Chapter Text
"That mess again? Don't people have regular jobs and not kiss his dick every time he's around?"
The streets of New York always had a way of swallowing people whole, and tonight was no different.
[M/N] adjusted the straps of his worn backpack as he made his way through Times Square. Neon lights flashed from every corner, ads screaming louder than the honking of cabs caught in endless traffic. He hadn't planned on walking this way, but with the subway closed off after Spider-Man's little brawl with the Lizard earlier, detours were unavoidable.
Up above, one of the massive LED screens blazed to life, stealing the attention of the crowd. [M/N] lifted his gaze just in time to catch the familiar figure swinging across the display. Spider-Man. Always Spider-Man. The feed showed him vaulting from building to building, acrobatics bordering on arrogant, until the screen glitched and shifted.
A new banner stretched across the massive screen in bold white letters against a backdrop of webbing.
NEW YORK LOVES SPIDER-MAN! COME PICK UP HIS COSTUME TODAY!
[M/N] let out a humorless scoff as the crowd around him buzzed with excitement. Kids squealed, tugging at their parents' sleeves, some already wearing cheap plastic Spider-Man masks that gleamed under the city lights. Others rushed toward the pop-up shop that had appeared on the corner, a line already forming for the hero's most popular Halloween costume. Thor and Captain America might have been strong contenders, but Spider-Man reigned supreme. Year after year, the city couldn't get enough of him.
[M/N] shook his head, pulling his backpack straps tighter as if grounding himself. The decorations lining the stores—orange pumpkins, fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons—blurred as he kept walking. He didn't belong in that hive of adoration. Not for Spider-Man. Not for anyone.
At the crosswalk, the signal turned red, halting the sea of pedestrians. [M/N] lowered his gaze and stepped carefully onto the stairs leading into the subway. Each step sent a sharp sting up his leg, the limp he carried making itself known. He gritted his teeth with every uneven footfall, the burn rising in his thigh and spine until his breaths grew ragged.
New Yorkers brushed past him, impatient as always. Some muttered under their breath, shooting him looks as though his slower pace was a personal insult. Embarrassment prickled under his skin, hotter than the October air. He kept his head down, scowl fixed, lips pressed thin as he forced himself down the last steps.
At the platform, he slipped his hands into his pockets, blending in with the mass of commuters waiting in silence. The screech of the arriving train echoed through the tunnel, followed by the familiar rush of warm, stale air. He stepped inside, choosing a seat in the far corner, and pulled his headphones over his ears. Music hummed softly, though it couldn't drown out the noise of the packed cart.
Teenagers crowded in next, loud and restless. [M/N] narrowed his eyes at the floor, jaw tightening as one nearly kicked his outstretched leg without so much as an apology. Their laughter filled the car, piercing and careless. One boy had his Spider-Man suit on underneath his open jacket, the mask rolled up onto his forehead. He was grinning at the girl beside him—Captain Marvel, with glitter on her cheeks—who told a joke that had them both laughing until they doubled over.
The sound grated against [M/N]'s nerves.
Of course. Spider-Man again.
How could an entire city worship a spider-psychopath like him? The thought carved itself into his mind as his stop neared. The train rattled, brakes screeching. He rose slowly, shoulders squared, and stepped off without looking back, leaving behind the laughter, the cheap costumes, and the hero who would never stop haunting him.
+++++
The door clicked shut behind [M/N] as he shoved it closed with his heel. The lock rattled once before settling, and he exhaled like the weight of the city had just been kicked outside with him. His scuffed black Converse were the first casualty of exhaustion, toes nudged free until they tumbled against the wall.
The apartment wasn't anything special—bare brick walls, secondhand furniture, pipes that moaned with every flush upstairs. It smelled faintly of old wood, cheap detergent, and the faint briny musk of his unusual roommate. Small, but theirs.
He dropped his bookbag beside the wall, letting it slide down until it collapsed in a heap. His shoulders rolled as he padded toward the kitchen, already knowing what he needed. The cabinet above the sink squealed when he opened it, stocked with mismatched boxes and bottles. He plucked down the familiar orange bottle of ibuprofen, shaking two into his palm.
The pain was back again. That crawling, stinging burn under his skin that sometimes came without warning, spreading like a bad wire sparking through his nerves. His vision swam for a moment, and he clenched his jaw until the dizziness dulled. Swallowing the pills dry, he pressed his palms to the counter and muttered, "I'm gonna have to stock up again."
