Chapter Text
Midnight in New York meant the tourists were gone, the office lights were dimmed, and the streets were painted in neon and rain. Steam curled from sewer grates. Traffic lights blinked lazily over mostly empty intersections. Somewhere far below, music pulsed faintly through apartment walls.
High above it all, Spider-Man swung between buildings like a red-and-blue streak against the night sky.
The cold air burned in Peter’s lungs, sharp and clean. Each web shot with that familiar thwip, sticking to brick and steel. He released, flipped, caught another brick wall, momentum carrying him forward in smooth ways that felt more instinct than effort.
This was the easy part.
Up here, he didn’t have to think.
He didn’t have to remember that no one remembered him.
His spider sense buzzed faintly, like a mosquito near his ear. He angled left automatically, landing on the side of a building and crawling down its surface. Three stories below, a convenience store window was shattered, glass rested on the sidewalk.
Peter tilted his head.
“Really?” He muttered under his breath. “It’s Tuesday.”
Inside, three men in mismatched ski masks scrambled behind the counter. One shoved a cashier to the ground. Another fumbled with the register while the third stood near the door, gripping a handgun with both hands like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
Peter didn’t hesitate.
He pushed off the wall and dropped through the broken window, landing in a crouch around scattered glass.
“Okay, so, quick question,” he said lightly, straightening up. “Did you guys miss the memo where crime is kind of… not great? Like, morally? Legally? Just overall bad?”
The one with the gun whipped around, startled. The cashier gasped, eyes wide.
Peter stepped forward casually, hands raised slightly. “Let’s all just take a deep breath. Maybe put the money back. Maybe we call it a night.”
The gunman’s hands shook.
Peter’s spider-sense flared, he moved on instinct.
The gun fired. The sound exploded through the small store. Peter twisted, the bullet grazing past his shoulder close enough that he felt the heat of it. He shot a web, yanking the weapon clean from the man’s grip and slamming it into the ceiling.
“Okay!” Peter said, voice a little sharper now. “That was unnecessary!”
One of the others lunged at him. Peter ducked, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him and flipping him onto his back. Another came from the side.
Normally, this part felt effortless. Tonight, it was different.
The room shifted. Just slightly.
Peter blinked.
He misjudged the second attacker’s punch by an inch. It clipped his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Not hard enough to seriously hurt him, but enough to make him stumble.
That didn’t happen. Not usually.
He shot two rapid webs, sticking one robber to a display rack and another to the freezer doors. The metal dented under the impact.
The gunman tried to run. Peter almost missed it.
The fluorescent lights above him flickered, or maybe his vision did. The edges of the room blurred. The hum of the refrigerator sounded louder, almost distorted.
He steadied himself against the counter.
“Okay,” he murmured under his breath. “That’s… weird.”
The robber reached the door.
Peter forced himself to move. Web shot. The line wrapped around the man’s torso and yanked him backward. Peter followed through, cocooning him quickly before sticking him beside the others.
Three criminals. Immobilized.
Done.
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
Normally, he’d say something witty. Tie them up neatly. Maybe leave a little web bow.
Instead, he just stood there. The world tilted again. Just enough to make his stomach lurch.
He placed a hand on the counter.
The cashier was staring at him. “Are you- are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Peter answered automatically, even though the word came out thinner than usual. “Yep. Totally. Ten out of ten.”
His pulse thudded in his ears. Too loud.
He stepped toward the broken window, feet crunching over glass. Each step felt slightly off, like he was walking on a boat instead of solid ground.
Outside, the night air hit him. He inhaled deeply through the mask. The dizziness didn’t fade. Instead, it pressed in harder. A slow, creeping lightheadedness that made his fingers tingle.
He grabbed the brick wall beside the store and leaned into it casually, as if he meant to. The bricks felt colder than they should have.
His spider-sense prickled again, but not outward.
Inward.
That was new. He swallowed.
“Okay.” He whispered to himself. “You just need sleep. You’ve definitely slept. Probably. At some point.”
He pushed off the wall and fired a web upward, but the swing felt wrong the second he left the ground.
His timing was half a beat off. He released too late, forcing himself into a tighter spot than usual. He adjusted mid-air, but the correction took more effort than it should have.
His muscles felt heavier. His breathing rougher.
Another wave hit him mid-swing. His vision tunneled slightly, dark creeping in from the corners. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus.
Don’t fall.
He landed on a rooftop instead of continuing forward, crouching low. His hands pressed flat against the concrete.
They were shaking. He stared at them.
Rain dotted the red fabric that covered his hands. Or maybe that was sweat. Hard to tell.
