Peter Parker should have turned to dust on Titan. But when the Snap tore the universe apart, Peter was ripped to somewhere far worse—a galaxy far far away.
Pairings: Peter Parker x Padmé Amidala x Ahsoka Tano Genre: Multiverse Crossover, War, Angst, Smut!
Chapter 1 — The Blip to Warzone
The last thing Peter Parker saw was Tony Stark's face—haunted, pale, eyes wide with a helplessness Peter had never seen before. The man who'd built suits saved cities walked through gods and monsters… looked like a child lost in a nightmare.
"Mr. Stark…" Peter whispered, already feeling the cold in his limbs, the wrongness curling into his bones.
Tony's lips moved. Peter couldn't hear the words. The world had gone muffled, like cotton shoved in his ears. His vision blurred.
"I don't feel so good…"
And then his fingers started to dissolve. Dust. Smoke. Light.
He reached out instinctively, his body swaying like a puppet with cut strings. Stark caught him, but Peter could barely feel the touch.
He was supposed to disappear. That was the end. Fade into nothing. Silence.
But it didn't end.
It changed.
In a split-second that stretched like infinity, the dust halted mid-air—paused, suspended, as though time had caught its breath. Then something ripped. Not just from the outside, but from within. Not a fade, but a pull, violent and agonizing, as though the universe had latched onto him with claws and yanked.
White light burst through his mind like a lightning strike. He screamed, but there was no sound, no air—just endless tearing. It felt like being crushed and stretched, folded in on himself a thousand times. Every atom pulled in a different direction, every memory flashing in and out of existence. Earth. Midtown. Ned's laugh. MJ's eyes. Aunt May's smile. Stark's guilt.
Then, silence.
Then, impact.
Peter hit the ground like a missile. His spine cracked against a sheet of alloyed metal, skidding across it with a painful screech. Sparks flew up as he bounced once, twice, finally slamming into a pile of debris that buckled under his weight. Every nerve screamed. His mouth opened, but nothing came out except a choked gasp.
The world around him was a blur of fire and chaos.
He tried to suck in air—and choked on it. The atmosphere burned his throat, thick with scorched oil, plasma discharge, and something worse: the sharp, metallic sting of blood and ozone. The air hurt. His lungs spasmed trying to reject it.
With a shudder, the Iron Spider suit activated automatically, encasing his body in a ripple of nanotech. The HUD flickered, glitching violently, and the systems were clearly in distress.
SYSTEM ERROR…
ENVIRONMENT STABILITY: CRITICAL
GPS SIGNAL: LOST
STARK NETWORK: OFFLINE
AI SUPPORT: DISCONNECTED
DIMENSIONAL ANOMALY: ACTIVE
Peter barely registered the cascading failures as he pushed himself to his knees, every muscle trembling. The suit's filtration system hissed to life, struggling against the choking wall of smoke, but the taste of scorched flesh and ozone still clung stubbornly to the back of his throat. He braced against a bent steel barricade, trying to force air into his lungs that refused to work properly, the HUD swimming with static.
Above him, the sky was a sea of boiling crimson, painted with pillars of black smoke so thick they turned the day into night. Swarms of Republic gunships and Separatist fighters streaked overhead, tangled in a relentless, snarling dogfight, blaster bolts carving sickly lines of green and red light across the choking heavens. Explosions rippled through the air like thunderclaps, sending cascading fireballs into the jagged skyline, the shockwaves battering the ground beneath his feet. From the ruins of the once-proud city, plumes of molten debris cascaded into the streets, the roar of destruction drowning out even his frantic breathing.
Peter's heart constricted painfully as he took it all in. He knew that skyline. The domes, once pristine, now blackened and cracked under the relentless bombardment. The towering spires are now skeletal ruins. Every building. Every alley. Every detail was etched into his childhood memories. He'd seen them on posters, video games, and carefully painted models he'd built in his bedroom as a kid.
Mandalore.
