
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6663241.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel, Deadpool_-_All_Media_Types, Spider-Man_-_All_Media_Types, X-Men_-
      All_Media_Types, The_Avengers_(Marvel)_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Wade_Wilson, Felicia_Hardy/Peter_Parker
  Character:
      Peter_Parker, Wade_Wilson, Felicia_Hardy, Bruce_Banner, Uncle_Ben
  Additional Tags:
      past_Gwen_Stacy/Peter_Parker_-_Freeform, but_she_dead_so_who_gives_af,
      Unrequited_Love, Possibly_Unrequited_Love, Temporarily_Unrequited_Love,
      Temporarily_Requited_Love, Language, shut_tf_up_steve, Lots_of_Dark_Shit
      Up_In_Hurrrr, Author_is_an_Insensitive_Asshole_So_Inapropro_Humor_Abounds
      And_Slaps_You_in_the_Face_With_Its_Dick, Inacurate_Portrayal_of_PTSD,
      graphic_description_of_child_abuse, Sex, Drugs, rock_n_roll, not_really
      the_last_one_its_mostly_just_nikki_minaj_quotes, probably_butt_stuff, of
      the_sexual_variety, author_has_never_read_the_comics, author_has_only
      seen_the_first_andrew_garfield_spiderman_movie, author_has_no_right_to
      play_in_this_fandom
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-26 Updated: 2016-08-13 Chapters: 11/? Words: 23747
****** Virgin Vigilante ******
by AvidAnon
Summary
     I heard a rumor that originally in the "Skip" arc (the psa about
     childhood sexual abuse and how abuse victims can get help, etc.) BEN
     PARKER was going to be the one who molested Peter instead of Skip.
     Whether or not that's true, it is something that has haunted me and
     made me feel physically ill ever since. This fic is inspired from
     that urban legend. This will NOT be for the feint of heart. This will
     be a violent, gory, uncomfortable mess.
     But underneath the mess, if you look hard enough--this fic is about
     finding yourself in the darkness. About trying to retain a piece of
     goodness despite the temptations of evil. Clinging onto insanity when
     sane makes no sense. Love, hope, and trust. And of course.
      
      
     Butt stuff! Can't forget the butt stuff!
Notes
     I heard a rumor that in the comic where Peter Parker is molested by
     Skip, that originally they were going to have it be Uncle Ben. That
     idea sickened me--and yet, I couldn't stop thinking about it. How
     things would have been so different had Peter been abused by the same
     Uncle painted as a saint. So of course, I started writing. And I
     liked what was happening, so I decided that this would be the first
     Thing I ever finished writing.
     Also, this is gonna be suuuuuuuuuuuper dark. Like, darker than I am
     even comfortable with in spots. Go big or go home (that's what she
     said). And I'm going to be a dick and treat sensitive subjects with
     the grace of a hippo eating ramen with chopsticks. Because most of
     the darker aspects of this story, I've been fortunate to have not
     physically dealt with in life. So I'm an ignorant twatwaffle. I will
     get things wrong, and this fic isn't about being right. It's about
     people overcoming their awful circumstances and still finding hope
     and love in themselves and in others.
     And sex. Lesbehonest.
     Soooooooo...yeah. I should have waited a bit longer to post this, but
     yeah. Should have isn't as fun. Anyways, don't expect spot on
     characterizations. These guys have experienced different things,
     therefore I think that they would end up being different people--not
     totally, I feel like there are parts of us that are...this isn't a
     philosophy class, lol.
     Anyways, chapters will probably end with cliffhangers of sorts
     because I don't know how else to end things. If there are
     particularly horrendous cliffhangers, I will post up multiple
     chapters so the flow of the story isn't too interrupted. I have about
     20k+ written in advance so far (14 chapters). I think this is going
     to end up being a series, though, judging on where I have written to
     vs where the story is planned to end up at.
     If you have any specific questions related to the plot that you would
     like answered but I will not spoil publicly, email me (check my
     profile, I think I have it visible?). I know that when I read ff, I
     like to know exactly what I'm getting into. ESPECIALLY when there's a
     character death involved. I love reading angst, but haaaaaaate being
     surprised by the death of a character (unless the death is a
     temporary thing).
     Ok, now I'll shut up.
***** You Call it Excuses, I Call it Exposition so Fuck Off and Leave Me Alone
*****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He stared, numb, as the puddle of red flowed outward, as if each drop were
desperate to escape their fleshy prison, pushing and shoving to find freedom.
Blood seeped through the man’s sweater; drop by pooling drop, eternally marring
previously unassuming beige and off-white stripes. A gift from a few
Christmases ago.
 
“With great power comes great responsibility,” His uncle’s favorite phrase
cycled in a perpetual loop, louder and louder until it felt like the man was
screaming in his ears instead of drowning in a sea of his own blood, choking,
begging, and gasping for life.
 
“H-help—h—” Each exhale was strained and wet with red spittle interrupting his
speech.
 
Peter’s wasn’t horrified.
 
He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t angry—Hell, he felt nothing at the man’s death.
 
Except relief.
 
He felt relief.
 
“Fuck!” Peter jolted in bed, sweat dripping from his hair and into his eyes.
Eyes that were now wide open—blank and glazed over, staring at something a
million miles away—while his chest heaved as he gulped for air. His hands
yanked his hair at the roots, trembling and shaking, spine hunched over so his
head was nearly in his lap.
 
“Fuck.” He hissed into the worn duvet covering his crotch.
 
Time crawled by as Peter’s heartbeat slowed, but eventually he flopped back
onto his pillow, one hand still in his sweaty hair while the other dangled over
the edge of his bed. With a deep sigh, Peter closed his eyes and went back to
sleep.
 
The next time, Peter woke up to the blaring of his alarm clock. He stared at
the ceiling, mind whirring with loud, yet empty static. “Most people don’t
remember nightmares from the middle of the night,” He mumbled to himself,
scratching his stomach absentmindedly. Some shit about REM and other stuff that
he didn’t care about anymore.
 
He postulated that it was something to do with the venom irradiating his veins.
It didn’t really matter, though. The effect was the same: he remembered all of
his nightmares with a clarity that rivaled an IMAX theater. Because it hadn’t
been enough to experience everything when dear old Uncle Ben was alive. Nope.
PTSD: the gift that keeps on giving.
 
Closing his eyes, Peter took a deep breath, letting the apartment’s stale
oxygen flood his lungs, releasing the bitterness he didn’t feel like dealing
with anymore—or at least, he didn’t feel like dealing with it before breakfast.
As he exhaled through his nose, Peter opened his eyes and sat up. Gently, Peter
reached over the end table to grab his phone and turned the alarm off,
carefully dropping it in his lap with a yawn. Crawling back to Stark and
begging for a new one didn’t sound like an experience worth repeating more than
necessary.
 
Begging is something he’d really rather not do. Ever.
 
Peter stood, stretching, and got ready for the day. After grabbing a banana, he
left for work with his camera and backpack in tow.
 
It went something like this: Jameson yelled at him, Peter took it like a good
boy, Jameson yelled some more, Peter handed in some new Spider-Man pictures,
and Jameson yelled some more. Typical day. Typical life.
 
Still not fired, though. So there was that, at least. Silver linings and all
that jazz.
 
At home, Peter scarfed down a meager dinner, donned the spandex suit and threw
his window open wide, shit-eating grin hurting his cheeks. This was why he
lived. This was what made everything worth it—every piece of shit that Jameson
spewed at him, every missed meal he couldn’t afford (physically, he needed to
eat more, but financially he needed to eat less, so yeah, pun intended), every
fucking bill that transformed his stomach into a glob of acid. This made him
feel alive and powerful—like he actually had something to offer.
 
“Help!” Someone screamed a couple blocks over. Adrenaline flushed through his
body, and Peter jumped, freefalling briefly before shooting a web and swinging
away.
 
Patrolling had begun!
 
Two kittens stuck on two different window ledges (same building, interestingly
enough), three attempted burglaries, and five lost foreigners—no Partridge in a
Pear tree, though. Still, it was a fairly quiet night, all things considered.
Of course, things had been quiet for a long time. Years, really. Sure, violent
crimes still happened—Spider-Man couldn’t get to everybody—but they were
significantly less frequent, particularly in the Special Victims Unit.
 
Spider-Man resolutely ignored the “why” of it as his guts preemptively writhed.
Now was not the time to think of…that. He had work to do. Out of the corner of
his eye there was a flutter of movement by the alley across the street. Chills
trickled down his spine and he hopped over to investigate. On the roof, Peter
looked down at the scene below, feeling the familiar nausea squirming at the
back of his throat.
 
“Hel—mpf!” A teenage boy screamed as a meaty hand cut his cries off, muffled
pleas ignored by the captor. Spider-Man watched as the kid kicked and fought to
no avail. The man was three times the teen’s size, thick muscles rippling as he
slammed the boy against the alley’s dank brick wall.
 
Peter’s body tensed and shook. The hum of New York night life cut off as his
entire being focused on the sight before him. Rage swelled in his chest,
clawing for a way out despite Peter’s half-assed attempts to shut it down.
 
Count to ten. Breathe. Don’t do it.
 
“Faggot.” The man hummed in the kid’s ear, free hand snatching his victim’s
waist.
 
Spider-Man’s jaw clenched and his heart thundered like a rabid tiger locked in
a closet, his body quivering with the effort to stay still—to contain the
insanity. Trying to turn it off so he could handle the situation efficiently
without blood and trauma, but the rational part of his mind was losing the
battle.
 
The large man shoved his foot in between the kid’s legs and gyrated against his
ass. Then he purred, “Bet you like this. Bet you love it.”
 
Peter’s hand twitched.
 
“Faggot.”
 
Peter’s vision blurred and his breathing was loud and labored—if the man below
him hadn’t been so occupied, he’d have known instantly the danger he was in.
Weak attempts at rationality still whispered in his head, but they were largely
drowned out by the familiar sounds of grunting and huffing that haunted his
nightmares.
 
The man reached for the kid’s belt, and Peter finally surrendered control,
screaming as he faded into the darkness.
 
May Spider-Man have mercy upon his soul.
 
“Here’s a tip for you. Using the word ‘faggot’ might be a little less
hypocritical if you weren’t dragging your nasty dick across a guy’s ass crack,”
Spider-Man spoke with an air of indifference, “Just sayin’.”
 
The man turned towards the voice and the blood drained from his face, boner
probably dying along with it. But maybe not? You never know. People were into
some kinky shit.
 
“Ah. You know who I am! Don’cha, dickface?” Spider-Man leapt down and stared at
the man, the blank eyes of his own mask making his indifferent tone all the
more deadly.
 
Turning towards the kid, Spider-Man’s voice dropped the coldness, “You’re good
to go now, kid. Be careful, and if you need help, your friendly neighborhood
Spider-Man will do his best to help out! See ya!”
 
The kid looked uncertain, so Spider-Man gave him a little wave. It didn’t seem
to make the kid less nervous, and he looked pretty green, but he ran off
without looking back.
 
The masked vigilante turned to the man who looked like he was going to (try,
very important word in this case) make a run for it. “Stay the Hell where you
are, jackass, that is if you ever want to see the light of day again,” he
snarled, playful indifference forgotten.
 
The man shivered and stayed put, plastered against the wall as if it could save
him. Not so powerful now. Spider-Man’s face split into a malicious grin,
crumpling his mask.
 
“Yay! Now we can chat, mano a mano. Capice?” Spider-Man’s voice was gleefully
dark as he walked towards his prey, grin still twisting his face, “You know
what I hate the most?”
 
The alleyway’s Dumpsters filled his nose with the oh-so-alluring scent of
rotting garbage, but as Spider-Man advanced towards the man, the sickly sweet
scent of fear grew stronger and stronger—mixed with stale sweat and garlic, but
still cloying and present. He licked his lips.
 
“You all know I’m going to catch you. You all know it’ll happen eventually. But
you still do it anyways.” Spider-Man growled, and grabbed the man by his
stubbly throat, feeling his heart hammering and skipping through the man’s
pulse, “What is so gratifying about fucking someone’s life up so you can have
your five minutes of happy penis time? That is, if you can even last five
minutes,” Spider-Man snickered.
 
Staring into the man’s eyes, Spider-Man wondered if his words would be just as
terrifying without the mask on, if his gaze was unfiltered. He wondered if his
enhanced senses could smell the adrenaline—the iron in his veins before it ever
spilled onto the ground.
 
“What makes it worth being caught by me? Surely impotence in the face of
explicit consent isn’t as bad as, well.” Spider-Man giggled, “Well, as bad as
my brand of nonconsensual, but still explicit impotence.”
 
He leaned into the man’s ear, smirking at the way the skeezball flinched, “You
all know that I really distaste seeing this kind of thing in my own backyard.
And even if it weren’t for my own personal feelings towards your kind’s
actions, it would be most irresponsible of me to not use everything in my power
to help those tempted so they never worry again.” Spider-Man chuckled
breathily, tasting the man’s sweat and the brick’s mold in the air, “You know,
a man once told me that ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”
 
Spider-Man paused for a moment, letting the words sink into the silence,
counting the beats of the man’s pulse.
 
“You know what that man did after telling me that?” He spoke in a deadly
whisper, warm breath puffing into the man’s ear, chill bumps creeping down his
prey’s spine.
 
“I’ll stop, I swear, I—SWEAR—I’LL—STOP—please—don’t kill me—please—I SWEAR, I’M
SORR—”
 
Spider-Man’s grip tensed, cutting off the desperate pleas, and he was back to
looking into the man’s eyes, “He put his dick in my mouth, that’s what. Bastard
even had to take fucking Viagra to get it up. Told me I’d be arrested if I bit
it off.” Spider-Man slammed the man into the brick wall. He put a gentle finger
to the man’s lips, hushing his whimpers.
 
“Told me he’d pull out every last tooth in my head if I wasn’t just oh, so,
very, careful.” Spider-Man caressed the man’s jaw, gently stroking his thumb
over the shivering, cracked lips.
 
The man was crying, snot and tears oozing shamelessly, hiccupping when Spider-
Man’s thumb traced his teeth.
 
“You know where he put his dick next?” Spider-Man tightened his hand around the
man’s throat, rubbing him into the wall, relishing each pained wince, and he
leaned over to whisper in his ear, taking his hand away from the chapped mouth
and resting it on the beefy shoulder, curling his fingers into the muscle.
 
“Exactly where you think he did. Gave me permission to cry if I wanted, s’long
as my aunt in the other room didn’t hear me begging for help, for mercy,”
Spider-Man’s fingers dug into the man’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise, “Then
we all ate dinner like one big happy family,” Spider-Man whispered singsong,
nuzzling the side of the man’s clammy head with his masked cheek, “But my Aunt
cried when I refused to kiss her goodnight. I couldn’t, though. I loved her too
much to let my defiled lips touch her cheek.”
 
Spider-Man’s loosened the hand choking the man when he realized the gasping was
getting a little too strained. This was important. There was a reason for the
madness. A reason Spider-Man’s eyes were as blank as his mask. A reason for the
numbness.
 
“I tell you all this because ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ and
you’ve lost your privileges, just like he eventually did. Though he didn’t lose
them soon enough, so here I am now, helping karma sort out what needs sorting
out since she’s busy and there are so many out there like me who deserve sooner
instead of later. Hell, you might even say the universe handpicked me for
this!” Spider-Man relaxed a bit, but the man stiffened and shook like an
epileptic Chihuahua at a rave in Antarctica.
 
“But, enough about that. You’re lucky! You get to choose. Your life,” The
indifferent tone was back and Spider-Man gently caressed the man’s throat with
his thumb relishing the frightened whimpers as the man started struggling now
that the moment of reckoning had arrived.
 
“Or your balls.” Spider-Man pulled a knife out from his belt with a flourish
and for a second he was certain the man was about to piss his pants.
 
“Which would you rather keep? Fair warning, I’m pretty sure you don’t get much
use out of them where you’re going if you choose to stay intact.”
 
