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asratery · 1 year ago

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Miguel O’Hara x Spider-Man!Male Reader Pt. 2

Continuation of my previous post due to request :)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

cw: implied oral sex (r receiving), love bites, sex omg just sex, top reader, bottom miguel, miguel gets fucked, reverse cowgirl and leapfrog positions, breeding kink, pet names, semi-public sex, use of y/n, crying, established relationship (at the end tho)

Didn’t expect people to actually like the first part 🥹 this is for y’all

@sad-author-san @dragonspaint09

(word count: 2.6K+)

“Go lock the door.” Your voice was full of lust, a wave of arousal sweeping over you at Miguel’s whimper. You had no idea your superior could make such pretty noises. How were you just now taking notice of the pretty creature in your hospital room? Were you blind? You’d never really noticed just how alluring your boss was, face and figure, up until now. And the man touched himself to you groaning? Was this even the first time? Oh, you were gonna be up for a couple hours now.

He was extra careful during foreplay, despite your encouragement to do what he pleased, gently unraveling the wrap shirt the hospital gave you, uncovering your mouthwatering physique. Sat in your lap, his fangs gently nipped your pecs, indulging in one of his many desires that you so generously allowed as you stroked the tops of his firm thighs with your bandaged hands, groaning at the sight of his love bites. He scooted back before leaning down further, his tongue laving over the ridges of your abs, his fangs somehow even gentler as he nipped what skin he could without further irritating your still recovering ribs.

You slid a hand down Miguel's spine, hooking a finger over the waistband of his pants as he looked up at you, a shy expression on his face as a string of saliva connected between his pointed tongue and your abdomen. What a fucking tease. "I don't have any lube." Miguel whispered, a sultry look in his eyes. He was testing your patience. Testing you. He knew you could move only but so much with your injuries. You gripped the back of his hair, pressing his head closer to the large tent in your sweatpants. "You will." You said in a low tone, staring him down with a predatory gaze.

Miguel felt dizzy as he bounced in your lap, the room filled with sounds of your skin making contact followed by his whimpers and whines. His rapid inhales were quivery and heavy as he tried to hold back his cries of pleasure, fat tears dripping down his cheeks. It was far past visiting hours, and the last thing Miguel wanted was a nurse coming in and seeing the owner of the damn building riding one of their patients like his life depended on it.

He was leaned forward, his upper half propped up by his clawed hands, tearing into the hospital sheets between your brawny thighs. He rode every inch of your length, rising till the bulbous tip of your cock was left before slamming his hips back down. His hole was gobbling up every last bit of you, sinking down on every vein decorating your girth with ease, mouth ajar, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth as hoarse cries were held back.

Y/n was groaning in Miguel’s ear, a mix of pain from the movement on your recovering body and pleasure as his hole fluttered around you. Miguel grew worried at the sound of your occasional pained grunts, slowing his pace and turning his head to try and look back at you. “Are you alright?” He asked with a wary expression. You didn’t respond, opting to wrap one of your calloused hands around his hip, slamming him back down on your cock while the other muffled the shaky sob that erupted from him. “Don’t fucking stop.” You growled into Miguel’s ear, causing him to nod frantically, warm tears transferring from his flushed cheeks to your hand as he resumed his desperate pace.

Miguel’s bottom lip trembled as he moved, your cock reaching deep inside him in ways he didn’t know was possible. Every thrust rocked against his delicate prostate as his own cock hung heavy over the sheets, dripping pre onto the bedding. “M’ close, y/n, so close.” Miguel was practically sobbing as he spoke in a hoarse voice. His arms were struggling to hold himself up, his vision flickering every time the underside of your cock ground against his bundle of nerves.

“Keep going for me, mami, c’mon.” Your voice was raspy in his ear and the name slipped off your tongue so easily as your hands rubbed up his sides. Miguel let out a low sob at the label, his pace was frantic as he bounced in your lap. He had never been more thankful for his strict training regime, giving him the strength to keep moving on your cock even with the burning sensation in his thighs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Miguel whined hoarsely, his eyes rolling back with each drop of his hips. Your mind was battling between different desires, a part of you wanting to reach around Miguel and stroke him to finish, but another wanted to watch him unravel on your cock alone. Fuck it. You reached one of your hands forward, teasing his tip with your thumb while your other hand held his hip lightly. Miguel came undone quickly, his cum coating your fingers as he sobbed out your name, tears streaming down his pretty cheeks.

Miguel’s arms were trembling too much to hold himself up, slowly bending them and lowering his upper half down to the bed as his tears soaked into the sheets below. Your hard cock was still nestled inside him as his last few drops of release dripped onto the fabric, his hips stationary as they trembled above yours.

You weren’t done. Not yet. You gritted your teeth as you prepared to reposition, sliding the IV out of your arm before gripping Miguel’s hips as you lifted him a few inches off your cock, prompting him to whine softly. “I know, mami, I know.” You said soothingly as you bent your leg, readjusting yourself to kneel behind Miguel while propping his lower half up on his knees to properly meet his hips with yours.

The position was a bit painful on your still recovering ribs as you leaned over him, but that didn’t matter in this moment. You reached a hand back, grabbing one of your pillows. You wrapped your other arm under him, your forearm pressing into his chest as you gripped his neck, lifting him like a toy before stuffing the pillow under him and dropping him back down onto it, giving him something to muffle his sweet noises with. He was going to need it, cause you weren’t in the mood for mercy.

Miguel was bawling into the pillow as you moved, pounding into him at a brutal pace. Your eyes were raking over what you could see of his body as you leaned over him, one hand pressed into the bedding next to his head and the other gripping his hip tightly. His back arched so prettily to meet your thrusts, the muscle of his ass smushed against your pelvis every time you bottomed out and—Oh my god. Was this love? He took you so goddamn well. So perfect. You could tell this was his first time getting fucked by an actual cock. He must’ve relied on toys up until now. Did he think of you when he used those too? You wanted to ask him, but you could tell from his body’s reaction to your size that none of his little imitations could compare to you. His breathing was erratic and some of his inhales were choked off by a mix of sobs and moans.

“You’re doing so good, cariño, taking me so well.” Your voice was husky as you felt yourself steadily approaching your climax, your ears filled with the sound of Miguel’s cries in response to your words. “Can’t wait to fuck that pretty mouth of yours when I’m out of here.” Miguel nodded weakly at your words, his arms wrapped around the pillow as his head swayed in sync with each of your thrusts. You couldn’t believe the situation you were in. You would’ve been deep in denial if someone told you you’d be balls deep in your boss only eight months after being brought on the team. "Can't believe you were hiding this pretty thing from me for so long." You muttered, your words accompanied by a harsh spank against Miguel's right cheek, grinning when you heard him yelp and felt a flutter around your cock in response.

Fuck it. Miguel didn’t care anymore. If someone caught you two in the act, then so be it. He was doing a bit of everything now. Sobbing, moaning, sniveling, mewling, whimpering. He thought you’d cum not too long after him, but the rising feeling in his gut of another climax approaching him as well as your relentless pace said otherwise.

Miguel had a terrifying thought in the back of his mind that this all was just a lust on your end, only doing this for mutual pleasure, nothing more. Those fears were quickly erased however when he felt you slow your pace to a grind, the length of your member rocking against his prostate as you leaned down, pressing tender kisses against the muscles in his back. Your hand on his hip massaged circles into his soft flesh as you whispered sweet words into his ear, your cock grinding deep inside him as his eyes rolled back.

You had a strong urge to taunt him, make your little leader beg for your cock. You didn’t pick up the pace, opting to murmur against his nape, suggesting that maybe you two should leave it at this tonight, claiming that you didn’t want to overwhelm him with another orgasm. In the midst of giving your (fake) reasoning, Miguel had already reached one of his clawed hands out, gripping the wrist of your hand that rested next to his head, nearly drawing blood. He blabbered out a bunch of pleads, clearly distraught by your recommendation. “I can take it, I can take it,” his whines were cut off by a snivel, thick tears flowing down his face in desperation, “I need you, y/n, you can’t stop now. I need you to cum insi—”

You pulled back, sliding your cock out just enough for the tip to catch on his hole before slamming back inside him, resuming your merciless pace. “Fuck, you want me to fill you up, baby?” You grunted out between your thrusts. “Make me a daddy?” Miguel was delirious, couldn’t even respond as his eyes rolled back, drool leaking past his puffy lips and onto the pillow below him. You tucked your head against the curve of his nape, muttering dirty things in his ear as you pounded into him.

God, normally you didn’t like talking, but tonight you were feeling chatty. “Answer me, mami. Or do you want me to stop?” Miguel’s voice was hoarse and whiny, slurring his words as he got more and more drunk on your cock. “I wan’ it, I wan’ it.” He couldn’t hold his head up even a few inches anymore, slumping into his tear-stained pillow as he got closer and closer to his second orgasm. “You can have it, baby, it’s all yours.” You groaned into his ear, your own climax approaching. “Take everything, my first born, my last name, take it all, mami.”

Your pace stuttered as you climaxed, filling Miguel up with your seed as you bit his nape harshly. The sensations drove Miguel over the edge, staining the sheets below him for the second time tonight as he sobbed your name into the pillow. It was too much for him, falling into darkness only moments later, the sound of you clicking a few buttons on his wrist watch being his last memory before succumbing to his exhaustion.

Miguel woke up the next morning in your burly arms, his head tucked against your neck as the two of you laid on your sides, facing one another. He was sweating a bit, your body emitting heat like a furnace as he tried to recall the concluding events of the previous night. He was in a foreign room now, dressed in some of your clothing, sunlight illuminating the little signs of life around the large bedroom. Your room. Clearly well furnished as he took notice of the mini living room in one of the walls of the room.

Miguel knew you were wealthy, known for your business relations all over your Earth. He was always a bit perplexed at how little time you spent in your own dimension, always either scouring other Earths for anomalies or spending time in HQ, debriefing Miguel on your expeditions while awaiting your next assignment. Like a machine. This always irked him, nearly made him wonder if his attraction to you was just objectification. But now that he had a clear view of your rarely unmasked face, he could see that he was wrong. That the Spider-Man of this Earth was very much human.

You let out a low groan as you slowly awoke, your arms tightening around Miguel before lowering the arm that wasn't smushed under his side to rest on his waist. "The nurses are gonna be angry when they see I'm not in my room." You murmured in a husky voice, your eyes still closed. "I'll make an excuse for you, they won't argue with me." Miguel whispered back, a giddy smile spread across his face as his heart fluttered at the sound of your voice.

