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superwholock36 · 27 days ago

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~ A Little Taste of Heaven ~ (Peter Parker x Fem!Reader) (2/?)

Warnings: Action-packed violence/Injury and physical harm/Tense hostage situation/Guilt and emotional turmoil/Scenes of aggression/Superhuman conflict/Mentions of fear and panic /Destruction and property damage /Themes of redemption Summary " In the dead of night, Spider-Man faces a relentless gauntlet—hostages in peril, and the weight of a personal mistake he can’t ignore. When the final web is spun and the city begins to quiet, Peter Parker races back to East Harlem to make amends… but what he finds waiting there leaves him more shaken than any battle he's fought that night." Pt1 ________________________________________________ 🎵🎶Leave Me Lonely • Ariana Grande, Macy Gray 🎶🎵 ________________________________________________

The taste of her was still on his lips—sweet and electric, like a spark he couldn’t shake. The memory lingered, tangled up with the thrill of her touch. And then, of course, he’d gone and ruined it. He’d instinctively webbed her to the wall without an apology, and then bolted into the night.

The wind whipped past Peter’s mask as he swung between the sparkling skyscrapers of New York City, the glow of headlights and billboards painting streaks of light beneath him. Each pull of his web shot carried him farther from [Name], and the gnawing guilt settled deeper in his chest.

“Okay, so leaving her webbing the wall—not my best move,” Peter muttered under his breath. “She’s gonna kill me. If the bad guys don’t kill me first, she’s definitely gonna kill me,” Peter muttered, flipping into a sharp arc to avoid a billboard. The guilt was gnawing at him, but hey—saving people came first. Every time.

“Peter,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice cut in, sharp and urgent. “Update. Artisan and Carat—there are now ten armed suspects and five hostages. 6 are carrying military-grade weapons.”

“Oh, c’mon! Seriously? Ten?” Peter’s voice cracked as he nearly missed his next web anchor, scrambling to regain his momentum. “That’s, like...that’s a lot of bad guys! What, is this some kind of discount villain convention?”

He pushed himself harder, the wind slicing through the fabric of his suit as the lights of Midtown blurred around him. All he could think about—aside from the hostages, the suspects, and not smashing into a building—was her. Still webbed up, still waiting, and probably so mad at him. He had to finish this fast. Lives were on the line, and, okay, he really didn’t want her to hate him forever.

“Hang on, Midtown,” Peter mumbled, his heart pounding as he swung toward the chaos. “Spider-Man’s got this. I hope.”

“Peter, you’re five seconds out,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice chimed in, crisp and urgent. “Patching into the store’s CCTV feeds now.”

Peter adjusted his trajectory with a quick flick of his wrist, landing gracefully on a streetlamp just outside the Artisan and Carat storefront. The glowing jewellery displays inside sparkled mockingly against the chaos unfolding within. His mask’s lenses narrowed instinctively as a cascade of live video feeds appeared in his HUD, courtesy of F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“Okay, what am I looking at?” Peter muttered, leaning forward slightly as his eyes darted across the feeds.

“Ten armed suspects. Hostages located in the central display area, surrounded on all sides,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. reported. A map of the store layout overlaid itself in his vision, with glowing red markers indicating each suspect’s position. “Two stationed near the entrance, three by the security office, one in the hallway behind the main floor, and the rest patrolling the perimeter. Routes are limited—main entry is compromised.”

“Of course it is,” Peter sighed, crouching lower on the streetlamp. “Because why would this ever be easy?”

His fingers flexed, the web shooters primed as he scanned the options F.R.I.D.A.Y. provided. Focus, Parker, he told himself. The lives of five hostages depended on him not screwing this up.

“Recommend silent entry through the ventilation system,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. added, her tone professional and measured. “Minimal risk of detection. I’ll guide you through.”

Peter exhaled, shaking out his hands. “Alright, Spidey, you’ve got this. Silent, sneaky, save the day, and then—then—I can get back to, uh…dealing with my terrible decision-making skills.”

