Texts From Superheroes

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obsessed with this picture of doc ock just like window shopping with the arms tucked under his coat

This is going to be an unpopular opinion but...

I feel like the people who complain about MCU Spider-Man only being Tony Stark Jr. have missed the entire point of the MCU Spider-Man movies. It's a lot of discourse coming from the Marvel gatekeep fans that dislike how popular things have gotten. The... "I liked it before it was cool" fans that are super upset that all these young people are into something they also like (instead of seeing it for the positive it is - more merch! More content! Easier to find things about it! And more people you can chat with about things! It's great!). Everything HAS to be an argument over which Spidey’s been better because we can't just let people enjoy things.

But my point.

In Captain America: Civil War Spidey has a very small role to play and a lot of it is a supporting one. But the entire point (in my opinion) of Tony Stark having proof that Spider-Man already exists in New York is to show that Peter Parker would be a hero even without Tony’s tech. The tech is just there to give him the suit (which, I get it, people are salty Peter doesn't have kick ass sewing skills 🙄). It's also stated in their first meeting that Peter makes his own webs and his own webshooters. So he may not have got to the point where he made his own suit but this kid was smart and talented and capable (and younger than both Tobey and Andrew's Peter - approx 14 in CW compared to 17 and college aged).

In Spider-Man: Homecoming Peter rocks that Stark Tech suit. But he also hacks it. He also repeatedly makes phone calls to try and get Tony’s attention to a problem he thinks is worse than it seems on the surface. He's 15 and he feels things like a 15 year old. But okay, I get it, you're mad that he has Tony Stark as a mentor instead of Uncle Ben (so am I but mostly because I want Uncle Ben and not because I'm really mad about the mentor thing). Oh? Wait? That's not it? It's because... he's not expected to figure it all out on his own?

Only that's where you're... kind of wrong. Aside from Ned, Peter rarely received any help against Toomes at all. And it wasn't because Tony didn't care it was just because Peter was 15 and Toomes was good at hiding things.

My big point - big big point - about HOCO is that Peter doesn't beat Toomes (Vulture) until AFTER Tony takes the suit away. He doesn't beat him with the help of SI tech. He beats him AS SPIDER-MAN. There's even the iconic, stuck under a building, "come on, Spider-Man" scene where Peter realizes that he needs to be BE this hero in order to save the city. And not in a big way like Tobey or Andrew always was - Toomes wasn't trying to destroy New York. But he WAS selling weapons to people across the city to hurt dozens of others. Peter was literally being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man we all want him to be. And he did that. Without a suit. Without any tech that wasn't of his own invention. And he even saved the bad guy's life. No one died that day.

But, okay, whatever, that's not your problem either. It's Far From Home. Okay, let's break that down.

Peter helping out SHIELD? I mean I get it but also there's literally a cartoon where that happens and no one complains. He also does it a few times in the comics. Oh wait, no it's the Tony Stark connection again. I get it. You don't like Tony Stark. Chill, guys, it's not that out of character. Peter Parker always looked up to the guy.

"He needed Stark's tech to beat Mysterio". Uh... tell me you didn't watch the movie without telling me you didn't watch the movie.

The entire point of FFH - as far as I took it - was Peter learning to trust himself again. He falls again and again and again for Mysterio's tricks because he doesn't listen to himself. He doesn't trust his "Spidey Sense" (aka Peter Tingle lmao) because of PTSD due to the events in both Infinity War and Endgame. The only way he beats Mysterio in the end is by TRUSTING HIMSELF. When he closes his eyes in that scene against the drones? He's not using tech to figure out where they are - he's using his Spidey Sense. When he stops Mysterio from shooting him? He's using his Spidey Sense. The entire story of FFH was that he was relearning to trust in his own powers and instincts and believing that he was still a hero even after having let down his hero (in his own mind).

I think I see the real issue. Other than the one i pointed out where we're mad what we liked is now more commercialized and popular - MCU Peter Parker has a pretty strong support system. He doesn't only have Aunt May but he has Ned and MJ, Tony Stark for a bit, Happy Hogan, etc. He works hand in hand with the Avengers.

All I'm saying is you can't argue that MCU Peter Parker is a terrible Spider-Man because he works with Tony Stark and then choose to ignore the fact that he beat both of his villains in both of his solo movies without using that tech.

And this post isn't to say that Tobey and Andew were terrible either. They were and are all great Spider-Men in their own unique ways (and let's be honest, Into the Spider-Verse was 100% the best Spider-Man movie out of the bunch and Miles Morales deserves a lot more love).

Why is it so hard to let people enjoy things without turning into a fandom discourse fight?

Art Process: Amazing Spider-Man #0875 Cover (2021)

Art by Alex Maleev

Stephen’s wishful thinking.

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Tired

MJ: Your future self is hating you for the poor decisions you’re making today. Peter: Bold of you to assume my current self isn’t hating me for the poor decisions I’m making today.

The Storm

pairing: enemies to lovers - college!Peter Parker x Reader: 18+

Word Count: 8k

summary: Peter Parker was the last person you wanted to be partnered with for your class presentation. Now you were forced to spend the day with him but your loathing soon turns into something quite different when the day is over.

a/n: thank you for the request! i went a little overboard with how long this rq is lol but i hope you enjoy it!! [ask is posted below]

You placed your half empty coffee down on the lecture hall’s small table. Studying the notes you had just taken on some of the local pieces at the Metropolitan Museum, you waited for your professor to announce the partners for your first presentation of the fall semester. Your class was small, being filled with mostly students of your art history major. There were a few stray art students taking the class for either an elective or just out of pure love and interest. And then there was Peter Parker.

