FALL 2025
THE SACRED TIMELINE
EARTH-616
ABOUT 9 MONTHS AFTER THE EVENTS OF SPIDER-MAN: NO WAY HOME

        Look, I'm not proud of myself, okay? I'm just gonna put that out there right away. What I'm doing is reckless, selfish, and, well, just...weird. I have a problem. I acknowledge it. And, I promise--I promise--that after tonight, I'll never pull another stunt like this again.

        Probably...

        But, I am what you might call...opportunistic. An opportunity presented itself and I took it.

        So, what have I done, exactly?

        Well...

        *Ahem*

        Behold. Peter Parker. The Peter Parker. Right in front of me. He's unconscious--look, don't judge! It was a harmless little sleeping spell--and he's a little...tied up at the moment--but he's okay. I don't plan on hurting the guy. No, no. I have something else in mind.

        "What's going on?" He stirs in front of me as that fated, if not clichéd, question rises out of his throat. His voice is a little nasally, like an endearing whine.

        Ah, the moment of truth. I wait to respond. My heart is already racing, the byproduct of something exciting and nerve-wracking.

        "Wh-what are-- How did you...?" He's still coming to, but I quickly see the moment it registers that he's unable to move. His boyish, beautiful, brown eyes go wide. His soft brow furrows. He begins to turn his head every which way, that perfect mess of hair becoming more disheveled, and he quickly finds me standing somewhat veiled in the shadows of his little Midtown apartment. It's quaint, if not a bit dingy.

        "Hey, Pete," I say warmly.

        "Who are you? What's going on?" He clearly doesn't remember my sudden appearance behind him just a few minutes ago. I fiddle with the Sling Ring in my pocket. My little ambush, which I'm quite proud of. He pulls against the coils of webbing that loosely mummify his body from his shoulders down to his ankles--webbing, mind you, that he manufactures himself. I've tied him (quite successfully, if I do say so myself) to his bed--a tiny twin-size thing that has a small headboard and barely enough room for a single pillow. "Why do you have--?"

        "This?" I point to the mask I'm wearing. His mask. His Spider-Man mask. "I found it in your closet." It fits pretty snugly and it smells like cologne and a faint bodily musk. It's not that I really need to hide my own identity from him--he doesn't know me from Adam--but I'd rather not risk anything. (I'm already risking a lot.) God, if Wong found out what I was doing. Or worse--Strange... It's fortunate that I have a natural affinity for the role of a wallflower. Always have, even before I was whisked away to Kamar-Taj for another affinity of mine: a natural connection to the mystical arts. Anyway, most people don't really notice me, and that's okay. There's a certain advantage to flying under the radar...

        For example--

        I look back at Peter and toss out the whole reason for my being here. "Nice to meet you, Peter Parker. Or, should I say, 'Spider-Man'?"

        Peter's eyes widen. He stops struggling against his restraints. I think I see the color drain from his face. "What?" It's almost a whimper.

        "Spider-Man." I shrug. My tone is matter-of-fact. "You--Peter Parker--are Spider-Man, aren't you?"

        He doesn't reply. I can see the bewilderment on his face. But there's hope too, and it almost crushes me. Because ever since last year--ever since all that madness with the multiversal spell gone awry--he's been, more or less, alone. Forgotten. Known only to the world when donning his mask. And he's kept his secret safe. Until now.

        "Pete?" I say again, taking a seat in the little wooden chair he has stationed at his work desk. There's a sewing machine beside his laptop, a few pictures of family and friends from his old life, even a little Lego Emperor Palpatine.

        I can tell that he's trying to figure out how he should proceed. I'm sure he's thrilled that someone knows who he is again, but he also has no right to trust me. And, I don't want to convey to him that I can be trusted because that would ruin the little game I have in store for him. So, to further propel things in my direction, I pull out my phone. His eyes snap to the device and the light in his eyes concedes to skepticism. "What are you doing?" he asks.

        "I want you to tell me the truth." I tap on the screen a few times. I prop it up on the desk, the camera facing the bed. "I have some...connections over at The Daily Bugle," I lie. "I'd love to get a little confession out of you. Let the world know who you really are again. Now, wouldn't that be nice? Freeing?" Again, none of this is true. I couldn't care less about any of that. I just want to live out a little fantasy of mine.

        "What are you talking about?" Peter asks.

        "Look, I know you probably have a million questions, but the fact of the matter is, I know you're Spider-Man, and I want you to prove me right."

        "You're mistaken." The little laugh of surprise that escapes his lips makes something stir inside of me. "I'm...not Spider-Man." Now comes the feigned incredulity. 