He fired a webline upward, launching himself toward the rooftop. “Let’s do this.”

________________________________________________________

Peter shuffled forward slowly, the metallic groan of the ventilation shaft echoing beneath him. He cringed at every creak, his palms sticking lightly to the smooth steel as he crawled.

“Okay, Peter, easy does it,” he whispered under his breath. “No sudden moves, no loud noises. Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man sneaking through a vent like a total pro. Totally not claustrophobic or anything. Nope. Not at all.”

“Peter,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice interrupted, hushed but urgent in his ear. “The hostages are being moved. They’re heading toward the vault at the back of the store.”

Peter’s stomach tightened. He shifted forward slightly, his mask’s lenses narrowing as a live feed appeared in his HUD. The robbers were ushering the terrified hostages through the showroom, their footsteps heavy against the marble floor. The muffled sound of voices reached Peter’s ears, but the words were foreign—sharp and guttural.

“Wait, are they speaking…Russian?” Peter murmured, tilting his head as if it would help him hear better.

“Affirmative,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied. “Translating now.”

The audio feed filtered into his mask, the sharp tones softening into English. “—move faster. The police will be here soon. You want to get caught? No? Then stop wasting time.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Peter muttered, inching forward as he tried to position himself directly above the hostages. He pressed his palm lightly against the vent grate, peering down at the scene below. The armed suspects looked even more intimidating up close, their movements sharp and coordinated.

“Update two armed suspects are stationed near the hostages,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed him. “Three others are guarding the hallway. One is overseeing the vault preparations. The remaining four are patrolling the store perimeter.”

Peter exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against the vent. No pressure, Parker. Just ten bad guys, military-grade weapons, five scared hostages, and you stuck in a tin can. His voice softened to a whisper, almost like a mantra. “You’ve got this, Spidey. You’ve got this.”

The Russian voices continued below as F.R.I.D.A.Y. translated. “The diamonds go first. Everything else can wait.” Another robber barked out a quick command. “Keep the hostages close. No hero moves."

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, about that ‘no hero moves’ part...you’re not gonna love what happens next.”

He shifted his weight on the vent grate, the metal letting out a soft groan. The robber patrolling the floor below had no clue what was coming. Peter’s mask lenses narrowed as he tightened his grip, a subtle grin pulling at his mouth.

“Time to make this quick,” he murmured. With a flick of his wrist, a thin webline shot downward, catching silently on the vent. In one fluid motion, Peter dropped through, swinging feet-first into the unsuspecting thug. The impact was sharp and precise, knocking the man unconscious before he could even shout.

Peter landed lightly, crouching over the limp figure. “Nighty-night,” he whispered, Acting quickly, he fired several weblines, cocooning the robber and sticking him securely to the ceiling, well out of sight from anyone else. Peter’s gaze flicked upward, checking his handiwork. “There. Problem solved.”

The faint creak of footsteps echoed from the far side of the display room. Peter darted behind a glass case stacked with glittering necklaces, flattening himself against the marble floor as F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice chimed in his ear.

“Peter, two suspects from the perimeter patrol have entered the display area. Currently at your twelve and three o’clock. Both are armed.”

Peter peeked out cautiously, his mask lenses adjusting their focus. One of the men was pacing near the main entrance, glancing nervously at his surroundings. The other hovered by a corner display, his rifle slung low but ready.

“Great,” Peter whispered to himself. “Double the fun.” He ducked back down, his mind racing through options. Silent takedowns? A distraction? A burst of webbing? Whatever he did, it had to be fast, clean, and—most importantly—quiet. The hostages didn’t have time for mistakes.

The muffled wail of distant sirens began to filter in, growing louder with every second. Peter ducked lower behind the display case.

Peter peeked out cautiously. The two robbers in the room were visibly on edge now, their movements jittery as they glanced toward the entrance. One muttered something sharp in Russian, and F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s calm translation followed immediately.

“Be ready. Watch the entrance.”

“Perfect,” Peter muttered sarcastically. “Nothing like a little siren-induced panic to spice things up.”