The acrid scent of piss was barely noticeable in the alleyway over the metallic
aroma of blood painted on the ground.
Chapter End Notes
     Not gonna lie, when I first started writing this, I did not expect
     that ending until I reached that part. And then it just kind of
     happened. Is it ooc? Probably, yeah, but like Marvel fucks with
     everyone so who even knows what's canon and what isn't anymore. Get
     off my dick!
     ...please comment?
***** Ch 2: Aw, Nuts! Did That Really Just Happen? *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter's self flagellation. Because you can't have morally dubious
     Peter without an unhealthy dose of self-hatred! ALL ABOARD THE ANGST
     TRAIN CHOO CHOO
Chapter Notes
     So, I’m thinking I’m gonna be updating this weekly? I think that’s a
     schedule I can stick with. Whenever there are reeeeeally bad
     cliffhangers, I’ll of course post an extra chapter. But my definition
     of really bad might differ from yours (read: like, do they live or
     not kind of cliffhangers lololololol I’m a jerk but for real I don’t
     know how to not end things with cliffhangers). But a weekly will give
     me enough time to write new chapters and edit pre-written chapters to
     the point where they are all of the high quality I demand of myself.
     So, they’re on the short side as far as length, but (hopefully) are
     really fucking well-written short chapters (I think the longest so
     far is about 3k words, and I don't really go less than 1k, if there
     are any under 1k, I'll probably post two).
     I’d like to add that the response for this fic has been faaaaaaar
     beyond my expectations. You guys have said some of the most amazing
     things I have ever been told. Like, for real. I expected maybe two or
     three comments, but 14 (.5, lol buttstuff I still love your un)!? I
     have no words. I feel a bit nervous, lol, but mostly really excited
     because I’ve probably spent at least 8 hours on the first chapter,
     and it's fantastic that it's so well received!
     I’ve had such a hard time resisting the urge to post this chap, lol.
     But I really think I should stick with the mostly weekly posting
     schedule (Mon/Tues), because I don’t want to get caught up to what
     I’ve already written. I like being able to have some leeway as far as
     deadlines go. And that way you all have consistency. Win-win for
     everybody! Except for Peter. He kind of gets the short of the stick
     here. Fun fact: in the earlier stages when I couldn't think of a name
     for this fic, I named the file "Poor Spider," because I'm a moron. XD
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Screams echoed into the night.
 
“There, there buddy. You brought this upon yourself,” Spider-Man plopped him at
the front doors of the emergency room, leaving the man moaning in pain and
shuddering in fear. “Have a nice day, and remember that if you ever need help,
just call out and your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man will be there to do
what he can, no hard feelings, literally and figuratively in your case!
Toodles!”
 
Spider-Man swung off, heading towards home as fast as he could, feeling the
numbness leave his mind only to be replaced with physical nausea in his gut.
His hands were shaky and it felt like someone had surgically replaced his brain
with a fully functional model of the Liberty Bell, clanging and banging with
every movement. Swinging from web to web through the air made his stomach twist
and bile taunted the back of his throat. Almost there. He was almost there. He
could do this.
 
But suddenly Spider-Man was gone and he was just Peter again, flinging his way
through the city in a ridiculous blue and red spandex fetish suit, flecked with
blood. His back was raw under the weight of every eye following him from the
ground and windows, while his arms jerked awkwardly despite what should have
been familiar motions.
 
Pre-spider senses, he would trip, drop shit, and fumble every time his brain
decided to panic and monitor his every voluntary and involuntary muscle
movement instead of relaxing and allowing him to simply move.
 
Dancing was always a disaster, needless to say.
 
It wasn’t as bad anymore. The spider senses hijacked his overactive brain—not
completely shutting up the anxiety unfortunately, but even though his movements
would still be jerky, unsteady, and over calculated—at least he didn’t bust his
lip open on coffee mugs mid-sip when he realized someone was looking at him
(even if it was just for casual conversation). Nor, thankfully, did he have to
worry about missing a webshot because he was too busy worrying about missing
said webshot (oh the wonders of anxiety). The spidey senses would make the
executive decision for him; the need to survive overriding the worry of fucking
up (the thing which generally caused said fucking up). You know. Like a normal
person.
 
He tumbled through his window and staggered into the bathroom, still shaking
and vision fuzzy. With bloodied gloves he ripped off his mask, and threw up:
thankfully landing everything in the toilet.
 
Once the retching seemed to calm down, Peter rested his forehead on the toilet
seat, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. He sighed at the feeling of the
cool plastic against his skin and tried to not think about puking (because that
would likely trigger another round of vomiting worthy of some weird fetish
porno masquerading as a B-rated slasher flic). A shakey hand fumbled around for
the flush lever, eventually giving up the search to fall to the ground.
 
The night’s events rolled through his mind as he stared at the ugly pink
linoleum floor and clenched a hand into a weak fist. It had almost been fine.
Almost. It had been so long since the last time, too. He was getting
complacent. Just when it looked like Spider-Man finally rid New York City of
sex crimes (or at least, sex crimes out in the open), that little fucker had
the nerve to show up.
 
Peter took a deep breath, inhaling the faded scent of bleach and resolutely
ignoring the bitter vomit still lingering in the air. Relaxing his hand, he
closed his eyes. Part of him wanted to just throw in the towel and give up
patrolling altogether. It would be so fucking easy. He could be normal. He
could get therapy or whatever the Hell would make him stop seeing his uncle’s
dying face behind his eyelids, writhing in pain and fear while Peter’s smirk
reflected in the glassy eyes. Relishing the man’s soul slowly trickling out of
Peter’s life for good.
 
“As if he even had a soul,” Peter snorted and opened his eyes again, tracing
the floral pattern of the linoleum with his thumb, face pale and lips curled
into a resigned half-smile that didn’t reach his blank eyes.
 
And maybe help him not feel guilty for not feeling guilty about the bastard’s
death.
 
Taking a deep breath, Peter braced himself against the toilet and slowly stood
up. He closed his eyes as he peeled off his costume, biting his lip when it
tugged his skin in the places it was cemented on with dried blood. Finally
tossing it aside in the corner, Peter didn’t give it a spare glance. He’d deal
with it later.
 
And by “deal,” he means burn it, because A. He couldn’t just drag the nasty,
bloodied thing to the dry cleaners and B. He was pretty sure no amount of magic
could remove the crusty blood stains, much less the non-magical (to his
knowledge) grumpy gossips that ran the nearest (and most affordable)
Laundromat.
 
Leaning over the sink, Peter looked at his reflection in the medicine cabinet’s
mirror, specifically checking for bruises, still skimming over his puffy eyes
and gaunt cheeks. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, except that he was paler
than usual—but that was normal after a night…
 
After a night that ended with a ticket for the porcelain express, party of one.
 
The yellow-y light of the bathroom was quite unflattering, turning his pale
skin a sickly sallow, and the dark circles under his eyes a mottled green. He
looked away from his face and checked over his arms and the rest of his body.
Thankfully everything seemed to have returned to factory default.
 
“Gotta love that radioactive spider venom,” Peter mused out loud. Before the
bite, he bruised like an apple—you just looked at him funny, and suddenly a
bruise the size of the continental US showed up on his forehead.
 
Peter’s empty laugh echoed in the bathroom: a short bark that somehow made
everything seem even quieter—hollow.
 
Until his stomach growled.
 
The usual hunger and emptiness. Peter winced, but ignored it, choosing to step
into the shower instead. The wasted meal was disappointing, but there was no
way he’d be able to keep anything down, anyways. Twisting the broken knobs, the
water pipes groaned before blasting him in the face with freezing water.
 
The shock of cold water made Peter jump, but it warmed up pretty quickly—his
landlord had won a grant for those fancy energy efficient water heaters and he
still hadn’t gotten used to not running around for a minute or so waiting for
the water to warm up. Granted, he could’ve just counted to ten or something,
but he lived life on the edge (of insanity).
 
Underneath the basket of his shower caddy, a ratty wash cloth hung on a cheap,
rusty hook. Grabbing it with a still shaky hand, Peter worked it into a lather
with a sliver of bar soap. Carefully, he ran it over his body giving extra
attention to the places the blood had soaked through his suit and matted his
meager chest hair, plentiful leg hair, and, well, other hair—he swore that
blood itself had cognition of some sort since it always seemed to collect in
places Peter would really rather it not collect. The media made chest wounds
and being covered in blood look glamorous (or badass, at least) and heroic, but
the reality of it was pretty fucking gross. Fortunately for Peter, the
radioactive venom took care of things he’d really rather not think about—which
he learned after one too many Hepatitis scares.
 
As Peter sudded up, the water swirled pink in the drain—darkening when he
reached a patch of skin especially Carrie-esque, but lightening up after a
little while until eventually it ran completely clear. Like nothing had ever
happened. Factory reset. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
 
…except for the ring spiraling around the drain, marking the path the tainted
water took after running down his legs, between his toes—silently escaping,
gone but not forgotten.
 
The scent of rotting garbage in the alleyway filled his nose and Peter’s
stomach lurched.
 
It wasn’t enough.
 
He scrubbed harder, and harder, nails digging through the washcloth and into
his skin—rubbing—scratching—clawing everything off—ignoring the rawness—the
burning. Hands stopped shaking, focusing instead on the need for purifying
everything that tainted his body, his life, his soul—his very being. Every
square inch—skin crawled and itched, clamoring for attention. Was that a
freckle? Better be safe and erase it. Was that a mole—no! It was blood, and
gore, and needed to get off or else it would stain him even more—it would
become him, so he scratched at it, digging hard into the skin, excising.
 
Scritch.
 
Scratch.
 
His eyes burned, but he was too far away to notice, not until his vision was
too blurry to see where he was washing and rinsing and picking.
 
Sliding down the shower wall, he gave in and curled into a ball with his head
rested on his knees, clawing at his arms frantically. He was never clean
enough. It never worked. No matter what, he could feel every invisible speck of
something, ruining him, soiling him—rotting a bigger and bigger hole until it
swallowed him up entirely. Infecting everything around him; slowly killing
everything in its path.
 
Disgusting.
 
Filthy.
 
Broken.
 
The water in the shower drain swirled bright red.
 
“It’s never enough.”
Chapter End Notes
     While I do not personally have panic attacks like the one Peter has
     in this chapter (the shower one, more specifically), I have had panic
     attacks before (including pukey ones soooooo not fun body, like,
     let's fix our problems by throwing them up into the toilet seems
     logical kay let's do it). I have social anxiety disorder (though my
     worst panic attacks were brought on by my phobia of medical stuff,
     such as getting blood drawn, like for real, once I passed out BEFORE
     THEY EVEN STUCK ME WITH THE NEEDLE LIKE WTF GO HOME ANXIETY YOU'RE
     DRUNK).
     They are not to be taken lightly. The bits where he talks about his
     hands jerking around and such are from my own experiences (minus the
     whole Tarzan thing, because I haven't been bitten by a radioactive
     spider). Having said that, I deal with things through humor. So, I of
     course have some self-deprecating jokes sprinkled throughout. For me,
     laughter is the best medicine and makes me feel in control.
     That, and I have a very inappropriate sense of humor.
     Soooooo, comment if you'd like and I'll see you next week on Mon/
     Tues! Kay, bye! :D
***** The Nanny Named JARVIS *****
Chapter Summary
     JARVIS is really just a nanny that Tony made because even he knows
     that he doesn't know how to adult.
Chapter Notes
     So, this chapter isn’t too ridiculously exciting. And neither is the
     next chapter. So, I’m gonna post them both so you don’t have two
     weeks-worth of boring filler necessary for transition. However, you
     get some insight into Peter’s psychology and a couple of other
     things. It’s not like “Kakashi’s Mask” level of filler, it’s more
     like here’s some more background info and setting up the scene kind
     of filler. No balls were harmed in the making of this chapter.
     Anywho, this is the point where Peter’s reasoning and judgment kind
     of starts to get a little whacky. Like, I mean, not that knifing off
     gonads is exactly sane behavior, but like his motivations and
     justifications for things. They don’t always make sense. And he
     waffles around on a lot of them. You know, because he’s a little over
     in the bat-shit section of the DSM-5, if you catch my drift (he cray
     cray if you didn’t catch my drift). So if you don’t completely get
     his reasoning, then it’s because it doesn’t make sense. Like, looking
     back on the times when I was in the bat-shit section of the DSM-
     5 myself, I don’t even get my logic for a lot of the things I did.
     Hell, at the time I didn’t even understand my logic, and I wasn’t
     even close to the kind of crazy Peter is dealing with.
     Here in this chapter, his justifications aren’t as crazy as they’ll
     get, but they are still tenuous. And somewhat contradictory. Also, if
     anyone wants to make that meme, good luck. I literally just thought
     of three random memes (four, if you count Spider-Man).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The next day he trekked over to the Avenger’s Tower, all evidence of self-
inflicted wounds gone thanks to the good ol’ healing factor. He interned
(paid!) under Dr. Bruce Banner, who didn’t go out much for obvious reasons and
lived in the tower for—again—obvious reasons. The job was pretty exciting, even
though it probably wasn’t wise to spend so much time under the Avengers’ noses
with the whole “secret identity needing to stay secret” thing.
 
Especially since Tony’s AI figured it out the moment Peter stepped within 50
yards of the building (probably even before that, but JARVIS wasn’t the type to
brag, well, maybe he was but mostly he was just infuriatingly smug).
 
But Peter’s love of discovering scientific shit trumped his fear of his shit
being discovered, which was why he found himself pointedly ignoring newspaper
headlines as he scrambled past them, willing his face to stop blushing at the
stupid nickname plastered everywhere, and with his eyes glued to his feet. Of
all the spider related puns the public could have gone with—like, The Fanged
Fighter had been pretty cool, or well, admittedly the Sac Slasher had been kind
of gross, but at least that one had been spider related!
 
No, instead he got fucking “Virgin Vigilante.” Like, it wasn’t even spider-y!
The fucker that came up with the damned thing had better be praying he never
figured it out, because it was more than worth a swift kick in the teeth. The
alliteration was nice—he was a fan of alliteration, really—but it just…hit a
little too close to home. And it was embarrassing as Hell.
 
Bad guys teasing him about it during their mid-battle monologues was really
getting fucking old. If he heard another bastardization of Little Miss Muffet
he could not be held liable for his actions. A man can only take so much.
 
The first time he had seen the name it had been a joke about how young he
was—his voice still cracked and clearly his gangly stature was that of a dweeby
teenager (no matter how much padding he added to make it look like he had
muscles, a fact Peter would take to his grave and deny tooth and nail). After a
while, the name thankfully fell out of use—he’d see it here and there, but it
was pretty rare and only in the dark corners of the internet. It helped that he
had saved the city a few times and it looked like the Avengers were taking him
under Cap’s little helmet wings. If the Avengers could take him seriously, then
everyone else could, right?
 
Until, of course, That Night. The night everything changed and he lost control
of himself after…
 
Well, all of a sudden, “Virgin Vigilante” took on a new meaning—not necessarily
a logical meaning (because contrary to popular ignorant opinion, losing the old
V card didn’t mean losing the right to tell someone to fuck off), regardless he
was still stuck with it.
 
He had to admit however, that the memes were hilarious! His personal favorite
was the one with Ridiculously Photogenic Guy, Bad Luck Brian, and Rape Sloth.
It made him ugly laugh every time.
 
Peter reached the tower without too much delay (just an old lady who dropped
her cane and proceeded to smack him upside the head with it when he tried to
help her, because that was just how his life worked) and smiled politely at the
receptionist when she waved him in. Thankfully, she was too busy on the phone
to flirt with him—his head was still sore from the great cane debacle of 2016
and really, he just wanted to get to work and do some mother-fucking science.
He needed something to focus on.
 
Something to make his brain leave him alone.
 
However, he needed to get past JARVIS first—the busiest body to ever busy
without an actual body. In trepidation, Peter took a deep breath before he
walked towards the elevator and tried to mentally prepare for the emotional
ambush JARVIS had planned.
 
