Archive of Our Own ^beta

Peter didn’t look like someone who would be front row at a Johnny Storm concert.

He was small—college-age, maybe—sharp-shouldered with soft brown eyes that carried too much ache for someone his age. His camera strap was slung around his neck like a permanent accessory, the lenses clean but clearly worn. The kind of kid you’d find at a tech expo or an indie film screening, not pressed up against a barricade, screaming the lyrics to “Kerosene Tongue.”

But there he was, months ago, mouth open and trembling, singing like he meant it. Like Johnny’s songs weren’t just commercialized heartbreak, but personal scripture.

It was the first thing Johnny remembered when he saw him again.

That night was long gone—blurred in a haze of flashing lights and backup vocals—but Peter’s face stuck with him. The honest way he had reached up when Johnny leaned over the crowd. The way he didn’t just yell, but cried, when the acoustic version of “Empty Room For Two” played.

Now, Peter stood under an awning outside a rainy NYC bookshop, clearly not expecting anyone to recognize him. Hood drawn up, a messenger bag slung across his chest, wet shoes squeaking against the floor as he stepped back in when the bell chimed again.

Johnny hadn’t even noticed the rain until he turned to follow.

He didn’t know why he followed. Just that he’d gone in for coffee and left with a glimpse of someone who had once looked at him like his music mattered.

It had been months since anyone had looked at Johnny like that.

-

TWO DAYS EARLIER

Reed said he needed to “step out for a tech conference,” and then promptly disappeared for forty-eight hours. Sue had a shoot in Milan. Ben was God-knows-where doing “construction side projects”—aka probably beating the shit out of punching bags in warehouse gyms across the city.

And Johnny?

Johnny was lying on their shared penthouse couch in boxers and a hoodie, watching reruns of Chopped with a bottle of whiskey at his side and two blunt wrappers on the coffee table.

The apartment was quiet, too quiet. No one asking him to lower the volume. No publicist nagging him to finish the demo for his new single. No distractions except the text from Harper that kept flashing across his screen:

i saw what you said about me in that interview. real mature johnny.

He didn’t even open it.

Didn’t need to.

Everything that needed to be said about Harper had already been written into “Collateral”—an album that clawed its way up the Billboard charts with the quiet rage of a lover left behind. Critics called it “brutal in its honesty, messy in its soulfulness.”

Johnny called it therapy.

And Peter Parker?

Peter called it home.

-

NOW

“Shit,” Peter muttered, glancing at the soaked sleeves of his hoodie as he shook off the rain.

The indie bookshop was warm, quiet, and smelled like cinnamon from the adjacent café that shared the space. He rubbed his hands together, breathing into them as he moved deeper inside, eyeing the local authors’ display while adjusting the lens cap on his camera.

He hadn’t expected to see him here.

And he definitely didn’t expect Johnny Storm to follow him in.

Peter noticed him almost immediately, because who wouldn’t? Messy blond hair still wet from the rain, leather jacket thrown over a hoodie like he couldn’t decide if he was trying or not. Eyes sunken in the way only heartbreak and insomnia can cause.

Peter blinked and quickly turned back toward the books, heart pounding.

This is fine. Maybe he doesn’t recognize you. Maybe you’re just another blur of a fan in a crowd of thousands.

“Hey,” Johnny said, low and sharp.

Peter froze. Turned around slowly, every muscle stiff with disbelief.

Johnny’s brows were drawn. Not in recognition. Not in curiosity.

In irritation.

“I know you.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “You do?”

“Concert. Madison Square Garden. Front row. You were crying during ‘Empty Room.’”

Peter flushed. “That was—uh—yeah. Sorry. That was… a really good set.”

Johnny scoffed. “You’re not gonna freak out or ask for a picture or something?”

Peter shook his head, fumbling with his camera strap. “No. I mean—I already have one. From that night.”

Johnny tilted his head, folding his arms. “Right. Fanboy with a DSLR. Got it.”

Peter blinked. “Is that… supposed to be insulting?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

There was a tense pause between them, rain tapping lightly on the windows. Peter stared at him—this man he’d spent months listening to on long train rides and longer nights. The same one who’d once screamed into a mic like his heart had just been ripped out.

And now?

He looked bored. Detached. Cruel in that tired, beautiful way some artists got when the world took too much from them.

Peter let out a breath. “You know, I really liked that album.”

Johnny gave him a look. “Yeah, you and every other sad gay college kid.”

Peter’s mouth opened slightly—stung, shocked, unsure if that was meant as a joke or a jab.

“Wow,” he said flatly. “You’re kind of a dick.”

Johnny didn’t flinch. “And you’re kind of predictable. Kid finds my songs after a breakup, projects his feelings onto me, shows up crying at a concert, and suddenly thinks he understands who I am.”

“I don’t think I know who you are,” Peter said quietly. “But I did think you weren’t this much of an asshole.”

Johnny shrugged. “Guess you were wrong.”

He turned, about to walk away—leather jacket flaring as he moved—but Peter’s voice stopped him.

“You looked like you meant it.”

Johnny paused. Stiffened.

Peter’s eyes were sharp now. Not angry. Just… honest.

“That night. When you sang. It didn’t feel like a performance. It felt real.”

Johnny looked over his shoulder. The front of the store was bathed in gray light, muted by rain. They were alone now, the barista too busy with espresso shots to notice anything but the hiss of steam.

“That’s the problem,” Johnny muttered. “It was real.”

Peter didn’t know why his chest ached at that.

He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough to speak softer.

“You know, it got me through a really shitty time. That album.”

Johnny didn’t say anything.

“I mean… maybe you don’t care about that. And that’s fine. But it mattered to me.”

There was silence between them again. Then Johnny exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Look. Sorry. I’m not really—good with people right now.”

Peter offered a small smile. “I kind of got that impression.”

Johnny half-laughed under his breath. “Right.”

Peter’s stomach turned nervously. “I wasn’t following you, by the way. I didn’t even know you’d be here.”

“I know,” Johnny said quietly. “I was following you.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You looked familiar. Outside. And I remembered. Thought maybe… I don’t know.” Johnny shook his head. “Thought maybe it’d feel good to be remembered for something other than the breakup.”

Peter hesitated. “Well… for what it’s worth, I didn’t fall in love with your heartbreak.”

Johnny’s eyes flicked up, curious.

“I fell in love with the way you put yourself back together.”

That silenced Johnny for a long beat.

Then, slowly, he pulled his hood down.

“You got plans tonight?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Johnny shrugged. “I’m starving. And your camera makes me look ten percent less dead in the eyes than most paparazzi. Come grab food with me.”

Peter swallowed.

This was insane. Wild. The kind of story you tell your friends with a punchline.

But the tired way Johnny was looking at him—half defensive, half hopeful—made him nod without really thinking.

“Okay,” Peter said. “But only if I can take a picture first.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “You are predictable.”

Peter grinned. “And you’re still kind of a dick.”

But he followed anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, Johnny Storm smiled like maybe being remembered wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

-

It started with a spontaneous dinner.

Well, no—technically, it started with Peter Parker being unable to say no to a man whose music had once cradled his heart at its most vulnerable. Who had just invited him out for food like it was nothing. Like Johnny Storm hadn’t sold out arenas and made heartbreak sound like a drug.

And now, Peter stood slack-jawed outside a building that didn’t even look like a restaurant.

“Wait,” Peter said, holding a hand out toward the glass double doors. “No. Absolutely not. Johnny—this place has valets for indoor dining. I’m not going inside.”

Johnny gave him a lopsided grin, already halfway up the stairs. “Relax. You’re with a literal icon.”

Peter followed him despite everything screaming run, sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished marble floor as they were led to a booth in a private upstairs area, all black velvet and gold accents. The menu was handed to him on thick paper stock—paper, not laminated, which was how he knew he was about to be in serious financial trauma.