        "Peter." I raise a brow. "You're wrapped up in your own webbing. I just told you that I found your mask--and the rest of your costume--in your closet."

        "No, no, I'm just a fan," he says quickly. He doesn't seem upset so much as he seems a little nervous now. His eyes keep flashing to the phone on his desk. It's recording us, sure, but I don't intend to use it for anyone other than myself. "You've got this all wrong."

        "I'm glad you're fighting me. It's going to make this a lot more fun." I clench my right fist, making the webs around him tighten a bit. His struggling lessens and I can practically feel his gasp.

        "How did you--?" I can see the muscles in his neck tense up as he swallows. "How did you do that?" he asks.

        "What, this?" I ask, raising a few fingers. The white New Balance trainer on his right foot shudders under my influence and, after a few seconds of resistance, gives way. It flies into the opposite wall and falls to the floor. I smirk, and my eyes immediately dart to his black-socked sole. That stirring inside me intensifies, as does my heartrate. 

​        "You've got... powers?" The clumsy sentence sounds more like a squeak.

        "I don't know if you'd call them 'powers,'" I say. "Would you say that Stephen Strange has 'powers'?"

        "Wait. You know Doctor Strange," he says. "Is that how you--?"

        "Look, you're the only one who's going to be answering questions here tonight," I say, clearing my throat. I realize that I've slipped up a bit. I'm saying too much. But, as weird as it sounds, I'm nervous too.

        "Holy cow, dude! I didn't think--! This is...incredible. Does this have to do with the-- I mean, is that why you know that I'm--?" And then he stops himself. Now he's the one saying too much.

        "That you're...what?"

        "N-nothing," he stammers. "I just-- Wow. This is so crazy." His voice cracks a bit from a bolt of excitement and it's honestly just the cutest thing. He offers me an innocent look. "Erm. Sorry. Look, man. I don't know what's going on, but if you let me out, we can talk. Please. I'd love to learn more. A-about you."

        Oh, god.

        This. This right here. This is exactly why I've got a be-all-end-all-earth-shattering crush on Peter Parker. I have him tied to his bed, ready to interrogate him, and he's not only being polite, but he apologized to me. I mean, damn. How can you not like the guy? I've been obsessed ever since I learned who he was the first time around--back when Mysterio revealed him to the world. And it's exactly why I did everything in my power to avoid the effects of Strange's spell last year.

       It was really all happenstance. And I firmly, firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. Yes, Strange's spell rippled throughout the multiverse, erasing Peter Parker from the minds of everyone across time and space. But let's just say, I was...outside of time and space when everything went down. That, my friends, is what you call a loophole. This Sling Ring I swiped can do much more than just take me to other worlds, other timelines. See, I figured out how to access a place known to some as "The Void." Managed to jump in and out just as the spell took effect. And voila--the rest is history. (Or, rather, not. Because I can still remember it.)

        "Whattaya say?" Pete's voice brings me back to him. "Untie me?"

        I cross my arms and tilt my head. It must be so strange for him to be staring back at someone wearing his mask. "Look, I'd love to," I say. "But you've gotta do what I ask. Look right over there." I point to my phone. "And tell the world who you are."

​        He gives me another nervous laugh. "Dude. I told you--I'm not Spider-Man. I totally get how this looks--yeah--but you've got the wrong guy."

        I'm so glad he's sticking to his story. It's going to help justify my upcoming actions. I extend my fingers again, and his left shoe comes off this time.

        "Why are you taking off my shoes? Stop it!"

        "You know, you've got a nice little setup here," I say, pulling up the chair right next to his now-exposed feet. "How does Spider-Man manage to land a place like this?"

        "I'm not Spider-Man."

        "So, the webbing, and the costume... they're just...?"

        He sighs. "I told you, I'm a Spidey fan. All right? That's it! You ever heard of...cosplaying?" The look of childlike innocence he offers me makes me want to melt, but his clumsy little lie is worthy of a cringe. Still, I indulge him for a moment.

        "Cosplaying? This is some, uh, serious quality." I reach up and touch the fabric of the mask. He can't see my smirk, but I'm sure he can hear it in my voice.

        "Yeah, you know." He shrugs. He's still pulling with all of his might against the webbing around his arms. I can see his biceps straining, the veins in his forearms rising against his pale flesh. "I've always been a bit of an overachiever."

        "Is that right?"

        "Yesss." He exhales as his strength gives out. He rests his head back against his pillow and stares up at the ceiling for a moment.