This wasn't some random battlefield. This wasn't some cosmic accident. This was the Siege of Mandalore, and the horrifying realization hit him like a gut punch, knocking the wind from his already burning lungs.
His pulse roared in his ears as he turned in place, vision swimming, breath coming in short, ragged gasps that fogged the inside of his mask. The filtered air wasn't enough—couldn't be enough—to shut out the brutality unfolding around him. Clone troopers in white plastic armor marked with cobalt blue hunkered behind crumbling barricades, their blaster volleys disciplined but thinning, pressed hard by endless waves of bronze battle droids. The ground beneath them was a battlefield and a graveyard, bodies of metal and flesh tangled in grotesque, smoking heaps.
A crab tank stomped through the chaos, its clawed legs pulverizing a burning speeder beneath it, crushing the trapped civilians inside until their screams abruptly cut off.
Peter's panic surged like a tidal wave, the sheer scale of the moment crashing over him with merciless clarity. This wasn't just some battle. It wasn't even a chapter from the history books. This was the last breath before the world he knew collapsed. Before the Jedi Purge. Before the Republic's betrayal. Before Anakin became Vader.
He'd seen it all from the comfort of his bedroom, from movies, comics, and message boards. But this—this was real. And somehow, impossibly, he was here.
He stumbled backward, bile burning his throat. "No, no, no…" The words were small and useless against the scream of blaster fire, and the bone-rattling percussion of artillery detonations. The city shook around him, buildings crumbling under the weight of relentless bombardment. The air vibrated with the shrieks of the dying, the hopeless cries of civilians huddled behind locked blast doors that wouldn't hold for long.
His legs buckled. He collapsed behind the twisted husk of a speeder, arms hugging his knees, the Iron Spider suit suffocating rather than protecting. His hands shook violently, his breath coming too fast, too shallow, spinning his head.
"Friday? FRIDAY? Anyone?!" His voice cracked in desperation, but only static answered him.
Cut off. Alone. Severed from everything familiar. From Earth. From Ned. MJ. Stark. The Avengers. No friendly faces. No backup.
Only the war.
And it swallowed him whole.
Peter's mind spiraled into freefall. "I… I can't do this…" he choked, his voice little more than a cracked whisper. The suit gripped him tighter in response as if defying the weakness curling inside him, refusing to let him slip into the dark.
This wasn't about him anymore.
Tony's words echoed in his skull, hammering into the storm of fear. If you're nothing without the suit, then you don't deserve it.
He clenched his eyes shut, forcing the tremors in his hands to still, focusing on his breath, on the ground still shaking beneath him. The screams didn't stop. The blaster fire didn't stop. But slowly, deliberately, Peter pulled himself back from the edge.
Spider-Man didn't freeze. Not when it counted. Not when lives hung in the balance.
Even if those lives belonged to a galaxy far, far away.
Even if the streets ran red.
Even if the sky burned to ash.
He opened his eyes, steady now.
No more running.
Move.
Before his brain could protest, Peter launched himself into motion, vaulting over the smoldering wreckage in a blur of red and blue, his body snapping into muscle memory, instincts overriding fear. Blaster bolts screamed past him, searing the air, but he pushed forward anyway.
He landed hard in the thick of it, webs firing before his mind could catch up. The sticky strands wrapped around the spindly legs of a spider droid, yanking them inward with a violent tug. The towering machine stumbled, its weapon discharge veering wildly into its droid lines before collapsing in a tangled, sparking heap.
The nearest clones froze—not in awe, but in cold, rifle-raised suspicion.
"Who the kriff is that?!" one of them barked, his blaster aimed squarely at Peter's chest.
Peter held his hands up, backpedaling slightly, even as the Iron Spider suit braced him for more fire. "Whoa, whoa, friendly! I'm on your side, I swear!"
Jesse—recognizable even with his helmet on by the indigo markings and sharp tone—circled him cautiously, weapon still at the ready. "You sure don't look like Republic issue, shiny."
