Peter Parker had always prided himself on his agility, his ability to move in the shadows, to avoid detection, and to stay out of sight when necessary. But now, at a fraction of his original size, none of that mattered. He was no longer the quick, nimble Spider-Man who could outmaneuver anyone. Now, he was a small, helpless speck in a world that had grown far too large.
His body was still reeling from the sudden shrinkage. The sharp, painful realization of how powerless he was had set in. His webbing could barely hold his weight anymore, and his usual quick reflexes felt sluggish at best. But there was one thing left: *he had to survive*.
Desperation clawed at his chest as he scanned the massive room, the sound of voices echoing from a distance. He was lost, small enough to be crushed by the weight of an accidental step. The Avengers moved around the headquarters as if nothing had changed, and in their world, nothing had. But for Peter, everything had shifted.
And then, in the middle of it all—like a god walking among ants—there was Captain America. Steve Rogers, his idol, his comrade. Peter watched him from his tiny vantage point, a bead of sweat dripping down his face. *If I can just get to him...*
Peter knew it was a long shot. He knew he was taking a risk that could end terribly. But the way he saw it, it was the only shot he had. He needed help—*someone* had to notice him, and if anyone could be convinced to, it would be Steve.
He steeled himself, taking a deep breath and using what little strength he had left to fire a line of webbing toward the bottom of Steve’s boot. The string of webbing stuck, and Peter pulled himself up, climbing the colossal boot like it was a mountain. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored them. Every inch of the way up felt like an eternity.
As he reached Steve’s pants, Peter clung to the fabric, struggling to keep from slipping off. The sound of Steve’s voice, deep and comforting from this height, was almost drowned out by the frantic pounding of Peter’s tiny heart. There was a strange sense of comfort in the steady rhythm of his breathing, the unwavering presence of the Captain—but it didn’t last long. Peter had to move fast.
Just as he finally managed to scale the edge of Steve’s belt, he felt the shift. Steve had started to walk again. The ground trembled beneath Peter’s feet as the Captain’s movements took on a sense of purpose. His giant strides sent shockwaves through the air.
The ground beneath Peter’s feet suddenly seemed to dip, and before he could react, everything shifted violently. The fabric of Steve’s pants shifted as Steve adjusted his position, and Peter, desperate to hang on, lost his grip.
*No!*
It happened in an instant. Peter’s heart skipped a beat as he tumbled, falling through the air, helpless against gravity. He tried to extend his webbing, but it was too late.
And then—Peter’s world went dark.
The fabric of Steve’s pants swallowed him whole, and he landed with an almost comical *thud* into the tight, impossibly confined space of Captain America’s trousers. The fabric around him was thick and suffocating, the warm scent of Steve’s sweat and cologne filling his nostrils. Peter’s heart was still racing, but not from fear—this time, it was from sheer panic.
He was trapped.
Peter frantically tried to crawl out of the tight spot, but the smooth fabric offered little purchase. The temperature was stifling, and the close quarters were making it difficult to breathe. Every small movement was magnified—he could feel the rhythm of Steve’s steps like thunder through the fabric. The pressure was building, and Peter knew, with every passing second, that he was in far too deep. *If Steve doesn’t realize I’m here soon, I’ll suffocate, or worse...*
But there was no time to think. Peter had no choice but to crawl deeper into the fabric, trying to find some kind of escape. The thought of being stuck in the folds of Captain America’s uniform was absurd, but the panic clawing at Peter’s chest made it feel all too real.
Steve was oblivious to the tiny, desperate figure caught in the folds of his trousers, his steps unchanging, his body going about its day with the same heroic composure as always.
Peter clawed his way through the fabric, trying to find an exit, but the more he struggled, the more the fabric seemed to close in. He thought of calling out, shouting for help, but his voice was nothing but a whisper in the sea of cloth around him.
*What do I do?* he thought, helpless. *What if I can’t get out?*
His body ached from the tightness, and with each shift in Steve’s movement, Peter felt himself being pulled deeper, trapped in a suffocating prison that seemed to grow darker with every passing second.
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