Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Parker didn’t really start paying attention to his inner thigh until he was in middle school. In fact, he mostly tried to forget it. When most everyone had their soulmate mark in plain sight, on a hand or an arm, his wasn’t. That led to a lot of confusion from people about whether or not he actually had one. A mark or a soulmate. It led to a lot of bullying.

The mark wasn’t the only thing Peter was bullied for, he was slim and gawky, wore glasses and loved science, stuttered madly in class and was socially awkward as all get out. Take your pick. The bullies certainly did.

It wasn’t until that day in eighth grade, that Peter finally looked at it. Really looked at it. Didn’t just dismiss it as some other unwanted blemish on his skin like a pimple or his freckles. He had just been pantsed in the hallway during first bell which meant that everyone had seen it because the staggered bell schedule didn’t start until after first period.

Peter couldn’t even say who had pantsed him. The list of potential suspects was so long as to be useless. And, as much as he wanted to whirl on the bully and throw his bony fists and elbows into their smug face, he’d only grabbed wildly at his waistband and hobbled into the stairwell, then, eventually, the downstairs bathroom no one ever used.

He sat on the toilet seat in the bathroom, trying not to cry with his fists clutched in the top of his pants that were still stuck around his thighs and his eyes had snagged on the black writing on his inner thigh. It seemed darker that day, somehow. Bolder. And Peter would wonder later if it was because of the symmetry of the moment.

Right there, in unrelenting black, in tight, spiking handwriting, it said BULLIED.

For all of eighth grade, Peter Parker got bullied and, every morning when he woke up, a look at his inner thigh showed him that his soulmate did too.

He could only assume that somewhere out there was a painfully shy girl experiencing the same crap he was.

He always wondered what it said on his soulmate’s mark the day he got bitten by the spider. How much detail would the mark provide? Had it just said BITTEN BY SPIDER? Or had it said more?

The instances of his inner thigh saying BULLIED had diminished as Peter got older but they hadn’t gone away. They just became interspersed with SKIPPING SCHOOL and HUNTING and SMOKING WEED. Peter had turned to science competitions and scholarship applications to cope with bullies. It seemed that his soulmate had gone in the opposite direction.

Until the day it read JOINED THE MILITARY followed a few weeks later by LEFT FOR BOOT CAMP. Peter didn’t know how to feel about having a soldier soulmate. He didn’t know how to feel about becoming part spider. He didn’t know how to feel about a lot of things.

When Peter was in his second year of college, he finally got an answer as to what his soulmate’s mark could have said on the day he became Spider-man.

He’d taken to checking the mark every morning, a level of curiosity he’d heretofore not shown. He couldn’t explain why. It was mostly just terrible reminders of the fact that his soulmate was a soldier. Things like DEPLOYED TO THE MIDDLE EAST or PINNED DOWN BY ENEMY GUNFIRE or ASSIGNED BLACK OPS MISSION. He used to hate having the mark on his inner thigh but now he was glad for it. You could only hear so many horror stories about military soulmates getting dragged away by intelligence cells before you started to assume there was some truth to the rumors. If no one could see his mark, no one could know what his soulmate was going through.

No one except Peter

Which is why, when he glanced down at it one day in March after stepping out of the shower, and it simply said MUTATED before sliding across his skin like an inky black snake and spiraling into a fingerprint, he didn’t have anyone to tell.

The day after the fingerprint appeared, a new word showed up, smaller but still in that same sharp, slanted handwriting. Underneath the black smudge of ridges and whorls, it simply said DIED.

Chapter Text

“Do you think she’s my soulmate?”

Peter blinks blearily at Harry and shrugs before trying to take a swig out of his coffee and missing his mouth. The sippy top of the drink leaves a droplet of coffee on his chin that he swipes off with the back of one sleeve.

“It’s way too early in the semester for you to be so sleep-deprived, tiger.” MJ reaches across the table and smoothes Peter’s unruly curl off his forehead. “You work too hard.”

Peter snorts. His friends don’t know the half of it.

“I’m fine,” he assures MJ before turning to Harry and finally answering his question. “You know there’s one sure way to find out, right?”

Harry huffs. “I can’t just— I want to be sure first before I, you know, do anything.”

“Do anything like what?” Gwen asks from where she’s tucked under MJ’s arm. “Talk to her? God forbid you make a friend, Harry.”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry pouts, gesturing vaguely toward the place where MJ and Gwen are joined at the hip. “All you pairs are so smug.”

“Harry.” MJ pulls her arm from around Gwen’s shoulder which rucks up her sleeve and exposes the elegant, swooping script on her arm that says every star for you. “You’ll never be part of a pair if you don’t talk to anyone.”

Harry looks so despondent at the idea that Peter decides to take pity on him. “What’s your soulmate doing today?”

“Nothing groundbreaking.” Harry smoothes one hand over the top of the other, rubbing at his soulmate mark. “Getting a new job.”

“Ooooo,” Gwen teases. “Harry’s got himself a go-getter.”

“What about you, Peter?”

Peter takes another, more successful drink of his lukewarm coffee. He knew this was coming. It isn’t unusual for people to talk about these things. Gushing about what their soulmate is doing if they haven’t met them and enthusiastically telling the story behind their quotes if they have. People talk about it often enough and unabashedly enough that Peter knows his situation is unique and that makes him nervous.

He doesn’t want to tell anyone, not even his friends, that the fingerprint on his inner thigh hasn’t changed in six years and he only occasionally gets more info than that. And, when he does, it’s almost exclusively a warning that today his soulmate will die.

Peter kept track of the deaths for the first year. Or he tried to. He counted forty-two before he couldn’t count anymore. He couldn’t fathom how someone could die that many times. At first, he thought it was a fluke. It wasn’t until he spent a whole day watching the skin high on his inner thigh that he realized his soulmate died and then… came back.

He had watched the mark fade slowly from his skin, first the word and then the fingerprint, until the expanse of pale skin was unblemished. Like Peter’s soulmate had never been there. It had only taken ten minutes for it to reappear all at once, like a gasp of air after nearly drowning, as though it had never gone anywhere. Except the word was gone and only the fingerprint remained.

Peter was fairly certain there were days that his soulmate died more than once. Even though he’s never met her, those days are the hardest. He doesn’t know if it’s a soul bond thing or a compassion for another human being thing.

He wonders if his soulmate sees BROKEN RIBS or ORBITAL FRACTURE and worries about him. He wonders if they sense that something is different about him, too. He wonders how you can find a soulmate that’s always dead.

“Peter?” MJ’s sharp voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

Right. His soulmate.

Peter had checked his thigh today before getting dressed like he always does and there’s only ever one thing he can say about his soulmate with any certainty.

“She’s not going to die today.”

Gwen snorts. “So romantic.”

Chapter Text

“Fucking piece of shit,” Wade growls as he digs a shard of glass out of his side.

Most people would be put out by the glass shards, probably, but Wade’s more upset by the news he’s just received.

“We asked for a specific method, Mr. Wilson. Your payment was contingent upon that.”

“Dead is dead,” Wade points out, very calmly he might add, as he yanks a chunk of glass the size of his fist out of his lower back. “Well, for most people.”

Not Wade, though.

“There needed to be a message sent.”

Oh for fucks sake. Wade hates working for people like this. Everyone wants to “send a message” or “get a point across” or “make a statement” as if they aren’t ordering someone’s death. Poisoned and arranged artfully in a solid gold chair isn’t any more dead than an ice pick through the temple. In fact, Wade could argue that the ice pick is more visually evocative. You know, if you’re trying to send a message.

“What was the message? If you fuck with us again, we’ll have you killed like this guy? Because I nailed that audition.”

He turns his head to spit. The glass isn’t going to kill him. Or it’s killing him slowly enough that it will heal before he completely dies. But even indestructible, freakshow, Weapon X bodies need to hack up blood when their lungs have been shredded by what used to be a stained glass window depicting the lamb of God.

Not the band.

Wade is already going to hell so the window is little more than an inconvenience. He finds it refreshing that he’s not so far gone on his journey, though, that being on holy ground burns his skin. Silver linings and all that.

“The contract was for a specific—“

“I’m gonna stop ya right there, Courtroom Karen. The fine print states that a kill is a kill, regardless of special request, yada yada yada, pay up or else.” Wade coughs and spits up more blood. “I’m paraphrasing of course.”

He can hear the soft rustling of paper filter down the phone line and he smiles, blood from his hamburger lungs squishing through his teeth. The biggest shard, embedded into his sternum like a fucking battle axe, is the last one Wade removes. Really he should have pulled that fucker first so he didn’t have to maneuver around it but he knows what the glass is slicing in half. He knows that he’ll be able to see it through the hole in his suit when he pulls it out. He knows he’ll look even though he could just as easily keep his eyes closed.

“‘Cause you’re a fucking masochist, DP.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Wilson. Did you say something?”

“I said, you have twenty-four hours to wire the money or the lethal non-payment clause is activated.” More paper rustling. “Janine.” The intake of her breath tells him that she’s surprised. People always think he’s all ice picks and no intel. “Do us both a favor and convince your organization to pay me. You can’t run far enough or fast enough that I can’t find you. Toodles.”

He hits the end call button on the burner phone, tosses it to the ground next to him, then unsheathes a knife from his belt and uses the hilt to smash the phone to pieces. It’s not strictly necessary as part of the safety protocol but it fucking feels good.

“Okay,” he huffs, cracking his neck from side to side before reaching up and wrapping both hands around the glass in his chest. “Time to trigger a mental and emotional downward spiral in three, two, one.”

Wade doesn’t grunt anymore when he removes shrapnel. The tension from grunting makes the pain worse. He’s kind of an expert on pain at this point, swirling it around his thalamus the way a wine connoisseur swirls adult grape juice over their palate. The throbbing pain from the impalement and the hot gush of pain from its removal and the stitching, searing pain of healing will be nothing to what Wade feels when he looks. And he knows he will. He’s rarely predictable, except in this.

After he tosses the piece of glass to the side, he swipes a hand across the waterfall of blood spilling down his chest and sees it. The glimpse is brief but he’s spent years reading the truth in brief glimpses. In crooked and messily scrawled but somehow still meticulous lettering that marches vertically down his sternum are the words COFFEE WITH FRIENDS.

Wade thumps his head back against the pew and exhales long and sibilant until his lungs ache from the lack of air and not the presence of glass. The universe really fucked up if they thought pairing Wade “Stabbed by a Church” Wilson with Norman (gender neutral) McNormalton who writes dissertations and has coffee with their friends would end in anything other than ruin.

It’s why Wade never looks. He never looks at his mark and he never looks for his soulmate. Because he’s ruined plenty of things in his life but he’ll be damned if he ruins that.

Double damned.

Chapter Text

The knife-throwing was a curse that turned into a blessing. Not because Peter uses the skill as Spider-man but because it helps pass the time when patrols are boring. Which happens more often than not.

At first, though, it had been sheer anger powering Peter’s obsession with watching the blade of the knife disappear into a target. Revenge fantasies of a kind that Spider-man doesn’t get to indulge in very often. He still thinks killing is wrong but sometimes a guy can dream.

The knife he flips in his hand now is the same one he started with. The same knife that Deadpool left protruding from between Peter’s fifth and sixth ribs before telling him to keep the change. It pisses Peter off to admit it but the balance on the blade is perfect. He’s tried other knives but none of them strike as true as this one.

A blessing and a curse at the same time.

He hasn’t used the knife for months despite always having it in his pocket but he’s been feeling antsy today.

Peter hadn’t checked his thigh this morning after getting out of the shower like he usually does but it caught his eye when he was pulling on his suit tonight. The skin smooth and unblemished. The mark gone. His soulmate dead. He had held his breath until the fingerprint reappeared.

That’s probably why it feels like his skin is crawling. Like that moment just before his spider sense pings when everything in his brain is just sensation with no origin.

He wouldn’t say he’s obsessed with finding his soulmate. Not like Harry. But he still has nightmares about the day that one of the deaths stick.

What if he doesn’t meet his soulmate before then?

His spider sense actually does bloom into full, blazing danger mode just as the sound of whistling reaches Peter’s ears. He tugs the knife out of the rooftop where he just flicked it down toward his foot and tucks it away. Maybe he jinxed himself when he thought about how boring patrols have been recently. He’d rather they be boring than… this.

The whistling gets closer and Peter’s spider sense clamors louder, pulling his muscles taut with tension. It’s Itsy Bitsy Spider. Peter doesn’t even need to recognize the tune to know who’s approaching him from behind, the whistling is enough of a giveaway, but the song choice hammers it home.

Peter triangulates where the whistling is coming from, how fast the person is approaching, even adjusts for wind speed, before he crouches into a spin and fires off a length of webbing. He stays down, half expecting to hear a bullet scream past his face but instead sees Deadpool, one wrist pinned to the wall housing the door to the roof by a length of Spider-man’s webbing, eyes fixed in Peter’s direction, and his head tilted in that way.

You know the one. The way the serial killers and mass murderers and horror show monsters tilt their heads when a hero has finally managed to pierce their armor. The Was that supposed to hurt? and What a stupid little creature you are. looks all rolled into one.

The Look sends a bolt of cold fear down Peter’s spine. Deadpool hasn’t killed him yet but Peter has had to work for every inch of life he keeps.

For some reason, that nearly crippling fear makes Peter mouthier than he normally is. And that’s saying a lot.

“You seem a little slower than usual today,” Peter says as he straightens from his crouch. “Forget your Centrum Silver this morning?”

Peter doesn’t actually know how old Deadpool is but the mercenary feels timeless and intimidating like the city itself. Like he could chew Peter up and spit him out and go about his day like it was nothing. Because, to him, it would be.

Murder and acting like a world-class ass are his only superpowers as far as Peter can tell.

“If you wanted my attention,” Deadpool says, voice coming out low and raspy like his vocal cords are damaged. Or like he smokes four packs a day. “You could have just begged for it like everyone else.” His free hand reaches down to unsheathe a knife from his belt before reaching up to slice it through the webbing between his arm and the wall. Like he does it every day. “The Vulture says you beg real pretty.”

Anger rushes hot through Peter, replacing his fear. Spider-man does not beg. The closest he’s ever come to begging anything of the Vulture it was just to ask to be left the fuck alone. Seriously, the guy should change his name to Mosquito.

“Calm your tits, Carrie White.” Peter realizes that whatever he’s feeling must be showing on his face and making it through his mask. “You look like you’re about to set the gymnasium on fire.”

Deadpool slips the knife back into its sheath without looking, a degree of muscle memory that awes Peter as much as he hates it. The mercenary takes a step closer, too close even though he’s still a good fifteen feet away, and Peter notices the way his left leg shuffles and drags ever so slightly. A weakness like that means an escape hatch for Peter so he files the information away.

“Leave,” Peter says like a dismissal but he doesn’t turn his back. He’s already learned the hard way that you don’t turn your back on Deadpool.

“Charming.” Deadpool drawls, the roughness of his voice scraping over the word. “Like a blow-up doll filled with maggots.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. What are you doing here? Our last fight ended in a draw so you don’t need to soothe your precious ego.”

Peter thought that might get a rise but it doesn’t. At least not the one he was going for.

“Thought it was only fair I give you a professional heads-up. One red-clad vigilante to another.” Peter’s about to argue that he’s not a vigilante when a sheaf of papers appears from nowhere that he can discern and is gliding through the air toward him. It lands at his feet with a smack. “I’m finally going to have to kill you.”

You mean you weren’t trying before?

Peter’s eyes land on the top paper. It’s a contract. A very specific kind of contract that he recognizes from a sting with the police that he deeply regrets. A mercenary contract. And right there, in black and white, is the name Spider-man.

Someone took a contract out on his life.

Someone took a contract out on his life and now the contract belongs to Deadpool.

Lost in his thoughts, a dangerously nearby scuffling sound is the only warning Peter gets before big hands fist the front of his uniform and pull him forward. All the way into Deadpool. Peter’s toes scrape the rooftop as the mercenary lifts him up. The problem with his spider sense is that, when he's around Deadpool, it's always turned up to eleven. Makes it kind of hard to discern actual moments of threat when every moment has the potential for it.

“Always thought a job’s a job but I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy this one,” Deadpool growls in his ear. “No hard feelings, sugar bear.”

Deadpool’s masked mouth presses against Peter’s masked cheekbone with light pressure.

Then he’s hurled backward through the air, over the lip of the roof, watching Deadpool give him a finger-wiggling wave as Peter plummets. The fingers move jerkily and so does the arm and Peter consoles himself with the knowledge that, if they had fought tonight, he could have won.

Deadpool is in rough shape.

And Peter is Spider-man.

Which means he doesn’t fall when he gets thrown off a fifty-six-story building. Deadpool knows that. This wasn’t an attempt on Spider-man’s life. This was a warning. An invitation.

The game is afoot. Come play with me?

Chapter Text

Wade watches that punk bitch Spider-man turn a very poorly thought-out attempt to throw him off a building into an effortless swing along a rope of webbing. The way he muscles himself up at the apex of a swing, knees bent toward his hips and hand pulled down between them, is both disgustingly graceful and borderline pornographic (at least if your brain operates like Wade’s). Everything about the web slinger is a combination of acrobat-ballerina-door-to-door salesman. Strong and elegant and annoying as fuck.

None of that makes Wade want to fuck him any less, though. The mercenary has never been fully attached to the idea that you have to like the person you assault with a friendly weapon anyway. Some of his best lays were with people who couldn’t stand him, although that probably says more about his kinks than it does about theirs.

And now, all those years of edging are about to pay off because Wade finally gets to kill Spider-man.

Because now there’s a contract and if anyone is going to kill Spider-man, Wade wants it to be him. He wants the contract so badly that he died for it. So did a lot of other people but they didn’t come back. Promotion via presence and persistence. Wade’s asshole dad used to tell him that ninety percent of life is just showing up.

Wade fucking hates it when his dad is right.

He bends down to scoop up the sheaf of papers that was more of a dramatic prop than anything. Maaaybe he should have mentioned to Mr. Long, Lean, and Self-Righteous that it isn’t exactly an exclusive contract. That every killer-for-hire in the Northeast is going to be trying to make a name for themselves by being the one to off Spider-man. That Wade only has a head start because he slaughtered a warehouse full of them before he bled out.

“Nah.” He shoves the papers back into a pocket where they incongruously fit despite all outward appearances that they shouldn’t. “It’ll be a surprise. Everyone loves surprises.”

Now, maybe you’re wondering why Wade didn’t, I don’t know… shoot Spider-man in the head before he sensed Wade was nearby. Or hit Spider-man with one of the tranq darts Wade keeps in a pouch and then drown Spider-man in the river. Or snap the web slinger’s neck when Wade’s hands were close enough to feel Spider-man’s heart pounding against the backs of his fingers. Or use any of the other eighteen and a half potentially lethal tricks up his sleeve right fucking now.

“That’s because,” Wade drawls as he pulls out his phone and clicks into the app that’s linked to the tracking device he just attached to Spider-man’s suit, “all work and no play makes Deadpool a very bored girl. And bored girls cause problems.”

The little blinking dot glides across the map on his phone screen as Wade watches. Spider-man probably thinks he’s carving a random path across the city but, to Wade’s calculating eye, it’s easy to predict where he’ll be next. Going exactly where Wade knew he would. The thought of how embarrassed and livid Spider-man would be to know that Deadpool can read him like a book tugs at the corner of Wade’s mouth. Not a full smile, he rarely does that anymore, but amusement nonetheless.

Wade fishes another device out of a pouch and taps a pattern in with his thumb that lights it up. With his attention on the tracking dot, he softly counts down.

And, yeah, maybe it’s to the tune of Major Tom.

“Four, three, two, one.”

Then he presses one of the colored squares on the other device and a distant boom rumbles across the city. Spider-man’s swinging dot switches direction immediately, looping around a corner building and heading straight for the explosion. The almost-smile on Wade’s face gets ever so slightly bigger.

Superheroes. So predictable.

He’s not trying to kill the web slinger. Not exactly. Not yet. Wade just wants Spider-man to know he means business. And also, it’s so much easier to make a target come to you. A righteously indignant Spider-man will walk right onto Wade’s sword if Wade antagonizes him enough.

The carefully placed explosives are just Wade rolling out the red carpet.

“🎶 the itsy bitsy spider“ ka-boom “went up the waterspout” ka-boom “down came the rain“ ka-boom “and washed“ BOOM “the spider out 🎶”

Wade avidly watches his phone as Spider-man’s trajectory gets more frantic and less predictable, trying to avoid the explosions, trying to save people, trying, trying, trying. The merc sighs happily. It’s been a while since he’s had this much fun.

He taps in another complicated pattern with his thumb on the detonation box and several more explosives go off at the same time. Like the grand finale of a fireworks show. Wade loves fireworks shows. He also loves bombs. And he lovingly made these ones to fuck over Spider-man.

Wade can see (and feel) the finale as it goes. A cloud of dust pluming over the city and a soft rumble under his feet like he’s riding the subway or standing on someone’s back while they breathe their last breath. It’s beautiful, really.

He glances back down at his phone screen as the literal dust settles. The tracking dot has gone still on the map and he whoops.

“Another one bites the dust.”

He doubts that he killed Spider-man but Wade will also give the superhero the professional courtesy of spitting on his dead body just in case he did. Honestly, it will be a little disappointing if the explosives did the trick. Wade was hoping for something a little more… intimate.

Eventually.

Spider-man will probably be gone by the time Wade gets there anyway on account of the fact that he’s still dragging a healing leg and has to walk or take an Uber like a schmuck. Although he likes Ubers. You can learn a lot about someone by looking around the inside of their car. It’s like a little refresher course for his observational skills. If he hasn’t learned enough about the driver to blackmail them into giving him a five-star rating in the time it takes to get where he’s going then Wade doesn’t deserve a five-star rating.

The swords probably don’t hurt, either.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Parker?”

A tap on Peter’s shoulder has him halting his steps and turning around slowly. Everything is still a little sore. Even facing the undergraduate that was behind him, he has to rely mostly on lip reading to figure out what she’s saying. Being in close proximity to multiple explosions is bad for your hearing, apparently.

“Yeah?” He croaks. Being in close proximity to multiple explosions is also bad for your lungs.

“I was hoping I could talk to you about my hypothesis paper? The grade wasn’t very good?“

Peter peers down at the petite, black-haired girl in front of him. Miranda, he thinks her name is. She’s in one of the undergrad seminars he TAs for. Her hypothesis grade had been an A. Peter remembers because her experimental question had been about spiders.

He takes a second, harder look at her. Her tawny skin is flushed pink at the cheeks and her head is downcast. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before dropping the hand back to clasp around the outside of her opposite hand.

Oh.

“You haven’t looked?” She’s pretty. Gorgeous really. But she doesn’t look like the type to die multiple times a week.

The flush on her face deepens and she shakes her head. “Hopeful, I guess?”

“I’m flattered but—“

Her head snaps up and dark brown eyes finally meet his. “Everyone said that you’re unpaired and the first day I walked into your class…”

She trails off but Peter doesn’t need her to finish to know what she’s going to say. The first day she walked into his class her soulmate mark probably said MEETING SOULMATE or something similar. Peter vaguely remembers that day only because his mark had said DIED, the word (and the fingerprint) disappearing and reappearing at least three times that he noticed. Maybe his lectures are kind of boring but he doesn’t think they’ve ever killed anyone.

It hadn’t really occurred to him before now that he was going to have to rely on his soulmate’s soul mark to bring the two of them together. Hopefully, she’s been paying attention. But he knows she probably isn’t Miranda.

Sometimes he worries that he’s already met his soulmate. Maybe walked past her doing training exercises with the Avengers or something. Someone that can’t die has to be a superhero, right?

“Do you want to look now?” Peter is trying to be gentle. He’s not the best at human emotion but he imagines pinning your hopes on a specific soulmate only to have them crushed would be… not ideal.

Miranda lifts both her hands up in front of her like she’s cradling a baby bird and then pulls her top hand away to reveal the black words scrawled near the webbing of her thumb and pointer finger. It’s not an arrow pointing at Peter. It’s not the word SOULMATE, big and bold. It looks like it says HUNGOVER.

“Oh,” Miranda exclaims softly.

Peter has to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough that he draws blood to keep from laughing. Even he knows that’s a shit reaction.

She looks up at him, dark eyes wet and face slightly crumpled. “How did you know it wasn’t you?” Her eyes drop to his forearms, visible where he’s rolled up the sleeves of his button-up. “Oh,” she repeats again softly.

“I’m sorry.” Peter keeps talking, not sure what’s going to come out next. “But… it will be all the sweeter for the work it takes to get there.”

“That’s so…” Miranda sniffs and nods and then throws herself at Peter, wrapping short arms around his waist. “That’s so insightful.” Her voice is muffled against Peter but she quickly pulls back and smoothes her hands down the front of the very nice dress she has on. “Your soulmate must have a beautiful soul, just like yours.”

And with that, she spins on her leopard print ballet flats and heads back the way she came. That’s probably for the best since Peter almost ruined the moment by telling her those “beautiful” words were said to him by a homicidal mercenary who was pressing the tip of a sword to Peter’s sternum at the time.

Peter is pretty sure it was meant to convey just how much joy Deadpool would take in killing him. And apparently, Deadpool hadn’t even been trying.

Last night, Peter had been in terrifyingly close proximity to explosives that Deadpool laid out and the mercenary hadn’t even been trying.

Peter knows it must have been Deadpool because of the tracking device he found embedded in the black spider logo on the chest of his suit. He hadn’t found it until he got home, though. Exhausted and dirty and needing more than the four hours of sleep he was likely to get.

Deadpool hadn’t even been trying.

Peter manages to get to the office that’s really a closet that he shares with two other TAs without thinking too hard about that last part. Peter has been avoiding it since he woke up this morning but now, with the office empty and his ears still ringing from explosives that couldn’t have belonged to anyone other than the Merc with the Mouth, reality catches up to him.

Someone wants him dead.

And Deadpool wants to be the one to kill him.

Peter collapses into a desk chair that’s (generously) from the eighties with a huff and a soot-soaked sigh, running a hand through his hair and tugging on the unruly chunk in the front.

Neither of those things is a surprise. Not really. Spider-man isn’t the most popular. People in the street seem to like him fine, it’s the media (namely the Bugle) that like to drag his name through the mud. Well, the media and the supervillains he frequently thwarts. They really don’t like him either.

But Peter always kind of assumed it was a gentleman’s game. They fought each other with their individual wits and cunning and the victory was respected until the next time. Which sounds ridiculously naive now that the thought is fully formed. He supposes supervillains are exactly the kind of people that would hire a mercenary to do their job.

But did it have to be that mercenary?

Deadpool nearly caused permanent nerve damage to Peter’s leg the first time they met and it had all gone downhill from there. Granted, during that same meeting, Peter had punched Deadpool in the chest with enough force to crack his sternum, something that barely seemed to slow the mercenary down.

That guy.

That guy that hadn’t even been trying to kill Peter all those times that Spider-man barely limped away from a confrontation. That guy was the guy that was destined to fulfill the contract on Spider-man’s life.

Peter has seen Deadpool work. He’s seen the aftermath. The mercenary may be only slightly superhuman, if that, but Peter thinks that if anyone can kill Spider-man, it will be Deadpool.

Maybe Peter had been wrong to worry that he wouldn’t meet his soulmate before death finally stuck for her. Maybe he should have been worried that he wouldn’t meet her before death stuck for him.

Because now Deadpool is going to be actually trying.

Chapter Text

It’s embarrassing how bad assassins are these days. But Wade supposes that’s what happens when you think you’re at the top of the food chain. You stop cultivating your survival instinct.

The pop of bone is quiet in the cavernous interior of the warehouse. Wade unwraps his arm from around the assassin’s neck and they slide to the floor. He doesn’t feel bad exactly but he does feel a kinship, one killer to another. That’s why he decided on the broken neck. It’s a quiet kill and it hurts less than most other things Wade would have been inclined to do. All his broken neck deaths were little more than falling asleep.

Except Wade wakes back up. He always wakes back up.

“Hey!” He shouts at the assassin’s partner, sending a friendly wave to where they’re stretched out in the rafters of the warehouse with a sniper rifle. The rifle is disabled which the operator found out when they tried to shoot Wade as he killed their friend. “Name’s Deadpool. Real sorry about your buddy. Accidents happen.”

“You killed him. I watched you.”

Ah, indignation. Maybe there is some honor among thieves after all.

“Nothin’ personal.” Wade shrugs then pushes up his mask, uncovering his mouth before fishing in his pouches for a joint and a lighter. He waits until he’s sucked in his first lungful before speaking again. “Just markin’ my territory. Pissin’ on the walls and shit.”

“What?”

“Protecting my investment,” Wade says more slowly, the joint bobbing between his lips. “I’ve been paying into this fund for years and it’s time to reap the rewards.”

“What?”

Oi. Assassins. And people think Wade’s an idiot.

Wade takes a last puff of his joint before pulling it out of his mouth and stubbing it against his thigh. Once he’s sure it’s not smoldering anymore, he carefully replaces it in his pouch then draws one of his guns, aiming it at the vague shadow hidden in the rafters.

“If you drop the Spider-man contract, I’ll let you live. If not…” Wade jerks his head back towards the dead body on the floor, his gun unwavering.

A scoff. “No way, man. That contract has the potential to—“

The retort of the gun is loud in the warehouse. Louder than the neck break at least. Also louder than the thud the second (now dead) body makes as it falls to the floor. Someone seems to have miscalculated just how well Wade can see in the dark.

He assumes (hopes) that someday people will stop underestimating him but it hasn’t happened yet. Makes things a little too easy if you ask him.

Wade holsters his gun without doing a spin around his trigger finger in respect for the dead. With both hands free he retrieves the joint, lights it up, takes another pull, and taps into his phone. He snaps a few pics of the dead assassins while he smokes then sends an encrypted text, interested in seeing how many birds he can kill with one stone.

Mostly metaphorically.

The response comes back almost immediately:

What’s this?

You if you don’t fuck off the Spider-man contract.

Very funny.

And you are?

Wade takes a selfie because why the hell not? He even gives his best anime girl pose. Felt cute, might delete later.

I don’t negotiate with clowns.

Wade wants to be put out, he really does, but he was expecting this. He prepared for it like some kind of lethal, fucked up Venturer Scout. And so what if he was kind of hoping the scales would tip this way? Job satisfaction is important.

You sure about that?

Look out the western window.

Wade finishes the joint and drops it onto the sniper’s body before finding the ladder hidden amongst the debris; the one they used to climb into the rafters. Wade is halfway up the ladder when he gets a response this time. He doesn’t look at it right away. Let them stew.

“Aren’t you gorgeous?” Wade purrs as he hauls himself up next to the sniper rifle. He fiddled with it earlier but hadn’t gotten a chance to really check it out. “Long and lean. Definitely my type. Wanna come home with me?”

His phone buzzes again from the depths of a pouch. Wade scowls. “Hold that thought, sugar. I gotta answer this.”

Who are you?

Someone you don’t want to meet in person.

Pull all your minions off the Spider-man contract and you never will.

Do we have a deal?

Sometimes negotiations like this backfire and Wade gets five Humvees of armed-to-the-teeth goons crawling up his ass. But he did his research, found the weak spot, and made his move. He hadn’t been expecting the clown tie-in though. Pretty sure a few people probably shit themselves making sure the property was clear after that.

Is she safe?

For now.

Wade starts stripping the rifle, packing it into the bag he found balled up in a dark corner, and cooing compliments at her. He’s definitely going to sleep well wrapped around this beauty tonight.

INTERNAL MEMO: All engagement with the SM contract will cease immediately. Employees found in violation of this new policy will be terminated.

Reply upon receipt.

“Look at that,” Wade says, laying on his back next to the bagged rifle, tucking an arm under her, and showing her the update on his phone. So maybe he has access to the organization’s internal communications and he could have just put the order through himself. This, though. This is way more entertaining. “Can you believe he’s pulling out of a prestigious contract because of his fucking missing Pomeranian?”

Wade counts twelve responses to the internal memo meaning that he only had to kill two assassins and pay a dog walker for a four-hour walk to clear fourteen guns off the contract for Spidey.

That luscious ass is practically all his.

It’s done.

Where is she?

Wade glances at the clock at the top of his phone. Perfect fucking timing, as always.

She’ll be delivered in twenty minutes.

If you touch Shawna, all bets are off.

Shawna is the dog walker Wade hired that has no idea that she’s tiptoeing through a minefield at the same time she’s picking up Pomeranian shit in a biodegradable fucking bag. Her profile on the app was excellent. Wade will be pissed if she gets hurt. She’s been great at texting him pictures of Lady Di while on their walk. Pomeranians are cute little demon mutts.

You better not have harmed a single hair on her head.

Pretty sure it’s fur.

You can thank me for the rain jacket later.

What? It had been cold and drizzly, so sue him.

Shawna sends him another text with a picture of Lady Di licking someone’s palm and he thanks her for taking care of the dog and drops a thousand bucks for a tip. Partially to make up for the non-zero chance that a (former) contract killer shoves a gun in her face when she drops the ankle-biter off.

Wade tallies the outcome of today’s endeavor while he tosses the rifle bag over his shoulder and descends the ladder.

EXPENDITURES:

• $1,160
• one (1) creepy clown doll
• one (1) piece of white card stock
• one (1) black sharpie
• one (1) doggie raincoat
• one (1) hour of set-up (hanging the clown doll from a noose outside the west window, holding a piece of card stock with the words when’s the last time you saw Lady Di? scrawled on it under a tuft of orange-ish fur taped to the paper)
• two (2) hours following assassins
• one (1) bullet

GAINS:

• six (6) adorable puppy photos
• one (1) incredibly high-end sniper rifle
• fourteen (14) fewer killers-for-hire trying to snake Wade’s new favorite contract out from underneath him
• a nice little buzz from the joint (although it's mostly gone now)

All-in-all not a bad op. Just took a little bit of work.

He hopes Spider-man appreciates it.

Chapter Text

Someone is following Spider-man.

It’s not unexpected given the bomb (both figurative and literal) that Deadpool dropped on Peter a few nights ago. This is his first patrol out since then; his lungs took a full twenty-four hours to clear out and he proctored and subsequently graded three sections worth of mid-term exams.

When he staggered into the coffee shop to meet his friends this morning, MJ had taken one look at him and told him to go back to bed. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He has shit to do.

Including this patrol where he’s being tailed like he owes someone money. Or there’s a contract on his head.

His spider sense has been at a low buzz pretty much since he left his apartment which honestly narrows who might be his shadow down by quite a bit. To a suspect pool of one, actually. Peter has known for a long time that Deadpool probably knows where Spider-man lives but the merc has never used that information for evil. At least as far as Peter can tell.

He wonders vaguely as he levers himself up toward another rooftop if today is the day Deadpool will use that information. If maybe today is the day that Peter will die.

Is it weird that he hopes his contract is at least worth a lot? Not so Deadpool gets rich or anything but just for vanity. To be worth something.

Fuck. How maudlin.

Peter disconnects from the end of his webbing which leaves him flying in an arc toward his destination. This feeling is one of his favorites. Free. Untethered. A place where the world can’t find him and demand shit that he doesn’t have to give.

Just before he lands, the background hum of his spider sense flares into blazing, excruciating life. His body dips into a roll before his brain can think about it but he hears the pop of two shots going off and feels a burn tearing across one thigh and an answering burn at the outside of his shoulder.

He manages to steer his roll toward a shadowed corner wedged behind a wall, he sits with his knees up, back against the brick, panting while his spider sense tries to rattle his brain out of his head. The bullets grazed him, across the front of his left thigh and the meat at the top of his right arm. It fucking stings but at least it’s not lethal.

“🎶Well, did she make you cry,

make you break down,

shatter your illusions of love?

And is it over now, do you know how?

Pick up the pieces and go home.🎶”

The singing from the other side of the rooftop makes Peter want to scream but instead, he bites his lip and covers the holes in his suit (and his body) with webbing.

Okay. Maybe he yells a little.

“What the fuck, Deadpool?”

“Just tryna get your attention, peaches. Wanted to do a little check-up on my favorite walking dead man.”

Peter sucks in a breath, holding it as he leans around the corner of the wall. He’s ready to sink back behind it if a bullet comes at his face but his spider sense is simmering at a ten which means he probably isn’t going to die from a gunshot wound to the head right this second. Imminent death by Deadpool is an eleven at least.

The merc is strolling across the roof, his pistol in one hand hung loosely at his side and a katana spinning in the other.

“Spider-man,” he sing-songs, his voice nasally and pitched too high. “Come out and pla-ay.”

“No, thanks,” Peter replies even though he knows he should keep his mouth shut. “I’m laying low now that there’s a hit out on me.”

“Smart but unnecessary.” Peter hears what sounds like metal scraping across brick. “Now lemme see that perfect little ass.”

Peter’s stomach rolls and tightens at the taunt, having the man that’s probably going to kill him objectify him first feels like grinding salt into an open wound.

“Hard pass,” Peter grits out.

Deadpool’s voice comes from closer, the other side of the wall. “Hard something,” he mutters.

There’s silence after that. Peter can feel his anxiety spinning like a top. Is Deadpool still there? Can I escape over the edge of the building before he shoots me? What if—

“Tell ya what. I’ll holster my weapons if you come out here.” Peter hears the scuff of metal on leather and hates himself for thinking Deadpool is telling the truth. “Come into my parlor—“

“Said the spider to the fly,” Peter finishes without thinking. God, he’s his own worst enemy sometimes. It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to go out there. He’s obviously not. That would be stupid. “So maybe you don’t kill me but another mercenary does?”

Yeah. The revelation that the Spider-man contract wasn’t exclusive hadn’t really changed anything but at least it gives Peter some verbal ammunition against Deadpool.

“Don’t worry, honey bunches. I took care of it. You’re all mine.”

That… that’s concerning. Peter can only imagine what must have happened in order for Deadpool to “take care of it.” Does he really want to stand out in the open on a rooftop with someone that takes care of things? Does he have a choice? He’s exhausted, stressed out, and bleeding from multiple bullet wounds. If Deadpool is going to kill him, Peter would rather face it head on.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” he huffs under his breath, followed by, “put your hands in the air and take four steps back.”

“Kinky,” Deadpool responds but Peter can hear the receding crunch of his boots. “Hope this is goin’ where I think it is.”

Peter stays low as he lunges away from the wall, aiming his webbing as carefully as he can. He’s only mildly distracted by the fact that Deadpool’s weapons are actually holstered and his hands are actually held up by his shoulders in a show of surrender.

What the fuck is up with this guy?

Spider-man and Deadpool have been crossing paths for years and Peter still hasn’t figured the merc out.

The webbing hits one wrist and Peter uses his grip on the other end of the thread to tug Deadpool’s arm down to hip level in front of him. Peter repeats the move with Deadpool’s opposite hand until the merc’s wrists are cuffed together with webbing, hanging at the apex of his thick thighs.

“This went exactly where I was hopin’ it would,” Deadpool sighs dreamily, bending his arms at the elbows to peer at the webbing sticking his wrists together. “Do you do parties?”

Peter staggers upright on his injured leg, mouth almost fully forming the question Parties? before his rational, thinking brain kicks in and diverts him to, “What are you doing here?”

“Target practice. Gotta stay sharp if I wanna keep you on your toes.” Deadpool shuffles closer which ratchets Peter’s spider sense up another half-point, but he doesn’t back away. Not even when Deadpool speaks again. It’s the principle of the thing. “Peter.”

Deadpool hits the name hard like he’s a hammer and it’s a nail.

Peter rolls his eyes and sighs. This, at least, he can handle. “It was a revelation when you figured it out a year ago. Now it’s just annoying.”

“IDK, thought I saw a little lens twitch of surprise there.” Deadpool raises both arms again, trying to poke a red-gloved finger into the corner of one of Peter’s lenses as Peter ducks out of the way.

“That’s irritation.”

“Awww, Petey Pie. Why so irritated?”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“I know. It’s great, isn’t it?”

“It’s not fucking great,” Peter snaps. “Unlike you, I don’t leave my house—“

“Shitty apartment.”

Peter clenches his jaw. “I don’t leave my house expecting to be killed. I’m not interested in toeing the line of mortality like some trigger-happy psychopath.”

“I don’t exactly toe the line either if ya know what I mean.”

Peter doesn’t know what Deadpool means. Peter never fucking knows. So he just ignores it like he ignores so many other things about the Merc with the Mouth.

“Listen. I’m going to pathetically limp my way off this building and you’re going to stand there and let it happen. I’m tired. You can kill me tomorrow.”

Peter is tired. So tired that he makes a rookie mistake and turns his back on Deadpool. He’s barely shuffled one step when a loop of massive biceps drops down over the top of his head and bands across his waist.

No.

No.

Peter is fucking exhausted. He’s still slowly bleeding. There’s a hit out on him. And the undergrad students are absolutely bombing his class.

Fuck this.

Sometimes, when Peter uses his spider speed, the whole world seems to slow down around him. Every movement becomes deliberate and his spider sense expands outward, picking up the smallest vibrations in the air. And sometimes it’s like a car crash, discordant and disorienting and all at once.

This time, it’s more like a car crash. Peter has pulled the knife out of his pocket and spun in the circle of Deadpool’s arms before Peter realizes what he’s planning. The knife flicks open easily, just like he’s been practicing for months.

The tip of the knife goes to the hollow of Deadpool’s throat, under the black collar of his suit, and Peter pushes until he feels resistance. His brain is screaming at him to stop but he’s tired of all this bullshit. He’s been shot twice and he just wants to go home.

“Mmmm,” Deadpool hums, the sound vibrating from his throat down the knife to Peter’s hand. “I like your instincts, professor. Hitting the carotid on the side of the neck can be iffy. Shoving a blade through the front of someone’s neck, though? That’s a guaranteed kill.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Peter grits out which is mostly true. “I just want to leave.”

One of Deadpool’s arms snakes between them and Peter realizes that he cut through the webbing cuffs somehow. Fucking goddamn useless spider sense. But, instead of wrapping around Peter’s throat to strangle him to death, Deadpool’s hand drops to his crotch, palming the bulge of his dick.

Peter’s mouth moves before his brain can veto it. “Are you seriously turned on right now?”

Deadpool nods emphatically which jostles the knife in Peter’s hand slightly.

“Oh my god. I think I’d rather you killed me,” Peter scowls, stepping back. Or trying to. Deadpool’s other arm is still looped behind Peter, holding him in place.

His spider sense spikes hard in his brain. Sooner would have been better because he doesn’t need his spider sense to tell him the truth. He’s stuck. He’s stuck. He’s stuck.

“Know what makes it even hotter?”

No.

Peter tries to shake his head. He absolutely does not want to know. He wants to get the fuck out of here. But he feels frozen, the knife in his hand still pressed to Deadpool’s throat and his eyes inexplicably dragging down Deadpool’s chest to where he’s started to stroke himself through the front of the suit.

“This is my knife, isn’t it?" Deadpool leans into Peter, pressing the knife harder into his own throat like the fucking feral asshole he is. "That’s worth two entries in the spank bank at least.”

Peter should leave. He should use his spider strength to shrug off the arm curled behind his back and leave. He should not stay. He should not narrow his eyes (and lenses) at the mercenary that wants to kill him and is standing way too fucking close. And he definitely should not speak.

“Do you want me to give it back to you the same way you gave it to me?”

“Fuck, Spidey Cakes.” A shudder runs across Deadpool’s thick frame. “If you’re tryna turn me off, threatenin’ to stab me ain’t it.”

Peter doesn’t even want to unpack all of that. Is Deadpool still aroused? Where the fuck did Spidey Cakes come from? Is the merc really getting off on knife play?

He doesn’t want to know, not really, but he fucking looks because he’s a masochist. Deadpool’s hand is still working over the now very clear shape of his dick through the red of his suit. Peter’s stomach rolls and tightens again. It’s a fucking cosmic joke that this suicidal dickweed can get such a rise out of him.

Deadpool leans closer with his upper body, looming over Peter, putting his mouth next to Peter’s ear. “I can’t wait to watch your pretty little body bleed for me, baby boy.”

Yes, Spider-man has a no-kill code.

Yes, Peter has moral compunctions against murder.

Yes, it’s definitely wrong to do what he does next.

No, he doesn’t care.

Peter slides the tip of the knife down Deadpool’s sternum and to the side until the tip is pressed between the hard ridge of two ribs, then he shoves. He feels the layers of Deadpool give as Peter pushes; the suit, the skin, the muscle, then a soft, puncturing kind of pop. He hears the oof as air punches from Deadpool’s mouth. Hot blood pours from the wound and soaks the side of Peter’s glove and sleeve and all he can feel is fierce satisfaction.

He turns his head slightly to put his mouth next to Deadpool’s ear. “I’ve been meaning to give this back to you.”

The warm, rough chuckle Peter gets in return isn’t quite what he expected. “Mighta punctured a lung there, peaches. You good with that?”

Peter checks himself internally, thinking maybe now that the deed is done he’ll feel appalled and/or ashamed. But he doesn’t. And maybe that should be the most appalling and shaming thing of all.

“Yeah,” he says instead, voice firm. “Think I’m good with that.”

Then he turns his back on Deadpool and, without looking behind him, leaps off the roof.

Chapter Text

That little cunt just stabbed him. And now Wade’s stuck here on this rooftop with a knife between his ribs, a definitely punctured lung, and maybe the biggest hard on he’s ever had. What a fucking bitch.

Spider-man. Life. Take your pick.

The thing that really pisses Wade off is that he’s pretty certain Spider-man doesn’t know about his healing factor. Meaning the goody-two-shoes web slinger just punctured Wade’s lung not knowing that Wade wouldn’t die.

Jesus.

He’s going to come in his fucking pants.

It only takes a little bit of unzipping and unbuttoning (and one instance of yanking a glove off with his teeth) before Wade has his dick in his hand. It’s already slick with precome from goddamn Spider-man. Wade already knew that he’d gladly bend over and let the hero fuck him until he broke. He didn’t know, or conveniently forgot, that Spider-man isn’t just some milquetoast Adonis. Professor Parker’s got a fucking mouth on him.

I’ve been meaning to give this back to you.

Wade’s hand on his cock is sloppy and out of rhythm, his arm having to work past the knife hilt sticking from between his ribs. He’s honestly never gotten turned on with a knife to his throat before but he learns new things about himself every day. Today he learned that Spider-man kept the knife Wade had buried between his ribs six months ago. Wade’s hand tightens around his cock at the thought and he groans. Not only kept it but handled it like he had practice. A shiver runs down Wade’s spine, heat pooling in his lower belly and thighs.

That punk piece of shit thinks he can just waltz up to Wade and fucking stab him?

Oh fuck.

He’s definitely going to come. He twists his hand over the head of his cock before stroking back down, hard and fast. His bicep keeps catching on the knife as he fucks his hand. Both the repeated pinch of pain and the constant reminder that goddamn Spider-man put it there make Wade’s whole body go cold, then hot.

Wade wishes tonight had gone differently. Maybe he wishes that he had shot to kill instead of just to wound. Maybe he wishes he had let the web slinger go that first time instead of trapping him. Mostly, though, he wishes he had wrapped his hand around Spider-man’s neck instead of his own dick, shoved the superhero to the ground, and fed his hard cock into Spidey’s smart mouth.

Wade wants to come on that little fucker’s face. Dirty up his geek glasses and his dumb sweater vests and his silky brown hair. He’s spent enough time watching Spider-man in his civilian persona that Wade can practically picture it. That, more than anything else, is what finally pushes him over the edge.

“You're gonna look even prettier with my cum on your face,” he snarls as his cock swells harder in his fist before his orgasm spills over the back of his hand and the exposed expanse of his lower stomach. His lungs bellow in his chest, even the one that’s popped like a balloon, and he’s lightheaded. That’s the best Wade’s felt in a long time. “Fuck.”

He needs to get laid. That’s the only explanation for this bullshit. It’s definitely not that some pretty, perfect superhero played Wade’s game. Has been playing Wade’s game since almost the beginning.

The first time, Wade had thought Spider-man was nothing more than a punk kid dressed as a spider only to get his sternum cracked open with one punch. That had been fun. Almost as fun as tonight.

Shit.

When had that happened? That feeling.

Yuck.

Wade rubs his hand down the center of his sternum. Sometimes his chest still aches, especially when Spider-bitch is around. So does Wade’s unruly dick. Neither ache is a problem, until they are. He can’t afford for them to be a problem.

Wade wraps his fingers around the hilt of the knife and pulls it out, slapping his hand over the hole so he doesn’t crush his lung with the influx of pressure. It’s not like he won’t heal but he cannot believe that web-slinging choir boy actually stabbed him.

It’s like the wizard of fucking Oz. Great and terrible.

And sure, maybe Wade’s done the same thing to Spider-man but Wade’s a mercenary. It’s to be expected.

“One of these days, I’m going to put a bullet between his gorgeous fucking eyes and I’m not going to have to deal with this anymore,” Wade grumbles as he fishes a hand towel out of one of his pouches and starts to clean himself up. Blood. Cum. The works. “At least I got a good nut outta this.”

Once he’s as clean as he’s likely to get, he plops down onto the edge of the roof, letting his legs dangle, drinking an off-off-brand energy drink that he thinks might be from Serbia. It tastes like shit but the caffeine and nuclear waste can sometimes speed up his healing factor.

He rubs the heel of his free hand down the line of his sternum again. Letting the memory of Spider-man’s fist distract him from the other thing that’s branded into his chest. The thing his healing factor can’t cure.

It had been cathartic to know that the bones were caving in under Spider-man’s fist, to know that his mark was caving in with it. Wade relives that moment a lot, the day he met Spider-man. And whenever he does, he tells himself it’s because that’s the day he thought he might be rid of his soul mark for good.

Wade’s on sentry duty. It’s bullshit but it pays the bills. Some other mercenary a few streets over is doing the deed and Wade is parked on a rooftop smoking a cigarette he fished out of the ashtray bucket near the door.

Movement in his peripheral vision has him turning his head, cigarette between his lips, one hand dropping to his gun while the other reaches up for a katana. When he gets a clear view of what’s moving, he laughs hard enough that his cigarette drops to the rooftop.

It’s a person, vacuum sealed into tight red and blue spandex (sooooo patriotic) and fucking swinging on a rope from one roof to another. The kid, person, man, whatever is headed toward the mercenary that Wade’s supposed to be protecting but even if this red and blue-clad moron wasn’t headed that way, Wade wouldn’t be able to resist.

A single carefully aimed and timed explosive knocks the little shit to the ground surrounded by the glass from the shattered front window of a Starbucks. (Shop local.) Wade leaps down next to the groaning body, breaking at least one leg on the landing, and tries to make the best first impression he can.

“Aren’t you a pretty, little thing… Wanna play?”

The hero — because Wade realizes that’s what it is, a hero — scowls behind their mask and kicks out, missing Wade’s kneecap but dropping him to all fours anyway as he tries to dance away on his weak leg.

“No, thanks,” they wheeze as they try to drag themselves backward away from Wade. “I’m not much for board games.”

“Sorry to make it sound like you have a choice,” Wade huffs as he lunges, “because you don’t.”

His hand lands around the meat of the hero’s upper thigh, thumb digging into the soft muscle of their inner leg, using the grip to pull them through the shattered glass on the ground and nearly underneath him. Wade’s other hand wraps around a piece of glass and drives it into the hero’s inner thigh, right where his thumb used to be.

The hero makes a wounded animal sound and Wade starts cheering internally, another piece of shit vigilante off the streets, when it hits him. Or, more accurately, they hit him. The hero moves so fast that Wade doesn’t even see the fist coming and they hit him so hard that he's knocked off all fours and skidding through the glass on his back.

Fuck.

That was hot.

Wade turns his head and coughs up blood, feeling gingerly along his chest where it’s completely crushed. His fingers linger over the center of his sternum, over his soul mark, and he takes a minute to wish the thing to Hell. To hope that this superhero punched him hard enough that it freed his soulmate from being tied to someone like him.

He drags himself to his feet, labored breathing, bloody coughing, and all. The hero has staggered to their feet, too, standing near the broken window, swaying, drunk on blood loss.

The two of them stand there, staring at each other, blood pouring down the inside of the hero’s leg and the front of Wade’s chest.

“What’s your name, punchy?” Wade rasps out. “I want to know what to have carved into your gravestone right underneath the words had shitty fashion sense and killed by Deadpool.”

“Spider-man.” Wade’s chest buckles at the sound of Spider-man’s voice. But that’s what you get when your sternum is crushed, he supposes. “I’ll make sure I put the hyphen in the right place when I have to sign your death certificate.”

Fuck.

I think I might be in love.

Chapter Text

It happened again.

Peter is sitting at his usual coffee shop waiting for MJ, Gwen, and Harry, his left leg bouncing uncontrollably as he fiddles with his mug. He did it again. He huffs out a breath causing the lock of hair that always flops over his forehead to flutter wildly. A blonde woman in a college hoodie meets his gaze as it darts around the shop and gives him a coy look and a wave. Peter gives her a friendly nod and then commits to avoid looking toward that side of the shop until tomorrow.

I did it again.

At least I didn't kill him.

I didn't kill him, right?

“Peter.” MJ only uses that tone when he hasn’t been paying attention. She’s standing at the end of the table, right in front of him, scowling.

“What? Hey. Hi. Hey.” He shoves to his feet, nearly toppling his mug, and wraps MJ in a hug. “Good to see you.”

MJ leans back and eyes him. “What’s eating you, tiger?”

Peter wonders what his best friend would say if, instead of telling her he was fine, he detailed the way he held a knife to another human being’s neck last night before sinking it between their ribs. If he told her he might have punctured someone's lung. If he told her his suit still had blood on it. If she knew he was Spider-man.

Although, maybe human being is a generous term for Deadpool.

“Peter?” This time her tone is worried.

Peter shakes his head clear and hedges out an answer. “Oh, you know. The usual. Midterms.”

Sometimes “midterms” truly is the answer to what’s wrong with Peter but MJ’s eyes narrow like she knows that’s not what’s wrong right now. Her lips part, probably to pester him into spilling his soul, when she catches sight of something over Peter’s shoulder that makes her whole face soften and glow.

“Bunny,” MJ murmurs her nickname for her soulmate softly like it’s precious. When they first met, MJ called her Gwenny but the term of endearment has morphed over time. “I thought you were going to be late.”

“Are you kidding?” Gwen asks as she brushes past Peter and wraps herself around MJ. “I can do work later. I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

Gwen completely ignores Peter, pushing up on her toes to kiss MJ’s cheek and rub their noses together. MJ’s head dips to whisper in Gwen’s ear and Gwen smiles bright enough to rival the sun. Something heavy settles onto Peter’s chest as he watches them greet each other. They look so happy. In love.

They look like soulmates.

Peter has been pretending for six years that he doesn’t want a soulmate. That he’ll be okay if his mark never shows anything other than a fingerprint and the word DIED. That Spider-man is better off alone anyway. But, when it’s put right in front of him like this, he knows that’s all a lie. His chest aches with it, the truth or maybe the lie, and he can practically feel the soul mark on his leg. A pressing into the muscle, like his soulmate is there, matching their fingertip to his mark.

I want that.

A gagging sound behind Peter knocks him out of his reverie. “Get a room. You’re depressing the unpaired. Right, Pete?”

That’s not quite the word Peter would use for it but…

Harry nudges Peter’s arm with his elbow before dropping his body into the booth seat like its dead weight and sliding all the way in. Gwen turns to glare at Harry from where she’s tucked under MJ’s arm. Looks like Peter's not even going to be getting a hello today.

“Just because you’re too ch—“

“Let’s sit down,” MJ interrupts, likely knowing exactly what’s about to come out of Gwen’s mouth. “I think we’re getting glares from people that are unhappy with the way we’re utilizing the booth.”

“Those aren’t glares,” Gwen laughs, sliding in on the opposite side of the table from Harry. “Those are the co-eds checking out Peter’s ass.”

“They’re not— That’s not—“ Peter stops because the terrible gleam in Gwen’s eyes tells him that she’s enjoying his distress.

He makes eye contact with one of the regular baristas and gestures at the table waiting for the thumbs up that will tell him their order has been put in, then he settles next to Harry, who’s already regaling the table with descriptions of the new girl that he’s sure is his soulmate, and takes a drink of his now lukewarm coffee. Peter is only half listening to Harry’s effusive praise of someone that he’s never even talked to when he sees MJ give Gwen a look which Gwen shakes off before leaning toward Harry like she’s a cat and he’s a mouse.

“What if your soulmate isn’t a woman, Harry?”

Gwen’s question has Harry spluttering to a stop. “But… I’m straight.”

Peter hides his expression behind his mug. Gwen was straight, too. At least until the day she met MJ. The universe doesn’t care about sexual orientation apparently.

“Ooooookay,” Gwen draws out. “But you’re discounting half of the population when you focus on your girl of the week.” Gwen uses air quotes around girl of the week.

“No,” Harry protests. “No way. My soulmate’s definitely a woman. You admitted that you might have been bi without knowing it before you met MJ,” Harry points a triumphant finger at Gwen, “but I’m straight. As straight as they come. Back me up here, Pete.”

Peter shouldn’t get involved. He’s exhausted and still tender from his bullet wounds and his brain is obsessively worrying over his newly apparent homicidal tendencies. But he's also never been great at impulse control and a response is leaping out of him before he can reel it back in.

“It’s possible, right?” He says awkwardly, aware that every eye at the table is fixed on him. “That the perfect match for you isn’t the gender you assume they'll be?”

Peter doesn’t know why he isn’t agreeing with Harry. Peter is straight and he can’t even fathom how fucking awkward it would be if his soulmate wasn’t a woman. He wants someone that’s sharp, clever, someone that can keep up when his mouth runs away with him. Someone that will accept that he’s Spider-man. Someone that might even appreciate that part of him. Someone with… tits?

Jesus.

He’s too tired for this conversation.

“Holy shit,” Harry says, “so you’re just going to start rubbing up against every guy you see?”

The only guy Peter has rubbed up against recently is Deadpool and he hopes that doesn’t happen again any time soon. Or ever.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Don’t be a dick, Harry.”

Gwen’s admonishment overlaps Peter’s denial and the whole table goes quiet as their drinks are delivered.

