The grainy footage on the cafeteria television played the same clip for what felt like the dozenth time that hour, the audio tinny and distorted over the clamor of a hundred high school students.
Tony Stark stood at the podium, bruised and arrogant, delivering the three words that had effectively set the world on fire just twenty-four hours ago.
"I am Iron Man."
The room erupted into cheers again, a synchronized worship of the billionaire who had just turned the concept of a secret identity into a punchline.
Peter Parker sat alone at the edge of a long table, picking at a sandwich that had gone stale hours ago, feeling a bitter mixture of resentment and exhaustion curling in his gut. It wasn't the money that bothered him, or the fame, or even the high-tech suit that made his own spandex look like a Halloween costume.
It was the true freedom, the absolute unadulterated freedom of looking the world in the eye and refusing to flinch.
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly as his fingers brushed against a deep bruise hidden beneath his collar, a souvenir from a mugger with a lead pipe two nights ago.
He had pulled his punch, of course, because Spider-Man didn't break bones, and Spider-Man didn't permanently injure desperate men trying to feed their habits. The mugger hadn't shared the same sentiment, swinging with lethal intent the moment Peter had hesitated to make a quip.
That hesitation was the Parker Luck in a nutshell: a self-imposed shackle that kept him poor, bruised, and perpetually apologizing for occupying space.
He looked back at the screen, watching Stark bask in the camera flashes, and for the first time, the logic of his double life felt less like a noble sacrifice and more like a suffocating cage.
"Earth to Parker, or are you too busy dreaming about Stark adopting you?"
The voice cut through his thoughts, followed by the heavy thud of a plastic tray slamming onto the table inches from his hand. Flash Thompson loomed over him, a smirk plastered on his face, surrounded by his usual court of sycophants who laughed on cue.
In any other week, Peter would have hunched his shoulders, stammered a pathetic excuse, and scurried away to avoid a scene. It was the routine, the camouflage he wore to ensure no one ever suspected that the school's punching bag could lift a bus.
But today, the noise of the cafeteria didn't fade into the background; it grated on his nerves like sandpaper, every laugh and shout amplifying the headache throbbing behind his eyes.
Peter didn't hunch and he didn't stammer. He slowly turned his head, lifting his gaze to meet Flash's eyes with a dead, hollow stare that lacked any of the fear Flash thrived on. The silence that stretched between them was heavy, uncomfortable, and entirely of Peter's making.
He saw the confusion flicker in Flash's eyes, someone realizing the prey wasn't scrambling for the exit. "I'm not dreaming, Flash," Peter said, his voice dropping an octave lower than his usual nervous pitch, steady and cold.
"I'm just wondering why you need an audience to feel important."
The laughter from Flash's friends died out instantly, replaced by the awkward shuffling of feet. Flash's face flushed a deep, ugly shade of red, his fists clenching at his sides as his ego took the hit. "You think you're funny, puny Parker?" Flash snarled, stepping into Peter's personal space, radiating aggression.
"Maybe I should remind you of your place."
Peter looked at Flash's fist, then back up to his face, and the realization hit him with the force of a physical blow: I could end him.
It wasn't a malicious thought, just a cold statement of biological fact. He could shatter Flash's wrist before the other boy's neurons even fired the signal to punch.
He could throw him through the cafeteria window with a flick of his wrist and the only thing keeping Flash Thompson standing was Peter's patience, and that patience was rapidly evaporating.
"You can try," Peter whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the room, but they carried a weight that froze Flash in place. "But I'm really not in the mood to pretend today."
He stood up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, and walked past the jock without a backward glance.
He didn't run, and he didn't hide; he simply dismissed Flash as a non-threat, a piece of furniture to be navigated around.
The encounter left a buzz in the cafeteria, a low murmur of confusion as students tried to reconcile the Peter Parker they knew with the person who had just stared down the school's top dog.
Gwen Stacy was waiting by the double doors, her eyebrows knit together in a mixture of concern and curiosity. She fell into step beside him as he pushed out into the hallway, the noise of the lunchroom fading behind them. "That was.....intense," she said softly, clutching her chemistry textbook to her chest. "I've never seen you look at him like that. usually, you just make a joke and run."
"I'm tired of running, Gwen," Peter admitted, the truth of it tasting strange on his tongue. He looked at her, really looked at her, taking in the way the fluorescent lights caught the gold in her hair.
She was brilliant, kind, and arguably out of his league, yet another thing he kept at arm's length to protect her.
"Stark's announcement got me thinking. We spend so much time worrying about what people think, hiding who we are to make them comfortable. It's exhausting."