The two men started moving closer to each other, their nervous glances sweeping the showroom. Peter’s lenses narrowed as he assessed the situation. If they stuck together, it’d be harder to pick them off quietly. He had to act now.

“Alright, Spidey,” he whispered to himself, his fingers flexing against the smooth marble floor. “Quick, clean, no screw-ups.”

In a blur of motion, Peter popped out from behind the case, firing a webline directly at the first robber’s gun. The weapon jerked from the man’s hands, clattering across the floor. Before the robber could react, Peter shot another web, pinning him securely to the large window display. The thug struggled briefly, his muffled curses barely audible over the sirens outside.

“Window shopping’s over, pal” Peter quipped, glancing at his handiwork.

The second robber shouted in alarm, his semi automatic rifle snapping up as he took aim. Peter’s spider-sense flared—a sharp, instinctive jolt that sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. Before the shot could fire, Peter launched into a series of backflips, the bullets zipping harmlessly past him and embedding into a nearby jewelry case.

“Whoa! Hey, watch it!” Peter called out mid-flip, landing nimbly on the far side of the room. “Do you know how expensive this place is? You’re gonna get a huge bill for damages.”

The robber’s face twisted in frustration as he scrambled to reload. Giving up, his hand darted to his belt, pulling out a fixed-blade knife that gleamed under the store’s overhead lights. Peter’s lenses narrowed as the man squared up, his movements sharp and deliberate.

“Oh, great. A knife. Because that’s just what this party needed,” Peter muttered, easing into a defensive stance. “Do you guys, like, have a group discount at Dangerous Stuff Emporium or something?”

Before the robber could lunge, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice cut in, urgent and calm all at once. “The fourth patrolling suspect has heard the gunshots and notified the rest of the group. Two of the suspects guarding the hostages are now heading to assist the one at the vault. Peter, the hostages are on the move. Assessing their condition now… Three of them are injured—nonfatal wounds—but they’re visibly frightened."

Peter’s stomach twisted as her words hit him, the weight of the situation pressing harder than the knife-wielding thug in front of him. From the corner of the room, faint screams carried through the store, the sound rattling in his ears. His fists clenched instinctively, the need to act pulling at him like a physical force.

But first—he had to deal with the guy in front of him.

The robber lunged suddenly, the blade slicing toward Peter in a flash of silver. His spider-sense flared, and Peter dodged nimbly to the side, his movements fluid and instinctive.

“Whoa! Careful there, buddy!” Peter quipped, flipping backward as the man lunged again. “This is a jewellery store, not a sushi bar!”

“Look, buddy,” Peter quipped, dodging another strike with a nimble twist, “I’m all for bonding activities, but this? Not my idea of a good time!”

The thug growled in frustration, adjusting his grip on the knife as he closed in, slashing with deliberate, calculated strikes. Peter stayed light on his feet, weaving and ducking, his Spidey-sense keeping him just out of reach. Each swipe of the blade sent Peter twisting and pivoting like a dancer, the air between him and the blade narrowing with every move.

“Look, I get it—you’re mad,” Peter quipped, ducking low to avoid another slash. “But swinging a knife around? That’s just bad conflict resolution.”

The faintest hum from his Spidey-sense jolted Peter into action as the second thug—the one who had snuck up behind him—came barreling forward. This one was stockier, with knuckle dusters glinting ominously on his gloves, the steel edges jagged and brutal. He muttered something harsh in Russian, his tone laced with malice. F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s calm translation filtered through Peter’s HUD.

“Hold him down. Make it quick.”

“Oh, fantastic. Teamwork,” Peter muttered, twisting just in time to avoid the fist aimed straight for his head. The punch swung wide, narrowly missing him, but the force alone was enough to send a gust of air past his mask. That would’ve hurt. A lot.

Before Peter could recover, the first thug lunged again, the knife slashing upward in a clean arc. Peter bent backward sharply, the blade skimming so close he swore he felt the fabric of his suit ripple. “Whoa! Okay, okay, I get it—you really want me out of the picture. Message received!”

