#and i think people are valid in wanting him to butt out of it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

osamucide · 3 months ago

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FLAVOR PROFILE—afab+gn!reader, angst and comfort??? smoking, alcohol, established friendship, feelings, f!masturbation, loss of virginity, body worship, biting, scratching, tiniest hint of corruption (there should've been more I’m sorry) and possessive aku, praise, fingering, penetration, creampie

ABV—6.1k

BAR OSAMUCIDE IS STRICTLY AN 18+ ESTABLISHMENT. FAILURE TO PROVIDE VALID ID/AGE IN BIO UPON INTERACTING WILL RESULT IN REMOVAL FROM THE PREMISES. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

"Really?"

He can't believe you're laughing at him. You swear you're not—you've sworn twice now. He just sighs and snatches your cigarette from you.

"I just kind of can't believe it, Ryuu," you rationalize, pressing your shoulder against his. "I'm not, I promise. I'm not laughing because it's funny. Just surprised, that's all."

Surprised, sure, alright. Look at me, he wants to spit at you, but he's hacking from holding the smoke in his lungs just a moment too long and so you work the dart from his fingers and tuck it back between your lips as he rights himself.

Akutagawa crosses his arms, not unlike a pouting child, and fixes his eyes on the brick wall across from you both and the one you lean back on as you're sat atop some wooden crate, one long discarded after a weapons shipment or whatever else. He can't help but feel a little small beneath your reaction, but you resume issuing soft kicks to the gravel beneath your feet like it was nothing—like you hadn't just drawn probably one of the most humiliating confessions out of him. He never really gave a second thought to all that before you came around, but now that he's beside you, elbows crossed over his knees as he draws them closer to himself, he suddenly feels like he should've before.

You finish your cigarette in silence, pointedly not moving away from him.

"I'm sorry," you say softly, sincerely as you chuck the butt to the ground in front of you. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable." But he still doesn't look at you. Akutagawa's dealing with more than one predicament at the present moment and he needs to sort them before he can turn his attention back to you.

One—he doesn't know if it would've been more or less attractive, or maybe repulsive, if he could've said, yeah, I've fucked plenty of people before, or at least I've fucked someone, and Akutagawa's aware he's a lot of filthy things, but apparently he's neither a liar nor a whore, and it leads him right to his second predicament, which is this: why does he care whether you find him attractive or repulsive?

How long has he care what you think of him at all? And last: what does it mean, that he does?

It's that last one that his thoughts get snagged on.

You tap your foot beneath you. This alleyway is where you always drag him off to when you feel like getting away from work. He can hardly remember the last time he said no to you when it came to escaping Mori's iron rule for an hour or so. But he wishes he would've today, kind of like he wishes he would've skipped the only other time he can recall wishing to have skipped—the day you let him smoke one of your cigarettes.

It's funny how your conversation from that day parallels the exchange from minutes ago. It sticks in his mind right now. You, at least two years younger and having known him on a much more superficial level than you do now, had laughed a little; it makes him feel only marginally better about you laughing now. Even then you were reassuring him, not because it's funny, but just because—I don't know, that's what I do when I’m surprised, I guess. He's always envied your ability to find joy in small things like that, after all.

You didn't make him feel small just now. He finds ways to do that all on his own; he knows that. He must've been weak back then because he'd inhaled less tar than you, and he hated that, so he did it when you offered. But now, here he was. You know he's never even kissed anyone, let alone fucked. The sensical pattern, thinking back to that day when you tapped a cigarette out of your pack for him, lit it off your own, good-naturedly patted his back as the coughs raged out of him because he inhaled it all down way too fast for someone with clean lungs—

Where exactly would that lead now, logically?

It's not like he's never thought about it. But you don't need to know that.

Akutagawa turns his his head away from you, chin on his arms. He can feel his face burn. He won't let you see.

But he knows you now, and you know him. And he knows you'll offer anyway.

You sit in silence, maybe ten minutes more, kicking the ground and letting your eyes flutter open and shut, before you pull another smoke out of your pack and stick it in your mouth.

“Well,” you mumble as your lighter flicks, “If you wanna change that…”

He doesn’t move. He can still feel the crate trembling from how you tap your foot, which is good, because he’s a little restless himself. You draw off your cigarette; he sees the smoke dissipate in his peripheral as your head falls back to rest on the brick. What he doesn’t see is your little half-smirk, but he knows it’s there.

It’s not that Akutagawa doesn’t like you. Anyone that knows him well can probably see he likes you, or at least tolerates you—he lets you drag him here week after week, shift after shift, after all. He gives you grace, even if it’s small, when you fuck up on jobs—something he never gives to anyone else, hardly even Chuuya. He doesn’t flinch or swat you away when you absentmindedly pull him in some direction by his elbow or his wrist; he doesn’t scoff at you when you lean up against him, like you are right now, and shift away from you or push you off like he might even with Gin. To someone who doesn’t know him, he probably looks indifferent to you at worst, and indifference and tolerance, and maybe even liking, tend to go hand-in-hand when it comes to the wielder of Rashoumon. He’s not outright evil to you, and that’s enough—if for no one else, for you. But you know him by now.

And because you know him, you know what he’ll say next.

“No.”

And it’s not because he doesn’t like you, which is why you’ll do what you do next, and he knows you will because he knows you, too, by now—enough to maybe like you—you’ll press him.

“Aw, why not?” It drawls out of you lightheartedly, almost jokingly.

It might have something to do with the fact that you’ve never looked at him with fear, disgust, or hatred in your eyes—not even before you knew one another so well and he would regularly, in response to your antics, threaten to beat you to a pulp with his black beast. It might have something to do with how you seem to look right through him like that, and then inadvertently boost his ego by telling him you think he totally has the capacity to be cool, or even normal, doing things like fucking and smoking cigarettes. He wants to laugh at how silly it all sounds to him. Akutagawa’s never been good at letting himself understand why you make him feel the way you do. Why he deserves your kindness or companionship. Why you can’t see him for what he is: a war machine, configured from birth, far beyond—or maybe beneath—any sort of semblance of a normal destiny that includes indulgence. Love. It would make him respect you less, hate you, maybe, if it wasn’t so secretly pleasant, the fact that you don’t look at him like that. The fact that you seem to think he does deserve something more than misery.

I have a feeling this is gonna be a long partnership, so it’d be a lot more fun if you smoked! You said that the day you were assigned to each other, before you knew about his lung condition, and he knew he shouldn’t have ever accepted your offer that day in this very alleyway because he ended up liking the head high cigarettes gave him, even if it was horrible for him.

The same way he likes you, and it makes him unbearably soft. The same way he’d probably like kissing you. Fucking you. Another thing that’ll kill him one day, one way or another. He knows if he gets any closer than he is, and then for some reason you leave—die, run away, decide your relationship is awkward now and he’s horrible and you hate him, whatever—it’d kill him, undoubtedly. Better not to smoke the cigarette. Better not to fuck the only real friend he thinks he’s had since he was watching his back every moment he lived in the slums. Anything that felt good was almost certainly a trap laid to hurt him.

“Because,” he huffs.

If for sole annoyance or disgust, he would’ve bitched you out. But he doesn’t. You note this. So, you let it go. Because you know him.

“Alright,” you sigh. Not disappointed, not dismissive. Just affirming and understanding. It blows his mind all over again. He doesn't move, doesn't look at you. "Well, I suppose we should get back." Your eyes flick to your wristwatch. "Kouyou wanted us for something in about a half hour."

Some silly meeting in some bar. Chuuya's not there to keep her from getting off topic, so Akutagawa sits beneath the low light (on the edge of the booth, thank god), you next to him, while your superior's ordering another round of whisky sodas for the table.

When Kouyou distributes the drinks, Akutagawa slides his toward you, which you then slide to the man on your other side. His name's Shota—one of Chuuya's subordinates—and he takes it off your hands happily. You nestle your own between your hands on the tabletop.

"But as I was saying," the scarlet-haired woman continues, "it's going to have to happen over the weekend. I don't think it's wise to do anything until Nakahara's back from Tokyo, which will be Friday at the earliest, and the tracking number for the Makarov shipment on its way in got thrown in the trash so Hirotsu's going to have to..."

Akutagawa's gaze trains steadily on your hands; his own are busy, one propping his chin up, the other circling rings over the rim of his first and only glass, now empty. It's not out of the ordinary for him to tune out of Kouyou's tipsy ramblings, especially when Chuuya will be back in a few days to explain the game plan concisely and soberly. What is out of the ordinary is that he's still stiff, thinking about your conversation from the alleyway and the tone in which you so nonchalantly cooed aw, why not? Almost as if you'd been a little disappointed when he said no, he wouldn't take you up on your offer. Were you? He has to doubt it. You've always been a little too eager to get him fucked up on Chuuya's wine, drag him out of work, pull him out of his comfort zone—he'd seen the unmistakable excitement on your face the first time you'd jammed a cigarette between his lips. But that is way too far out of his wheelhouse, and he's pretty sure you both know it.

Even if he does keep thinking about it.

You, well—you sip your second whisky and take note of his fidgeting. Although your drink’s only half gone, you tap your foot against his, glancing between him and the door; he looks at you, then back down at his empty glass, clears his throat and nods ever so subtly. Code exhcange for I'm bored, wanna leave? Of course. So when the conversation lulls, you both stand.

"Kazuha has us at eight-thirty," you explain, bidding everyone good evening and seeing yourselves out the door before anyone has the chance to ask what for.

"Kazuha? That was the best lie you could come up with?"

"Are we still sitting in there or not?" you refute, cigarette dangling from your mouth as you walk with your hands behind your head in the direction of headquarters. "Can't wait to get home."

"Yeah, after your hard day," Akutagawa mutters.

"Hey, watch it," you poke. "I moved shit all morning. Need a shower bad."

Which is exactly what you do after you depart from your partner and scamper up to your apartment. But first you take the liberty of lighting a few candles, cracking your bathroom window for a breeze, dancing around to a little music as a bath full of lavender salts warms, and rubbing out your sore knees with that pain relief oil Higuchi recommended to you. It's true, you did spend all morning getting shipments from the port; the less luxurious side of the life and work of a mafioso moving their way up the ladder isn't something you're unfamiliar with, although you do it less now.

You settle in, sighing. Maybe it's wrong to still be thinking about it, but you had sort of hoped Akutagawa would take to your little quip earlier with at least a hint of curiosity, or bring it up on your walk home even if just to tell you how absurd it was that you'd even think such a thing; perhaps you should've been more deliberate, you think. Or maybe it's a good thing that you weren't. He's one of the last people you'd want to make things weird with—outside of being the (rather oblivious) object of your affection, he's still your coworker and, as of recent years, very best friend. Somewhat of a literal partner in crime. You snicker at that as your shoulders dip below the water. You momentarily debate trying to dismiss your little feelings for the night, and you will, for the most part—but while you're relieving physical tension under the soft flicker of your candles and the hum of the city below you, you figure you might as well dispel your disappointment, too, and you trace your fingers down the curve of your hip to find yourself wet in a way that has nothing to do with the water.

Meanwhile, Akutagawa is pacing his living quarters. He's already taken a cold shower to stave off what has only become more difficult not to think about now that you're gone—he doesn't have to hold it together for you or anyone, and he finds himself trying to sit still on the edge of his bed as his phone sits a few feet away on the nightstand. Should he text you about it? Call you? Fuck that—you do a fine job of flustering him when you're barely trying, but if he let you know—god, if he let you know, he'd never hear the end of it. Text or call you to talk about anything else, even if just to hear your voice and have your presence? No, he has a feeling that would drive him even further up the tree he's chased himself up; he's sitting, tapping his foot like you were earlier when he should've been able to answer you normally, his apartment is dead silent, his dick's half-hard in his sweatpants and he doesn't know what to do.

You probably weren't even serious. If he was smart, he would've jacked off in the shower and called it a night.

But he likes you. More than you realize—more than you can realize, because he's always stone-faced, no-bullshit, hard-ass Akutagawa and he doesn't know how to be anything else, even when you're around and ecouraging him to loosen up. You can't possibly realize how much you've done for him in terms of easing his anxiety over always being good enough, in terms of helping him understand his humanity, in terms of making him feel like a real person.

He suddenly feels like he's on a tightrope of keeping you close and messing it all up, and whichever way he decides to fall will inevitably bring unending frustration that he could've done something different, something better.

And maybe this is an opening. Or a pinnacle that his relationship with you was doomed to come to. Either way, he can't sit in his apartment. Marching forward, like he always does—no matter how hesitantly—he slips his jacket on and shoves his keys in his pocket before he's heading for the elevator.

It's not until he's staring at the interface of buttons that he decides between launching himself to the ground for a long walk along the port or punching in your floor.

And you're so close—your back's arching, your jaw hangs slack, you're spilling water down the side of the tub that pools on the floor, but you'll worry about it later—when you hear manic pounding coming from your hallway. Maybe it's not yours, you think, screwing your eyes shut and working your fingers back and forth in tight circles around your clit because you want it, damn it, but your apartment's so damn big that it's almost impossible to conceive of it being for anyone else.

"One minute!" you shout, rising out of the water with grumbling breath to wrap yourself in a towel and blow all your candles out in one swipe. But whoever it is doesn't hear you, or doesn't care—the harsh knocking pattern booms again, and you almost trip over your pile of discarded work clothes as you fumble out of the bathroom wondering what could possibly be so important, and on account of who, that they had to interrupt your first hour of alone time all day, not to mention when you were so deliciously close to an orgasm you'd been working yourself up to with painstaking care. You'd even edged yourself a little, just because you figured you had time; you would've gotten it over with if you'd have known you were on call, but here you are, unsatisfied and stomping to your door, about to crack it open and take whatever orders were about to be unloaded onto you with a smile and can-do attitude.

You fling the door open.

“What?”

Akutagawa’s fist is still raised to knock. You watch his eyes behind his sunglasses as they flit down to you—you in nothing but a towel—and his face breaks out in a blush you’ve never seen on him before.

If you were any less annoyed, you would’ve smirked.

“Ryuu, what?” you snap again as his hand falls to his side. Whatever it is, if someone needs backup, if it’s urgent, you wish he’d tell you already—it’s so unlike him to stand speechless that you almost want to ask if something else is going on. “Can you spit it out so I know if I should get dressed, please?”

No, he wants to croak out, but you’ll just keep barraging him with questions—all he does is fumble his way inside your apartment with please don’t get dressed on the back of his tongue and that really strange, dazed look behind his glasses. He can't even blame the alcohol from earlier—he only had one, and it's had ample time to wear off.

“Ryuunosuke—”

He freezes where he is, steely eyes locking onto yours, and his voice leaves him, hoarse. “Say that again, please.”

You look at him incredulously, scrunching your towel up beneath your fist that holds it up. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Akutagawa feels small again. This was the wrong decision. He should’ve gone for that walk. He should’ve jerked off in the shower and then went to bed and tossed and turned until he finally fell into an erratic sleep and he should not be here, he should wake up tomorrow morning, sleep-deprived and full of regret but knowing he’s safe because he didn’t go to your apartment to find you in nothing but a towel and he spared your relationship, he didn’t make it weird, and he’d look at you longingly for the rest of however long, only when you weren’t looking just so you’d never know how much agony your stupid little joke from earlier today put him in.

But you’re expecting an answer, and out of all the filthy things Akutagawa is convinced he is, he is not a liar.

His eyes fly to the ground. Your legs, knocking together from the chill of the water droplets that still cling to them.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about earlier,” he forces out. “What you said.”

You hesitate. “What I said…?” Had you said something wrong?

Great, he thinks, mouth falling open. So you weren’t serious.

“You know what, nevermind.” He shouldn’t be here. He goes to push past you, toward your still-open door, but you stop him, shutting the door and pushing a palm against his chest.

“Tell me,” you mean to say, but it sounds more like a question; his pale face flushes again, and you search him with your gaze. He seems to shrink a little more before he sighs and looks to you once more.

“If I wanted to change that I’ve never…”

You wait.

“Kissed.”

You blink, cock your head.

“Or fucked anyone.”

Your hand lets up on his chest, and you find yourself taking a step back—little, but it sends your partner reeling into self-doubt all over again.

“You want…” You speak, quietly, with less urgency than you have thus far. “You wanna fuck me?”

And Akutagawa’s nodding, more frantically than his pride would prefer. But he’s nodding. Not looking at you. Waiting for you to laugh and clap him on the shoulder with a yeah, as if and tell him to go home.

But your fingers slide up to curl along the side of his neck. When his eyes are still downcast, you cup his jaw in your palm.

“Ryuu, look at me.”

Here it comes. The big rejection. He’s ready. He’ll go home and punch a hole in his wall, but he’s ready to hold it together right now.

His eyes drift to yours again, still cold and nervous, like a dog’s when it’s about to bite.

But you smile, trace your thumb along his bottom lip, and whisper.

He has no idea how much you mean what you're saying next.

“I wish you would’ve just led with that.”

It’s like bombs are about to detonate in his brain. He knows what he should do next—he should kiss you, he should throw himself at you and let your tongue between his lips, but part of the reason why he’s here is because he never has, and he trusts you to show him—just what kind of weak has he become, trusting someone with their teeth so close to his throat? It doesn’t matter because he wants it, he just wants you to—

“Show me, please.”

To his displeasure, you don't latch onto him like a hungry animal. Instead, your fingers drift down to his and wind between them; you lead him past the couch to your bedroom, sit him down, and pull your towel a little tighter around you. He wants it off, he wants to see you—even if the thought of sitting naked himself, in front of you, makes his stomach flip, he wants nothing more than to tear the towel away, get to exploring the ways you like to be touched, hear sounds from you he's never heard before.

"Ryuu," you say, one hand on his shoulder. "Be sure you want this."

"I do," he squeaks out, hardly ever having heard his own voice so meek.

"Tell me. Say it."

"I want it," his words follow yours seamlessly, without another thought. He's already established in his mind that he trusts you. But he's still sort of waiting for you to start chuckling and tell him this is a big joke; his hands tremble as you stare, digging for uncertainty, but you don't find any. So as you hold your towel against you, you crawl carefully onto his lap, astride his waist.

And now, he has you. Between his fingers. They find the curve of your waist as you curl an arm around the back of his neck after you work the jacket off from around his shoulders, tear his glasses off, push his soft bangs from his face. Akutagawa looks at you with so much wonder, so much need; you set your weight on him, and you feel him, and his nails grip your ass through the towel.

"Please, don't be gentle," he whispers when your lips hover immediately over his. He can feel your breath, warm and inviting, as the tip of your nose brushes past his.

You smile into his mouth and wrap your other arm around him.

You let the towel fall as you kiss him.

Hot, slow.

And the bombs go off all at once. Before the towel can pool over his hands he's batting it to the floor, scooting back onto your mattress to accomodate you; he wants to shut his eyes but you grind down against him through his pants as your lips mold against his and he’s probably never felt so alert in his life. Akutagawa gasps in a certain way, another sound he's never heard himself make; when your fingers tangle into the hair at the back of his head, he groans, grips your waist, and his eyes melt shut, finally.

You kiss him until he's putty, and he follows your lead; you grab his wrists and guide his hands to your chest, which has his eyes flying open all over again as he feels his fingerpads twitch over your nipples. You work him onto his back, easing him down with your tongue against his, so warm, so wet; your teeth, harsh in his bottom lip, where your thumb stroked so tenderly before, force his hips in a circle, and, oh, god, you have him losing it already, completely helpless, completely breathless.

You pull back, grinning, before grabbing for the buttons on his shirt.

"This okay?"

It's not okay, it's insane. His pants are too tight. He's never needed someone like this. And you look so angelic above him waiting for him to nod, give you a small yes, before you work him out of his shirt next, taking care to trace every ridge and valley of his ribs and abdomen as you do. He shivers when it's gone, discarded with his jacket and glasses; his arms come to cover himself but you trace those, too, the dips in his lean muscle and severities of his shoulders, collarbones, elbows, wrists. Just as he thinks he might feel too vulnerable, you start mapping him out with a softness he's never felt before; he wants to sink into it, keep it forever. If he wasn't so painfully hard, he might not even need to fuck you; just laying, relaxing into the sheets beneath him as you look at him like he's beautiful, is a heaven of its own.

"You're so pretty, Ryuu," you mutter. You hunch to bite the juncture of his throat and shoulder, then soothe it with a kiss. "So, so fucking pretty. You know that?"

Akutagawa shudders again. "I told you not to be gentle."

You bite him once more, grinding your bare cunt along his clothed cock, and a groan throttles from his chest. After doing the same to the opposite side of his neck, your lips meet his again, and he forgets about shielding himself in favor of letting his hands rock you back and forth against him.

You feel him twitch below you as you work him into nothing but impatient breath and swollen lips; your irritation from not reaching your climax earlier doubles back on you in a wave of arousal, and you’re guiding him out of his pants and boxers at the same time, and thank god that’s all that’s left and that you’re so turned on already because when the tip of his pale cock hits his abs, all you can think about is sinking down onto it, feeling it fill you up and pulse inside you.

But you wait, looking at him low-lidded and asking him, “You want me on top, or you?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he curses, twisting a leg into the bend of your knee at his side; you’re not weak by any means, but in one smooth movement he’s got you on your back, pinned down by your wrists. “If you’re going to be gentle, then I won’t.”

Wasting no time. You almost giggle but you’re gasping, his eagerness streamlining into a searing kiss to your mouth and one of his rough hands snaking down to collect the wetness pooling between your thighs.

He knows he should touch you. He knows that much. He wants to know—

“Where? Tell me where,” he growls into your mouth, and you guide him by his wrist and fingers once again to draw tight circles over your clit—ones that make you arch, and after feeling how you do it he burns it into his brain, the movement you’re guiding him through that sends your head lolling onto the pillow. Akutagawa’s eyes widen. He could watch your expression replay for hours.

“That’s it,” you encourage him, breathy, letting him go as he memorizes your rhythm. “Feels so good.”

You bring your two wet fingers up to his mouth, which he accepts without hesitance; his tongue swirls around them and you realize how serious he is—he doesn’t want it slow and you’re losing your resolve against him and you think you need him in you, right now.

He stills when you reach for his cock, dark hair swaying as his gaze trails your hand; he sits back, heaving, as he rubs you, as you stroke him and smear a pathetically large bead of precum across his tip and down his length. Trying desperately not to stop, to keep making you feel good, he throws his head back when you squeeze just beneath the head of his cock and pull him back toward you by his shoulder.

“Wan’ you to fuck me, Ryuu,” you whine, lining him up with your weeping hole. He’s pushing in with hardly a second thought, and, oh—he’s groaning in yet another way he’s never heard before, watching himself disappear into you, bracing himself on your forearms until he fills you up to hilt. So wet, so warm. He hardly realizes how ragged his breath is until he hears your own.

You squirm, and after he presses another series of messy kisses to your lips to stifle the noises of pleasure leaving him that would be so humiliating if he wasn’t so drunk on you, you hold him by his chin and look so deeply into his eyes that he’s afraid for a second you’re doing that thing where you look right through him into his very soul, but your mouth is forming around words that he must hear, he must hang onto, you have to tell him what to do, and you do—

“Don’t be gentle.”

So he isn’t. He moves, on nothing but your words and intuition and the way you clench around him; there’s virtually no resistance when he pulls out, slams back in, pulls out, slams back in—and he loses himself in it so quickly, so noisily.

“Unh—fuck—” Your name leaves his lips like a song that has you linking your ankles behind his back as he writhes, pounds into you—and you understand all over again, he wasn’t kidding. He doesn’t want it slow. And neither do you, you realize, now that he’s dragging his perfect cock along your insides so deliciously.

He realizes something too, as he falls to his elbows and buries his open mouth into your neck; that he never wants anyone else to hear the sounds either of you are making ever again. He doesn't care that you're more experienced than him, or that your relationship is irrevocably changed now that this is happening; you're going to be the first and last person that ever hears him moaning like this, that ever has him blushing from face to chest at the lewd sounds that your bodies emit where they meet and then part each time he pistons in and out of you. You’re clawing at him, raking tracks down his back and biceps that spur him to a pace he didn’t know he was capable of—he can’t wait to see them in the mirror tomorrow when the rawness has left and they’re angry red, a testament to how quickly he’s learning you, how quickly you’re both falling apart, how much he thinks he loves you.

Yeah, he thinks he loves you—it’s muffled by your skin, but he’s saying it, he can’t help it, he can’t keep it in his lungs if he’s going to keep this pace up.

“Love you, Ryuu,” you echo, and he echoes you right back like he didn’t start it.

“Love you.” Thrust. “Love you.” Thrust. “Love you—mmh!”

