Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter is well and truly doomed if not even the snow can smother the ache.

It collaborates with his misery, actually. Filling the empty space of his skull with a static that bounces off the soft tissue of his brain. The prickle is too sharp to be comfortable, yet it’s all encompassing, leaving him overstuffed and pushing at the seams, bleeding excess fluid out of his ears. 

Once upon a time, the snow would’ve only messed with his senses, smearing them like paint across a child’s canvas. It left him disoriented, grumpy, and reaching for a bottle of Tylenol. As someone who relied on their reflexes as much as he did, he used to despise it, hating the way it muddled the world around him.

Now, though, he’d do anything just to get a taste of that drunken confusion. 

His head is too full. Inundating. Planting a headache so deep into the soft tissues of his brain, it roots behind his eyes and grows like a tumor. He feels less human and more like an organism suffering from symbiosis—only along for the ride, but enduring all the consequences. 

But even as his mind bursts at the seams, and his senses devolve into the equivalent of a drunkard dancing the Tango, the world is still frustratingly, painfully sharp. 

Tires screeching against asphalt. Horns honking. Vehicles veering. A mother screams.

Peter winces, shaking his head as he crosses the street. Traffic doesn’t stop for him, but he didn’t expect it to. Cars zip in front and behind him, honking as they narrowly miss his leg or arm, and he closes his eyes, massaging his temples in an attempt to alleviate the ache as images and impressions push against his brain. 

A cabbie distracted on his phone veers too close to the sidewalk. He won’t see the little girl stopping to pick up her glove, having dropped it in the street gutter. Her mother will shriek, shrill and horrified, as blood splatters across the pavement.

Peter sees it all like a movie playing behind his eyelids. The world, already moving at a snail's pace, becomes even slower as the events begin to unfold like the butterfly wings of Edward Lorenz’s chaos theory. 

He rubs his temple harder, narrowly missing a truck’s headlight, and pauses to let a car zoom past. Down the road to his right, the cabbie starts to veer towards the sidewalk. Nearby, a little girl in a bright pink raincoat stumbles, dropping her mitten. Head panging, Peter groans. Of course, he couldn’t even go for a walk without some disaster happening. 

Of course. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he makes it to the other side of the street and curls his fingers into the collar of the girl's coat, pulling her out of the way just as the cabbie curses and yanks on the steering wheel. The cab comes up on the sidewalk, jerks back onto the road, and narrowly avoids hitting another car. The crowd jumps in panic, creating a rare, crescent-shaped opening on the overrun walkway. Some scream, some curse, and the mother, realizing how close her daughter was to losing her head, gathers her into her body with wide eyes, a hand splayed over the girl's pigtails. Her face pales, mouth open in horror, as she stares at the skidmark where her child had been. A second later, her gaze flickers to him—this he also knows, despite having his back turned.

“Thank you,” she calls after him, gratitude puffing from her lips in a warm cloud of condensed breath. It’s quickly snatched away by the greed of the winter wind.

But Peter is already gone, engulfed by the multitude of people crowding the street. 

His face scrunches in discomfort as his headache swells, throbbing now. Rubbing harder, his nails dig into his head, turning the tips of his fingers white. 

He’s tried running from New York.

Tried washing his hands of it. Rinsing off its stench, its filth, its life, like a layer of grime, but it’d sunk too deep into his skin. The city drove its hooks so thoroughly into his body, he’ll never truly be free of it. As soon as he steps foot inside, it strings him up, tethering him to its concrete floors and blood-matted walls like a hog for slaughter. 

He despises its overbearing closeness. It’s noise. Its habit of getting into trouble and the resulting infestation of “heroes” that fight to hold off the rot. And yet, he feels more at peace here than any other metropolis he’s wandered through. It sands his rough edges into smooth curves, settles his rippling frustrations into calm waters, and spreads across his skin like an oily balm. To fall back into its embrace is akin to sinking into the arms of an abusive mother—a painful ordeal that tears apart all the clumsily sewn stitches keeping him together, but, oh, he can’t help but crave her love. 

His feet drag him from street to street for a while, uncaring about where they’ll take him, and unsurprised where he ends up. The building in front of him is old and weathered. A recreational center for troubled youths now turned homeless center for anyone down on their luck. An ancient looking clay pot—with a long-since dead plant inside—keeps one of the double doors propped open, just wide enough to let passersby know it’s available for the public without letting in the winter chill. The banner strung above the door is wet and hangs limply to the side. The words FEAST CENTER are faded, but still, somehow, warm and inviting.

Temptation pools in the tips of his fingers, turning his hands heavy. It would be so easy to walk inside and find a spot next to one of the numerous space heaters to chase away the cold. Or play a game of chess with an old, wizened resident who’d suffered too much of the city's neglect, and yet was always on the lookout for a young ear to impart life lessons on. The smell of soup wafts through the crack in the door, barely enough to carry on the wind, but Peter catches it, digging into it with his nails. It’s brothy, loaded with onions, meat, and vegetables. A meal meant to fill the stomach. 

The temptation becomes an itch. 

He knows the hands that spent hours preparing it. A food as familiar to him as frigid wind between skyscrapers and poorly maintained rooftops. More, even. He can already taste the broth on his tongue as it warms every nook and cranny of his being. He’d come home from school on cold winter days to a bowl of this soup, cheeks red and glasses fogged. 

The longing feels like a dagger right through his ribs. Looking only makes it hurt worse, and he can’t take it out less he bleed to death. 

He takes one step onto the concrete stairs and then turns on his heels, fleeing in the opposite direction. 

His apartment is the same as when he left it. 

Nothing is changed, nothing is missing, and nothing was added. It’s dark. His headache will only worsen if he turns on the light, so he shuts the door behind him, snuffing out the yellow glow from the hallway, and tosses his coat to the side as he weaves through the darkened rooms with a practiced ease he doesn’t even need his spider-sense for. 

The tame, lackluster parties he’s had with his college friends linger in the room like sad, lonely ghosts. MJ sitting on the arm of the couch with her arm thrown over Harry’s shoulder. Gwen on his other side with her feet in his lap. Flash rifling through the fridge, looking for food. The late-night talks and movie marathons they’d had. Studying on the couch with their books spread out on the coffee table, complaining about Peter’s tardiness despite him sneaking in through his bedroom window, listening to them talk as he bled out in the bathtub. Hiding the bloodied towels from Harry, who kept insisting the dryer was eating them. He always bought more, anyway. 

Peter veers to the small kitchen to grab an icy bottle from the fridge—some alcoholic drink he’d randomly grabbed from the corner store last time he was here—and presses it to his forehead, hoping it’ll numb the ache. 

Groaning, he collapses onto the couch, one leg dangling over the side. The cushions bend comfortably around the shape of his body, molded from years of falling asleep mid-movie. He contemplates turning the TV on, for old time's sake, but his head pangs at the mere suggestion, so he settles for comforting darkness as drops of condensation slide down the bottle and collect on his skin. Inhaling, he holds his breath hostage for as long as he can—eight to ten minutes, give or take—and releases it. 

The octogenarian couple next door, who’ve been here since Peter started and graduated college—and will probably still be here after he’s died—are watching the same 80’s sitcom they have been for the last eleven years. Someone new had moved into the apartment downstairs—a baby monitor crackles like aluminum foil, barely covering the deep, sleepy breaths of the baby (it's a wonder it can even sleep under all that racket). The same balding, middle-aged man lives upstairs, still indulging in the company of other women as his wife works a night shift at the hospital several blocks away. 

“Yeah, like that, baby. Just like that,” he pants. The bedsheets rustle as the frame rhythmically bumps against the wall. 

Thump-thump-thump.

Peter cringes and throws his free arm over his eyes. His sleeve scratches against the prickly hairs beginning to grow around his jawline and he makes a mental note to shave before leaving New York. He never did look good with a beard. 

“A five o'clock shadow, yes,” MJ once said, running her manicured fingers along his jaw and scratching at it with her nails, like she’d trim it for him personally. “But a beard? Sorry Tiger, but it’s just not you.” 

Peter had been offended at the time, but after letting it grow and fester like a ratty alley cat—and receiving a shaving kit from Flash as a birthday present in May (his birthday is in August)—he accepted that he couldn’t pull it off. Not like Eddie can.

The asshole. 

There’s another moan, and the slap of flesh-on-flesh gets louder, their panting faster, and Peter can’t ignore it no matter how hard he tries to block it out. It doesn’t help that it’s been a while since he’s performed maintenance on his body in that way, much less had sex for the sake of pleasure. A realization his libido is very unhappy with now that it has been reintroduced to the sound of coupling. 

He allows himself a second to feel weird about listening to his neighbor's boning, more so because he’s actually having a reaction to it, before sighing and unbuttoning his pants. Already half-hard, he strokes himself firmly, urging the blood to flow quickly now that he’s given into temptation. Closing his eyes, he focuses on the rustle of the sheets, the thump of the bed frame against the wall, and the wet sounds of sex. It doesn’t take long to get fully erect, but that’s not what he’s worried about. 

He bites his lip, pumping himself faster, as his brain sharpens. Instead of letting him sink into his desire, it begins revealing things to him that he doesn’t care to know. 

“Yeah, you like that, huh?” The man is going to say, so full of confidence it’s embarrassing.  

“Yeah. Yeah, just like that.” She’s going to reply. Peter winces at the lie. 

But he shakes his head, driving the foresight away. His brain hums louder in response and the world starts playing out in front of him, even as he scrambles to keep pace.  

