"Man, I like that Spider-Man of Tobey Maguire more."
"What? I think Tom Holland is the best one."
"What do you mean Tom Holland is the best? It's of course Andrew Garfield, you dumbasses…"
"Who are you calling dumb, you cocksucker? Do you wanna die sucking my cock or what?"
"Fuck, that's gay as fuck."
"Hahahaha, why are you gay?"
"NAHHH, what are y'all even doing rn bro 😭💀 this some NPC behavior ong 🙏"
"Shut up, you Skibidi shit."
Peter groaned, the absurd words filtering through the haze of sleep like static from a broken radio.
His eyes remained shut, his body trapped in the shallow restlessness of a dream that refused to release him.
The phrases clashed and tumbled over one another, carrying a cadence Peter had never encountered in waking life.
He watched—helpless, half-aware—as visions unfolded around the voices: sleek sports cars slicing through neon-lit streets, glowing screens filled with OnlyFans thumbnails and webnovel chapters, crisp high-resolution images sharper than anything his eyes had known.
And woven through it all, Spider-Man movies, Avengers, Marvel—endless cascades of heroes in vibrant suits, battles that shook the sky. The people in these glimpses spoke differently, faster, laced with slang that felt like another language.
Most startling of all was the thing they called Artificial Intelligence—an invisible presence they summoned with casual taps and commands, bending it to tasks both trivial and profound, as natural to them as breathing.
He tossed and turned in his narrow bed, limbs twisting against the thin sheets as fragments of the scene played out before him—voices overlapping in sharp, alien rhythms.
It was a world both intoxicating and alien, pulsing with inventions and energies he could barely comprehend.
Then the images began to fracture. Colors bled and warped. The ground beneath the dream-figures cracked open with a low, ominous rumble. Peter's throat tightened in panic.
He tried to cry out—"No"—but the word dissolved soundlessly in the collapsing void.
A blaring alarm ripped through the dream instead, jagged and merciless, jerking him upright into the dim, familiar reality of his room.
His heart hammered against his ribs, sweat cooling on his skin as the last echoes of those strange voices and impossible sights faded into the morning light.
Peter stared up at the familiar ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, its blades cutting slow, hypnotic circles through the stale morning air.
Outside, the newspaper vendor's shouts echoed down the street like a rooster's insistent crow, sharp and relentless. The cramped little room pressed in around him, its worn walls and faint scent of damp plaster reminding him exactly where he was.
He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, and glanced toward the small mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
The reflection was nothing but a hazy blur until he reached for his glasses and slipped them on. The world snapped into focus. He studied the face staring back at him—his face—and the words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Umm… is that really me?"
Almost instantly, his own voice answered back inside his head, sharp and mocking: "The fuck, If it is me? Of course it's me."
He blinked, startled. He hadn't even realized he had spoken the words aloud, nor the rough, casual edge they carried—nothing like his usual polite, measured tone. The difference hung in the air for a moment, strange and slightly unsettling.
Peter cleared his eyes again and rose from the bed, moving closer to the mirror. He leaned in, studying his reflection more intently. His fingers rose almost of their own accord, tracing the line of his jaw.
"Yeah, I do look like that guy… Tobey Maguire or whatever."
For the first time, he allowed himself to really see it. The sharp angles, the quiet intensity in the eyes. He had never thought of himself as handsome.
He had always seen the awkward nerd staring back—glasses, messy hair, that perpetual look of someone who spent too much time in his own head. He hadn't been proud of it.
But now, he stood there a moment longer, fingertips still resting lightly against his jaw, quietly admiring the face in the glass.
Peter glanced at the old clock mounted on the cramped wall. Its hands showed he still had an hour before school started.
"Hmmm, still an hour before school starts. Well, let's get ready then."
The words came out with a new rhythm, each syllable sharper, more assured than his usual soft-spoken cadence.
The faint air of naïveté and simple awkwardness that had always clung to him seemed to be fading, replaced by something steadier—confidence settling into his posture, straightening his shoulders.
He didn't fully understand the strange scenes from the dream, nor the glimpses of that other world he had witnessed. But one thing felt undeniably clear in his mind: 'I am goddamn handsome.'
A slow, crooked smile crept across his face. As a teenager, the sudden surge of confidence lifted him to an entirely new level.
Without thinking, he slipped into the signature dance he had seen in the dream—the one belonging to that bully version of that Tobey Maguire guy.
His waist swayed side to side, hands clapping high above his head as the words burst out with raw energy.
"Fuck yeah, this is the best morning."
A bright, buoyant mood carried him forward, the kind of unfiltered joy that made the small room feel a little less confining.
Then the door to his room swung open without warning.
"Peter, come down quickly, breakfast is—"
Aunt May, as she always did, had come to wake him. She froze mid-sentence at the sight: Peter standing half-naked in the middle of the room, hands raised, morning wood tenting his underwear prominently as he danced. Her eyes widened for a split second before she quickly pulled the door shut.
"Sorry. Come downstairs quickly."
Her footsteps hurried away down the stairs. Peter remained frozen in place, the cheerful energy evaporating in an instant. He looked down at the obvious tent in his underwear and muttered under his breath,
"Fuck."
Peter quickly changed his motion, the awkward dance cutting off mid-step. Then another image flashed through his mind, pulling his thoughts in a different direction.
"Wait, Aunt May… She seems to be different from how that Aunt May of Tobey Maguire's looked. My Aunt May looks similar to that Tom Holland guy's Spider-Man, but isn't she younger than that actress whose name those guys didn't even know?"
The realization sharpened. His Aunt May wasn't the older woman from the earlier movies—she resembled the one from the later Spider-Man films, yet she appeared even younger than that actress.
"Wait, what is going on? That thing happened after 2010 or whatever, right, in that movie? But aren't I still living in the 1990s? Was all of that really just a dream?"
Confusion clouded his thoughts for a moment. Then Peter laughed, the sound bubbling up as if his genius mind had simply overlooked something obvious.
"Of course they were all dreams. What the heck am I thinking? So I just created those movies and shit. Man, I never knew I was this intelligent—to create a whole new future of this world. Hahahaha."
He couldn't help but laugh at his own genius, a small swell of pride warming his chest as he considered what he had conjured in that dream.
"Guess I really deserve my title as the Real Nerd."
His chest lifted a little higher with that quiet pride, the earlier embarrassment from being seen by Aunt May fading completely from his mind.
Downstairs, Aunt May's fingers still trembled as she held her cup of coffee, the liquid rippling slightly with each sip. She glanced at the framed picture of her late husband on the wall, and a smile touched her lips—though the expression looked strained, caught somewhere between fondness and unease.
"It looks like our Peter has finally grown up, Dear."
She spoke the words softly, but it wasn't entirely clear whether she felt happy or worried as they left her.
----
If this twisted take on Peter Parker has you hooked, make sure to add this fanfic to your library and send as many power stones and comments as you can.
And if you're craving something even bolder, try my original novel: Breeding Bull: Husbands Ask Me to Satisfy Their MILF Wives.
Well… I don't think I need to explain what this one's about. If you know what I mean.