        "Peter." I run my hands through my hair and crack my knuckles. I'm ready to get to work. I've waited too long for this. "You're kinda hurting my feelings. You think I'm dumb?"

        "What? No!"

        "So, why do you keep lying to me?"

        "I'm not!"

        "You're Spider-Man. Admit it."

        "No, I'm naw-AWHT!" He practically yelps when I run my index finger up his left sole and it sends shivers down my spine. I pull away with a smile.

       God-freaking-damn. Peter Parker is ticklish. Thank you, Universe--er, Multiverse--ah, whatever. Thank you.

        "What was that?" he asks. "What are you doing?!"

        "Think of it as a method of persuasion." I reach down and tentatively scratch at the instep this time. No sooner does my fingertip touch down than I hear him splutter and yip like an agitated puppy.

        "Are you crazy? Stop that!"

        "Why?" I ask.

        "Don't touch my feet!"

        "What's the matter?"

        He takes a few deep breaths, but he doesn't respond.

        "You gonna say it?"

        "Look, I don't know what you want from me." Now he's starting to sound desperate. Perfect.

        "Yes, you do. The truth."

        "I am telling you the troohoohooHAWHAHA!" I love making him interrupt himself with his own laughter. I let my index finger explore for a little bit. It lightly skitters around the black cotton like a burrowing inchworm, going this way and that. Peter's foot shakes and squirms. He pulls harder at the webbing and the little bed moans under his shifting weight. With my left hand I command the silver threads to hold. "NO, NO, STAWHAWP!"

        "My, my." My heart feels like it's in my throat, but I do my best to keep my composure, keep my tone cool. "Peter, are you...ticklish?" Of course I already know the answer, but I need to hear him say it.

        He pauses a moment to catch his breath. Then: "Why are you doing this?"

        I want to say, 'Because I'm a bit of a sadist with mystical abilities who just so happens to also have a bit of a kink' (sometimes, there really isn't any ulterior motive) but instead, I say, "Because you're not being honest with me."

        "I am," he says, voice going all whiny again.

        "How long are you gonna keep this up?" My finger returns, this time with three other allies, and I begin to explore the wide expanse beneath his toes. He's got broad, strong feet--quite attractive, from what I can tell, just like the rest of him.

        "NO! NOHOHOHO! HEEHEE! AHH!" Peter's eyes slam shut and the laughter screams out of him. Like rockets and fireworks. Loud and succinct. He pulls against the webbing again, and I (magically) pull it back.

        "You ticklish, Pete?" I ask again. "Huh?"

        "STAWHAWHAWP IT! PLEEHEEHEEASE!"

        "Answer me."

        "HEEHEEHAHA!"

        I introduce my thumb into the mix. It digs into his instep as my four fingers scamper down his solid arch. The whole foot writhes.

        "Peter..."

        "OKAYHAYHAY! YES, YES! I'M TICKLISH!"

        I pull my hand away and I let him catch his breath. "You are, huh?" I love teasing him.

        "Y-yes." He gasps. His chest rises and falls, as much as it can, beneath the constricting clasp of the webbing. "I'm ticklish, okay? Will you stop now?"

        "Oh, this is going to be so much fun," I say. I position both hands a few inches away from his sock-clad soles. 

        "Wait, what are you doing?" He's straining his neck, trying to look down at where I'm seated.

        "Indulging," I say, and I touch down on both of his feet at once. His socks are thick and provide some resistance against the movement of my fingers, but my technique still seems to be effective.

        "No! NOHOHOHAHAHA!" Peter squeezes his eyes shut, thumps his head down again against his pillow, and laughs loudly. As I move my fingers up to the balls of his feet, his toes try to scrunch down around them, but to no avail. "PLEEHEEHEEASE!" he shouts and then tries a different evasive tactic--his left foot attempts to block his right. Eh, no problem. I simply focus all of my attention on his brave little left sole.

        Peter responds with a squeal and I predict his next move--his left foot moves to hide behind his right, which, in turn receives the brunt of my tickle assault thereafter. No matter what he does, he isn't able to avoid my fingers for long. Even when his feet flex outward, I decide to dig my short nails into his insteps again, and I rake them down to his heels. "DUUHUUHUUHUUDE! STAHAHAHAP! PLEEHEEHEEASE!" he shouts. His whole body writhes and the webbing starts to loosen again, finally forcing me to give him a break. My fingertips retreat and with another wave of my hand, I tighten up his restraints once more.

        Peter swallows heavily and struggles to catch his breath. Under his mask, I'm also experiencing the same struggle. This is like something out of my wildest dreams, and I am getting a little carried away. I have to savor this.