The first item Peter spotted was a “lobster tartare with white truffle foam.” Price: $89.

Peter nearly dropped the menu.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, eyes scanning the rest of the prices like a man watching his life flash before his eyes. “I can’t eat here. I’m not—I literally have to Venmo my landlord in three payments. I can’t—Johnny. Johnny, we need to leave. I’m serious.”

Johnny, lounging like he owned the place (and maybe he did?), didn’t even glance up from the cocktail list. “Breathe, kid. I’m not gonna make you pay.”

Peter turned to him, scandalized. “That’s worse! You can’t just—You don’t even know me. This is like an $800 meal!”

“I do know you,” Johnny countered, still flipping pages. “I know you cried at my concert, told me I helped you through shit, and that you look cute in thrift store hoodies. That’s enough.”

Peter covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”

Johnny grinned and motioned to the server. “We’ll start with the cocktails. Something pink. Something sweet. Something stupid.”

Peter groaned into his palms.

-

Fifteen minutes and two ridiculously bougie drinks later—each served in a glass that looked more like a trophy than something meant for actual human use—Peter was buzzed. Not drunk, but loose in the shoulders and swaying slightly to the mellow jazz floating through the restaurant.

Johnny, who had started off the evening as sharp-edged and moody, now had his head thrown back, laughter pouring out of him like a cracked dam.

Peter was telling a story—something about his roommate nearly setting their toaster on fire trying to make “grilled Pop-Tarts”—and Johnny was actually giggling. Not smirking. Not that fake rockstar laugh. Real, eyes-crinkled, hand-on-his-chest giggling.

“I can’t—” Johnny choked out. “He grilled them?! Like on a stove?!”

“I came home to him flipping them with tongs, Johnny. Tongs.”

Johnny nearly doubled over, his forehead thudding lightly on the table.

Peter grinned, cheeks flushed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone laugh so hard at that story.”

Johnny lifted his head, eyes bright. “I haven’t laughed this hard in, like… months.”

That sobered them both slightly.

The silence was warm, not awkward. Peter looked down at his glass and twirled the little gold stirrer inside.

“I’m glad,” he said softly.

Johnny watched him for a second longer than he should’ve. His gaze dragged down Peter’s face, from his messy curls to the flush in his cheeks to the curve of his lips.

He didn’t mean to say what came next. Not really.

“You wanna come back to my hotel?”

Peter blinked. “Wait. What?”

Johnny sat up straighter, smile lazy. “Just saying. I’ve got a suite. Mini bar. Killer view.”

Peter’s brows shot up. “Are you—Are you hitting on me?”

Johnny’s mouth curved. “Would that be so bad?”

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it again. The alcohol had made everything soft and buzzy, but this? This cut right through it.

“Okay,” Peter said, slowly. “You’re very attractive. Obviously. But I’m not really… that’s not a smart idea.”

Johnny tilted his head. “Why not?”

“I’m buzzed. You’re definitely buzzed. You don’t even know me. This is literally the first time we’ve hung out and you just told me I cried at your concert—”

“You did.”

“—And that I was a predictable sad gay fanboy—”

“You are.”

Peter groaned. “Jesus.”

Johnny grinned wider, leaning closer. “C’mon. Just for a little while. We don’t even have to do anything.”

Peter gave him a look. “Do you ever not flirt?”

“Not when it works,” Johnny said shamelessly.

Peter groaned again but didn’t move. “I’m not sleeping with you, Johnny.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” Johnny said, softer this time. “I just don’t really wanna go back to a giant empty suite alone right now. Not when I’m finally having a decent night.”

That hit Peter square in the ribs.

He stared at Johnny—really looked at him. The tousled hair, the soft flush from the drinks, the sad undercurrent still flickering behind his eyes. There was something disarming about him. Like maybe, underneath all the glitz and arrogance, Johnny was just a boy trying to keep his head above water.

Peter sighed. “Fine.”

Johnny blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“But only if I get to steal the mini Pringles.”

Johnny grinned like a kid. “Deal.”

-

The hotel suite was ridiculous.

Peter had been in nicer apartments, sure—but this? This was easily bigger than his entire floor at the dorm. Open windows stretched along one wall, showing a skyline of Manhattan that looked painted. The couch looked like it cost more than his student loans, and the king-sized bed had two layers of duvet.

He didn’t get more than three steps inside before Johnny pressed in behind him, one hand landing lightly on Peter’s waist.

Peter’s breath hitched.

“Hey—” he started, unsure.

But then Johnny turned him gently—slow, like asking permission with his hands—and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t rough.

It was… lonely.

And Peter had kissed people before—sloppy makeouts at parties, nervous fumbling in the dark—but this? This was different.

Johnny kissed like someone who needed something to hold onto.

Peter made a soft sound in his throat, startled by the heat that pulsed through him. His hands found Johnny’s sides instinctively, fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket as their mouths moved together, messier now.

Johnny pushed them back slowly, blindly, until Peter’s spine hit the wall just past the door.

They broke the kiss for half a second, breathing heavy.

Then Johnny surged forward again, mouth hot and open, one hand cupping Peter’s jaw like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

Peter gasped, hips twitching forward, fingers tugging him closer. The coolness of the wall bled through his hoodie, sharp against the firestorm of lips pressing into his own.

Johnny kissed like he had something to prove.

Like he wanted Peter to feel every bruised lyric he’d ever written.

Their mouths moved together feverishly, wet and open and desperate. Johnny’s hands were braced on either side of Peter’s head, caging him in, but Peter wasn’t trying to escape—his fingers clutched fistfuls of Johnny’s jacket, tugging him impossibly closer, as if their bodies could melt together.

A soft moan escaped Peter before he could help it—half embarrassment, half helpless need—and Johnny responded with a rough noise in his throat, one hand sliding down to Peter’s hip. He gripped it tightly, grounding him as his teeth scraped along Peter’s lower lip.

Peter pulled back with effort, panting. “Wait—wait, I—”

Johnny froze instantly. He didn’t move, just hovered there, inches from Peter’s mouth, breath warm and fast.

Peter closed his eyes. His hands were still balled in Johnny’s jacket. “I’m not—I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Johnny blinked, taken off guard but trying to keep his voice light. “I didn’t say we had to.”

Peter opened his eyes and said, very clearly, “I’m a virgin.”

The silence that followed made the skyline outside feel painfully loud.

Johnny’s eyebrows lifted, lips parting slightly, but he didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. He just stood there, breathing, before finally saying, “Really?”

Peter flushed. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“No—I mean, yeah, okay, I am surprised. You’re hot. You’re funny. You look like someone who’s had sweaty dorm room sex at least twice.”

Peter groaned and dropped his head to the wall. “Oh my God.”

Johnny chuckled, then gently pressed a kiss to Peter’s jaw. “Hey. No shame, alright? That’s actually… kind of sweet.”

Peter peeked up at him, cheeks red. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Johnny murmured, pressing another kiss just below his ear this time. “You trusting me with that? It’s kinda hot.”

Peter exhaled shakily, his hands flexing against Johnny’s sides. “You’re not gonna try to change my mind?”

“Not even a little,” Johnny promised. His voice was rough but sincere. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still have fun. You just tell me what you want, yeah?”

Peter hesitated. His mouth opened like he was going to answer, but instead he let out another soft breath when Johnny’s lips found the side of his neck.

“I want… God,” Peter groaned, tilting his head unconsciously as Johnny kissed lower, slower. “Just—don’t stop yet.”

Johnny didn’t.

He kissed along Peter’s throat, sucking lightly, grazing with teeth. His hands were at Peter’s waist, slipping beneath the hem of his hoodie to feel warm skin, dragging his fingers over every inch he could reach.

