Chapter Text
Spider-Man drops down in an alley, rats scurrying away as he lands. It’s probably one of the cleaner alleys in Manhattan, on account of the garbage mostly being papers and cans rather than… grosser things. He spots the headline on one of the newspapers, ‘SPIDER-SCOURGE RETURNS, NOW IN THREATENING NEW THREADS.’ He smiles under his mask, happy to see that Jonah’s already back in the swing of things.
He reaches up for the base of his mask to pull it off, but as his fingers go to grab it, the whole suit immediately starts to peel off him. As it unravels into tendrils, it starts to change shape, shifting into a fine tuxedo.
‘What the hell is the point of this thing? Why did Oscorp make it?’
‘What even IS it?’
Whatever the suit was, it was definitely useful. Earlier in the week it allowed him to rip through a vault door to save some trapped bank robbers with little effort. And now, it made him fast enough that he was able to be early to a date hangout for the first time in six years. He walks out of the alley, turns the corner, and sees her. Mary Jane Watson, red curls, dark skin, deep brown eyes, and a beautiful black dress. She looks surprised as he walks over to her, holding the tickets in the air.
“Well well well, look at you, tiger. Is this the first time you’ve been early to something?” she says, eyeing him up and down.
“Hey don’t be too flattered! I’ve still gotta take those pictures, remember?” he says, trying to tone down the idea of this being a date.
She frowns a bit, before her mouth curls back into a smile, “What’s wrong, tiger? Scared ’ll get too attached?”
‘Yes.’
Peter gulps a bit, extending a ticket out for her to take. She does, and they walk down Broadway to their theater.
“So, have you talked to Harry yet?” she says, not looking at him.
“Um, heh, no. I, uh, haven’t.”
“Do you plan to?” she stops and looks at him, her face unreadable.
“I—”
‘What business does she have questioning us like that?’
“Listen, MJ, let’s just get to the show, and you can stop prodding into things that aren’t your problem for a while, alright?” he snaps. Her eyes widen, and Peter takes a step back, putting his hands up in mock defense. “Sorry! I don’t know where that came from. I—”
“It’s alright, Peter,” she says, a slight quiver in her voice.
‘Are we really that scary?’
“I really am sorry, MJ. It won’t happen again, promise,” he says, holding out his pinkie for her, and she looks at it, unconvinced. “We can talk about Harry later, alright?” he says, and after a beat, Mary Jane rolls her eyes and locks her pinkie with his as she lets out a sigh.
“God, you really are a little dork, huh?” and his stomach flutters a bit.
‘We can’t get attached. We know what happened last time, so we cannot get attached.’
The two of them continue down the street, and as they do, only one other thought is on the mind of Peter Parker…
‘What the hell kind of a musical is named ‘Quarter Half Measure: A Horse Story’ anyhow?’
“I just don’t think I got it like you did,” Peter says, as he and Mary Jane step out of the theater. “Quarter rejected her community at the end even after she saved them, and they accepted her for being bigger and slower than the rest of them.”
“It’s not about whether they accept her or not, what bothered her was the fact that it took her stopping Lucky Switch from destroying their town for them to accept her,” Mary Jane says, her eyes full of fire. “The finale was about her realizing that they should have accepted her in the first place, and the only thing that matters is for her to accept herself.”
Peter thinks for a moment as they walk, then says, “Well… isn’t that kind of sad?”
“Huh?”
“At the end of the musical, she just doesn’t have anybody?” he says, blowing on his hands for warmth in the cool autumn night. “It’s a little bleak, y’know? I think I’d rather have a community that learned to accept me than just… not have one at all.”
Mary Jane chuckles a little, then says, “God, you’re such a guy, tiger.”
Peter flinches, barely noticeable. He stares at the ground as they walk, now silent. Mary Jane doesn’t seem to notice though, as she keeps chatting about how incredible the costuming was, and how beautiful the lead’s vocals were. As she gushes about the production, Peter’s thoughts start to fade away.
‘See? She’s not going to love us if we tell her. And if Mary Jane can’t love us, then who would?’
