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In hindsight, the first comment didn’t bother him much. Maybe he should’ve just let it go.
@dpplgnger1: only photographer the bugle has on payroll???
Despite the fact Peter was having surprising success teaching at Brooklyn Visions Academy, he still found himself bringing pictures of Spider-Man into the Daily Bugle at least once a week. It could’ve been because of nostalgic loyalty or commitment to his secret identity’s concealment or maybe it was just that whenever he wasn’t taking photos of Spider-Man, Jonah seemed to greenlight the most unflattering pictures of him possible, but either way, he enjoyed seeing his work on the front page when he picked up the paper or visited the Bugle’s website.
“I am not the only photographer the Bule has on payroll,” Peter mumbled under his breath, scrolling down to better reread the comment, “You ever consider that I’m just the best, asshole?”
“Are you seriously responding to comments on your own photography again?” Miles asked from the desk across from Peter, still adamant about worming his way into the empty classroom during lunch, “I thought you were gonna stop doing that, man. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to feed the trolls?”
“ You’re a troll,” Peter huffed, typing his response up quickly, “And if these people get to hate for no reason, I get to respond however I want.”
@pparkerbugle: Would like to see you do better.
“There,” Peter said with a satisfied nod.
“Whatever you say, Pete,” Miles hummed, taking a bite out of his horrible salami and Dorito sandwich monstrosity, “Just don’t come crying to me when this snowballs.”
“It’s not gonna snowball,” Peter responded firmly, “I’m just gonna put this guy in his place so he knows to keep his opinions to himself and that’ll be the end of it.”
That was not the end of it, to the surprise of no one except Peter. The comments continued to roll in whenever his’s photography was used, each one more condescending than the last.
@dpplgnger1: guess the bugle is taking what they can get right now
“Look at this,” he said, shoving his phone into Johnny’s flaming hands as he quickly extinguished himself in an attempt to avoid melting it, “What’s this guy’s issue?”
“Leave it alone, Spider-man,” Matt sighed, already subjected to Peter’s complaining on two other occasions that day, “Don’t feed the trolls. Be the bigger person.”
“I’m not even going to begin to tell you how hypocritical that is coming from you, D,” Peter said, “This guy needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Watch and learn, webhead,” Johnny scoffed, “If this doesn’t get that guy to lay off, nothing will.”
@pparkerbugle: I’m sure your girlfriend is doing the same.
“Boom. Absolutely destroyed. Don’t say I never did anything good for you, Spidey,” Johnny gloated, tossing the phone back with a triumphant grin.
“Don’t you think you’re both a little too invested in this?” Matt asked, crossing his arms with a frown.
“Nope.”
“Not really, no.”
“I don’t know why I bother,” Matt sighed, “Let’s move on now, please?”
“Sure,” Peter agreed, “I’m sure that guy won’t be commenting again.”
He did comment again. In fact, he began commenting on every article that had ever featured one of Peter’s photos, even going back through old ones that had pre-dated the Bugle website and been transferred over to the digital archive.
“This is such bullshit.”
“Yes, Peter, I heard you the first time you said it,” Felicia said flatly, eyes not lifting from her novel as he paced fervently across the ceiling, phone gripped so tightly she thought it might crumble to the floor.
“This photo is practically a Pulitzer prize winner ! Who the hell does this guy think he is?” Peter practically shouted.
“Someone who doesn’t get worked up over pixels on a screen?”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Peter said, dropping down from the ceiling.
“And you’re supposed to be reheating the takeout, remember? Guests coming? One secret sister and two clones? Any of this ringing a bell?”
“I’ll ring doppelganger one’s bell,” Peter grumbled, retreating to the kitchen to complete his previously forgotten task.
“You do that and I will get the door,” she responded as the roaring of familiar engines sounded from the driveway, “What is it with you Parkers and bikes?”
“Ben’s last name isn’t Parker,” Peter said, “And bikes are objectively the best form of transportation.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Felicia mocked, setting aside her book and stretching as she rose from the couch to answer the door, “If bikes were the best form of transportation, you wouldn’t have crashed three in the past year.”
“Peter Parker didn’t crash any bikes,” he shouted, “Spider-man crashed those bikes. Peter Parker doesn’t have a license.”
“Peter Parker needs to come greet his siblings and be a gracious host,” Ben called as he stepped inside.
Peter sighed, triple checking that the microwave wouldn’t burst into flames the second he stepped away before making his way back to the living room. Teresa handed off a bottle of champagne to Felicia before turning to Peter, a familiar smile on her face.
“Hi, Peter,” Teresa greeted, pulling him into a tight hug as Ben waved his own hello from where he stood conversing with Felicia in the doorway.
“I’m seeing a distinct lack of dessert, guys,” Peter joked, looking between the two of them, “Don’t tell me you dropped it on the way over.”
“Very funny,” Teresa remarked, rolling her eyes and lightly pushing his shoulder, “Didn’t Ben tell you Kaine was doing the dessert this time?”
“ No, he didn’t. You know why he didn’t? Because I would’ve said, ‘Gee, Ben, that’s probably not a good idea. Let’s put him on chips instead.’” Peter said, jabbing a finger into Ben’s chest before turning on his heels dramatically, “Should I just go ahead and call the bakery now?”
“Be nice,” Teresa scolded, “It’s not like he’s going to poison you.”
“You don’t know that. He set his name in my phone to ‘The Evil One.’ He sent a glitter bomb to my home. He beat me with a metal pipe and called me an orphan.”
"Pretty sure you made that last one up," she replied, "Considering the fact he's also an orphan."
"The point still stands."
“He’s also the only one that can bake,” Ben reminded him.
“I could’ve run to the store-”
“And if he did poison you it would be warranted,” he continued, “Because you’re a dick.”
“Pot, Kettle.”
“Stop yapping and open the door! I can hear you from halfway down the block!” Kaine yelled, accompanying his demand with a pounding knock.
Peter groaned as Ben moved to open the door, “If I need to be a good host, he needs to be a good houseguest.”
“I brought dessert didn’t I?” Kaine scoffed, shrugging off his jacket and shutting the door behind him, “You’re always complaining.”
“He’s got you there,” Felicia commented, pressing a kiss to his cheek and continuing to the kitchen with a final call over her shoulder,
“Play nice!”
“That better be something good,” Peter warned, looking down at the pink cake box as if it might leap up and bite him, “You didn’t make a flavor I hate for the sole purpose of spiting me, did you?”
“Why don’t you can it and just look?” Kaine snarked, shoving the box into Peter’s hands, “Don’t you ever stop talking?”
“Whatever,” Peter muttered, slowly opening the box with one hand and looking down to see–
“Are you kidding me?”
Written in perfect, black cursive on the top of the solid white cake, was the most infuriating string of words Peter’s eyes had ever been subjected to:
only photographer the bugle has on payroll
“ You?” Peter spluttered, looking Kaine up and down, “ You’re the person who’s been commenting on my pictures for the past three months? You don’t know how to use a computer! You own a flip phone !”
“You made an account on the Bugle website just to get a rise out of Peter?” Ben asked, Teresa standing behind him and trying her best to look disapproving, though the slight twitch of her lips gave her amusement away.
“Of course not,” Kaine said flippantly, “I had Aracely make an account on the Bugle website just to get a rise out of Peter. And you know why?”
Kaine placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, tightening his grip and looking him in the eye with a solemn expression, “Because I hate you. Because you’re a dick.
…And your photography is a hot, steaming pile of garbage.”
“Thanks,” Peter deadpanned.
“And I’m ashamed we share the same blood. And you’re a plague on my very existence,” he continued.
“Alright, alright, I get it! ”