The biochemist sat in the first row, the back of his brunette head always in your peripheral view. You saw every time his hand shot up, always aiming to be the first to answer almost anything your professor asked and you hated him for it. You were not competitive, or you were not until you met Peter. You hated the idea of being bested by someone outside of your major and especially someone outside of the arts.

You were fine getting paired with anyone. Literally anyone besides Peter Parker. Your professor began to list off names, her voice drowning out as you stared at the back of Peter’s stupid head. Each student around you grew further and further from your grasp until your name left your professor’s lips, snapping you back to reality, “Y/N Y/L/N, Peter Parker,” and suddenly you were no longer in your own reality but in Hell. You watched as Peter extended his arm, the fabric of his rolled flannel pushing up his bicep. Turning his head, his brown eyes met yours, a small smile sat on his lips.

“I was thinking ‘The Storm’,” Peter said. Your eyes blankly stared back at him, “by Cot,” He told the professor, his eyes still fixed on you.

“‘The Storm’,” She repeated as she wrote your group’s piece down in a small notebook that sat in her hand, “Okay,” Her voice drew out as she collected her thoughts, “I’m going to send out an email in a week or two to pick presentation dates, that should give you all time to visit the piece before the email is sent out,” You were barely listening to your professor’s instructions, mentally swearing to yourself in a endless cycle. You wondered who or what cursed you to be paired with the last person on campus you ever wanted to work with.

At some point your gaze dropped to your notebook as you retracted into your thoughts, unaware that your classmates began to file out of the lecture hall, “Hey,” You heard a voice call out, making you jump. Knocking your elbow on the seat’s small table it began to shake.

“Shit,” You spoke, not only from the pain of the collision but as you watched your coffee begin to fall towards your notes. Suddenly, a hand reached out, catching your coffee almost on super human instinct. Looking up, you watched as Peter shovered the to go up in your hand, “Okay,” You questioned, annoyed, “thanks, I guess,”

“I was coming over to ask you what day works best for you to head to the Met,” Peter spoke, his eyes glued on you, “but you were like, zoned out,” he informed you as you studied him. His backpack was thrown over his shoulder, his strong hands held onto the strap, “Can’t believe I’m your partner or something,”

“Something like that,” You mocked, beginning to pack your bag, “and I don’t know. I have my studio classes,” You told him, answering his previous question, “So I’ll let you know,”

“Right,” He spoke, watching you aggressively stuffing your bag, “so, what’s your number,” His question made your movements freeze, eyes fixed on the thrown around notebooks.

“My-my number,” You stuttered, however it came out in between small laugher, “you want my number,”

“What, are you not used to guys asking for your number,” Peter asked, his tone making his query worse than it already was. He watched as you closed your bag before rising to your feet.

“Bye Peter,” You spoke as you attempted to escape, however you realized Peter was blocking your only way out of the aisle of seats, “let me out,”

“Not until I get your number,” Peter told you, his hand reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone, “Just to figure out a date for the Met,”

“It’s not a date,” You spoke quickly, not processing Peter’s words fully. You watched as the small smile that sat on Peter’s lips grew.

“Never said it was,” Peter spoke, watching your gaze drop. He studied you as you became increasingly flustered in front of him, “but,”

“No,” You interrupted him, “It’s bad enough you’re my partner,” You spat out, your words growing more quiet as you watched his hands grip his strap.

Peter stepped aside, allowing you to slip past him. He barely left you any room to escape as you felt your skin brush against the fabric of his flannel, “I’m expecting an answer,” Peter called out as you made your way down the stairs, “make it easier on yourself and just give me your number,”

“No thanks, Parker,” You answered, eyes fixed on the door that stretched down the narrow hallway. You were so close to salvation, the rest of your days filled with studio classes. You would be able to spend hours downing out your angry Peter thoughts, focusing on starting the new piece your painting professor assigned.

Reaching the door, you pushed it open. You did not dare to look Peter’s way, knowing that he stood at the end of the hallway, waiting for you to change your mind and give into him. Little did Peter know, you would go out of your way to do the exact opposite of whatever was on his mind.

***

You spun your dirty brushes in the mason jar that sat in your hand as you waited for the girl ahead of you to clean her brushes. Beginning to get irritated at just how long she was taking you turned your head, allowing your eyes to wander. A few girls stood by the studio’s large bay windows, giggles spilling past their lips as they all focused on something outside. Rolling your eyes, your curiosity got the best of you as your gaze fell to the towering glass, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” You swallowed your words as your eyes found Peter on a nearby ledge. A book sat in his hands as he not so subtly glanced towards the group of easels that sat over in the right side of the studio. You wondered how long he had been there. You had been listening to music, probably drowning out the whispers of the other female students in the studio.

You would not deny that Peter was attractive. If your fingers were to end up in the brown locks that sat on the back of his head you would not hate that idea. You found yourself staring at the back of his head one too many times during your lectures. You always mentally cursed him for beating you to an answer, but once the curses faded you were left with nothing but a primal sense of attraction to Peter. If Peter were to keep his mouth shut you would not hate yourself for finding yourself captivated with him, however, Peter was a smartass. Part of you wondered if he knew just how much him besting you got under your skin and if he sometimes did it on purpose. He was cocky and unlike you did not try and hide just how smart he truly is.

At some point you had surfaced from your thoughts, realizing you had been aggressively washing your brushes and that they were probably begging you to stop. Thankfully, no one was behind you as you turned the handles on the old, industrial sink. Looking back out of the large windows you found the same girls. At some point they had migrated outside of the art building and had approached Peter who sat a few yards away.