"My good boy," you croon when he reaches down to touch you, to feel you squeezing him down on him. Your good boy. You could turn him into a whore if you kept saying that.

"My name, please," he breathes, high-pitched, almost wheezing; you hold him as close to your body as you can, shortening his unstoppable thrusts against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl, pushes rhythmic moans from your throat, and his hands are all over you, begging for it in his rough grips that undulate into soft caresses back to harsh nails back to gentle strokes.

"Ryuunosuke—" you choke out, "Don't—" Gasp. "—fucking—" Gasp. "—stop!"

The most gorgeous strand of strained moans, gasps, and growls leave him as his head batters insatiably against your cervix; he’s falling off that tightrope, and you’re catching him, all his shaking fingers and trembling thighs that still momentarily before he can warn you, before he can tell you—

"Cum in me," you sigh as you feel him, feel yourself breaking, coming undone as he forces his sounds down your throat; you swallow them all, crying out against his lips as he bites you, furrows his brow, pulls back to bore into your clouded gaze—he's sure he looks the same if not worse, more unraveled, mouth open, lips wet, when you arch back and pull him flush against you and he's cumming, taking you for every last bit you'll give him until you're hypersensitive, fluttering around him, helping him make a sticky mess beneath the both of you as his head falls forward again, into your shoulder, restless, groaning with aftershock, until his lips meet yours and he kisses you, kisses you, kisses you, neither of you ready to come down yet.

But soon enough you're reduced to exhausted writhing, slow bites, fingers through his hair and he's spent—pleasantly so. Weak, not in the way he feels after he's been brought to his knees by a formidable foe but in a way he will not be content to part with; a comfortable resignation that he could make a home in.

Akutagawa wraps himself around you, and you kick the blanket at your feet up until you can pull it over his shoulders and tuck your nose into his forehead.

"Still kind of don't believe you've never done that before," you think out loud, voice a little absent from how you’ve been sobbing for him.

And Akutagawa finds himself smiling into your skin. He sounds just as much of a wreck. "Never. Not until now."

It was good. Not only was it good, but you can feel him softening inside you, and you want him to stay.

"Meant it, by the way."

Then he looks up at you, quizzically. That strange, dazed look is in his eyes again.

But you just look back at him. Push his bangs back, mirror his tired smile. Wipe the drying sheen of sweat from across his brow.

When it clicks, he's buried in your neck again. Grumbling. "I meant it, too."

You hug yourself impossibly tighter around him, muttering his name, rolling you both to your sides where you cup his face once more, pressing smooches all over him, less heated and more playful, and Akutagawa scrunches his nose as you pepper him and start mumbling in between—

"Love you. Love you. Love you."

He catches you in your tirade and kisses you like you first kissed him—slow, deep. His own love you whispered, almost imperceptible. He'll stay. "Thank you. Love you."

Like he never knew he was capable of loving. He’s not uncomfortable. For once. For real. You caught him when he was falling. He hopes you’ll keep doing it.

But right now, he only has one more question.

"Do you have any cigarettes?"

You reach across him, over to your nightstand. “Who do you think I am?”

My angel, he thinks in response as you nudge the filter between his lips to light it. You, in control, let him puff before you steal it for yourself.

And he’s yours. The Port Mafia’s ferocious Hellhound is your good boy, your angel.

You’ll love him until he believes it.

#csm reference #kinktober? you thought.#vanillatober.#couldn’t help it with him i need to love him til he loves himself #i should’ve picked someone else if i wanted it to be nasty that’s my b you guys #akutagawa smut #akutagawa x reader #bsd smut #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #nnnsfw.ᐟ #kinktober 2024 #with love—reid #mdni

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littlelovelyspiderling · 2 months ago

Text

Meeting The Real You (Chapter 12)

Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3 -- Chapter 4 -- Chapter 5 -- Chapter 6 -- Chapter 7 -- Chapter 8 -- Chapter 9 -- Chapter 10 -- Chapter 11 -- Chapter 12

AO3 story link

word count: 34,203 (😳)

CONTENT / TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF SUICIDE. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT READ PAST THE WORDS "YOU'RE THE BEST" (HIGHLIGHTED GREEN IN STORY) NEAR THE END OF THE CHAPTER IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO OR CANNOT READ THAT KIND OF CONTENT

_______________________________

“So…regarding all those incredibly gay songs I heard you singing in the shower yesterday. While you were doing that—you know, drenched from head to toe, butt naked, serenading the shampoo bottle with that hypnotic voice of yours—were you thinking about me?”

Peter clapped a hand over his beet-red forehead and laughed into the howling wind. “Johnny!” he cackled.

“What? It’s a valid question! A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice. But if you say no, we’ll both know you’re lying. Admit it, Webs: you were totally thinking about me.”

“Your audacity knows no bounds,” Peter scoffed. The chilly air whipping past them did nothing to cool the bashful heat sizzling across his skin, or the impenetrable warmth of Johnny’s supernatural flames. The biting cold and freezing wetness had finally abandoned Peter’s gaunt frame and skin-tight suit, replaced instead by a full-body blush that tingled at the tips of his ears and blazed across his face at Johnny’s every playful remark—which showed no signs of slowing down.

“What about when I caught you watching me work out on the roof a few days ago?” Johnny pressed him, a knavish grin slashing across his lips. “Was seeing me all sweaty and shirtless in person everything you dreamed it would be? Were you frothing at the mouth beneath your mask?”

“I—are you hoping I was?” Peter giggled helplessly.

“Duh! I’m hot as hell and deserve to be objectified as such! I need to know how badly you’ve wanted me during each interaction we’ve had so I can confirm which one of us is the bigger simp.” He leaned in close enough for Peter to map the galaxies within his grayish-blue eyes, his upturned lips grazing Peter’s cheek as he spoke. “How about those fun little internet stories I mentioned earlier? Y’know—the self-insert ones where you can pretend you’re doing things with me that aren’t exactly PG? Ever find yourself reading any of those, Spider-Man? Don’t worry, I won’t judge. Some of them are actually really well written! They’ve got drama, angst, suspense, plot twists, weird sex terminology I’m too scared to google—”

“Oh my god,” Peter groaned into his palms, dropping his head against Johnny’s shoulder. “I don't know who's more psychologically deranged: you for reading so much of that shit, or your fans for writing it.”

Johnny raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Well?” he prompted him. The Human Torch clearly wasn’t letting him off the hook without a proper answer. Peter loosed a long, skittish sigh, then threw his hands up in defeat.

“You know what? Fine. Yes, yes, and yes. For all your questions, the answer—tragically—is yes.” He flicked Johnny under the chin then crossed his arms against his chest, eyes pinched shut in shame. “Happy now?”

Johnny lit up with delight and disbelief. “Wait—seriously? You’ve read porn about me?”

Peter nearly choked. “No! I mean—not really. I was just…curious if you were telling the truth or not back when you mentioned it while tending to my wounds. I only got through two paragraphs of one story before closing out of all my tabs, clearing my browsing history, and debating whether or not to chuck my phone into the Hudson.” He jabbed a finger into Johnny’s collarbone. “Your fans are sick, sick people, Torchy.”

Johnny tossed his head back with a boisterous laugh. “Spidey’s read pornographic fanfiction about me,” he wheezed. “Holy shit. No contest, then.” He cinched his arms a little tighter around Peter’s body, holding him bridal-style, the city of New York a roaring blur of light and color far beneath them. “You’re definitely a bigger simp for me than I am for you.”

Peter burned scarlet but held his ground, the eye lenses on his mask narrowing into tiny slits. “You’re probably right,” he admitted shyly, smile widening. “But according to all the internet crazies commenting on the videos you’ve been posting, you’re the one who’s most obviously crushing on me, not the other way around.”

“What?” Johnny gawked, the flames in his hair flaring outwards and flashing pink. “No way! Are people actually saying that?”

“Only obsessive weirdos who probably assume you’re into anyone you’re seen spending more than five minutes around,” Peter clarified. “No actual reporters or credible new sources or anything. Still.” He draped the back of his arm across his forehead and fake-swooned for effect. “From their point of view, Spidey’s the one who’s got the Human Torch absolutely smitten.”

Johnny responded by digging the fingers curled protectively around Spider-Man’s torso into his rib cage, making the smug vigilante shrink inwards with a giggly shriek. “While the fans may not be wrong,” he stated matter-of-factly, enamored as always by the spider-themed hero’s shrill and explosive reaction to a few keenly-aimed pokes, “you, my friend, have an unfair advantage. Your mask hides all of your expressions!” He bopped the tip of Spider-Man’s crinkled nose. “It’s a lot easier to conceal your feelings from the world when no one can see your face. I don’t have that luxury.”

“Dohon’t!” Peter squeaked, prying Johnny’s fingers off his side. He met the Human Torch’s playful, affectionate gaze, ribs still tingling as an unsettling realization dawned on him. There was something Peter needed to ask Johnny. He wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to know the answer just yet, but it felt strange and dishonest to keep it to himself. Swallowing down his laughter, he gave the bottom of his Spider-Man mask a nervous tug.

“Is this…weird for you?” he asked hesitantly.

Johnny frowned, not understanding. “Is what weird for me?”

Peter tapped the smooth glass of one of his eye lenses. “This. I mean…hanging out with me, doing the things we’re doing…all while you have zero idea what I look like.” He swallowed, failing to dislodge the newly-formed lump in his throat. “Is it…I don’t know. Strange? Uncomfortable?”

Johnny pressed his lips into a line as he considered Peter’s inquiry, hunching his shoulders just slightly. “I guess it is a bit…unusual. Can’t say I haven’t been curious to know who you really are for a while now. And I’d certainly love to see your real face, if you’re open to sharing that with me.” He smiled down at him, eyes soft and sparkling with firelight. “But I understand if you’re not ready to do that just yet. I am notoriously shitty at keeping secrets, and I know how important this one is to you.”

Peter’s insides pinched with uncertainty. “I know you think you like me now,” he said. He rested his hand on top of Johnny’s, which was wrapped securely around his upper arm. “But what if I take off my mask, and that changes?”

Johnny blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“What if you don’t like the way I look? What if you think I’m ugly?” Johnny may have called him “pretty boy” on the two occasions they’d met while Peter was maskless, but who’s to say he didn’t call every guy or fan he met something similar? The Human Torch defaulted to flirting in the same way Spider-Man wielded humor: it was a shield, a deflection, something intended to hide the truth rather than reveal it. Just because he’d claimed to think Peter was pretty didn’t mean he actually meant it.

“Oh my god!” Johnny laughed. “Don’t say stuff like that! You do realize there’s more things I like about you than just your appearance, right?”

“But looks are important to you,” Peter insisted tentatively. “I know they are. And I need you to understand that I am not like you. Not even close. I mean—just look at you.” He lifted his hand to Johnny’s face and brushed a strand of golden hair out of his eyes, coaxing a rosy tint to the surface of the celebrity’s freckled skin. “You’re beautiful. Like—the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen ever. You look like what would happen if someone went on one of those image-generating AI websites and asked it to spit out a picture of the most beautiful human being in the world.”

Johnny giggled sheepishly, taking Peter’s hand in his and holding it against his color-stained cheek. Beautiful, the Human Torch thought wistfully. Most people used far cruder language when complimenting Johnny’s appearance. While he’d never complain about being called “hot” or “sexy” or “seductive” by his fans, the press, or even Spider-Man, it softened something in him that the webhead admired him in a way so tender and sweet and innocent compared to what he was used to—and perhaps a tad less inappropriate and predatory.

“That’s really how you see me?” Johnny asked, heart glowing like a candle flame. “You think I’m beautiful?”

Peter’s pulse got away from him at the way Johnny was looking at him right now—a boy whose face and form made angels sigh across every dimension of the universe. The word felt too simple, too inadequate to describe what he saw when he looked at Johnny Storm. But if calling him beautiful made him smile and blush this way every time, Peter planned on saying it much more often.

“Yeah,” he eventually replied, timid but sincere, “I really do.” The masked hero’s stomach flipped-flopped inside him with bottomless adoration, then calcified when he remembered what he’d been trying to explain to him in the first place. He gently pulled his hand away from Johnny’s face, balling it into a fist against his chest. “But I can’t say the same for myself,” Peter continued meekly. “The fact is, on my best days, I’m average-looking. I don’t have effortlessly voluminous hair or flawless skin. I don’t have picture-perfect teeth or eyes the color of ocean waves. I still get breakouts every other week. My hair looks like a rat’s nest most days after wearing my mask for hours on end. My eyebrows are permanently uneven since my left one has a scar sliced right down the middle of it; shoutout to the Shocker for that. Plus, my face is kinda squishy, not at all chiseled or hot, and my nose is a bit crooked since I’ve broken it at least five different times now, and—”

“Spidey,” Johnny cut in, silencing him with a kiss that he pressed to his lips through the thin fabric of his mask, effectively ending Peter’s self-conscious rambling by tripping the breakers in his brain. His heartbeat fluttered like hummingbird wings as Johnny pulled back and held his gaze, pained endearment carved into his angular features.

“Seeing the real you will only make me simp ten times harder for you,” he assured him with a chuckle. “I know it. I promise.” He brushed a second kiss to the apex of Peter’s jawline just below his ear, the sensation sending swarms of butterflies stampeding through his organs in a flustered tornado of emotion, transforming the teen hero into a blushing, pathetic creature he did not recognize, but didn’t necessarily hate.

“And don’t worry—you’re gonna get the glow-up of a lifetime being with me.” Johnny whispered the words with his forehead against Peter’s temple, practically breathing them into his skin. “I’ll set you up with the perfect daily skincare routine, and as for your hair—oh, wait!” Johnny lifted his head and flashed a sunny grin. “I’ve seen it already! It’s really cute! From the back, anyway. I love curly brunettes. Not only that, but I can tell your face shape is incredibly flattering even through your mask. You’ve got a great baseline for me to start with and mold into a total masterpiece.”

Peter chuckled and blushed and bled with joy despite the fangs of insecurity driving deeper into his throat. Being the object of his crush’s barefaced affection after doubting the reciprocity of his feelings for so long made every act of intimacy and fondness Johnny bestowed him with strike like arrows from Cupid’s bow straight to the vigilante’s hopeless heart. Peter finally had the one thing he’d so desperately wanted—yet the fear of losing it all once Johnny saw Spider-Man’s true face cast storm clouds across his soul as dark as the ones overhead. Before he could refute him with more anxious uncertainties, Johnny nuzzled his face into the sensitive bend of Peter’s neck, causing the vigilante to yelp.

“EEK! Johnny!” He pushed frantically at his head, bubbling with high-pitched giggles. “Someone is gonna seehee!”

“I can’t help it!” Johnny giggled along with him. He squeezed the spindly hero closer to his chest, the bright sound of Spider-Man’s laughter like a drug he could feel himself growing more and more addicted to by the second. “It’s been torture wanting to do things like this but having to hold myself back! I need to make up for lost time! Physical touch is my number one love language—closely followed by acts of service—and I’ve got a whole backlog of unrequited affection I have to get out of my system!”

Johnny slipped through Spidey’s defenses and protests and attacked his neck with quick, aggressive kisses, the masked hero’s laughter humming like magic against his lips. “Not to mention how goddamn adorable your laugh is,” he added with smug amusement. “How can you expect me to care about anything else when your little spider-giggles are that fucking cute?”

Giddy with laughter and mirth, Peter was caught severely off guard by a voice suddenly speaking to him via the headset installed in his suit. “Pete? Can you hear me?” it said, causing Spider-Man to flail and leap right out of Johnny’s arms.

“Wah!” he cried, making Johnny shout and flinch at the same time. Peter fell a couple dozen feet before snagging a web-line to the top of a high-rise, buoying himself to the side of the building.

“What? What is it?” Johnny exclaimed feverishly, dropping to a hover on Peter’s left, alarm etched across his face. The cold and rain seeped into Spider-Man’s flesh like talons of ice, eager to reclaim him now that he was free of Johnny’s supernatural warmth.

The Human Torch’s question was answered by what sounded like a jet engine barreling towards them from the north. The teens glanced up to see a streak of red and gold banking between skyscrapers, a flash of lightning glinting off its shiny metal exterior. The unidentified flying object was upon them in seconds, whipping to a halt before the two wide-eyed heroes, rain pinging off the iconic armor and infamous helmet.

“What the hell, kid?” Tony Stark snapped, voice distorted and slightly more intimidating as it rang out from the Iron Man suit. “Do you get some sort of sick kick out of scaring the living bejesus outta me? Can you not get through one superhero outing without setting off your vitals monitor and sending your stand-in guardian into cardiac arrest? Why is it that whenever you two hang out, the singular super-teen I’m responsible for always comes out of it with another near-death experience under his belt?”

Johnny and Peter exchanged a quick look, relieved they hadn’t been caught fawning zealously over each other, but now under fire for an entirely different reason. The young heroes turned towards the billionaire, diffident smiles plastered across their lips.

“Hey, Mr. Stark…” Peter murmured with a wave, tipping his head to one side. “Wow! Is that a new Iron Man suit you’re wearing? I really love the design! So sleek and cool and futuristic-looking and slimming and—”

“Don’t push it, kid,” Stark shot back, silencing the vigilante in record time. Iron Man drifted closer to Peter and scanned him up and down, a weary sigh slipping from his lips. “Are you all right?”

Peter swallowed and nodded, running a nervous hand over the side of his neck, which still tingled with feeling from Johnny’s greedy kisses. “I’m fine,” he assured him quietly. “Just a little chilly. And still slightly waterlogged.”

“Is your side okay? I told you not to push yourself too hard just yet.”

A lick of unexpected irritation swept through him. This was, approximately, the billionth time his mentor had pestered him about his bullet wound this week. It had been over five days since Peter had been shot. He was a superhero with elevated healing abilities; Mr. Stark knew this. He had to realize by now that he was more than fully recovered. So why was he still so insistent on badgering and babying him all the damn time?

“Of course it is,” Peter retorted sharply. “I told you already; I’m back 100%. Fully healed. No pain.” He ran a hand over his abdomen with a scowl. “You can stop hounding me about it already.”

Tony Stark scoffed incredulously. “Forgive me, your asshole of a mentor, for giving a shit about your wellbeing.” He gestured to the shivering teen with a bitter flick of his hand. “Do I even want to know what circumstances led to you throwing yourself in the ocean and almost drowning? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Peter shuddered in the icy downpour, mulling and toiling over how to respond. “W-well—” he began, only for Johnny to tap in before he could stop him.

“I can answer that,” the Human Torch chirped eagerly, cutting between the two of them. Dread seeped into Peter’s limbs as Johnny laid a melodramatic hand across his chest. “You see, I was really upset after Ben mentioned that my douchebag ex-friend was back in town, and Spidey here was worried about me. Worried enough to leap into the bay to try to reach me—or so I thought.” Johnny cut a smirk in Peter’s direction. “After I pulled him out of the water, I quickly realized what Spidey’s actual motive was for finding me: to beg me to help him get with that girl he’s been making goo-goo eyes at since the beginning of the summer, me being an expert at scoring dates and wooing babes.”

Peter clapped a palm over his face with a muffled groan. Stark studied the flaming teen with dubious amusement. He’s an even worse liar than Pete, the Avenger discerned with a snort.

“Lucky for him, I’m happy to bequeath my tried and true flirtation techniques unto others, and also share some of my super-warmth with shivering dumbasses prone to hypothermia.”

The glowing slits of Tony’s Iron Man mask leered between the two teenagers, his voice heavy with exasperation. “Remind me to force you to reinstall your suit’s heater,” he said to Peter. “I knew giving you free rein on your costume design was a mistake. It’s like you’re allergic to anything that has practical, life-preserving applications.”

“All that excess hardware adds, like, ten extra pounds to my costume!” Peter protested. “It was slowing me down, restricting my movements!”

Johnny blew a raspberry. “Says the guy who can lift eight tons without even breaking a sweat.”

Peter threw Johnny a dirty look before continuing. “According to my calculations, tacking a bunch of unnecessary gear to my suit has far more drawbacks than benefits. As far as my day-to-day crime fighting goes, my speed and agility help me keep others out of harm’s path much more consistently than any other tools at my disposal. All that added deadweight is a major liability!”

“All that ‘added deadweight’ was put there to keep you safe,” Stark shot back. “Did you ever stop and think that if you made your suit stronger, with more crisis-tolerant features, you wouldn’t have to be so goddamn dependent on your speed and dodging powers all the time? That you being faster than your opponents wouldn’t be the only thing standing between you and devastating injuries—or worse?” Iron Man gestured towards himself, the arc reactor in the center of his chest humming with power. “If I got dropped into the ocean or shot at while wearing this armor, the worst thing I’d have to worry about is buffing out some scuff marks, or—I don’t know. Maybe a new paint job.” He jabbed a finger at Spider-Man. “But you in that flimsy, useless leotard have to deal with bullet wounds, near-drownings, and other deadly consequences I’m opting not to speak into existence at the moment. I mean—just look at you right now! You’re soaking wet and freezing!”

Peter Parker rolled his eyes. “Am n-not,” he said, cursing the treacherous chatter of his teeth. “And hey—lay off the threads, man! Just ‘cuz you subscribe to maximalism and disaster prevention and safety protocols doesn’t mean I have to! You said I could make my suit however I wanted! So I went for something light, modest, and simple. And I didn’t get rid of all the fancy features you put in the original design—just the heaviest ones!”

“What part of a skin-tight bodysuit qualifies as modest to you?” Johnny asked with a snicker. “Besides, Tony has a point. If you have the means to make a suit that better protects you from being hurt, why wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, you mean like your equally impractical and skin-tight uniform?” Peter retorted pointedly.

“Whenever Reed is able to invent a sturdier fabric that won’t burn off every time I turn my flames on, I’ll happily switch to a more protective suit. But for now, I’m stuck with this one: the only outfit I can wear while using my powers without flashing all of humanity.”

“Your fixation on simplicity is gonna end with you dying a very preventable death,” Stark persisted coldly. “The only reason I’m alive today is because I’m always expecting the worst and arming myself accordingly. It’s idiotic not to for folks who do what we do.”

Peter recalled the news clips he’d watched as a kid of Stark’s old mansion in Malibu being blown to bits by an enemy bomb strike, followed by the harrowing reports of his idol’s supposed demise, then the story of the billionaire’s miraculous survival, along with all the other times the Avenger had saved himself, Peter, and countless others from the merciless jaws of death, and huffed out a breath of defeat.

“Nobody’s telling Black Widow or Hawkeye their suits aren’t practical or protective enough…” Peter grumbled. “And those two don’t even have any super powers!”

“They’re fully grown master assassins, not clueless 16-year-olds with half-baked frontal lobes who think themselves invincible.” Tony smiled at the kid’s pouty posture and beckoned the two teens forward with a wave of his metal hand. “Come on—the others are waiting on us. We’ve got another team-building exercise planned for everyone. Since you're so sure that you're fully healed already, I'll forgo my better judgement and let you participate. If you’re somehow still not convinced by now of how important it is to be prepared for anything, I’m certain what’s in store for you today will change your mind.” He hovered close enough to pinch the sopping fabric of Peter’s costume between his fingers. “Besides. Another minute out in this weather, and you’re bound to catch a cold.”

Peter muttered a few choice words under his breath, but his hands and feet had gone numb to the point of quelling all further arguments on the matter.

“Could I make us some hot chocolate first?” Johnny asked with a sidelong grin at Peter. “Spidey made me promise to make him the best hot chocolate ever once we got home.” He slung an arm around Peter’s shoulders, the warmth of his touch sending a tremor across the vigilante’s icy flesh. “Not because he’s soaking wet or freezing cold or anything. Oh, no. He’s obviously fine, and clearly doesn’t need some stupid heater to keep warm. Turning into a Spidey-shaped ice sculpture is a much better option than adding a couple extra pounds to his suit.”

Johnny eyed Peter with a feisty giggle, and even though the flaming teen was poking fun at him quite rudely, Peter looked at the Human Torch and felt his heart stumble into the rungs of his rib cage. He likes me, he reminded himself, a thrill spurring through his veins, transfixed by the beauty of the boy smiling back at him. He likes me more than a friend. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for his brain to accept that as reality.