“I think all Gwen’s trying to say,” MJ, ever the diplomat, starts, “is that you can’t make assumptions about who might be your perfect person.”

“Yeah,” Gwen mumbles through a sip of dirty chai, “that.”

“I’m never going to be interested in rubbing up against another dude,” Harry insists. “Can you imagine?”

Peter can imagine.

“Being a soulmate isn’t just about that Harry…”

He loses MJ’s voice in the din of the coffee shop as he realizes that he doesn’t have to imagine. Peter was very much in close quarters with another man last night. And, as much as he tried to ignore the realities of it, awareness seeped through his armor. How much taller and broader Deadpool is than him. How much warmer his body was. How his voice seemed to curl up inside Peter’s ear. The size of his—

Goddamn it.

Peter’s hand squeezes around his mug hard enough that it shatters, spilling coffee across the table and causing Gwen and Harry to frantically pull napkins out of the dispenser to mop it up. He can’t believe that fuckwad got inside his head with that little stunt last night. Peter wishes he had stabbed Deadpool harder. Peter’s breath is angry, fast and shallow. He sees MJ glance up from the mess on the table and give him a look like she’s worried he’s going to snap.

Am I?

He flexes his hand again, ignoring the pinch of pain from the piece of ceramic embedded in his palm. Maybe he doesn’t actually feel bad about stabbing that mouthy jackass. Maybe he’ll find Deadpool tonight and stab him again. Deeper for good measure. Maybe Peter would be doing the entire city a favor if he stopped pulling his punches and finally cracked that asshole’s sternum all the way through.

“Shit, Pete. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Peter is surprised when he doesn’t breathe fire as he speaks. “Just spaced out. Sorry.”

“Look what you did, Gwen.” Harry chides, trying to lighten the weird tension around the table. “You made Pete picture pairing with a guy and—”

“Do. Not. Finish that sentence, Harry Osborn,” Gwen snaps.

“It’s not that,” Peter says, grabbing a clean napkin and wiping the coffee and blood and ceramic from his palm. “I just thought of something weird. A nightmare kind of.”

That’s as close as Peter can get to explaining what's going through his head.

Incandescent rage.

And the certainty that the next time he sees Deadpool, Peter’s going to kill the guy.

Turnabout is fair play, right?

Chapter Text

The beauty of knowing where a mark lives is that you can take your time. Really string it out. Play with your food before you eat it. And Wade fucking loves playing with his food, especially if spiders are on the menu.

“Criminal to deprive the world of that perfect ass,” he mumbles, prone on the roof, peering through the window of one Peter Parker’s apartment with his eye pressed to the scope of Sniper Laurie, the rifle he pulled off those assassins a few days ago. “But I’m nothing if not endearingly corrupt.”

Wade watches the photographer slash PhD student (and secret superhero) cross in front of the window, heading toward the kitchen. Which is a generous fucking term for what looks like a hot plate on top of a mini fridge.

“Hate to see you go, love to watch you walk away.”

His finger is loose on the trigger. This isn’t a kill mission, at least not right this second. This is strictly for fun. And Wade is having a lot of fun. Peter Parker moves like a dancer, all long limbs and elegance, even when he’s just getting up to take a piss. Wade doesn’t get to appreciate beautiful things very often so he’s appreciating the fuck out of this.

He shifts slightly, tilting the barrel to keep The Man Who Will Be Spider-man in his sights. Peter Parker has his hips pressed back into the kitchen counter, his upper body hunched over the styrofoam take-out container in his hand, just inhaling the food out of it.

“Christ. Would love to watch you inhale my dick like that, sweet pea.”

Dark brown eyes lift as he eats, meeting Wade’s through the scope, wide and assessing under a scrunched brow with a thick curl falling across it. Peter slurps up the rest of the noodles, a show of skill that Wade feels in his cock, then straightens up, dropping the chopsticks into the takeout container and giving Wade the middle finger.

“The fucking cheek on this kid,” Wade huffs with a laugh, wiggling against the rooftop again.

It’s not that he’s never done sniper duty with a semi-hard dick before but it never gets any more comfortable. He draws the line at angry masturbation on a rooftop more than once a week, though, so he’ll have to tough it out.

Peter stuffs the takeout box into a tiny, overfull trash can giving Wade a look at his ass that pulls a groan from the merc’s throat, then crosses back in front of the window and disappears.

Wade keeps the rifle level but tips his head down to where his phone sits between his elbows. 8:15 pm. Professor Parker is probably stripping out of those stupid khakis and pulling on his pajama pants covered in tiny NASA logos so he can grade some boring as shit papers.

Why a guy that could make a living as an underwear model or a contortionist chooses to read poorly written college essays about the scientific method is beyond Wade. If he was bendy like Spider-man he’d… well, he’d definitely try to suck his own dick. What might come after that is a little more nebulous.

“Yes,” Wade mutters as he fits his eye back to the scope. “In case you were wondering, I have let myself in and read the papers. Just god-awful. I didn’t even go to college and I know they’re bad.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Wade doesn’t jump but it’s a near thing. Sneaky fucker got the drop on him. It’s enough to make Wade a little proud.

“Oh, you know,” Wade replies, keeping his eye to the scope, “the readers.”

There’s a heavy silence that makes the corner of Wade’s mouth twitch. Let the clever little bitch figure that one out.

Wade keeps himself flat on his stomach by sheer force of will. Honestly, after the stabbing incident, his dick would like nothing more than for him to roll over and let Spider-man loom over him intimidatingly but he’s got an agenda. Even if he can’t remember exactly what it is at this moment.

“Why are you out here?”

So he’s not even going to address the readers? Rude.

Wade snorts in agreement before answering. “Bird watching. Meteor shower. Non-con voyeurism. Take your pick.”

“With a sniper rifle?” Spider-man’s voice is drier than the desert. Wade should know, he spent more time in the sandbox than he’d care to remember.

“It’s got a little telescope thingie on it,” Wade tells him, lifting one arm off the barrel and poking the scope still pressed to his eye. “You can really see everything in HD. Makes the voyeurism more satisfying.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

Wade frowns. He can feel those dark brown eyes peering through the white lenses and burning into the spot between his shoulder blades. “Not tonight. Why? You got a death wish?”

Spider-man ignores the question. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

The corner of Wade’s mouth twitches again. He loves it when Spider-man decides to play with him.

My turn.

Wade gasps dramatically, finally rolling onto his back next to the rifle and clutching at his heart. “What kind of man do you think I am!? I respect you enough to woo you first.”

“Woo me?” It’s the verbal equivalent of an eyebrow raise. Wade hates that he knows what Spider-man’s eyebrows look like. Annoyingly gorgeous. “For my inevitable death?”

“And you said we’d never agree on anything…”

The intimidating looming is way hotter than Wade anticipated and his dick still hasn’t gone down from watching Peter Parker’s lush mouth suck up those noodles like he was trying to deep-throat them.

“I bet you’d be real good at deep-throating, wouldn’t you, baby boy?”

Wade reaches down and rubs the heel of his hand over the growing ridge of his cock. Maybe after this, he needs to visit a hardcore BDSM club to have someone stand over him while they step on his dick and threaten to stab him.

“You’re disgusting.” Spider-man’s lenses are narrowed and that's unfairly alluring, too.

“And you’re still watching.” Wade winks as he spreads his thighs wider so he can reach between them and cup his balls.

Spider-man’s head tips up but he doesn’t turn his back. Probably learned his lesson last night. Although, Wade wouldn’t mind teaching Spider-man that lesson again. The web slinger’s ass pressed into Wade’s crotch was probably the closest he’ll ever get to transcendence.

Seriously. It’s a god-tier ass.

“Are you done?”

“No. There’s usually a lot more moaning and bodily fluids before I’m done.”

Spider-man makes a disgusted noise that sizzles into Wade’s belly and he finally levers himself up to sitting.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” the web slinger says acerbically, “since I doubt anyone else is there for eyewitness verification.”

“Oh, fuck. Ouch.” Wade’s smile threatens again. He loves the mouth on this nerdy little freak. “Is this where I extend the invitation to watch that you’re so clearly fishing for?”

Spider-man’s whole body tenses up and another, possibly more disgusted noise pushes out of his mask. “How is there not an endless number of people trying to stab you every night?”

“Aw, sweet pea.” The flinch that statement causes in the web slinger makes Wade feel feral. “I don’t let just anyone stab me.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe you’d be dead by now if you did.”

Wade snorts. “Yeah. Right.” He tips his head to look up at the superhero and spreads his arms wide. “You gonna help me up like the gentleman you are or what?”

A strand of webbing shoots toward Wade, anchoring to the center of his chest causing his heart to squeeze tight and the length of his soul mark to burn. He scowls at the reminder as Spider-man yanks on the thread connecting them and tugs Wade to his feet.

The pull is way fucking harder than Wade was expecting and he stumbles forward, feet wheeling as he tries to get his legs under him. Spider-man is right in front of him, one hand wrapped around the other end of the webbing as the other hand lands firm and warm in the center of Wade’s chest, slowing his momentum.

“Always forget what a strong fucker you are,” Wade murmurs, intensely aware of the press of Spider-man’s palm over his chest and the way his heart is thudding under the layers of skin and muscle and bone and suit and soul mark.

“I never forget what an insufferable ass you are,” the web slinger spits back, smoothing his palm down Wade’s sternum and waking up his cock again. “Can’t say as I’ll miss you.”

“Wh—?”

The question never even makes it out of Wade’s mouth because the hot caress on his chest turns into a hard push, like really fucking hard, and he’s falling backward over the ledge of the building.

The fall is short but Wade has just enough time to think that sneaky shit got the drop on me again before he hits the ground.

Chapter Text

Peter isn’t truly horrified until he hears the heavy, wet thud from fifteen stories down. He doesn’t even really realize what he’s done until he hears the unmistakable sound of meat smacking into something hard. Then it hits him all at once.

I pushed Deadpool off a building.

He hadn’t intended to do that when he caught sight of the light glinting off the scope outside his apartment window, an explanation for why his spider sense had been spiking in his brain all night.

Peter knew it was Deadpool. It had to be. Any other merc or contract killer wouldn’t have let Peter notice the scope. Any other merc or contract killer would have shot him by now. Sometimes he wishes Deadpool would just fucking get it over with. Peter would say the anticipation is more than he can stand but that sounds… wrong.

He should have just fucking stayed inside and changed into his pajamas and graded terrible abstracts until it was time to go on patrol. He should have ignored the fucked-up mind game an overgrown man-child was goading him into. But, because he didn’t, he’s standing on a rooftop next to a sniper rifle that has a Hello Kitty charm hanging from it and wondering if he’s just damned his soul.

Peter tiptoes gingerly toward the roof edge, sidling right up next to the rifle, but he can’t bring himself to look down. He’s never killed anyone before. Spider-man has never killed anyone before. That’s kind of his whole thing. And yet, tonight, not five minutes ago, he had pulled that huge goddamn mercenary toward himself, swiped his webbing off that giant chest, and shoved as hard as he could.

He killed someone.

He killed Deadpool.

Peter tries to convince himself that it was a “him or me” situation as he works his fists open and closed at his side. He’s shaking. Why is he fucking shaking? He thought he had calmed down after coffee with his friends, that that flash of wild, hot anger had burned itself out. But then he’d seen Deadpool laying there, eyes fixed on Peter, muscles flexing as he stroked his cock, and Peter had lost it.

Pushed him. On purpose.

Peter is horrified. He is. He can’t even look over the edge to see what kind of damage the fifteen-story fall did to the merc’s body. But there’s a small part of him that’s not horrified. That’s maybe the opposite of horrified.

That overly muscled asshole has been shooting him and stabbing him and aggressively sexualizing him for years. And now, that same unrepentant chaos demon is planning to kill him. Was planning to kill him. Really Deadpool deserved it. The guy is a walking fucking disaster. He’s the sentient version of those examples of what not to do in sexual harassment seminars. He kills people for money!

Really, if Spider-man hadn’t been the one to kill him, then someone else would have.

If Peter hadn’t been the one to kill him, Deadpool would have killed Peter.

Fuck.

Peter’s stomach heaves and he scrambles to a dark corner of the roof, shoving up his mask as he goes. The sound of his dinner hitting the rooftop just reminds him of the sound of Deadpool hitting the pavement. A reality that makes him heave even harder.

He doesn’t know if there’s room in his head for the horror of actually having ended someone’s life and the relief that he’ll never have to keep his head on a swivel for Deadpool again. He’ll never have to worry about getting shot or stabbed unexpectedly just because the merc is bored that day. He’ll never have to listen to that dark, scratchy voice call him baby boy again. He’ll never again have to stare at that infuriatingly lackadaisical posture, leaning against everything like his huge, stupid muscles are too big to support without help.

Peter feels like he can’t hold both of those feelings at the same time. He feels like he’s going to fucking shatter.

Instead of shattering, he wipes the back of his sleeve across his mouth and straightens into a crouch. He needs to get out of here before someone connects Spider-man on the rooftop to the dead body on the sidewalk. The reminder of the body, of Deadpool, makes Peter’s stomach churn again but he takes a few deep breaths and swallows it down.

Why did I do that?

Why did I even come out here?

Peter let Harry get to him today. Gwen and Harry both. That’s the only explanation he can think of. Stirring up things that Peter isn’t interested in having stirred up, Gwen making him wonder if his soulmate is different than he always thought she’d they’d be, and Harry making the whole idea sound grotesque somehow. As if finding your soulmate, even if they aren’t what you thought, could ever be anything other than incredible. Peter wonders if it’s easier for them. Gwen, Harry, MJ, everyone else. They all have normal soul marks, normal indicators that their soulmate is… normal.

Peter has to have faith that his soulmate will find him and when that happens, the two of them will figure everything else out. But his soulmate is probably a woman. He’s never been attracted to anyone that wasn’t. An earlier scene of Deadpool laying on the ground, stroking his cock and assuring Peter that he’d be good at deep-throating, floats through Peter's brain. His body heaves again and more stomach contents dump out onto the roof.

Moaning.

Bodily fluids.

The exact bullshit that made it seem like an excellent idea to throw that antagonistic psychopath off a building which is so so much worse than a shattered mug at a diner.

Does he hate himself?

Is he glad he did it?

Peter’s going to give himself a headache with all this waffling.

His brain powers down a little bit after that until he’s shut up in his bathroom, stripping out of his suit. He’s still shaking, which makes peeling himself out of the spandex difficult, and he’s already had to stop to lean over the toilet twice. There’s nothing coming up anymore but his stomach is still trying.

He leans into the dingy shower stall and cranks the water as hot as he can stand before pushing and kicking at his pants. Peter’s eyes land on his soul mark as he fights all the way out of his suit. It’s different than it was this morning. Just a fingerprint again, no word.

Whatever happened to kill his soulmate today, they’ve already died and come back. Peter wonders what it’s like to die and come back. He wonders how anyone that does it could remain sane. He wonders what it would be like to be there for them when they come back. Pull them into his arms and kiss their face and tell them that he missed them.

He supposes he can see the irony in being the superhuman that never kills paired with the superhuman that never dies. Except… that’s not true anymore, is it?

Someone is dead because of him. Deadpool is dead because of him. Not because he didn’t get somewhere in time, not because he couldn’t save him. Because Peter chose it. Peter got angry enough that he wanted it.

He crouches in front of the toilet for the third time and, this time, the heaving lasts what feels like hours.

Chapter Text

He should have done more angry rooftop masturbation this week. That’s the first thought that lopes across Wade’s brain after it sizzles back to life. Partially because he had more than half an erection when he died and partially because the manner in which he died is maybe the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to him.

Since he can’t move at the moment, Wade spends his time in the wisest possible way. Reliving the absolute smoke show of a murder that Spider-man just committed. It had everything. Quips. Tension. Sexy chest touching. A narrative parallel to the fourth chapter. Fuuuuck. Wade is going to eat off that moment for at least a year. And by eat he means masturbate furiously all over New York.

But maybe the bestest best part is that it happened at all.

Because Spider-man doesn’t kill people. Everyone knows it. Not even that trash rag The Daily Bugle has ever found a single solid piece of evidence. Not that Wade reads that shit. No, Wade knows the web slinger doesn’t kill because Wade has been keeping (close) tabs on Spider-man since that first night when Wade got his chest cracked open in more ways than one.

Spider-man just isn’t a killer. But he did kill Wade and that’s fucking poetry. This death, this murder, means that the two of them are cosmically linked now. Their red threads are forever intertwined. Wade knows what your first kill does to you. He knows the clever, logical brain attached to that luscious, peachy ass is going to fixate on this night for the rest of Peter Parker’s very short life. When Professor Parker is on his deathbed, he’ll be thinking about Wade.

And only half because Deadpool’s face is going to be the last one he sees.

Fuck.

That’s so hot.

“Can’t believe I been tryna rent a billboard on the outskirts of town and he just gave me a thirty-second Super Bowl commercial in his head.”

Wade tries to lift an arm to give his stiffening dick a stroke — this entire thought experiment is really doing it for him — but he can’t move them yet. And he said he was done jerking off anyway.

“What!?” He huffs through slowly expanding lungs. “I just said I was open to increasing angry masturbation time. Plus, this is an alley, not a rooftop.”

Although, honestly, Wade’s not even sure this would qualify as angry masturbation anymore. This would be gloriously celebratory hand work. This would be physically relishing in the fact that he just won a point in The Game. This would also partially be remembering the way Spider-man’s hand slide down his sternum.

It’s probably a little fucked up that the stabbing pissed Wade off but he finds the murder endearing. He’s proud of himself for finally finding the nuclear option while pressing Spider-man’s many and varied buttons. But Wade is also a little proud of the web slinger. That was a cold, calculated hit. And those last words? “Can’t say as I’ll miss you?” Fucking brilliant. Wade didn’t know the hero had it in him.

Wade had always thought he was operating at a level of unhinged that was fathoms away from Spider-man — and the rest of the planet, to be honest — but it turns out the web slinger’s crazy might just match the merc with the mouth’s crazy.

And that makes the whole game way more entertaining.

“Shame I still have to kill him.”

Wade exhales loudly, a wet, shredded kazoo-type of sound and he realizes that he’s bored. Thinking about pestering Spider-man just isn’t as fun as actually doing it. Plus, he left Sniper Laurie on the rooftop alone and she’s still in the clingy, honeymoon stage.

He’s probably healed enough. Not everything has to be in perfect working order. His dick works. What more could a guy want?

With a little bit of focused effort, Wade manages to shift and wiggle some of his fingers. “Back in business,” he mutters to himself as he grits his teeth and jerks his right arm off the ground causing it to snap and pop in a few places. The bright burst of pain brings his nascent boner back under control and gives him enough adrenaline to shove himself up to sitting.

“Goddamn that little shit really did a number on me,” Wade grumbles as he does the same snap and pop with his other arm and both of his legs, “but, fuck, he can wreck my body any time.”

Wade uses his newly working arms to scoot himself back against a wall, trying to ignore the shifting shards of bone in his pelvis. It’s a truly gross sensation but not his least favorite thing to heal. That honor would go to his sternum.

“I don’t wanna do this right now,” Wade grits out but he knows the thoughts have already taken hold. Because they’re always fucking there, waiting for him to let his guard down so they can grab him by the throat.

Any time Wade has to think about his chest, his sternum, his ribs, his heart, it reminds him of his soulmate. And even Wade, he of the malleable mind, recognizes that thinking about your soulmate every time you're in pain and your body is (allegedly) irreparably broken is fucked up.

Wade considers opening his suit to look at the oddly tidy handwriting carving down his chest, look and remind himself that he’s poison to anything he touches. Anything normal. Anyone normal.

“I’m not goin’ to fuckin’ look,” Wade snaps, hating his own maudlin bullshit. “Can we be done now?”

He’s healed enough that he can push himself to his feet and the urge to look at his mark subsides.

“Jesus. Thank you.”

The hobble up the stairs to the rooftop takes easily five times as long as it should but Wade is upright and walking normally by the time he shoves through the door to the roof. Sniper Laurie is still exactly where he left her, pointing toward the darkened window of Peter Parker’s apartment, but she’s not alone.

A person clad in black from head to toe that’s trying to blend into the shadows and failing spectacularly is couched beside her.

“Can I help you?” Wade asks, crossing toward the roof edge. “This isn’t a private roof but it is where I do the majority of my creepy voyeurism and masturbating.”

Only one of those things is a lie.

The shadow that is clearly human shifts and Wade knows they’re looking at him.

“You’re a mercenary?”

“No. I dress as a clown so I can nut harder.”

Light eyes blink at him through the hole in their balaclava. “You’re not trying for the Spider-man contract?”

Wade stares at them, not so much sifting through his emotions as deciding which order he wants to vent them all in. Who the fuck is this person?

“Who the fuck are you?”

“A fellow professional.”

Wade clicks his tongue. “Whoever told you I’m a professional is lyin' to you, teddy bear. Ain’t nothin’ professional about how much cum I’ve left up here.”

The fellow professional tips their head, a move Wade is intimately familiar with. They’re trying to figure him out. Good fucking luck because he’s the kind of guy that’s going to pick up his rifle, go home to his sex toys, and have a really great evening while he remembers how he just got murdered. No one ever guesses that. It’s a shame really.

“I’m getting close,” they say slowly, shifting again, almost brushing against Sniper Laurie which makes Wade’s jaw clench. “I’ve been tracking Spider-man and I think… I think I’m going to be the one to do it. This could set me up for life.”

“Yeah,” Wade agrees, striding across the roof and closing the distance between them, “it’s a big fuckin’ contract. But you won’t need it.”

“Why no—”

The crack of the other mercenary’s neck is quiet because Wade knows how to make it that way. Whoever this merc is, they’re a little too close for comfort. They’re right across from Spider-man’s window for fuck’s sake.

Jesus.

What a way to lose the post-death endorphin rush.

Now he’s going to have to drag this fucking body somewhere to dump it because he definitely can’t leave it on the rooftop across from Peter Parker’s apartment for so many reasons that he will not be listing out in his head. He rubs the heel of his hand along his sternum as he looks down at the person he just killed.

Sometimes it feels like Wade has to do everything.

He’s quick but careful about how he positions his body as he packs the scope. Wade doesn’t want Spider-man to notice him this time. But the window is still dark. The whole apartment is dark. Wade can’t help but be delighted by the possibility that it’s a depressed darkness. That Spider-man is thinking about him right fucking now.

Wade hadn’t meant to keep his healing factor a secret from the web slinger, it just… never came up. Which means that Spider-man genuinely thinks Deadpool is dead and doesn’t that just open up a fuckton of possibilities for their game?

His finger catches against the Hello Kitty charm attached to the scope of the rifle as Wade zips the bag shut around Sniper Laurie. The corners of his mouth twitch up into a half smile as an idea hits him. A wonderful, awful idea.

“I scare even myself sometimes.”

Wade shoulders the rifle, then bends down and scoops up the dead merc, tossing them over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. If he wants to put his plan into action, he’s got to get rid of this fucking body first.

Chapter Text

Peter is standing in a hallway that he’s never been in before but there’s something about it that feels familiar. Somehow recognizable even in its strangeness. There are two doors in the hall, a brilliantly red one to his left and a matte black one at the end. He’s wearing the clothes he sleeps in, an oversized Britney Spears t-shirt so well-worn it has holes and a pair of black cotton sleep pants. The hallway is warm, oddly inviting, and Peter curls his bare toes against the hardwood floor wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

“It’s a game, Spidey Cakes,” comes a voice from the ceiling. Or maybe the floor. “Play the game.”

The voice tickles something at the back of Peter’s brain but he can’t quite figure out what. All he knows is that hearing it makes him feel guilty. Really fucking guilty.

He doesn’t want to feel guilty so, instead, he focuses on the words. “Play the game? What does that mean?”

Suddenly, a third door appears on Peter’s right, divided diagonally by paint, half black and half red.

“Pick a door. Any door,” the voice encourages.

A part of Peter wants to listen to the voice, he wants to play with them but another part of himself is screaming that this is a bad idea. That whoever wants to play this game won’t stop until Peter loses. Badly.

“Why?” Peter asks, suspicion coloring his tone. This feels a little too much like something the Sinister Six might plan for Spider-man. Except, he’s in his pajamas…

“One door leads to the exit. One door leads to something you want. And one door leads to something you need. Play the game, peaches.”

Peaches. That pings something in his brain too, a weird mix of mistrust and guilt and… something else.

“Just pick a door? Then what?”

“Decide if you want to go through it.”

“And one leads out of here?” Peter’s not sure if he wants to leave the hall but it does have a very chased-by-a-serial-killer vibe for all its coziness. Like an insect crawling toward a Venus Fly Trap.

“I mean, you’re callin’ all the shots here. But…” A pause. “Do you really wanna turn your back on the chance to see what you want? Or what you need?”

“No one could know that,” Peter scoffs because he’s pretty sure not even he knows that.

“You’d be surprised what I know.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitches at that statement. So fucking cocky and amused with themself. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so goddamn irritating.

“Are there any rules?” Peter glances at the doors again. “Like, can I listen at the doors before I open them?”

“Fuuuuck, I dig your scientific little mind, peaches,” the voice purrs out, settling over Peter like a blanket. “Do your worst.”

Peter eyes the red door to his left. That one first. Red is a warning color and Peter would just as soon get any psychopathic jack-in-the-box surprises out of the way. He half expects something to leap out from behind it when he steps up to it. Nothing. Still annoyingly bright red but just a door.

He tries to reach out with his spider sense but it feels like it’s been wrapped in cotton batting. Maybe that lack of extra sensory feedback explains why the voice he’s hearing makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and a sour feeling to curdle in his stomach. Maybe it explains why he’s reacting to it the way he is.

Mistrust.

Guilt.

Something else.

Peter gingerly lays his hand on the door to see if it’s hot. Nope, still just a door. He steps closer and leans in, turning his head so he can press his ear to the wood, anchoring his hands on the door frame. He can hear the sounds of the city muffled by the thick wood, cars honking, people shouting, the tick of his bedside clock. His apartment is on the other side of this door.

“Not much of a challenge to put the exit first.”

The voice laughs, a rough, dark sound that shivers down Peter’s spine. “Finding the exit isn’t the game.”

“What is the game?” Peter asks, shoving himself away from the red door and glaring at the ceiling.

“Everything’s the game, sweet pea.”

Peter’s mouth twists into a snarl. That makes no fucking sense. His guilt is starting to burn away. How can a disembodied voice be so fucking annoying?

“I don’t want to play,” Peter says.

“Yes, you do,” the voice teases. “You always do.”

This fucking guy.

Yep. All that guilt is gone.

Peter turns and looks at the red door. If the voice is to be believed, he can just walk through it and be done here. But…

One door leads to something you want.

One door leads to something you need.

What does Peter want? What does he need? Is this his only chance to find out?

“What happens if I go through a door that isn’t the exit?” He asks, shuffling forward toward the diagonally painted door, still expecting something bad to happen. An electric shock. A parking ticket. The Green Goblin.

“That,” the voice hums in amusement, “is up to you.”

God, that voice sounds really, really familiar. The rough scrape of it through Peter’s ears is aggravating but he wants to hear more of it anyway. He’s not sure whether that’s to luxuriate in the sound or punch the speaker in the face, though.

“Thanks for nothing,” he mutters, stepping up to the black and red door. He doesn’t even bother to safety-check it this time.

The sounds behind this door aren’t something Peter gets to hear often. They’re happy. Birds chirping, the soft shush of wind through tree branches, maybe even a babbling brook. And a laugh. A beautiful, high, bell-like laugh, followed by the same voice calling his name, the word brimming with love and affection.

Something you want.

His soulmate. Peter knows it. He’s imagined her so many times and that’s exactly what she sounds like in his head. Tears prick at Peter’s eyes as he pushes himself away from that door, too.

“Is that her?”

“Who?”

“My soulmate.”

“I don’t know,” the voice snarks, “is it her?”

Argh. Peter wants to push whoever designed this fucking game off a building. The thought rips across his chest like the lash of a whip and the guilt is back. Peter doesn’t want to feel guilty. He wants what’s behind the door.

His soulmate.

He wants that person that’s just his. He wants that person that he belongs to, that he fits with. And they might be behind this door. But then, his gaze darts to the last door, at the end of the hall, the black one.

Something you need.

“This,” the voice drawls, “is where it gets fun. Do you go for what you want? Or will the curiosity about what you need be too much? Tick tock, little spider, you won’t sleep forever.”

“What if what I want and what I need are the same thing?”

“Hmmm.” A sardonic purr. “Are they?”

Are they?

Peter should know, right? But he doesn’t and, as his eyes dart between the two doors, he realizes that he wants to know. He always wants to know. It’s why he’s a scientist, working on his Ph.D., and why he patrols the city most nights despite it.

He always wants to know. He needs to know.

“What happens to this door if I open that one?”

“You tell me.”

“Will it disappear?”

“It might. There’s one way to find out.”

Curiosity killed the cat, Peter reminds himself.

But satisfaction brought it back, his mind finishes.

He steps away from the red and black door and heads to the end of the hall, his heart kicking in his chest and his breath coming faster. Peter stares the flat black door down wondering if he’s about to make a terrible choice, then he leans forward and presses his ear to the wood.

It’s silent.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, trying to strengthen his other senses, his ears straining to catch something. Anything. Then he hears it. A quiet, purring groan. Dark and rough and rich. A sound that makes Peter’s stomach tighten.

“What’s behind this door?” He wonders out loud.

The voice doesn’t answer this time so Peter takes a deep breath and curls his hand around the knob, twisting it open but not pushing in the door. His brain is clamoring, wondering why he’s walking away from the door with his soulmate behind it. But he remembers what Uncle Ben always used to tell Peter before he died and Peter’s life changed forever.

What you want isn’t always what you need.

Peter pushes the door open.

The room on the other side is empty and cool and it takes him a second to recognize that it's not a room, but a rooftop. It’s flat and coated with tarred gravel, the expanse broken up by the tops of vents and turbines with a small maintenance shed tucked into a corner, and a brick ledge that comes up to Peter’s mid-shin surrounds the space. The noises of the city are here, too, but muted. Even the buildings in the background, a clear New York skyline, appear fuzzy and distant. 

He glances down at his hands as he lets go of the knob and steps through the doorway, unsurprised to see red-gloved fingers. A second look down confirms that he’s in full Spider-man mode. He doesn’t question it because it makes sense somehow. It feels right that he should be Spider-man and —

The low groan comes again, closer this time, and Peter pushes the door shut behind him, stalking quietly toward the maintenance shed. He sidles along the wall before slowly turning the corner. As soon as he sees what’s on the other side, his feet freeze. His whole body freezes.

No fucking way.

The ledge surrounding the building is taller behind the shed, forming a wall that reaches over Peter's head. And there, with his back to the wall, is Deadpool.

Mistrust.

Guilt.

Something else.

The back of Peter’s brain is telling him that seeing the mercenary is unexpected. Not just here, but anywhere. Because Peter did something he’s never done before. Something he can never take back.

Except there’s Deadpool, looking fine. Whole. And Peter is unaccountably glad of it.

The merc is in full Deadpool mode, too. Suited and booted except for the mask pushed above his nose, a sight Peter has never seen before, and straight white teeth biting into a surprisingly full lower lip. One of his hands is raised above his head, the back of his wrist pressed into the brick and braceleted in white. Peter recognizes his own webbing, pinning the merc in place. The position stretches Deadpool’s body creating a long line from his secured wrist down to his thick arm and across his broad chest. Peter’s eyes trail across Deadpool’s belly and lower, where his pants are open, his cock jutting out, and his other hand curled around it with a tight grip.

“Hey, Spidey Cakes. Welcome to the party.”

Peter knows he should be irritated. He knows he normally would be irritated but, right now, he’s something else entirely. Hot. Heavy. Wanting. His eyes reverse path until he’s looking at Deadpool’s face, the blank white of his eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the thick texture of his scars, the smile that quirks up one corner of his mouth.

“I thought you were dead.”

The merc’s smile quirks higher. “A lot of people have made that mistake.”

“I thought I killed you.”

“You did.”

“But you’re alive?”

“I am.”

Peter makes an irritated noise. “How?”

“Is that really what you wanna talk about right now, peaches?”

The question is followed by the slow stroke of Deadpool’s hand along his cock, from base to tip and back, his gloved thumb catching at the head and smearing a drop of precome across the crown. He’s not touching himself like he wants to get off, he’s touching himself like he wants to be watched.

No. Like he wants Peter to watch. 

“You’re what I need?” Peter asks. He means for it to sound sarcastic and angry but it mostly sounds breathless and dangerously hopeful.

“Maybe you should come over here and find out.”

Peter knows that something is wrong. He knows that this isn’t possible. His guilt tries to rear its ugly head but then his gaze is snagged by the movement of Deadpool’s hand again and his feet carry him toward the merc without his permission.

Peter plans to stop walking a safe distance away but his body doesn’t listen, he’s not even sure he told his body to stop at all, instead, he presses right up into Deadpool’s space until he can feel the merc’s knuckles brushing across his abs as Deadpool lazily strokes himself.

Peter tilts his head up and the merc tilts his head down until they're breathing each other’s air.

“Lemme see that pretty mouth, peaches.”

Peter exhales forcefully, trying to breathe out the heat and heaviness that’s settling through his belly and limbs. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. But his hands move of their own accord, fingers curling along the edge of his mask so he can push it up above his nose.

“I’m still not sorry I killed you,” Peter lies.

“Does that mean you don’t wanna kiss it better?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Peter’s response is almost spoken against Deadpool’s skin, whispered into that crooked smile on his lips. Peter drags his tongue across his lower lip, shivering as Deadpool’s knuckles stroke over his stomach, and presses up onto his toes.

Close enough to feel Deadpool’s breath.

Close enough to feel Deadpool’s heat.

Close enough to taste—

Peter bolts upright in bed, panting and panicky, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, his shirt and cotton pants plastered to his body with sweat, his brain spinning a million miles a minute.

Deadpool.

Guilt swims up Peter’s throat as he throws himself out of bed and scrambles to the bathroom, emptying his stomach into the sink basin because he’s not quite fast enough to make it to the toilet.

He had expected nightmares. Of course, he had. That seems like a normal reaction to killing your first person. But that? He hadn’t expected that. What the fuck was that?

Peter stumbles back until his body hits the wall and he slides down to his ass, drawing his knees up and resting his arms over the top. What the fuck is wrong with him? His brain can’t even process guilt like a normal fucking person.

He looks around himself and huffs out a dry laugh. This is much more like where he thought he’d end up tonight. Him, slumped onto the bathroom floor, his mouth sour and the wall cool against his sweat-soaked back, as he tries to calm his racing heart and heaving lungs.

The problem is, he’s not sure if his heart is racing and his lungs are heaving because he killed someone or because, despite his best attempts to ignore it, his dick is still rock hard from his dream. Peter thumps the back of his head into the wall, hard.

“I am one sick fuck.”

Chapter Text

The number of hired killers hunting Spider-man has moved from alarming to absurd. And still very alarming.

That arachnid asshole pushed Wade off a building to his death twenty-four hours ago and Wade hasn’t even gotten a chance to properly fuck with the web slinger because there are assassins and hitmen coming out of the fucking woodwork.

Although… it might not be a bad thing to let the web slinger stew in his first-degree murder juices even if it isn’t part of Wade’s Master Plan. You have to open the guilt up and let it breathe to get the best mileage out of it. Like wine.

Except, every time Wade has attempted the Actual Master Plan, he’s run into another goddamn mercenary or wanna-be killer stalking his boy, too. Droves of killers. Gaggles of hitmen. Wade wonders what an actual group of mercenaries would be called since murder is already taken.

Honestly, with the ease they’re finding Spider-man’s haunts (and even tracking down “known associate” Peter Parker at college) it’s a goddamn miracle that the Amazing Spider-man keeps his identity secret at all. Secret from everyone but Wade, that is.

“False advertising,” Wade grumbles, tossing the Tide pen into a nearby dumpster like he’s shooting a three-pointer. Although, on second thought… he takes in the sheer volume of blood soaking his suit and realizes he might have been asking a little much of the stain remover. He‘ll have to dispose of this one.

The most recent batch of Death to Spider-man hopefuls are currently jammed into barrels and packed unassumingly into a warehouse down at one of the docks. Wade had done a thorough job on those three, mostly because he needed the anger management.

All work and no Spidey makes Wade a dull girl.

Not that it wasn’t fun to break them down like sides of beef and then gin up a whole chemical bath deal. Whenever those barrels are eventually opened, they won’t hold anything but sludge. They’ll smell fucking terrible, though.

So, yes. It was fun, even if Wade regrets not wearing one of the hazmat suits to keep his Deadpool attire clean, but it wasn’t “haunt Spider-man like the ghost of Christmas past” fun. Wade swears to Bea Arthur that if another ambitious contract killer gets in his way, he’s going to stop being nice about it.

He swipes his hands down the front of his chest as if that will clean off the blood stains and pulls his phone out of a pouch, holding it gingerly with fingertips along the sides because if his new phone gets covered in blood he’s going to be so pissed. He needs one of those touchscreen wet bags for this thing.

8:15 am

That means Professor Parker will be halfway to the bus stop he gets off at and Wade still has time. Time to dig up one of his caches of spare clothes and baby wipes. Time to mark any other fucking mercenaries hovering around Peter Parker. Time to install himself along the campus walking path so he can keep eyes on Nerd-Glasses McSweaterVest.

And maybe, if Wade’s lucky, have four eyes laid on him in return.

This is the Master Plan. Nothing drives someone crazy faster than seeing the person they thought they killed everywhere they go. Not that Wade’s ever tried this particular tactic but he did see it in a movie once.

The plan is diabolical because Wade knows that Spider-man will sense him when he’s nearby. It’s diabolical because the web slinger thinks Wade is actually dead. It’s diabolical because that nerdy little freak doesn’t have anyone he can talk to about it.

“That’s the price of keepin’ secrets, peaches,” Wade mumbles to himself as he slips into the construction site and pulls out one of the many, many, many go-bags he has stashed around the city.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Wade crows as he unzips the top of the pink duffle. There, nestled right on top, is a joint and a lighter. “Thank you, Past Deadpool. You do good work, you sick son of a bitch.”

Wade lights the joint first (priorities) before stripping out of his blood-drenched suit and scrubbing himself down with the baby wipes. He cleans the top half of his body first, chin tilted up and head turned away, blowing plumes of weed smoke toward the unfinished ceiling. He doesn’t look down again until he’s pulled on his white t-shirt and his whole chest is covered.

Washing that way, dressing that way, became a habit in the military when Wade was desiccating in the sandbox and his soul mark kept saying shit like WON REGIONAL SCIENCE COMPETITION and FARMER’S MARKET WITH AUNT.

He’d still look sometimes, of course, he fucking would, but it never made him feel any less like shit to see his soulmate doing sweet, pure, innocent activities while Wade was learning things like how fast sand absorbs blood and just how thoroughly the military can own a person. But even those infrequent glances stopped after Weapon X. Because they had to. Wade had been a military-grade (ha) fuck up before but after the experiment, he wasn’t even human.

No one should be paired with a twisted mass of scar tissue that, even before becoming a human lab rat, could kill someone easy as breathing. Whatever else Wade is or was, he’s always been morally flexible.

Something like that makes you real valuable in the military.

The Deadpool mask is in good shape so Wade pulls it back down over his head even though the hood of his red sweatshirt is big enough to shadow his face. He shoves a knife in his boot and another in his pocket before he zips up the go-bag and shoves it back into its spot, making a mental note to restock soon. Then he gathers up his crumpled suit and strolls out onto the street, joint still between his lips. He tosses his suit in the first dumpster he walks by.

Wade knows Peter Parker’s schedule down to the minute. The web slinger’s frighteningly logical brain makes him easy to follow, something Wade should really warn him about the next time they cross paths. Maybe that would ultimately make it harder for Wade to find the web slinger but what else does he do with his day? Definitely nothing more important than key smashing every button the hero has.

And Wade always did love a challenge.

At 8:42 am, Peter Parker will walk across the quad, always from east to west, which means that, if Wade sits on the dedication bench underneath the beech trees, he’ll be right in Spider-man’s sight lines.

At 10:17 am, he’ll leave his class in Moyer Hall and cross the quad again to get to the coffee shop where he meets his friends. There’s a lamppost set back from the main path that Wade plans to lean against, visible but not too obvious.

At 10:29 am, Professor Parker will walk into the coffee shop and order the cheapest drink on the menu even though he hates drip coffee. He’s usually the first one there so he’ll snag a table near the window and wait. His friends will arrive haphazardly over the next five to eight minutes. Always MJ Watson first, usually followed very closely by her soulmate Gwen Stacy. That soft twink with the soulmate obsession, Harry Osborn, who always sits in the booth next to Spider-man, and maybe kinda makes Wade a teeny, tiny bit jealous, arrives last nine times out of ten. The Asian market across the street has a shadowed awning directly across from the window where the four of them sit. Wade can post up and pretend he’s watching an episode of Generic Twenty-Somethings Situational Comedy.

Peter Parker should make it to the coffee shop before he cracks. He’s a stubborn little shit, probably making himself sick with guilt over the murder he committed, and unwilling to believe his own eyes because of it. Wade can’t blame the guy, exactly. It takes a while for most people to come around to the idea that someone just can’t die.

By that point in the day, though, Wade is pretty sure the web slinger’s bottomless pit of anger will bubble over and he’ll get fed up enough to ditch his friends. Maybe because he’ll truly believe that he’s actually seeing Deadpool despite the mercenary being dead. But more probably because the five-alarm fire sound that Wade knows his presence produces in Spider-man’s head will have been ringing for a good two hours by that point.

Nothing like a little psychological torture to start the day.

And after Peter Parker stomps out of the coffee shop?

Well, after that, Wade isn’t sure what will happen. But he knows it’s going to be a lot of fun.

Chapter Text

It’s Peter’s spider sense that gave it away. The following. The game. Whatever the fuck.

It’s not unusual for his spider sense to ping throughout the day but it’s been vibrating non-stop since he got off the bus this morning and only at a level that one person can cause. But that’s impossible. Peter heard his body hit the ground.

Once Peter notices it, though, it doesn’t stop and the alarm sounding in his brain coupled with the constant reminder that he killed someone has him hovering right at the edge. He had to leave class three times to throw up today. His seminar was worried he had a stomach bug.

Nope, just killed a man.

The high-level threat response would be bad enough but it’s not even the worst thing that’s happening. No, that distinction goes to the sightings. Hallucinations. Whatever the fuck they are.

The first one barely registered amidst the clamoring in his brain. Just a guy sprawled out on a bench across the quad, face in shadow under a red hood. Peter hadn’t even looked twice despite the breadth of the guy’s shoulders and the way he draped himself over the seat like a lazing cat.

The second one made him do a double take. It was the same guy, Peter recognized him from the hoodie and the shoulders, leaning against a lamppost like he needed it to hold him up. The insouciance flared Peter’s spider sense to the point that he literally flinched. There was something familiar about the guy, something familiar about the way he stood. Peter’s whole body reacted like he was being chased— heart rate spiking, breaths coming fast and heavy, the hair at the back of his neck standing on end —so he ducked his head and practically ran out of there.

The third one is right across the street from the coffee shop. Peter’s hands are clasped almost crushingly tight around his mug as he avoids looking. He’s ignoring the man, the same man— red hoodie, shoulders, shadowed face, leaning like he’s boneless —so hard that Peter can barely focus on what MJ, Gwen, and Harry are talking about. His spider sense has been blaring in his brain for hours, his stomach is empty, his mouth is sour, and his eyes are telling him something that his brain is having a hard time believing.

That the guy across the street is Deadpool.

For a brief second, he considers asking the table if they can see the merc, too, but dismisses it out of hand. It’s not like he can actually tell anybody why he needs to know. Even if his friends knew he was Spider-man, he can’t tell them that he literally murdered someone. Sure, it was an annoying as fuck mercenary but that still counts. Probably.

And what if they don’t see the guy? What if Peter is doomed to a lifetime of full-time spider sense and inconvenient hallucinations? He blames the dreams. He blames his lack of sleep. He blames the annoying as fuck mercenary.

Harry is next to Peter muttering something in a tone that’s guaranteed to put Gwen’s back up. Peter takes a small sip of coffee, needing to focus to keep it down, and tries to listen. Tries to ignore the smear of red in his periphery. Tries to act like he’s normal.

“Oh my god,” Gwen is saying with a condescending laugh. She taps her hand on the top of MJ’s forearm and glares at Harry under her eyelashes. “Like our dreams.”

MJ smiles indulgently before leaning over to press a kiss to the top of Gwen’s blonde head. She rarely gets in between Gwen and Harry when they start hissing at each other. There’s no point, not really.

“Wait.” Harry spits out a few crumbs of his muffin as he says it. “You two had dreams?”

“The Dreams.” The capital letters are clear in MJ’s voice as she nods and rolls her eyes. “She was really fighting me.”

Peter takes another small drink to hide his shock. He didn’t know that MJ and Gwen had dream shared. That usually only happens when soulmates fight their bond. A way for the universe to convince you that your soulmate is really yours, the person that fits you perfectly.

“Every dream was the two of us in some kind of race.” Gwen picks up the thread of the story. “Foot race, car race, horse race. And every time she would lean over and kiss the top of my head and say ‘I’ll be waiting for you at the finish line.’”

Gwen pushes up her sleeve to show off the neat, clean handwriting— MJ’s handwriting —along her wrist that says at the finish line.

“Eventually she stopped running,” MJ says smugly.

“I can’t imagine running away from my soulmate,” Harry says. “Can you, Pete?”

Peter flinches at the question, his dream from last night (and the night before) resurfacing. The dream where he walked away from his soulmate and ended up with—

Fuck. That goddamn mercenary is still plaguing him, even in death.

Peter looks up from his coffee to see the whole table looking at him expectantly. “Oh, uh, yeah…” he finally answers, glancing out the window as he does. “I don’t know.”

That red hooded fuck is still out there. Peter has to consciously relax his grip on the mug so he doesn’t shatter another one. His eyes scan down the guy’s body and he scowls. It definitely looks real. It definitely looks like Deadpool.

“—seem cool but I don’t think I’d ever want one.”

Peter refocuses on the conversation, looking back down at the mug in his hands as Gwen scolds Harry.

“You have no idea what it’s like, Harry. Not everyone is ready for their soulmate when they first meet.”

“And the dreams get you ready?”

“I think they—“

“Excuse me?” One of the baristas is standing at the end of their table. “Sorry to interrupt but someone came in and asked me to give this to you.”

She holds her closed fist out to Peter to the absolute surprise of everyone at the table, including him. Anyone that would leave anything for him is already here. He knows he’s looking at her like she’s trying to hand him a live rat but this feels—

“Your boyfriend brought it in,” the barista clarifies. “Knew your coffee order, paid cash, tipped super well, and… asked us to give you this.”

“Boyfriend?” Harry and Gwen repeat in unison while MJ says, “Awww, cute.”

“He bought my coffee?” Peter asks dully.

“Yep,” the barista responds brightly. “He looks a little intimidating but I bet those muscles are fun.”

Peter’s jaw clenches so hard he’s certain he cracks a tooth. Like he’s watching from outside his body, his hand reaches out, palm up, for the barista to give him whatever the fuck this thing is.

“If this is a severed head, I’m going to be very upset.” It’s not a joke but Peter hopes everyone takes it that way.

“Holy cow,” the barista says as she lowers her hand towards Peter’s, “my parents love that movie.”

Peter doesn’t respond. Maybe MJ or Gwen or Harry say something but he can’t notice because his whole world narrows down to what the barista drops into his palm. A Hello Kitty charm.

Fucking fuck.

That means this is real, not a hallucination.

Peter is very familiar with floods of adrenaline. He feels them when he’s out as Spider-man, facing off against some villain he’d rather kill than web up. It flushes up his body, through his stomach and chest, into his face, cranking everything up higher. Faster heartbeat. Faster breathing. Faster reaction time. Stripping his brain of rational thoughts and questions like, how is this possible?

The charm in his hand does the same thing. His already clanging spider sense turns up several notches and everything around him goes red and fuzzy and—

“That motherfucker,” Peter growls, shoving himself out of the booth with zero finesse.

The barista is gone but his friends are staring up at him with matching looks of alarm on their faces.

“You okay, Tiger?” MJ asks cautiously.

“Yeah. Yes.” Peter has to force the words out between clenched teeth. “I just forgot something and… I have to go.”

He doesn’t wait for them to reply or ask questions or even say goodbye. Instead, he shoulders his backpack and storms out of the coffee shop. Peter’s eyes snag on the guy in red as soon as he’s clear of the door.

Peter freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, people streaming around him and bumping into him, watching as a big hand reaches up and nudges the hood back from the guy’s face. The move chases some of the shadows away to reveal a red mask with round black ovals around white eyes.

Deadpool tugs the hood back over his face, puts the palm of his hand to his mouth, and blows Peter a kiss.

Chapter Text

Wade was exactly right about how long it would take the web slinger to crack. He’s choosing to ignore the fact that the Hello Kitty charm from his sniper rifle that he was keeping on standby actually needed to be used, though. Because there’s something more interesting to focus on, namely the flustered and very angry academic currently stomping across the street toward him.

It’s a good thing he kept his mask on because his smile is disgustingly huge. This is the most fun he’s had in months. Years even.

Peter Parker skids to a stop in front of him, murder in his eyes. Wade realizes this is probably what Spider-man’s face looked like right before he shoved Wade off that building.

Fuck.

That’s hot.

The web slinger doesn’t even say anything, just shoves Wade toward the alley in between the Asian market and the dry cleaners next door. Every time Professor Parker glances over his shoulder to make sure his little friends aren’t watching, his hair twitches. Stupid fucking hair.

“Good news, honey bunny,” Wade says to break through the tension, “I’m super good at readin’ your non-verbal cues which is gonna be great for when we finally—“

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence.”

Ooo, a growl. Followed by a hard shove against Wade’s back until he’s deep enough in the alley that the shadows overtake him. He turns until he’s facing the man that killed him (most recently) and looks about as threatening as a tweed jacket.

“Bet you’d look great in a tweed jacket.” Wade extends an elbow out in front of himself and rubs it with his other hand. “With the dorky little suede elbow patches.”

“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing here?”

Oh shit. Spider-man’s alter ego is seething. And that forehead vein is definitely new.

“Simmer down there, Hulk,” Wade says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Anger’s not good for your blood pressure.”

Peter Parker steps forward in his stupid tight khakis and his ugly little sweater with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms and shoves Wade in the chest. Hard. A small smile twitches across his mouth. That’s two fucking smiles and an angry forehead vein appearance today. Hashtag winning.

If Spider-man didn’t want Wade to push his fucking buttons he should learn to hide them better. And not make this so much fun.

“We’re not on a rooftop this time, killer. You’re gonna hafta get your hands dirty if you want me dead.”

“Who wouldn’t want you dead?” Professor Parker hisses.

Wade leans forward, baring his teeth even though the web slinger can’t see them. “I’m not the one with a hit out on me.”

“Fucking miracle.”

Peter Parker’s face is flushed pink under his brown spray of freckles and the dark frames of his glasses and that curl that always flops over his forehead. And it’s a little too easy for Wade to copy/paste this angry face onto Spider-man’s intimidating loom from the rooftop. Wade knows they’re doing a little aggressive verbal sparring right now and his blood is up, and asking the nerdy little freak bearing down on Wade to put him on his knees would probably be wildly off-topic. Right?

Who says Deadpool doesn’t have any restraint?

Spider-man crosses his arms over his chest and Wade’s eyes drop to the expanse of skin draped over lean muscle that his rucked-up sleeves expose. And more fucking freckles.

Poindexter is criminally hot.

“You’re alive.” The web slinger’s voice sounds more under control which is so goddamn boring.

“Got a heartbeat and everything, freckles.”

The muscles in Parker’s jaw twitch at the nickname and Wade gets a little shot of the good brain chemicals. “Did you catch yourself on the edge of the building somehow?”

A laugh bursts out of Wade. “You didn’t even check to see if you actually killed me? What the fuck? I mean, I know it was the first time for you but—“

“How did you survive then?”

“I didn’t.” Wade relishes the tremor that moves through the man in front of him at the words even though he doesn’t know what it means.

“You killed me fair and square,” Wade moves in close, his jaw nearly brushing the side of the shorter man’s face, “Spider-man.”

Wade leans back just in time for a hand to shoot up and card roughly through the thick hair on top of the web slinger’s head. Wade has never seen him out of costume and up close before. It’s disgusting how pretty he is.

“You don’t die?” It’s not a statement and the words sound like a plea. Then again, more certain. “You can’t die.”

“Not since special forces,” Wade tells him. “Zombification is one of the few benefits the military actually paid out.”

“Military.” Parker shifts from foot to foot, his whole body vibrating with what looks like anxiety. “You can’t die.”

“Nope.” Wade pops the p to be annoying which seems to work because the man in front of him fists his hair in one hand and makes a cute little growling sound.

“Where’s your soul mark?” The question is quiet but urgent. Talk about a non-sequitur.

Wade scoffs. “At least buy a lady a drink fir—“

“Where. Is. Your. Fucking. Soul. Mark?” Professor Parker grits out again, louder this time, that perfect jawline clenched up tight. Then his hands are fisted in the fabric of Wade’s red hoodie, shoving him backward until his spine slams into the wall of the building behind him. “Tell me where the fuck it is.”

“Geez-o-Pete.” Wade holds his hands up in surrender again, a full-blown smile spreading across his face. Number three! Christ, when it rains, it pours. “You’re gonna scandalize the townsfolk with all this toxic mascu—“

Spider-man tugs Wade away from the wall and then slams him back into it again. One of these days, Wade will make it through an encounter with Spider-man without popping wood but today is not that day

“Where is it, you goddamn asshole?”

Tomorrow’s not looking great either.

“Where’s yours?” Wade can see that it’s not on Spidey’s forearms since they’re practically front and center. “You get lucky enough for your special lady to touch your dick first?”

“My inner thigh.” The dark eyes behind those nerd glasses roam over Wade’s body and straight, white teeth bite into that lush bottom lip. Wade can practically hear that clever brain whirring. “Where did I first…?”

Then Spider-man’s whole body goes rigid and he stops breathing, his hands pressing Wade harder into the wall. Big, brown eyes dart up from where they had been searching Wade’s forearms and land directly on his sternum. How the fuck did Parker know?

“You can’t die,” he repeats. “But you do die.” Those dark eyes dart up again, landing on Wade’s, searing into his soul. “You die and you come back, right?”

Wade isn’t sure why the next thing he says sounds like a confession. “Just call me Lazarus.”

“I’m right?” Parker pulls Wade away from the wall and smashes him back into it a third time. That one seems a little excessive. Wade is cooperating.

“This sounds like a second date kinda topic,” Wade retorts. “And we haven’t even made it past heavy petting.”

He’ll only cooperate so much, though. Making Peter Parker’s face snarl in irritation is just too much temptation for a guy to resist.

“God,” the web slinger spits, “fuck you so much.”

“Yes, please.”

That wide-eyed gaze snaps to Wade’s sternum again, eyes trying to bore through the red fabric. It’s not so much that one thing changes about the web slinger’s demeanor so much as that everything changes. Suddenly, the man standing in front of Wade is the same one that pushed him off the building.

This is about to get very fucking murdery or very fucking sexy. Or both. It’s always been a thin line for Wade.

Peter Parker unfists his hands from Wade’s hoodie which is kind of disappointing, actually, until one hand reaches up and grabs Wade’s neck. Spider-man’s long fingers wrap just below Wade's jaw, pinning him to the wall and cutting off his airway.

“Don’t fucking move,” the sweatered and bespectacled possible sociopath snaps at Wade.

“Why would I want to move? This is—“ A squeeze around Wade’s neck cuts off his words.

“Don’t fucking talk, either.”

Wade would have bet a million dollars that this tête-à-tête couldn’t possibly get any hotter but then he feels Spider-man’s other hand sliding across his belly. He’s never been so happy to fake lose a million dollars before.

“I know you,” the web slinger mutters as he searches the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. “You wouldn’t come out without at least one knife. Where is— Ah-ha!”

Spider-man’s hand is tugging Wade’s favorite knife out of his pants pocket, arousingly close to Wade’s dick if he’s being honest. And then the blade is open. It’s the same one that the web slinger had before, the one they’ve been trading back and forth like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants but with more knifing between the ribs. And it’s obvious he remembers how to use it.

“Your sternum, right?” Peter Parker asks as he slips the knife, point down, into the front of Wade’s shirt collar. The sharp tip pokes just under the hollow of his throat. “From when I cracked you open like an egg that first time?”

“You’re makin' that sound unreasonably sex—“ The sentence ends with a choking sound as Spider-man’s hand squeezes Wade’s throat again. Spots dance in Wade’s vision and he’d groan if he thought the sound would actually come out.

The knife is sharp— Wade takes good care of his toys —which is why, when Spider-man starts dragging it down the front of Wade’s chest, it cuts through the fabric of his hoodie and shirt like butter. Occasionally, the knife cuts deeper, digging into Wade’s skin followed by a slow drip of blood that sends a shiver down his spine.

Peter Parker stops cold once Wade’s shirt and hoodie are cut open down to the bottom of his ribs, the air cool across his chest and the rivulets of blood warm. The hand around Wade’s neck flexes as the web slinger lays eyes on the thing that Wade tries so hard not to look at.

“It says FIGHT WITH SOULMATE.” Spider-man’s voice is flat and listless, the way it is at the end after Wade’s been taking his time extracting information from a target. “That’s my handwriting.”

Wade snorts through his mask. A sound that quickly balloons into a full-out guffaw. Even the tight press of Spider-man’s fingers around his throat doesn’t stop it.

“Ho-lee shit,” Wade gasps. “I thought I was the only one in the penthouse apartment of bat shit crazy tower but I guess I gotta roommate.” Wade’s chest heaves under the still watchful and slightly dead stare of Peter Parker. “Fuck. I was so prouda myself with this whole psychological torture/stalking schtick and here you come with your emotional torment and tell me to hold your beer. You are one sick fuck, freckles.”