“Hello, JARVIS,” Peter timidly greeted the AI after it opened the doors to let
him in, his stomach bubbling in nervous anticipation as he walked in and leaned
against the railing, fingers tapping franticly on his thigh.
 
When JARVIS first confronted Peter about his eight-legged inclinations, the AI
promised to keep it secret for as long as Peter asked (read: as long as he
wasn’t a threat to all parties not on the Couldn’t Keep It In His/Her Pants
List, or the Ex-Boyfriend Who Murdered Gwen In Front Of My Face List—see fine
print for exclusions and limitations that may apply). Despite the reassurances,
it still felt like he was walking on eggshells around Tony Stark’s glorified
nanny.
 
“Good morning, Mr. Parker. How have you been?” The disembodied voice—that
absolutely did not make Peter shriek like a two year old the first time he
heard it—asked warmly. Too warmly—like how his Aunt May did after she caught
him sneaking into the house past curfew (thank Thor he was wearing civvies).
 
“I’ve been better, but nothing big. Just the usual,” Peter shrugged, and bit
his lower lip knowing what was coming up next.
 
“You made the news again,” JARVIS spoke with a gentleness that made Peter
wonder (and not for the first time, either) if there was actually a real live
person, buried somewhere in Tony Stark’s basement, tied up and forced to
pretend to be his virtual slave.
 
Stranger things have happened. Like, if aliens, radioactive spider bites that
gave super powers instead of prostate cancer, and Donald Trump running for
president (with enough people actually voting for him to be considered the
Republican nominee) were things that happened—then Tony kidnapping some old
British dude was just another Taco Tuesday.
 
“I hadn’t noticed,” Peter’s voice was pale from his shallow breathing while his
hands reached back to grip the railing, tense and quivering as the metal dug
into his skin.
 
He was waiting for the day when Tony edited JARVIS’s coding, found and
corrected the loophole that let JARVIS keep his secret—or the day Peter finally
reached his pre-ordained strike list and the logarithms recognized him as the
monster he had become. Whichever came first. It would happen eventually, and
the smart thing to do would be to get the Hell out of New York. But still he
stayed, too chicken to give up everything he had ever known before it started
chasing after him with repulsor beams and giant green fists.
 
He had no doubts about where Spider-Man stood with the Avenger’s as of late.
 
“You know that if you ever need any help, I’m sure that Mr. Banner or Sir would
be willing to give it to you. Or find it for you,” The voice was so human, so
kind. It was so damn tempting. But he couldn’t.
 
Breath stuttered, and his heart raced. Spider senses acutely aware of every
dust particle in the air, on edge in response to his panic as he mumbled; “I’m
sorry, but I can’t. I…I just…I can’t.”
 
The blue eyes of his Aunt May fluttered in his mind. He couldn’t do that to
her. Not even to her memory. She didn’t deserve to have her life tainted by
both her husband’s sins and her nephew’s resulting psychopathy. If he gave in
and talked, it would just be a matter of time before everyone found out. He
could see the headlines already and hear the speculation. The accusing. The
insinuations.
 
Everything would be brought to life. He just wanted the ones he loved to rest
in peace.
 
It felt like a betrayal to her memory—no one who knew her would remember her
the same again. All the good in her life—overshadowed by bad taste in men and
an unstable nephew. He hadn’t wanted her to know in life, and he sure as fuck
didn’t want her to know in death.
 
Though if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t just that.
 
Deep down, he knew the papers wouldn’t figure out the details of his life.
They’d guess, and maybe even guess correctly—but no one alive knew anything,
except of course for himself. And he certainly wasn’t telling.
 
He wanted it all to be forgotten—fuck, he just wanted it to go away! Talking
didn’t fix anything anyways—it just made everything more raw when he inevitably
lost it all again. If anything, talking made things worse. His lifestyle was
too dangerous to place that kind of trust in anyone, to give anyone that kind
of ammunition. He learned that when Gwen’s fragile neck snapped as she whipped
around on the webbing he shot out to save her, head to lolling like a broken
doll.
 
When her neck snapped, so had he.
 
He just…couldn’t. Beyond the deadly consequences of being Spider-Man’s
confidant—giving his secrets to Gwen had taken so much from her mentally. The
pain he’d see in her eyes…
 
No. He couldn’t do that to anyone else. The risk was too high, and the benefits
too little. It was better left alone in the dark recesses of his mind, where
the only person it tormented was himself.
 
And the occasional dickhead or two who really should’ve known better in the
first place. Peter just wished he could convince his stomach that they didn’t
deserve to activate his guilty conscience.
 
JARVIS left him alone to his thoughts. Not the judgey kind of alone he gave
Tony Stark whenever the man-child fucked up, but the kind of alone that someone
gives when they don’t know what to do.
 
The kind his aunt used to give when he accidentally lashed out at her. It was
probably all in Peter’s head, but it still made him feel guilty.
 
Peter huffed and ran his hand through his hair, leaning his head back against
the wall. Who the fuck felt guilty over making a robot worry? A robot that only
kept his secret because it was programed to be trustworthy? A robot programmed
to take care of people?
 
The elevator reached the biogenetics floor and Peter got off, ready to science
the Hell out of his day and let everything else fade into the background. He
didn’t want to think about the abstract any more. He wanted to focus on
something concrete, factual. Something that didn’t make his insides twist with
emotions he’d rather leave buried—or better yet destroyed. The day selective
memory dissolution became a Thing, Peter Parker would make damn sure his ass
was first in line.
 
“If you ever need help, Mr. Parker, you know where to find it,” JARVIS offered
as Peter fumbled with his backpack to retrieve his notebooks and laptop.
 
“Thanks JARVIS,” Peter hesitated before he placed his junk on the counter and
went to the closet to grab a lab coat. What else do you say to a Helicopter AI
Parent?
Chapter End Notes
     Another thing, when I said “His/Her Pants List,” I mean that. In the
     Skip arc that inspired this fic, the whole thing is a conversation
     Peter has with a kid he saves from a handsy babysitter. Female
     babysitter. I thought that was a very progressive idea for the mini-
     arc because it’s an aspect of child abuse that is often glossed over.
     Evilness isn’t only contained in the male gender. There are many
     horrific cases of molestation perpetrated by women. It’s not funny,
     it’s not cute—it’s not something to be brushed off because all real
     macho manly men can handle a puny girl’s advances, or even worse—the
     idea that women can’t sexually abuse men. That’s a dangerous thought
     that is too pervasive in our society. Okaaaaaay Imma get off my
     soapbox now. Shut up Patricia and let everyone read the rest of the
     damn fic.
     Soooooo...comment!? I enjoy reading them. They are love and life
     (sorry Shrek plz don't kill me)
***** Science, Bros (that comma is important) *****
Chapter Summary
     Don't expect any science bros. Because it's just Brucey.
Chapter Notes
     So like, Wade interrupted the flow of this chapter because he was
     tired of waiting. It’s a part I feel is totally unnecessary—and
     intrusive—but I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. I get pretty
     angry with him, but he insists. Persistent little shit. I have no
     clue how RRR put up with his fuckery for so long. But like, it’s kind
     of a filler chapter anyways, so I guess that if there was ever a good
     spot for distraction and questionable writing decisions, this would
     be the place to stick it—
     “That’s what she said!”
     Fucking Hell. I don’t get paid enough for this.
     “You don’t get paid at---”
     No soup for you!
     However, because I know it’s distracting and weird, I’ll have the
     version with the Deadpool Commentary Track (pleeeeeease let there be
     one in the DVD features plz) in a separate fic with other extras
     stuff. It will be a fic for extras and things that aren’t necessarily
     important to the actual story. Like, weird first drafts, chapters I
     nixed for various reasons, smut I couldn’t work into (that’s what she
     said) the fic, etc. Just shit that didn’t fit (ew, gross! Phrasing,
     dear god woman). So, because it’s extra stuff it won’t get updated
     super often.
     And it won’t be updated in place of this fic—if it’s updated, it
     means you guys get an extra present for the week, like finding an
     onion ring in your fries vs finding that you got onion rings instead
     of fries. I think that most of the entries will be chapters with Wade
     commentary throughout them? Idk. I’m gonna wait to put it up when I
     have one more thing to put in it (gross), so it isn’t like wtf why is
     she hogging the update feed with all her shit who does she think she
     is running round leavin’.
     (if enough people ask I might put it up early, so IDK)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
About an hour after settling into work, Peter’s spidey senses warned him that
someone was in the room, watching him. He figured it was probably Bruce—Tony
would have just slapped him on the back and said something inappropriate
instead of politely waiting. Bruce however, understood that some people really
didn’t enjoy being snuck up on (not that anyone could really sneak up on Peter,
but no one knew that so he’d act surprised anyways).
 
Peter looked away from the microscope to could jot down a note—and also make
sure it was indeed Dr. Banner watching him and not the super villain of the
week. Better safe than sorry when it came to his life. From the corner of his
eye, Peter saw that sure enough, Bruce Banner was standing with a small smile
on his face. Grinning wide, Peter stretched his back and put his pencil down.
 
“What’s shakin’ bacon?” Peter yawned while turning on his stool to face his
mentor.
 
“Nothing much. How’s your project going?” Bruce walked over to the counter and
leaned on it, elbow resting casually as he thumbed lightly over Peter’s notes.
The man’s forehead wrinkled as he read, nodding occasionally as he chewed his
lip.
 
Peter pulled off his gloves and scratched his head with a grimace. “Eh. It’s
going,” Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Not going as I thought it would,
but that’s what science is all about,” Crossing his arms and leaning back, he
hooked his legs in the bars of the stool out of habit rather than as an anchor
for balance. “Mother nature trolling away like a twelve year old in the
comments section of anything ever.”
 
Bruce laughed, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes as he looked up from
Peter’s notes. “You have no idea,” The tone was lighthearted, but his jaw
clenched minutely. No green though, thankfully.
 
Peter fought the urge to tell him that he knew a thing or two about how
unpredictable science could fuck up a person’s life, but he kept it to himself.
That was a whole other can of worms that he didn’t want to reopen. Instead,
Peter peeked over Bruce’s shoulder, looking for The Avengers Initiative’s
primary benefactor. “Where’s Tony? I mean, it’s nice not to have to compete
with his big head for space in here, but I do enjoy the banter.”
 
Bruce winced. “He’s at a public relations meeting to talk about Spider-Man’s
latest…actions. I don’t know if you heard about it yet, but he…well, he got
someone else last night,” Bruce looked at his hands, twiddling his fingers
nervously, “This time it was different, though…”
 
Peter’s forehead crinkled as he watched Bruce fidget. Leaning forward a bit
more, he gripped the stool with his legs tightly. “What was different this
time?”
 
Bruce looked Peter in the eyes, face hard. “This time, the man died.”
 
The air in Peter’s lungs vanished, and it felt like Colossus sucker punched
him. Blood drained from his face and the room started spinning, almost knocking
Peter off the stool before his spider senses kicked in so he barely managed to
grab the table top at the last second. “D-d-died? Sp-Spider-Man k-killed him?”
It felt like the room was deadly silent except for Bruce’s words echoing
faintly.
 
Bruce nodded grimly, frowning a bit at how Peter was gripping the table for
dear life after almost falling on his ass. “As usual, the guy had quite the
record,” The words were enunciated stiffly with disdain, and Bruce shook his
head before continuing. “Most would say he deserved it. Quite frankly, I kinda
agree.”
 
Unsteady hands ran through Peter’s hair, fighting the urge to rip it all out—to
dig his nails into his skin and just rip it all off.
 
Dead. The man was dead. “Sp—spider-Man doesn’t normally kill though? It’s not
his M.O.!?” Peter asked, voice higher than normal despite his efforts to reign
in his panic. Even the rat bastards that had asked for death, Spider-Man hadn’t
given it to them! He made them wish that he had, but he never actually went
through with it! He always made sure the wounds were non-fatal, and there
shouldn’t have been any real complications other than the obvious, but—!
 
“To our knowledge, we don’t know of any non-supers or civilians he’s actually
intentionally prior to last night. We don’t even know of any he may have
accidentally killed until now. We’re not sure what’s changed with him—”
 
Peter’s head shot up like a possessed Pop Tart. “What? What do you mean
intentionally killed?” His words were desperate, to Hell with acting
suspicious! Though, if Bruce hadn’t noticed anything was weird from the near
breakdown a second ago, then the man must be more oblivious than Peter thought.
 
Bruce raised an eyebrow, studying Peter as if he were a lab specimen. “Well,
what else would he expect a slit throat to do? It was quite gruesome, too.
Apparently the man’s head was barely hanging on.”
 
Peter chewed the inside of his cheek and tapped his finger against the table
absently, staring off at a point beyond Bruce’s shoulder. Whenever he had his…
episodes…his memories were always crystal clear—probably something to do with
the spider venom, because just like middle of the night REM nightmares, usually
people who had psychotic breaks didn’t remember what happened or what they did
during them, at least, not with the clarity Peter had (because this was his
life anyways and the rules were made up and the points didn’t matter). Still,
he didn’t remember anything like that! And he didn’t have any weird fuzzy
memories of last night or blank patches, which would have indicated some sort
of memory block, etc. He could recall every moment from last night easily. Yet,
Peter Parker knew nothing about a slit throat. What was going on?
 
“Peter?” Bruce broke him from his thoughts with a hesitant question.
 
Peter looked at his mentor, suddenly realizing how weird he was acting. Bruce
was looking at him with worried eyes, every line on his face exaggerated by his
frown. He was chewing his lip, as if trying to find the best way to word what
he was thinking. A cold feeling ran over Peter’s neck.
 
“Don’t you take pictures of Spider-Man for The Daily Bugle?” Bruce asked,
watching Peter carefully.
 
Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he looked at Bruce he tried
to control his trembling hands and nodded. This was it. This was the moment
that someone finally figured it all out—and for real, any dodo could have put
it together if he was being perfectly honest with himself—so he sat up
straight, mentally going over the locations of all the doors and windows he
could use to make a break for it. There was no fucking way they were going to
capture him, Hulk or not. Not without a fight.
 
Bruce looked away and fiddled some more with his hands for a bit while Peter
fought the urge to just shoot off a web and make his escape. Sighing, Bruce
turned back to Peter, a resigned half-smile on his face that seemed to drag his
tired eyes down with it.
 
“I know I probably have no right to ask, but how close are you to Spider-Man? I
only ask because…” Bruce trailed off and waved his hand, “Because I guess I
worry about you. He seems…very…hurt, and he’s…well, he’s not very stable?”
 
Peter’s jaw dropped. Literally. He was literally staring at Bruce with his
mouth doing its best impression of the super massive black hole in the center
of every galaxy; all he needed was a quasar or two. Seriously! If they were
playing charades there was no way anyone wouldn’t guess what he was going for
unless they didn’t know what super massive back holes were.
 
In which case, Peter didn’t want to play charades with them anyways.
 
“Huh?” Peter replied with all the wit of a drunken baboon. He wanted to rewind
and replay what just happened, because quite frankly, it was pretty
unbelievable. And hilarious. Bruce was worried about Spider-Man being a bad
influence on Peter?
 
Bruce blushed a bit, looking back at Peter as he scratched the back of his
head, “Just be careful? I know it’s not my place, but just…yeah. Be careful.
And if you ever need help, just give me a call or something. I enjoy working
with you, and I know Tony has as well—you know…whenever he pops in.”
 
“Th-thanks, Bruce. I-ah-I appreciate it,” Peter reached to fiddle with his
glasses (a habit he still couldn’t break even though he hadn’t worn glasses in
years, but he never remembered in time, so he’d clumsily abort the motion
halfway to scratch the side of his face because eczema is more socially
acceptable than invisible glasses) and looked at the ground, feeling his own
ears burn. Of course Bruce didn’t fucking know! If Bruce had figured it out,
he’d have Hulk smashed Peter to smithereens. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be careful.”
 