Gwen stopped walking, forcing him to pause and turn toward her. Her blue eyes searched his face, looking for the cracks in the armor, but Peter kept his expression neutral. "You're not just talking about Flash, are you?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You look.... different today, Peter. Like you're carrying a heavy weight, or maybe like you just put one down."
"Maybe a bit of both," he deflected, forcing a small, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. He wanted to tell her. God, he wanted to tell someone who wouldn't look at him with fear or greed. But the habit of secrecy was too ingrained, a reflex he couldn't break in a single afternoon.
"I just need to clear my head. I think I'm going to head into the city tonight, take some photos. The Bugle is paying extra for shots of the skyline in the fog."
"Be careful," Gwen said, lingering for a second too long, her hand almost reaching out to touch his arm before she pulled it back. "This city is changing. It feels like everyone is on edge."
"I'll be fine," Peter promised.
"I know how to look out for myself."
High above the gridlock, Spider-Man sat perched on a gargoyle of the Chrysler Building, the condensation slick against his gloves.
Usually, this was the part where he felt the most alive, the wind in his ears, the city spread out like a circuit board below him. But tonight, the mask felt tight, constricting. He could still hear the cheers for Stark echoing in his mind, a stark contrast to the police sirens wailing three blocks over.
He dropped from the ledge, falling into a terminal velocity dive before firing a web line at the last possible second.
The G-force slammed into him, a comforting pressure that reminded him he was real, that he was strong. He swung through the canyons of steel and glass, his patrols usually a rhythmic dance of acrobatics and wisecracks.
Tonight, he moved with a smooth efficiency, silent and direct.
His patrol led him to a warehouse district near the docks, a place where the streetlights had been shot out weeks ago and the shadows stretched long and deep. His enhanced hearing picked up the scuffle before he saw itz the desperate scuff of heels on pavement, a harsh demand, the metallic slide of a gun slide racking.
Peter landed on a fire escape two stories up, looking down into the alley.
Three men had cornered a woman against a dumpster. She was terrified, handing over her purse with trembling hands, but the leader wasn't satisfied.
He was grinning, the gun pointed casually at her chest, enjoying the power trip.
"Please, just take it," the woman begged, her voice cracking.
"We plan to, sweetheart," the leader sneered, stepping closer. "But we might take a little extra while we're at it."
Normally, Peter would have announced his presence with a joke. "Hey fellas, didn't your mothers teach you not to play with guns?" He would have webbed the weapons, hung them from a lamppost, and left a note for the police. It was clean and was responsible, also it was safe.
But tonight, the image of Flash Thompson's sneer superimposed itself over the gunman's face. The exhaustion of holding back, of being the better man, of taking the hits so others didn't have to, finally snapped.
Peter didn't speak, he just dropped himself.
He hit the ground in a crouch between the woman and the gunmen, the impact cracking the concrete beneath his boots. The sudden appearance of the red-and-blue figure usually caused hesitation, a moment of shock.
The leader panicked and fired but Peter didn't dodge. He moved into the space, his hand snapping out to catch the barrel of the gun.
The heat of the discharge flared against his palm, uselessly diverted into the air. With a twist of his wrist that required zero effort, he crumpled the steel barrel like it was made of tin foil.
The gunman screamed, dropping the ruined weapon, staring at his mangled hand.
"What the hell....."
Peter silenced him with a backhand. He didn't pull the punch. The sound of the man's jaw breaking was a wet, sickening crunch that echoed in the confined alley.
The gunman spun in the air and hit the brick wall, sliding down into an unconscious heap.
The other two men froze, their bravado evaporating instantly, this wasn't the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man who tied people up and left, this was something else.
"Run," Peter whispered.
One man ran and the other, fueled by stupid desperation, pulled a knife and lunged.
Peter caught the wrist mid-swing. He looked at the man, the white lenses of his mask narrowing slightly, there was no quip and no lecture on morality. Peter simply applied pressure and his wrist snapped with a sharp pop.
The man fell to his knees, wailing, clutching his ruined arm. Peter stepped over him, ignoring the cries, and turned to the woman. She was staring at him, eyes wide, paralyzed not just by the attack, but by the brutality of her savior.
"Go home," Peter said, his voice flat. He fired a web line to the roof and ascended into the darkness without waiting for a thank you.
He landed on the rooftop and looked at his gloved hands, they were steady.
There was no guilt, no crushing weight of conscience wondering if he had gone too far. For the first time in years, the noise in his head had stopped. He realized then that holding back hadn't saved anyone; it had only prolonged the fight.
Tony Stark had just told the world who he was. Peter Parker couldn't do that yet, but Spider-Man? Spider-Man was done apologizing.
Authors Note:-
Well it's a smut fic...
Peter is not a mr nice guy anymore.
He will be selfish , he will enjoy women and he will take money from the criminals.
Enjoy and support with power stones.