You could practically hear the smile in Miguel's voice, slowly opening your eyes to meet his. Miguel was a bit surprised at the satisfied look in your eyes, a bashful expression spreading on his face as his eyes darted away from yours. You squeezed an arm around his back, pulling him flush against you as your other hand squeezed the sore mound of his rear. "Don't be a prude, boss." You said in an undertone before pressing a tender kiss against his lips. Miguel accepted the kiss for a moment before quickly pulling his face back an inch from yours, a look of displeasure on his face. "C'mon, y/n, don't call me that right now." He mumbled, his eyebrows furrowed.

A small grin danced across your face as you turned, leaning your body over his as he shifted to lay flat under you, your arms bent and bordering around his head. "What would you prefer, Miguel?" You said in a low tone before you began pressing even softer kisses on his lips, his hands lifting to rest on your chest. "Mi vida?" A kiss. "Cariño?" Another one. "Or," you lowered your head enough so that your lips brushed against his when you spoke, "mami? You seemed to like that one last night." Miguel's lips pressed into a thin line at your last few words, a flush spreading across his cheeks at the memory. How fucking adorable.

"Y/n," Miguel murmured, a determination in his eyes, "what are we?" You stared down at him, thinking for a moment. "Y'know, I always knew when you were visiting me at night. I could feel you massaging lotion into my hands, or dripping antibiotics into my ear, or whispering stories about how you met Jessica. You're not very discreet." Miguel looked up at you, a vulnerable look on his face. "Why?" "I love you." Miguel blurted out a low tone, though his eyes were full of confidence. "I love you too." You replied in a softer tone, your elbows pressed into the firm mattress as your fingers ran through his hair.

Miguel looked like he could cry at the intimacy of the moment, but you beat him to it, one of your own tears dripping right below his eye before leaking down the side of his face. Miguel chuckled, reaching his hands up to hold your face. The two of you spent the morning exchanging kisses and sweet words before you both eventually had to return to HQ, returning to your room to receive a proper scolding from one of the older nurses.

Bro, I cannot put into words how badly I wanted to write miguel giving head. Imma have to save it for a part three where reader is fully recovered 😔 (obvi only if yall want it)

But yea, i hope yall enjoyed this 😆 It's like 3AM rn so I'm going to bed ✌️ feel free to let me know about any typos

#miguel o'hara x male reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #x male reader #astv miguel #male reader #sub miguel o'hara #dom male reader #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x male reader #sub!miguel o’hara

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angel-of-the-moons · 1 year ago

Note

We gotta give Spider-Medic a raise 😔 With all the work he does he deserves it

ahaha spidermedic x Reader when ??? 👀

-💐

Anosnlsnlxnlsnlxnlnelnd 💐💐💐💐 ILYSM

I am vibrating and bouncing off the walls and going feral and losing my mind because Omgggg I'm glad you guys like the relatively faceless Spider-Man enough for this I originally only intended to use him as a filler character so I didn't have to make more 😭😭😭

AND FUCK YEAH *cracks knuckles* I'MMA DO IT

Make Love, Not War

Spider Medic x Spider-Woman!Reader

TW/CW: PTSD, Nightmares, Angst, Pining, Reader does some stupid shit™ just to get alone with him, injury mentions, flashbacks, War PTSD, blood, SMUT, NSFW, oral sex male and fem!Receiving, fingering, unprotected sex (Don't be fools! Wrap your tools!), semi public sex(Does the medical bay at HQ count?) Lyla being a smartass

MINORS DNI: I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Once again, header does not indicate Reader's race, but a story focused on my poor traumatized boi deserves its own header qwq Also this is just a fucking angsty, mindless, horny mess have fun asdfghjkl

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The first thing that hit his nostrils was the smell of churned earth, gunpowder, smoke, and blood.

So, so much blood.

His superiors let him stay enlisted, even after he got bit by that crazy spider, developed his super powers.

If anything, they made him a better medic.

Having your own almost-infinite supply of "bandages", and medical knowledge tends to make you an asset on the battlefield.

He learned how to stitch up wounds and glue them shut with lightning precision, knew how to dodge bullets and mortars, shoot webs and pull soldiers away from grenades or punji board traps... and the pitfalls. Those are always a hit or miss.

In Vietnam there was no such thing as quiet on the battlefield.

The quiet was unnerving. The quiet was bad.

The quiet meant something horrible was about to happen.

One minute he was in the trenches patching up a private who had his shoulder shredded by a sniper round, the next minute his CO who was barking orders at him had half his head blown off.

His brains got everywhere.

On his uniform, on his kit, on the rookie... his blood soaking the ground, watering the disturbed earth like they were a part of a macabre aqueduct.

That's when the gas was deployed.

Not by his allies, but the canisters were tossed into the trenches.

Mustard gas. Of course.

They had mustard gas.

The blisters, the yellowing skin, the coughing, and the burning in the lungs... gas masks were useless.

Shrapnel had hit the kid he was patching up...

All he could do was try and pull the kid he had in his arms to safety, carefully slinging some webs around his midsection to stem the tide of blood threatening to roll from him.

Other soldiers ran by. Young. Not much younger than him, but still...

So young.

Bodies were already lining the trenches as he carried the boy over his shoulder, fleeing into the treeline with what remained of his unit.

He set the bleeding soldier down, feeling blood soak through the silken bandages he'd made for him.

"Fuck." He muttered, digging around in his pack for something, anything to help him.

"Am--am I gonna d-die?" The young man gasped, choking around a mouthful of blood.

"Not if I can help it, keep your eyes open, alright?" He growled, frantically digging in his far too empty bag.

"Please don't let me die. Please don't let me die." The kid begged.

His jaw set tight, he gripped with shaky hands around the tube of glue. A pitiful amount was left.

The boy's eyes got frantic, wide, darting around to the other soldiers who created a semi-circle perimeter around them.

He kept coughing, crying, gasping.

"Please, I wanna go home. I want to see my mom again, I want to see my mom--"

He made the most horrible croaking noise, his chest contracting, before his eyes glazed over and he went silent, crimson dripping out of his mouth like he was a bloody fountain.

"Damn it!" He frantically pressed his fingers over his neck, checking for a pulse.

He pulled him down on the ground, and began chest compressions, his mind going into tunnel vision as all he could think about was getting just one more gasp from the limp body beneath him.

"Parker." The lieutenant sighed, touching his shoulder.

Not again. Not another one. Not somebody's baby.

"Parker." He said, shaking him.

He shook his head, shrugging the arm of his last commanding officer away, fighting to get the kid's heart beating again, his fingers slipping with blood.

The boy couldn't have been more than 19. He should still get the chance to marry the girl he had a picture of in his pocket, the girl who wrote the letter and left a lipstick stain on the bottom of the page telling him how she couldn't wait for him to come home.

He should get to go home, hug his mom. Kiss her cheek, watch her grow old.

He deserved to live.

He deserved to go home, alive. Not in a box, riddled with bullets and shrapnel. Not with a folded up flag, and battered tags.

Not like this.

"Parker!"

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He sat up with a start, breathing heavy and eyes wide as he frantically scanned the room, instinctively reaching for the pistol he no longer carried.

When he saw nobody there, he fell back onto the bed, a heavy sigh leaving his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

Right. He was in HQ.

He was in the med-bay.

He wasn't on the battlefield anymore.

He wasn't elbow deep in viscera anymore.

He wasn't watching somebody's child die in his arms anymore.

He draped an arm over his face briefly, before getting up to trudge into the attached bathroom to pull off his mask and stare at his face for probably the first time in days.

It was hard to look at himself, sometimes.

The one who lived. The one who got lucky, possibly at the cost of some kid fresh into his boots.

Survivor's guilt, some called it.

He pulled his gloves off next, splashing some nice cold water on his face to wake himself up, to pull him back to reality.

Once he dried off, he pulled his mask and gloves back on, walking out to grab his helmet before securing it and buckling it safely back in place.

It had a red spider with a white cross on the abdomen.

He wasn't a medical corps-man anymore.

He wasn't some useless PTSD-ridden veteran that they paraded about to showcase the horrors of war.

He was a medic. A damned good one.

He had friends, his job was cushy, he had a purpose. He didn't have to stew in his own madness anymore.

But it was when it was quiet that it got hard.

27 years old, and he felt like he'd lived decades in those trenches. Like he'd lived there his whole life.

Like he was born there. Like he was going to die there.

But, he didn't.

He was here, he was now. Part of something far bigger than he ever could have imagined.

He almost exclusively lived at HQ at this point, not seeing a reason he was needed in his universe anymore.

Miguel assured him there was no risk of an inter-dimensional anomaly, that his universe wouldn't collapse.

Thankfully, he could stay as long as he wanted and his universe wouldn't collapse.

Maybe he was a special case.

He didn't really care. Going back to post-war America was not something he looked forward to.

Going home to an empty house wasn't something he could stand, being left with his own thoughts was torture enough.

"Hey, Med." Lyla chimed, her tiny holographic image appeared above the watch on his wrist.

"Yeah? What is it, Lyla?" He asked, forcing the exhaustion from his tone, to little avail.

"So uhhh... you know the Spider-Woman from 18906?" She grinned.

"Oh dear God what did that woman do now?" He groaned, facepalming.

Lyla leaned on his head like he was a brick wall. The gesture wasn't really necessary, he couldn't feel her do it, but it was for effect.

She checked her nails and hummed.

"Sprained her ankle. Or somethin'." She smirked slowly, her body glitching until she was in front of him, hands now in the pockets of her large coat.

Her eyes glimmered almost, behind those large heart-shaped glasses.

"Just thought I'd give you a heads-up before she limps on in..."

"Ugh, thanks for the warning." He sighed as he changed the bedding and pillowcase with fresh sterile replacements, tossing the blankets he slept in into the bin.

"Tell 'er to come in here. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Want me to make sure nobody interrupts the lecture you're gonna drill into her brain?" She asked, eyebrows waggling.

"Lyla..."

"I'm goin', I'm goin'! You're acting more and more like Miguel every day!"

Before he could retort, telling the little AI she was wrong, she disappeared and he was left alone.

"Ugh."

He groaned and dug out a first aid kit and checked the supplies in this particular suite

The medical wing of HQ was much like a hospital ward. It had ICU suites, private suites, an emergency room where beds were separated by curtains, x-ray...

Everything a respectable medical professional would need.

Respectable. Yeah, right.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door to the suite slid open, and he turned, crossing his arms at you.

You drove him up the walls with your shenanigans, and how you shrugged your injuries off like they were a drop of sweat. Even the time he had to practically scoop your guts back into you.

