Chapter Text
Peter found Johnny Storm at two in the morning through a stolen thirst clip on Twitter. The account that posted it had no profile picture, too many underscores in the username, and a bio that only said men. Peter had never trusted a page less in his life but the clip had forty thousand retweets and a thumbnail engineered to destroy him personally.
Johnny was in a gym mirror, sweaty and flushed, sleeveless shirt clinging dark at his chest. He was talking about shoulder stability like that was the point of the video and pretending that anyone watching had opened the video in search of safe joint mechanics.
Peter watched the whole thing once.
Then again.
And then a third time because Peter never claimed to be a good person.
He took a deep breath and made a respectable attempt at self-control.
Fifty-three seconds later, he clicked through to the original account.
@ItsJohnnyStorm had millions of followers, a verification badge, and a subscription link sitting smugly in his bio. Johnny posted constantly, it was part of the brand. Morning workout tips filmed in clean gym lighting, meal prep reels on Sundays, progress photos with captions about discipline, sponsored electrolyte powders, mobility routines, shirtless poolside recovery clips that pretended to be about breathwork, subscription teasers cut just short enough to be annoying.
Peter commented on more of them than he probably should have.
Under a pull-up video, he wrote, i stared at this for so long my screen dimmed. .
Under a protein sponsorship, i do not believe that powder is the product being sold here.
That one got enough likes that three different people replied with variations of, clocking in for your shift, I see.
Peter should have found that concerning but he also checked back twice. There was a particular shame in it that curled pleasantly under his ribs, not the kind of humiliation that made him want to disappear for real, this was the kind that felt a little too warm. Just the social sting of being caught wanting something obvious. He knew how he looked in Johnny’s comments and knew exactly what kind of man it made him seem like.
And apparently that was fine with him.
By the second month, people were tagging him before he got there. Johnny would post some fifteen-second clip about proper form and buried beneath the immediate flood of compliments and emojis, someone would write, @subwayspider i need your professional opinion.
Professional, as if Peter had any qualification in the matter besides being publicly embarrassing and visually literate, he never answered the tags directly. That would have been too much. He had standards, though they were thin and mostly decorative.
But that did not mean he wasn’t going to comment.
The audience around Johnny’s account slowly made room for him the way crowds made room for street performers they expected to do something stupid. Peter could feel it happening, which would have stopped him if he was a normal person whose brain didn’t seem to shut down every time he saw a pretty face. Instead, it made the whole thing worse.
He liked the waiting, arriving late and seeing people notice, tossing something ridiculous into the pit and watching strangers pick it up, laugh at it, turn it over until it became a small public humiliation he could pretend he didn’t enjoy just a little. It wasn’t really about Johnny noticing him, he didn’t honestly expect him to notice. Johnny clearly had better things to do than interact with the freelance photographer with a long history of making poor choices around beautiful people.
He wasn’t flirting with Johnny, he just liked being seen. There was a difference, even if it was not one MJ seemed to believe in. She sent him screenshots sometimes, usually without commentary, just his own comments sent back to him like evidence in court.
The worst one she sent him was from a sponsored recovery bath post. Johnny had been waist-deep in ice water, hair wet, skin flushed from the cold, Peter couldn’t even remember what the caption said at this point.
Peter had commented, i need everyone to leave me alone while i process this.
MJ sent the screenshot twenty minutes later with a simple message, You are unwell.
Peter replied immediately, clinically but bravely.
She sent back a single thumbs-up, which somehow felt more judgmental than an entire paragraph.
Felicia was worse because Felicia was entertained, she liked one of his comments from her main account. Peter saw the notification while waiting outside a studio in Midtown and nearly dropped his coffee.
The comment had been under a boxing clip. Johnny shirtless, sweat-dark hair, hand wraps around his knuckles.
Peter had written, instagram needs a feature that lets your friends stop you from commenting.
After she liked it she had texted him, At least you're self-aware.
Peter deliberately didn't answer. By the time he considered it, Felicia had already sent a follow-up. Does he know you're housebroken or is that a surprise for later?
He shoved his phone into his pocket and resolved not to look at it again until the shoot wrapped. It was a perfectly reasonable decision that lasted not as long as it should’ve, in that time Johnny had somehow managed to post three separate times. First came a morning routine video. Peter commented something harmless enough to preserve what remained of his dignity. Then came a subscription preview, Johnny's chest visible beneath an unzipped hoodie and the caption new full-body burn up now.
Peter immediately closed the app.
Thirty seconds later he opened it again.
For a brief, horrifying moment he considered commenting i don't think i can afford the emotional consequences of subscribing. Thankfully, some surviving instinct for self-preservation kicked in before he hit post. Instead he typed, this is why i don't trust capitalism. It was still embarrassing, but at least it was embarrassing with plausible deniability.
The replies started rolling in almost immediately.