The two thugs spoke hurriedly in Russian, their voices low and urgent. F.R.I.D.A.Y. translated in real-time. “Stay close. Don’t let him move. We end this now.”

Peter’s mind raced as he dodged the knife and ducked under another wild swing from the knuckle dusters. He was sandwiched between them now, the threats on either side forcing him into tighter, faster movements. His Spidey-sense flared again, sharp and insistent, guiding him through the chaos.

The knife-wielder feinted left before lunging to the right, aiming for Peter’s ribs. At the same moment, the thug with the knuckle dusters swung downward in a brutal arc, aiming for Peter’s head. Peter twisted sideways, threading the narrow gap between them with a burst of adrenaline-fueled agility.

“Guys, come on,” Peter said, landing in a crouch just out of their reach. “You’re making this way harder than it has to be. I mean, I get it—you’re bad guys, it’s your whole thing—but could we maybe…not?”

The knuckle duster thug growled and lunged again, his heavy footsteps thundering against the floor as he bore down on Peter like a freight train. Peter leapt upward, twisting in mid-air as the punch sailed past beneath him. He fired a quick webline at the man’s wrist, yanking his arm backward and throwing him off balance.

The knife-wielder seized the moment, charging forward, blade gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Peter landed lightly, his feet skidding slightly across the marble as he spun to face him. His Spidey-sense whispered another warning, and Peter ducked low, the blade narrowly missing his shoulder.

Peter crouched low, his breaths coming fast and shallow as he dodged another wild swing from the knife-wielding thug. The air was thick with tension, the sharp tang of adrenaline buzzing in his veins. He shifted his weight, readying himself for the next move, when something unexpected hit him—a faint, lingering scent clinging to the inside of his mask.

It was her. The subtle, familiar trace of her, or maybe just the warmth of her skin. It was enough to pull him out of the moment for a fraction of a second, his mind flashing back to the alley, to the way she’d looked at him before he’d bolted.

That sliver of distraction was all it took.

The knuckle duster thug seized the opening, lunging forward with a brutal swing. Peter’s Spidey-sense flared too late, and the punch connected hard with his ribs. Pain exploded through his side, sharp and immediate, as the force sent him stumbling back. He gasped, clutching his ribs instinctively. That’s gonna leave a mark.

“Okay, ow,” Peter groaned, his voice tight as he straightened up, forcing himself to focus. The scent still lingered, teasing at the edges of his thoughts, but now it served as a reminder—a reason to push through. He had to finish this. Fast. Lives were on the line, and he needed to get back to her.

“Alright, big guy,” Peter muttered, his voice laced with determination as he squared up again. “You got one good hit. Don’t get used to it.”

Peter gritted his teeth, the sharp pain in his ribs flaring with every movement. There was no room for jokes now, no time for distractions. He had to end this—fast.

The knife-wielding thug lunged again, his blade slicing through the air in a deadly arc. Peter sidestepped, his movements sharp and precise despite the ache in his side. He caught the man’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply. The knife clattered to the floor, and Peter followed up with a swift elbow to the thug’s jaw. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Peter barely had time to catch his breath before the knuckle duster thug charged at him, fists raised and ready. Each step the man took sent a dull thud reverberating through the showroom. Peter’s ribs screamed in protest as he dodged the first swing, the jagged steel of the knuckle dusters grazing the air where his head had been a second earlier.

The thug swung again, this time aiming low. Peter leapt backward, firing a webline at the doorframe behind him. He anchored another line to the opposite side, creating a taut web across the entrance. The thug didn’t seem to notice, his focus locked on Peter as he lunged forward.

Peter planted his feet firmly, the pain in his ribs momentarily forgotten as he launched himself forward with all the force he could muster. His feet connected squarely with the thug’s chest, the impact sending the man hurtling backward. The thug crashed through the shop’s front doors, the glass shattering around him as he slammed into a fire hydrant outside. He was out cold.

