Featuring: Peter Parker x FEM! reader (eventual)
Synopsis: Peter Parker has died thirty different ways in the same day, never once backing out of the universe's script. But when he strays off his usual path, he realizes the time loop isn't a solo sentence, and he isn't the only one dying.
Warnings: NO SPOILERS FOR BND!!! use of y/n, repeated death, mentions of death(somewhat graphic), near-death experiences, death anxiety, mention of gun violence and violence, emotional distress, isolation, eventual relationship/more (yall don't meet until the end of the fic for plot reasons), existential dread, depression-coded themes, passive death wish, cigarette use, language, horror elements, time-loop elements (literally the plot), final destination style accidents, AU, rewatched russian doll and got inspired, that's pretty much it. As always, barely proofread, but that is a staple on my account.
An: So I just rewatched Russian Doll and then saw Brand New Day with my father, and BOOM, this is what you get from me: a fanfic based on my fav Netflix show and a song I like. There are no movie spoilers and barely any show spoilers, for one of my favorite non-anime or horror shows, Russian Doll, which has been out since 2019. As always, I hope you guys enjoy this!!! There will def be a part two; I have already started writing it
Divider gif cred to @feimingo
The mirror in the bathroom of Peter Parker’s cramped, drafty apartment was cracked down the lower right corner, dividing his reflection into two slightly offset versions of the same tired face.
The syllables barely cleared his teeth before the buzzing started. Right on schedule. A fat, iridescent blowfly materialized from nowhere, hovered in the stale air for a fraction of a second, and landed squarely on the glass, right over the hairline of his split reflection.
Peter didn’t even sigh. He reached for the faded, thin blue hand towel hanging over the edge of the chipped porcelain sink, snapped his wrist, and whacked the glass. The fly dropped into the drain. Standard operating procedure.
He moved back into the dim main room, stepping around a laundry basket, and he pulled a worn blue T-shirt over his head along with a pair of black jeans. He had tried changing up the outfit on early loops—trying to see if wearing a flannel or a sweater would ripple some cosmic shift—but it didn’t matter. You could wear rags or nothing; when the universe decided to crush you, the fabric didn’t soften the impact.
He checked his wrist. 5:30 PM.
That gave him precisely five minutes to get nowhere, accomplish nothing, and keep himself from dissolving into the quiet, suffocating vacuum of his own head.
Ever since the spell had wiped Peter from the collective memory of the world, silence had become a physical weight. There was no one in his corner. He was a ghost walking through a city that he had fought for every single day, completely unseen, completely forgotten. And then, to make the isolation truly poetic, the universe had locked him in a box.
He didn’t know what had broken the linear progression of time. Maybe it was a lingering glitch from the spell. Maybe it was a residual tear in space-time from a fight gone wrong. All he knew was that every time he died—whether he took a stray bullet, miscalculated a web-swing anchor point, or simply stepped into the wrong place at the wrong time—he woke up right here. Five-thirty PM. Bathroom sink. Fly on the mirror.
Peter dragged his feet into the living room, collapsing onto the sagging cushions of his thrift-store couch. He picked up the remote and clicked on a random action movie just to hear human voices that weren’t echoing in his own memory.
He lay back, staring straight up at the water-stained ceiling plaster. He felt like he was trapped in a sensory deprivation chamber. The numbness was the hardest part. The first few loops, he had panicked. He swung around the city frantically trying to find someone that could help, anyone that could sense magic, or time anomalies. But, he found himself in front of a semi-truck.
So, Peter had stopped trying to fix it. He was just tired.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Peter blinked, staring at the screen. The number was unknown— a wrong-number ping that always fired off at 5:40 PM.
He picked it up, answering without looking at the screen, his voice barked through the small speaker.
“Hey! Is this Pete?” a boisterous, slightly nasally voice barked through the small speaker.