You were the bane of his existence in the medical wing, you and Hobie. But moreso you, as you found your way under his hands in some way or another constantly.

"So..." You started bashfully, leaning on the doorframe for support. "Don't get mad..."

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"You mean to tell me you were trying to... to skateboard? While playing a goddamn guitar?" He growled, the eyes of his mask narrowing as he examined your bare, slightly swollen ankle.

His fingers were gentle, turning your foot this way and that, gauging your pain, checking the bruising...

But he had no idea how his touch was affecting you in other ways.

You got made fun of, by some of the other Spiders. Ben Reilly the most. He even outpaced Hobie with how he poked at how down bad you were for this Peter Parker. The one everyone called Spider-Medic. Sure you almost never saw his face, except on a few occasions. Sure, he looked like half the other Peter Parkers; but he had his own "look" that set him apart from the rest, a rugged appearance that made him look unique.

"You probably hurt yourself just to get his attention at this point! Not a good way to spend time with the guy you like, toots." Ben clucked. "You need a better icebreaker."

He wasn't... entirely wrong.

You were accident-prone as hell. You got injured in training, on the job... doing stupid shit with Hobie.

"Well... er. It was for a bet, so--"

He cut you off. "Don't give a damn what it was for. Doing reckless shit like this is childish."

His tone was firm, but not unkind.

He hadn't looked up at you once, and thankfully you were happy you still wore your mask. It hid the blush that crept up your cheeks.

"R.... Right." You mumble, squirming.

"Stop moving, you'll only make this harder." He grunted, reaching into his kit.

You do as he says, letting him wrap your ankle with some gauze and his webs.

His hands were warm, even through his gloves.

"Good girl." He says quietly.

You worked hard to suppress the shudder that went up your spine at that.

"It's barely a sprain. You're lucky. Don't do that kinda shit again." He told you.

"Y-yeah..." You mumble as he stands, crossing his arms and looking down at you.

God, why did you find this man so hot?

He sighed and set the kit down on the bed next to you, sorting the contents neatly again, grabbing excess from the cabinet nearby to restock it.

"So, um..." You try, clearing your throat awkwardly.

"Spit it out, kid. Don't have all day." He says, focusing on his task, meticulously organizing the kit on muscle memory alone.

"I--I am not a kid! You're only like, two or three years older than I am!" You retort.

"Yeah well, I've seen and experienced enough to get you beat by a few decades." He narrowed his eyes at you.

"And doing shit like this? Getting hurt like this? Pretty damn childish if you ask me."

You wilted a bit, twiddling your fingers in your lap silently.

He wasn't wrong... but you weren't the only Spidey that didn't take things seriously all the time.

Like that one who had that Deadpool guy shoved up his ass.

Literally, you sometimes joked. It never ceased to make the guy blush, much to your delight.

Like you were blushing now, red as the parts on his suit...

"I don't mean to... not all the time, I just--"

One of his eyebrows shoots up. "What do you mean all the time? You get hurt on purpose?"

You jolted, realizing how you just let that slip.

"I, uh--I just--what I meant was..." You fumble for the words.

"What the hell are you thinking?!" He snapped, his voice turning as stern as... well, what you assume a drill instructor sounded like.

"Hurting yourself on purpose? What kind of logic goes behind that? What, you trying to get yourself killed?!"

You flinched under the onslaught of words.

"Because kid, if you think that getting yourself hurt will get you out of missions like cutting school, then I don't want to see you in my med bay at all!"

"I--"

"What kind of reckless bullshit is that? If you do this shit intentionally, then you shouldn't be in the Spider Society at all, kid--"

"I do it to come see you, you asshole!" You snap back, unable to take his criticism.

He falls silent, wide-eyed as you continue.

"And stop calling me kid! You think that shit doesn't piss me off? I've tried getting your attention, but the only way you ever look at me is when you're treating me!" You say, everything you've kept bottled up for the past six months reaching its boiling point.

"You never leave the med bay, and when you do--once in a blue fucking moon--is when you go get food from the cafeteria or go talk to Miguel! You never do anything else! Franky, it worries everyone! Not just me! It freaks out fucking Lyla, Med! Lyla!"

You continue to blow it all out. He could swear he could almost see steam coming off of you, like an angry kettle boiling.

"You never talk to anyone other than Miguel or Lyla, except when you're fucking treating someone! I just--I wanted to--You--"

Your shoulders slump and you suddenly deflate.

"You don't... I don't... I can't just--"

He sat silently, staring at you as you reached up, digging the heels of your palms into the lenses of your suit, as if that really did anything to help the tears that wanted to come out.

Fuck, you were one of the emotional ones.

For once, the word "kid" didn't come out of his mouth. Your name did.

And when he said it, he was... gentle. His tone fragile.

"If you've seen what I have... done what I have... you'd understand."

"I may not understand it all, but I want to! I just don't know how to talk to you if I'm not bleeding from somewhere!" You retorted, slapping your hand on the mattress for emphasis.

"You won't even look at me." You say quietly. "Not unless you're patching me up."

He listens to you now, and... shit. Fuck.

He was feeling things.

Feelings. Feelings he hadn't realized he was even feeling until you fessed up.

Feelings he hadn't felt since before he was shipped out.

Before...

Shit, is that why you annoyed him so much? Is that why his skin prickled when he touched you?

This wasn't... he couldn't...

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve... someone like you. Plucky, happy, so full of life.

And here you were, pouring out everything that's been on your mind, everything about him. And it was breaking his heart.

His hands were moving before either of you even realized it.

He helmet and mask were ripped off and tossed to the floor, the metal clanking a bit too loud. Your mask joined his on the tile, eyes as big as saucers as his mouth found yours, desperate and hungry.

God... you wanted to keep yelling at him but having the mouth of the man you've been pining for for months on yours threw all sense out the window; your hands pawed at each other greedily.

His hands slid around your waist, down, gripping your ass and pulling you against him, grinding his hips into yours with a groan.

Fuck, he was already getting hard. It's been so long...

He rolled the bulge in his pants against your throbbing heat, earning a weak moan from you as his mouth moved down, biting at the skin that shielded your leaping pulse, lips placing frantic kisses at the curve of your jaw, beneath your ear as he continued to grind into you, coaxing himself to full mast as fresh pulses of arousal ping around your stomach like a pinball machine.

His hastily tears his gloves off and drops them on the bed, fingers fumbling for the zipper on the back of your suit.

He tugs it down as you arch yourself against him, pressing your chest against his.

He peels it down to your waist like he's done it a hundred times; and groans deeply when he sees you weren't wearing a bra.

"Fucking hell." He growled, reaching out to pinch and roll your nipple with one hand, while groping your ass with another as your mouths crash together again, all teeth and tongue and just sheer desire.

His kisses were almost like punches, ripping the air and moans from your throat.

If his kisses were punches, you really were feeling punch-drunk right about now.

"Peter." You gasp when he bites at your bottom lip.

He stills for a moment, his mouth at the curve of your neck and shoulder.

"Say my name again." He growled, his voice heady with lust.

He bites down on the soft skin, sending sharp jolts of pleasure arcing through your bloodstream.

"Peter!" You moan breathlessly.

He leans you back, moving to place open-mouthed kisses to your collar bone, licking and nipping as he went, one of his hands groping at your left breast as his teeth close around the nipple on your right.

You moaned out loud as his mouth greedily latched on, his tongue swirling and his teeth pinching your nipple ferociously, trailing his lips across your chest to your other neglected nipple.

"Fuck--" You squeak, feeling his hand reach down to cup your clothed sex.

He could feel the heat there roll off in waves right into his palm, a slight dampness sticking through to his skin.

He groaned into your tit before popping free.

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart."

You comply, letting him pull your suit down the rest of the way, careful of your bandaged ankle, even if it wasn't hurt that badly.

He hissed out a sigh between his teeth when he laid eyes on your wet and puffy sex, glossy from your arousal; the hair just above cut into a small heart.

God damn, you weren't wearing underwear, either.

Did you always wear your suit like this? One bad rip away from bearing it all...

The thought of you fighting like this, your suit getting torn juuuust right had his cock leaking at the mental image.

He didn't waste any time, his mouth immediately went in, his tongue stroking your folds before thrusting and twirling your clit.

He reminded himself of the things he'd done before.

'Same old song and dance, remember what you learned...'

And damn did he like how you were squirming.

His hair wasn't long enough to grip, a short, military buzz cut that he kept out of habit. His eyes glazed in the most gorgeous way as they locked glances with yours as his mouth devoured you like he was a starving man.

He lifted his mouth off of you, his chin shiny and slick.

"Fuck, you're so wet. D'you always get like this?" He hissed out, gliding his fingers through your folds, before plunging into your depths and curling in the most delicious way.

You nod, whimpering needily. "C-can't help it... ah--always g-get like this..."

"You're like a goddamned fountain. All this for me?" He breathed, kissing the little dip of your hip bone as he continued to fuck you with his hand, kneeling between your legs like a man kneeling before his god.

And, hell, you were already so close, his long thick fingers worked wonders inside, stroking that little spot inside that had your vision going dark at the edges.

You clawed desperately at him, at the sheets, gripping your hair as you cried out, your orgasm rapidly approaching.

Any woman dumb enough to pass this Peter Parker up was a fucking dumbass. They were missing out.

"P-P-Peter--" You babble out, whimpering pathetically.

"That's it..." He urges you quietly, shifting his body so his mouth was at the shell of your ear, his hand not moving from out of your cunt.

He pressed the heel of his palm into your clit, rolling it in time with your hips and the crook of his fingers as your orgasm crested.

"Good girl... let it out."

You whined loudly, ripping at the green uniform he wore over his suit as your climax slammed into you, your muscles squeezing his fingers so tightly he swore you could probably break them; more of your juices gushing out and soaking his hand and the sheets below.

He breathed heavily into your skin as he slowly moved his fingers, helping you ride out your orgasm until you were calm.

"Fuck." You panted, dropping your head onto the mattress.

"Oh, it'll happen." He sighs, giving you a smirk that creases the corners of his eyes.

You watch as he palms the bulge in his pants, and your hands tug on his shirt.

"Ah, I... c... can I..?" You blunder.

"Sure can, sweetheart." He all but purrs. "Be mindful of your ankle."

You give him a wet hungry kiss before switching places with him, helping him undress and kneeling between his legs.

And the sight that greeted you sent a fresh throb to your cunt.

His cock looked about seven inches, and the girth was enough to make your head spin. Veins swirled up the shaft, his tip vivid and leaking as you gripped it, your fingertips barely touching.

You give him a few pumps, your toes curling at the sounds he let out.