A laugh track from the sitcom. The old couple discussing their favorite episodes. The husband knocks into his dinner tray and shatters a glass on the floor. The baby wakes up and cries. The man in the room above finishes with a grunt, and the woman is going to pretend to do the same.

“Yeah, you like that, huh?” He says, confident. 

“Yeah. Yeah, just like that.” She lies. 

Peter grits his teeth. “Come on,” he hisses, bucking into his hand, desperation creeping on him. An unwanted, yet frustratingly familiar, nuisance. 

“Let me hear you, baby,” the man is going to say. “Come on, tell me how good it is.” 

A laugh-track. 

The woman is going to moan, pulling him closer, moving against him, seeking a friction he isn’t satisfying.

Peter’s interest ebbs. 

“Come on, Carol, this is still one of the best episodes,” the old husband laughs. “This one and the one wherethey- whoa, hey!” A glass shatters. 

Peter pumps himself faster, urgent. 

“Let me hear you, baby,” says the man. “Come on, tell me how good it is.” 

The baby cries and its older brother walks into the room to soothe it. 

The man finishes with a grunt and the woman mimics half-heartedly. Peter lets himself go with a frustrated huff, sinking back into the couch. He’s still hard, but the moment passes, and his interest flags quickly. The brother below attempts to sing his baby-sibling a lullaby, the old couple laugh, talking about their favorite moments in the show as they clean up the glass, and the woman goes to the shower to attempt to get herself off as her lover curls up in bed, already half asleep. 

Peter could try to hold onto the sliver of heat still marinating in his gut, but what’s the point? He knows this song and dance all too well, and it’s just as unfulfilling as the last several times he’s attempted to match its tune. There’s a specific brand of dullness that comes from knowing the future. It took away an edge he didn’t realize he craved until it was sanded down and smooth. 

“Hello? Spider? I have a job I think you’ll find most profitable for someone of your…caliber.” 

Peter tucks himself into his pants and uncaps the bottle, taking a long swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he rifles through his bag—leaning against the bottom of the couch where he’d tossed it—until he finds his work phone. Sitting on the edge of the cushion, he stares at its blank screen, impatience building second by second, before it finally lights up. He flips it open on the first ring. 

“I’ll take the job.” 

Spider is the best at what he does, and what he does isn’t very nice. 

He likes to tell people that because it pisses Logan off. The catchphrase is slowly becoming his, stolen like candy from a very angry, very stabby baby with cigar breath. The gnarled old mutant promised to flay his hide for it, especially on those warm, sunny days back when they were tracking operatives in Russia and didn’t have anything better to do with their time. Fortunately, he had a knack for evading the pointy end of Logan’s fists, and his hide remained—more or less—intact. 

As amusing as it is to print the catchphrase on business cards and slip them into Logan’s wallet, it’s actually surprisingly accurate to Peter, considering his “friendlier” moniker in the past. He is the best at what he does, and, well, what he does isn’t very nice. 

It’s not very nice of him to kick the back of Slasher’s arm, splitting the bone into two floppy pieces and shooting him in the face. Or was it Scratcher? Shiver? It’s hard to keep track of every new name that pops up in the merc’circle jerk—though Spider is generally regarded as more of an assassin if you want to get technical. Not a lot of people care for semantics, least of all poor Shrouder, who is nothing but splattered brains on the wall now. 

Peter is on the ceiling before the body hits the floor and arches backward in clear defiance of gravity, throwing the knife he’d slipped from late-Skiver’s belt, impaling another merc in the eye. It comes out through the other end of their skull, messy with blood and brain matter. A valid attempt at getting the drop on him if he didn’t sense them coming five minutes ago. 

“Freeze! Hands in the air!” Two security guards are going to appear down the hall. The one on the left is nervous and twitchy. The other has an itchy trigger finger. 

Peter releases the empty clip from the gun he stole, tosses it aside, and rummages through Skiver’s corpse for a fresh one as the sounds of feet on linoleum gradually gets louder. The security guards are coming up the stairwell now, jittery and full of adrenaline. Newbies, probably. Their first official breaking and entering. It’s cute. 

He’s still got a few minutes, so he retrieves his knife from where it’s embedded into the wall and cleans it with the sleeve of the dead mercenary’s shirt. The steps get louder. Peter lifts the gun and fires without looking, just as two guards round the corner. 

“Freez- AGH!”

The first guard hits the ground, clutching the nubs where her fingers, and part of her hand, used to be. The second barely squeezes the trigger before getting a bullet in the kneecap. They’re unimportant. All they’re going to do is stay here, crying and holding their injuries, until paramedics arrive, and he doesn’t care to waste the ammo. He breezes past them from the ceiling in a red and black blur. 

This was supposed to be a profitable job for someone of his “caliber.” So why the fuck is he rubbing elbows with a guy with a giant S on his chest, calling himself “The Shiv.” 

Huh, actually, Peter might’ve shot him before he introduced himself; the guy's name was nothing but a fly-by thought that he didn’t bother memorizing because he wasn’t even supposed to be here. 

Whatever. He’s stopped waiting for people to catch up to him when he’s already miles ahead of the race. It takes too long and drains his patience.

“Never again,” he hisses, jumping from ceiling to wall to floor, webbing doors shut before those behind them can burst through and grate on his nerves even more. Then again, maybe he’ll leave one open just to stir the pot. One of them might have a trick up their sleeve he won’t see coming (they don’t).

Or maybe he’ll track down the bastard that commissioned him and carve their eyes out with his paring knife. They’ve officially earned themselves a place in his black book. 

“I’m never taking a job from this bozo again.” 

The “bozo” being a random no-name offering a lot of cash to take out a mutant trafficker and download their files to a hard drive, which is to be delivered to an undisclosed address given only after the drive is compiled. An easy job. More like an errand, really. Good money. And beating up traffickers is already a hobby of his. It’s just what he needs. 

That is, until every newbie in the biz did the same, too green to know when to back off. 

“The money goes to whoever snags the prize,” he can imagine Bozo saying. “To ensure the job is completed.” 

Peter is going to ensure that Bozo is intimately acquainted with a tombstone as soon as he gets out of this clown-fest. 

It’s not unheard of for a client to hire more than one gun to do their dirty work, but it’s still a shitty thing to do. It’s telling just how paranoid Bozo is, and his desperation to take out this target is a red flag in of itself. And a possible avenue for more money if Peter plays his cards right. He’ll look into it when he doesn’t have to deal with Black Ant marching through the door up ahead, trying to melt his brain with a laser gun. 

He’s going to turn the corner, see Peter, and recoil. 

“Oh no, you don’t! This job is mine!” He’s going to shout and shrink down, flying at him the size of an ant to attack him from above, peppering him with lasers that are going to activate the sprinklers.  

Peter takes a second to debate whether he wants the sprinklers to go off. It makes the walls slippery, but it’ll also wash away evidence and hide his tracks. He hums to himself, pulling a small silver orb out of one of his pouches, and counts the seconds. 

Nah, his webs will dissolve within the hour and he’s going to wipe the cameras on his way out, anyway. 

He flicks the orb, and it flies down the hall, rolling across the floor and coming to a stop at Black Ant’s feet, just as he turns the corner. He recoils in surprise, spotting Peter crawling on the ceiling. 

“Oh no, you-“ 

The orb pulses, releasing a condensed electromagnetic wave that knocks Black Ant’s servers on their ass and the mercenary hits the ground like a deep-fried toaster. Peter doesn’t pause to make sure he’s out. He’s confident he is. It’ll take five minutes for Ant’s processors to come back online, and six more to do a full system check. Spider will be long gone by then. 

Even rubbing elbows with every other hired gun on the block, this job is still laughably, boringly easy. 

He tears open a vent and uses it as a passage to his target’s panic room. Not directly into the room, because not even they are that stupid, but it spits him out in their office and he makes his way from there. The panic room door is solid metal, several inches thick. Peter considers his options. 

If he wants to draw it out, he can punch it until it pops like a soda can. Or he can waste time and pick the lock. Or—he dips his fingers into his pouches again, withdrawing a small tube—he can dissolve the hinges in acid and see how well his new formula works. 

The paste is white, horrid smelling, and immediately hisses when it makes contact with the metal alloy, bubbling against it. As it eats its fill, Peter does an inventory check. He doesn’t carry heavy artillery on him; guns are bulky and he’s built for stream-lined fighting. Swords are too long and get in the way—it’s not his preferred style of maiming, anyway. He has a few knives strapped to his hips and thighs, a diverse collection of cartridges in his web-shooters, and pouches full of goodies he’d cooked up in his kitchen. It’s all he needs. 

The hissing slows and the metal moans under its weight. Peter doesn’t bother checking its progress, he knows it’s almost weak enough to buckle on its own. But where’s the fun in that? He plants his foot in the center of the door and pushes outward with his toes; the door groans, whines, and topples, hitting the ground with a loud THUD that rattles through the floor. 

He has his knife out, and his next steps are already laid out in a neat and tidy list. 

1). His target is sitting in their chair

2). They’re staring slack-jawed and open-mouthed, surprised at his arrival. 

3). The back of their head is already an explosion of brain matter, skull fragments, blood and— wait. No. That can’t be right. 

His spider-sense stops. Hitches. Recalibrates. 

The coppery tang of blood seeps out of the panic room and he stares wide-eyed at his target, who’s sitting in their chair, slack-jawed and open-mouthed, with a gruesome depiction of their recent demise painted on the wall behind them. Peter’s knife gravitates toward the only other person in the room who’s still breathing.

“It’s about time someone got here,” says a large, hulking man lounging on the target’s plush leather couch, feet propped up on the granite table, as he pops a candied cherry in his mouth. His suit is a familiar combination of black leather and red Kevlar, hung heavy with guns, knives, grenades, pouches, and a pair of dual-katanas strapped to his back. 