@subwayspider fighting for his life again
he's so brave
johnny should comp him a subscription at this point
Peter's eyes lingered on the last reply, the suggestion lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable. Not because he actually wanted a free subscription, that would have been ridiculous, it was the implication behind it that got him. The idea that Johnny might notice him at all and that he might recognize his username, see the comments, maybe even find them funny enough to remember.
Peter locked his phone and shoved it facedown beneath a call sheet and of course a few seconds later, he pulled it back out and checked whether Johnny had liked anything.
He had not.
Good.
That was good.
Peter was being completely normal about this.
Mostly.
The first time Johnny noticed him, like, actually truly noticed him it was because everyone else had noticed first. He had posted a late-night video after a gym session, nothing complicated, just some triceps with overhead lighting and a quick reminder about rest days that he knew half the audience would ignore because the clip opened with his shirt stuck damp to his chest.
The post did well, all of his posts did well.
The comments filled in their usual waves. Compliments, jokes, requests for the routine, several complaints about the subscription price. Someone asking what protein powder he used despite the brand tag being right there.
And then, again and again:
where’s @subwayspider
too early, spider hasn’t clocked in yet
waiting for parker
Johnny saw the name three times before he remembered he had seen it before.
Then six.
Then enough times that he clicked on it.
The profile loaded slowly.
@subwayspider.
The bio read: photographer. nyc. frequently underpaid, rarely unsupervised.
Johnny smiled a little at that before letting his eyes fall to the grid.
It was strange, not bad strange, just not at all what he was expecting to see based off of the comments he had been leaving. There were pigeons on subway platforms, a bride laughing so hard during her first dance that her veil had slipped sideways, a kid holding his backpack against his chest while asleep against his mother’s side on the F train, wet pavement outside a bodega, an old man feeding birds in Washington Square Park like he had been doing it since before Johnny was born.
Then, without warning, Emma Frost in silver lingerie, photographed with the kind of lighting usually reserved for religious experiences.
Johnny stopped.
Scrolled back up just to make sure he was still on the same profile, then scrolled back down again. The immediate next post after Emma was a pigeon standing on a discarded MetroCard and after that, Mary Jane Watson turning on a sidewalk in a cream designer coat, red hair caught in the wind, laughing like she wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
Then several shots from a wedding reception in Queens.
Followed up by Harry Osborn fixing his cufflinks in the backseat of a luxury car, eyes unfocused like he’d forgotten Peter was there. Then Felicia Hardy stretched across a narrow bed Johnny immediately recognized as too cheap to belong to her. The sheets were wrinkled and the wall behind her had water stains near the ceiling. A hoodie had been abandoned half out of frame like someone had kicked it there and forgotten about it.
Felicia herself looked like a work of art against all of it. Black silk slipping from one shoulder. Spine curved against the mattress. One heel dangling from two fingers while she looked directly into Peter's camera with lazy amusement.
The caption read: she said my apartment "lacked ambition"
Johnny laughed quietly before flipped to the next post.
Three pigeons fighting over a bagel outside Canal Street, he snorted hard enough to nearly wake the dog asleep across his legs.
That was the thing about the account.
It kept refusing to become one thing, it wasn't a portfolio arranged to impress brands. It wasn't even particularly organized. It felt more like someone had been moving through the world with a camera in hand collecting things that caught his attention and refusing to apologize for any of them.
Peter's following made sense in a weird way, it was small, but devoted. The comments under his street photography were warm and specific, people arguing affectionately about recurring pigeons like they were neighborhood celebrities. Under the celebrity shots, the tone seemed to shift to more gossip and people who seemed to be there simply because Peter Parker would occasionally post photos of some of the most breathtaking people on the planet.
Curiosity got the better of him, he clicked into the tagged photos.
It was mostly paparazzi shots, event photos, other people catching him in the background of celebrity lives and fashion week clips. Peter carrying camera bags. Peter laughing into Mary Jane Watson’s shoulder outside some gala. Peter sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Felicia Hardy while she drank champagne on a hotel couch above him like a bored empress with one hand resting possessively on his shoulder.
And, over and over again, Peter looking slightly overwhelmed by being looked at.
Johnny frowned faintly at that, his curiosity grew the longer he looked because the comments under Johnny’s posts painted a very different picture. Under his posts, Peter Parker acted like he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever, like humiliation was recreational, and publicly embarrassing himself for a hot guy was a form of cardio.
Which, honestly, Johnny respected.
Peter made it four days before commenting again.
Johnny posted late on Thursday, after Peter had already decided he was going to stop doing this. The video was a recovery stretch, or at least it called itself that, dim gym lighting, gray sweatpants, no shirt, Johnny moving slowly through a routine with captions about mobility and injury prevention appearing over his body like anyone was reading them.