"You ever do this before? I should have asked..." he panted down at you, eyes locking with yours as you kissed his weeping tip.

"Yeah. I've done it a few times." You say.

You're worried about how he'd take that, knowing you weren't exactly innocent. But the look on his face and the way he bites his lip quashes your worries.

"Shit. Alright, babydoll. You lead on this one." He groaned.

You shove down the grin you want to make, instead settling for swallowing his cock as deep as you could, your jaw already straining at the stretch of him. You were really happy you didn't have a gag reflex, right now. Your exes were more than happy to abuse that fact.

You shake of the thought when you hear his voice grow shaky, his fingers gripping in your hair as you bob your head.

"Oh fuck..."

You stroke with your tongue, jerking him with your hand each time you pulled back, the salty taste of his precum coating your tongue.

You weren't afraid to get a little messy, letting saliva drip down to help lubricate your fist, the sounds of you sucking him off and the noises he was making filling the suite rivaling only the raunchiest of porn videos you've perused on the internet.

You weren't the best at blowjobs, but you liked to think you were pretty good.

Your hand cupped his balls gently, as you kept pulling your head back and pushing back down, feeling them tighten in your palm.

"Ah, fuck--" He moaned. "I'm gonna... fuck!"

He tried to pull you back, he really did, but you were a woman on a mission and he just couldn't resist your drive and focus on the task at hand.

He emptied his cock down your throat, his teeth gritting tightly as he tipped his head back, eyes screwed shut and sweat dripping down his brow.

He was stupid as fuck for not noticing how you were looking to him these past few months.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, and kiss his tip one last time before resting your chin on one of his knees.

You batted your eyelashes and smiled up at him.

"You still alive?" You teased.

He looked down at you and shook his head, petting your hair affectionately.

"You're a little shit. C'mere."

You squeak and giggle when he pulls you up, pressing you down into the sterile-smelling bedding as his mouth finds yours again, tongues dancing as you card your nails through his short hair.

He groans again, a noise you wanted to hear a lot more often.

You part your legs for him, grinning into his mouth as you feel his cock pressing against you, still rock hard and ready to go.

"Aww... you're pent up, huh?" You purr, licking the pulse in his neck.

"Keep it up and I won't give it to you." He growled.

You instantly lay back and bite your lip, looking up at him with a glimmer in your eyes that made his heart flip, being obedient.

His good girl.

Damn, he could get used to calling you that.

He could get used to seeing how your eyes rolled back as he sunk his cock into you with a slow grind of his hips.

"Fuck..." You moaned, the girth of his cock felt bigger inside you than it did in your palm, the stretch toeing the line between painful and pleasurable as you felt the drag of his shaft inside your velvety walls.

He bottomed out inside of you, holding there, his hips flush against yours as he moans deeply in your ear.

"So fucking tight." He grunted, one of his arms next to your head, fisting the pillow as his other hand gripped at your hip, his fingers probably leaving bruises in their wake.

"I... I'm not gonna lie. Fuck, I don't think I'm gonna last long."

It made him feel a little inadequate, sure, but he wasn't gonna lie to you. It had been ages since he'd last had sex with somebody, and the feel of your mouth and tight pussy were enough to drive any man insane.

"Don't care. Keep going..." You whine, your nails digging into his shoulders as you kiss his jaw.

His eyes rolled back and he turned his head so his mouth could meet yours as he pulled himself out almost entirely, before slamming into you, knocking the breath out of your lungs.

He set a rough and brutal pace for himself, burying his nose in your hair and breathing deeply as he gets lost in your cunt shivering at your nails scratching down the muscles in his back, leaving angry red marks.

You felt tears prickle in your eyes as his cock punched you mercilessly, gliding in and out of your slick walls as he grunted and panted in your ear with wild desperation.

"Oh god, oh fuck--" You squeak out as he takes your hips in both of his hands and pulls you up, pistoning in and out of you like a machine.

He's all but bent in half as he says things to you in your ear, filthy praises about how good you feel around him, how sweet you are, his good you taste, how much better you feel wrapped around him than his own fist.

It was enough to send your head into a tailspin.

"My good girl." He grunted, biting softly at your ear lobe.

You shudder, your muscles clenching around him at what he said, and he makes what can only be described as a whining sound as he slaps his hips into yours, almost disoriented as he pumps you full, fucking you through his orgasm as he paints your velvet walls a sheen of white.

You're both breathing heavy, sweaty, and hot as his cock twitched with the remnants of his almost mind-numbing orgasm.

"Shit." He hissed. "You didn't--"

"I'm fine." You mumbled, brain still fuzzy from the ferocity in which he fucked you.

"Uh-uh." He sighs, keeping his softening cock sheathed inside you as he brings his fingers to your swollen clit, desperately circling the swollen bundle of nerves.

"Wan' you to cum on my cock. Come on, babydoll." He said through gritted teeth, feeling your walls flutter around him.

Your thighs squeezed against his hips as his fingers worked feverishly at your clit, his hips rolling into yours lazily as he dragged his barely half-hard cock in and out, adding extra stimulation.

Your second orgasm came harder than the last one, your whole body almost seizing up as you clawed at his shoulders, your hands falling to grip at his biceps as you babbled incoherently, mumbling his name as you gushed around him, his eyes rolling back at the sensation.

"That's it, sweetheart..." He praised, watching you come undone beneath him.

He dropped down on his elbows, his arms on either side of your head as he caged you in, giving you soft kisses, his lips spelling silent "I love you's" all the way down your neck and back up again.

He rolled off of you, pulling out and tucking you against him as you both basked in the afterglow, feeling small bits of his cum dripping out of you.

"Hey, doc...." You say affectionately, your fingers trailing circles lazily on his chest.

"Hm?" He hummed, his hand toying with your hair.

"What am I gonna do about my sprained ankle?"

"Hnh." He grunted softly.

"Gonna need some bed rest, I think. Here in the med bay, to be safe."

"Oh? And you're gonna take care of me?" You giggle innocently.

"Somebody has to make sure you don't exacerbate your injury."

#💐 anon #spider medic #spider-medic #spider medic x you #spider medic x reader #spiderverse oc #spiderverse #atsv #atsv oc

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goldenbluehour · 2 years ago

Text

Welcome to our blog?

We two random people have decided to form this group project where we write drabbles and oneshots for a variety of fandoms that we are both in.

You can request for one of us in particular to write a work, if you feel so inclined.

Requests for Gold: O P E N !

Requests for Blue: oPeN

More information about the fandoms and characters we write for below the cut!

GOLD(he/they)

Writes for: M/M, N/N, N/M, F/M, male reader and gender neutral reader, smut, fluff, angst, second and third person.

Characters/Fandoms:

Peter Parker (MCU)

Moon Knight (MCU)

DBH

Bruce Wayne (Batman 2022)

Our life: beginnings and always

Miraculous ladybug

The Arcana

Doki Doki Literature Club

Demon slayer

Doctor Strange (MCU)

Eddie Brock (MCU)

Euphoria

Genshin Impact

BLUE (he/him)

Writes for: M/M, N/M, N/N, x male reader, x gender-neutral reader, character x character, first person, second person, third person, angst, fluff, crack, smut (possibly)

Characters/Fandoms:

Marvel:

Peter Parker (comics, PS4, Noir, Spider-Verse, MCU, general)

Wade Wilson (comics, general)

Matt Murdock (comics)

Johnny Storm (comics, general)

Tony Stark (general)

Wolverine (comics)

Loki (general)

Superior Sinister Six (Boomerang, Shocker, Hydro-Man, Speed Demon, Beetle, Beetle (yes both of them)) (comics)

Original Sinister Six (Electro, Doc Ock, Mysterio, Kraven, Chameleon, the other guy)

Kurt Wagner (comics)

Victor Von Doom (comics)

Frank Castle (comics, general)

Eddie Brock (comics)

Dead By Daylight

Detroit: Become Human

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heliads · 2 years ago

Note

(Toms Peter x male reader)

Can you write a story where Peter tries to get the readers attention doing various stuff but the reader is complexly oblivious to peters obvious tactics to try to get with him until Peter asks on a shy way if the reader doesn’t like him?. ❤️

this dynamic is so superior. also i realized i haven't written for tom's peter in so long i miss him

masterlist

Peter Parker is trying his absolute hardest to make this work, and after all of his efforts, he’s still come up with nothing at all. The most difficult task in Peter’s life should probably have to do with his secret reality as Spider-Man, all the times he’s risked death to protect a city that really doesn’t know him all that well, yet it isn’t. Peter doesn’t even think he was this stressed when he got his abilities in the first place and could suddenly start sticking to walls and taking hits that would normally kill anyone else.

And, instead of handling his problems like a normal person (because Peter’s totally normal at this point, yeah, right), Peter is instead flinging himself into his struggles with the force of a hurricane. It feels as if his every waking moment is spent trying to find the answer to a puzzle that refuses to stop stumping him.

This problem, one might ask? Is it an impossible science question that brainiacs and scholars have studied for centuries? A battle plan for how to take down the latest villain plaguing New York? Literally anything that would account for the amount of hours Peter has poured into this? No. It’s all to do with a crush.

A crush. Peter is driving himself mad over a crush that doesn’t even like him back. That’s the problem, of course, because Peter has gone and fallen for Y/N L/N, the one boy who means the most to Peter and thus will hurt him the most when he can’t seem to like Peter the way he wishes.

That’s what you get for falling for your friend, Peter supposes. If he could have just minded his own business, kept his head down and only felt things that were strictly platonic, Peter could have avoided this whole mess. Instead, he’s counting the amount of times his heart has skipped a beat upon seeing a familiar smile, and he’s completely, utterly smitten.

Peter’s one goal in life has now switched away from handling life as Spider-Man or getting the top grades in his classes to figure out how to get Y/N to like him back. Or, the bare minimum, finding a way for Y/N to actually pay attention to him. He’s not having great luck in either department.

In truth, Peter doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get Y/N to fall in love with him if Y/N seems far more invested in whatever he’s doing at the moment than Peter himself. Y/N literally works in Tony Stark’s labs and goes to Peter’s high school, yet Peter’s scrounging for scraps of a conversation like they’ve never had less in common.

It makes no sense, which is what’s killing him. Surely they should be the best of friends, right? Peter has imagined how things should have gone about a thousand times already. They should be trading inside jokes like playing cards, whispering over discoveries that no one else in the school could even hope to understand. Y/N knows that Peter is Spider-Man, for heaven’s sake, and that still isn’t enough to interest him.