        (My excitement is also starting to...um...manifest physically, if you catch my drift.)

        "You've-- you've gotta stop this," says Peter through his panting.

        I exhale loudly. "I don't want to sound like a broken record here, but you already know my terms and conditions."

        "I'm not... Spider-Man."

        "Whatever you say." I shrug. "I don't know about you, but I could do this all night."

        "N-no..." Peter says sadly before breaking away into a fit of giggles again as I delicately reapply my fingertips to the tops of his toes. I enjoy watching them scrunch up again, watching as his feet spasmodically rock back and forth.

        "Ticklish toes. Cute."

        "Th-thihihis is wr-wrohawhawhong, man!" 

        "What's so wrong about a little tickling?" I say, skittering down to the spots beneath each of his big toes. "Just a little harmless fun." The scratching of the socked flesh there seems to incite a much stronger reaction. I watch Peter's feet writhe more intensely and his laughter spikes. After a few moments of relishing in his delightful giggling, I decide to give him a break. I sit back, allow him to gather himself, and, per my routine, command the webbed coiling to recompress around his body.

        "Wh-who are you?" he asks again. "How do you know Strange?"

        "Sorry, Peter. I told you--I'm the only one asking the questions tonight."

        "But why? Why are you doing this? Are you working for someone?"

        I chuckle. "What did I just say?" I stand from my chair and stretch. My eyes trace his slender, athletic body, the form of which is still distinctly visible beneath the layers of silky compound. I begin to casually pace along the foot of the bed, taking slow, steady steps.

        He opens his eyes again and the cutest expression crosses his face as I see him trying his best to make sense of all of this--something so nonsensical.

        "You know," I say, "this could easily be the point in the story where I start to exposit my evil plan. Start monologuing about my true intentions, yada, yada, ya--"  Peter surprises me, suddenly bucking against his bondage, and the bed trembles, but otherwise refuses to budge. The webbing holds fast. Determination is starting to replace his fear; I have to make sure he doesn't become too resolute. "Oh, no, no, no," I tsk. "None of that. Look, just give me what I want and I'll let you out."

        "I can't. Please," Peter implores.

        I sigh and return to the chair. I cross my arms. "Okay, well, you leave me no choice. But, just for the record, I'm not a bad guy, all right?"

        "You, uh, aren't really making a case for yourself," he says.

        "What I mean is, I've got no intention of harming you."

        "But you're gonna tickle me instead?" His use of the word sends unexpected shivers down my spine, and I wish he could see my smile as a result. 

        "Yep." I bob my head. "At least until you give me what I want."
        "I...can't," he says again.

        "You sure about that?" I've changed my tone again and it causes him to tilt his head up and look at me again. "What if"--I make a pinching motion with my right hand, squeezing the space between my thumb and forefinger--"I do...this?" I watch the black cotton just above Peter's toes wriggle in response; as soon as he feels the magical tug on the toe of his sock, he shouts, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on. Wait a minute."

        "What?" I continue to peel the sock from his foot.

        "N-no! No, no! Wait! Wait, wait, wait..."

        "What's wrong?" I watch, completely mesmerized, as Peter's heel is first revealed to me, the sock sliding slowly up into the air.

        "No. NO! Please! You don't understand!"

        "Tell me, Pete--what don't I understand?"

        "I don't think I'll be able to take it! Not with my socks off. Please." His desperate tone is delicious.

        "Then you better tell me what I want to hear," I say in a sing-songy sort of way, watching the cotton continue to slide up off of the skin--instep, ball, toes, then it's gone. And, in another instant--a quick, flippant gesture, his second sock is gone too.

        My god, are his feet just perfect.

        Pale insteps, ​​​pinkish coloration around the balls of his feet and his heels. His toes are short, but not stubby--round and cute. His big toe is broad, but his pinky toes are small comparatively speaking, and they curve inward slightly.

        "You've got a nice-looking feet, Pete." 

        "Whaaaat?" He sounds so confused, so discouraged. I almost feel bad for him--I doubt anyone has ever complimented his feet before. I chuckle to myself.

        "You're science guy, right?" I say.

        He doesn't answer me.

        "Let's conduct a little experiment. How many tickles can Peter Parker take on these cute feet of his before he breaks?" I curl my fingers and position them a few inches away from his soles. I watch as his toes curl in anticipation. My heart is pounding. My excitement continues to mount in ways that are best left to the imagination.

        "Please. Don't do this," he whimpers.