Rushing to your bag, you collected your things, hoping Peter would be distracted by the girls to even realize you had passed. You were not so lucky. As you walked up the stairs that lead from the building’s low first floor, Peter’s eyes locked onto you. You watched as the girls around him continued the pointless conversations that he once was encouraging, but now Peter ignored them, his eyes following you. Ducking your head, you focused on the ground as you made your way up the short set of concrete stairs and onto the path that lead towards the dining hall.

You heard as the group of girls let out protests as you heard footsteps rushing after you, “Think of a date yet, Y/N,” Peter’s voice trailed behind you as he attempted to match your quick pace.

“Since you asked me, three hours ago? No,” You answered, not meeting his eyes as he walked next to you, “I told you, I’d let you know,”

“By finding me on campus,” He questioned, “that’s so inconvenient,” Peter groaned. His eyes searched your face, seeing visual annoyance furrow your brow, “Come onnn, Y/N, just-“

“No,” You spoke, “I don’t need you blowing up my phone,” You hated yourself for picking a college with such a large campus, meaning you were stuck with Peter for a decent walk to the dining hall.

“Why do you think I’d even text you,” Peter teased. You could hear it in his tone, his claim was not meant as an insult; he just enjoyed seeing you frustrated.

“Because you clearly haven’t left me alone since class,” You told him, picking up your pace as you crossed a parking lot. Peter did not respond, he only smiled at you whenever you shot him a quick glance. Peter followed behind you silently as you entered the dining hall and climbed the large set of stairs. Scanning your ID, you heard Peter do the same, “Are you stalking me now,” You questioned.

“Just grabbing dinner,” Peter spoke, “I was getting hungry waiting for you to get out of your long ass class,”

“It’s a studio class,” You informed, “They’re like two hours long,” A warm plate found its way into your hands as you completed your tasks aimlessly talking to Peter, “don’t you have labs that long,”

“Yeah and they’re boring as hell,” He spoke, reaching over you he began to fill his plate with the food that you were studying, “I finish in the first twenty minutes,” Peter heard you laugh under your breath at his words, “I know you’re smart, I thought you’d feel the same way,”

“If I did, I don’t go around telling everyone,” You spoke, “and I also don’t rush to answer every single question in class before everyone else,” You muttered.

“So it does bother you,” Peter laughed, following you at your heels as you made your way to find a table in the large room. His voice grew louder to speak over the roaring campus, “It really bothers you, huh,”

“Huh, it almost sounds like you want it to,” You ridiculed, “I mean, I wouldn’t put it past you,” Sinking into your chair you placed your plate down, pulling your bag off of your body. Watching as Peter placed a hand on the chair next to you, you quickly tossed your bag on the empty seat, “Don’t even think about it,”

“And you’d rather eat alone,” Peter asked, “Like every other day you sulk up here by yourself,” He spoke. He knew how it made him sound, almost confirming your stalking claim from earlier. But he had noticed you eating alone for a while now, wondering as to why no one bothered to ever sit with you.

You did not reply to Peter as you felt your face heat up not only from anger, but from embarrassment, “It’s not like I choose to,” You mumbled as you began to stab whatever sat on your plate, taking your anger on something, anything. However, you wished you could take it out on Peter and not the overly steamed carrots that contrasted off of the white porcelain that had always kept you company when no one else would. 

You wanted to be left alone, wanting Peter to take his harmful comments and to go sit with his abundance of friends. You could not wait for this presentation to be over with and you surely were going to pick the first presentation date available. Then, you would never speak to Peter ever again, “Are you free to go to the Met,”

Peter had not touched the food on his plate, having been studying you as you retracted into your hateful thoughts, “Right now,” He laughed, his words ringing with a questioning tone.

“I have a feeling you won’t leave me alone until I give you an answer,” You played along, biting the inside of your cheek, “so let’s go tonight, around 6. That gives us a few hours,”

“You’re not dying to spend the day with me,” Peter pestered, “You’re cutting me off at three hours,”

“It’s that or nothing,” You argued, “We could just go by ourselves and pray that our presentation doesn’t suck,”

“Fine,” Peter spoke with a smile, “I’ll see you at 6,”

***

You were definitely going insane. You found yourself putting extra time into your makeup, which is not something new. You loved going to the museum so you wanted to dress up a little. You did not wear extremely nice clothes on your studio days since you were a bit clumsy and did not want to ruin any of your clothes so you mostly dressed up whenever you found the opportunity. However, you found yourself wondering how Peter would respond to certain outfits. You lived a few blocks away from the Met so you were not stressed on being late, but you were starting to run out of time due to your indecisiveness. 

You settled on a monochrome look, nothing fancy, yet still made you look well put together. Turning your head, you looked out of your apartment’s window seeing rain beginning to fall. You groaned, you had nothing against the rain, you actually loved it, but you just hoped that Peter would not cancel on you. You obviously had no way of contacting him and prayed that the rain would not stop him. Grabbing an umbrella, you made your way to the Met.

***

Peter was about fifteen minutes early. He was not complaining as it allowed the rain to dry off his hair and clothes. Peter was lucky enough to miss most of the rain as he rode the bus from campus but he had to run a block in the rain. His bag sat over his shoulder, carrying his suit, over a black sweater. Peter had thrown a sweater over his flannel, dressing up a little for you. Although, he would never admit that.