It’s unfathomable. Peter isn’t going to claim that he’s always needed attention, far from it. Peter has always been content to fade more into the background, to watch as people make mistakes and learn from the whole of it. Yet when it comes to Y/N, Peter finds himself desperate to have just a fraction of the other boy’s heart. Even a little bit would be enough, but no.

They’re in the labs again today, and Peter’s distracted from his work by another bout of wishing he could mean more to the one boy he needs more than anything. Peter is supposed to be fabricating a more durable formula for his webs due to an incident the past week involving him trying to swing on a sharp edged skyscraper and accidentally plummeting ten stories before he managed to catch himself just in time.

It would be really great if he could focus, too, because Peter would have to list nearly dying due to his webs getting torn to shreds as one of his top ten least favorite things, but he can’t manage it, not in the slightest. Instead, he’s staring hopelessly as Y/N bends over his notes, making careful modifications to some integrated armor circuits that Tony had asked for.

This should be Peter’s happy place. He loves the labs in the Avengers complex. There’s enough whirring machinery and blinking lights to satisfy any overeager STEM kid, and Peter’s the height of the craze in that regard. Peter still has fond memories of the first time he was allowed inside, how he could have spent hours just looking at everything, and what do you mean he can use it for free?

The initial surprise of having the greatest engineering playground at his fingertips has worn away somewhat, but Peter still loves the space like a second home. When Peter found out that Y/N also worked there, well, it seemed like the best coincidence yet.

He had been counting on using shared lab memories as a talking point, but instead, he finds himself in yet another dead end. Y/N is a fantastic worker, by which Peter means that he’s never distracted by Peter’s attempts at conversation. Y/N gets his work done and leaves immediately afterwards, leaving no time for Peter to win the other boy over.

It’s not like you have to be totally focused in here, anyway. It’s a stark contrast to the times Peter has spent in here with Tony, how the billionaire cranks up the music until the beakers are practically rattling on the shelves before going to work. They’ll trade one-liners and bad jokes over tech tips, and Peter doesn’t think he’s ever laughed louder than when they’re just hanging out and fixing things.

With Y/N, though, all is quiet and studious. For some reason, the lab seems smaller when it’s just the two boys, like everything means that much more when Peter’s around someone he needs to impress even more than Mr. Stark. Every sound seems to echo, especially the deafening beat of Peter’s heart in his chest when he accidentally brushes against Y/N’s arm when they’re both reaching for the same tool.

Tony might make the labs feel like the height of scientific discovery, but Y/N makes it all feel right, like this really is Peter’s home. This is where he was always meant to be, out here with his lab partner that won’t talk to him no matter how hard Peter tries.

He’s going to give it another shot today, though. Peter squares his shoulders and directs a casual remark Y/N’s way.

“Did you see the essay prompt Mr. Schumacher posted? Man, it looks hideous.”

Y/N nods once, not even looking up from the metal he’s been fiddling with for the last ten minutes. “Yeah, the one due next week?”

Peter bites back a grimace. “That one exactly. Doesn’t it seem terrible? I mean, who’s got the time to write so many pages on trade? It happened a lot in ancient societies. That’s all you need to say.”

“Yeah,” Y/N says again, and leaves it at that.

Drat. Well, if Peter can’t get him to complain about school, a topic of conversation that usually attracts every other student in the history of ever, maybe he can encourage Y/N to loosen up with a different subject.

A little while later, what feels like an hour to Peter and is probably just five minutes or so, he tries again.

“Are you going to watch the football game this week?” He asks.

Y/N lifts a shoulder. “Probably not, I’m not much of a sports guy.”

“Me neither,” Peter murmurs. At least he tried.

This makes Y/N break his staring contest with his circuit board at last. “Why’d you ask, then?” He says with a quiet laugh.

Peter shrugs a little too quickly. “I don’t know, I guess it was just something to say.”

“Do you always say things just to say them, Parker?” Y/N prods.

Peter squints, trying to see if Y/N’s teasing him or just asking. “Sometimes,” he says at last, “but only when people aren’t talking much.”

Y/N just shrugs in what could be agreement and turns back to the circuit, reaching in a nearby drawer to grab a new spool of wire. Peter fights the urge to slam his head into the desk in front of him. How could it possibly be this hard to talk to the other boy? He is trying his absolute hardest and getting absolutely nowhere. It’s infuriating.

To be honest, it’s wearing on him quite a bit. Peter’s starting to doubt himself in earnest now. Peter doesn’t know that he could be any more obvious that he wants to talk, and Y/N has to be aware of it by now. If that’s the case, and Y/N still doesn’t want anything to do with Peter, well, maybe that’s on purpose, too.

The words erupt from his throat before Peter can stop them, a hot torrent of self consciousness and desperate anguish.

“Do you really not like me?”

If Peter was surprised that Y/N glanced up once when he asked him a question earlier, he’s stunned by the reaction he gets now. Y/N’s eyes widen and he stares at Peter in complete shock.

“What?” Y/N demands, obviously taken aback, “Where could you possibly get that idea?”

Peter takes a step back, almost startled by the force of the other boy’s response. “Well,” he mutters, “you never answer me when I ask you things. I kind of get the feeling that you just want me to stop talking and leave you alone.”

Y/N shakes his head firmly. “No, it’s not like that in the slightest. You don’t understand.”

“No,” Peter says fervently, “I don’t.”

Y/N sighs, dragging a tired hand across his face as he tries to think of how to best answer the clear war going on inside Peter’s head.

“It’s not like that,” he repeats at last, “I’m not mad at you, not in the slightest. It’s not that I don’t like you, I do. Really, I do. More than you think. It’s just well, I’m not good at this sort of thing. Easy conversation, I mean. I want to reply to you, but by the time I think of what to say back that would make me sound smart or remotely interesting, you’ve already moved on.”

“So you’re saying that I talk too fast?” Peter asks, kind of amused.

“Not exactly, but close enough. I’m just worried that you don’t like me because I’m not as outgoing as you are,” Y/N explains.

Now it’s Peter’s turn for a fierce denial. “Not a chance,” he declares, “I’m only talking this much and this quickly because I want you to like me like–”

Like Peter likes Y/N. Like Peter loves Y/N, that is, but he can’t exactly bring that up now.

Unfortunately, Y/N catches onto this little slip. “Now you’re choosing to hesitate?” He asks pointedly, “If I think you’re holding back now, I’m going to be hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter says vaguely. As if there was anything he could have said to make Y/N more interested in hearing what he can’t mention.

“It most certainly does,” Y/N grins, “Peter, you say everything that crosses your mind. You even told me about the time someone gave you churros because you helped defend them from a carjacking. If you’re keeping something from me, it’s got to be something good.”

Distracted for a moment, Peter blinks in surprise. “You remember the time I told you about the churros? I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

“Of course I was paying attention,” Y/N spreads his hands, “It’s like I said, I’m paying attention a lot more than you think. I’m just no good at making it obvious. Guess I–”

Y/N’s voice trails off too, and they’re both left staring at each other, wondering who’s going to be the first to break and say what they’re surely both thinking.

It’s not Peter, as it turns out, it’s both of them. Y/N and Peter both start talking at the same time, their voices overlapping in this slightly frantic need to be heard before it’s too late.

“I like you.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you, but I like you.”

They look at each other for a few moments in surprise, then Y/N bursts out laughing. It’s such an unfamiliar sight compared with his usual quiet tranquility that it makes Peter start laughing too, just out of shock.

“You like me?” He asks when he’s able to control himself at last.

“Yeah,” Y/N says with a smile, “Yeah, I do. Didn’t think you would feel the same, though, not when I couldn’t even muster up the courage to talk to you about things as silly as homework. I thought you were sick of me for sure.”

“I could never be sick of you,” Peter declares, and he knows in his heart that it’s true.

It is rare, then, to find someone who you could want to be around for hours and days and forever. Peter would consider himself lucky to find that someone in Y/N, and to know that Y/N would listen to him for infinity on end and still remember every sentence spoken aloud. They’ve never needed anyone but each other, and that is precisely how they’ll stay so close in the time to come.

marvel tag list: @namoreno, @thatfangirl42, @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv, @caswinchester2000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @amortensie, @23victoria, @watchreadfangirlrepeat, @gods-fools-heroes, @w1shes43

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bamfdaddio · 4 years ago

Text

The Abridged X-Men: 1963

The X-Men, those wacky mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long and tangled history. Want to unravel the tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men!

“Return to me, my X-Men.” - Charles Xavier, X-Men #1

faaaaaaab

JFK was killed, Beatlemania started for real for real and Martin L. King had a dream: it was 1963. Superheroes sprang up like glowing flowers after a nuclear winter. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby were on a roll. Sure, characterization was brittle and continuity a little too fluid, but still: many enduring characters were created in this year. (All of them white; all of them heterosexual for the time being, most of them male, but ssh.) Boys bitten by radioactive spiders; radiation-powered hulks and not one, but two iconic Marvel teams made their debut: the Avengers and “the strangest super-heroes of all”, the X-Men!

Who do we start off with? We have:

A tormented stick-in-the-mud with deadly astigmatism;

A bulky-yet-flirty acrobat with enormous feet;

A snowman in wellies;

A spunky psychic ginger;

A himbo with wings.

why Marvel Girl? was Mind Maid already taken? Psychic Pollyanna? the Teleki-nanny?

These five have been assembled by a bald quadriplegic who trains them with their powers so they can protect the world from eeeeeevil mutants. He also has one of the scariest powers in the universe. Don’t be fooled by the narrative painting him as a hero: while Charles Xavier has plenty of moral fiber, he still uses his unparalleled psychic powers quite… dubiously, especially in the beginning. Hi, Vanisher!

casually wiping your memories, no big deal

After Jean Grey arrives at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters and everyone but the reader (and Bobby) falls in love with her, a monomaniac magnetic man appears, trying to take over the army base at Cape Canaveral. The X-Men don their iconic yellow-and-blue costumes (apparently inspired by Dior) and confront this evildoer. Here Magneto establishes two very important things:

He can do all sorts of things magnets have no business doing;

He’s extra AF.

alliteration, attention to detail and kalligraphy. just look at that cursive

The X-Men hurl a snowball or two at Magneto and he flies off, thwarted. The humans at the Cape are grateful, something that has not aged well. While Magneto already evangelizes the superiority of homo superior, the throughline of discrimination against mutants hasn’t appeared yet. In the second issue, Angel is so beloved that women throw themselves at him.