The nickname seems to break the spell, causing Spider-man’s whole body to flinch. His hand releases Wade’s neck like it’s a hot stove and he takes a step back. Those big, brown eyes blink and the dead-eyed murderbot that was holding a knife to Wade’s chest morphs back into Professor Parker. Fuck ugly sweater and all.

“Have you known this whole time?” That voice is all calm, cool control, and Wade fucking hates it.

“Known what? That you’re a sick fuck? No. That one’s a surprise but I gotta say it’s a—”

“About your soulmate.”

Despite the professorial vibe, Wade’s dick still throbs when Spidey gestures toward his chest with the knife. Or maybe because of the professorial vibe. Wade stopped trying to figure out what his dick was doing around the time he first crossed paths with Spider-man. If Wade’s dick is a compass, then Peter Parker has been true north for a while.

“Soulmates?” Wade tries to scoff. It might come out a little broken. “Soulmates? Is that what this is about? Who cares about that shit? I never even look.”

Wade notices the way Spidey’s hand tightens around the hilt of the knife when Wade says it. Maybe it’s not exactly the whole truth but he’s not about to spill his soulmate sob story to the man he wants to either (1) kill, (2) be killed by, or (3) fuck until they’re both dehydrated husks of themselves.

Or maybe a two-for-one deal. Wade loves a bargain.

Peter Parker steps back into Wade’s space, stealing Wade’s attention and tilting his head up to stare into Wade’s eyes.

“I want you to listen to me, you clown-clad dipshit.”

That’s a new one.

Wade tries to listen, he really does, but things start to get real interesting.

The hand holding the knife slips between them and Wade braces for the hot and shivery feeling of another blade between his ribs. But, instead, the web slinger twists the knife and wipes it against the red fabric covering Wade’s shoulder.

Ungh. Fuck.

Spidey’s taking care of Wade’s toys. Christ, this is possibly the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to him. Like on a scale of zero to ten this is one of those numbers that means nothing and everything and no one understands even when they say they do.

“Are you listening?”

Wade makes a valiant effort to nod. He’s not sure he succeeds.

The knife flips and Parker swipes the other side of the blade clean before snapping it closed with those long fingers that Wade hopes will choke him again someday soon. Spider-man dips his head and waits until Wade’s eyes find his again before he speaks.

“Stop following me.”

“For, like, today?” Wade asks, his voice even rougher than usual. “Or…?”

Those dark eyes narrow and Wade’s never come untouched before but everything about this is really, really working for him.

“Stop following me. I don’t want to feel my spider sense go off. I don’t want to see your goddamn masked face. I don’t want to look up and notice some fucking behemoth leaning on a lamppost and staring at me. Stop. Fucking. Following. Me.”

And with that, Spider-man turns around, still sweater and khaki-clad with an honest-to-god Jansport on his back, and saunters out of the alley, stuffing Wade’s knife in his pocket as he goes.

Fuuuuuuck.

If Wade had a nickel for every time he’s gotten a hard-on while being held at knifepoint by Spider-man, he’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice.

Chapter Text

Peter is already in the middle of an honest-to-god panic attack by the time he exits the alley. He can feel his heart cramping in his chest, his throat, his head. Fuck. It feels like his goddamn eyeballs are panicking.

His lips are parted, breaths panting out of him through vice-tight lungs, and he’s maybe three seconds away from bursting into ugly tears and melting into a puddle. Pain is blooming behind his forehead and the nausea from earlier has returned with a vengeance.

He’s shaking, too. So fucking hard. He nearly dropped Deadpool’s knife when he fumbled it back into the merc’s hoodie pocket. Peter wants… fuck, he doesn’t even know what he wants. For time to rewind by an hour? For a bus to run him over as he wobbles across the street? For just a fucking moment to collapse in on himself like a dying star?

But Peter knows that, even if Deadpool doesn’t follow him (which feels like a big fucking if, to be honest), the merc can still see him from the alley. So he pulls on all the reserves of strength he’s built up as Spider-man and manages to walk upright and straight as he crosses the street.

Mostly.

He only manages that because he won’t let his mind linger on what the fuck just happened.

Oh god. What the fuck just happened!?

Peter’s stomach heaves and he has to swallow back down the sour bile and coffee that comes up his throat. He shuts down all his peripheral thoughts, his feelings, everything and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. Not tripping over himself. Not falling on his face in front of—

“Boyfriend, huh?” Peter squeaks in surprise and nearly folds as MJ’s voice sounds from behind him.

His throat is too tight to get words past so he just shakes his head and keeps walking. He should have known that MJ would wait for him. He should have been fucking paying attention. To anything. Ever. Would he have noticed beforehand if he’d paid closer attention? Noticed before he found himself in an alley with a knife in his hand feeling like his own heart had been cut out? Noticed that his soulmate didn’t even fucking care about him?

“Peter.” MJ is a little breathless from trying to keep up with the speed run Peter is making down the sidewalk. “Are you okay? I know being outed against your will is—“

“Stop.” Peter’s voice is hard and cold as he halts in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to MJ. “Whatever you think you know, it's wrong.”

Peter sways alarmingly and his vision goes black at the edges and he hears MJ talking from far, far away.

“Oh my god. Peter?”

Sure hands land on Peter’s shoulders and steer him… somewhere. His body feels like a wet, heavy blanket he has to maneuver under and he wants nothing more than to shrug it off. He’s dizzy and isn’t even sure if he’s breathing anymore and his spider sense feels like it’s clanging in every part of his body instead of just his brain.

“Head between your knees.” A gentle hand on the back of his neck nudges him down onto a seat and then pushes his head between his spread knees. “Let’s get your backpack off.”

MJ doesn’t touch him after that but she does sit next to him and tell him a story about her last trip to Milan for work. Peter barely follows it as he sucks in ragged breath after ragged breath.

At some point, the tears start. Just small splashes of water against his palms at first, then uneasy, shuddering breaths, then racking sobs. Peter is curled over his own lap, arms tight across the front of his knees, rocking forward and back, and hoping to god that the merc isn’t watching.

That his soulmate isn’t watching.

Fuck.

He’s not sure how long it lasts before the panic bleeds away. It happens so slowly, reverse frog-boil-style, that Peter is breathing almost normally again before the change registers. He gives a last big, wavering exhale and then sits up, swiping his palms down his damp face and trying to look even remotely pulled together.

“Here.”

MJ pushes the water bottle from Peter’s backpack into his hands and he’s struck by just how thirsty he is. He tilts his head back and chugs the water, some of it leaking out of his mouth and dripping down his throat, until the bottle is empty.

“Thanks,” Peter croaks as MJ takes the bottle out of his hands and shoves it back into the side pocket of his backpack.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

And he really, really doesn’t. Peter wishes he could scrape out the bits of his brain that hold the memory of what just happened in the alley. He curls his hands into fists still feeling the inhuman warmth of Deadpool’s neck in one hand and the cold hilt of the knife in the other.

The merc has shot Peter. And stabbed him. And punched him. Tried to blow him up and thrown him off a building. But nothing that dickweed has ever done hurt as much as what happened in that alley.

Soulmates? Who cares about that shit? I never even look.

“Peter.”

MJ pauses and they’ve been friends long enough that Peter recognizes her tone. She wants him to look at her so he does. He wants to see the face of someone that actually gives a shit about him, not the universe-mandated person that’s supposed to be his perfect fit.

Fucking fuck.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, and we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but what just happened…” She reaches up and pushes the curl off his forehead, furrowing her brow in concern. “That looked like soulmate shock.”

Peter shakes his head in short, sharp jerks. He absolutely will not acknowledge how close MJ is to poking the raw, festering wound Deadpool left behind.

“Just a regular degular panic attack.” He forces a laugh through his still tight throat. “Midterms, ya know?”

It can’t have been soulmate shock because I don’t have a fucking soulmate.

The thought bursts through Peter’s brain like a firework, big and loud and bright and tantalizing. And it burns itself into his brain just as easily as a firework would burn into his retina. The universe may have stuck Peter with this sack of shit human being, it might have carved Peter’s fucking handwriting into the merc’s chest, but he still has a choice. And there’s not a single goddamn world in which he chooses that sentient garbage dump.

“Peter, are you sure?” MJ still sounds worried.

“Definitely,” Peter tells her. His voice is almost back to normal and he manages to meet her eyes this time instead of staring at her ear. “Sorry if I scared you. You know I haven’t been sleeping well and I think… I think everything just kind of caught up to me all at once.”

“Okay.” Her brow furrows again but she doesn’t contradict him. “I, uh, I’m meeting up with Gwen in a bit for a late lunch but, um, call me? Or text me. Seriously, Peter, anything you need.”

Peter’s heart doesn’t even twitch at MJ’s casual mention of her soulmate. Peter’s heart is stone. Maybe it's not even there anymore.

“Yeah, of course.” He reaches out and pulls her into a hug because that’s what he would have done before. “Thanks for taking care of me MJ. I do appreciate it, even if I never say it.”

When the hug is over, MJ brushes Peter’s curl off his forehead again and gives him a smile that’s one part open concern and two parts pity. Maybe a look like that would have bothered him. Before.

“Tell Gwen I said hi,” Peter says amiably as he pushes himself up from the window ledge that MJ had settled him on and grabs his backpack to sling over his shoulder. “And to cut Harry some slack.”

“You know she never will.” MJ shakes her head, The Look disappearing, and a small, genuine smile replacing it. “He digs his own grave sometimes.”

“Yeah, probably.” Peter smiles back and huffs out a small laugh. “See you on Thursday?”

“Yep.” MJ gives a little wave as Peter starts heading back toward campus. “Bye, Peter. Love ya.”

The smile drops off Peter’s face as soon as his back is turned to MJ, sliding off like it was never there. Because it wasn’t. Not really. Amiable Peter existed before. Before Peter figured out that the universe was just giving him a big middle finger. Before every hope Peter had held onto and nurtured for the future was yanked out from underneath him by motherfucking Deadpool. Before Peter realized that, as much as he’d thought about his soulmate, his soulmate hadn’t thought about him at all.

For years, Deadpool has been badgering Spider-man to play his stupid little games and Peter never has. Not willingly or knowingly. There’s never been any ulterior motive to what happens between the two of them other than sheer survival, at least for Peter. Hell, if he’s completely honest with himself, he mostly operates on instincts and terror around that unhinged son of a bitch.

Although... maybe that's not completely true. Peter remembers the fierce satisfaction he felt when he stabbed Deadpool in the chest. The moment of absolute relief he felt when he pushed Deadpool off that building. The feral delight of squeezing his hand around the merc’s throat and running the knife down the merc’s chest.

Spider-man is a good guy. A hero with a no-kill code. The one all the kids want to dress up as on Halloween. He has a key to the city. He keeps the streets safe and he’s friendly and nice and polite. Peter is on his best behavior at all times because there’s always someone willing to take a picture of one of his off days and sell it to The Daily Bugle. But Deadpool doesn’t expect that. Deadpool doesn’t want that. Deadpool wants to goad Spider-man into… who knows what?

Play the game.

Everything’s the game.

Well, if the mercenary wants Spider-man to play stupid games, the mercenary is about to win a fuckton of stupid prizes. Because Spider-man may be an All-American Hero but what the city doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

Chapter Text

Wade is the first to admit that his coping mechanisms aren’t for everybody. Hell, maybe they’re not for anybody. But the soothing slice of his katanas as they cut through the air acts like a cradle to rock his jagged fucking mind to sleep.

He’s already forgotten the name of the merc/hitman/villain/whoever standing across from him. All he knows or really cares about is that they’re following Peter Parker and trying to get a bead on Spider-man. If Wade isn’t allowed to follow the guy, then no one else is either. It’s the principle of the thing or some shit.

Something happened in that alley. Something Wade’s normally agile mind has crashed against like a brick wall. Something that left him with another aching erection and the overwhelming need to swing some swords around. Preferably right into someone’s face.

Face shots with the katanas don’t have to be a kill move, although they do bleed a ton, which is good because Wade doesn’t feel much like killing right now. He feels like a cat that’s just found an injured mouse. He wants to bat it around and play with it until its poor little heart gives out.

This is his third mouse tonight. The other two were abject disappointments.

“They warned me about you,” Wade’s newest mouse says. “Told me some psychopath was offing anyone that came for the Spider-man contract.” The mouse wipes the back of their hand across their bleeding lip (Wade definitely punched them in the face earlier) and sneers, letting the light glint off the honed edges of their knives. “There’s no money in killing you, though. I think that’ll just be for fun. An appetizer.”

Wade has to give the mouse credit. They came equipped with a top-notch intimidating banter game. With anyone else, it might have worked. But with Wade? Well, let’s just say Wade is the bogeyman that veteran contract killers threaten the baby hitmen with.

Check your six or Deadpool might stab you in the back.

Usually, it’s to snake a kill but sometimes Wade just wants to play with something he doesn’t care about breaking.

“This is a really great vibe you’ve cultivated,” Wade says, gesturing toward their uninspired black-on-black ensemble with the blade of one of his katanas. “Very Frank Castle Light.”

“Fuck you,” the maybe-Punisher snarls. “I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed to death.”

Honestly, it’s a little disheartening that all these assassin toddlers don’t know shit. Where’s the pride in the fucking job? Just running around New York not knowing that the one dressed in red and black with the full face mask can’t die. What are they teaching these kids?

“I’m gonna enjoy watchin’ you watch me bleed to death.” That slows the other mercenary’s roll a little but still, no look of recognition crosses their face. Not the sharpest spoon in the drawer, then. “Had a little incident today so if you could stab me right here,” Wade flips the katana in his hand so he can tap the sharp point against his sternum, “ya’d really be doin’ me a solid.”

“You fuckers with a death wish don’t scare me.”

“You ain’t never met someone with a death wish like mine, little mouse.”

The contract killer lunges first which delights Wade to no end. He likes the feisty ones. They tend to play rougher and last longer. And after what happened today, Wade wants to play real rough.

He dodges the knife thrust just slow enough that it ends up sinking into his bicep instead of his chest like faux Black Widow was probably hoping. Wade nearly sighs in relief at the tearing burn and the hot gush of blood as it spreads across the fabric of his suit. This is exactly what he needs.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you,” Wade drawls as he pivots out of the way and plants a foot in the contract killer’s ass as they lunge past, giving them a hard kick that nearly sends them to the ground, “that you’re more likely to win a fight if you hold on to your weapons?”

Wade reaches over his back and sheathes Cheech (his left-hand katana) before reaching across his body and pulling the assassin’s knife out of his arm. The balance is shit but he can make do. With a quick flick of the wrist that he’s practiced a million times, he sends the blade flipping end over end to bury in the mouse’s thigh.

“Consider that a handicap,” Wade says, gesturing to the knife sticking out of the mouse’s leg. “Like in golf. If you only have one knife, this isn’t gonna be very fun for me.”

“Who. The. Fuck,” the mouse huffs as they pull the knife out with a groan. “Are you?”

“Right now? I’m your worst nightmare.” The mouse’s face twists in fear and Wade bursts out laughing at their expression. “Oh, fuck. The look on your face. I haven’t used that one before but it’s goin’ in the rotation. You look like you’re about piss yourself.”

The mouse sheathes their knife, almost too quick to see, and Wade knows what’s coming next.

“Nooooo,” he whines. “Come on. Can’t we play a little longer before the guns—” A bullet hits Wade center mass and a huff of disappointment leaves him. Once the guns come out, it’s all she wrote. Everyone’s so impatient these days. He takes a step toward the hitman. “Aim a little higher, doll face, I’m hopin’ you can at least crack my sternum before your time’s up.”

“I asked— who the fuck are you?” The mouse’s voice thrums with anger and cracks halfway through letting a little bit of their fear leak out. They stumble away from Wade on their freely bleeding leg with their pistol held out in front of them.

“Name’s Deadpool,” Wade says as he takes another step, herding the mouse backward. “Maybe you heard’a me? I been told I don’t play well with others.”

Under the slick black hair, the contract killer’s face pales. More fear. Perfect. The pistol stays out in front of them (good for them) but it shakes in their grip. Wade watches their death flit across their face right before they pull the trigger.

This bullet hits him point blank, directly in the sternum, the caliber big enough to pierce the bone and burrow through to his heart or thereabouts. Wade’s not a fucking doctor, he doesn’t know. But the crack of the bone under the bullet feels like an absolution and he breathes easily for the first time since Peter Parker and the alleyway.

That’s a metaphor, of course, because one of his lungs is definitely punctured. He slaps a hand over the hole (no exit wound) and wonders if the universe has something against his left lung recently.

That split second of self-care is when it happens. Wade just sees the end, the assassin in front of him biting down on a pill, and then there’s a lot of twitching and groaning and foaming at the mouth.

It’s a good show but not what he was looking for tonight.

“Gah. Fuck!” Wade sheathes Chong and puts his other hand on his hip, tilting his head back to yell at the sky before closing the distance between him and where the mouse is still foaming and bleeding into the pavement.

“I had plans for you, asshole,” he grumbles as he kicks at the body. “What am I supposed to do with all my pent-up angst now?”

Christ.

Because now Wade is alone with his thoughts which is the last fucking place he wants to be. He kicks the black-clad body again, harder, for good measure then spins to storm off. Body disposal will not make him feel better today. He wanted a toy, not a mess to clean up.

Fuck.

Maybe any other day Wade would have taken the whole international spy, cyanide capsule death routine as a compliment but not today. Because today sucks. Today, Wade doesn’t want to be the mercenary who’s scary enough that people would rather die than face him. Today, Wade wants something to fucking distract him.

Because if he’s not distracted, he remembers. Peter Parker’s dumb fucking hair and the knife edge slicing down Wade’s chest. The blade as it was wiped clean and those dark brown eyes glaring murder. And there, buried under all of it, the clenching, twisting feeling in his chest when that genius little shit found Wade’s only vulnerable spot and went after it like a greyhound on a rabbit.

That’s my handwriting.

Can you fucking imagine?

Wade had thought it was bad enough when he only had to entertain the idea that the universe had paired him with some sweet, innocent normie. But to have even a brief moment of thinking that his soulmate might be Spider-man? That Peter Parker’s handwriting is carved into his skin, into his soul?

What a cosmic fucking joke that would be.

Wade has spent his entire adult life thinking that his soulmate is in the middle of the morality spectrum. Still too far away from Wade for comfort but close enough to daydream. Sometimes. But to think, even for a second, that his soulmate is on the complete opposite end, to know that they are farther away than Wade can ever reach?

Well, that’s why Wade needed a distraction.

And maybe Wade is kind of proud of that ruthless little nerd in the ugly-ass sweater for so thoroughly mindfucking him but also he kind of wants to kill something slowly right fucking now and that capsule-biting son of a bitch ruined it for him.

Wade turns down an alley and leaps up to hook his hand around the bottom of the fire escape. He muscles himself up, the move shaking loose the bullet from his chest which falls to the pavement with a quiet tink.

He’s halfway up the side of the building when a black shadow drops out of the sky and lands in front of him, perching like a gargoyle on the thin iron railing. Wade’s heart flutters (must be a remnant from the gunshot wound) when he realizes who it is.

“Two times in one day?” Wade asks, trying not to be obvious about how he’s drinking in every lean line of the hero in front of him with his eyes. “Maybe I should buy me a lottery ticket.”

Spider-man cocks his head like a bird of prey, curious but distant. Deadly. And just like that Wade’s night gets a whole lot better.

Chapter Text

He probably shouldn’t have gone looking for Deadpool. Especially since the only thing that Peter’s been able to process after what happened in the alley is that it makes him want to kill the merc. With extreme prejudice.

And now here the aforementioned merc is in his stupid red and black leather, strapped with enough weapons to furnish a small army, and sounding positively delighted that Spider-man is here. Peter absolutely hates that the merc always seems happy to see him.

It’s probably universally mandated.

“Cat got your tongue, Spidey Cakes?”

Peter tilts his head to the side and cracks his neck, keeping his eyes on Deadpool through the lenses of the Spider-man mask. The merc’s suit is dark with blood in a few places and there are several holes in the fabric, the hills and hollows of Deadpool’s skin peeking through.

Cat got your tongue?

Why answer? Why talk at all? There’s nothing Peter could say that would make any of this better. He doesn’t even know if he wants it to get better. He thinks maybe he just wants to spread the hurt around.

Yeah. Talking is definitely overrated.

Instead, he shoots a thick rope of webbing toward Deadpool that smacks into his broad, thickly muscled chest and splats out into thin tendrils until it's stuck firm. Peter stands up on the thin railing of the fire escape, pausing for just a second to watch Deadpool look down at the strand, stroking his fingertips across the webbing, before Peter leaps off the fire escape and down two landings. As he swings onto the rickety metal platform, he curls his hand around the webbing attached to Deadpool, feeling the vibrations of the merc’s breath and heartbeat. Feeling the tension in the strand of webbing grow. Peter plants his feet and pulls against it hard, dragging at the heavy weight on the other end. Pulling Deadpool closer to the edge that Peter just went over.

“This is what I been lookin’ for all night, W—“

Deadpool’s sentence ends abruptly as Peter yanks the merc over the railing, watching as that leather-clad chucklefuck falls past where Peter is standing and toward the ground. He quickly wraps his end of the webbing around one of the iron railing bars on the new landing and listens to the grunt as the webbing attached to Deadpool’s chest pulls taut and arrests the merc’s momentum.

The blessed silence lasts maybe five seconds.

“Cute strategy.” The voice floats up to Peter easily even through the sound of car horns honking a few streets over. “Think it’s a little vanilla for us, though.”

Peter scowls under his mask, peering over the edge of the fire escape where the merc is suspended by the webbing stuck to his chest about twenty feet off the ground. Deadpool has his arms tucked behind his head, elbows wide and biceps bulging, like it’s a fucking day at the beach and he’s stretched out on a towel in the sand. The merc catches Peter looking and pulls one hand free to give Peter a friendly wave that makes him grit his teeth.

“I like this thing you’re doin’ right now.” Deadpool’s huge bicep flexes as he crosses his arm back behind his head. God, Peter hates the merc’s fucking guts. “Very good mercenary vibes. Totally scary. I—“

Peter wants the man dangling underneath him to just shut up already. Peter isn’t sure what he’s going to say until it trips out of his mouth, though, and, when he hears it, he wants to snatch it out of the air and swallow it back down.

“Forty-two.”

A pause like everything in the city has stopped to catch its breath.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Deadpool’s head cocks in confusion as his body spins slowly in a circle where he hangs. “Is that some kinda nerd reference?”

“You’re such a fucking piece of trash,” Peter snarls, his anger a live thing trying to claw its way out of him. “Forty-two goddamn times I counted before I couldn’t count anymore.”

The merc huffs. “Should you really be workin’ on your Ph.D. if you can only count to forty-two?”

“I actually gave a shit.” Peter tries not to choke on the lump in his throat. “Fuck you.”

Peter’s voice is cold this time. Not because his anger has burned out but because if he lets himself feel it, he’ll go up in flames.

“Name the time and pl—“

Peter knew what the merc was going to say before he even fixed his mouth to say it. Not the words exactly, but the flavor. So Deadpool had barely started when Peter reached out and swiped his hand down the iron bar anchoring the webbing. The fine hairs on his fingers that make it easy to climb walls also allow him to touch his own webbing without sticking. Or, in this case, can help him unstick the webbing from other surfaces.

This time, Peter watches the merc fall. Avidly. He relishes the wet thud of the impact and the way the blood blooms around Deadpool’s still body like a flower. Peter’s soul mark told him that his soulmate would die today and he wonders if this is it. If the words carved into his own thigh are his fault. He fucking hopes they are.

Now that Peter knows Deadpool doesn’t stay dead, he doesn’t plan on sticking around. Peter would have to be out of his mind to want to climb down next to that dead body and have his face be the first one Deadpool sees when the merc comes back. So he doesn’t do that, instead, he leaves.

The rest of his patrol is boring. Three hours in and all Peter has managed to do is foil a mugging and rescue a cat from a tree. It wasn’t even a tall tree and the cat scratched the shit out of his arm.

He recognizes that thinking that a literal murder he committed is exciting would probably be enough for some therapists to retire on but, to Peter’s surprise, he doesn’t feel bad. He doesn’t feel guilty. He doesn’t regret what he did. If anything, he wishes he had pulled the merc’s mask off first so Peter could see the look on Deadpool’s face as he fell.

Totally healthy and normal thoughts.

Peter is crouched on the corner of another rooftop, surveying the parts of the city he can see and waiting for his spider sense to tingle when it finally does. Except it’s not a tingle, it’s a full-blown, mushroom cloud explosion. The only thing Peter has time to do is hide, tucking himself into a corner created by the roof access door and one of the HVAC vents.

His heart is hammering and his head is ringing and everything happening inside his own body is almost loud enough to drown out the singing. Almost.

“🎶 Don’t.

Don’t you want me?

You know I can’t believe it when

I hear that you won’t see me. 🎶”

Deadpool.

Fuck.

Over his own panting breaths, Peter hears the slicing hiss of Deadpool drawing one of his katanas followed by the sparking scrape of metal across the rooftop. Peter has seen this move; Deadpool dragging his sword to produce sparks. It’s intimidating. Maybe even more so because Peter can’t see it. His heart crawls up into his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“🎶 Don’t.

Don’t you want me?

You know I don’t believe you when

you say that you don’t need me. 🎶”

The scuff of the merc’s boots over the rooftop gets louder and Peter’s heart feels like it’s going to leap out of his throat. He’s back to just instincts and terror. That brief, shining moment where he felt in control is gone. Peter is the mouse again, not the cat.

“🎶 It’s much too late to find.

When you think you’ve changed your mind.

You better change it back or we will both be sorry. 🎶”

Deadpool’s footsteps stop and Peter’s breath stops with them. Maybe he should be embarrassed that he’s cowering in a dark corner on a rooftop. He’s a hero and he’s fought more villains than he can count but the merc… well, the merc is different somehow.

“🎶 Don’t you want me, baby?

Don’t you want me? Oooh! 🎶”

Peter keeps his eyes squeezed shut tight and tries to convince himself this is a dream. A nightmare. Just another night where Deadpool invades his fucking head.

“Needed this tonight, sweet pea. You’re so much better than a mouse.” Peter wonders hysterically if the merc can somehow read his mind. “You’re a little spider. Clever. Cunning. Cute.”

At the word cute a shadow passes over Peter and his whole body flinches.

“Boo.”

Peter’s eyes shoot open to see Deadpool looming over him, the katana sheathed, replaced in his hand by a very familiar-looking knife. The blade flicks out of the hilt with a smooth stroke of Deadpool’s thumb and all of Peter’s survival instincts take over. He shoves to his feet, ready to bolt and live to fight another day.

“Not so fast, Webs.” The merc fists the fabric over Peter’s chest with a big hand, holding him in place while Deadpool’s voice scrapes over Peter like sandpaper. “I already had a couple other playmates bow out early. You’re not gonna leave me hangin’ are you?” A snort escapes through the fabric of Deadpool’s mask. “Hangin’. See what I did there?”

With no warning other than the piercing shriek of his spider sense which is always screaming around the merc, Deadpool drops his grip on Peter and drives the blade in his opposite hand toward Peter’s eye. Luckily, Peter has instincts and terror and spider speed on his side, dodging easily away from the blade. Or at least he tries. As his body lunges to the side and toward freedom he runs into the merc’s forearm which sinks against Peter’s throat as the knife embeds into the wall at his back, right next to his ear.

The merc leans down, adding more weight to his forearm, pinning Peter more tightly to the wall, forcing out a muted choking sound, and puts his mouth next to Peter’s other ear.

“Love how fast you are, you sneaky little shit.” The sentence is practically purred, burrowing into Peter’s brain and then sliding down his spine as a shiver. “The sudden moral flexibility is a real big turn-on, too.”

This is Peter’s soulmate, whispering the merc’s version of sweet nothings into Peter’s ear. Part of him wants to melt into it but another part, a larger part, wants to see the merc bleed again. Wants a pint of blood for every day Peter thought about his soulmate and wasn’t thought about in return.

He doesn’t want this soulmate. He doesn’t want the merc with the mouth. He’s definitely straight. The universe just really fucked up.

“I’m sure you think that’s a compliment,” Peter croaks around the press of Deadpool’s forearm, “but it’s really, really not.”

Peter means to punch the merc then, hard enough to cave in his ribs, so Peter can escape. He really does. He can picture it so clearly in his head. He can feel the give of bone under his fist. He can—

“I guess I’ll hafta think of something more in your wheelhouse, then, freckles.” Deadpool’s forearm eases up on Peter’s throat but the merc’s body presses closer, his hand still holding the knife anchored to the wall and caging Peter in.

“I think you like it…” Deadpool tilts his head down further and Peter feels the merc’s jaw brush against his own, putting Deadpool’s mouth so close to his ear that Peter would be able to feel the movement of the merc’s lips against his skin if the masks weren’t in the way. “…when I tell you how smart you are. How you’re the only one worth playin' with ‘cause I love watchin’ your genius brain work.”

Peter bites the inside of his lower lip until he tastes blood, trying to clamp down on the shiver that wants to drip down his spine.

“I thought the only thing you liked about my brain was that you were eventually going to be the one to put a bullet in it.”

“Mmmm,” the merc hums, a vibration that Peter feels in his ear and his palms and his belly. “I like that, too, sweet pea. How funny you are.

“Get off me,” Peter growls

He could just push Deadpool away. Peter is strong enough, more than strong enough, but his limbs feel heavy and hot. His breath is stuttering out of him and the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end and the merc just keeps talking.

“Know what I like best of all, though?” Deadpool asks, finally pulling his forearm off Peter’s neck and planting his palm against the wall, caging Peter in entirely.

“Get off me.” Peter lifts his sluggish limbs until his hands land on Deadpool’s chest, fingers spread, but he doesn’t push. Peter can feel the rise and fall of the merc’s breath and the rhythmic thumping of the merc’s heart against his palms. Is it beating too fast?

“I like,” the merc’s voice is a rough, rumbling whisper so close to Peter’s ear that he wonders if it’s actually inside his head, “that I’m the only person you’ve ever killed. You sure know how to make a girl feel special, peaches.”

Reality washes over Peter with the speed of a bullet train and he drops back into his body with a thud. What am I doing? He’s practically pressed into the wall by the hot length of Deadpool’s body and the merc is curled over him like… like in Peter’s dreams.

That realization douses Peter in ice water, cooling him down enough that he finally shoves Deadpool away. The merc stumbles back several steps but manages to keep his feet and now, instead of feeling it against his hands, Peter can see the quick rise and fall of Deadpool’s chest. Faster than normal. Just like Peter’s.

He curls his hands into fists, trying to tamp down on his memory of the feeling of Deadpool’s chest against his hands, and desperately reaches for all that anger he had before.

“You’re not special,” Peter spits. “You’re not anything.”

“Is that right?” The merc’s voice isn’t that warm, velvety, purr anymore. Now it’s harsh and grating. Peter watches Deadpool thumb open the holster of one of his guns, a move that turns Peter’s spider sense way up from the low background hum that it fell into.

“So I guess you kill everyone you come across now?” Deadpool’s hand curls around the gun’s grip. “Welcome to the dark side, Peter.”

The merc draws the gun fast but Peter is faster, he always has been. It only takes him two steps to get to the roof edge and a third to push himself off into the empty space that hangs over the city. He flicks out a length of webbing, attaching it to the next building over and pulling himself through the apex of his swing before he releases another length.

The pop of the gun is loud and brick dust explodes next to Peter’s head as he yanks on the next rope of webbing to pull himself further away from the merc and the rooftop and whatever the fuck that was.

The gun barks three more times as Peter flees because that's definitely what he's doing, plaster and wood chips puff into big clouds around him as he escapes. So close. Every shot is so close.

It isn’t until Peter gets home that he realizes that, even though the shots were close every time, not a single bullet touched him. And he can’t help but wonder if that means anything.

Chapter Text

Wade feels too good to sleep. Too keyed up at least. It’s not every night that the city’s greatest superhero throws you off a building. Although, it’s starting to become more nights than not and Wade loves the shit out of it. Plus, there’s nothing more fun than following the man that killed you across the city and pushing his buttons until he snaps.

Or runs away.

Wade really hopes that Spider-man snaps next time. Aiming to miss is good target practice and all but having the web slinger turn the tables and press Wade into the wall... Fuck. That’s what dreams are made of.

Which brings him back to sleeping.

It’s not like Wade needs that much sleep anyway, not with the way his cells constantly turnover, but he’s half eager to relive tonight’s Spidey sparring match with his dick in his hand and half eager to drop into his dreams and see what might be waiting for him.

The last two nights have been excellent.

“Third time’s a charm,” he insists as he strips out of his suit, careful not to pull more skin off with it than is strictly necessary.

Wade steps into his bathroom which is really just a cracked claw-footed tub balanced over a hole in the floor and uses the outdoor shower hanging from a hook on the wall to clean himself off. The water pressure is gentle enough that it barely hurts and he only has to grit his teeth through the sting of the soap on the places where his skin is torn open. He doesn’t bother toweling dry when he’s done, just grabs the economy-sized tube of antiseptic numbing gel and heads to his bedroom.

The bedroom is a mattress shoved into the corner of a studio apartment on the third floor of a condemned building. He has to hop over a second hole in the floor to get to it and, once he’s climbed into the sheets, he starts slathering himself with the gel. It’ll make falling asleep easier if he’s only in moderate, not excruciating, pain and he doesn’t plan on missing out on tonight’s dream.

He flops onto his back and pulls the sheet up to his chest, then claps his hands together as he stares at the ceiling.

“Alright, narrator. Take me away.”

If this keeps up, Wade is going to start getting boners just being in the vicinity of a rooftop. And this rooftop in particular? With the brick wall that he’s always stuck to? Yeah, this one definitely does it for him.

Things are the same as ever, one arm suspended above his head by a cuff made out of webbing, the wall at his back, blurry background shots of the city. A cool breeze washes across the rooftop, picking up a Reese’s Pieces wrapper and flinging it over the edge. It’s then that Wade realizes things aren’t exactly the same.

His pants are still buttoned for one. For two—

“I don’t want to play a fucking game today.” Spider-man’s voice is tight and angry, just like it was on the rooftop tonight. The other rooftop, not this one.

Wade can hear the web slinger but can’t see him. It always starts this way. Usually, Wade will be strung up on the wall for what feels like hours before Spider-man finds him but today it sounds like Spidey is making a beeline straight for him.

It’s enough to give a guy an ego.

“Which fucking door is it?” A pause. “Can you hear me, you asshole?”

That’s Wade’s cue, maybe. He usually talks, the words coming out of him sounding like something he would say but arriving in his mouth fully formed. This time, not so much. Everything seems mostly the same so maybe the door will be the same, too.

“The same door as always, peaches.” 

Although, in truth, Wade doesn’t really know. He knows he doesn’t have a ton of control here. He knows that he stands here until Spider-man finds him. And he knows that after that things get interesting. Wade’s cock is already preparing for its moment.

“All the doors are fucking orange,” Spidey growls. “This is absolute fucking bullshit. Where the hell are you, you sadistic dickweed?”

Oooo, Spider-man is mad and Wade’s cock is on board with that, too. Honestly, everything about these dreams revs Wade’s engine. Especially how real they feel; like Spider-man is actually here with him. Real enough that Wade sometimes forgets it’s all in his head.

There’s the sound of stomping and knocking and rattling doorknobs, all accompanied by a litany of very creative curse words pouring from the web slinger’s mouth. Then a terrific thud and a crack as the door to the roof springs open, rebounding back with the force of the kick that opened it.

“You’re not around the corner today.” Wade can feel Spider-man’s gaze run down his body even from behind the lenses. Vroom, vroom, bitch. “And you’re not jerking off.”

“I can change that if you want.”

And he can. One of his hands is free, like always, and his dick would love a little attention right about now.

Those white lenses narrow and Wade smiles, knowing that here his mask is pushed up and the web slinger can see the wry twist of his mouth.

“Looks like it’s my turn to be pinned to the wall, huh, sweet pea?”

Spider-man flinches where he’s still standing in the doorway and Wade knows why. The dreams don’t usually reference real life. Although, until three nights ago, they hadn’t included Spider-man either. At least, not like this.

This is so much better.

“If I throw you off a building here, will you die?”

Wade shrugs. “One way to find out.”

The web slinger takes a step forward and then hesitates. Wade wonders if the Spider-man he’s conjured in his mind is remembering how Wade shoved him into that wall tonight. Or if he’s figuring out just how much Wade wanted him to fight back, turn the tables, push Wade around. Or if he knows that he’s the only toy Wade doesn’t really want to break.

“I’m not going to throw you off the building.”

“You sure? That’s practically how you say hello these days.”

“God, I’m fucking sure.” Spider-man props his hands on his hips and hangs his head, shoulders rising and falling on a big breath. “Seems really cosmically messed up that I can’t even get away from you when I’m sleeping.”

Maybe this is one of those lucid dreams. Where Wade knows that he’s dreaming and his dream knows that he’s dreaming and… Well, shit. He doesn’t really know what comes after that.

“If I remember correctly, you came lookin’ for me tonight. Not the other way around.” Both in real life and in the dream.

Spider-man lifts his head, hands still on his hips, lenses still narrowed. “Believe me, I regret it deeply.”

Ouch. That kind of hurts.

“That’s bullshit,” Wade retorts, watching as the web slinger gets his whole back up. But he’s not going to let Dream Spidey lie to him the way real Spidey does. “Don’t pretend you don’t play the game, Webs. You like to think you’re better than that or better than me or on some fuckin’ pedestal people can’t reach but you’re always willin’ to come wallow in the mud with me.”

“The game?”

“See what I fucking mean?” Wade gestures wildly with his free hand toward the door at Spider-man’s back. “You could turn around and walk out that fucking door but you’re still here. Asking questions even. You wanna pretend you don’t like the game but you’re only lying to yourself.”

“The game.” It’s a statement this time and Spider-man takes a few more steps forward, halving the distance between them. “Are we talking about the game where you’re trying to kill me? Or the game where I’ve barely limped away on more than one occasion? Or maybe the game where you left a goddamn knife between my ribs?”

“You’re not dead yet, are you?”

Spider-man tilts his head back and yells into the sky before leveling his gaze back on Wade. “AGH. Fuck you. Fuck everything about you. You’re going to stand there and tell me that I’m not dead because of some fucking benevolence on your part?”

“If the spider bootie fits.”

The web slinger uses spider speed to close the distance between them because, when Wade blinks, he goes from halfway across the roof to directly in front of Wade. Spider-man grabs two big fistfuls of fabric at the front of Wade’s suit and lifts him up, shoving him back into the wall. Fuck. Wade loves how easy it is to push this little superhero’s buttons.

“I wish I had killed you sooner,” the web slinger seethes. “I wish you fucking stayed dead. I wish—”

“That we had kissed on that rooftop? Me too, sugar lips. That would have been like a true romcom moment, playing tonsil hockey with the New York skyline in the background. Swoon.”

The fists release and Wade thumps back to his feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Oh, you know. My parents didn’t love me enough or I was bullied in school or the military wasn’t the right fit for me or I took part in a top-secret super soldier clinical trial. The usual.” Wade tilts his head to the side, considering the man standing in front of him. It had never occurred to Wade to ask before but, “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

“You.” The word comes out as a harsh laugh. “Except I didn’t realize it was you until… I did.”

Wade opens his mouth to retort something along the lines of “most people know I’m a problem right away” but then a memory from tonight plunks into his brain like someone Air Dropped it there. Spider-man, staring down at Wade where he dangled from the length of webbing, and shouting a number at Wade in a voice that sounded half-broken.

“Forty-two?” Wade asks instead. It’s a dumb question because this isn’t real, no matter how much it feels like it is, and he already knows that he doesn’t know what the fuck that number means.

So it’s not a surprise when his dream web slinger shakes his head, then sniffles and runs the back of his forearm under the nose of his mask.

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Spider-man sighs. “I just thought my life was going to be one way and it turned out that something different was meant for me. That ever happen to you?”

Wade lifts his free hand but, instead of reaching for the web slinger like he suddenly wants to, he gestures at his exposed jaw. “You think these scars are cosmetic? Life’s a constant fucking disappointment, freckles.”

Spider-man looks at him, lenses narrowing again. “Yeah.” Another big, shoulder-lifting breath. “I guess it is. I just didn’t expect it to hurt so much.”

Oh fuck.

What is Wade supposed to do with this sad little creature? His default mode is murder and flippancy not whatever delicate touch is required here. He tries anyway because this is a fucking dream and it’ll be over in the morning, right?

“I’m not gonna give you all that “life is pain” bullshit,” Wade says, gaze locked on Spider-man’s, “but when you keep puttin’ your little bleedin’ heart out there, peaches, it’s gonna get stepped on.”

“So what?” A small, angry laugh leaks out. “I should stop caring? Build a cage around my heart and forget about it?”

“Nah.” Wade tries to grin his biggest, most feral grin. “Maybe you just need a cold-blooded killer to take care of it for you.”

Wade winks, expecting another explosive, wall-slamming reaction from the web slinger. But he gets something else entirely.

Some of the weight seems to lift off Spider-man’s shoulders as he keeps his eyes on Wade’s. “You really think so?”

“What?”

“You really think I need someone with a harder heart to watch my back?”

“Or no heart,” Wade jokes. “I happen to know someone if you’re lookin’.”

“Yeah,” Spider-man breathes. “Maybe.”

Wade Wilson has never been the type of guy that waits for a neon sign from the universe before making bad decisions and he definitely isn’t going to start now. So, when the idea pops into his head, he runs with it like Usain fucking Bolt.

He lifts his free hand up slowly, giving the web slinger time to rough him up or throw him off the building or turn and walk away but none of those things happen. Spider-man stays stock still while Wade curls his hand around the back of the web slinger’s neck and uses the grip to tug the superhero forward.

Closer.

Closer.

Until it’s almost close enough for Wade.

He wishes the mask wasn’t in the way but this works too. Fuck. Everything around this ticking anxiety bomb of a human works for him. Including the way Wade imagines those dark brown eyes behind the lenses are looking up at him.

Wade tilts his head, expecting to be punched through the wall any second, and presses his mouth to the Spider-man mask, guessing where that plush little mouth is under the fabric. He misses low but course corrects until his mouth is fitted to Spider-man’s with only a thin layer of spandex in between.

Wade pulls back to drag his tongue along the web slinger’s lower lip before sucking it into his mouth, turning the fabric damp with his tongue. Spidey’s rigid spine melts against Wade’s palm as he bites down on that lower lip and tugs.

Definitely not real but who the fuck cares right now?

Spider-man sighs into the feeling and Wade wishes he had thought to pull the mask off before this so he could feel that little moment of pleasure puff against his skin. Then every rigid, tense part of Spider-man that Wade managed to unbutton and unzip with his mouth, snaps back into place.

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

The web slinger stumbles back a few steps, shaking off Wade’s hand from around his neck. A length of webbing hits Wade’s wrist before he can blink and his free hand is now not so free, webbed to the brick wall next to his shoulder.

Worth it.

“Living the dream,” Wade laughs because fuck is he ever. The scowl that Spider-man gives him is so fierce Wade can see it through the damp fabric of the mask. “Awww, I thought we were having a good time.”

“No. What…” Spider-man’s breaths come fast and heavy. “Absolutely not. What the fuck!?”

Wade just shrugs, wondering where this is going to go as soon as the web slinger catches his breath. He loves this game and, regardless of what the hero says, Spider-man loves this game, too.

The web slinger reaches up and grabs the top of his mask, pulling it off with a crackle of static electricity. Peter Parker’s huge cloud of fluffy brown hair sticks up in every direction and Wade is suddenly disappointed that he didn’t get to run his hand through it.

“That was not a good time,” the web slinger insists, making a bigger mess of his hair by grabbing a fistful and tugging. “I don’t— That’s not— Ugh. I don’t like it when you loom over me.”

“What a fucking lie,” Wade laughs again. He also wonders if Parker noticed that his protest wasn’t actually about what Wade did with his mouth. “You love it. I can fucking smell it on you.”

Peter Parker’s murderous glare hits Wade right in the solar plexus. He’s more or less been ignoring his dick this whole time but it gives a needy twitch at that look.

Fuuuuuck.

“Why would I like it?” The belligerent voice has turned into something almost pleading. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Because it gives you an excuse to put me in my place.” Wade waves his newly webbed second hand at Parker. “You love putting me in my place.”

“I don’t love anything about you,” the web slinger protests. “I fucking hate you. I’m glad that I killed you. I just wish that you stayed dead.”

Wade raises an eyebrow that he knows Parker can see through the mask because it causes a visibly bristling reaction from the web slinger.

“You sure about that, peaches?”

Peter Parker snarls at Wade in indignation, the angry look twisting his face into something less cute but no less likely to make Wade’s cock throb. Because this is it. He’s pushed the web slinger’s buttons hard enough and long enough (ha) that they’re finally going to have the knockdown, drag-out fight that Wade—

But the web slinger doesn’t punch Wade, instead, his body presses into Wade’s, long-fingered hands grabbing the sides of Wade’s face and yanking it down, and those lush lips smash into Wade’s.

It’s fucking brutal. Wade’s not even sure he’d call it a kiss, more like a gnashing of lips and teeth. He tastes blood and he’s not sure if it’s his or Parker’s, then a tongue is forcing open Wade’s mouth, thrusting inside, and pulling a groan from deep in Wade’s chest.

His fingers flex where they’re stuck on the wall, part of him wishing he could grab Parker’s ass and make the web slinger climb him like a tree, part of him melting liquid at the fact that he can’t move.

Teeth scrape over Wade’s tongue and bite at his lips, and more blood floods his mouth. A hand slides around to the back of Wade’s head, grabbing at the fabric of his mask and using it to hold his head exactly where Spider-man wants it. Then, everything changes.

Parker’s tongue licks back into Wade’s mouth, more gentle, searching, tasting, and Wade groans again. The web slinger pulls away sucking on Wade’s bottom lip, Wade tries to follow but a hard yank on his mask keeps him still. He huffs out an amused breath.

“So fucking pushy,” he murmurs. The hand fisted at the back of his mask starts to loosen so Wade leans forward and lets his nose brush against the web slinger’s cheek. “I like it, peaches.”

“Yeah,” Parker whispers back, his voice low and husky. “Okay. Yeah.”

If Wade thought that meant they were going to make-out some more, he’s sadly mistaken because Spider-man drops his arms from over Wade’s shoulder and stumbles back with wide eyes. Jesus. He can’t even get lucky in his dreams.

“I’m not gay.” The words smash together as they tumble out of Parker’s mouth, imnotgay. A mouth that is swollen and red from blood and kissing.

“Coulda fooled me,” Wade retorts.

“I’m not. This is just…” Parker turns his back on Wade and paces across the roof, hand back in that mass of hair, tugging at it like he wants to fuck it. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on Wade’s part. “This is just adrenaline. That’s a thing, right?”

The web slinger turns back to Wade, the big brown eyes pleading, so Wade decides to cut him some slack.

“You’re the science whiz, you oughta know.”

“Know what?”

Wade lets out a deeply disappointed exhale before saying, “The part of your brain that controls your fight-flight-or-freeze response also controls your fuck response.”

“Are you implying anytime I go into survival mode, I’m going to… what? Get hard? Want to fuck?”

“If only I could be so lucky, peaches.” Parker has drifted back into Wade’s orbit so he leans down, closer, putting his mouth next to Spider-man’s ear in a repeat of what happened on the other rooftop tonight. “Unfortunately, it depends on the situation and how your body reads it. Christ. If I thought you were getting hard for me every time I tried to kill you, I’d never fucking stop.”

Wade leans back and the web slinger lifts his face, letting Wade see the beautiful pink blush that glows under his smattering of freckles. For a second, Wade wonders if he’s going to feel that mouth on his again. If he’ll get a chance to explore Parker’s mouth the way Parker explored his.

But then something shifts. Wade knows what it is and he hates it. Good choices catching up with him. The web slinger blinks and then takes two big strides back, pulling his mask out of where he stuffed it in the waistband of his pants and tugging it back over his face.

Wade doesn’t say anything as Spider-man looks at him, arms crossed over his chest and lenses narrowed. Whatever happened here is a fragile bubble and, for once, Wade doesn’t want to pop it. This is a dream and things can happen here that no one else has to know about and, for a second, he considers begging the hero to press back into him. To make him feel something that’s not dark and apathetic. To remind him that the universe is a mysterious and sometimes wondrous place.

The moment is broken by Spider-man’s deep breath as he retreats to the door again. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob behind him and fixes his eyes on Wade one last time.

“I wish…” the web slinger’s voice trails off but he clears his throat and starts again. “I wish you were more like this in real life.”

Then he turns his back and walks away.

And Wade’s dick fucking aches.

And none of this is real.

You’d think Wade would be used to it by now.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker sits bolt upright, banging his knee on one of the supports under the table and breathing like he’s just run a marathon. The muscles in his neck scream as he takes in his surroundings and realizes that the panic thrumming through his blood isn’t the spider sense kind. He leans back down until his forehead thunks against the tabletop and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Fuck.

He tried so hard not to fall asleep last night. There are four empty cans of clearance Red Bull on the kitchen counter and a small pile of fidget toys next to his head on the dining room table. He remembers pacing around the small apartment, walking across the ceiling and the walls, and hoping desperately that he could keep himself awake until morning.

It hadn’t worked. Peter probably sat down for a minute, at most, and his whole body gave up the ghost. And the reason he’d been trying not to sleep had been there waiting for him on the other side.

Deadpool.

The dream is fuzzy in Peter’s head, mostly around the edges like a soft focus filter, but he’s not lucky enough to have forgotten it. He lifts his head and thumps it back down against the table again hoping the pain will distract him from reality. Partially the reality that the dreams about his soulmate are escalating and partially the reality that he just came out of one with his dick hard.

As soon as he acknowledges it, it becomes all he can think about. The pleasure-pain ache in his cock, the humming tingle along the backs of his thighs, the heat tightening his lower belly. His tongue flicks out, dragging along his lower lip and he briefly expects the hot, metallic taste of blood to fill his mouth. The thought makes his dick jerk and he slides a hand between his thighs to press it down with the heel of his hand.

He’s so ready that the touch makes his eyes roll back in his head. Peter tells himself that he’s not going to do this, that he doesn’t want to do this, that it’s all some kind of crossed wires, biological abnormality. But he hasn’t been this hard in a long time.

“Fuck,” he gasps as he rubs his palm over the tip of his cock. The cotton of his sweats is already damp with precome over the spot and Peter’s whole body shivers.

God, that feels good.

Okay. Maybe he is going to do this. It doesn’t have to mean anything, just increased blood flow while he was sleeping. He’ll take care of it and maybe start his day with some fucking dopamine for once. He’ll keep his head down and his eyes closed and loop his favorite porn video behind his eyelids.

Peter shoves the band of his sweats down, tucking it behind his balls so that it nestles against him with the perfect amount of pressure. He groans and fists his dick, sliding his hand from the top to the base, slicking the length with his precome.

The strokes are a little too dry but the burn of friction makes Peter squirm in his chair as his cock throbs in his hand. There’s no finesse to his movements, it’s all speed and tightness and want as he groans and whimpers into the humid air between his mouth and the tabletop.

His orgasm is coming on like a freight train, heat and electricity sizzling up his spine. Peter grinds his forehead into the hardwood of the table, turning his head to the side just enough that cool air rushes into his lungs. He gasps at the change in temperature and the perfect angle of his thrusts as he fucks up into his hand. His eyes flutter open and he bites down on his lip hard enough to finally taste the iron tang of blood.

Peter is staring blindly at the abandoned pile of fidget spinners as he works himself over, hums and needy moans pouring from his mouth. His gaze latches onto something white at the edge of the pile and, as his release roars down his spine, the white blotch solidifies into a cartoon character attached to a key ring by a black cord.

Hello Kitty.

Maybe you just need a cold-blooded killer to take care of it for you.

“Jesus, fuck,” Peter groans, his orgasm barreling into him, body jerking as he strokes himself through it, cum soaking his hand and his sweats and his shirt until he’s too sensitive and has to stop with a whine.

His breath rushes out of him in harsh pants and, when he focuses his eyes again, they land on that fucking charm. Peter pulls a hand out from under the table and shoves the whole pile of fidget toys over the edge with a snarl.

He just came the hardest he has in eighteen months (minimum) and he wishes he could undo it all. He wishes he could forget about his dream. He wishes he could forget about his soulmate.

So much for starting the day off with dopamine.

“You’re usually the first one here. What gives, tiger?”

MJ pushes a mug of drip coffee across the table to Peter. He hates drip coffee. He orders it because he can’t afford to spend excess funds on fancy drinks but… isn’t it weird that his friends don’t even know he doesn’t really like it? Caffeine is caffeine when you’re a Ph.D. student slash superhero, though, so he pulls the mug the rest of the way across the table to take the smallest drink he can manage before setting it back on the chipped Formica and wrapping his hands around it.

“Just not sleeping well,” he answers as MJ tries to pin him with her stare.

It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

He hasn’t been sleeping well. The last three nights he’s been alternately murdering and dreaming about his soulmate. Then, this morning… well, the less said and remembered about that the better.

“Lemme guess?” MJ asks with an edge of frustrated concern to her voice. “Midterms?”

She looks like she’s going to kill him if he uses that excuse again. He formulates a true response in his head: I met my soulmate. He’s a mercenary that kills people for money that I’ve known for several years because I’m Spider-man. He’s disgusting and depraved and he never shuts up. He also doesn’t die which I only found out after I shoved him off a tall-ass building a few nights ago. Now, we’re dream sharing and I’m not enjoying it and I’m not gay but I definitely—

Nope.

Less saying and less remembering about this morning.

None, if at all possible.

“No,” Peter finally responds with a sigh. “Just life.”

“Peter, I know I said you didn’t have to talk about it…” MJ holds up her hands in surrender at the look Peter shoots her across the table. “And you don’t! But I need you to know that you can talk to me. As your friend. And as the token lesbian in the group.”

He takes another sip of the drip coffee and manages not to grimace. The question sits on the tip of his tongue— How did you know you were gay? —but Peter can’t bring himself to ask because if he does then that means…

Shit.

That means he’s considering this.

He’s considering Deadpool.

And he’s definitely not.

Because Peter can’t just sweep five years of violent games under the rug because he found out that a toddler with a weapons fetish is his soulmate. He can’t ignore everything he knows about Deadpool even if Peter desperately wants to find his soulmate. He can’t pretend like the universe’s matching-making efforts are anything but horribly misguided.

Because they must be, right?

Spider-man and Deadpool have nothing in common.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Peter says when he realizes the silence has stretched on for too long and MJ is looking mildly panicked for him. “It’s just some guy I know that likes to fuck with me.”

“Oh.” MJ chews on her lower lip and spins her own drink between her hands. Peter probably isn’t going to like what she says next. “Is he cute at least?”

Peter has to forcefully restrain his brain from pulling a full-body image of Deadpool into his mind. He’s not sure which one he’d get and he’d rather not risk it in the diner. His dick has already proven that it’s not on his side today.

“That’s not the word I’d use to describe him.”

MJ’s brows jump and her eyes light up and Peter realizes how what he said must have sounded.

Fuck.

He’s going to have to murder that asshole again just to release some of this pent-up anxiety. Yeah. Anxiety. Definitely.

“Peter…” she starts, leaning forward excitedly with a smirk on her face just as a barista steps up to the table and sets down a drink in a paper travel cup.

“Here’s your drink,” the guy says brusquely.

“Oh.” MJ leans back and stares at the cup like it personally offended her. Or interrupted what was probably going to be an uncomfortable interrogation for Peter. “We didn’t order that.”

“Yeah.” The barista could not look or sound more bored if he tried. “It was paid for yesterday. For him. With explicit instructions not to give it to you until you came in today. Normally, we wouldn’t do something like that but the guy tipped a shit ton.”

The barista half-heartedly gestures at Peter during his monotone monologue and then leaves, clearly not interested in doing more than the bare minimum of his job. More power to him, customer service sucks.

“Oh my god!” MJ’s eyes get wide as they bounce back and forth between the cup and Peter. “You said he wasn’t your,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “boyfriend.”

Peter doesn’t even know why he bothers.

“It’s probably poisoned,” he tells her, pushing the new drink toward the edge of the table. “I told you this guy just likes to fuck with me.”

“No, no, no.” MJ laughs and snatches back the cup. “This is so sweet, Peter. You really, really don’t have to tell me anything about this guy but we at least have to make sure he got your drink order correct.”

Peter cannot express how much they do not have to do that but MJ is already pulling the plastic lid off the cup. When she glances down at the drink, though, her face falls.

Holy shit, is it poisoned?

“It’s not a drip coffee.”

Sometimes, Peter’s curiosity serves him well. In the lab, it keeps him motivated. On patrol, it keeps him alert and aware. But sometimes it can bite him in the ass and he wonders if this is going to be one of those times because Peter doesn’t even think before he pulls the cup away from MJ and peers down into it.

The smell hits him first, sharp and a little sweet, and his mouth waters. MJ’s right. It’s not a drip coffee because Peter doesn’t actually like drip coffee but that’s what he can afford. Whoever bought this knows that.

“I guess they can’t all be winners. At least he paid for your drink yesterday,” MJ is saying. Peter knows she’s across the table from him but her voice sounds far away. “What is it?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice and he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with. “It’s a London Fog.”

Peter’s favorite coffee house drink. The one that he only buys once every few months because he has to buy food and textbooks and pay rent. He can even smell the hints of lavender that you have to order as an add-on.

Everything inside of him twists tight. The kind of anxious pressure that he feels when he thinks someone might have caught him without the mask. The feeling he gets when he worries that someone knows more about him than they should. That someone, somewhere, knows who he is. Because whatever this drink is supposed to mean, to Peter it simply says I see you.

And isn’t that fucking terrifying?

“I have to go,” he says suddenly, pushing himself out of the booth. “Something… came up.”

“Oh, sure,” MJ teases. “Something came up.”

She puts air quotes around came up and Peter’s brain is churning too hard to understand why. All he knows is that he can’t sit here and be normal right now. Not with this drink on the table in front of him. Not with the knowledge of his most recent dream sitting in his head. Not when he can’t stop remembering the way he came all over himself this morning looking at fucking cartoon key chain with the words of a killer scrolling across his brain.