Peter gasped when Johnny bit just below the hinge of his jaw, leaving a dark mark behind.

“Jesus,” Peter muttered. “That’s gonna show.”

“Good,” Johnny murmured, licking over the bruise. “Wanna ruin you a little.”

Peter made a strangled sound and pulled Johnny’s hoodie off in one swift motion, revealing a black T-shirt clinging to the lean muscle beneath. He couldn’t stop his hands from roaming now—palming Johnny’s chest, sliding down his stomach.

“You’re a menace,” Peter whispered.

Johnny grinned. “You love it.”

And God help him, maybe he did.

Peter pushed Johnny back a few steps, then tugged him toward the windows—toward the shimmering skyline view that stretched endlessly in every direction.

The floor-to-ceiling glass cast soft blue light over them, making their flushed skin glow.

Peter’s breath hitched as he glanced out.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Johnny came up behind him, sliding his arms around Peter’s waist, pressing his chest flush to Peter’s back. “You are.”

Peter laughed breathlessly. “That was so cheesy.”

Johnny nuzzled against his neck. “You’re into it.”

Peter didn’t argue.

They stood like that for a long moment—Peter looking out at the city, Johnny kissing down the curve of his neck, biting gently at his shoulder through the fabric. His hands crept lower, finding the waistband of Peter’s jeans.

Peter stiffened slightly.

Johnny stilled. “Can I?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Just… not all the way.”

“Nothing you don’t want,” Johnny promised.

Peter let him undo the button and slide the zipper down, hands trembling slightly. His own fingers found Johnny’s belt behind him next, and he undid it without fully realizing he was doing it, too lost in the feel of Johnny’s breath on his neck.

They both slid into each other’s jeans at the same time, hands tentative but curious.

Peter sucked in a breath as Johnny’s hand wrapped around him.

Johnny groaned softly when Peter did the same.

“Fuck,” Johnny breathed, forehead falling against Peter’s shoulder. “You’re so warm.”

Peter let out a shaky laugh, already panting. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed, kissing up his spine. “But you’re so hot like this. All pink and squirmy in front of the window. I could look at you like this forever.”

Peter whimpered as Johnny’s hand stroked him, slow and slick and firm.

Their rhythm stuttered as their hips moved in sync, breath fogging the glass, city lights dancing across their bare skin.

Peter tilted his head back against Johnny’s shoulder, the angle exposing his neck again—and Johnny took full advantage, kissing and sucking until new marks bloomed there like petals. He dragged his teeth down Peter’s throat, leaving trails of heat everywhere he touched.

Peter’s head was swimming. The mixture of the buzz, the skyline, Johnny’s voice in his ear—it was all too much.

“You feel so good,” Peter whispered, hips jerking.

Johnny cursed softly and bit his shoulder again. “You’re killing me.”

Their hands sped up, pumping in messy tandem, the tension between them winding tighter and tighter.

Peter’s whole body was shaking now.

“Johnny—” he gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” Johnny growled, kissing behind his ear. “Wanna feel you come in my hand, baby. Wanna see how you fall apart.”

Peter cried out, stifling the sound in his sleeve as he came hard, eyes squeezed shut, his release hot over Johnny’s fingers.

Johnny came not long after, with a low groan against Peter’s throat, grinding against him as they both slowly unraveled.

They stood there, panting, in a puddle of heat and silence.

Peter felt like jelly. His legs were barely working.

Johnny pressed a kiss to his shoulder and didn’t move away.

“Holy shit,” Peter breathed. “That was…”

“A+?” Johnny offered lazily.

Peter huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

-

They cleaned up eventually—slowly, shyly—sharing breathless smiles and soft kisses as they pulled their clothes back on.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, sipping water from the hotel glass, watching Johnny towel off his hair with the hem of his shirt.

“So,” Peter said, voice a little raw, “do you do that with all your fans?”

Johnny looked over at him, and for once, there was no smirk.

“No,” he said. “You’re the first one I wanted to stick around.”

Peter blinked.

Johnny walked over, climbed into bed beside him, and pulled the covers over them both like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Peter hesitated only a second before curling into his side.

Johnny buried his nose in Peter’s curls and whispered, “You still hungry?”

Peter laughed softly. “For food?”

Johnny grinned. “For me.”

Peter rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “Jesus.”

“C’mon,” Johnny murmured, mouth brushing Peter’s temple. “Let me take you to breakfast in the morning.”

“You mean a $100 omelet?”

“Exactly.”

Peter smiled against his chest.

“…Okay.”

And Johnny—rockstar, broken heart and all—held him closer like Peter was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

-

-

Johnny Storm was not a morning person.

He never had been—his usual wake-up routine involved ignoring the first six alarms, flipping off the seventh, and finally being bribed out of bed with the smell of bacon from Ben’s questionable cooking skills or Reed yelling something about a “molecular catastrophe” in the living room.

But this morning?

Johnny woke up to birdsong and cold sheets.

He blinked slowly into the golden light spilling across the bed, stretching with a lazy groan. His muscles were sore in a good way, his mouth dry from too much sugar-sweet liquor the night before. There was the faintest imprint of hickeys beneath his collarbone, the kind of ache that was half memory, half hunger for more.

He reached for the warm body that should’ve been next to him.

Only—

“…Pete?” he mumbled.

Empty. The bed was empty.

Johnny sat up quickly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The hoodie Peter had worn last night was folded neatly at the end of the bed. No shoes. No sign of the awkwardly charming, kiss-drunk boy who’d moaned into his mouth against the glass windows like the world hadn’t mattered.

And then Johnny saw it.

A piece of hotel notepad paper, scribbled in messy, rushed handwriting, sitting next to the untouched mini Pringles can on the nightstand.

He picked it up, rubbing at his eyes as he read.

-

johnny,

i’m sorry.

i’m so so so so so SO sorry.

i forgot i have this dumb shitty job and i was already cutting it dangerously close.

not that i regret last night. at ALL. seriously.

but i didn’t want to wake you because you looked… i don’t know. peaceful. like you hadn’t slept that well in months.

anyway. i’m rambling. i do that.

here’s all the ways to reach me because i’m insane and i’d actually cry if you didn’t:

• cell: 917-555-2064
  
  
• insta: @websnappp (3 p’s, the other ones were taken)
  
  
• twitter: @spideysnaps (don’t judge me)
  
  
• email: [email protected] (yes it’s real)

i’ll make it up to you. i swear. just… don’t disappear.

—peter

(again. so sorry.)

Johnny stared at the note.

Then read it again.

And then again, this time with a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face.

He reached for his phone immediately and saved every single piece of contact info. All of them. Even the embarrassingly dorky ones. Especially the embarrassingly dorky ones.

He added little hearts next to Peter’s name in his contacts.

Then, on impulse, he hit call.

It rang.

No answer.

He flopped back onto the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, lips twitching. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, he tried again.

This time, the line picked up halfway through the first ring.

“Hello?” came Peter’s voice, breathless and muffled by static. “Who is—wait, sorry, it’s loud. Who is this?”

Johnny smirked. “Guess I’m eating that omelet alone.”

Silence.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Peter said, voice cracking in that way Johnny was already kind of obsessed with. “Johnny?”

“Hi,” Johnny said casually, grinning. “Thanks for the handwritten breakup letter. It was very romantic.”

“I didn’t—” Peter sputtered. “It wasn’t—I had to leave for work! It’s not even a good job, okay? It’s dumb and soul-crushing and I hate it and I almost didn’t go but I can’t afford to get fired.”

Johnny chuckled. “Hey. I’m teasing. Mostly. You left your hoodie though.”

“I folded it!”

“I know. You little neat freak.”

Peter groaned, and Johnny could practically hear him dragging a hand down his face on the other end.

“Where are you now?” Johnny asked.