Warren must have some jaw, because there is nothing sexy or forgiving about those spandex pjs

Other notable first appearances are: the coining of the term homo superior, the Danger Room and the ruby quartz glasses. (Why these have never caught on, fashion-wise?) There’s also the aforementioned new villain the Vanisher (who will be called ‘unbeatable’ for the first and last time ever) and Angel establishes that he’s easily turned evil. (Really. The force of an explosion does the trick: it just dislodges all that morality up there. Gosh, I surely hope there won’t be other villains who take advantage of this in the future.)

same, mr criminal, same

What are must-reads? X-Men #1. It’s a classic.

Best new character? None of them are really the characters they will turn out to be later on and there’s really not much characterization to base it on yet, so let’s just give it to Magneto.

Who turns evil? Angel. (Did not think that would happen so soon.)

Worst costume? The Vanisher. It’s like he bubble-wrapped himself in hideous colours and then decided that it needed a collar. It didn’t.

meet: professor PowerPoint

X-Men #1 - 2 (sept. 1963), Tales of Suspense #49

#x-men #angel #cyclops #marvel girl #beast #iceman #professor x #the vanisher #x-men classic #warren worthington #scott summers #jean grey #henry mccoy #bobby drake #charles xavier #magneto #erik lensherr #abridged x-men

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fortune-fool02 · 5 years ago

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Everybody gets High

Muzan Kibutsuji x reader

Warning: mention of drug abuse, bit of death

This is my first attempt at writing something with Muzan in it so forgive me if he is out of character. This was inspired by the song Everybody get High by Misso. Please enjoy.

Once upon a time in a land far away, There lived a little boy and he drank all day. Friends called him stupid and his brothers called him gay. Emptied all the bottles 'til the pain went away.

[Name] watched, fear clouding their eyes, as the man in front of them fell to the ground, blood pooling around him as the knife stuck from his chest. Their body shivered like a leaf in a storm. He should have just given him the drugs, then he might still be alive. The other male -the knife’s owner- turned to the shivering young adult, his eyes blood-shot from the drugs already flowing through his system like a river.

Without a word, [Name] held their hands out, the bag of white powder sitting in their open palms.

“J-Just take it. P-Please, don’t h-hurt me.” they managed to stutter out. This was not their first trading gone wrong but witnessing someone they knew be killed in front of them over a bit of powder was something they would never get used to. If they had their way, they wouldn’t even be there.

“You stupid little bitch!” A sharp sting pierced their cheek as the man slapped them.

Their family was dead, leaving [Name] to fend for themself on the streets, thus leading them to a life of petty theft in order to eat. But, one day, they picked the wrong pocket and now was tangled in a spider-web of drug trading and murder. All because they needed money. [Name], themself, had never taken drugs nor killed a person. They were the Tagalog of the drug traders, there in case they needed to take the products away from their location fast. Sometimes, [Name] cursed their stamina and speed. Being small also meant hiding easier.

Whiskey was his friend, he didn't have another Vicodin his vice, his real and only lover (yup) Smoked a pack or two, it never was a problem Popped a pill or two, they really made him blossom (yup)

[Name] sat on the bench, their face bloody and bruised from their previous job. The bag of drugs tucked safely inside their jacket as their superior spoke to the client.

He was a well-dressed male, a white fedora resting on his coal-black hair which brought out his sickly pale skin. A snap of fingers were heard and [Name] rose to their feet, body stiff like stone as they approached the client.

“Show him the product.” their superior ordered. Shaky hands slid into their jacket and emerged with the bag. The man took the bag and tossed it aside like it was worthless. [Name]’s superior opened his mouth to scream at the client when the client simply rose his hand up and punched him straight into the wall beside them. His head splitting open on impact, killing him instantly.

[Name] froze, their blood freezing over as the client turned his crimson red eyes to them. He rose his hand to their face, making them look up at him.

“They treat you awfully, don’t they?” he spoke calmly though his voice echoed with a haunting tone. [Name] nodded slightly, refusing to look away from his crimson eyes. “You want to fight back. Take what is yours yet they have you bound and leashed like a dog.” his hand rested against their cheek, wiping away a bit of blood and brought it to his lips, licking his thumb clean.

“Would you like to become stronger? Fight back without fear? Break the chains and take back the life stolen from you?” That was something [Name] had dreamed of. They wanted to stand their ground and escape the twisted web of drugs, murder and abuse. But they couldn’t. Slowly, they nodded again. Tears welling in their eyes.

Muzan brought his thumb up and wiped the tears away. This human was so afraid, he could easily taste the fear radiating off them like smoke does from a fire. He wondered: How strong could they truly be, if given the tools to become strong?

Everybody gets high, why the hell can't I? Everybody gets high, why the hell can't I? Everybody gets high, why the hell can't I? Everybody gets high, why the hell can't I?

Muzan brought his wrist to his mouth, sharpened teeth slicing through his flesh without a twinge of pain. Blood seeped from the wound and he held it in front of [Name].

“Grow stronger. And take back what they took.” he whispered before [Name] took his wrist and brought it to their lips, taking in his blood. He smiled lightly as they did. His free hand gently stroked their soft locks of hair. They would make a special demon, he knew it from the moment he laid eyes on them.

#muzan kibutsuji #muzan x reader #muzan #muzan kibutsuji x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #reader insert #angst #kimestu no yabia x reader #demon slayer x reader

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knifeonmars · 4 years ago

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Capsule Reviews - May 2020 - The Cape Stuff

I read a lot of comics in May. Here’s what I thought of some of the superhero and superhero-adjacent comics I read.

Arms of the Octopus

A nostalgia pick, the collection of several annual issues containing a crossover between Superior Spider-Man, The Invincible Hulk, and the All-New X-Men. It is an artifact of a very specific and bizarre time in Marvel Comics, when Doc Ock was Spider-Man, the Hulk worked for SHIELD, and the original five teen X-Men were stranded in their own future. For a pure, relatively straightforward crossover romp, it's quite enjoyable. Spider-Man is a jerk, the Hulk fights a robot, the X-Men are befuddled by the present, all of the major beats for that particular moment in the Marvel Universe are there, and it's got some really great art. Jake Wyatt, during his regrettably short-lived stint with Marvel and the great Kris Anka unfortunately overshadow the other contributors, but it's all very good, if not the most accessible comic.

Maxwell's Demons

I came to Maxwell's Demons having heard a lot of critical buzz and with my expectations set rather high. I did not care for this book at all. Ambitious is the best word for this series, and that's not a bad thing. It's got ideas, about the craft, about the genre, about philosophy in general. It never quite manages to carry things off though; it's not as smart as it wants to be, and the high-minded ideas are never incorporated in particularly elegant ways. Three of the story's five chapters are essentially extended monologues in which the main character rambles on about some glorified shower thought for 20-plus pages. The first and second chapters are the exceptions to this pattern, and are quite solid as far as pointedly derivative superhero riffs go, even if the second chapter's riff on "What if Miracleman #17 was significantly less intelligent" is more than a little shameless in its lack of originality. The fourth chapter, by contrast, is the nadir of the series, easily the most embarrassing Manic Pixie Dream Girl tripe I've seen played straight in literal years. I'm reminded a lot of Translucid, another superhero pastiche, which essentially sought to do for Batman what Maxwell's Demons seeks to do for Lex Luthor. I warmed to Translucid significantly on my second read and I wonder if the same will end up being true for Maxwell's Demons, but I find that Translucid simply did a better job of incorporating original ideas and stating its themes in ways less stupefyingly clunky than Maxwell's Demon's ever manages. I hate to call a book pretentious, especially an ambitious one, but at present that's how I feel about this book.

Twilight

Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez and Howard Chaykin's Watchmen-for-mid-century-space-heroes epic. It's good. Fabulous art, some really interesting ideas and a great premise. It's also more than a little Chaykin-y, with most of the male characters having fraught but amiable relationships with their much-too-good-for-them-and-they-both-know-it ex-wives. It has this particular brand of low grade misogyny that idealizes women but in doing so denies them interiority and, ultimately, humanity. Leaving that aside, though it is a major point to leave aside, it’s story of humanity rotting over eons of immortality, mad space gods, and humanity’s proclivity towards colonialism and genocide, it's great. It’s not an altogether pleasant book, it can be nasty and strange, in ways both intentional and unintentional, but it’s original and engaging and decidedly well made. Something of an overlooked classic of that era’s DC output.

Green Lantern: Earth One

Literally the only one of DC's Earth One graphic novels that's worth a damn. Where most of the other Earth One books choose to start things off in a world resembling our own, Green Lantern starts off in a scifi future resembling something along the lines of Ad Astra or The Expanse, with Earth controlled by an only alluded to totalitarian government, humanity colonizing and mining the solar system, and Hal Jordan as a spacefaring roughneck who dreads the prospect of returning to Earth. Earth One is the rare Green Lantern story that manages to make Earth as interesting as the rest of the universe. The bulk of the action leaves this behind to focus on unearth the lost legacy of the Green Lanterns and refits their mythology in a clean way which will be unsurprising for anyone with a passing familiarity with the original comics but is still satisfying ad fresh. Fabulous art, fun take on the mythology, I'm left both wanting more and being satisfied with what we got.

Spider-Man: Life Story

In a just world, Chip Zdarksy, one of Marvel’s best writers these days, would be writing both Spider-Man and Fantastic Four, instead of having been relegated to shortlived spinoffs. Because life just isn’t fair sometimes, instead he was given this admittedly ambitious project, his all-encompassing take on the Spider-Man story as played out in real time. In the end it’s bold and engaging, but more than a little clipped in execution. Each issue is a snippet of Peter Parker's life as we catch up to him in a new decade so readers only get a quick glimpse of the action and are left to fill in the substantial gaps by drawing on our knowledge of continuity. The obvious comparison is John Byrne's Superman/Batman: Generations, but where that story really only took the broad strokes of those characters' continuity into account in writing its decades spanning story, Spider-Man: Life Story is dedicated to the remixing of Spider-Man's publishing canon. So it can’t just take an archetypal view of Spider-Man and play that out to its logical conclusion, instead it’s stuck trying to incorporate version of prominent Spider-Man stories like Kraven's Last Hunt, Venom, and Civil War. The result means that there’s a ton of exposition in each issue, and frequent use of shorthand to gloss over things which have happened since the previous issue, and it never manages to explore the series’ original ideas in detail. Also, I'll die mad that Michel Fiffe, the genius behind COPRA and one of my favorite cartoonists, public pitched basically this exact story a year or so before this project was announced, and even if Marvel didn't actually steal the idea, I'll forever pine for Fiffe's take on this premise.