Peter didn’t answer right away. He knew who it was. It was a guy named Mark—a land-lease coordinator who had the wrong digit in his system and called every single loop asking for a guy named “Pete Johnson” about a commercial garage space in Brooklyn. On early loops, Peter used to explain the mistake. On later loops, he used to ignore it. Today, he just held the phone to his ear, listening to the static.
“Wrong number, man,” Peter said quietly, his thumb hovering over the red button.
Peter hung up before the guy could finish. He tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him.
He couldn’t stay in this apartment. The walls felt like they were itching inward, pressing against his ribs until it was hard to draw a full breath. He needed to move. He pulled on his beat-up sneakers, grabbed his battered winter coat. He climbed the metal stairs of the fire escape, stepping out onto the high edge of the tenement roof. He didn’t bring his Spider-Man suit tonight. He sat right on the cold brick ledge in his normal clothes, letting the cold New York drizzle soak through his jacket.
Below him, the city moved in a blur of neon, exhaust fumes, and distant police sirens. New York was alive, pulsing with that frantic energy he had spent his entire life protecting, but he felt like a ghost watching it from the dark.
He pulled his knees up slightly, resting his arms on them as the rain dripped off his hair. A sharp twist of guilt settled in his gut for sitting up here in street clothes while the city churned below, but right beside it was a far heavier sense of surrender. Just for tonight, he couldn’t carry it. He was so tired of fighting the city, tired of dodging stray construction debris, faulty cranes, and freak electrical accidents just to live a few extra hours alone. For one night, he just wanted to stop fighting and exist. Peter got down from the ledge, wiped the water from his eyes, and decided he was going to go.
He walked past a bodega where a robbery was currently in progress.
Through the lit glass window, Peter could see a man in a dark hoodie pointing a heavy, chrome-plated revolver at the terrified cashier. Old instinct flared immediately—the sharp, prickling warmth of Spider-Sense at the back of his neck, the sudden spike of adrenaline calling him to action.
He had stopped this specific bodega robbery three loops ago. He had swung in through the front door, webbed the guy’s gun to the ceiling, pinned him to the snack rack, and saved the clerk. And then, ten minutes later, while swinging toward Queens, a stray piece of construction debris from a faulty crane had snapped loose, caving in his ribs and dropping him towards the floor. Loop reset. Right back in front of his sink with an aching in his ribs.
If he saved the clerk, did it even matter? The clerk wouldn’t remember it. The robber wouldn’t be in jail. The universe would just reset the board, set the pieces back in their starting squares, and force them to play the same bad hand all over again.
Peter watched through the glass as the clerk handed over the tray of cash. The robber bolted out the door, pushing past Peter so hard their shoulders slammed together. The man didn’t even apologize; he just sprinted off into the dark.
Peter stood there on the sidewalk, feeling a deep, hollow ache in his chest. What’s the point in having power if the responsibility is trapped in a circle?
He kept walking, letting his feet carry him aimlessly through the grid of Manhattan. He avoided going back up to the roofs tonight. Every time he went up on the roofs as Spider-Man, the loop seemed to find a way to cut him down faster. Only a truly demented writer could come up with this. This couldn’t be the natural order of human life.
He always bought two slices of pepperoni from the grease-stained counter on 10th Avenue. It was a ritual, or as close to one as he could manage in a reality that kept resetting the clock on him.
The first time he’d tried to eat here, one of his first three loops, a distracted delivery van had jumped the curb and flattened the front window before he could even take a bite. Two loops later, he’d actually managed to finish the second slice, only to choke on an ice cube from his soda while turning the corner—dying right there on the pavement while a bewildered tourist tried to give him the Heimlich. It had a bizarre, Final Destination kind of sense of humor, constantly finding absurd ways to close his tab whenever he strayed too far from his apartment.
Today, Peter stood on the sidewalk, chewing slowly as the greasy paper plate folded in his hand. The pepperoni was lukewarm, the crust crispy, and for once, he’d made it past the sidewalk without a rogue air conditioning unit dropping on his head.
He tossed the paper plate into a mesh trash can and wiped his hands on his jeans.