Peter just needs a fucking minute. And if that means letting MJ believe whatever she wants to believe then… fine.

“Yeah. Something came up.” He leans down absentmindedly to drop a kiss on her cheek, his brain busy trying to both stew over and completely ignore… all of it. Everything. “It was good seeing you. Tell Gwen and Harry I said hi.”

“Of course, I will,” she murmurs as she turns her head and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek in return. “See you soon. Love ya. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Peter rolls his eyes and turns to leave, taking a few steps towards the door, before his body hits a wall and he has to backtrack to the table. With MJ’s curious, smug eyes on him, he scoops the London Fog off the table and pops the lid back on before finally heading out the door.

He takes a sip as he turns toward campus and nearly groans at the flavor. It’s perfect. Exactly what he always orders. Maybe he should dump it out on principle. Maybe he’s going to die of arsenic poisoning. Maybe he’ll hate himself for this later.

But… it’s just a drink.

And it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good one.

Chapter Text

“How did you know?”

Wade is sitting on the edge of a rooftop struggling to whistle Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? and cleaning blood off his katanas when the question floats through the air from behind him.

Spider-man.

Normally, he’d be all over this like maple syrup on pancakes but he doesn’t need it right now. He’s still a little sore from the last couple of hitmen he had to “dissuade” from working the Spider-man contract. One of them had a mace which is actually a pretty fucking boss weapon if you ask Wade but didn’t feel great smashing into his spine.

Pain is fine. Wade likes pain, to some degree, but he’s in enough of it right now that he can’t give his full attention to whatever weaponized banter his Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man is going to throw at him. He barely understands what the question means and he thinks it’s only partially because half of his head is still caved in.

“It’s what I do. I kill and I know things.”

There. That sounds vaguely mysterious and threatening, and not at all like Wade can barely form sentences.

In fact, he kind of wishes he could skip all this rigamarole and collapse on his mattress for some sleep. Dream Spider-man might actually care that Wade’s pelvis is still partially shattered. And even if Dream Spidey doesn’t care, at least he’s more likely to kiss it better than the IRL Spidey standing behind Wade. Sometimes a girl wants to be pampered.

“Hey.” A toe nudges Wade in the back and a breath hisses out of him. “How did you know? About the drink.”

Oh, shit.

Wade had forgotten about that. A lot of terribly sexy things have happened between his professional lurk around the coffee shop yesterday morning and right now, sitting on a rooftop feeling his vertebrae shift back together.

He smoothes the lightly oiled cloth across the blade of Cheech and decides that, even if he’s already hurt, it wouldn’t hurt to get more hurt. Poke the spider or something. Maybe his brain is still smashed in.

“You’re not as complicated as you think,” Wade says, reaching up to sheathe Cheech and pull out Chong. The web slinger shifts on the roof behind him. “And your nerd brain makes you stupid easy to follow and predict. At least as a civvie.”

There’s a deep inhale and exhale behind Wade, the kind that people do when they’re trying not to say something they really want to say. Something that’s eighty-nine percent rudeness and attitude. Apparently, the easy-to-follow and predictable bit really stung Spidey. Wade hit a button and he’d barely been trying.

Oops.

“Fine. I’ll give you that my routines are very… routine but that doesn’t explain the drink.”

“I can’t decide if it’s cute or naive that you think I haven’t been followin’ you long enough to watch you order somethin' other than drip coffee.” Wade scrubs at a particularly stubborn blood spot on the blade with his thumb. “Or notice how you wrinkle your nose and grimace every time you drink it.”

“My friends don’t even notice.”

“No offense, freckles—“ Wade pauses. “Actually, full offense, your friends wouldn’t notice if a UFO dropped outta the sky and landed on the street in front of ‘em, spillin’ out pink elephants the size of river otters.”

“That’s… very specific,” Spider-man says slowly. “And also very true.”

Wade stops wiping down Chong, he can’t focus on it right now anyway, and shoves the oiled rag into a pouch. He can feel Spidey lurking behind him like a tangible weight, wanting to say something or building up the momentum to shove Wade off the roof or rolling a joint. Who fucking knows? 

“How do you do that?” The question sounds reluctant and Wade finally turns to look at the web slinger, neck grinding and cracking as he does. “Read people like that?”

“I could tell ya but it’ll cost ya,” Wade replies as he slides Chong back into his scabbard, narrowing his eyes at Spider-man over his shoulder. “Maybe you tell me why you haven’t shoved me off this roof yet and I’ll tell you why you’re such an open book. ‘Cause that’s what you really want to know, isn’t it? Why I can read you?”

“I’m not a killer.”

Wade throws his head back, accompanied by a lot more popping and cracking, and laughs uproariously. Shit. He’s gonna burst his fucking spleen or something laughing this hard.

“Not a killer, huh?” Wade draws his gun, holding it up to his face and tilting his head as he peers at it. “Coulda fooled me.”

Because he’s busy pulling the clip and popping the round out of the chamber, he misses the way that sentence makes Spider-man flinch. Wade doesn’t miss the crunch of footsteps, though, or the long, lean, blue-and-red-clad legs that settle themselves next to him on the edge of the roof. Well, a meter away from him but close enough for government work.

“Pushing you over the edge won’t do any good because…” Spidey sighs and runs a gloved hand over the top of his head. “Nevermind.”

“No,” Wade laughs, reassembling his gun and shoving it back into his thigh holster. “No nevermind. You want the goods you gotta pay up, peaches.”

“I know that you’re not going to die today.”

“There’s no way you could know that,” Wade insists, although, honestly? He’s not sure he’d be surprised if the web slinger did know. Maybe ESP is a spider thing. “I don’t even know that.”

Spider-man turns to look at Wade before hopping back to his feet on the narrow edge of the roof and darting behind Wade. The hard shove in his back isn’t exactly unexpected and he has half a smile on his face as he falls. That little shit is trying to prove a point and Wade has half a mind to sabotage it but he’s already broken more bones than he cares to today so he twists in the air, pulling the gun over his head from where it was looped around his chest, and fires it back toward the rooftop.

The grappling hook hits pay dirt, finding an anchor on the roof, Wade can feel it through the cable, so he locks the winch and braces himself for a hard stop. It forces the wind out of him and he jerks to a halt two-thirds of the way to the pavement, swinging hard into the side of the building. A crunchy pop sounds from his shoulder but it heals almost before he notices.

“See? Not dead,” Spider-man gloats down at Wade, big white lenses peering over the roof edge and a smile pulling at the fabric of his mask.

Yuck.

He’s cute.

Wade hauls himself up the wall, looping the excess cable across his neck as he climbs. If Spider-man had shoved him off this roof even ten minutes earlier, Wade definitely would have fallen to his death but his skull isn’t caved in anymore and his brain is mostly working. As well as it ever does anyway.

Spider-man backs away from the edge of the roof as Wade climbs like the web slinger is worried about retaliation. Despite his threats, Wade hasn’t really tried to kill Spider-man yet and he’s not sure he ever will. This superhero genius motherfucker always surprises the hell out of him. It’d be a crying shame to put an end to a game that’s this good.

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and then it’s a party.” Wade huffs as he finally pulls himself over the edge of the roof, falling to his knees before collapsing onto his back. “Gotta be honest, freckles, thought you might undo the hook.”

“I thought about it.”

“Look at us.” Wade gestures between the two of them as the grappling hook retracts loudly. “Did we just become best friends?”

Spider-man huffs out a snort from where he’s standing a few meters away, arms crossed over his chest, lenses narrowed on Wade’s supine body and heaving chest.

“Your turn,” Spidey says.

Wade thunks his head back against the roof and stares up at the stars through the light pollution. Right. There was a point here, not just a little light attempted murder to get the blood flowing.

“I pay attention,” he tells the sky. “People will tell you their whole story without ever saying a word if you pay enough attention.”

“What a fucking cop-out of an answer,” the web slinger scoffs, his footsteps scraping across the roof.

Wade turns his head to watch Spider-man lower himself back to sitting on the edge of the roof, legs hanging down. His back isn’t exactly facing Wade but it’s not exactly not facing him either.

“Jesus, freckles.” Wade sits up and loops the grappling gun back around his chest. “Who pissed in your cornflakes today?”

“I guess I get a little off-kilter when you’re not trying to kill me.”

“Did you— Oh my god. Did Spider-man just make a joke?” Wade presses the palms of his hands into his cheeks in an exaggerated pantomime of shock. “I can try to kill you now if you want.”

Wade matches action to words by lunging across the small distance between them, shoving Spider-man down on his back, straddling the hero on the thin ledge of the roof, and hovering over him on both knees and one arm. His other hand pulls his favorite knife off his belt and lays it gently on the web slinger’s chest, right over the spider emblem. Wade pats it like it’s a dog that’s done a particularly good trick, his hand big enough that his fingers brush Spider-man’s chest.

“Let’s pretend I opened it and stuck it in your shoulder,” Wade says, staring down into the web slinger’s wide lenses. “You pretend to kill me, I pretend to kill you, the universe is in balance again.”

“Yeah.” Spider-man’s voice sounds lower and rougher than usual. “The universe. Sure.”

“Think it’s your turn with Luigi, anyway. I don’t remember the specifics of the custody agreement but I don’t want your knife skills to get rusty.”

“Your knife is named Luigi?”

Wade sighs. “Mario always gets top-billing and I wanted to help the little green guy shine.”

Their eyes catch, then, and it feels like Wade can’t look away. Like he’s looking at something important and he just hasn’t understood the meaning of it quite yet. Like he could look for the rest of his life and still never see everything. His sternum aches and he’s not really sure if he’s breathing or still alive or if that mace-wielding dicknozzle actually caved his skull in and this is a hallucination caused by brain hemorrhage. The feel of Spidey’s lips against Wade’s in his dream last night and the memory of blood in his mouth invades his head and, for just a second, he considers kissing real-life, flesh and blood Spider-man.

“You can get off me now.”

Aaaand… the moment has passed.

Wade shoves himself back to his feet, watching as the web slinger sits up slowly, catching Luigi in his hand as it falls off his chest.

“Welp,” Wade says, clapping his hands together before resting them on his hips. “Not that this hasn’t been fun but I have some furious jerking off to do and I don’t want to get a late start. It’ll throw off my whole schedule.”

Webs stands up and Wade watches as his knife disappears somewhere in that deliciously tight spandex suit.

“You’re disgusting,” the web slinger admonishes.

“Aww, peaches. Don’t hold it against me,” Wade purrs as he slings his arm out and pulls Spidey close enough that he can murmur the rest into the web slinger’s ear. “Unless it gets hard.”

He leans back and gives the stock-still superhero a wink before walking to the edge of the roof and jumping off. Sure, there’s a fire escape landing three me ters down but Spider-man doesn’t know that and Wade thinks a last word like that deserves a dramatic exit.

Chapter Text

The cell phone buzzing its merry way across Peter’s nightstand before clunking to the floor pulls him out of an uneasy sleep. He glares accusingly at the red numbers on his clock telling him that it’s just past midnight. Fuck. It’s probably too soon for Peter to be in bed but he gave up on tonight hours ago. 

He ended his patrol early, heading for home as soon as Deadpool jumped over the edge of the building and Peter managed to pick his jaw up off the rooftop. His plan was to shower, sleep (no dreams, thank you very much), and forget everything that happened on the roof. It hadn’t worked. At all. Even now he can still see the merc looming over him on all fours, can still feel the thick arm draped across his shoulders, can still hear Deadpool’s parting shot.

Don’t hold it against me unless it gets hard.

Luckily for Peter, the merc had left with a flourish before Peter could take him up on the offer. Because Peter definitely had something hard that he wouldn’t have minded holding against that well-muscled dipshit. Even if Peter wasn’t about to openly admit it.

In fact, Peter had kept the mantra I’m not gay orbiting through his head the entire swing home, creating a wall around any of his memories from the rooftop or his dreams. A wall that eventually came crashing down like it hadn’t even been there under the onslaught of a toe-curling orgasm. He came against his shower wall, hand frantically working over his dick, remembering the way Deadpool had melted under Peter’s mouth in his dream and the taste of the merc on Peter’s tongue. Like cinnamon gum and warm metal. Hot and dangerous and—

Peter’s phone buzzes again, breaking him out of a thought spiral that’s already caused him enough grief, and he groans. Someone is calling him and he doesn’t want to answer but he’s fucking awake now and it’s either stew in his cosmically confused existential sexuality crisis or answer the fucking phone.

Answer the fucking phone it is.

He leans over the edge of his bed and hits the green answer call button before grabbing the phone off the hardwood floor.

“Hello?” Peter rasps as he rolls back into bed.

“PETER!”

Peter flinches at the volume, not just of Harry’s shout over the line but of the thumping bass in the background of the call. Ugh. Peter haaaates these calls. The absolute last thing he wants to do right now, or ever, is meet Harry at a club to “soulmate search.” For one, the way Harry goes about it borders on mildly creepy, and, for two, Peter already knows who his soulmate is and it’s brought him nothing but trouble.

Trouble and two massive orgasms but he’s ignoring those.

“Hey, Harry,” Peter says, pulling a friendly tone out of his ass because it’s not Harry’s fault that Peter’s having an early-stage mid-life crisis. “It’s pretty late. What’s up?”

Maybe the reminder of the time will be enough to reel Harry in.

“Get up, Pete. We’re celebrating,” Harry slurs through the speaker.

Or maybe Harry has already wiggled off the hook.

Peter could just hang up. Click the end call button, roll over under his covers, and leave Harry drunk and disorderly in some club somewhere. Except now that Peter’s awake, his mind wants to linger over the thing with Deadpool tonight. Peter doesn’t even have a name for it, not really, and he’s definitely not ready to admit that it was… What? Kind of fun? Playful?

God, he’s so fucked in the head.

So, no. Peter won’t be hanging up. Partially because he doesn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts and partially because he comes by his superhero tendencies honestly.

“Harry? Are you ok—?”

“PETER PARKER!” Harry yells again, forcing Peter to pull the phone away from his ear. “Get your ass down here. You owe me a drink.”

Peter is about to respond when there’s a scuffling sound against his ear and then, “He’s making all of us pay up and gloating a disgusting amount. If you don’t get down here, I’m gonna kill him.”

Gwen’s voice sounds squishy around the edges as though she’s been drinking more than normal, just like Harry. If that’s the case, then there’s at least one person nearby that’s sober enough to look out for her. And explain to Peter what the hell is going on.

“Gwen, give the phone to MJ.”

More scuffling followed by MJ’s voice, “Please tell me that you’re coming. Gwen really does look like she’s about to murder Harry and I'll need help hiding the body.”

“What’s going on?” Peter asks as he scowls at his ceiling and scrubs at the stubble on his jaw.

“Harry met his soulmate.”

Peter ducks into the club with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket and his spider sense humming at its lowest level. Crowds always do this to him because there’s always the potential for danger in a big crowd. Not to mention, clubs are breeding grounds for shitty behavior even if it isn’t directed at Peter.

He forced MJ to text him very clear instructions about where they were in the building before Peter would agree to come down. He wasn’t about to wade through a sea of people looking like a lost little lamb. The text wasn’t necessary, though, because as soon as Peter’s eyes start scanning the big, open room with thick cement pillars breaking it up, he catches sight of Harry and a petite brunette dancing on a table.

So his soulmate is a woman. Peter tries not to be bitter. Harry’s soulmate is a woman. Fine. His soulmate’s also probably not a cold-blooded killer who can’t die but is trying to kill him and doesn’t take anything seriously either. Some people have all the luck.

Aren’t you a pretty, little thing… Wanna play?

“PETER!” Harry nearly falls off the table into Peter’s arms as he approaches but manages to drop into a crouch on the edge instead. “You owe me a drink. A lot of drinks. I found my soulmate before you, you unlucky bastard.”

Harry jerks his thumb over his shoulder indicating the brunette on the table. She’s cute, dressed in a sun dress with the bright yellow skirt swishing around her thighs and her long, wavy hair swaying around her shoulders. Her big, dark eyes are glazed like she’s been drinking, too, but her fingers are threaded through the hand Harry has extended behind him like they fit together. Belong together.

Peter’s heart twists.

Soulmates? Who cares about that shit? I never even look.

“Congratulations, man,” he shouts up at Harry, clapping his very drunk friend carefully on the back and thankful that everyone around Peter is too drunk to notice the way he’s flinching at a voice in his head. “Maybe I’ll owe you one. It kind of seems like you’re good.”

“Pete,” Harry shouts. “Don’t be an asshole. I beat you fair ‘n’ square. Buy me a Slippery Nipple. Or a Sex on the Beach!”

Harry shoves Peter toward the bar but he’s drunk and Peter doesn’t even need to use his spider strength to hold his ground. He watches as Harry stands back up and wraps his arms around his soulmate’s waist, tugging her against his chest and whispering something into her ear. She smiles wide at whatever Harry says and melts into him.

Peter’s heart twists harder and he grits his teeth as he tries to shove all the memories that are playing through his brain back down.

You’re not dead yet, are you?

…notice how you grimace and wrinkle your nose.

I pay attention.

Let’s pretend I opened it and stuck it in your shoulder.

He’s not completely successful.

“Peter!” A blonde missile launches itself into Peter’s midsection, knocking the air out of him with an oof. “Thank god you’re here! Harry is being an absolute twat and we need you to bring the machismo down several notches.”

“Gwen, let go of Peter. I don’t think even he can make Harry less unbearable tonight.” MJ comes up behind Gwen and starts untangling her arms from around Peter’s waist. MJ shoots Peter a long-suffering look as she gathers her soulmate into her arms. “We’ve been here since nine and he hasn’t even told us her name.”

Peter glances up at Harry and then looks away quickly when he sees the extraordinary amount of tongue Harry is deploying while kissing his soulmate. The taste of blood fills Peter’s mouth, a sense memory not reality, and he has to shake his head to clear it.

So fucking pushy.

I like it, peaches.

“I’m happy for him,” he finally says to MJ, reaching up to adjust his glasses because otherwise, he’s going to pull his own hair out. He’s here so he doesn’t think about these things. Peter needs his brain to get on fucking board.

“It would be easier to be happy for him if he wasn’t acting like a dick about it,” MJ replies.

“You,” Peter gestures between MJ and Gwen, “have been spending too much time with Gwen. You’re starting to sound like her.”

I'm glad that I killed you.

I just wish that you stayed dead.

Peter has to forcibly shake off the reminder of how much like a cold-blooded mercenary he’s sounded recently, shoving his glasses back up his nose hard enough that the frame digs into his forehead.

“Too much time with Gwen?” MJ laughs and presses a kiss to the top of Gwen’s hair with a smile. “No such thing.”

Peter’s heart twists again, twists up so much that it feels like it’s trying to wring itself out. Empty itself of blood. Empty out Peter entirely.

“Hey.” MJ nudges Peter’s shoulder and he wonders how long he’s been standing there with his chest aching. “Come sit at the booth with us. We can keep an eye on Harry and send him non-alcoholic versions of whatever dumb drink he insists on.”

Peter follows MJ to a nearby booth, sliding in across from her and Gwen. There’s a half-empty pitcher of beer and a few empty pint glasses so Peter pours himself a drink, holding it between his hands and staring down into the golden liquid.

“I told him not to call you,” MJ says after she settles Gwen against her shoulder. “One because I don’t think you’re getting enough sleep and two because it seemed kind of rude.”

“Yeah,” Peter huffs, glancing at Harry who is still tongue-deep in his soulmate’s mouth. Peter swallows hard. “He’s kinda rude.”

Peter stares into his beer, feeling the weight of MJ's gaze on his shoulders. Maybe he shouldn't have come. Maybe he should have stayed home. Maybe he deserves these feelings. Maybe laying in bed and jerking off to a guy he hates while he panics about his sexuality and his heart feels like it's being crushed in a vice is karma. Maybe he was a despot in a past life. Maybe—

“Are you okay?”

MJ’s question is quiet but Peter hears it easily. Is he okay? No. He’s not okay for so many reasons and exactly zero of them have to do with Harry’s rude ass.

“I need to tell you something.”

The words come out of Peter’s mouth before he realizes he’s going to say them. He shouldn’t say them but he’s so fucking tired of being twisted up alone. It’s not like he can talk to his goddamn soulmate about it. Even if it almost felt like they talked tonight.

“You know you can always talk to me, Peter,” MJ says, reading his mind like always as she reaches across the table, laying her palm over Peter’s forearm and giving it a gentle squeeze before pulling her hand back.

“Yeah. Right. But, uh, I need you to keep it a secret. For now. Even from…” Peter’s eyes dart to where Gwen is snoring softly under MJ’s arm.

“Okaaaay.” MJ tucks Gwen more firmly against her side. “You’ve got my full attention, tiger.”

Peter looks down into his beer again, spinning the glass with his fingers and second-guessing… everything. He’s been more or less trying to ignore the truth since he discovered it but Peter can’t really ignore it anymore. He’s dream-sharing and he feels pulled toward Deadpool and he’s worried that the next time the merc is hovered over Peter like Deadpool was on the roof, Peter is going to do something he can’t take back.

And it won’t be pushing the merc off a building this time.

“I’ve already met my soulmate.” MJ makes a choked sound from across the table but Peter doesn’t look up. Of course, she’s surprised, most people want to shout it from the rooftops when they meet their soulmate. Harry’s impromptu party tonight is a perfect example. “I’ve known him for a while actually. He’s… the worst person I’ve ever met and I mean that literally.”

Peter lets out a long breath and lifts his head to look at MJ only to see Gwen glaring and scowling at him from under MJ’s arm. Apparently, her nap is over.

“Come on, Peter. He can’t be that bad if he’s your soulmate,” Gwen mumbles as she straightens up in her seat. “I didn’t know you were gay.”

Peter flinches but doesn’t have time to protest— What could he even say to that anyway? I've only jerked off to him twice!? —because MJ finally gets her voice back.

“Wait.” MJ unloops her arm from around Gwen’s shoulder and leans forward, resting both elbows on the table. “You’ve already met your soulmate and you didn’t tell us!?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands until his scalp burns. “I mean, I’ve told you about my soul mark before, right? It’s… weird. Hard to explain. I didn’t really know we were paired until I saw his.”

“Oh my god,” Gwen slurs. “That’s kinda romantic.”

Peter thinks about how he cut through Deadpool’s shirt to see the mark, the drops of blood trailing down scarred skin, and bites his tongue. Romantic. Sure.

“You don’t like him.” MJ’s voice is flat as she takes in the look on Peter's face and comes to the realization, like she can’t quite grasp that it could be true.

“I just think maybe the universe messed up,” Peter admits with a shrug.

That’s bullshit. 

Don’t pretend you don’t play the game.

You’re always willin’ to come wallow in the mud with me.

Gwen snorts and lurches toward Peter, pointing at him imperiously and nearly smacking her chin on the table before MJ catches her. “The universe doesn’t mess up, Peter.”

“What then, Gwen?” Peter snaps. He knows he’s mad because Gwen is just saying out loud the thing that he’s most worried about. That the other half of his soul is… Deadpool. “The actual worst human being I’ve ever met is supposed to be the person that loves me forever? My perfect match?”

“Peter, for someone so smart, you’re so fucking dumb sometimes,” Gwen scoffs. “You think MJ and I are perfectly matched? You think everything about us aligns completely? God, no. Of course, not! And we have to work around that shit but you know what MJ is?”

Peter presses his lips together and shakes his head. He doesn’t think he wants to know. Gwen’s drunken insights are not what he signed up for tonight.

“MJ is the person that has my back. Always. Her annoyingly calm demeanor helps to rein me in and I help her get out of her comfort zone.” Gwen sighs, exasperated. “Maybe your dude is awful because you’re great and you need someone to be a bad bitch for you. Ever think of that?”

Maybe you just need a cold-blooded killer to take care of it for you.

“He’s just…” Peter protests, trying to put all the tarry, black uncertainty writhing inside of him into words, “…not what I was expecting. At all.”

Gwen blows a raspberry. “No shit, Peter. You were expecting Sally Sundress over there.” She gestures toward Harry and his soulmate, her hand nearly swinging wide enough to smack MJ in the face. “But you’re not exactly Karl Khakis so you’ve mostly been misleading yourself.”

“Gwen,” MJ admonishes. “Maybe you should—”

“No,” Gwen interrupts. “We’ve talked about this, MJ. I know you agree with me. Peter thinks he’s going to get some sweet, dainty nerd wife when he clearly needs something else.”

MJ’s face flushes bright red, clashing with her hair as her eyes dart to Peter.

“You’ve talked about me?” Peter asks, slowly.

“Stop with the puppy dog eyes, Peter Parker. We talked about you because we care about you and you’ve been different.” MJ is trying to shush Gwen but Gwen slaps her soulmate’s hands away. “We met in middle school and I’ve watched you change completely since then. Maybe that Peter Parker with the taped glasses and the acne was going to get himself a geek girl but this Peter Parker?” She gestures wildly at him almost face-planting onto the table again. “This Peter Parker needs a guy that can drag him away from starting a bar fight. Or at least have your back when you’re getting your ass beat in.”

Peter blinks, his head rocking back like Gwen has just physically slapped him. “I wouldn’t start a bar fight.”

Gwen snorts loudly. “Sure, Peter.”

MJ sighs and looks between Peter and Gwen. “I think what Gwen is trying to say is that sometimes we aren’t always the best at knowing what we need.”

Peter wants to argue. He wants to rage against what his friends are telling him. But haven’t his own dreams been telling him the same exact thing?

One door leads to something you want.

One door leads to something you need.

“He doesn’t care.”

And there it is. The dense, dark core of Peter’s problem. His soulmate is an unkillable super soldier? Fine. His soulmate is frighteningly good at mercenary shit? Okay. His soulmate is a guy? Not ideal but whatever.

His soulmate doesn’t want him?

Peter’s empty heart tries to wring itself out again.

“He’s so fucking hopeless,” Gwen grouches. She throws her arm over MJ’s shoulder and rests her chin on MJ’s upper arm. “Maybe you can get through to him. You’re the diplomat, star.”

“You need some water,” MJ says to her soulmate. It’s probably supposed to come out sharp but it doesn’t. It’s sweet and thoughtful and Peter fucking hates having to see it. He clears his throat.

“She’s not wrong, though,” MJ directs at him this time.

“That I’m hopeless?”

“Kind of.”

“I didn’t realize I was coming to Harry’s soulmate celebration to have my best friends rip my guts out and stomp all over them.”

“That’s what friends are for, Peter,” Gwen insists, swaying backward alarmingly before righting herself. “You’re welcome.”

“We love you, Peter,” MJ says more gently. “But you’re kind of clueless when it comes to feelings.”

“Sooooo clueless,” Gwen chimes in.

They’re not wrong but, “Care to enlighten me on what I’m clueless about this time?”

MJ flags down a passing server, asking for two glasses of water for Gwen and to send Harry a non-alcoholic Blow Job shot before she turns her attention back to Peter.

“I’m going to go ahead and assume that you’re not the only person that thinks your soulmate is literally the worst person they’ve ever met.” She pauses and looks at Peter to make sure he’s listening. “Am I right?”

“Definitely,” Peter agrees easily. He ignores the oily feeling in his stomach and the tugging at his brain that his ready agreement causes.

“Okay. So what I think you should be thinking about is—”

“If everyone hates him,” Gwen interrupts loudly, “he’s probably spent his whole life thinking that his soulmate would hate him, too, genius.”

The server drops off the two glasses of water and MJ shoves one toward Gwen, hissing at her to be quiet.

“That’s… no.” Peter protests. “He doesn’t give a shit about what people think about him. Least of all me.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Mr.—”

“Drink your water, Gwen,” MJ says sharply before turning back to Peter. “It’s not our place to say,” Gwen opens her mouth again and MJ elbows her in the ribs, “what’s going on with your soulmate but…”

MJ fidgets and frowns, glancing at Gwen who is suddenly very invested in drinking her entire two glasses of water in one go.

“But what?”

“Maybe you should consider how you might feel in his place, Peter. If he’s really your soulmate, you might find that the answer for why he doesn’t seem to care is obvious when you stop and really think about it.”

“It can’t just be that he’s an asshole?” Peter grumbles, finally upending his pint glass into his mouth and chugging the whole thing down.

“Takes one to know one,” Gwen pipes up.

“Wow. Ouch.”

“We love you, Peter,” MJ starts.

“The last time you said that you pointed out how clueless I am,” he huffs out.

“And she’s about to do it again,” Gwen tells him.

“We do love you but we can’t say it’s exactly a surprise that your soulmate might be a little… abrasive?” MJ says carefully.

“Have anger management problems?” Gwen adds. “Not engender selfless loyalty in everyone he meets? Get on people’s last nerve? Be unable to talk about his feelings?”

“Fuck, fine.” Peter holds up his hands in surrender. “I get it. You hate me but you love me.”

Gwen gives Peter a smug little smile. “Weird how that works, huh?”

Peter steps out of the shower for the second time tonight, dripping onto the mat as he scrubs himself down with a towel. He finally managed to extricate himself from Harry’s soulmate celebration by saying he had to be at the lab early in the morning. Not a lie but also not the reason he wanted to get the fuck out of there.

Because the entire night has been…

Fuck.

Peter doesn’t even know. None of it had gone to plan, though, that’s for sure. He hadn’t intended to track down Deadpool while out on patrol, for one. But when the urge to see the merc had hit Peter like a punch to the chest, he hadn’t fought it very hard.

He wasn’t expecting to escape from Deadpool unharmed and with a perfectly balanced knife in his pocket, either. Peter had wanted to ask; about the drink, about how the merc seems able to find Peter wherever he is, about anything. Everything. Peter wanted to know. And he’d been prepared to bleed for that information, maybe even literally, but the merc hadn’t seemed interested in hurting Peter.

Not when Peter had nudged Deadpool in the back with his foot.

Not when Peter had shoved Deadpool off the building.

Not even when Peter was pinned down on the roof and the merc had a knife over Peter’s chest.

You pretend to kill me, I pretend to kill you, the universe is in balance again.

And he definitely hadn’t foreseen that, instead of being afraid for his life, Peter would get turned on. So turned on that he had almost squirmed under the press of Deadpool’s hand on his chest. Almost flipped their positions and wrapped his hand around the merc’s throat to hear that choked, gasping groan again. Peter had looked at the merc’s eyes through the lenses of his mask and wondered if Deadpool's mouth in the real world would taste anything like in their dream-sharing. Like cinnamon gum and hot metal and sex.

Fuck.

What a goddamn mess.

Then Peter found himself in front of Gwen and MJ getting his emotional ass handed to him through gentle communication and drunken insults. A conversation that left Peter with far more questions than he had answers. Again. Always.

Anyway, it can’t possibly be true that Deadpool doesn’t look at his soul mark because he’s scared, can it? That big dick energy, remorseless killer has probably never felt afraid or unsure of anything in his life.

Except Peter knows that’s not true.

He’s seen what the mark says.

BULLIED.

TORTURED.

MUTATED.

DIED.

As Peter tugs on his boxer briefs, his eyes catch on his soul mark. He knew when he found Deadpool sitting on that rooftop that the merc wasn’t going to die today because there weren’t any words under the black stamp of ridges and whorls on Peter’s inner thigh. He reaches down, brushing his fingertips over the mark, realizing, maybe for the first time, that this fingerprint etched into Peter’s skin belongs to Deadpool. That the spiky, slanted writing belongs to Deadpool. That, even before Deadpool gave Peter the white, slashing scar on his thigh that cuts just above the fingerprint, the merc had already marked him.

I pay attention.

That the fucking merc has marked him everywhere.

Chapter Text

The hood over Wade’s head seems a bit like overkill especially because they never would have gotten it on him if he hadn’t let them. But he recognizes every street in this fucking city, every turn these useless morons are making, and it only takes him three turns to figure out they’re taking Wade to see the boss. Well… not his boss. Wade is happily freelance. An entrepreneur. But the shitboot pressing the gun into Wade’s spine has a boss and that’s where they’re taking Wade.

If he’d had any doubt about who took out the contract on Spider-man, it’s officially squashed. Wade had an inkling from the beginning. Turns out he was right. He fucking loves being right. Right up until his rightness is trying to perforate his kidney with the barrel of a gun.

The driver is in the middle of their second loop to confuse Wade’s senses when he gets bored. He has better shit to do than this. He’d been about to get tacos, jerk off to the memory of Spider-man underneath him on that roof, and then watch a marathon of The Golden Girls when they grabbed him. Fuck these dillholes. Wade has been saving that memory up specifically for tonight. If he doesn’t get to fuck his hand and imagine it’s Spider-man’s soon, he’s going to be very upset.

“I have an impeccable sense of direction, Baby Driver. Why don’t you stop wastin’ everyone’s time and just take me to ‘im.” The gun presses into Wade’s kidney harder at his pronouncement. These fuck nuggets. Wade had plans for tonight that were infinitely better than bruised internal organs. “If you damage the goods back there, hoss, I’m gonna make sure you feel it when I kill you.”

“Where exactly do you think we’re going, Mr. Wilson?”

The voice comes from the passenger seat and has the smooth, honeyed sound of someone that doesn’t take anyone’s bullshit. It’s just a speaker, though, Wade can tell that even under the hood. And he’d bet Sniper Laurie that the voice isn’t attached to a real person on the other end, either. In fact, he’d bet Sniper Laurie and Cheech and Chong that this cultured, moderated purr is mostly used for sex purposes.

God, rich people spend their money on the best shit.

“Siri. Please tell your boss to fuck off. Thanks, doll.”

“Mr. Wilson,” the voice starts again, “you’re not really in a position to be making de—”

“Hey. I know you can hear me, you ugly son of bitch,” Wade says through the hood. It’s not hard to make his voice sound cold and angry because his internal clock is telling him that his Golden Girls marathon is starting and he should have come until he was boneless by now. “Tell your team to stop with the cloak and dagger shit. I got things to see and people to do and, if you’re gonna kill me, I’d just as soon get it over with.”

There’s a heavy silence and the barrel of the gun shifts slightly to the left and grinds into Wade’s lower spine. Oh, he’s definitely killing this bitch S L O W L Y.

A throat clears over the speaker, much deeper than the sex robot voice. “Team, please bring Mr. Wilson in immediately.”

While Wade is mapping out the most likely route the driver will take back to their boss in his head, another person from near the passenger seat starts talking.

“This is the guy?” The derision is clear. “He looks like a clown fell into an armory.”

This person is obviously in the car. Wade had guessed there were three but now he has confirmation. They’ll regret giving away their positions to him later, probably. Or maybe they’ll be dead before they have a chance to feel regret. Either way works for Wade.

“That’s the description,” the driver replies.

“We got that hood on him no problem. There’s no way he’s the guy.”

Wade normally doesn’t care much about his reputation but, again, he’s bored. And hungry and horny and missing his favorite show. He really doesn’t feel like sitting here and letting someone besmirch him to his face. His hood. Whatever.

The driver takes a left and Wade calculates that they’ll be driving into their boss’s garage in about fifteen minutes. If he wants to get out of this without an entire army of dollar store goons breathing down his neck, he needs to do it in less than five minutes.

Wade can do that.

Five minutes. Go.

He grabs a thumb with the opposite hand and jerks down, quick and clean, tearing the tendons and breaking the bones where they join his hand. It’s a compound break which is exactly what he was aiming for because he needs the blood to lubricate the cuffs. They’re snug on his wrists but not tight and it’s honestly fucking irritating that everyone is so intent on underestimating him recently.

The fuckstick with the gun in his back didn’t even notice the break. Apparently, it’s still hard to find good help these days.

Wade’s intact hand curls around the outside of the metal cuff, holding it still while he wiggles his broken, blood-soaked hand out of it. The goon in the back seat with him, the one in the passenger seat, and the driver are still running their mouths. He wishes they’d shut up but it works in his favor because it means the kidney bruiser isn’t the only one not paying attention to him.

“—no way he’s the one gatekeeping the Spider-man contract,” the passenger seat goon is saying.

“He fits the description,” the driver insists.

“But it was pretty easy to get the hood on him,” the goon responds. “I heard the guy guarding Spider-man is unstoppable. He took out Marv.”

Jesus. Are they just repeating the same three lines of dialogue over and over? Maybe Wade could get some less lazy fucking writing for the stunt he’s about to pull.

“I let you put this hood on me,” Wade says as he brings his elbow up directly into the throat of the goon next to him. It makes a popping, crackling sound as Wade connects and he knows he just broke this fucker’s windpipe. Good thing the guy will be dead in a minute anyway.

Wade twists in the seat, reaching across his stomach with his other hand, the cuffs still dangling from his wrist, to snatch the gun out of the goon’s grip before his fingers go slack enough to drop it. Wade spins the gun around his finger by the trigger guard, then squeezes the trigger. The sound is deafening and the car jerks to the side, nearly fishtailing before the driver gets it under control. Wade reaches up to tug the hood off and sees a dark spot blooming through the goon’s grey shirt right over his stomach. Wade smiles. That was a great fucking shot. The bullet burrowed up through the goon’s stomach, nicking a lung, and Wade can hear the wheeze in the goon’s next breath.

“I said I’d kill you slowly.”

The huge goon in the back seat groans as they slide down into the foot well with both hands clutched over their chest.

“Oh, honey,” Wade murmurs. “That’s not doin’ you any good. Better start makin’ peace with shit right now because you’re gonna die in the back of this car.”

Four minutes.

“Holy shit. What the fuck?”

Wade lifts the gun, pointing it at the voice in the passenger seat while he reaches over to pat down the dying goon with his broken hand. The goon wheezes and tries to slap Wade’s hand away but they already have one foot in the grave so it’s ineffectual at best.

“Still so sure I ain’t the guy?” Wade asks the passenger seat as he finds a second gun that he tucks into his belt and a half-smoked joint that he pinches gingerly between two fingers, trying to keep it blood free.

“Are you going to kill us?”

The driver hasn’t stopped and that pushes them up in Wade’s estimation a little. It may be hard to find good help these days but one out of three ain’t bad.

“Depends,” Wade says, tucking the joint into a pouch.

He doesn’t bother ducking as Passenger Seat pulls a gun and fires. The bullet punches through his shoulder but it doesn’t even register. The gun is a little snub-nosed revolver job and barely has enough kick to do damage. And Wade’s never been particularly damageable.

Three minutes.

“Well,” Wade drawls as he leans forward and lands a punch to Passenger Seat’s nose with his broken hand. “I was going to negotiate but I don’t negotiate with idiots that fire on me in the closed cab of an SUV.”

Okay. Maybe that’s hypocritical because Wade definitely fired on someone in the closed cab of the vehicle but, fuck it, he’s trying to be menacing or whatever.

Wade lays a hand on each of the front seats and pulls himself through, over the console, landing a swift kick to Passenger Seat’s jaw as he goes. The angle of the blow snaps their head to the side and he doesn’t need to hear the quiet pop to know he just broke their neck. They slump toward the wheel well and Wade helps the journey by nudging them with the toe of his boot so he can lower himself into the seat.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, Morgan Freeman,” Wade says as he twists in the passenger seat to stare at the driver’s profile. He keeps the gun in his hand loosely aimed at them as he rests his elbow on the dashboard. “You look like someone that might negotiate.”

Two minutes.

“Negotiate what?”

Wade has to give it to the driver, they don’t sound pressed at all that Wade just murdered two of their colleagues and is pointing a gun at them. Cool under pressure. Wade can dig that. It’s not his style exactly but to each their own.

“I want tacos and I want the wank I’ve been sitting on for a whole day and I want to watch The Golden Girls. You gonna help me with that?”

The driver side-eyes him and Wade realizes that maybe they think he wants them to jerk him off. Normally, he might not be opposed, if they were offering, but the nut he’s been saving up is strictly for Spider-man. Peter Parker’s long, elegant fingers on Wade’s dick, or his fervent imagination of it, or nothing.

“Kingpin wants to meet with you,” the driver says.

“Yeah, sorry darlin’. My schedule’s booked.”

Wade glances at the clock.

One minute.

“So you can negotiate with me or you can die like your friends.”

“What’s the negotiation?”

“Stop the car.”

The driver eases the car to a stop on the side of the road. Wade’s not sure if there’s some kind of panic button in the car but he does know that he doesn’t have a lot of time to fuck around.

“Where’re my swords, guns, and ammo?”

“In the back.”

“Pop the back.” They do. Wade hears it click open and then watches it raise silently until the door is all the way up, cool air breezing into the car. “Shiiiit. That’s fancy as fuck.”

Wade reaches behind him to open the passenger door with his no longer broken hand, keeping his eyes and the gun trained on the driver.

“Why’s he wanna talk to me?”

“He keeps having to put more money on the Spider-man contract. He thinks you’re killing the other mercs to raise the price before you do the deed yourself.” The driver finally turns dark eyes on Wade. “He wanted to dissuade you from forcing the price up further.”

Wade chews at his bottom lip. He could have guessed this would happen, maybe did guess it in the back of his head, but the reality isn’t great. A pissed-off mob boss throwing more and more money behind a hit will eventually bring in a caliber of mercenary that won’t be as easy for Wade to stay in front of.

Madcap.

T-Ray.

Domino.

Any of them are good enough to make Wade bring out his A-game. And on their best days? They’d be able to slow Wade down just enough that he’d leave Spidey’s flank wide open.

“Gimme your phone. I’ll call your boss and let him dissuade me while I’m walkin’ the fuck outta here.”

“I think it’s a little late for that, Mr. Wilson,” a deep voice says from behind Wade.

Zero minutes.

Fuck.

A hand fists in the back of Wade’s suit and yanks him out of the car, the driver plucking the gun from his hand as he goes. He knows the gun in his belt is already forfeit and he’s not particularly inclined to fight them with the joint. But… needs must.

Whoever is holding onto Wade turns, keeping him dangling with his feet above the pavement as he fishes into his pouch and pulls out the half joint and a lighter. He rolls up his mask to above his nose, watching as the door of a black limo that pulled up in front of the SUV without him noticing swings open. Wade sucks in a lungful of smoke as the joint catches and drops the lighter back into his pouch. The springs on the limo creak and the whole back end lifts as thick white legs lever a massive body out of the car.

“El Rey!” Wade shouts, waving his hand wildly in greeting as he pulls the joint from his mouth and blows out a plume of smoke. “Long time no see, man. You lookin’ good. Lost weight?”

“Mr. Wilson, I was rather hoping you’d come willingly,” Kingpin says as he approaches, twenty heavily armored minions at his back. There goes any chance of Wade fighting his way out of this easily. He’s good but he’s not that good.

Talk it is.

“You know,” Wade says, taking another drag off the joint. “I had plans to come willingly tonight but your goons kind of fucked that up for me.”

“Charming as ever.”

“Yeah. My cotillion classes are really payin’ off.”

“I wanted to speak to you.”

Wade clamps the joint in his lips, gesturing at where his feet are still a foot above the sidewalk. “What am I doing but hangin’ around? It’s your dime, Kingy. Lay it on me.”

“I need you to stop increasing the price on the Spider-man contract and just kill the nuisance already.”

“I tried,” Wade insists. “Wiley little fucker. A bit too much for me, I guess.”

“Why are you killing the other professionals going after the contract?”

“They’re… not as wiley?”

Wade’s not about to tell Kingpin that he’s killing a veritable smorgasbord of mercenaries, hitmen, and assassins because he wants the web slinger to fuck Wade like Spidey hates him. It’s a pipe dream but it’s his. And if stabbings and murder attempts are the closest he can get, well fuck, he can milk those for a lot of explosive nuts in the quiet of his own home.

He’s also not about to tell Kingpin that he thought he could be the one to kill Spider-man and claim the contract but whenever the chance arises, Wade just can’t pull the trigger. His sternum flares hot and the only thing that makes it stop is putting his weapons away and searching out the web slinger, laying eyes on him and seeing that he’s okay.

Wade stopped trying to understand it chapters ago.

“One of my colleagues suggested,” Kingpin starts slowly, pacing back and forth across the width of the sidewalk in front of Wade, “that if there’s something stopping me from getting the contract fulfilled, I should remove that thing from the playing field.” Kingpin stops, turning to face Wade and narrowing his eyes. “But you’re not that easy to remove from the chessboard are you, Mr. Wilson?”

Wade shrugs. “Guess that makes me the queen, eh?”

The driver of the SUV, the one that popped the back open for Wade, has gotten out of the car and is making their way around the front of the vehicle, tugging on black leather gloves as they stride toward Kingpin.

“I know I can’t remove you forever,” Kingpin is saying but Wade keeps his eyes locked on the driver. That’s where the danger’s coming from, he can sense it. “But, with the amount of money behind the contract now, I think removing you from play for a few hours ought to do it.”

The driver stops next to Kingpin and draws a pistol from one pocket and a silencer from the other. They slowly twist the silencer into the end of the barrel and Wade feels his heart twist in his chest with each turn.

Fuck.

No.

Fuck.

This is bad.

“Tell me, Mr. Wilson,” Kingpin says darkly. “Exactly how long does it take you to recover from a headshot?”

Fuck.

Wade opens his mouth to talk his way out of this. He can talk his way out of anything, right? He needs to get his boots back on the ground and grab Cheech and Chong and get to Spider-man because Wade has no doubt what Kingpin is planning. Remove the queen from the chessboard and send all the pawns after the king at once.

But Wade doesn’t hear his own voice. He only hears the muffled tfff sound of a bullet passing through a silencer and feels a cold bloom of sensation at the front of his head. Then his body crumples as he’s dropped to the ground. Despite the panic surging through his system, he can feel his heart start to slow.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Spider-man.

After that, everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Peter dives over the edge of the roof, pushing himself as far away from the building as he can just as an arrow whistles over his head. He flinches, ducking away from the projectile and the accompanying shriek of his spider sense as he flings his arm out toward the spire across the street, shooting out his webbing and begging for it to hit. It does, catching near the top of the spire, yanking on his arm, and fraying open the edges of the bleeding gash along his side as he drops.

He swings above the city, pulling at the webbing with one arm to control his arc while he pushes the other hand over the hole in his suit and his open wound. Peter grunts as his fingers sink into the laceration, warm blood soaking through his glove. It’s deep and it fucking hurts. His enhanced healing would take care of it eventually but he knows that he’s tearing it further every time he moves. And he can’t stop fucking moving because there’s suddenly a legion of people on his ass trying to murder him.

His spider sense flares again and he kicks out a leg, using his foot on the wall of a nearby building to swing himself wider. Something hard slams into the wall where Peter’s head used to be, a glinting bullet casing buried into the stonework.

Fuck.

He was hoping he could climb the spire and take a breather but that’s not looking like an option right now. Peter scales the building, running up the side as he reels in the webbing attached to his arm. Several more rounds thud into the wall, brick and plaster exploding around him, bullets he only manages to avoid thanks to his spider sense.

Once he hits the roof surrounding the spire, he breaks into an all-out sprint, throwing himself off the other side of the roof with an abandon he doesn’t usually employ. A hot line of pain slices across the outside of his left thigh, arresting his momentum mid-jump so that he nearly skids down the opposite side of the building with his shoulder. He shoves away from the stone with the hand that isn’t clapped over his bleeding ribs and shoots out a length of webbing almost blind.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Please catch. Pleasecatchpleasecatch.

Peter’s stomach bottoms out as the webbing yanks back on his wrist again, the other end finding purchase somewhere. He doesn’t really care where. Anywhere away from here.

He lets his body follow the arc of the swing, not even muscling up to control the pendulum, just hanging there like so much dead meat. The path of the swing is taking him directly into a brick wall so he leaps from the webbing and tries to stick to the side of the building, scrabbling wildly with both hands, fresh pain searing from his wounds as he slides down a few feet before sticking. He clings there, panting, glancing down at his leg to see another hole in his suit, welling up with blood.

Fuck.

Peter’s been running like a fox chased by hounds for at least an hour, wild, baying mercenaries, more than he can count, trying to run him to ground, and he can’t figure out why. The contract has been hanging over him for more than a week. Why are all these psychopaths just coming out of the woodwork now?

Something clunks against the wall above his head, setting off a red alert clamor in his brain, and he leans back to look at it, his heart rate spiking when he sees the shaft of an arrow embedded into the brick with an explosive attached. Peter’s so fucking tired that his leg almost gives out as he scrambles sideways and up, away from the bomb.

It goes off before he’s ready, erupting into a gout of flame that reaches high enough to singe Peter’s shin, melting his suit and some of the skin underneath. A groan leaves him as he hauls himself over the lip of the roof, shoving painfully to his feet and limp-sprinting across it. His heart is racing and blood still seeps from the gash along his side and the bullet hole in his thigh. The leg that got caught in the explosion feels like it’s actively on fire as he plants it into the roof and runs like his life depends on it.

It probably does.

Fuck.

Peter flings himself off the other side of the roof, his eyes scanning every building within his webbing’s reach as he falls through the air, trying to find one that maybe doesn’t house someone that wants to kill him. Before he can send out a length of webbing, before he can even choose which building to aim for, a heavy weight hits him in the side, knocking him off his trajectory. An iron band clamps around his middle as Peter slides down the solid wall that’s suddenly at his back.

He grunts at the hit, the air rushing out of his lungs as he twists and tries to land a punch on whatever whoever has caught him in mid-air. Peter always thought he was relatively safe flying over the city on his webs and now he’s pretty sure he’s going to die up here.

He pulls his second punch when the first one doesn’t connect and reassesses. Peter knows that if one of the feral mercs on his tail catches him he’s absolutely fucked. He’s in no position to fight or even defend himself. Exhausted. Bleeding.

Fuck.

Goddamn it.

Fuck.

Peter slips his hand down to his lower back, wiggling it between his body and the one at his back. There’s a hard knot digging into his spine and if he can just reach it…

The knife flicks open seamlessly as Peter pulls it out from the pocket at his back, flipping it in his hand so he can drive it into the thigh of the person behind him. His arm is already moving when the deep, raspy voice rumbles around him, vibrating down his spine.

“You gonna stab me with my own knife again?”

Yes. Peter is. Because he doesn’t pull back when Deadpool starts speaking, just jams the blade backward and into the merc’s thigh as deep as Peter can with his exhaustion-drained strength.

“Fuck.” The word is short, almost a grunt, as the band around Peter’s waist tightens. “You’re gettin’ real good with that thing, peaches.”

Peter is embarrassed to admit that, for a split second, his body goes limp with relief. Motherfucking Deadpool is here and no one can shoot Peter in the back with the merc draped across it. Then his brain rights itself and he remembers that this asshole has been trying to kill him for years.

This whole knight in shining leather thing is probably a long con.

“Are you the piece of shit that put this bullet in my leg?” Peter shouts over his shoulder, forcibly reminding himself that this merc wants him dead just like all the others.

“No. I’m the piece of shit that just saved you from swingin’ into a fuckin’ trap.”

“I’d rather die, thanks.”

Peter starts squirming. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t doing it before. It’s probably because he’s so tired that his spider sense isn’t even twitching, let alone cranked up to maximum like it usually is with Deadpool around.

“Jesus, Webs.” The merc’s arm goes vice-tight around Peter’s waist and the air squeezes out of his lungs. “Quit wigglin’. I don’t want to drop ya.”

“Why?” Peter wheezes as he shoves at the thick forearm across his stomach. “You want to put a bullet in my head instead?”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“Big talk from a guy with a knife in his thigh.”

“Jesus Christ,” Deadpool mutters behind Peter, “and people think I have a mouth.” Then louder, “Tray tables in their upright and locked positions, Websy, we’re coming in for a landing.”

Peter’s body suddenly goes weightless, like he’s at the top of a swing. He looks at where they’re headed and realizes that Deadpool is aiming them toward a small triangular rooftop, several stories lower than the buildings surrounding it. Spider-man can stick that landing even injured like he is but Peter’s not sure if Deadpool can. There’s hardly any room for error and—

Peter can escape.

There’s no way a massive wall of muscle like Deadpool will be able to land in such a small space, especially traveling at the velocity they are. Peter calculates the speed plus his mass plus his powers and it equals a rough landing. The same calculation for Deadpool, though, puts the merc over the other side of the building.

Without any more warning, the arm around Peter’s waist lets go, tossing him up and out slightly, and Peter tucks his body into a ball. With one leg shot and the other burnt to shit, he’s going to have to take this landing a little harder than he normally would. He grunts and whimpers as his shoulder hits the rooftop with a bone-rattling pop, his body rolling along the rough surface and his hand shooting out, slapping flat against the roof, to slow his momentum so he doesn’t go over the opposite edge.

Peter skids to a stop, the fingers of his hand clinging to the roof hard enough to hurt as he sucks in a breath and tries to ignore all the aches and pains littering his body. He’s already been hunted, shot, burned, and now he can add a few broken bones to the list.

He knows he’s a sitting duck out here. He needs to escape. He knows he should move. Peter pushes himself up to his knees before his stomach heaves and his arms collapse under him, dumping him prone back onto the rough rooftop. He rolls over onto his back, cradling his arm against the cut in his side and pants.

Fuck.

I’m going to die here.

There’s the scuffing sound of steps on gravel and Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He always thought he’d see death coming but, now that it’s here, he doesn’t want to look.

“Not even a thank you? I thought heroes were supposed to be polite.”

Peter’s eyes snap open to see Deadpool looming over him. The merc looks almost as wrecked as Peter feels. There’s blood staining the mask and the front of his uniform a darker red, spreading out from a hole in the fabric over his forehead. Another hole in his shoulder is surrounded by dried blood, too, and one of his gloves is half ripped off, more blood crawling up the fabric of his wrist and forearm.

And then there’s the knife buried to the hilt in his thigh.

Peter feels a complicated mix of scared and safe as he looks up at his soulmate. He rolls to his side, swallowing a groan as he props himself up on an elbow. It’s a long reach to Deadpool’s thigh and Peter feels like he’s moving through molasses but the merc doesn’t step back. Not even when Peter wraps his hand around the hilt of the knife and pulls it out.

“I generally don’t thank people that are trying to kill me.” Peter flops onto his back again, grimacing as pain shoots across his body. He realizes that he’s having a hard time getting a full breath. He feels lightheaded and closes his eyes against the swaying of the rooftop.

“You’re stubborn as shit, anybody ever tell you that?”

Peter’s conversation with MJ and Gwen from last night flits across his brain on a woozy, drunken path like a butterfly. You were expecting Sally Sundress over there. But you’re not exactly Karl Khakis so you’ve mostly been misleading yourself. He absolutely does not want to be reliving that conversation right now.

“You’re an abrasive asshole, anybody ever tell you that?”

“Takes one to know one,” Deadpool counters and Peter flinches painfully. He’s heard that before. “Can you wrap up the self-pity, though? Spider’s on the menu tonight and we can’t just fuckin’ stand around.”

As if Peter can stand.

“You’ve been trying to kill me for five years,” Peter points out. “These other mercs have only been trying for a day. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Peter’s voice has been getting quieter and quieter, his breaths harder to come by, and he’s not even sure if the merc hears him. He opens his eyes and sees black creeping into the edges of his vision so he clamps them shut again.

“I wish you weren’t so fucking cute when you’re belligerent,” the merc huffs quietly above him. Then, “C’mon, freckles.”

An arm slides carefully behind Peter’s back while a second one hooks under his knees. He whimpers as he’s lifted into a bridal carry. His hand tightens around the hilt of the knife and his body stiffens which makes everything hurt more. He feels a fresh gush of blood from his side.

“Tell you what,” the merc’s voice purrs into Peter’s ear and he fights the urge to melt toward it. “You can stab me as many times as you want but you’re lettin’ me carry you outta here. You look an’ sound like shit and you can’t even stand and it’s kinda my fault.”

Peter lifts the knife and presses the tip to the soft spot under Deadpool’s jaw. “How long will it take you to come back from having your throat slit?”

The merc tips his head toward Peter, digging the knife further into his own neck. “Long enough for another merc to find you and finish you off.”

Peter presses harder against the hilt and thinks he sees blood bloom around the tip. He stares at it, the silver point of the knife, the darker, spreading red along the suit’s fabric, the thick column of Deadpool’s neck. And he remembers.

“You already died today.”

“I did.”

Peter’s eyes flick up to the hole in the forehead of Deadpool’s mask. A kill shot. Peter pulls the knife down, wipes it off on his suit, and snaps it shut.

“If you kill me, I’m going to be so pissed.”

“Can’t wait for you to haunt me.”

Peter sucks in a shuddering breath and it feels like drowning. Deadpool gently hefts Peter up higher, cradling him against the merc’s chest as he starts walking across the roof. Peter doesn’t even fight it, just melts into Deadpool and gives up.

Peter’s breaths are labored and even he can hear them rattling in his chest. He hurts everywhere. And, if he’s going to be murdered, he supposes that he’d rather his soulmate do the deed. Maybe Deadpool can take a tropical vacation on the money he gets from Spider-man’s contract.

“You should go to the Mediterranean,” Peter mumbles, turning his face into the merc’s neck. “I hear the water is intensely blue.”

“Food’s good, too.” A door creaks and Deadpool’s footsteps transition to cement. The merc’s big chest rises and falls evenly against Peter’s shoulder, lulling him. He doesn’t know how long he floats until Deadpool nudges Peter gently in the temple with his chin. “Point me to one of your caches so we can get you out of this goddamn suit. It’s like a fuckin’ beacon.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Are Peter’s words slurring? It kind of sounds like his words are slurring.

“You in shock or something, sweet pea?” Peter feels one of Deadpool’s thumbs smooth across his ribs then the hand supporting Peter’s back lifts slightly off his side. “Is this your blood?”

The merc’s raspy, four-packs-a-day voice sounds horrified. But that can’t be right. Right?

“Think of me like a piñata but instead of candy inside, it’s blood and organs,” Peter says.

Fuck.

That’s funny. That’s hilarious. He tries to laugh but he can’t breathe and it sends a wave of pain rippling across his whole body, ending in a breathless whimper.

“Fuck,” the merc whispers above him. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Peter tells him, slumping further into Deadpool’s chest. It’s warm and comfortable. So comfortable that Peter lets go of his white-knuckle grip on consciousness and the whole world turns down before fading to black.