Star Wars: The Crimson Empire Saga

Long before the Disney's take on Star Wars, with their codified takes on the mythology and careful curation of the franchise, there was the old Star Wars Expanded Universe, where seemingly anyone could tell any story they wanted using the mythology of Star Wars. While it resulted in some good stuff, like Timothy Zahn's fondly remembered Thrawn books, the vast majority of it was workmanlike or even bad. Crimson Empire falls firmly into the category of bad, a dumber than dirt story about an extremely cool space guy and his code of honor. It's the kind of story where multiple characters say "He's just one man!" right before or right after seeing their legion of anonymous flunkies getting demolished by the hero. It's got an inexplicable and bad love story. In the three miniseries collected here it spends about two pages total dealing with the idea that maybe, just maybe, the fact that it's main character is dedicated to the lost honor of Emperor Palpatine, a space fascist, maybe his code of honor is completely fucked. Of those three miniseries, only the first story is anywhere near something that could be called good. I wouldn’t called Crimson Empire utterly abysmal, but it’s not unironically good. If the name Kyle Katarn means anything to you, you might get something out of this as a nostalgia trip, but otherwise it has no redeeming qualities.

Deathstroke: Legacy

The first of the New 52 Deathstroke stories, which was never well regarded until Christopher Priest took it over with Deathstroke: Rebirth, I was driven to read this by a conceptual fondness for this era's Deathstroke basically looking and acting like an action figure. Through that lens, it's quite enjoyable. It's not as obviously in on the joke in the way that the classic Taskmaster: Unthinkable is, but it's over the top, has fun designs and baddies, and Joe Bennett (years before his career best heights in Immortal Hulk) provides consistently good art. As a pure action comic, it's good.

Wolverine MAX: Permanent Rage

Here's the thing about Wolverine: There are very few good Wolverine solo stories. Wolverine is a genuinely good character, but most of his solo stories are dumb action affairs, and there's literally never been a Wolverine comic that's even halfway as good as the Logan movie. Permanent Rage, the first storyline from the Wolverine MAX series though, is actually pretty decent. It plays out a lot like you might imagine a Wolverine movie made around 2004, with no superheroes, a Japanese setting that allows for some distracting orientalism, unrelenting violence, and a noir-inspired storyline. The present day storyline is all well and good, not great, but solid and relatively low-key, but what makes the book is the presence of Sabretooth as the main villain. His relationship with Wolverine, fleshed out through flashbacks drawn by some really talented artists, is probably one of the best takes on that relationship that Marvel has ever put out. The casting of Wolverine and Sabretooth as two lonely immortals, bound together by hate and the knowledge that they are each other's only true companions, absolutely makes this book. Is it great? No, but it's got enough interesting things going on that fans of dark superheroes stories would probably find something to enjoy. Subsequent volumes of Wolverine MAX moved even further from the character’s superhero trappings and supporting characters, which is a pity, but this one remains readable and enjoyable on its own.

Marshal Law Omnibus

A collection all of the non-licensed and non-text-only Marshal Law stories. It's weird, it's punk, it's violent, it's sick of superheroes but self-aware about it own silliness in a way that Garth Ennis' work like The Boys has never been (Incidentally, the fifth story contained here, Super Babylon, is just every self-righteous complaint Ennis made about superheroes in The Boys but presented with a modicum of good humor). It's quite fun as a mean-spirited anti-superhero romp, but anyone who is particularly invested in the moral rectitude of, like, the Flash, might find it an unpleasant read so I would advise avoiding it if that's you. It's also not perfect, even for what it is: it's approach to sex work and kink is very dated, it relies on sexual violence a little too much, and by the time you get to the final story, Secret Tribunal, it's come to revel in its previously ironic fascist and misogynist imagery and characters just a little too much. The third installment, Kingdom of the Blind, is for my money, the strongest of the lot, featuring both the most straightforward premise and the most incisive satire the collection has to offer.

#capsule reviews #words

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uk-news-talking-politics · 6 years ago

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Stan Lee's super-hero vision defined the world outside our window

By Ian Dunt

Yesterday, Stan Lee died. He was the creator, in collaboration with others, of countless superheros, including Spider-Man, the Hulk, Daredevil, the Fantastic Four, Black Panther, X-Men, Thor and Iron Man. These characters are now the engine of the global blockbuster movie industry, as well as countless cartoons, childrens toys and, of course, comics. They are part of the wallpaper of our world. Barely a day will go by without you spotting them somewhere, whether it's in a shop window, or the T-shirt of a passerby, or a lunchbox. It is hard to think of a single other figure who contributed so much to the culture we live in today.

There was a dark side to his animated public persona. You could spend an article talking about the failure to properly reward other creators, or the charges to fans for autographs, or the weird and unpleasant recriminations around his household in his later years. Underneath the superhero shine, there was a money machine, working as money machines always do. But today isn't the day for that. Today is the day to recognise his achievements. He wanted to portray the world outside your window. And that world was a vibrant place of multicultural myth-making.

Before Lee, comics had become a fairly stuffy affair. The Golden Age of comics, in the late 30s and early 40s, when characters like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman were created, was originally imbued with a odd type of transgression. Superman was the product of Jewish immigrants to the US and acted as a deified version of that experience. Batman had a troubling noirish elasticity. Early Wonder Woman comics were obsessed with ideas of loving submission and female superiority.

But in the 1950s, the genre had been targeted by moral puritans. Psychiatrist Fredric Wertham's book 'Seduction of the Innocent' claimed, among other things, that the stories of Batman and Robin were "psychologically homosexual", triggering a moral panic among legislators and parents. The Comics Code Authority was set up, demanding strict moral guidelines in stories. The "sanctity of marriage" had to be emphasised in romance. Figures of authority would be presented in ways which promoted respect. "In every instance good shall triumph over evil," it demanded. It was an artistic death sentence. The readership left in droves as the creativity and daring was regulated out of existence.

But regulations rarely work the way they're intended. They tend to push things in weird directions, as people try to game the system. For many superhero comics, like Batman, the hero was pushed away from street-level crime stories towards grand and colourful sci-fi plots, which ended up linking arms with the psychedelic drug-infused hippie culture of the 60s. This was picked up later by writers like Grant Morrison to make a kind of mind-expanding anarchic infrastructure to the genre.

But Lee's response to this stifling culture was to bring back readers by humanising the super heroes. The universe he created, in an unsurpassed frenzy of creativity in the 60s, was designed to reflect the "world outside your window". Instead of fictional cities like Metropolis, which represented sun-lit progress, and Gotham, which represented gothic noir, stories were set in real locations. The characters were chiseled away at too. The square-jawed moral perfection of characters like Superman were replaced with fundamentally flawed, bickering personalities, whose own weaknesses and failings drove their narrative arcs.

Lee, who was himself the child of immigrants, populated his universe with a colourful collection of characters, from different classes, races and sexes, and with different personalities and body-types. It was a kind of lunatic multiculturalism, a place where diversity was injected into every element of the stories.

The Thing was rough-and-ready, working class and from the Lower East Side. His best friend with the thin, intellectual, distant Reed Richards. Spider-Man was a nerdy orphan living with his aunt and uncle. Scientist Bruce Banner was turned into a Jekyll-and-Hyde green monster which reflected his own internal angst. Tony Stark was a billionaire industrialist, who would later develop a drink problem. Thor was a Norse God, who spoke in cod-Shakespearean language. Daredevil was an inner-city lawyer whose disability gave him enhanced perception. Black Panther was an African king, of a nation which was far more technologically advanced than anything in the West. The X-Men were mutants who were hated and feared by society. They functioned as a metaphor for whichever minority the writer wished to project onto them, from race, to sexuality, to, in the recent Logan movie, immigrants in general. These characters were jumbled up together, offering a crazed milieu of language and preoccupations and striking visual imagery.

Lee had taken the Platonic form of super heroes, they way they encapsulate one idea perfectly, and injected real like drama into them. By doing so he made them relevant. Any kid reading a comic could picture themself as the weedy, geeky Spider-Man. He allowed people to feel they could act like superheroes, rather than just look up to them. The relevance he provided was not just emotional. It was political. By making them like us, the comics implicitly suggested we could be like them.

This was reflected in his Stan's Soap Box, a little comment section he'd tuck away in the comic, written in his rhythmic splashy style, which would regularly kick back against racism and discrimination. "Let's lay it right on the line," he wrote in 1968, "Bigotry and racism are among the deadliest social ills plaguing the world today."

Years later, towards the end of this life, he put out a video making a similar point. "Those stories have room for everyone, regardless of their race, gender or color of their skin. The only things we don't have room for are hatred, intolerance and bigotry." This was moral instruction, but of the best kind. It opened doors, rather than closing them.

It wasn't perfect, by any means. The Marvel universe was still overwhelmingly populated by white male protagonists, even if they were varied within that context. But this attitude, and the bizarre, super-serum-injected sense of genre multiculturalism, embedded itself into the DNA of the Marvel universe. When I was growing up in the 80s - decades before a female Doctor Who was a twinkle in a BBC producer's eye - a black female character called Storm was already leader of the X-Men. It continues in Marvel comics today, where a half-black half-Latino kid called Miles Morales wears the Spider-Man costume and one of the most popular current characters is Ms Marvel, a Muslim teenager in New Jersey.

Now that these characters have gone mainstream, out of the comics page and onto cinema screens across the world, they have taken that cultural mechanism and spread it to places his books would never have reached. The recent Black Panther film, starring an almost all-black cast and directed by an African-American, took $201.8 million in the US alone in its opening weekend, making it the fifth biggest opening of all time. It's the the of financial performance which fundamentally recalibrates Hollywood's calculations about the viability of future projects.

One of the reasons that's possible is because of the flawed characters at the heart of these super heroes, the fact that the drama does not lie in their costumes, or their antics, or even their identity, but in their personality and the tiny tragedies that Lee injected into each of them as a driving motive.

This is now Stan Lee's world and we just live in it. It's a welcoming, open world. We have a lot to thank him for.

#marvel #stan-lee #superhero

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breckstonevailskier · 3 years ago

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Of course when it comes to Strange, Wanda is talking about his memory spell in Spider-Man: No Way Home that got f*cked up and broke the Multiverse. For Wanda herself, she refers to her accidental spell around Westview, New Jersey.

It's going to be interesting to imagine that the spell Strange cast to make everyone forget Peter Parker didn't affect Wanda because of what Agatha said about the Scarlet Witch's powers exceeding those of the Sorcerer Supreme. And that's why Wanda remembers what Strange did.

There are double standards here because she is both talking about the treatment of enhanced (and mutant, linking to the comics) individuals and also the difference between male and female heroes. For a long time in comic books, misogynistic writers AND readers would only accept a strong, powerful female superhero if she was sexualised or given a storyline that made her mentally unstable. The men on the other hand? “Oh they’re fine because men are powerful”.