‘Why does it matter so much if she loves us anyway? We still love Gwen. It doesn’t matter if she’s gone, we can’t let her go. We can’t betray her like that.’
“Peter? You in there?” Mary Jane says, knocking lightly on his head as if it was hollow. He looks over at her, giving her a half-hearted smile.
“Sorry, MJ, I’m a little woozy after sitting down for so long,” he lies. “You mind if I head back to my apartment? We can catch up proper some other time.”
“Really?” she asks, unconvinced.
“Really! Again, MJ, I’m sorry, but I just—” he freezes while looking down at her. Her eyes drill into his
He gives a sheepish wave goodbye, and turns to walk away, his smile dropping immediately.
‘Who the hell does she think she is, trying to control us? She’s too demanding… Too possessive…’
Peter agrees, scowling as he slinks into an alleyway, tuxedo expanding around him, forming back into his costume.
He looks into the evening sky, and swings into action, hoping to clear his head.
“Osborn Returns, Questions Remain About His Three Month Sabbatical”
Peter has been staring at that headline for six minutes, the grip on his phone slowly tightening.
The screen cracks. He drops his phone on the ground.
Peter starts to pace around his studio, picking at one of the tendrils from his costume, and chewing on his bottom lip. He thought Osborn was finally gone, and that was the blissful reality he’d been living in for months. The warehouse they were in was brought down on top of both of them, there was no way that the Goblin could’ve survived that.
But there was the headline, and the photo, and he’s even already teasing some new collaboration with the city. Peter drags his nails across his face in anger. He’d tried getting in contact with Harry a couple days ago after leaving the theater, but he found himself blocked. Now that Osborn was publicly back, he had a couple guesses as to why.
He took a deep breath in, then let it out. He really needed to destress if he was going to actually do something about whatever Osborn was planning.
And then he broke out into laughter. Spider-Man destressing? He might as well ask Jonah to give him a raise. No, what he needed to do was get back in costume, and swing over to OsCorp to find out directly what was going on.
Or he would’ve, if he wasn’t stopped halfway out the window by a thought that creeped to the front of his mind.
‘Go to the mirror.’
He steps out of the window, turns around, and walks over to his mirror, curious as to where this is going. The full-body mirror has a blanket over it, usually only reserved for when he’s stitching his costume up or the rare formal event. He reaches for the blanket, shakily pulling it off, uncomfortable with what he knows he’s going to see. He winces in preparation, but what he sees staring back at him is…
Her.
He sees her in the mirror. She has beautiful, long, fluffy brown hair, full breasts, a slender waist, and wide hips. She’s still muscular, but it looks different than it did on him. Her face is soft, with pretty lips and thinner eyebrows. She still looks like Peter, just… Different.
She smiles, and then she starts crying. She looks so happy in the mirror, so much like herself. She’s wanted it for so long, is it really right for her to have it now? Just like that?
‘No.’
“What?” Peter says, shocked out of his tears.
‘We can’t have this, not all the time. Not out there. This is just for us.’
A thin, black tendril reaches up from the costume and strokes Peter’s cheek. She sighs softly, and says, “Yeah. Just for us.”
She stays like that, admiring her body in the mirror for much longer than she should. Staring at her curves, and wishing so, so desperately that she could look like this all the time.
‘But we can’t, can we?’
Peter’s shoulders drop as he looks down at his body. He can’t keep it like this forever. He looks back into the mirror, and says, “No. No, we can’t,” trying not to choke up.
‘It’s okay. We can stay like this for a little longer. Just for us.’
So she stays in the mirror, gazing at herself, for just a few more minutes.
“Just for us,” she repeats.
It’s a late night in Manhattan, the moon obscured by the dusty clouds in the sky. A man is taking a shortcut to the corner store, where he’s about to be late for his night shift. As he takes a left down an alleyway, a pigeon flies away. His socks are damp from stepping through the shallow puddles, and a newspaper crumples under his shoe as he heads forward. He flips his hoodie up as rain drops start to fall on his head, and he walks a little faster.
A metal barrel presses against the back of his head, and he hears a click.
