking him for carrying her groceries, and Peter just accepted it with this bashful shrug like it was nothing. The way Aunt May looked at him like he wasn’t just her nephew, but her anchor.
He thought about the kids from down the block, the two who had run to Peter one afternoon while Johnny tagged along, with their homework clutched in their hands, practically vibrating with pride as they told him they’d passed their classes. Peter had knelt right down on the sidewalk, ruffled their hair, and told them he was proud of them like it was the most important news in the world.
Johnny had hidden his smile behind a pair of chopsticks later at the diner, pretending he wasn’t replaying that scene in his head over and over. Pretending it didn’t make something in his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with lust.
Now, lying beside him in the dim light of Peter’s room, Johnny stared at the faint rise and fall of Peter’s chest, and let the fear take over his body for the first time since this started. And he found out, heart light, that the warmth of Peter's arms managed to numb the sound of it.
It was a cold December night.
Peter had his scarf wound so high it covered half his face, the wool bunched at his nose. His breath fogged against it in uneven bursts, and his cheeks were already flushed pink from the wind. He looked like the picture of someone who hated winter and was stubbornly enduring it anyway. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his too-thin coat.
Johnny let himself glance at him as they walked side by side, indulgently imagining what it might feel like to lace their fingers together under the layers of wool. To tug Peter’s hands out of hiding and warm them with his own fire. He thought about the gloves Peter wore everywhere, old and worn soft with use, probably full of holes at the fingertips. What would it feel like to touch Peter through that fabric, to peel them off and press his palms bare against his, right here in the packed avenue? He shoved the thought down, lips quirking against the chill, because it was too much like something you asked for when you weren’t supposed to be asking.
Johnny’s steps were looser, more careless against the salted pavement, while Peter kept that careful, deliberate rhythm of someone who always calculated his next move, whilst walking too. They made an odd pair, he thought. And yet, it was starting to feel less odd with each night like this.
They were on their way to some new spot in Midtown that Johnny had found on Instagram. Neon signs, late hours, good reviews, and the kind of aesthetic plating that screamed date-night even if they weren’t calling it that. Johnny had teased Peter into agreeing after Peter had tried the same protest he always did.
“There’s a perfectly good pizza place two blocks from my place. We don’t need to trek to Midtown just for—”
But Johnny had cut him off with a grin and a, “Live a little, Parker.”
And somehow, it always worked.
Peter was a creature of habit, Johnny had figured out. He liked his routine, his quiet corners of the city. He went to the same diners, ordered the same thing and picked the same two options when it came to drinks—sometimes tea, sometimes coffee, but never anything wild— even the same subway car if he could get it. In bed, as well, Johnny had noticed, Peter carried that same tendency. He had preferences, how he liked to touch and be touched. They weren't boring, never boring, but there was a rhythm, a way he leaned into what he knew worked.
And normally, Johnny thrived on change, impulse, the rush of something new. He liked to believe that made him interesting; but around Peter, it didn’t feel like a clash, it felt grounding. Mystifying, really. Johnny, who could never stay in one place, one bed, one person too long without wanting to run, found himself easing into Peter’s patterns without protest.
The thought snuck in quietly, the kind that settled deep instead of flaring hot. Johnny didn’t get restless with him. He didn’t get that sharp, gnawing itch that used to make him bolt when things got too steady.
Sue always told him he was impatient, that he gave up before things even had a chance. You can’t get bored so fast, Johnny. You just don’t give yourself time to really know them. Maybe she was right. But with Peter, he didn’t have to wait. He liked him without the slow burn, without the second-guessing. He just did.
He’d gotten used to the small rituals before he even realized they were forming. Like picking Peter up from work or from campus, lingering in the car while Peter fumbled with his seatbelt and muttered apologies for being late. He liked the strange tenderness of meals together, and Peter chewing crackers while they both sat damp one in front of the other in the bath, water sloshing against their knees.
And as the wind howled down the street and Peter sniffled behind his scarf, Johnny thought that maybe he’d never been built for long-term anything. Except now—
“Achoo!”
Peter bent forward, muffled by the wool of his scarf, his whole frame giving a sharp shiver as if his body couldn’t quite contain the sneeze.
Johnny bit the inside of his cheek to keep the grin from spilling out too fast. “Bless you.”
“Thanks,” Peter muttered, voice stuffed up, rubbing his nose against the back of his gloved hand like a kid.
Johnny shook his head, amused. “You coming up with something?”
“Eh. Maybe.” Peter sniffled once, shoulders hunching tighter as a gust of wind knifed down the street. His eyes darted to a store window they were passing, where fake snow and plastic reindeer framed a glittering stack of ornaments. “I hate winter,” he added, soft but definitive, like the season itself had personally wronged him.
