A/N: Okay you guys, I'm not gonna lie. This is a story far edgier and darker than I have ever written before. I'm gonna squeeze in as much humor and action as I can, but this will be a very dark story, dealing with violence, drugs, and (if you guys think I should continue this) pedophilia in later chapters. I'm seriously considering weather or not to post the rest of this, so I need you guys to let me know what you think. As it stands I have this story planned out pretty far, and several chapters are already written. This chapter is gonna be about as light and happy as things are gonna get, also by far the shortest chapter. Next chapter, everything goes to hell with some major Peter whumpage.
Seriously. I feel bad for what I'm gonna do to this kid.
Also, I was inspired by and picturing Tom Holland Spider-man in my head when writing this. So in this story that's how I'm describing his physical appearance.
So, should I continue posting? Let me know.
Come Into My Parlor
The only reason no-one had figured out Spider-man's identity had to have been because everyone in New York was a complete fucking moron, you thought to yourself.
Of course, you were certain that being both a master thief and Peter Parker's English teacher had helped narrow down the process of elimination.
"The Shadow" was the name that the Daily Bugle had given your alter-ego, and you were more than satisfied with that. Your expert ability to hide in plain sight consistently made it look like you had disappeared without a trace from your crime scenes. You had met Spider-man on several occasions during your night time work. His voice and size had been enough to tell you that he was just a teenager. You taught the little bastards all day every day: you knew what a child trying to act grown sounded like. The clue that had tipped you off though had almost been an accident. The diamond laser cutter you used during break-ins had had to be used as a weapon when the boy got too close to catching you, and you had lashed out blindly, cutting a thin, shallow line across his left cheek. The next day, Peter Parker had strolled into your last period English class with the same scar, in the same place. It had taken an act worthy of an Oscar to refrain from freaking the fuck out. Instead you had managed to sound concerned and sincere when you tilted his head up with one finger under his chin and asked what happened, and if he was okay. The poor child had looked like a deer in headlights as he stuttered his way through an unnecessarily long and detailed lie about fixing the motor on Aunt May's vacuum cleaner and accidentally hitting himself in the face with the screwdriver. You had just tutted in false sympathy before moving on to finish passing out the days worksheet.
Well. At least now you had an honest reason for Peter's grades dropping right around the time Spider-man started showing up.
That night had been... not one of your best moments, even you had to admit.
Because while the Spider-man had never actually been able to catch you, he had come close on several occasions. The two of you even going so far as to get in some witty banter before and during your various altercations. You were in your thirties, and he was a fucking teenager. Well that had explained a few things. Like the fact that; weather you were being chased across the rooftops of Manhattan or standing stock still in front of thirty-five of his peers, both Peter Parker and Spider-man couldn't stop staring at your tits. Teenage boys were incredibly predictable. Your day-work clothes were all perfectly appropriate for a high school teacher. Different color button up shirts, with matching pencil skirts and blazers. You did perhaps indulge a bit in your day-work wardrobe with some very sexy high-heels, but that was beside the point. Your night-work costume, on the other hand, was absolutely not appropriate for anything other than thieving, or perhaps, a really kinky dominatrix. A skin tight black body suit had been designed to fit you so perfectly, that despite being able to clearly see the outline of your nipples and pussy, was both light and durable. Your boots had sound absorbing materials in them that made you nearly silent, and your gloves were equipped with several different deployable gadgets that could be used while working a job.
You had been half-way through a bottle of vodka before your drunken mind had finally come to the conclusion that you should use this information to help with your night work.
After sleeping off most of your hangover (thank Jesus it was a Saturday), you hastily shuffled through a stack of essays that you had just finished grading yesterday, looking for Parker's name. You finally found it, and underneath the abysmally low score of sixty-five percent, you used your red pen to tack on a note of "Please see me after class". The rest of the weekend was spent planning out exactly how to blackmail a child less than half your age. But that seemed to be the best way of looking at things, you later decided. Teenagers on the whole were easily embarrassed, and the male ego was fragile and easy to destroy at any age, so those were the aspects you focused on.
The following Monday had seemed to take forever to arrive, and the school day it's self had seemed to drag on even longer than usual. You passed back the papers that you had corrected on Friday, and kept and eye on Peter whenever you could. The kid was socially awkward at the best of times, but now he was so nervous he kept bouncing his knee to the point that you had to tell him to cut it out so that the other students could finish their short stories. You checked your watch (because the idea of a New York City public high school having a working clock was just as absurd as saying that Captain America was secretly Hydra all along), and when you noticed that you had about ten minutes left in class, you asked everyone to hand in their papers. You collected the papers from the front row before crossing back over the room so you could lean back on your desk as you spoke over the general shuffle of students getting ready to leave for the day.
You snapped your fingers to get everyone's attention, "Alright, listen up, you nerds." There were a few snickers from around the room, and it made you smile; hey, at least someone appreciated your humor. But the smile dropped as you crossed your arms over your ample chest, looking every inch like an angry librarian. "I'm not gonna mince words here. You guys bombed pretty hard on that last test." There was a round of groaning from the children and one hollow Thunk! as Flash dropped his head on his desk. "Calm down, kiddies, calm down. None of you have to worry too hard. I'm gonna give you guys an option." Nothing but silence and riveted attention now, "If you think you did the best you can do, hand me back the graded papers, and I'll put your grade into the computer. But, if you want to try again you can. I'm giving you guys an optional assignment. You can, on your own time, write me a three page essay," More groaning. "Stop it. Three pages- front and back, single space, twelve point font-" Louder groans. "Hey, you guys wanna keep pissing and moaning about it, that's fine. But I will keep the entire class late if the bell rings before I'm finished here." You held out both hands and raised your eyebrows in a 'what are you going to do' gesture, as your eyes swept over the classroom. Peter looked like he might be physically sick from nerves any moment, so you decided to have mercy on him and wrap things up. "The topic can be anything you guys want. History, ethics, current events. Hell, you can write about who your favorite Avenger is and why for all I care. I'm not looking for literary artwork. Just put enough effort into that I don't fall asleep while grading them, okay? I'm gonna grade this one a lot easier than the last one. But if you do decide to do it, know that it will replace this test score. And since I want you guys to rest those big brains of yours for a while, and I'm long over-due for a vacation" You paused for dramatic effect, and watched eyebrows raise all over the room, "It will be due in three weeks, just before the quarter ends." You watched some of your lazier students fist bump over that, and couldn't help but smile as you finished your announcements, "And one more thing!", you raised your voice enough to make the kids jump, "I said I wanted you guys to take this time to relax, and I mean that, so until the end of the quarter… no homework." The resulting explosion of teenage excitement was loud enough that a passing vice principal peeked through the back door of the classroom to make sure a fight hadn't broken out. You just waved him off as the final bell rang, and the kids started tripping over themselves to pack up and leave. Minus Peter.