Bruce smiled warmly and reached his hand out momentarily, before yanking it
back and shoving it into his pocket—as if he wanted to pat Peter on the
shoulder but decided not to at the last second. With a few recommendations for
his project and an uncomfortable wave, Bruce left Peter alone.
 
The lab felt empty when Bruce left, and Peter stared into space for a while
before he shook his head and got back to work. He had a lot to think about, but
Peter pushed it to the back of his mind for now.
 
Now, it was time to get back to doing some mother-fucking science.
Chapter End Notes
     Look at how awesome I am! You get two new chapters! So like, don’t
     kill me because this is a little late. I did say Mon/Tues. (don’t
     hurt me) But you get two chapters because they’re both kinda boring,
     and like, nothing sucks more than two weeks of boring updates.
     Also, I had a dream that I was chilling with the Avenger’s and
     Deadpool because I was an Avenger (but like I wasn't a super hero or
     ninja-like I was just a lazy good for nothing so IDK why they let me
     join), and then Spider-Man pops in and is all like hey guys I’m
     Spider-Man, and I look off to the side at a mirror and ask myself,
     MID-DREAM, “Since when did Sony let Spider-Man play with Deadpool?”
     In my dream, I realized that what was going on wasn’t real and broke
     the fourth wall.
     Of my own dream.
     I broke the fourth wall of my own dream.
     What is my life?
     Soooooooo....comment? Plz? Thanks.
     *also, to reiterate, the Deadpool Commentary Track will be coming
     soon (phrasing!) to a fic near you.
***** Gee I Wonder Who Is Following Peter It’s So Not Obvious Subtle Author
Award Goes to Me *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter does his part for the environment, and the author finally let's
     Deadpool come (gross)
Chapter Notes
     So I see a fic titled “Peter Parker Picks Pickled Peppers,” or
     something like that, and I’m like fuuuuuuck there’s another fic I’m
     accidentally stealing from, lol. I swear I had that line in before I
     saw that fic! Lol XD Honestly, seeing that fic was what inspired me
     to actually begin posting this story because I was like oh fuck I
     need to get this out before someone else beats me to the punch (which
     is pineapple flavored and really tasty so I need to get there before
     it's gone).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The lady at the desk waved (jutting her chest out to emphasize her quite ample
bosom) as Peter walked past her desk. Peter gave a lazy wave back at her and
then gripped his backpack straps tightly once he exited the building. It was a
little later than he normally left, but Bruce’s suggestions really helped and
Peter lost track of time, glued to his project—until JARVIS informed him it was
well past time to go. Why exactly the little shit hadn’t told him sooner, Peter
didn’t know (though he suspected it had to do with his, ahem, extra-curricular
activities—but little did the overprotective nanny know that Peter wasn’t
really planning on hero-ing it up that night).
 
The street lights were on, but even without them it wouldn’t have been very
dark in New York City. You know, “City That Never Sleeps” and all that. The
walk home from Avengers Tower was usually pretty uneventful—at least until he
got closer to his neighborhood, which was definitely not the side of NYC you’d
see on HGTV—and that gave Peter plenty of time to think about the bombshell
Bruce had bitch-slapped him with earlier that day. So humming softly to
himself, Peter walked, mind whirring over the latest plot twist in his far too
twisty life.
 
“So, who offed the Ball-less Skeeze from last night?” Peter frowned and
adjusted his backpack. And, just as importantly for what reason was he killed?
Was it suicide?
 
Peter shook his head and pressed the crosswalk button on the stoplight pole,
leaning against it while he waited. “Doubt it.”
 
The man had so eloquently requested life (read: begged unattractively).
 
The light turned on and Peter straightened up, looking both ways because people
in New York liked to ignore the crosswalk lights Hooking his thumbs around his
backpack straps again, Peter walked onwards, flipping off and rolling his eyes
when someone honked at him.
                                                                                                    
“Asshole,” he muttered when the guy sped past him the moment Peter’s foot
touched the curb—nearly hitting him—before the countdown on the crosswalk even
started.
 
Maybe someone had a grudge—there were certainly enough angry people in NYC for
that to be the case—but if that was the case, then was it against the almost-
rapist (he hoped the guy was only an almost-rapist) or against Spider-Man?
Peter mused as he absently kicked a soda can on the ground—too lazy to pick it
up, too concerned about the environment to leave it without finding a recycling
bin to chuck it in.
 
“Am I being framed?” Peter asked aloud. With a loud clang, the can hit a bench
when Peter kicked it harder than he meant to. It bounced back and landed
upright, wobbling a bit like it was going to tip over. Satisfyingly enough, it
didn’t. Normally Peter would fist pump at that, he barely noticed it.
 
The paranoid part (well, the self-loathing and paranoid parts) of Peter
wondered if he had actually done it as Spider-Man last night and just couldn’t
remember (read: blocked it/party of one destination Kookooville/possessed by a
supervillain/etc.).
 
Dragging his feet, Peter mechanically walked over towards the can. His face was
eerily blank, eyes staring at nothing. The only expression his body gave away
was the white-knuckled death grip he had on his backpack straps, thumbnails
twisting and picking at the fraying material.
 
Was he actually unhinged to the point where he could forget committing cold-
blooded murder? Peter chewed the inside of his cheek and stared into space for
a moment, before he clenched his jaw hard enough to click his teeth.
 
What the fuck was going on? Peter raised his foot and crushed the can into a
disk—probably a little bit too perfect of a disk for normal human strength.
 
He knew one thing, though. As much as the thought made his skin crawl and the
voice of Uncle Ben rang in his ears, telling him about fucking
responsibilities—and fuck was that screwed up or what—Spider-Man should not be
patrolling the city for a little while. It wasn’t safe.
 
“Wish I knew who it wasn’t safe for,” Peter grumbled, flipping the aluminum
disk into the air with his toe, years of hacky sack practice finally becoming a
skill worth having honed. Looking around quickly and not seeing anyone, Peter
smirked and popped the flattened can up a little higher into the air with the
side of his foot. Carelessly pushing off the ground, he spun into a kick:
aiming at a recycling bin across the street. With a muffled crack, his foot
connected with the disk sending it high into the air—soaring towards its target
with a velocity beyond the capabilities of an Olympic gymnast and bounced off
the brick wall—banging into the back of a sign—pinging a pole—and—
 
“Fuck yeah!” Peter grinned when the can bounced off the wall once more and sank
into the bin. And yes—it was the bin for aluminum.
 
Goosebumps prickled on the back of Peter’s neck, interrupting his victory when
he whipped around to see what was going on. He was in the part of the city
where he needed to pay better attention—so he scanned the nearby buildings
until he locked onto the one that set off his senses. On the roof of the
building there was a quick flash of shadow, but it was gone before he could
even make out what it was. Peter’s heart hammered in his chest and he lowered
his hands, ready to bolt if needed.
 
Someone was following him.
 
Peter turned away and began walking again, ears open for anything suspicious.
 
Had someone figured out who he was? It was bound to happen (again) sometime.
Peter knew that he wasn’t always as careful as he could be—and yet it would
only take one second of sloppiness and all his hard work would come crashing
down around him. Everything would be for naught.
 
Peter turned to the right, skin prickling in warning right before a knife
slashed through the air, aimed at his head. “Fuck!” Peter yelped and twisted to
dodge it, backing into something solid and warm and rather…smelly? Like, stale
Taco Bell in a Dumpster, smelly? Another knife (or maybe the same knife as
before, but how would that be possible?) was pressed to his throat and the cold
metal threatened to fillet him at any sudden movement.
 
“Well if it isn’t little Peter Parker. Shouldn’t you be off picking some
pickled peppers instead?” A reedy male voice sang in his ear.
 
Peter’s blood froze.
 
“Well duh, I know that’s Peter Piper jackass, I was teasing the little squirt.
Jeez. Everyone’s a critic!” The voice left his ear and seemed to be talking to
someone else. Perhaps there was an accomplice? “You guys take all the fun out
of everything. Fun suckers!” The voice’s owner jostled Peter when he shook his
fist in the air at what Peter really hoped weren’t (but was beginning to
suspect were) imaginary voices. He hissed when the knife blade cut into his
throat a little—not enough to slice him open, but enough to sting like shaving
with a dull blade.
 
“Woops! Better be a bit more careful there. Can’t have you bleeding out on me
before we even get to have any fun!” The man moved the knife away from his
throat a little, but not enough to let Peter get any ideas.
 
“I know, right? It’s already over 7k words into the story and we’ve barely
gotten any screen time—really, none at all since the author decided to nix the
Deadpool Commentary Track in chapter four!” A hand reached around his chest and
held him snugly against a firm body covered in leather—and Peter really hoped
that was a gun digging into his back and that the man wasn’t just happy to see
him.
 
“C-can I h-help you with s-something?” Peter stuttered, desperately thinking of
escape plans that didn’t involve revealing his identity—especially since the
way his captor was moving around, as if he kept forgetting he was holding a
knife to someone’s throat. It was making Peter anxious and twitchy, and all of
the weird lumpy things that dug into his back were not only uncomfortable, but
indicative of an alarming amount of weaponry for a guy kidnapping a gangly
looking nerd. Clearly, this was no run-of-the-mill “wrong place, wrong time”
NYC mugging. It wasn’t much of a stretch to worry that the guy knew who Peter
really was—because let’s face it, supposing it was a non-Spider-Man related
kidnapping, regular Peter Parker the geeky and impoverished photographer wasn’t
exactly choice ransom material.
 
The man would be lucky to get some pocket lint and a Tic Tac.
 
“Who are you?” Peter asked when his first question went unanswered. He closed
his eyes and listened carefully, wincing at the flood of information the spidey
senses brought and trying to single out his captor’s heartbeat—and sensing if
there were any more nearby. There was one other a little bit away—but they
weren’t close enough that Peter could ask for help.
 
The attacker stilled for a second (surprising Peter out of his focus) shutting
up completely for the first time—as if he were listening to someone. There was
the possibility that the person Peter’s senses had picked up on was
communicating with the man, but Peter doubted it. The man rambled worse than
Tony Stark.
 
You know what? It would be just his luck if he was being targeted by some
nutcase that thought he was on a mission from God to kill people or something.
 
“It is I! The grrrreat Papy—wrong fandom, sorry,” The man giggled and patted
Peter on the shoulder before continuing. “It is I, the great Deadpool! Come to
make your execution—or kidnapping, as is the case this time—” Deadpool jerked
behind Peter and hissed something incomprehensible to something that Peter
still couldn’t see.
 
The man’s arm tightened around Peter’s chest, before he leaned into Peter’s
ear.
 
Peter thought he was going to be sick.
 
”I’m going to hold you hostage until Spider-Man makes with the hero-ing and
tries to save your pretty little ass—” The man cut himself off and turned to
look towards the side again.
 
“Yes, his ass is very pretty—” The man rocked violently, nodding as if his life
depended on it, allowing the knife to scrape dangerously at Peter’s skin again.
 
“But anyways, then I’m going to kill him—good point, White—or her, the boxes
and I disrespect all gender identities equally. You might even say we’re an
equal opportunist mercenary!” His captor suddenly giggled, chest quaking and
wiggling—and started to tap Peter’s neck with the flat part of the knife,
resting his forehead on Peter’s shoulder.
 
“That’s hilarious! Pan-executional! Get it? We’ll kill anyone regardless of
orientation—except kids and animals,” the man stiffened and jerked the knife
back to position, nicking Peter’s throat again. “That’s just fucked up. That’s
where we safe-word out.” The man nodded, and Peter’s neck started to sting as
oxygen entered the slightly broken flesh.
 
“Oops! I gotta be more careful. Can’t kill the bait before it’s done being
bait!” The man laughed when he leaned over to look at Peter’s throat, examining
the damage.
 
Seeing no fatal wounds, he hoisted Peter over his shoulder to take him wherever
it was they were going. A sheet of paper tacked on the alley wall caught
Peter’s eye and his jaw dropped in disbelief.
 
tO SpiDEr-mAn,
PoOl wAs X
ps niCE bOOty
 
And underneath the writing was a stick figure drawing of what might have been
Peter being kidnapped? It could also very well have been a picture of a donkey,
seeing that taped to it was a lock of Peter’s hair (when the fuck had that
happened?).
 
All of which was done in crayon.
 
“Tell me you at least used Crayola instead of Rose Art?” Peter found himself
asking in disbelief as he bounced around on Deadpool’s shoulder.
 
“Rose Art is the shit parents give the kid they don’t like! Party invitations
are way too important for that,” Deadpool scoffed. “Did we use Rose Art? The
Hell kind of question is that? What does he think this is? Amateur hour? Pfft.”
 
Peter looked longingly at a wall, wishing he could bang his head against it. Of
all people to have gotten the slip on him, it had to be a moron that used
crayons to write ransom notes. Fucking. Crayons.
 
“I’m never living this one down.”
Chapter End Notes
     Looky there! It only took like 8k words to find the Deadpool! There
     are a couple of things in this chapter that might possibly change.
     Maybe. Idk. A few minor things—like the soda can thing, I might later
     change it up a bit so it like foreshadows shit or whatever fancy
     artsy writer thingee I come (gross) up with. Mostly it’s just there
     so this fic goes from 90% just Peter thinking and 10% things
     happening to 75% Peter thinking shit and 10% shit going down (the
     hooooooole any Tiny Toons fans out there? That was the best thing
     ever) and 15% author just filling in space.
     So anyways, here we are entering the part of the story where shit
     actually goes down. Like, actual plot instead of world building. I
     know, right? Wow.
     Anyways, I'm gonna start a thing where I quote my favorite line from
     the chapter, because I'm douchey like that. Fuck off.
     "The man would be lucky to get some pocket lint and a Tic Tac."
     I like that line because it exudes two of my favorite things to read
     in fics: self-loathing angst and humor.
      
     Anyways now I'm gonna list shit I stole and prostituted for my own
     use in this fic:
     Papyrus from Undertale, "Deadpool Commentary Track" (an allusion to
     The Big Bang Theory)
     And that's all, fohkes! See ya next week (unless you comment, then
     I'll reply to you, and technically none of you will be seeing me but
     you get my point)
***** It's Never too Late to Change Perspectives *****
Chapter Summary
     Backtracking as a method of progressing.
Chapter Notes
     I would like to apologize for the late post. The 23rd was the
     anniversary of a friend’s suicide, and I found it difficult to do
     anything, really. Please get help if you feel that way—I guarantee
     there is someone who will miss you. Fight it. It doesn’t make you
     weak. It’s been two years and there isn’t a day that goes by that I
     don’t remember him. You are worth it. You are loved. You can beat it.
     Anyways, now that everyone is sad, let's get on with the story and
     read a pretty light-hearted chapter. Because yeah.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Soooooo now what?
 
“We wait for another job,” Wade spoke in the empty room, sprawled on a filthy
brown recliner. The leather was shredded in places, ripped apart as if it had
been used to fend off a werewolf—or, more likely, a Wolverine that one time
Wade made him spill a beer (word of caution to everyone: NEVER make Wolvie
spill a beer! sooooo not worth it, no matter how funny the tears were).
Suspicious red-brown stains splotched all over the vile thing and were
especially concentrated around the headrest—though it was hard to tell stain
from chair since the original color of the leather had long been forgotten.
 
Some of those stains might be Sriracha sauce.
 
Valid point—the buffoon has the table manners of a rabid goat.
 
Katanas, knives, and other sharp pointy things skewered it every which way,
like an over-sized pincushion. Oddly enough, the recliner’s handle was gone—a
pile of charred wood littering the floor where it would have been.
 
Trust me. You don’t want to know that story.
 
Wade liked to think of the bullet-hole ridden chair as his throne, smiling
fondly as he caressed a greasy cheese dust stain on the armrest with his thumb.
 
Throne of Games?
 