“Didn’t think to bring an umbrella,” Peter heard your question, drawing him out of his thoughts of you. The pointed toes of your black boots was the first thing to catch his eyes before you closed your umbrella, allowing his gaze to take you in.

Your y/h/c hair was pulled back into a low bun. A black cardigan sat over an equally dark turtleneck that was tucked into a pair of straight legged black pants, “Where’s the funeral,” Peter questioned, a silver necklace sat around your neck. Not thinking twice, Peter reached out, taking the small necklace between his fingers, studying what sat on the chain.

“It’s my own,” You muttered, feeling your heart skip a beat at the close contact. Mentally you had slapped Peter’s hand away, but in this twisted reality you only found yourself staring up at him.

“You really don’t want to be here, huh,” Peter laughed, reaching for his wallet as you started towards the door, physically attempting to outrun your thoughts about him.

“I do,” You spoke, holding the door for him, “just not with you,” You admitted, your gaze finding his warm brown eyes.

“Ouch,” Peter mocked, placing a hand over his chest, “You make it too easy, Y/N,” He smiled slyly behind you, even though you could not see it, you knew it was there.

You both pulled out your student IDs, showing the woman behind the desk, “Two tickets,” She questioned, assuming that the two of you would be paying together which made you stiffen. Seeing this, Peter laughed to himself.

“Yes, please,” Peter spoke, taking out his card. Turning your head, you shot him an angered glance. You did not want to make a scene in front of this poor woman and Peter was about to take full advantage of that, “You can pay me back later, sweetheart,” Peter spoke, watching you freeze.

The woman smiled at the two of you, taking Peter’s card from his grasp. With his hand now free, he pushed you to your limit by placing his hand on the small of your back, “Your funeral,” You muttered to him.

“What was that sweetie,” Peter mocked, leaning in to hear your soft voice.

“I’m dressed for your funeral,” You informed him.

***

The Met’s paper map sat angrily in your sweaty grasp. Peter’s actions still ran through you, pure anger coursing through your veins, and as much as you hated to admit, along with desire. Something about his touch was warming and you craved it.

“Slow down,” Peter called out behind you as your pace came to a halt, the sound of your short heels no longer bouncing off the large walls, “You’re going to leave me for dead if I lose you and that map,”

“That’s the plan,” You spoke with a fake smile, “Remember, your funeral,”

“Your funeral,” Peter spoke along side you, “Yeah you’re funny,” He chuckled, his claim teased you but there was truth to his words. Even if that truth sat deep and buried behind his need to endlessly annoy you.

“The piece is in the next room,” You informed, “I was thinking about focusing on the progression of their relationship since Cot seems to reference them in his other pieces,” You voiced your opinion, eyes watching Peter study you as you walked.

“Mhm,” Peter hummed, eyes glued to you as you folded the map carefully. Reaching out, his large hand sat in front of you, “I can put that in my pocket,” He offered. His generous action made you tilt your head, wondering what he was up to.

“Okay,” You questioned, handing him the folded paper. You watched as his finger sat against the colored sheet, his hand painfully close to your own. Why did you want his fingertips to brush your own, like in those cheesy movies and novels? What was wrong with you?

Peter smiled as he studied you, only guessing that his actions had spiraled a stream of thoughts that were now occupying your mind. Stepping into the next room, he left you behind, eyes scanning the walls for Cot’s piece. Finding it, he made his way towards it. The piece was much more breathtaking than he thought it would be, the colors dark yet, somehow romantic. It reminded him of you for some reason, “I read about how the chemistry between the subjects in his earlier piece lead to the success of this one,” Peter spoke as he heard you approach him from behind, “and I thought that was pretty stupid,” He heard you let out an annoyed laugh, “but I weirdly get it now,”

“They’ve very symbiotic,” You spoke, “One looks as if they couldn’t exist without the other,” You laughed again, “it’s extremely romantic and comforting and annoying,” You rambled. Noticing Peter smirking at you out of the corner of your eye you began to read the description that sat in front of you on the wall, “Caught in the midst of a sudden autumn storm, a young couple rushes to find shelter, temporarily shielding themselves from the imminent onrush with a deep mustard-toned fabric with a dramatic reflective sheen quite possibly deriving from the light of the moon. The leaves on the plants by their feet are browning, which confirms the season for their flight. The makeshift fabric umbrella-” Your voice was cut off by a loud clap of thunder, catching you off guard, making you jump.

The gallery lights flickered as Peter stood completely still. He searched his surroundings, trying to identify if the noise was from the storm or a threat, “Attention Met guests, due to a severe storm approaching the museum will be closing in five minutes. We apologize for the inconvenience and ask you to make your way towards our front doors. Please make sure to collect your belongings and find a safe way home,”

“Great,” You laugh, “Well I guess we can do the rest of our research online because I’m not rescheduling,” Your brow furrowed at the thought of having to spend another day out with Peter and his cocky attitude.

“Fine,” Peter spoke as the two of you made your way to the front doors, “You can rent us a study room in the library,”

“I don’t think so,” You answer quickly, making Peter smile, “the best I can offer is sending you a link for Google Slides, maybe even Docs,”

“You’re so generous,” Peter spoke, “How did I get so lucky,” Thunder rolled through, shaking the floor. He could not tell if you shot back a sarcastic remark, the storm getting closer and closer, “We’re going to have to find some place to stay until this passes,”

“No, you’re going to,” You laughed, “I’m going to my apartment, it’s only a few blocks,” You pressed your lips into a tight line, mentally eating your words knowing what Peter was about to say.