The sudden cacophony of breaking glass set off the store’s alarms, their shrill wail cutting through the night. Peter landed lightly on his feet, his chest heaving as he took a moment to steady himself. The pain in his ribs was sharp and unrelenting, but he pushed it aside. There was no time to dwell on it—not with the hostages still in danger.

_____________________________________________________

The back hall was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering sporadically, casting long, jagged shadows across the narrow space. Peter’s breathing was laboured, every sharp inhale sending a jolt of pain through his bruised ribs. The floor was scattered with debris—splintered wood from a broken door and shards of glass from a shattered overhead light.

The first one had gone down hard, his rifle now a harmless pile of twisted metal in the corner. Peter had disarmed him with a quick web yank, then sent him sprawling into the wall with a spinning kick that left a dent in the plaster. The man slumped unconscious against the base of the stairs, his weapon webbed securely out of reach.

The second had been more persistent, firing bursts of suppressive shots as Peter darted between the narrow columns that lined the hallway. His Spidey-sense had been in overdrive, guiding him through the chaos as bullets ricocheted off the walls. With a perfectly timed leap, Peter had dropped down onto the guy from above, using his momentum to knock the weapon loose before pinning him to the floor with webbing.

Peter barely had a chance to catch his breath when a low creak echoed from the stairwell. His head snapped around just in time to see the third robber emerge from below, shotgun in hand and a determined glint in his eye. This guy was bigger, calmer—more methodical than the others. As he stepped fully into the hallway, the weight of the shotgun made Peter’s ribs ache just looking at it.

The first blast came without warning, tearing through the air where Peter had just been standing. His Spidey-sense flared, guiding him as he flipped backward, the blast ripping chunks out of the wall behind him. This wasn’t a fight Peter could rush—one wrong move and that shotgun could easily end the night early.

The man stepped closer, each footfall echoing ominously as he chambered another round. Peter swung low, firing web after web to tangle his legs, but the guy shook them off with surprising strength. Another blast roared down the hallway, the force sending Peter diving behind a toppled cabinet for cover.

Peter’s mind raced as he tried to find an opening. Swinging upward, he used the flickering light to his advantage, landing silently on the ceiling above the robber. With a sudden web yank, the shotgun was ripped from the man’s hands, clattering down the stairs behind him. Before the guy could react, Peter dropped down, delivering a sharp kick that sent him tumbling back into the stairwell.

The back hall was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering sporadically, casting long, jagged shadows across the narrow space. Peter’s breathing was labored, every sharp inhale sending a jolt of pain through his bruised ribs. The floor was scattered with debris—splintered wood from a broken door and shards of glass from a shattered overhead light.

The first robber had gone down hard, his rifle now a harmless pile of twisted metal in the corner. Peter had disarmed him with a quick web yank, then sent him sprawling into the wall with a spinning kick that left a dent in the plaster. The man slumped unconscious against the base of the stairs, his weapon webbed securely out of reach.

Descending down led Peter straight to the vault room. The NYPD wouldn’t have been alerted until the alarms went off—he knew it was only a matter of time before reinforcements arrived. But time was a luxury the hostages didn’t have.

He edged closer to the door, his ribs screaming with every step, each breath a struggle. Through the faint gap in the doorframe, he caught sight of the situation inside. Two of the robbers stood in the center of the room, their weapons trained on the hostages huddled together against the far wall. There were five of them—three women and two men—shaking visibly under the weight of fear. Three were injured but conscious, clutching their wounds as they leaned against the others for support.

A third man was at the vault, crouched low as he worked furiously at the keypad. The store’s manager had been pulled from the hostages, standing stiffly beside the vault-cracker, their face pale with fear as they muttered sharp instructions in Russian. Peter’s lenses narrowed as the translation filtered through F.R.I.D.A.Y.

"It’s Spider-Man. He’s here. The police are coming, we’re running out of time. Stop shaking—focus on the lock."