“Big words from a guy whose nose is literally the same color as Rudolph’s.” Johnny’s tone was light, teasing, but he couldn’t ignore the part of him that wanted to press his palms to Peter’s cheeks again, warm him through.
Peter shot him a crooked smile, scarf still bunched around his chin. “You worried I passed something on to you?” His eyes crinkled when he grinned like that, conspiratorial, almost smug in his own misery.
Johnny snorted. “You know I can’t catch anything. My blood boils it.”
Peter tilted his head, genuinely intrigued in that annoyingly adorable way of his. “That’s still fascinating.”
“Don’t nerd out on me,” Johnny warned, flicking his shoulder lightly with the back of his hand.
But Peter was already laughing under his breath, low and warm despite the chill. “Too late. You’re basically walking sterile. Do you know how many labs would kill for a chance to study—”
“Not happening,” Johnny cut in quickly, smiling when Peter gave him a mock-offended look. “You’re not sticking me with needles, Parker.”
Peter bumped his shoulder against Johnny’s. “You’re no fun.”
Johnny bumped him back, playfully.
“So where’s this place you’ve—” Peter’s words cut short when his shoulder brushed against someone coming out of a boutique, nearly making him stumble. “Oh, sorr…y,” he started, already ducking his head in that sheepish way he did when he felt guilty for breathing too loud.
Johnny slowed, watching as the woman steadied herself. She looked about Sue’s age, maybe a little older, blonde hair swept back by the wind, shopping bags dangling heavy from her wrist. Ribbons and bows peeked out of the paper, telltale signs of Christmas gifts. Her gaze landed on Peter and her eyes went wide.
And Peter… he froze like he’d walked straight into a nightmare. His face drained of color, lashes fluttering hard as if blinking might undo what he was seeing.
“Peter,” the woman breathed.
His mouth opened and closed before he finally stammered, “Helen. H-hi.” His voice cracked like he hadn’t used it in days.
Her expression softened, though her fingers tightened on the bags. She smoothed her hair down against the winter gusts. “Oh my, it’s been a while since the last time I saw you. Gwen’s last birthday, wasn’t it?”
Peter’s throat bobbed. He nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. You too. I—I think so.” His words sounded thin, like they were leaking out of him instead of being spoken.
Johnny blinked between them, frown tugging at his mouth. He didn’t know who this Helen was, but the name Gwen hit like a hammer, familiar. He was sure he had heard it before. Peter looked gutted, resemblance of a man who just had the floor he was standing on ripped from under him. His hands stayed jammed in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against more than just the cold.
Helen shifted the bags in her arms, her voice lowering into something gentler. “You should come by sometime. We’d love to see you.”
If anything, the suggestion only made Peter fold in tighter, like the words were a knife sliding between his ribs. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment Johnny thought he might throw up right there on the sidewalk.
When the silence stretched too long, Johnny stepped in, his usual grin automatic, hoping to break whatever the hell was happening. “Hi,” he said brightly, reaching out a hand. “I’m Johnny.”
Helen blinked at him like she’d forgotten anyone else was there. She quickly rearranged her features into a polite smile and shook his hand. “Oh—hi. Sorry. I was a bit startled.”
Her tone was polite, but her eyes still lingered on Peter, like she was trying to reconcile the boy she remembered with the man standing stiffly in front of her.
Peter’s jaw twitched, his breath fogging in quick bursts. He wouldn’t look at either of them.
“Well,” Helen said finally, her voice carrying the weight of unsaid things, “it’s… nice to see you’re doing good.”
Johnny glanced sideways at Peter, who still looked like he’d been punched in the chest. His lips were pressed thin, eyes glossy, body leaning an inch too far away as if distance might save him. And Johnny—he suddenly had the sense that he was standing at the edge of something raw.
Whatever it was, it swallowed Peter whole.
The rest of the night, he was a shell of himself, so unlike the guy who had been teasing Johnny about Instagram food picks just an hour ago. His scarf had slipped low, his hair clung damp to his forehead from the cold outside, but instead of fixing it or making some snappy remark, Peter sat hunched over his plate like the spaghetti was a punishment.
Johnny tried. He cracked dumb jokes, tapped Peter’s boot under the table, even did a whole bit about how their waiter clearly hated him for ordering extra garlic bread, carefully avoiding any mention of the past encounter. And even so, he got nothing in return; just distracted hums, half-hearted smiles, and Peter’s eyes darting anywhere but at him. He hated that. Hated being shut out, hated feeling like he was knocking on a door that used to open and now just didn’t.
Patience wasn’t exactly his brand.