Deadpool.

Of course. 

It’s been years since Peter’s seen him—surprising, considering they’re (now) similar line of work—but his deep, garbled voice is just as annoying as the last time he heard it. Old feelings of resentment and frustration resurface, a typical combination when handling the other mercenary. 

“Deadpool,” Peter growls back, holding up his knife. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Waiting for someone to let me out. Which you did. Thanks a bunch.” Deadpool stretches his arms above his head and arches his back, spine popping as he hums in pleasure. Rubbing his thighs, he hauls himself up. “It was really starting to stink in here. He ate burritos for lunch, and it was not as pleasant coming out as it was going in.” 

Peter glances between him and the heavy door. The alarms couldn’t have gone off more than ten minutes ago and the target was down the hall in his office when they did. It’d take him less than a minute to get to the panic room. How the hell did Deadpool-

“Waited in here, babe,” Deadpool says, adjusting the belt holding his heavy pouches with one hand and gesturing to the dead target with the other. “It’s so much easier hiding in the rabbit's den than fighting for it with the other dogs. Heh, you should’ve seen the look on his face.” He makes a gun with his fingers and mimics shooting. “Pow! It was hilarious.” 

Peter shoves his knife back into its sheath on his thigh and rises to his full height, not bothering to hide his annoyance. Great. This was all just a colossal waste of his time. Fantastic.  

“Aw, don’t be mad,” Deadpool coos, waggling his fingers. “You almost had it, Skippy. Maybe next time,” He strolls towards the open door, hips sashaying, and Peter’s spider-sense thrums, forging the world in crisp lines and stark colors. 

He sees the next moment clearly: Deadpool strides past him, bumping their shoulders as he passes. The flash drive is in the second pouch on his left. Ripe for the picking. 

Peter may not have gotten the target, but he can still get the information his client wants and negotiate at least half of the fee—more even, considering he had to take out a handful of other mercs on his way here. It’s only fair. 

He doesn’t bother moving as Deadpool strides up to him, knocking into him as he leaves. Peter moves with the motion, fingers slipping into the lip of the pouch and clinging to the drive, pulling it out in the second it takes for Deadpool to pass. But he’s one step into the panic room when a hand catches his wrist and yanks him backward. He’s pulled him in close and wrenched to the side, shoved up against the wall with his hands pinned to his back. 

He stares at the wall, eyes wide and startled.

“Naughty, naughty,” Deadpool tsks in his ear, the vocal fry of his voice harsh with wry amusement. He twists Peter’s wrist and Peter is too stunned to fight him off. His entire body comes to a smoking, grinding halt as he races to catch up with the last few seconds, scrambling to figure out what the fuck just happened.

“That’s my drive, fair and square,'“ Deadpool continues, so close the vibrations of his voice tickle the back of his neck. “Keep those sticky little fingers of yours to yourself, sweetums, or you might lose them. M’kay?” 

The heat of his body radiates through layers of leather and Kevlar, the smell of blood lingering on its fibers like it’d been stitched in during manufacturing. He presses into Peter, using his entire body to push him further against the wall in a silent warning. His pouches, guns, and large, muscular arms cage him in. The stylized belt buckle of his mask punches into Peter’s skin, right above his tailbone, like a perverse tramp-stamp.

Deadpool lingers for a second longer, a chuckle raising the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck, before pushing off. “You should probably do something about that.” He says over his shoulder, strolling out the room with a chipper wave. 

Peter stays where he is, trying to catch the fluttering bird that his heart had become as it frantically flaps in his chest. Deadpool’s body heat lingers on his back, his own shoulders heavy under the weight of the man’s weapons, and he still can’t make sense of how it happened.

His spider-sense said…Deadpool was supposed to…

It was wrong. 

It’s never been wrong before. Not for years. Not since he’s honed it to such a point that it tattoos the future on his eyelids with nothing but absolute certainty. No one has ever gotten around it. Not even Logan, who’s made it his personal, lifelong mission. 

How the hell…

Slowly, he turns, but Deadpool had already disappeared down the hall. The smell of smoke and gun oil lingers.

“You should probably do something about that.” 

Peter looks down at himself and is actually surprised by the tent in his pants. His skin is hot—electrical—like a live charge of wires running through his body instead of veins. It crackles and sparks with every hitch of his breath and he presses the heel of his hand against his erection in a numb, far-away attempt at making it go away, but the next thing he knows his hands are slipping into his waistband and he grips himself. A spark ignites in his gut, lighting a fire he hasn’t felt since…since too long. His mind races through the last few minutes, trying to pick apart where it’d gone wrong, where it misread the lines. 

Deadpool strides past him, bumping their shoulders on his way out. The flash drive is in the second pouch on his left. Ripe for the picking. 

He shouldn’t have noticed me, Peter thinks in a strange, burst of pleasure. I should’ve been gone long before he even thought to check.

He can still feel the shape of the drive in his palm. The stamp of Deadpool’s belt buckle on his tailbone, like a hot, sizzling brand seared into his skin.

“How the hell?” Peter hisses, leaning back against the wall, pumping himself hard and fast, overcome by the arousal surging through him like a ruptured geyser. “How the hell?” he scrunches his eyes shut as his pleasure builds, careening at him with the speed of a bullet train that slams directly in his heart, so precise it’s terrifying. 

His orgasm hits him hard, punching out of him with a violence befitting of the man who’d unintentionally wrecked his shit, unaware of the mess he’d left in Peter’s brain. All the tangled wires and misfiring charges that were once a meticulous, infallible machine. Peter slumps against the wall and slides down to the floor, staring at the dead target, then at the cum cooling on his hand.

“How the hell?” He whispers. 

For once, his spider-sense doesn’t have an answer.

Chapter Text

When his brain itches, he scratches. 

Uncle Ben’s old portable radio used to sputter with static every three minutes, no matter the program or the weather outside. Peter used to count down the seconds as he did homework at the kitchen table, timing himself to see how long each question took before he heard the unavoidable crackle of radio waves. No matter how much Ben fiddled with it, it always ended with him grumbling under his breath and fitting the radio back on its place on the shelf next to the fridge; crackling again when he inevitably took it back down. 

Over time, the static began to make Peter itch. 

Instead of focusing on homework, his brain drifted to the crackle that prickled the air at the back of his neck, sticking to his brain like strips of velcro that ripped through his focus when he tried tearing it off. The radio didn’t use to do that. It spoke just fine, as crisp and loud as May’s late-night talk shows. Something had to be wrong with it. Something must’ve been knocked loose when Ben tripped and dropped it a few weeks ago. 

The static grew like poison ivy, curling around his brain, coiling and wrapping, until one day, sticky-fingered, 6-year-old Peter Parker pushed one of the kitchen chairs under the shelf and took the radio down. He whisked it away upstairs, behind the closed door of his room, and proceeded to disassemble it piece by piece, laying the parts around him in an organized circle of chaos. Screws, wires, knobs, dials, bulbs, phono cartridges, needles, everything; cataloging its components and where they fit as he took it apart from the roots. One puzzle piece at a time. 

Until Ben got home, sticking his head in Peter’s room to check on him, and his eyes immediately widened in shock. And then anger. 

He’d sentenced Peter to a two-week grounding for “breaking” the radio he’d gotten from his father—the grandfather Peter didn’t know outside a few pictures in the attic—and enough chores to incite child labor laws. Peter listened and listened, and then realigned two crossing wires, screwed the back shut, and turned the radio on. 

No static. 

He’d gotten his sentence down to 1 week for not asking first, and he still had to help clean out the garage, but that old radio didn’t crackle again. Not even years later, when May guilty sold it to a pawnshop to help pay the bills. 

When Peter was 10, his class went on a field trip to a museum for the first time. A treasure trove of information if there ever was one, and the greatest of those treasures was a room full of puzzles that the kids got to play with. He’d solved 6 out of the 10 his class was given before being swept away by his teacher. The museum tour guide took them to a gallery to talk about the Renaissance, but Peter’s brain prickled with restlessness, unable to move past the other 4 puzzles he hadn’t gotten his hands on. When the teacher's back was turned, and the tour guide was busy asking them what certain paintings meant to them, he broke off from the group and followed invisible breadcrumbs back to the puzzle room. 

He solved the last 4 puzzles and then moved on to the additional sets meant for older kids, and solved those too. It took his teacher an hour to notice he was gone, and an additional 30 minutes to track him down with the help of several of the museum’s staff. He’d received a stern talking to from his teacher for his “hijinks,” another from the tour guide, and then another when he got home. But the itch inside him was satisfied, and so was he. 

When he was 15, he snuck into a mutagenic display at Oscorp Labs. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d won the science fair at Midtown High, and apart from getting a 1st place ribbon, he’d also won an opportunity to tour Oscorp’s labs and meet some of their top scientists. They may as well have strapped him to a rocket and shot him through the stars with how over the moon he was, free to ask as many questions about whatever came to mind, 

Starry-eyed and still flying high, he’d been on his way back to the bus that was supposed to take him home, when he came across a group of college students on their way to a display on Oscorp’s research on mutagenics. 

Really, Peter couldn’t not. He’d read about the study on mutagenics and the things they were hoping to accomplish with it; using enhanced animal DNA to regrow limbs, create medicine, and cure diseases. His skin crawled with a desire to see it for himself, prickling like thousands of tiny legs scuttling across his body—the universe's poor attempt at foreshadowing. 