Another trooper snarled, "Kamino never turned out freaks like you. Unless we missed a new Jedi science project."
Peter tried to flash his best disarming smile under the mask, but the clones weren't buying it.
"Name's Spider-Man. Friendly neighborhood… visitor?" Peter offered weakly.
Silence.
Blasters still pointed at him.
Jesse snorted. "Spider? Sounds Separatist to me."
"You wanna web up droids, be my guest, Spider," another clone snapped. "But keep your distance. We don't know what you are."
Peter ducked a blaster bolt and fired a web, yanking a battle droid's weapon clean from its skeletal hands before hurling it into a burning speeder. "How about we table the trust issues for a minute? I'm a little busy trying to keep you alive."
"You heard him," Jesse growled to his squad. "We've got droids to fry. Keep your buckets on him, boys. Until Commander Tano clears it, he's an unknown."
Peter swallowed hard but nodded. He was used to mistrust. Queens cops weren't exactly friendly when he first started web-slinging either.
He focused on the fight.
From above, he slung webs at incoming squads of B2 super battle droids, binding their legs together before triggering his taser webs, frying their circuits into sputtering ruins. The clones fought hard, but Peter could see it—they were stretched thin. Overwhelmed. Their formations were tight and efficient, but the droids just kept coming, endless, methodical, merciless.
He darted forward, webbing the barrel of a spider droid mid-fire, redirecting its shot into a Separatist tank, sending both into a fiery heap.
A few clones let out whistles or muttered curses under their breath, but their weapons stayed on him.
Rex arrived in the chaos, helmetless, his face streaked with soot and blood, eyes narrowing the second he spotted Peter.
"You're the one everyone's whispering about," Rex said, leveling his blaster, not lowering it even as Peter froze. "You're not Republic. You're not Jedi. So what are you?"
Peter could feel the weight of every clone's gaze on him, tense, fingers on triggers.
"I'm… someone who doesn't like bullies," he said finally, voice quieter, more honest than he intended.
Rex's eyes lingered on him for a long, agonizing heartbeat.
"Doesn't mean we trust you," Rex finally said, lowering his blaster by a reluctant inch. His eyes stayed hard, unblinking. "You help us fight, you follow orders. You keep your distance until Commander Tano says otherwise."
Peter nodded stiffly, the weight of the moment pressing on his chest like a vice. "Understood, sir."
Rex grunted. "Good. Then stop showing off and get to the west flank. They're pinned."
Peter didn't argue. He turned, webbing himself to the fractured shell of a tower, slinging through the battlefield once more—faster now, sharper, more deliberate. But with every leap, every shot of web, he could feel it: the eyes of the clones burning into his back, their rifles still watching him, ready to turn on him the moment he stepped wrong.
The plaza burned beneath him, the heat distorting the air in shimmering waves. But Peter barely registered it. His lungs drew tight from the acrid sting of Mandalore's poisoned atmosphere, his suit working overtime to keep him breathing, to keep him moving. The blaster bolts stitched the sky with deadly precision, mingling with the chaos—the screams, the crumbling buildings, the endless wave of droids.
And then… the battlefield changed.
It wasn't sound. It was a presence.
A white blur cut through the droid lines like a blade through silk. Peter froze mid-swing, caught in the sheer awe of it. Twin lightsabers spun in wide, deadly arcs, leaving trails of molten metal and shattered circuits in their wake. The advancing B2 battle droids didn't react fast enough. They never did.
Within seconds, what had been a hardened droid phalanx was reduced to sparking limbs and twisted wreckage.
She landed at the center of the carnage like it was hers by right, sabers still ignited, stance wide and commanding. Her breath came heavy but controlled, her posture radiating the kind of authority that didn't need rank insignia or speeches.
Ahsoka Tano.