“Not now.” He muttered.
Below him, the city stretched endlessly, lights glowing in thousands of windows. Lives happening behind every pane of glass.
People who had friends to call. People who had someone waiting at home.
Peter stood slowly. The movement made his head spin again.
He stepped toward the edge of the building, aiming for his apartment a few blocks away. Just a short distance. He could make it.
He had to, so he jumped. The second swing was worse.
His arms felt slightly numb, like he’d slept on them wrong. His grip faltered when he released the web line, forcing him to catch the next one a split second later than planned.
His heart pounded weirdly. Too fast, too slow? He couldn’t tell.
He landed harder than intended on the side of his apartment building, fingers digging into brick to keep from sliding. His breath came uneven beneath the mask.
He climbed the rest of the way instead of swinging again. Each movement felt deliberate and controlled. Like he couldn’t quite trust his body to move automatically anymore.
When he reached his window, he hesitated. The apartment inside was dark. Of course it was.
He pushed it open and slipped through, landing clumsily on the wooden floor instead of sticking perfectly.
He straightened slowly as silence greeted him.
No TV humming in the background. No half-finished Lego set on the table. No familiar laughter. Just the faint buzz of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of traffic outside.
He reached up and peeled the mask off, cool air immediately hit his damp skin. He inhaled deeply, but the dizziness didn’t fade. If anything, it intensified without the adrenaline.
He took one step toward the small living room as the floor tilted.
He grabbed the counter before he could fall, knuckles whitening against the edge. His reflection in the microwave door looked pale, almost gray under the dim light.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“Okay,” he said softly, to no one. “You’re fine.”
Another wave rolled through him. Stronger.
His vision blurred enough that he had to squeeze his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the room didn’t quite settle.
Peter’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. He forced himself to breathe slowly.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
It didn’t help. He pushed away from the counter, trying to walk toward the couch.
His knees wobbled. The distance wasn’t far, just a few steps, but it felt longer than usual.
He reached the couch and sat down heavily, elbows braced on his thighs. His hands were still trembling.
He pressed his fingers against his pulse. Irregular. Or maybe he was imagining it.
Another pulse of dizziness swept through him, deeper this time, almost dragging him downward. He leaned back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling as if that might steady the spinning.
The apartment felt smaller suddenly. Quieter.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair. This wasn’t normal. This hadn’t happened before.
He’d been injured before. Broken bones, bruised or broken ribs, concussions. He’s even been shot. But this was new.
This was different. This felt wrong.
Another wave hit him, and this time he didn’t bother trying to stand, so he just stayed where he was.
Breathing shallow, listening to the hum of the fridge, waiting for the spinning to stop.
It didn’t.
The spinning didn’t stop.
It dulled, maybe, but it didn’t go away.
Peter stayed on the couch longer than he meant to, staring at the ceiling like it might steady itself if he stared hard enough. The faint crack in the plaster above him looked like a crooked lightning bolt. He focused on that. On breathing. On not letting his eyes close.
His throat felt dry. Uncomfortably dry. He swallowed and winced.
Water.
That would help. Hopefully. People always said to drink water. Water fixed things. Headaches. Nausea. Being alive.
“Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely. “Hydration. That’s… that’s responsible.”
He pushed his palms against the couch cushions and tried to sit up straighter. The room lurched violently to the left, Peter felt like he might as well throw up.
He froze. Waited a minute, but it didn’t stop moving.
He forced himself upright anyway, jaw tightening. His muscles felt sluggish, like he was dragging himself through honey. He planted his feet firmly on the floor and stood.
His knees almost buckled instantly. He caught himself on the back of the couch with a sharp inhale.
“Okay,” Peter breathed. “Cool. Cool. We’re standing. That’s progress.”
He took one slow, agonizing step. Then another.
The kitchen was only a few feet away, but each movement required more concentration than swinging between skyscrapers. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, uneven and intrusive.
By the time he reached the sink, he was gripping the counter for support. The metal dented under his grip.
He turned on the faucet.
The rush of water sounded too loud. Too sharp. It flowed through his skull like someone had cranked up the volume on the world. Everything was too loud.
He grabbed a glass from the drying rack. His fingers trembled around it. He didn’t notice how tight his grip was at first.
Peter filled the glass halfway, watching the water ripple as his hands shook. It sloshed against the sides.
“Just drink it,” he told himself softly. He lifted the glass, his hands shaking a little more.
Another wave of dizziness slammed into him, harder than the others and the kitchen blurred. His vision tunneled so sharply that black crept inward, swallowing the edges of the room.