He twirled his fork through his pasta and broke the silence. “Was she a friend?”
Peter froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He shook his head slowly, chewing on his lip before murmuring, “The mother of…”
Johnny raised his brows and leaned back, pretending at nonchalance, maybe then Peter would tell him more. Or anything. “A friend?” he supplied, voice deliberately flat, as though filling in blanks for a crossword puzzle.
Peter’s shoulders hunched further, gaze fixed on the table. “Yeah,” he muttered finally. “Something like that.”
The air thickened, heavy with whatever Peter wasn’t saying. Johnny stabbed another bite of pasta and forced his voice light. “You must’ve been close. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
Peter pushed his food around with his fork, not eating. “Yeah. Guess you could say that.” When he glanced up, he offered Johnny a small smile but it didn’t help put him at ease at all. In any case, it just made his chest feel tight.
"I was wondering if you would mind if we keep it up to here tonight?" Peter said when Johnny was almost done with his food.
Johnny blinked, caught off guard. “But I thought—” He set the fork down and stared. “We said we were going to your place after? I left my bag there.”
“I know, just—” Peter exhaled hard. His hand lifted half-heartedly, gesturing vaguely between them, then dropped just as quick. “Not tonight, ’kay? I remembered I had to study, y’know, finals season and all…” His words trailed, crumbling under their own flimsy excuse.
Johnny sat back in his chair, brows knitting. The restaurant buzzed around them with clinking glasses, bursts of laughter from a nearby table, but all Johnny could focus on was the way Peter’s jaw worked, the way his eyes kept dodging his. It wasn’t studying. Johnny wasn’t an idiot.
A hot spark of frustration crawled up Johnny’s throat, the knee-jerk flare of anger that always came too quick. He could get mad, snap back something biting, call out the obvious lie and demand they follow their already arranged plans for the night. That was option one, the default. His blood practically demanded it.
But beneath it was something else.
He’d seen Peter’s face when that woman said Gwen’s name. At this point, Johnny wasn’t sure what was worse: the idea that Peter didn’t trust him enough to share, or the idea that he was hurting that bad and still trying to push Johnny away.
He sucked in a slow breath, shoving the anger down where it couldn’t claw its way out. For once, he could wait. He could either sit tight for answers or go find them himself.
“Alright,” Johnny said finally, his voice calm in a way that surprised even him. He pushed his empty plate aside and crossed his arms over his chest, studying Peter with sharp eyes that tried not to give away the storm in his chest.
Peter’s shoulders eased a fraction, but his lips pressed thin, like even the relief hurt.
Johnny let the silence stretch, his mind already working. If Peter wasn’t going to tell him, fine. Johnny Storm could damn well figure it out on his own.
Notes:
the song playing in Johnny’s car was Call it Fate, Call it Karma bc that's what I was listening to lmao
Chapter 7
Notes:
omg first i wanted to say thank you so much for all the support this got since i posted the last chapter !! im sorry it took me so long to update !
anyway, this is mostly setting everything for the end. one of the things ive been considering is about the epilog. cause should it be chapter 10 or chapter 11? decisions decisions.
isn't peter the king of mix signals? i just love to keep it complicated. i hate myself
hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Johnny woke up, there was no man in a mask, no rough hands pinning him down, no breath fogging against mirrored lenses. There was only Peter.
Johnny exhaled slowly, urging the dream away. For a moment, he half-expected to see those reflective eyes staring back at him, blank and merciless. Instead, Peter sat against the headboard, hunched over his phone, shirtless and real in a way Spider-Man never quite was.
The contrast hit like whiplash. Johnny pushed upright, dragging a hand through his hair. If he could still sweat, his temples would’ve been damp. He looked at Peter, tried to shake it off, but the feeling clung.
“You okay?” Peter asked without looking up. His lips moved first, the sound arriving a beat later, like thunder chasing lightning.
“Yeah,” Johnny said too quickly. His throat caught, so he cleared it, forcing a grin that felt brittle. “Just a weird dream.”
More like my brain betraying me, he thought.
Peter hummed, finally setting his phone aside, his gaze found Johnny’s in the half-dark, his face carved by the city lights sneaking through the blinds. “You were making noises,” he said, flat and unbothered, because Peter never gave him the mercy of pretending.
God, this guy.
Johnny groaned, flopping back onto the mattress, forearm thrown over his eyes. “Maybe something subconscious. You’re the scientist—figure it out.”
“It's biochemical engineering actually,” Peter corrected. He bent to pull on his jeans, his back shifting, muscles flexing under skin Johnny had kissed less than two hours ago. “Anyway, I’ve got an early shift. You sure you’re fine?”