Even filthy, armored, and battle-weary, Peter recognized her immediately—and not from the fight. From another life. From holos, posters, cosplay suits, and clips on fan sites. But there was no detachment now. No fourth wall. She was real, and the heat off her sabers was real, and the eyes she turned on him were sharp and entirely untrusting.
"You're not Republic," she said, tone low, cutting. "And you're not Jedi."
Peter slowly raised his hands, palms outward, letting the suit retract his helmet. His heart thudded, sweat trailing down his temple as if he were trying to survive a police stop in a city he didn't belong to.
"No. I'm not," he admitted. "But I'm not your enemy."
She didn't lower her blades. The troopers behind her hadn't lowered their weapons either. Jesse was among them, helmet off now, expression tight.
"You show up mid-battle in armor we've never seen," Jesse said. "You move like a commando, but you talk like a civilian. Where are you from?"
Peter swallowed. "Very far. Too far to explain in the middle of a warzone."
Ahsoka didn't flinch. "Try."
He hesitated. Every possible answer could raise more suspicion. Earth? Not in this galaxy. Friendly system? Too vague. Kamino? Definitely wrong.
"I'm not part of any faction," he said carefully. "I was pulled here. I don't know how. I just know I'm here—and I'm trying to help."
Ahsoka's grip on her sabers remained tight. "Convenient."
Peter glanced at the mangled remains of the droids he'd tangled midair, the ones she hadn't needed to save.
"I've been webbing droids since I dropped into your war," he said, voice strained but firm. "If I was here to hurt you, I wouldn't be explaining myself right now."
The silence that followed stretched too long.
Then another tank roared into view, tearing through rubble at the far end of the street.
Ahsoka turned toward it. "Keep him in sight," she said to Jesse without taking her eyes off the machine. "If he helps, fine. If he runs, shoot."
Without another word, she launched herself toward the threat, sabers spinning into a whirl of deflected plasma.
Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Friendly crowd," he muttered.
Jesse, still behind him, didn't laugh. "You've got a lot to prove, Spider. Try not to screw up."
The next hour was an unspoken test. Peter and Ahsoka fought in overlapping rhythms—never side by side, but never entirely apart. He used his webs to blind droids before she finished them. He pulled down scaffolding to block a retreating squad's escape, forcing them into her blade path. She never thanked him. She never acknowledged him. But she didn't stop him, either.
The clones kept their eyes on him even as they fought beside him. Suspicion clung to every look, every warning barked over the comms. More than once, a stray move had three rifles tracking his back.
He didn't blame them.
This wasn't their first betrayal. It wouldn't be their last.
When the last droid finally collapsed in a heap of smoldering metal, the battlefield didn't fall silent. It just… changed. The roar of blasters faded into the crackle of fires and the low groans of the wounded, the uneasy hush that came after every hard-won skirmish.
Peter slumped against the fractured base of a toppled pillar, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes even beneath the suit's filtration layer. His limbs felt heavy. His breath came in shallow, burned pulls, tasting of scorched ash and the tang of melting durasteel.
Ahsoka appeared through the haze like a ghost. She moved slowly now, her steps deliberate, her sabers powered down but still in her grip, not yet returned to their place on her belt. She stopped a few feet from him, gaze unreadable, posture still tense.
"You don't scare easily," she said at last, her voice low, edged with exhaustion but still carrying that undertone of command.
Peter tilted his head back against the stone, giving a weak, breathless smile. "I'm scared all the time," he admitted. "I just… don't have the luxury to show it."
For a moment, she said nothing. The war didn't pause for them. Fires kept burning. The sky remained stained with smoke. But something passed between them—small, fragile, but real.
She nodded once. Just once.
Then she turned, already moving away, leaving the conversation where it was. Over her shoulder, she added, "Stick close. Don't expect trust. Earn it."
Peter didn't move right away. He stayed there, pressed into the grit and dust, letting the moment settle over him like the ash falling from the ruined skies above.
But he smiled. Just a little.
That was more than anyone had given him since he crashed into this nightmare.