Usually, this was the part where he turned left, walked back to his dark room, and waited for the ceiling fan to fall on him, or an electrical fire to start in the baseboards. He knew it was morbid, but what else did he have to think about? From his fire escape, he could always see the flickering neon glow of the pop-up fair down the pier. He’d intentionally stayed far away from it every single loop. A fair was practically asking for a freak accident. Mixing his cursed, death-prone loop with a venue straight out of a horror movie felt like handing the universe a loaded gun.
He stood at the intersection, watching the red hand on the crosswalk sign flash.
He was supposed to turn left. But he was so tired of playing it safe just to drag out a few more miserable hours of breathing alone in the dark. He rarely made it to Friday anyway.
Screw it, Peter thought. If the universe wants to take a swing at me tonight, it might as well do it somewhere with bright lights.
He turned right instead, taking a long, deliberate breath of the damp river air, and set off toward the distant fair.
It was a transient, cheap setup. A collection of squeaky, neon-lit fair games, the heavy smell of fried dough, cheap engine gas, and grease. A handful of rickety rides that looked like they had been assembled with zip-ties and hope. Bright lights flooded the darkness, cutting through the river fog. Loud pop music blared from horn speakers mounted on aluminum poles. Screams of excitement echoed off the water as teenagers and young couples ran between rides.
Peter stood at the perimeter of the fairgrounds, blinded momentarily by the flashing yellow and red bulbs. It was completely artificial. It was so remarkably mundane that for a second, the heavy knot in his stomach loosened.
“Sir? Would you like to buy a ticket?”
Peter turned. A girl in a faded fair polo shirt was leaning against a wooden ticket booth, smiling with the practiced, exhausted enthusiasm of a minimum-wage worker at the end of a shift.
“Uh, yeah.” Peter pulled his hands from his pockets, fishing out his meager cash. “Please. Let me get a ticket and—” he glanced at the sign, “the twenty ticket game and ride card.”
The girl nodded, taking the crumpled bills from his hand, tearing a thick blue entrance ticket off a roll, then handing him a printed-out game ticket. “Enjoy the fair.”
“What rides do you recommend?” Peter asked, just trying to hold onto a thread of any conversation that didn’t involve saving the world or mourning his dead life.
The girl chuckled, looking over to her right. “The Ferris Wheel. The view is to die for.”
Peter winced slightly at the word choice, but forced a small, polite smile. “Right. Thanks.”
He walked into the heart of the fairground, the game ticket held tightly in his fist. He didn’t rush. He wandered over to a game stall where stuffed animals hung from metal grids under harsh lights. The game was simple: dart throw at a wall of over-inflated balloons.
Peter stood at the wooden counter, handed the stall worker his game ticket to scan, and took three cheap plastic darts. He didn’t use his enhanced reflexes. He didn’t really try. He just threw the dart.
The red balloon in the center exploded. The small crowd of kids and parents standing nearby let out a casual cheer.
“Hey, nice shot, kid,” a dad standing next to his daughter called out, clapping Peter on the shoulder.
Peter blinked, looking at the man. It was a completely normal interaction. A stranger offering genuine lighthearted praise. For a second, a strange, prickling heat rose behind Peter’s eyes. He nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. “Thanks, man.”
“Pick a prize, winner!” the stall guy droned, waving a stick toward the upper racks.
Peter pointed to a massive, gaudy plush elephant with bright pink ears. The workers hauled it down and handed it over the counter. It was absurdly large and awkward to hold, but Peter tucked it under his arm anyway.
He was feeling better. The cold, suffocating numbness in his chest was receding slightly, replaced by the sheer, absurd reality of standing in a fair holding a giant stuffed elephant. He wanted this feeling to last. He knew it wouldn’t. He knew that sooner or later, the clock would hit its invisible wall, or some freak accident would tear the thread, and he’d be back at the mirror with the fly. But, for now? He just wanted to embrace the noise, the neon, and the smell of sugar.