Johnny nodded, though the dream still buzzed in his skull, insistent. “Yeah. Just a nightmare.” He smiled again, tried to keep the disappointment from bleeding through.
Peter tugged his shirt over his head, and Johnny’s eyes lingered. His hair was still mussed from Johnny’s hands, sticking up in directions that begged to be smoothed. And for some reason, Johnny thought about Spider-Man’s hair—how he’d pictured it in the dream. Brunette, probably, and messy.
The thought made his stomach twist. He shoved it down, embarrassed at himself.
When Peter was finally ready to leave, he leaned over the bed and pressed two small kisses on Johnny’s lips that made him want to pull him closer and cling to him like a kid.
"But are you—" Peter started again.
"Yes!" Johnny cut him off with a low and breathless laugh against his lips. "I'm okay, promise. Go." He let his hand linger at the back of Peter's head for a second before sliding back.
Peter grumbled, reluctantly pushing away.
In the end, Johnny just waved him off with a tight grin. He listened to the door click shut, then let out a long, uneven sigh. His palms scrubbed over his face, as if he could erase the dream and the confusion at the same time. The ceiling above him offered no answers, only silence. And silence, Johnny realized, could be suffocating.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the indentation on the pillow where Peter’s head had been. It was stupid, he told himself, it was just a dream. People dreamed about stupid things all the time. But the phantom weight of Spider-Man’s hand on his chest still lingered, the same hand that, in reality, could have crushed steel.
“Jesus,” Johnny muttered to the empty room, “I need therapy.”
Johnny tugged on a T‑shirt and sweats before padding barefoot to the kitchen. The apartment felt too quiet. He opened the fridge, already knowing what he’d find: the sad remains of the Chinese takeout he and Peter had demolished hours ago. Cold lo mein, congealed fried rice. He shut the door with a sigh. Not exactly midnight‑comfort material.
Then he remembered Sue mentioning Alicia had stopped by earlier, which meant Ben, ever the softhearted bruiser, had probably stocked up on the sweet things she liked. Johnny’s mood lifted a fraction. If there was one thing he could count on, it was Ben Grimm buying dessert for the girl he was sweet on.
The elevator ride down to the main floor was quick, and the moment the doors slid open, Johnny made a beeline for the communal kitchen.
As he passed, Johnny noticed the big Christmas tree that stood in the corner, its branches drooping a little under the weight of the ornaments the team had put up together one night in December. Reed had fussed about symmetry until Ben broke three bulbs in ten minutes and he had to take care of that while Johnny laughed his ass off. Sue had done most of the work anyway.
Now the tree just looked tired. New Year’s had come and gone, and no one had bothered to take it down.
He hadn’t seen Peter that night. He’d texted him during the day—hey, wanna do something at midnight?—and stared at the typing bubble longer than he cared to admit. Peter wasn’t exactly the life-of-the-party type. As far as Johnny knew, his circle of friends was microscopic and it included Betty from work, and that blond guy with the ridiculous superhero nickname; but Johnny thought it wouldn't be so bad if he invited him over. Maybe even introduce Peter to his family... casually.
Peter’s reply had been a single message: yeah, maybe. got some things to do earlier
Johnny had frowned at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard before sending a halfhearted cool, let me know.
Midnight came and went. Sue and Reed had kissed under the fireworks, Ben had fallen asleep halfway through Auld Lang Syne, and Johnny had drunk enough to feel pleasantly untethered. He had even considered going out there to help Spider-Man apprehend a group of armed robbers attempting to break into a jewelry store just after midnight. Even that would be more dignified than waiting for someone to text back.
He could’ve gone out to hit some rooftop party downtown too; flirted with a stranger, let the night dissolve the way it usually did. His phone had even lit up once. It was one of those girls from his brief “I can definitely do college” phase, sending a drunk u up? on Instagram. For a second, his chest lifted, he thought it was Peter. He didn’t text her back.
The next morning, his phone buzzed again—Peter, finally. Sorry, I fell asleep too early. Was at my aunt’s. She says happy new year.
Johnny stared at the message for a long time, thumbs still. His first instinct was to say something stupid, something teasing, something safe. But he just hit the thumbs-up emoji and a thanks! rb at her and slid the phone back under his pillow.
Now, he forced his eyes away from the tree.
Johnny nearly wept when he spotted the carton of ice cream waiting in the freezer. Exactly what he needed to drown the static still buzzing in his chest.
“Sue?” a voice called softly behind him.
He froze, spoon halfway to victory, and turned around, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
It was Alicia, curled into one of Ben’s old shirts—one from before the accident surely, when fabric still fit him. The cotton hung loose on her frame, sleeves brushing her wrists, and she looked impossibly at home in it.