His body reacted before his brain did. His hand clenched and the glass shattered.
The sound was so loud through the apartment that it sounded like a gunshot.
For half a second, he didn’t even process what had happened.
Cold water splashed over his hand and onto the floor. Shards of glass clinked against the sink and scattered across the counter and the floor.
Peter stared at his palm, then at the glittering fragments around him.
“Oh,” he whispered faintly, then the pain bloomed a second later.
Thin, sharp lines across his skin. A few deeper cuts where the glass had dug in under the pressure of his grip. Blood welled up quickly, dark against his pale palm, trickling down between his fingers.
He blinked at it, unfocused, black dots danced around his vision.
Right. Super strength. He’d forgotten.
He’d been trying not to think about how tight he was holding it.
He braced both hands against the counter automatically, then hissed when the injured one pressed against the surface.
“Great,” he muttered weakly. “That’s… that’s great.”
The dizziness surged again, forcing him to grip the edge of the sink with his uninjured hand. The world tilted dangerously.
Focus.
He couldn’t pass out standing up. Not in a kitchen full of broken glass. So, he forced himself to look at his palm properly.
Shards were embedded in the skin. Tiny glittering splinters. One larger piece lodged near the base of his thumb.
He swallowed, and winced. Right, he was still thirsty. But hydration was the least of his worries right now.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. He’d had worse, way worse.
And his healing would take care of it. By morning, the cuts would be sealed. By afternoon, they’d probably just be faint pink lines.
He just had to get the glass out first. So he carefully turned off the faucet. The silence that followed rang in his ears.
He leaned heavily against the counter, breathing shallowly. His fingers felt slightly numb, whether from blood loss or the dizziness, he wasn’t sure.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Just… just pull them out.”
He pinched the first small shard between his fingers. His hands shook as he tried to steady his grip.
A thin line of pain shot up his arm as the glass slid free. Blood followed immediately, running warmer now. He dropped the shard into the sink.
One down.
He swayed slightly, catching himself on the counter again. The room wouldn’t stay still.
He focused on the next piece.
Pulled. Another sting. Another drop of blood.
His breathing grew uneven, not from the pain, but from the effort of staying upright. Each movement felt heavier, slower.
He removed the larger shard last, which took way more effort than he thought.
Peter clenched his jaw and tugged it free in one steady motion. The pain flared brighter, sharper, making his vision flicker again.
He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, blood dripped onto the tile floor. Peter stared at it for a second, detached. It looked darker than usual. Or maybe that was just the lighting.
He flexed his fingers cautiously.
The cuts were already beginning to heal. The bleeding wasn’t heavy. His enhanced healing was working, slowly knitting skin back together beneath the surface.
“See?” he murmured faintly. “All good. Superpowers. Very helpful.” Peter didn’t know who he was talking to, but he knew he didn’t sound convincing.
He turned slightly to grab a paper towel, the room spun violently, then balance gave out.
He caught himself against the refrigerator this time, shoulder slamming into it hard enough to rattle the magnets on the door and he even managed to slightly dent it. Just great.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Not good. Not good at all.
He stayed there for several seconds, breathing through it. Waiting for the nausea to fade.
It didn’t fully fade. It just lessened enough for him to move again.
Carefully, he used a paper towel to wipe the worst of the blood from his palm. The cuts were already beginning to close at the edges, angry red lines instead of open wounds.
By morning, they’d be gone, but that didn’t scare him. What scared him was how weak and strong he felt at the same time.
He’d shattered the glass without trying, but he could barely stay standing.
He looked down at the broken pieces scattered across the floor. He didn’t have the energy to clean them up.
That thought alone unsettled him. He hated leaving things unfinished. Hated the idea of mess.
May always told him not to leave something for tomorrow if you could do it today. But right now, the only thing he could focus on is the couch that felt miles away.
May wasn’t here anyway.
He turned slowly, steadying himself against the wall.
Step. Pause. Step.
His legs felt like they weren’t entirely his. The dizziness deepened again as he reached the couch, but this time he didn’t try to fight it. He let himself sink down heavily onto the cushions.
The impact made him wince.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling again. The spinning continued, slower now, but constant. Like he was lying at the bottom of the ocean. His injured hand rested on his chest. The cuts tingled faintly as they closed.
By morning, they’d be gone. By morning, he’d probably feel better. He had to.
He closed his eyes briefly, then forced them open again when the darkness behind his eyelids felt too deep. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
His breathing sounded loud in his own ears. His heart still beat unevenly.