As time slowed around him, Peter’s eyes drifted down to Johnny’s lips, and he started thinking about how badly he’d like to kiss them again. Maybe this time around, he wouldn’t be so reserved and cautious. Maybe he’d let his mouth fall open up a little wider. Maybe he’d let his teeth graze the delicate softness of Johnny’s lower lip. Maybe he’d let Johnny’s tongue slip deeper inside, tasting him the way he’d felt it wanting to, all while Peter tasted him right back—

“I’m afraid hot chocolate will have to wait,” Stark chuckled, ripping Peter out of his wantonly steamy trance, blush and embarrassment beaning him over the head like a baseball bat. He’d never had thoughts like that about anyone before. It startled him how easily his mind went off on salacious tangents when it came to Johnny Storm. “We’ve already kept the others waiting long enough.”

Spider-Man swallowed forcefully. “That’s okay,” he sputtered out, shoving Johnny’s face away in a way he hoped came off playful and platonic. “Like I said: n-not that cold.”

“You’re a moron,” Johnny laughed, peeling Peter’s clingy fingers off his forehead. The three superheroes sailed across the city together to bridge the short distance between them and Avengers Tower, the frigid winds clawing at Peter’s skin through every web-swing. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter watched the Human Torch soar beside Stark beneath the low-hanging clouds, fondness and dread bleeding through his entrails. To think he was worried about Johnny being the one who wouldn’t be able to hide his affections from the others. Keeping this new and exhilarating development in their relationship a secret was going to be a lot harder than he thought.

_______________________________

For the third time in the past five minutes, Johnny caught himself gazing longingly at the red and blue superhero on the opposite side of the training arena, every pulse of his heart sending bursts of starlight through his bloodstream, all the fluid in his veins replaced by liquid sunshine.

So this was what it was like to have your crush like you back. Johnny didn’t think he’d ever felt this happy in his entire life. He was no stranger to throngs of girls throwing themselves at his feet, tearfully professing how ardently they adored him—or worse, fellow celebrities of varying ages and professions cornering him at parties or in dressing rooms, their wandering hands and whispered promises sordid enough to send Sue on a sisterly killing spree if she ever found out; not that he’d tell her about that.

But this was different. This was something pure and real and mutual. This was something making it extremely difficult for him to focus on anything except the next time he could steal the vigilante away and do everything he’d wanted to do to him since the moment his feelings for the masked hero had taken root. The words and kisses he and Spidey had shared on the rain-slicked crown of the Statue of Liberty replayed again and again on the backs of his eyelids, rendering him distracted and ditsy and overflowing with excitement. If anyone was watching him right now as he ogled Spider-Man from across the room, Johnny imagined he’d have little flaming hearts dancing and twirling off his scalp.

“Where were you last night?”

Johnny’s head snapped forward like he’d been backhanded, color permeating his startled expression.

“Huh?” he said, blinking the fairy lights from his eyes. His sister stood in front of him, brows pinched together suspiciously.

“You weren’t in your room last night,” she explained. “I came by to say goodnight, but you weren’t there.”

Johnny blinked again, his brain hazy and love-drunk. “Last night?” he parroted her. Forming a coherent response in his current state felt like grasping at fog with his bare hands. “I…oh! Right! I accidentally fell asleep on the couch. Watching Love Island. And editing TikTok videos. On the 78th floor.”

When Sue just raised an eyebrow at him, Johnny shrugged. “Don’t believe me if you want. But that’s the truth. Check the cameras if you’re that paranoid.” He winced internally as that last sentence left his lips. If she did find a way to look up the footage from this morning, she’d see how Johnny had cuddled up to Spider-Man all night long like a clingy little puppy. Not exactly a great start to keeping their relationship a secret.

“And what’s got you so smiley all of a sudden?” Ben asked with a scowl. “I thought you were gonna burst into tears when I brought up Sam earlier. Now everything’s peachy keen again?”

“You do seem a lot more chipper than usual,” Reed chimed in, filling up a bottle at the water station by the control room. His gaze slid past Johnny’s shoulder, eerily close to where he knew Spider-Man was standing, then jumped back to the Human Torch, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “Any particular reason as to why that might be?”

Johnny’s heart threw itself against the back of his ribs with a screech. Had they truly already figured it out?

“What?” he exclaimed shrilly. “No!” Heat flared off the nape of his neck. “I’m not chipper, whatever the hell that means! I’m just—looking forward to whatever this training thing is that we’re about to do. That’s all! Is that so wrong? Why are you all interrogating me right now? Just—shut up!”

The three heroes studied the flustered teenager bemusedly. There were many things Johnny Storm excelled at. Keeping secrets and masking his feelings evidently weren’t included in that list. Reed drowned a chuckle behind a sip of water.

Eager for a change in subject, Johnny turned back to his sister. “Did you cancel the interview with Sam yet?” he huffed. “Or are you seriously gonna make me talk to that asshole again?”

Sue stretched her arms across the front of her body, bending her left elbow to press her right arm against her chest, then swapping. “I never set it up in the first place,” she answered simply.

“You didn’t?” Johnny said, puzzled. “Why not?”

“I only planned to organize it because I thought you’d want to see him,” she clarified. She rolled out her wrists and ran a hand through her curtain bangs. “But when Ben said you didn’t, I was relieved.”

Johnny frowned at her. “But…Sam saved our lives. I thought you of all people would be drooling at the opportunity to film a segment with him. Who knows how long he’ll be here, or if he’ll ever come back after he leaves?” The Human Torch crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Is this some kind of weird reverse-psychology thing you’re trying to pull on me?”

Sue’s expression hardened. “Sam said awful things to you. You weren’t yourself for months after your last conversation with him. Not even gaining superpowers was enough to cheer you up. I’ll always be indebted to him for saving my family, but that doesn’t make him any less of an insecure, homophobic piece of shit.”

Surprise plucked at Johnny’s heart. Sue was well versed in defending the people she cared about from physical or reputation-related threats. But as far as their feelings went? Expecting the Invisible Woman to care about something as trivial as that was like expecting an oil executive to give a damn about global warming. But Johnny’s misery following the cruelty and loss of his friend must have jarred his sister enough to cure her of her emotional constipation—if only temporarily.

“I’m glad you’re over him,” she stated, eyes sharp. “You deserve better than what he had to offer.”

Before Johnny could fully digest how much her words meant to him, a loud whistle sliced through the air, dragging everyone’s attention to where Natasha Romanoff stood in front of the arena's viewing room, dressed in her battle gear with an impressive array of weapons tucked along her waist, arms, and legs.

“Hi,” she said with a smooth grin. “We’re gonna get started now.” She bobbed her chin at her teammates in the center of the arena. “Tony will explain.”

“Only because I’m anal about minutiae and details,” Stark clarified, hovering above the practice field. The Iron Man helmet crawled off his head and disappeared into the back of his suit, exposing his well-groomed features and charming smile. “Plus, I designed this game myself, so I’m very interested to see how each of you fare against the different challenges I’ve come up with.”

Tony tapped a button on the forearm of his armor, activating a projector that displayed a 3D holographic animation overhead to accompany his presentation. “The concept is pretty straightforward,” he said. “One member of the Avengers will be paired up with a member of the Fantastic Four. The two of you will work together to overcome obstacles tailored to your specific abilities in order to save a captured civilian—AKA, a crash dummy—before time runs out.” An image of a crying stick figure trapped inside a cage appeared beside the two heroes depicted in the projection. “Use your combined strength and intellect to get past the obstacles and rescue the captive within fifteen minutes, and you win. Fail to retrieve the civilian before time runs out, and you lose.”

The hologram fizzled out of existence as Stark swept his gaze across the spattering of heroes. “This challenge is all about teamwork,” he went on. “Each of us needs to learn how to navigate dangerous situations and deal with time-sensitive crises creatively, effectively, and as a team. This little game isn’t going to get us all there in one go, but it is a fun first step.” He crossed his arms against his glowing chest. “Make sense?”

The two groups nodded in unison, a breeze of curiosity and excitement stirring through the atmosphere. Johnny tried to pretend like he gave a shit about this dumb team-building exercise, but the celebrity’s faculties were wholly engrossed by the spider-themed hero stealing glances at him from afar, and how desperately he wanted to be somewhere alone with him, out of reach from his teammates prying stares.

“Since two of our teammates have already taken it upon themselves to pair up and seek out trouble twice now, I think it’s only natural that we stick them together and let them kick things off for us.“ Tony turned towards Spider-Man, who flinched a little when he jabbed a finger at him. “Spidey, Johnny, you’ll go first. I’m sure we’re all eager to see how the two of you work together in action. Everyone else, head to the viewing room.”

The teens shared a look of surprise as the rest of their teammates filed past them. Ben made sure to bump his shoulder into Johnny’s as he went by, snickering. Spider-Man jogged across the arena to meet the Human Torch on the south side of the field, his movements hesitant and timid as he slowed to a stop before the flaming hero.

“Hey again,” Spidey greeted him skittishly. Against his will, Johnny‘s stomach swirled with affection, mouth splitting into a massive smile.

“Hey,” he chuckled. Warmth crept into his face as his hands twitched restlessly at his sides. The events of the morning stretched taut between the two heroes like strings on a bow, along with an awkward amount of space neither party could find the courage to breach. The vigilant stares of both of their teammates burned like cigarettes on the back of Johnny’s neck, causing sweat to break out across his skin.

Spidey shot a glance at the viewing room on their right, then moved to stand by the Human Torch’s side, facing forward with his shoulders set and his spine straight.

“So…” Spider-Man said, voice low but playful. “Come here often, hot stuff?”

Despite his best efforts, Johnny busted into a laugh, shaking his head from side to side. “Shut up, you loser,” he giggled.

“Wait, wait, I can do better than that. Somebody call the fire department, ‘cuz this guy is smokin’.”

“Is this you attempting to flirt with me? Corny pickup lines and cheesy one-liners? You really think that’s the key to my refined and sophisticated heart?”

“Well? Is it working?” Spidey asked in whisper, the words curling upwards just like the goofy smile Johnny knew he was wearing. The Human Torch rolled his eyes.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled fondly. The two of them kept their faces and bodies angled forward as they spoke, daring not to show any physical displays of affection with so many eyes on them.

“Pretty lousy atmosphere for a first date, if you ask me,” Spidey continued, quiet and coltish. “Some orchids or candles would’ve been nice.”

“You want to count this as our first date?” Johnny whispered back. “I was planning to take you somewhere with much better ambiance and way fewer older sisters around. Maybe rent a gondola and a string quartet or something. But if you’d like, we can always save that for date number two.”

Spider-Man shrugged. “Either way. Your idea does sound a lot more romantic than the humiliation ritual we’re about to be subjected to...”

Johnny ventured a look at the rows of heroes sitting in the viewing room and grimaced. “Especially with my teammates watching,” he said gravely. His gaze swiveled to his feet, and he swallowed. “I am so not good at this ‘keeping secrets’ thing, Webs. I really like you, and am obviously terrible at hiding it.” His hands knotted into fists at his sides. “So if you’re set on keeping this thing on the down low, we’ve really gotta sell the whole ‘platonic super bros’ shtick. We can’t do anything that even suggests that we like each other like that. Not with them watching us like fish in a bowl.”

Spidey faced him then, head drooping a bit. “I’m sorry I’m making you lie to your teammates,” he murmured. ”I know firsthand how complicated it can get.”

“It’s all right. I lie to them about all kinds of stuff all the time.” Johnny smiled apologetically. “I just wish I was better at it.”

Spider-Man scratched the back of his neck. “Lucky for us, we’ll probably be too busy getting blasted by drones or pummeled by robotic thugs to do anything remotely romantic-y looking while we’re in here.”

Johnny elbowed him in the side. “Well, double lucky for us: we’ve done this exact drill in real life already, and won. I can’t imagine fake thugs or drones being any harder to beat than those insane kidnappers we fought.” Mischief tugged at the corners of his lips as he tucked his hands politely behind his back, raising his chin and tracing his gaze along the outline of Spidey’s throat. “And after we win this,” Johnny added, “I’m gonna drag you somewhere no one will bother us and spend the rest of the afternoon sucking on your neck until it’s all one big hickey. Sound good?”

A noise sputtered out of the masked hero that sounded like a cross between a cough and a squeak. Johnny clapped him triumphantly on the back as he strolled forward, whispering in his ear as he close as he dared as he passed by. “Best leave the flirting to the professionals, bug boy.”

Johnny walked towards the center of the field but stopped as the floor began to move and quake beneath him. The ground suddenly split open at his feet, making the teen jump back in surprise, revealing a large pool of water that spanned the width of the battlefield and stretched the length of a basketball court. Hexagon-shaped panels that encompassed every surface of the arena started to glow blue and flip inward, transforming the walls and ceilings from sterile gray to pitch black. While beams of light shot out from devices in each corner of the room, altering the appearance of everything they touched, thick concrete pillars sprouted out of the floor and stretched into the tangle of metal rafters zig-zagged across the ceiling, looking crumbly and ancient and structurally unsound. A musty, damp taste choked the air, like no one had stepped foot in this place in over a hundred years. Within moments, the space around them was converted into what looked like an old, abandoned warehouse, complete with dilapidated scaffolding, haphazard piles of rusted canisters, and moldy wooden crates. The pool at Johnny’s feet was so dark, he couldn’t even see the bottom.

“Whoa,” Spidey exclaimed, joining him at the water’s edge. “I forgot how realistic the different simulator settings for the arena can look. I don’t think I’ve seen this one before.”

“Is everything in here real? Or just an illusion?” He knelt down and dipped his fingers into the pool. It was real all right—and bitterly cold.

“What we’re seeing is mostly a projection, but on top of real objects.” To demonstrate, Spider-Man kicked one of the metal barrels stacked to their right across the room. It hit the wall with a clang that sounded convincing enough. Johnny reached out and touched the pillar closest to him, palm scraping along gritty concrete. He’d never interacted with virtual reality tech this advanced before. Even the smells were immersive. The rhythmic drip of some distant, leaky pipe echoed across the fictitious warehouse.

“Wicked,” Johnny breathed. At the very back of the room, the hapless crash dummy they were tasked with saving was pinned to the wall, each of its limbs bound in metal chains. Johnny wondered which method would free the civilian faster: melting the cuffs with the heat of his flames, or tearing them apart using Spidey’s super strength. Fire blazed across his body as he turned to the masked hero with a shrug. “So, should we start? Or do we have to wait for the battle drones to appear?”

The shrill whirr of high-tech thrusters sent a prickle down Johnny’s spine. The Human Torch glanced up just as two armored men jetted above their heads, the turbulent wind they generated making Johnny wince and shield his face. The metal suits eased to a hover over the middle of the large pool, the dark water rippling away from the bottoms of their feet.

But these weren’t drones.

“Mr. Stark?” Spidey called in surprise. “Mr. Rhodes? What’s going on? Are we both running through the exercise at the same time or something?”

Iron Man placed his metal fists on his metal hips. “Oh, did I forget to mention?” The smug grin on his lips dripped from his voice as clear as day. “No drones this time. Rhodey and I are the ones you have to get past in order to win.”

The jaws of the two teens dropped to the floor. “Oh shit,” Johnny hissed. The battle bell clanged through the air, and Stark turned to his teammate with a nod.

“Ready, fellow villain o’ mine?”

“After you, Tones.”

Stark flexed both hands at his sides, the repulsors in the center of his palms powering up, then shot towards Spider-Man like a golden bullet. The vigilante let out a yelp of alarm.

“Wait—seriously?” Spidey cried, then jerked sideways just in time to dodge Iron Man’s swinging fist. Whatever happened next, Johnny didn’t see; as he whipped forward to face War Machine, he was met head-on with a blast of icy water.

“Agh!” he yelled, the powerful stream knocking him backwards and sending him tumbling across the floor. The fire encasing his body fizzled out in a hiss of smoke. Dripping wet, he rolled into a sitting position and lifted his gaze to find James Rhodes floating above him, the hose in his hands aimed threateningly at the teen.

“Not so tough once you get a little damp, huh?” War Machine taunted him, leaning into the “bad guy” charade a tad too heavily for Johnny’s taste. Surprise roiled to anger in the Human Torch’s gut. He bared his teeth, willing heat outwards from his soaked skin, then scrambled sideways with a shriek as another surge of water shot out from the nozzle. Johnny suddenly understood what being a bug beneath a garden hose felt like as he fled on foot from the armored man, who was cackling as he chased him.

“Uh, Mr. Stark? Are you pissed at me or something?”

Peter ducked as a repulsor blast splintered the wall where his head had just been, then sprung onto a concrete column as Iron Man’s flying fist narrowly missed his torso. The buzz in his skull throbbed like a second heartbeat. The pounding of his pulse thundered through muscle and bone.

“Pissed at you?” Stark inquired, rocketing after him as he scaled the pillar. “Why would I be pissed at you?”

“Why else would you be trying to beat the shit outta me right now?”

Iron Man smashed through the column with his shoulder, forcing the masked hero to leap onto the ceiling as it crumbled to the floor in powdery chunks.

The Avenger chuckled lightly, dusting himself off. “You said so yourself: you’re back to 100%, right? Then you should have no problem at all taking on an old, decrepit man like me.” A ray of concussive power shot out from Tony’s palm. Spider-Man dropped from the rafters and rolled across the floor to a crouched position, dodging the shattered pieces of metal that rained down on top of him.

“But I’ve never fought you before!” Peter stammered shrilly. “You‘ve never asked me to! Why start now?”

Stark tore a rusted beam off the ceiling and barreled towards the teenager, swinging the makeshift weapon with all his might. Peter caught the metal rod in his hands before it could bash his head in, eyes wide as they met the glowing, lifeless slits of the Iron Man mask, muscles straining against the armor’s tremendous strength.

“I figured it’s about time I took a more hands-on approach to your superhero mentorship,” Tony explained, driving the beam closer and closer to Peter’s throat. “You think you’re strong enough to survive out there long-term using only your powers to protect you? You think the safety nets and contingency plans I designed to keep you alive are overkill and unnecessary? Then prove it. Prove that you can beat me by sheer grit and raw talent, and I’ll stop ‘hounding’ you about being safe and taking care of yourself all the damn time.”

Peter’s chest seized. Shit, he thought. So they were really doing this. Spider-Man had to fight Iron Man. As if an arachnid-themed teenager in spandex had any chance of defeating a flying, A.I. equipped tank with over a decade of battle experience—let alone surviving the endeavor.

Pivoting, Peter beared down and used Stark’s strength against him, shoving the metal rod up and then slinging it to the side, sending Iron Man flying with it. The Avenger flipped midair and leveled out with a surge from his repulsor boots, regaining his balance with ease.

“Spidey!” Johnny called to him frantically. Peter turned to find the celebrity sprinting around the arena like a soaked chicken with its head cut off, ducking and leaping and darting every which way as Rhodes doused him with water from the thick hose in his hands. He watched the poor teen slip and fall onto his stomach, a look of panic on his face. “I’m too wet to ignite! Help!”

The scene was amusing enough that Peter almost wanted to laugh, but their teammates in the viewing room were likely doing enough of that already, and Johnny was clearly in desperate need of assistance. He snagged a line of webbing to the ceiling and swung after him, sights set on ripping that pesky hose out of Mr. Rhodes’ hands. “I’m coming!” Peter hollered. “Hang on! Just—aaagh!”

A sound struck him then, shrill and explosive, like a hundred bombs going off inside his brain. The web-line slipped from his fingers as his hands flew to his ears, a cry of pain punching out of him that he couldn’t hear over the roar of noise. He hit the ground with a harsh thud, the agonizing sound refusing to quiet, his body screaming for it to stop.

When the horrible noise did finally cease, Peter pried his eyes open to find Iron Man standing over him, his glowing palm aimed at the vigilante’s face. “Lesson number one,” Stark stated pompously, his voice faint and muted to Peter’s ringing ears. “Don’t turn your back on your opponent, especially if your opponent is me. Also, fun fact about all that ‘deadweight hardware’ you took out of your suit: part of it included input dampers that could activate automatically to protect you from debilitating sensory attacks. Might’ve been a nice thing to keep installed for situations like this; wouldn’t you agree?”

Before Peter could attempt a response, his aching head throbbed in warning. As the masked hero flew to his feet, a blast from Tony’s hand repulsor struck him in the gut, knocking the wind from his body and sending him careening into the wall farthest away from where the chained civilian sat. He was lucky Stark had set his gauntlets to stun; a real repulsor charge from that close of range would have fried a hole clean through his torso. Nonetheless, it still hurt like a bitch.

“Son of a…” Peter groaned, falling to his knees with one hand gripping his belly. His vision swirled with nausea and pain as he fought to catch his breath. A moment later, Johnny slammed into the corner on his left, a surge of water from Rhodey’s hose pinning him to the wall for a few seconds before easing off.

“For fuck’s sake!” Johnny spat, whirling around with his hands bunched into fists, his whole body completely drenched. His cheeks burned pink with frustration. “Enough with the goddamn fire hose already!”

“I’ll stop using it when it stops working so well,” James chuckled. Iron Man floated to his side and gave his friend a metallic high-five. As Peter clambered to his feet, a neon blue line sliced across the floor a couple yards in front of him and Johnny, separating them from the two armored men.

“This area is your designated safe zone,” Tony explained, gesturing to the line. “As long as you stay on that side of the boundary, we won’t attack you. You can use this space to strategize, recuperate, or hide like cowards until time runs out. This is also the boundary you’ll need to cross with the rescued captive in order to win—not that I anticipate you soft-skinned tadpoles getting anywhere close to winning.”

Peter’s blood flashed with irritation. “You know, I was trying to be nice earlier,” the masked hero panted. “But the truth is, I don’t like your new armor at all. It’s bulky and unflattering and painfully overdone and adds ten pounds to your figure. And I hope it chafes like hell.”

Stark and Rhodes just laughed, which only made him more irritated. “And yet, I’m still kicking your ass in it,” Tony jeered, making Peter bristle. “I guess that’s what happens when you prioritize function over aesthetic.”

“We’ll be waiting over here whenever you’re ready for more water-logging and ass-kicking,” Rhodes remarked, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. Then the two Iron Men flew to the center of the pool, hovering above it and chatting casually like Spider-Man and the Human Torch were hardly even a threat.

Johnny marched to the edge of the boundary line, slicking his hair out of his eyes as smoke plumed off his scalp. “I’m gonna take that hose and shove it up his shiny metal ass,” he growled. But Peter stopped him with a hand around his wrist.

“Johnny, wait,” he said. When the Human Torch turned to face him, his irises blazed with fire. “Trust me: I’m just as eager as you are to make those geriatric buckets of bolts eat their words. But we can’t take the bait.” Peter nodded towards the clock on the wall. They’d already managed to burn off four of their precious fifteen minutes. “They’re trying to get a rise out of us so we’ll waste all our time fighting them instead of saving the civilian so we can win.”

“Well, it’s fucking working,” Johnny grated out. Weak flames crackled off his shoulders. “So we better come up with a plan to win this thing fast before I start pelting those tin cans with fireballs for ten minutes straight.”

Peter scanned the layout of the warehouse-themed arena. The two main obstacles between them and the captive were the large pool and the deadly pair of armored men standing guard. If one of them could keep Stark and Rhodes occupied while the other freed the crash dummy, maybe there was a chance they could secure the civilian and get across the finish line without taking too much damage. But they’d have to move exceptionally quick.

“Okay, this is what I’ve got,” Peter said sotto voce, rubbing gingerly at his stomach. “You’re gonna make a mad dash for the captive, doing whatever you gotta do to get across the pool. While you work on melting through the cuffs, I’ll fend off the metal grandpas and try to keep them distracted. I’ll protect you for as long as it takes for you to free the dummy, then we’ll both fight like hell to get all of us back on this side in one piece.”

Spider-Man turned to Johnny expectantly, waiting for his input. The Human Torch just glowered at him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“You know, for someone so smart, you’re really stupid a lot of the time.”

Peter hunched his shoulders and wrinkled his brow. “Hey! I’m just spitballing ideas here!”

“Well, your ideas suck major dick,” Johnny snapped. “You seriously think you can take both of those guys at once all by yourself? They’ll tear you apart! Stark will just scramble your brains with whatever migraine-blast thing he hit you with before, leaving Rhodes open to spray me with more water, rendering both of us useless—again. They’ve armed themselves with ways to directly nullify our powers, and no part of your plan acknowledges that or how you expect us to overcome it.”

The masked hero grimaced. “Well if you have any better ideas you’d like to share with the class, I’m all ears, Torchy! We don’t have time to sit here and craft the perfect rescue plan! We just gotta keep cracking at it until we find a way that works.”

Johnny huffed indignantly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “And this right here is exactly why you’re constantly getting hurt and nearly dying all the time. You just throw yourself at whatever enemies or problems are standing in your way without any preparation or strategizing or consideration for your own wellbeing.” He flicked water from his gloved fingers, cutting a glare in Peter’s direction. “Tony was right about you. You’re weirdly adverse to things meant to keep you safe and protect you from harm. You should seriously consider taking your mentor’s advice for a change.”