“Uh. In the backroom of Joe’s Pizza on 14th. I’m on break. I smell like grease. I haven’t had a single second to sit down since I got here. I think my feet are going to fall off.”

Johnny glanced at the time. It was barely 11 a.m.

“Jesus. When do you get off?”

Peter sighed. “Eight. PM. Maybe later if Steve makes me do the register again.”

Johnny winced. “That’s criminal.”

“Tell that to my bills.”

There was a beat.

Then Johnny said, softly, “You free after?”

Peter hesitated. “…I mean, I guess?”

“Good,” Johnny said. “I’m picking your handsome ass up.”

Peter laughed, caught off guard. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“You think I can’t figure it out? I have your number, your socials, your email address, Pete. I could find your taxes if I wanted to.”

“Oh my God, please don’t.”

“Relax. I’m just gonna show up out front when your shift ends. Very normal. Very sexy. Very rockstar boyfriend of me.”

Peter made a choking sound. “Rockstar what now?”

“See you at eight,” Johnny said, already sliding off the bed to grab his shoes. “Don’t be late. And you should wear the hoodie. It looks better on you.”

“Wait, Johnny—” Peter started, but the line disconnected.

Johnny tossed the phone onto the bed, heart racing just a little faster than it had that morning. He was still grinning as he grabbed his keys.

-

7:57 p.m.

Peter was sweaty.

His hair was a mess, his apron was stained with flour and sauce, and he was 99% sure he had marinara on his cheek. He hadn’t looked in a mirror since his lunch break. He smelled like dough and despair.

Which, of course, is exactly when Johnny Storm decided to show up.

Peter stepped out the front door of Joe’s Pizza, squinting into the golden dusk—and spotted him instantly.

Leaning against a black Audi like a music video cliché, Johnny wore dark jeans, boots, and Peter’s old hoodie—the one he’d left behind. Hair tousled. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was nearly gone.

He looked like trouble.

Peter looked like he’d been hit by a pizza truck.

Johnny grinned as soon as he saw him. “There he is.”

Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Johnny said, pushing off the car and walking over. “You smell like garlic knots.”

“I warned you.”

“I love garlic knots.”

Peter lowered his hands and blinked up at him. “Why are you wearing my hoodie?”

Johnny shrugged. “It smells like you.”

Peter’s brain short-circuited.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said weakly.

Johnny reached up and tucked a sweaty curl behind Peter’s ear. “You tired?”

Peter nodded. “Dead on my feet.”

“Great. Let’s go feed you.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I didn’t get to make you breakfast. Now I’m making you dinner.”

Peter gave him a wary look. “Is this gonna be another lobster tartare situation?”

Johnny leaned in, brushing their noses together. “Only if you want it to be.”

Peter bit his lip, heart stuttering.

Johnny tilted his head. “C’mon, Parker. Let me spoil you.”

Peter hesitated. Then, quietly, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Peter looked down at their hands. “I’m not used to people doing things for me.”

Johnny’s voice softened. “Then get used to me.”

Peter looked up.

And smiled.

-

They didn’t go somewhere five-star. Johnny drove him to a late-night diner across the bridge—one with spinning stools and cheap coffee and a jukebox that barely worked. Peter ordered pancakes and bacon. Johnny got waffles with strawberries and extra whipped cream.

It was perfect.

They laughed too loudly. Shared bites. Johnny wiped syrup off Peter’s cheek with his thumb and looked like he’d never been more content in his life.

Peter watched him across the table—this loud, chaotic, messy boy with more charm than sense—and thought, This might actually be something.

-

It had become something of a habit.

Johnny, sprawled out on his obscenely comfortable king-sized bed in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, legs tangled in expensive sheets, scrolling through Peter’s Instagram like it was the only thing worth looking at.

And honestly? It kind of was.

He’d seen every post. More than once. Some of them ten times over. But that didn’t stop him from going back. From revisiting them the way someone might reread a favorite book, or replay a memory they weren’t ready to let go of.

A selfie in a mirror, Peter’s camera half hiding his face.

A photo of a pizza with a crooked smiley face made of pepperoni.

A black-and-white shot of the Brooklyn Bridge, captioned with “forgot to breathe for a minute.”

A blurry snap of a concert—his concert—from the crowd, dated long before they ever met.

Johnny paused on that one.

He stared at it for a long time, his finger hovering just above the heart button. But he didn’t press it.

He liked keeping it his secret.

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You’re so pretty, Pete.”

Right on cue, his phone buzzed.

Incoming Call: Peter Parker❤️

Johnny lit up immediately.

“Speak of the devil,” he said to no one, hitting accept with a grin and tossing his phone on speaker. “Hey, babe.”

But what came through the speaker wasn’t a snarky reply. Or a laugh. Or even the sound of Peter’s stupid register voice.

It was crying.

Choked, quiet sobs. Hiccuped breathing. Wet, panicked gasps.

Johnny sat upright like he’d been shocked. “Peter?”

The sobbing on the other end didn’t stop. It cracked louder, closer to a wail, and Johnny was already on his feet.

“Pete, talk to me,” he said, urgent now. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”

“I—I’m—” Peter’s voice finally broke through, trembling and small. “I’m sorry. I’m so—fuck, I didn’t know who else—”

“You’re fine. You called the right person. Just tell me where you are.”

Peter sucked in a breath that rattled. “Outside my apartment. Or—what used to be. They—they locked me out. Said I missed rent too many times. I—I thought I had more time but—”

Johnny didn’t wait for the rest. He was already pulling on jeans, shoving his feet into boots. “Send me the address. I’m coming right now.”

Peter was still crying. “Johnny, I don’t—where would I even go? I don’t have anywhere, I don’t—”

“You’re coming to me,” Johnny said, not even thinking. “Just stay there. You’re coming to live with me for a while. You’re not sleeping on some sidewalk. Not while I’m breathing.”

Peter broke again on the other end, crying harder.

It shattered something in Johnny.

“Hey,” he said softly, grabbing his keys. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter kept repeating. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Johnny said, already in the elevator. “The world sucks sometimes. You? You’re just surviving. And now you’ve got me. That’s all that matters.”

Peter was quiet, sniffling.

Johnny squeezed the steering wheel as he got into the car. “You’re gonna come stay in my room. My bed. You can steal all my hoodies and use all the hot water and leave your camera shit everywhere. I don’t care. I just want you safe, okay?”

There was silence. Then, finally—

“…Okay,” Peter whispered. “Okay.”

-

When Johnny pulled up to the address Peter had sent, he saw him immediately.

Peter was curled up on the concrete step, a black duffel beside him, his knees hugged to his chest. His hoodie—Johnny’s hoodie, now stretched and worn from too many wears—looked too big on him in the best way. His face was blotchy from crying, and his eyes were rimmed red, but when he looked up and saw Johnny, something cracked open in him.

Johnny killed the engine and was out of the car before Peter could stand.

He reached him in three strides and dropped to a crouch in front of him, hands hovering just above Peter’s knees like he wanted to touch him but didn’t want to startle him.

Peter looked at him with watery eyes, and Johnny felt his heart twist.

“I got you,” Johnny said gently. “Okay? I’ve got you.”

Peter didn’t say anything—just surged forward into Johnny’s arms, burying his face in his neck.

Johnny held him tight.

The ride back was mostly silent.

Peter kept glancing out the window like he couldn’t believe this was real, like it was all going to be taken away. Johnny didn’t pressure him to talk. He just kept a hand on Peter’s knee, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles as they drove.

When they reached the penthouse, Johnny led him in without ceremony.

The place was empty—Reed was holed up in his lab, Sue was in France on a shoot, and Ben was probably at a bar watching baseball.

Which meant they had the whole place to themselves.

Johnny didn’t even think about offering Peter the guest room. He led him straight to his bedroom.