He shifted slightly on the couch, curling onto his side without meaning to. His body felt cold now, despite the lingering sweat on his skin.
“Just tired,” he whispered faintly. The words felt thin, like a lie.
He stared toward the kitchen, at the faint gleam of shattered glass on the tile floor.
He should clean it up. He really should.
Another wave of dizziness rolled through him, slower this time, but heavier. It pressed him down into the couch cushions. His hand twitched weakly against his chest.
The city lights filtered in through the window, painting faint patterns across the walls.
Peter laid there, breathing shallow and uneven, waiting for the spinning to stop.
It still fucking didn’t.
🕷️
Peter woke up with a full headache.
It sat heavy behind his eyes, not sharp enough to make him groan but persistent enough that he couldn’t ignore it.
He stayed still for a moment, staring at the ceiling and letting himself breathe, testing whether the world would start spinning the second he tried to move.
It didn’t. The room stayed steady.
At least that was something.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright on the couch. The cushions shifted under his weight, fabric creasing softly. His shoulders felt tight, his neck stiff, and when he rolled them carefully, a dull ache spread down his back.
He looked down. He was still in his Spider-Man suit.
The material clung to him, stretched tight across his chest and arms, and now that the rush of adrenaline was long gone it felt uncomfortable, almost suffocating.
He reached up and tugged at the collar, peeling the suit down from his shoulders with slow, tired movements. The fabric dragged slightly against his skin before finally loosening.
He worked it off his arms. Then his torso.
Standing carefully, he pushed the rest of the suit down his legs and stepped out of it. It landed in a loose pile at his feet.
Now he was only in his boxers.
The cool air brushed against his bare skin, and he let out a quiet breath without realizing he’d been holding it. His body felt lighter without the suit wrapped around him. Less trapped.
His gaze drifted to his right hand. He lifted it, studying his palm in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. The cuts from the shattered glass were almost fully healed. Thin pink lines marked where the shards had sliced into him.
He flexed his fingers slowly. There was a faint pull, barely noticeable. Otherwise, it was like it had happened days ago instead of last night.
His throat felt dry.
So dry that it made swallowing uncomfortable. He needed water.
Peter turned toward the kitchen. The shattered glass was still scattered across the tile floor, jagged pieces glinting faintly. He paused at the edge of the living room, carefully mapping out where to step.
Then he moved.
Each step was slow, his bare feet landing in the clear spaces between the shards. He didn’t rush. He didn’t want another mistake.
He reached the counter safely.
Opening the cupboard, he pulled out a clean glass. He wrapped his fingers around it cautiously this time, mindful of his strength. The glass felt cool and solid in his hand.
He turned on the faucet. Water poured steadily into the glass, the sound filling the quiet apartment.
When it was full enough, he shut the water off and lifted the glass to his lips. The first swallow was immediate relief. Cool water slid down his throat and eased the dryness.
He took another sip. Slower.
The glass stayed intact.
He lowered it slightly and stood there for a moment, breathing evenly, bare feet on the kitchen tile, the apartment quiet around him as the last of the water cooled his throat.
He walked back into the living room slowly, the quiet of the apartment settling around him again as he reached for his phone on the small table beside the couch.
The screen lit up in his hand, bright against the dim morning light, and he blinked a few times before focusing on the date.
Saturday.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. No shift at Delmar’s today. No rushing to get dressed in clean clothes and force himself into the rhythm of stocking shelves and running the register. No pretending he wasn’t exhausted.
Spider-Man didn’t pay the bills.
Delmar’s did.
He lowered the phone and glanced at the crumpled heap of red and blue fabric on the floor. The sight of it made his stomach twist faintly. The suit looked smaller when it wasn’t on him. Less powerful. Just fabric and stitching and worn seams.
He bent down and picked it up carefully, gathering the material in his hands. It was stiff in places where dried blood had darkened the fibers. He avoided looking at those spots for too long.
Turning toward his bedroom, he walked down the short hallway. The floorboards creaked faintly under his weight. His bedroom door was still half open from the night before.
He pushed it the rest of the way open.
The room was messy, a chair with clothes draped over it. A desk with scattered papers. The bed unmade.
He’ll clean it later.
His mask laid on the floor near the edge of the mattress, exactly where he’d dropped it.
He crouched down and picked it up. The fabric was slightly damp with sweat, wrinkled from being discarded in a rush. He turned it over in his hands for a second, running his thumb over one of the white eye lenses. Then he straightened and walked back toward the hallway.