“Oh. Hey,” Johnny said, his voice pitched higher than he meant. He shifted the spoon guiltily behind his back, as if that would disguise the fact he was raiding the freezer at two in the morning. “Nope, not Sue. Just me. Uh— you, wow, you’re really light on your feet.”
Alicia smiled faintly, tilting her head toward the sound of his voice. The kitchen light hummed above them, throwing a pale glow over the scene.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked gently, her voice low.
Johnny shrugged, though the gesture was wasted. “Something like that. Figured ice cream was healthier than other coping mechanisms. Like chain smocking.”
Her smile deepened, knowing, and she moved closer. “You don’t have to joke your way out of everything, you know.”
Johnny swallowed on nothing. He looked down at the carton, at the spoon useless in his hand. For a second, he thought about telling her about the dream, about Peter, about the way Spider‑Man’s shadow kept bleeding into everything, just to get it out of his system at least. But the words stuck, heavy and unformed.
Instead, he scooped a spoonful of ice cream and offered it to her, pressing the handle gently into her hand. “Want some?”
Alicia nodded, lips curved as she took it. “You always deflect with sugar?”
“Ha. Only when the feelings start talking back.”
She huffed a soft laugh. "I'm sorry it's mostly chocolate. Ben insists on buying that same flavor ever since I told him it's my favorite."
Oh, that was nice.
At first, he’d been primed to crack some flippant joke about Ben being hopelessly smitten, to shove the moment back into easy territory, but Alicia’s voice pulled him out of reflex. Not everything had to be deflected with a wisecrack, she'd said. Sometimes being quiet was its own kind of honesty, so he didn’t. He just looked down at the carton, watching how the spoon left small grooves on the surface of the chocolate ice cream.
Aside from the fact that this was Ben’s love life—a subject he’d normally roast to hell and back—just having someone to remember something that small, to know what kind of ice cream you liked and think of you while shopping, it was private in a privileged way. Johnny kinda felt bad for himself.
“That must be nice,” he said finally, before digging into the creamy surface. The cold hit his tongue, rich and sweet.
Alicia tilted her head slightly, the dim kitchen light catching the outline of her jaw. “What?”
“To have someone remember what you like,” Johnny said, softer this time, eyes on the spoon. “Little things. Stuff that doesn’t matter to anyone else.”
“Oh.” Alicia’s eyebrows lifted, her mouth curving faintly before flattening again. Her spoon followed his, dipping neatly into the ice cream. Her movements were always so graceful, like she could hear the rhythm of the world and was dancing along to it. “Well, it is, yes,” she said thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, “You sound sad.”
Johnny let out a short breath that was almost a laugh, but it wasn’t. It came out rough. “Do I?” He leaned against the counter, tapping the edge of the spoon against the rim of the carton. “I guess I'm just tired.”
She didn’t buy it, he could tell. “You’re not the type who gets tired easily.”
“That’s a polite way of saying I don’t shut up.”
Alicia’s lips curved again. “Tired isn’t always about energy.”
He swallowed, her words hitting somewhere deep and unguarded. “You really know how to make midnight ice cream feel like a therapy session, huh?”
Her long fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ben says that, too.”
“Don't tell him I said this but, Ben’s got a point.” Johnny glanced at her, studying the way her hand rested lightly around the spoon, her calm composure. “You ever just... realize something you weren’t ready to? Like, all at once?”
Her expression softened, even if her eyes couldn’t see him. “All the time.”
“Yeah.” He laughed under his breath, but it sounded hollow.
“Maybe that’s not always bad,” Alicia said gently. “Sometimes realizing things is just the start of doing something about them.”
Oh, what to do. What to do about a guy who seemed to have a foot in and half-body out when it came to compromise?
Johnny hummed. "Maybe."
Johnny stared down at the carton between them, the spoon sank slowly into the softening ice cream and he let it.
Johnny was bored.
He had just finished an hour-and-something long call with Peter.
It was random, but he was used to Peter's sporadic text and calls by now. Peter'd sounded a bit winded for most the most part. When Johnny asked about it, he got things like 'I'm chasing the bus,' and 'oh, shoot. I lost it. I gotta run to catch the subway.'
"Oh my god," Johnny sighed. "Just take a taxi."
There’d been a pause, then Peter laughed incredulously. "D'you just call me rich? Because last time I checked, my landlord threatened me with eviction."
"You landlord threatens everyone with eviction." Johnny rolled his eyes down at his nails. "I think it's the only thing I've ever heard him say."
"Wrong. He also insults me in Italian."
"You don't know Italian." Johnny laughed.