“Make yourself at home,” Johnny said, nudging the door open with his hip and tossing his keys on the nightstand. “Seriously. Whatever’s mine is yours.”

Peter looked around like he’d stepped into a different universe. “You live like this?”

Johnny huffed a laugh. “Technically I live with this. Sue’s the one with the real taste. I just buy everything in black and hope for the best.”

Peter managed a weak smile.

Johnny moved closer, brushing a thumb across Peter’s cheek. “You good to shower? I can order food, throw something on Netflix. Or we can just sleep. Whatever you want.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Shower sounds good.”

Johnny kissed his temple. “I’ll find you something soft to wear.”

By the time Peter came out—hair wet, dressed in one of Johnny’s old T-shirts and sweats far too big for him—Johnny had already pulled back the covers and set out snacks on the bedside table.

Peter looked like he wanted to cry again.

“Hey,” Johnny said, sliding in beside him. “None of that. You’re safe now. This is home, okay? As long as you want.”

Peter crawled into bed slowly and tucked himself into Johnny’s side, pressing his face into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Johnny held him tighter, kissing the top of his head.

“You’re never gonna have to find out.”

-

Peter didn’t mean to fall into domesticity so easily.

But falling into Johnny? That had always felt inevitable.

It wasn’t supposed to be this easy—waking up every morning tangled in warm sheets and warmer arms, kissing slow and sleepy before either of them could fully open their eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy to find peace in a penthouse bedroom when he’d just been sleeping on concrete two weeks ago.

But somehow, Johnny made everything feel like it had always been meant.

-

Peter was still getting used to it.

The oversized windows. The constant hum of the city below. The way Reed’s science equipment buzzed in strange tones at random hours of the night. The way Johnny would disappear for ten minutes and come back with a smoothie, a hoodie, or a song half-written about Peter’s dimples.

He didn’t quite know how to exist in this world.

But he was trying. And Johnny never once rushed him.

They kissed constantly now.

In the kitchen, barefoot, laughing through toothpaste foam. In the hallway, on the way to brush shoulders while Peter gathered his laundry. Against the windows at night, Johnny whispering, “How did I get this lucky?” into his mouth.

Johnny was touchy, affectionate, always reaching for him—fingers in Peter’s hair, arm around his waist, hand tucked into his back pocket in the most annoying, wonderful way.

Peter teased him for it.

Johnny never apologized.

“You live here,” he’d said once, grin crooked. “I get to kiss you whenever the hell I want.”

Peter never argued again.

-

Then came the introductions.

“This is gonna suck,” Johnny warned, smoothing Peter’s hair down unnecessarily as they waited for Ben to answer the door. “But only because they’re weird. Not because they won’t like you. You’re—you’re you. You’re impossible not to love.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Are you nervous?”

Johnny blinked. “Shut up.”

The door opened.

And then Ben was lifting Peter clean off the floor in a bear hug.

“This is the one, huh?” Ben bellowed, laughing before Peter could even gasp out a hello. “Looks like Johnny finally brought someone around that isn’t terrifyingly shallow. Damn miracle!”

Peter choked out a laugh, flustered. “Uh—hi?”

Sue was next. Elegant, poised, sipping wine as she came to lean against the kitchen island. “You’re Peter. The Peter.”

“Um… guilty?”

Sue smiled. “You’re cuter than the Instagram lets on.”

Johnny choked.

Reed didn’t even look up from his tablet. “He touched my experiments,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Peter tilted his head. “Was it the floating jelly cube?”

Reed looked up, surprised. “You understood it?”

“Sort of,” Peter said sheepishly. “I took a few advanced chem classes in college. For photography. Don’t ask.”

Reed blinked. “Fascinating.”

Johnny leaned into Peter’s side and whispered, “That’s Reed-speak for I like you now.”

Peter’s heart was a mess for the rest of the night.

-

Over the next week, Peter found himself naturally folding into Johnny’s life.

He got used to the sound of Johnny singing from the shower.

He got used to the “do not enter” sign Reed hung whenever a live experiment was involved.

He got used to Sue casually borrowing his moisturizer and saying things like “Peter, you need a red carpet wardrobe and I’m fixing that.”

And Johnny—well, Johnny was everywhere.

Literally.

One morning, Peter stumbled into the guest room-turned-studio and found post-its on every surface.

“Song title: Kiss You at the Window.”

“Verse idea: You made a palace out of panic.”

“Line I like: Took your picture, forgot to breathe.”

“Reminder: He likes blueberry pancakes.”

Peter stood there for a full minute just staring.

He took a photo of every single one.

It all felt perfect.

Almost too perfect.

Which is why Peter wasn’t entirely surprised when it cracked.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

Johnny winced. “It’s just a short tour. A month. Maybe six weeks max.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Right. Of course.”

Johnny watched him. “Say what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Peter said too quickly. “You’re a rockstar. You tour. That’s what you do.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, stepping forward, “but now I’ve got something I don’t want to leave behind.”

Peter looked up at him, eyes flickering.

Johnny took his hands. “Come with me.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Come with me,” Johnny repeated. “On tour. We’ve got the room. I’ll make sure you’ve got space to breathe, to shoot, to do whatever you want. Just—come with me. Please.”

Peter laughed nervously. “You say that like I can just drop everything.”

“You can,” Johnny said, grinning. “Because you live with me now. And you work for me now. Congratulations, you’re my full-time boyfriend-slash-photographer-slash-heart thief.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You are such a dork.”

“But a charming dork,” Johnny said. “One who wants to fall asleep on a tour bus next to you every night.”

Peter hesitated. “Johnny…”

“Please,” Johnny said, softer now. “I—I need you there. I don’t want to do this without you.”

Peter looked down at their joined hands. At the way Johnny was gripping them like Peter was the thing keeping him grounded.

And for once, Peter didn’t think about money. Or rent. Or guilt.

He thought about Johnny singing in hotel hallways. Johnny handing him coffee before he asked for it. Johnny whispering “stay with me” in his sleep.

“…Okay,” Peter said.

Johnny blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, smiling softly. “Let’s do it. Let’s go.”

Johnny’s grin was immediate and blinding.

He cupped Peter’s face, kissed him like the world was ending.

Peter let himself fall into it completely.

-

Two weeks later, they were on the road.

Peter sitting cross-legged on the tour bus, editing photos from the crowd. Johnny lounging beside him in sweatpants and eyeliner, plucking at his guitar, humming softly.

They kissed constantly still—behind stage curtains, on empty rooftops, in diner booths at 2 a.m. Peter took photos of it all. The messy, electric magic of their life. The quiet touches. The nights they fell asleep in the same hoodie. The mornings they watched the sun rise through cracked blinds, whispering promises into each other’s mouths.

It wasn’t always easy.

But it was theirs.

And Johnny, leaning into Peter during an interview and calling him “my muse” with zero shame?

That made it all worth it.

-

Peter hadn’t meant to post the photos.

Or, rather—he had. Just not all of them.

He’d been scrolling through his camera roll late one night, legs tangled in Johnny’s on the tour bus couch, the low hum of the road like a lullaby outside the windows. Johnny was dozing against his shoulder, hair still damp from the post-show shower, his hand loosely curled in Peter’s hoodie like he couldn’t bear not to be touching him.

And Peter—tired, sappy, completely in love—had clicked share without overthinking it.

The first photo was of Johnny mid-performance, mic in one hand, sweat shining on his collarbones, fire in his eyes.

The next was softer—Johnny tying his boot backstage, brows furrowed in focus, tongue peeking out between his lips.

Then one of him laughing over coffee. Another of him asleep in Peter’s lap, curled like a cat.

And finally, one Peter almost didn’t post—

A mirror shot, the two of them cheek-to-cheek in a green room bathroom. Johnny with eyeliner smudged under his eyes, and Peter looking at him like he hung the moon.