Peter clenched his fists, his focus sharpening. The two gunmen in the center of the room were jittery, their movements jumpy and erratic, their fingers twitching near the triggers. Every creak of the floorboards or faint wail of the alarm outside made them flinch, and with each flinch, their aggression toward the hostages escalated. One of them barked out something harsh in Russian, his voice rising with irritation.

"Stop crying," F.R.I.D.A.Y. translated flatly. "Keep them quiet, or I’ll make them quiet."

Peter’s heart twisted as one of the women broke into soft, muffled sobs, her hands trembling as she clutched her knees. The tension in the room climbed another notch when she stammered out a desperate plea, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.

“Please... I have a child at home. Please don’t hurt me.”

Her words hit like a gut punch. Even from the door, Peter could see the robbers stiffen, their jittery movements becoming even more erratic as they barked at her to stay quiet. The woman clamped a hand over her mouth, the other hostages pulling her closer as she shook uncontrollably.

Peter’s jaw clenched. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to move, to act, but he forced himself to stay still for another moment, taking in every detail of the room. The two gunmen with the hostages were dangerously on edge, their fingers too close to the triggers for comfort. The vault-cracker was focused but tense, muttering sharp commands to the manager while the hostages whimpered quietly in the corner.

He had to act—and fast. One wrong move could tip the balance, but every second wasted was another second the hostages stayed in danger. Peter tightened his grip on the doorframe. There was no room for hesitation now.

He burst through the door in a blur of red and blue. “Hey, guys!” Peter called out, his voice sharp but tinged with that familiar nervous energy. “I think it’s time we wrap this up, don’t you?”

The room erupted into chaos. The hostages screamed, scrambling to shield themselves as the robbers turned their attention to Peter. But it wasn’t the two gunmen who moved first—it was the man at the vault.

Peter’s eyes widened as the boss straightened up, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the room. Without a word, the man turned and struck the store manager with a backhanded blow so powerful it sent them flying into a desk near the hostages. The crash was deafening, the desk splintering under the impact. The hostages screamed louder, their panic spilling over as they huddled closer together.

“Stay back!” one of the men shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to shield the injured hostages. “Please, don’t hurt us!”

Peter’s heart pounded as he darted forward, his web shooters primed, the boss’s cold, calculating gaze fixed on Peter, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he relished the challenge. He turned his head slightly, barking out a sharp command in Russian, his voice like gravel as it echoed through the vault room.

"Take out the hostages," F.R.I.D.A.Y. translated in Peter’s ear, her tone flat and urgent. "I’ll deal with the pest."

Peter’s stomach dropped as the two gunmen hesitated for a split second before pivoting toward the huddled hostages. Their jittery nerves turned into something far more dangerous as they levelled their weapons at the terrified group.

“No, no, no, no!” Peter blurted, his lenses widening as he fired a webline at the nearest gunman. The web connected, yanking the man’s rifle upward just as he pulled the trigger. The shot fired harmlessly into the ceiling, sending chunks of plaster raining down, but the other gunman was already aiming at the hostages.

Peter moved fast, swinging across the room to cut off the second gunman. His Spidey-sense screamed as he dodged the rifle’s barrel by inches, firing a burst of webbing to stick the man’s gun to the far wall. The hostages screamed and ducked lower, one of the women sobbing uncontrollably as chaos erupted around them.

“Stay down!” Peter yelled, glancing back at the group. “I’ve got this, I promise! Just stay as low as you can!”

Before Peter could fully turn his attention back to the fight, the boss charged. It was like being hit by a truck—Peter barely had time to register the movement before he was slammed into the wall, the breath knocked out of him. His ribs protested violently, the earlier bruising flaring into sharp, searing pain.

The boss stepped back, his expression cool and composed as he cracked his knuckles. “You think you’re clever, Spider-Man,” he said, his thick accent wrapping around every word. “But you are nothing. Just a bug to crush.”

Peter coughed, struggling to catch his breath as he pushed himself off the wall. His mind raced, the realization settling in that this wasn’t just brute strength—this guy had power, dangerous power.