“You’re really going to leave me on the streets,” Peter questioned with a fake pout, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. Both of you studied the heavy rain through the glass doors.

“Like an abandoned puppy,” You admit, opening the heavy door, “Bye,” You spoke, opening your umbrella. Walking quickly, you attempted to put some distance between you and Peter. You did not really want to leave him behind, but you knew you would regret it more if you were stuck in your tiny apartment with him.

The wind kicked up, sweeping under your umbrella as you struggled to keep hold of the handle. Suddenly you felt Peter’s hands wrap around your whitening knuckles, helping you stabilize your rouge shelter, “You owe me,” Peter spoke, his arm wrapped around you as you both held onto the umbrella, “I paid for your ticket, the least you could do not leave me out in a serve storm,”

“The student discount was like $12,” You spoke, “I’d rather just give you the money,” Your claim was lost in a roll of thunder as the two of you began to pick up your pace, the wind and rain growing more extreme. With a sly smile, Peter began to run with you captured in his hold, “Peter-“

“I’m doing research,” He spoke, “Just like the painting,” Peter joked as the two of you ran from a storm in his grasp, “very symbiotic,” He mocked, “romantic, comforting,”

“Annoying,” You interrupted him, making him laugh, “My apartment is that building,” You informed, stumbling in an attempt to not get run over by Peter’s long strides, “a few doors down,”

Stopping at an old brick apartment building, you dug through your purse for your keys as Peter held the umbrella over your head. You felt as the rain began to hit your arms, no longer under the umbrella's shelter. Reaching out behind you, your fingertips fell under the fabric of Peter’s sweater, pulling him closer to you. Meeting his eyes, you slowly processed the forwardness of your advancement.

Peter stared down at you as you fumbled to unlock the old door, “What was that,” He teased.

“My bag was getting wet,” You spat back as you swung open the heavy door, “this is leather,” You told him, showing him your decently expensive bag, “You can give me the umbrella back in class,”

“You’re serious,” Peter laughed, “you’re leaving me for dead,” He attempted to step into the building but your small hands landed on his chest. He watched as a subtle blush crossed your skin at the contact, “I’m coming in,” He told you, feeling as you attempted to push him out, but you were not strong enough.

Grabbing the umbrella from his hands, you closed it, shaking the water off before closing the door, “Fifth floor, asshole,”

“Ouch, sweetheart,” Peter responded with a smile.

***

Your laptop sat on your crossed legs. You sat on your bed as Peter was, for some reason, in your shower. Both of your clothes were soaked even with the umbrella, however you denied Peter’s chaotic and forward offer to shower with him, changing into a pair of leggings and a plain white shirt. You tossed your damp hair up into a messy bun as you reached the piece that you barely had time to study at the Met.

Lost in research, you did not hear the water stop running, you only saw Peter standing before you in his underwear, a towel in his hands as he dried his hair. Your eyes fell back to your screen out of embarrassment and shock. Peter was fit, under his terrible personality was a toned body that was built like every sculpture you studied for your class, “Are you staring,” You heard Peter question from under the large towel.

“Just making sure you didn’t get struck by lighting in my shower,” You stutter a bit, “I’m disappointed that you didn’t, honestly,”

“Cute,” Peter added, “You believe in that urban legend,” He tossed the damp towel on your floor, making you shoot him an annoyed glance. Closing your laptop you hopped off of your bed, picking up the towel. Walking into the bathroom, you hung up the damp towel before studying Peter’s clothes that sat in a pile on your floor. For a second you could have sworn the sight made you smile.

You exit the room before you let yourself feel anything towards Peter only to see him reclined on your quilted comforter, “No,” You threaten, walking to the side of the bed. Your finger pointed to the floor as if you were scolding a new puppy, “off,”

“I’m not your dog,” Peter groaned, stretching his limbs before turning on his side, facing you.

“Well, you’re acting like one,” You stuttered, “Leaving your shit on the floor for me to pick up,”

“Sounds like you’re the pet, not me,” A sly smile crossed Peter’s face as your gaze dropped from embarrassment. A laugh passed through his smiling lips as he rolled onto his back, studying the ceiling of your small apartment.

Peter’s laugh crawled its way under your skin as you made your way onto the bed, “I hate you,” You spoke, grabbing onto Peter’s arm, attempting to move him off the bed, “do you know that,”

“You keep saying that,” Peter spoke as he propped himself up on his elbow. His face grew closer to yours as you studied his face, blinded by anger, “but I don’t think you mean it,”

“Oh I mean it,” You laughed, “You’re cocky, you’re a smartass,” You kneeled before Peter on the mattress, his eyes traced every curve of your body, unknowing to you as you rambled before him, “You try so hard to be better than me and god you get under my skin- I feel like I’m losing my mind,”

“Why wouldn’t I,” Peter questioned, “it’s too much fun to see you all worked up,” He beamed as if he was proud of himself even in this very moment.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that,” You grabbed hold of his wrist, still attempting to get him away from you, however you were just pulling him closer, “I hate you,”

“Yeah,” Peter questioned, “You’re getting all worked up over what,” He studied you as you felt your blood begin to boil. Suddenly, Peter could no longer look at you, Manhattan lost power, the lights shutting off enveloping the two of you in pitch darkness.

The two of you were silent, nothing but your rushing heartbeat and staggered breaths keeping you company. However, your breaths were cut short as you felt Peter press his lips against yours without warning. You froze, not relaying his actions but silently shouting in your own head. You felt as Peter laughed, the vibration tickling your skin.

“Maybe you do hate me,” He spoke, pulling away without any response from you.

