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what a tickled web we weave

A Marvel Cinematic Universe Spider-Man tickle fic.


(See end of page for additional disclaimer and notes.)


"It's just that... when whatever happened happened, it's like my senses

have been dialed up to eleven. There's-- there's way too much input..."

Peter Parker to Tony Stark, Captain America: Civil War (2015)

Marvel Logo.gif

shortly after the events of
spider-man: homecoming

        Look, I'm not proud of myself, okay? I'm just gonna put that out there right away. I know I've got a bit of a problem. I acknowledge it. And, I promise--I promise--that after today, I'll never pull another stunt like this again.


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

        So, what did I do, exactly?


        I've got Peter Parker--the Peter Parker--in front of me. He's unconscious (I know, I know! I told you, I'm not proud of myself) and he's a little tied up at the moment, but he's okay. Look, I don't want to hurt the guy. 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: the charming, stabilizing call of male adolescence.

        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-- Where...?" 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 the shed in which we currently find ourselves, out behind the high school's field.

        "Hey, Pete," I say warmly.

        "Who are you? What's going on?" He pulls against the coils of webbing that loosely mummify his body from his shoulders down to his ankles--webbing, mind you, that he's been manufacturing in our school's chem labs, from what I've seen. I've tied him (quite successfully, if I do say so myself) to an old work bench. "Why do you have--?"

        "What, this?" I point to the mask I'm wearing. His mask. His Spider-Man mask. "I found it in your backpack." It fits pretty snugly and it smells like the cologne he always wears, and yes, I acknowledge that it's a bit creepy, all right? But I needed to hide my identity from him, and, like I said, I'm opportunistic. Honestly, Peter probably wouldn't recognize me even with the mask off. We've only ever had one class together, and I have a natural affinity for the role of a wallflower. Most people don't notice me, and that's okay. There's a certain advantage to flying under the social radar, especially for someone like me. "It's nice to meet you, Spider-Man," I say. "I'm a big fan."

        Peter's eyes widen and he struggles against his restrains. "What are you talking about?"

        "You're Spider-Man." My tone is matter-of-fact.

        "What?" The little laugh of surprise that escapes his lips makes something stir inside of me. "No, I'm not." Now comes the feigned incredulity. 

        "Peter." I raise a brow. "You're wrapped up in your own webbing. There are canisters in your backpack. The rest of your costume too."

        "It's not a costu-- I mean, th- that's not-- That's not mine." He doesn't seem upset so much as he seems a little scared. It's, honestly, super adorable. "Look, you've made a mistake."

        "You know, I'm a little disappointed in you," I say. "You've been sloppy. Not doing a good job of concealing the ol' alter ego." 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. The 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. "You're a-- a..."

​        "What the Sokovia Accords now call an 'enhanced individual,'" I say, flashing him some air quotes. "Yeah, yeah." I want to roll my eyes. The mere thought of having my actions and status tracked and policed by our government, all under the pretense of "international security" makes me sick. Had S.H.I.E.L.D. not fallen a few years ago, I'm sure I would've already been whisked away to some lab somewhere for study. "Did you think you were the only one at Midtown?"

        "No, it's just-- Wow." 


        "Sorry, I just-- I wasn't expecting this." 

        God, why was he apologizing to me? Seriously. Here I've gone and ambushed him, knocked him out, tied him up, and he's lying there offering me an apology and what looks like a pleasantly-surprised smile.

        This. This right here. This is exactly why I've got a be-all-end-all-earth-shattering crush on Peter Parker. And it's driving me insane.

        "Can you please let me out of this?" he asks. "Let's talk. You're a student here too?"

​        I lean forward, ignoring his question. "I'll let you out if you admit to me that you're Spider-Man."

        He gives me a nervous laugh. "Dude. I told you--I'm not him. I can see why you might think that, but you've got the wrong guy."

        I'm actually a little 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!"

        "Are you an Avenger?" I ask.

        He pauses for the briefest of moments. Then: "No! I'm"

        "Do you work for Tony Stark?"

        "What? Are you talking about my internship?"


        "Yeah. Maybe that's why you're confused. Yes, I have--er, had an internship with Stark Industries, but--"

        "Well, that would be the perfect cover for you being Spider-Man." I pull up a chair right next to his now-exposed feet and sit myself down. He's just digging himself a deeper hole, despite what he may think. 

        "I'm not Spider-Man."

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

        He sighs. "Okay, if you want the truth, I'm a Spidey fan too, all right? I was thinking of being Spider-Man for Halloween..." 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.

        "Halloween, eh? That's some pretty serious quality." 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'm a bit of an overachiever."

        "Is that right?"

        "Yeah." He exhales as his strength gives out. He rests his head back against the bench 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. Do 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. 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!"

        Crazy doesn't even begin to describe me. "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 tell me that you're Spider-Man?"

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

        "The truth," I say.

         "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 bench 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 superhuman with a kink and this is, honestly, one of my biggest fantasies' (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 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 (telekinetically) pull it back.

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


        "Answer me."


        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.



        First victory of the afternoon. 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, 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. 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 Peter 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!" 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 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 day."

        "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!" 

        "I know. And I'm sorry," I say, skittering down to the spots beneath each of his big toes. "But it's just so much 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.

        "Sorry, Peter. I'm the only one asking questions today."

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

        I chuckle. "What did I just say?"