“Well,” Peter groaned, wiping at his mask as he steadied himself, “I guess I’ll just have to be extra annoying, huh?”

The boss didn’t respond, instead pivoting back toward the vault. He raised his fist and punched the metal door, the force of the blow reverberating through the room. Peter watched in alarm as cracks began to spiderweb around the outline of the vault door, the impossible strength on full display.

“Oh, come on,” Peter muttered, his voice shaky with disbelief.

The boss turned back to him, a dark smile spreading across his face as he stepped forward. Peter braced himself, every muscle coiled, ready to defend the hostages and face whatever came next.

Peter’s lenses narrowed as he quickly assessed the room. The two disarmed robbers were still dangerous—desperation had set in, and that made them unpredictable. Meanwhile, the boss was closing in, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as he advanced toward Peter, a dark grin spreading across his face.

"Alright, guys, let’s do this the hard way," Peter muttered, flipping backward to create some distance between himself, the robbers, and the hostages. His mind raced as he planned his next moves, his Spidey-sense tingling faintly as it stayed alert to every threat in the room.

One of the unarmed robbers lunged first, fists raised, trying to tackle Peter with brute force. Peter twisted sharply, sidestepping the charge and firing a webline at the man’s leg. The robber stumbled mid-stride, his momentum sending him tumbling to the floor as Peter pulled the web tight.

“Stay down, please,” Peter quipped, already turning his attention to the second robber. But before he could act, his Spidey-sense flared. He turned his head sharply to see the boss taking a threatening step toward the hostages, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over the trembling group.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Peter shouted, firing a quick webline at the boss’s arm. The web snapped taut, but the man tore through it effortlessly, his eyes narrowing as his attention shifted back to Peter.

“Hostages are off-limits,” Peter growled, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve got a problem? Deal with me.”

The distraction gave the second robber a chance to rush Peter, throwing a wide, clumsy punch. Peter ducked low, firing a burst of webbing to stick the man’s arm to his side. In one smooth movement, he spun and delivered a calculated kick to the robber’s chest, sending him crashing into the far wall.

The first robber, still tangled in Peter’s webbing, was scrambling to get back on his feet. Peter fired twin webs at the ceiling and used them to launch himself upward, flipping over the man’s head. With precise timing, he shot another web, catching the robber mid-motion and suspending him upside-down from the ceiling in a tight cocoon.

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the faint hum of alarms and the hostages’ frightened murmurs. Peter glanced over at them, relieved to see they were still unharmed, though visibly shaken.

But his relief was cut short by the boss’s low, threatening growl. The man slammed his fist into the floor, the impact leaving deep cracks in the concrete. Peter landed lightly, already bracing himself as the boss stepped forward, his focus now entirely on Peter.

“Alright, big guy,” Peter said quietly, his voice edged with determination. “Guess it’s just you and me now.”

The boss cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing ominously in the vault room. His cold, calculating eyes locked onto Peter, and for a moment, the air felt heavier, charged with the promise of violence. Peter shifted his stance, his muscles coiled and ready, his Spidey-sense humming faintly in the back of his mind.

“You’ve got guts, Spider-Man,” the boss said, his thick accent wrapping around the words like a threat. “But guts won’t save you.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter shot back, his voice steady despite the tension, “I’ve got more than guts. I’ve got... uh, webs. And cardio. Lots of cardio.”

The boss didn’t wait for another quip. He lunged forward with startling speed, his massive fist swinging in a wide arc. Peter ducked just in time, the force of the punch whistling past his head and slamming into the wall behind him. The impact left a crater in the concrete, dust and debris raining down around them.

“Okay, noted,” Peter muttered, flipping backward to create some distance. “You hit like a wrecking ball. Good to know.”

The boss didn’t let up, charging at Peter with relentless aggression. Peter leapt to the side, firing a webline at the man’s shoulder to try and slow him down. But the boss tore through the webbing with ease, his strength almost unreal. He swung again, and this time, his fist connected with Peter’s side, sending him flying into the wall.