“I do,” You stuttered, “I hate you,” You paused, part of you missing the warmth of his lips, “but… I didn’t hate that. But I do, you,” You stumbled over your words, “I don’t like you,”

“Yeah,” Peter questioned, “why don’t you tell me about it,” He hummed, his lips blindly searching your skin, trying to navigate you in the darkness, “Y/N,” He questioned, hearing your breath catch in your throat, “I’m waiting,”

“I-I told you,” Your voice came out in waves as Peter peppered your neck in wet kisses, “You irritate me and the thought of spending the night with you makes me want to pull my hair out,” You felt Peter smile against your skin. He knelt before you now, as his hand found its way into your hair, your sloppy bun falling easily. His slender fingers wrapped around your locks before pulling on them.

“Just like that,” He questioned, his heightened senses allowing him to hear a small whimper that passes through your parted lips. Peter’s hold on your hair allowed full access to your neck, his lips falling back against your skin, “What else? Tell me, sweetheart,”

“I,” You stuttered, Peter’s kisses melting away any thought of him that ever occupied your mind, “Y-you- you,”

“Come on,” Peter coaxed as his free hand found its way to your hip, his fingertips digging into your plush skin, “Tell me, my smart girl,”

You hummed at his praise, “I- I hate that when I look at you I forget how much you piss me off,” You admit, “you’re just- I like looking at you,”

“Yeah,” Peter laughed, inching closer to you, “Good job,” His legs straddled on either side of your knees, “such a smart girl, my smart girl,”

Reaching out, your mind was drunk on Peter’s words as your body begged to touch him. Your hands found his neck in the dark room as your fingers fell to the back of his head, running though his short brunette locks, “And- and I hate how I stare at the back of your stupid head in class,”

“Maybe that’s why I beat you to every answer,” Peter spoke, “You’re too distracted,”

“It’s your fault,” You answer, “Your hair looks so soft, feels soft,” You were lost in him, unable to feel any anger, “I wanted to run my fingers through it,” Your words were muffled as Peter’s lips found your own and this time you kissed him back, deepening the kiss.

“You don’t want to know what I wanted to do to you,” Peter confessed without an ounce of embarrassment, “what I want to do to you,”

“Go ahead,” You stutter, “before I change my mind,” You tempt your partner and he gives in. In a swift motion, you feel your back hit the mattress. You felt your air leave your lungs at the force of hitting your firm mattress. Peter had left your bed for a moment, picking up his old, beat up backpack. Digging through its small pocket he took out a condom. Picking your head up, you almost laughed. Were you that easy and predictable? Your small chuckle attracted Peter’s gaze, “You do this with all of your partners,” You ask boldly, not sugar coating your question.

“Just the ones that hate my guts,” Peter joked, setting the condom under the pillow your head rested on.

“So all the girls,” You spoke, “got it, I’ll go get tested in the morning,”

“Ouch,” Peter laughed, “You think I’m that bad,” He asked even though he knew the answer, “Surprising to you, sweetheart, you’re the only girl I met that can’t stand me,” He informed as he climbed back onto the bed, straddling your legs, “all the other girls love me,”

“How charming, not at all full of yourself,” You almost snorted. Peter’s skin was illuminated by the window that sat by your head. His abs cast in light and harsh shadow, looking like chiaroscuro in a painting. You picked up a hand from where it sat against your quilt, placing your fingertips lightly on his toned core, “If I look at you for much longer I’m going to forget that I don’t like you,”

“Then I’ll have to do a good job,” Peter spoke, his lips returning to your jawline, “make it so you have a hard time keeping your pretty little eyes open,” His sensual claim fell short as his voice became softer, “I wouldn’t want you to fall in love with me,”

You attempted to pick your head up as Peter’s face was buried in your neck, a small blush sat on his freckled nose that was undetected in the darkness. You were silent, shock from his words buzzing through your veins, “Yeah,” You managed to speak, “wouldn’t want that,”

“You’d hate that,” Peter added with a kiss to your cheek, “Wouldn’t you,” He asked, eyes studying your backlit face for an answer. Little did Peter realize that you could see every inch of desperation on his boyish face. You wondered if Peter really had it out for you in the way you thought, “Would it kill you to like me? You love when I kiss you but the idea of it being me pisses you off, doesn’t it,”

“Maybe if you stopped being such an asshole I would find an ounce of compassion for you and the puppy dog look you’re throwing me,” You share, allowing Peter to know you can tell the way he is looking at you, “You’re the one going out of your way to make me hate you,” With rough hands, Peter placed his hands on the collar of your thin white shirt. With a tug, your shoulders raised off of the mattress, a pinch of fear in your heart. However, you fell back to safety as Peter ripped you out of the fabric, “What the fuck,”

Peter stared down at you, a black bralette sitting prettily against your skin. He wanted to see more of you, to explore every inch you and of what made you tic. Pushing up the fabric, he exposed your chest to the cool air, watching your nipples harden. Turning your head, you could not bring yourself to watch as you fell under Peter’s hungry gaze, “So pretty,” Peter whispered, bringing his right hand to massage your breast. A whimper fell from your lips as you looked at him out of the corner of your eyes.

Bringing your fingertips to the hem of his boxers, you slipped under the elastic band, giving the fabric a tug. You silently begged him to take them off, to waste no more time. The quicker it was over the less time you had to fall for him, “Hurry up,”

“You look so pretty when you fall,” Peter read your mind, a blush sitting against your skin, “You want me so bad and you hate yourself for it,” He mocked, “don’t you,” Peter watched as you squirmed underneath him out of the lust his words brought, “You like being degraded or something? Hate that I’m an asshole to you because you like it,”

“Shut up,” You mumbled underneath him, burying your face into your shoulder as you met his eyes for a moment.