        "I just don't understand. How did you even--?" He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. "How did I get here?"

        "Oh." 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. "You don't remember?" I begin to casually circle him, taking slow, steady steps.

        He opens his eyes again and the cutest expression crosses his face as I see him try to piece it all together. "N-no," he mutters. "Not really. I mean, I remember leaving school and then..." His voice trails away.

        "Recognize these?" I ask, procuring two small metal orbs from my pocket. 

Besides, he doesn't need to know the details. Let's just say the Department of Damage Control wasn't wholly successful in recovering every piece of Chitauri tech following the Battle of New York--apparently, exposure to radioactive alien energy had consequences on certain civilians, i.e. me.

The same Chitauri tech that gave me my abilities. Apparently, exposure to 

        "Again, you're not very discreet." I've almost made a full lap around the workbench. "For example, you know how many times I've seen you hop the back fence?"

        He looks right at me again. "What?"

        "And when I say 'hop,' I mean literally hop. You clear that entire gate. In one jump."

        "I don't know what you're talking about."

        Lord, this again. I start on my second lap, basking in his undivided attention. "I doubt I'm the only one who's noticed, by the way. Unfortunately for you, you got my attention. And, as you now know, I've got this." I snap my fingers. The fluorescent lights above us immediately flicker to life. I wait a few seconds before snapping again, sending us back into the shadows.

        "Just let me out." Peter is growing tired of my monologuing, it seems. He suddenly bucks against his bondage, and the bench 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. Just another moment or two. I ignore his instructions and keep talking.

        "I can do a lot of things," I say. "Move things. Manipulate energy." I shrug. "Even render someone unconscious for a short time." It's a smug little confession.

        "This is so messed up," Peter says under his breath before asking, "H-how did you even get your powers?"

        "You're not the one asking the questions," I remind him.

        "Just let me out, man. Please," implores Peter. "I've got to get home. What time is it?"

        "Don't worry," I say, finally returning to my chair. I sit down and cross my arms. "I won't keep you too long. You've got some time before 

        I sigh, finally returning to my chair. I sit down and cross my arms. "Look, I'm not a bad guy, okay?"

        Peter doesn't say anything. 

        "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."

        "Just tickle me?" he says, and his use of the word sends unexpected shivers down my spine, and I wish he could see my smile as a result. 

        "Well, yeah." I bob my head. "At least until you tell me the truth about who you are."
        "How did you get your powers?" he asks.

        I shake my head. "I ask the questions," I say again. He doesn't need to know the details. L

get manage to of Chitauri tech from the Battle of New York


from the Battle of New York. 


        "Do I really?" I try to maintain my note of nonchalance, but his observations are starting to make me the slightest bit uneasy.

        "Do I know you?" he asks.

        "You know, I think it's time we make this a bit more interesting." Not only am I intent on changing the subject, but I know something that will distract him, completely throw off his 

        "What?" He tilts his head up to look at me again. "What do you mean?" 

        "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 telekinetic 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, completel 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.

        Peter's feet are 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 toes are broad, but his pinky toes are small comparatively speaking, and they curve inward slightly.

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


        "What?" He sounds so confused discouraged. I almost feel bad for him.

        "Let's see how long you last."

        "Please. Don't," he whimpers.



        "You're what?" I ask him to clarify as I continue to 


        "One more time," I instruct, 

        "I'm Spider-Man, okay?" he mutters. "I'm Sp-Spider-Man..."

        "Well, yeah." 


shortly after the events of
spider-man: FAR FROM HOME


        Welp. There it is, plain as day, on almost every phone and television screen across the country. Spider-Man's true identity, revealed to the world.

        His name is Peter Parker.

        Good job, Mysterio. Woo-freakin'-hoo, buddy.

        Thing is, this is old news. Yawn. I've known Spider-Man's name for eight years now. Well, three, if you don't count The Blip; I was one of the unlucky ones, but so was Peter, so there's that, at least. Anyway, it's water under the bridge now. Up until a few seconds ago, I considered myself one of the privileged few that knew Spider-Man's secret.

        But now...

        As the commotion catalyzes around me, I withdraw to my corner of the coffee shop, listening to the patrons begin to debate their opinions on Mysterio's demise. I don't believe for one second that Peter is responsible for his death. 

        To hell with all of them. Sure, everyone knows who Spider-Man is now, but I take solace in the fact that I was one of the first. I will always cherish our little moment back in the equipment shed at Midtown High before Peter went on to do things like, you know, save half the universe. Ah, our little game. Just thinking about it now gets me all excited in all the wrong ways. The soft silky smoothness of his soles against my frantic fingertips. His desperate, 

        At least I'll always have the memory of that afternoon. Nothing--and I mean nothing--could ever happen that would make me forget such a magical moment...

Author's notes: 

This story was started back in 2018, after I had rewatched Spider-Man: Homecoming for what was probably the third time. I got halfway through the fic, but never finished it, and it was ultimately shelved. I am so happy to finally be releasing this story now in 2023, post-No Way Home, of course and post-learning that Tom Holland is, in real life, insanely ticklish. 


This story contains incidents of nonconsensual tickling and minor references to sexual themes. Not suitable for readers under 13. This story is a work of a fiction. The use of Tom Holland's portrayal of the character Spider-Man is solely for the purposes of entertainment and is not affiliated with, nor endorsed by, Holland or Marvel.


Comments forthcoming.

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