Chapter Text
Peter Parker liked to believe he was a reasonable person.
Reasonable people didn’t throw staplers. Reasonable people didn’t shout at the sky. Reasonable people didn’t consider suing the concept of Tuesdays.
But Peter had been pushed—gently, consistently, with cosmic enthusiasm—past the boundaries of reason, into the liminal space known as “I swear to God, I’m being punked by the universe.”
Which was why he now sat in his cramped, dimly lit bedroom, hunched over a microphone he’d bought for fifty dollars and two units of dignity, recording an episode of his podcast My Life Is a Menace.
He tapped the mic twice. It made a sad little pop, the sound of a man who had accepted defeat with the grace of a damp paper towel.
“Okay,” he began, dragging a hand down his face. “Hey, everyone. Peter here. Your resident disaster. Today’s episode is brought to you by—” he raised a hand in weary theatricality, “—printer demons, cosmic spite, and the Norse god Loki, who is personally targeting me. I assume.”
He leaned back in his chair. It creaked, trying its best to escape the situation.
“So let’s discuss the printer,” Peter continued, gaining momentum like a man with nothing left to lose. “You know how normal printers jam because of dust, or humidity, or paper gremlins? No. Mine jammed because I looked at it. I walked past it. I existed in its vicinity. And suddenly—boom. Catastrophe. Ink explosion. Black streaks on my shirt like I’m auditioning for an off-Broadway production of The Crow.”
He lifted the shirt half-heartedly. Ink stains glared back.
“And I know what you’re thinking. ‘Peter, printers hate everyone.’ Well you know what? My coffee also hates me. It spilled three times this morning. THREE. I wasn’t even drinking it the last time. It just fell. Leapt. Hurled itself off the counter like it wanted to die.”
A beat. Peter exhaled through his nose.
“I can’t explain all this. I can’t blame weather, science, or fate anymore. At this point, I’m placing full responsibility on Loki. Yes. Loki. God of Chaos. Prince of Inconvenience. The reason my socks disappear from the dryer.”
He pointed at the mic as if scolding the deity directly.
“If you’re listening, Loki, please stop using my life as enrichment enrichment enrichment—like I’m a zoo animal you’re trying to keep mentally stimulated. I am plenty stimulated. I’m overstimulated. Try messing with someone else for once.”
He slumped. “Preferably someone who doesn’t have chem lab at 8 a.m.”
The radiator hissed in sympathy. Or mockery. Hard to tell.
Peter scrubbed his face. He sounded tired, and he was tired—bone-deep, existentially, cosmically tired. He loved his life, truly. But his life did not love him back.
“Anyway,” he sighed, “thanks for tuning in to another episode of Peter vs. The Universe. Like, comment, subscribe, leave an offering to Loki, I don’t know anymore.”
He clicked stop. The little square icon glowed, final and merciful.
Peter leaned back, breathing out. Silence settled, except for the buzzing lamp and the faint drip of the bathroom sink—because of course it dripped. Everything in his apartment dripped, clicked, or occasionally fell over for no reason.
He rubbed his temples. “I need a nap.”
MEANWHILE — IN AN APARTMENT UPTOWN
Loki did not nap.
He lounged.
Gracefully. Luxuriously. With one long leg draped over the arm of a velvet sofa he absolutely did not pay rent for.
A tablet rested in one hand, playing the final seconds of Peter’s podcast.
The god’s expression was best described as… enchanted.
“Oh,” Loki murmured, hand covering a delighted smile, “what a charming little mortal.”
He replayed the rant about printers. He laughed. Full-bodied, decadent.
A zoo animal needing enrichment.
Personally targeting me.
Please stop destroying my life, Loki.
Loki beamed.
“How flattering,” he purred, placing a hand over his heart. “He thinks I’m involved.”
He curled deeper into the couch, hair spilling like dark silk across the cushions.
This, truly, was entertainment. Mortals complaining was nothing new, but this one—this Peter—had a certain flavour. Earnestness. Exasperation. An almost artistic level of suffering.
And he blamed Loki. Religiously.
“It would be rude,” Loki said lightly, “to ignore such sincere devotion.”
He waved his fingers idly through the air, as if conducting invisible strings.
“No magic needed,” he mused. “Just… participation.”
He tilted his head.
“Yes,” he decided, smiling slowly. “Let’s see where this goes.”
BACK IN PETER’S APARTMENT
Peter had changed shirts, washed most of the ink off, and was preparing to collapse onto his bed when something caught his eye.
His backpack.
More specifically—the zipper.
The zipper that had been broken for three weeks.
The zipper that had resisted WD-40, pliers, emotional bargaining, and one moment where he genuinely tried to bite it.
It now sat perfectly aligned. Smooth. Shiny.
Fixed.
Peter blinked once.
Twice.
He approached cautiously, like it might explode.
He tugged the zipper.
It moved. Effortlessly.
“No,” he whispered. “Absolutely not.”
He tugged again. Open. Closed. No resistance.
“No no no no—”
A floorboard creaked behind him. Peter spun.
No one.
The air felt… different. Like the room was holding its breath.
Peter pointed at the ceiling.
“Loki?” he said weakly.
A light flickered.
Peter went cold.
“OH COME ON!” he yelped.
And somewhere in Manhattan, Loki smiled.