“Speak up, sweetie,” Peter spoke, “or I won’t give you what you want,” He brought his face close to your but instead ghosted your skin, bringing his lips to your ear, “Tell me what you want me to do to you,”

“Shut up and fuck me,” You stutter, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. You were not sure if the tears were from anger or embarrassment.

“Could’ve asked nicely,” Peter spoke, his hands falling to the fabric of your leggings. As much as he wanted to tear you out of them, he felt as if you would hate him more if he took his time. Pulling down the fabric, he made sure his movements were painfully slow as his eyes took in your previously hidden skin inch by inch. You groaned knowing that Peter’s actions were deliberate, as he was trying so hard to get under your skin, “What,” Peter questioned, playing dumb.

“Just fuck me,” You whined completely falling apart. Suddenly you were desperate for him. An hour ago you wanted Peter nowhere near you and now you were begging for his touch. You now realized you did not hate him as much as you thought.

“Fine,” Peter spoke, “was gonna eat you out, until you begged me to cum,” He informed, “but if you want me that bad,” Swiftly, he pulled down your leggings, along with your underwear. He heard you whine a quiet protest, attracting his gaze, “What? Now you don’t want me to fuck you,” He questioned, “want me to make you cum first? Make up your mind, sweetheart. Tell me what you want,” Peter’s sweet yet sensual words flooded above you, “Wanna make my girl feel good,”

My girl? Those two words made your chest tighten, however it was not out of anger, not anymore. Your heart ached, finding yourself wanting Peter’s words to mean something more than a one night stand, “P-Please,” You stutter, stumbling over your own thoughts, “Yes. Yes please,”

“So polite,” Peter chuckled, as he bowed his head. His shoulders rounded as he made his way between your legs, “Gotta let go, baby,” He informed as he felt your grasp fight to hold his boxers. You did as he said, returning your hand to sit above your head on your plush pillow. Peter’s hands fell against your soft thighs, fingertips massaging them as he brought your legs over his shoulders. You felt Peter’s hot breath on your skin as he studied you, “You like how I talk to you? Does it make you wet,” Peter laughed at the sight in front of him, “Pretty wet for someone who hates the idea of me. Were you like this at the Met,” He questioned.

“No,” You stuttered, feeling your face heat up out of embarrassment. You heard Peter hum, not believing you. You sucked in air between your pressed lips as you nervously waited for Peter to make his move. You felt your entire body stiffen as you waited.

“Relax,” Peter spoke, his hands leaving your thighs to travel up your body. His tongue was rough, his fingertips digging into your flesh, however it was somehow comforting. Feeling you relax in his hold, he planted a wet kiss straight to your core before trailing his tongue through your wet folds. His skilled tongue made its way to your clit as his gaze raised, studying you from under his eyelashes. You whimpered at the thought of being perceived by Peter in the state he was putting you in. And you were a stuttering and moaning mess.

“Fuck,” You whine, the single word struggling to pass through your already parted lips, “so good,”

“Do you hate this,” Peter asked, “do you hate me now, Y/N,” His question rang in your ears as you found yourself shaking your head, letting him know you no longer hated him. At least not at this moment, “Do you like me,” He paused his actions to allow his words to vibrate against your clit. You whimpered at the lack of contact, “maybe even a little bit,”

“May-maybe,” You spoke, “just a little,” you whine, “please,” Picking up your hand, your fingers ghost Peter’s soft brown locks before his hand finds your wrist. You verbally groan, wishing to touch him, however you give into him as soon as you meet his eyes.

Peter laughed, watching you crumble because of him, in his hold, “We’ll see how much you like me after I make you cum,” His left hand found your breast, kneading your soft skin before taking your nipple between his fingers. A moan passed through your lips as he smiled against the skin of your inner thigh. Rising up from between your legs, he brought his free hand to your lips, “Open,” He spoke, his index and middle finger sitting against your plush lips, “I’m sure you’re wet enough,” Peter grinned, “just wanna see you suck on something,” Your brow furrowed at his words, however, you parted your lips and allowed his fingers to sit against your tongue, “Keep that pretty little mouth occupied,” Peter smiled, “Can’t tell me you hate me with something in your mouth? Can you,” His question made you hum around his skin, “I’ll have to remember that,”

Peter removed his fingers from your mouth, snaking the wet digits down your body until he ran them through your folds, teasing your entrance. Slowly, Peter inserted his fingers into you making a whimper bubble from your lips. Peter’s fingers were slender and skilled, making you wonder how many girls have cum on his good-looking hands.

“Tell me what you love about me,” Peter groaned, listening to your moans, “What about me got you so wet,”

“Hands,” You stuttered quietly. Your low voice made Peter question you, “Your hands,” You admit, “You’re hands are so pretty, your fingers- so good,” You moan as Peter brings his smiling lips to your clit, beginning to stimulate you as he continued to finger you, “and your hair,” You spoke, picking up your hand, bringing it down between your legs, “wanted to touch your hair for so long,” You admitted, tangling your digits in his soft locks, “think about it every time I sit behind you,”

“That why, sweetheart,” Peter questioned as you tugged on his brunette hair, “You have me now,” He cooed, his words snaked past his occupied lips, yet comforted you, “What do you want me to do to you now that you have me,” Peter questioned, “I’m all yours. You can’t get rid of me,”

“I-I don’t think I want to,” You moaned, giving him the answer he was begging for, “Want you to fuck me,”

Peter groaned, partially thankful to cut the foreplay short. Peter would have eaten you out until you had enough, but he was desperate. His body burned for you and he knew as soon as he was inside you he would melt, “Don’t have to ask me again,” He almost moaned. Escaping your legs, your hand stayed in his locks as he moved up your body. His hand searched blindly for the condom he had tucked underneath your pillow as his lips found yours, “Want you so bad, Y/N,”

“I think you want me more than I want you right now,” You teased.