“Ooooh!” Wade squealed in delight, thumping the chair with his hand hard enough
that a cloud of dust exploded out of the cushion. “I like that!” Wade spat out
bits of lettuce and meat in his excitement, slinging a half-eaten chimichanga
in his hand haphazardly. One particularly adventurous chunk of tomato managed
to stick to the ceiling, blending in with other red spatters that already
decorated the dusty crevices of the popcorn ceiling.
 
The only games you play on it are Russian Roulette and Pokemon ever since—
 
“Well, I think it sounds cool and Yellow thinks it sounds cool, so majority
rules! Fuck you very much,* Doucheface McQueen!” Wade interrupted with a glare
before petulantly throwing the rest of the chimichanga down his throat, barely
stopping to chew. Chapped lips stretched into a toothy grin, revealing bits of
food wedged in his teeth as he flipped off the sky and tore off another bite of
the chimichanga.
 
Ugh. You disgust me.
 
“You fsay da nishest tings ‘bout mfeh!” Wade sprayed—
 
LOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!! WADE SPRAYED!!!!!!!!! LOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!
 
—more half-masticated chimichanga particles while guffawing at White’s disgust.
Pounding his free hand on the chair arm, he smeared the greasy cheese dust
stain and made the chair wobble as he laughed. A piece of plaster cracked off
from the ceiling and fell with a soft thwak.
 
I hate you. Both of you.
 
Taylor Swift’s voice broke through Wade’s laughter, reminding everyone that
Band-Aids don’t fix bullet holes—a fact that Wade occasionally forgot.
 
You know, I was pretty meh about this song before I saw the music video.
 
You’re still “kind of meh” about this song now that you know it’s not about
girl power and badass feminism, but T Swift’s tiff with KP.
 
Yeah, but there was a solid two weeks when it was my jam! Good times.
 
Wade leapt up from the chair and dug around for his phone in the seat
cushions—singing along of course because fuck you it’s a catchy song, and it
was the Kendrick Lamar version of course you filthy philistines—finding a glow-
in-the-dark yo-yo, a moldy turkey drumstick, three broken Pez dispensers, and a
miraculously pristine Mew card before finally seeing the screen’s glow right as
T Swift declared Katy Perry’s blood ran cold.
 
The nerve of her! Giving those back-up dancers a better contract Shaaaaame, for
shaaaame!
 
“You live like that, you live with ghosts!” Wade sang as he hit accept a little
too enthusiastically and put the phone to his ear, “Deadpool’s Pools of Dead
Execution Services. You name ‘em, we maim ‘em*. How can I be of service?” He
flipped back onto his throne: head first, and weaving to the side just enough
to not lose an ear on a katana poking out of the leg cushion. He hated losing
ears—it always made him feel off balance for a minute or two before it grew
back (#healingfactorprobs #youonlydienever #swag). With one hand, Wade felt
around the floor until he found the takeout bag and grabbed another chimichanga
out of it.
 
That was quite shameless, stealing lines from other fanfics.
 
At least we’re here as an easy way to credit to the original creator of that
phrase, the great Orcusnox (Cat9894).
 
Yes. We live to serve. Damn author-overlord bitch.
 
“Do you do superheroes?” The voice on the other end was electronically altered,
though it could have just been a robot on the other end. Strange days, man.
Strange days.
 
You never know what kind of whack jobs are gonna show up in Spidey’s ‘verse.
 
“Hmmm. Depends on the hero and the pay. Moreso the pay than the who.” Rolling
his eyes, Wade shrugged the shoulder he used to hold the phone to his ear,
punctuating “pay” and “who” by stabbing the chimichanga into the air.
Unfortunately, physics were not on Wade’s side and the chimichanga filling
popped out of the tortilla and fell all over Wade’s face, like a strange but
delicious fountain—some getting into his nose and the hot sauce burned every
bit of skin it touched.
 
Sputtering, Wade flinched and lost balance, falling out of the chair and
landing on his head. “Fucking shit on a horse’s dick!” Wade whimpered, feeling
every sore on his back rip open with the friction as he slid off the chair,
burning and raw. His left eye watered and head pounded as he lay in a heap and
sadly took a bite of the chimichanga. Instead of sinking into deliciousness,
his teeth clicked hard when they tore through the empty tortilla.
 
The filling had all fallen out.
 
Serves you right for waving the damn thing around like a barbarian. You don’t
even like them! You just like saying the word!
 
Wade glared and flipped the air off again, almost forgetting the potential
client he had on the phone as he flung the sad tortilla across the room,
feeling his head carefully to assess the damage.
 
Pooly. The phone.
 
Wade rolled his eyes and grabbed the phone, holding it to his ear—sucking in a
deep breath when it grazed over a weeping blister.
 
“—tastic! I need you to get rid of Spider-Man,” The maybe/maybe not a robot
sounded quite gleeful.
 
“Can do. But it won’t be cheap,” Deadpool said absently, looking at the hand he
used to explore his wounds to see how badly they were bleeding and/or oozing.
 
The phone beeped with a text message.
 
“Will that number suffice?” The words were laced with a sneer, but the effect
was dampened by the theoretical electronic voice changer.
 
Taking the phone from his ear, Wade opened up the message and whistled at the
number he saw.
 
That’s a lot of zeroes.
 
And those are definitely commas instead of decimals.
 
Why would there be multiple decimal points?
 
“Shut up, assholes,” Wade whispered absently, blinking. He pretended to mull it
over for a moment before answering. “Sounds like a reasonable number to me.”
 
The caller snorted. “I thought it would get your attention.”
 
“What did the kid do to you?” Wade asked furrowing his brow bemusedly, trying
to ignore the tightening feeling in his face as the hot sauce irritated his
welts. “Did he murder your parents?”
 
Kill his kid?
 
Eat his kid?
 
The fuck is wrong with you!? Why would you even say that?
 
“Yeah, Yellow, that’s just wrong,” Wade muttered, nose scrunched in disgust and
immediately regretted the motion when his face went from inflamed to burning.
 
Hey, I’m just saying it’s gotta be something super-duper fucky. And orphan meat
is pretty fucked up, though I have it on good authority it’s quite tender.
 
Carl from Llamas with Hats is not “good authority!” And anyways, if it was this
guy’s kid, it wouldn’t be orphan meat. Get a dictionary, dumbass. Better yet,
get some help. You ain’t right.
 
“It’s none of your business. Contact me on this number only when you get the
job done,” The voice snapped and the maybe-robot hung up.
 
Who shit in his Cheerio’s?
 
Who gives a fuck? We got a pretty sweet job right now. Got any plans, Pooly?
 
“Well, Spider is one of those goody-goody types, isn’t he?” Wade tossed his
phone behind his head, smirking when it thudded lightly on his mattress.
Thankfully, the burning feeling was starting to fade again as his wounds began
healing over. The merc absentmindedly flicked a piece of lettuce and he propped
his head on his other fist. The lettuce soared through the air and landed on
the TV screen, under one of Blanche’s nostrils. He was lost in thought,
however, so he didn’t laugh.
 
Yeah, I think so? I mean, jury’s still out on the cannibal thing.
 
I wish I had a physical body so that everyone could hear my eyes roll. Anyways,
Spider-Man is definitely one of the good guys. Well, except for…well…you know.
 
Except for what? Doesn’t he usually hang out with the Avenger’s when he isn’t
out Hanniballing it up?
 
I’m ignoring that because I refuse to give you any more attention than
necessary. As to his loyalties, he does occasionally partner with the
Avenger’s, however he’s not exactly on their Star Student roster. You know.
With the whole ‘Virgin Vigilante’ thing he does on the side.
 
Oh yeah! That. The whole non-chemical castration thing. The goofy nickname they
gave him. I forgot about that! But honestly, can anyone really fault the guy
for that? Especially if he eats—
 
I swear I’m going to scream if you say another word—
 
“I wonder if that has anything to do with our client?” Wade mused, steepling
his fingers and resting them under his chin, oppa “Been-A-Dick Cum-In-Her-
Thatch as Sherlock Holmes” style.
 
Don’t know, don’t care. You saw that number. Hell, Spider-Man himself probably
would accept the offer!
 
Always thinking with our wallet, White. Great to see that some things never
change. Aren’t you kinda curious?
 
Yes, it is interesting. But I’m more interested in the bottom line.
 
“Hey! I think I got an idea!” Wade flapped his arms and kicked his legs, like a
happy toddler, “What’s the name of that one squirt who takes those pics of
Spidey for The Daily Bullshit or whatever the fuck that cum-rag is called?”
 
It was something super generic, as if Stan tried to give him the most ordinary
name he could possibly think of without actually calling him John Smith.
 
I think it was alliterative like ours?
 
I believe it also sounded like a bad dick pun.
 
Yeah, yeah. We definitely mocked it at some point. Dick Dillards, maybe?
 
No, it wasn’t that obvious. Perhaps Jordan Johnson?
 
But wasn’t it the first name that was the most dick-like? Maybe it was Willy?
 
The word you are looking for is “euphemistic.” Other than that, I think you’re
right, though it wasn’t W like ours. Maybe Frank?
 
What else is eufemastatical—
 
What did I do to get stuck with such a moron?
 
—with dick? There’s Jimmy, Frank, Woody, Peter—
 
“Peter Parker! That’s it!”
 
No, maybe it’s something Rogers?
 
That’s Steve Rogers. You know. Captain America.Guy with the spangled ass.
 
Oh right. Forgot about him. He’s the one that fisted Hitler, right?
 
You’re doing it on purpose.
 
“It’s Peter Parker. I’m pretty sure of it,” Wade stretched his arms out in
front of himself, popped his knuckles, and stood up with a wiggle of his hips.
“I think we have a newspaper in here somewhere, with his name in it.”
 
The room was a pigsty. Empty—and not-so-empty—beer bottles and cans covered
every surface that wasn’t the floor, and most of the surface that was the
floor. Empty take-away bags covered the remaining areas that weren’t taken by
the cans and bottles. Napkins were balled up, moldy and covered in food, being
used as cozy little homes for every kind of creature that inhabited New York
City.
 
Hey, was that #pizzarat over there?
 
This place is revolting.
 
“Hey look! A newspaper!” Wade pointed at a corner and pirouetted gracefully
towards it, leaping over the various micro-ecosystems along the way, and
landing in a plié when he reached the spot.
 
NEW FIC IDEA, AUTHOR!!!! AVENGER’S ON DANCING WITH THE STARS MAKE IT HAPPEN
BITCH!!!!!!!
 
“Bam! Peter fucking Parker, BITCHES!” Wade picked up the newspaper with a
flourish and shook it towards the sky, pointing at the name on the front page
of The Daily Butt Plug.
 
Congrats. For once you’re right. But what the Hell are we going to do with him?
 
Please tell me we’re going to kill him so Spider-Man comes after us to avenge
his death? Please! Please! Pleeeeeeeeease! We haven’t killed anyone at all in
this fic!!!!!!
 
“Hmmmm…nah. I mean, we could, but I think just holding him hostage will do the
trick. If he thinks we’ve already ko’d his best buddy, he’ll probably boohoo at
the Avengers and they’ll kick my ass and let Stark dissect me. But, if Spidey
thinks we might kill his li’l pal, he’s more likely to act all rash and
righteous and come alone—that’s what she said,” Wade shrugged, wadded up the
paper and tossed it over his shoulder. Heading towards his room to grab his
laptop from wherever the fuck it was, Wade hopped over the mounds of garbage,
opting for leap-frog style this time. He was pretty sure he last had the
Toshiba out for Wade Winston Wilson’s Wankfest Wednesday.
 
Fun sucker!
 
Don’t worry. We still get to kill Spider-Man.
 
True. I guess that there is still that…
 
Wait a minute! This is a Spideypool fic! We aren’t going to kill him, are we?
 
Well, they do call orgasms “little death,” don’t they?
 
Touché. The sex better be worth it. Better be real fucking worth it.
Chapter End Notes
     So, fun fact about this chapter: I was reading a fanfic where
     Deadpool said “fuck you very much,” and I actually thought it was a
     catch phrase of his. Of course, I didn’t do the smart thing and look
     it up. I made an ass out of you and me instead. So yeah. Fuck me very
     much. XD My bandwagon Deadpool fan roots are showing. (the fic I’m
     referring to is “Tale as Old as Time,” it’s delightful, you should
     read it if you haven’t, plus, like, it’s actually finished)
      
     Anyways, “you name ‘em we maim ‘em” was not coined by me, but by the
     delightful Orcusnox (Cat9894). If you’ve never read “The Boys Wear
     Red,” then stop what you are doing and read the fuck out of it right
     now. It’s the fic that sold me on the idea of Dark!Peter. I was a
     nonbeliever. So really, she’s the reason this was ever started. So
     read her shit. It’s good.
     Other things I quoted:
     Taylor Swift’s Bad Blood,
     Llamas With Hats by Jason Steele,
     “Gangnam Style” by Psy
***** Chapter 7.1 Dat Ass Doh *****
Chapter Summary
     Wade spies on Peter. That's it. That's all that happens. This chapter
     is literally just Wade stalking Peter.
Chapter Notes
     Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.........heh heh heh. When the
     author of a fic updates two months late. https://www.youtube.com/
     watch?v=Z7Ln04baGik&ab_channel=DisneyAndSpiritLover
     So yeah. Um. I have no excuse.
     Except that this is one ass fucking long chapter. This chap and the
     next one were originally one chapter, but like, look at it. It's
     almost 3k long.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Damn. Dat ass,” Wade whistled sharply as he watched the ill-fated Peter Parker
exit that fugly tower of Stark’s (which totally wasn’t compensating for
anything, no Sir-ee) through a pair of binoculars. The whistle was loud enough
that it caught the attention of a passerby on the ground, who looked up, and
stared for a solid minute at the red clad man swinging his legs back and forth
over the edge of the building. It was a testament to how often weird shit went
down in New York City when the passerby merely shook his head, rolled his eyes,
and sighed as he walked away.
 
Wade leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he stared intently
through the binoculars. Resting them in one hand, he reached outward with his
other and made little pinching motions. The effect was somewhat ruined when
Wade forgot to take into account how binoculars worked and his vision was
momentarily obscured by his own hand.
 
I’d soooo tap that.
 
“Stark!?” Wade shouted indignantly into the air above his left shoulder
indignantly, ripping away from Peter for a moment. “Ewwwwww! Even I have better
taste than that!” Wade wrinkled his nose, bunching the mask up with it. He
resisted the urge to wince at the friction of the material against his inflamed
skin, but his breathing stuttered for a moment despite his best efforts.
 
You don’t even have a body, dumbass. You can’t “tap” anything.
 
Wade looked back through the binoculars and searched a bit to re-find Peter
Parker. After a moment, he found the kid kicking around a can. “You big
disgrace, kickin’ your can all over the place,” He sang softly to himself.
Being a know-it-all dickface isn’t going to make you any friends, Whitey
Tightey! And also, in the words of the great Jimmy Fallon, ew! Definitely not
Stark. The target. Man, even Kimmy Gibbler in Fuller_House had better taste
than that. That dickwad had a cute accent to go with his ass, at least. All
Stark has is wrinkly old man balls and daddy issues.
 
“Singin’ we will, we will fuck you,” Wade mumbled, watching the kid tense up
and frown.
 
You know, wrinkly old man balls and daddy issues sounds vaguely familiar, as if
I know someone else like that…
 
“Yellow’s got a point. There’s a reason you have no friends,” Wade lazily
flipped off the sky to his right, taking his eyes off Parker to glare.
 
Yeah! Stop being such a sourpuss!
 
Wade turned back to looking through the binoculars. The kid no longer had the
can, and was instead gazing ahead at nothing.
 
Dammit! You made us all miss Petey make that epic kick shot…
 
 “What kick shot?” He asked with a frown, seeing no trace of triumph on his
mark’s face. He didn’t see anything that would have made a convenient kick shot
target, either. There was a recycling bin across the street from the kid, but
unless—
 
When you two start fucking, ask him about it. You aren’t supposed to know yet,
anyways. NEVER trust Yellow with spoilers, dumbass author.
 