He bought himself a massive slushie from a stainless-steel cart, the icy paper cup freezing his fingers. He took a long sip, the artificial syrup tasting violently sweet on his tongue, as he began walking toward the end of the fairgrounds.
Where the rickety, glowing silhouette of the Ferris wheel towered over the black water of the river.
The line of the Ferris wheel was thin. Most of the families had started heading home, leaving mostly stray groups of teenagers and quiet couples waiting for the final run of the night.
Peter carried his giant elephant under one arm and his slushie in the other, blending into the queue. The ride was old. The classic wheel structure had small, fully enclosed glass and aluminum cars that swung lazily on rusted pivots as the wheel churned. Past the steel structure of the ride, the dark, flat expanse of the East River stretched out into the night, reflecting the distorted reds and greens of the fair lights.
As the line moved forward, Peter kept his eyes glued to the dark water. It was quiet out there beyond the boundary of the fair. Calming, in a grim sort of way.
Peter pulled his gaze away from the water. He was at the front of the line. The ride operator—an old man with a cap and toothpick hanging out of his mouth—was holding the metal latch of an open car door. Ahead of Peter, two teenagers pulled themselves into the cart in front of him, laughing loudly.
“Excuse me?” Peter asked, his mind catching up to the question.
“Are you alone, or going with someone?” the operator repeated, sounding intensely bored.
“He’s coming with me. Come on.”
The voice cut through the mechanical hum of the generator beside them. Peter turned his head sharply.
Standing right beside him on the metal loading platform was a girl roughly his age. You were wearing a worn jacket, your hair slightly blowing from the river breeze, your eyes sharp and completely unbothered by the sight of a guy standing alone with a giant stuffed elephant.
The operator didn’t care enough to question if you had cut in line. He took your four tickets, snapped the latch open wider, and gestured inside. “Get in. Mind the step.”
You stepped up into the small, enclosed cart without hesitating, turning around to look at Peter through the open door.
“You coming?” You asked. Your tone wasn’t pleading, nor was it flirtatious. It was cool, grounded, and intensely present within the moment.
Peter stood frozen for half a second. His spider-sense didn’t tingle. There was no threat warning, no alarm bell in his mind. Just a quiet, strange pull.
He stepped up into the cart, squeezing the bulky plush into the seat beside him. The operator slammed the metal door shut, the latch dropping with a heavy CLACK, and the cart swayed gently as the hydraulics kicked in, lifting it off the loading platform.
The small enclosure smelled faintly of old glass cleaner and faint sweet perfume.
You sat on the bench opposite Peter, stretching your legs out slightly. You looked out the scuffed, massive Plexiglas windows as the fair floor began to sink away beneath them.
“I’m Y/N,” you said, extending a hand straight across the small gap between their knees. “Sorry for jumping in. I don’t like heights and being alone didn’t seem fun.”
He took your hand, shaking it briefly. He looked up at your face; your expression was neutral, but your eyes were steady.
You smiled—a tiny, dry curve of your lips that didn’t quite reach a full grin, but had genuine warmth to it. “Peter. I like Peter. Peter’s nice.”
You turned your head back toward the glass as the ride carried them higher, the glowing grid of the city opening beyond the fairgrounds. The neon lights shrank into bright dots of color, illuminating the river in long, sweeping strokes of reflection.
Peter sat back, resting his arm on the plush. “You don’t like heights, but you got on a Ferris Wheel?”
“Felt like the thing to do,” you replied casually. You reached into your pocket, pulled out a somewhat smushed cigarette and a cheap disposable lighter. You flicked it once, twice, until the small orange flame caught, lighting the tip. You took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke toward the tiny ventilation slit near the roof of the cart. “Some nights you need to look at things from high up so you can confirm they’re still as messily put together as you thought they were.”
Peter let out a soft, breathless laugh. A real laugh, the first one he had produced in what felt like weeks of looping time. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s…actually pretty accurate.”
“Right?” You leaned your head against the glass frame, looking over at Peter. “You look like you’ve had a day, Peter.”