Peter watched it more times then he cared to admit before he commented, i think this should require signing a waiver beforehand
He hit post and then set his phone facedown beside his keyboard so he would actually finish the edits waiting for him. He culled three photos from the folder and adjusted the exposure on a first-dance shot
Then his phone buzzed.
Peter ignored it, for thirty seconds, which honestly seemed like a win.
@ItsJohnnyStorm liked your comment.
Peter blinked at the screen, his brows knitting together. Then checked the notification again, just to make sure he hadn't imagined it. When he opened the post, replies were already piling up beneath his comment.
@subwayspider clocked in
thank god i was waiting
he's right and he should say it
Peter scrolled for longer than he meant to, face warm, then forced himself back to work.
He didn't comment on the next post.
Or the one after that.
For three whole days, he behaved like a functional adult.
Then Johnny uploaded a sponsored photo for electrolyte powder, the caption was about hydration. Peter read it and remained unconvinced that hydration was the central focus of the image. Johnny's hair was still damp from a workout, pushed back from his forehead. His head tipped back slightly as he drank from the bottle, throat exposed.
Peter stared at the post for an amount of time he would not have admitted under threat of death. Then he typed, i do not believe thirst is the problem you are solving here
Johnny liked it twelve minutes later.
At first Peter didn't think much of it.
Then it happened again… and again.
Then he started to notice a pattern, the genuinely funny comments went ignored, so did the clever ones, and sarcastic ones. The comments Peter could comfortably explain away if anyone ever questioned his dignity. Johnny never seemed to want anything to do with them, instead he seemed exclusively drawn to the comments that showed Peter’s worst impulses. The ones that left Peter staring at the screen afterward wondering if he should throw his phone into the Hudson.
It took him even longer to realise that this was changing his behavior.
A boxing clip appeared one Tuesday night. Hand wraps. Bruised knuckles. A caption about endurance.
Peter commented: i feel like there are easier hobbies
Nothing.
Six hours later, exhausted and operating on whatever part of the brain usually made terrible decisions, he added, if you hit me with a car i would probably apologize to you
Johnny liked it before Peter had even finished brushing his teeth.
After that, things deteriorated steadily, thankfully slowly enough that Peter could pretend it wasn't happening.
Johnny never replied or acknowledged him publicly, it was just those occasional likes appearing almost instantly anytime Peter abandoned his self-respect entirely, which should have been alarming but the anticipation was a drug. It had stopped feeling random and now felt like a game, a terrible game meant for an absolutely pathetic person.
Three months in, Peter had become a fixture in the comment section, people expected him now. He'd open a post, read the caption, spend twenty minutes pretending he wasn't thinking about it, then eventually arrive at something terrible.
this is getting hard to explain to god.
Liked.
i have become a danger to myself and others.
Liked.
delete this before i say something career-ending.
Liked.
He found himself checking Instagram with the same low-grade anticipation people usually reserved for gambling addictions.
The final nail in the coffin was when Johnny posted the lunges video. Peter had spent the last twelve hours editing a wedding he had put off for far too long, it was 1:13 am when he finally opened up Instagram while lying in bed.
Johnny stood in front of a gym mirror wearing gray shorts that looked like they had been painted on. The weighted lunges were slow and had been accompanied by a caption about discipline.
The top comment read, @subwayspider your silence is concerning
Peter laughed despite himself.
Underneath:
he folded too hard this time
somebody check on him
parker get in here and do your job
Peter watched the video again before he opened the comment box, i can bark but i know tricks too btw. The replies started arriving almost immediately, his phone buzzing steadily in his hands as people piled into the comment section.
Peter was still reading through them when another notification appeared at the top of the screen.
Not a like.
A story mention.
For a second, the words didn't register. Then they did and Peter pushed himself upright so quickly he nearly dropped the phone. Johnny had tagged him in a story, the screenshot filled the screen when Peter opened it. Just the comment against Instagram's dark background and beneath it four words that immediately made his stomach flip unpleasantly.
keeping this in mind…
Peter stared at the story for a long moment before backing out and checking the username attached to it. Then he checked again, because it felt statistically possible that Instagram had somehow made an error.
It hadn't.
The story was real.
Which meant Johnny Storm had looked at Peter's comment, decided it was worth preserving, and posted it in front of several million followers. He let his phone fall onto his chest and pressed both hands over his face. His pulse felt absurdly loud, he could feel it in his throat, in his wrists, in the heat steadily spreading across his face, and finally a tight, uncomfortable warmth settled low in his stomach.
God.
Of course this would get to him, being publicly singled out by an outrageously attractive person would find every weakness in his brain and press directly on it. Every time his phone buzzed with another reaction to the story mention, the tightness in his stomach grew.
For nearly a minute he lay there staring at the ceiling.
Then, because apparently humiliation had done nothing to improve his judgment, he picked the phone back up and opened the story again.