“Jesus. You really fight ‘til you’re burger, don’t you, peaches?”

Pain.

Heat.

Darkness.

“Always hoped I’d be undressing you when you were a little more conscious.”

Cold air.

Gentle hands.

Stinging wounds.

“I’m really gonna need you to stop going boneless.”

Something warm.

Something solid.

He leans into it.

“You did good, Webs. I’ll take it from here.”

The whoosh of a door opening.

The chatter of other voices.

A hand carding through his hair.

“See ya around, freckles.”

Then more darkness.

Chapter Text

Wade has been covered in Spider-man’s blood before but this is different. This time someone else made the web-slinger bleed and Wade’s always been a little jealous about his toys.

He reaches into the weapons cache and slings his bandoliers across his chest. Wade would prefer to do most of this with his bare hands but, judging by the type and volume of injuries on Spider-man, there are enough hitmen out there that Wade will need the bullets. And the extra throwing knives. And the bag of explosives.

His phone pings in the pouch stuck to the front of his shoulder and he pulls it out. There are already two encroachments around the entrance to the hospital where Spider-man is currently getting sewn back together. Wade set up the perimeter camera traps, syncing them to the map on his phone, as soon as he laid the web-slinger on a gurney and walked out the door. There had already been an alarming number of mercenaries lingering around Peter Parker’s apartment so, if word reaches any of them that Spider-man’s bestie is in the hospital, they’ll flock here like pigeons on a statue. Rustling their fucking wings and shitting everywhere.

The fact that there are two already and Wade hasn’t even finished raiding his cache makes his teeth grind. He knows they weren’t followed to the hospital so who the fuck is pissing all over their Hippocratic Oath?

Goddamn it.

He has to do fucking everything.

Wade snaps a few more miscellaneous, weapons-adjacent things to his fresh suit and covers the cache, reaching above his head to shove the entire trunk back into the ceiling. He had been hoping he’d have time to visit one of his other weapons caches a few blocks over because it has some new toys he hasn’t gotten to play with yet but hitmen are so fucking impatient.

Wade’s hands flex into fists as he starts his jog toward the hospital. Honestly, these dickweeds are lucky that Wade had to stop at the cache and gear up. The dark, empty hallway whether the trunk was stashed managed to keep his brain from going nuclear. It gave him time to let his anger coalesce from something fiery and volatile into something hard and unbreakable. Something cold and methodical. Something that can hunt the hunters.

The thing inside of him that’s going to laugh as he kills these fuckers.

“Although…” Wade hums thoughtfully as he sneaks up behind the first hitman, tucked around the side of a building that sits kitty-corner to the hospital entrance, and snaps their neck, “I’ll probably be laughin’ out loud, too. Scarier, don’t you think?”

Wade directs the question at the dead body he lets drop to his feet. There’s no answer forthcoming.

“Rude,” he huffs. His phone pings again and he glances at the screen before moving on.

Maybe the anger coiling inside of him isn’t completely directed outward but Wade has been hating himself for years so this isn’t really anything new. Even now, he can’t stop replaying his meeting with Kingpin, looking at it from different angles, wondering if there’s some way that Wade could have escaped without dying. If he took too long negotiating with the driver. If he should have just said that he’d kill Spider-man and then… what?

Fuck over a high-level mob boss?

No. The way things went down was the only way things could go down. The fastest way that Wade could get to Spider-man. He knew and he’d taken a calculated risk but getting shot in the head still fucking sucks. Lucky for him, none of those goons, Kingpin included, had been creative enough to ensure Wade didn’t move until morning. He hadn’t thought they were but it’s still nice to wake up with all your limbs firmly attached.

Wade had come back to himself on the sidewalk where one of Kingpin’s overpowered sycophants tossed him. The mob boss had left Wade’s weapons next to his body as some sort of massive fuck you. Maybe to someone else, it would have been but, in reality, it was a mistake. And a gift. Because Wade didn’t have to waste extra time tracking down his grappling gun or Cheech and Chong.

Maybe Wade will have to send Kingpin a fruit basket stuffed with razor blades. And a note that reads Choke on it, you sadistic son of a bitch.

After that, tracking Spider-man was easy. It seems to get easier every time Wade does it. He hadn’t bothered to engage any of the mercs as he followed the itch in the back of his brain leading him to the web slinger. There was something akin to panic cooking in his chest, the fear that he wouldn’t get there in time. But Wade managed to catch Spider-man right before he landed webs first in a trap laid by Slapstick.

And people think Wade looks like a clown.

Spides had been in bad shape. Worse shape than Wade had even realized at first. The dying kind of shape. And everything inside of Wade had locked up tight, squeezing into a dark ball in the center of his chest while he carried Peter Parker to one of Deadpool’s stashed go-bags and stripped the web slinger out of his suit.

Wade tried his damndest not to look despite that exact scenario being in the top five of his spank bank fantasies and he had mostly managed. The one glimpse of Spider-man’s skin that he’d gotten… well, the less said about that, the better. Right now, Wade doesn’t even have bandwidth for normal everyday thoughts so he definitely can’t wrap his brain around that.

The hospital had been a tougher sell. Even half-conscious, Webs had tried to fight him. Wade’s pretty sure that Professor Asshole is never going to do anything but fight him. Wade understood, though. Spider-man doesn’t heal to the same degree Deadpool does but he’ll still heal fast enough that a hospital will ask questions.

But the web slinger had been dying. Wade felt it like a weight on his chest. He’s done quick field medicine before but he’d never done anything like that. Spider-man’s ribs were practically shattered, puncturing through one of his lungs. There was a bullet lodged deep in the meat of his thigh, probably nestled against the bone. His side was flayed open, air rushing into his chest cavity and compressing his other lung. And he had second-degree burns climbing up one leg.

Spider-man needed a fucking hospital and an alibi for the injuries. Wade had looked down at Webs on the gurney, squeezing the web slinger’s limp hand in his own, and did the best he could to hide the rest of it.

“It’s probably not as bad as it looks,” he’d said.

Then he’d left Spider-man there, wearing Wade’s cache clothes with Luigi tucked into the pocket. Tearing himself away had been almost physically painful but Wade had shit to do. Because, just like he’d told Spides, he’d take it from here.

Eventually, Wade is going to have to kill Kingpin, he knows that. For the kidnapping and for the headshot and for taking out this fucking contract in the first place. But he’s going to have to kill a lot of other people first.

Because they fucked up his night and they fucked up his Spider-man. And Wade has a particular set of skills that he’s been dying to exercise.

“Literally,” he chuckles to himself.

The second and third hitmen lingering around the hospital are dispatched just as easily as the first. Wade sends a text with a pin for pick-up, leaving the bodies behind representing the varying states of Wade’s anger. Broken neck. Slit throat. Shot in the dick.

A text comes back: 👍

What a fucking innocuous response. Wade hadn’t been surprised, exactly, by how many people are willing to take a dead body, sight unseen but he hadn’t been expecting the business sense. They would even pick the bodies up for you. That's some true entrepreneurial spirit.

His phone pings with two more encroachments while he’s running a basic perimeter check and he wishes that he’d thought to grab one of the dead hitmen’s comm devices. Because there’s definitely someone in the hospital feeding Peter Parker’s location to a who’s who list of B-level assassins and Wade’s going to have to plug that leak sooner rather than later.

But first…

“A tag team. How cute.”

Wade drops to the cement behind the two new candidates for Deadpool’s Anger Management Target Practice. Both hitmen spin to face him, one leveling a gun at him and the other putting him in the sights of their bow and arrow. Goddamn Hawkeye for making those things even remotely acceptable weaponry.

“Does this mean you fight me one at a time or both at once?” They glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes before refocusing on Wade as he draws one of his katanas. “‘Cause it’s been a real long time since I had a threesome, I gotta tell ya.”

There’s a tense stand-off. Or… it’s probably supposed to be tense but Wade’s starting to get hungry so he’s listing out his top five favorite Taco Bell orders in his head, lazily spinning his katana as his mind wanders. He actually kind of forgets he’s in the middle of something until one of the hitmen makes an aborted fear sound. Sometimes Most of the time All of the time, Wade loves that he still scares people even when he’s trying to decide if he wants to rank the chalupa at three or four.

The bow and arrow assassin breaks first, loosing another half-whimper and their arrow directly toward Wade’s heart. He spins Cheech up without too much effort and the arrowhead glances off the flat of the blade, missing Wade wide.

The bullet, though, does not miss. It tears into Wade’s stomach like a bad burrito.

“Goddamn it,” he groans, hands held out to the side as he peers down at the hole in his suit. “I just changed.”

He sheathes Cheech as he smoothes his free hand down over the bloody hole knowing that the hitmen are nervously watching his movements. But they’re B-level for a reason. By the time Wade looks back up, the two throwing knives he flicked out from his belt have embedded into each one’s left eye and the bodies are already slumping to the ground.

“I guess that’s a no to the threesome.”

He drops the pin for these two as well, collecting his knives, wiping them off on the hitmen’s clothes, then crouching next to them to dig through their pockets. Both of them have unencrypted cell phones on them with text messages from a nurse inside the building informing them that Spidey’s bestie, Peter Parker, has been admitted to the hospital.

Jesus. Unencrypted? Talk about a walking security risk. Can’t even protect the identity of your sources? How fucking embarrassing.

It works out for Wade though and, because he has so much to do and so little time to do it in, he pulls up the message thread with Lane Hartman, R.N. and makes the narc come to him.

He doesn’t even quip that snitches get stitches, just shoots the nurse in the head as soon as he turns the corner of the building and steps into the shadows. Wade’s hand shakes a little as he pulls the trigger, wishing that he had more time to give this guy a proper lesson about patient privacy. A very long, bloody, painful lesson.

Instead, he stands over the body and empties the clip into it, enjoying the way it jerks with each impact. Then he drops that pin, too. With a note: Civvie with a big mouth.

Snitches don’t exactly get stitches after they’re dead but they do get used for the least savory of the entrepreneurial ventures. Wade never asked what those were. There are some things a guy just isn’t meant to know. But if Wade doesn’t get to play at least someone else can.

With no other encroachments pinging his phone, Wade removes himself to the roof of the building across the street from the hospital entrance. He lowers himself to the wall surrounding the edge of the roof and sits, hanging his legs over the side and crunching into a bag of ketchup potato chips he found in one of his pouches. The leak is plugged (full of holes, HA) but Wade needs to stick around for a bit to bail out any water that seeps in.

Once he’s done with the chips, he unslings Sniper Laurie from his back, screwing together the stand and slotting the rifle pieces together quickly and efficiently. Although, he does pause twice to give her a few loving strokes on her long barrel and some gentle praise.

“You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, kitten.”

“I can’t wait to see what you can do tonight.”

Wade is very good to his toys. Even if he might play a little rough.

He’s fitting the rifle into the brace when his phone pings again. And again. And again. Three more encroachments.

He glances down at the screen and then over the top of the rifle barrel, triangulating where the hitmen are based on the map on his phone. Looks like two easy shots and one that only an elite sniper could make. Wade can’t wait. And he’s pretty sure Sniper Laurie can’t wait either.

He wiggles down on his belly and tucks his shoulder up against the butt of the rifle. Wade takes a deep breath to calm the still vibrating rage in his limbs. He lets it out as he puts pressure on the trigger, tilting the sight and the barrel until it’s pointing in the general direction of the first dot on his phone.

“Oh come the fuck on,” Wade mutters, disgusted, as he squeezes the trigger down completely. A fucking toddler could have made that shot. It’s like no one else is even trying.

The shot hits the assassin in the temple, dropping them immediately. Which was for their own good, honestly, because they were out there stomping through the fucking bushes like a goddamn rhinoceros. That’s how the police get called. Jesus. The caliber of these mercs is a fucking joke. Wade knows there’s no way these clowns were the ones that wrecked his spider like that.

So Slapstick is around but now it looks like there are other top-tier mercenaries in this game, too.

Fuck.

Now Wade is angry and irritated.

The second hitman is a little more stealthy, but not much. Wade finds them easily and hits them in the temple, too. He doesn’t even make an unimpressed noise for that one.

The third one, though, that one is better. Laying low, staying out of obvious sight lines. That merc has a future. Well, had a future because after a few minutes of patience they lift their head up just a little too high and Wade puts a bullet through their right eye.

“Still got it.” He rolls to his side and kisses the stock of the rifle through his mask, purring, “You are such a good girl.”

Wade hops to his feet, disassembling Sniper Laurie mostly by muscle memory and stashing her between an air vent and the parapet.

“I’ll come back for you, sugar puck,” Wade says fondly, petting a hand over the bag. “Sorry to stash ya but this next one is a close-up.”

These little guppies were fun but Wade has bigger fish to fry.

“What the fuck?” Domino jumps as the knife Wade threw skims past the cloud of her hair and sinks into the wall next to her. She turns to look at him and scowls, big and angry. “Like a bad fucking penny.”

“Hey, Dom. Haven’t seen you in the city in a while. Business or pleasure?”

“Get fucked, Wade,” she growls as she turns, fluidly raising her pistol and aiming it at his chest.

“You offerin’?” He grins wide enough that he knows she can see it through the mask.

“Word on the street is that you have your eyes on different prey.”

Her tone is sharp and biting like she’s using some secret she knows against Wade. Maybe she’ll stop being so fucking cagey because he doesn’t get it. She sighs when the taunt doesn’t land and her shoulders droop slightly even as her barrel stays level.

“People are saying you’re caught in a spider’s web.”

Wade snorts. “Is that all you mercs have to talk about in Bumfuck, Nowhere? So I think Spider-man fills out a pair of spandex and I wouldn’t kick him outta bed for eatin’ crackers. That don’t mean shit.” He taps the side of his temple with a finger. “You know how shit works up here, Dom. I get real hyper-fixated.”

“You hyper-fixated now?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She sucks her teeth and seems to come to some decision. “Say what you came to say.”

“My current hyper fixation seems to be under someone else’s microscope.”

“And you don’t share?”

“I don’t share.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Wade. Not even you can blacklist a mob contract.” Domino shifts slightly on her toes but her weapon stays trained on Wade. “People respect what you can do, they don’t respect you.”

“First of all, Dom, what the fuck? OUCH.” Wade rubs at his chest with the heel of his hand in a pretense that he cares what Domino thinks about him. He doesn’t need her to like him for this negotiation. In fact, it works better that she doesn’t. “And secondly, the instigator of that contract grabbed me off the street and put a bullet in my head.”

Her dark eyes search his. “Kingpin? Seriously?”

“Seriously. Headshot. Blood everywhere. There’s probably still bits of my brain on the pavement if you wanna go see.”

Her nose wrinkles up as she grimaces. “Surprised there were any brains to spatter.”

Okay. He walked into that one.

“I don’t have all night to shoot the shit with you, we bargainin’ or what?”

“You really going to stake your rotten apple core of a reputation on this? On some fucking superhero?”

Some fucking superhero?

Dom doesn’t get it. No one would get it. No one could understand how bad things were for Wade before the night he met Spider-man. How deep the maggots had eaten into his psyche. And then there was this asshole do-gooder, elbowing his way into Wade’s brain and shoving all that rot out. Refusing to back down. Making a home in there.

Begging Wade to play a game.

Wade’s never joking when he says all work and no play makes him a bored girl. Bored girls think of increasingly creative and painful ways to kill themselves. Bored girls take on black ops jobs that leave them an empty shell inside. Bored girls carve their soul mark off their chest over and over and over again, their fingertips slippery with blood, hoping that it will stop growing back.

But Wade’s brain is never bored when Spider-man is in it. 

“It’s my shitty reputation to smear as I see fit. What’ll it be?”

“I told you,” she scowls, “there’s nothing to bargain with. No one will blacklist for you, Wade. No one respects you. You’ve fucked us all over multiple times. No one is giving up this payday on your say so.”

Wade sighs. He really didn’t want to do this. He taps a small black button attached to his belt, too fast for Domino to pull the trigger before the dart has shot out of one side of his bandolier and embedded in her bicep.

She pulls the trigger anyway, cracking through Wade’s sternum, because of course she does. With her around, Wade’s lucky the bullet didn’t take off his head somehow.

He ignores Domino as she lets out a soft grunt, her arms finally dropping to her side and one hand trying to grab at the dart. Instead, Wade grabs his second-best knife off his belt and thumbs it open, digging at the small caliber bullet in the center of his chest with the tip of the blade while Domino huffs and finally drops to her knees across from him.

“It really didn’t have to be this way, Dom,” he sighs, flicking the bloodied bullet toward her with the point of the knife.

“You gonna kill me, Deadpool?” She slurs.

“Fuck no.” He strides across the roof and crouches in front of her. She’s curled over her knees, a hand on the ground the only thing keeping her from dropping entirely. “I consider you a friend.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already been, honey bunny.” He doesn’t touch her because he’s a kind of guy but he’s not that kind of guy. “Look at me, Dom.”

Her glazed eyes lift to his but he can see her quick brain still churning its gears behind the dark irises. Good. That means she can still listen and understand.

“Several of you owe me a blacklist. No questions asked if I remember correctly.” She blinks but doesn’t protest because it’s the truth and she fucking knows it. “So you’re going to call them all off because I doubt anyone, least of all you, wants me to do a full accounting of what else I might be owed.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “No one wants that.”

“Always knew you were the brains of the operation, spot.” Wade stands up and uses the toe of his boot to nudge her gun away from her braced hand. He heals but he’d rather not get shot again. He still has a lot to do tonight. “I expect to see you and the Mercs for Money in the rearview before sunrise.”

She nods stiffly.

“Awesome.” He claps his hands together and sighs. A job well done. As he heads toward the roof access door, he throws over his shoulder, “Nice to see you again, Dom. You look great.”

Her rasped, “Fuck. You.” reaches Wade just before the door clangs shut behind him. He barks out a laugh. With friends like that, who needs enemies?

It takes Wade a little under three hours to bring the number of mercs down to a manageable level. The fact that they can’t seem to find Spider-man helps. It becomes a lot more like running down ants that have lost their scent trail than chasing after high-profile assassins.

He spent the first hour stumping around the city on foot, blowing through all of his explosives and a fair amount of his still simmering rage, before he remembered Lane Hartman’s phone. Wade had lifted it off the nurse after shooting him in the head and, with bait like Peter Parker on the hook, all Wade has to do is cuddle up next to Sniper Laurie on the roof across the street and pick off the rest as they cross his perimeter alarms.

The mercenary equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel.

He considers leaving when he’s done. His suit is bullet-riddled and bloody again with a few scorch marks for good measure but every time he tries to leave, a sharp tug in the center of his chest pulls him back.

Wade sits on the roof across the street from the hospital until the sun rises over the city. He sits there trying not to think about how much he fucked up. He sits there trying not to think about how Spider-man almost died tonight. He sits there trying not to think about that black mark he saw branded into Spider-man’s skin.

He sits there until he’s more angry at himself than anyone else. He sits there until he sees MJ Watson and Gwen Stacy walk inside. He sits there until he watches Peter Parker, dressed in Wade’s clothes and slightly pale but moving under his own power, walk out.

He sits there until the thread in his chest tugs him toward a dingy apartment in Queens.

Only after that does Wade go home.

Chapter Text

“Here.”

MJ pushes a paper travel cup across the table toward Peter as she slides into the booth next to Gwen. He feels like shit and if this is drip coffee, he’s going to scream.

“No, thanks.”

Gwen frowns at Peter before glancing at MJ. That’s how he knows he looks really bad. Normally, Gwen would be reading him some sort of riot act. Especially given the reason the hospital said Peter had been brought in.

“A bar fight, Peter? Really?”

Okay. Maybe he doesn’t look that bad.

Peter just shrugs which pulls at the stitches in his side and the ache in his chest where his lungs collapsed.

“Drink the coffee,” MJ chides gently, nudging the cup back toward him. “You look like you need it.”

Peter scowls. “I don’t even like drip coffee.”

Gwen and MJ both rock back on the bench seat like Peter just whipped his dick out at the table. They do another one of those speaking glances toward each other, probably trying to figure out which approach to go with. Send in the bad cop to interrogate him or send in the good cop to coddle him.

He doesn’t fucking want either.

He wants answers.

What the fuck happened last night? Why were there hitmen swarming after him like ants on a hill? How did Deadpool find him? Why did Deadpool save him?

Why did Deadpool leave him there?

“Peter,” MJ starts uncertainly, snapping Peter out of his thoughts and pulling the drip coffee back across the table toward her.

“No,” Gwen interrupts sharply. “No. What the fuck, Peter? We came to get you from the hospital, came to sit with you because you had a goddamn corkscrew stabbed into your thigh, and the only thing you can fucking say is I don’t like drip coffee? You’re acting like a stubborn, selfish asshole.”

Peter bites back a retort he knows will just make things worse. Takes one to know one. Because Gwen isn’t a stubborn, selfish asshole. That’s just Peter. And his soulmate.

He sighs loudly as he cards his fingers through his hair, following the path from his bleary memory until he realizes what he’s doing and yanks his hand back down.

“I got in a little over my head.”

It’s the truth. The only one he can offer them. If the way he says it leads them to believe that he got in over his head in a bar fight, at least that’s better than reality.

“God,” MJ huffs. She’s squeezing her cup almost tight enough to pop the plastic lid off and Peter feels bad for pushing her to this point. “You could have died, Peter. The doctors said if the wounds were any worse that you would have.”

Peter tries not to think about just how bad the wounds must have been when Deadpool carried him off that roof. At least he doesn’t remember. Much. Thank God for small favors.

“I’m fine.” He’s not fine, not even remotely, but his wounds are mostly healed. “You heard the doctor say that it wasn’t as bad as they thought at first.”

“Okay,” MJ says, slow and careful. She’s tiptoeing around him. Fuck. He’s such a dick. “Putting that aside—”

“Want to tell us who brought you in?” Fury fills Gwen’s voice. “Or who’s fucking clothes you’re wearing?”

Peter looks down at himself, tugging at the black hoodie with a white spider emblem on the front. Almost an inverse of his suit. He’s swimming in it, the cuffs stretching over his hands and the hem falling to his thighs. The joggers he’s wearing are cinched up as tight as they’ll go and they still hang off Peter’s hips. The only other thing he has on him, aside from the shoes MJ and Gwen brought, is Deadpool’s knife, tucked into the pocket of the pants and sitting solid and cold against his leg.

“Some guy.” His voice cracks on the lie. “Broke up the fight. My clothes were…” Peter doesn’t fill in the word, he doesn’t need to, he can see the understanding dawn stark and scared in MJ and Gwen’s eyes. “And he had a change of clothes in his car.”

They don’t ask about the knife. That’s just another secret Peter is keeping.

Two sets of eyes watch Peter from across the tabletop. He doesn’t know what they’re looking for. Maybe for him to be horrified that he almost died. Or maybe for him to feel guilty about starting a fight he couldn’t finish. Or maybe for him to be grateful to the Good Samaritan that saved him.

Well, they can keep fucking looking.

Because all he feels is empty.

He rubs the back of his hand across his mouth and catches a whiff of the sweatshirt. Gun oil. Cinnamon gum. The copper tang of fresh blood. His stomach swoops and then bottoms out. He shoves his hand into his pocket and curls his fingers around the folded-up knife.

“What’s really going on, Peter?” MJ leans back with a sigh, her eyes showing nothing but compassion. “This isn’t like you. Starting bar fights? You’ve been super on edge for the last week and a half but even before that you were…”

“Different,” Gwen finishes.

Peter doesn’t ask Different how? because he knows. He knows every Spider-man straw that’s stacked up on his back. So many over so long that he hardly notices their weight anymore. The weight of responsibility. The weight of trying to protect and save so many people. The weight of monitoring himself so that he’s not the one doing the hurting.

The only time he doesn’t feel it, the only time he doesn’t care about it is… better not to think about.

“I’m stressed,” Peter says which is true. “I’m still adjusting. To Uncle Ben. To Aunt May.” He stops and swallows hard because this is also true and he didn’t realize it until now. “To not having a family. I know you’re my friends and you’re here for me but it’s not the same.” You’re not only mine.

He manages to bite that last part back. They don’t need to know how lonely Peter feels. How alone. No family left. Watching all his friends pair up while he fights lizard men in back alleys. Pretending that everything is fine, that he isn’t a nuclear disaster play-acting as a golden boy hero.

Maybe Gwen is right. Maybe he is fucking selfish.

“Peter,” MJ says softly, both her and Gwen reaching across the Formica surface to put their hands over his where they rest on the table.

He jerks away from their touch. He can’t do this right now. He doesn’t know why he thought he ever could.

“I’m gonna go,” he says as he pushes himself out of the booth. Glancing up, he sees that Gwen and MJ look stricken. “I’m not mad. I just… need some time.”

The emptiness inside of Peter is filling up with grief and guilt and rage, and he doesn’t want to unleash it on them. They don’t deserve it.

“I’ll text you both tomorrow. Thank you for coming to get me.”

Then Peter turns and walks out of the café. Gwen and MJ don’t deserve all the hurt festering inside of him, they’ve done nothing but try to care about him while he holds them at arms-length. They’ve tried to love him but maybe it’s not enough. Maybe it’s just not the kind of love he wants. Maybe it’s not the kind of love he needs.

Maybe Peter really is too selfish.

He hops on the first bus that will take him back to his apartment. Today he’ll eat and sleep and rest and recover because tonight Peter has a date with the devil.

His devil.

Or at least the devil that’s been plaguing him.

Peter is tired of being followed. Chased. Hunted. Stalked. This time, he’s the predator.

He tries not to think about how easy it is to trail Deadpool across the city. How something in Peter’s chest, something in his brain, leads him right to the merc. How, if he pays close enough attention, he can guess where the merc will be next.

Which is why Peter is already crouching on the raised lip of the roof parapet, shrouded in shadows, when Deadpool climbs over the edge. Peter is surprised when the merc looks right at him as if knowing that he’s there, seeing him, Deadpool’s mask twitching like there’s a smile forming underneath.

“Welcome to my parlor,” Peter bites out.

“Said the spider to the fly,” Deadpool finishes with a purr.

Peter keeps his eyes on the merc as he steps down off the parapet and onto the flat tiles of the rooftop. Deadpool doesn’t move. Just stands next to the metal ladder handrails with his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, watching Peter the way a cat watches a mouse. Or maybe the way a mouse watches a cat.

“You look…” Peter holds his breath waiting to see what the merc will say. It feels important somehow. “Alive.”

The air whooshes out on an exhale that is definitely not disappointed.

“Both lungs working and everything,” Peter tells him. Then, because he can’t fucking help himself, “You didn’t kill me.”

“Or,” Deadpool drawls, “did I try to kill you usin’ American Healthcare as my weapon? We both know it’s shit.”

“You said if you wanted me dead, I’d be dead.” Shut up. “I was dying.” Just shut up. “And you brought me to the hospital.” Stop talking. “You left me there.”

Peter wants to shove his mask up and rip his own tongue out. What the fuck is he doing? This isn’t why he came here at all.

“Had some things to take care of,” Deadpool explains as though he didn’t leave his soulmate in a fucking hospital to fucking die and walk out like it was nothing.

Things. Things!?

Peter bites back on his anger because what the fuck does it matter. He doesn’t matter to Deadpool. Deadpool doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t know why he even searched the merc out. He just feels so…

“Right,” Peter grinds out through clenched teeth. “Of fucking course. Two-for-one sale at the gun emporium?”

“Nah. Memento Mori Day Sale at the explosives warehouse.”

Memento Mori?

What a dick.

“Go fuck yourself,” Peter scowls. “And next time maybe just leave me to my injuries.”

Deadpool’s considering gaze sweeps over Peter, from his head to his feet and back again, and Peter can feel it tingling against his skin. He's practically vibrating as the merc takes his sweet ass time meeting Peter’s eyes again. Once they do, Deadpool clicks his tongue against a blown out breath.

Unimpressed.

What the fuck?

This is not how Peter thought this would go. He tries to find all the anger and pain that was swirling around inside of him earlier, black and choking, but it’s gone. Right now he feels… exposed. Like Deadpool can see everything and doesn’t think anything of it.

“Maybe you heal fast, peaches, but you don’t heal that fast.” Deadpool strides across the roof toward Peter. “You should leave.”

“What?”

“You. Should. Leave,” Deadpool says slowly, pausing dramatically in between each word. “You barely fuckin’ survived yesterday. Unless…” The merc lifts a hand to his jaw and strokes at a faux goatee. “Unless you’re a masochist in which case this,” the hand drops and gestures between them, “ain’t gonna work.”

“I’m not a fucking masochist,” Peter snaps. “I’m a hero. Heroes don’t take days off.”

Deadpool’s whole body goes still as a statue, eyes latched onto Peter’s, then a laugh erupts out of him, loud and boisterous, doubling him over until he’s gasping for breath.

“Holy shit, Webs.” He straightens up and swipes a finger under each eye even though the mask is on. “That’s some organized-religion-level brainwashing you got going on up there.” Deadpool puts his hands on his hips and puffs his chest out, speaking in a high-pitched nasal voice that Peter thinks is supposed to imitate him. “Heroes don’t take days off.” His voice drops back to its normal rasp. “Good for you. Way to internalize the capitalist ethos. Hope your ulcers keep you warm at night.”

Peter feels like he’s missing something. Chasing his tail. It always fucking feels this way and he hates it. All of his anger comes roaring back. The fists at his side squeeze tighter, digging his fingers into his palms. He feels like he can breathe fire. He wishes he could. He’d turn this goddamn merc into a pile of ash. Let’s see you regenerate from that, asshole.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“So many things.” The answer comes immediately like it was already in the air between them. Peter hates that Deadpool’s brain works so fast. Hates that he feels like he can’t keep up. “You want the alphabetical list or in ascending order of importance?”

It infuriates him that this trash heap of a person can stand there so fucking nonchalant like… like there isn’t a price on Peter’s head. Like he didn’t almost die yesterday. Like this feral raccoon made human didn’t save his life.

Peter flexes and unflexes his hands again, rage crawls sharp and familiar through his chest, heating up before it slides down his forearms to the center of his palms. He wants to fucking hit something. He wants to hit Deadpool.

“I want to talk to you about last night,” Peter grits out.

“Yeah? And I want to not have to drag your sorry ass to the hospital again. It’s crampin’ my fuckin’ style. But wish in one hand and shit in the other, right?”

Peter takes two steps forward, moving into Deadpool’s space, leaving only a few inches between them, and glares up into the merc’s face. The scent from the coffee shop washes over him— gun oil, cinnamon gum, fresh blood — and Peter forces himself to hold his breath instead of inhale greedily.

“Why were there so many mercs?”

Deadpool’s brow jumps so high that Peter can see it under the mask. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

“I haven’t had any problems since you threw that contract in my face and then all the sudden they’re coming out of the woodwork like termites.” Peter gestures broadly behind him, flinching and gasping as his still intact stitches pull against his skin and his lungs cramp. “What the hell did you—”

Peter doesn’t finish before Deadpool closes the distance fast, herding Peter with his body and making him scramble backward. He nearly trips over his own feet as the merc bears down on him, growling the command that Peter already ignored.

“I said get the fuck outta here.”

Deadpool fists his hands into the front of Peter’s suit, right over the spider emblem, picking him up off the ground, oddly gentle, and easing his back against the wall. Deadpool is crowded close, his heat nearly searing Peter and his eyes narrowed in irritation. Peter’s heart hammers against the wall of his chest and he wonders if Deadpool can feel it against the backs of his fingers. It only takes a heartbeat for all that fear to morph into anger, though. Peter's anger comes so easily.

This is what he came here for. To give all his hurt to someone else. To take it out on the only person that left him that’s still around to hate.

Fuck.

This.

Guy.

Deadpool said it himself, if he wanted Peter dead, he’d be dead. The merc brought Peter’s ass to the fucking hospital when he was on death’s door. Then left him there. So what is there to be afraid of? What is there holding him back?

“And I said I wanted to talk about last night.”

He flicks webbing toward Deadpool’s feet, glancing down briefly to make sure it catches where he wants it. Then, with more strength than he’s ever used on anyone before, he pulls. Hard.

The webbing wrapped around Deadpool’s ankle yanks him off his feet, ripping him backward until he crashes to the roof on his back with a grunt. The merc doesn’t release Peter’s suit but he was kind of expecting that. Peter lands in a crouch, up on his toes, legs straddling Deadpool’s thick waist, hands braced on either side of Deadpool’s head.

“Just because you saved my life once doesn’t mean you own me,” Peter snarls into the merc’s face.

“Once? Once!?” Deadpool’s laugh is disbelieving. “Tell me somethin’, peaches. Why, exactly, do you think every fuckin’ mercenary on the Eastern Seaboard was after you last night when your contract’s been open for over a week?”

Peter stares into Deadpool’s white eyes, chest heaving with anger and brain spinning over the question. An image of Deadpool comes to Peter, looming over him on the rooftop, suit riddled with holes and soaked in blood. Followed by an image of Peter’s soul mark from that morning with the word DIED scrawled across his skin. Then, suddenly sitting fully formed in the center of his brain like it’s always been there, the idea that Peter nearly met his maker because Deadpool hadn’t been watching his back.

Why?

Why the fuck would the thorn goddamn dagger in Peter’s side do that? Why would someone that’s been actively trying to kill Peter for his own amusement for five years care whether someone else fires the kill shot? Why isn’t the mercenary underneath him collecting that dead superhero payday for himself?

If Peter’s being honest with himself, he knows that Deadpool could have killed him a hundred times over since that first night. So why hasn’t he?

Everything’s the game, sweet pea.

He scowls behind his mask and stays hovered over Deadpool. If verbal sparring is all Peter’s going to get out of this, he’s going to keep his teeth bared in the merc’s face the whole fucking time. Even if Deadpool can’t see it.

“Looks like someone’s been keeping secrets,” Peter growls.

“I’m not the only one, am I, freckles?”

Peter’s brow scrunches in confusion and his heart thuds loudly in his chest as one of Deadpool’s hands lets go of the suit only to drop, palm down, to Peter’s thigh, settling just above his knee. The hand slides slowly higher, hot through the fabric of Peter’s suit, the touch making the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounds breathless so he clamps his mouth closed.

Peter should push away. Sit back on his heels or shove to his feet or retreat from the feeling of Deadpool’s hand caressing his thigh. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

The palm smoothes higher, the fingers curling around muscle, gliding all the way to the top of Peter’s thigh before squeezing and he can feel it. Feel the way Deadpool’s thumb presses into Peter’s inner thigh as he squeezes. Feel the way it lines up perfectly with Peter’s soul mark.

“Tell me somethin’ else,” Deadpool murmurs, voice a low rasp. “How is it that you always know when I’ve died?”

He knows.

He didn’t believe Peter last time but something has changed. Deadpool took care of him last night, stripped him out of his suit, cleaned him up, and brought him to the hospital. Deadpool must have seen it, his fingerprint stark against Peter’s skin.

And he still left.

“Snuck a peek, huh?” A rough breath shivers out of Peter. “Just can’t help yourself, right? A piece of trash all the way to your core.”

Deadpool’s eyes narrow and his palm drops off Peter’s thigh. He eyes it where it lands, flat against the roof, and has to curl his fingers into the ground next to Deadpool’s head to keep from snatching it back.

The merc uses that shift in Peter’s body to haul him closer by the front of his suit. Deadpool lifts his head up so that their jaws are nearly touching and he can speak directly into Peter’s ear.

“Sure, peaches. I’m just a dark pit with no morals at the bottom. Wonder what that says about you considering we’re soulmates.”

Chapter Text

Wade is pretty sure that it’s a crime to be this hot. Like set the roof ablaze and possibly cause a conflagration across all of New York hot. Like a perfectly calibrated explosives cluster hot. Like thrown to the ground and pinned down by your superhero hard-on hot.

But he thinks he might be the only one feeling it because as soon as he says the word soulmates, Spider-man’s fingers dig hard enough into the rooftop on either side of his head that he can hear the PVC tiles cracking under the pressure. And honestly? That makes it even hotter.

At this rate, Wade’s dick is going to pop up and say hello and he’s worried Spider-man might rip it off. Not that that’s not a bucket list kind of thing for Wade but he’d at least like to know there’s some aftercare coming before he dives in cock first.

He’ll probably be waiting a long time for that, though. It doesn’t seem like the web slinger cares about him at all.

Spider-man lowers himself even closer to Wade, his lean but muscular chest pressing into Wade’s knuckles where his fingers are tangled in the suit front. The web slinger turns his head and Wade can feel the heat of Spider-man’s breath against his ear even through the mask. They’re so close that Wade can feel the heat of Spider-man everywhere and he wonders if the web slinger runs a little hot, just like him.

“You.” The word hisses into Wade’s ear. “Are. Not. What. I. Wanted.”

Well, shit. It’s not that Spider-man’s vehemence is unexpected, it’s that it hurts a little bit more than Wade was prepared for. Hits him right in the fucking sternum, in fact.

He never thought he’d come anywhere close to his soulmate, has been doing whatever he can to actively avoid them for years. But now that Wade is here, with the person the universe made just for him hovering over him, with Spider-man hovering over him, Wade kind of wants to wrap his arms around the web slinger and never let go. 

Wade would get stabbed. Definitely. Maybe even repeatedly. But some things are worth it.

Maybe Wade isn’t what Spider-man wanted but Spider-man is everything that Wade wants. Something Wade will abso-fucking-lutely fight for. He’s spent years mapping Spider-man’s weak points, after all, and Deadpool isn’t afraid to fight dirty.

“But I’m what you got, peaches,” Wade murmurs, turning his head until his lips are moving against the web slinger’s jaw. “I haven’t seen my fingerprints in a long time but I’m pretty sure that one’s mine.”

I’m pretty sure you’re mine.

Wade bites that part back. He doesn’t have much self-preservation but he does have a little. He can tell the web slinger is pissed-on-his-way-to-nuclear and Wade has definite plans to expedite that process.

Just not quite yet.

Unless he can’t help himself.

“Looks like the universe fucked up.” Spider-man’s jaw muscles bunch under the brush of Wade’s masked mouth. “A fuck-up for a fuck-up, imagine that.”

“Sweet pea,” Wade purrs nearly into Spider-man’s throat. “Don’t be so mean to yourself. You’re not a fuck-up. You’re just a little impulsive.”

The roof tiles under the web slinger’s hands crack again, louder, and Wade wouldn’t be surprised if there are hand-sized divots dug out of them. Then the layer of heat on top of Wade’s body is gone, Spider-man shoving himself backward, yanking the spandex shirt fabric out of Wade’s lax hands, and hopping to his feet, taking several steps away from Wade.

The web slinger looks brittle enough to crack, every line of his body stiff with tension, his hands fisted tight at his sides.

“Go fuck yourself. I didn’t come here to talk about this,” he grits out. “I came here to ask you about last night.” He shakes his head once, quick and hard. “About the mercs from last night.”

“Sure. The mercenaries.” Wade extends his arms straight above his chest so that Spidey can see the elaborate air quotes he puts around the word mercenaries.

“Yes, the fucking mercenaries,” Spider-man snaps with a scowl, his arms crossing over his chest and his whole body practically collapsing in on itself like a furious little black hole.

“It’s like talking to a goddamn brick wall,” he mutters. Probably more to himself than Wade.

Wade rolls his eyes even though the web slinger won’t see it. He’s beginning to think that maybe Spider-man’s insistence upon knowing what happened with the mercenaries is actually code for wanting to know what happened with one specific mercenary. Wanting to talk about the whole soulmate thing without talking about the whole soulmate thing. Because Spider-man hates to talk about shit.

Except Wade isn’t interested in playing that kind of game.

He pushes up to his elbows with a sigh, looking down his body toward where Spider-man has started pacing across the roof. A precise ten steps left, then ten steps right, methodical like the writing down Wade’s chest. The web slinger’s voice is a low murmur as he continues muttering to himself and walks.

It’s fucking adorable but Wade is kind of hoping they can skip whatever existential crisis this is and Professor Parker can climb back into his lap and pin him down again.

Watching the anxiety-riddled pacing is like watching a computer glitch out. Like some crucial bit of wiring isn’t connecting where it should. Wade’s not much of a computer guy but he can always bang his hand against the top of the monitor.

“Let’s talk, then, Spider-man,” Wade taunts. “Since you dislike keepin’ secrets so much.”

Spider-man’s shoulders bunch up toward his ears (See? Haaaates talking.) but he otherwise gives no indication of having heard Wade. Ten steps left. Ten steps right. Adorable, frustrated mumbling. Feels like Wade’s biological clock is tick-tick-ticking for this grumpy asshole.

He sighs a second time and shoves to his feet. Might as well. It doesn’t feel like he’s going to get pinned down again anytime soon which is a real shame. Looks like it’s time to smash some fucking buttons. Looks like he’s going to have to pull out the big guns.

The better to fight you with, my dear.

Spider-man is fast. Ridiculously fast. Faster than anyone Wade has ever fought before. He loves that speed, loves how it keeps him on his toes, loves the bright bloom of pain when the web slinger slips through Wade’s defenses. But Wade is stealthy. Quiet. And he can tell by the way the web slinger rubs at his forehead that whatever’s happening in his brain right now isn’t his usual danger radar.

That is a weakness that’s never been on the map before but Wade plans to take advantage of it.

Spider-man pivots to pace in the opposite direction and Wade makes his move, lunging behind the web slinger to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him back into Wade until his spine is flush with Wade’s chest.

“Thought you wanted to talk, superhero,” Wade growls into the web slinger’s ear from behind.

An absolutely primal snarl leaves Spider-man’s mouth and Wade grins behind his mask. His little spider’s rage has reached the boiling point. Time to play. The web slinger’s feet are off the ground from getting hauled back against Wade but he starts kicking and squirming and swearing up a fucking storm.

Wade’s very own front-row seat to Lab Nerds Gone Feral.

Spider-man’s right arm reaches behind him, trying to worm its way between his lower back and Wade’s stomach. Wade shoves his hand between them, too, curling his fingers around that burrowing wrist and squeezing.

“Ah, ah, ah, Webs,” Wade teases, maneuvering them until both his arms are tight around the web slinger’s waist, one of Spider-man’s hands trapped beneath Wade’s own. “Fool me once, you stabby little fucker.”

Wade can feel the hard knot of the knife in Spider-man’s back pocket digging into his abs and he finds it stupidly sexy. His dick rallies against the friction and the idea that this golden boy superhero keeps Wade’s knife on him while he’s saving the city.

“Fuck you, you goddamn fucking feral piece of shit,” Spider-man grunts.

He manages to swing one of his legs up high enough to drive it down onto Wade’s knee with a degree of force that cracks the joint and bends it backward.

“Shit,” Wade hisses between his teeth, shifting most of his weight and the squirming mass of Spider-man onto his good leg. “I like it when you play rough, professor.”

“I’ll break your other fucking leg if you don’t let me go.”

“Careful, Webs. If you keep hurtin’ me like that, you aren’t gonna like what happens next.”

“Why?” Spider-man’s wiggling gets more ferocious, his chest heaving for breath above the band of Wade’s arms. “You already said you weren’t going to kill me.”

Wade snorts and tries to pull his hips, and increasingly hard cock, away from Spider-man’s fucking luscious ass. It would be easier if one of his legs wasn’t broken but if one of his legs wasn’t broken, his dick might not be as big of a problem. Possibly. Maybe.

Probably not.

“I appreciate your unwaverin’ belief in my homicidal mania, but you’re so wildly off-base I think you landed on the fucking moon.”

“Argh!” Spider-man tips his head back against Wade’s shoulder to scream at the sky, angling his legs back for another hard kick. “Everything with you is such vague fucking bullshit. You’re like a goddamn walking cryptogram.”

Wade turns his face into the side of Spider-man’s arched neck, breathing in the smell of his sweat and the generic deodorant he uses, something fresh like green things growing, inhaling the scent like it’s air. His arms tighten around the web slinger’s narrow waist as he does because Wade can’t fucking help himself.

“Aw, thanks, peaches,” he mumbles into Spider-man’s neck. “I love how annoyingly cryptic you are, too.”

The web slinger stops moving, he doesn’t go slack or lean into Wade like he did last night but he stops fighting. For just a moment. His free hand rests on top of Wade’s forearm where Spider-man was trying to shove it off his waist. His ass is nestled against Wade’s dick and his pulse is thrumming against Wade’s lips. Wade squeezes his eyes closed, committing the moment to memory, his soulmate in his arms, because he knows it isn’t going to last very long.

5…

4…

3…

2…

1…

In an explosion of speed and strength and motion, Spider-man shoves Wade’s arms down hard, planting his free hand flat against Wade’s abdomen, using the leverage to scramble over the top of Wade’s grip and away. He stumbles forward several big steps before turning back to glare at Wade, powerful, svelte chest heaving and hands back in fists at his side.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” He barks through his panting breaths.

“You ask me that a lot,” Wade smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I feel like you maybe aren’t listenin’ to the answers.”

“You’re— You— It’s— Is that what—” Spider-man gestures wildly toward the obvious tent in the crotch of Wade’s suit, flinching slightly as his wounds pull, before snatching his hand back to rest on his hip. His head drops into his other hand and it looks like he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know why you’re hard right now?”

This gorgeous idiot is in no shape to be out there doing Spider-man things. Wade will just have to find a way to keep him busy up here. To play this game all night, maybe.

Wade shrugs again. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Spider-man’s head lifts as his nose wrinkles under the mask. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Because I think you rubbing your ass on my dick is hot?” Wade asks. ”Sign me up for garbage duty, then, babycakes.”

Spider-man’s scowl intensifies as he cocks his head like a gigantic bird of prey, peering across the space between them like Wade is a puzzle to be solved. A cryptogram whose code he hasn’t broken yet. Wade can practically see all those synapses firing in that clever mind.

His dick is definitely not going down with Spider-man’s eyes on him like that. Then it gets worse. No. Nevermind. It gets better. So, so much better. Because next, the web slinger’s eyes leave Wade’s face, he knows because even though he can’t see them, he can feel them. Spidey’s chin tips down, his gaze dripping down Wade’s body. Thick and sweet as honey. It sizzles along his skin, heating up the soul mark inked down his sternum, settling warm and liquid in his belly.

He should have fucking seen it before, honestly.

The whole soulmates thing.

It all makes so much sense.

Wade’s years-long hyper fixation. His inability to shoot to kill when the gun was pointed at Spider-man. The incessant need to poke, prod, be noticed. His brain slowly knitting itself back together. The cat-and-mouse game he loves so much. His overwhelming need to kill anyone who even looks at Spider-man. The dreams.

This is his soulmate.

Spider-man is his soulmate.

The perfect, righteous do-gooder that pushed Wade off a building. The well-loved superhero that carries a knife in his suit and knows how to use it. The whip-smart grad student that spends his precious lab time designing unauthorized, spider-based tactical gear.

Wade might not deserve this, scratch that, he definitely doesn’t fucking deserve this, but he’s going to stay on this ride for as long as he can. Because Spider-man is standing across from Wade, looking at him like he matters. Like he’s something. Even if it’s something disgusting stuck to the bottom of those dumb spider booties.

That gaze finally drips all the way down to Wade’s belt and he bites back a shiver. He barely stops himself from reaching down and running the heel of his hand along the ridge of his now fully hard cock. This is doing it for him. Like really, truly. Like if his suit were anything but leather there’d be a big ol’ wet spot front and center.

Fuck.

Wade loves this game.  Let’s see… has he pressed this button yet?

“See somethin’ you like, freckles?”

“Shut. Up,” Spider-man barks.

And then all that anger finally explodes like a volcano after years of built-up pressure. Hot and terrifying and fucking beautiful. Wade doesn’t even have time to pat himself on the back for finding that particular button before Spider-man is in his face, the leather of Wade’s suit fisted in the web slinger’s hands.

Spider-man yanks Wade closer, lifting him onto his toes and glaring up into his face. Even through the mask, the snarl on the web slinger’s face is clear.

Holy shit, he’s fucking strong. Wade’s not proud of it but he kind of goes limp because what the fuck? Is he dreaming right now?

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

“This seems awfully familiar, doesn’t it, baby boy?”

The front of the suit twists tighter across Wade’s chest as Spider-man’s fingers clench, using the grip to drive Wade backward across the roof.

“I said: Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” the web slinger seethes, emphasizing the command with a small, hard shake, and Wade’s dick throbs.

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

“Quick moment of transparency.” Spider-man stops walking them back, Wade still dangling from his fists, toes barely scraping the rooftop. His voice is a little breathless as he holds up a pointer finger like he’s asking for a minute. “This is not really helping my dick situation. Like, if you’re trying to shame me for it you should really stop swinging a sledgehammer at my kink buttons, peaches.”

Wade’s expecting a punch to the sternum. Kind of like that first one. A complete caving in of his rib cage and the sensation of his lungs deflating. Spider-man looks mad enough to do it. Wade can practically feel the anger racing through the web slinger’s veins, volatile and dying to get out. And Wade is more than happy to be a punching bag.

Instead of violence, though, Spider-man does that predatory head tilt again, his lenses narrowing as he looks at Wade. Like maybe the web slinger is starting to solve the puzzle.

Oh, fuck yes.

That’s the look of someone that’s just learned a new cheat code in a game.

Press all my buttons, Spidey.

Spider-man turns effortlessly and walks forward until Wade realizes that the web slinger is backing him toward the brick wall of the roof access door. The web slinger doesn’t even pause before shoving Wade into the wall hard enough that it hurts. The brick dents and crumbles under the impact. Wade’s pretty sure a few of his vertebrae just cracked. His cock jerks and he feels a drop of precome slip over the crown.

“Why were there so many mercs last night?”

It takes a minute for Wade’s lust-drowned brain to latch onto the question. Mercs. Mercs mercs mercs mercs mercs. Haven’t they had this conversation already? Wasn’t there something else Wade wanted to talk about?

But with those white lenses narrowed and those fists shoved hard against his chest, Wade can only answer the question in front of him. The whole world might be on fire but for Wade, there’s only the roof and the wall and his soulmate.

“The contract,” he rasps out.

“Try again,” Spider-man snarls. He hauls Wade away from the wall and then slams him back into it, the entire wall shaking as he does. Wade chokes on his groan. “Ready to say more now?”

“My how the turn tables, Spidey Cakes. Usually, you don’t want me to talk at— oh fuuuck.”

The web slinger’s other hand shoots up and wraps around Wade’s throat, right underneath his jaw, and fucking squeezes. It’s not a botch job either. Spider-man is squeezing from the sides, cutting off Wade’s air without damaging his windpipe. He’s been waiting for this to happen again. Hnngh. It’s unreasonable for all of this to make him so much harder but he flew past reason a long fucking time ago.

He was probably never completely reasonable around Spider-man to begin with.

“Let’s try again,” the web slinger’s voice is eerily calm, the eye of the storm. Or maybe the moment just after the explosion but right before lava and chunks of mountain start raining from the sky.

Wade’s dick is never going to recover.

The hand fisted at Wade’s chest drops so Spider-man can inch in closer. The only thing holding Wade up on his toes is the wall at his back and the hand at his throat and if he doesn’t nut untouched in his pants at some point tonight it will be a goddamn miracle.

Especially since he’s got a few more buttons to press. Wade is incredibly invested in how far he can push his little spider. Maybe Spider-man blows. Maybe Wade blows. Maybe Wade blows Spider-man. Any of those is a win in Wade’s book.

“If at first, you don’t succeeeeeeed…” The word ends on a groan as the tips of Spider-man’s fingers dig into the sides of Wade’s neck.

“I’m talking now.”

Wade just nods which puts pressure on the front of his throat and makes his thoughts go a little spacey.

“Are you going to participate in this conversation, merc?”

“You’re really sending some mixed messages and I—”

Spider-man uses the hold on Wade’s neck to pull him away from the wall and smash him into it a third time. The back of Wade’s skull definitely just fractured and he’s a little worried about the structural integrity of the wall but otherwise… so fucking onboard for this.

“Are you going to answer my questions?”

“I mean, I don’t have all the answers so maybe I won’t be able to—”

This time, it’s not the wall at his back or the hand at his throat. This time, the web slinger flicks out Wade’s knife like it was made for his hand and slips it between Wade’s ribs.

“Holy fucking shit,” Wade pants, his whole body tensing and shivering around the cold slide of the knife through his skin.

If he’d ever had any doubts that sweet, precious Spider-man was bent enough to be Wade’s soulmate he’s pretty sure they just slid out of him as the blade slid in. His eyes flutter and his breath stutters and it takes him a second to focus on Spider-man’s next question.

“Are you done being a dick?”

“Fuck, Spides. I don’t know if I can cope with hearing the word dick come out of your mouth right n—”

Spider-man’s free hand wraps carefully around the knife hilt still protruding from Wade’s chest and twists it. His whole body jerks and shudders again, a moan falling out of him. Fuck. He wishes he could see Spider-man’s face right now. Like his real fucking face. Wade wants to know what those freckles and nerd glasses look like while Peter Parker stabs him. Wade bets the professor is flushed like he’s turned on.

Jesus. He would pay money to see it, to lick the blush off those cheekbones.

“Are you done being a nuisance? Ready to answer my questions and then leave me the fuck alone?”

“Can any of us really ever leave each other alone, Webs? Being human is such a community experi—”

“STOP talking. I’m done listening to your bullshit.”

Oof. That’s a tone Wade wouldn’t mind hearing right before he dies. Or comes. Or both.

Wade tips his head back trying to swallow his groan as Spider-man leans toward him, nearly growling, fingers flexing around Wade’s pulse. This is all so fucking feral and it is lighting up Wade’s brain like a goddamn Christmas tree.

“How about some easier questions, then? Are you going to keep following me? Lurking on the roof outside my apartment? Leaning against the fucking trees on campus?” The hand around Wade’s throat squeezes tighter and his whole body hums. “Are you going to keep leaving drinks for me at the coffee shop?”

“Christ,” Wade breathes, breaking just a little at the proof that Spider-man noticed. “Right now, I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, peaches.”

“That’s all it takes, huh?” Spider-man crowds into Wade, the lean line of his body plastered to Wade’s front, the web slinger’s mouth next to Wade’s ear. “Someone pays you a little attention and you’ll do whatever they want?”

Wade’s dick weeps at the sound and feel of Spider-man so close to him. How is this happening and how can he get more of it? All of it. All the time.

An answer arrives at the front of Wade’s brain: If you pay attention to me, I’ll do whatever you want, peaches. But he is who he is and he’s in the middle of getting choked to an orgasm so something less vulnerable slips out.

“I don’t know, maybe you should try it. You’re a scientist, right? Shouldn’t you collect data or— ungh.”

The hand flexes around Wade’s throat again and he tries his hardest not to squirm because he really, really doesn’t want this to end, but he rolls his hips, moving his achingly hard cock against the firm muscles of Spider-man’s abdomen anyway. It will totally be worth getting his neck snapped.

“Stop it.” Spider-man’s voice is sharp like a blade and Wade wants it to sink into him. Maybe on the opposite side of his chest from Luigi.

“Wade,” he grunts around the hand on his throat.

“What?”

“My name is Wade.” He pumps his hips again, biting down on his bottom lip until he tastes blood at the sensation of precome damp leather rubbing against the head of his cock.

“Stop. It.”

“Yeah,” Wade gasps, a little disappointed that Spider-man didn’t say his name but moving his hips against Spider-man again anyway. Why not? It’s not like the web slinger can’t stop Wade if he wants to. This is Wade’s moment, go big or go home. “That’s not working the way you think it is.”

Spider-man presses into Wade’s neck harder as he shifts his body away leaving the front of Wade cold. He plucks the knife out of Wade’s ribs and wipes it off on the leather covering Wade’s chest like he does it every fucking day. Wade thinks that could probably be arranged.

“Talk to me about last night.” A shiver goes down Wade’s spine at the command. That’s right, the purpose of all this fury isn’t actually to make Wade so hard his dick explodes. “Why were there so many hitmen?”

Wade’s not sure if he wants to answer or keep playing but Spider-man must actually be putting Wade’s pieces together because he starts to loosen his hand from around Wade’s throat and Wade whines. He fucking whines. Like he has no shame. Because he doesn’t.

Spider-man hears it and gives Wade a look and he thinks that maybe, if he’s a very good girl, that hand might go back where he wants it. That Spider-man might grab Wade’s throat again because he wants to, not just because he’s angry.

“There are always that many mercs!” Wade shouts. The long, elegant fingers around his neck squeeze tighter again and he groans. “Fuuuuck.”

“Say more.”

“There have been that many every night since the contract was taken out.” Those fucking fingers flex and Wade blurts out more before they have a chance to let go. “I’ve been taking care of it.”

“Why?”

“I, uh— You know what? Can we come back to that one?”

Spider-man’s lenses narrow on Wade’s face and he squirms against the brick.

“Fine. If you’ve been taking care of it, how did they get to me last night?”

“I was out of commission.”

Wade can almost feel the brown eyes behind the lenses flicking up to his forehead, remembering the hole in his mask and the blood staining his suit.

“Then you found me.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Wade answers it anyway.

“Got to you as soon as I could.”

The fingers don’t just flex this time, they squeeze hard. Wade sucks in a shallow breath and writhes against the wall. One hand scrabbles at the brick behind him and the other reaches out to land on Spider-man’s hip. Wade pulls the web slinger closer until they’re nearly sealed from chest to thigh, the only thing separating them is scant air, the length of Spider-man’s forearm resting against Wade’s sternum, and the fabric of their suits.

“What are you doing?”

For a second, Wade thinks Spider-man is asking him but then he realizes that the words wheezed out of his own mouth. He wonders if there was more he was going to say but his vision is getting a little black around the edges and his dick is fucking soaked and his ass is clenching around nothing and if Spider-man wants to choke him until he gets off or dies, then Wade will take that gift happily.

“Getting a straight answer out of you for once.”

The hand at Wade’s throat relaxes and he sucks in a breath, his knife-punctured lung already healed and every part of him red-hot and aching.

“This,” Wade coughs, “is not straight.”

He ruts his cock against Spider-man’s stomach again to illustrate his point. The web slinger’s fingers twitch and his jaw clenches but he doesn’t refute it and he doesn’t move back.

“Maybe, if you would answer questions like a normal fucking human being, I wouldn’t have to go this far.”