The washing machine sat tucked into the small laundry room near the bathroom. He opened it and tossed the suit and mask inside. The metal drum echoed faintly as they landed. He added detergent, shut the door, and pressed the button.
The machine hummed to life.
Water began to rush in. The steady mechanical sound filled the small apartment.
Peter stood there for a moment, listening to it. Watching nothing. Letting the noise replace the silence.
Then he turned and stepped into the bathroom.
He shut the door behind him and leaned against it briefly before pushing away and turning on the shower. Steam began to fill the small space as the water heated. He stepped out of his boxers and left them on the floor, then moved under the shower-head once it was warm enough.
The water hit his shoulders first.
He tilted his head forward and let it run over his hair, down his face, over his back. The heat loosened some of the tightness in his muscles.
It softened the lingering ache in his neck. He braced one hand against the tile wall and just stood there, breathing in the steam.
His mind drifted.
Four months ago.
Four months since Doctor Strange cast the spell.
He could still remember the feeling of it. The air shifting. The strange, electric hum in the atmosphere. The look on Strange’s face. The finality of it.
Everyone forgetting Peter Parker.
He swallowed under the stream of water.
Four months since the world reset around him like he had never existed. Four months since he had walked into that coffee shop and seen MJ behind the counter.
She had smiled at him.
A polite smile. Friendly, but detached.
She handed him his coffee like she would hand it to anyone else. Their fingers had brushed for half a second, and she hadn’t reacted. No flicker of recognition. No teasing comment.
“Have a nice day.” She had said. He had nodded. Said thanks. Walked away.
Four months since Ned had barely noticed him.
He could still picture it. Ned laughing at something, turning slightly, glancing right past Peter like he was just another face in the room. No wide grin. No excited shout of his name. No sudden tackle into a hug that knocked the air out of him.
Nothing.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut as the water continued to run over him. The memory still sat heavy in his chest.
Four months.
It felt longer.
The water traced down his arms, over his palms. He looked down briefly at the faint pink lines where the glass had cut him. Almost gone. His body healed quickly.
Some things didn’t.
He ran a hand through his hair and leaned his forehead lightly against the cool tile. The washing machine hummed faintly outside the bathroom door. Water rushed steadily around him.
Seventeen years old.
Seventeen and forgotten. Seventeen and carrying the weight of memories he had no one to share with.
He straightened slowly under the spray and let the water wash over his face again, breathing steadily, letting the heat ground him. The apartment was quiet beyond the mechanical sounds. The city outside kept moving.
Four months ago, everything had changed. And he was still here.
The water eventually began to cool.
Peter reached out and turned the handle, cutting off the spray. The sudden quiet inside the shower felt almost loud after the steady rush of water. Droplets continued to slide down his skin, tracing slow paths over his shoulders and back before falling to the tile below.
He stood there for a second, breathing in the lingering steam. Then he pushed the curtain aside and stepped out carefully onto the bathmat.
He grabbed a towel from the rack and began drying himself off quickly, rubbing it through his hair first, then over his face and down his neck.
He didn’t take his time. He rarely did anymore. Efficiency had become habit.
As he dried his arms, he noticed a faint prickling sensation around his wrists.
He paused.
The skin there felt irritated. Not painful exactly. Just itchy. A subtle, persistent sensation that made him want to scratch at it. He glanced down. There was nothing obvious, no redness, no swelling. Just normal skin stretched over lean muscles.
He flexed his fingers. Rotated his wrists slightly.
The itch lingered.
He frowned but forced himself to ignore it. His body did weird things sometimes. Healing faster or slower. Bruises fading overnight or staying. Cuts closing in hours or days. A little itching wasn’t worth spiraling over.
He finished drying off and wrapped the towel briefly around his waist while he ran a hand through his damp curly hair. Then he stepped into his bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. The fabric felt soft and familiar against his skin. Normal.
The washing machine continued its steady cycle somewhere down the hall.
Peter walked into the kitchen and stopped just inside the doorway. The sight of the shattered glass was still jarring in the quiet morning light. Shards scattered across the floor. Smaller fragments glittering near the cabinets. A few darkened drops of dried blood on the counter.
He sighed softly and grabbed a broom from the corner.
Carefully, he began sweeping the larger pieces into a pile. The sound of glass scraping lightly across tile made his jaw tighten.
He worked slowly, methodically, making sure he didn’t miss anything. The last thing he needed was to step on a stray shard later.
The itching in his wrists flared again.
He adjusted his grip on the broom, trying not to think about it.
The sensation crawled just under the skin, persistent and distracting. He clenched his jaw and kept sweeping.