Johnny’s post was still there. Peter’s comment. His username. His profile picture. The four words sitting beneath it like Johnny had dropped them there without a second thought.
Peter made a low, helpless noise and dragged his hand over his face, only to stop with his fingers pressed against his mouth, he bit down on them, staring at the story through the heat in his face like if he looked long enough he might become the kind of person who could survive this.
His thumb found the reply bar anyway.
Type something funny, keep the bit going, act normal.
i am making several important life choices right now
Deleted it.
this feels like entrapment legally speaking
Deleted that too.
Then, against every surviving instinct in his body, he typed, devastating thing to say to someone publicly btw.
Johnny saw the reply a few minutes later, Peter knew because the little Seen appeared beneath it.
That was all.
No response, nothing except proof that Johnny had looked at it and apparently decided Peter could suffer without assistance.
Peter flung the phone onto the nightstand like it had bitten him, he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, like that might somehow erase the last five minutes of his life.
Keeping this in mind…
The words refused to leave, the humiliation had become something physical, his mind circled helplessly back to the story. Back to Johnny, the screenshot, those four stupid words.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Think about something else.
Pigeons.
A Lightroom memory leak.
The weird smell in the Roosevelt Island station.
Anything.
Peter flipped onto his back again, the sheets tangled around his legs as the ceiling fan spun slow useless circles overhead. He was lying awake at almost two in the morning feeling like he'd been psychologically compromised and yet some traitorous part of his brain kept replaying the moment over and over, smoothing it into something more dangerous each time.
His phone buzzed somewhere on the nightstand.
Peter ignored it.
A second notification followed.
Then a third.
His body was a traitor.
The evidence of exactly how badly he was handling this strained against the thin cotton of his sleep pants, humiliatingly impossible to ignore.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut.
Absolutely not.
It didn't help.
The thought of Johnny was worse than Johnny actually being there. He could picture him in the gym, sweat-slick and half-dressed reading Peter's comment with that slight amused smile. Could almost hear the quiet huff of laughter before he took the screenshot, before he typed those four words and destroyed Peter's remaining self-respect without even realizing it.
Peter’s resolve didn’t break so much as disintegrated, the fight went out of him in one shuddering breath, his hips rolling up before he could stop them. One hand slid down his stomach, fingers tracing the line of hair beneath his navel, and he hesitated for one last fleeting second before pressing his palm hard against himself through his pants.
He bit down on his knuckles to smother the sound that came out of him.
The contact sent a jolt straight up his spine, it wasn’t enough pressure. Exactly wrong and exactly what he wanted at the same time. His body went taut, pleasure cutting through the fog of shame.
This was a mistake.
It felt amazing.
His other hand fisted in the sheets, trying to hold himself together but it was useless. He rocked up into the friction anyway, slow and desperate, chasing the rough drag of fabric and the terrible clarity of imagining Johnny seeing him like this. Knowing what he had done to him. Knowing how little it had taken to get him here. Peter squeezed his eyes shut harder but the image only sharpened.
Johnny’s thumb tapping the screen.
Johnny’s mouth curving up like he knew.
Johnny deciding Peter’s humiliation was worth displaying.
Peter pressed harder, the heel of his palm grinding against the base of his cock as his breath hitched rough in the quiet room. The fabric bunched beneath his hand, maddeningly insufficient, and his hips jerked again, looking for more, just a little more, just enough to-
His phone rang.
The sound tore through the room like a gunshot.
Peter jolted as if he’d been electrocuted, both hands flying away from himself like he’d been caught doing something illegal. His eyes snapped open, wide and panicked in the dark. For a second he just lay there, chest heaving, heart hammering against his ribs while his body remained painfully, humiliatingly unconvinced that the moment was over.
The phone kept ringing from the nightstand.
Its screen cast a harsh blue glow across the ceiling.
HARRY
Peter stared at the name glowing on the screen.
Ignore it.
Let it go to voicemail.
Harry could wait.
Peter was in the middle of a very specific very personal kind of hell and it didn’t allow interruptions.
The phone rang again.
And again.
Peter let his head fall back against the mattress and closed his eyes.
The universe, apparently, had decided he was not going to be allowed to suffer in private.
Another ring.
The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the dark apartment, cutting straight through the lingering haze in his head and the heat still stubbornly stuck beneath his skin. Through every increasingly desperate attempt to pretend the last twenty minutes had not happened.
The phone continued.
Peter groaned and dragged a hand over his face and for one brief moment he considered throwing it across the room.
Instead he reached for it.
The call had nearly flipped over to voicemail by the time Peter finally hit accept and lifted the phone to his ear.
For a second he said nothing, he just laid there staring up at the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, trying unsuccessfully to become a different person than the one he'd been five minutes ago.
"Hey," he said at last, sounding rougher than intended.
On the other end of the line, Harry started laughing.