The battlefield settled into an uneasy stillness, but it wasn't peace. It was the brittle quiet of soldiers who knew the fighting wasn't over. Not even close. Fires still crackled where droid tanks lay in twisted ruins, and the chorus of crackling shields echoed over the makeshift command post as clones moved like machinery—silent, efficient, too tired for words.
They worked in the shadows of their exhaustion. Checking positions. Tending to the wounded. Reinforcing barricades already scorched from too many waves. No laughter. No relief. Just the same grim cycle.
Peter sat at the very edge of their camp, perched on the husk of a collapsed support beam, helmet off, letting the ash stick to his face, the stink of burning metal filling his lungs. The Iron Spider suit itched where dirt and grime clung to its surface, but he made no effort to clean it off. It felt right. It fit the world he'd landed in.
No one called him over for debriefs. No one asked for his report. They didn't even glance his way.
They didn't have to.
He wasn't one of them.
And deep down, he knew he never would be.
Somewhere deeper in the maze of shattered buildings, Ahsoka was already issuing new orders, coordinating defenses, and preparing for the next inevitable assault. She hadn't looked at him since the skirmish ended, and Peter hadn't tried to close the distance.
She'd made it clear. He fought where she said. Nothing more.
And for now… That was enough.
A small group of clones sat nearby, their armor scorched and cracked, helmets off faces streaked with grime. They talked in low voices, sharing ration bars and dark jokes laced with exhaustion and bitterness. Peter caught the occasional glance his way, muttered whispers he was never meant to hear.
"What the kriff is that thing supposed to be? Some Jedi clone?"
"He moves like a freak. Could be Seppie tech."
"Or worse—some Coruscant black project."
Peter stared down at his hands, flexing them slowly, as if seeing them for the first time. On Earth, he'd worn the suit like a second skin, a shield, a symbol. Here, it made him look like an alien.
And maybe he was.
"You always sit that far off, shiny?" a gruff voice broke through his haze.
Peter looked up, startled to see Jesse approaching, helmet under one arm, face twisted in a lopsided grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. His tone was casual, but his gaze was sharp, always assessing.
"Didn't want to ruin the party," Peter said, forcing a smile that tasted sour.
Jesse chuckled dryly. "Relax. We've had worse company."
Peter didn't ask. He didn't want to know.
"You don't talk like a Jedi. Don't act like one either," Jesse added, sitting down beside him, though leaving a deliberate gap of space.
"I'm not a Jedi," Peter admitted.
"Yeah. We figured."
Peter hesitated, then asked, "What gave it away? The sarcasm or the lack of a glowstick?"
Jesse barked a tired laugh, though it faded quickly. "Both."
The conversation drifted into silence, filled only by the hum of distant engines and the crackle of dying fires. Peter studied the clones around him more carefully now. The faces behind the helmets. The scars. The subtle differences in expressions, in posture. They weren't interchangeable. They weren't just soldiers. They were people. Young. Tired. Fighting a war they never got to choose.
And they were dying.
He clenched his fists, the weight of his knowledge suffocating him.
He knew what was coming. These men—these brothers—would soon turn on their Jedi, their friends, without hesitation. Not because they wanted to. Because they wouldn't have a choice.
The thought made him sick.
Jesse watched him carefully. "You're carrying something, shiny. Heavier than your suit."
Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. "I lost people. Back where I'm from. People I couldn't save."
Jesse nodded, like that was a language they all spoke here. "Yeah. We all do."
He offered Peter a battered ration bar. "Eat, Spider. You're in the muck with us now. Like it or not."
Peter took the ration bar without a word, chewing mechanically, barely tasting the dry, bitter lump as it sat like a stone in his mouth. The nickname—Spider—still carried its edge, still wrapped in barbs and doubt, but there was something different in the way they said it now.
Not acceptance. Not yet.
But maybe the start of something more than suspicion.