Once the larger pieces were gathered, he fetched the dustpan and crouched down to collect them. He dumped the fragments into the trash, then returned to the floor to search for smaller pieces. He even ran a damp paper towel lightly over the tile to catch any tiny pieces he couldn’t see.
When he finished with the floor, he turned to the counter.
The drops of blood had dried into dark rust-colored smears. He grabbed a sponge and ran it under warm water, adding a bit of soap before scrubbing at the surface.
The stains lightened slowly, dissolving under the steady pressure of his hand.
His wrists burned now.
Not sharp pain, just an intense itch that made his fingers twitch involuntarily. He pulled one hand back and scratched lightly at the inside of his opposite wrist.
It didn’t help.
If anything, it made it worse.
He swallowed and forced himself to focus on the counter again, scrubbing until every faint trace of red was gone. He rinsed the sponge and wiped the area down once more for good measure.
When he stepped back, the kitchen looked almost normal again. No broken glass. No blood.
Just a small, slightly cramped space with aging cabinets and a humming (also dented) fridge .
He exhaled slowly.
His stomach growled.
Right. He hadn’t eaten yet.
Peter moved to the fridge and pulled it open, scanning the contents. Bread, some deli meat, cheese, lettuce, basic. Enough. He grabbed what he needed and set everything on the counter.
The itching intensified as he reached for the knife to slice the bread. His fingers tightened around the handle, and for a split second he considered dropping it just to claw at his skin properly.
He didn’t.
He assembled the sandwich carefully. Meat layered evenly. Cheese placed flat. Lettuce torn into smaller pieces. He worked with deliberate control, trying to ground himself in the simple, ordinary act of making food.
But the sensation in his wrists was becoming unbearable.
It felt deeper now. Not just surface irritation. Like something beneath the skin was restless. Crawling. Pressing outward. His breathing shifted slightly.
He set the knife down.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at his hands.
The skin looked normal. Completely normal.
He flexed his fingers again. The itch spiked sharply, making him suck in a breath through his teeth. He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and scratched harder this time.
Still nothing.
The relief lasted less than a second.
He clenched both hands into fists, pressing his knuckles into the counter as if the pressure alone could override the sensation. His pulse had picked up now, a steady thud in his ears.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath.
The apartment was quiet except for the washing machine and the faint hum of the fridge.
He grabbed his sandwich almost absentmindedly and took a bite, chewing quickly, trying to distract himself. The food tasted fine. But the itching pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
His wrists felt like they were on fire.
He dropped the sandwich back onto the plate and shook out his hands slightly, like that might help.
It didn’t. The sensation only seemed to intensify with movement.
His breathing grew uneven.
He stared down at his wrists again, heart pounding now for a different reason.
The itch was no longer ignorable. It wasn’t subtle. It was overwhelming. A deep, relentless crawling sensation under his skin that made every nerve in his arms feel charged and unstable.
Peter backed up slightly from the counter, eyes fixed on his hands.
Something wasn’t right.
Peter’s hands were shaking so badly that the knife on the counter rattled when his fingers brushed the handle. The sound was small, barely there, but it felt loud in the quiet kitchen. His eyes dropped to it immediately.
It was just a kitchen knife. Nothing dramatic. Nothing special.
But the thought came anyway.
If he just cut his wrists.
Not deep. Not to die. Just enough to stop the itching. Just enough to release whatever this was.
The idea hit him hard and fast, born out of pure desperation. The sensation in his wrists had gone far beyond irritating. It was unbearable. It felt like thousands of tiny needles under his skin, like something trapped beneath the surface trying to claw its way out.
His breath stuttered.
He stared at the blade longer than he should have. For one terrible second, he imagined dragging it across his skin. Imagined the pressure releasing. Imagined the itching finally stopping.
His stomach twisted violently.
“No, no, no, fuck.” He whispered hoarsely.
He stumbled back a step from the counter, putting distance between himself and the knife. His heart was racing now, pounding so hard it made his vision pulse. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t something he wanted. It was panic. Just panic.
The sandwich sat forgotten on the plate. He was still hungry, his body reminded him of that with a hollow ache, but the hunger felt distant compared to the fire in his wrists.
Slowly, he lifted his hands in front of his face. Red little bumps dotted the inside of both wrists.
They looked defined, almost like they were supposed to be here.
His throat felt tight.
He brought one wrist closer, studying the irritated skin. Then, cautiously, he brushed his fingers over the bump.
The reaction was instant.
The sensitivity was overwhelming. Not just itchy, but raw. The lightest touch sent a sharp, tingling jolt up his arm. He jerked back with a quiet, strained sound.