“You have no idea,” he muttered, taking a slow sip from his slushie. The ice was starting to melt into a bright red sludge at the bottom. “Or maybe you do. It’s just…New York, I guess. It has a way of erasing you if you aren’t paying attention.”
He watched the woman in front of him fully turn to face him, your gaze lingering on his face for a second longer than a stranger normally would. You didn’t press. You didn’t ask the standard small-talk questions—you just took another drag of your cigarette.
“Honestly? Screw it,” you said smoothly, flicking a speck of ash into the corner of the floor. “You seem like a nice guy. Why wouldn’t New York like you?”
“Thanks,” he said quietly. And he meant it.
You were cut off mid-sentence by a sudden, violent shudder that slammed the cart sideways.
The hydraulic system above them shrieked—a high-pitched, metallic scream of shearing steel. The cart pitched violently to the left, tossing Peter against the elephant plush and causing you to grab the safety bar with both hands as your cigarette tumbled from your fingers, landing on the floor.
They had reached the very top of the wheel’s apex.
The breathtaking view of Manhattan stretched out around them, but the fairground below had devolved into chaos. The bright, garish lights of the fair flickered violently once, twice, and then shot out in a shower of blinding blue sparks from the main power near the pier entrance.
Below them, the distant screams of terrified crowd members echoed up through the night air.
A thick support cable near the main axle snapped with a sound of a gunshot, whipping wildly through the air and tearing through the structural bars near the top of the wheel. The cart groaned loudly, the metal frame warping inward under the sudden shift in weight distribution. Sparks rained down from the shattered light strips above their heads, illuminating the small cart in harsh, rhythmic flashes of white and purple light.
The frame groaned again, a sickening sound of structural failure. The entire Ferris wheel began to tilt dangerously toward the river, steel beams buckling like plastic drinking straws. Down on the blacktop, people were sprinting in every direction, their panicked cries floating up to the sky.
In the cart to the right of Peter, he heard a very frightened girl yell, “We’re all gonna die! It’s falling!”
Peter didn’t even move. He didn’t even drop his slushie. He just sat on the bench, his expression settling into a bored, entirely numb exhaustion. He knew this shift. He knew the script. The universe had finally decided now was the time to act. 8:50 PM was his end time for this loop. Another freak mechanical failure. Another absurd, unavoidable death.
He looked across the tiny space of the cart at you.
He expected you to be screaming. He expected he’d have to try to calm your weeping, clawing at the glass, or hyperventilating in your seat.
Instead, you were sitting completely still. Your hands had released the safety bar. You were looking out at the collapsing steel structure with an expression that matched his own with terrifying precision: complete unadulterated boredom.
You turned your head toward him slowly, the flashing blue sparks reflecting off your eyes.
“Hey, Peter,” You said, your voice almost conversational, cutting right through the deafening metal screech of the collapsing ride. “Didn’t you hear? We’re about to die.”
Peter let out a tired, quiet sigh, leaning his head back against the metal wall of the cart.
“It doesn’t matter,” Peter muttered, staring at the ceiling as the metal frame tore open above them. “I die all the time.”
You didn’t blink. You didn’t look at him like he was crazy. You just leaned back against your own seat, a faint, wry smile touching the corner of your lips.
Peter’s eyes snapped to yours—wide, stunned, the sudden shock hitting him harder than any mechanical impact ever could.
Before he could speak, before his brain could process two words that had just shattered his entire understanding of the last three weeks, the main support axle snapped completely. The cart pitched violently into freefall, plunging down toward the dark, cold expanse of the river below, and everything went black.
Peter coughed out river water; the dirt taste covered his tongue before he spat it out into his sink.
Peter mumbled the world before his eyes even fully adjusted to the light.
He was standing in front of his bathroom sink.
Like clockwork, the fat blowfly flew onto the glass, landing right over his split hairline.
Peter didn’t hit it. He stood frozen, his hands gripping the edges of the cold porcelain sink so hard the knuckles turned white, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches as his mind replayed those final three seconds in the dark, collapsing cart.
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