"They just feel like insults, Johnny,” Peter insisted. "It’s the tone, very judgmental. I’m pretty sure he put a generational curse on me."
The conversation had wandered then, zigzagging without direction. Peter complained about his current deadline at the Bugle, about Jonah breathing down his neck and the new photographer—“He keeps ‘accidentally’ standing in my shots, Johnny. Like, sir, this is my life’s work”—who was clearly angling for Peter’s unofficial title as Spider-Man’s go-to cameraman.
Johnny took a moment to be hung up on the way Peter repeated his name in every other sentence as if he liked to say it. He didn’t usually do that with other people, except maybe his aunt.
Somewhere between subway complaints and work stress, Johnny had mentioned, offhand, that he’d been thinking about college again.
"You should," Peter had said, immediately and without hesitation.
Johnny had rolled onto his back and thrown his legs over the armrest of the couch. "Yeah, well. I dropped out for a reason."
"And I’m sure they were all very valid reasons, but none of them mean you can’t go back."
Johnny had listed them anyway, starting with the boredom, the pressure, the feeling that everyone else knew something he didn’t. But there was also the way sitting in a lecture hall made his skin itch like he was being asked to shrink.
Peter had countered every single one, methodical and earnest. How Johnny learned best by doing and how it didn’t have to be traditional.
"I’m serious," Peter continued. "You’re not dumb. You could do it."
"You’re really annoying."
"I know. It’s my most consistent trait."
The conversation came to an end eventually with Peter mumbling something about finally catching the subway and Johnny telling him not to get cursed by any more Italian landlords.
"I'm gonna go help Reed on the lab."
"I envy you so much," Peter said. "Are we still on for movie night next week?"
Johnny chewed on his lower lip, trying to suck back his smile. "Yup. Your place."
"M'Kay. See you 'round."
Only when he straightened up and pocketed his phone inside his jeans, Johnny realized he was still smiling. He tried to morph his expression into something neutral before reaching the lab, he didn’t want to risk crossing paths with Ben and have to explain why he was grinning at the floor like a lunatic.
"Hey, man," he said when he spotted Reed’s stretched body leaning over a metal table. "What’s that?"
Reed didn't even raised his head. "Oh, Johnny. I'm a bit occupied right now."
"I see that..." Johnny took a step closer and frowned at the winged-like thing Reed seemed to be analyzing. "Can I help?"
"I would rather you didn’t," Reed replied, still focused on the task at hand. "This requires a level of precision I—"
"—have absolutely zero faith in me possessing?" Johnny finished for him, offended on principle. "Wow, hurtful."
Reed sighed, long and put-upon, and finally pushed his goggles up into his hair so he could look at him properly. "Why don’t you go play with Ben," he suggested, entirely straight-faced. "Or help Sue with dinner."
Play with Ben, Johnny mouthed silently, eyebrows shooting up.
"I would rather help you. Reed, my pal. My buddy. Surely you have something important and dangerous you can entrust me with."
Reed stared at him for a second, then relented. "There are some files you can look through. The ones you brought from Oscorp, remember? I digitized them." He stretched an arm all the way to the main computer, typed a few things and then retreated his arm back. "I sent you an encrypted folder to your Fantastic Four database access. I need whatever you can pull on Vulture."
Johnny blinked. "Vulture?"
"Yes."
He waited.
"…You’re really sending me to do office work," Johnny said flatly.
"You said you wanted to help," Reed replied, innocent as a lamb.
"Don’t use my own words against me," Johnny huffed, already turning toward the door. "I’m telling Sue you made me do homework."
Reed laughed behind him as the glass doors slid shut.
Before grabbing his laptop, Johnny made a quick detour to the kitchen for a snack, then he carried it all to the couch. He flopped down hard, kicked his boots up on the coffee table, and balanced the laptop on his thighs. The glow of the screen filled the room as he logged in with his card.
Now that the files were digital and clean, clearly thanks to Reed’s handiwork, this shouldn't take too long. Unfortunately, the information seemed to have duplicated its length since the last time Johnny had landed his eyes on it, which was impossible, if Reed took the data straight from the papers.
After the few scrolls, he forgot all about what he was supposed to be looking for.
A familiar name popped out and Johnny clicked on it, curious. The same itch he had all those weeks ago in the little Italian restaurant came back in a rush.
"Oh," Johnny whispered.
He kept reading and his heart dropped.
Peter’s elbow nudged him again, a soft but insistent tap against Johnny’s ribs that pulled him out of the haze he’d been drifting in. He blinked at the TV, trying to focus on the flicker of black and white on the screen instead of the noise inside his own head.
“Hey,” Peter said, tone light but curious, “you’re missing the best part.”