The itching surged in response, flaring so intensely it almost stole the air from his lungs.
His hands trembled harder.
He pressed the heels of his palms against the counter, trying to ground himself, but even the pressure made the sensation spike. His nerves felt like they were on fire.
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
Lightheadedness washed over him again, stronger this time. His vision blurred around the edges, dark creeping inward. He grabbed the counter to steady himself, fingers digging in.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t sure what he was asking for.
His pulse thundered in his ears. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. The itching wouldn’t stop. It felt deeper than skin level, like it was inside him. Like it was part of him.
His gaze flickered back to the knife despite himself.
The thought whispered again. Just a little cut. Just enough to make it stop.
He squeezed his eyes shut tightly.
That wasn’t a solution. That was the dizziness talking. The panic. The overwhelming sensory overload. He wasn’t thinking clearly.
He forced himself to look at his wrists again instead. The red bumps stood out starkly now against flushed skin. They looked angry. Inflamed.
He flexed his fingers slowly. The movement made the itching spike so sharply that he nearly gasped.
His knees felt weak.
He was still hungry. Still standing in his kitchen with a sandwich on a plate. But all he could focus on was the unbearable sensation in his wrists and the growing fog in his head.
The room swayed again.
He tightened his grip on the counter, cracking it a little, knuckles turning white. His breathing was shallow and uneven now. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of something, fainting, maybe. Or worse.
The itching pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
He pressed his wrists against the cool surface of the counter, hoping the temperature would soothe it. It didn’t. It only made the sensitivity more obvious.
His thoughts felt scattered. Fractured.
He stared at the knife one last time before deliberately turning his back on it. He stepped away from the counter entirely, putting as much space between himself and that option as possible.
His hands were still shaking. The red bumps weren’t fading. And the dizziness was growing heavier by the second.
Peter’s knees felt weak again, and the tremor in his hands was growing more pronounced by the second. He tried to steady himself against the counter, his knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping it, but the itching was spreading, radiating from his wrists up toward his forearms and making every nerve in his arms scream. The red bumps were still there, raised, angry, almost mocking him with their persistence.
He let out a harsh breath and backed away from the counter. He needed relief. He needed it now. Hunger, dizziness, and that unbearable crawling sensation in his wrists consumed him entirely. He staggered slightly toward the sink.
Cold water. That had to work.
He turned the faucet all the way to cold, grimacing at the initial shock when the icy stream hit his hands. He plunged both wrists under it, letting the water run over the raised bumps.
The initial shock stung pleasantly, the way ice always did on heated skin. For a moment, he thought it might dull the sensation. That it might offer the relief he desperately craved.
It didn’t.
Not even a little.
The itching didn’t slow. If anything, it seemed worse. The cold made the nerves flare in a different way, sharp, biting, almost electric, and the relief he had hoped for evaporated instantly. His fingers twitched involuntarily, trying to scratch at the unyielding heat and the crawling sensation beneath his skin.
Peter groaned, letting his head drop toward the sink. The cold water continued to run, washing over his arms and wrists, but the sensation was relentless. He shook his hands under it, trying to force the discomfort to shift elsewhere. The red bumps flared with every movement, stubborn and resistant, like fire burning beneath his skin.
“God…” He muttered, voice hoarse, almost breaking under the frustration and pain.
He let his hands rest on the edge of the sink for a moment, staring down at them. The skin was reddened from the water and his earlier scratching. He could see the angry little bumps standing out against the flushed surface.
The itch wouldn’t stop.
He tried restraint. He did. He had to. He wasn’t going to, he didn’t want to cut himself. But he couldn’t take it anymore.
His fingers twitched again, closer to his skin. The first scratch was tentative, hesitant.
Then another. And another.
It started almost automatically, scratching at the irritated skin in long, harsh strokes. His fingernails dug in harder each time, letting him feel something, anything that might distract from the gnawing, unbearable sensation crawling beneath his skin.
His hands shook violently now.
He scratched and scratched, and soon his skin began to break. Tiny circles of blood appeared, glinting dark red against his pale wrists. The cold water ran over them, but it didn’t dull the itch. Didn’t wash it away. Didn’t stop the crawling sensation that made him flinch and grind his teeth with every pulse of pain.
Peter’s vision blurred.
The cold water dripped over his arms, over the wounds he’d inflicted in desperation, but it still didn’t matter. His wrists felt like fire. Like tiny needles were stabbing him from the inside. Like something was writhing under his skin, pressing outward and mocking him with its persistence.