He’d mastered the art of looking small and staying quiet, and no one noticed it when he followed the tail of the college group into the display room. Most of the animals they were using for their research weren't there—but all the experiments were 100% legally safe, the Oscorp guide kept insisting—all except for several glass cases at the end of the room, each holding a cross-bred, genetically enhanced, and abnormally created spider. 

Never in his life had he seen spiders like this, and he’s read every book about spiders he could get his hands on—ever since his obsession with all things creepy-crawley when he was 8. These completely new, never-before-seen spiders were created in a lab. The thought boggled his mind as much as it excited him. He wanted to know everything about all 10 of them. 

Except…there were only 9. 

It took 5 minutes for the adults to realize he was there. It took 4 1/2 minutes for the 10th spider to descend on a hair-thin web and land on his hand. The yelp he’d made was what alerted the adults to his presence. 

Already in trouble for sneaking in, Peter bowed his head and followed an unpaid intern to the bus, hiding his hands in his pockets. He didn’t realize just how itchy the bite was until they were pulling out on the street and he was mindlessly scratching the back of his hand as he stared out the window. 

The itch became a prickle, and then a burn. 

May and Ben were both working late shifts that night and by the time he got home, his hand had swollen almost two times its size and turned a horrid purple color. His phone was dead. The charger was upstairs. He barely made it to his room before he collapsed on the floor and passed out. 

When he woke up, everything had changed. 

He got another lecture from May and Ben for sneaking into the Oscorp display (no mention of any spider) and was subsequently grounded for 3 weeks with TV privileges revoked. But he had a new set of powers to keep his curiosity busy for the time being. 

When Peter Parker’s brain itches, he scratches.

And Deadpool made his brain very, very itchy. 

Like an allergic reaction he didn’t know he suffered from until he was breaking out into hives and his throat was swelling, suffocating him from the inside out. No Epi-pens. No emergency hospital. Just clutching his throat and trying to breathe.

It’s been years since the two of them ran into each other. Years since Peter’s been forced to interact with him. He’d always found Deadpool’s spontaneity to be annoying, his demeanor, grating, and his personality insulting. Their run-ins, while brief, were about as pleasant as sticking a knife in his own spleen. Thankfully, they rarely crossed paths and Peter didn’t have to spare him much thought outside a handful of frustrating encounters. 

And now, after years of being Deadpool-Free, suddenly he’s all Peter can think about. One interaction and his brain is red with welts and rashes, and it’s all he can do but dig his nails in and scratch scratch scratch.

Hacking SHIELD is the easy part. Peter planted a bug in their system years ago, back when they were first nipping at his, Alex, and Logan’s heels like a teething puppy. He routinely upkept his little doggy door into the vast collection of information and secrets SHIELD hoarded like a fairytale dragon. One of his daily affirmations was just how pissed off Nick Fury would be if he knew it was there. 

SHIELD would be all over his ass if they ever found out, so he tried to use it sparingly. And he was probably exhausting his allotted run-time, but there was a bone buried deep in SHIELD’s archives and Peter could dig for hours if necessary. When it came to their file on DEADPOOL, AKA WADE WILSON, SHIELD spared no expense hiding it behind every firewall and security code. It was like sifting through razor blades and trying not to bleed. 

It’s a good thing no one’s been able to cut Peter in years. 

Still, what SHIELD did have on Deadpool was annoyingly small. 

Born in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada. 

Father: Mickey Wilson—Deceased. Cause of Death: House fire. Event of Fire: Unknown. 

Mother: Haley Wilson—Deceased. Cause of Death: House fire. Event of Fire: Unknown. 

Education: Dropped out of High School at 16 years old. 

Enlisted in the army at 18 years old and was quickly transferred to Special Forces soon after. 

82 confirmed kills. 

An additional 23 suspected kills. 

Left the army under Medical Discharge: Cancer. 

And then, nothing. 

Pieces floated here and there. Places Deadpool cropped up and skirmishes he’s been in. People he’s worked with and fought against. A detailed report on his healing factor and weapon prowess—or as detailed as they could get. It seems not even SHIELD knew a lot about Deadpool and how he ticked, and if SHIELD doesn’t know, well, then not many would. 

Peter’s brain itches. 

Or, that might just be his spider-sense. 

He opens the door before his landlord can knock, laptop in hand, reading a mission report detailing Deadpool’s most recent activity in Westchester County. 

“This month's rent was already deposited,” he said without looking up. His landlord opens his mouth. “And yes, I’m aware of the rent increase. Yes, I know the economy is in shambles. And no, that’s no excuse for being a cheap bag of shit.” 

He closed the door and returned to his perch on the couch, huddled in the corner with his laptop propped on his knees. He hears his landlord grumble under his breath and amble away, off to collect pennies from the rest of the shmucks he was extorting. A new landlord, not the one that was here last time Peter allowed the city to draw him back into its arms. He’s been gone a while and ownership did tend to change in his absence as costs went up. 

He makes a mental note to vet the new guy and look up federal and state laws about rent increases. 

When he inevitably exhausts what SHIELD has, he turns to a less collected source of scraps. Online search engines and news sites. He runs another program, also of his own design, that rakes through the scattered leaves of the internet and gathers into a neat pile every mention of Deadpool and Wade Wilson in the last 10 years. A decent amount unearths itself and, giddily, Peter got to work gnawing on those. Most of them are events already documented by SHIELD, but Peter finds that he enjoys reading these “team-ups” and shifty, back-water stories through the eyes of the general populace. 

For someone who most people tended to avoid, Deadpool had a way of getting around—and Peter wasn’t just talking about the teleportation belt he wore on occasion. When Deadpool popped into conversation within Peter’s social circles, he left shortly after—too focused on other things with too little patience to waste time on the other merc. 

Now though, he picks apart every video. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch. 

He ravishes every article and story. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch.  

He devours every theory, factoid, and opinion. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch. 

All too soon he exhausts that resource too and lays back against the armrest with a huff, arms crossed. 

It’s not enough. 

The only logical thing to do next is expand on his research personally. Gather what he knows, pool his resources, and peer review. 

Logan is going to ignore his first six calls but will answer on the seventh. Peter leans against the kitchen counter, twirling the tip of his kitchen knife on the cutting board next to a collection of minced garlic and onion, as Logan picks up. 

“Hi, what’s up? What do you know about Deadpool?” 

“Why?” Logan’ll growl, voice a familiar harsh, rock-salt rasp that would seem like a result of all the cigars he smokes, but with that healing factor of his, who even knows anymore? 

“Don’t worry your pretty little side-burns about that,” Peter chirps, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he gathers his pile of onions and deposits them into a small bowl. “I’m just doing a little bit of research, that’s all, and Fury’s archives only got me so far. You’ve worked with him before, right? Whatya got for me?” 

“Listen, Bub, don’t go sticking your nose in where it don’t belong. It’s better that you don’t ask.” 

“Ever the cryptic,” Peter says, putting the garlic in a bowl as well and adding oil to his pan, and Logan sighs on the other end. “Don’t put me in the kiddie pool now. I’m a big boy, I want to swim in the big kid pool. The Deadpool to be specific.” 

Over the phone, Logan opens his mouth, but Peter barrels on, already well aware of what he’s going to say. “I’m being careful, alright? Seriously, cut the umbilical, pal. It’s sweet that you still care and all, but I’m only calling cause I’ve exhausted all my other resources. Give a guy a hand. You did it plenty back in Yaroslavl.” He waggled his eyebrows. 

“Maybe if you stop running yer trap for a second, I can actually get a word in, kid,” Logan is going to say, and he’s going to sound so exasperated saying it. 

Peter bites his lip to keep them shut and stares down at the popping oil in his pan, waiting out the seconds it takes for Logan to form a basic sentence. It’s an eternity. The words are already formed in Peter’s head, in the exact cadence of Logan’s voice, in the exact same harsh twang of his barely there Canadian accent. He white-knuckles the handle of the pan, even as a few stray drops of burning oil land on his skin. 

“Maybe if you stop running yer trap for a second, I can actually get a word in, kid,” Logan says, exasperated, and Peter lets out the breath he was holding. 

“There, you said something. Happy now?” He empties the bowl of onions into his pan and seasons it generously. “And doesn’t it feel weird to call me “kid?” I’ve literally seen you naked.” 

“When you’re my age, everyone gets to be called kid,” Logan’ll will say with just a hint of wry, brittle amusement and Peter is going to roll his eyes. 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re old as fuck. But about Deadpool, is he, like, up to anything? Do you know? Where do you think he’s going to be? Hypothetically?” 

Logan is going to grumble, probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s too early for this.” 

“It’s literally six o’clock right now. It anything, it’s late. When’s your bedtime, grandpa? I can come tuck you in if you’d like.” 

“This is why no one talks to you.” 

“Uh, rude. You just can’t keep up with me. Maybe if you—wait, wait! Don’t hang up!” 

CLICK

Peter pulls the phone from his ear with a glare. “Fuck you, too.” He says into the speaker and flings it onto the cupboard, turning his glare onto his burning onions, hands on his hips. Logan was never any help, anyway. Of course. 

Still, there are other places he can dig. Sandboxes hiding buried treasure. His contacts, weapons suppliers, and information brokers typically ran in the same circles as other mercs. Deadpool included. It’s not unheard of to request information on competitors, and he doubts he’d be the first to ask about Deadpool. 

Sighing, Peter tosses a few pieces of chicken into the pan, watching them pop as he scratched the back of his head. 

He can’t wait anymore. 

He really can’t wait anymore. 