Onscreen, Grace Kelly leaned over a camera, bathed in that hazy black-and-white glow, and Johnny could only think how unfair it was that she looked so effortless while he felt like his brain was on fire.
His laugh came out thin, absent. “Oh, right. My bad.”
It took Johnny a second to remember he should’ve been watching the movie, should’ve been here, laughing at Peter’s half-serious running commentary about cinematography or pretending to argue over whether Jimmy Stewart’s paranoia was justified.
Peter’s attention lingered a second longer before returning to the movie, but Johnny didn’t really see it. He sat there, trying not to look like someone who had just pieced together his lover’s most painful secret from old photographs and forgotten articles. The weight of it pressed behind his ribs, of this thing he knew but shouldn’t, this guilt that had nowhere to go.
His brain kept looping through the same thought, cruel and relentless:
What do I even say? ‘Hey, Peter, I’ve been doing a little light stalking of your dead girlfriend and discovered that the guy you hate most in the world killed her. The same guy I may like a little too much.’
That would go great. Peter would probably kick him out.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to smother the thought. The room smelled faintly of pizza and detergent, and the only sound came from the TV’s steady dialogue. Peter’s apartment was warm enough to made the air feel thick. His mind went back to Gwen, to her face smiling up from those photos, the one of her in a lab coat, another where Peter’s arm wrapped comfortably around her shoulders. They’d looked so happy and young.
Peter shifted beside him, pausing the movie. “Hey, I’m gonna go throw myself off the balcony, be right back.”
Johnny’s response came out distracted. “Okay.”
Peter huffed out a disbelieving noise, leaning closer until Johnny had to look at him. “I knew it. Come on, man, what’s going on? You’ve been weird all night. Am I that boring when I'm not naked?”
Johnny blinked, caught. “What? No. Just—” He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for something easy, but there wasn’t one. “There’s something I wanted to ask you. It’s probably stupid.”
Peter frowned, setting the remote aside. “That’s a new one. You usually just say the stupid thing.”
Johnny huffed out a laugh back. “Yeah, well, m'trying something different.” He hesitated. The words pressed against his teeth, made him want to bite his tongue. “Who was Gwen?”
Peter froze just for the smallest bit, his shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, his whole body took a defensive stance, but it was enough for Johnny to notice.
“What are you talking about?” His tone was calm, but stripped of all the warmth from a second ago.
Johnny immediately regretted saying anything, but it was too late to pull back. “I… saw something. Reed mentioned Oscorp, and I looked into it. There were pictures of you two.”
The silence stretched. Peter’s hands were still, but his eyes had gone distant with that faraway look he got when he thought Johnny wasn’t looking.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Johnny said quickly, though he kind of had. “I just— you never talk about her.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Peter’s voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath.
“Peter—”
“Don’t,” he said, sharper than a second ago. He took a breath, steadying himself, then added more softly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Johnny’s stomach twisted. “I know she died,” he said carefully. “And I know Spider-Man was there.”
Peter’s head snapped toward him. Johnny couldn’t really decipher the look in his eyes. Anger maybe, and something that resembled fear, raw and cornered.
Johnny swallowed. “I read some stuff. The reports said—”
“You think you know because of a couple of reports?” Peter’s voice cracked, not loud but breaking around the edges. “You have no idea what happened.”
“Hey, I wasn’t trying to—”
“Well, you did.”
Johnny went still. He’d been expecting deflection, maybe even sarcasm, just not this... this sudden wall between them. He wanted to fix it, to take it back, but Peter was already standing, running a hand through his hair and pulling back.
“You shouldn’t have looked,” Peter said finally, quieter, shaking his head to the floor.
Johnny’s throat felt thick. “I just wanted to understand you better.”
“So you went and started with the worst part.”
The movie was still paused on Grace Kelly’s face, frozen mid-gesture, the glow flickering across Peter’s skin. He looked older like that, older and tired.
"I know Spider-Man did it. I know that's why you can't stand him," Johnny blurted out.
It had taken Johnny a whole night and a lot of self-convincing to reach that conclusion. Once he did, he just couldn't unsee it. Spider-Man had been there where she died. Police had found rest of webs around the place and attached to Gwen's body, too. He’d tried to rack his brain about it. No, no, no, that couldn't be true in a million years. But the evidence was there.
Peter looked gutted in front of him, his eyes wide and pained. For a second, Johnny thought he was debating between crumbling down crying or decking him in the face. Johnny would take it equally.
But Peter just stared at him for a beat, then turned the TV off. “I think you should go, Johnny.”
"I—" Johnny nodded slowly. “I see.” It was all he could manage. “Sorry.”
