Chakra Spider (Naruto X Spiderman)

Chapter 19: "Of Fists and Fireballs"

In which Harry learns a lesson, Johnny plays therapist with whiskey, and nobody likes soda—except maybe Spider-Man.

Norman Osborn's phone buzzed.

Now, for most people, a buzzing phone just means someone's texting about dinner plans or sending you a meme of a cat in sunglasses. But not for Norman. His phone had tiers. And this buzz?

Encrypted. Top-level. Reserved for emergencies.

Which meant either:

A) Someone just blew up an Oscorp warehouse.

B) One of his "test subjects" had grown a third head.

C) Harry did something stupid again.

Spoiler alert: It was C.

Norman sighed the kind of sigh that could curdle milk, picked up the phone, and answered with the warmth of an arctic glacier.

"What happened?"

The poor fool on the other end probably aged ten years on the spot.

"Uh—Mr. Osborn, sir. It's… your son. He got into a fight at the Inferno Lounge."

Norman blinked.

Inferno Lounge.

That overpriced celebrity cesspool pretending to be a nightclub. The kind of place where rich kids pretended to be dangerous and dangerous people pretended not to be watching the rich kids.

"VIP section," the guard added nervously, as if that would somehow make things better.

Norman's fingers tightened around his whiskey glass. The veins in his hand stood out like they were auditioning for a horror movie.

"And?" he asked. The temperature in the room dropped five degrees.

"He's… fine. But the other guy isn't. Harry—uh—he lost control."

There it was. The Osborn gene, acting up again.

Norman didn't speak for a long moment. Not because he didn't have words—but because every word he wanted to say would've made the guard soil his pants.

'That idiot,' Norman thought bitterly.

Harry was many things. Soft. Overly emotional. In need of constant validation. Basically the human version of a warning label.

But above all, weak.

And in Norman Osborn's world? Weakness wasn't forgivable. It was a disease. One that needed to be either cured… or cut out.

He took a slow breath and finally said, voice like poison silk:

"Clean it up. Pay off whoever you need to. And bring Harry home."

"Y-Yes, sir."

Click.

The line went dead.

Norman placed his glass down with clinical precision, like it was made of explosives.

He stood at the edge of the window, looking out over New York—the city he wanted to own, reshape, dominate.

And somewhere in this glowing jungle of concrete and steel… his son was doing his best to ruin everything.

A disappointment in designer shoes.

He had tried to mold Harry once. Given him opportunities. Access. Even love—well, a rough-edged approximation of it.

But Harry had never wanted power the way Norman did.

He wanted attention. Friendship. Something human.

Disgusting.

Norman narrowed his eyes.

Weakness like that didn't just go away.

Sooner or later, he'd have to decide:

Could Harry be shaped into something useful…

Or would he have to be discarded like the rest?

Because legacy wasn't built on affection.

It was built on dominance.

And Norman Osborn didn't raise heirs.

He forged successors—or destroyed obstacles.

 ------------------------

The Inferno Lounge wasn't exactly subtle.

It was one of those clubs where the air smelled like money, regret, and cologne strong enough to melt your sinuses. The VIP section was reserved for the city's richest, loudest, and most emotionally neglected.

Naturally, Harry Osborn had his own booth.

He sat there like he always did—sleeves rolled up, tie loose, the weight of his last name sinking into his bones like wet cement. A half-empty glass of overpriced bourbon sat in front of him, untouched now as he brooded like a soap opera heir.

The music thumped. Lights flashed. Models posed for Instagram like they were in a mating ritual.

And Harry?

Harry was trying to forget he existed.

Until he opened his mouth.

"Osborn's just another greedy bastard playing king of the city."

Harry froze. He didn't even look yet—just stared at the drink in his hand as if willing it to drown the urge in his chest.

"If Fisk wasn't around, Osborn would be crawling to kiss the ring. The guy's just playing gangster until someone takes him out."

There it was. The trigger.

The rage that ran in the family's blood like a cursed inheritance.

Harry downed the rest of his bourbon in one sharp gulp.

Clack.

The glass hit the table.

Scrape.

The chair slid back.

He stood, every eye in the VIP section turning like reality TV viewers sensing a good fight.

The guy was exactly what you'd expect from a middle-aged finance bro: smug, poorly educated in both economics and respect, and surrounded by equally punchable friends.

He barely had time to blink before Harry's fist introduced itself to his jaw.

CRACK.

The man flew backward, landing on another table and turning someone's $600 bottle of champagne into airborne regret.

Phones went up. People gasped.

Harry didn't care.

He grabbed the guy, slammed him into the wall like a frat boy reenacting Scarface.

"You talk a lot of crap about my father," Harry growled, eyes blazing, "but what the hell have you done? Who even are you?"

The guy, clearly working on a concussion and a bloodied lip, still had the audacity to smile.

