Marvel One-shots

Peter Parker The Pothead

I stg my friends give me the weirdest prompts. Aka whatever this is; a crack fic? At any rate prepare yourself for some angst and feels. This took forever to figure out how to write, but enjoy!
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It had been awhile, Parker noted, as he brought the thin paper to his lips and lit the other end. Now set ablaze Parker inhaled hungrily on the joint, seeping up every plume of smoke he could draw with his powerful lungs; his heightened abilities made them abnormally strong, meaning the one gram joint would be gone in seconds.

Much to his displeasure, Parker finally pulled away and slowly let the gathering smoke drift from between his lips. He glanced down at his hand, a goofy grin splitting onto his features at the sight of the already half devoured joint. He nodded his head slightly, his eyes slightly glazed at the thought.

Not too long after, the joint returned to its rightful place and Peter Parker continued happily blazing on a beautiful Saturday night.

It had become ritual for the wall-crawler, especially after Bens death, to come here; an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the docks in Queens. It was very small compared to most warehouses on this strip of the docks, but that just made it that much easier to box. Something he didn't do often, but found inifinite joy in. Especially when he would swing around the warehouse in his suit, a fat blunt in one hand held with grace. He would swing from banister to banister and take a hit each time.

Most times he found himself doing what he was now; sitting on the roof, gazing out over the water and drinking in the sight of the sunset or the moon whether it be waning or full.

He also had a ritual in how he smoked, that he followed fairly closely. When doing joints, he'd burn through half of what he'd rolled in one lengthy inhale. Then let himself savour the rest of it slowly, while the weed intoxicated his mind. It made the second half so much more enjoyable then it already was. Sometimes he'd switch to blunts, and sometimes he'd whip out his Deadpool bubbler; on extremely rare occasions his 3 foot staned glass bong that was smoother than slicing butter.

But today was a joint day. And he didn't mind that one bit.

He took another puff, wrapping his thick flannel jacket around his lithe frame absentmindedly, careful not to disturb the other 4 rolled beauties in his pocket.

He was already five in, but with his enhanced metabolism it took more than 3 grams to make him at least a little bit stoned. And tonight he planed on getting shitfaced. (He had been experimenting with a Sativa strain to increase the THC content to essentially get him higher easier, and without having to smoke three god damn grams everytime just to feel something. But so far he had no such like with that.) After the long stressful day and being Spiderman, Peter Parker was absolutely done with the day. And don't even get him started on Tony Stark.

He adored his mentor, but sometimes he just couldn't see eye to eye with the egotistical man.

Oh now he felt weightless; his favorite stage of stonedness. It was then that his senses would dull and he wouldnt have to worry about all the extra incoming sensory information.

The Queens traffic sounded muddled and underwater to him now, and the only scent he could pick up on was the reek of weed. The roughness of his second hand jacket didn't feel like knives against his skin, and the fruity taste in his mouth was suplememnted with horrible cotton mouth; a small price to pay for unadulterated pleasure.

So Peter Parker was the happiest teenager in the world right now, and he felt the normalist too; a feeling that eluded him ever since the spider bite.

It was beautiful.

"So is MJ." Peter's mouth supplied. And the hero couldn't help but crack a grin at the thought of Michelle Jones. Now she was real beauty. Everything about the introvert intoxicated Peter, or was it the joint he had just smoked? Either way he was intoxicated, and he revelled in it.