“Give me everything you have,” a voice says from behind him. “Shoes, too. I don’t wanna pull the trigger, but I will.”
The man doesn’t say anything as his hands shakily move for his wallet, desperately hoping the mugger’s finger doesn’t get itchy. His finger grips the leather and he pulls it out. He shakily lifts the wallet behind him, not moving from where he is, sweat dripping down his neck. Just as the mugger grabs it, the barrel leaves the back of his head, and a scream of fear erupts from behind him.
He whips around, watching as the man whose voice was full of determination just a moment ago is dragged into the darkness, slimy black tentacles gripping his legs. He stares as the man’s nails scrape against the stone of the alley, desperately trying to hold onto anything.
As he disappears into the black, the mugger screams, “HELP PLEASE! PLEASE, STOP— I HAVE A FAMILY PLEASE!”
The mugger’s cries turn into silence after the man hears a loud SNAP!
The man is frozen in place, and he hears a CRACK against the brick wall. Soft whimpering comes from the darkness, and then, he sees a figure skulk out of it. A silhouette that stays the same color even as it leaves the shadows. A white spider covers its chest, and it approaches the man who took a shortcut, who just didn’t want to be late for work.
A black tendril extends out of its shoulder, picking up the wallet, and lifting it to the creature’s hand. It holds the wallet out for the man, gesturing for him to take it. Still sweating, still shaking, the man does, and asks it a question.
“Who— what are you?”
The figure looks confused for a moment, and says “Isn’t it obvious? I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!”
“PARKER! Get in here!” J. Jonah Jameson barks from his office, and Peter scrambles up from his desk. Jameson has had him working on the company website for a while, and he’s been giving it some much-needed updates that fell behind in his absence.
Walking into the office, he says, “What’s up, Jameson?”
“What’s ‘up,’ Parker, is that Oscorp is apparently showing off some genius new invention to help protect the city tomorrow!” he says, not noticing the drop in Peter’s expression. “So, you’re coming with me to get pictures for when we run the paper on whatever it is.”
“Jonah,” Peter starts, “no offense, but are there any other photographers you could get to do this job?”
Jonah stares at him incredulously, his cigar leaning like it’s about to fall out of his hand. He cocks an eyebrow at Peter, and says, “You serious?”
“Well I—”
“Because if you are, then you can walk right out of here and go get a job at a comedy club,” Jonah says, putting the cigar back in his mouth. “I don’t care what karaoke night or whatever it is you kids do these days that you might have planned, because if I don’t get pictures tomorrow, The Globe is going to outsell us!” he finishes, saying ‘Globe’ like it was some horrible insult.
Peter swallows his pride (and more than a few insults), sighs, and says, “I’ll be there, Mr. Jameson.”
“Good! And dress professionally, too. None of this sweaters and jeans crap you have going on. A proper outfit, damn it!” He leans back in his chair and puffs his cigar. “You’d look better in a dress than whatever that’s supposed to be.”
Peter looks down at his outfit, a red hoodie and jeans, and looks back up at Jameson, confused. He goes to open his mouth, but Jameson stops him.
“What? You got a complaint? Take it up with HR, kid,” he tilts his head to look out the window, then looks back at Peter. “You’re still here? I don’t pay you to stand around, kid. Get back to work and prepare for the Oscorp showing tomorrow!”
Peter almost trips over his own feet as he walks out of Jonah’s office, and Betty gives him a look.
“He’s going easy on you, you know,” she says, typing up an email.
“Really? ‘Jolly Jonah,’ going easy?” he says, grinning as he leans on the wall next to her. “What would he do that for?”
“He feels bad for you, Peter,” she says, glancing up at him. “It’s one of the only reasons he gave you the job back. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.”
Peter’s smile drops, and Betty holds out his paycheck for the photos he’s brought in over the past week.
“I didn’t think he’d actually care about something like that,” he says, now looking away from her.
“Isn’t there a reason you call him ‘Jolly Jonah’?” she says, a half-sincere smile on her face. Peter snorts, taking the paycheck from her.