And it all starts while he’s watching TV, mindlessly flipping through channels because there’s nothing on that’s interesting enough to force himself to sit through. Something as frivolous as a TV show didn’t use to trigger his spider-sense, but by some cruel act of god, he now sees every plot line, plot twist, and story arc well before it actually played out. It was a fun party trick the first couple of times, but in the long, winding, weathering years, it lost its magic. Binge-watching just doesn’t have the same oomph as it used to. 

It’s hard to tell if what he’s seeing is a result of his precognition or if it’s just so dull it didn’t even register at all. The base of his skull thrums and something red and black flashes across his eyes, and Peter sits up, backtracking through the channels until he realizes his brain was giving him a heads up, and rapidly flicks forward again. He stops at a news channel and his breath catches in his throat. 

The pretty spokeswoman on screen is speaking, but her words filter through Peter’s ears and out the back. Thick black text rolls on the card at the bottom of the screen, transcribing an event happening downtown. The screen flickers to a live broadcast; explosions, gunfire, mass panic, and in the middle of the fray, Deadpool. 

Sure, Peter heard the explosions not too long ago, followed by the shrill echo of sirens and news choppers, but that was normal ambiance for this city. There was always something happening. Someone souped up on powers was causing mayhem. Some spandex-wearing hero crawling out of the woodwork to lend a hand. 

Years ago, he would’ve been the very first on the scene, aching to throw a punch at something solid because he couldn’t beat up his financial enemies. The city wondered where their Friendly Neighborhood Hero went for a while—the weeks, months even when he didn’t return to his cage. He didn’t realize just how much of a public figure he’d become until the papers were bombarded with headlines about Spider-Man’s disappearance, rumors that he was spotted in Berlin, and theories that he’d perished in the snowy wilderness when he tracked a feral mountain monster into the woods. (“Aw, just like something out of a saucy romance novel,” Peter had jested, elbowing Logan in the side as he read the article out loud. “They’re missing the part where you ravished me against a tree with all your feral, woods-man, masculine, manliness.”

“I’m about to ravish your face with my fist,” Logan growled back, popping out his claws. Peter blew him a kiss and then ducked, laughing, as a lamp was thrown at his head.) 

While the mourning of the city was…nice, it would’ve been nicer to feel that appreciation when he was actually saving their lives. All it took was his alleged death for The Daily Bugle to print a (surprisingly touching) obituary for him, one he cut out and pinned above his desk. The way Jameson must’ve been grinding his teeth while approving it makes for an excellent serotonin boost that supplements can never achieve. 

Alex asked him once if he ever thought about going back. Picking up the tights again, fighting for a city that had beaten him, lashed out at him, and condemned him—only now showing regret when he wasn’t there to keep a rampaging rhino man from ruining their car. 

And the sad part? 

He actually considered it. 

The familiar touch of New York beckoned him like a parent calling their child home. He was scraped up, outside by himself, and he didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. He didn’t always get things right, but at least he understood the city. He’s taken out its wires, knobs, and dials and put it back together. He’s seen it at its lowest lows and highest highs. It’s gross underbelly and it’s breath-taking sunsets. The call of the familiar picked at his mental frequencies, rewriting the neurons of his brain to call him back to its siren song. 

He missed it so fucking much. 

But no, he didn’t go back. Not when he still woke up in the middle of the night, tormented with images of a crushed skull, brain matter, and bone fragments matted onto his fist. Blood. So much blood, it stained. That kind of monster would’ve followed him home and haunted him from the steps of his own house, and that would’ve been so much worse than waking up screaming in a cabin in the middle of the woods, listening to Logan’s rough bass tell him it was a nightmare, and reaching for Alex’s calloused hand as he pretended to go back to sleep. 

It took years to build up the nerve to return to New York, and even then, he tried not to take jobs close to his old haunts, even when he inevitably, always, sought them out anyway. There were plenty of spider-themed supers running around—hero and villain. No one would bat an eye at one more. But it wasn’t so much as a risk he wasn’t willing to take, than a bandaid he couldn’t bring himself to rip off. 

Looks like the bandaid was coming off today, and all it took was fucking Deadpool, of all people. 

Peter launches himself off the couch, vaulting over the top, and dug through his closet for a clean suit. Laundry day was coming up. He strapped the necessary items to his belt—knives, poison vials, the goodies he cooked up. And, because he’s feeling a little saucy, he adds a gun holster to his thigh. Whether he actually uses it will be determined later. 

He’s outside within seconds, sticking to the shadows as he swings toward the chaos. The familiarity tugs on him like a fish hook lodged in his chest cavity. The glow of the cityscape, the billowing fire, and the sound of sirens tug him in, caught on its reel. He’s got to be the first fish to struggle so little as it's pulled to shore. 

When he gets there, he keeps his distance, perching high off the ground on one of the more intact buildings, and observes. The street had been mostly abandoned and the cops had put up a perimeter farther down but hadn’t engaged yet. Probably a good idea, because Deadpool doesn’t hide himself. He flaunts. A peacock with its tail unfurled as he swaggered down the street, tossing two grenades in the air in each hand and catching them again with ease. 

“Come out, come out, where ever you are,” he singsongs, and Peter presses himself farther into the building, imagining that he was talking to him. The thought puts a simmer in his vein. A faint hitch in his chest. 

Peter knows the explosion is coming before it happens and shields his eyes seconds before it goes off. He knows that when he opens his eyes, there’s going to be a small, skinny man standing in the midst of the explosion, fire engulfing his eyes as flames lick up his forearms. He’s panicked, but not because he’s burning to a crisp—in fact, his entire body is fully intact, aside from his clothes, which were going to be mostly burnt off him. No, he’s panicked because Deadpool has his sights on him and is still walking toward him, juggling two grenades, looking no worse for wear. 

“Leave me alone!” He’s going to yell and roll a fireball in his hands like a snowball, lobbing it at Deadpool. Deadpool is going to dodge the fireball and throw one of the grenades in retaliation. 

When Peter opens his eyes, there’s the skinny man, standing in the street, engulfed in fire with his knees knocking. 

“Leave me alone!” He yells, rolling the fireball into his hand. And then an explosion goes off. Peter recoils, caught off guard by both the flash  the change in events. Instead of dodging, Deadpool cuts straight to throwing the grenade before the fireball can even leave the man's hands. It explodes to the mutant's left. A small, contained explosion, meant for disorientation and noise, not death. It sends the man to the ground. 

Peter shakes his head hard, knocking the heel of his hand against his temple like he was knocking the sides of the old TV of his childhood home when it wouldn’t work. He’d seen Deadpool tense. Seen his stance go firm like he was ready to dodge, but at the last second, he’d just…thrown the grenade instead. Such a simple change, but it left Peter’s mind sputtering. 

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Deadpool chirps, leering down at the mutant, still throwing his last grenade up and down in the air. He plants his heavy combat boots on the man's chest, knocking the breath out of him even more. “And now what to do with this?” He looks contemplatively at the explosive in hand, head tilting softly. 

Peter leans forward as his brain hums, eager for a second chance to get things right. 

Deadpool is going to shrug and mindlessly toss the grenade down the street, between the buildings, so it doesn’t really hit anything or do much damage. He’s going to grab the man by the collar of his shirt, hit him with one clean jab to the temple that knocks him out cold, and then he’s going to drag him down the street. 

Deadpool turns to the street with a hum, calculating the distance. 

“How about…there!” He throws the grenade and Peter balks, recoiling too late as it comes straight at him. His scrambling makes him lose precious seconds to get out of the way, but he shoots a webline that pulls him to the side and out of the blast. The heat of the explosion still sears the back of his suit. 

He clings to the wall, fingers digging into the mortar. His eyes snap back down to the street and a thrill shoots up his spine as he meets the whites of Deadpool’s mask, which are looking directly at him. 

“I don’t mind an audience,” Deadpool calls, curling his hand into the mutants shirt and hauling him up. “But like all the little voyeurs keeping tabs on me, I like to know where you’re at.” He pinches two nerves in the mutant's shoulder and the man goes limp. “Just announce yourself next time, babe.” He effortlessly lifts the mutant over his shoulder and turns, shooting a peace sign as he leaves. 

Peter watches as he disappears down the street, not realizing how hard he’s breathing until he hears it in his own ears. 

Everything had been different. Every prediction that appeared across his eyelids had changed. Just like last time, it makes him feel as though he’d missed a step and was tumbling down a flight of stairs. Falling, rolling, breaking. 

And just like last time, a fire ignites in his gut. Blood roars in his ears and his fingers tingle with adrenaline, staticky and wild with no release. His body flushes with heat and arousal stirs in his gut, threatening to bloom. He’d come out here to satisfy an itch, but it was only more inflamed. Searing and red, prickling with such greedy need he’d pry open his own skull and scratch his brain personally if he could. 

Unease coils in his stomach like a snake, teeth bared and rearing its head. The rational side of him tells him not to get close. But the wild, insane part of Peter wants to ease closer anyway, timid of the bite, but intrigued by the specimen. He should go home. He should leave this creature be, but…

He needs to get closer. 

He keeps following Deadpool. Keeping his ear to the ground, tracking the sounds of the mercenaries echoing steps throughout the city. Fortunately, Deadpool’s steps are enunciated with explosions, fire, and general chaos. He disappears from Peter’s radar for a bit, only to appear in the middle of a fight in Brooklyn, on the Washington Bridge, or in a warehouse at the docks. 

He’s at the warehouse now. Peter keeps a farther distance since their last encounter, sticking so close to the shadows it's nearly impossible to tell where he ends and the wall begins. Deadpool is fighting a mutate, juiced on a serum they were attempting to fast-track into the city. The mutate was tearing up chunks of concrete from the ground, smashing through walls, and bending metal beams in their hands, but Deadpool was having the time of his life. He was laughing, making hokes, and dancing around the cargo containers thrown at his head. Literally dancing around them. 