Wade’s laugh is a weak wheeze. “Where’s the fun in that, freckles?”

Their eyes meet through the Spider-man lenses, the web slinger’s sharp jaw flexing. “You would think this was fun.”

“Fun like riding the Zipper ’til you puke,” Wade agrees.

Spider-man’s hand relaxes completely from around Wade’s neck and starts to drop away but Wade lifts the hand not curled around Spidey’s hip and grabs it. He slides his hand up Spider-man’s forearm to the wrist, tugging on it until Spidey curls his hand loosely around Wade’s throat again.

“You’re pissed, remember?” Wade asks. “You hate me and you want answers.”

Fingers flex at the sides of Wade’s throat and Wade’s hand flexes against Spider-man’s hip in response. It’s honestly not that Wade wants his soulmate to hate him, more that he recognizes what his soulmate needs and really, really, really needs to be the one to fucking give it to him.

Spider-man leans away which presses his abs against Wade’s aching cock. The web slinger’s lenses are wide, looking at Wade like Spider-man has never seen him before. Or like he’s seeing him fully for the first time. The hand at Wade’s throat squeezes again, slow and gentle but still strong, and Wade whimpers and nods.

“This is so fucked up,” Spider-man says.

“Don’t be so mean to yourself,” Wade tells the web slinger again with a wink. “You’re not a fuck-up.

Spidey’s head drops on a huff that sounds almost like a laugh, shaking back and forth a few times like he can’t believe what he’s gotten himself into. But he doesn’t let go of Wade’s throat. And when Spidey's head lifts again, the look he gives Wade makes his heart start racing.

Fuck, this is going to be good.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Spider-man starts, voice cold and hard and chafing at every single one of Wade’s nerve endings, “and, when I’m done telling you, you’re going to nod your head if it’s true or shake your head if it’s false.”

Wade takes in a shuddering breath and Spider-man’s mask turns down in a scowl. Jesus, he’s good at this. He reaches up his free hand and slaps Wade’s face, it’s not a hard hit but Wade’s balls draw up tight, and his whole body shivers. Fuck, he’s really good at this.

“Practice,” Spider-man barks the command and Wade jumps, swallowing against Spider-man’s palm before he nods.

“There’s a contract on my life that you picked up but didn’t fulfill.”

Wade nods again.

“In fact, instead of killing me, you’ve been actively keeping other people from killing me.”

Nod.

“And last night, when I almost died, you weren’t there because you did die.”

Nod.

“You left me at the hospital to… take care of the mercs. The ones that almost killed me?”

This one sounds less sure, threaded with emotion and meaning that Wade can’t parse through with his throat squeezed half-closed and his dick sitting up to beg for attention. So he just nods. Again.

“That’s why you left.”

Nod.

That answer seems to flip some sort of switch inside Spider-man. Like he's gotten confirmation about something he’d been wondering on this whole time. His body relaxes slightly, some of the anger bleeding out of him, replaced with something that Wade’s been dying to see. Something Spidey would never admit is even there. Playfulness.

“I like this.” Spider-man squeezes at Wade’s throat again and puts his lips next to Wade’s ear. “I like it when you don’t talk. Wade.”

Fuck.

The sound of Wade’s name in that voice strikes down his spine like lightning, burning hot and tingly to his lower back and thighs. He has no idea what kind of Hell Gate or Time Portal he fell through to land in this situation but he would like to never leave. His soulmate is pressed against him, looking at him, talking to him, like Wade is the only other person on the planet. If he could die, he’d die happy after this.

“Should we keep going?”

Oh god. Please.

Wade squirms and nods.

“You saw my soul mark while you were getting me out of my suit last night.”

Wade nods.

“Because you were looking?”

Wade shakes his head.

“Accident, then?”

Nod.

Spider-man shifts, keeping Wade pinned to the wall with one hand while he slides a thigh in between Wade’s legs. The web slinger is too short for Wade to ride his thigh but Wade’s dick nestles right above the ridge of Spidey’s hip bone. He grinds into it a few times before the hand at his throat clamps down and his body goes boneless.

Well, except for one bone.

“Why?”

Wade shakes his head, not understanding the question, and Spider-man starts to pull away. The hand that Wade forgot was on Spidey’s hip squeezes and tries to tug him close again. Spider-man glances down their bodies at where Wade is gripping his hip and then looks back up at Wade, pressing back against his throat, pressing into his dick.

Oh fuck.

“Why didn’t you fulfill the contract? You’ve been trying to kill me for shits and giggles for five years.”

“Can’t.”

It’s all Wade can rasp out of his throat. It might be the only word he knows since the entire rest of his brain is split-focused between his throat and his dick. He wants to come so bad but he won’t. He knows he won’t. He can’t let this end.

“You can’t fulfill the contract?”

Nod.

“You can’t… kill me?”

Nod.

“You’ve tried?”

Nod.

“Is it because of this?”

Spider-man’s other hand pats over Wade’s sternum and he jumps in surprise which rubs his dick against Spidey again. Wade is panting, open-mouthed, through his mask. He can feel his pulse thrumming in his neck. What was the question? Oh. Yeah.

Shrug.

Their eyes meet again, Spider-man’s hand still over Wade’s sternum. Spidey slides his hand down the length of Wade’s soul mark, the touch warm and gentle, then it moves lower. Wade leans down toward the web slinger, remembering the kiss from their dream, their shared dream, and he wants it so bad he can taste it. Chocolate glazed donuts and Earl Grey tea with lavender.

Spider-man freezes, head tilted up to look at Wade, his palm flat against Wade’s stomach, then he jerks and steps back, taking his goddamn hand and his fucking hip bone and all of his heat with him. Wade sucks in a deep breath at the same time that he shudders from the loss. The web slinger crosses his arms over his chest, lenses narrowed at Wade. His dick is one big, wet ache in his pants.

“Do you know who took out the contract?”

Wade reaches up and rubs at his throat as he nods.

“I want to know.”

Guess playtime is over.

“No can do, Spides.”

“Why the fuck not?” The web slinger’s voice is hard and cold and Wade is still too close to the edge for this bullshit.

“I didn’t spend the last week and a half decimating the mercenary population of the Greater Northeast for you just so you could fucking walk into the lion’s den, freckles.”

“You can’t kill everyone,” Spider-man protests. “Eventually someone will get through.”

Gee, it almost sounds like the web slinger cares.

Wade chews his lip at the admonishment, not sure what he’s going to say next but it comes out of his mouth before he can pull it back. And it’s not his usual flippant garbage either.

“Wanna know what they teach you in black ops?”

“Not real—“

“They teach you to cut off the head.” Spider-man doesn’t flinch but his mask only half-hides a complicated facial expression. “Works for a person. Works for an organization. Cut off the head and the body supposedly dies without it.”

Spider-man looks at Wade, fingers drumming against his biceps. He wants to ask but Wade knows that, ultimately, he won’t. He’s a hero. He wants to be on the right side of things. He wants to help people. And maybe he needs plausible deniability.

It’s why Wade doesn’t answer the question he can see living in the tense set of Spider-man’s shoulders. He might guess what Wade has planned but guessing isn’t knowing. And Wade finds that he wants to protect Spider-man as much as possible. From other mercs. From the contract. From his own curiosity.

Spider-man takes another big step back and the moment, the whole night, pops around them like a bubble. No more sexy manhandling, just two men staring at each other and trying to find answers. In the distance between them. In the Universe. In each other.

Wade and his hard dick would rather go back to the choking.

“Well,” the web slinger murmurs, looking anywhere but at Wade, “this was definitely… educational.”

“High praise comin’ from a professor.”

“I’m not a—” Spider-man sighs. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Tonight has been way too fucking weird and I need to get out of here.”

The web slinger is nearly at the edge of the roof when Wade calls after him.

“Peaches?” He’s inordinately pleased when Spider-man pauses and looks back over his shoulder at the nickname. “Go home. You’re not healed enough to be out here.”

Wade is expecting a fight but instead, the web slinger smoothes a hand down across his rib cage where it was sliced open last night and just nods.

He turns away again, stepping gingerly up onto the parapet, the lights of the city outlining his lean body with silver. His shoulders hitch up and then drop like he’s taking a big breath before turning back one more time.

“Wade?”

Wade’s heart leaps in his chest like it’s trying to escape as he looks at his soulmate standing at the edge of the roof looking back at him. He's so dopily enamored that he almost misses the glint of sharpened steel in the air, something long and dark flipping end over end through the air until Wade’s best knife buries into his shoulder all the way to the hilt. Even from here, Wade can see the smile twitching at the edges of Spider-man’s mask.

“I think it’s your turn,” his soulmate tells him, diving backward off the roof in a graceful arc as Wade comes, untouched, in his suit, the cold steel in his shoulder pushing him over.

All and all, not a bad night.

Chapter Text

What. The. Fuck.

The same sentence has been circling through Peter’s mind for the last thirty minutes, it just feels louder and more insistent now that’s he’s standing in his own apartment without the bustle of the city to distract him.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

Peter isn’t sure if he wants to relive what just happened on the rooftop with Deadpool or forget it entirely. It feels like he’s waking up from some sort of weird fever dream. Like his brain had gone on walkabout and he’d been watching himself from afar. Like Peter hadn’t been entirely himself even though he’d felt more like himself than he ever had.

A fever dream where a guy had rubbed his hard cock up against Peter and Peter… hadn’t hated it?

Be real, Parker.

He had liked it.

A lot.

It hadn’t been just any guy, either. It had been the psychopathic meathead dipshit that has been making Peter’s life a living hell for the past five fucking years. The psychopathic meathead dipshit that’s also Peter’s soulmate.

Pinned underneath Peter.

Doing what Peter said.

Getting off on it.

Fuck. Guess, I’m reliving it.

He clenches his hand into a fist, still feeling the beat of Deadpool’s heart against his palm, the thrum of Deadpool’s pulse against his fingers. Peter had known the merc was pushing him and pushing him and pushing him because Deadpool always pushes, pushes, pushes. And Peter had been so tired of stuffing all that anger down, so tired of having to toe the line every minute of every day, so tired of trying to be fucking reasonable in goddamn unreasonable situations.

So tired that eventually, he had stopped being everything he’d always been and just fucking snapped.

Peter had let every thorny, tearing piece of anger rip right out of him. He'd wanted a fight. Needed a fight. He had to prove that he could beat the mercenary that had bested him so many times in the past. The person that dragged Peter’s dying ass to the hospital even though Peter hadn’t wanted the help. The person that can crawl under Peter’s skin as though he lives there.

Peter expected Deadpool to resist when Peter grabbed the front of the suit and shoved. He expected the mercenary to draw his weapons and let Peter work his rage out with blood and violence. But, instead, Deadpool had melted under Peter. Gone limp and pliant. Stopped talking for fucking once.

Because Peter had told him to, had made him.

And that had felt good. So much better than the fights ever made Peter feel. Like every dark thing inside him had been forced back into bright light through the sole act of Deadpool squirming against the wall in front of him, breathy and looking slightly dazed.

Pinning that huge, dangerous asshole against the wall had made Peter feel powerful. More powerful than he’d ever felt as Spider-man. More in control than he’d ever been in his life. Like Peter could do anything, say anything, be anything, and Deadpool would take it. Gladly.

Peter had needed to discharge all that rage, get rid of every bad feeling that he stuffed down for the sake of being Spider-man, for the sake of keeping his secret, for the sake of being good, and Deadpool had seen it. Seen Peter. Again.

Christ.

Peter strips out of his suit while his mind skips across the memory of tonight like a stone on a lake, leaving ripples that spread out and out and out until every part of Peter’s brain is consumed with it. He grabs a pair of sweats off the floor, pulling them up his leg as his brain worries over the problem. Because it is a problem, isn’t it?

This feeling, whatever it is, is a prob—

His eyes land on his inner thigh before he can drag his pants all the way up. The ridges and whorls of Deadpool’s fingerprint. Wade’s fingerprint. Peter remembers how it felt to have his soulmate press into the mark. Like solving a riddle. Like putting the last piece into a puzzle. Like coming home.

But I’m what you got, peaches.

I haven’t seen my fingerprints in a long time but I’m pretty sure that one’s mine.

Peter huffs out an annoyed breath and yanks his pants all the way over his hips before collapsing back on the bed, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, brain still rippling.

What. The. Fuck.

He scrubs both hands over his face and groans into his palms because he knows. He fucking knows. Underneath the ripples of his memory is a truth he’s trying hard not to acknowledge.

Peter can admit that he doesn’t know what in the fuck he’s actually feeling. About Deadpool knowing. About Peter’s hand around the merc’s throat. About the merc’s dick against his stomach. It’s easy to admit that the entire rooftop shitshow threw Peter for a massive fucking loop.

Normal even.

Probably.

The thing that Peter doesn’t want to admit, the monster living below the ripples of his memory, has less to do with his brain than his body. He hadn’t gotten fully hard with Deadpool squirming against him but Peter had reacted. His body had been interested.

He had been interested.

Peter groans again and rolls across the mattress, reaching for his bedside table. He yanks it open and fumbles out the box he keeps his weed in because there is no fucking way he’s going to be able to sleep tonight without it. Propping himself up on an elbow, he flips open the box and blinks in surprise.

There’s… more in it than usual.

Three small glass vials sealed with corks that Peter has never seen before, each one with a tightly rolled joint inside. He cautiously pulls one out, gingerly turning it in his hands so he can read the white label stuck to the side. The writing is familiar, narrow and slashing, inked with purple marker.

open in case of emergency: boring as shit abstracts to grade

He sits up and pulls out a second one, also with a white label taped to the side. The words are scrawled in the same purple marker and the same chaotic hand.

open in case of emergency: beat to hell after patrol

Peter carefully sets both of those vials aside and picks up the third. A carefully applied white label containing the same handwriting that Peter sometimes has carved across his thigh.

open in case of emergency: sweet dreams, peaches, you anxious little fucker

A laugh bursts out of Peter unbidden. It’s been at least a week since he’s gone through his stash so the vials could have been added anywhere from four days ago to tonight as Peter slowly swung home. They’re probably poisoned. They’re probably going to give Peter fucking hives. It would be the height of stupidity to do anything other than throw them out, he knows that. But…

Fuck it.

The cost of three joints is nothing to sneeze at for a broke Ph.D. student like Peter and he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if it does end up biting him.

Peter uncorks the sweet dreams vial and dumps the contents out onto his hand. He drops the empty vial back into the box, fishing out his lighter with one hand and bringing the joint to his lips with the other.

The first inhale makes Peter groan a third time. This… this is going to work perfectly. He pulls the joint out of his mouth to look at it while he exhales the smoke from his lungs.

“If you’re going to fucking kill me,” he tells the joint, “at least put me to sleep first.”

He scoots up his bed until his back is against the headboard, sitting in the dark smoking a joint that a psychotic killing machine broke into his apartment and left for him. Peter’s limbs start to buzz and go heavy, his eyelids drooping and a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

The point was not to fall asleep with his soulmate on his mind but Peter accidentally does it anyway.

“So what I really need,” Peter tells the guy sitting across from him, “is for you to be clearer in your methods. Someone else should be able to read this and replicate your experiment.”

The student’s bleary blue gaze lifts to Peter’s. “Can I get an extension?”

Peter considers explaining that it’s not an extension because the student already turned the assignment in by the due date but Peter doesn’t think it actually matters. He sighs and sits back in his chair, regarding the broad-shouldered football player sitting across the desk from him. The guy is thick with muscle but Deadpool is bigger, taller, could probably even write a better abstract now that Peter thinks of it.

Writing isn’t everyone’s thing, though, and Peter knows that this kid and a few of his teammates need to pass the class but are struggling. Peter’s tired of reading shitty abstracts and he imagines these guys are tired of writing them.

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning forward again to reach his keyboard. “I have an alternative assignment for you and the rest of the football players that are in my class. I’m going to email it to your coach and, if you all pass the assignment, you’ll pass the class.”

The jock sits up straighter, his shirt stretching across his chest under his zip-up hoodie. Peter notices the guy’s chest isn’t as thick as Deadpool’s before tuning back in to whatever is coming out of the student's mouth.

“— huge help. We’re all drowning. Practices are just so much and—”

Peter holds up his hand and cuts the football player off. “Just make sure you do it. It shouldn’t take more than an hour with all of you working together.”

“Holy shit,” the student beams. “Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

Peter watches the football player leave the room, squeezing his eyes shut and thumping his head down onto his desk when he realizes that he’s still comparing the kid’s body to Deadpool’s. And finding it lacking.

Goddamn it.

Peter managed to sleep last night thanks to the joint. It had been a very, very good one. But his dreams were full of memories from the rooftop, the feeling of Deadpool’s knife sinking into his side under Peter’s hand, and an unspooling of ideas about what other things Peter could make the merc do.

It hadn’t stopped with the dreams either. That fucking mercenary has been creeping into Peter’s thoughts all morning like it’s his fucking job. Bullshit like what just happened, comparing other men to Deadpool when Peter has never looked at another man like that before in his life. And other things, too. Stupid, warm, fuzzy, inconvenient feelings when he remembers the joint. Even when Peter reminds himself that Deadpool broke into his apartment to leave it for him, it doesn’t help.

So fucked up.

Peter feels restless, unmoored, un-fucking-certain and he hates it. He can’t fucking focus. He can’t fucking do anything. It feels even worse than normal because less than twelve hours ago he was completely in control and it felt… amazing.

Christ.

He doesn’t want to do what he’s about to do but he needs to do something. Peter tugs his phone out of his back pocket and taps into the messaging app, scrolling until he finds the contact he’s looking for.

need to talk

can I take you out to lunch?

Gaaaawd Peter.

I don’t hear from you since you stormed out of the coffee shop after the hospital and now you need something?

You’re such a dick.

Peter isn’t sure if that means Gwen will meet him or not. He taps his thumb against the side of his phone and wonders if he should text MJ instead. Except… MJ doesn’t have the requisite experience Peter needs to talk about. And, well, maybe Peter feels like getting chewed out by Gwen is some sort of penance for something.

His phone buzzes in his hand like the universe agrees that he needs to be taken down a notch. A few notches if Gwen has anything to say about it.

You’re taking me to La Fermata and I’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.

Meet me at 12:45.

just you

*eyeroll emoji*

Don’t insult my intelligence.

Just for that, I’m getting a dessert, too.

And a glass of wine.

you have to work after, tho

Peter, darling, with all the love in my heart: shut the fuck up.

See you soon. *heart emoji*

Peter isn’t sure if he just made a really good decision or a very bad one.

Gwen is already at the table with a glass of wine and an appetizer by the time Peter fights his way through public transportation and gets to the restaurant. It looks like stuffed mushrooms.

“I’m going to get evicted, Gwen,” he says as he plops into the chair across the small table from her.

“It’s not my fault that you have to constantly pay the asshole tax, Peter,” Gwen says primly as she scoops up another mushroom with a tiny little fork and pops it into her mouth.

“So glad I asked for your help.”

“Well,” Gwen says around a mouthful of mushroom as she reaches for her wine, “you did ask and you’re definitely paying for lunch so you might as well get your money’s worth.”

“Should have asked MJ,” Peter mutters only to see Gwen stick her tongue out at him, the surface covered with chewed-up mushroom. “Charming.”

“Always,” she smiles, then seems to sober up a bit. “I am racing the clock, though, so if this is about what I think it’s about, you better start talking.”

Peter rubs a finger through the condensation on his water glass. He did ask her to come here but asking for advice generally is a lot easier than saying the thing he needs advice about.

Best to just blurt it out.

“How did you know you were bi?” Peter can feel his face flame so he stumbles on, his hand clenching tight around his water glass. “I mean, how did you know you could like MJ? Or, uh… maybe it’s just MJ? Is it just MJ? When did you know that you were, like, attracted to her? As soon as you met or—”

“Peter,” Gwen chides as she scoops up another mushroom. “Take a breather.”

He does, sucking in a deep breath and then downing almost all the water in his glass in one go.

“First of all, thank you.” Peter feels his brows furrow in confusion. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Gwen elaborates. “Because MJ and I had a bet about how long this would fucking take you and which one of us you would come to and I just won.”

“What if I had asked Harry?”

Gwen laughs which turns into a snort which turns into a cough and she has to hold up one finger and drink some of her own water before she gets herself back under control. Her eyes are watery from her laughter as she finally responds.

“Harry? Please. Those weren’t just long odds, those were impossible odds.” Gwen switches to her wine glass and takes a sip. “Harry’s fine but he also just found his own soulmate and is way too casually homophobic for you to broach the topic with him.”

Peter doesn’t correct her because she’s absolutely right. He still remembers what Harry said that day in the coffee shop when Gwen had asked what he would do if his soulmate wasn’t a woman.

I’m never going to be interested in rubbing up against another dude. Can you imagine?

Peter had been able to imagine it then and he can imagine it even better now. Complete with sense memory. Sound. Heat. Control.

“So…” Gwen says slowly, “spit it out.”

“I did spit it out.”

“No. No way,” she corrects. “If you think the only payment I’m collecting today is a free lunch, you are sadly mistaken. I want details.”

“About what?”

“About why my heretofore straight friend is asking me how I felt when I found out my soulmate was a woman.”

Peter scowls. “I thought MJ was the perceptive one.”

“Two peas in a pod, Peter dearest,” Gwen preens.

The server steps up to the table just then as though Gwen called him into being. Peter wouldn’t put it past her if she had, it definitely seems like something she could do. She doesn’t even ask Peter what he wants, just rattles off an order for both of them and sends the server off with a wink. His whole face flushes red before he turns to leave. Peter feels for the guy. Gwen’s a force of nature most days.

Once the server is gone, Gwen turns back to Peter, reaching out to spin the wine stem in her hand as she glares at him.

“Details?” She prompts.

There is absolutely no way that Peter is about to tell her that he choked his soulmate last night. No one needs those kind of details. Peter doesn’t even particularly want them banging around in his own head. Liar. He decides to skirt around the reality but still tell the truth.

“Something happened between us last night and it was kind of…” Peter can feel a blush crawling up his throat and into his cheeks, “…hot?”

“Is that a question?”

“No,” Peter grumbles. “I was definitely… attracted to him last night.”

“What’s the problem with that, Peter? He’s your soulmate, right?” Peter rubs a hand through his hair and tugs at the curl that drops over his forehead but doesn’t look at Gwen. “Okay. Internalized homophobia is a real thing and I know that he wasn’t what you wanted but…”

“But what?” Peter asks when Gwen trails off.

“Okay, listen.” She pushes the appetizer plate to the side and puts her elbows on the table, leaning in toward Peter. “I get what you’re going through. I was a wreck when I realized that MJ was my soulmate. I just… wasn’t ready. Not for her, yes. But also not for any of it. Because I had an image in my mind of what my soulmate was going to be like, what my life was going to be like, and MJ came along and shook the shit out of it.”

It’s obvious that Gwen isn’t done so Peter waits, watching as she leans back and starts pushing up the sleeve of her sweater. The move uncovers her forearm, pale skin marked over with cursive writing that says at the finish line. Her permanent soul mark.

“This is the first thing MJ said to me when we started dream-sharing,” Gwen tells him, tapping a finger on the star-shaped dot over the first i. “Said I was stubborn as hell to make her come after me in our dreams but that’s the moment that she knew she loved me. And she does love me, Peter. So much. Not in any of the ways I expected or thought I wanted but in all the ways that I need.”

The server arrives with their food and Peter leans away with an exhale as Gwen folds the sleeve of her sweater back down. He doesn’t talk until the server has left and Gwen is unrolling her silverware to lay the cloth napkin over her lap.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Peter complains as he picks up the sandwich she ordered for him.

“Gawd, Peter,” she groans at him around a mouthful of pasta. “If you’re asking if you’re going to be able to fuck him when the time comes, I think you already know the answer to that. You wouldn’t have texted me and panic-paid for lunch at an expensive restaurant if you didn’t.”

“MJ at least would have said that nicely,” Peter mumbles with a pout.

“Yeah, well, she’s not here, is she?”

Peter watches Gwen eat her pasta like someone’s going to come and take it. They used to meet for lunch at least once a week because she was the only other person Peter knew who shoveled it in like he did. He wonders when they stopped. Why they stopped.

“He’s not a good guy, Gwen.”

The realization blurts out of Peter before he can stop it. He already told Gwen and MJ that his soulmate was the worst person Peter had ever met but not how he was worried that not-goodness would somehow corrupt him. Change the choices he makes. Put him on a path that takes him away from being Spider-man. Because last night he hadn’t felt very much like Spider-man at all, at least for a little while, and it had felt good. Freeing.

“What if he’s not good for me?”

Gwen stops eating, puts her silverware down in fact, before she lifts her eyes to peer across the table at him.

“Peter,” she says, much more softly than she’s said anything yet, “we haven’t had lunch together like this in over a year. If your soulmate were here right now, I’d give him a goddamn hug for that.”

“But—”

“If he’s a bad guy,” she cuts him off, “then he’s your bad guy. He could kill a hundred people for all I care because this is the first time I’ve seen you so relaxed in… god, too long, Peter.”

Peter almost laughs at Gwen’s example. She has no idea how close she actually is.

“Okay, but—” he tries again.

“Stop,” she admonishes. “Eat your food and let the universe sort the rest out. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t go all anxious academic on me right now, it’s bad for my digestion.”

Peter rolls his eyes but relents. Because Gwen’s right, he does feel more relaxed than he’s been in a long time. Maybe he just needs to lean into it for once.

They chat about other things as they eat, Gwen filling Peter in on her office drama and Peter telling Gwen about the undergrad classes he reluctantly teaches. She’s in the middle of excoriating her new boss when her mouth snaps shut and she sits upright.

“Fuck,” she hisses, her eyes on a clock across the room. “I gotta go. That polyester eyesore is going to be such a dick if my lunch takes even a second longer than it should.”

She gathers up her stuff and leans down to press a kiss to Peter’s temple, whispering, “Trust the universe for once,” before she goes.

With Gwen gone, the server comes to start clearing the plates away, stacking them up along one arm with an ease that speaks of long practice.

“I’ll take the check whenever you have a minute,” Peter tells the server.

“Oh,” he pauses, brow scrunching and eyes darting over Peter’s shoulder before landing back on Peter’s face. “Someone called in to pay while you were eating. The check’s taken care of, sir.”

Peter is a little worried about patrol tonight if he’s being honest with himself. He’s mostly healed from his near-death experience although his side still twinges where he was cut open and there’s a deep ache in his thigh from the bullet wound.

What he’s most worried about, though, is having to see Deadpool. Or, even worse, see proof that the merc actually is watching Peter’s back. He knows it’s true because it explains the itch Peter gets between his shoulder blade when he’s on patrol. Not a spider sense itch, just an awareness.  A strange co-mingling of danger and safety that Peter finally understands now that he knows what’s causing it. Who’s causing it.

He could call in a favor. Take the night off. He probably should if his injuries are acting up but that feels a little too much like running away. Which, yes, is how Peter deals with things sometimes but not how he wants to deal with this thing right now. Mostly because Gwen would slap the absolute shit out of him if she thought he had turned tail from his universally-mandated bad idea.

Peter sticks his finger pads to the linoleum at the bottom back of the pantry, peeling it back to reveal the underflooring. He sticks to that, too, using his grip to lift up a two-foot-by-two-foot square of wood and reach the cubbyhole underneath. The duffel bag with his suits and Spider-man gear is big but Peter manages to drag it out of the hole, pulling it onto the kitchen floor in front of him.

He unzips the bag, shoving the sides wide to see a clean suit folded right on top. And, right on top of that, is a white origami spider, bright against the black of the spider emblem. The spider is squished slightly but still recognizable and Peter can see writing twining across the paper it was made from. Sharp, slanting, close-together letters made with a pink, sparkly gel pen.

Pulling the spider out of the bag, Peter plops back onto his ass in the kitchen. The origami is intricately and perfectly folded, the spider sitting in Peter’s palm like a live thing. He strokes a finger along the back of it before realizing what he’s doing and bitching at himself.

He unfolds the spider as carefully as he can, wincing and scowling every time he hears the paper tear. There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him not to look, not to read whatever’s written on the paper. It’s probably the voice of Peter’s self-preservation. The bit of Peter that knows that he’s walking on a tightrope and a slight breeze could push him off. A part of him that knows whatever happened between him and Deadpool last night has spun Peter’s life on its axis and he’s never going to look at anything the same way again.

Which explains why he’s sitting on the floor of his kitchen, trying not to ruin a note that his soulmate broke into his apartment to leave in the spot where he keeps the proof that he’s a superhero that he thought was well-hidden. Before last night, Peter would never have unfolded the spider. Before last night, Peter would never have smoked the joint.

So, so fucked up.

The note is longer than he expects when he finally lays the paper on the floor and smoothes it out with his palm. But the handwriting is as familiar as the stupid logo drawn at the bottom that matches Deadpool’s belt buckle.

Peaches,

Thanks for the monster orgasm last night. I haven’t been choked like that since Madcap hung me off a bridge.

Okay. Wow. Peter didn’t know that Deadpool had come. He’s not sure how to feel about that. Something warm drips from his chest down to his lower belly that Peter studiously ignores. Liar.

I got a little something something planned for tonight. You should stuff your silly costume back inside your terrible hiding spot and STAY IN.

That sounds ominous.

And, because I know you won’t want to listen to me, I also brought a bribe. There’s dinner in the fridge from your favorite taquería. Plus, your favorite (objectively awful) ice cream in the freezer.

Peter’s stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten since lunch with Gwen. And he gets the feeling that Deadpool probably knows it.

Luigi says he misses you.

*Deadpool logo*

P.S. I left you another folded spider on your bedside table, you nerd. *red lipstick print*

Peter falls back onto the linoleum floor, the plasticky tiles cool under his back, ignoring the feelings bubbling up in his chest and trying to focus on the facts.

He knows what this means. Of course, he does. He knows what Deadpool implied last night. Maybe Peter should ignore the note. Maybe Peter should suit up and go stop it. Maybe Peter should feel something other than fierce satisfaction that the person that wanted him dead is about to be killed.

But he doesn’t do any of those things.

Chapter Text

Five minutes ago, Wade W. Wilson was worrying that his aggressively bossy little spider would come swinging around the corner despite Wade’s strenuous folded paper-based objection and a very excellent bribe. Five minutes ago would have been a bad time. Any time in the last four to six hours would have been a bad time. Although, Wade will allow that maybe the present moment is the worst time.

One of the Italian-suited guards grabs the back of Wade’s head and slams it through a glass display case in the ostentatious hallway outside of Kingpin’s penthouse. The glass case holds a pair of high heels dripping with crystals. They probably have some sort of significance beyond Wade thinking they’d look pretty good on him but he doesn’t know what that importance could be.

Doesn’t matter anyway because right now the left high heel has essentially become an ice pick that Wade has swung behind himself and through the temple of the guard at his back. The hands go slack on Wade’s head and he feels the body slump down his back, falling to the floor.

He stands up, turning around as he runs a palm down his face, sweeping clear the blood pouring from the cuts made by the shattered glass. There’s a piece of glass in his mouth somehow so he shoves up his mask and spits it out. If it happens to land on the dead guard’s face? Well… shit happens.

All four inches of high heel are embedded in the guard’s skull and Wade has a fleeting moment to wish the shoes were actually his size because the construction on them is incredible. Jammed through a human skull and not even peeling away from the sole at all.

Three more guards come sprinting around the hallway corner at Wade’s back giving him just enough time to duck behind the stone base of the display case before they open fire.

“Thanks for the heads up,” he huffs, spitting out more blood and then yanking his mask all the way back down. “Don’t suppose you could get a deus ex machina thing goin’, huh?”

Wade draws both of his guns one at a time, checking the number of bullets and swearing under his breath. He’s been working his way up this goddamn building for hours like he’s fucking Judge Dredd and he lost a handful of weapons as he fought his way to the top. Right now, all he has left is two handguns, one empty and one with four bullets, a pouch full of throwing stars, one full katana and one broken one, the disparate pieces of a few maybe bombs, Luigi, and seven grenades.

“The grenades weren’t there before, were they?” He asks. “I like your style.”

Wade W. Wilson can do a lot of damage with seven grenades.

He’s just not entirely sure if it’s a Kill Kingpin level of damage or a Blow Off His Own Limbs level of damage.

“Well,” Wade drawls, peeking around the column of the display case and ducking back immediately when several bullets whistle past. “The surprise is half the fun, yeah?”

Wade can hear the three other guards coming toward him, their expensive loafers crunching over the glass he broke with his face. Wait. No. Five other guards. Apparently, two of their friends joined the fun. He glances down at the gun still held in his grip. This is the one with four bullets so it looks like these guys are going to have to share.

Or…

Wade pivots out from behind the display case low, most people expect danger to hit them head-on, not come nipping at their ankles, and these guards are no exception. He squeezes off three shots in quick succession, dropping the front three guards before they even register he’s there.

One shot left.

He stands as he strides toward the guards that were bringing up the rear, holding his gun loosely in one hand and reaching up behind him with his other arm to pull the poor, sad, snapped-off blade of Chong. Wade regrets that Chong is broken but he isn’t exactly sad about how it happened. He’d been skewering guards through the throat, stacking them up like meat on a kebab, and had taken a bullet to the shoulder. His arm jerked with the shot and the weight of the bodies pulled down on the sword as he yanked up.

That had been all she wrote for his katana, except Wade thinks he might be able to give the blade one more proper send-off before he has to say goodbye.

“Last chance, gents. I won’t think less of ya if you turn tail and run.”

The guard on the left sneers and lifts his gun first so he gets the bullet. A clean shot right between the eyes. Wade holsters his gun as he lunges forward, close enough to drive the jagged end of Chong’s blade up through the soft underside of the second guard’s jaw and out the back of his head.

Wade gives Chong a little salute as the guard folds to the ground, “Thanks for your service, little buddy,” and then he’s crouching down to commandeer a gun and some bullets from the two dead guards at his feet.

He can hear the clattering stomp of several other minions coming down the hallway that spills into this one. Their confidence is cute, thinking they don’t have to be quiet because they’ve got Wade right where they want him when really it’s the other way around.

Wade fishes a grenade from a pouch, flicking the pin out with his thumb before rolling it to the intersection of the two hallways. It’s definitely not going to kill all of them but it buys him time to collect what he needs.

He doesn’t even flinch as the grenade explodes, just liberates a gun from the lax fist of Chong’s final resting place. As soon as his hand closes around the grip, Wade gags. The gun feels gross in his hand. An assault on his senses. A travesty. A weaponry abomination.

“Asshole puts fuckin’ crystal high heels in his front hall under lock and key but can’t buy his goons decent guns? Whatta fuckin’ jackwagon.”

Wade shoves the gun into his belt as he pivots and grabs the gun off the other guard (shudder), yanking out the clip so he can use the bullets. They aren’t the same caliber as his firearms so he’s going to have to use this piece of shit piece (gag) to take care of the elephants stomping through the cloud of debris left behind by the grenade.

The first minion skids around the corner. Wade pulls the shitty gun out of his belt and raises his arm to the side as he pats down the pockets of the body in front of him, pulling the trigger without looking. Instead of the wet crunch of a bullet entering a skull, Wade hears the punch of a bullet through a wall. God fucking damnit. This awful fucking gun pulls left. He sighs, hanging his head, but readjusts his aim and finally hits the minion’s left eye. The guy manages to get a shot off before he dies but misses wide. Wade sighs again, standing because these idiots have absolutely nothing of value on them, and starts walking back toward the T-junction of the hallway.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he calls, picking off a guard that peeks too far around the corner with the firearm atrocity in his hand.

Wade waits, rather patiently he thinks, to see if anyone else will come around the corner but they all seem to have learned their lesson with… one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight of their buddies dead in the hallway by Deadpool’s hand.

He cracks his neck to the side and rolls his shoulders. Adrenaline and endorphins are humming through his veins and a vicious smile spreads across his face under the mask.

Sometimes, with rats, you have to go in and get them instead of waiting for them to come out.

And, just like the seven dwarves, sometimes you have to whistle while you work.

Or sing in Wade’s case.

“🎶 Tonight for the first time,

Right about fuckin’ now,

For the first time, in history

It’s about to start rainin’ men. 🎶”

Going low worked last time so Wade does it again, crouching down before he turns the corner and managing to catch two guards in the neck with bullets before they realize he’s even there. It’s not like he didn’t announce himself so really their deaths are on them.

A bullet catches him just to the left of his spine, burrowing down next to his shoulder blade, and the entire hallway goes vivid.

Even before he was a product of Weapon X, Wade was a soldier. Someone taught to kill. Someone that took to the lessons naturally. It’s not a superpower that makes it feel like everyone in the hallway is moving in slow motion except for him. It’s not a superpower that makes Wade’s vision go sharp, spotting weaknesses almost faster than he can target them.

No.

That’s all pure, unadulterated, raw talent.

“🎶 It’s rainin’ men.

Hallelujah!

It’s rainin’ men.

A-men! 🎶”

Wade wraps an arm around the neck of the nearest goon, yanking the guy in front of him as a shield as he turns his back to the edge of the door frame to avoid another bullet in the back. His human shield takes three bullets while Wade manages to dispatch six other guards, grabbing his shield’s jaw as he pulls his arms away and snapping the guy’s neck. Just in case.

“🎶 I’m gonna go out to run

and let myself get

absolutely soakin’ wet! 🎶”

The clip in Wade’s shitty gun is empty so he releases it to drop to the floor, pulling the replacement clip out of his pouch and snapping it into place in a move that he’s done a million times. A bullet catches him in the hip and a second in the chest while he reloads but the pain just sends more adrenaline rushing through his system.

“🎶 It’s rainin’ men.

Hallelujah!

It’s rainin’ men.

Every specimen! 🎶”

With a few purposeful strides, Wade is close enough to the rest of the guards to sweep a leg out and drop the front one to the floor, putting a bullet through his heart. Luigi is in his hand before he’s conscious of it, springing open and flipping across his palm so he can drive it through the next guard’s eye while downing the following two with the gun.

“🎶 Tall, blonde, dark and lean.

rough and tough

and strong and mean. 🎶”

Wade fires off four more shots and sinks Luigi into the side of someone’s neck before the hallway goes quiet. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving from the chemicals flooding his system. He cocks his head to listen, waiting to hear if there’s another army of poorly trained shit gibbons with weapons coming his way.

Nothing.

Wade drops the gun and shakes his whole body like a wet dog as he gags again.

“Ugh. That was gross. Never again.” He draws his own weapons, pressing kisses along the barrels through his mask. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, sweethearts. I shoulda packed more bullets for you. My bad. Please forgive me.”

It’s as close as Wade will get to admitting that this mission has been a little more than he bargained for. Not that he’s complaining.

Maybe he did go off a little half-cocked but that’s kind of his style. He’d like to blame it on the lack of oxygen his brain suffered while Spider-man was choking him on a fucking roof but Wade’s brain has operated under less optimal conditions than that before. For a certain value of operated anyway.

Of course, Wade had known he was going to have to deal with Kingpin before he came in his pants after his superhero soulmate crush Dommed him against a brick wall (fuuuuck, he was real good at it, too). He just hadn’t expected how viscerally fun this hit would be.

Wade doesn’t usually have any cause to complain about job satisfaction. He loves being a merc. It feeds some deep, dark part of him. Something he’s pretty sure was there before Weapon X, before the military. Was maybe the thing that brought him to both of those places. But this? Avenging his soulmate. Killing with an actual purpose. Making the dickweeds that thought they could wipe his little spider off the map pay for it.

Well, that’s a whole other level of job satisfaction, babycakes.

Wade has made his way back to the massive double doors that mark the entrance to Kingpin’s penthouse. He’s fiddling with some wires and C-4 putty, humming quietly to himself and trying not to think about how mad Spider-man’s going to be when he sees what Wade has done.

Fuck.

A shiver runs down Wade’s spine and across his skin, and he almost drops the explosive. He needs to focus. On the list of reasons why he’s here, getting yelled at and pinned to a wall again is only third. Maybe second.

He reaches as high as he can to slap the mass of putty and wires onto the seam of the doors. Wade barely makes it behind the destroyed display base of those gorgeous high heels before the door blows behind him, a few pieces of heavy wooden door raining down on his shoulders. He glances around the corner of his cover and smiles.

Wade knew Kingpin had to have one of those steel door, thou shalt not pass kind of things but Kingpin obviously hadn’t known that Wade is an expert at breaking shit. The oak layer of the door has splintered to pieces, leaving the thick steel door exposed, the type of door you’d see in a bank vault. And that door is hanging crooked off its hinges because Wade knows his shit when it comes to explosives.

He’ll never regret the month and a half he spent with only half his fingers when he decided to learn how to make his own bombs. Totally worth it.

“Checkmate, you gigantic son of a bitch,” Wade calls genially as he pushes to his feet and strolls toward the steel door. “Now, I know you gotta bunch of underlings in there ready to bleed all over their expensive Italian suits for you but I was kinda hopin’ we could do this peacefully.”

Wade rounds the corner of the hanging door and comes to an abrupt halt. Oof. There are a lot more guards in here than he was expecting, all surrounding Kingpin like planets orbiting the sun. Wade wouldn’t be surprised if that big motherfucker created enough gravity for it.

The penthouse is an open floor plan, the ceilings vaulted to a ridiculous height supported by decorative marble pillars on a decorative marble floor. The place is so huge that Wade can only just make out the hallways leading to the various wings and what might be the entrance to the kitchen. Despite its size, the decorations are sparse. Two long, white leather sofas arranged in an L in front of a glass coffee table the size of a toilet lid with a bright blue, round rug sitting next to it. The whole back wall is nothing but glass, looking out at the glittering lights of the city.

Wade lets out a low whistle. “This is quite the view, your majesty. Seems like it would be awful easy to pick you off through all this glass, though.”

One of the clone guards snorts and mutters, “That’s why it’s bulletproof, idiot,” under his breath. Wade doesn’t react.

“Mr. Wilson.” Kingpin’s deep voice echoes in the cavernous space and Wade wonders if that’s why it’s so empty. So that the mob boss’s voice can fill it. Top-tier intimidation tactic, if so. “I was hoping we wouldn’t cross paths again.”

“Yeah,” Wade yells to make sure he's heard, letting his eyes scan the room as he slowly wanders into the suite. “That’s how most people feel about me.”

“This vendetta is… honorable,” Kingpin spits out the word honorable like it comes with a bad taste, “but surely you must see that avenging your little hero friend is beyond even your skill set.”

“I do have a very particular set of skills.”

Wade’s pretty sure he’s used that line already in this fic but he’s just entered the boss battle so you’ll have to excuse him. He still has to make his way across the entire marble floor, his boots thudding hollowly and half expecting Bowser’s Underground Theme to start playing.

Wade has to walk absurdly far to reach Kingpin and his underlings where they’ve stationed themselves in front of the wall of glass. He stops to catch his breath halfway, a bit for show to be completely honest, and relishes the way it makes Kingpin’s teeth grind. Maybe he even adds some huffing breaths to make his point about this stupid fucking room.

When Wade finally reaches the outskirts of the mob of mobsters, he kicks his leg up behind him and grabs it with his hand, balancing on one leg to stretch out his quad. This time he can hear Kingpin’s teeth grind.

Excellent.

“I’m not actually here for vengeance. At least not for Spider-man,” Wade lies. “If I’m rememberin’ correctly, and I might not be because, you know, brain damage, you ordered someone to put a bullet in my head.”

“So it won’t bother you that the contract is about to be fulfilled?” Kingpin asks.

Another small cadre of mobsters appears from where Wade assumed the entrance to the kitchen was, dragging a struggling Spider-man between them. Spider-man is drenched in rope, looped across his chest and securing his arms to his side, even tying his legs together at the thigh.

Everyone waits while the new group and their squirming charge make their way across the floor. Wade checks a watch he’s not actually wearing and starts whistling Itsy Bitsy Spider.

The group, with Spider-man in the middle, stops in front of the larger group containing Kingpin. The mob boss’s beady eyes are fixed on Wade with the kind of smile people wear when they think they have you over a barrel.

“Hiya, Webs,” Wade says, giving Spidey a little wave.

“As you can see, Mr. Wilson, your… vengeance is misplaced. The contract is about to—”

POP

“Well,” Wade says, glancing down at the gun in his hand in surprise. “Whaddaya know? I guess I had another bullet left after all.”

The room is silent as Spider-man’s body slumps to the floor, a hole in his forehead that’s bleeding freely through the mask.

“How much was the contract worth, Kingy?” Wade holsters his now officially empty firearm. “I take payment in cash or Swiss bank transfer. Unfortunately, too many people were bouncin’ checks on me.”

Kingpin’s teeth grind again and an actual snarl takes residence on his face. He looks a little too worked up to speak so Wade keeps going. He can always talk more.

“Oh…” he drawls, “did you think I’d actually believe that was Spider-man?”

More teeth grinding.

“It definitely wasn’t,” Wade continues. “Hope that wasn’t one of your best guys, though, ‘cause I don’t think he’s gettin’ back up.”

“How are you so sure that isn’t Spider-man?”

The words come out of Kingpin like grinding rocks. Like he’s trying his hardest not to let them come out at all but can’t quite manage. Wade loves an overconfident villain. Makes it more fun to take them down a notch.

He’s still going to kill Kingpin, obviously, but this psychological win is like a tiny pre-nail in the coffin.

“Oh, Spidey Cakes. How do I know thee? Let me count the ways,” Wade says wistfully before his voice hardens. “First, credit where credit is due, the body type is close but Webs doesn’t look like he skips leg day, and the way your dude holds his shoulders is all wrong. Two, if it were so fuckin’ easy for you to grab Spider-man off the street, he’d be dead by now, wouldn’t he? But your goons can’t lay a fuckin’ finger on him. Tangential to that, if you did somehow manage to grab Spider-man off the street, there’s absolutely no fuckin’ reason for you to use him as a bargainin’ chip for me. You think I’m dangerous but you don’t think I’m that dangerous. Not dangerous enough to worry that I’ll kill you in your penthouse surrounded by your guards. Ipso facto, that’s not Webs and I think our negotiation is done.”

Silence descends around Wade and these soon-to-be dead motherfuckers like a curtain dropping closed over a stage. It’s a numbed, shocked sort of silence. One of Wade’s favorite kinds. Like he said at the beginning, most people think he’s all ice pick and no intel.

“What?” Wade asks. “You thought I was just a pretty face?”

“I assumed,” Kingpin snaps, “that anyone that fucked with my contract must have a few screws loose.”

“Oh, I definitely have a few screws loose,” Wade agrees. “Catch!”

The grenade flies toward Kingpin in a graceful arc, the pin dangling from Wade’s pointer finger.

Then it flies over Kingpin. Way over him, high enough that the huge motherfucker wouldn’t be able to reach it even if he tried. It flies across the expansive space of the penthouse living room, climbing toward the stupidly high ceiling until it explodes. The shock wave fills the room, shattering the huge window overlooking the city, but the grenade was so far toward the ceiling and past Kingpin that the mob boss doesn’t even acknowledge the blast.

“Missed,” Kingpin says, finally amused as though the grenade has confirmed definitively that Wade does, indeed, have a few screws loose. “I was told the mercenary gatekeeping the Spider-man contract was unstoppable but you can’t even throw a grenade accurately. Gentlemen? If you would be so kind.”

With a single sweeping gesture, Wade is swarmed by Kingpin’s guards, several sets of hands latching onto Wade’s arms and legs to hold him still, while more hands divest him of his weapons. He’s breathing heavily. Even with his healing factor, Wade has been fighting for a long time, taking damage as he goes, and he’s definitely not in the best shape. The face through the display glass thing probably gave him a concussion and, if the gleam in Kingpin’s eyes is anything to go off of, Wade is about to experience something worse.

Kingpin approaches, looking on with a disgusted sneer as Wade struggles until the mobsters drag him to the round blue rug in front of the absurdly tiny glass coffee table. There Wade’s legs give out and he slumps between the guards. The mob boss bends down so he can look Wade directly in the eye.

“You cost me a lot of money, Mr. Wilson.” Kingpin straightens up and cracks his knuckles. “A lot of money. And that’s not even counting the damage you’ve done to my home today.” A huge fist hits Wade in the stomach, all the air punching out of him with a wheeze. Fuck. That might have cracked his spine. “I was a little too lax with you last time, I think. Only a bullet to the head. That’s a mistake I will definitely rectify this time.”

A second fist smashes into the side of Wade’s face, rocking his head on his neck. He feels his vertebrae pop and the hinge of his jaw unhook and half of his eye socket cave in. Blood fills his mouth and he swallows it, grunting as the move wrenches his crushed midsection.

“Christ,” he mumbles through his broken jaw as he lifts his head and looks at Kingpin through his intact eye. It comes out sounding more like criesssss but beggars can’t be choosers. Wade knew he was going to have to give up some gravitas to get the job done. “Forgot how much of a punch you pack, Kingy.”

Kingpin fists a massive hand in the front of Wade’s suit, hauling him up on his toes and dragging him closer to the mob boss’s livid face. Wade can't help but notice that it’s exponentially sexier when Spider-man does it.

“I am going to ensure that you spend a very long time getting taken apart every time you put yourself back together.” Kingpin raises his other massive fist, drawn back and ready to smash the rest of Wade’s face in. “I’ll give you the courtesy of a few last words since I’ve heard you like to talk.”

Wade tries to straighten his spine which does not go well before he gives up and just grins through his mask at the mob boss. This is his favorite part.

“I didn’t miss,” he says.

“What?” Kingpin’s brow furrows and that loaded fist relaxes for a moment.

“I said,” Wade repeats, “I didn’t miss.” He leans in until his face is nearly touching the mob boss’s and growls, “I. Don’t. Miss.”

Then there’s a sound like a sledgehammer on a watermelon and the fist clenched in the front of Wade’s suit releases. His boots thump to the floor and he stumbles slightly before righting himself. His hands, luckily not broken, start rifling through his pouches until his fingers brush against a small disk at the bottom of one. Wade almost groans in relief. It’s still there.

Thank Bea Arthur.

He drops the disk onto Kingpin’s back where he’s sprawled across the blue rug at Wade’s feet, a small hole leaking blood at the base of his skull. Sniper Laurie never misses. Wade is going to take such good care of her when he gets home.

He staggers to the open window, hearing the roar of confusion from Kingpin’s underlings as Wade reaches the edge, toes pushed out past the floor of the penthouse and into the empty air above the city. The fall will definitely kill him. Wade reaches into his pouch again and pulls out something that resembles a small fishing reel. This better fucking work because he isn’t interested in regrowing his spine any more than he already has to.

With a flick of his wrist, the reel unspools, a thin silver cord floating out high above the street and latching somewhere that Wade can’t see. He gives it a tug and when it sticks, he turns his back to the window, wrapping the cord across his chest. There are at least nine guns currently pointed in his direction.

“Love to stay and chat, boys, but it’s a little too hot in here for me.”

That line would have slapped if Wade’s jaw wasn’t still broken.

He steps backward out of the window, his stomach dipping as he drops, and presses the second button on the bracelet around his wrist.

The explosion is immediate, the heat searing Wade even as he swings away from the building. He loves making his own bombs but those high-tech jobs sure give a lot of bang in a little package. He’d bet money there’s not a single person left alive in the penthouse which is exactly what Wade intended.

His landing on one of the lower roofs across the street is the opposite of graceful, Wade’s legs glance off the edge of the roof, cracking something in one of them, and then he sort of bounces across the rough PVC tiles until his body skids to a stop. That fucking hurts. He kind of feels bad about how he threw Spider-man onto the roof when he was injured now.

Wade rolls onto his back, broken chest barely moving as he stares up at the stars. Goddamn, that was a good time. It’s a shame there is but one Kingpin to kill for his soulmate. And he got to use one of his favorite maneuvers. He grins at the night, feeling the blood squish between his teeth.

“The honey pot,” Wade slurs, only slightly concerned by the way the roof sways and tilts underneath him. “Works every time.”

After that, things get a little fuzzy.

Open window.

Nightstand.

Lump of blankets.

Wade breathes a little bit easier when he sees it.

Fire escape.

Gyro cart.

Park bench.

Wade’s brain sloshes sideways and so does his body.

Peaches is alive.

He’s safe.

Wade made sure of it.

Chapter Text

That goddamned meathead, psychopathic son of a bitch.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

Peter looks back at the television just to make sure that the news is still reporting on a mob hit at Kingpin’s penthouse. Even with the reporter’s very carefully chosen filming location, Peter can still see glass from the blown-out window and the yellow crime scene tape cordoning off a body in an expensive suit at the edges of the screen. A fucking mob hit. Except it hadn’t been a mob hit and Peter fucking knows it.

Last night, with his belly full of tacos and Neapolitan ice cream, half a joint still to be smoked, he had been sanguine. Riding high on the feeling of clicking with his soulmate for fucking once. Like after all these years there was finally a piece that might fit Peter’s admittedly jagged edges.

What a fucking joke.

He should have ignored that goddamn note. He should have ignored the fucking food bribe. Because he should have been out there doing… something. He’s fucking Spider-man for crying out loud. A highrise full of dead mobsters should be on his goddamn radar.

It was on your radar, Parker.

You chose to ignore it.

Peter shakes the thought out of his head. Spider-man doesn’t do that so Peter doesn’t do that. He can’t. With great fucking power comes great fucking responsibility and all that. He can’t just abdicate his morals because the people in danger want to hurt him. It’s not like Spider-man has never experienced the ire of New York before.

But most of New York’s citizens haven’t taken out a contract on your life.

Instead of being out there, though, Peter had been curled up in his bed sleeping the sleep of the dead. Completely oblivious and still slightly high when he woke up to a knife covered in blood on his bedside table next to the second origami spider and an entire fucking news cycle devoted to the retaliation killing of the biggest mob boss in the city.

Retaliation killing. Peter tries to ignore that phrase because it makes him feel things and he doesn’t want to feel anything. He absolutely does not feel guilty that he didn’t do something to stop it. And he also doesn’t feel even a smidgen of smugness about the fact that the man that wanted him dead paid for that desire with his life. No enjoyment whatsoever. Nope. None.

Peter’s stupid fucking brain has been pinging between those two extremes all morning while he paces around his apartment, a no longer bloodied knife clutched tight in his fist.

Is he disgusted that he let this happen? Or is he glad that asshole mob boss is dead? Is he horrified that he failed at his most basic duty as Spider-man? Or is he relieved that one more villain is off the streets?

A lot of villains if the news reports are even partially accurate.

What the fuck is Peter even supposed to do about this? As he paces, his brain serves up idea after idea of exactly what Peter can do. Twenty percent of them alarming in their sheer murderous intent, eighty percent of them alarming for the way they make heat pool in his belly.

Obviously, he’s going to have to deal with this.

He’s going to have to deal with this using exactly none of the ideas pinging through his mind.

He’s going to have to teach his two undergrad Biology sections and then he’s going to have to deal with this.

Peter doesn’t even worry about whether he’ll be able to find Deadpool or not. He can feel the fucking merc in his chest, burrowing under his sternum like a hot coal.

He dresses with less care than he normally would, pulling on a wrinkled short-sleeved, button-up black shirt covered in characters from the show Rugrats and an also wrinkled pair of dark khakis. The pants are halfway up his thighs when he stops tugging on them, his fingers curling around the waistband in tight fists because he knows what he’s about to do and he hates himself for it. 

“God fucking damnit,” he growls but tips his head down anyway.

There, on his inner thigh below the long, white scar from that piece of window glass is Deadpool’s dark fingerprint and nothing else.

He’s not going to die today.

Peter finishes yanking up his pants roughly, buttoning and zipping them with jerky movements. He shouldn’t have looked because it doesn’t matter. Whatever his soul mark says doesn’t matter, has never mattered. It doesn’t matter that some dipshit muscle mercenary is going to live today.

In fact, Peter doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care about it. He doesn’t care about him.

But his shoulders relax anyway when he shrugs into his jacket as the assurance whispers through his brain again.

He’s not going to die today.

The cool night air streams over Peter’s suit as he swings from building to building, following the pull in his chest. He tells himself this is all part of his Spider-man patrol, protecting the city by hunting down a known assassin. Investigating one of the more gruesome crimes the city has seen in a while. Ensuring nothing similar goes down again tonight. And he is doing all of that, he’s just doing something else, too.

He’d rather not think about what, though.

Peter travels quietly by force of habit but he’s traveling quietly tonight on purpose. He doesn’t actually believe that he can sneak up on Deadpool unless Deadpool lets him but he’s also not interested in loudly announcing his presence to a man that just wiped an entire branch of the New York mob off the map.

It doesn’t matter in the end because, just as Peter approaches the rooftop he knows houses his soulmate, his spider sense flares into sharp, blazing life and he unlatches from the line of webbing before he’s even consciously thought about it. The bullet skims across the outside of his thigh anyway, a searing pain that has Peter sucking in a breath. A serrated inhale followed by a massive bloom of righteous anger.

He thwips out a new length of webbing, anchoring it just below the top lip of the building, and muscles his way up, yanking hard enough that the momentum sends him in an arch that will land him in the middle of the rooftop. It also brings him high over Deadpool’s head where the merc stands at the edge of the roof with a gun held loosely in his hand and his masked face angled up toward Peter.

His heart hammers but the gun doesn’t lift again and Peter’s spider sense stays at a low simmer. He lands a little awkwardly on his recently shot thigh and releases a snarl that he wouldn’t be surprised if half the city could hear.

“What the fuck, you goddamn psychopath!”

“That,” Deadpool says, as though Peter just asked him about the weather, “was never proven. Not conclusively anyway.”

Peter whirls on Deadpool. The merc is watching him, head cocked, gun in hand, and eyes narrowed slightly, but makes no move to shoot Peter again. For some dumb reason, Peter relaxes. There’s a part of his brain yelling at him not to trust this dipshit but there’s another part of his brain that isn’t currently sounding an alarm. The dissonance is enough to put Peter on his back foot. He exhales a growl and regathers the threads of his anger.

“Maybe don’t shoot first and ask questions later, dickweed,” he snaps, leaning down to look at his thigh. The bullet wound has already stopped bleeding and Peter realizes it barely touched him.

“It’s cute that you think I ask questions, peaches.”