        "Let's start slow." I ignore him and do indeed begin. I very carefully run my index finger up Peter's right foot first, from heel to ball. The skin is silky soft and a little warm. As my fingernail travels upward, curving along the instep, the foot shudders and shifts behind its counterpart, toes curling, ball wrinkling.

        Peter hisses loudly and the bed jolts. Upon exhaling, he protests loudly: "No!"

        "Again," I say. I run my finger back down the foot. I watch, mesmerized, as it reacts almost the same way as before, but as my fingernail, pressed softly into the warm flesh, reaches his heel, his foot pivots in the opposite direction. The skin around the base of his toes goes pale, clenched tight. "Which foot is more ticklish, Pete?" I ask. With my left hand, I start to run my index finger up the other foot. Gently. Slowly. 

        "Aaaaahhhhhhisssssss!" Peter takes in a sharp breath of air as his feet writhe about at the base of the bed. His ankles are still firmly bound. All he can do is try and hide his feet behind one another and curl his toes, but this does little to deter me. 

        ​"How you holding up?" I ask.

        Peter just continues to splutter and make those strange hissing noises. Little gasps and bursts of breath. I look over the tops of his toes to see that his eyes are scrunched shut. His face is pink. His teeth are clenched. His doing his absolute best to maintain any semblance of composure he can. I assume that if he tries to talk, all will be lost.

        I want to be patient, to drag this out just as I continue to drag my fingers up and down his feet, but there's something I want more--to hear that wonderful laugh of his again. I want to hear him squeal and giggle. I want to hear him...well, beg. So, rather than use one finger on each foot, I employ all ten. I keep my thumbs on the arches of his feet while my other fingers crawl across his insteps. Here, the skin is even warmer and silker. I don't apply too much pressure, just enough to have them skate effortlessly across each sole.

        "Pfffffttttkkkkkkkshhhhhhh...." Peter's eyes snap open, nearly bugging out of his skull, and the sounds rushing forth from his nose and tightly-closed mouth remind me of radio static. His brow goes stern and he looks at me, an expression of sheer determination on his face. His cheeks have flushed even more.

        "Peter," I tease him. "C'mon."

        His breathing becomes rapid and shallow. His toes are curled so tightly that they've gone pale. He shakes his head furiously.

        "Let it out," I encourage him. I apply a tad more pressure to the sensitive flesh. His feet writhe and again attempt to defend one another.

        "Ehmmmmmmmm" is all he says.

        "Really making me work for this, huh?" I pull my hands away. The bed immediately lurches as his body untenses. 

         "Ohhhhhhh god," he says softly, drawing out the words under heavy breaths. "Pl-please, man. I can't do this anymore. Th-there's gotta be something else you want."

        I raise a brow. "No, not really."

        "Why can't we just be civil? Talk?"

        "What's so uncivil about a little tickling?" I ask. I snap my fingers, procuring something out of thin air. (It's just a trick of the light, really. A cloaking spell.)

        "Aw no, man. Pleeeeease," says Peter, his face relaying both exhaustion and nerves as I hold up the item for him to see.

        It's a beautiful feather, fortified into a magnificent quill pen. The length of it is a brilliant shade of crimson--varying shades of red dance throughout its stiff barbs as I spin it in the light. The shaft of the actual quill is plated in a gold metal, decorated in a swirling, ornate pattern. The tip is pointed, but not sharp.

        "What do you think of this?" I say. Damn, I wish he could see my grin. "A quill I found in one of the Masters' studies." I inspect the length of it as I continue to twirl the shaft between my thumb and forefinger. I can sense...something emanating from it, but I'm not sure why. "Ever since I was a kid, I've always wondered if feathers actually tickle. I mean, you always see them used in cartoons and whatnot." I sat back down in the little wooden chair, Peter's adorable feet only inches from me. "Wanna tell me what you think?" I reached forward and began to tease his bare soles with the soft, stiff bristles at the end of the feather. I watched as both of his feet started to flutter and flap about.

        Peter hisses again and holds his breath, but the more I keep at my task, the more I notice his breathing becoming quick bursts of stifled sound.

        Laughter again. Bingo. Finally. Took long enough.

        I keep the feather in my right hand, directing its bristles to keep at his toes, while I use my left hand to hold down his strong ankles, inhibiting the movement of his feet a bit. 

        "No, no, no, no..." Peter says quietly over and over again.

        I stroke the feather up and down his right instep, then quickly switch to his left. After a few more strokes--up and down, up and down--it's back to the right one again.

        "N-no, no, nonononoho..."