Incredulous, Peter pealed into a bitter laugh, clasping a hand over his eyes. “Oh my god,” he bemoaned. “Are you actually lecturing me about ‘protecting myself from harm’ right now when you still haven’t posted the apology to Fisk yet? I’ve told you a million times how dangerous he is and how this could help protect you from him, but you won’t listen to me! You don’t care!” He turned his back to Johnny with a scowl. “Don’t go reprimanding me about ignoring the advice of those with our best interests in mind when you do the exact same thing with me and your sister.”

“Posting that apology goes against every principle I stand for!” Johnny shouted. “Me refusing to do that is completely different than you diving headfirst into danger or removing protective hardware from your suit just ‘cuz—what? It’s slightly heavier?” The teen let out a caustic scoff. “Be so fucking for real right now, Webs. That’s the most pathetic, bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard in my life.”

When Spider-Man blatantly ignored him, Johnny shoved him from behind for good measure, making Peter whirl on the Human Torch lividly. “And quit taking sides with Sue on everything! My sister hates you!”

“But she doesn’t hate you!” Peter shot back. “And neither do I! Both of us care about you and want to keep you safe! Do you know how awful I’d feel if Fisk did something to you because of me? I’d never forgive myself!”

Johnny threw his hands above his head in disbelief, tears shimmering in his dark blue eyes. “Well if you’re so torn up simply from the idea of him hurting me, then imagine how I feel! Having to watch you get beaten and shot and eviscerated by the media because of him, all while you and Sue tell me to sit by and do nothing about it—or worse, to apologize to him after his men almost killed you!” Fire raged across Johnny’s skin, evaporating all remaining water from his flesh, lighting up the dim room like a volcanic eruption. “That’s not who I am, Webhead! That’s not who I ever want to be!”

The two teens stared each other down, frustration and tension cleaving open their raw hearts and original wounds. Something about this floor of the tower always managed to set their tempers to boil, although the disagreement blazing between them today was much different than the one they’d had during their first spar. Back then, the pair had fought because of how viscerally they despised each other. But now, in the musty air of this faux-warehouse, they were fighting because of how painfully they cared.

Peter eyed the clock on the wall again, then released a weary sigh. “Are we gonna try to win this thing? Or would you rather waste all our time yelling at each other some more?”

The Human Torch set his jaw, rising off the floor and spiraling away from him. “You know what?” he seethed. “I changed my mind. Your stupid plan sounds perfect. Let’s go for it. I’m all in.” He crossed the glowing boundary line, shooting Peter a cold glare over his shoulder. “One condition, though: I’ll be the one who fights off the bad guys all by myself while you go save the dummy. Is that cool with you?”

A shiv of alarm plunged into the masked hero‘s heart. Peter jogged after the flaming teen, shooting anxious glances between him and the armored men. “Johnny, wait—”

“What? You asked for my input; there it is. I’ll go distract them, launching myself into a fight I can’t possibly hope to win, and you can retrieve the dummy. Why would it matter which one of us takes on which role?”

“Because I have enhanced reflexes!” Peter reminded him fervidly. “And my spider sense! And a healing factor! You don’t have any of those things!”

Johnny faced away from him with a scornful laugh. “Well, tough shit. I’m going anyways. And you can’t stop me.”

With that, the Human Torch gunned it straight for the two metal guards above the pool, smoke and ash trailing in his wake. Peter shot a thread from his wrist and raced after him, dread hammering through his skull.

“Hey old timers!” Johnny hollered as he approached, turning both Avengers’ heads. “Eat my flaming fists!”

Rhodes let loose another torrent of water, but Johnny was ready this time. He swerved out of the stream’s path and shot a blast of fire at War Machine’s hands, knocking the fire hose out of his grip. Without the threat of being doused slowing him down, Johnny went on the offensive, pelting Rhodes with fistfuls of flame that drove him back a few feet, but did not inflict much damage. Iron Man returned fire with bates of concentrated power from his palm repulsors, which Rhodes quickly mirrored. Johnny was evading both of their attacks pretty well and hitting them with an impressive volley of fireballs, but he didn’t have the arsenal needed to incapacitate opponents like this. All of his fire-themed blitzes glanced harmlessly off their impenetrable armor, doing nothing but tiring Johnny out the longer the fight went on.

To Johnny’s credit, he was doing a great job keeping them occupied. Peter swung from one side of the pool to the other without either armored assailant paying him any mind. As he landed on solid ground, he looked back at the three battling heroes with a twinge of fear and uncertainty. Why aren’t they trying to stop me? he wondered. At that moment, Stark got the drop on Johnny while Rhodes had him on the ropes, zipping in from the sidelines to sock Johnny right in the cheek. Peter flinched and gasped as Johnny’s head snapped sideways, the flames on his body guttering weakly. He barely managed to stop himself from dropping right into the water, his heels skirting the pool’s surface.

“Johnny!” Peter cried in dismay. He didn’t care if it drew attention to himself. His crush had just been punched in the face by his mentor’s metal fist. He had to make sure he was okay. Peter ran to the edge of the pool, aiming his wrist at the ceiling, but Johnny slung a fireball in his direction before he could activate his web-shooters, making the vigilante jump to the side in surprise.

“Don’t help me!” Johnny shouted furiously. “Save the civilian!” Despite having just sustained a really bad blow, he launched himself back into the fray with an admirable lack of hesitation, zooming past the colonel and swinging a flaming kick into Stark’s stomach. But the hit probably hurt Johnny more than the billionaire.

Peter’s chest ached with worry as Johnny‘s fight with the armored men continued to escalate. He was making his point loud and clear to a precariously committed degree. You want to know what it’s like to watch someone you care about throw themselves into danger with zero regard for their own safety? Let me show you. He knew how angry Johnny would be if he charged in to save him instead of fulfilling his part of the plan. The only way to stop him from being hurt any worse without thoroughly pissing him off was for Peter to free the captive as fast as possible. So, feeling sick to his stomach, Peter turned his back on his friend and ran towards the chained-up dummy, grabbing hold of the cuffs locked around its wrists.

But right as his hands made contact with the metal bonds, the ear-splitting sound Stark had hit him with before crashed over him like a deafening tsunami, sending him crumpling to the ground in agony. He scrambled back from the captive, ragged gasps sawing out of him as the assault on his senses subsided, the torturous pain blaring through his brain easing somewhat without completely disappearing.

“Shit,” he grated out. He stood, kneading at his temples, scanning the dummy up and down. There must be some kind of device or speaker that activated when the chains were touched. That’s why Stark and Rhodes weren’t coming after him: ‘cuz they knew he wouldn’t be able to free the civilian. Not with the trap they’d rigged to render him paralyzed and useless anytime he tried. Irate, Peter backed away from the captive and aimed his web-shooter at the leftmost cuff, snagging a strand to the restraint in hopes he could rip it off the wall from afar. But the moment he started tugging, the mind-numbing noise drilled through his skull once again.

Peter tore the web-line from his wrist with a shout of pain and frustration. “Dammit!” he cursed, pinning his palms over his ears long after the sound had ceased. Tears stung his eyes as his head pounded and swam. The harder he fought them, the harder it became to keep them contained. Because this was what Stark wanted. This was what he saw him as. A weak little kid who needed his protection. A boy unfit for the Avengers without a mountain of Stark tech to make him useful. Someone out of his league and in over his head and incapable of saving anyone with what little power the universe had gifted him with, including himself.

As Peter wallowed in his shame and inadequacy, a cry of terror cut through his thoughts and the cotton clogging his ears—loud enough to make him turn his throbbing head. His eyes found Johnny just as a repulsor blast from Iron Man’s palm struck him in the chest mid-air, sending the teen spiraling out of control and crashing to the concrete floor on the opposite side of the pool, gripping the spot he’d been hit as pale flames lapped off his body.

Peter’s muscles went taut beneath his skin. Hurting him in pointed and degrading ways was one thing. But hurting Johnny? Even if he was still kinda mad at him, Peter couldn’t bear to see him beaten senseless like this by his own teammates. As much as it stung to admit, maybe Stark was right. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough to protect others and himself against opponents this powerful using only his natural abilities—especially when they knew how to exploit his weak points so acutely. Maybe he should consider adding back some of the contingency features he’d removed from his suit, so long as they didn’t slow him down too much. But right now, nothing was going to stop him from defending the Human Torch from sustaining further injury. If he could only protect one of them with his measly spider powers, he’d make sure it was Johnny.

Ears still singing with pain, Spider-Man broke into a sprint across the dusty warehouse floor, hooking a thread of webbing to one of the metal barrels perched in the corner. When he reached the edge of the pool, he used his momentum to swing the barrel in circles above his head, spinning like an athlete in a hammer throw competition before letting the projectile fly. The canister sailed with perfect precision and struck Stark with a spine-rattling bang, knocking him into the right wall of the arena. By the time he and Rhodes had whirled around to face him, Peter was already web-slinging to the center of the pool and hooking a line of spider’s silk to War Machine’s chest, grabbing hold off the taut thread with both hands and whipping it downwards with all his strength. The webbing ripped Rhodes right out of the air and slung him into the dark water below. With the fleeting element of surprise on his side, Peter plastered Tony’s helmet with sticky silk, buoyed himself towards him, and swung a punch in the dead center of his mentor’s metal face.

Which, in Peter’s defense, he did feel slightly bad about. But Mr. Stark was the one who’d orchestrated this entire humbling exercise in the first place, and clearly wasn’t pulling his punches or holding back. If he had no intention of going easy on his foes, neither did Peter.

Plus, the bite of pain the hit raked across his own knuckles suggested the armor was doing a decent job taking the brunt of the blow.

Iron Man wobbled in the air as he struggled to maintain his balance, visibly ruffled. Peter flipped onto the ceiling, shaking out his smarting hand and eyeing Johnny where he lay bunched in a ball on the floor.

“Johnny! Are you okay?” he called to him. The only response the Human Torch offered was a low moan. A repulsor blast whizzed past Peter’s nose and blew the light fixture on his left to bits. Glass and sparks rained down into pool beneath him as he jerked his head around.

“That was some punch, kiddo,” Stark said, tearing webbing off his helmet as he hovered closer. “Good form.” A beam of red-hot energy shot out from Iron Man’s forearm, sending Peter racing across the ceiling to escape its destructive path. The teen flipped around a low-hanging rafter and launched himself at his mentor a second time, hurling a kick at the arc reactor in his chest. His heel struck exactly where he’d intended—but the armor absorbed all the power of his strike, sending a painful zing up his leg as tiny shards of glass and metal burst away from the impact site. Peter realized his mistake too late as Tony’s iron gauntlet closed around ankle.

“But fists and feet don’t fair so well against titanium and steel,” the billionaire chuckled. With Peter’s leg locked in his grip, Iron Man spun around and flung Spider-Man into the wall. Peter’s back collided against unforgiving concrete, every vertebrae flashing with pain, spots flickering in his vision as he dropped into the pool with a splash. For the second time that day, cold like none he’d ever experienced penetrated his bones and choked his lungs. Peter clawed for the surface, a shuddering breath tearing from his throat. At least the icy water helped snap his senses back into focus.

“If you were wearing the Iron Spider suit I’d made for you,” Stark continued goading him, “perhaps you’d have a slightly better chance of defeating me. Or at least getting a few decent hits in.”

“You b-bastard,” Peter hissed through chattering teeth, limbs shivering as he crawled up the wall and out of the pool. “Hurting my friend and m-making my ears bleed wasn’t enough for you? Did you really have to add ‘give Spidey hypothermia again’ to that list?”

“A built-in suit heater sure sounds nice right now, doesn’t it?”

“Denting your f-face plate some more sounds nicer.”

Peter’s head buzzed in warning right as War Machine burst from the water hardly a foot in front of him, his metal fist swinging straight for Spider-Man’s chin. Peter caught his hand before it could strike him and twisted it to the side, drawing a squawk of surprise from the man in the armor. As Peter kicked him hard in the stomach, Rhodey raised his free hand towards the masked hero’s face, and Spider-Man’s vision suddenly went white. Searing light detonated directly into his eyeballs, making him cry out and grasp his eye lenses. Fucking flash bombs! he cursed in his mind, unable to shake the blindness or the pain no matter how much he rubbed or blinked. The only thing protecting him from the flurry of punches Rhodes was slinging his way was the sharp tingling in his skull screaming at him to move. Dodge left, right, down, up! Block now, jump now, duck now, run!

Out of options and peppered in bruises, Peter flung himself at Rhodey and stuck to his chest, scrambling blindly over his shoulder and winding up on his back. He wrapped his arms around the armored man’s neck and squeezed—hard. Rhodes gagged and coughed, grappling with Peter’s forearms as they choked him, his metal fingers biting into the vigilante’s skin.

“Sorry, Mr. Rhodes!” Peter exclaimed, tightening his grip even more while the metal man flailed about. “But you’re kinda being a dick right now!”

As the two heroes scuffled and brawled, Peter’s vision slowly started coming back to him in patchy, overblown fragments. But it wasn’t returning fast enough, and there were too many warning tingles coming from too many different directions for him to evade every threat for long.

“Tones!” Rhodey sputtered out, the reactors on his gauntlets heating against Peter’s skin. Peter fought not to let go at first, gritting his teeth against the scorching pain. But a wild throb in his head alerted him of a particularly dangerous hazard flying at him from behind. He tried releasing his hold on War Machine’s throat so he could dodge whatever it was in time, but found himself trapped in Rhodes’ grip. The armored man had turned the tables on him! He was keeping him in place, not letting him escape. Before Peter could tear free of his grasp, a dreadfully familiar ping rang out uncomfortably close to his ear, followed by an explosion of agony in the center of his back.

“Gah!” Peter screamed, muscles spasming, his skeleton turning to glass inside him. For the next few seconds, he couldn’t seem to move his limbs. The pain was devastating. White noise enveloped his mind. He feared for a moment that his spine had been snapped in two. One more of Stark’s repulsor charges shot from point blank range like that, and he’d black out for sure. Stars danced across his patchy vision as his body reeled and ached. Now that Spider-Man was no longer suffocating him, Rhodes seized Peter’s arms just below his elbows and flung him over his head. The masked hero vaguely felt himself sailing across the room and waited for the crack of his bones against concrete.

When he finally did hit something solid, it was weirdly warm and much softer than he expected. Peter peeked his stinging eyes open to find himself cradled in the arms of the Human Torch, who was breathless and kneeling and coated in dim flames. The two of them were on the ground, not the air; Johnny must’ve been too battered and winded to fly. Despite this, he’d still managed to break his fall. He’d caught him.

“Gotcha!” Johnny huffed out. Then his eyes snapped upwards, and his smile dropped. “Oh, fuck me.”

Peter followed his gaze down the nozzle of the fire hose that was now aimed directly at them. Rhodes must have retrieved it while the pair were distracted. Peter squirmed to try and block Johnny, but water plumed from the tip before either teen had a chance to move, crashing into them like a bullet train made out of liquid. Shrieking and sputtering, the two heroes were blasted across the arena in a bushel of bruised knees and scuffed elbows, rolling and tumbling across the floor until their bodies met the back wall, a symphony of groans rising from their tangled, dripping forms. Once again, Spidey and Johnny had been pushed behind their designated boundary line: safe for now, but back to square one.

“Tough break, boys,” Tony called to the moaning mass of mangled teenagers. “Better luck next time.”

“Only seven minutes left,” Rhodey reminded them breezily. “Things aren’t looking so great for you or poor Mrs. Chained-Up Dummy back there.”

Snickering, the armored men returned to their stations above the dark pool, leaving the two young heroes to soak in their failure as they gingerly unraveled themselves from one another, wincing and hissing in pain.

“Owww,” Johnny whimpered, dropping back on his haunches, gripping his face in his hands. “Oh god. My everything.”

“Are you all right?” Peter asked raggedly, reaching out for Johnny’s cheek. His entire body felt like one gigantic bruise. His eyes still burned from the flash bomb, but his back and shoulders hurt worst of all—every muscle surrounding his spine pulsing with nauseating pain. His fingers hovered just above Johnny’s delicate skin, scared of touching him for more reasons than one. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Johnny lowered his hands from his face, his picturesque features pinched tight with discomfort. Courtesy of Mr. Stark’s fist, a bright red welt was already forming on his freckled cheek, tinted purple along the edges and very swollen. On top of that, his left eye had a small bruise just below his brow bone, and his bottom lip was split right down the center, glistening with fresh blood. He must’ve taken a few other hits to the face that Peter hadn’t seen.

“Fucking hell,” Peter exhaled in dismay, covering his mouth with his hand. “Johnny…”

“Is it bad?” he asked meekly, prodding at his puffy cheek. The sight of him all bruised and bloodied minced Peter’s heart into jagged chunks of regret and shattered something inside him he never knew could break.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter said. He hung his head, balling his hands into fists on top of his knees. “You put yourself through the wringer so I could save the captive, but I couldn’t do it. I’m not…I w-wasn’t strong enough...”

“Shit. It’s bad, isn’t it?” Johnny palmed his face with a groan. “Goddammit. I have a music video I’m supposed to star in in two days! I can’t show up on set looking like this! What am I supposed to do now?”

Despite the guilt weighing over his heart, Johnny’s disjointed priorities brought a frail smile to his lips. At least he wasn’t too hurt to fret over something besides his appearance. Peter wrapped the Human Torch’s hand in his own, then quickly dropped it, remembering with a prick of fear where they were and who all was watching. A sigh slipped from his lips as the vigilante shook his head.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

Johnny frowned at him, gnawing at the cut on his lip. “You know why!” he snapped. “Now you understand how I feel watching you launch yourself face-first into fights and situations we both know could kill you! You’d rather risk your life getting beaten to a pulp than let anyone else be the hero for a change! I’m sick of it!” He cupped his cheek and gritted his teeth. “Ugh! My stupid face! I can’t even yell at you properly without it hurting!”

“Then stop yelling,” Peter couldn’t help but giggle. “Just take it easy for a sec.”

“No,” Johnny shot back bitterly. “I’m not stopping. Not until I know you’re actually hearing me.”

Peter held the celebrity’s icy glare and swallowed thickly. With a long breath out, he folded his legs underneath himself, criss-crossing his ankles on top of each other with his hands bunched in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, worrying his frozen thumbs in his lap. Serrated fish hooks sank into his heart, yanking it violently in five different directions. “I told you before: working alone is my baseline. I’m still figuring out this whole ‘teamwork’ thing. I’m not used to having anyone else around to deal with a threat except myself. As far as superhero stuff goes, I guess it’s hard for me to…depend on others.”

Peter picked at the charred fabric on his forearms where Rhodey’s gauntlet repulsors had burnt him. “Anytime I’ve hesitated to intervene when something bad was happening in the past, people have wound up dead. Good people.” His voice wobbled a little, an age-old grief waking from deep inside him and raking its claws down his throat. “My uncle…y’know, the one who raised me like his own and whatnot…he was murdered. He died because I looked the other way when somebody needed my help. A couple weeks after getting my powers, a man I was pissed at was being robbed, and I let the thief get away. I didn’t even try to stop him, even though I very easily could’ve. I thought, ‘This isn’t my problem. Why should I step in to help someone I hardly know and don’t even like?’ So I didn’t. I let him go, feeling vindicated in my decision. And then that thief that I let escape ran outside and shot my uncle in the chest, who was waiting in his car to pick me up.”

Hesitantly, Peter raised his eyes to meet Johnny’s. He wasn’t surprised to find them welling with tears, yet the sight still tugged at his heartstrings the way it always did. It had been over a year since he’d told anyone that story. Even though the lessons the death of his uncle had taught him were chiseled into his soul, integral to who he was, never to be forgotten, it wasn’t pleasant reliving the details of his most shameful and devastating memory. The sight of the man he’d seen as his father slumped in the driver’s seat, gagging on his own blood. The way Peter’s body had gone numb and cold. How Ben had been trying to tell him something, but was too far gone to get the words out. The sound of his heartbeat slowing to silence as Peter’s sobs echoed through the vacant streets.

“Since that day, I don’t let myself hesitate when someone is in trouble,” he explained quietly. “If a person is in danger or something bad is happening, I have to step in. I have to be the one who risks getting hurt to stop others from suffering and dying. I have to put my life in danger if that means someone else gets to live another day. Having this power means I have a responsibility to help people whenever and however I can. That’s what my uncle taught me. That’s the whole reason I became Spider-Man. This is who I am.”

Johnny was full-on crying now, which made Peter’s need to comfort him that much harder to resist. Tears streamed down the celebrity’s bruised face, staining his cheeks with dark, damp trails. Peter wondered if their teammates could see them from where they were sitting across the room.

“You never told me that,” Johnny sniffled, eyes wide and watery and brimming with questions. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

The corners of Peter’s mouth lifted into a pained smile. “I don’t like making you cry,” he said solemnly, kneading at his achy shoulder blades. “I feel like I’m always making you cry.”

“Then stop having such a sad life!” Johnny wept. He wiped aggressively at his tears, but they refused to stop flowing. He shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, running his tongue over the split in his lip. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” he croaked. That’s…a horrible thing to go through. Neither of you deserved that. First your parents, and then…”

He trailed off, voice wavering. Peter hung his head, gripping his left forearm rigidly, unsure what to say. Heavy silence stretched between the two teens. When the Human Torch finally lifted his gaze to meet Peter’s, he exhaled listlessly, red-rimmed eyes shining with resolve.

“I know how important protecting people is to you, even at the expense of yourself,” he said, mopping his chin with the back of his hand. “Despite how much it stresses me out and pisses me off, it’s something I really admire and love about you. You’re a remarkably selfless and brave person. Your aunt and uncle raised a good human being.”

A rush of warmth hit Peter’s cheeks. The word “love” leaving Johnny’s mouth to describe something the celebrity felt towards Peter made his tummy flutter and his heart double in size. Then Johnny jabbed an index finger between Peter’s eyes, making him flinch and blink.

“But you don’t have to carry that burden all by yourself anymore,” Johnny chastised him. “You have people you can lean on who want to fight by your side and on your behalf. People like Tony and me and the rest of your teammates—and people like the citizens you’re committed to protecting. We care about you and want to help you reach your goals and be happy.” Johnny poked gingerly at the bruise beneath his eyebrow, hissing through his teeth. “But we can’t do that if you won’t let us. Or worse—if you’re dead. You’re strong, Webs; stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. But your power has limitations just like everybody else’s. You alone can’t save everyone. You have to recognize that and let us lend a hand when you need it rather than pushing yourself past your limits all the time. You have to give other people the chance to step up and be the sacrificial hero every now and then. It doesn’t always have to be you.”

Tears slipped relentlessly down Johnny’s cheeks as he reached out and took Peter’s hand from his lap, brushing his thumb across his bloody knuckles in delicate zig-zags. “Your life is just as valuable and worthy of being protected as everyone else’s,” he insisted. “Your pain is just as valid as mine or Stark’s or any random citizen’s. I don’t care if you heal faster, or are trying to meet some infeasible standard of altruism you’re holding yourself to in order to ease your conscience. I know it still hurts.”

Peter considered snatching his hand away, all too aware of their teammates’ attentive presence, but found he couldn’t. His breathing stilled as his throat began shrinking smaller and smaller and smaller. He had offered Johnny his heart, raw and beating and bloody, and the Human Torch had accepted it. He’d held the odious thing in his hands with tender care and gentle appraisal, like a biologist studying a rare and beautiful little bird. Then, word by word, he’d stitched up the parts of it that life had carved open, mending wounds Peter never realized cut him so incredibly deep. Reconstructing the unsalvageable piece by haggard piece.

“Promise me you’ll let others help you more,” Johnny beseeched him, squeezing his wounded hand tight. “Promise me you’ll at least try. You’re not the only one you’re hurting when you’re constantly placing every other person’s safety above your own you know.”

The cold abandoned him where Johnny’s fingers touched, radiant with otherworldly warmth. Peter Parker took in a long, shuddering breath. In spite of it all, he squeezed his hand back. So much for selling the whole “platonic super-bros” act.

“Okay,” he said, voice small and brittle. “I’ll, um—I’ll try.” He wiped away a tear slithering down Johnny’s cheek, fondness branching through him. “But only if you promise to stop crying. Deal?”

Johnny scrunched up his features in despair. “I can’t do that,” he whimpered.

“Not all the time,” Peter assured him with a sympathetic chuckle. “Just right now.”

Johnny shook his head miserably. “I c-can’t do that, either.”

“Why not?”