Rolling his eyes, Wade returned to Peter-watching. He noticed his target was
getting a bit too far away for comfort, so Wade stood up and arched his back. A
manic grin twisted through the mask at the satisfying popping sounds crackling
up his spine as he stretched his arms behind himself. Casually, Wade began
frog-marching along the roof to follow poor Peter Parker, twisting his head to
loosen his stiff neck.
 
The building they were on wasn’t too close, but not so far that he couldn’t see
Peter Parker with only the aid of his cheapest pair of binoculars (cheapest not
counting the ones he got from a Happy Meal back when they gave out cool toys,
but Wade was pretty sure that if he had brought those ones instead, he’d still
be able to spot Parker—he just wouldn’t be able to make out the kid’s facial
expressions). Honestly, he was disappointed in Stark for overlooking it. It was
a perfect lookout spot for any decently trained marksman.
 
“Stark’s getting’ sloppy in his old age, tsk tsk,” Wade shook his head absently
as he scanned around to see where exactly Parker was heading. It had been a
last minute thing. He’d done a quick internet search on Parker, found out where
he worked, and remembered the oh-so perfect lookout spot he’d discovered a
while ago.
 
This is the same guy who invited a terrorist organization to his house.
 
“Bingo!” Wade whispered when he spotted his target walking towards a part of
town that had some pretty sweet alleys to duck into.
 
And by sweet, he means dark, creepy, and smellier than his own asshole the
morning of Taco Tuesday’s walk of shame.
 
Back tracking a bit and noting the distance between the roofs, Wade did an
impressive bit of mental math before stopping at a specific point on the roof.
Grinning, he looked over his shoulder.
 
“For the most immersive experience, we recommend you pause, open up Youtube,
and find ‘Sail,’ by AWOLNATION and play it,” Wade gave a thumbs up.
 
Freeze frame! I recommend highlighting the next unbolded paragraph so timing is
easier.
 
For best results, make sure you are starting at 00:25/00:27ish.
 
With a deep breath, Wade charged—leaping off the building with a little
pirouette (at least, he thought it was a pirouette, ballet wasn’t really his
thing, but he liked the word).
 
“SAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” He laughed.
 
Wade landed on both feet with a loud crack, and stumbled forward, throwing his
hands up to catch his fall. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” He whimpered as he scraped his
leather covered hands on the rough surface of the rooftop, feeling a blister or
two pop on his palms.
 
Congrats. It appears you have a compound fracture in your leg.
 
Worth it, though. Oh, and you guys can turn off “Sail” now. The moment is over.
 
Wade rolled backwards onto his ass and looked at his leg, pouting at the
damage. Sure enough, there was a sharp bulge poking against the red leather of
his suit in a spot where a bulge should not be.
 
Hurry up and set it before it starts healing. Your whining always pisses me
off.
 
He meant that in the nicest way possible, though I must admit that your whining
is pretty fucking pathetic.
 
Taking a deep breath, Wade eye-balled it and unzipped his costume at the ankle
of the broken leg, up to the knee.
 
Because the importance of being able to access random body parts was a Thing
Wade learned a long time ago—along with the importance of being able to cover
back up.
 
So zippers. Yeah.
 
Blood sloughed out of the costume the moment it had a place to go, thick and
viscous with pink plasma droplets racing onwards. Wade whimpered a bit at the
thought of trying to remove his costume later that night when it cemented to
his skin.
 
Eh, put some Windex on it, you big baby
 
The break wasn’t too fucky—fairly clean stress fracture—so he took a deep
breath…
 
And blew it all out in one go, chickening out at the last second and gasping at
the way his fingers jerked his leg with the aborted movement.
 
C’mon Pool. You can do this. Pretend it’s Francis. You hate Francis, right?
Let’s snap his neck for old times’ sake, eh?
 
“You aren’t Canadian, you fucking poser,” Wade bit out, sweat dripping down his
face too quickly for the material of his suit to wick away.
 
But Wade took a deep breath, and wrapped his hands around his leg, bracing his
thigh against his arm. He closed his eyes and remembered Francis’ cold blue
eyes, thin lips twisted in a vengeful smirk as he watched Wade frantically jerk
and scream in the oxygen chamber. Wade imagined his hands cupping the psycho’s
chin from behind, gently holding his tormenter’s life in the purgatory between
life and death. Opening his eyes, he released his breath and jerked his leg
back into place before Francis’ head disappeared with a sickening crunch.
 
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” He howled, eyes squeezed shut, trembling all over.
Panting like a smoker, he rested his head on his good leg for a second, laying
the bad one out straight, ignoring the way his muscles and tendons squirmed
like snakes to realign themselves and regenerate. It was silent except for
Wade’s breathing and the muffled sounds of New York City traffic from down
below.
 
Whenever you’re done acting like a pussy, please let me know. It’s not like
we’re on a time sensitive mission or following someone or anything important
like that. Feel free to—
 
“Fuck, put your unofficial Golden Girls merchandiseTM panties back on,”
Deadpool wheezed, and braced himself with his arms, grunting when he leaned
forward. “I’m getting up—it’s only been like maybe a minute, impatient little
fuckwit,” Wade rolled his eyes and pushed himself back up, gingerly putting
some weight on his leg. It hurt like Hell, like, Blanche singing “It’s a Small
World” operatic style Hell, but it was obviously beginning to heal since the
bleeding had stopped and he actually was able to put weight on it. Wade pulled
out his binoculars and looked back up—
 
Where the fuck did those come from? Where did he keep them, in his asshole?
 
In the sea of lazy author forgetfulness, along with several other half-assed
plot devices and ripped-off literature.
 
—and searched a bit for the Parker kid until he sighted the rumpled brown hair
and tattered backpack. The kid was walking past an alleyway where a couple of
dogs were chewing on a yellow shoebox—
 
Message received
 
—and a cat was pissing on a white pizza box, digging it’s claws—
 
Very professional. Real mature. Classy, even—
 
—the cat was panting heavily and lay down.
 
“Hey! It’s giving birth!” Wade chirped excitedly.
 
FINE! You win! Be that way, see if I care.
 
Wade frowned and grimaced. “Never mind. It’s just taking a shit. The Hell did
that thing eat?”
 
GET YOUR ASS TOGETHER AND WATCH THE TARGET FUCKHEAD!!!!!!
 
Wade winced, but swiftly jerked the binoculars away from the cat to follow the
boy (man?). He walked along with the kid, enjoying the evening air cooling
down—carefully staying out of sight and still wincing whenever he walked on his
left leg. Already the blood was drying and gluing his flesh to the
suit—painfully stretching his weeping sores and cysts every time his calf
muscles flexed.
 
Because Wade wasn’t ever allowed to forget that his skin made blue waffle look
like the innocuous breakfast pastry it was named for.
 
“What should we do for dinner?” Wade asked out loud, trying to keep his mind
off of the state of his skin as he jumped onto another building, landing a bit
more carefully with a more agile thud and no more broken bones. However, there
was definitely a ripping sensation that made Wade hiss.
 
DUCK!
 
“Really? I was thinking more—” Wade asked, trying to keep his watery eyes open
despite the pain.
 
NOT THAT KIND OF DUCK, BUT PETER PARKER IS TURNING AROUND TO LOOK AT YOUR UGLY
MUG KIND OF DUCK!!!!!
 
Wade barely had enough time to hit the ground, hiding behind the too-short-to-
be-regulation rim of the rooftop as Peter Parker turned around and looked
directly at Wade.
 
“Fuck me! How did he know where to look?” Wade yelped, lying down as flat as he
could, though the way he jutted his ass up into the air ruined any chance of
concealment.
 
Well, sometimes you aren’t as quiet as you think? Anyways, look up and see
where he’s going. There’s no fucking way he didn’t notice you dive bombing so
who gives a shit about stealth now. If he’s good enough to spot you in the
first place—even if you aren’t in full ninja mode—then he’s definitely good
enough to know to run like Hell.
 
“Smart thinking, Yellow. Who needs White, anyways?” Wade nodded, gingerly
moving his leg to make sure nothing got out of place again.
 
I resent that! See if I ever let that little shit have a moment again.
 
Nothing was off, so he hefted himself up and looked over the edge, squatting
like a frog (because jumping up into action like that was fun). The sidewalk
down below was pretty empty—it didn’t seem like there were very many people
around. Probably because the area of New York they were currently in wasn’t
exactly known for its competitive PTA bake sales.
 
I personally think their brownies are really…special lololololol.
 
“Yeah,” Wade snickered. “My favorites are,” he paused covering his mouth in
glee.
 
Any singular thirteen year old from 2006 had a more mature sense of wit than
you two have combined.
 
“MARY JANE’S!!!!!!!!” Wade cackled and stuffed his fist as far into his mouth
as it would go, considering the fabric covered his face.
 
ISN’T SHE THE ONE WHO LIVES IN HOUSE 420 ON HIGH STREET
 
“That one was weak,” Wade shook his head.
 
Yeah, it was pretty—
 
Stop thinking about weed! He’s turning up ahead—we’re going to lose him if you
two don’t grow the fuck up!
 
“Fuckington McFuckhead’s fucking nuts on a fucking stick!” Wade hissed and with
a few quick calculations, he was backing up to run; but not to jump onto the
next building like last time.
 
The break in his tibia was completely healed now, though there was a zing to it
that made him cringe while pushing himself forward and off the roof as hard as
he could. The gun previously holstered to his belt was in his hand, aimed, and
fired—faster than a cheetah fart—discharging a grappling hook with an
unnecessarily dramatic puff of smoke. It struck the landing of the apartment
Wade was aiming for and latched on, letting Wade swing his way—Spider-Man
style—to the spot where little Peter Parker was trying to give him the slip
(and not the fun kind).
 
Using his free hand, Wade pulled out a knife—
 
Wait! Where’d the binoculars go? Wasn’t he holding a pair? Did he just chuck
them?
 
Nah, the author is using the deus ex machina no jutsu and banishing them into
the realm of forgotten tools, gone until they’re needed again to move the plot
along.
 
—and slashed at his target, hoping to get a lock of hair.
 
Nothing said “Help I’ve been kidnapped!” quite like a lock of hair taped to a
note. Sometimes you had to stick with the classics.
 
“Fuck!” Peter yelped, startled, and ducked out of the way of the
knife—momentarily stunning Wade into forgetting what he was doing so that he
almost didn’t get a tuft of hair from the kid’s head.
 
That’s probably something worth remembering. Something isn’t quite right here.
He’s much too aware of his surroundings. He should have looked towards the
apartment the grappling hook caught on, then you would have gotten him by
surprise. Watch your back, Pooly—he shouldn’t have known we were attacking from
behind.
 
It’s probably just Pooly’s ranktastic fart breath that caught his attention.
I’m sure everyone in a fifty mile radius can smell it LOLOLOLOLOL
 
Hysterical. Your wit knows no bounds.
 
Or maybe the smoke machine and the loud clacky bang bang the grappley gun made
were pretty loud and clacky bang bangy. Just sayin’. That thing’s about as
subtle as Pooly’s pit stains. Maybe Spidey taught the kid a few tricks, even?
What if they’re secret lovers! Oh wait, never mind, that’s kind of difficult
when they’re the sa—
 
Not yet! Donb’t spoil it, fucktard. This is the part where I pretend I don’t
fully know what’s going on and hint that Pooly is missing something. So Pooly,
think carefully. If Peter had heard the grappling gun, which he shouldn’t have
considering how far away the building it caught onto is from here, then he
would have looked over where it caught on the apartment. Not at us!
 
Wade frowned at that. He hated it when the boxes knew more than he did and
refused to share their intel. What was the point of being a character that
fucked the fourth wall over (repeatedly) when he didn’t get all the deets?
Shaking his head, Wade focused back on the task at hand and attempted to ignore
the voices in his head. It was go time.
 
The kid backed up, the startled look gone and instead his brow furrowed, and
jaw clenched in concentration. Of course, Wade still had the upper hand—and
with a click of his teleporter, he was standing right behind the kid, thankful
that it decided to work that time.
 
Why isn’t he more afraid? I’m telling you there’s something weird about this
one. I feel it in my bones.
 
You don’t have bones! Or a skull for that matter…
 
That’s not even how the line goes.
 
The kid backed into him, and Wade thrust his knife—
 
Phrasing! Not a good enough reason to use thrust.
 
I’m surrounded by idiots.
 
—at his neck, holding steady as a warning, letting the cold metal rest gently,
but firmly, across the thrashing jugular.
 
“Well if it isn’t little Peter Parker. Shouldn’t you be off picking some
pickled peppers instead?” Wade singsonged into his ear, enjoying the way the
kid tensed in his grip. Fear was just so delicious—especially when he was the
cause of it!
 
That’s Peter Piper, dipshit.
Chapter End Notes
     So, I doubt that was worth the wait. But here you go.
     Things I quoted/mentioned:
     Frozen
     Fuller House
     We Will Rock You
     Sail from AWOLnation
     My Big Fat Greek Wedding
     Golden Girls
     Archer
      
     Soooo as for posting schedule, I will try to return to weekly
     updates, but I can't make any promises. Please don't kill me k bye
***** Seven Point Two Because Chapter Seven Was Long AF And The Author Didn't
Want to Rename All Her Notes *****
Chapter Summary
     Wade's side of the kidnapping. Like, there's obviously no saintly
     ulterior motives, but there are things that I think are important to
     know from his end.
Chapter Notes
     Hey look. I'm back. I'm not dead XD I think I might end up posting
     once every two weeks? I might go back to weekly once I catch back up
     to his fic. There's a lot of notes I need to reread and shit because
     I suck as a human being. So here ya go. It's a longer chap, though?
     Fuck this fic is such a beast XD
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Well duh, I know that’s Peter Piper jackass, I was teasing the little squirt!
Jeez. Everyone’s a critic!” The exasperated roll of his eyes was lost on his
captive, since the kid couldn’t see him. Or hear the voices that Wade was
talking to, but that was a different matter.
                                           
Well, look at that. Wade knows his nursery rhymes. Who’da thunk it?
 
Are tongue twisters considered nursery rhymes?
 
That’s a good question. Too bad the author is too lazy to get off her ass and
look it up.
 
Psht. She wouldn’t have even had to get up. Just click a couple things and type
a few words.
 
Alas, we digress.
 
Yeah, get back to Pooly butchering tongue twisters, lazy author.
 
Come on. Impress us with your wit.
 
“You guys take all the fun out of everything. Fun suckers!” Wade shook his fist
at the imaginary—
 
Fuck you too, author lady
                                                               
—Boxes, jostling Peter, who let out a pained hiss. The noise caught Wade’s
attention, and with a frown, he looked around at the kid’s neck and inched the
knife away. But only like a little bit. Didn’t want the kid getting any ideas.
 
“Woops! Better be a bit more careful there. Can’t have you bleeding out on me
before we even get to have any fun!” Wade chirped, delighting in the way his
prey tensed in his arms—taking in a deep breath of the kid’s hair to add to his
own creep factor.
 
More like he took a deep breath because he’s a perv. Be honest. There was no
ulterior motive for that you nasty.
 
The kid’s hair smelled like poverty—cheap bar soap, mothballs, and there was a
slight hint of bullshit, but that last one was probably from being in close
proximity with the Iron Douche all day. That was the only thing holding him
back from nuzzling his face in the brown mess—
 
Phrasing!
 
—was that he didn’t want to get Stark Stink on his clothes.
 
That and we do have a certain reputation to uphold here.
 
The kid was wiry, but firm—like Wade used to be back in the day when his dad
was still using him as his own personal punching bag. Good times.
 
Be careful with the merch, Merc. If he dies now, then the story is finité, and
we only just got here!
 
“I know, right? It’s already over 11k words into the story and we’ve barely
gotten any screen time—really, just a chapter of me eating since she cut out
the Deadpool Commentary track in chapter four!” Wade pouted, slumping his
shoulders a bit, draping himself on Parker, holding him to his chest like a
teddy bear. Wade frowned when he felt something digging into his crotch. He
looked down—
 
Really? The Binoculars? This is just getting sad.
 