“Yeah, ‘cause he’s so damn jolly all the time and I’m just sooo grateful for the earfuls I get every goddamn day, y’know?” he says, bile suddenly coating his voice. “Is that what I oughta be grateful for, Bitchy Brant?”
Betty looks taken aback, about to snap back before Peter continues, “It’s just day after goddamn day with him, right? Yelling out orders, ignoring everything anybody says to him, the whining. How could you not love the guy!?” he starts to shout, throwing his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Guess I’m supposed to be fine with all of that just because he decided to re-hire me and save a few bucks on a real photographer?”
Peter huffs to himself, and looks around the office, seeing everybody staring at him. His face starts to heat up, and his shoulders slump. Sweat begins to pool on his back, and he shifts uncomfortably, realizing everything he just said.
Jameson pokes out of his office, looking concerned, and says, “Parker, I—”
“Can it, Jonah,” Peter cuts him off. “I’m sure you heard it all. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Peter says, turning to leave. He looks back for a moment to say, “Sorry, Betty,” and walks away.
J. Jonah Jameson shifts uncomfortably next to Peter Parker, who’s pretending to clean the glass on his camera. Jonah looks down at Parker, opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. He turns to look back at the stage that’s been set up on the steps of the Oscorp building, Donald Menken giving a long preamble in front of a dark green curtain.
Jonah is just about to start grumbling about how long the buildup is taking, when Norman Osborn takes the stage, waving Menken off. His hands grip the side of the podium as he leans into the microphone, and the crowd falls silent.
“My fellow New Yorkers,” he begins, his voice dry and cold, “As many of you know, I am Norman Osborn, the founder and CEO of Oscorp. I built this company from the ground up, with the sole purpose of using it to help benefit the great city that helped me raise it.”
He looks up proudly at the skyscraper, a large, imposing building that pierces the sky, with the letters OC seared into the side, glowing a bright green.
“For years, New York has been terrorized, by people who claim themselves to be ‘superheroes.’ Daredevil, Power Man, Iron Fist, Jewel, the Moon Knight, Spider-Man,” he lists them, a growing disdain in his voice. “Masked vigilantes with zero accountability parade around the rooftops, harassing our police, assaulting upstanding citizens like Wilson Fisk, L. Thompson Lincoln, even myself and my people, disrupting the good work that we all do.”
Jonah nods along, hoping that this goes somewhere that will actually have an impact on the masked vigilante trend.
“Our modern day officers are, clearly, no match for these superpowered criminals that roam the streets,” he says, and the crowd mumbles in hesitant agreement. “Which is why, we here at Oscorp have been working closely with Mayor Lindsay to develop a high-tech, highly specialized, elite task force. Introducing: New York City’s anti-vigilante initiative, that we have dubbed the Scorpion Project!”
The curtain behind him drops, and a sleek, mechanical, bright white suit is revealed. A massive pointed tail extends from its rear, and its left hand is equipped with a large claw. The chest has a glowing green symbol of a scorpion on it, and the mask has a hole for the mouth.
Next to Jonah, Peter is taking pictures, his face contorted in a scowl, and his hands are squeezing the camera so hard it might pop. Jonah is too excited at the prospect of this task force to notice, staring at the suit with glee.
“This suit is specially designed for restraint and non-violent tactics,” Osborn continues, talking over the applause. “The ‘stinger’ tail is actually a powerful and painless taser, controlled entirely by a neuralink connected to the user. The ‘claws’ have no sharp points, instead functioning with a lockjaw mechanic, preventing any unwanted damage to any criminals, while still being able to apprehend them. We are looking for non-violence above all else. We don’t want any of these brave men and women to be responsible for any deaths on the job, now do we?” he says, and Jonah thinks for a moment that he glanced right next to him, right at Peter Parker.
An officer walks onto the stage, taking his place next to the CEO. Norman puts his hand on the man’s shoulder, and says, “Now, this man here is NYPD’s very own decorated Officer Mac Gargan, who has bravely volunteered himself as the first member of our task force. He’s going to be our little ‘test run,’ patrolling the streets, stopping any superpowered crime, as well as looking out for you,” Osborn points into the crowd, flashing an award-winning smile, “the little guy. Now, if you want there to be more people like Mac Gargan to help you feel safer, make sure to let Mayor Lindsay know with your financial support to the Oscorp’s Scorpion Project. Mac, why don’t you say a few words?”