Peter hit the concrete hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, his vision swimming for a moment as he struggled to regain his footing. The boss advanced, his heavy footsteps echoing like a countdown.

“Stay down,” the boss growled, his voice low and menacing. “You’re out of your league, kid.”

Peter shook his head, forcing himself to stand. “Yeah, see, that’s the thing about me,” he said, his voice strained but defiant. “I don’t know when to quit.”

The boss lunged again, but this time, Peter was ready. He ducked low, sliding between the man’s legs and firing a webline at his back. Using the momentum, Peter swung upward, planting both feet into the boss’s shoulders and sending him stumbling forward.

The boss roared in frustration, spinning around to face Peter. He grabbed a nearby desk and hurled it across the room like it weighed nothing. Peter dodged, flipping over the flying furniture and landing lightly on the other side.

“Okay, seriously,” Peter said, firing another webline to stick the boss’s arm to the wall. “Do you even lift, bro? Because this is getting ridiculous.”

The boss ripped his arm free, but Peter was already moving. He darted around the room, firing webs to slow the man down, using his agility to stay one step ahead. The boss swung wildly, each punch powerful enough to shatter concrete, but Peter’s Spidey-sense kept him just out of reach.

Finally, Peter saw his opening. He fired twin weblines at the ceiling and launched himself forward, feet-first. The force of the kick slammed into the boss’s chest, sending him crashing into the vault door. The metal groaned under the impact, but the boss didn’t get back up this time. He slumped against the door, dazed and defeated.

Peter landed lightly, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. “And that,” he said, pointing at the unconscious boss, “is why you don’t mess with Spider-Man.”

The hostages stared in stunned silence for a moment before one of them whispered, “He did it.” Relief washed over the room as Peter turned to face them, his lenses narrowing with determination.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “Let’s get you out of here.”

____________________________________________________

Peter swung through the city at breakneck speed, the cool night air rushing past him as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. The wail of sirens faded behind him, replaced by the hum of traffic and the distant chatter of East Harlem. He left the robbers webbed up like party decorations in the vault room, knowing the NYPD could handle the rest.

"Peter," F.R.I.D.A.Y. cut in, her voice calm but steady, "the NYPD have secured the scene. Hostages are safe, and the suspects are in custody. You did well."

“Thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Peter murmured, though there wasn’t much relief in his tone. His mind was already somewhere else—back in the alley where he’d left her. Guilt twisted in his chest, sharper than any punch or bruise he’d taken tonight.

Peter landed softly in the alley, his heart pounding with anticipation. The dim glow of the streetlights barely illuminated the narrow space, but his lenses adjusted, scanning every corner. He expected to see her—[name]—still where he had left her, still bound by the webbing he’d used in his panic. But the alley was empty.

His breath hitched as his gaze darted around, searching for any sign of her. The only thing left was the faint, sticky residue of the web he’d hit her wrist with, clinging to the brick wall like a ghost of his mistake. The sight of it made his stomach twist.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Peter said, his voice tight, “where is she? Can you track her?”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied, her tone calm but tinged with something almost apologetic. “There’s no trace of her in the immediate vicinity. She must have freed herself and left.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped as he stepped closer to the wall, his fingers brushing against the remnants of the webbing. He’d left her here, vulnerable and alone, and now she was gone.

He took a shaky breath, his mind racing. She couldn’t have gone far—his apartment wasn’t far from here, and the streets of East Harlem were quiet at this hour. But the thought of her wandering off, hurt or angry or scared, made his chest tighten.

“I have to find her,” he muttered, more to himself than to F.R.I.D.A.Y. He turned, his movements quick and purposeful as he prepared to swing off again. The faint twinge in his ribs reminded him he wasn’t at full strength, but he ignored it. None of that mattered now. He had to make this right.

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Soooooo.... This is more background for Peter. and what happens when he leave [you] to deal with the Heist happening! I promise there will be more interactions between you both, I just got carried away writing the action hahah.... I also was only thinking about this being 3 part story but I'm having so much fun that it may be a bit longer then 3 parts 😳😘