--and saw that his binoculars from earlier had somehow tangled into his belt
buckle.
 
And there they go—the binoculars once again into the sea of abandoned plot
devices.
 
But like c’mon, she had to fix that little mix-up. Pooly’s a perv, but he ain’t
that gross.
 
Even through the leather, Wade could feel Parker’s heart racing. He looked down
and noted that the kid’s hands were clenched into fists. Interesting.
 
You know what else would be interesting? Those pale, smooth, perfect hands
wrapped around—
 
“C-can I h-help you with s-something?” Peter Parker stuttered, his voice
strained and breathy.
 
Wade froze for a second. That voice was familiar. Zoning out, he tried to
figure out from where—absently chewing the inside of his cheek as he thought.
 
I know that voice too!
 
Of course you do. You already know how this goes down, asshat.
 
Wade frowned, but he shook it off. He hated it when the boxes didn’t cue him in
on things—but they were strange and selective about the info they released to
him. Taking a big whiff again of Parker’s hair, he smiled sappily. What was he
doing again?
 
Pooly, the kid asked a question
 
Behind the mask, Wade furrowed his brow, looking down at the guy in his arms.
Oh yeah. He opened his mouth to ask the kid to repeat the question—
 
He asked if he could help you with something, the sweet little lamb. How
precious.
 
He could help us finally tap some as—
 
“It is I! The grrrreat Papy—”
 
Nope.
 
Wade frowned and looked over his left shoulder. A woman who was watching the
scene from her apartment shut her curtains as fast as she could, but Wade
wasn’t paying attention to her.
 
Wrong fandom.
 
Wade’s eyes opened comically wide and he laughed. “Wrong fandom, sorry!” He
shook his head and squeezed Parker’s shoulder. “It is I, the great Deadpool!
Come to make your execution—”
 
Wrong mission
 
Wade flipped off the sky. “—or kidnapping—I know what I’m talking about, shit
nuggets—I’m going to hold you hostage until Spider-Man makes with the hero-ing
and tries to save your pretty little ass—
 
Gotta give him that. He hasquitethe ass.
 
“—yes, his ass is very pretty—but anyways, then I’m going to kill him—"
 
Spider-Man could be trans. It’s impolite to assign pronouns to strangers
 
“—good point, White—or her, the boxes and I disrespect all gender identities
equally. You might even say we’re an equal opportunist mercenary!” Wade giggled
and waggled his eyebrows—
 
Wade doesn’t have eyebrows, dumbass. Whose story is this anyways?
 
…Wade giggled and waggled what used to be his eyebrows—
 
Better.
 
Get your shit together, cunt. We’re pan-executional and don’t give a fuck about
dimensions and shit.
 
Wade beamed and giggled, fluttering his fingers excitedly against Parker’s
shoulder.  “That’s hilarious! Pan-executional!” Wade tightened his grasp on
Peter and shook him slightly, leaning into his ear. “Get it? We’ll kill anyone
regardless of orientation—”
 
Except kids and animals.
 
Wade nodded firmly, and his voice deepened, all signs of amusement gone.
“Except kids and animals,” he growled. “That’s just fucked up. That’s where we
safe-word out.”
 
Though we’d make an exception for that Joffrey ass-face
 
I’d be down with that.
 
Wade shrugged.
 
Careful, Pooly, we aren’t killing this guy, remember?
 
Wade looked at Peter and yelped when he realized he’d nicked the kid’s throat.
Again. He caressed the nick with his thumb, making sure it wasn’t anything to
worry about. “Oops! I gotta be more careful. Can’t kill the bait before it’s
done being bait!” Noting the wound wasn’t anything worrisome, he decided that
that was enough stalling. He threw Peter Parker over his shoulder with an
exaggerated grunt and turned towards their next destination.
 
Where are we taking him again?
 
That one warehouse. The one that we used as a stakeout to spy on that Mafia
wannabe—Antonio Petrocelli, I think his name was? He smelled like garlic.
 
Good call. At least that one doesn’t smell as bad as the one we used to keep
the money from the Chicago job
 
That’s because we used it to store the chickens we got from the Hartsford job
before we figured out what to do with them.
 
Oh yeah! That explains a lot.
 
“Tell me you at least used Crayola instead of Rose Art?” Peter interrupted,
voice somewhat muffled, and for a second Wade was confused, and then it hit
him.
 
Wade jolted to an immediate halt and gasped in horror, slapping the sides of
his face with his hands—which was somewhat tricky considering Parker was thrown
over his shoulder, but somehow he managed to maneuver his arm around the kid’s
waist. Don’t ask for the physics.
 
The nerve!
 
Did we use Rose_Art???? Fuck. Ing. Rose Art!? The fuck does he think he’s
dealing with here???
 
“Rose Art’s the shit parents give the kid they don’t like! Party invitations
are way too important for that,” Wade scoffed, nostrils flaring. “Did we use
fucking Rose Art? The Hell kind of question is that? What does he think this
is? Amateur hour? Pfft,” he shook his head with a snarl.
 
“I’m never living this down.” The kid muttered softly, sounding exhausted.
 
I feel like we should be offended by that. Also, when did we put up the note?
You know what, never mind. It’s not my writing here. The author can leave
gaping plot holes wherever she wants. Not my monkeys, not my circus.
 
Wade adjusted Parker so that he was forced to look at his (Wade’s) ass or risk
getting a crick in his (Peter’s) neck. Closing one eye, Wade pulled the trigger
and fired the grappling hook gun, aiming for the landing of a building across
the street. The hooks caught and with a quick yank to test to make sure they
had caught, Wade hit the retract button and they were zooming over the street,
only barely missing a semi-truck on the ascent.
 
Good physics. Much science. Very scientifically possible, this is. Great
writing is being done here. Tell me again why you’re just a minimum wage
cashier at an undisclosed hardware store?
 
Wade clumsily flipped over the landing, sending a yellow flower box over the
railing with the force of his body. It made a satisfying shattering sound when
it hit the pavement below. Leaning over the rail, Wade looked down\ and
sniggered.
 
“Man, you better quit pissing her off. Cuz you are domesticated af,” Hooting
with laughter, Wade didn’t notice that Parker’s head was scraping against the
brick wall of the building until the kid hissed. “Woops!” Wade yelped and
turned so that Parker’s (admittedly) pretty face didn’t become hamburger meat.
Wade pointed the grappling gun at another building and fired, smirking at the
puff of smoke it emitted.
 
Seriously though, there had to have been a more efficient way to get to
wherever the fuck we’re going.
 
Wade silently agreed, but he knew better than to say anything out loud. Paying
careful attention to his footing and direction in case the universe decided to
fuck him over—or more, fuck Peter Parker over, because he was pretty sure
civilians didn’t have healing factors—Wade pushed the retract button and was
slung onward.
 
I’m going to be a good little convenient plot mover and ask why “Peter Parker”
is A. Not struggling. B. Not panicking. And C. Asking rude and personal
questions about our preferred school supplies brand since clearly no one else
is going to bring it up.
 
Because obviously you can’t trust a fucker that uses Rose Art. You just can’t!
 
You also can’t trust your own kidnappers, so I doubt that trust has anything to
do with it, Shitlock Holmes.
 
“I think White has a point, Yellow. Something’s weird about this guy,” Wade
frowned. Something was off, but he just didn’t know what it was. He lifted his
crotch a bit and barely missed teabagging an unsuspecting pedestrian. It would
have been hysterical—but his family jewels were too important to risk like
that.
 
“Who are you talking to?” Peter Parker asked faintly, then mumbled “Please let
it be some sort of com. I don’t need any more crazy in my life.”
 
Wade didn’t answer him, but his face was severe when he landed on the building
without as much unnecessary flourish.
 
Sooooooo as much as I hate to ever agree with White about anything, I think I’m
starting to agree. Something is off with this punk. He’s way too sassy for
someone being kidnapped by a mercenary
 
“Wow, things must really be weird if White and Yellow agree on something,” Wade
got a running start, then jumped over to the neighboring building—bouncing
Parker on the solid landing. They had maybe 15 more minutes before they reached
the warehouse. 15 more minutes of shitty, unnecessary parkouring.
 
How does he know about coms? Normal civilians don’t pay that kind of attention
to in-battle superhero communication—or really, superhero communication of any
kind. Is “com” even typical civvie terminology for communication devices in
battles? I don’t know what it is that Peter Parker knows that we don’t, but
clearly it’s something big.
 
THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
“Fuck! YELLOW! I hate it when you do that!” Wade screeched as he jumped to
another roof, stumbling a bit in the recoil of Yellow’s screaming, jostling his
leg more than he meant to, which was fully healed, but the dried blood inside
rubbed against his sore skin and ripped at the cancerous legions. He winced.
Tonight it would probably be easier to just cut his leg off and regrow it than
try to pull the suit off. Shaking his head, Wade took a deep breath and ran
again, pushing off the edge of the building’s roof as hard as he could.
 
THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, YELLOW!!!????
 
It’s your own fault, White! It was too perfect of a set up!
 
“He’s got you there, White,” Wade mumbled as he landed on a metal roof with a
loud clatter, feet leaving dents. There was a large metal door on the
roof—approximately the size and shape of a skylight. The steel door was covered
with many heavy duty bolts, unsubtle in their design to keep people in rather
than out, “Here we are, Petey boy,” Wade announced cheerfully and opened the
door, gripping Peter tightly as he bent over.
 
Seriously? You left it unlocked? The fuck kind of villain are you?
 
“I’m not a villain. I’m the loveable anti-hero. Duh!” A huge shit eating grin
stretched across Wade’s face and contorted his mask into a grotesque facsimile
of a smile.
 
“Where the Hell is this place?” Peter whined as Wade took them into the
building, nimbly climbing down a ladder.
 
“Welcome to Casa del Muerta Piscina!”
 
I’d correct you, but I think everyone knows that you know damn well that is
nowhere near the correct translation.
 
“I’ve heard it both ways!” Wade cackled.
 
I’m pretty sure you haven’t.
 
Put your hair back on, White. Oh! And Pooly! Use your self-aware comic book
powers to hide a pineapple somewhere! Quick!
 
I hate you.
 
Clearly someone isn’t a fan of delicious flavor.
the 17oooth word is moist
Chapter End Notes
     So there ya go. Next chap is some new stuff, though. So like, get all
     excited because woot woot. Some shit goes down y'all. Sort of? Kind
     of. Like, not like, aliens invading the city down, but like, we
     finally have the main players introduced. And by main players, I mean
     the main sources of conflict. You'll see. I'm being vague. I'm just
     making things worse. I swear I didn't mean to XD
     Also, there are some differences between the two povs of the
     kidnapping. That is totally intentional and not just me being too
     lazy to check and make sure everything aligns perfectly *smiles
     awkwardly and tries to be convincing is it working plz tell me its
     working*
     But like there are two sides to every story and no one is gonna
     remember everything exactly the same so it totally makes sense (and
     isn't copping out in anyways) that the two scenes are different
     nothing to see here totally being truthful on purpose I did it yeah
     Shit I stole from:
     Psych
     Undertale
     Game of Thrones (another fandom I have no right to play with)
     The Office (I think that's where the whole 'that's what she said'
     thing came from?)
     Archer
     And I think that's it? If I left anything out, lemme know. Cuz cred
     is important and I like to make sure my credit score is in the green
     *laughs at lame joke*
     Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee plz comment cuz they are literal crack I print
     them out and roll them up so I can snort pixi stix so feed my
     addiction k thanx (not really, but like, I love reading them they
     make my day)
      
     Oh wait! Did you like the 17oooth word? If not, then give me some
     suggestions and I might change it. Like, every now and then so if
     yours isn't chosen first don't be upset. I think next I might change
     it to pussy. I'll dedicate it to everyone who needs a little more of
     it in their life oooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh no she didn't
***** Wade isn't as in Control as he Thinks he is *****
Chapter Summary
     Wade thinks he knows what's going on, but as usual, he doesn't.
Chapter Notes
     Heeeeeeeeey look at this. I posted not just on time, but early. Good
     for me. I should have waited until tomorrow, but this chapter kinda
     wrote and edited itself for some reason (i.e. it flowed like majestic
     unicorn ass hair). So yeah. Here ya go. Comment please they are crack
     and highly appreciated as a sign of my genius.
     Also, I ain't know shit about guns despite living in the most trigger
     happy state in the entire United States. I tried to be vague as
     possible, So yeah.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Well, that chapter title sounds foreboding,” Wade frowned as he plopped Peter
onto a conveniently placed chair in the middle of the warehouse’s loft—away
from any rails because he learned that lesson a long time ago. The screams were
fun: the mess? Not as much.
 
It might just be a reference to how much sway we have over you?
 
Or it could just mean you done fucked up, son.
 
“It makes me uncomfortable when you call me son,” Wade straightened up and
scanned the musty room to see if he had any rope lying around. He frowned in
concentration and squinted his eyes, looking over some defunct machinery. Worse
come (gross) to worst, he could use some of those cables. They looked sturdy
enough.
 
Cable. Good times. What’s he been up to lately?
 
There should be some rope in the corner by the window if memory serves.
 
“Thanks!” Wade smiled brightly at the air by his shoulder. Glancing down at his
hostage, who really looked a lot more relaxed than he had any right to be, yet
underneath the calm, Wade saw an edge of something in those wide—adorably wide,
like, roll over Bambi and give the fuck up, wide—eyes. There: in the way his
nostrils flared and his shoulders tensed. Frowning, Wade pointed at the
kid—calling forth the spirit of his second grade teacher to lend him her steely
gaze—and wagged his finger condescendingly. “You,” Wade poked Parker in the
middle of his forehead, trying hard not to laugh at the kid’s glare, “Punk.
Don’t get any ideas.” Retracting his finger, Wade crossed his arms over his
chest. “I’m just gonna grab some rope. K?” With a small jerk, he tilted his
head back a bit to stare down his nose at Parker. Miss Maslany would have been
so proud.
 
You are soooooo cliché.
 
Peter looked up at Wade and rolled his eyes, shaking his head slightly with an
annoyed snort. “Yeah,” Derision drenched Parker’s tone as he dug his nails into
the chair’s arms. “You go get some rope to tie me up with,” Voice rising in
volume and pitch, eyes narrowing, Parker punctuated each word with a violent
squeeze of the chair’s arms. It was a wonder the fabric didn’t rip open. “And
I’m just gonna stay. Right. Here. Nice and quiet, so you can go grab it. No
need to worry about the hostage, go on,” Shaking his head more deliberately,
Parker glared and muttered something too low to hear, crossing his arms—but now
digging his nails into his own skin.
 
DAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN son.
 
Even I’m impressed with that level of sass.
 
Deadpool was impressed as well, but tried his hardest not to show it. “Listen,
kid. I’m actually kinda starting to like you,” Wade tapped Parker’s cheek
lightly.
 
And the award for understatement of the year goes to…
 
Wade took his hand off of Parker and flipped off the air over his left shoulder
without losing a beat. “But mouth off to me again and I’m going to have to do
something neither of us is gonna be too happy about,” Wade sneered and leaned
over the kid. He inhaled deeply, and deliberately raised his hand—reveling in
the kid’s slight wince—only to plop it down and gently ruffle the boy’s hair,
fighting the urge to giggle at how soft it was. With an extra springy twirl, he
turned away and walked over to the corner of the room to get the rope.
 
“Poor you. Mocked by your own hostage. If you give me a minute I might be able
to work up a few tears for you. Oh wait. Nevermind. I can’t!” Peter snarled.
 
Wade stiffened and his hand twitched over the rope.
 
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!
 
It’s like he doesn’t even care if we kill him!
 
“Huh. That’s an interesting thought, White,” Wade unfroze and frowned as he
picked the rope up, shaking off a few spider carcasses and roach droppings.
 
The author says that was an important idea, Pooly. So make note of it.
 
“Meh,” Wade flapped his hand in the air dismissively—which served a dual
purpose since it was covered in cobwebs: sassy and functional.
 