His breathing grew ragged and fast.
He looked down at his hands, now smeared with blood, droplets running into the sink and over the tiles. He had scratched until his skin gave way, until the relief of scratching came in flashes, but it wasn’t enough. The burning, crawling sensation persisted.
It still felt horrible.
Peter pressed the heels of his palms hard against the sink, trying to use pressure to suppress the itch. It didn’t help. Every pulse of blood through his veins seemed to make the sensation flare even more. His fingers flexed and twitched involuntarily, curling against the sink as if he could somehow push the sensation away.
He let out a strangled breath and pressed his forehead against the counter, staring down at the bloodied skin, the raised bumps, and the stubborn itch that refused to relent.
His mind whirled.
Why wasn’t it stopping? Why didn’t anything work? Cold, pressure, scratching, nothing helped. Every second felt like a lifetime. Every nerve in his arms felt like it was screaming.
The dizziness returned, creeping up again, fogging his vision and making the edges of the room blur. He wanted to eat. He needed to eat. But he couldn’t even focus on the sandwich on the counter. The itch dominated every thought, every nerve, every impulse.
He gritted his teeth, leaning closer to the cold sink, water running over the wounds, droplets splattering around him. His wrists throbbed. Burned. Crawled.
And no matter what he did, the relief never came.
Peter’s shoulders shook. His chest heaved. His hands bled, his vision wavered, and the itch, relentless, unbearable, cruel, still pressed upward from inside his skin, consuming everything else.
He whispered something he didn’t even recognize, a quiet plea to the empty apartment, to the world outside the walls, to anything.
“Please… stop.”
But it didn’t. It wouldn’t.
And he had no idea how much longer he could endure it.
Peter’s shoulders were trembling, and this time he couldn’t tell if it was from the dizziness, the lingering sting in his wrists, or the awful tightness in his chest.
He felt unsteady.
The kitchen lights seemed too bright. The room felt too small. His heart was beating so hard it made everything else seem far away. He swallowed and forced himself to move.
He didn’t know what to do anymore.
He turned toward the sink because it was the closest thing to grab onto. His hands landed on the edge of it, fingers curling around the metal like it was the only solid thing in the world. He leaned over it, head hanging low, breathing uneven.
“Think,” he muttered to himself. “Just think.”
But the itching flared again before he could.
It felt deep. Like something was pressing from the inside. He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted one hand to scratch his other wrist again.
He didn’t even hesitate this time.
His nails dragged across the inside of his wrist, over the red, raised bumps. The skin was already raw. He felt it tear a little more. A thin line of blood followed.
He didn’t care because nothing helped.
The relief lasted maybe half a second before the burning feeling came rushing back. His breathing turned shaky. His fingers kept moving even though he knew he should stop.
Then something inside his wrist tightened. It was sudden. Like a muscle snapping. His hand jerked.
Thwip.
The sound was quick and sharp.
Peter froze.
A thin white strand shot out from his wrist and hit the inside of the sink with a sticky snap. It stuck there instantly. His arm pulled forward slightly from the force.
He stared at it.
The web stretched from his wrist to the sink, tight and shaking just a little. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He slowly lifted his wrist closer to his face. The red bumps were still there.
But they looked smaller now.
And right in the center of one of them, there was a tiny hole. Perfectly round.
His stomach dropped. The web was coming out of it.
“What..” he whispered.
He hadn’t done the usual motion. He wasn’t wearing his web shooters. His suit was in the washing machine. There was nothing on his wrists except torn skin and blood.
Another sharp feeling tightened in his other wrist.
Before he could even react—
Thwip.
A second web shot out and stuck to the faucet.
Peter stumbled back in shock. His heel caught on the cabinet behind him, and he almost lost his balance. The web lines stretched between him and the sink as he moved.
He stared down at his arms. Both wrists now had small holes in them. The bumps around them were flatter than before.
His heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
He wasn’t sure what to do, so he flexed his wrist without thinking. The web line pulled tighter.
He could feel something in his forearm respond. It didn’t feel like his we shooters at all, or like anything. It felt like something was inside him.
The itching wasn’t completely gone, but it wasn’t as sharp as before. The deep pressure felt lighter, like whatever had been stuck had finally found a way out.
He looked at the web stuck to the sink, then back at his wrists.
Blood from his scratches still ran down toward his arms. The skin looked irritated and torn.
But the small holes didn’t look injured, they looked like they were supposed to be there.
Peter leaned back against the counter slowly, breathing hard.
“This isn’t possible,” he muttered.
But it was happening right now.
So it was possible.