This is also the reason why the Fox X-Men movies did the Phoenix storyline with Jean Grey twice (X-Men 3 and Dark Phoenix). And is also the reason why, controversially, comics Wanda is largely remembered for House of M, a story where Bendis character-assassinated her (WandaVision for all intents and purposes is "House of M but Wanda is actually a character and not a plot device").

An accident vs a deliberate action. No wonder Wanda is pissed.

A just as accurate comparison would be comparing Wanda's actions to those of Strange Supreme in episode 4 of What If? Wanda and that version of Strange both lost their loved ones (Wanda lost Vision, Strange lost Christine Palmer). Wanda proceeded to subconsciously take a town hostage for a week due to a grief-induced mental breakdown triggering reality warping powers she was not aware of, but then willfully stopped once she became fully aware of how her grief was hurting the people of Westview. Strange Supreme destroyed his entire universe in trying to bring Christine back from the dead, and did so consciously and deliberately.

Wanda’s line here is calling out the misogyny of her treatment after Westview and Strange’s actions in No Way Home. Specifically that she altered reality by accident, had no idea she could do something like that and put things right as soon as she realised. Strange f*cked up a spell, brought beings from other realities to his own, and was only able to send them back after a teenager cured their enhancements and told Strange to make everyone forget him.

Motive also matters. Strange basically decided to do a casual Obliviation spell on the Earth because a couple teenagers couldn't get into MIT because one of them was a superhero who was negligent when it came to divulging his secret identity, and as a result, the multiverse nearly fell apart. Of course Wanda's going to say Strange has no skin in the game to be talking down.

But it’s also very important to note that this line isn’t one to be said by a villain. Villains don’t say being called an enemy and a villain is unfair and then continue to be villainous. Villains are villains because they like it. Wanda doesn’t want to be a villain, she never has. At the end of WandaVision, she tells Monica that she has to better understand her power and I would theorise that that’s what she is doing in the Westview house (unlikely to be real). I theorise that Wanda has entered her own subconscious and has to get her darker half under her control. When one is crying and the other is comforting, does it really seem like it is malicious? Really?

That's definitely a better theory than the theories that I'm seeing based off the leaks that are circulating on Reddit.

Also Strange had another sorcerer - his superior - tell him not to do the spell. He ignored it because of his arrogance. It's not surprising Peter - a teenager - might want a quick fix. Dr Strange was supposed to be smarter and more responsible than a teenager.

It's pretty clear from No Way Home that if anything, Strange still has as much of an ego as he did before he became a sorcerer. This is the same egotistical man who thought trying to use his phone while driving at over 100 mph was a smart idea, who was picky and choosy about which patients to save, and said ego is also what strained his relationship with Christine.

To me the MCU frequently has a dominant arrogant male dictating what is right and wrong. Like Tony who tried to force the team to do what he wanted due to his guilt but when Cap said no, Tony tried to physically force them into it.

There are definitely parallels between Tony and Doctor Strange. Although I would prefer to hang out with Doctor Strange over Tony if I had to choose one of them.

“You break the rules, and become a hero. I do it and I become the enemy. That doesn’t seem fair.”

Let’s talk about this line. This glorious line.

An accident vs a deliberate action. No wonder Wanda is pissed.

“Vizh had his theories. He believed it was dangerous.”

Why would Wanda acknowledge and accept that Vision’s - her true love - theories about the Multiverse and then open it wider? It wouldn’t make any sense.

Therefore, by the information purely from the trailers for this film, I can’t see how she would go on to be the big bad of this movie. She doesn’t want to be evil, and a villain arc is the LAST thing she needs. She needs to heal, she needs to get her darker half under control and I think that’s what her arc will be in this film.

#wanda maximoff #doctor strange #stephen strange #doctor strange in the multiverse of madness #wandavision #spider-man: no way home #wong #wong (mcu)

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renaroo · 8 years ago

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My Perspective on This Idiocy

I have a hate-fascination with Nick Spencer. I’ve read his comic Bedlam and thought it was just about the best comic he was capable of writing because creator-owned Image publications tend to be quite a bit of insight into the creator.

Now if you don’t know about Bedlam it’s a comic where a maniacal, Joker-esque villain known as Madder Red terrorized a city until he seemingly died in a final fight with his heroic adversary. In truth he was captured by some mysterious organization that “reformed” him through questionable means. And suddenly he is working along with the police force to try and stop other villainous maniacs while constantly being on edge with whether or not his reform actually worked.

An inherently evil man, secretly reformed, infiltrating the side of justice he once worked against, in order to maintain law and order. The sort of thing which had it happened with a Red Skull or a Joker people would (rightfully) lost their shit because the moral event horizons for the characters are so far removed from the concept of reformation in reality we wouldn’t be able to accept it.

I read Bedlam at the time and was fascinated by a dark inversion of what the only “end point” for undeniable evil in a comic book world could be, but I was also in my very light, very short “dark and gritty” phase of being an 18 year old life long comic reader.

What I’m getting at is that since then I care a lot more about the motivations of why people choose to write such stories and frame them the way they do than I did when I was younger.

My next hate-fascination with Nick Spencer wasn’t other indie titles like Morning Glories (which I missed the boat on) or his run on Ant-Man (which I skipped because I haven’t had a huge relationship with the character), but with his involvement with the “Superior Spider-Man” storyline Dan Slott was penning, Spencer writing Superior Foes of Spider-Man. If you don’t remember, that was a storyline where Doc Ock was dying so he switched brains with Peter Parker and left Parker to die in his old body but decided to be a pompous asshole version of Spider-Man and outdo his predecessor culminating in an issue where he dates Mary Jane briefly so that Slott could continue to fuck with MJ fans and have an issue where the cover had MJ in her underwear. Classy.

Spencer obviously didn’t have a lot to do with this main storyline (though the current parallels tells me a lot about the values Marvel puts in maintaining the concept of what superheroes even are), but he wrote the ancillary book that was allotted by a lot of fans and critics that turned the Sinister Six into a Suicide Squad/Secret Six-like morally questionable-to-bankrupt protagonists whose exploits you come to hate yourself for cheering on as gleefully as you do, especially in the face of inevitable defeat.

Humanizing and giving voice to the side of the people comics have traditionally used as hatable enemies easy to root against.

The next bout of hate-fascination I’ve had is with this tire fire that has been his run with Captain America and what we’ve seen as the moral collapsing of the entirety of the Marvel Universe. A world where the Nazis were supposed to win WWII and the Allies decided that the MU as we’ve known it, as crafted by Jack Kirby, Joe Simon, Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, and many others (mostly Jewish creators), was actually a FALSE reality crafted by the Allies after-the-fact where they made sure to defeat Hitler, but allowed the Holocaust to happen. A fact that REALLY can’t be overlooked considering what a vital role it plays in Magneto’s life and his descendants’ lives, not to mention the parallels of the struggles of the X-Men in general.

You can follow the entirety of what has been the Spencer disaster in great articles like this Polygon summary and the same author’s rundown of yesterday’s issue.

But, apparently, people still don’t get it because everything’s cyclical and comics will return to normal by the end of the summer yatta yatta let’s ignore that three months ago there were actual Neo-Nazis including Tila Tequila holding a party in DC where leaked footage shows hate speeches and actual Nazi saluting to “Hail Trump” and the fact that a high level Marvel executive is now a paid member of the Trump White House that also has Steve Bannon and Stephen Miller.

Let’s instead look at what this says about Nick Spencer as a writer. The man is a professed Liberal, a huge Hillary supporter apparently during her campaign, and also a man baby who takes offense to everything on Twitter Dan Slott-style, and apparently has an inability to reflect upon his own body of work and see the trends that are glaringly obvious to me just through this short overview.

Nick Spencer is a white, male neo-Liberal suffering from a morbid fascination with the macabre fascism and atrocities of reality, who is just being ‘real’ and ‘edgy’ by making drawn out portrayals of these ideologies, and saying “implications and moral grandstanding be damned” because (for reasons that he pretends to be oblivious to) this sort of villainous humanizing and morality postulating world where “Social Justice” terms can be hurled by careless, strawmen “actual bad guys” and Black characters who suffer racist abuses in- and out-of-universe apologize to their white friend sells to the white, male 18-35 demographic.

Is Nick Spencer a neo-Nazi or support the real world fascism he uses in his stories? I don’t know, I don’t really care.

But I know why he’s using it to sell comics, and I find that fact unforgivable both for him and for Marvel. And for him to act like he’s being attacked for “simply writing good, controversial stories” while he and his buddies claim that the REAL PROBLEMS at Marvel right now are diversity and that damn DC putting out content people are gravitating toward instead of shitty comics where Captain America and the whole world are actually Nazis the whole time, shows me where convictions of his sort really lie.

You can stamp your “I’m With Her” stickers all over your forehead and lambast Trump tweets all day, Nick Spencer, but like most white, male neo-Liberals I have met in my life it doesn’t really make a difference because your nose is still stuck up the assholes of the people you actually relate to because other communities you “champion” for are harder to understand and more complex to portray the humanizing elements of compared to moral quanderies of “punching that guy who kinda looks like me and had a life like mine just because he has a stupid haircut and talks about the symbolism of Peppe the Frog while proclaiming the superiority of the White Race makes us just as bad as Hitler, guys”.

Yeah, it’s easier. Just like it’s easier to say you’re pro-Diversity, pro-Women, pro-LGBTQA+, pro-Progressive ideals to avoid being called out or questioned, but much harder to write with a conscience perspective for those groups while playing to your actual target audience.

So my hate-fascination with Nick Spencer has come full circle. He’s ironically hit his own moral event horizon. And he’ll possibly make himself and Marvel lots of money while doing so. But it won’t be from the demographics that are actually growing in America and worldwide. It’ll be from the one that’s been shrinking for 20 years now and, historically, already lost this war once.

Not that Nick Spencer’s current Nazi fever dream likes to admit that they actually lost it.

I’m going to declare my hate-fascination with Spencer over. Not because I think his career is over, not because I don’t think he’ll make some other big waves with some other stupidity (probably on twitter) later. But because he’s finally reached the apex of this little journey in his writing career. And it’s boringly average white fanboy fare in the big picture of comics.

Characters and comics are immortal, writers and artists are temporary, but the shame of this douchebaggery is hopefully going to be immortal.

It will be for as long as I’m blogging, at least.

#long post #Rants of Unusual Size #opinions opinions opinions #Nick Spencer #Marvel critical #nazism tw

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