For now, he stayed in their circle, on the outskirts, listening. He let their stories wash over him—their jokes, sharp and gallows-humored, their anger simmering beneath the surface, their exhaustion clinging to every word.
And they didn't turn him away.
For the first time since crashing into this nightmare, Peter wasn't completely alone.
But he couldn't let himself forget. Couldn't let the flickers of camaraderie dull the weight in his chest. These men, these brothers—they weren't just soldiers in armor. They weren't chess pieces on a board.
They deserved to live.
And somehow, Peter had to find a way to make that happen.
The fires had burned low by the time he found himself alone again, drawn to the broken rooftop like gravity pulling him toward the only place where he could breathe. He sat at the edge of the ledge, legs dangling over the abyss, staring out at the hollow remains of a city that refused to die quietly.
Mandalore smoldered in the distance, its skyline torn, bleeding smoke into the night. The darkness pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket, broken only by the flicker of distant, hollow explosions and the cold, sterile glow of Republic barricades scattered below like islands in a sea of ash.
The quiet felt wrong.
It wasn't peace. It was the kind of quiet that made your skin itch, waiting for the next scream, the next blaster bolt, the next life slipping through your fingers.
Peter let the mask retract, dragging in a shaky breath of Mandalore's heavy, poisoned air. The suit's filters dulled the worst of it, but he let the smoke burn his throat, and sting his lungs. He wanted it to.
It made it harder to pretend. Harder to trick himself into thinking this was a bad dream, a simulation, anything but the brutal, messy reality that it was.
He sat there for a long time, letting it crush him. The fear. The grief. The impossible weight of knowing what was coming and not knowing how to stop it. It pressed into his chest, hollowing him out from the inside.
He didn't even register the soft footfalls behind him until she was there—silent, sure, as much a part of the shadows as the city's broken bones.
Ahsoka moved quietly for someone carrying the weight of a war on her shoulders. She didn't speak at first, simply stood beside him, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the skyline that had once been her people's pride.
"You fight well for someone with no training," she said after a beat, her voice raw around the edges, worn from too many orders, too many losses.
Peter managed a hollow chuckle. "You'd be surprised how much fighting I've done back where I'm from."
"Which is still nowhere you've named."
He winced, rubbing his face with both hands. "Yeah. I figured you weren't going to let that slide."
Ahsoka lowered herself to the ledge beside him, close but not close enough to breach the invisible walls between them. "You don't fight like a soldier. You fight like someone who's lost something."
Peter flinched. She wasn't wrong. She saw it because she carried it herself.
"You're not Republic," she continued, her voice quieter now, less accusation, more tired curiosity. "You're not Separatist. You're not from any system I've heard of."
Peter hesitated, the words thick in his throat. He should lie. He should tell her what she wanted to hear, and keep the timeline clean, the way Strange always said things should be.
But the war had already torn down those walls, hadn't it?
"I'm… from another galaxy," Peter admitted, the words tasting like guilt and fear as they left him. "Another universe, maybe. I don't even know how I got here."
Ahsoka didn't react right away. She studied him with those sharp, tired eyes, letting the silence stretch until it suffocated the space between them.
"Then you're as lost as the rest of us."
Peter exhaled, relief and dread mingling in his chest. "Yeah. Pretty much."
They sat there, side by side, the weight of too many ghosts pressing on their shoulders.
"I know things," Peter finally whispered, staring down at the ruined city. "Things I shouldn't. Things about what's coming."
Ahsoka's jaw clenched. "Like what?"
Peter swallowed hard. He couldn't tell her everything. He wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. But maybe… maybe enough to matter.
"People you trust," he said carefully, "might not stay that way."
She was silent for a long time.
"I already learned that lesson," she said, bitterly. "You think you can warn me about betrayal? I was thrown out of the Order. Cast aside by the Council I bled for."
Peter winced. "I know."
Her head snapped toward him. "How?"
Peter closed his eyes. "Like I said… I know more than I should."