        "You gonna laugh for me, Pete?" I say.

        "Nonohonohohono..." He's grinning now. It's a desperate, unrestrained. His brow is not stern, but rather sad, as if he knows he's fighting a losing battle.

        "C'mon." I stroke up and down faster, harder, allowing the bristles to tease the soft skin beneath his scrunching toes. He kicks the feather away with one foot, then rotates the other one around, trying to dodge my touch. After a few frustrating evasions, I realize that I'm going to need to do more to not only secure Peter's feet, but his ticklish little fate as well. I sit back and, as he catches his breath again, I pinch the air again and enact yet another spell.

        (I wonder if the Masters at Kamar-Taj would ever imagine that I'd be using their teachings to be doing something like this? Who cares about combat when you can tie up and tickle someone instead?)

        I draw an invisible circle around both of Pete's big toes. A fiery string of light appears from the pinched air between my fingers, small runes pulsing in and out of sight as it threads its way into existence. I continue to draw circles around his two toes, over and over again. As I repeat my action, the string of light gets thicker, brighter. Soon, a magical little band has manifested in full, wrapping itself around the bases of both of Peter's big toes. I snap my fingers and release the thread of light, and it constricts, securing both toes tightly together.

        "Wh-what are you--? W-wait! No! Stop that!" he begs. I watch as his feet struggle to pull away from one another, but the little spell I've just cast now fully prevents them from doing so. No more evasive maneuvers from these puppies.​

       "There we go. Much better," I say, admiring the movement of both of his feet as they struggle to pull away from one another, but to no avail. "Now then--where were we?" My hands return to their positions--left on his ankles, right brandishing the feather on his feet--and I start to tickle him with the soft side of the quill again. His feet fight me at first, but not for long. Forced to flex in unison and unable to aid one another in protection, Peter's soft, pale soles are left to helplessly endure the feather's frantic, flighty touch. And, after only a few seconds:

        "Uhuhuhuheeheeha!" Peter Parker's resolve breaks. The sounds coming from his mouth grow steady and hearty. Incessant giggles. The smile on his face is bright. I slide the feather's bristles into the little concave divot of supple skin at his wrinkling insteps. I work it around the area and Peter's laughter is interrupted every so often by manic yelps and pleas. "Ohhhh! Hohohohahahahahah! Ahhhhhahahaha! EEEEEEHHHEEHEE! Nononono! NOHOHO! Pleeeheeheease!"​

        God, it's like music to my ears. It feels as if my nerve-endings are buzzing with excitement. It feels like the feather is doing the same. I keep at my craft, but only for a few seconds more because my fingertips are itching for the chance to feel his soft soles for themselves. I turn and place the quill on the desk beside the phone. I crack my knuckles and shake out my hands, allowing poor Peter Parker to rest up for a few seconds. "You good?" I ask.

        He doesn't answer me. He's panting heavily. I can see that he's starting to look a bit sweaty around his hairline. Man, I must really be driving him bonkers...

        "Did you realize you were this ticklish, Pete?" I ask him after his intakes of air start to settle.

        "L-let me out," he says.

        "Answer me." I reach over and scribble on his right heel with my fingertip.

        "NO! AIEE! NO!" He jumps at the touch. "NO MORE!"

        "If you answer my questions, I'll play nice," I say. "How ticklish are you?"

        He takes a moment to respond, but he knows it's only in his best interest to comply. "I'm very ticklish, all right? Obviously." It's a bitter, snarky response.

        I snort. "Okay, okay. Stow the attitude." I poke one of his insteps--so, so soft!--and watch him jerk to attention with amusement. "What would you say is your worst spot?"

        "I don't know..." He moans.

        "Is it your...feet?" I quickly scribble my fingers along the bottoms of his heels. His feet flop downward in unison, his toes scrunching up slightly again.

        He giggles and snorts again before shouting out, "Ev-everyheeheewhere!"

        "Is that so?" I pull away again, a little surprised that he's admitted it so quickly.

        "Y-yes," he says, gasping. "Th-this is awful. Please, man. I know you're enjoying this, but you really have no idea what you're doing to me." His tone suddenly sounds so sad, so feeble, and it takes the wind out of my sails a bit. 

        "Is it really that bad?" The sound of my voice probably lets it slip that I feel just a tad sorry for him.

        He tilts his head and looks up at me. "My senses. Th-they're on high-alert all the time. Something like th-this? It-it's...torture."

        I lean forward so that my hands come to rest near his vulnerable, restrained feet again. "And why are your senses on such 'high-alert'?" I ask, knowing that he's talked himself into a corner. "It wouldn't happen to be because you're...Spider-Man, would it?"