"Just telling the truth, Osborn. Your old man's nothing but a—"

WHAM.

Another punch.

Then another.

And another.

Harry's knuckles were screaming, but his fury was louder. He didn't even feel the guards grabbing him until they'd dragged him off the man like a rabid dog from a steak.

The guy slumped to the ground, looking like a cautionary tale about rich kids and bad opinions.

Silence blanketed the VIP.

Whispers spread like spilled secrets.

Phones were still recording. Somewhere in the background, someone muttered, "Dude, that's Norman Osborn's kid."

Harry's chest heaved, blood dripping from his hand.

He was a mess. His mind was a war zone. And yet—

He didn't regret it.

Not. One. Bit.

Because for once, someone had crossed his line.

And Harry Osborn didn't need his father's approval to protect the family name.

He just needed his fists.

…Though, in about five minutes, he'd need a very good lawyer.

 --------------------------

The Inferno Lounge was still vibrating with the bass of whatever house remix was trying its hardest to give people heart palpitations, but Harry Osborn felt like he was somewhere else entirely.

Maybe underwater.

Maybe on fire.

Definitely somewhere between rage blackout and oh crap, I just punched a guy in front of fifty socialites and two influencers named 'Kaylie'.

The guy he'd turned into a human punching bag was now slumped against the wall like a broken office chair—bleeding, groaning, and very much regretting his life choices. Security still held Harry back like he was a rabid Pomeranian with a platinum credit card and abandonment issues.

And then—just to top off the chaos sundae with a cherry of sarcasm—Johnny Storm walked in.

Yep. That Johnny Storm.

Blonde hair. Movie star smile. Supernova in human form. Probably had more selfies on social media than Harry had brain cells left after that brawl.

"Whoa, whoa—easy there, rich boy."

Johnny slid into view with the casual confidence of someone who had definitely set off a fire alarm on purpose more than once.

Harry blinked, still steaming from the inside out.

"Didn't take you for the 'brawling in a club' type," Johnny continued, raising his hands like a peacekeeper who'd also moonlighted as a pyromaniac. "What, did he steal your VIP bottle service?"

Harry's glare could've melted vibranium.

"He was talking shit about my dad."

That made Johnny pause.

Just a flicker—but enough to show that even he knew not to joke about that one.

He glanced at the bloodied guy, then at Harry, then at the crowd still filming with the glee of people who'd never been punched.

"Yeah, okay," Johnny muttered. "That's... fair, I guess."

People were still whispering. Phones still up. Probably captioning the footage:

"Harry Osborn Goes Goblin Mode in Midtown Lounge 🤯"

Johnny sighed, rolled his eyes, and stepped up like the human PR extinguisher he somehow knew how to be.

"Alright, everybody! Show's over, thanks for coming!"

A burst of flame erupted from his palms—just enough to send a few gasps and cause some very expensive heels to wobble backward. Some people jumped. Others yelped. One guy dropped his vape.

The phones started going away. The whispers faded. The crowd scattered like paparazzi running from copyright strikes.

Security finally let go of Harry—though one guy, probably the head of Osborn's private security detail, leaned in real close.

"Your father will hear about this."

Harry rolled his eyes harder than a dice in Vegas.

"Yeah, yeah. Like he doesn't already have ten guys watching me breathe."

Johnny placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and started steering him away like a very smug golden retriever with pyrokinesis.

"Come on, let's get you a drink before you torch the place worse than I usually do."

"I don't need a drink."

"No? Because you look like you need about five."

The bartender, used to New York chaos and super-powered tantrums, didn't even blink when Johnny slid into the seat and pointed.

"Whiskey. Neat. And a soda for my grumpy friend here."

Harry groaned.

"I don't want a soda."

Johnny raised one eyebrow like a disappointed babysitter.

"Well, you also didn't want to commit felony assault in the VIP lounge, but here we are."

The bartender slid over both drinks with the speed of a man who'd definitely served Iron Man once and didn't want a repeat of that.

 ----------------------

Harry Osborn scowled down at the soda like it had personally insulted his mother. Which, to be fair, if it had been sentient, it probably would've.

"I don't want a soda."

Johnny Storm, professional superhero and part-time social fire extinguisher, didn't miss a beat.

"Yeah? Well, I don't want to be babysitting you while you're drunk and making worse decisions, so suck it up, Osborn."

The bartender—who was either emotionally numb or just extremely well-paid—placed the drinks on the counter like this kind of exchange happened every Tuesday. Johnny grabbed his whiskey, cool as ever, and nudged the soda over to Harry with the kind of big-brother energy Harry never asked for and definitely didn't want.

Harry sighed, grabbed the glass, and took a sip like it was medicine he didn't believe in.

For a moment, the neon light flickered over them in silence. No explosions. No flaming catchphrases. Just two guys at a bar with too much noise around them and too much mess inside.