Bawling, the Human Torch clasped both hands over his eyes, tears pouring between his fingers. “‘Cuz my face still hurts so fucking bad!” he sobbed. “And now I’m ugly!”

Peter doubled over with unexpected laughter, reawakening the aches and pains peppered across his body. “You’re not ugly,” he giggled affectionately. “You’re, like, physically incapable of being ugly. I promise. It makes you look cool! Like a total badass.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Johnny sniffled, resting his chin on his scraped kneecaps with a heartbreaking look on his face. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he mumbled.

Peter lowered his gaze. “Me too,” he conceded, flexing his gashed knuckles. “Sorry for…a lot of things. This must be the worst first date you’ve ever been on.”

Johnny hinted a smile. “Shockingly, I’ve actually had worse.”

The two boys shared a bout of belly-laughs, which quickly transformed into a duet of pained groans. Johnny grimaced, grasping the spot on his chest where Stark’s repulsor blast had struck him, misty eyes wandering up to the timer on the wall.

“Well,” he huffed drearily, “we doing this thing or what?”

Peter tracked his gaze to the digital clock overhead. Only two and a half minutes left before time ran out.

“You’re serious?” Peter exclaimed. “You really want to give it another go?” He scanned Johnny’s battered form squeamishly. “They’ve roughed us both up pretty bad already. I’d be okay cutting our losses on this one if you’re not up for it.”

“Hell no! I’m not just gonna chicken out like some punk-ass bitch! Ben would never let me hear the end of it!” Grunting and wincing, Johnny climbed to his feet, tearful eyes filled with determination, wet hair hanging in his face. Peter stood with him, his back throbbing in protest, skin still soaked and shivery. “No way we’re going down without a fight. That stupid dummy is counting on us.”

Spider-Man smiled feebly. “If you’re sure,” he murmured, a balloon of discouragement inflating inside him as he stared across the considerable distance between them and the captive, which was bisected in two by the armored men suspended above the pool, standing guard. “Did you by chance have a plan in mind that might end better for us than mine did?”

Johnny crinkled his nose and shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted. “Your plan wasn’t terrible, necessarily—just poorly executed. I think the general concept is sound, and probably our only viable option.” He narrowed his eyes at Rhodes and Stark. “One of us distracts while the other rescues the civilian.”

“I can’t be the rescuer,” Peter confessed, shame knotting in his gut. “They have the captive’s chains rigged so that whenever something touches them, that sound that makes my brain implode goes off. It hurts too much for me to do anything.”

Johnny nodded, a twinkle of pride in his gaze. “That’s okay. Good news is, it doesn’t hurt me. I think it’s at a frequency only your super-ears are sensitive to.” Then he winced. “Bad news is, you’ll have to be the one who distracts the metal meatheads while I free the dummy.”

Peter scrunched up his brows and got to work firing up the hydraulics and ball bearings in his brain, engines humming and whirring as he studied the layout of the warehouse and the daunting foes that lay before them. In his intense ruminating, a memory from two days prior sparked to life in his mind’s eye. A skill Johnny had demonstrated a couple times before, but hadn’t made much use of other than dazzling his fans and his crush, as far as Peter was aware. Which gave him an idea.

“Maybe you can do both,” Peter thought out loud, voice quiet. Johnny scowled at him.

“You want me to save the captive and fight the bad guys at the same time? Now you’ve gone from asking too little from me to expecting way too much.”

Peter turned to the Human Torch with an eager grin. “You don’t have to fight them,” he explained. “Neither of us do. We clearly don’t stand a chance against these guys when it comes down to brute strength or physical durability. If we try to fight our way past them, they’ll just throttle us some more.”

Johnny pursed his lips impatiently. “Then how do we get past them?”

Peter held out his palm and wiggled his fingers. “You remember that little flaming heart you created? And how you were able to control and maneuver it from afar?”

Johnny cocked his head to the side. “You mean the one I blew to you from outside the window back when I was flirting so ridiculously hard with you while you were giving me absolutely nothing in return to the point that looking back on it now it makes me want to gag myself a little?” A playful blush lit across his face as he folded his arms against his chest. “Yeah. I’m familiar.”

Peter chuckled shyly. “Yes. That one.” He tapped the center of his upturned hand. “Could you make it bigger?”

Johnny blinked, glancing down at his palm. “I mean, yeah,” he mused. “I guess I could.”

“Nice. And can you only make hearts? Or could you do something more complicated and detailed? Also—for how long and from how far away could you keep something like that lit?”

“Where are you going with this?”

Peter met Johnny’s puzzled gaze and flashed a mischievous grin, a beat of excitement thumping through his veins in harmony with his quickening pulse. He cupped a hand over his mouth and leaned in close to Johnny’s ear.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do…”

_______________________________

Stark yawned and eyed the clock on the wall of the fake warehouse for the third time in the past minute, a small sting of regret in his chest. He hovered above the deep pool at his friend’s side, turning his attention back towards the two teens standing at the far end of the arena, who had yet to make a final attempt to get past them and rescue the captive.

Maybe I pushed them too hard, he thought, queasy with remorse. Especially Pete.

He’d wanted to give his stubborn mentee a reality check; make him recognize just how vital it is to be prepared for anything as a hero in this world of ever-increasing threats and foes. The kid was strong, no doubt—but his unwavering commitment to protecting everyone except himself was going to get him killed one of these days. He’d had too many close calls for comfort since Tony had taken him under his wing, and he’d be damned before he let the kid die again under his watch. Witnessing Peter Parker dissolve into dust before his eyes and wading through that loss for the next five years wasn’t something Stark intended on reliving ever again for as long as he breathed. He’d done the impossible and saved the entire universe just to see that goofy little smile of his again; there was no way in hell he was going to lose him a second time. Not if he had anything to do with it.

But there was a chance that while aiming to teach him a lesson, Tony had taken things a bit too far. In his efforts to protect something he cared deeply about, it wasn’t out of character for him to wind up critically harming the thing he was trying so desperately to keep safe. Both kids were at least standing, so they couldn’t have injured them too severely. This tough love session was meant to be a wake up call, a grounding exercise, a swift kick to the rear, not a Stark Expo of effective child abuse tactics that would cause the kid to harbor resentment towards him for years to come.

The fact that the teens only had a minute and a half left before they lost was extra concerning. Peter wasn’t the type of kid to give up so easily. Maybe I should’ve pulled my punches a bit more… Tony considered with a pang of guilt. That repulsor blast to the back he’d hit him with while War Machine had him trapped was a pretty cheap shot. But bad guys in the real world weren’t going to exercise restraint against him like he and Rhodey might. Based on this past week alone, it was clear that Spider-Man’s enemies were out for blood. Stark had to make sure the kid had the stamina and fighting skills to take on the powerful adversaries perpetually seeking his demise. Better he be roughed up in here every now and again than dead on the street.

When Tony’s gaze snapped into focus again, he was met with the sight of the boys charging towards them at maximum speed: Spidey swinging on swift strands of webbing while Johnny soared at his side, enveloped in flames.

A breath of relief passed the Avenger’s lips. They weren’t going to win, obviously—but the fact that they were still trying eased some of his worries and brought a smile to his face.

“Back for more, huh?” Rhodes called to the teens, cracking his neck and adjusting his grip around the base of the water hose. “What have you got for us this time?”

The kids answered his inquiry with a wild volley of projectile attacks launched in rapid succession. While Peter coated both of their face masks in webbing, Johnny let loose huge torrents of fire all across the arena. Only a couple of the fireballs actually managed to hit the armored men; the majority of them sailed harmlessly past their heads.

“This is your grand final attack strategy?” Tony chuckled, burning the spider webs off his helmet. “Pelting us with silly string and slightly larger balls of fire? I’m gonna be honest: I expected better from you.”

“Johnny’s barely conscious and I can hardly see straight!” Peter shouted defensively, skidding to a stop at the edge of the pool as he fired glob after glob of web fluid. “Cut us a break, would you? We’re trying our best!”

“Would Kingpin cut you a break? Would any of your enemies?” While Rhodes went after the flaming kid, Stark struck back against Peter with spates of energy from his palms, which had his mentee backpedaling feverishly and leaping left and right. While he was off-balance, Iron Man darted forward with the aim of slugging him in the temple. “Don’t think so.”

But the kid was quick; Tony only managed to graze his forehead with the edge of his metal fist. The instant after he swung, Peter seized his arm and turned his velocity against him, combining that with his considerable strength to flip him over his shoulder and ram him into the ground. Spidey followed up by latching a line of silk to his helmet activating the tasers in his web-shooters, sending shocks across Tony’s metal exterior. His armor easily absorbed the electricity the way it was designed to, but still: he admired the kid’s effort.

“Nice try,” Stark said, wrapping the web-line around his fist and yanking it towards himself, dragging Peter with it. The teen yelped in surprise, frantically detaching the thread from his wrist, but it was too late. Tony grabbed hold of the kid’s arm and doubled back the electricity he’d just hit him with, zapping the masked hero silly and pulling a cry of pain from his lips. Iron Man floated off the ground with the boy in his grasp, dangling his limp form above the ice cold pool as Peter twitched and moaned from the shock. “But I’m afraid you’re outta your league, bud. You can’t beat me.”

Breathing hard, dazed and dizzy, Peter peeked one eye lens open, knotting both hands into fists. “I don’t h-have to beat you,” he panted, no doubt mean-mugging him with the world’s most withering glare behind his mask. “I just have to outsmart you.”

“Is that so?” Tony snorted. “I’m afraid that’s gonna prove just as difficult, kiddo.” He gave the flimsy teen a light shake. “You do know I have four doctorates, right?”

Peter coughed weakly, then chuckled. “Were any of those doctorates in close-up magic or misdirection?”

Stark frowned at him, a crumb of suspicion creeping in. Before he could unpack what the kid was insinuating, Rhodey let out a gasp.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed. Tony whirled around to face him. His friend had the firehose aimed at a flame-engulfed Johnny Storm, the powerful stream hitting him in the dead center of his chest. But the water was passing straight through his body and spewing out of his back. He wasn’t solid somehow. When Rhodey maneuvered the nozzle to douse the rest of Johnny with water, the flaming teen disappeared completely, evaporating into the air in a puff of smoke.

“Where did he…?” Rhodes stammered. The sound of metal chains pinging against concrete met Tony’s ear, echoing from behind them. Skewered with realization, Stark spun towards the dummy.

“It’s not real!” Tony shouted. “He made a copy of himself out of fire!”

Actual Johnny, who had successfully freed the captive from its bonds while they were preoccupied with his clone, froze at the far edge of the pool, clutching the crash dummy against his chest with a startled look on his face.

“Uh-oh,” he squeaked.

“Since when has he been able to do that?” Rhodes balked. “The fake Johnny was dodging my attacks and everything!”

A spidery sucker punch to the jaw had Stark seeing stars for a second. Peter wrenched out of his mentor’s grip and scurried onto his metal shoulders, kicking off his helmet to launch himself into the maze of rafters overhead.

“Johnny!” Peter hollered, slipping the web-shooter off his left wrist and winding back his arm. “Catch!”

Spider-Man flung the device across the room. Johnny burst into flame and snatched the web-shooter out of the air, booking it for the safe zone on the opposite side of the warehouse.

“Grab him!” Stark yelled. He made a break for the Human Torch but was jerked to a violent halt by something stuck to his back. He glanced over his shoulder to find Peter crouched against the ceiling, holding strong to the thick thread he’d snagged to Tony’s spine, groaning with exertion. The tensile strength of that webbing of his was a truly remarkable scientific feat. But Tony wasn’t gonna let it stop him.

A tiny phaser poked out of his armor at the tip of the Avenger’s shoulder and fired a laser beam of pure energy, slicing the web-line in half. But as soon as Stark had freed himself and turned to face Johnny again, a giant wad of new webbing splattered across his viewfinder, leaving him blind for a moment.

“Agh!” he shouted, tugging and clawing at the gum-like substance. “Seriously?”

The Human Torch let out a whoop of glee. “I did it!” he cheered. “Did you see that? I hit him! No wonder you love lathering people in webbing all the time! This is so fun!” Banking low to the surface of the pool, Johnny proceeded to shower Rhodes in dense globs of spider webs, making an animated “pew, pew!” sound with his mouth every time he let another sticky volley loose. Meanwhile, from behind, Peter lassoed War Machine’s arms with threads, preventing him from waterboarding or repulsor-blasting either of them again.

Rhodey thrashed and cursed, visionless and retrained. Through the small gaps in the webbing that blocked his field of view, he could see Stark struggling to gain his sight back as well. Fending off one lycra-wearing teenager with web-shooters had proved simple enough. But fighting two of them while they both cocooned him in web fluid from varying angles and directions?

Perhaps Rhodes and Tony had underestimated these kids.

“Go, Johnny! Fly for your life!” Spider-Man shrieked.

Johnny bolted past War Machine while he was indisposed, but Stark was ready for him. He cleared the rest of the webbing from his helmet and rocketed after the flaming teen, pumping everything he had into his thrusters. Johnny screamed in surprise when Stark body-checked him into the wall, fire flaring out from his silhouette where he struck hard concrete. Tony pinned him against the sideways surface and made a grab for the dummy, but Johnny had enough sense to chuck the captive away the second he found himself caught.

“Spidey!” the Human Torch cried.

“Got it!” the masked teen called back, streaking by on hasty filaments of webbing, scooping the dummy right out of the air. Iron Man cursed under his breath.

“Rhodes!” He hollered. Fortunately, his friend was already one step ahead of him. War Machine zoomed on Peter’s tail, his entire suit still covered in webbing, the repulsors on his hands and feet propelling him far faster than the kid’s sticky threads could ever hope to carry him, especially with only one web-shooter. Stark abandoned the teen celebrity and joined the mad chase, hurtling after his mentee.

Shit! Peter thought, pulse pounding, spider sense screaming, every muscle in his body driving him forward as quickly as physically possible. He could feel the armored men gaining on him by the millisecond, but the boundary line he had to cross in order for them to win was just a few yards ahead. Come on! I’m so close!

The final web-line that would buoy him to victory shot from his wrist. But just before it reached the ceiling, a red laser tore across the battlefield and slashed through the thread. For a moment, Peter flailed through the air like a bug launched from a slingshot. He had no time to catch himself on another strand of silk. All he could do was rattle off every cuss word under the sun as he crashed to the ground, every ache and bruise in his body roaring from the impact. He rolled to his feet in an instant, shifting gears to an all-out sprint, but the two Avengers were already upon him.

What started as a high-speed chase transitioned into the world’s most terrifying game of keep-away. The armored men dog piled him, metal gauntlets punching and grabbing as Peter switched the dummy between his hands, hid it behind his back, held it out of their reach, rolling and dodging and kicking and fighting to keep the captive just beyond their grasp. All of them knew they didn’t have to take it from him; they just had to prevent him from getting across the finish line long enough for time to run out, which was only seconds away.

“Throw it, Webhead!” Johnny’s voice called out to him from somewhere he couldn’t see. In the same instant, the metal hand gripping the arm Peter was clutching the dummy for dear life with started electrocuting him, and the piercing sound that threatened to crack his skull in half began hollowing out his eardrums a fourth time. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, couldn’t handle another second of the pain. They were too strong for him. He couldn’t win this on his own. Johnny was their only hope.

Peter summoned the last remnants of his spider strength to tear away from the two armored assailants long enough to chuck the captive blindly into the air, falling hard on his belly in the process. But when Peter opened his eyes and lifted his gaze, his heart sank. Johnny sailed overhead right on cue to catch the civilian. But Rhodey had anticipated their final play and cut between them at the last second, maneuvering directly above Peter’s head. Spider-Man had tossed the dummy straight into his waiting hands. It was over. They’d lost.

“Nice catch, Rhodey,” Stark breathed in relief.

“Phew! That was a close one!” Rhodes let out a winded laugh, holding up the captive victoriously. “For a minute there, I really thought you had us!”

Dazed with pain, Peter rose to his hands and knees with a sour knot in his stomach. Ugh. Dammit! If only he’d had both his web-shooters when he was racing across the arena at the end. Maybe he would’ve been fast enough to cross the boundary before they caught him. Giving one to Johnny had been a mistake. He should’ve known it would cost them the game.

Then, as quick as a whip, a thread of webbing cut across Peter’s line of vision and stuck to the dummy with a wet splat, ripping it right out of War Machine’s grasp. All eyes watched in awe and disbelief as the captive zipped through the air straight across the boundary line—and right into Johnny’s hands.

Immediately, the glowing blue line etched around the safe zone switched to a dazzling green. The bell that signified their time was up sang from the speakers while the array of projections blanketing the room dissolved away. As the space transformed back into a sterile gray arena, Peter gaped as wide as the sun, then broke into the biggest smile in the entire world. Johnny looked just as shocked by what he’d accomplished as everyone else.

“Johnny!” Peter cheered, bounding to his feet and racing towards him, throwing his hands in the air. “You did it! We won!”

“I did?” Johnny stammered, blinking down at the dummy like it had just magically teleported into his possession. Then his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Holy shit! I did!” He cackled maniacally, spiking the captive into the ground like a football. “Take that, you dumb dummy! We rescued the hell out of you!”

“Yeah we did!” Peter laughed. He threw his arms around Johnny and lifted him off the ground, the two heroes twirling and giggling and cheering in triumph. It was only after they met each other’s gazes and lost themselves in one another’s eyes a little too long that the boys realized their mistake. Flushing crimson, the teens sprung away from each other in one simultaneous motion of panic, clearing their throats and scratching their necks and avoiding eye contact. Peter dropped Johnny back on his feet so fast, the celebrity almost face-planted into the floor.

“I mean—it was mostly me who made it happen,” Johnny coughed sheepishly. “Having you as a teammate actually slowed me down more than anything. You’re, uh…super annoying. And a piss-poor hero. In fact, I’m signing up for Daily Bugle email alerts the second I get my phone back.”

“That was amazing!” Peter exclaimed, too ecstatic to play into Johnny’s terrible attempt at lying. “The fire clone plan worked perfectly! You made it look so real! Not even I could tell it wasn’t really you!”

Johnny blushed and shrugged. “It was surprisingly easier than I thought. I’m kinda mad I never thought to do that before. The hardest part was making the clone dodge Rhodes’ attacks while I was melting the chains off the captive.”

“And your web-shooting? Oh my god! You picked it up no problem! You’re a total natural!” Peter punched him playfully in the shoulder. “Can’t multitask my ass. You’re never allowed to use that excuse to get out of anything ever again.” Riding high on the felicity of their last-minute upset, Peter spun on his heels and pumped his fist high in the air. “In your face, Mr. Stark!”

A sharp gasp escaped him when he found Iron Man standing right behind him, towering over his tragically unimpressive stature. He sobered up in an instant, staggering back a step, struggling to read Tony’s current disposition with the helmet still covering his face. Peter swallowed uneasily.

“I…um…” the young hero stuttered. He stiffened when Stark extended an arm towards him, then slowly relaxed when he felt his hand brush the top of his head, patting him affectionately.

“I’ve never seen someone so damn motivated to prove me wrong,” Tony chuckled, doing his best to ruffle his hair through his mask. “Great job, kid. That was crazy impressive. You’re always finding new ways to surprise me.”

Peter hunched his shoulders with a hesitant smile. “Being punched and blasted and bullied and chased by two indestructible tin men is a pretty compelling motivator,” he mumbled sorely.

Stark gave his forehead a gentle shove and dropped his hand to the side. “We didn’t hurt you too bad, did we?”

Peter spared a glance at Johnny’s beat-up face and stretched his spine with a grimace. “We’ve been through worse,” he decided languidly. He kneaded a finger into his left temple. “That awful sound-blast thing you kept hitting me with was super mean, though. My head won’t stop pounding.”

“Sorry. I guess there is such a thing as driving a point a little too far home.” The Iron Man helmet retracted back into his armor, revealing his mentor’s apologetic smile and the gnarly black eye marring the right side of his face. “If it’s any consolation, you got me back for it pretty good.”

Peter’s jaw dropped at the hinges. “Holy shit, Mr. Stark!” he cried, gripping the sides of his head. “Your eye! Did I do that?” His punch had left a dent in a small part of Tony’s face plate, but he hadn’t expected the resulting wound to be this dramatic.

“I had it coming,” he assured him with a wave of his hand. “If anything, I’m proud of you for counter striking with the same militance I was dishing out. You were holding back and staying mostly on the defensive until I went after your little flaming friend.”

Peter’s ears went hot as Tony turned to Johnny with a lighthearted smile. “Sorry about that, by the way. You gonna be all right?”

Still slightly teary-eyed, Johnny rubbed at the welt on his cheek, pouting his bloody lower lip. “Not without several ice packs and two sleeves of Thin Mints followed by a boiling hot bubble bath packed to the brim with lavender epsom salts,” he said feebly.

Tony snickered. “That can be arranged.” He looked to Peter again, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get both of you patched up and properly compensated for your victory, yeah?”

Rhodes dropped to the ground on Stark’s left, retracting his helmet and rolling his neck with a groan. “Tell me again how you convinced me to partake in this stupid team-building game of yours?”

Tony clapped his grumpy friend hard on the back. “Let’s get you patched up too, butterfingers. Thanks for making us look bad in front of everyone, by the way. You practically handed the civilian over to these brats on a silver platter.”

Rhodey scoffed, shrugging him off. “Gimme a break,” he grumbled. “I had no stake in this. You’re the one who wanted to take them on ourselves. My vote was for the drones to do the beating and lesson-teaching, not us.” He nodded towards Johnny. “On that note, I’ll take a triple order of what the hot-tempered kid requested. Three times the bubbles and thrice the number of Thin Mints. Throw in a prime New York strip from Royal 35 while you’re at it.” He rapped his knuckles against Tony’s skull. “Chop chop, money bags.”

Tony sighed. “So that’s two extravagant bubble baths, around ten thousand Thin Mints, and a grand steak dinner for Mr. Debby Downer over here.” Stark raised an eyebrow at Peter. “Anything you’d like to tack onto that list, kid? I’m buying.”

“Does this mean you’re gonna stop badgering me about being safe all the time?” Peter asked eagerly. “That’s what you said, right?”

Stark broke into a laugh, patting the teen’s head some more as he blinked bewilderedly. “Yeah—like hell I’m doing that. Did you learn nothing from this exercise, kiddo? Are you nuts?”

Peter’s wide grin twisted into a scowl. “But that was the deal! You told me if I beat you, you’d quit constantly hounding me about protecting myself! You can’t back out on it now just because you lost!”

“You may have won the game,” Stark clarified, twirling his finger through the air, “but you didn’t beat me. It takes more than a punch to the eye to knock me down for the count. If you were to face me in a real fight, weapons hot this time, I’d have you lying in a bloody, unconscious puddle in seconds.” He placed his hand on his hip, a cruel smirk on his lips. “If you ever want me to truly stop worrying about you, you’d have to defeat me along with every other hero in this building. Then, and only then, would the safety hounding officially cease.”

Spider-Man wilted. “Oh, great. AKA, never.” He crossed his arms with a crabby huff. “I don’t think any of the Avengers could accomplish that! Not even you! That’s so unfair!”

Tony’s smile softened. His hand crept forward, hidden from Peter’s view, and delivered a killer pinch to his ribs. Spidey leapt from his touch with a squeal, hugging his arms around his torso, cursing the childish laughter the surprise attack elicited.

“Which is why I worry about the safety of everyone here,” he explained to the giggly teen. “All day, every day. That’s my job, kid. Get used to it.”

While Peter rubbed his rib cage, grouchy and pouty and pink with embarrassment, the billionaire corralled the boys towards the elevator, glancing back at those still standing in the viewing room. “Lang, Grimm, you two are up next. You’ll face off against Dr. Banner and Wilson. Go ahead and get started. I’ll be back in just a bit.”

Susan and Reed hurried into the arena after them. “We’re coming, too,” Dr. Storm insisted, following the group into the elevator. “I’ll help my brother with his wounds.” Despite Johnny’s protests, she stepped between the two teens and held a careful hand to her younger sibling’s face, a line crinkling between her eyes.

“That was an incredible comeback, you two,” Mr. Fantastic beamed, eyes a little too bright and smile a little too keen for Peter’s liking. “You guys had some seriously impressive chemistry going on out there. You know—as far as creative strategizing and teamwork goes.” The scientist grinned at the Human Torch. “Wouldn’t you agree, Johnny?”