The caption was short:

@websnappp

just a few ways he shines.

He locked the phone and buried his nose in Johnny’s hair.

-

By the time Peter woke up the next morning, the post had blown up.

Hundreds of thousands of likes.

Tens of thousands of comments.

New followers pouring in.

Verified accounts tagging him in stories.

Fan pages cropping up with names like webstormed and johnnysnap.

Peter blinked blearily at the screen. “Oh my God.”

Johnny sat up slowly beside him, rubbing his eyes. “Wha’s wrong?”

“You’re trending,” Peter said faintly.

Johnny yawned. “Cool. I trend all the time.”

Peter turned the phone so he could see.

Johnny squinted. “Wait. That’s your post.”

Peter nodded, heart racing. “I think we broke the internet.”

Johnny stared at the screen, then at Peter.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Warm. Proud.

“Good,” he said, voice still husky. “They should see me the way you do.”

Peter’s heart squeezed.

Johnny leaned over, kissed his cheek, then stretched like a cat. “Guess I’m gonna have to dedicate a song to you tonight.”

Peter laughed. “Don’t you dare.”

Johnny winked. “Too late.”

The venue that night was packed.

Buzzing.

The energy backstage was electric, but Johnny was calm. Focused. Steady.

Peter watched him from just offstage, camera around his neck, heart thudding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.

And when Johnny stepped out into the lights—

When he opened his mouth and let the first notes pour out, powerful and raw—

Peter felt like the whole world stilled to listen.

He was mesmerizing. Untouchable. Loud and reckless and good.

And somehow, when their eyes met in the crowd—

Peter knew it was all for him.

-

Later, when the show was over, when the crowd had screamed themselves hoarse, when Johnny had soaked through two shirts and barely stopped smiling—Peter found him again.

Backstage. Alone. Leaning against a stack of amps, skin still glowing, adrenaline still humming just beneath the surface.

Johnny looked up, eyes finding Peter’s instantly.

He grinned. “Did you see when I almost ate it during that last jump?”

Peter dropped the camera and walked right into him.

Johnny caught him easily, arms winding around his waist. “Hey, what’s up—?”

Peter kissed him.

Hard. Deep. Hungry.

Johnny made a surprised sound against his mouth, gripping him tighter.

Peter broke the kiss long enough to say, “We need to go.”

Johnny blinked. “Go where?”

“Anywhere. Just—somewhere private.”

Johnny stared at him.

Peter’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. “I want you.”

A beat.

Johnny’s breath hitched. “You sure?”

Peter nodded. “Been sure since the first time you let me wear your hoodie.”

Johnny’s laugh was strangled. “That was two days after we met.”

“Exactly.”

Johnny kissed him again, slower this time. Sweeter.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

They made it to the hotel room without a word.

The door barely clicked shut before Peter was on him again—grabbing at his shirt, tugging him in, mouths colliding like gravity couldn’t be denied.

Johnny let him.

Let him take control. Let him lead.

He let Peter shove his jacket off, fingers shaking only slightly. Let him drag the shirt up and over his head, dropping it to the floor. Let him look.

“God,” Peter breathed, stepping back just enough to drink him in.

Johnny smiled, nervous and fond. “That a good ‘God’ or a ‘please put your clothes back on’ God?”

Peter stepped forward again and kissed his throat. “The first one.”

They stumbled backward toward the bed, laughing breathlessly between kisses.

Johnny helped him out of his hoodie, then his shirt, fingers gentle and slow.

He kissed every inch of skin he revealed, like he couldn’t help it.

Peter’s breath caught when Johnny pressed his lips just below his collarbone.

Then lower.

And lower still.

“Wait,” Peter whispered, hands fisting in Johnny’s hair. “Slow down.”

Johnny paused immediately, looking up. “Too much?”

Peter shook his head. “No. Just—I want to remember this.”

Johnny climbed up to kiss his mouth again. “Then let’s go slow.”

Clothes fell away piece by piece.

Peter was blushing but undeterred, hands bolder now as he touched every inch of Johnny he could reach.

And Johnny—he was soft with him.

Patient.

He let Peter explore. Let him take his time. Let him fumble a little and laugh and whisper things like “you’re so hot it’s unfair” right into his skin.

They moved together, slow and close, every second of it full of heat and reverence.

When they finally sank into each other—

When Peter gasped and buried his face in Johnny’s neck—

When Johnny whispered, “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

It felt like the stars had aligned.

After, they didn’t speak for a while.

Just lay there, tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin, Johnny’s fingers tracing idle patterns across Peter’s bare back.

Peter was still catching his breath, cheek pressed to Johnny’s chest, heart still racing.

Johnny kissed his temple.

Peter whispered, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Johnny stilled.

Peter blinked, immediately flustered. “Shit. I mean—I am, but I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that—”

Johnny kissed him.

Then again.

Then pulled him fully on top of him, hands cupping his face.

“I love you too,” Johnny said, grinning. “Been in love with you since you folded your hoodie on my hotel bed and left me a note.”

Peter laughed, helpless and bright.

They kissed again, deeper this time, and Johnny smiled against his mouth.

“Next time I trend,” Johnny whispered, “it better be because I proposed to you on stage.”

Peter choked. “What?!”

Johnny just laughed and pulled him close again.

And Peter—flushed and giddy and completely gone for him—buried his face in Johnny’s neck and said, “You’re insane.”

Johnny grinned. “Yeah. Insane for you.”

-

The Morning After

Peter woke slowly.

The sheets were tangled around his legs, sunlight spilling through tall hotel windows, casting golden light across Johnny’s bare shoulder where it peeked out from under the comforter.

Johnny was still asleep.

And God, he was beautiful.

His hair was sticking up in every direction. One arm was flung out across the pillow, the other curled tightly around Peter’s waist like even in sleep, he wasn’t willing to let go. His lips were parted, soft breath escaping. Completely peaceful. Completely unaware of the fact that Peter had never felt this full of something in his entire life.

Peter didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Just let himself take it in—the warmth of Johnny’s skin against his, the memory of last night still blooming fresh between his legs and deeper in his chest. His whole body ached in the best possible way, muscles sore but satisfied, heart still thudding like it was trying to catch up.

He bit his lip, smiling to himself.

Johnny Storm had rocked his entire world.

And then some.

After a few quiet minutes, Johnny stirred.

A soft groan escaped him as he blinked blearily up at the ceiling, arm tightening reflexively around Peter’s waist like he already knew who he was holding before his brain caught up.

“Mmm… morning,” Johnny rasped, voice wrecked and lovely.

Peter leaned in, kissed the underside of his jaw. “Good morning, rockstar.”

Johnny let out a sleepy laugh, eyes still half-closed. “God, you’re still here. I was ninety percent sure I dreamed that.”

Peter flushed, fingers gently tracing circles on Johnny’s chest. “You dream about me often?”

Johnny cracked one eye open. “Like, embarrassingly often.”

Peter buried his smile in Johnny’s neck, warm and sleepy. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“No,” Johnny whispered, pulling him closer. “It really fucking wasn’t.”

They stayed like that for a while, quiet and comfortable, legs tangled and hearts settled.

Eventually, Johnny rolled slightly to face him, hand sliding under the blanket to rest at Peter’s hip. “How are you feeling?”

Peter looked at him. “Good. Really good.”

Johnny searched his face, a little more awake now. “Not sore?”

Peter laughed. “I am sore. But in a way I’m not complaining about.”

Johnny grinned, proud and a little smug. “I knew I rocked your world.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re glowing.”

Peter flushed even harder. “Shut up.”

Johnny kissed him softly, lips barely brushing. “Seriously, though. That was… amazing. You’re amazing.”

Peter’s throat got tight. “You made me feel safe. That’s… not something I’m used to.”