The living room couch groaned as he flopped down, the cushions squeaking against their age and weight. He licked his lips, throat feeling like it was stuffed with dust. His hand slipped into his pocket, dragging out his cracked phone. A couple of lazy swipes and a smirk tugged at his mouth as he typed out the usual.
"Jeff, water."
Message sent. A second later, a meme of Spider-Man falling flat on his ass zipped off to his roommate—his way of nagging without nagging.
"Merp! Meri!"
The familiar sound of damp, slapping steps echoed from the kitchen. [M/N] didn't even lift his head, but he could picture the scene perfectly. Jeff's small, rounded body clambering onto the battered breakfast nook chair, webbed feet tapping against the wood. The aquatic creature's wide eyes squinted toward the counter, nose twitching as he sniffed at a lukewarm cup of water left behind earlier.
Jeff's jagged teeth clicked against the ceramic handle as he tried to lift it, but the cup tilted too far. The crash came next—shards scattering across tile, water spreading in a quick, shallow flood.
Jeff froze, blinking down at the mess, his thick tail swishing behind him with a sheepish wag. "Meri..." he whined softly, like a child caught red-handed.
From the couch, [M/N] pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. "Beautiful. Just beautiful," he muttered. "Guess I'll clean that later." His arm flopped lazily to the side, hand opening expectantly. "Now hand me the remote."
Jeff perked up at the command, letting out a delighted chirrup. He waddled across the kitchen tile, splashing right through the spilled water without a second thought. Clutching the remote carefully in his oversized mouth, he padded toward the couch and set it into [M/N]'s waiting hand.
The TV hummed to life with a flick of his thumb, static glow filling the dim apartment. Before he could sink deeper into the couch, Jeff launched himself onto his back with a solid thump. [M/N] groaned under the sudden weight, though he didn't shove him off.
"Damn it, Jeff..." he mumbled, flipping through channels, each click landing on something duller than the last.
Jeff made another happy noise, tail curling as he circled once, twice, then settled like a cat curling into a bed. Each wiggle of his body came with soft chirps of "Meri, meri," until he stilled and rested his head against [M/N]'s shoulders.
Finally, the remote stopped. The familiar bark of J. Jonah Jameson filled the room, railing about Spider-Man with all the subtlety of a man screaming into a megaphone. [M/N] huffed out a humorless laugh, letting the noise fill the apartment as his eyelids drooped.
The apartment door creaked open with its usual protesting groan, followed by the sound of sneakers shuffling across the hardwood. [M/N] didn’t so much as flinch from his sprawl across the couch, the glow of the TV flickering across his face while J. Jonah Jameson’s blaring voice filled the room from the news broadcast.
“Sup, nerd,” [M/N] muttered without looking up, shifting slightly as Jeff, the landshark, wriggled on his back. He reached to rub the creature’s chin, earning a pleased purr and a thumping tail against the cushions.
Peter passed the couch with his usual distracted energy, plastic grocery bags dangling from each hand. He dropped them onto the little kitchen table with a sigh. “You know—adult things,” he said, already digging through the bags while ignoring Jameson’s rant about Spider-Man.
[M/N] hummed, leaning his head back to watch his best friend shuffle around. Peter’s voice carried over the crinkling plastic: “Got soda, eggs, bread, cheese… oh, and pain pills.” He shook the ibuprofen bottle with a little rattle.
[M/N] couldn’t help the faint grin tugging at his mouth. Peter Parker, the angel of a best friend. He would have been perfect if not for one fatal flaw.
“And,” Peter added dryly, “I didn’t enjoy that meme you sent me. He’s a national hero, you know. You can’t just—”
[M/N] cut him a look sharp enough to slice. “Don’t care,” he said flatly, rubbing Jeff’s chin until the little beast’s eyes fluttered closed in bliss.
Peter rolled his eyes, clearly used to the routine. He wouldn’t blame [M/N]’s contempt if it were directed at him—but it wasn’t. It was aimed squarely at Spider-Man, which always sat somewhere between annoying and exhausting.
“You shouldn’t talk, garbage eater.”
Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face and through his brown hair, messing it up further. “That was one time. Okay, two times. And it was only from the top of the can, not the—” He stopped mid-defense when [M/N]’s grin widened like a cat that ate the canary. “And I told you that in confidence,” Peter added with a dramatic point of his finger.
[M/N] chuckled, too pleased with himself. Teasing Peter was one of life’s simplest joys. The guy’s weird habits—okay, very weird habits—were just too easy to exploit.
“So,” [M/N] said finally, stretching his arms above his head, “how was the internship?”
That earned another sigh from Peter, heavier this time. The internship had been a whole saga. With his chronic indecision, Peter had missed every decent opportunity not to mention with his other job, the Spider-Man job was something that had kept Peter from picking until the deadlines closed, and now he was stuck with the one that made [M/N] want to laugh every time he thought about it.
Peter mumbled, “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” [M/N] raised a brow.
Peter’s expression twisted, caught between irritation and resignation. “I mean, it’s Oscorp. What do you expect? I had a choice between ‘completely unemployed’ or ‘sign up to work for my best friend’s father—the one who already hates me on principle.’”
[M/N] smirked, his voice dry. “So basically, you picked the internship that comes with a free side of daddy issues. Good choice.” Peter gave him a withering look, which only made [M/N] grin wider.
Harry Osborn. That walking bundle of privilege and complicated baggage. [M/N] was far better in his own opinion compared to the guy, the rich jerk.
It figured Peter had landed there.
Peter was still rummaging through one of the grocery bags when he piped up, almost too casually. “But I did get invited to a job event.”
[M/N] only hummed in response, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he shifted Jeff onto the cushion beside him. He didn’t look up, pretending he wasn’t interested. But he was. Of course he was.
Because when it came to the Osborns, “events” weren’t events. They were blockades of excess—full-scale productions where Harry flexed his bottomless bank account and Daddy’s influence. [M/N] had seen enough photos. Neon lights so bright they could be seen halfway across the Hudson. Professional bands flown in from overseas. A Fourth of July where Uncle Sam, in an American-flag speedo, arrived on a jetpack.
And Halloween? That was their crown jewel. The Osborn Halloween bash shut down entire streets around Oscorp Tower. The cops looked the other way—Norman’s money could buy silence in bulk—and every year it was a spectacle. Last year had been a drag show with bottomless margaritas and enough candy buckets to put a dentist into early retirement. The year before, horror icons and actors had been hired to chase guests through themed areas. There’d even been a DJ booth built out of a hearse.
Peter got invited because he was Harry’s friend. [M/N] didn’t. And he told himself he didn’t care. He had reasons—plenty of them—for disliking both Harry and Norman Osborn. But for Peter’s sake, he always kept things civil.
“What is it?” [M/N] asked finally, voice even as he rolled his shoulders and leaned back. “Something rich and dramatic, I bet.”
Peter hummed, clicked something on his cracked phone, and walked over, holding the screen out. [M/N] scanned it. A Halloween party invite. His lips twitched despite himself, jealousy stirring before he tamped it down with a scoff.
“Sweet,” he said flatly. “Another party bankrolled by the blood, sweat, and tears of New York’s actual working class—”
“You’re invited,” Peter interrupted. The words hit harder than expected. [M/N]’s eyes lit up before he could stop them, and Peter caught the reaction with a smile that looked too pleased.
“Some people couldn’t make it this year,” Peter explained, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Harry said I could invite you.”
“You mean it?” The question slipped out softer than intended. [M/N] tilted his head, meeting Peter’s gaze. “I know I might drag you down—”
Peter’s hand landed on his shoulder before he could finish. Warm. Steady.
“Stop it.” His voice was firm, but gentle. “You’re not dragging me down. You’ll be fine. And besides…” Peter’s mouth quirked into that crooked smile of his. The one that had carried him through every disaster in his life threw his way. “I got paid. Tomorrow, after class—we’re going thrifting.”
[M/N] blinked, then snorted. Thrifting. Of course. The timeless Parker tradition of taking clothes once worn by someone’s grandma.
Still a smile made it over his lips, one that Peter didn't almost catch but another, "I call not being the bottom half of a jackass costume." Peter exhales, tired smile on his lips as he moved back.
"Mhm, oh to have dreams that the thrift store will have a donkey or horse costume." Peter remarked before walking away to throw the plastic bags under the sink like the others and cleaning supplies.