Up until he takes a steel pipe to the chest.

Peter winced at the wet impact as it plows through Deadpool’s chest cavity and pops out the other end, and scuttles a little closer, ready to jump in needed. But instead of falling, Deadpool looks down at the pipe, then tilts his head up and groans at the ceiling like this is the most inconvenient thing to happen to him. 

“That hurt,” he complains loudly, but it's strained and breathless as he coughs up blood, on account of his lungs being punctured and all. Gripping the pipe, he pulls it out of his chest, inch by bloody inch, groaning in pain even as be seems to revel in the wet, disgusting squelch it makes. Curious, Peter leans in, focusing his lenses on the massive hole in Deadpool’s chest, intrigued, and then delighted as bones regrow and muscle reknit before his very eyes. It really is similar to Logan’s healing factor, only instead of unblemished skin, it leaves behind a swath of blemished, textured sores. 

Then Deadpool uses that very same pipe to pin the mutate to the wall, right through their head. Once upon a time, Peter would’ve been appalled. Disgusted. Horrified. But he’s done some pretty messed up things in his years in the assassin biz.

 Besides, you couldn’t stick around Logan for long if you had a weak stomach. 

Still, Peter doesn’t want to closely examine the zing of pleasure he gets as the pipe disappears through the mutates head and embeds through the other side. 

As Deadpool stands over his prey, covered in blood and torn kevlar, his head turns ever so slightly, and Peter leaves before he’s spotted again.

He finds Deadpool again a few days later, tearing through a building of low-level grunts. He tracks Deadpool’s progress through his lenses. It’s dark out. The street was abandoned. If anyone heard the gunshots and screaming, they didn’t call the police. Or maybe they did and the police were paid to look the other way. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.  

Peter uses the infrared in his lenses to watch Deadpool’s slaughter. All the goons inhabiting the building—scuttling around frantically like a nest of fire-ants—glow with a myriad of colors—greens, yellows, and reds. But they’re embers compared to Deadpool’s roaring fire. A sparkler fighting the sun. He leaves empty, cooling husks in his absence as he banishes them from his orbit. 

He tears through the grunts with so much finesse and ferocity, Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away if he wanted to. He’d never understood why SHIELD, or the X-Men, didn’t just lock Deadpool away when he was out causing so much carnage and destruction. Only now does Peter realize it’s because they can’t stop him. 

They may be able to get him for a second, but Deadpool wasn’t just an experienced killer in every way possible. He was a force of nature. They can’t risk caging him without losing people in the process. A lot of people in the process. The risk was greater than the reward. Best to let Deadpool do his thing and then boot him out when he was done, under the guise of keeping order. 

It doesn’t take long for Deadpool to reach his prize—a random grunt making a name for herself on the street. Peter didn’t know she even existed until today, that’s how low in the game she was. She was an excellent gunman for sure. Barely missed any of her shots, but she’s only been on the streets for a few weeks according to his Intel. Not much of a target at all. Wonder why Deadpool was hired to kill her. 

Regardless, Deadpool finds her easily enough and incapacitate s her soon after, dragging her body through the building. Peter crawls along the wall, parallel to Deadpool’s progress, and peers out of the alley he’s hiding in. He shudders as Deadpool kicks the door open and comes into view. For a minute, Deadpool just takes a deep breath of the cool night air, hands on his hips. A job well done. 

Then, he turns back to the building and lifts his hand. Peter cocks his head, curious, trying to make out what’s grasped between his fingers. When Deadpool’s fingers push down, Peter’s spider-sense spikes a second too late as light explodes in front of his eyes, only made brighter and more intense by the infrared. He cries out in surprise, wrenching his face away, and clamping his eyes shut. When he opens them again, white spots sear across his vision, leaping and twirling in a dizzying dance. 

Blinking, Peter rubs more harshly at his eyes to get them to go away. The light from before is already gone. There’s no heat, no explosion. No real damage. Just a flash bomb then. 

But why…

Peter’s eyes snap back to Deadpool, but the only person at the mouth of the alley is the dead body of Deadpool’s target. A lance of surprise strikes Peter and he jolts, scrambling to see where he’d gone. His spider-sense screams at him, filling his head with warnings from the future. 

Above him. Deadpool is going to appear above him. He’s going to grab Peter by the shoulder and haul him up onto the roof at knifepoint.  

Peter twists upward to grab Deadpool before he can grab him, only for a pair of arms to seize him by the middle and drag him backward, through the window of the building he’d been perched against. Peter’s feet barely have time to touch the carpeted floor before he’s slammed into the wall with such brutal force it would knock the breath out of a lesser man. A thick, meaty arm presses against his throat, keeping his head pinned back, angled upward, as something cold and blunt jabs him in the ribs. Peter’s spider-sense screams in confusion. Gun. It’s a gun. The gun is going to go off and pump his heart full of lead. Peter tenses in preparation. 

“What did I say about announcing yourself?” A low, gravely voice says in his ear, pushing the gun farther into his ribs. “Someone doesn’t listen very well.” 

A thrill races through Peter, up his spine, through his limbs, and lighting his nerves on fire. He’s reeling and his spider-sense is scrambling to feed him something to get the upper hand back. To know what this madman was going to do before he did it, but being so close to Deadpool, smelling the gunsmoke on his suit, tasting copper in the air, Peter’s brain just goes…blank. Fear floods his tongue and every hair on his body stands on end. 

His mind is blank. His spider-sense is screaming, but it has no direction. It doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. Deadpool is a dark, looming shadow of unknown caging him from all sides, and it’s terrifying. It’s so terrifying, and intimidating, and…

Intoxicating. 

“H-how?” Peter croaks, fingers digging into the meat of the arm pressing against his windpipe. 

Deadpool cocks his head to the side. “Teleportation,” he says, answering the question Peter didn’t ask. “It’s a helluva plot device.” 

Now that he mentioned it, Peter’s eyes stray toward the device strapped to Deadpool’s chest. Circular and clunky, but nothing he’s seen before. He’s come across this in his research. A helluva device indeed. 

Deadpool laughs, jostling Peter. “Eyes up here, buggy.” Peter’s eyes jump back up, unaware that his eyes had strayed from Deadpool’s chest to his crotch, and had linger a few seconds too long. For a second, Deadpool just stares at him, the tilt of his head almost beast-like. A creature deciding whether he was a fellow predator or something to eat. 

“You know,” he finally said, “I’m flattered actually.” 

Peter replies breathlessly, and not just because he’s got an arm against his throat. “What?” 

“That I have my own personal stalker,” Deadpool clarifies “A freaky obsessed one.” He looks Peter up and down slowly, assessing, and hums to himself. “A hot freaky obsessed one. Lucky me.” 

The way he says “Lucky me,” makes Peter shiver. He may as well have licked his chops and smacked his lips. It didn’t help that he was just as warm as the infrared made him out to be. Even the pocket of space between their bodies shimmers with heat. A side effect of his healing factor. It was the same for Logan. They burned hotter to make up for all the energy it took to heal the way they do. Deadpool especially, considering he was in a constant state of healing. And that heat was seeping into Peter’s core, turning him into a melting mound of wax softening against the fire keeping him upright, letting him fall deeper into the dips and crevices that made up Deadpool’s body. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Deadpool asks, jostling him again. “Or are you just too awe-struck by my presence?” Peter doesn’t respond. He can’t. His brain has gone blank and it’s all he can do but stare up at Deadpool with wide, amazed eyes. Deadpool snorted, the sound derisive. “You’re really that obsessed with me, huh?” 

He shifts his body and Peter gasps, going rigid as Deadpool’s knee slots between the space between his leg, pressing hard into Peter’s groin. The pressure is as delicious as it is painful. 

Deadpool leans in as if to share a secret. “You’re not exactly, subtle, you know.” He says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what happened that first time. You took care of little Junior down there, right? He looked like he really needed it.” 

Peter gasps again as Deadpool shifts his position, hauling Peter up so more of his weight is supported on Deadpool’s knee. It’s been so long since he’s felt arousal like this. One that didn’t flicker like a dying ember, put out by the next gust of wind. This is alive and eating away at him, piece by piece. 

“Hmmm, maybe you didn’t do a good enough job.” Deadpool grinds his knee upwards, and Peter’s back arches. “Go on then. Take care of him.” 

Peter can barely breathe, much less stutter out the confusion clouding his brain. So he makes a sound in lieu of words, his grip on Deadpool’s arm faltering. 

“Nu-uh,” Deadpool tsks, pressing the gun in Peter’s ribs, reminding him of its presence. “Hands where they’re at. If you’re so obsessed, you should be able to get off without them.” 

It takes Peter a moment to understand what he means, but when he does, he moans softly, thumping his head back against the wall. Slowly, hesitantly, he rolls his hips against the thigh keeping up upright, and the friction it manifests puts stars in Peter’s eyes. 

“There you go. Just like that,” Deadpool croons in his ear. “Go on then. Since you’re so desperate for it.” 

The pressure against Peter’s throat doesn’t let up; Deadpool doesn’t soften, doesn’t ease back to give Peter room. He’s as immovable as stone, as hot as molten rock, and Peter rolls his hips again, and then again, faster and faster until he’s built up a frantic rhythm. Somewhere deep in his mind, he thinks he should be humiliated. But the sweet pleasure. The sweet, sweet pleasure pain he’s been denied for so long is so much stronger, and any dignity he woke up with this morning is gone as he humps Deadpool’s thigh with abandon. 