Johnny’s face went scarlet beneath his sister’s gentle fingers, panic flashing in his eyes as they flicked over to Peter. Even though Dr. Richards’ was clearly onto them, a fact that injected Spider-Man’s entire skeleton with dread, he had to bite back a snort when he saw the look on Johnny’s face. His feelings manifested themselves so flagrantly across his expressions, Peter had to wonder how it took him so long to realize the celebrity liked him back.

“Hey Spidey,” Johnny said with an awkward laugh, brushing off Reed’s question. “You, um—you know what that fight reminded me of? That battle you had a while back where you met that superhero girl you like so much! You know—the one that you have a giant crush on?”

Now it was Peter’s turn to blush. He appreciated that Johnny was trying his best to keep their relationship a secret, despite how difficult it evidently was for him. But poor, sweet Torchy had a habit of being a little too aggressive and on-the-nose with his lies. Peter was hoping for them to stay discreet, under the radar, not push this fib about some fake girl he liked to even more of their teammates. All eyes of the group swerved to him in surprise, tinged with curiosity, making the masked hero swallow.

“Er…yeah! Sure. I guess so…” He shifted his weight between his feet, longing for a change in subject.

Reed glanced between the two teens skeptically. Tony smiled at Peter and narrowed his eyes.

“Oh yeah. That reminds me. While I’m fixing you up, I can finally interrogate you about this mystery crush of yours, since you won’t stop being so cryptic about it.” He patted Peter on the head again and nodded at the Human Torch. “Thanks, Mr. Storm.”

Peter grimaced beneath the metal hand violently smothering his scalp. “Yeah, thanks, Johnny,” he murmured sardonically. He ducked out of his mentor’s reach, rubbing at his head with a scowl. At least Tony hadn’t caught on to who Peter’s real crush was just yet. Reed was the one they clearly needed to watch out for.

Peter avoided Stark and Richards’ gazes all the way down to the 66th floor, sweat gathering behind his knees as his brain scrambled to slap together some kind of backstory that would convince them that this made-up superhero girl was real, and that she was the person he had developed undeniable feelings for; definitely not the strawberry-blonde celebrity with eyes like sapphires and skin like silk who’d just fought by his side to conquer unbeatable odds currently standing three feet to his right.

_______________________________

“So you don’t know her name, don’t know what her powers are or where she’s from, have only met her twice, yet you’re 100% certain this is the person you want to pursue?”

Peter sat stiffly on the medical cot as Stark swabbed the gashes on his knuckles with medicated wipes, heart hammering and throat burning from all the lies he’d been word-vomiting onto his mentor for the past ten minutes. Johnny lounged on the bed to his left, listening in on their conversation as Sue tended to his face.

“Yep. That’s correct,” Peter laughed anxiously.

“You’re either a pathetic weirdo or a hopeless romantic,” Tony chuckled. “For the girl’s sake, I hope it’s the latter.”

“Me too,” Peter mumbled, wincing a bit when Stark mopped a particularly tender spot on his hand. The towel Tony held was streaked in bloody splotches, which granted Peter the potential escape from this topic he’d been looking for. “Your plan worked, by the way,” he added quickly, flexing his sore fingers.

“My plan?” Tony inquired. He tossed the bloody wipes into the trash.

“Pummeling and crippling me into realizing that maybe I shouldn’t have stripped my suit of all the helpful features you put into it.” No better diversion than telling someone they were right about something neither side was eager to concede. Peter drooped a little, rubbing gingerly at his throbbing temple. “I never understood how easy it is to incapacitate me until now.”

“I still don’t get why you felt the need to take any of them out in the first place,” Stark groused, wrapping gauze around his knuckles. “Everyone on this team uses advanced tech to compensate for their deficiencies and expand their skill sets. Why shouldn’t you do the same?” Releasing his bandaged hands, Stark raised his gaze to Peter’s and gave his upper arm a light squeeze. “When we first met, you loved the suit I gave you and all the bells and whistles that came with it—to an almost unhealthy and obsessive degree. Now you want to go back to an arsenal of nothing but flimsy lycra and web-shooters standing between you and certain death? I gotta know what changed.”

Peter folded his hands in his lap, scratching at the gauze on his knuckles. “I meant what I said before,” he said sullenly. “As helpful as the tech is, it does add a significant amount of weight to my suit. Being as fast and nimble as I am has in many cases been the only reason somebody has made it out alive. Sometimes the difference between life and death depends on whether I can reach a person a millisecond faster than a bullet or a train or an enemy can. Anything that slows me down, even marginally, could mean I don’t rescue them in time.” Peter’s gaze slid from Stark to the Human Torch. “Like when that psychopath in the van almost shot Johnny.”

Johnny straightened his spine in surprise. “You mean when I nearly got my head blown off by that guy with the handgun, but you knocked me out of the way?” Sue wrinkled her nose at that image as she held an ice pack against her brother’s swollen cheek. Peter nodded.

“Exactly. If I had hit you even an instant later, you’d be dead right now. I can’t risk other people’s lives like that just ‘cuz I want some fancy gadgets added to my suit. It’s not worth it.”

Reed and Sue studied Peter out of the corners of their eyes for a moment before returning their attention to Johnny’s wounds. Tony mulled over the young hero’s words for a moment, then heaved a weary breath.

“I get where you’re coming from,” the Avenger assured him, patting the teen’s knee. “And I can do what I can to make sure the hardware we install is as light as physically possible for yah. But you have to understand that these features are designed to keep you alive, and keeping yourself alive is an equally important endeavor to keeping others alive when you’re a superhero. You need to prioritize your own life and wellbeing as much as you do everyone else’s. You know you can’t save anyone if you’re dead, right?”

Peter’s expression hardened. He balled his hands together in his lap. “I know, but—”

Stark smacked his palm against the mattress. “No!” he cut in, making Peter flinch. “No ‘buts.’ Not for this! That’s the end of it. You’re not gonna make me watch you die again, kid. I won’t let you.”

Stunned, Peter raised his eyes to Tony’s, a shudder darting through him at the pain sketched across his mentor’s face. Shock and shame pooled in the pit of the vigilante’s stomach. He’d almost forgotten what Mr. Stark had gone through thanks to Thanos and the Blip. The five years he’d been left alone, guilt-ridden and suffering, thinking Peter and Strange and so many others were gone for good thanks to his failure. What had only felt like seconds to Peter had been half a decade of despair and mourning for 50% of the world’s population, including his idol. He didn’t have to pretend to know what losing him might feel like: he’d already lived through it before, and was clearly resolved to never do so again.

“You’re talking about the Blip, aren’t you?” Reed interjected despondently. Peter and Tony turned to him as he sunk into the chair by Johnny’s bedside, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Those five years…that was the lowest point I’ve ever hit in my life. My entire world vanished in an instant. Susan, Ben, Johnny. I was the only one left alive.”

Peter’s heart skipped in disbelief. He hadn’t known that about Dr. Richards. There were too many people across too many communities who had been in his position: families and support systems and friends and lovers torn apart by Thanos’ snap, with those who survived left utterly alone for five long years.

“Reed,” Sue breathed hollowly. She reached out and took her boyfriend’s hand in her own, grasping it tight. Dr. Richards planted a kiss on top of her knuckles and offered her a frail smile, running his thumb up and down her wrist.

“I know how it feels to be powerless to protect the ones you care about,” Reed said softly. “How you’d do anything for a second chance. The people on this team mean everything to me. I lost them once, then nearly lost them all over again because of my own arrogance and complacency.” He met Stark’s gaze with cold certainty in his eyes. “That’s why we’re here. So we can learn how to use our powers to protect ourselves and others from enduring that loss again. So we can be as strong and fortified as possible to face any threat that comes our way.”

Tony nodded solemnly, then turned back to the wilted teen on the hospital bed in front of him, whose face was downcast. He laid a hand on the boy’s slumped shoulder with a fond ache in his chest. “I care a lot about you, kiddo. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah,” Peter said after a small pause, keeping his gaze on the floor.

“And It’s okay to let the people who care about you help you stay alive.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“Nobody will think less of you for using the resources available to you to protect yourself. You’re allowed to sacrifice a smidge of your super speed for the sake of self-preservation. If not for yourself, then do it for me, and everyone else who loves you.”

Peter winced, blindsided and cut to the heart by Stark’s unusually vulnerable words. “I…I know,” he said again, voice skeletal. Now it clicked what Johnny had meant when he said it wasn’t just himself he was hurting when he placed everyone else’s safety above his own. May, Mr. Stark, Ned, the Human Torch: it was hurting them, too. His pain was their pain whether he liked it or not. That was the burden that came with caring for someone like him, and they’d each willingly chosen to bear it despite all of Peter’s warnings and objections. Their commitment to him minced Peter up inside with guilt like no other while also setting his soul aglow with dizzying, endless gratitude. He couldn’t do this without them. He probably would’ve died a long time ago if he’d tried. Stewing in a nauseous cocktail of emotion, Peter fiddled with the bandages on his hands as Tony rubbed his shoulder with gentle, comforting motions.

“Look at me, kid.”

Timidly, Peter did. The Avenger held his gaze with a grim line between his eyes.

“Think about it for a sec. What if you’re paralyzed by sensory overload because you don’t have the input dampers installed while trying to rescue a hostage? Or too injured to save someone because your suit was designed to be light rather than to protect your body from harm? What if you can’t pull someone who’s drowning from the water because you’re too cold to swim both of you to safety? Denying yourself protection doesn’t always equate to protecting someone else, kid. In fact, it could be the very thing that sends you both to an early grave. Every sacrifice you choose to make has its own risks, benefits, losses, rewards. But no matter what, you have to take care of yourself first if you want to be strong enough to help others.” He poked Peter in the center of his chest. “Isn’t that, like, the very first thing they teach you when you fly on an airplane?”

Peter blinked at him, still marinating in the ocean of words and wisdom his mentor had bestowed him with. “I’ve never been on an airplane,” he answered shyly. “Except that one time with Happy when he flew me on your private jet.”

Tony frowned. “Oh. Right.” He paused. “You should really get out of the city more often.” He paused again, leaning back in his chair with a huff. “Regardless, the logic still stands.” Another pause later, he crossed his arms against his chest. “Is any of this getting through to you, kid?”

The masked hero nodded, really wishing Dr. Storm and Dr. Richards weren’t around to hear him be lectured like this. “Yes,” he yielded remorsefully. “It is. We can add back whichever features you think are most vital to keeping me alive.” He lifted his eyes to Stark’s pained and heavy expression. “I’m…sorry for stressing you out so much by not prioritizing my safety enough. I forgot…” he began, but decided it didn’t have to be said again. “I…I’ll do better.”

Tony’s lip twitched into a sad smile. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate it.”

Johnny let out a dramatic groan. “Sweet Jesus of Nazareth. Finally.” He gestured to Peter with a languid flick of his wrist. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to get this numbskull to understand all goddamn day! Thank Christ Mr. Stark was finally able to knock some sense through that dense head of yours.”

Peter glared at the hot-headed celebrity. “Eat glass, you wet match.”

“Make me, Itsy-Bitsy.”

Tony chuckled. “You two have the strangest relationship,” he said, making blood rush to both teen’s faces. It seemed the harder they tried to downplay their feelings for each other, the more apparent they became.

“Don’t let him make you feel too bad,” Rhodes cut in, sipping coffee from a mug on the other side of the room. “Tony is overly protective of everyone in his life. If it were up to him, he’d slap every person on this team with a suit of armor of his own making. Hell, he’d wrap the whole world in metal if it were physically possible. His solution to everything is to encase the people he cares about in cold, impenetrable shells, even if that’s not what’s best for anyone involved.” He raised his mug in the air with a tilt of his head and a smirk. “Just because I fell for his trap doesn’t mean you have to.”

Stark scoffed, rising from his seat. “Excuse me, Colonel Douche Canoe. This is Spidey’s reprobation hour, not mine.” He waved him away. “Go take your $300 bubble bath and eat your fancy steak before either gets cold, you lousy ingrate.”

Rhodey grinned and threw Tony a salute as he strolled off towards his room, using a cane to walk now that he was no longer wearing the War Machine armor. Stark slipped a pair of sunglasses onto his face to partially obscure his black eye, then turned back to Peter with his hands in his pockets.

“He’s not wrong, but anyways. Good talk, kid. I gotta head back up to watch the others run through the training.” He patted Peter on the back. “Can I trust you to attend to the rest of your injuries?”

Before Peter could answer, Reed stood from his chair. “I can help him,” he volunteered, joining Tony at Peter’s bedside. “Sue can handle Johnny. I’m happy to dress the remainder of Spider-Man’s wounds.”

Peter looked up at the scientist in surprise as Stark inclined his chin in gratitude. “Thanks, doc. All that’s left are the burns on his arms and the scrape on his face. Oh—and check his back as well. He probably has a bad bruise there that could use some ice.”

“I’ll get right to it,” Richards assured him. Tony gave Peter one last pat to the head, then returned to the elevator, disappearing behind the shiny silver doors. Reed took Stark’s place in the seat in front of him, scanning the masked hero with discerning eyes and an inquisitive smile. Peter squirmed in place a little.

“My, um—my injuries aren’t so bad,” he insisted, trying not to gawk at the scientific legend sitting before him. “I can easily handle them myself.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Reed said warmly. He extended a hand towards him. “May I?”

Reluctantly, Peter laid his arm in Dr. Richards’ palm. Reed turned Peter’s wrist to get a better look at the burn on his forearm, leaning in close and moving slow. He grabbed a pair of scissors off the table to his left to cut away the charred fabric surrounding the wound. As Peter watched him work, all of the millions of questions the nerdy half of his brain wanted to ask him garnered at the back of his throat and dangled on the tip of his tongue. But for a growing number of reasons, Peter kept his mouth shut, opting to sit in uncomfortable silence while the scientist tended to him.

“I really didn’t think you two were gonna win that battle,” Richards admitted without looking up from his arm, mercifully being the one to break the ice. “But that fire clone diversion was a stroke of genius. Having Johnny swap himself with a copy at just the right moment, disguising himself as one of the fireballs being thrown so he could fly right past the enemies completely undetected? I had no clue he even possessed that ability.”

“Me neither!” Johnny chimed in brightly. “Wasn’t that awesome? I’ve never done anything like that before! Spidey was the one who came up with the idea. I thought for sure it wouldn’t work, but I’m so glad I was wrong.”

“And giving Johnny one of your web-shooting devices,” Reed continued, eyes shifting to Peter this time. “That was your idea as well?”

Peter flushed a little behind his mask. “I mean…I figured since we couldn’t beat them with strength, our only chance at winning was being unpredictable and doing things nobody would expect.”

Reed nodded, eyes sparkling with interest. “That’s how the world’s most brilliant minds operate. Thinking outside the box, trying stuff nobody ever considered possible or rational before. It’s no wonder Stark took you under his wing, or that he cares so deeply for you. You’ve got a remarkable head on your shoulders.”

Peter’s geeky little heart threatened to rupture right through his rib cage. Had he heard that correctly? The Dr. Reed Richards thought he was brilliant? First the public showing signs of finally beginning to like him, then getting kissed by his biggest crush in the entire world, and now this? He could drop dead right now and be perfectly content with his life. His usual Parker luck must have jumped ship to some other hapless soul for the day. History had proven it��d be back soon enough, but he was gonna enjoy every minute of this win streak for as long as the universe permitted.

“Thank you, Dr. Richards,” Peter said bashfully. “That really means a lot, coming from you.”

Reed finished cleaning the burn on his right arm and switched to his left, carefully swabbing at the angry red skin. “What’s even more impressive,” he went on, “is that you’re as smart as you are now at your age.”

Peter raised his eyes to Reed’s in one quick motion, caught off guard. “My…age?” he said bemusedly.

The scientist nodded, gaze trained on Peter’s forearm. “Your mind today hasn’t even reached its full potential yet; it’s still got decades of development and expansion ahead. Which means you could very well surpass my intellect by the time you've reached adulthood.”

Sweat broke out across Peter’s forehead. Did he find out I’m a teenager somehow? Maybe Sue had told him what she’d overheard him say yesterday in the lab—about him being on his high school’s decathlon team. He wet his lips and played dumb. “I’m…not sure I understand,” he said skittishly.

“Johnny told us you’re the same age as he is,” Richards stated bluntly, transforming Peter’s blood to liquid concrete. “Sixteen years old.” The scientist met his gaze with an unreadable expression. “Is that true?”

Peter opened and closed his mouth like a half-dead fish, his arm going rigid in Dr. Richards’ grip. The leader of the Fantastic Four continued mending his burn, waiting patiently for his response.

“Reed!” Johnny exclaimed, fire roaring down his arms. Sue flinched back in surprise. “What the hell, man? Don’t ask him that! I didn’t even mean to tell you!” His flames receded a little as he miserably turned towards Peter. “I’m sorry. I said it by accident. Only he and Susan know.”

Peter was too stunned to acknowledge him as he sat on the medical cot, frozen stiff. Susan lanced him with an impatient scowl. “Did you lie to my brother about that? Or are you actually sixteen?”

The pair of scientists pinned him with their stares, waiting. They had him trapped, he realized. If he said he wasn’t, and that he’d lied to Johnny, they’d never let the two of them see each other again. What sane guardians would? Not only would that make Spider-Man a liar; he’d be a creepy old weirdo deceiving a 16-year-old into hanging out with him by claiming they were the same age. Now he realized just how threatening his relationship with Johnny probably appeared to them. For all they knew, he was a full-grown man running around in a mask who had befriended their underaged teammate through lies. They had every right to be wary of him.

“I…” he stammered, knowing it was pointless. There was no quipping his way out of this one. He pinched his eyes closed and gripped his arms behind the elbows, guts tangling with dread and uncertainty. He had no choice but to say…

“Yes.”

The word left his lips more like a squeak than a statement. He felt utterly naked despite his suit and his mask.

“It’s true.”

Both adults’ eyes went wide. Johnny clapped a hand over his face with a whimper. Grimacing, Peter tucked his limbs in close to his body.

“I don’t, um…I haven’t told many people, though. Only Johnny and Mr. Stark. As far as I know, the rest of my teammates think I’m in my twenties.”

Sue and Reed exchanged a startled look. A whole silent conversation seemed to pass between their locked gazes. When Richards turned back to him, something had softened in his eyes.

“If that’s true, why do you choose to keep it from them?”

Peter shrugged, body humming with anxiety the way it always did when people discovered things about him they weren’t supposed to know. “I don’t want people treating me differently just ‘cuz I’m younger than they expected,” he explained quietly. “I don’t want to be pitied or looked down upon any more than I already am. I’m an Avenger with powers that make me strong enough to fight for what’s right, the same as the rest of them. My age doesn’t change that.”

Susan shook her head slowly back and forth, features twisted in disbelief, hands falling to the mattress and digging into the plush material. “No,” she dissented adamantly. “No, that doesn’t—it wouldn’t make any sense. You’re lying to us.”

“What about it doesn’t make sense?” Johnny scoffed.

“That battle in Germany Stark told us he brought him to was nearly two years ago,” she retorted, a single vein throbbing in her neck. “Do you seriously expect us to believe Tony willingly brought a 14-year-old halfway across the world to fight on his behalf?”

Peter clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Well…he did tell me he was unusually desperate at the time. And he has said he regrets getting me involved in all that.” He unfolded his legs and dangled them off the edge of the bed. “But I’m glad he brought me along. Despite how much he pesters me about being safe all the time, Mr. Stark has always believed in me as a hero. He’s never made me feel like I couldn’t take on big challenges or accomplish great things because of my age.”

“And who are you to talk?” Johnny shot back at his sister. “You brought me to space even though I’m a teenager. How is that any different?”

“Reed and I never would’ve let you come along if we’d known the cosmic event was going to be that powerful or dangerous,” she insisted. “No right-minded adult would. Even now, we only take you on missions that we’re confident we’re capable of overcoming together. I’m in a position to make those calls because I’m responsible for you. I’m your guardian. We’re family.” She scowled at Peter, although her glare had a little less bite to it than before. “But Stark isn’t your family, is he? According to what he told us, the first time he met you was to recruit you to help him in that fight. What kind of reprobate drags someone else’s child to a war zone in a foreign country at that age?”

“Sue…” Richards said nervously, shooting a glance at the elevator. Thankfully, Tony had long departed.

“So no, I don’t buy it. Not unless you can explain to me how Stark justified any part of that to himself or your parents.” She turned towards him fully now, huffing incredulously. “Do they even know you’re Spider-Man? Did Tony even bother to mention to them what he was planning to do with you? Because that’s bordering on kidnapping and reckless endangerment.”

Cables of bewilderment sprang loose in Peter’s chest. He hadn’t expected this conversation to turn from a surprise interrogation about Spider-Man’s age to an investigation into his mentor’s potential crimes. A beat of tense silence passed, promptly interrupted by Johnny sliding off the hospital bed and shouldering past his sister.

“His parents are dead, asshole,” he snapped, walking to stand at Peter’s side. “They’ve been dead for a long time.”

Alarm washed across Susan’s face, quickly followed by Reed’s. Peter averted his gaze, insides squirming. As important as these two were to Johnny, and as badly as he’d like to get to know them more, they were still basically strangers to him. Having his life story randomly dumped at their feet like this didn’t feel right.

“But I was taken in and raised by someone really great,” Peter added rigidly, jabbing his elbow in Johnny’s arm to try to shut him up. “They didn’t know I was Spider-Man when Stark took me to Germany, but they know now. And they’re totally fine with it. Patronizing and naggy at times, but very supportive and loving.”

Sue recalled then what she’d overheard the masked vigilante say while eavesdropping on him and her brother the other day. Something about Spider-Man’s aunt taking over as his guardian after he’d lost his parents. If he was telling the truth then, that must be who he was referring to now.

Dr. Storm and Dr. Richards examined Peter wordlessly for the next few seconds, their fiercely intelligent eyes seeming to pierce through his flesh and probe the very fabric of his soul. Sue handed her brother the ice pack and gestured to her cheek without turning her gaze from the red and blue teen. The Human Torch pressed it to the welt on his face begrudgingly.

“Now will you stop grilling him already?” Johnny berated them. “Spidey told me these things about himself because I’m his friend and I’ve earned his trust. You two haven’t done anything to make him feel safe enough to share his personal life with you. He’s not obligated to tell you shit.”

“It’s okay, Johnny,” Peter insisted, the back of his neck heating just slightly. “It’s not like I’ve done much to earn their trust, either.”

“No, you haven’t,” Sue remarked, making Peter shrivel like a worm in the sun. She snatched her water bottle off the bedside table and took a long, angry swig, pausing a moment before swallowing. “I’m sorry, Spider-Man,” she said firmly, wiping her mouth. “But until I see who you really are behind that mask, I’m taking everything you say with a huge grain of salt. Nothing about you ever adds up. I hate the idea of anyone who feels the need to hide this much of themselves from others hanging around my brother all the time. If you ever want us to trust you, you know what that will take.”

Peter’s heart withered. Her words were nettles on already flayed skin. Johnny rolled his eyes as she marched towards the elevator, tying her hair into a messy bun at the back of her head.

“Let’s go catch the tail end of Ben’s training exercise,” she said to Reed, signaling for him to follow her.

“I’ll be right behind you, my dear.” The acclaimed scientist tore open a strip of butterfly tape. “I need to finish tending to Spider-Man’s wounds.”

Susan narrowed her eyes but chose not to argue with him. “One of us will go after he’s finished, so don’t take too long. And give Johnny’s lip one more once-over for me. It might need stitches.”

Reed nodded and waved while Sue stalked away. At Peter’s side, Johnny went white.

“Stitches?” he cried, his hand flying to his mouth. His sister ignored him, vanishing behind the elevator doors. “I don’t want stitches! Reed—tell her I don’t need stitches!”

“We’ll see if we can manage without them after I’m done with your friend,” Richards assured him with a sympathetic smile. He rolled his chair closer to Peter, gesturing to the cut above his eyebrow. “All right if I bandage that up for yah?”

Peter cleared his throat and nodded his head, still reeling from the last five minutes. “Uh, y-yeah. Sure. Thank you.”

Dr. Richards wiped away the blood surrounding the gash then slipped his fingers through the tear in Peter’s mask, carefully securing the butterfly tape to either side of the wound. Peter sat with his chin tilted downwards, struggling to keep his restless legs from swinging or bouncing. Even though he’d basically given up on ever winning Dr. Storm’s favor, it still hurt to be reminded of how much she distrusted him.

“Reed—you’re a smart guy.” Johnny sat on the side of Peter’s bed, then wrinkled his brow. “Well. Sorta. Sometimes. Smarter than my sister, anyway.” He leaned towards his teammate with his hands folded on top of his knees. “You know Spidey’s not lying about his age, right?”