“Thought you hated me,” Peter questioned, ripping open the foil packet, “Change of heart,” He asked as he pulled his boxers down his fit thighs. The sight almost made you physically swoon like they do in the movies. You wondered if your jaw dropped or not as you studied Peter. His hands placed the condom at his tip before rolling it down his long length.

“You’re making a compelling case,” You almost smiled, however it faded as soon as Peter lined himself up with your entrance. You bit your lip subtly, bracing yourself for getting fucked by the person you hated the most.

You were tense, so neither of you were surprised at the slight force Peter needed to begin to enter you. Placing his forehead on yours, Peter stared into your eyes. He wanted to comfort you, to give into you completely, but he knew better, “Relax,” He reminded, his eyes flashing a dominant glance. His glance sent a wave of lust through you, making you constrict around the inch of his dick that he had entered, making him moan quietly, “fuck, gotta let me in baby,”

You wanted to let him in, to give into him. What was holding you back? Was it your pride? Or was it that you already had fallen completely for him? You wondered if you never hated Peter at all and if you were just afraid to fall so hard for someone who could easily allow you to crash to the ground.

Peter’s soft kisses brought you out of your head and back to reality. You decided that you had made up your mind, “Good girl,” Peter moaned  as he bottomed out in one fast thrust.

“Fuck, I love you,” You moaned in response, eyes rolling back to the back of your head. You did not dare to meet Peter’s eyes as he paused for a moment, mind registering your starling words. However, his thrusts began just as quickly.

“What was that, baby,” Peter questioned but you were silent, “You embarrassed,” He questioned, “or am I fucking you so good you can’t talk,”

“B-both,” You stuttered, eyes struggling to stay open. You stared at Peter through your lashes, your eyes struggling to focus on his smug grin.

“You love me, sweetheart,” Peter questioned, “Just a little bit,” He asked you, watching you nod in agreement, “Mm, good, good girl,” His hold on your hips grew stronger, making you moan at his super strength, “I’m glad,” Peter’s head grew fuzz as he threw it back, completely lost in you, “love you, love fucking you, sweetie,”

“Peter, I- I’m going to,” You stuttered, “cum, fuck,” His strength allowed him to fuck you faster and longer than a normal college guy. Peter easily forgot about his strength as he tossed you around, fucking you like a toy, “fuck,”

“Already,” Peter questioned, “Baby, I can go all night,” He degraded, “Gotta take me for longer than that,”

“You can shut me up instead,” You offered, watching Peter laugh above you.

“I’m saving that for another day,” Peter enlightened you, “For the next time you feel like telling me you hate me,”

You almost pouted, body beginning to feel sore from Peter’s grasp, “Fine,” You accepted your fate and the fact that you would not be making it to your early morning lecture, “You owe me,” You added, “there’s no way I’m going- fuck- to be able to walk,” You moaned as Peter rolled his hips into you slowly, “tomorrow,”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Peter spoke, “Can’t run away from me if I fuck you this good,” His words were smooth, you wondered how they came out of his mouth. If that was you, you would become a stuttering mess, but Peter could degrade you until you cried, “Fuck you this good every night,”

“If you keep talking I’m going to cum,” You moan, watching Peter’s smug grin grow closer to your own lips.

“You gonna cum on my dick, sweetheart,” Peter questioned, watching you nod. Your eyes were screwed shut, unable to bring yourself to look at him, “Look at me when I make you cum,” He instructed, his right hand taking hold of your jaw. Peter’s tight grip forced your eyes open, “Wanna feel you lose yourself,” He told you, “Feel you give into me,”

“Fuck,” You attempt to moan with Peter’s hold on your jaw, “Gon’ cum,” Your words were obscured, “Peter,”

“What love,” Peter questioned, “You’re going to cum,” He asked once more, watching another forced nod shake your head, your hair bouncing, “God I love you,” He spoke, feeling himself come undone, unknown to him. Peter let out a shaken moan as the two of you came together.

Peter’s grasp fell from your face, pushing stray hairs back onto your pillow. He studied your fucked-out expression as he watched your chest rise and fall from your heavy breaths, “fuck,” He whispered, collapsing next to you on the mattress, your body bounced slightly from his fall, “So do you still hate me,”

“Shut up,” You groaned, however small laughs bubbled past your lips. You raised your arm, covering your eyes from him, “no,” Suddenly, you planned on picking the last available day to give your presentation.

YOU!

doc ock is such a funny character like he's just some normal dude who gets punched in the head by a guy with superhuman strength on the regular. take that senior citizen to the hospital.

Spider-Man/Deadpool #37

my spidersona is spider-gran, a spider who got bitten by a radioactive grandma and now can do anything a grandma can

Bruce: Isn’t it weird that we pay money to see other people?

Clint: Plane tickets?

Peter: Concert tickets?

Tony: Prostitution?

Bruce, holding his broken frames: Glasses

More smooches

Spider-Man - Amazing Spider-Man Die-Cast Metal Limited Collector’s Edition (Mego)