Ahsoka's breath hitched, but she didn't press. Maybe she didn't want to know. Maybe she was too tired to care. Or maybe she saw something in his face that told her this was the truth, even if it didn't make sense.
They sat in the heavy dark, the sounds of war distant but never fully gone.
"You carry it, too," she said quietly. "The guilt. The loss."
Peter nodded. "I lost people. People who… I wasn't strong enough to save."
They didn't speak after that. There was nothing left to say.
But in that fragile silence, something shifted between them.
The wall wasn't gone—it would never be that easy—but a crack had formed, barely visible, yet undeniable.
Peter didn't know if he could change what was coming. Didn't know if he even had the right to try.
But as he watched her now—worn, scarred, still fighting even when the galaxy itself had turned its back on her—he made a vow. Quiet. Unspoken.
He wouldn't let her fall.
Not like this.
Not alone.
The moment fractured when the demands of war pulled them back down into its waiting jaws. The illusion of peace on that rooftop broke under the weight of approaching footsteps, the tired clatter of armor on stone.
One of Rex's men found them, panting, his helmet streaked with soot and blood. He barely spared Peter a glance.
"Commander Tano," the clone said. "General Skywalker's requesting your presence. Urgent."
Peter caught it—the faintest flicker in Ahsoka's expression before she locked it down behind the cold professionalism she wore like a second skin. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
She stood, brushing the ash from her legs with a sharp, mechanical motion, her jaw tightening just enough for Peter to notice. He didn't understand it yet. Not fully.
But he felt it.
She turned to him, and for a second, her gaze softened—then snapped back into the clipped tone she used when she wanted distance.
"Come on, Spider," she said, already moving. "You're not off the hook yet."
Peter fell in behind her, the brief warmth of their shared silence already dissolving into the cold march of duty.
The command center was a makeshift bunker carved from the fractured remains of the palace. Holotables flickered with strategic overlays, while clone officers clustered around mission briefings, their voices hushed under the heavy tension pressing down on the room. The smell of recycled air mingled with sweat and the ever-present haze of battle outside.
And in the middle of it all stood Anakin Skywalker.
Peter had seen him before, of course. On screens. In history files. The hero of the Clone Wars. The Chosen One. But seeing him in person was something else entirely.
Anakin wasn't just a hero here—he was the sun at the center of the room, every eye orbiting him. But there was something else, something beneath the confidence and bravado. A crack in the facade. A coil of tension wound too tight.
Peter could feel it like a static charge in the air.
Anakin's gaze snapped to Ahsoka the second she entered, his posture loosening in a way that almost masked the possessiveness that lurked in his shoulders. But when his gaze flicked to Peter, the coldness returned.
"Who's this?" Anakin's tone wasn't curious. It was clipped. Dismissive. Already laced with irritation.
Ahsoka kept her stance firm. "An ally. He's been fighting with my units. Helped hold the southern barricade."
Anakin's blue eyes raked over Peter with open suspicion, lingering on his suit like it was something offensive. "I wasn't informed of any reinforcements."
Peter stepped forward, forcing a smile even though his stomach twisted. "Spider-Man. Uh… civilian asset?"
Anakin didn't return the smile. "You don't look like any civilian I've seen."
Peter shrugged, trying for casual even though every inch of him itched under the Jedi's scrutiny. "Must be the suit."
The silence that followed dragged long enough for Peter to feel the sweat beading under his collar.
Anakin finally turned back to Ahsoka, ignoring Peter entirely. "You trust him?"
It wasn't a question. It was a challenge.
Ahsoka bristled, but her voice stayed steady. "He saved my men."
Anakin's jaw clenched. "Good. Then keep him with your men. Out of mine."
The dismissal was final. Anakin didn't look at Peter again. His focus snapped back to the holographic battlefield, issuing commands, and barking orders, the room falling into a hush around him.
Peter swallowed, stepping back beside Ahsoka, who kept her arms folded, her face neutral. But Peter saw the flicker of something bitter in her expression.