A light chuckle escaped the scientist. “I’m certainly less dubious of the idea than Susan,” he admitted.

“Tony knows he’s sixteen,” Johnny reminded him, poking Richards repeatedly in the shoulder. “Just ask him if you’re still not convinced!”

Reed smoothed down the edges of the tape with his thumbs, a coy smile lifting his features. “I think I’d rather ask him about this mysterious new crush of yours, Spider-Man. I’ve read my fair share of shocking and scandalous news stories about you, but this is the first I’m hearing of the masked menace of New York developing romantic feelings for someone.”

Peter’s body sizzled like a kettle on the stovetop. He prayed the exposed skin on his face didn’t look as red as it felt. “Oh,” he stuttered, caught off guard to say the least. The teen scratched behind his ear. “Well, er…you already heard everything about it when I was talking to Mr. Stark earlier.”

“You shared how you came to know this girl, but never explained why you actually like her. Perhaps if I knew a little more about the situation, I could help you win her affections.” Reed sipped his coffee spiritedly. “Us nerdy superheroes gotta have each other’s backs, right?”

Under different circumstances, Peter would’ve been thrilled to have one of the greatest minds in the world showing this kind of interest in his life. While the vigilante blanched before the famed scientist, Johnny barked out a laugh.

“Since when did you decide you’re in any way qualified to give romantic advice?” The Human Torch gestured proudly to himself. “If Spidey needs flirting tips, he should get them from a real expert. AKA, the world’s most sought after luminary dreamboat heartthrob, yours truly.”

Reed turned to Johnny with a playful glimmer in his eye. “How are things going with your crush, by the way?” When Johnny opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking ruffled and conflicted and a little pink in the face, Dr. Richards laughed. “Maybe I can help both of you lock down the people you’re pining for. I am, after all, the only person here who’s currently in a relationship, right?”

Neither teen was sure how to respond to that. If Johnny liked Spidey, but Spidey liked a girl, wouldn’t Reed’s desired outcome be impossible? This was all becoming a little too complicated to keep up with. Recovering quickly, Johnny scoffed.

“I wouldn’t count selling your soul and dignity to my slimy bog witch of a sister as a legitimate relationship,” he grumbled.

Reed ignored him, shifting his attention back to Peter. “Tell me what you like so much about this nebulous new superhero.”

A fresh wave of nausea swirled through Peter’s guts at the thought of summoning more lies to spew about this fake crush of his. He glanced at Johnny helplessly, unable to picture a face more breathtaking than the one staring back at him now; any other person so exceedingly capable of kicking all his faculties to the curb. Would it really be so terrible if Dr. Richards knew the truth? Peter felt that the two of them deserved at least one day to process all this without anyone else butting in. He ran a hand over his stomach, queasy with nerves.

“Well…she’s got, uh…really pretty eyes.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Johnny blinked at him, a small muscle feathering in his jaw. Reed brightened.

“Oh yeah? What color are they?”

Peter bit his lip. How specific did he dare to be? Warmth radiated off his neck as he dug his thumb into a bruise on his knee, the soft bloom of pain helping anchor his mind.

“They’re this really striking blue color,” he replied, a timid smile finding his lips as heat bled into his ears. “It’s like staring at a super detailed painting of the ocean just after a storm breaks, with all these sprawling lines of gray and green criss-crossing over top of one another. Like seagrass and sea foam branching through the water while beams of sunlight reflect across the surface.”

Swallowing, Peter’s gaze drifted meekly in the Human Torch’s direction. A spark of recognition touched those very same eyes he’d been describing, followed by a flush of color dusting across the celebrity’s cheeks. Johnny sucked his lips to his teeth, battling not to react, then whirled away from Peter sharply, concealing his bashful grin behind a coughing fit, the blush in his face creeping down his neck and into his freckled ears.

“Wow,” Reed mused as Johnny hacked into his fist. “That’s an incredibly vivid description for someone you’ve only met twice. She must be very special.”

Despite his best efforts, a shy giggle slipped through Peter’s defenses. “She is,” he agreed eagerly. “She’s the kind of person you don’t need to know long to fall head over heels for. I doubt I could forget those eyes even if I wanted to. She leaves a lasting impression on everyone she meets.”

Reed patted Johnny on the back as he aggressively cleared his throat. “What about your crush, Johnny? What do you like about them?”

Flustered and florid, Johnny combed his fingers through his hair and puffed out his cheeks, fighting to compose himself. “Eh…you know what? I’m over that loser. I’d rather talk about this girl Spidey’s so darn obsessed with some more.” He turned back to Peter with a mischievous grin splashed across his rosy face—the kind that flooded the vigilante’s tummy with butterflies of anticipation. “Hey, lovebug. Have you mentioned yet that you and this girl have kissed already?”

Peter slowly furrowed his brow, watching Richards’ mouth fall open in his peripheral vision. What the hell was Johnny playing at? If they were going to keep this fake heterosexual love interest of Spidey’s going for the sake of hiding their not-so-hetero relationship, they seriously needed to get their stories about her straight. “Um…no?” he stammered warily. “I can’t…say I have…?”

“You most certainly did not,” Reed exclaimed, glancing at Johnny with a slightly worried, semi-pensive expression. “That’s a pretty key detail to leave out. And here I was thinking this was just another one-sided tragedy of a hopeless young man yearning after some clueless girl.”

“Nope,” Johnny said matter-of-factly. “She’s just as into Spidey as he’s into her. She told me about it herself.” He bumped his shoulder against Peter’s and clasped the ice pack to his chest theatrically. “She couldn’t stop raving about how great of a kisser he was—with his perfectly soft lips, his timid but eager approach, the way he left her begging for more and longing for the next time she’d be lucky enough to kiss him again. This little spider is way slicker than he’s letting on.”

Peter’s stomach did a somersault while his skin flashed with heat. Now he understood what that sly bastard was up to. If Peter was going to use this made-up girl to sprinkle Johnny with incognito compliments, Johnny was going to do everything in his power to one-up him. He couldn’t help himself, could he? He had to be the one to get the last word in so Peter was the person left most flustered by the end of every exchange, not him.

Dr. Richards was looking more confused by the second. “That’s…quite graphic,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with this girl.”

“She did mention she wished he’d loosen up a bit more,” Johnny forged ahead mercilessly. “He was a tad stiff and static. Which is totally normal the first few times people kiss, but still. Maybe he should do something different with his hands, like running them through her hair or cradling the back of her neck instead of just dangling them at his sides. It wouldn’t hurt to soften his jaw a little, either. Oh, and she’d really like it if he pulled away less hastily, and also used more tongue.”

Boiling from the inside-out, Peter clamped a panicked hand over Johnny’s mouth as the celebrity giggled maniacally. “Oh wow, w-would you look at the time! I think Johnny is late for his bubble bath! And you for your training exercise, Dr. Richards! Thank you both for the delightfully heartfelt and uncomfortably specific dating advice. Truly. Honestly. Means a lot.”

Reed’s eyes slid between the two boys with an air of curiosity, suspicion, and something else Peter couldn’t quite pinpoint, but didn’t like one bit. “Maybe this isn’t something I want to involve myself with after all,” he decided with a snort, returning the roll of butterfly tape to the medical kit.

“Ow, ow!” Johnny yelped, voice muffled behind Peter’s palm. He tugged at the hand covering his mouth with a grimace. “Spidey! My lip!”

Peter immediately released his face. “Oh shit! Sorry!” Guilt stung him as Johnny ran his tongue over the bright red gash, his features scrunched in pain. “Are you sure you don’t need stitches?”

“Don’t remind him!” Johnny exclaimed frantically. “It’ll be fine as long as you don’t yank at it with your sticky palms!”

“You’re lucky that Spider-Man is correct: I really need to head out soon. I don’t wish to invoke the wrath of my beloved.” The scientist rose from his chair and walked to stand behind Peter, smiling cordially at the pleading eyes of his teammate. “I won’t force you to get stitches when they’re not 100% necessary. They would certainly help speed up the healing process, but it’s your decision.”

Johnny squished the half-melted ice pack against his cheek with his chin held high in defiance. “Hell fucking no. That’s my decision.”

Reed bowed his head in acknowledgment, then placed his hands on top of Peter’s shoulders. “I assume your back is fine based on your upbeat demeanor and mobility, but let me check just to be sure before I leave.”

While Richards pressed and squeezed around his spine, Peter scanned Johnny’s face for a few seconds, piqued with new intrigue. “Why are you so against getting stitches?” he asked. When the teen reddened without responding, Reed hummed thoughtfully.

“Johnny is afraid of needles,” he explained, kneading the heel of his hand into the small of Peter’s back. “He has been since he was little, but it only got worse after all the bloodwork and injections we had done following the incident in space.”

“I am not afraid of them!” Johnny shot back, smoke roiling off his head. “I’d just prefer not to deal with them when presented with the option! That’s totally normal! Who chooses to get stabbed in the face when you don’t have to be?”

“Don’t you have a nose piercing?” Peter reminded him. Richards stifled a snicker.

“Oh dear. Now there’s a story. Shall I regale the details of that day to your friend, or would you like to?”

Johnny bristled. “There are no details to regale. All my friends were getting piercings, so I decided to get one, too. Sue thought it would be good for me. You know—exposure therapy or whatever. I was completely fine until I saw how big the needle was!”

“If by ‘completely fine’ you mean sobbing your eyes out and fainting in the parking lot, then yes, I’d have to agree.”

Peter gawked at him. “You fainted?” he said, failing to suppress a giggle. “Oh my god. You really are scared of them, huh?”

“I have a normal amount of dislike towards them!” Johnny insisted defensively. “Quit making such a big deal out of it! It’s not that serious!”

A serpentine smile coiled along Peter’s lips. “Looks like we both know each other’s weaknesses now,” he dared to tease the prickly celebrity. Johnny scoffed, tossing the ice pack aside, which was now completely melted.

“Not liking needles is more of an inconvenience than a weakness,” he rebuked him, a grin splitting across his face. “Yours, on the other hand, is not only debilitating, but embarrassing as all hell.”

“What’s Spider-Man’s weakness?” Reed asked nonchalantly, doing one last integrity test on his neck and clavicles. Peter sighed.

“My heightened senses can get overwhelmed by too much input. Enemies can incapacitate me with loud, sustained sounds or flash bangs, like the ones Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes used against me today.” He hunched his shoulders and cut a glare in Johnny’s direction. “But what I assume Johnny is referring to is despite my arachnid-themed name and getup, I don’t actually like spiders very much. Which I would also argue is more of an inconvenience than a weakness.”

Johnny’s magnetic eyes glinted with wicked delight. “Nope. Not quite. Your fear of spiders is also hilarious and embarrassing, but there’s a third weakness you’re forgetting.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “Uh…hypothermia? Assault rifles? Those Sarah Mclachlan ASPCA commercials?”

Johnny slid off Peter’s medical cot and placed his hands on his hips, the evil smirk never leaving his lips. “Hey, Reed—why don’t you check Spidey’s rib cage, make sure nothing’s broken? I could’ve sworn I heard one of his ribs crack during our battle today.”

Richards glanced down at Peter’s torso with a concerned wrinkle knitting between his eyes. “Really? Let me take a look.” He rounded the bed so he was standing in front of the young hero, raising his hands to either side of his rib cage.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” Peter said dubiously. He wasn’t sure what point Johnny was trying to make until Reed’s fingers pressed into his ribs, kneading experimentally at each rung of bone to feel for any abnormalities. Peter stiffened beneath his touch, breath catching in his throat, a warm flush rising to the surface of his skin as the scientist’s hands slowly ascended his rib cage. He clamped down on the explosive giggles suddenly rallying behind his lips, amassing in his belly, begging to break loose. His arm muscles twitched with the unbearable need to slam down to his sides as Reed’s fingers dug into the sensitive flesh of him with mathematical precision.

“Nothing feels cracked or fractured,” Richards observed, oblivious to the torture he was currently putting the masked hero through.

“Try up higher,” Johnny suggested innocuously. “That’s where I remember hearing the crack.”

Before Reed’s hands even had a chance to move, Peter already knew he was done for. A tiny whimper escaped him as his spider sense tingled in warning, followed by a high-pitched squeal the moment Reed’s fingers made contact with his uppermost ribs. He recoiled violently from his touch, cinching his arms around himself, face ablaze behind his mask. The esteemed scientist withdrew his hands, blinking in surprise.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Are you all right?”

Peter rubbed his rib cage sheepishly, singed with color, forcing the giggles back down his throat. “F-fine,” he squeaked out. “See? Not injured.” Reed narrowed his eyes at him, not looking the least bit convinced.

“Told yah,” Johnny jeered, tutting in disappointment. “Typical Webhead. Always trying to tough it out and hide his pain from everybody around him. When are you gonna learn that it's okay to let others help you?”

That gorgeous little bitch, Peter thought, febrile with embarrassment. Perhaps letting Johnny get to know him so well had been a mistake after all. Now the treacherous celebrity knew exactly how to push all his buttons, and clearly had no reservations about wielding that power against him. “I’m not injured!” Peter insisted, hugging his sides protectively. “You know I’m not! You’re just lying to be annoying!”

“Something must be hurting you to make you flinch that aggressively,” Reed pointed out, nudging at the vigilante’s rigid arms. “Please allow me to take another look. Broken ribs can have serious consequences if not treated properly.”

Peter retreated back from the renowned genius, blushing tremendously. “Dr. Richards, I swear I’m fine. I wouldn’t lie about something like this. I promise.”

“If that’s the case, you shouldn’t have any issues with me confirming that fact.” He raised his hands towards Spider-Man’s midsection again, but the masked hero kept his arms glued firmly to his sides, blocking him from touching his ribs. He felt ridiculous for acting so childish, but he couldn’t handle another second of those meticulous fingers poking and prodding his torso, or the thought of giving Johnny the satisfaction of out-flustering him—again—by exposing one of his least heroic attributes to someone Peter so deeply admired. Reed Richards huffed impatiently.

“Stark entrusted me with tending to all of your wounds. I can’t leave here in good conscience until I’m certain you’re not injured.”

“And I’m telling you I’m not!” Peter argued helplessly. “I’m all fixed now! There’s nothing left for you to tend to!”

Johnny chuckled like a fiend, relishing every second of Spider-Man’s pathetic floundering, crossing his arms against his chest. “I don’t think he’s giving you a choice, Reed. You’re gonna have to give him the ol’ wrap and trap.”

Peter wrinkled his brow. “The what?” he said warily. “What are you talking about?”

Reed waved at Johnny dismissively. “There’s no need to resort to such pugnacious tactics. If Spider-Man swears he isn’t hiding an injury, I’ll take his word for it.”

Peter deflated in relief. “Thank you, Dr. Richards.” Finally. At least one founder of the Fantastic Four trusted him to some degree. Crisis averted. Peter: 1, Johnny: 0.

The scientist held his palm out to him. “Just hand me my coffee cup, and I’ll be on my way.”

Spider-Man looked over his shoulder at the table beside him and lifted the mug from where it sat. “Oh, yeah. Sure thing.” He placed the cup in Reed’s hand, who offered him a friendly smile.

“Thank you, Spider-Man.” His palm slid beneath the mug, then shot forward suddenly, his arm elongating faster than Peter could blink and coiling around the vigilante’s wrist. “Also, my sincerest apologies.”

“What the—?” Peter choked, reeling back, straining against his grasp. Mr. Fantastic’s stretchy limb wound up his arm like a lightning-quick python, buckling his elbow so that his forearm was pinned to his bicep. The scientist’s other arm snaked under and over the hospital bed thrice in a row, tethering Peter’s legs to the cot. “Wait! What are you doing? Dr. Richards…!”

“I’m terribly sorry for deceiving you,” Reed said earnestly. Both his arms worked in tandem to restrain the squirmy hero, weaving and constricting around his limbs until the vigilante’s arms were twisted behind his back and pinned between his shoulder blades at awkward angles. “But your abilities make you very difficult to subdue. I figured the only chance I had at successfully trapping you was to lower your guard and catch you by surprise. I do hope you don’t take it personally.”

The eye lenses on the vigilante’s mask stretched as wide as physically possible. He wrestled against the vice grip Richards had him snared in, all his strength and leverage made null by the masterfully executed pretzel Mr. Fantastic had braided his arms into. He clearly had experience tying up opponents much stronger than him.

“W-why are you doing this?” Peter stammered incredulously, flustered and betrayed. “I said I wasn’t injured!”

“You also yelped like a kicked puppy when I put the slightest pressure on your upper ribs,” Richards reminded him, stepping closer. “I just need to make sure there’s nothing wrong. Don’t worry—this will only take a moment.”

The scientist’s arms wound around the bed one last time, forcing Peter’s back to lay flush against the cot, sealing his fate. Giggly panic claimed him as Reed’s hands reached for his defenseless torso, fingers hovering just above his incredibly vulnerable sides.

“Wahait, wait, wait! I prohomise I’m not hurt! I’m just—I’m r-really—EEHAHAHAGH!”

Ten blunt fingertips drilled into Spider-Man’s rib cage just below his armpits, pinching and tweaking each layer of bone, feeling for any breaks or fractures. But the only thing crumbling beneath Reed’s touch was the teenage hero he had strapped to the hospital bed, who was shrieking and writhing in response to the gentle pressure the scientist was applying to his sides. Not in pain, like he’d been expecting—but with laughter. Puzzled, Mr. Fantastic lifted his hands off the wriggly vigilante, an amused smile tugging at his lip as he realized what was happening.

“It would seem I made a miscalculation,” he determined. “Other than being exceptionally ticklish, your ribs are perfectly healthy. Please forgive me for questioning your dissent on the matter.” He leveled a frown on his beguiling teammate, who looked positively enraptured by Spider-Man’s skittish giggles. “How cruel of you to lie to me for the purpose of embarrassing your friend. That’s not very amicable of you.”

Johnny beamed at him with zero remorse as he skipped across the room to stand at the masked hero’s bedside. “I didn’t lie,” he said shrewdly. “You’re just not doing it right.” He cracked his knuckles and extended his hands, spidering his fingers right above Spider-Man’s narrow frame, making the vigilante flinch sideways with a gasp. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

“Noho!” Spidey cried, wrenching uselessly against Reed’s iron grip, all his dignity down the drain. “Dr. Richards—pleehease! He’s gonna kihill me!”

“Johnny…” Mr. Fantastic said disapprovingly. But his giddy teammate was already scribbling his fingers up both sides of Spider-Man’s rib cage, sending the poor, defenseless hero into complete hysterics. He thrashed and screeched and hiccuped with laughter, the bright sound of it bouncing off the lofted windows of the tower. It was so kiddy and shrill in nature, Richards was more inclined to believe that the giggly little menace could in fact be a teenager, not the full-grown adult his teammates and the world somehow mistook him for.

“STAHAHAP!” he cackled, laughing so hard that his giggles fell silent. Johnny wormed his fingers between each rung of his ribs, needling the most ticklish parts of him with intolerable veracity, short circuiting the helpless vigilante’s brain.

“Not until you admit that this is your greatest weakness!” Johnny teased him like a supervillain, heart bursting with endearment as the webhead fell to pieces beneath his tickle attack. The noises and reactions his wiggly hands were eliciting were straight-up altering the Human Torch’s brain chemistry. Johnny had always been infatuated by Spidey’s laugh since the irresistible sound had first graced his ears, taking root dead center in his once precisely siloed mind. He’d heard Spider-Man break into giggles and laughter of all different varieties in the short time they’d spent together, each kind delightful and infectious in their own special way, which Johnny had made a point to note down and rate from least to greatest. But this one put them all to shame. This was on a whole new level of addicting. His tickle-induced laugh was by far his most adorable, and without a doubt Johnny’s favorite.

He absolutely needed to get a video of this out to the fans. Who on earth could hear him giggle like this and not instantly fall in love?

Before he’d gotten his fill of Spidey’s incandescent laughter or had a chance to whip out his phone, Reed unraveled his noodle-like appendages from Spider-Man’s squirmy limbs, liberating the teen from the inescapable knot he’d tangled him into. Once he realized he was free, Spidey shot upright and seized Johnny by the wrists, shoving his hands away from his rib cage as fast as humanly possible, gulping down oxygen, eye lenses shuttered into thin slits.

“Oho my god,” Spider-Man heaved, doubling over himself, breathless with residual laughter. “I hate you s-so much right now…”

“Aww,” Johnny whined in disappointment. “Why’d you let him go?” He leered at his teammate as Richards’ arms shrunk back to their original length.

“I wasn’t going to just keep him trapped while you subjected him to that torment,” Reed stated plainly, eyeing the vigilante with a benevolent smile. “I will not be an accomplice to your maniacal scheme to tickle your friend to death.”

“You’re no fun,” Johnny pouted. He turned back towards Spider-Man, unable to wipe the goofy grin off his face as he watched the giggly hero fight to catch his breath. “So then, bug boy. Tell me again what our friendly neighborhood Webhead’s weakness is?”

“You’re such a dihick,” Spider-Man wheezed, flopping backwards onto the bed with his arms wrapped around his torso. Johnny would give anything to see how red his face was right now. “Why do you always do this to me after I’ve been beaten half to death? Uhugh…”

Reed finished off the last of his coffee and cast his gaze between the two teens fondly. “Looks like my job is done here,” he said as he moved towards the elevator. “Now that you’re both sufficiently patched up, I recommend fluids, pain killers, and plenty of rest. As for your back, Spider-Man, it didn’t feel heavily bruised or swollen to me, but I imagine it must be pretty sore.”

“Very,” the vigilante groaned, stretching his spine with stiff movements.

“Perhaps a massage would do you some good. I heard Colonel Rhodes mention that your team had a masseuse on-call for training days like this. I’d ask Stark about it.”

Johnny hopped eagerly to the foot of Spider-Man’s bed. “Hey! I can do it! I give great massages.”

Spidey sat up gingerly and swung his feet off the side of the cot. “Yeah, no thanks. I think I’m good.”

“What?” Johnny exclaimed, heartbroken. “Why not?”

“Because I know you and how your sadistic mind works,” he giggled nervously. “You’ll just use it as another ploy to be a conniving little shit. You won’t be able to help yourself. It’s, like, hardwired into your DNA. You’re far too evil to be trusted.”

The masked vigilante slipped off the bed and moved to leave, but Johnny jumped in front of him, grabbing hold of his wrist. “Spidey! Come on! I’m sorry, all right? I promise I’ll be nice. No funny business. I want to help, and Reed said it’d be good for you.” The teen cracked a smile. “Call it my repayment for making you shriek like a little girl.”

“Ah, yes. Bullying me some more while you pretend to apologize. That’ll convince me.”

“Oh my god. I shouldn’t have to be convincing you in the first place! Do you know how much some people would pay for Johnny Storm to service them like this? And not just ‘cuz of who I am, but because I’m really good at it.”

“I’d rather just pop a few Advils and pass out on the couch,” Spider-Man replied with playful indignation. “Advils and the couch don’t have secret agendas to dig their insidious fingers into my ribs.”

“I won’t! I swear!” Johnny’s voice was laced with giggly mischief as he tugged at Spider-Man’s arm. “Just gimme a chance, Webs. One chance? You have no idea what you’re missing out on.”

Reed watched the two heroes bicker back and forth as he waited for the elevator to descend to the 66th floor, a warm and quiet nostalgia taking shape in his chest. They seemed to have forgotten about his presence entirely, too busy squabbling for each other’s trust and attention. There was a tender shyness between them that reminded Richards of when he and Susan first met, back before the space mission or Thanos or even the Fantastic Four were a thing. A transcendent pulse of hope, excitement, and nerves that made all the colors in the world stand out like they never had before—something that time and hardship had so ruthlessly stripped away from them after all they’d been through. So much had changed; so much gained and lost. Reed found it corrosive: reminiscing too long on their bittersweet memories together. He just hoped he and Sue could find their way back to each other one day; back to those two kids brimming with that same untameable spark Johnny and the vigilante now shared.

Whatever Spider-Man and Johnny were to each other, there was an effusive bond between the pair that no amount of lies or masks could ever conceal. But with how happy Johnny was acting at present, Reed couldn’t help but assume they were romantically involved. The superhero girl the vigilante supposedly kissed had certainly thrown his theories for a loop, but she very well could be another fabrication. If the two were dating or together or something in between, it was clear they didn’t want anyone else to know about it. Not right now, anyway.

So he would respect their wishes and not push Johnny on the subject any further. Teenage relationships were hard enough without super powers and secret identities and nosy teammates involved. He was content with staying quiet and protecting their peace, all the while silently rooting for them from the sidelines.