“Fucking asshole.” Peter layers webbing over the wound in his thigh as he snarls. “You shot me this time, not some hitman assassin.”

“I knew it was you,” Deadpool admits, finally holstering his weapon. “But I like to make you work for it.”

Peter’s whole body goes rigid with fury. Every angry thing he wants to say crowding up in his throat until a question he doesn’t care about the answer to comes out instead.

“Work for what?”

“Everything.”

Peter clamps his mouth shut because he’s not quite sure what to say to that and he’s not quite sure what will come out of his mouth if he chooses to say anything. But mostly he’s not sure if he should hold his anger out in front of him like a shield again or not.

Fucking Deadpool.

Every moment of time Peter spends around the merc feels like the edge of chaos. He can never predict what’s coming. He can never pin down his feelings. He never gets bored.

Fucking Deadpool.

Peter reaches into the pocket at the lower back of his suit and scoops out its contents with his fingers. He flicks the blade open as he holds the knife up, letting the ambient light from the city glint off the honed steel edges.

“Luigi!” Deadpool shouts happily.

It only takes him a handful of big strides to close the distance between them. Peter pushes the knife out in front of him, the tip pointing at the merc who only stops walking when the end of the blade is pressed to his sternum.

“Yeah, Luigi,” Peter says. “Care to explain how your knife ended up on my bedside table covered in blood.”

Deadpool’s head tips down, his eyes sweeping over the blade. When he speaks, his voice comes out tinged with awe.

“You cleaned him, peaches?”

Peter doesn’t say anything but his hand flexes around the knife’s hilt.

“You took care of him?” Deadpool lifts his head until his eyes meet Peter’s through the white lenses of the Spider-man mask. “He looks so good.”

Heat prickles at the back of Peter’s neck and he tries his best to ignore it.

“He— It was covered in blood. You basically left a murder weapon in my apartment.” Peter’s hand flexes on the hilt of the knife again. “You could have incriminated me in the biggest fucking mob death in the city in twenty years.”

“Nah,” Deadpool replies, unconcerned. “There was enough evidence in that place toooo…”

The merc must see the look on Peter’s face because his voice trails off and his face under the mask does something that Peter can only describe as sheepish.

“I mean,” the merc clears his throat and puts his hands up to the sides of his face, a farce of surprise. “What on Earth are you talking about, Spider-man? I’ve done nothing but mind my own business since the first time the OB/GYN slapped my ass.”

Don’t ask about the second time.

Don’t ask about the second time.

Don’t. Ask.

Peter lets his eyes scan over the man in front of him, instead. Broad shoulders, thick chest, biceps Peter wouldn’t be able to wrap his hand around, thighs the size of tree trunks. There are the hilts of two swords protruding above his shoulders, wrapped in black, one of which has a Spider-man charm hanging from the end. Two throwing knives set into small holsters built into the kevlar of his chest plate, sitting over the rounded muscle of his pecs. At least two guns that Peter can see, one strapped to each thigh, and the handle of a hunting knife sticking out of his belt. The brown pouches are probably full of bullets and explosives and more knives.

Peter is looking at a killer. He thinks he needed that reminder. Thank god it’s written over every huge, bristling part of the merc’s body.

No matter what Deadpool says to distract him, no matter how many bullets he wings Peter with, no matter how many times he lets Peter choke the shit out of him, the merc always be a killer.

“What did you do?” The question comes out low because Peter needs to know but he’s not sure if he actually wants to.

“Hmm,” Deadpool hums, the vibration traveling through the knife to Peter’s hand, “you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Last night. What did you do last night?”

“Ate a gyro, slept on a park bench, rounded it out with some light weapons maintenance. Nothin’ special.”

He won’t tell me.

The realization hits Peter like a bucket of cold water to the face. Deadpool won’t tell Peter unless he really wants to know. He chews on his lower lip under the mask. He could walk away. He could slide the knife in his hand into one of Deadpool’s pouches and continue on with his patrol. He could ignore the feral, vengeful thing inside of him that’s found a match in the man across from him.

He should do all those things, but he doesn’t.

“Huh,” Peter huffs instead. “I could have sworn… The hit on Kingpin’s penthouse was a thing of beauty and I thought maybe… The news reported the body count at… No. Nevermind. Of course not.”

Deadpool tries to sidle closer to Peter which only digs the knife further into the kevlar over his chest.

“You liked my work, Webs?”

The question sounds hopeful and, weirdly, something twists in Peter’s chest at the sound. God fucking damn this asshole gun-for-hire. The absolute last thing Peter needs is for Deadpool to pry up the edges of his armor, to pick the lock on the cage that he shoves his darkest self into. That would hurt more than any bullet.

“No,” Peter bursts out, trying to pull himself back behind the line he just crossed. “What the fuck? That was a slaughter. I didn’t think I’d— How did you even—? No. No, I didn’t like your work, Deadpool. I’m supposed to protect the city from people like you.”

“Well,” Deadpool drawls, his voice a little colder and harder than it was before, “I was protectin’ you from the people of the city. You’re fuckin’ welcome.”

Peter leans in, keeping the knife pressed to Deadpool’s chest while he pushes his face toward the merc’s. “I didn’t fucking ask you.”

Deadpool leans in too, looming down over Peter until their noses are nearly touching. “You didn’t fuckin’ have to.”

And there it is. All the confirmation Peter needs that his deranged soulmate killed upwards of one hundred mobsters because they were a threat to Peter’s life.

Deadpool killed all those people to protect Peter. Deadpool is completely, maniacally unhinged and last night all that insanity had been bent toward keeping Peter safe. Men who spent their lives hurting others fell underneath Deadpool’s bullets and blades and snark but Peter knows, if he asks, Deadpool will fall to his knees for Peter.

The black pit inside of him does not salivate at the reality of what Deadpool did last night. Something warm absolutely does not settle into Peter’s chest. His heart does not beat faster at the idea that he can control this man when no one else can. 

“I want to know how you did it.”

Even through the mask, Peter can see Deadpool’s eyebrows jump. “You sure about that, Spider-man?”

“Kingpin had at least a hundred men stationed at that penthouse and you got through all of them. You killed a man that the other mob families have been targeting for a decade. You made it look like a mob hit, like more than one person did it. I want to know how.”

Peter is suddenly viscerally aware of how close the two of them are. Their faces almost touching, their bodies almost touching, the only thing between them the blade of a knife and a few inches of heated air.

“Shoulda known my soulmate would be a bloodthirsty little fucker.”

Peter swallows hard because he is both of those things. Deadpool’s soulmate and bloodthirsty.

“I choose to be Spider-man,” he whispers into the space between their mouths. “That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could be anything but him sometimes.”

Deadpool cocks his head, eyes boring into Peter’s. Considering. The merc must find what he’s looking for because he finally answers Peter’s question.

“How do you think I did it, freckles? I ‘preciate that you think I got finesse but I’m just a dumb soldier. A grunt. I used guns and swords and explosives. Died a few times. Came back a few times. The usual.”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t buy for a second that anything about what happened in that penthouse was business as usual for Deadpool. It couldn’t be because whatever he managed to do convinced even the police that it was a full-on mob hit.

“You don’t believe me?” Deadpool asks.

“No,” Peter tells the merc, voice firm, “I don’t. Save your hapless idiot act for someone else. Kingpin was dropped by a fucking sniper, Deadpool. The news said there had to be more than one person but I know it was just you. I want to know what you did. I want to know how you did it.”

“What? Like it’s hard?”

Peter feels his scowl overtake his whole face, probably all narrowed lenses and scrunched mask. He wants to know. He needs to know. And this asshole is going to tell him.

The merc sighs. “It was a remote shot. I scouted that dumb fucking penthouse then set up the rifle and manipulated certain events to get Kingpin where I needed him to be. Then click press the button and crunch goes the back of his skull.”

A sharp laugh escapes Peter. “You’re telling me that you John McClaned your way—”

“Judge Dredd,” Deadpool interrupts.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Judge Dredded your way up an entire fucking penthouse just so you could sniper Kingpin? Why wouldn’t you just lay in wait like an actual fucking sniper?”

“Aw, Professor,” Deadpool lifts a hand and rubs it over the top of Peter’s head like he’s trying to ruffle the hair under the mask, Peter jerks away with another scowl before leaning back in, “it’s cute how many variables you aren’t considerin’.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“For one, there’s no way that narcissistic dickbag had anything but bulletproof glass in his penthouse. Thick enough to stop a sniper’s bullet. Anyone that wanted to get a clean shot would have to eliminate the glass first which you have to be inside the penthouse to do. Second, I had to make sure he was distracted if I wanted to hit the sweet spot on the back of his skull. I’ve been told I’m quite the distraction.”

Deadpool winks and Peter’s stomach swoops.

Well, fuck.

The scowl stays on Peter’s face because he absolutely will not entertain the idea that the fact Deadpool pulled something like that off is… hot. For as much as the merc acts like a clown, it’s just more proof he’s smart as shit and that’s…argh.

Peter stares up into those white eyes and hears his own thoughts from what feels like ages ago. The day he was in the coffee shop with MJ and Gwen and Harry, thinking about all the things Peter wanted in his soulmate.

someone that’s clever

someone that can keep up when his mouth runs away with him

someone that will accept that he’s Spider-man

someone that might even appreciate that part of him

“Anybody ever tell you that you’re like some kind of deadly inevitability?” Peter doesn’t mean for it to sound flirty but maybe it kind of does.

“Wow.” Deadpool’s head cocks again and he looks at Peter in a way that’s hard to interpret. “Wowwowwowwowwow.”

“What?” Peter snaps, feeling suddenly exposed.

He hates feeling out of the loop. He hates feeling like he doesn’t understand. He hates the way this fucking mercenary barrels into his life at the most inconvenient moments and flips everything on its head.

Sure. Yeah. Hate.

“I didn’t think you had it in you to be charming but that was charming as fuck. Keep growlin’ sweet nothings at me, peaches.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. I’m not fucking flirting.”

“Mmmhmm, who said anything about flirting?”

The merc’s low, warm voice scrapes across Peter’s nerves. Heat flushes up his body, across his chest, tingling up the nape of his neck, settling in his face. His dick is even getting in on the action.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He takes a few steps back, away from Deadpool and whatever is gathering between them. Peter is not flirting. Peter is not turned on. Peter is angry.

Maybe if he keeps repeating that to himself it will become true.

“None of that explains this.” He holds up the knife as he tries desperately to veer away from the conversational ledge they’re standing on.

Peter tosses the knife at Deadpool who catches it easily, spinning it across his palm until his hand closes over the blade and he can offer the knife back to Peter hilt first. Peter takes it instinctively, barely aware as he snaps it closed and slides it into the pocket of his suit.

“Guess I stopped by after.” Deadpool shrugs. “Kingpin punches like a Mack truck to the head, my brains were a little scrambled and I probably wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“I thought my not being dead was the whole point of all of that.”

“Yeah, well…” the merc hems.

“Why would I be dead?”

An exhale. “I shot you.”

“You’ve shot me a lot.” Peter gestures at the tear in the thigh of his suit. “What does that have to do with last night?”

“I killed you.” There’s a quality to Deadpool’s voice that Peter can’t quite pin down, broken almost, but it’s gone before he’s even sure it was there. “I mean, I was pretty sure you were fine because it definitely didn’t look like you, the neck was too thick and you didn’t scowl at me, and I’ve never been able to actually get off a kill shot on you before no matter how hard I’ve tried. So I didn’t think it was you but I guess I had to check.”

The merc rubs a palm over his chest, down his soul mark like he needs to remind himself that it’s still there. That Peter is still there. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the unspoken reality behind that movement is. Kingpin must have had a Spider-man doppelgänger, to use as leverage or a bribe, and Deadpool killed the stand-in as ruthlessly as he does everything else. And it had maybe killed something inside Deadpool to do it.

“Hey,” Peter says softly instead of asking all the questions building up in his brain, “I’m okay.”

“Yeah. I guess you are.”

Deadpool’s eyes narrow on Peter’s and his hand drops from his chest. The air almost sizzles between them, neither of them looking away and neither of them moving. Peter feels the moment the spell breaks, the merc’s eyebrows furrowing under his mask.

“I guess that’s it.”

Then Deadpool turns away from Peter, walks to the edge of the roof, and jumps off without looking back. Whatever soft, careful thing that swaddled Peter’s rage tears open as soon as the merc is out of sight.

Peter rushes to the edge of the roof, peering over the side where a blur of black and red is making its way down the fire escape.

“You fucking lunatic,” Peter yells. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The blur stops and white eyes latch on Peter as Deadpool tips his head back. It looks, for a split second, like surprise flits across the merc’s face but it’s too dark and Peter can’t be sure if he saw it at all.

“Haven’t we had this conversation already, Websy?”

“And I still haven’t gotten a good fucking answer.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Next time, I’ll throttle it out of you.” Peter can hear the way the anger in his voice goes silky at the edges. Like the threat he actually made is a different kind of threat than the one he intended.

“Mmmm,” Deadpool purrs, low and rumbly. “Sounds kinky.” Peter watches one of those white eyes wink up at him through the shadows. “Catch me if you can, peaches.”

Chapter Text

Wade hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Spider-man for a week. Which is ostensibly good news because if Wade can’t find the superhero with a goddamn leash hooked into his chest, then it’s unlikely that anyone else can either.

And people are still looking which has kept Wade busy. Mostly. He’s taken to creating a bingo board for picking off the last of the contract-killing stragglers with all the usual squares. Free space. Poisoning. Cement booties. Keelhauling. Mauled by wildlife. Rube Goldberg machine.

You know, the usual.

But the other mercenaries seem to finally be getting the point that the contract is no longer open and there are lethal consequences if they don’t comply. The head on a pike probably didn’t hurt. (Bingo!)

So tonight… well, tonight Wade is bored. He can feel it crawling under his skin, an itch he can’t quite scratch, the need to do something. The need to hurt someone. And underneath that, the foundation of Wade’s whole fucking psyche probably: the need to be noticed.

But the person Wade needs to be noticed by hasn't been around. He had (probably stupidly) imagined that Spider-man would play the game, take the bait, come after him, but it had already been a whole fucking week.

Turns out, Wade isn’t okay with Spider-man hiding.

Turns out, Wade isn’t very good at waiting.

Turns out, Wade likes to draw attention to himself.

He’s sitting on the edge of a roof, legs dangling over the edge and eating a grinder, when he finally feels the hum in his chest that means his little spider is close by. Wade has to admit that, even with his lures, he didn’t think Spider-man would actually catch him. He honestly didn’t think Spider-man would even try. So the suddenly warm buzz surprises him enough that he can’t even send a friendly bullet in the web slinger’s direction before that lean body sealed into red and blue spandex is standing on the roof behind Wade.

He doesn’t have to see the web slinger because Wade can feel him. That livid glare on the back of Wade’s neck does things to him. So many delicious, wonderful things. Because that glare means someone’s paying attention.

“One of my web shooters is missing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Wade’s mouth, just one of a plethora. Myriad. Legion. He stopped counting how often he smiled around Professor Asshole fourteen chapters ago. Eventually, he ran out of fingers and then toes, and then that was it.

“And my groceries are stocked.”

Wade doesn’t turn around or respond or otherwise acknowledge that the web slinger is behind him. He tears a bite out of the sandwich in his hand and stares out over the city. It only takes a minute for Spider-man’s steps to scuff across the roof and for long, gorgeous legs to lower themselves to the roof edge next to Wade. Not too close though, his spider’s always been a little skittish.

He lets his gaze linger on those legs, imagining what it would be like to lick a path up the inside of one of them, find the soul mark he only caught a glimpse of, his fingerprint marring Spider-man’s pale skin, and sink his teeth into it. Instead, he looks back over the city and takes another bite of his sandwich.

“I fixed those two fucked-up burners on your stove, too,” Wade mumbles around his mouthful.

Spider-man shifts next to him, wiggling that ass on the hard stone and Wade wishes it was sitting on his face. He shoves the sandwich back into his mouth. He doesn’t have to say everything that’s on his mind, right?

“How many times have you broken in?”

“Cumulative? Or just this week?”

The web slinger huffs and it sounds half-amused and half-irritated.

“This week.”

“Six? Four? Ten? I’m not a numbers guy.”

“I put in a security system.”

“Your point?”

Another huff, maybe less amused this time.

Wade shoves the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and crumples up the packaging into a ball small enough to shove into one of his pouches. He can practically feel Spider-man’s eyes on the exposed half of his face. It prickles and burns, not in a good way.

“See somethin’ you like, Spidey Cakes?” Wade bites out, digging through another pouch and pulling out a pack of cinnamon gum. He holds the pack out to the web slinger first who plucks up a stick with dainty movements, unwrapping it, tucking his mask above his nose, and popping it between those lush lips.

He doesn’t take Wade’s bait, though.

“I guess I was wondering how long you were going to be climbing through my windows.”

Wade slides his own stick of gum into his mouth, leaning back on one arm and finally turning to take in the web slinger’s profile.

As long as it pisses you off. As long as it makes you track me down. Forever.

Even Wade knows better than to say that so instead he goes with, “As long as I can get away with it.”

“How long is that going to be?”

Wade watches the words form in that fucking lush mouth. The same mouth he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since they kissed in their dream. A dream he knows they shared. The same mouth that barked orders at him. The same mouth he wants to see drop open in pleasure.

Wade wants to make Spider-man come.

Wade wants to hear his soulmate say his name again.

It feels like it’s all he’s ever fucking wanted.

Except nothing has changed. His soulmate still seems farther away than Wade can reach, an island of ice and fury. A rigid little gremlin of a man that keeps trying to contort himself into a mold he doesn’t quite fit. Wade half respects it even as he thinks it’s stupid and reckless and destined to end badly but he’s a glass house so he keeps his fucking mouth shut.

“They haven’t found the lock that’ll keep me out, peaches.”

Wade winks, then looks away. Staring at Spider-man’s angular jaw and sharp chin and goddamn freckles is a little like gazing directly into the sun. If Wade wanted to look into the sun while it fucked his throat.

“Would it matter if I asked you to stop?”

Another smile tugs at the corner of Wade’s mouth. “You won’t ask me to stop.”

A growl sounds from next to him followed by the sound of gum snapping angrily. So fucking cute and easily angered. It’s a miracle nobody’s managed to kill his impulsive ass, yet.

“Why the fuck do I even bother?”

That is an excellent question. Wade hasn’t been able to figure out why the web slinger bothers either. But he’s not going to be mad about it if it means getting to sit here with his soul mark humming happily and the city spread out beneath their feet.

It’s practically romcom shit.

“You wanna know what I think, freckles?”

“No.” A low, surly sound. “But I bet you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“I think…” Wade turns to look at Spider-man again with the feral grin he’s perfected plastered to his face, “you’re bored.”

Wade braces himself for an angry retort, or maybe even a nuclear-level event, but all that happens is Spider-man sighs heavily next to him and starts swinging his feet.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Wade chokes. “Are you… agreeing with me?”

Spider-man ignores the question but he does turn toward Wade, drawing up one leg and putting his foot on the ledge, crossing his arms around his knee.

“What do you suggest?”

Holy shit.

Holyshitholyshitholyshit.

Don’t fucking blow this, Pool.

“Wanna play?”

“Full offense,” the web slinger snorts, one of his legs still swinging loosely back and forth off the edge of the roof. “I have a scar from the last time you asked me that.”

Wade remembers. He remembers the feeling of the glass slicing through Spider-man’s muscle. He remembers seeing it in flashes as he stripped a dying Spider-man out of his suit. He remembers just how much he wants to run his tongue across it.

“Fair,” Wade allows, as he pushes himself to his feet and hops off the ledge down onto the rooftop proper. “But I think you’ll like this game. Get up, Spidey Cakes. It’ll be a cryin’ shame if you flatten that ass by sittin’ on cold stone all night.”

Spider-man climbs to his feet much more gracefully than Wade could have ever managed and, for a second, he feels struck dumb. The lights from the city guild the lines of Spider-man’s body in pinks and golds, sliding over the curve of his muscles in a way that makes Wade’s hands twitch.

That’s his soulmate.

That unbending, self-absorbed, martyr of a man is Wade’s. He’d spent his life running away from the idea of his soulmate. The farmer’s markets and the coffee dates and the dissertations. The person that was tethered to him who lived a completely normal, uncomplicated life. But the reality… fuck, the reality is beautiful. Achingly so.

Spider-man tips his gaze up to Wade’s from where he’s stopped a few feet away on the rooftop. Wade wonders if the lower half of his face communicates the awe he feels when he looks at the person the universe made for him. God. He fucking hopes not. The last thing he needs is for the web slinger to know that Wade is already wrapped around his little finger. Wrapped around every part of him.

“What are we doing, then?”

“What we always do.”

Maybe Wade’s words come out a little breathier than usual but he doesn’t think Spider-man notices because his still exposed lips sneer in irritation. Wade’s knees wobble.

Fuck.

He’s awful.

I love it.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“We’re gonna play a game, Websy.” Wade can tell that Spider-man is interested despite himself. “The kinda game we always play.”

“I’m never playing a game, Deadpool. I’m just trying to stay alive.”

“Then you been playin’ it all wrong, peaches.”

Spider-man crosses his arms over his chest and blows out a huge exhale. The absolute picture of reluctance but... “Fine.” Wade has to resist the urge to throw his hands up in the air in celebration. “Tell me how to play.”

“You land a hit, you win some shit.”

“What?”

“You land a punch on me, you get something. I land a punch on you, I get something.”

“What kind of something?”

“A favor. A boon. I don’t fuckin’ know. You’re the genius, get creative.”

Those white lenses narrow on Wade, considering him like he’s a bug under a microscope, and a frisson of heat skitters up his spine. Something is percolating in that genius brain and Wade can’t wait to hear what it is.

“Sooo… what are the stakes, Spidey Cakes?”

“Information. You’re into that, right?” Holy shit. Is the web slinger flirting with him? Like, yes, this was Wade’s ultimate goal but he didn’t think it would actually happen. “For every hit I manage to get on you, you answer any one question for me. No lying.”

Wade’s about to open his mouth and agree. Of course, he’s going to fucking agree. He’s an open book where Spider-man is concerned even if the hero might not always be happy with the answers.

“Unless, of course,” Spider-man drawls slowly, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides, “you’re afraid of losing.”

What a punk bitch.

Wade was hoping Spider-man was competitive and it looks like he got his wish. Wade fucking loves it.

This is his Spider-man.

His soulmate.

“I gotta tell ya, Webs, this whole confident and about to punch me in the mouth thing is really doin’ it for me.”

Spider-man scoffs. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet…” Wade gestures his arms around him, indicating himself, Spider-man, the distance between them, the entire rooftop, “here you are, ready to play.”

A shot of webbing hits Wade in his exposed throat hard enough to make him choke before the last word even leaves his mouth. He doubles over, coughing, yanking the strand from his skin and sucking in air.

“Does that count?”

“That,” Wade rasps out, pride tinging the words, “was fuckin’ underhanded. I knew you weren’t the goody-two-shoes everyone thinks you are, freckles.”

He stays bent over, not because he needs to catch his breath but because he needs to hide the huge smile, not to mention the massive erection, that he’s sporting after that. Spider-man is fighting dirty and Wade fucking loves it.

Spider-man steps closer and crouches down in front of Wade so the web slinger can peer up into his face. The corner of his mouth is tugged up in amusement and his jaw still works over the piece of gum.

“Where’s my other web shooter?”

Wade reaches into one of his pouches and pulls it out, handing it over. He waits until Spider-man looks down to latch the web shooter onto his wrist before tackling the web slinger to the roof. Wade takes it slow, one arm around Spider-man’s waist to keep his back from scraping across the rough tiles, then pushes up onto his arms, knees planted on either side of Spider-man’s hips.

Surely, that counts as a hit.

“Why’d you come find me?” Wade asks.

Spider-man’s mouth turns down but, to Wade’s surprise, he answers.

“You took my web shooter.”

That’s true but… “Come on, Websy, you said no lyin’.”

The web slinger’s head tips back slightly, probably rolling his eyes, the move stretching out the front of his bare, freckled throat. Wade’s gaze drops, distracted. He wonders what Spider-man would taste like there. Anywhere. Everywhere.

“I mmmhmmm ahmmm mmph mhmm.”

The words are purposely mumbled, pulling Wade’s attention away from Spider-man’s neck. Wade lifts his eyes to see a pretty, pink blush blooming across the web slinger’s sharp cheekbones. Wade pushes back until he’s practically sitting on Spider-man’s thighs and cups a hand behind his ear.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that.”

The web slinger scowls and pushes up to his elbows.

“I came looking for you,” he enunciates annoyingly. “Some stupid conscience thing.”

“What?” Wade asks. “Like Jiminy Cricket told you to come make sure I wasn’t killin’ myself?”

Spider-man sighs. Then there’s a flurry of movement, faster than Wade can track, and the web slinger has shoved him onto his back and is hovering over him on all fours. Their positions reversed and Wade’s cock no less interested for it.

“You took care of the contract and you had to kill someone that looked like me to do it. Excuse me for wanting to make sure you’re fine.”

It doesn’t even matter to Wade that it’s a week too late. In fact, that makes it better because it means Spider-man has been thinking about Wade for an entire week. And not just because he broke in and fixed the toilet.

“Peaches,” Wade says softly, “do you— are you actually worried about me?”

A growl is the only warning Wade gets before a fist smashes into the side of his face, rocking his head to the side and filling his mouth with blood. He’s familiar with spider strength and this punch was pulled. A lot. Still hurts like a motherfucker, though.

“Fuuuuck, Webs,” Wade groans, as he turns his head back to look up at Spider-man, a wide grin on his face because he knows that his teeth are painted red. “You’re good at this game.”

The web slinger narrows his lenses but otherwise looks completely unbothered. Like smashing a criminal’s face in is an everyday occurrence for Spider-man when Wade knows it’s not. Christ. His bloodthirsty little spider is going to make him cum in his pants again.

“You know what they say about punching, yeah?”

“I thought I won the question.”

“🎶 A kiss with a fist is better than none 🎶,” Wade sing-songs, making an obnoxious kissy face and winking.

“Jesus. You’re a nightmare,” Spider-man scowls. “It’s a miracle you managed to kill one mobster, let alone a whole high-rise full of them.”

“Oh! Are we jokin’ about that now? Because I been keepin’ a notebook of dead mobster puns as I think ‘em up. Did you know that mobsters turn red when you kill ‘em?” Wade can’t help but snort at the way Spider-man cocks his head. “Nevermind. That’s lobsters!”

“That was… terrible.”

“I know,” Wade laughs. “Just like the mob!”

He watches the corner of Spider-man’s mouth twitch and something warm rushes through Wade. He is probably definitely going to cum in his pants again tonight. Maybe it’d be a fun challenge to see if he can get the web slinger to come (ha!) along with him.

A girl can dream, right?

Then the almost-smile smoothes off of Spider-man's lips and his voice turns serious. Wade had a feeling this game would go this way so he braces himself for whatever's coming next.

“That day I saw your soul mark for the first time,” one hand lifts so Spider-man can tap a finger against Wade’s sternum, “you said you never look at it. Why?”

Yikes. Talk about a boner killer.

“Oh, oof. I thought we’d work our way up to the soul-baring questions but you just went right for it, huh?”

“I want to know and you promised not to lie.”

Wade’s left hand curls lightly around Spider-man’s right wrist and unlatches the web shooter without the web slinger’s notice. Wade holds it up with a questioning look on his face as Spider-man scowls down at it. At him.

“Why do you want to know?” Wade asks.

Spider-man sighs and pushes himself upright until he’s sitting on Wade’s thighs. The web slinger reaches out and snatches the web shooter out of Wade’s suddenly lax grip, securing it around his wrist a second time.

“You first.”

The tacit agreement claws its way out through clenched teeth but that doesn’t hide the way the words waver, nearly breaking. The thread in Wade’s chest tugs at the sound.

Goddamn it.

Bea Arthur save him from prickly fucking soulmates.

It’s not like Wade is unfamiliar with the mechanics of flaying himself open, he just doesn’t usually do it emotionally. Except this is his person. A gift from the universe that he’s been trying to return for years only to find out it’s everything he’s ever wanted. And, just like Wade knew would happen if he ever met his other half, he’s already dangerously obsessed with the man in front of him. With his fucking soulmate. Five years of obsession and hyper fixation and furious masturbation that it turns out is universally ordained rather than just creepy.

Wade has bled for Spider-man before so he doesn’t even flinch as he cuts to the truth.

“My soulmate was so normal,” Wade tells him. “And I’ve never been normal. Not even when I was an acne-riddled, punk kid in the Great White North. I didn't want the reminder.”

The web slinger’s hands unclench slightly from the fists that were hanging at his sides and a shuddering exhale escapes him.

“I was normal,” he intones dully.

“You have to know that you were more normal than I was. What kinda updates were you gettin’? Smokin’ behind a Tim Horton’s? Skippin’ class? Joinin’ the military?”

Spider-man’s throat works as he swallows but he doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought. You wanna know what kinda updates I was gettin’?” Wade asks. “You at the fuckin’ farmer’s market with your aunt. You winnin’ goddamn science competitions. You with a life that I could never be a part of. A life I still can’t be a part of.”

“I was normal,” Spider-man repeats.

“Well, obviously now I know what a sick little fuck you are but my soul mark sure as shit didn’t tell me any of that.”

Spider-man is unmoving atop Wade’s thighs, his chin tilted down, and Wade knows that gaze is focused on his sternum. On his soul mark.

“I was looking at my soul mark the day it changed,” the web slinger says, quiet and slow. “It said MUTATED and then it turned into a fingerprint with the word DIED underneath. The only thing my soul mark ever told me after you mutated was whether or not you were going to die on any given day.”

Wade sucks in a breath and props himself up on his elbows. His instinct is to sit all the way up and gather the web slinger to his chest but his face just healed from the last punch so instead, he just sits there.

That’s how Spider-man’s soul mark works? Wade can’t fucking imagine. Even when he didn’t plan on ever seeing his soul mate, he thinks that knowing they had died would have broken him. No super soldier serum needed.

“I counted your death forty-two times before I couldn’t count anymore.” Spider-man’s gaze lifts to Wade’s face and Wade can’t help but remember the way Spider-man shouted the number forty-two at him before throwing him off a building the second time. “It only took you three weeks to die that many times.”

“Yeah.”

The word shudders out of Wade, riding on the wave of all the memories from his time at Weapon X that he’s tried so hard to shake loose from his ever-changing brain. And now, stacked on top of that, the knowledge that his soulmate suffered with him.

Wade pushes up onto his hands, bringing himself closer to Spider-man who’s still sitting in his lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Wade is maybe not the best at recognizing feelings or offering comfort but he doesn’t have to think too hard about it this time. It comes naturally like it’s always been there.

“Hey.” He lifts one hand and slowly lays it on top of Spider-man’s thigh, the muscle warm and firm even through the leather of Wade’s glove. “Remember when you told me you were okay?”

Wade hadn’t known he’d needed to hear it until he did and the memory of shooting DoppelSpider in the head finally stopped playing on a loop in his brain. He had needed to hear it from Spider-man. He’d needed his soulmate to say it out loud for it to stick.

Spider-man nods, his whole body as tense as an animal getting ready to bolt. Wade pushes himself up further on his arm, sliding his hand up the lean length of Spider-man’s leg, letting his thumb drop to the inside of Spider-man’s thigh, leaning forward far enough that he can deposit his words directly into Spider-man’s ear.

“I’m okay, peaches.” Wade squeezes the muscle under his hand, feeling the electric spark through his thumb when it presses into Spider-man’s soul mark. “Nothin’s killed me yet. At least not permanently.”

“That doesn’t sound as comforting as you think it does.”

Wade can feel the twitch of the web slinger’s cheek against his own as a smile tries to break free, the brush of skin-on-skin reminding him that both of their masks are still up. That he could taste Spider-man’s jaw if he just turned his head a little. That he could lick every freckle covering the small, bare expanse of his face. That he could suck the web slinger’s tongue into his mouth until they swapped pieces of gum.

All bad ideas, probably.

So instead, he decides to stick his foot in his mouth. Strategically.

“Hop up, Spidey Cakes.” Wade lifts his palm from the web slinger’s thigh and slaps him lightly on the side of the hip. “No one likes a pathetic superhero.”

“Pathetic?” Spider-man yelps as he jumps to his feet, the entire lower half of his face flushing pink and twisting into a scowl. “You’re such a fucking asshole. I should have stabbed you in the neck when I had the chance instead of using my fist.”

This.

This is perfect.

This is exactly what Wade was looking for.

The chance to shake his grumpy, golden boy completely out of whatever touchy-feely, serious conversation they just had and back into something Wade knows his spider needs. Something that’s not being a superhero. Something distracting. Something playful.

Wade scoffs at Spider-man’s threat. “You never had the chance.”

Spider-man’s arm slips behind his back almost faster than Wade can see it and suddenly his knife is in the web slinger’s hand, already flicked open, the sharp steel edge glinting in the lights of the city. Goddamn. This is going to be even better than Wade hoped.

“Wanna bet?”

Wade scoffs again. “Bet what? That you can stab me?”

Spider-man shrugs and rolls the blade over his knuckles in a way that makes Wade’s mouth go dry and his pants go tight. Wade’s question seems to flip some sort of switch inside the web slinger. Because there it is. The part of Wade’s soulmate that is just his, not Spider-man’s, not Peter Parker’s. That part belongs to Wade W. Wilson.

“I absolutely will stab you,” Spider-man promises, the blade flip-flip-flipping across his knuckles.

“Same stakes as last time?”

Wade is really, truly trying to negotiate but the way Luigi looks sliding along Spider-man’s long, elegant fingers is pushing all his blood away from his actual brain and into the brain that wants him to drop to his knees and beg Spider-man to use him. Hard and repeatedly.

“No…” Spider-man says slowly. “If I manage to stab you, I want a boon. To be determined later. I want you to owe me something.”

Oh, fuck.

Wade likes that.

“What do I get if you don’t manage to stab me?” Wade asks, trying not to sound too eager when really he’s foaming at the mouth.

Spider-man stops the knife, wrapping long fingers around the hilt, and lifts it up to tap the tip of the blade against his jawline. Thinking. Wade is nearly drooling all over himself, he swallows hard and manages, by some fucking miracle, not to palm his dick.

Spider-man’s eyes land on Wade’s exposed mouth. His lips tingle under the web slinger’s gaze and he drags a tongue across his lower lip before pulling it between his teeth. Maybe Wade is just imagining it but he thinks Spider-man’s next words sound strained.

“I’ll give you a kiss.”

Oh. Fuck.

A kiss? With Spider-man? In the real world? Now, Wade can’t decide if he wants to let the web slinger stab him or if he wants to pin the clever fucker to the ground and take that knife from him nice and slow.

“Deal,” Wade agrees. “I know you think you’re going to get past my defenses with your fuckin’ spider speed but—”

Wade’s halfway through his annoying ass taunt but Spider-man is already moving. Wade expected the web slinger to come at it obliquely, sneak up on Wade from the side or descend on him from above, but his spider comes at him in a full frontal attack. Sprinting directly at Wade faster than any human can move. Then Spider-man’s heat is flush to Wade’s torso again, the web slinger’s knees squeezing against Wade’s sides and a red and web-gloved hand gripping around Wade’s neck just under the jaw, tipping his head up and exposing his throat.

Instead of his usual fight instinct, Wade’s hands immediately drop to Spider-man’s thighs, fingers digging into hard muscle, tugging him closer, stabilizing his perch, and holding him in place against Wade. It leaves him open for the web slinger to nudge the tip of the knife into the soft underside of Wade’s jaw. He can feel the press of the blade, then the prick of its sharp edge, then a drop of blood sliding down his throat.

“Gotcha,” Spider-man breathes into Wade’s ear, leaning forward to press the together from chest to hip.

“Yeah, peaches,” Wade swallows, a second drop of blood trickling along his neck as he does, and flexes his hands around his soulmate’s thighs. “You do.”

Chapter Text

Back when Peter Parker used to obsessively think about his soulmate, he would imagine something exactly like what was in his shared dreams. He’d never opened that door but he didn’t need to because he knew what was behind it: Peter and his soulmate (sun dressed up, like Gwen accused him of), sitting on a blanket under a tree in a meadow with the sun warm on the earth and their skin.

She would lean against him, lay her head on his shoulder, and turn to look up at him with the light bright against her hair. The look on her face is burned into Peter’s mind, she always looked so… in awe of him. Like he, Peter Parker, was worthy of adoration. Even in his dreams, he knew that look was a little too far-fetched to be aimed at a human disaster like him but whenever the image crossed his mind it would make his heart ache.

Peter had never expected to truly see that look on his soulmate’s face or, if he did, he knew it would never last. He knew he would inevitably disappoint her when he was late to dinner doing Spider-man stuff or he forgot their anniversary because he was hyper-focused in the lab. How could anyone adore a man that was barely holding on? Cobbling together a whole life with homemade webbing and sheer spite?

A part of Peter had always known that he didn’t deserve that look. That he didn’t deserve that wonderful, golden-haired woman. That he wasn’t capable of inducing adoration in anyone. At least unless he was Spider-man.

But here he is on a dirty rooftop in the middle of the city at midnight, climbing his soulmate like a tree to hold a knife to his throat, and… Deadpool is looking at Peter like that. Like Peter can do no wrong even as blood soaks into Deadpool’s collar. Like Peter didn’t smash the side of Deadpool’s face in. Like Peter is worth that look.

Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s that all that black, choking rage and pain inside of Peter, all the parts that make it hard for him to be the kind of Spider-man he thinks he should be, all that tightly coiled fear and anxiety, doesn’t change what his soulmate sees.

Because that’s the thing that Peter is forever realizing about the merc. Deadpool sees him. And Deadpool still has that look on his face. It’s all somehow so much better and so much more terrifying than anything Peter pictured. 

This is real and Peter isn’t fucking pretending here. It’s not some picnic he put together to impress someone, it’s a knockdown, drag-out fight, it’s an improv scene. It’s Peter finally letting go of all the expectations he puts on himself as a superhero and a Ph.D. student and then having Deadpool say, yes, and?

And… Peter has a knife to the merc’s throat. That’s where this scene ends. Peter hurts someone that’s looking at him like he hung the moon.

Maybe Deadpool’s right. Maybe he is a sick fuck.

But Deadpool is a sick fuck, too, and something about that soothes Peter. Makes him feel less alone. It’s just like Peter said, he’s got Deadpool. And Deadpool agreed.

Yeah, peaches. You do.

Suddenly, Peter becomes aware of everything. Not just the look on Deadpool’s face or how Peter feels about finding his soulmate buried inside a man that’s been trying to kill him for years. He becomes aware of how close they are. The heat of Deadpool’s chest searing Peter’s own and the warmth of Deadpool’s palms seeping into the back of Peter’s thighs. He becomes aware of how tight his legs are squeezed around the merc’s waist, the thrumming of the merc’s pulse against his fingertips, and the blood drying on the pitted skin of the merc’s neck.

As Peter looks down at his soulmate, two wolves fight inside of him. One snapping and yapping, fur fluffed out in panic, trying to run. And the other… well, the other wolf wants.

Peter’s hand flexes tighter around Deadpool’s neck. He twists his wrist and forces the merc to look up and away, elongating his neck, letting Peter see the tip of the knife pressed into the skin. The wound has healed but the blood is half-dried in a tacky rivulet down the length of Deadpool’s neck.

“I won,” Peter says as he stares at the line of blood, his voice deeper and rougher than usual. “You owe me.”

“Do I?” Deadpool cocks his head in Peter’s grip and a smile tugs up the corner of his full lips. “It doesn’t feel like you actually stabbed me.”

“You’re bleeding,” Peter argues.

“That was just a little prick.”

“You’re just a little prick. And you fucking owe me.” Peter leans forward, plastering himself across the merc to speak right in his ear. Putting more bite in the words. An order couched in a question. “Are you going to pay up?”

“Yeah.” Deadpool’s shaky exhale tickles across Peter’s jaw.“Yes. Whatever you want.”

The answer comes so fast that it surprises Peter. Whatever he wants. And, the thing is, he knows that Deadpool means it. This mountain of murderous muscle underneath Peter will do whatever Peter tells him to. Power surges through Peter, heady enough that he feels almost drunk with it.

“Hold still,” he orders as he presses the knife deeper into Deadpool’s neck again.

The skin dimples around the tip of the blade and Peter sees the moment it breaks the skin. He feels it too, a shudder shaking Deadpool’s body underneath Peter as fresh droplets of blood well up under the knife and trickle down the merc’s neck.

Peter leans away, eyes still fixed on the wound he created, watching it heal as he pulls the knife back. He relaxes his grip on Deadpool’s jaw and lets the merc turn to look at him, their eyes level, white scarred irises meeting wide lenses.

Peter realizes it’s fucked up even as he’s doing it but there’s a part of him that wants to know. How far can he push this? How far can he push Deadpool? How far can he push himself? Is there even a limit? He looks into his soulmate’s eyes and brings the knife to his mouth, dragging his tongue along the flat of the blade, tasting cold steel and then warm iron.

“Fuuuck.” The groan rumbles through Deadpool’s chest, vibrating against Peter in a way that sends heat racing to his groin as Deadpool’s hands flex around the backs of his thighs. “You were just made for me, weren’t you?”

“I’m not perfect,” Peter argues. Anxiety sizzles through him at the idea that he might have been wrong, that he might have to be perfect here, too.

“Yeah, no. Definitely not.” Deadpool pauses and tilts his head again, seeing Peter. He can feel it. “Good with a knife and willing to put me in my place, though, yeah? So… perfect for me.”

Something twists and pinches in Peter’s chest. He shoves away from Deadpool who seems reluctant to let him go.

“Put me down,” Peter barks.

Wade slowly slides Peter down his body, dragging every inch of them against each other, and Peter can feel the heat and hardness of the merc. God, he’s so hard.

“You’re such an asshole,” Peter grumbles as his feet hit the rooftop and he takes a step back.

Deadpool laughs. “What? You never said how I had to put you down.”

“I would have rather you thrown me.”

“You sure about that, peaches?” Deadpool looks Peter up and down, eyes lingering on his hips. The merc bites his lower lip as his gaze heats up, Peter’s body heating up with it. “Seems like maybe you liked that.”

“I would like it if you shut the fuck up.”

Peter spins Luigi in his hand and watches Deadpool’s gaze snap to it like a magnet. His tongue drags across his lower lip as he stares and Peter realizes his tongue is scarred, too.

“Is that your boon, freckles?”

Is it?

That wild animal want snarls inside Peter’s brain again. Yes, that’s his boon. Peter wants the same power and control he had last time. He needs it. And he thinks the merc will give it to him.

“I want you to do whatever I say tonight. That’s my boon.”

“I already told you I would, sweet pea.” Deadpool’s voice is low and raspy but almost sweet. “Whatever you want.”

Peter considers Deadpool for a moment. He might be about to expand his kink repertoire, by a lot if how much he enjoyed licking Deadpool’s blood off the knife is any indication, but there are still some things that he is definitely not into.

“I don’t want to force you.” The words come out firmer than Peter was expecting. Normally, he’s a stammering mess when it comes to talking about sex but that cocktail of power and control is still coursing through his veins. “I want you to do what I want but I need you to actually want to do it.”

A soft smile overtakes Deadpool’s face. “I’m not the coy type, Webs. At least not tonight. I’ll say stop if I wanna stop but I can guarantee you that I’m not gonna wanna stop.”

Peter scowls. “There’s no way you could know that. What if I want to do terrible things to you?”

The soft smile morphs into a feral grin. “That’s what I’m countin’ on.”

“I do,” Peter tells the merc. “I want to do terrible things to you. Fucked up things.”

“What are you waitin’ for, then?”

Peter takes a small step back. There’s no way this mercenary that killed New York’s biggest mob boss and one hundred of his closest friends is going to let Peter do all the terrible things he wants. Maybe last time was just a fluke. Thorns of uncertainty snag on Peter’s insides. His eyes drift up to the mask bunched over Deadpool’s nose and he realizes that there’s one way to find out just how serious the merc is.

“Take off your mask.”

Deadpool flinches, jerking back a little, his teeth biting into his lower lip, a tell that Peter’s seen more than once now. The merc is either turned-on or nervous. That flash of possible uncertainty makes Peter’s blood roar.

“You owe me,” he reminds the merc. It’s harsher and harder than he’s ever spoken to anyone before but it feels… right.

“Jesus. Maybe we shoulda given you a safe word,” Deadpool huffs quietly. Then louder, “Remember, you asked for this.”

The merc’s black and red-gloved hands go to the already lifted edge of his mask and Peter watches them start to push at the leather or polyester or whatever the Deadpool mask is made of. Peter feels greedy. He wants to see and he wants Deadpool to be the one to show him.

The mask peels off slowly, revealing the strong, square jaw that Peter’s already familiar with and the lips he’s been staring at all night. Then a slightly crooked nose that Peter realizes must have been broken at least once before Deadpool became Deadpool. Peter can see the way Deadpool’s skin sticks to the mask, especially where there are scars that cut all the way down to the muscle, but the merc doesn’t wince until the mask is all the way off and Peter can see his whole face.

It’s exactly what Peter expected. The pits and hollows of Deadpool’s jaw but across the skin of his entire face, the scars looping and crossing over and around each other, stitching down his neck and across the bald expanse of his skull. They wave and swell across the merc’s face like a lake in a storm. All implied violence and chaos. Everything about Deadpool screams violence, Peter realizes. Why should his skin be any different?

Peter can see how uncomfortable Deadpool is. It’s the first time he’s ever seen the merc anything other than absurdly confident, his big shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast, the mask held in a tight fist at his side. But it’s just him. The same infuriatingly huge shitheel that Peter has been dealing with for five years. Now he just needs Deadpool to remember that.

It’s no fun to wreck someone that already looks wrecked. Emotionally. The scars Peter couldn’t care less about.

“You have good bone structure,” he says into the quiet of the night.

A short, sharp exhale of a breath is all Peter gets until Deadpool lifts his gaze. The smirk that Peter always wants to rip off the merc’s face when he sees it spreads across the mouth Peter is quickly becoming obsessed with.

“You shoulda seen me before my guinea pig days, Webs. I was a real looker.”

Peter honestly can’t tell if Deadpool is telling the truth or not. But it doesn’t matter because the Deadpool in front of him is the one that has taunted Peter and bled for Peter and killed for Peter and died for Peter. Who cares about that other guy?

“You’re adequate the way you are,” he says and steps closer to Deadpool, laying a hand over the middle of the massive chest and shoving backward. “I don’t care what you look like as long as you do what I say.”

Peter shoves Deadpool backward as he talks until they hit a wall. Peter feels the human furnace heat of the merc soaking into his gloved hand as he looks up at a face he’s never really seen before but feels like he knows so well. He’s lying, though. He does care what Deadpool looks like. He wants that square jaw and scarred face to be brash and overconfident because that’s the Deadpool that Peter wants to take apart. The one that isn’t afraid of anything. The one that thinks life is a joke. The one that wants Peter to destroy him.

“Damning me with faint praise, freckles? Careful. I might start to like it.”

The cocky grin Peter is so used to is back on the face that looks so familiar. Peter presses against the center of Deadpool’s chest, where his hand is still splayed, shoving the merc harder into the wall.

“Keep your back against the wall.” Peter flexes his fingertips, feeling the muscle of Deadpool’s chest give underneath them. It feels like Peter is about to open a present, one that he’s always wanted, one that he’s waited his whole life for. “In case I want to tie you up.”

Deadpool’s only answer is a dreamy sigh and a, “Do your worst, peaches.”

Peter smoothes his hand down Deadpool’s sternum, stroking his fingers over the leather and kevlar that covers the expanse of skin that he knows holds the merc’s soul mark. Peter wonders what it says right now. Maybe he’ll find out. But not yet.

Instead, he spins Luigi in a circle around his fingers, lifting the knife up toward Deadpool’s neck again. The merc doesn’t move. He keeps his back pressed into the wall just like Peter told him to and a surge of electricity races through Peter’s limbs at the realization.

There are a lot of things Peter wants to do to the man in front of him. So many that they’re getting bottlenecked in his brain. But his eyes fall on the lips he can’t stop thinking about, maybe hasn’t stopped thinking about since their last shared dream, and he suddenly knows exactly what he wants.

Peter lifts the knife higher, dragging the length of Luigi, from hilt to tip, down Deadpool’s lower lip watching the sharp edges dig furrows into the skin. Blood blooms red and wet along the edges, smearing across Deadpool’s mouth and chin. Peter’s close enough that he can feel the way the merc’s chest heaves as the knife slices him open. His eyelids are fluttering and, this close, Peter can see the heavily scarred pupil blown wide.

“You like that, don’t you?” Peter asks into the space between them. “And you said I was a sick fuck.”

Deadpool sucks in a breath, his tongue slicking out across his lip, cleaning up some of the blood and catching on the tip of Luigi where Peter still holds it close to his mouth.

“Right now, I consider sick fuck a term of endearment.”

Peter pulls the knife away, eyes fixed on the red that’s staining Deadpool’s mouth. He wants to taste it, a desire that he would have labeled fucked up a day ago. Hell, ten minutes ago. But now, with his merc panting against him, knowing that he can do whatever he wants... well, he wants to do that.

“Don’t move,” Peter says, voice firm and hard. An order. Deadpool’s breath hitches but he nods almost eagerly. “If you move, I’ll stop.”

Another nod so Peter pushes closer, up on his toes, his whole body rubbing against all that amazing fucking muscle, and he drags his tongue across Deadpool’s lower lip. The metallic taste of blood is almost drowned out by the flavor of the cinnamon gum they’ve both been chewing. The merc tastes like he smells; cinnamon and fresh blood and incendiary devices. It makes Peter’s mouth water.

He shoves in closer, licking his tongue along the seam of the merc’s mouth before ordering, “Open your mouth.”

Deadpool’s lips part and Peter pushes his tongue inside, searching for more of that taste. A groan rumbles from the merc and into Peter. He can feel it against his chest and on his lips. The hand that isn’t holding the knife fists in Deadpool’s collar, fingers curling under the fabric, so Peter can yank the merc closer. Hold him exactly where Peter wants him as Peter plunders his mouth.

Peter rubs his tongue over Deadpool’s, the tip catching on the texture of the slick muscle. Fuck. That’s hot. He pushes his tongue in again, licking across the scars, finding where they dip and rise, tracing the intersections with his tongue. Chasing the taste of blood and spice and gunpowder across the roof of the merc’s mouth and the edges of the merc’s teeth and the topography of the merc’s tongue.

Peter thrusts his tongue into Deadpool’s mouth again and again while the merc stays perfectly still, his chest heaving against Peter’s, his lips parted, whimpers and moans filtering out. When Peter sucks Deadpool’s tongue into his mouth, the merc jolts, following the pull of Peter’s hand on this collar, to lean closer.

Having this muscled dipshit stay still for him is intoxicating. But Peter wants more.

“Kiss me back,” he demands into the merc’s mouth.

Deadpool groans and complies. His tongue is as dextrous with kissing as it is with talking. He meets Peter’s rough thrusts with licks and sucks of his own, tilting his head to the side so their mouths can seal tighter together. It makes Peter’s head swim. All of it. The taste of his soulmate on his tongue, the way this huge man is letting Peter use him however Peter wants, the heated length of a body rubbing against his own.

He pulls back, sucking the merc’s lower lip with him, tugging it out, and biting into it hard enough to draw blood. Deadpool groans again, then shudders which makes Peter smile as he finally releases the merc from his mouth.

“You did good.” Peter tilts his head a little so he can speak directly into Deadpool’s ear, a feat he manages because he’s still got the merc by the collar, forcing him to loom down over Peter.

A shaky breath leaves the merc, warming Peter’s face. Deadpool is already wrecked and Peter has barely done anything. He loves it.

“Take off your chest plate,” Peter orders as he leans away, letting go of Deadpool’s collar and flicking Luigi closed. “All the way down to the skin.”

Deadpool moves fast, nearly clocking Peter in the head with an elbow as he yanks at the straps and zippers that keep the kevlar in place. The chest plate falls to the ground with a thud leaving Deadpool’s arms and sides still encased in red and black leather, his chest covered with only a thin black base layer.

The merc goes to shrug out of the rest of the leather but stops gratifyingly quickly when Peter barks, “Stop.”

Luigi snicks back open and Peter moves closer again, clenching a fist in the black fabric above Deadpool’s hip and pulling it away from the skin. Peter can feel the shiver that coasts across Deadpool’s skin against his knuckles as he presses the tip of the knife into the base layer until there’s a hole and then slices upward.

The cut is crooked, going diagonally from Deadpool’s hip up to his opposite shoulder but it serves its purpose because the base layer falls open, exposing Deadpool’s bare chest and the soul mark marching down his sternum.

PLAYING WITH SOULMATE

It says almost the same thing it said the last time Peter looked at it and that makes the corner of his mouth tick up. Maybe Deadpool was right. Maybe Peter has just been playing the game wrong this whole time.

“Do you know,” Peter asks, keeping his voice low so Deadpool has to tilt his own head down to hear, “how much I hated your soul mark the first time I saw it?”

Peter strokes a fingertip over the letters, watching the goosebumps that ripple outward across Deadpool’s skin at the touch.

“I always thought,” Peter continues, “that my soulmate would be a petite blonde in a sundress and then there you were. Not petite. Not blonde. Not in a sundress. Not a woman.”

Deadpool’s small laugh puffs against Peter’s jaw. “I used to be blonde. Adjacent. And I can wear a sundress if you want. The rest I probably can’t do much about, though.”

Peter smiles a small, pleased, secretive smile that he’s not sure he’s ever felt on his face before.

“I wanted to carve it off you the first time I saw it.”

“I’ve tried,” Deadpool says and Peter’s hand flexes around the hilt of the knife at the tone of the words. “It just comes back.”

“Maybe,” Peter says, replacing his fingertip with the point of the knife, scraping it lightly down Deadpool’s soul mark, “the problem is that you didn’t have anything to replace it with.”

The merc is smart, Peter’s known it almost since that first day, despite how ridiculous Deadpool appears which means that he understands what Peter is saying almost immediately. Deadpool’s mouth goes slack and another shiver works across his skin. This time, Peter can see it, the way the scars twitch and the merc’s abs flex. And lower, the thick bar of his cock tenting the front of his pants.

Peter adjusts his grip on the knife. There’s a flutter in his belly, uncertainty about what he wants to do and something else. Something deeper and hotter. He focuses on that second feeling, clinging to it like a lifeline. Reminding himself that Deadpool said he would tell Peter to stop if he wanted to stop. The merc isn’t talking and he doesn’t exactly look like he wants to stop. In fact, the only look on his face is the awestruck one that Peter can’t believe is real.

“Don’t move.”

Peter says it, and he knows that Deadpool will listen, but it’s not enough somehow. He slides his empty hand up Deadpool’s side, feeling the way the muscles shift and contract under the slide of his glove. The merc is so warm through the spandex and Peter wants to feel that heat against his skin. He pulls the hand away, bringing it to his mouth to bite at the tips of the fingers and pull the glove away with his mouth.

“Fuck,” Deadpool whispers as Peter’s bare hand goes back to his side, flat against his ribs.

This time, it’s Peter’s bare skin sliding up and over the rounded muscles of Deadpool’s chest, fingertips gliding up and down the hills and valleys of the scars until Peter’s fingers are wrapped around the merc’s throat again. Peter feels Deadpool’s hard swallow against the palm of his hand as he increases the pressure on the sides of the merc’s thick neck.

A whimper vibrates against Peter’s palm, too, and it feels like it shivers into Peter’s arm and down his spine.

This is so fucked up.

Why is he letting me do this?

Why do I like it so much?

But those thoughts dissipate as soon as Peter presses the knife into Deadpool’s chest, feeling the flesh give underneath the sharp edge, watching the blood trickle down that honestly incredible torso. The rush Peter feels is unreal.

“What should I replace it with?”

Peter’s voice is almost a growl, sandpaper over gravel, his own breath panting in and out of his lungs. He feels fuzzy, floating, but also like everything is in perfect focus. The red of Deadpool’s blood more vivid than anything else.

“Whatever you want,” Deadpool croaks out, quiet and breathy.

“You might regret that,” Peter warns as he slices the knife downward, creating a deep diagonal line that spills blood over Deadpool’s ribs.

“I can assure you,” Deadpool manages to stutter out as Peter slashes another diagonal line into his skin, “I absolutely will not regret this.”

Peter gnaws at his lip as he carves, occasionally squeezing tighter around the merc’s neck and then relaxing his grip, listening to the way Deadpool’s breathing changes as he does. The blood becomes a sheet down Deadpool’s torso as the word Peter is carving stretches across the merc’s big chest. He’s halfway through, lost in the blood and the feeling of skin parting under his knife and the constant trembling of the merc’s throat against his palm. But Peter’s not playing this game alone. He doesn’t want to play this game alone. So he tugs the knife away for a moment and looks up into Deadpool’s face.

“You’re standing so still.”

Deadpool bites his lower lip with a moan, eyes rolling back in his head as it thunks loudly against the wall. Peter moves his hand off Deadpool’s throat and grabs his jaw instead, angling his head back down until Peter can look into the merc’s eyes. Awe. Adoration. Want. Need. Every emotion Peter can see feeds the inferno inside of him.

“What am I carving?”

“I don’t know,” Deadpool whimpers, shifting slightly against the wall.

“Don’t move,” Peter snaps and he feels every muscle in the merc’s body go rigid at the command. “What. Am. I. Carving?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s still a plaintive whimper but Deadpool doesn’t move this time. The jolt that Peter gets from the merc’s obedience feels like falling. Falling and knowing he can catch himself whenever he wants.

“If,” Peter says slowly, sliding his hand back to Deadpool’s neck and looking down to start the next letter, “you can guess what I’m carving, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Peaches…” Deadpool whines.

“Guess,” Peter tells him as he carves another letter. Two straight lines with a crossbar between them.

“Fuck. Okay. That’s a—” Peter starts on the next letter and Deadpool’s guess is interrupted by a low groan. “Tabernak. Christ on a cross. That’s… an H.”