It doesn’t take long for him to finish. As pent up as he is, he’s surprised he lasted as long as he did. The pleasure builds until it explodes, and it’s like a dozen flash bombs going off behind his eyelids as he throws his head back, moaning, as he cums in his pants. Deadpool stares at him through it, the whites of his mask as overwhelming as Peter’s climax is. For someone who’s normally so expressive, it pricks at Peter’s brain that he can’t figure out what he’s thinking. All of Deadpool’s gears, screws, and wires are sealed away—unknown territory. 

Peter sags back against the wall, breathing heavily. 

Finally, Deadpool pulls away and Peter barely catches himself on his fingertips to prevent himself from sliding all the way down. Deadpool crouches down to pat his cheek. 

“Good job.” 

And with that, he turns, heading for the door. For the first time, Peter notices that they’re in a bedroom of some kind. There are clothes strewn on the floor, and the closet is half open, but it's dark and the door is locked. Thank god whoever lives here was out for the night. 

Deadpool unlocks the door and quietly closes it behind him like he were afraid of waking up the neighbors, and just like that, he’s gone again. 

Peter stares at the door, trembling. One hand lets go of the wall to trace the warmth of his neck, were Deadpool’s arm had been. The wet spot between his legs is cooling rapidly, unhelped by the winter wind seeping in through the broken window. 

“Fuck,” Peter whispers with feeling, sliding the rest of the way down the wall and hitting the floor ungracefully. 

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, waiting for his breathing to level out. It takes him a moment to realize why he’s so calm. Why his brain feels like well-worn putty. 

His spider-sense is quiet. It’s still there, he can never truly get rid of it, but it’s dulled. Confused and hiding under the surface. Rebooting. There are no flashing visions, no words whispered through his mind, no future painting behind his eyelids with precise strokes. It’s quiet. 

It’s been so long since it’s been this quiet. 

An itch still rides under his skin, and he knows it will be riled and eager when he levels back out, but for now, it's full and fed. Content until it wakes up, hungry again. 

Peter takes a deep breath through his nose, indulging in a peace that has escaped him for years. 

He’ll rest now, because he knows, without a doubt, that when he wakes up, he’ll be desperate for more.

Chapter Text

Peter can’t say it’s not an addiction anymore. 

All it took was one snort of powder, one piece of solvent paper, one prick of a goddamn needle inside an abandoned room with cum cooling between his thighs, and he was dominated by a fixation for the newest drug on the streets of his brain: Motherfucking Deadpool.  

At first, he tried convincing himself that this wasn’t a deep, all-consuming hunger; that he wasn’t desperate to taste Deadpool’s impulsive, violent, unpredictable disposition, like a sweet nectar that quenched a thirst so deep inside it was like discovering water for the first time. 

And then he did some soul-searching, really connected with his innermost wants and needs. He took a job near Connecticut to unload his stress on a group of wanna-be drug peddlers overstepping in someone else’s territory. He was knee-deep in corpses with his fingers gouged into a peddler’s throat when he came to this conclusion: he is completely and utterly fucked. 

Or, more accurately, he wants to be completely and utterly fucked. 

Which isn’t exactly new. He quite enjoyed fucking and being fucked—he didn’t have a preference for either, so long as he got to orgasm. The problem with his most recent discovery is that the only way to—possibly—get completely and utterly fucked was by poking a dangerous, unpredictable beast that might hurt him instead of hump him. 

What made matters worse was that Peter didn’t even mind the first option. This he found out while imposing on Deadpool’s latest kerfuffle—not a healthy choice, but a chronic one. This time, Peter sits on one of the tall stools lining the bar, deep in observation to test his new hypothesis. Deadpool told him to announce himself, so while Peter wasn’t shaking his hand and telling him he’ll be at table 3, he wasn’t trying to hide his presence either. 

He sips on a rocks-glass of whiskey he’d stolen before the fight broke out, and leans against the bar, watching shamelessly as Deadpool broke a beer bottle over the head of a biker he had in a headlock, and shoved the shattered neck into the guys’ friends’ throat, tearing out their jugular in a spray of blood. The stale smell of cigarette smoke and nacho cheese sauce was quickly becoming overpowered by the sour stench of sweat and gunpowder, and Peter sank into the blanket of it. 

Deadpool doesn’t acknowledge him, though Peter did specifically what he’d requested, and he would’ve been more annoyed if he wasn’t fascinated by the expected turn, especially after their last encounter. Peter shifts in his seat, adjusting his legs, just thinking about it. The warmth of Deadpool’s arm had lingered on his skin long after he left; Peter went home holding his throat to fasten that heat like a cherished pearl necklace. Arousal still smoldered in his gut, rippling with heat waves that warmed him like a slowly steaming kettle. 

Peter blew out a stream of steam, kettle bubbling, as Deadpool rams a bouncer’s head into the edge of the bar hard enough to crack their skull. A twinge of jealousy sticks in his stomach when Deadpool leans over the bouncer’s body, almost encasing them entirely in his girth, to grab a fork, which he launched across the room, sinking into a patron’s eye. 

Lucky, Peter grumbles, taking an extra long sip of his drink that has him hissing through his teeth. Maybe if he bumbled at Deadpool with nothing but a weathered bat, he’d get some attention, too. 

“Who ordered the garlic chicken wings?” Deadpool demands, grabbing the dead bouncer by the collar with one hand and a platter of the aforementioned chicken wings with the other. He throws the body into the second bouncer’s arms, who catches them in surprise, and shoves the chicken wings in their face. “Chicken wings are supposed to be spicy, you small-cocked motherfucker!” 

Peter’s spider-sense ripples and he kicks the stool closest to him down and webs a butter knife farther up the bar into his hands, holding it pointy-side up at a slant. A few minutes later, one of the bloody patrons notices him and bares their teeth, offended that he’s sticking to his knitting—as Aunt May would say—and rushes him. Peter rolls his eyes and doesn’t even look away from Deadpool—who’s violently pouring an entire bottle of hot sauce down the bartender’s throat—as the patron trips over the stool and impales themselves on the butter knife. 

Shoving the patron aside, knife and all, Peter grabs the whiskey bottle nearby to top himself off (god, how he wants to be topped off) and whistles, impressed, as Deadpool breaks one of the wooden stools over his knee and shoves the splintered leg deep into the chest of a bushy-bearded man with slitted eyes and clawed-fingers—another mutant, then. 

The man slides to his knees with a bloodied gurgle and collapses. That was the last of them, any others had fled, and those who stuck around didn’t last very long. 

Deadpool tosses the broken stool aside and finally turns, and a tingly chill runs down Peter’s spine. His spider-sense ripples again, the waters agitated, as Deadpool stalks forward, yanking a knife impaled on a hapless truck driver’s back—to thrust into Peter’s gut? To pin his hand to the counter? To rip through his suit fiber by fiber? Every option makes his stomach flip-flop. 

His spider-sense flips through possible outcomes like an inexperienced dealer with a deck of cards, fingers fumbling, and brow dotted with nervous sweat. When Deadpool stands before him, tall and broad, blocking out the dim-overhead lights, the cards spill, scattering across the floor like autumn leaves succumbing to winter’s invasion. 

Deadpool presses the tip of the bloodied knife under Peter’s exposed chin and lifts his head up, exposing the cords of his neck that flex as Peter swallows hard. He pulls the bottom half of his mask up with the other and plucks Peter’s drink out of his hand, tipping his head and tossing it back. With a pleased hiss, he drops the empty glass in Peter’s hands and pulls the blade along his skin as he walks past, drawing a featherlight line across his throat that drips with beads of blood; a new pearl necklace for Peter to fasten around his neck. 

He can already feel the sting if Deadpool just dug in a little deeper. His neck is a blank canvas made to be painted in thick, wide strokes made possible by the knife jerking upward through his jugular. Peter’s fingers twitch, itching to wrap around Deadpool’s wrist and pull the knife in deeper, so long as he kept staring at him like that. So long as his spider-sense hid beneath the surface of his mind like a child hiding under the bed. 

But, without another word, Deadpool withdraws the knife, rolling his mask back down as he strolls out of the bar, whistling a merry tune that disappears behind swinging doors. Groaning, Peter presses the heel of his hand to his cock, which is already at half-chub, and traces the cut along his throat reverently. 

“God, I’m so easy,” he squeezes himself through his pants and follows Deadpool’s footsteps out of the bar and into the cold winter night, though the other merc is already gone. 

Peter drinks water, wine, scotch, coffee, juice, milk—anything of the liquid variety—but it’s at a construction site in Lower Manhattan that finally gives him an opportunity to quench his thirst.

Why this time is different remains a mystery, but Deadpool is quickly establishing himself as an enigma solely designed to cross Peter’s wires. Just like before, he announces his presence by sitting high on a steel-framed wall in the light of the full moon; not in the open, per se, but not hiding in the shadows. 

Head in hands, limbs curled inward to stave off the cold, Peter hums in delight as Deadpool wraps a thin, electrical wire around a construction worker’s neck—the only one working late who happened to be the next chump on Deadpool’s list. The wire barely cuts through skin, so the chump must have a level of invulnerability. Maybe not enough to be called invulnerable , but thick skin at the very least. 

With a roar, the worker jerks hard, jamming his elbow into Wade’s ribs with an audible crack, flinging him off his back. Peter cocks his head as Deadpool disappears into a sheet of drywall, manifesting a cloud of cement dust that magically transforms into silvery fog under the moonlight. The worker picks a hammer up from a work table and lumbers to the Deadpool-shaped hole. 