They left the command center in silence.
It wasn't until they were outside, walking toward the clone staging area, that Peter exhaled.
"So… that was awkward," he muttered, trying to shake the cold chill that Anakin's stare had left crawling up his spine.
Ahsoka didn't smile. "He's under pressure. The whole war is shifting. He doesn't trust easily."
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "I noticed. You two… close?"
Her steps faltered for the briefest second. "We were."
Peter didn't press.
But the way Anakin had looked at her back there, the way his eyes never softened, even when he spoke to her like she still belonged to his chain of command… it said more than words ever could.
Peter had seen enough toxic mentors to recognize the signs.
The cracks were already there. Widening. Splintering beneath the surface.
Peter didn't know when Anakin Skywalker became Darth Vader.
But now, looking back toward the command center as the doors hissed closed behind them, he wasn't sure they had as much time as history had told him.
The fall was already beginning.
And Peter was in the middle of it.
…
Night fell over Mandalore like a funeral shroud, smothering the city in a suffocating darkness that no amount of burning wreckage could chase away. The battle had quieted, for now. The droid forces had pulled back, licking their wounds, waiting for the next push. But everyone knew the next assault would come. It always did.
Peter sat on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, his mask off, watching the hollow glow of dying fires paint the skyline in streaks of orange and black. The air was heavy with ash, carrying the distant hum of war machines moving in the dark like predators circling wounded prey. Even the stars seemed muted behind the smoke.
Ahsoka joined him without a word, settling beside him, her gaze as distant as the burning spires. They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of the night press down on them. There was no rush to fill the quiet. It was the kind of silence both of them understood too well.
Peter broke it first.
"This isn't the first time I've lost everything," he said, his voice low, almost drowned by the wind. "Back home… I failed. I lost people. My mentor. Friends. I… I wasn't strong enough."
Ahsoka didn't respond right away. She just listened, letting the confession bleed out of him like an old wound reopening.
"I came here," Peter continued, "and it's like the universe decided to drop me into someone else's nightmare. And all I keep thinking is… what if I screw it up again?"
Ahsoka leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her silhouette stark against the burning skyline.
"You're not the only one who's lost faith in themselves," she said softly. "You think you're the only one who's failed? You know why I fight like I do? Because I've already been betrayed. I've already been cast out by the people I trusted most."
Peter glanced at her, catching the faint bitterness in her voice. It mirrored his own in ways he wasn't ready to admit.
"You can't change the past, Spider," she said, and for the first time, her tone softened. "But you can make sure you don't repeat it."
Peter let her words settle, the knot in his chest tightening. He didn't know if he believed her. But he wanted to. Maybe that was enough.
He looked back at the city. At the people still fighting, still hoping. At the soldiers who would soon become executioners without even knowing it.
"I don't know if I can stop what's coming," Peter said quietly, more to himself than to her.
Ahsoka straightened, her eyes reflecting the fires. "Then fight anyway."
He let the silence stretch between them, the city breathing its last beneath them. And in that moment, Peter made the vow he couldn't say aloud.
He wouldn't let this future unfold the way he knew it would.
Not this time.
Far away, across the stars, a Jedi Seer stirred from her trance, cold sweat slick on her skin. She had seen something the Force hadn't prepared her for—a shadow in the web of fate. A new thread, tangled and strange, woven from a galaxy not born of the Force but now wrapped around its heart.
She whispered the words into the dark.
"Fate… in the spider's web."
Visions flickered through her mind—planets torn by war, a man in red and blue, his face hidden behind a mask, standing beside the Chosen One… beside the girl with no Order. An outsider. A disruption.
And the Force trembled.
The prophecy was no longer balanced.
It was fraying.
And somewhere on Mandalore, the Spider had already begun spinning the web.
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Thanks for reading. This fic will run for 10 chapters packed with tragedy, angst, and smut. Chapter 2 (Peter x Padmé smut) is already live on P*treon.
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