It wasn't the first time that he had been kicked out of someone's apartment, it was just the first time that actually hurt. Johnny didn’t try to stall, he turned and gathered the stuff he had spread around Peter's living room area, his phone, his jacket, his shoes. His cheeks felt warm in an unnatural way that made it even more noticeable for himself.
He opened the door and let himself out without a last glance while numbness took over his body all the way down to his car.
"Alright, what's the matter with you?" Sue pushed his door open and rested her weight against the frame, arms crossed over her chest. "You've been in here for days doing Lord knows what aside from blasting I Want to Know What Love Is on repeat."
His eyes went back to the ceiling, he reached to the nightstand to turn down the music with an exaggerated sigh.
"My room, my rules," he muttered. "And that's blasphemy, I’ve been branching out. Whole playlist of eighties breakup songs."
Alone Again (Naturally) was on the queue.
She pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, nudging aside a discarded T-shirt with the toe of her shoe. The bed dipped under her weight where she sat, right next to his leg. "What did he do?"
Where to start? He didn’t love me, maybe. But that wasn’t on him. Peter had never promised me anything.
When Johnny didn’t answer, she continued, "This is about him, right? Peter?"
That name still hit him like a thumb pressed into a bruise. Johnny squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then opened them again, fixing his stare on a faint crack in the ceiling plaster.
He kinda regretted the moment he brought up the guy he had been casually seeing months ago during family dinner. The Bugle shrimp, Ben called him. Sue had offered Johnny to invite him over for dinner sometime with the overly-casual tone of a nosy mom.
"Yeah. But he didn’t do anything. Nothing I can blame him for."
"Then what are you sulking about? I thought it was cute the first few weeks, but it's been almost a month." The words weren’t mean but worried. Sue looked older when she had that upward-eyebrows expression on her face.
A month, yeah. Peter hadn’t reach back after that poignant night and Johnny'd had the decency enough to respect that.
Johnny pushed up on his hands and pressed his back against the cushy headboard behind him. His room was a mess, it smelled like static air and the remains on the pizza box that he had a couple nights ago. It made his skin tingle.
"I'm not sulking. I'm mad at myself. I'm two seconds and a beer away from asking Reed to build me a time machine."
Sue clicked her tongue, her lips curved upwards. "Don't ask him. You know he would." She put a hand on his knee. "You are not the first person trying to change the past over a broken heart, but trust me, that wouldn't fix it."
"Well," Johnny muttered, "there goes my only plan."
“I’ve never seen you like this over a boyfriend before,” Sue added carefully.
Johnny shook his head and blinked at the space in between his desk-chair legs. "Peter wasn’t—" He stopped, words tangling. "We weren’t…"
And maybe that was the problem. There was nothing to end, no cycle to close. There was just two people walking away from each other without a last word. The inconsistency and unfilled blanks were to blame; at least that what the last love guru had to say on one of those videos Johnny stopped to watch for hours on end in place of sleeping.
He extended a hand toward the empty stretch of mattress beside him without really thinking. It was cold now, but once, it had been warm with Peter's body lying on it, sleeping with his arms around Johnny, pressed to his back. Johnny curled his fingers and pulled his hand back to his chest, jaw tightening. He refused to cry in front of his sister. Absolutely refused.
"It's gonna go away, you'll see." Sue squeezed his leg, comforting.
Easy for her to say. Right now, it felt like it was never gonna be over. Not when the memories flooded his mind and he couldn't do anything except wonder what Peter was doing. Was he thinking about him? Did he even remember Johnny still? Maybe he had somebody else already, Johnny thought with dejection. The idea of Peter not thinking twice about him made his chest burn harder than any of his flames ever could.
It was getting so ridiculous that even the idea of starting a personal journal and meditating had crossed his mind.
Johnny pressed his lips together in the least saddest smile he could manage and nodded because it was easier than arguing. "Yeah."
Sue mirrored his sad little smile. "How about this," she said, shifting to stand. "You take a shower, get out of this cave. Then we go do something. Shopping, maybe. Or the casino."
That actually got a small huff of a laugh out of him. "You just wanna win my money."
He didn't love the Casino, but Sue had a good time every now and then, when she was feeling lucky. Johnny, on the other hand, hadn’t felt fortunate in a long while.
Johnny scrubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled. He still felt hollow, still felt like everything inside him was leaning toward a door that wasn’t going to open, but at least Sue was here.
"Okay,” he said. "But we’re not playing poker."
Sue grinned. "Deal."
Notes:
i know this is shorter than other chapters —for how long it took me to post it — but i had it written for months, i just needed to put the scraps together. the final chapters are probably going to be longer.
thank you for reading!
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