        All goes quiet as I assume he's processing what to say next. We can hear the bustle of the New York traffic outside the window and the creaks and moans of the old Manhattan building--the water pipes and buzzing electric wiring. I'm surprised that no one has come up here to investigate yet. I'm certain the other tenants can hear this poor boy's helpless cries of laughter. I raise my hands and curl my fingers. They're poised to get the answer I want from poor Mr. Parker...

        "No...?" he says weakly, as if he's even unsure of his answer.

        I strike again, my hands resuming a familiar stance--thumbs on his arches and the rest of my fingers digging into his silky insteps. Pete screams. He lurches so strongly that even though his webbing--and my magic--still hold him, I swear that the bed lefts off of the floor for a quick moment.

        "OHHHHHOHOHONONONONONO!" he cackles. He whips his head back and forth on the pillow, smiling mouth agape, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

        "I'm not hearing what I want to hear," I sing, curling my dull fingernails into the veiny, curving flesh at the innermost part of each of Peter's soles. He tries to turn his feet into one another, but the binding spell around his big toes makes any movement nearly impossible. 

        "AAHHHHHHAHAHAHAHA! OHPLEASEOHPLEASE! STAHAHAHAHP, MAN! I CANHANHAN'T TAKE IT! OHHHHAHAHAHA!" Peter laughs and laughs. I can see the veins bulging in his neck as his open mouth continues to spew that crazed, involuntary sound.

        "Say it!" I command, amusement in my voice.

        Again, Peter shakes his head furiously. He's trembling. He throws himself upward and the bed leaps from the floor, then slams back down. 

        "Jesus!" I laugh. My fingers scamper up to the base of his toes.

        "AIEEEEEEHEEEHAHAHAHA!" Peter's response is a clear indicator that his toes are a weak spot, especially the skin right beneath his big toes, riiiiiiight here--

        "AHHHHHCCCK!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA! NONONOMORE! PLEEEEHEEHEEASE! I'M BEHEHHEHHEGGING YOU!"

         I pull my hands away. His soles are starting to redden a bit from the pressure of my fingers. I sigh. "Pete," I say. "Why are you holding out on me? You say this is torture for you, and yet..." I shrug, then clap my hands together.

        "I'm n-not"--he's panting so heavily--"I can't..."

        "Why can't you?" I say. I turn and grab the red feather quill from the desk again, this time flipping it around so that its metal tip is facing the bottoms of his feet. "You don't have to protect anyone this time." It's a casual observation, but I can tell it hits a nerve more so than I've intended. He saddens. It almost looks like he's going to cry.

        Welp. I screwed that one up. I don't want to hurt him, physically or otherwise. 

        "Sorry," I say quickly. "I--" I hang my head. "Let's just get back to laughing, shall we?"

        "No, please..." says Peter weakly. 

        "You know the drill." I press the tip of the feather quill into the ball of Peter's left foot and begin to slowly drag it down his arch.

        "OHHHHGAWHAWHAWD!" Peter squeals. The bed shakes again, and this time, I hear its wooden frame groan in protest. I'm afraid it's going to snap, but it doesn't discourage me from dragging the metal tip down onto his heels, then up into his insteps, drawing swirling spirals and circles as I do so. His feet flex and tremble and sway in unison, the binding spell still doing its job splendidly. Each loop or scrawl of the ben incites a new bout of laughter from Pete: "AAAAKCKTHPHFFFTTTT! EEEEEK! AHAHAHAHA! NOHOHO! STOP! STOP IT NOWHOWHOW! STOP! PLEASEPLEASEPLEEHEEHEEHEEASE!"

        "You know, your enemies might get a kick of knowing this little weakness of yours." I take the feather's tip up to his toes and I start to scratch and scribble into the flesh beneath them again.

        S-P-I-D-E-R...

        I write the letters into the sensitive skin. Peter screams and cries with tormented laughter the entire time, and as his pitch intensifies, becomes more wild and raucous, something starts to happen.

       I hear a strange, whirring, whispery sound. The feather in my hand starts to...

        Glow...?

        The red of its winged bristles shimmers, and I swear that I start to see little ripples of ruby light--like synapses firing off in the brain--travel up and down the shaft, which is vibrating more intensely than before.

        So, I WASN'T imagining it...

        I pause, leaving the vibrating tip in between Peter's big toe and index toe and that's when he finally shouts, "OKAYHAYHAYHAY!! OKAYHAY!! YOU WIHIHIHIN! I'M SP-SP-SPEEHEEHEEHEEHAHAHA! STAAHAWHAWWWP!!!"