Mac Gargan takes the microphone, and says, “All I want to say is that I’m here for you, New York. I’ll do my best to protect you, and serve the people,” he says, giving a toothy grin. “And, to any so-called ‘heroes’ out there, especially Spider-Man, I just have one thing to say,” he stares directly into the news camera in front of him, “Look out.”
The audience applauds, Jonah grinning with excitement all the while. Finally, somebody’s actually going to do something about that Spider-Menace!
Next to him, his best photographer lines up a photo, glaring through the lens.
Further in the week, Spider-Man is rushing through the air, when he hears the familiar sound of a bank alarm.
‘Who cares? If they’re that desperate, let them take it. Not like the bank won’t be insured anyways—’
Robbery means guns, and a bank means people. ‘Bad combo, Parker.’
He changes course midair, yanking himself in the direction of the ringing, arriving on the roof in moments. Popping the skylight open, he drops down, only to find the entire bank is empty, not even a teller.
“Hello? Listen, everybody, if this is a surprise party, then I’m charmed, but you’re a few weeks early for my birthday,” he says, calling into the empty building.
Barely a moment after he finishes speaking, his spider-sense goes off, and he backflips into the air, a spiked tail jabbing at the spot he was just standing. He lands a few feet behind his attacker, wearing a bright white suit. Mac Gargan, the Scorpion, turns around, his eyes crazed with bloodlust, and a smile stretching to his ears.
“Well well, Spider-Man, looks like you just fell for a good old sting operation!” he says, stabbing at his opponent, who dodges backward, firing a web behind the Scorpion.
“Hey, bad quips are my schtick!” Spider-Man says, yanking a chair at his enemy’s back. He says, “You break out a scorpion sense and I’m gonna have to sue, y’know.” As the chair flies at him, Scorpion’s tail splits it in two right before it hits him, and he leaps at Spider-Man, claws extended.
Spider-Man jumps backwards, barely avoiding one of the claws. He grabs Scorpion’s arm and yanks him forward into a clothesline, knocking him to the ground, and attempting to finish him off with a punch to his skull. Gargan just grins, kicking Spider-Man in the stomach, sending him stumbling several feet backwards.
“Ohh I’ve been waiting for this, kid,” Scorpion says, pouncing onto Spider-Man, digging the claws into his shoulders, eliciting a wince.
“The hell did I do to you, Mac?” he says, a barrage of black tendrils ripping off of him to shove his attacker away. “Is this an arachnid thing,” he says, lilting his voice, “because if it is, then really, I think I patented the concept first, though you’d have to ask the tarantula guy…”
He lunges forward, punching the Scorpion in the jaw, then following it up by a kick in the side, “Or maybe it’s about the cop thing? Listen, if I hit you at any point on the job, it was probably for a good reason.”
Scorpion stabs again, missing, and growls, “Nothing like that, kid,” he slices the stinger towards his neck, Spider-Man leaning back and just barely grazing it, “It’s just not every day you get to legally execute a wanted super-criminal.”
“Sorry, execute?” Spider-Man says, going in for another hit, but the stinger jams into his shoulder at the same moment, lighting up his nervous system with a screaming pain. He collapses onto the ground, his body desperately trying to fight off the paralysis.
“That’s right, kid, execute,” Gargan says, crouching down to look him in the eye, “Technically, I’ll just say it was self-defense. That I was forced to put you down. But it’s not like anybody would care either way, right?” he stands up, kicking him in the stomach hard enough to snap a rib. “After all, who do you even have in your life, Spider-Man?”
“Maybe when I’m done, and I peel that mask off, I’ll track them down, too.”
Peter’s eyes shoot open, and his body is moved on its own, ignoring the paralysis entirely. Suddenly, he’s on both feet, eyes narrowed, and Gargan is scrambling backwards, baffled.