The bruises on Harry's knuckles throbbed.

The guy he punched? Still unconscious somewhere in the back.

And in his chest? A storm that no soda could fix.

Johnny was watching. Not judging. Just… watching.

Then he spoke, and the usual cocky tone was gone.

"Look, I get it," Johnny said, voice even. "People say crap about my sister all the time. About my team. And I wanna punch them too. But you know what?"

He swirled his whiskey like it was a metaphor. (It probably wasn't. Johnny wasn't that deep. But still.)

"I don't. Because they're not worth it."

Harry gave a humorless chuckle, sharp as broken glass.

"Easy for you to say. Your family actually gives a damn about you."

That hit harder than any punch he'd thrown tonight.

Johnny didn't argue.

He just leaned back, staring at the shelves of alcohol like they had answers. (Spoiler: they didn't. But they were pretty.)

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean you have to prove anything to anyone, man. Especially not like this."

Harry's eyes flicked down to his glass. He could see himself reflected there—messy hair, split lip, haunted eyes.

A villain in training.

"Yeah, well… maybe I'm just sick of everyone thinking my father's weak."

Johnny let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh.

Not quite pity. Just tired understanding.

"Your old man's many things, Harry," he said slowly. "But weak ain't one of them."

He took a long sip, then grinned slightly, trying to pull the moment out of the gloom.

"And you're not either. You just need to pick your battles better."

Harry looked down at his knuckles. The skin was raw, the ache deep. But the pain was secondary.

The real hurt—the thing chewing at his insides—was the fear that maybe he wasn't strong enough. Not to live up to his father. Not to be his own man. Not to be anything but the angry kid in the shadows of giants.

 ----------------------------

Harry Osborn had bruised knuckles and a bruised ego. And judging by the way he stared into his soda like it might give him life advice, you'd think it was a magic potion brewed by Gandalf himself.

Spoiler alert: it was not.

"I don't even know what I'm doing anymore," Harry muttered, voice low, like confessing it too loudly would shatter him.

Johnny Storm, ever the fire-wielding golden retriever of the superhero world, paused mid-sip. His raised eyebrow practically screamed, Here we go.

"Uh-oh. We're going existential now?"

"I'm serious," Harry snapped. He dragged a hand down his face and slumped harder against the bar like he was trying to fuse into it. "I can't live up to anything. Not to my dad. Not to the company. Not even to myself. I'm a failure."

That killed the usual smirk on Johnny's face. For a second, the room stopped being a neon-drenched nightclub and became something quieter. He set his drink down, the clink of glass barely audible over the pulsing bass.

"Alright, listen up, Osborn," Johnny said, swiveling to face him like a big brother about to launch into a therapy session disguised as a pep talk. "You wanna know what I think? Screw expectations."

Harry scoffed. "Easy for you to say, Storm. You're famous. A hero. You've got the Fantastic Four backing you up. You were born for greatness."

Johnny let out a snort that somehow managed to be both amused and offended.

"Dude, do you know how many times I've been called a reckless idiot? A hotheaded loser who can't think before he acts?" He gestured like he was giving a TED Talk. "Spoiler alert: A lot."

Harry stared down at his drink again like it owed him rent.

Johnny sighed and dropped the flair. He leaned in, quieter now.

"Look, man. I get it. You grew up in your dad's shadow. You feel like no matter what you do, it's never enough."

Harry's fingers curled tighter around the glass, knuckles white this time not from punching, but from the pressure of holding in years of disappointment.

"But let me ask you this—who do you wanna be?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Johnny didn't repeat himself, just tilted his head with that cocky, too-honest smile.

"Not 'who does Norman Osborn want you to be.' Not 'what does the world expect.' Who do you wanna be?"

That question landed like a gut punch.

Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Because… he didn't know.

He had spent so long running toward (or away from) his father's towering expectations that he'd never asked himself that. Ever.

"I…" He swallowed hard. Why did his throat feel like sandpaper?

Johnny leaned back and nodded like he already knew.

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was… needed. The kind of silence that gave space to breathe, to think, to feel.

Then Johnny tapped the bar twice, pulling him back to reality.

"You don't have to have all the answers right now," he said. "But beating the crap outta some random dude at a club? That's not the solution."

Harry let out a sigh that sounded like it'd been stuck in his lungs for months.

"Then what should I do?"

Johnny's smirk returned—but this time it was soft. No fire, no flames. Just friendship.

"You start by figuring out who you are—not who people want you to be. And when you do? You stick to it."

Harry stared at him for a long moment. His bruised knuckles. The cheap glass in his hand. The flickering lights and the pulsing music around him.

And for the first time that night… he didn't feel like he was drowning.

He still didn't know the answers.

But maybe that was okay.

Maybe it was time to stop living in the shadow of a name… and start building his own.

One soda at a time.