“Very good,” Peter purrs, finishing the next letter with a long curve.

Deadpool jerks at the praise. “Nngh. That’s an… O?”

“Mmmhmm,” Peter agrees, digging another straight line vertically into Deadpool’s thick muscle.

The first half of the word is already healing, leaving behind puckered scars and trails of slick, warm blood dripping into Deadpool’s waistband.

“L?” Deadpool asks, voice high-pitched.

Peter squeezes the merc’s neck tight at the correct guess which draws out a choked moan.

“You don’t get anything unless you can guess the entire word, though. Think you can do that, big guy?”

“Shit. Shitshitshit. Um… H-O-L…” Deadpool’s words trail off as Peter starts on the last letter. Another deep vertical slash. “Hnngh. Uh… fuck.”

A hard shiver almost dislodges the knife from Peter’s hand but he tightens his grip and starts on the next line, this one horizontal.

“God.” Deadpool is whispering, almost like he’s talking to himself. Trying to solve the riddle of what Peter’s carving into his chest. Maybe trying to figure out how the fuck they got here. “Sweet Baby Yoda. I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe it’s you. I always thought the universe fucking hated me and— ungh.”

Peter’s face heats at Deadpool’s words, a heat that slides down his neck and into his chest and lower. Awe. Adoration. Want. Need. Peter wonders if it’s catching.

“The last letter is almost done, Wade.” Deadpool’s whole body jerks again at the use of his real name and Peter’s heart thumps in his chest. “Better figure it out quick.”

Peter sets the knife for the last horizontal line, only half-listening to the sound of Deadpool muttering letters to himself above Peter’s head. Until he hears Deadpool repeating the last four letters over and over again.

“H-O-L-E.” Peter feels the startled breath sucked in under the knife and against his palm. “Did you really carve asshole into my chest? You little fucking shit.”

Peter finishes the last line at the bottom of the E and leans back to look at his work. Most of it is gone but the blood… that’s still there.

A smile spreads across Peter’s face as he removes his hand from Deadpool’s neck. He did, indeed, carve the word asshole into his soulmate’s chest.

“You’re smarter than you look, big guy,” Peter says, patting his non-knife hand on the healed half of Deadpool’s chest. “I guess you earned yourself a reward. You were such a good…”

“Girl,” Deadpool breathes and the word makes Peter’s smile widen.

He shifts to Deadpool’s side, away from the blood, and presses himself against the merc, tucked right into the crook of one massive fucking arm. Peter presses up onto his toes again so he can put his mouth right next to Deadpool’s ear, his lips almost touching it as he speaks.

“You were such a good girl.”

Deadpool groans. “You’re frighteningly good at this.”

“And you look uncomfortable,” Peter tells him, enjoying the heat of the merc’s body and the sight of the blood streaming down over his ribs and belly. Peter wipes the flat of the blade across the ridge of Deadpool’s erection, cleaning both sides with the leather of the merc’s pants. “Maybe you should take care of that.”

“Fuuuck.” Deadpool groans, a shudder wracking his frame, fresh blood blooming from the cuts that haven’t closed yet. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Peter murmurs in the merc’s ear as he flicks Luigi closed and tucks the knife back into the pocket of his suit. “But you can’t come until I tell you.”

“Christ, peaches, you’re gonna kill me for real,” Deadpool grunts as his hands start tugging at the placket of his pants, cursing as his belt jams and he can’t get to the button. “Fucking goddamn shitboot dickbag hell—”

The string of obscenities stops as Peter reaches down and slowly unhooks the belt buckle from where it got stuck in the waistband of Deadpool’s pants. The merc shivers again and rolls his hips toward Peter’s hand.

“Stop,” Peter says firmly and Deadpool does, pressing his palms flat and his back hard against the wall behind him while he breathes heavily. His head is tipped down, his eyes fixed on Peter’s hand slipping the button through the hole of the waistband and then grabbing the tab of the zipper.

Peter is barely thinking about how close his hand is to another guy’s dick. He’s barely thinking about anything. He’s operating on instinct, the instinct to bring the man in front of Peter to his knees. To make him beg Peter for what he wants. To wait for what he wants until Peter says he can have it.

So, yes, it’s a hard dick but it’s also the thing that Peter’s going to use to wreck his merc. Because Wade wants this, more than Peter could have ever guessed, and Peter plans on giving it to him. Giving this to both of them.

All in due time.

“Take your gloves off,” Peter orders Wade as he pulls down the zipper on the leather pants.

Deadpool’s cock practically leaps through the parting teeth of the zipper, long and hard and slick at the head. A huff of laughter escapes Peter as the thick length of it brushes the back of his hand.

“I’m normally into humiliation but laughing the first time you see my dick seems like a bridge too far,” Deadpool comments dryly as he tosses both his gloves onto the ground before tucking one arm flat to the wall behind Peter and pulling the fly of his pants open wider with the other.

“I just—” Peter shakes his head and snorts, the laugh hitting him harder than he was expecting. He turns his forehead into Wade’s shoulder and snorts again. “You’re circumcised. I guess I was expecting your foreskin to have grown back.”

“Naw,” Deadpool drawls, his voice soft with amusement. “Pre-super soldier serum modifications seem to mostly still apply.”

“That’s why your nose is crooked.”

“Yeah, freckles. That’s why my nose is crooked.”

The moment stretches long and strange between them until Peter slaps his bare hand against Wade’s chest and breaks it.

“If you don’t want your reward, you just have to say so.”

“Oh, I want it, peaches.” Wade’s voice is so low and hot that it nearly burns Peter.

He watches as Wade wraps a big hand around his huge cock and groans in relief. Without thinking, Peter reaches up and pinches one of Wade’s nipples. Hard.

“No coming unless I say so.”

“Bossy,” Wade replies but it doesn’t sound like a complaint.

Peter watches with wide eyes as Wade uncurls his fingers from around his dick and swipes his hand down the front of his chest, coating his palm in blood before fisting it around his cock again.

“Be a shame to waste all this, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Peter’s not even sure if he agrees out loud because his whole focus is taken up by Wade’s fist stroking up and down his cock, smearing his own blood along the length of it. He thumbs the slit across the head, mixing the precome beading at the tip with the blood on his hand. A groan rumbles out of the merc and skates down Peter’s spine. He presses his hips into the outside of Wade’s thigh and nearly collapses at the sudden bolt of pleasure. Peter is hard, too.

Fuck.

“Get yourself close,” Peter rasps, trying to regain control of himself and the situation. Luckily, Wade gives him the reins easily, one hand speeding up on his cock as his other arm jostles against Peter as the merc shoves the hand roughly into his waistband and cradles his balls.

“I been close for hours, freckles,” Wade groans. “Days. Weeks. Fucking years.”

Peter feels Wade’s muscles going rigid against the front of Peter’s body, the merc’s hips pushing almost helplessly into the friction of his hand, moans and whimpers and words spilling out of his mouth.

Wade is in the middle of chanting a litany of oddly creative swear words when Peter presses hard into his side again, lips brushing the shell of the merc’s ear.

“Stop.”

“Nngh…” A whine slips out of Wade’s mouth but the hand on his cock stops immediately.

Peter watches Wade’s chest heave as he tries to get himself under control. Then Peter feels it under his hand as he starts stroking his fingertips along the path of the scars covering Wade’s collarbone. The skin twitches and trembles under his touch but Wade doesn’t move away.

“Again,” Peter orders, slipping his fingers lower, tracing the letters on Wade’s sternum and the merc groans and starts moving his hand again. “Faster. Stop holding back.”

“Fuck. You’re such a monster,” Wade huffs, his hand speeding up. “I love it.”

Peter flushes hot all over and his cock throbs and that feeling of power grows. Wade will listen to whatever Peter says. Wade will wait as long as Peter tells him to. Wade will love whatever Peter does to him.

“Keep going,” Peter tells Wade as he pushes closer to the merc’s body, tilting his head so he can reach the crook of Wade’s neck. “But don’t come.”

Wade yelps and nearly jumps off the wall as Peter sinks his teeth into the muscle joining the merc’s neck and shoulder. Peter can feel Wade fighting to keep his back to the wall, fighting not to come. He’s so close, Peter can tell, but he won’t come.

Not until Peter tells him to.

“Stop,” Peter presses the words into the side of Wade’s neck.

“Ungh. Fuck. I hate this.”

“No, you don’t,” Peter laughs, pulling his mouth away from Wade’s neck.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

“No, I don’t.”

“Again,” Peter orders.

“This time?“ Wade begs. “Please?”

Peter lets Wade get even closer this time, his eyes drinking in the flex of Wade’s abs and the dark red color of Wade’s cock, and the way Wade bites his lower lip hard enough that it bleeds. His whole body is starting to curl around his core, free hand slapping back into the wall, fingers digging holes in the brick.

So close.

But not too close.

“Stop.”

“Fuck you, Peter,” Wade whines, turning his head to the side and tipping it down until his forehead presses against Peter’s. Their breaths mingle hot between them and Peter drags his tongue across Wade’s bloody lower lip, a reward for how wrecked he sounds. How pretty he begs. “Please.”

“Hmm…” Peter drags his nails down Wade’s side hard, scratching them into the raised parts of his scars and feeling the big merc shudder under Peter’s touch. “No. Not yet. Again.”

Chapter Text

Wade’s entire body is shaking uncontrollably. He’s trying to take deep breaths and relax his muscles so he doesn’t come but fuck, he’s close. The spider-spliced freak snuggled up to his side is pushing every button that Wade has and doing it sooooo well. Spider-man’s white lenses narrow and widen, watching Wade, paying attention, and then using what he sees to take Wade apart.

It’s fucking incredible.

“Again.”

The barked command hits Wade like a bolt of lightning and he moans, swallowing hard before starting to move his hand over his dick again. It’s so hard it hurts and that bite of pain is really doing it for him.

All of this is really fucking doing it for him.

“Faster.”

Wade’s eyes are squeezed shut because he wants to focus on this moment. Not his hand on his cock or his impending orgasm but the press of Spider-man against his side, the answering erection digging into his leg, the warmth of the web slinger’s forehead against his. The way their breaths mingle, hot and fast between them.

Spider-man leans away and Wade tries to chase his body heat with a whine.

“Don’t move.”

Fuck. Right. Yeah.

Wade grinds his spine into the wall at his back, tipping his head up to look at the night sky and all the cosmic shit out there that has a front-row seat to what is shaping up to be one of Wade’s top five orgasms.

Top three.

Vying for the top spot, honestly.

There’s a quiet snick sound from Wade’s side and he blows out a heavy breath, running the edge of his thumb along the slit at the head of his cock and trying so hard not to come. He knows that sound though, would know it in his sleep, would know it anywhere.

The sharp tip of the knife scrapes down Wade’s sternum again and he shudders at the feeling. He could probably get there with just his hand and Spider-man’s warmth against his side and the bite of an order in the web slinger’s words, work himself hard enough and fast enough that he wouldn’t be able to stop from coming all over himself, mixing his cum with the blood drying on his stomach.

Oof. That’s a thought. His dick flexes in his grip at the image and he has to consciously relax to drive back his orgasm.

Yeah. He could definitely get there.

But toeing the line of his release isn’t actually that hard. Wade isn’t really working for it. Fuck, he wants to work for it. He wants to earn it.

“You’re doing so good.”

Spider-man’s voice is low and authoritative and the praise shoots right to every pleasure center in Wade’s brain. Jesus. If he knew this tragic nerd was going to be better than heroin, Wade would have sampled the goods years ago. Fuck dogging Spider-man’s every step and making his life hell, Wade should have been crawling after the web slinger on all fours and begging.

“You look like you want to come, Wade.”

The words are a taunt that coils inside Wade’s belly and makes him want to squirm. He doesn’t though because he’s not supposed to.

“What gave it away, freckles?” Wade snarks.

“Stop.”

“Fuck,” Wade grunts as his hand stops, dropping to squeeze hard around the base of his dick to keep from coming. Pre-come slicks the length of his cock and the cool night air against the heated flesh is almost enough to push him over the edge. Especially with the tip of the knife scraping along one of his ribs.

“I can’t, peaches,” he grits out. “I need to come. I can’t—“

“You can.” The command sinks into Wade’s bones and makes a home there. This is his life now. He can. He has to. “I’ll make you a deal. You figure out the next word, then you can come. Not before.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Wade swallows hard. “I’ll be so good.”

“I know you will.” Wade can feel the order coming and he’s not sure he can follow it. His hands are shaking and his balls are drawn up tight and— “Again.”

His fist slides up his cock and twists around the slick head without Wade’s conscious effort. His knees wobble, almost buckling, and a whine leaks out of his mouth. A whine that morphs into a deep groan as the knife cuts into the skin right over his ribs. Wade feels the sudden bloom of pain and the warm rush of blood down his side, the sensations mixing with the euphoria of his hand on his dick and Spider-man’s praise in his ear.

Wade has never had it this good. Most people look at him and assume he wants to be the one in charge. That his muscles or his job or his personality all lend themselves to pinning other people to the bed. And he can do that, he likes doing that, but that isn’t this.

This is a bright spotlight shining solely on Wade. This is someone, this is Spider-man, focused on Wade to the exclusion of everything else. He can feel that attention on his skin like the sun, warm with the possibility of getting burned. The jagged hum under Wade’s skin when he’s alone, the restlessness that makes his teeth itch, it’s all dampened under Spider-man’s heavy focus.

Wade can just breathe. Let someone else worry about shit. Let the pain from this make him forget the pain from everything else.

“Wade.” The sharp rebuke breaks Wade out of his reverie, blinking back to reality like a fluorescent bulb. “Pay attention.”

The next cut is rounded, a large curve that digs deep into the muscle. Spider-man is heavy-handed as hell with a blade and Wade wants to pray over a fucking rosary about it. Or whatever it is that someone does when they’ve experienced a miracle. As the curve loops back on itself, it cuts even deeper, scraping across Wade’s rib bone, and his cock jerks in his hand, a fresh burst of pre-come soaking the tip.

Shit.

He’s supposed to be paying attention to the letter and not the pain or the pleasure. His brain rolls slow and buzzy over the cuts he just felt. God. He knows this letter. He speaks fucking English (among other languages) and he knows his goddamn alphabet. What fucking letter is it?

Wade thumps his skull back against the wall once, trying to ignore the tingling in his cock and the ache in his balls and the sizzle at the base of his spine. Just focusing on the cut, the letter.

“It’s a P,” he realizes.

“Good girl,” Webs purrs and Wade’s body shudders, the contraction of all his muscles pushing him closer to the edge. He rubs his thumb over the sensitive spot behind the head of his cock, torturing himself more because he’s a masochist. Obviously. “Do you have a guess?”

“Fuuuuck. Uh…” Christ. Wade knows all sorts of words. The best words. Why is there not a single word in his brain right now? “Panini?”

Spidey snorts next to Wade and he feels the gust of air across his chest. “No, Wade. I’m not carving the name for a type of sandwich into your skin.”

“Duh. Yeah. Of course,” Wade babbles. “Knew that, Spidey Cakes. Just tryna lighten the— nngh.”

The next cut is another straight line, parallel to the one on the P. This cut isn’t deep, more of a tickle than anything, but Wade still shivers at the new gush of blood washing down his side. He flexes his hand tight around the base of his dick because he doesn’t want to come yet. He wants to be a good girl. For Spider-man. For his soulmate.

“Don’t stop.”

Spider-man pulls the knife from Wade’s skin and taps the bloody flat of the blade against the tip of his cock. A combination whine-whimper-moan spills out of Wade and he thinks maybe his eyes roll out of his head. His body is starting to get into overly sensitive territory, where the feeling of every little thing against his skin is almost enough to have him spilling into his hand. The breeze across his stomach. Spider-man’s hard cock rubbing against this thigh. The blood drying sticky on his belly. The horizontal cut across his ribs. The pleased hum in his soulmate’s throat.

“E,” Wade says in a daze, remembering how that same letter felt carved into his chest for asshole. Oh. Maybe… “Peckerhead?”

Another of Spider-man’s dorky laughs puffs across Wade’s skin and he smiles. A real fucking genuine one even.

“Good insult but no.”

Wade’s body hums and buzzes as Spider-man slices another vertical line into Wade’s side. His hand is still shuttling over his cock fast, the heat building between his thighs and tingling along the base of his spine. His breaths are coming out in heaving pants and he wants to come. He wants to come. He wants to come. He wants to—

“Wade.”

Wade yelps and shivers before asking, “T?” with a voice that sounds more wrecked than usual.

“Mmmhmm,” Spider-man hums next to him, already starting on the next letter. Wade needs to fucking focus because there’s no doubt in his mind that his sadistic soulmate will leave him hanging if he doesn’t guess this word right.

“Petrichor?”

God. What a dumb guess.

But, in his defense, Wade’s brain feels like it’s leaking out of his ears. Or his dick. Maybe that’s why there’s so much pre-come.

The knife lifts from Wade’s skin but he can feel it hovering there, waiting to carve the next letter. It feels like his skin is reaching for it. Like his whole body is reaching for it.

“You have a broader vocabulary than I would have thought.”

“It’s from reading all those terrible abstracts,” Wade jokes, the banter pulling his focus from the feeling building in his balls.

“I’m the one that graded all those abstracts,” Spider-man says, opening another cut along Wade’s side. “Not a single one of my students would have used a word like that. Trust me.”

“You’re such a dick, Profess— urgh. Fuck.”

“Only one letter left, Wade.”

DorothyRoseSophiaandBlanche.

Wade squeezes his eyes shut trying to remember the shape the knife just made against his ribs. His eyes pop back open when he remembers. It’s another E. Wade strings the letters together in his honestly very floaty brain.

P-E-T-E…

Holy shit. Holy—

“Fuck,” he blurts out at the realization. Wade’s orgasm is coming. He’s pretty sure the knowledge of what Spider-man is carving into his skin pushed him past the point of no return. But he tries. He tries to hold off because he wants to be good. So good for— “Peter. It says Peter.”

“So smart,” Peter hums next to Wade, his body jerking and trying to curl around itself. “Such a good girl.”

Oh, Christ.

“Please?” Wade begs. “Please. I have to— I can’t— Peter, please.”

The knife cuts the straight line for the R into Wade’s skin and Peter fucking Parker pushes closer against Wade’s side. The brush of lips against his ear and the hot blood pouring down his skin make Wade tremble like a leaf. And that’s before his soulmate whispers in his ear.

“Come for me, Wade.”

It feels like Wade’s groan is pulled up from the center of the Earth. He fights the urge to hunch over his dick as it jerks in his hand, painting cum across his lower belly. He knows he has to keep his back to the wall and the knowledge of that, the fight to do it, makes his orgasm even better. Wade’s brain whites out, a true little death, and when he comes back, his body is still twitching in fitful jerks and his mouth is going.

His mouth is always fucking going.

“Holy shit. What the fuck? Tabernak. Fuck me, peaches. That was so goddamn good. I didn’t know you had it in you. Pretty sure you could tell me to drown myself in the Hudson and I’d fucking do it. Jesus Christ.”

Peter’s bare hand pets flat over Wade’s chest, over his soul mark, over his heart, in a soothing stroke while the blade carves out the last diagonal line of the R.

“You did perfect,” Peter says quietly as he wipes the blade off on the torn fabric of Wade’s base layer. The honest praise trickles through Wade’s limbs and warms him up from the inside out.

Peter Benjamin Parker is aftercaring the shit out of Wade and he thinks he might melt into a goddamn puddle at his soulmate’s feet. But he's not the one that just placed in his first BDSM rodeo so he turns his head to look down at Peter who’s tucking Luigi into the back pocket of his suit.

“You alright, freckles?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Naw,” Wade says, his fingers itching to reach out and touch Peter fucking Parker. “This is one of those give-and-take sorts of deals. A we both get what we want kinda thing.”

Peter strokes his fingers down Wade’s chest and over the unbroken skin where the name Peter had just been, raw and bloody. Wade watches a small frown twist his soulmate’s lips.

“Sucks that it doesn’t stay.”

The comment is quiet, almost off-hand, but it makes Wade’s heart thump hard, hammering against the back of his sternum like it’s trying to get out. It would probably be weird to cut out his own heart and lay it at Peter Parker’s feet but the urge is there. Wade’s not sure if it will ever go away.

“Yeah,” Wade replies. “But you’ve already marked me, haven’t you?”

Peter bites down on his lush lower lip as his fingers slide back up to the soul mark down Wade’s sternum.

“Playing with soulmate,” Peter reads as he traces over the words with a fingertip. “I guess I finally played the game.”

“Won the game more like.”

“Hold that thought.” The caressing fingers drop off Wade’s chest and Peter reaches into the back pocket of his suit.

“What are you doing?”

“Need my phone. I want to get that in a voice file. You saying I won.”

“Jesus,” Wade groans, finally reaching out and curling a hand around Peter’s forearm and drawing it back toward Wade’s chest. “Was kind of hopin’ you got all that assholery out of your system with your initial run as a Dom.”

“Was that…” Peter’s fingers flex in Wade’s grip where he’s running his thumb around the palm and up the length of each one. “Was that okay?”

“Peaches. Look at how much cum is on my stomach. That was more than fuckin’ okay. That was goddamn transcendent.”

A pink blush stains the small stretch of cheekbone that Wade can see under the mask. He lays Peter’s hand over his soul mark again and reaches for the edges of the mask. A gloved hand slaps Wade’s own hand away.

Well fuck.

Maybe it wasn’t that kind of—

“I’ll fucking do it. Your hand is covered in cum and blood.”

Wade can’t help the grin that spreads across his face as Peter pulls off the Spider-man mask. He’s all wild hair and sharp features and chocolate brown eyes. He’s so… everything. He’s everything. Wade knows that no one else probably sees it, although how they can miss that ass is beyond him, but he sees it. He wants to look at it forever, gorge himself on it until he’s sick.

“Damn,” he breathes. “I wanted to come on your stupid, nerdy face.”

Peter makes a noise of disbelief and that pink blush blooms up his cheeks.

“Really?”

“Yes, fuckin’ really,” Wade scoffs. “I wanted to dirty up those pretty, perfect freckles and fuck up that dumb, wavy hair. And—“

“Why are you insulting me while you beg me to let you come on my face?”

“Because you’re so goddamn gorgeous. It’s irritating. I can’t focus. It’s like lookin’ at the sun.”

“You just came,” Peter huffs, exasperated.

“Super soldier refractory period.”

“I’m on patrol.”

“Consider this your thirty-minute lunch break.”

“You are not coming on my face.”

Wade ignores that mostly because his attention lifts to something else. They can always come back to the facial discussion.

“And your goddamn hair,” Wade murmurs as he threads a hand through it, “it’s so fucking soft. I hate it.”

A laugh barks out of Peter as he sways closer to Wade. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, freckles,” Wade groans as he buries his nose in the hair at Peter’s temple and inhales greedily. It’s the scent of green things because his shampoo is the same cheap brand as his deodorant.  “I hate everything about you.”

Wade pulls back and lets his gaze run over Peter’s flushed face. It’s patently unfair that Wade looks like if Freddy Krueger fucked a cantaloupe while his soulmate is basically a freckled work of art but he’ll fucking take it. He leans forward to run his tongue across Peter’s flushed, freckle-dusted cheekbone.

“I fucking love this color on you, peaches,” Wade murmurs into the damp skin. “Love how hot you blush.”

“Thought you hated me,” Peter grouches.

“Just two sides of the same coin, you know.”

With those brown eyes looking up at him, Wade can’t help himself. He keeps his hand in Peter’s hair, lifting the other one to that sharp, square jaw, and starts peppering little kisses all over his face. His forehead. His cheekbones. His nose. His neck.

Wade’s soulmate melts into him with a little sigh. Peter’s eyes flutter shut and he looks more relaxed than Wade has ever seen him. Like the weight of the city is off his shoulders for once. And not just because the mask is off. The corner of Peter’s mouth twitches, about to say something devastating probably, and Wade’s cock twitches along with it. His soulmate will never not fight him and he fucking loves it.

“Why are you always slobbering all over me like an overgrown puppy?”

Wade drops the hand from Peter’s hair to Peter’s hip, turning his face into the crook of Peter’s neck and breathing in deeply.

Goddamn, peaches smells amazing.

“Why are you always actin’ like you don’t like it?” He shoots back, his lips brushing against his soulmate’s throat. Wade smiles as he feels the goosebumps that pop up on Peter’s skin at the touch.

“I don’t like it,” he grumbles but doesn’t squirm away. “I hate it. You’re so…”

“Big? Hot? Muscular? Lovable?”

“Annoying.”

“That tracks,” Wade agrees, choosing not to mention the way his soulmate is snuggling up against him, too.

Wade drifts a little then, lost in the flutter of his soulmate’s pulse against his lips, the warmth of his soulmate’s body under his palm, the feel of his soulmate’s hand on his chest, and the smell of sweat and sex and green things.

This feels like a fragile moment and Wade’s going to live inside of it for as long as he can before it breaks.

“I really am supposed to be on patrol, though,” Peter tells him, pulling away slightly.

Wade lets out a sigh, his gaze drifting down his soulmate’s body, and shakes his head. “Not like that, you’re not.”

The front of the Spider-man suit is soaked with blood in a few places and one thigh has a huge cum stain on it.

“Fuck,” Peter mutters. “You’re such a messy bitch.”

Wade barks out a laugh. “Lucky for you, I’m also a bitch that comes prepared. I got some Tide pens and shit so we can clean you up and send you on your way. You just gotta strip, peaches.”

Wade waggles his brow at Peter who shakes his head as he takes a few steps back and holds out his hand.

“I’m pretty sure Tide pens work while the clothes are still on.”

“You are no fucking fun,” Wade grumbles as he digs into his pouches and pulls out enough odds and ends to get them both relatively clean.

“How do you fit all that into those tiny pouches?” Peter asks once Wade has a small pile of things set aside.

“Magic,” Wade says with a wink.

This time, without the mask on, Wade can see those gorgeous brown eyes roll at him. His smile goes almost wide enough to hurt and his soul mark thrums happily on his chest.

Peter gathers a few things from the pile, then steps away from Wade, pulling his shirt away from his stomach and scowling down at the blood stain while he shakes one of the Tide pens. Such a grumpy fucker.

Wade scrubs at his stomach, tossing bloody, cum-soaked wet wipe after bloody, cum-soaked wet wipe to the rooftop as he does. It won’t all come off until he’s in the shower but he wouldn’t put it past some of the sharks in New York to smell his blood in the water.

When he looks up again, he sees Peter with the towel Wade pulled out of a pouch wrapped around his waist and his suit pants in his hand. Whatever happens next is going to hurt, Wade fucking knows it, so he uses this moment to catalogue everything about his soulmate. All the stupid little things Wade is going to want to remember when the rug is pulled out from under him.

The breeze ruffling through that dumb cloud of brown hair.

The constellations of freckles across Peter’s skin.

The long, lean lines of his body.

That cute scowl and the way it wrinkles up his nose.

Wade tips his neck side-to-side, cracking it like he does just before he goes on a job. Like he does just before he destroys some shit.

“You didn’t come.”

Spider-man’s body goes statue still, the stain remover pen hovering over the stain on the thigh. Wade’s stain on the thigh.

“Nope,” the web slinger says, slowly going back to working at his suit.

“It’s still gay, even if you didn’t come.”

Another rigid pause and the muscle in Spider-man’s jaw flutters. Fuck, yes. That’s a fighting flutter. That’s the cracked sternum flutter. That’s an impending death flutter. That's a replace these inconvenient feelings with violence flutter. But instead, the web slinger just dismisses Wade, hunching over his suit pants again.

“Go fuck yourself, Deadpool.”

“I already did. Why do you think you hafta clean your pants, freckles?”

Hard brown eyes meet Wade’s as the web slinger lifts his head. “Are you angling for something else? Because we’re done now.”

“No worries, Spidey Cakes. That oughta tide me over for at least a day. Maybe two.” Wade frowns down at the shredded front of his base layer like none of this bothers him, shrugging as he stretches one end of the cut fabric as far as it will cover and tucks it into the top of his pants. “I’ll be sure to blow somethin’ up the next time I need a top off.”

“Wade.”

Shit.

“Yeah?”

“What are you trying to do right now?”

“Uh… fuck and run?” Wade tries. “Isn’t that what straight boys do?”

Spider-man isn’t looking at Wade but he can still feel the force of that eye roll.

“Pretty sure you’re not straight.”

“Well, you are,” Wade points out.

“Yeah,” the web slinger huffs, frowning at the Tide pen as he rubs it across the fabric in his hands. “I’ve never been with a man. But I’ve also never carved my name into someone so maybe this is a night for self-reflection.”

Wade scoops his chest plate off the ground but doesn’t shrug into it yet. “Who are you and what have you done with the rigidly angry martyr known as Spider-man?”

“Can we just… not right now?” The web slinger sighs and then straightens up letting his hands fall to his sides. “I feel… Shit. It’s totally fucked up but I feel good right now. Relaxed. I’d like to enjoy five fucking minutes of it without the world encroaching.”

Wade opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. It’s maybe only the fourth time that’s happened in his whole life. Apparently, he’s supposed to sit here and wait for the sky to fall around him. And that’s fucking bullshit because—

“Thank you, Wade.”

Urgh.

That’s not fair.

Peter shakes out his suit pants and leans down to pull them back on while Wade stews. Or kind of stews. Actually, more like while Wade tries to decide if walking up to his soulmate and dropping to his knees is too forward or if the universe smiles on that kind of thing. Or like maybe if Peter just calls him a good girl one more time, Wade will be normal.

The opening of the towel spreads as Peter raises a leg to get dressed. Wade’s gaze drags up and down the strong, lean expanse of those legs as Peter mutters angrily at the stain on the thigh. Wade drinks in this heretofore unseen part of his soulmate until his eyes snag on the black mark at the top of Peter’s inner thigh.

Wait a second. Has that—?

Holy shit.

Should he call attention to it or—

“Well, will you look at that…” Apparently, he’s calling attention to it. Wade gestures toward his soulmate’s leg like the whole world didn’t just rearrange itself in an instant. “I’ll be damned.”

Because maybe he is. This has always been Wade’s hell, getting a taste of good things only to have them yanked away. This time it’s not even going to be his fault. Not really. Because who could fucking blame him?

“What?” Peter asks, leaning down to brush the towel further aside as he does.

Wade watches his soulmate’s entire body go rigid as Peter realizes what he’s looking at. Then slowly, as if it will bite him, he reaches his hand toward his inner thigh, rubbing a thumb over his soul mark.

“Holy shit,” he says.

“Yeah,” Wade agrees softly.

Peter’s thumb skims over the new words that are etched into his skin. Suddenly blacker and darker like they’re permanent now. Because they are permanent now. It’s just words, the fingerprint is gone entirely, replaced by sharp, spiky handwriting slanting below the long, white scar. A question.

Wanna play?

“That’s— It’s— Hold on.” Peter’s voice is quiet and hoarse so he clears his throat and starts again. “That’s the first thing you said to me.”

“Yeah,” Wade agrees again.

Peter goes silent as he stares at it. A permanent soul mark. The first thing his soulmate said to him after they fell in love with him. The mark that shows up as soon as your soulmate admits to themselves that they love you.

Damn.

Wade never expected his soulmate to like him, not really. But Peter Parker does tolerate Wade and that’s practically an invitation on a silver platter for someone like him. And, if the permanent mark on Peter’s inner thigh is any indication, Wade went and fell stupidly, ill-advisedly, head over heels in love. Not only had he done that but he’d done it the first moment he’d hovered over Spider-man on all fours surrounded by shards of glass and filled with the first spark of interest he’d felt in a year.

Honestly, the obsession makes a whole lot more sense now so at least Wade solved that little mystery before the universe decided to absolutely crush him again.

Wade hastily tugs on his chest plate, his fingers almost frantic over the straps and zippers. And, fuck, where’s his goddamn mask. He needs to get out of here. That uneasy prickle that is (almost) always buzzing on either side of his spine is making a massive comeback and he’d rather not be around his soulmate, whom he apparently fucking loves, when he gets the itch to shoot something.

“Thank Bea Arthur it wasn’t me saying I want to come on your face, right?” He rambles as his eyes dart around the rooftop looking for his mask. “Or any of the many times I threatened to kill you. Or literally, any time I sang Itsy Bitsy Spider at you.”

Wade finally spots the crumpled edge of his mask sticking out under the pile of bloody wet wipes and stoops down to snatch it up, trying to pull it on so quickly that it nearly slingshots off his skull and over the edge of the roof.

Need to go.

Need to hurt something.

Have to leave.

Have to—

“Wade.”

The voice is missing the bark of command but it grabs Wade’s attention anyway. He blinks back the red haze trying to take over his vision and sees Spider-man in front him, suited up almost fully, his mask propped on top of his head like a beanie. Wade’s mask is in Spider-man’s hand, held out between them.

For some reason, the contrast between the red and black of Wade’s mask and the red and black of Spider-man’s glove makes his heart sink into his stomach.

A hero and a villain.

It’s so fucking obvious.

Wade takes his mask from Spider-man.

“I’m right, you know?” Wade says as he tugs the fabric down over his head until the hem is resting across the bridge of his nose and the back of his neck. There’s still blood staining Spider-man’s glove from when Wade pulled his mask away. “There’s not a place in your life for someone like me. And there’s not really a place in my life for someone like you.”

“I know.” Spider-man exhales loudly, rubbing gloved fingers over the stress crease between his eyebrows. “Looks like the universe fucked up after all.”

“Naw, sweet pea,” Wade sighs.

He reaches a hand up to the back of his soulmate’s neck and tugs Peter closer because Wade can’t resist right now. He doesn’t have to resist right now.

Whatever happens next means that Wade will never be able to do this again so he leans down and fits his mouth over Peter’s, letting their tongues tangle, committing this taste to memory. Wade’s lips cling to Peter’s when he pulls away like they don’t want to let Peter go and Wade can’t fucking blame them.

He drops his hand from the back of his soulmate’s neck and pulls his mask all the way back down, walking backward until the parapet of the roof hits his calves. Wade wants to remember this. His soulmate flushed from his touch, more relaxed than Wade has ever seen him, looking at Wade like he’s something more than just a squeaky wheel that needs attention.

“The universe didn’t fuck up,” he says as he steps back and up onto the edge of the parapet. “Guys like us just don’t get happy endings.”

And then he jumps.

What does it matter?

The part of his heart that isn’t stitched to Peter Parker is fucking smashed anyway.

Chapter Text

TWO MONTHS LATER

Triple dates suck.

Especially when two-thirds of the couples are soulmate pairs.

It’s not that Tori isn’t nice. She’s so nice. All of MJ’s friends are so nice. And that niceness makes Peter feel like he’s being electrocuted slowly over the course of brunch. Peter’s date showed up in a sun dress with her honey blonde hair in artful waves across her shoulders and a gorgeous smile on petal pink lips and all Peter could think was that her lip gloss would look good on—

“It’s not…” Tori’s slightly unsteady voice comes from Peter’s left, “It’s just something that happens to some people, you know?”

Oh, Jesus.

He leans around Tori and glares at Harry. Peter didn’t even need to hear the question to know that Harry stuck his fucking foot in his mouth. MJ had told them all via group text before the brunch that Tori had lost her soulmate when she was sixteen. She’d never met them, just woke up one day and her soul mark was gone.

Peter remembers that feeling of shock and grief vividly even if it didn’t last.

Tori takes a small sip of her water, eyes darting anywhere but toward Harry and Peter wants to ram his fist down his friend’s throat. Luckily, Harry’s soulmate, Leesa, is leaning into him with a scowl and reading him the riot act in whispers.

“Peter’s soulmate didn’t really work out either,” Gwen says rather tactlessly as she takes an objectively big drink of her wine. She had a performance review with her awful boss this morning that apparently didn’t go well.

MJ’s elbow catches Gwen in the side before MJ clears her throat and tries to steer the conversation back to calmer waters. Peter is still convinced she could make a run at political office someday.

“Tori, I was trying to tell Peter about what you do in the lab but I don’t think I was doing a very good job. Maybe you could explain it?”

Peter’s date puts her water glass down and turns to Peter, her eyes lighting up and her cheeks getting rosy as she starts telling him about the physics lab she works in. It’s not Peter’s preferred science but it’s still interesting and Tori seems great. Well-adjusted. Beautiful.

Definitely not the kind of person that would throw herself off a building like a goddamn drama queen.

The sun glints golden off her hair and Peter is struck by just how similar this is to the image of his soulmate he kept in his mind. Her eyes sparkling with interest as he tells her about his dissertation and asking intelligent questions that none of Peter’s friends even bother with.

Tori fits with Peter’s friends, talking about normal things like her cat and where she went on vacation and her favorite things to buy at the Farmer’s Market. As he looks around the table he can see that even Harry is feigning interest in the conversation and smiling warmly at her.

She’s soft and lovely like a flower. Something Peter could stick in a vase that would brighten any room he puts it in. Peter has started to realize that he’s never been good with soft things, though. He always ends up crushing them, breaking them, losing them. It’s better not to bother.

Except, MJ’s been dragging him to these things at least once a week for two months. Trying to help Peter past the disaster that was meeting his soulmate. He only told her and Gwen that it hadn’t worked out but not the whole story. What the fuck would he even say? But they took it upon themselves to fix it anyway. To fix him.

But Peter’s still Peter, broken edges and all.

The conversation lulls slightly as they get their food and start to eat but it doesn’t take long for Harry to fill the silence. Christ. Tori even listens to Harry like he’s interesting.

MJ catches Peter’s eyes and mouths, She’s perfect. The same thing she’s mouthed to him about a different woman every week for the last two months.

Peter just nods and smiles and eats his panini, pretending like he isn’t reaching into his pocket every few minutes to wrap his hand around the knife he keeps there. The knife he carries with him everywhere now.

If anything is proof of how much Peter’s life has changed recently, it’s that fucking knife. He runs his thumb along the ridges of the switch that flicks the knife open and acts normal.

Peter Benjamin Parker.

Normal Human Being.

Out to brunch with his friends like a regular person.

He’s leaning forward to grab his water when he feels an itch between his shoulder blades. It’s not an unusual sensation these days, but it still pulls his attention away from the table. Although Harry is in the middle of loudly regaling everyone with the story of a vacation he just took with his soulmate, some cruise somewhere Peter thinks, so maybe getting distracted isn’t all that bad.

He ignores his water and shifts in his chair, leaning back to casually stretch his arms overhead before crossing his hands behind his neck. With his fingers laced at the back of his head, Peter aims a middle finger at the rooftop of a building across the street and half a block down. His phone buzzes in his pocket almost before he drops his arms and he reaches to pull it out, keeping it under the table to read the text.

rude

Peter sets his phone screen-side-down on the table and sits up straighter trying not to roll his eyes. Rude for Peter to flip him off? That dipshit is pointing a sniper rifle at the back of Peter’s head right now. The thought makes the corner of his mouth tug up.

The itch lingers along his spine, more of a warm awareness than anything, through the rest of brunch. It isn’t until Harry’s monologue well has run dry and MJ is working out the math for who owes what at the table that Peter’s phone buzzes again. Quiet enough that no one else looks up even though it feels like an air raid siren to him.

A live fucking wire.

A spark of electricity he wants to press his fingers to.

He tugs his phone back down under the table before clicking into the messaging app again.

u bn hldng out on me asshle

Honestly, that could mean so many things.

Did Deadpool break into Peter’s apartment and see the case of Peach Edition Red Bull in the back of the closet? Or maybe he found the false bottom in Peter’s pantry where he keeps his highest tech builds, including an air glider that Deadpool will definitely want to “borrow.” Or maybe…

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitches again as he realizes that he’s never going to fucking figure it out so he might as well just ask.

??

“Peter?” He looks up at the sound of his name to see MJ waving the little black bill folder around. The server is standing at her shoulder looking like she wants to snatch it straight out of MJ’s hands and start clearing the table. “You paying with cash or card?”

“Oh, uh—”

“His is already paid for,” the server says, her eyes flicking to Peter’s before looking away.

Peter fights not to roll his eyes.

“Actually,” he says, tugging his card out of his wallet, “that was for hers. I’ll pay mine at the table.”

Peter gestures to Tori who blushes prettily, ducking her head as Peter slides her card back to her across the table and tosses his card toward MJ.

“Thank you, Peter,” she says softly, her words almost drowned out by the buzz of Peter’s phone. Or maybe, all of his senses are just attuned to it.

“Of course.” He smiles back at her, waiting until she turns to put her card in her purse before he practically dives on his phone again.

u 🍆

mkn me by lnch 4 ur grlfrend

i asked you to stop

🙁🙁

u ddnt use ur sfwrd

Peter’s about to type that he doesn’t have a safeword when he hears MJ clearing her throat loudly from across the table like it’s not her fault Peter isn’t going to ride off into the sunset with this most recent date she picked for him. He told her to stop. Told her he wasn’t interested.

He glances up and smiles a bit meanly in her direction, lifting his phone to waggle it in her direction.

“The lab. I have to get back soon.”

“The lab is texting you now?” MJ asks icily, giving a meaningful glance toward Tori. Gwen snorts into her wineglass at MJ’s side.

“Yes, MJ,” Peter replies dryly, not willing to be cowed. He’s done this brunch date bullshit seven fucking times already. What more does MJ want from him? Marriage? Kids? No way. “We even have email addresses and everything.”

“Did you really pay for Tori’s lunch ahead of time?”

This time Gwen elbows MJ. Or tries to. She’s had several glasses of wine already which means she misses a bit and almost hits the table.

He gets why MJ is suspicious. For one, a date with someone like Tori would have had him drooling all over himself a few months ago instead of looking for any excuse to bail. For two, the picked-up checks thing has been happening a lot lately. And, as much as the whole mystery of it has been irritating MJ, it’s been irritating Peter more.

He hates it.

He hates the idea that blood money is somehow paying for his food and his London Fogs and the pile of brand-new textbooks he needed for the semester. He’s started putting everyone else’s tab on whatever money was meant for Peter and paying his own way but his friends have all noticed. Maybe they haven’t noticed the warring rage and warmth that bloom in Peter’s chest every time it happens but they sure as shit have noticed the money.

“Thought it might be a nice first date gesture,” Peter says sweetly. He even flutters his eyelashes at MJ for good measure. She scoffs.

“So it wasn’t a patron of the sciences?”

Peter almost laughs at the lie he came up with to explain the reason why his own money didn’t seem to be good anywhere anymore. Some truly big donor to the university that took a liking to Peter’s research and wanted to make his life easier. It’s a flimsy as shit excuse but none of his friends have pushed too hard against it. Until now.

Peter’s going to have to take this bill out of Wade later for all the trouble it’s causing. Actual blood for money. He slips his hand back into his pocket and strokes the ridges on the knife again, letting the thought calm him down so he doesn’t snap at MJ to get off his back.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Peter tells her instead.

His phone vibrates in his hands and he glances down at the text preview. Just one word again.

rude

He looks up just in time to see MJ’s scowling mouth open. She wants to argue with him, she always does, but he knows it’s mostly about making sure he’s okay. Peter knows that Gwen and MJ didn’t really believe the story he told them about where his soulmate went but they’ve mostly just let it go. Even if Peter can tell the curiosity nearly kills them some days.

Gwen leans closer and murmurs something into MJ’s ear that Peter can’t hear. Her mouth snaps shut as her eyes dart to him, then she signs and nods, the frown melting off her face.

The server’s arrival saves Peter from whatever other comments are percolating on MJ’s tongue. She hands everyone’s cards back and seems to let the conversation go. Except, that Peter can feel MJ watching him with blatant curiosity as he signs the check and puts his wallet into his backpack.

Apparently, she doesn’t want to let it go today.

“I really do have to get back to the lab,” Peter says, standing from his chair. It’s the truth. Mostly. “It was awesome to meet you, Tori. You have my number?”

He hopes she doesn’t use it, he definitely won’t be using hers, but he waits for her to nod before leaning down and giving her a quick hug. She smells like lilacs and Peter tries not to sneeze while his phone buzzes in his pocket like an angry wasp.

“Thanks for organizing lunch, MJ.”

Peter walks around the table, giving MJ and Gwen hugs and kisses on the cheek that feel a little like accusation and a little like apology (no angry wasp buzzing this time), then doing the complicated handshake Harry insists upon before nodding to Leesa. She’s quiet but she seems like she’ll fit into the group eventually. Even get Harry in line, maybe.

“See ya tomorrow for coffee,” Peter calls as he shoulders his backpack and walks back toward campus, tugging his phone out of his pocket as he goes.

The text waiting for him is literally just several bee emojis and he laughs out loud.

thanks for buying lunch

i owe you, dipshit

promise?

promise 🔪🔪

Peter realizes that response probably isn’t going to keep Wade from paying for everything he can manage but Peter’s also not too pressed about it right at the moment. The weather’s nice and there’s half a smile on his face and he’s wearing the sweater Wade hates. He looks both ways before jogging across the street and turning down an alley that will take him toward the university. It’s the long way but there are fewer people on this street which means his spider sense doesn’t hum quite so loud.

His brain was going practically haywire sitting outside at brunch, at least until the itch between his shoulder blades started, so he’ll be glad for the relative quiet. Peter doesn’t really want to think about the brunches or why MJ keeps shoving sun-dressed blondes down his throat but he does wonder…

He starts typing on his phone again, partially because he wants an answer and partially because he can’t fucking help himself. It’s sickening, honestly.

what did she say?

u thnk im ur personl spy now

yes

what did she say?

🤔

nt sur i no wut ur referring 2

Peter rolls his eyes at his phone. Whatever Gwen whispered in MJ’s ear has got to be good. He’s dying to know and there’s no doubt in his mind that Wade heard it somehow, but Peter’s phone buzzes in his hand before he can ask again.

stop walking @ the next corner

turn into the alley

3 steps

3 of my steps not ur tiny baby strides

Peter rolls his eyes but follows the directions before typing back.

here

said u looked happy + MJ should just leave it alone

.

.

.

r u happy peaches?

Heat floods up Peter’s face and out to the tips of his ears. His phone buzzes again and he looks down, heart thumping hard and face flaming.

fuuuuuuck

love it when u blush like that freckles

wanna kiss it off your dumb face

That, of course, makes Peter blush harder. Even knowing that Wade led Peter to this alley just so Wade could see that blush doesn’t make it any easier to chase away. Peter tries to ignore the fluttering in his heart and the smile that keeps insistently pulling at his mouth. He won’t give that asshole the satisfaction. At least, Peter doesn’t think he will.

But he should probably find a distraction, just in case.

ever going to tell me what i’ve been withholding from you?

Peter paces deeper into the alley, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. This is stupid, he knows this is stupid, but he can’t help himself.

Two months ago they agreed that they didn’t fit so he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s even doing, just that he’s been doing it for weeks. They’ve been doing it for weeks.

Peter had been so convinced that there wasn’t room in his life for Wade but it hadn’t occurred to Peter that he doesn’t have just one life. He has two. And on the edge of both of those lives are margins big enough for a loudmouth, clown-clad asshole to make a home in.

He had tried to stay away, though. He really had.

He’d watched Wade disappear over the side of that building after Peter’s soul mark changed and he’d thought that was it. Five minutes of blood-soaked peace, then back to life as usual.

Except, Peter couldn’t go back.

And it turned out that Wade couldn’t go back either.

First, it was just little things. The hinges on Peter’s front door didn’t squeak anymore. A London Fog was always waiting for him at the pick-up counter as soon as he walked into the café. Rhino tripped over a wire running from one side of the street to the other.

Then the texts started.

Peter knew that Wade had probably stolen his number months ago and just hadn’t used it until Peter gave him permission. Memes in the beginning, then gifs. Then pictures from around the city that Peter found out later had been taken within a block of some very bloody crime scenes.

It took three weeks for Peter to realize what Wade was doing. Frog boiling Peter. Slowly turning up the burner until Peter had been in hot water long enough that tracking down his soulmate made sense. They had agreed that the second night was really the last night. It hadn’t been. Not even close.

They still agreed that Wade couldn’t fit into civilian life, though, that he wasn’t even interested really. And they still agreed that Peter couldn’t fit into mercenary life, for accomplice reasons if nothing else.

But that hadn’t changed Peter’s need. A need that Wade seemed to feel just as acutely. Needing to lay eyes on each other. Needing to lay hands on each other. The compulsion heavy at the base of Peter’s skull. The tug in his chest insistent.

He wonders if it’s a soulmate thing. If the restlessness he constantly feels is because he and Wade can’t be together, don’t want to be together, the way that everyone else is. Or if maybe the itch is just a Peter thing. Maybe he’s wanted someone to be only his so intensely and for so long that he hates it when the one thing that is his, Wade, is out of his sight. Even if Peter’s pretty sure he’s never out of Wade’s.

Peter never would have thought of himself as possessive before but he knows that most days he feels vaguely jealous of whatever takes up his soulmate’s time that’s not him. A jealousy that’s only eased by the fact that he knows Wade watches him. A lot.

The ants under his skin sensation never truly goes away until Peter finally gets to see that huge, muscle-bound motherfucker striding across a rooftop toward Peter with a mischievous gleam in his eye and a feral grin on his face.

Peter kind of wants to see it now, actually.

He rubs the heel of his hand over the center of his chest just as his phone hums again, the text preview only telling him there’s an image attached.

He clicks into it greedily, blinking and flushing hot as the picture takes up the entire phone screen.

It’s Wade’s bare chest. 

Fuck.

The picture was obviously taken at arm’s length, Wade’s thick, leather-clad bicep clearly visible at the left-hand edge of the screen. The kevlar chest piece of his suit is off, leaving the black underlayer he wears to avoid chafing against his skin hauled up toward the line of his collarbone, the hem trapped between full, smiling lips and sharp, white teeth that Peter can see at the top of the picture.

All of that is hot but what Peter really can’t pull his eyes away from is Wade’s chest. The big, sloped muscles narrowing down toward his waist, the textured skin, and right there in the center, running vertically down Wade’s sternum, Peter’s handwriting. Except it’s different today, darker. A lot darker. And it doesn’t say anything about Peter going back to the lab or having lunch with his friends or being on a date.

Instead, carving from just below the hollow of Wade’s throat to the bottom of his sternum, there’s a quote: I like it when you don’t talk.

Peter’s throat goes dry and, when his phone starts ringing, he nearly jumps out of his skin, almost dropping it to the ground. The ringtone snaps him out of his fugue and makes him scowl. When did that asshole change it? How did he even get Peter’s phone off silent? Jesus fuck, Wade’s a scary son of a bitch sometimes.

🎶 We are never, ever, ever getting back together.

We are never, ever, ever getting back together.

You go talk to your friends, talk to my friends, talk to me,

but we are never, ever, ever, ever getting back— 🎶

Peter’s brain is telling him not to answer but his finger taps the button anyway and he brings the speaker up to his ear.

“That true, professor?”

The rough, rasping voice curls into Peter’s ear and he bites his lip at the shiver that skitters across his skin. The irritating restlessness smoothes out in the wake of his soulmate’s voice. Stupid. It’s all so stupid. But Peter is endlessly stupid for Wade. The new mark down Wade’s chest is proof enough of that.

“What?” Peter clears his throat because his voice comes out a little too high-pitched for his liking. “Is what true?”

Wade’s feral grin is silent but Peter hears it anyway.

“You like it when I don’t talk?”

Peter is suddenly assaulted by a lot of images of times when Wade couldn’t talk. Including one specific memory from early on in what Wade refers to as "the courtship." The two of them were on the rooftop across from Peter’s apartment before patrol. Wade on his knees, hands webbed behind his back, body pinned between Peter and a wall. Peter’s hand fisted tight in the back of the Deadpool mask, fucking Wade’s mouth as he moaned and squirmed while Peter’s other hand clawed a dent into the wall.

After he came down Wade’s throat, Peter had yanked the merc back to his feet, ordering him to get off by rutting against Peter’s stomach while he carved the word mine into Wade’s neck and whispered what a good girl Wade was into his ear.

That had been more than five minutes of blood-soaked peace. For both of them.

“Fuuuuck,” Wade groans, probably reading Peter’s face from whatever vantage point he has. “You really like it when I don’t talk.”

Peter’s face gets hotter.

“When did that show up?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Professor?”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut because he knows. He knows. The minute he felt that awareness at his back at brunch. As soon as the text came through after he’d flipped Wade off. Peter suddenly understands why Wade threw himself off the edge of a building when Peter’s soul mark changed.

It’s fucking mortifying.

“Eye-dee-kay. Seems sus,” he says instead of doing bodily self-harm. “How do I know that’s not photoshopped?”

“Oh, Webs,” Wade says into the phone over the sound of what Peter now knows is a sniper rifle being put together. Or taken apart. “I knew my scientific little spider would need more than a mere photo. You’re all about the hands-on learning, right? Soooo… I figured we could get a little hands-on.”

“I’m busy, Wade,” Peter says but absolutely does not mean. He just hopes Wade can’t see Peter biting his lip from wherever Wade is with Sniper Laurie. “I have lab time. And classes.”

“Peaches…” Wade whines. “It’s been four days. I have no shame. You know I’ll beg if I have to.”

It’s true. He absolutely will and Peter loves it.

“Fine,” Peter agrees like it’s a hardship as he turns to leave the alley. He really does have to get to the lab. “Bring dinner. Calypso’s. I will fucking pay you back so don’t try shit.”

“Ugh, you absolute loser.” Wade’s whine has turned into a pout. “Your rooftop? Regular patrol hours?”

“Sounds good.” Peter’s bored answer hides the excitement thrumming through him because Wade’s right, it’s been four days.

“What are you bringin’, peaches?”

Peter hopes Wade can see his evil smile as he pulls his phone away from his ear and taps into his photo album for the items he ordered online that got delivered yesterday. He hadn’t planned on doing anything with them yet but it seems like as good a time as any. Better, maybe. He drops the picture into the message thread with Wade and hits send.

The choked sound that comes from the other end of the phone line is absolutely worth the exorbitant amount of money Peter spent on the fucking things.

“Nngh. How am I supposed to work today knowin’ that you’re down there in Bossy Professor mode with a collar and leash in your man purse?”

“It’s not a man purse,” Peter snaps.

“Sorry,” Wade says, not sounding sorry at all. He affects a weird accent for the next sentence. “YoUR bACkpAcK.”

“Stop.”

“Mmmm, yeah,” Wade hums in Peter’s ear. “It still gets me horny as fuck but when you’re not here to back it up with your spider strength it kinda only makes me wanna be more annoying.”

“You actually try?” Peter asks, turning the last corner toward campus. “Because it seems like the annoying thing comes pretty easily for you.”

“Comes pretty easily definitely describes me,” Wade purrs.

Peter rolls his eyes as he passes through the main gates to the university. “Stop trying to make that flirty. It’s not impressive.”

“Oh, really, Professor?” Wade’s voice has dipped into a register that scrapes Peter’s nerves raw in the best way. “‘Cause I coulda sworn you were into it when—”

“Wade,” Peter barks. He wishes he could see the way the merc’s mouth snaps shut because Peter knows that it does. “Get dinner and meet me on the roof. I need to get through my lab time and these classes without distractions. If you’re a really good girl while I do that, then we can talk.”

“Ungh. That’s not fair,” Wade grumbles, a sound that makes Peter smile.

He’d bet his entire Ph.D. on the merc being hard as a rock right now. Probably rubbing himself through the front of his suit. Peter lets himself into his closet-sized office, makes sure he’s alone and locks the door behind him before saying the next part.

“Don’t jerk off,” Peter tells Wade which earns him an audible whine.

“Come on, Webs. Pleeeeeeease. Dinner isn’t for like twelve more hours.”

“No. No coming until I’m there and you have my collar around your neck.”

“Fuck, peaches,” Wade groans. “I feel like I unleashed a monster. Ha! See what I did there? I’m not complainin’, though. If you’re on the board, sign me up as a monsterfucker.”

Peter shrugs out of his backpack and starts digging through the crooked drawers of his desk (huh, not so crooked anymore) for his lab notebook. The line is quiet for long enough that he wonders if Wade hung up on him. Peter’s heard him allude to a job he has today even though they’ve more or less agreed not to talk about it.

But no, that asshole is just biding his time. Waiting for Peter to be distracted before dropping another bombshell. The second one that Wade has been holding on to since he presided over Peter’s brunch with a sniper rifle like a vengeful god.

“You never answered my question,” Wade murmurs, the teasing tone lifting the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck.

“Yeah?” He asks, still vaguely distracted by his straight drawers and missing notebook. “Which question is that?”

“Are you happy, peaches?”

Peter stills, bent over the drawer with his fingers finally curling around the binding of the notebook. Is he? He squeezes the notebook tighter in his fist and thinks that he actually might be.

A little bit, anyway.

Not that he’ll tell Wade that because neither of them will ever be easy.

“Happy as a clam,” he says, hoping Wade can hear the smirk in his voice.

Wade scoffs a loud and irritated noise across the phone line. He hates that saying because—

“Why’d you say that, freckles? That’s such a fuckin’ copout. They don’t even have the requisite brain bits to feel happiness.”

“How do we know what clams can feel, Wade?”

“Fuck clams. Fuck you,” Wade grouses. “You’re such a rude bitch. Have I told you you’re rude yet today?”

“You might have mentioned it once or twice,” Peter says idly, shoving the drawer closed with his hip.

“Sweater’s ugly as fuck, too.”

“Now you’re just being a dick.”

“What are you going to do about it, sweet pea?”

“Well, big guy,” Peter says, low and hot, smiling at the squeak Wade makes. “Meet me for dinner and find out.”

“Only if you promise to bring Luigi.”

Peter smiles. Wade’s such a fucking brat.

“You’re sure running your mouth a lot today, Wade,” Peter tells him. He really does have to spend at least an hour in the lab before class but this is a lot of fucking fun, the most fun Peter gets to have, so he wants to end it on a good note. “Maybe you should bring the ball gag tonight, too.”

“Peaches,” Wade moans, the sound pooling warm and heavy in Peter’s lower stomach. “Don’t tease me.”

“Tease you?” Peter asks. “Come on, babygirl. Didn’t I say that I like it when you don’t talk?”

Even after he hangs up, Peter can hear Wade’s choked groan and delighted laugh filtering in through the office window from the quad.