It’s easier to sense what the worker will do. 

He’s going to climb through the hole, pin Deadpool down with a boot on his chest, and bury that hammer in his head until there’s nothing left but pasty brain matter. 

A tickle scratches up Peter’s throat, coming out as a giggle because he knows that’s not going to happen; it’s all a matter of how Deadpool will rewire the future. 

Peter slides down the support beam to get a better look at ground level. A loud buzzing RRRRRR noise cuts the air as Deadpool emerges, wearing a neon green vest, having found himself a buzz-saw that he revs like a car engine, rearing to be let loose. 

“Bone-Saw is ready!” he proclaims, like he’s speaking to a cheering audience, and lunges. The teeth of the saw skirt along the worker’s skin at first, but slowly begin cutting into flesh, digging up the softer tissues underneath. Despite the worker's shrieks and attempts to create distance, Deadpool follows him step by step. The worker swings his hammer wildly, catching Deadpool in the shoulder with the claw, throwing him off his feet. 

The buzz skitters across the concrete floor, jumping and sending sparks flying in the air. Peter shoots a web line, shutting it off.  

“Sonuvabitch!” Deadpool snarls, yanking the hammer out and rolling his shoulder. “This is my masturbating arm.” 

The worker doesn’t have much to say, whimpering over his profusely bleeding arm as he is, and stumbles towards the exit. A sad attempt to get away, but an attempt nonetheless—Peter can give him points for that. Deadpool follows casually, scooping up a rebar as he goes. The worker is almost to the exit when Deadpool winds his arm back and throws the bar javelin style, sinking into the worker’s back. 

Not deep, considering the semi-invulnerable skin, but Deadpool rectifies that by grabbing the worker by the back of his shirt and shoving him into a sectioned off slab of concrete sticking with rebar. 

The worker lands with a wet squelch and a gurgle, unable to even look down at the rest of his skewered body due to the bar that had impaled his throat. Placing the tip of his boot on the worker’s chest, Deadpool pushes down, forcing him in farther until blood seeps from his wounds and he is well and truly stuck. A nasty surprise for the rest of the construction crew when they came by in the morning; Peter’s tempted to stick around just to see how that’d go. 

But then Deadpool stands back, breath coming out in puffs from his mask, before abruptly turning and stalking towards Peter. Peter goes ramrod straight, a thrill climbing the rung of his spine. Never has a neon green safety vest looked more intimidating. 

Peter doesn’t move, frozen in place until Deadpool is directly in front of him. Then Deadpool drops his hands on Peter’s shoulders and unceremoniously shoves him to his knees. Peter goes without a fight, heart beating so hard he feels it in his ears. His stomach twists in anticipation as Deadpool unzips his fly and already has his mouth open before he shoves his dick inside. 

Deadpool is thick and heavy, filling Peter’s mouth completely and opening his jaw to an almost uncomfortable level. It’s the heady, musky scent coming off him, mixing with sawdust and cement, that makes Peter’s head spin. Thick fingers wind into his mask, pulling on both the fabric and his head, eliciting a sting that makes Peter moan. 

“Yeah, just like that you stalkery little creep,” Deadpool chirps, thrusting his cock deep into Peter’s mouth, personally bobbing Peter’s head with both hands. “May as well do something useful if you’re going to follow me around like a lost puppy.” 

Something useful, his brain echoes. An implication that he was supposed to help take out these guys? It's a general rule of thumb to not interfere with someone else’s job unless you were also contracted. In such cases, the first person to take out the target wins the race. 

Unless you wanted to be a dick and cause trouble. 

Something useful, he repeats. Perhaps an implication for something else. He can do that. He lets Deadpool take the reins, pistoning into his mouth at his own pace, but when he slows enough for Peter to take a breath, Peter runs his tongue along the underside of his cock and sucks the tip gently. 

“There we go,” Deadpool rumbles, hips jerking. “Show me what that mouth can do. Doesn’t seem like you use it for anything else.” 

He eased his grip up and Peter wraps his mouth around the top of his cock, sliding his tongue along the top, catching on a bit of skin as he pulls back and forth. Uncircumcised, then. Another unexpected development, though Peter’s not sure why he expected anything different. Logan was also uncircumcised. A default of their healing factors. 

He pumps the half he doesn’t have in his mouth, suckling gently on the other, while Deadpool’s hands flex and soften on his head, running along his scalp like he’s petting him. Peter shivers, dick having already rapidly filled out, but it throbs under the attention, tenting in his pants. 

He stops stroking Deadpool to rub at himself through the spandex, but Deadpool’s fingers twist violently in his hair, yanking his head. “Nuh-uh, hands up here, Skippy. You know the rules.” 

Peter groans, returning to Deadpool’s cock and sucking harder on the tip, making Deadpool hiss and seize his hair again. He takes more into his mouth, only stopping when he feels the tip probing the back of his throat. 

I can take more. Just because he personally hadn’t been able to get off in far too long, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to get other people off. It was quite easy, actually. A little too easy. It had been just another avenue to explore to keep his brain entertained. He knows what they’ll like before they want it. Sees what turns them off and what will rev them up. It helped for a while, but eventually, even that lost its spark. 

But Deadpool is a blank slate. Peter can’t tell what he wants. His spider-sense thrums, but it’s honed on Deadpool to the point that the man’s smell, the warmth of his body, the feel of his rough, textured skin under his hands—pressed against his tongue—is all that occupies his mind. 

An inebriating and grounding experience that simultaneously makes him warm and floaty. 

Invigorated, Peter doubles his efforts, gripping Deadpool’s waist as he fucks his mouth on his cock. Spit dribbles down his chin and the bitterness of pre-cum fills his tongue; Peter hollows his cheeks and sucks like he’s lost in the desert and this is his only oasis, because that’s what it feels like. God, it’s been so long since he’s felt this turned on; since giving something as simple as a blowjob makes him feel like he’s about to burst. 

“Ah, not bad,” Deadpool moans, gripping the sides of Peter’s head like he might crush it to a pulp. A zing shoots up Peter’s spine. “A little sloppy, but I’ve always liked them messy.” A hand reaches down to massage Peter’s throat as if getting a feel for it, and Peter pops off long enough to say, “I can hold my breath for eight minutes.” 

Deadpool’s fingers dig into his skin, pressing against his windpipe. “So many features in this one,” he growls, dark and gravely. Peter barely has time to take a full breath before Deadpool crams his dick back in, all the way to the root, until Peter’s nose bumps against skin. He fucks Peter’s throat like he’s getting reacquainted with his favorite fleshlight. 

Peter focuses on holding his breath and keeping still, opening his mouth wide enough to give Deadpool easy access. His own dick throbs, achy beneath the confines of his suit and he whines, burning with the need to touch. He grips Deadpool’s hips tighter to fend off the desire, fingers digging so hard into the hipbone that Deadpool’s hips stutter and he grinds his dick into Peter’s throat. 

His stuttering hips are the only sign Peter has before cum pours down his throat in hot bursts. Peter chokes on the expected intrusion, bitterness flooding his mouth, but Deadpool doesn’t release him until he’s milked dry. With a satisfied sigh, he let go of Peter’s head and Peter fell back, coughing, leftover cum dripping down his chin, sloppy with the spit already there. 

He looks up at Deadpool, who grips his chin, tilting it from side to side to admire his handiwork. Deadpool's foot slips between Peter's legs and presses against the tent in his pants. Peter eagerly moves forward, his cock aching so badly that he doesn't even mind humping Deadpool's leg for relief. 

But Deadpool pinches his chin, yanking his head back up. “Not so fast, Boy Scout.” 

Peter looks at him in confusion. “What?” he croaks, voice utterly wrecked and raw. 

“Don’t touch yourself,” Deadpool says breezily, pats Peter’s cheek, and then tucks himself away and heads to the exit. 

“What?” Peter repeats, but he doesn’t respond; doesn’t even look back or acknowledge him. In seconds, he was gone, the only evidence that he was there being the stiffening body impaled on rebar and Peter’s throbbing hard-on. 

Peter stares at his boner, veins burning, groin tight with want. His hand inches towards it. He doesn’t have to listen. Deadpool didn’t even stick around to make sure he won’t. He wouldn’t know. 

At the last second, Peter tears his hand away, slamming his head back against the wall with a growl of frustration, cracking the brick. Deadpool’s order–command? Suggestion?–wraps around his hands like puppet strings, and Peter can’t understand why he’s even entertaining it. But that deep, vocal fried voice nests in his ear, crooning at him to keep his hands to himself. For whatever reason, he listens. He doesn’t know why, but maybe he’ll find out, and the thought coats his skin with a sweet promise that it’ll be worth it. 

It better be worth it. 

The cold slowly reinfects his body, chilling the mess on his face until he irritably wipes it off. Only when he’s shivering and his erection has succumbed to the bitter winter cold does he climb to his feet. 

“Motherfucking Deadpool,” he growls, diving head-first off the building, irritation bubbling in his gut. 

But it’s completely smothered by an itch; an itch to run into Deadpool again as soon as possible; to watch him until he’s noticed. Until Deadpool does something about it. He massages his jaw, appreciating the ache deep in the hinges of it, indulging in the muskiness in his nose, coating his mouth, that is so intimately connected to Deadpool, that if Peter were to pick it out in a crowd, he’d be able to follow it to its source. Eagerness trips on his heels, falling over itself with giddy excitement. Already his hands feel clammy, a tremor roosting in his fingers, ready for his next hit. 

He climbs through the window of his apartment and collapses on the couch, staring at the ceiling. 

Motherfucking Deadpool, he sighs, dreamily.