        I'm a little too distracted by the feather's sudden surge of strange energy to notice that he's buckled, but his words ring in my ears, and with the now-glowing, vibrating feather, I touch back down on his feet and continue my work as a scribe. "You're what?" I ask him to repeat.

        Peter screams with laughter again. His feet twist and tremble, flex and scrunch up. "I'M-- I'M SPIHIHIHIHID-DERHERHERHERMAN! I'M SPIHIHIDERMAHAHAN! YOU WERE RIIIIGHHIGHIGHIGHT!!!"

        "That's what I thought," I say smugly, lifting the feather from his sweating, shaking soles. Poor things. I suppose I can  give them some respite.

        Peter flops back against his pillow, hair wet with sweat, face as pink as his soles. "I'm..." He swallows and attempts to catch his breath. "I'm Sp-Spider-Man, okay?" He's practically muttering incoherently. "I'm Spider-Man..."

        "Yes, you are." I give him a few claps of approval. "See? Wasn't so hard, was it?"

        Peter closes his eyes. "Y-you got what you wanted," he says weakly. "Now, please just let me go."

        "I am a man of my word." I offer him a slight bow of my head. I raise my first and then spread out my fingers. His webbing falls away, but it's still sticky and splotchy around his body. Next, I snap my fingers, and the band of light around his big toes disintegrates. "See?" I'm confident that he's too worn out to do anything to me now, but I don't want to press my luck for long. I have more than what I need...for now. "Thanks for the fun, Pete. Maybe we could do this again sometime?"

       Peter looks like he's about to pass out. His eyes appear heavy, his limbs, finally free to spread out, do so in the manner of a ragdoll. I take a moment to admire his attire now that the webbing is loose around him--a gray t-shirt and black jeans, the cuffs contrasting sharply against his pale, white feet. He refuses to look at me.

        I stand from the chair and slide it back over to the desk, where I retrieve my phone. I end the recording.

        Beautiful. I will be watching and re-watching this many times...

        (Never you mind the reason!)

        "Please," Peter mutters after me. He watches as I place the Sling Ring on my fingers and I conjure up a portal. A ring--an opening--spins into our reality, sparks of fiery light flaying from its swirling border. "Please don't let this out," he says.

        I turn back to him, the portal spinning calmly behind me. I slowly remove his mask, and I toss the mass of red fabric onto his heaving chest. I'm silhouetted by the light of my destination, so I'm confident that my face is still somewhat veiled. I realize that I'm sweaty too. Bleck.

        "If it makes you feel any better," I say. "I won't." I hold up my hand. "Scout's honor. I really just wanted to have a bit of fun with ya. I told you--I'm not a bad guy. Well"--I shrug--"not in the traditional sense."

        Peter's eyes roll into the back of his head as the smallest look of relief crosses his face. He lets out another long breath. Wow, I must've really done a number on him. Maybe, I was too harsh? I raise up the feather quill in my left hand. It's still glowing softly, but it's no longer vibrating. 

        Curious thing. Apparently this is much more than just some quill. If anything, my little game here has given me something new to--

        "You there! Stop!" 

        A new voice speaks out, and it startles me. I drop the feather pen, which clacks to the floorboards with a soft thud. I turn and see that someone else has joined us... 

        Oh, crap.

        It's a woman adorned in soldier's gear. Black and orange--strange color choice. There's a small logo on her helmet, and a larger one to match on her chest plate: TVA. She's stepped from a portal of her own, but it doesn't look like mine. Hers is door-like, semi-transparent. She is holding up what looks like a long metal stick with a glowing light on its end, and she's pointing that end at me.

       I instinctively hold up my hands.

       Two more orange doorways appear behind her, and, respectively, two more soldiers step through into Peter's tiny little apartment.

        (It's suddenly become quite crowded in here. Much less...intimate.)

       I take a slow step back towards the destination I've conjured. I'm almost through...

       The female soldier turns to one of her armored colleagues. "Retrieve the artifact," she says to him. Then she turns to the man on her left. "You--apprehend him. He's coming with us." She points to me.

        Heck no. Not today.

        "Sorry! Gotta go!" I say, and before anyone can react, I leap backwards through my portal, using my Sling Ring to release the spell and close it behind me.

        The last thing I see is an exhausted Pete passed out on his bed, with the strange armored soldiers surrounding him, one of whom is picking up the feather from the floorboards...

        Close call. ​

        But...that could've gone worse, right?