As the elevator doors swept shut in front of him, Dr. Richards wondered how long the boys thought they could keep this flimsy charade going with the others. At this rate, he doubted they’d last a week before one of them slipped up.

_______________________________

“Now will you let me work my unmatched back rubbing magic?”

Peter took another slow sip from the mug in his hands, a heavenly combination of whipped cream, mini marshmallows, and warm chocolate perfection gliding down his throat, touching the very essence of his soul. Damn you, Johnny Storm, he thought bitterly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. If that wasn’t the best fucking cup of cocoa he’d ever had in his life, then his name wasn’t Peter Benjamin Parker.

“See, the fact that you want to so bad proves you plan to do something diabolical. Uh-uh. No way.”

Johnny scooted closer to him on the couch, grinning menacingly. “Oh, I’m chock full of diabolical plans, I can assure you that. But I’m saving those for later.” He raised a hand to Peter’s cheek and turned his face towards him, trailing a finger under his chin. “Right now, I just want to do something nice for you and help ease your pain a little. And also make you admit how amazing I am at it.”

Attraction and affection squiggled and swirled all around Peter’s belly. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to how exhilarating it felt to be looked at like this, looked at by him. A timid smile overtook his features.

“You know, it’s a bit unfair for you to be amazing at literally everything you do.”

Johnny laughed softly. “Not everything,” he conceded, hand sweeping to rest on the nape of Peter’s neck. “No matter how much I ask or beg, never let me convince you I’m capable of cutting your hair. You will end up with some choppy perversion of a bowl cut, and you will hate me for it.”

“Duly noted,” Peter giggled back. Bending to the magnetic pull between them, he pressed his mouth to Johnny’s expecting lips, pure euphoria cascading through his cells, followed by a bolt of uncertainty as he tried to remember all the things Johnny had suggested he try to make kissing him more enjoyable. Fortunately, he didn’t get the chance to clumsily attempt any of them; Johnny reared back only seconds after initiating the kiss, hissing in frustration.

“Ow! My stupid fucking lip!”

Peter winced, cupping a hand over his mouth. “Sorry! I forgot.”

“Goddamn Tony and his damn metal sucker punches,” Johnny whimpered, nibbling feebly at the gash. “How am I supposed to cover you in hickies under these conditions?”

Jitters ricocheted around his tummy as heat tingled across his skin. “Until you’re healed, I guess I’ll have to be the one who covers you in hickies…” Peter mumbled, setting Johnny’s shoulders ablaze in an instant. “I—I mean, if that’s what you want.”

“Good lordy, Webs,” Johnny squeaked, ears glowing pink as he swooned and fanned himself. “I’m gonna light this whole tower on fire if you keep talking to me like that. Maybe your flirting game isn’t as terrible as I thought.”

Peter chuckled and blushed as Johnny interlaced his fingers with his and snuggled in close to him, laying his head on his shoulder. “And yes, I would love that,” he added with a giggle. After a minute of basking in each other’s warmth and presence and closeness, the current of indescribable happiness moving through Peter’s bloodstream suddenly came to a grinding halt.

“Do you think FRIDAY is recording us right now?” he whispered, voice tinged with dread. “Anyone can request access to her footage, and there are cameras on every floor of the tower. What if one of our teammates looks through her logs and sees us…y’know. Acting couple-y?”

Johnny lifted his head with a scowl. “That sounds a bit pervy, don’t yah think? Does that mean she’s filmed Reed and my sister doing it in their bedroom every night, and I could just ask her to show it to me if I was sick enough to want that? Yuck!”

Peter grimaced. “Oh god. I hope not. I seriously doubt Mr. Stark would allow that.”

“Why don’t you just ask her and see?”

Reluctantly, Peter raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Hey, FRIDAY?” he called, feeling a bit silly.

“Yes, Spider-Man?” the A.I. replied, omnipresent as ever.

Peter hunched his shoulders. “Could you, um...not record us when we’re kissing or cuddling or doing any romantic stuff, please? And also maybe not tell anyone that we’re together?”

“I am programmed not to record any explicit or intimate interactions in Avengers Tower,” she assured him. Then, after a pause, added: “Unless I am directly instructed to do so by all involved and consenting parties over the age of 18.”

“Oh my god,” the boys groaned in unison, barring their brains from considering the implications behind her words. “Ew.”

“I’m also required to refrain from recording anything authorized users ask me not to record, as well as delete any files I’m told to delete. Since both of you are authorized users, from now on, all audio and video recording will be shut off or deleted instantly when you do or say anything that could be construed as romantic. Would you like me to delete past files that match that criteria as well?”

“Yes please,” Peter remarked bashfully.

“Done and done,” she answered after a beat, drawing a sigh of relief from the masked hero’s lips. One less outing risk to worry about.

“Thank you, FRIDAY.”

“Of course,” the A.I. replied cheerfully. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Johnny quirked an eyebrow at the dim lights overhead. “You said I’m an authorized user, too. Does that mean I can ask you to send me videos you’ve recorded as well?”

“That is correct. As long as it’s not footage from anyone’s private quarters or other forbidden content, I can send you any audio or video you want.”

A villainous grin sliced across Johnny’s face. “How about the footage of Spidey laughing his ass off when I tickled him earlier today?”

Peter balked, going scarlet. Johnny snickered maliciously.

“Yes, I can send that to you. Let me just—”

“No!” Peter yelped. “Delete that! Delete all footage like that from now until forever!”

“Spidey!” Johnny protested. The A.I. let out a small chuckle.

“I’m afraid requests for erasure override all other requests. My apologies, Mr. Storm. The files have now been deleted.”

“Aw, man,” Johnny lamented, slumping back into the couch cushions. “Why would you do that? That was the cutest video to ever exist!”

“More like most humiliating,” Peter muttered shyly.

“You know what this means, right?” Johnny said with a smirk, wiggling his fingers at him. “Now I’m gonna have to get you like that all over again. And this time, I’ll make sure my phone is recording.”

A startled squeal sprung from his throat before he could stop it. Peter grabbed Johnny’s hands and held them away from himself while the celebrity cackled and beamed, flushed crimson beneath his mask. “Why are you obsessed with embarrassing me all the time?” he giggled miserably.

“Your laugh is the thing I’m actually obsessed with,” Johnny clarified, his watercolor eyes sparkling in awe. “It might be my favorite thing in the entire world.”

Spider-Man reddened even deeper. Only Johnny could affix him with feelings as confounding and conflicting as these. He felt self-conscious and flustered beyond all reason, yet adored and desired more than ever before in his life. How was he supposed to tell Johnny off when he was looking at him like that? The vigilante groaned.

“There are other ways to get me to laugh, you know. Nicer, less mortifying ways.”

“Not like that,” Johnny insisted, teasing yet enamored. “Not as quickly or reliably, either. Unlike me, you’re a naturally funny person. You make me laugh all the time without even trying. Getting you to laugh requires a much more hands-on approach.” He feigned a jab at Spidey’s side, making the adorable hero shrink inwards with a screech. “Especially when I want to hear you laugh like that.”

“You’re plehenty funny!” Peter retorted, shoving him into the opposite corner of the couch. Johnny fell against the cushions with a giggle.

“Not enough to make you laugh as much as my greedy heart demands,” he shot back, rising onto his elbows. “Hearing it is like an instant dopamine hit. It is, without a doubt, your most powerful asset to get fans and haters alike to fall in love with you.”

“You’re just saying that so you can have an excuse to humiliate me some more for the entire world to see.”

Johnny crawled back to his side and nestled into his lap with a saccharine smile, tracing a lazy finger up Peter’s arm and along his collarbone. “Oh yeah? And what if I am?”

Goosebumps prickled across Spider-Man’s sizzling flesh. His heart danced and fluttered just below the surface of his skin, quickening in unison with the delicate brushstrokes Johnny’s fingertip was painting him with. This boy was getting way too good at propelling his pulse to its steepest limits. Peter very well might drop dead from all the strain he was putting his cardiovascular system through, but there were far worse ways for a lovesick teenager to go. Swallowing meekly, he sank into the sofa with his arms folded across his torso.

“Well, now I’m definitely not letting you rub my back.”

Johnny’s grin dropped in the most heart-wrenching manner imaginable. “Spidey! Come on! You have to! Reed said it was medically necessary!”

“I’ve managed to survive this long without it. I think I’ll take my chances.”

The celebrity squeezed his arm and arrested him with those striking baby blues. “One minute. Let me work my magic for just one short minute, and if you hate it, I’ll stop right then and there, and never bug you about it again.”

It was alarming how quickly all of Peter’s willpower disintegrated with one glance too long into Johnny Storm’s beseeching gaze. When he cast those eyes of sea salt and brine across his soluble, spidery heart, the Human Torch could convince him of just about anything—and he knew it, too. Yet another power Johnny had no qualms exacting against him at a whim, made ever stronger by their growing affections for each other.

Peter thumped his head against the back of the sofa with a defeated sigh. “You’re so pretty, it’s actually stupid.”

“I know,” Johnny replied shamelessly, pinching his arm tighter. “Is that a yes?”

“What about your bubble bath?”

“It’ll still be there when I’m done pampering you. If it goes cold, I’ll just heat it up again.”

Spider-Man paused, sifting through his brain for more excuses, then lifted his hand and carded three hesitant fingers through Johnny’s rose gold locks, making the seraphic celebrity blush. “Can I pet your hair after? I’ve always wanted to run my hands through your hair. It just looks so soft.”

Johnny was practically glowing with glee. “If you let me give you a massage, you can do whatever the hell you want to me.”

“Ooh. Like dying your hair purple? I was just imagining how much hotter you’d look with a bright magenta balayage.”

The Human Torch scrunched up his nose. “No, I meant—ugh. Never mind. Hair petting sounds great. Let’s stick with that.” He hopped off the couch and took Peter’s hands in his. “Now lay down on your tummy. I’m about to change your life.”

Tentatively, Peter sprawled flat across the cushions with his arms folded underneath his head, feeling a little out of his element. “If you try anything, I’m gonna kick you into the ceiling,” he grumbled.

“I would never,” Johnny insisted, draping a hand over his heart. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?” The celebrity rubbed his palms together eagerly and loomed over Spider-Man’s prostrate form. “Have you ever had a hot stone massage before?”

“No. I’ve never had any massage before.”

“Well, this will feel kinda like that but without the stones. One of the many advantages of being able to control my body temperature.” He laid his hands on Peter’s shoulder blades, thumbs resting on the edges of the large spider symbol on his back. “It would probably feel better if you ditched the onesie, but since you’re a massage virgin, I’ll let you keep it on the first time.”

Peter snorted, twitchy and restless. With slow, methodical movements. Johnny began kneading his fingers deep into the masked hero’s sore muscles, the warmth radiating from his hands melting the pain away like butter. Peter tensed beneath his touch at first, then gradually let his body go slack, although it felt impossible to settle completely.

“Whoa,” Johnny exclaimed, gliding his palms up the entirety of his back. “You’re, like, really stiff, Webs. Your whole back feels like one big, angry knot.” He ground the heel of his palm into the spot where Peter’s neck met his right shoulder, making him wince a little. “Have you ever relaxed a day in your life?”

“Does playing Animal Crossing count as relaxing?” he asked with a halfhearted chuckle. “Probably not the way I do it. All I do all day is shake every tree and try to catch fish. I always press the reel button a second too soon! That damn coelacanth still evades me. It’s the last fish I need to complete my collection in the aquarium part of the museum. My friend is in charge of catching the bugs since collecting both is such a hassle.”

Johnny worked his hands into either side of Spidey’s lower back, which ached tremendously in the best way possible. “I don’t really know what nerd thing you’re yammering on about this time, but I agree: that does not sound conducive to relaxation.” He rubbed his muscles in long, smooth passes, changing positions and techniques and pressure levels without lifting his hands from his body. “Now shut up and stop being goddamn rigid. Let everything go heavy and sink into the couch.”

“I can’t,” he giggled sheepishly. “I don’t know how.”

“Just relax. Loosen up. Take slow, deep breaths, and soften your muscles one by one.”

Peter considered arguing with him some more, but all his thoughts began to slip and dissipate the longer Johnny kneaded his back. The heat from his hands combined with the perfect alternation of movement and compression was turning his muscles to jelly and his mind into mashed potatoes. It was like he was a ball of lumpy clay that Johnny was rubbing free of imperfections and sculpting into a masterpiece of his own design. All of it felt heavenly on his stiff and aching body, especially around his neck and upper shoulders. The pain and soreness plaguing him evaporated into nothing beneath his superheated touch, along with every worry or care he’d ever had in his life. Before he knew it, his eyes had slipped shut, limbs limp, teeth unclenched, head full of bliss and incense as it lolled to one side.

“There you go. Much better.” Johnny swept his hands from the middle of Spidey’s back all the way to the base of his skull, the cords of lean muscles rippling beneath his fingers springy and captivating to the touch. “Seeing that it’s been well over a minute now and you haven’t asked me to stop yet, I assume you’re enjoying this? It feels nice, right? Did I or did I not tell you that my back rubs are to die for?”

When Spider-Man didn’t answer, Johnny’s palms paused on top of his neck. “Spidey?” he said. He bent down and craned his neck to take a look at his face. The masked hero’s eye lenses had shuttered closed, and his cheek was smooshed carelessly against his forearm. His back rose and fell in slow, rhythmic waves underneath Johnny’s hands. Chest warming with endearment, the Human Torch smiled from ear to ear.

“Huh. Guess I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Keeping one hand on his shoulder, Johnny eased onto the couch right beside his head, kneading and petting his snoozing form with softer strokes of his fingers. “Who needs Advil when you’ve got me?” he asked quietly, gazing upon the sleepy hero with all the affection in the universe. He sat that way for a while, watching him nap and rubbing his back as feathers of fondness tickled his insides.

After a few minutes, Johnny sank back into the cushions with a sigh, pulling his phone out with his free hand. “Hey FRIDAY?” he called in a slightly hushed tone, not wanting to wake the slumbering vigilante.

“Yes, Mr. Storm?” she answered, matching his volume.

“Would you mind sending me all the best clips of Spider-Man from our team-building exercise today? I have a fun little edit I’ve been meaning to put together, but haven’t had any good footage to use until now.”

The A.I.’s voice brightened with mischievous interest. “Certainly. It would be my pleasure.”

“You’re the best.”

_______________________________

Susan’s breath fogged away from her mouth in ghostly clouds as she leaned against the cold metal of a shipping container, watching the lights of boats bob across the dark waters of the channel before her. She rolled her shoulders, still sore from her and Clint Barton's battle against Natasha Romanoff and Janet Van Dyne. Those women really knew how to punch. She and Clint did manage to save the civilian, but not without taking at least four roundhouse kicks and five other heavy blows between them, not including all the cuts and burns they'd sustained from those combat daggers and electrified batons the Black Widow was so privy to. Trucks and other transport vehicles dotted the runway between her and the bay, blocking out the city skyline like massive metal beasts in hibernation, waiting patiently to be brought back to life.

By this hour, most of the port’s workers had gone home for the night. She’d watched them stomp out their cigarettes and lumber back to their cars, veiled from sight with her invisibility powers. But there was one person who stayed behind. One who had claimed to have a special overtime agreement with the boss that no one else did. The one now creeping around the shipping yard with nothing but their phone to light their path. The one Sue had been waiting for.

The Invisible Woman stood motionless as the worker passed in front of her, entering the graveyard of shipping containers on high alert. She waited a few seconds before silently tailing her, matching her footsteps to the woman’s to mask any sounds that might give her away. The shipyard worker led her through the sea of metal containers for about four minutes, glancing feverishly between the boxes and over her shoulder, until finally stopping in front of a bright green one with a black “X” painted in the bottom right corner. Drenched in sweat, the woman unlatched the lock and threw the door open. Kernels of what looked like animal feed spilled out of the opening at her feet. The entire container was filled with it; it looked at least a foot deep.

What is this? Sue thought, watching the woman wade into the kernels and start digging around. About thirty seconds passed before she pulled something solid out of the oats and seeds. When Susan realized what it was, her heart sank.

Shit.

With trembling hands, the woman placed the large bag of indiscriminate but obviously illegal drugs on top of the mound of feed and held her phone out, snapping a photo of it. Her thumbs flew across the screen as she searched for a contact to text the picture to. Her shivering finger hovered over the “send” button.

“Don’t.”

The women froze. An instant later, she whipped around with a gasp, head snapping from side to side. Sue dropped her disguise, making her gasp a second time as she staggered backwards, banging against the container.

“Who—who are you?” she choked out raggedly, eyes bleak with terror.

“My name is Susan Storm,” she answered calmly, taking a cautious step towards her. “I’m with the Fantastic Four. You’re Willow Casavana, correct?”

A flicker of recognition crossed the woman’s expression, but the fear remained intact. “W-what do you want?” she stuttered, hand drifting towards her tote bag. “Why are you here?”

“I want to help you,” Dr. Storm explained. “I spoke with your boss.”

“My boss?” she sputtered, panic gripping her voice. “What did you tell her?”

“She’s an old friend of mine. She told me that some of her employees have been acting strange lately. Requesting odd hours, logging shipments and deliveries incorrectly, lying about things they never have before despite being good and honest people. She’s worked with you and many others on this dock for decades now and considers you as close as family. She knows something isn’t right.”

Tears glistened in the woman’s bloodshot eyes. Her legs wobbled beneath her.

“She knows you and a few more of her workers have been moving illegal materials through her shipyard,” Susan continued, eyeing the hefty bag of drugs perched on top of the animal feed. “But she hasn’t gone to the authorities about it yet because she knows this isn’t who you are. You wouldn’t do this unless you were in an incredibly desperate situation, or being forced to against your will.”

The woman shook her head slowly back and forth. “You don’t understand,” she croaked breathlessly. “You shouldn’t have talked to her. You shouldn’t have followed me.”

Sue held out her hands, palms upright. “Someone is making you do this. I can help you if you tell me who it is.”

The cellphone shuddered in Willow’s clammy grip. “It’s too late,” she said, pale cheeks wet with tears. “He’ll find out. He always finds out.” She wilted listlessly against the metal door, eyes hollow with despair. “He’s going to kill my brother.”

“Who’s going to kill your brother?” Susan pressed her. When she didn’t respond, Susan laid a hand against her chest. “I’m a superhero. I have connections. We’ll protect your brother. We’ll protect you and anyone else he’s threatening and extorting to do his dirty work. I promise we can get you out of this if you tell us who’s making you do this.”

The cold wind whipped at the woman’s long braids, snagging strands from the neatly woven plaits. “He’s just a kid,” she wept into the icy breeze. “He doesn’t deserve this. He worked so hard to get into that school. He’s studying to be a speech pathologist.” She clutched her throat like some invisible force was suffocating her, eyes distant and glassy. “They sent me pictures of him on his campus. Walking to class, playing soccer with his friends, doing homework. They said they’d kill him if I didn’t do what they said, or if I told anyone what they were asking of me. They said they'd torture him to death and make it look like an accident.”

Susan’s jaw tightened. Just like Spider-Man said. Holding the lives of people’s loved ones hostage to get them to carry out his demands. So the little menace wasn’t lying after all. She took a step closer to the crying woman, rage and sympathy warring in her chest.

“It’s Wilson Fisk, isn’t it?” she asked softly. The worker’s sobs caught in her throat. She raised her desolate gaze to hers, breaths rattling in her lungs.

“Who told you that?” she whispered.

“I can get you and your brother away from him,” Susan assured her. “Do you know any other employees on this dock who he might be exploiting?”

“W-we’re not supposed to say his name,” she breathed. “Not ever. He's gonna think it was me who told you. You've…doomed us. You’ve doomed us all.”

Dr. Storm dropped her hands to her sides, startled and confused. Slowly, the woman’s horrified expression twisted into a vengeful glare.

“This is all your fault,” she snarled. “This was my last assignment before he promised to cut me loose. I was done after this. I was free.” She smashed her phone into the pavement, an anguished, bestial wail tearing out of her. “Why did you have to get involved? You’ve ruined everything!”

“We can’t keep letting him do this to people. Even if he honored his word and left you and your brother alone, he’d just find someone else to terrorize and manipulate. We have to stop him from ever—”

The woman shoved her hand into her tote bag and pulled out a pistol, the weapon shuddering in her grip as she aimed it at Susan Storm’s face. A forcefield shot up between them on instinct, materializing in front of Sue’s outstretched palm.

“Ms. Casavana,” Susan said tautly. “Drop the gun. Now.”

“You’ve killed us,” the woman bawled. “We’re all dead now because of you.”

“Willow, listen to me—”

“He’s all I have left. I can’t lose him, too.”

“You won’t. I’ll make sure you won’t. Just drop the gun.”

“You know you’ll be the next one he comes after,” Ms. Casavana drawled ominously. “You and everyone you care about. Not even people like you are safe.” She thumbed the safety of the pistol off, the sharp click tolling above the gusting winds. “Why couldn’t you just stay out of it?”

Cold talons closed around Susan’s heart. “Willow, please—”

“I’m so sorry, Jayden,” the woman rasped, raising her tear-streaked face to the starless sky. “Please tell him I’m so, so sorry.”

Susan blinked. And suddenly, the gun was no longer pointing at her. Suddenly, it was pressed against the side of Ms. Casavana’s head. Ice and terror shot through her bloodstream as she shattered the forcefield between herself and Willow, surging forward to stop her.

“No—don’t!”

BANG!

Time went still for a moment. The howl of the wind waltzed with the shrill ring echoing in Susan’s ears. She had panicked, and tried to form a forcefield inside the barrel of the gun. Tried to stop the bullet from exiting the weapon. Since the pistol was already against her head, she didn’t know how else to prevent her from taking her own life. It's not like she could fit one between the gun and her skull. But she had never made a forcefield that small and precise before. Certainly never so fast, or while under so much pressure. She was still new to these powers, after all. Still working to master the delicate intricacies of how to control them. Making a shield quick enough, tiny enough, and strong enough to stop a bullet that was flying through an object an inconclusive distance away from herself beneath the inky veil of night was dicey at best, bordering on impossible. Which is why when the splash of blood hit her in the face, the hands, the chest, Susan Storm was horrified, but not surprised.

She hadn’t been fast enough. She had failed.

Sue heard Willow’s body slump against the ground, but she didn’t see it. All she saw were the dark stains spattered across her gloves and the red droplets dripping off her fingertips. All she could feel was the empty numbness between her ribs and the sickly warmth of bloody rivulets slipping down her forehead, her hair, her eyelids, her lips.

She was gone. Just like that. A soul, a life, snuffed out in an instant. A woman was dead because of her. Her naivety, her ignorance, her impatience and lack of discipline. It was Susan's fault she was no longer alive.

Willow Casavana was dead. A sister with a sibling she’d do anything to keep safe. Even this.

Sue turned her palm towards herself, body trembling, breaths shallow and threadbare. Her hand flickered in and out of visibility in parallel with her frenzied heartbeat. But unlike the rest of her, the splotches of blood didn’t disappear.

There were at least seven other people working on this dock whom her friend suspected of being blackmailed or threatened. Would they do the same thing as Willow if she approached them about this? Were there lives now in danger as well? The lives of their loved ones? How many others in this city did he have under his heel? How many innocents forced to do his bidding? How far and wide did this depravity extend? How had she been blind to it for so long?

The air around her drained of oxygen. She had mentioned Fisk's name to her friend. She had told her to keep quiet about it, but still. Could he find out what they'd discussed? What if he already knew? She had to warn her. She had to warn Reed and the others, too. If this woman was willing to kill herself rather than face Fisk's wrath, she could only imagine how gruesome their threats must've been towards her brother.

Her brother.

Susan's blood went cold.

Johnny.

Was he in danger now too because of her?

No. They were too high profile. Fisk could get away with threatening people who were outside of the public eye. But not them; certainly not him. He was one of the biggest celebrities in the world. Not to mention, a superhero surrounded by powerful allies. No one would dare to target him.

Right?

Susan's thoughts and pulse were moving too fast. She had to call the police. A woman was dead. But didn't Spider-Man say the NYPD were also at Fisk's beck and call? Either way, she couldn't just not call the police. A woman was dead. Her hands and face were drenched in her blood. The warm, coppery tang of it coated her tongue, turning her stomach. Her lungs were lead in her chest. A woman was dead. She had to call 911. Where was her phone? Did she drop it somewhere? A woman was dead. She was dead, and it was her fault.

Spider-Man was right, Sue realized with building horror, cupping her blood-soaked hand over her lips as she backed away from the motionless body, the crimson pool at her feet growing wider and darker and deeper.

Wilson Fisk was a monster.

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