“Wh— what the hell!?” he says, stumbling to his feet and prepping his claws. “You shouldn’t be able to move for the next couple hours!”
Hundreds of tendrils peel off of him, slamming the Scorpion into the back wall, cracking it. The ooze begins to cover him, making a cocoon that barely exposes his face, pressing him into the wall further as he struggles for air.
Mac can only let out a small, strained, “What… are… you…?”
“We’re Spider-Man.”
“‘The stinger is entirely painless,’ yeah, right,” Peter says, dabbing alcohol-covered swabs on his shoulder. He’s sitting on the crappy couch in his apartment, with an alright medkit that he got from F.E.A.S.T., trying his best to tend to the wounds that haven’t fully healed.
As he reaches to bandage his ribs, he can feel the broken one moving in his body, slowly and painlessly reattaching itself. He lifts up his shirt, and sees the suit, writhing around his stomach and adjusting his body, healing it unnaturally fast.
“There’s no way this is just a normal suit…” he says to himself, and one of the tendrils rubs up against his neck, like a cat trying to get attention. He chuckles nervously, and asks, “What are you, little guy?”
‘We’re you.’
He bolts up, terrified at the voice in his head that sounded almost like his own. He looks around, desperately hoping that there’s somebody in his room, despite that being an entirely different possible problem.
‘What the hell did we just hear?’ he thinks to himself, and then comes a second thought.
“How long have we been saying ‘we?’”
‘Do we really care?’
He cares a little bit, yes. “Who the hell are you?” he says, almost forcing out the word ‘you.’
‘It’s us, Peter,’ a tendril reaches up and caresses his face, causing him to slowly push it away.
“You’re alive?” he says, and then feels stupid, because of course it’s alive. Should he even be wearing this? What kind of effects is it having on him? He should really get Reed to take a look at—
‘Go to the mirror.’
The words echo in his mind, piercing his desires. He stands up from the couch, and heads to the mirror, hoping he’ll see her again.
And there she is. Long hair, soft skin, curves, and all. She’s looking back, smiling, black suit clinging to her body.
“Um… thank you, suit?” the girl in the mirror says, tentatively deciding on the nickname. “But, we should probably…” she trails off, watching as her hair straightens out, shifting the hue from brown to blonde, arranging itself into bangs, and her face becomes more angular.
The woman in the mirror is no longer her, but Gwen.
‘Do we like this, too?’
Her breath picks up, and tears prick at her eyes. She tries desperately to compose herself, and firmly says, “No.”
‘We… Don't like this?’
“No,” she says, choking up a little bit. “Change me back, now,” she tears her eyes away from the mirror, and feels her body shift back to how it was only a few moments ago. She looks back, and she’s pretty again. She’s herself again.
She doesn’t have to be him anymore.
‘You’re so pretty like this, Peter.’
“Heh, um, thank you, suit,” she says, trying to hide her feelings, a mix of revulsion and flustering, from the monster on her body.
‘You’re so kind, Peter.’
She stays quiet, trying to block out any thoughts as she looks at her ideal form.
‘We love you, Peter.’
“Um, alright…” she says, her brow furrowing a little. “That’s… nice, suit.”
‘Say it back.’
“What? I—” Peter starts to protest. As she does, her breasts begin to slowly recede back into her chest, her hips straighten out, and her hair shortens.
“No no no NO!” she shouts, grabbing desperately at her body, trying to shape it back as if it was clay, but it’s too late. Her costume now clings tightly around her broad shoulders, middling waist, flat hips, emphasizing his muscles. She drops to her knees in front of the mirror, wrapping her arms around her torso and sobbing.
“Give it back… please just give it back…” she whimpers between sobs.
‘We will give it back when it is earned.’
“Please, I—” she hesitates, blubbering snot and teardrops all over the floor. She sniffles, then looks back into the mirror, and says, “I love you, too.” Once the words drip out of her mouth, her body starts to come back, bit by bit. She can’t bring herself to look, though, only curling into a ball, and sobbing softly into her legs.
‘Good girl, Peter.’