Johnny held him tighter. “Then get used to it. You’ve got me now. For real.”

Peter’s eyes burned. He kissed Johnny before he could start crying.

-

Later That Morning

Room service arrived with fruit, waffles, coffee, and enough whipped cream for a party.

Peter had a camera in one hand, a fork in the other, and Johnny was shirtless and posing dramatically with a strawberry between his teeth.

“You’re ridiculous,” Peter said, snapping the photo anyway.

“Ridiculously hot,” Johnny corrected, flashing a grin. “Post that one. Let the people know I’m in love and well-fed.”

Peter laughed, shaking his head. “I should start charging you for how good I make you look.”

“Oh, baby, you are charging me,” Johnny said, winking. “Every kiss, every cuddle—straight up emotional highway robbery.”

Peter threw a grape at him.

Johnny caught it in his mouth.

-

The Next City on Tour: Seattle

The bus pulled into the hotel lot just after midnight.

Rain streaked the windows as Peter woke to the sound of low chatter and the rustle of duffels being pulled down. He blinked sleepily, still curled into Johnny’s side on the couch they’d claimed as their bed for most of the drive.

Johnny was already up, barefoot, pulling a hoodie over his head.

Peter sat up, yawning. “Are we here?”

“Seattle, baby,” Johnny said, offering him a hand. “Land of rain, coffee, and a venue shaped like a flying saucer.”

Peter groaned as he stood, rubbing his eyes. “It’s raining.”

Johnny kissed his temple. “Good thing you’ve got someone to keep you warm.”

Peter let himself be led off the bus, duffel slung over his shoulder. The rain was steady but gentle, and the city lights made everything glow like a dream.

The hotel was high-end—of course it was—and their room had a skyline view that immediately stole Peter’s breath.

Johnny stood behind him at the window, arms wrapping around his waist.

“Worth the trip?” he murmured.

Peter leaned back into him. “Definitely.”

-

Seattle Day 2

The venue was packed.

Louder than the last city. More energy. More screaming. And Peter was backstage again, camera in hand, trying not to grin every time Johnny looked his way mid-song like he was singing just for him.

Half the crowd was holding signs with “websnappp” written across them.

Johnny had posted Peter’s concert photos on his own account—captioned “he sees me better than anyone ever has.”

Peter had gained a million followers in four days.

But none of that mattered when Johnny dropped to his knees onstage during the final ballad, reached out toward the crowd, and locked eyes with Peter like there wasn’t a single other soul in the room.

Peter’s heart pounded.

When Johnny came offstage, sweaty and breathless and glowing, he pulled Peter into his arms without hesitation, lifting him off the ground.

“You’re insane,” Peter whispered against his neck.

Johnny grinned, breath hot against his cheek. “Only for you.”

-

Later that night, they sat out on the hotel balcony, sharing a blanket and sipping hot chocolate from room service.

Peter leaned into Johnny’s shoulder. “Do you ever get tired of this?”

“The shows?”

Peter nodded.

Johnny thought for a moment. “I get tired of the schedule. The pressure. The media. But not the music. And not—” he turned slightly to press a kiss behind Peter’s ear, “—this.”

Peter smiled. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not getting tired of you either.”

Johnny sighed dramatically. “Great. Now I have to write a song called ‘Not Tired of You.’”

Peter snorted. “Please don’t.”

“Too late,” Johnny said. “It’s already in the works.”

They kissed slowly that night, the sound of rain against the windows, the soft city hum just beyond the glass.

Johnny rested his forehead against Peter’s. “Every city, every crowd—I’m only ever looking for you.”

Peter didn’t have the words.

So he just kissed him again.

Long. Deep. Full of promise.

-

-

It was stupid.

That was the worst part.

Their first real fight, and it was over something so dumb it barely even deserved a label. A passing comment, a misread tone, both of them tired, hungry, in the middle of travel chaos. Johnny had come off a brutal interview, Peter had been trying to help him decompress—and somewhere between “you need to take a breath” and “you don’t get it,” things snapped.

Johnny raised his voice. Peter rolled his eyes.

Peter tried to walk away. Johnny made the mistake of saying, “Right, go hide behind your camera again.”

Peter froze.

Johnny knew the second it left his mouth that it was too much. But it was too late.

Peter didn’t yell back. He just looked at him—hurt, betrayed, distant in a way Johnny had never seen before—and said quietly, “Got it.”

Then he walked out.

-

Johnny didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He paced the hotel room, replayed it again and again in his head, furious with himself. He didn’t even mean it. He was just tired. Stressed. And scared—because tomorrow night, in the middle of a sold-out show in Portland, he was planning to debut a brand-new song.

A love song.

For Peter.

The one he’d spent weeks writing in secret. The one Peter still didn’t know about. The one that had lines in it like “I breathe better when you’re near” and “you made safety feel like firelight.”

And now?

Now Peter hadn’t texted him since.

-

The next night, the venue was packed.

But Johnny felt like a ghost inside his own skin.

Rehearsal was mechanical. Hair and makeup was rushed. No interviews. No press. Just the dull throb of a heart that hadn’t seen Peter’s face in over 24 hours.

The crew tried not to ask questions.

But they all saw it—Johnny, quieter than ever. Not laughing. Not teasing. Barely eating. Moving like he’d misplaced a part of himself.

He hadn’t misplaced it.

He’d hurt it.

-

Johnny stood in the wings, mic in hand, heartbeat hammering as the opening acts cleared off stage.

“Storm, you ready?” the stage manager asked.

No.

“Yes,” Johnny said.

He forced his shoulders back. Stepped out under the lights.

The crowd exploded, deafening, euphoric.

But Johnny didn’t smile.

Not yet.

He sang the first few songs like a machine. Pitch perfect, energetic, hitting every mark—but without him. Without the heat he usually had when he knew Peter was watching from the side, camera in hand, mouth tugging upward whenever their eyes met.

Tonight, there was no camera. No smile.

No Peter.

Three songs from the end, he paused.

The lights dimmed. The crowd settled.

He adjusted the mic, looked out across the sea of people—and exhaled slowly.

“This one’s new,” he said, voice low. “It’s… I wrote it for someone.”

A murmur moved through the crowd.

Johnny blinked hard.

“I don’t usually get personal like this,” he added. “But this… is kind of everything.”

He didn’t give them a name. Didn’t say Peter’s.

But every word that followed screamed it.

He started to play.

It was soft. Raw. Acoustic. Just him, his guitar, and a heart he’d ripped wide open on the page.

“ I used to feel small when the silence fell

Now your name is the space where I learned to yell

You taught me light wasn’t just something to fear

You made the noise in my head disappear…”

The first tear slipped free somewhere in the second verse.

He tried to blink it away. Swallowed hard. Kept going.

But by the chorus, it was useless.

His voice cracked.

He stumbled.

And then—he cried.

Right there.

On stage.

In front of thousands.

He dropped his head for a second, hand trembling over the strings. Tried to laugh, to pass it off. “Sorry—shit, sorry, didn’t mean to—”

The crowd didn’t boo.

They didn’t get restless.

They cheered.

Because he was human. Because he was in love.

Because somehow, all that pain meant something.

But Johnny didn’t see them.

He was staring down at the mic, breath shallow, whispering to himself like a prayer.

“Please don’t let me lose him.”

And then—

A hand.

Soft and warm, slipping into his.

Johnny looked up—

And Peter was there.

On stage. In front of everyone.

Eyes wide. Wet. Glowing.

He reached up and cupped Johnny’s jaw with shaking fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Johnny’s whole body trembled.

Peter smiled at him, small and sure, and leaned in—

And kissed him.

Right there.

Center stage.

Public. Obvious. Undeniable.

The crowd erupted.

Flashes. Screams. Applause so loud it shook the rafters.

Johnny curled his hand around the back of Peter’s neck, kissing him deeper, real, thankful, like he was terrified the moment would vanish if he let go.

When they pulled apart, foreheads touching, Johnny whispered, “That song… it’s yours. I wrote it for you. Every goddamn line.”

Peter nodded. “I know. I could feel it.”

Johnny pulled in a shaking breath. “Can I try again?”

Peter stepped back, squeezed his hand. “I’d love that.”

Johnny turned back to the crowd, still dazed.

He wiped his face, adjusted the mic again.

“This is for the person who saved my life without even trying,” he said, steadier now. “This is for Peter.”

And this time—he sang it right.

Voice strong.

Eyes clear.

A little broken. But better. Healing.

Because Peter was watching.

And Peter was his.

After the show, they barely made it to the green room before Johnny was all over him.

Kissing him breathless. Gripping him like he’d never let go again.

Peter laughed between kisses. “You cried in front of ten thousand people.”

Johnny groaned, face in Peter’s neck. “Don’t remind me.”

“You’re trending again.”

“I hate this.”

“You don’t,” Peter said, grinning. “You cried for me.”

Johnny looked up, brushing hair from Peter’s forehead. “I’d cry for you a thousand times if it meant you’d still kiss me after.”

Peter kissed him again.

Long. Deep. Real.

-

Later that night, lying in bed tangled together, Peter whispered, “I’m sorry too, y’know.”

Johnny pulled him closer. “Don’t be. It was me. I let stress turn into something ugly.”

Peter shook his head. “We both messed up. But… I’m glad we didn’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

Johnny pressed a kiss behind his ear. “We’re gonna fight sometimes.”

“But we’re gonna love harder,” Peter whispered.

Johnny smiled into his skin. “Forever and ever.”

Peter blinked. “Wait—are you proposing again?”

Johnny smirked. “Not officially.”

Peter rolled his eyes, laughing.

But that night, before sleep took them, he whispered, “Someday… I’ll say yes.”

And Johnny—heart full, soul safe—slept like he hadn’t in years.

-

-

It started with a lie.

Or, well—a misdirection, as Johnny liked to call it.

“We’re going big in L.A.,” he said casually one morning, over breakfast in bed. “Massive crowd. End of the West Coast leg. You should wear something ridiculously hot.”

Peter, half-asleep and covered in croissant flakes, blinked at him. “Are you… flirting with me while insulting my usual fashion sense?”

“I’m multitasking,” Johnny grinned, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Also, Reed might be flying in. Y’know, science thing. Big lab out there.”

Peter raised a brow. “Reed willingly attending a concert?”

Johnny shrugged, clearly suppressing a smirk. “Maybe he’s evolving.”

Peter didn’t question it again.

But maybe he should have.

Because Johnny was planning something.

Something huge.

-

By the time they arrived at the L.A. venue, Peter could feel the difference.

There was an energy. A strange hush just under the usual chaos. More people backstage. More wires. More light tech.

And then—

He saw Sue.

“In Chanel?” Peter muttered to himself as she stepped down from a sleek black SUV, sunglasses on, camera-ready.

Ben followed behind, carrying what looked suspiciously like a flask and an entire bag of merch. And then Reed stepped out last, glancing around the venue like it offended him on a molecular level.

Peter stared.

Johnny appeared at his side moments later, all casual charm and innocent blinking. “Oh, did I forget to tell you my whole family decided to show up tonight?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “What are they doing here?”

Johnny kissed his cheek. “Moral support.”

Peter wasn’t sure if that answer satisfied or terrified him.

-

He forgot about it briefly once the show began.

As always, the moment Johnny stepped on stage, the world narrowed to sound and firelight. Every note hit Peter square in the chest. Every smile aimed his way made his knees weak. Every lyric felt more personal now that he knew just how deeply Johnny felt them.

But Johnny looked nervous.

Even as he performed, Peter could see it—the shift in his weight, the slightly tighter grip on his guitar, the way he kept scanning the crowd like he was waiting for something.

Peter moved toward the wings.

Closer. Watching.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

Until it happened.

-

Three songs before the end, Johnny asked for the lights to drop.

Spotlight. Just him.

He stepped forward, gripping the mic like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“There’s someone here tonight,” he said, “who changed everything for me.”

The crowd stirred.

Peter’s heart stopped.

“I used to think I needed noise to feel real,” Johnny continued, voice softer now. “But then someone came along who made silence feel safe.”

He strummed once, then again—starting a melody Peter didn’t recognize.

“This song is new,” Johnny said. “And terrifying. And probably the most honest thing I’ve ever written.”

Peter leaned forward, breath caught in his chest.

Johnny started to sing.

The song was soft. Acoustic. A love letter disguised as music.

“Before you, it was flashes

Crowds and ash and empty glasses

But now, there’s morning light on skin

A reason to let the quiet in…”

Peter felt it immediately.

The trembling in Johnny’s voice.

The shimmer of nerves bleeding into the melody.

And then—mid-verse—

Johnny faltered.

His breath caught. He dropped his gaze.

The guitar slipped slightly from his grasp.

He staggered a little on his feet.

And then—

He dropped to his knees.

The crowd gasped.

Peter ran.

He moved before he could even think, camera abandoned, pushing past crew, barreling across the stage with a desperate, “Johnny?”

Johnny looked up, eyes shining—

And smiled.

Peter froze.

Because Johnny wasn’t crumbling.

He was waiting.

And then, from his pocket, Johnny pulled out a small velvet box.

Peter’s breath left his lungs.

Johnny opened it.

A ring. Simple. Silver. Radiant.

The whole venue screamed.

Peter’s hands flew to his mouth.

Johnny took a shaky breath. “Told you I’d cry for you a thousand times if it meant you’d still kiss me after.”

Peter laughed, breathless and emotional.

Johnny continued, “I thought I’d spend my life singing about heartbreak. About the ones who left. About pain. And then you showed up—messy hair, camera bag, telling me I needed better lighting—”

The crowd laughed.

Peter was crying.

“—and suddenly all I wanted to sing about was you.”

Johnny held the ring up.

“So, Peter Benjamin Parker… will you marry me?”

Peter didn’t speak.

He tackled him.

Dropped to his knees, kissed him with everything he had, barely remembering the stage, the crowd, the lights, the family watching from the front row.

When they finally pulled apart, flushed and panting and laughing—

Peter cupped Johnny’s face and whispered, “Yes. Of course yes. Always yes.”

Johnny let out a breathless laugh that cracked into a sob.

He slipped the ring onto Peter’s finger with shaking hands.

The crowd was losing their minds.

They stayed there, on their knees, forehead to forehead, the world spinning around them.

Johnny sniffled. “You ruined my dramatic fake breakdown.”

Peter wiped his tears. “You ruined my ability to breathe.”

Johnny pulled him close again, laughing into his neck. “I love you so fucking much.”

Peter kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me now.”

From the front row, Sue wiped tears from her face with a designer sleeve.

Ben was already shouting, “’Bout damn time!” loud enough for the back of the venue to hear.

Reed, for once, looked actually moved—his hand finding Sue’s shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of affection.

Backstage, the crew was crying. A cameraman had literally dropped his rig.

And somewhere on the internet, the moment was already trending worldwide.

Johnny stood again, tugging Peter up with him.

The crowd chanted “kiss him again!” and Johnny—ever the showman—glanced down at Peter and said, “Whaddya think? Give the people what they want?”

Peter flushed, but grinned. “Only if you sing the rest of that song for me first.”

Johnny pressed a kiss to his hand—the one now wearing his ring—and turned back to the mic.

“This is our song,” he said. “Let’s do this right.”

And then he sang again.

Stronger.

Bolder.

No more pretending to fall apart.

This time—it was about building.

This time—it was about forever.