Click.
 
“What was that for?” Wade huffed and stood up straight, snapping the rope to
make sure it was still good.
 
Thatwasn’t me.Thatwas an onomatopoeia representing the sound of Peter taking
the safety off the gun he found wedged in the seat cushion of the chair you sat
him on. Gotta say, not your best moment there.
 
“Oh fuck,” Wade muttered and turned to look at the kid, frowning. “You
shouldn’t have done that, kid.” Tsking, Wade shook his head and focused to see
which gun the punk had found.
 
I gotta say. He’s got style.
 
Yeah. Pooly, can we keep him? I like him. He seems like a lot of fun.
 
“We’ll see. I agree, though. Kid’s got some mejor cajones on him,” The gun the
kid had wasn’t anything too exciting, at least. It wasn’t a pea shooter by any
means, but it also wasn’t a glock. Probably something he’d nicked from a
hostage asset a while ago. Wade doubted he’d be regenerating from an unaliving
any time soon from the business end of that thing. Still, he had to give the
kid some credit. Not many would hold a random gun they found with the
steadiness the kid had—especially not when in the throes of butt clenching
terror. Hell, many wouldn’t even know how to use the damn thing.
 
We all know you speak like a million languages. Why do you insist on saying
things incorrectly?
 
“Because the author of this fanfic is too fucking lazy to look up the
translations and is going off of what little she remembers from high school. I
thought we already established that?” Wade groused, taking the kid’s stance in.
Clearly this was not his first time holding a weapon. Looked like little Peter
Parker had some private peculiarities.
 
Definitely not the best alliteration I’ve come across. Might want to work on
that one a bit before publishing this, author lady. Just a bit of friendly
advice.
 
“Who are you talking to?” The kid asked, gesturing with the gun. Holding the
gun steady and face hard—lips thinner than Billy Ray Cyrus’s career as a
country singer.
 
Parker meant business, in other words.
 
I think I just came.
 
“Me too,” Wade nodded. Then he remembered what they were doing and he clapped
his hands—the effect somewhat diminished by the rope muffling the sound. “Oh!
Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Holder of the Holster--"
 
The holster is the thing the gun goes in, dumbass.
 
“Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Pointer of the Pistol--"
 
That was just lame.
 
“Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Peter with the Gun! What was the question
again?” Wade scratched his chin, watching his hostage’s face remain a hard
mask—the only sign of any real emotion was in the way his nostrils flared.
 
That was even worse than the others.
 
Peter aimed the gun upward and fired off a warning shot—the bullet hit a beer
can that rested on one of the beams, dating back to when the place had been a
home for squatters. Wade didn’t see it—but he knew it was there, and he heard
it clang around when it hit the ground.
 
“I asked you who the Hell you were talking to!” Peter growled and steered the
gun back to Wade, grip still steady as a seasoned sniper, eyes burning.
 
I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to someone since Cable.
 
Those abs of Shemar Moore were pretty juicy, though.
 
Here’s to wishful thinking. Shemar will always be the Cable of our hearts, even
though it’s probably not gonna happen.
 
“Oh! Yeah! It’s pretty simple,” Wade shrugged. “I’m talking to the
disassociated identities in my head that visually manifest themselves as comic
book narration boxes,” Scratching his head, Wade prattled on. “I’m not sure
whether it’s schizophrenia or Dissociative Identity Disorder, because it kind
of shows characteristics of being both. But. Yeah. It’s not anyone physical.”
 
Peter’s eyes showed nothing as he evaluated Wade’s answer, though his forehead
crinkled a bit. Eventually he nodded and the grip on the gun relaxed slightly.
 
“So, who hired you?” The gun was still aimed at Wade, but instead of gripping
it like his life depended on it, Parker’s fingers absently stroked the metal.
 
Wade wiped the edge of his mouth to make sure he wasn’t actually drooling.
 
So, is no one going to comment on the fact that we’re being held at gun point
by some punk we were supposed to be holding hostage until Spider-Man came to
save him?
 
Well, way to be a buzzkill, White.
 
Just trying to remind everyone how fucking ridiculous this is.
 
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Wade shrugged nonchalantly, eyes following the
movement of Parker’s fingers. Guns were entirely too phallic in design.
 
THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING TO HIM FOR!!!???? GET THE GUN AND GET CONTROL OF THE
SITUATION ASSHOLE!!!!!!
 
OOOOH ARE WE PLAYING CAPSLOCK AGAIN I LOVE THIS GAME!!!!!!
 
“STOP SHOUTING IN MY HEAD!!!!!!” Wade screeched and started pounding on his
head with his fists, rope flailing about wildly.
 
Sorry.
 
My apologies.
 
“Ugh. Hate it when you shits do that,” Wade mumbled, massaging his
temples—feeling slightly sick at wet oozing underneath the red leather. He was
not looking forward to dealing with that later. Hopefully it wouldn’t get on
his eyelids—that was probably the next worst thing to ripping off dick skin.
 
“What was that about?” Peter was frowning, gun lowered and eyebrows furrowed.
 
“The boxes went all capslock on me,” Wade said absentmindedly, leaning his head
back to avoid pus getting on his eyelids. “They got the idea from the Order of
the Phoenix and enjoy torturing me with it every now and then. Fuck you, JK
Rowling! And fuck capslock!Harry too!” Wade shook his fist in the general
direction of the UK, still leaning his head back awkwardly.
 
Pretty sure that was North. You know, towards Canada. Your own people?
 
“Oooooooh kaaaaaay. Sure. I’ve been kidnapped by an insane person. Great.”
Peter whined and rubbed his forehead with the gun.
 
He doesn’t even know the half of it!
 
Really, he’s one to talk. Hello pot, meet kettle.
 
“He thinks he’s got it all under control, but he doesn’t know our secret
weapon!” Wade screeched excitedly, clapping like a seal—effect still diminished
by the rope muffling the sound—in glee, partly because he loved surprises and
partly because he was now in the clear of future nonsurgical removal of his
eyelids (i.e. the pus had stopped oozing and he could move his head again).
 
The kid paled and held the gun up again. “W-what secret weapon?” The kid
swallowed and took a deep breath before his eyes hardened again. “The ability
to talk someone to death because I think I already knew about that one,”
Despite how the kid’s voice strengthened, Wade could still see panic clearly
written in his unblinking eyes and tense fingers.
 
He’s got you there.
 
The things I would do to that mouth…
 
“Not exactly, kiddo.” Wade laughed and advanced towards Peter.
 
Peter’s eyes narrowed and his breathing stuttered. “Come any closer and I will
shoot!” His voice was strained and his grip was so hard on the gun it…looked
like the handle was being crushed?
 
Of course it’s not being crushed. Only a super could do that.
 
Was that sarcasm? Because I feel like that was sarcasm.
 
Wade laughed and continued walking towards the kid, sneering as he held the
almost forgotten length of rope in his fist. He watched the kid’s eyes widen
when they took it in, and then—
 
Bang!
 
Peter squeezed the trigger without batting an eye.
 
His face was blank—no more panic in his eyes. It was like his soul had vacated
the premises.
 
Without even trying to dodge the bullet, Wade laughed maniacally as it tore
through his chest, barely missing his heart—spewing gore all over
everything—ignored the pain, and let his own insanity charged adrenaline take
over.
 
SOOOOOO HOT!!!!!
 
“If you’re aiming to kill, then I got bad news, son. I got 99 problems, but
dying sure ain’t one,” He sang, complete with a quick little hip gyration and
Raven Symoné snap.
 
D-Pool in the house, y’all!
 
If you’re expecting me to join the Hype-Man train, then you’ll be waiting for a
very long time. Get out of here. Go play Pokémon Go or something. The chapter’s
over.
 
Rude.
Chapter End Notes
     So the Shemar Moore thing, like c’mon. He’d be suuuuuuper hot as
     Cable. Just imagine it. Tell me you don’t want it (actually don’t
     because I won’t believe you). If you don’t know who he is, he’s Derek
     Morgan on Criminal Minds. Hot af. Abs that would make Zeus cry little
     boy tears for the rest of eternity. That guy. Let's make this happen
     fandom. #makeshemarcable #shemarpool #datassdoh #moorepool
     Shit I stole, I mean borrowed/referenced:
     Maslany (Tatiana Maslany of Orphan Black was born in Regina and yeah
     it’s stupid I don’t care, I don’t know if it counts as a reference
     especially since I don’t even really watch Orphan Black)
     Bambi
     Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (kind of sort of a vague
     reference, like, when I was typing it I was like this is familiar
     where did I get that from, but like don’t strain yourself trying to
     find it)
     Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
     99 Problems by JayZ
     That’s So Raven (the snap, you know the one)
     Pokémon Go
     If I forgot anything lemme know and I'll fix it real quick k bye
     plz comment :D
     8=====================D
***** What in the Ass? *****
Chapter Summary
     No hobos were harmed in the making of this chapter. Oh hey, is that a
     new character?
Chapter Notes
     Hey look, I'm on time again! Good for me. Good author *pats self on
     back*
     There's a joke here that only one person will get. She knows who she
     is. I'm not as chatty as normal because I'm tired af from working out
     and Pokemon Going. Enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Ooooh! Does that mean we’re gettin’ some this chapter?
 
I doubt it. It’s too early for any relationship consummation to make sense.
 
“Dammit, White! I was getting excited!” Wade pouted, slumping forward—wincing
slightly when the motion jostled his newest wound. The wound itself was
healed—but the dried blood didn’t mix very well with his raw skin, or rather,
they mixed too well and didn’t enjoy being pulled apart by movement.
 
“Blue balls” would have been a more apt name, in that case.
 
“What the Hell are you!?” Peter Parker yelled, gawking at Wade with his mouth
agape and chest heaving.
 
Ooooh! Should we go philosophical, literal, or slap stick for this one?
 
“Really horny,” Wade blurted out, watching Parker close his eyes and take a
deep—but shaky—breath.
 
Literal and slapstick. I like it. We’ll save the philosophy for later.
 
Peter’s brows furrowed and he mouthed what looked like “What the fuck?” Then,
opening his eyes, and staring with an expression Wade couldn’t identify, he
said “You’re fucking insane.” Shaking his head slowly—hands trembling,
jittering the gun.
 
That wasn’t very nice.
 
In all fairness, we are insane.
 
“Point taken,” Wade nodded, grinning like someone just crowned him Ms. America
(before Steve Harvey realizes his colossal fuck up). Jumping forward, Wade
wrests the gun out of Parker’s hand—whacking the kid upside the head with the
coiled rope while pulling the gun, bending Parker’s wrist at an unnatural angle
so that the kid is forced to let go or break a bone—and frowned a bit when it
seemed to stick for a moment before coming lose.
 
Staring hard at the kid—who was rubbing his wrist with a horrified look on his
face, looking around the room as if the answers to all his problems were
playing a demented game of hide and go seek—Wade tucks the gun away, the
movement catching Parker’s green eyes.
 
Really? That joke is so tiresome. Stupid ring pop scene. I swear if I—
 
Slapping the other end of the coiled rope into his hand, Wade gripped each end
and snapped it while smirking at Parker’s flinch. “So, this was fun and all—"
 
The kid pales, eyes seeing nothing except the rope in Wade’s hands, hands
clenching and unclenching into fists. For some reason, Wade feels an urge to
toss it away—tightening his grip instead, as if the rope will run away if he
doesn’t hold it as hard as he can. There’s something…wrong about all of
this—but if Wade had started listening to his conscience a long time ago, then
he wouldn’t be where he was today.
 
Insane?
 
Wade grits his teeth.
 
No, I think he’s referring to being alone without a single friend in the
universe—or multiverse for that matter.
 
The rope starts to fray, slightly, under the ferocity of Wade’s grip as he
starts twisting it.
 
Or maybe he just means looking like a rotten walnut covered in squirrel piss?
 
“I MEANT RICH YOU FUCKING SHITS!” Wade screamed into the air on his left side,
kicking a hole through a crate he’d been standing next to—blasting it into a
wall.
 
Parker jerked in surprise, narrowing his eyes in confusion, then threw his
hands up to guard against the shrapnel when the crate shattered against the
wall.
 
Well, I guess you do have that.
 
Wheezing, Wade tried to relax and focus instead on what he was doing.
 
You’re acting like a child.
 
With a jerky motion, he flipped off the air. He looked at his target while
taking a deep breath and imagined the reward money written across the punk’s
forehead.
 
Think of the money, Pooly. The money. Do it for the money. You’re already going
to Hell—growing a conscience right now isn’t going to earn you any brownie
points. It’s too late for anything good to come your way.
 
“Where was I?” Wade asked, shaking his head, as if he could soft-reset his
brain. “Oh yeah,” Looking up, he hardened his eyes and started slapping the
rope into his hand menacingly, focusing on the motion to get back in the zone.
“I was saying, that this was fun and all,” The sneer gradually returned to his
voice and soon it was like nothing had ever happened—except for the death grip
he had on the rope, slapping it over and over again.
 
Pooly’s found his balls, guys! No need to worry.
 
“And I do really mean it was fun—” The kid’s little shit’s eyes glazed over,
but with each slap of the rope, he flinched like he was getting hit in the
balls. He looked through Wade, eyes wide and unblinking.
 
You enjoy this, Wade. This is a game for you, dickweed.
 
“Bu-ut,” Wade stuttered slightly—fuck, Parker may have been in his 20s, but he
looked waaaay younger. There was something fragile about him. “I think it’s
time we got back to more important matters.”
 
The kid closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when his eyes opened
again—Wade couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was different. And not
a good different. Like, supervillain origin story different. Like, hide yo
kids, hide yo wife, cuz he climbin’ in yo windows different.
 
An interesting pop culture reference there. Oddly fitting.
 
Ignoring everything in him that said no, bad, and wrong, Wade did what he did
best and prattled on. “Aaaand by important matters, I mean the part where you
cooperate,” He dramatically pointed at the kid target.
 
That does not look like the face of someone willing to cooperate.
 
Gonna have to agree with Yellow on this one.
 
You’re in for a bad time, Pooly.
 
Wade turned to his shoulder and hissed, “Will you two shut the fuck up!? I
can’t think with you two backseat driving here!” Turning back to Parker, Wade
continued. ”And sit your ass back down, while I wait to ambush the great
arachnid and then get paid a considerable amount for my efforts.” He finished,
and watched cautiously—waiting for the kid’s TARGET’S next move.
 
“Sure. Would you like me to tie myself up for you as well?” Peter asked, green
eyes wide and innocent—but hollow. Like he was in a trance of some sort?
 
Well that’s creepy.
 
“No! I can do that myself, fuck you very much,” Wade sneered, trying to cover
his unease.
 
“Oooh! Kinky,” Peter smirked, his eyes ice cold and his face was hard. It
reminded Wade a little bit too much of suffocating in a plastic tube.
 
He’s someone else now. You can feel it, can’t you?
 
Wait a second—you don’t think he’s—
 
Wade and Peter jumped and turned when a window shattered and a light thud
accompanied it: the kind of thud a trained assassin might make if they just
jumped through a window and weren’t caring about the amount of noise they made.
 
That was very specific.
 
What a coincidence.
 
“What in the a-a-a-ass?” Wade gaped at the woman covered in glass and dressed
head to toe in black, sporting a rather en pointe head of silver hair.
 
I think it’s ‘on fleek’ now?
 
I can never keep up with these kids and their lingo.
 
“Hope I’m not interrupting any weird bdsm fantasies, though judging by the lack
of boners I’m gonna assume I’m not. But like, if I am, then I reeeeally hope I
can join in on the fun!” She grinned brightly and thrust her chest out, “I
could always torture you with my…” She giggled and bit her knuckle before
schooling her face into a cracked attempt at severity, “I could always torture
you guys…with my rack!” She threw her head back and slapped her knees,
hysterical with laughter.
 
WOOOOOOOW. I’m all for lame puns, but wow. Just wow.
 
There are only three kinds of people who laugh that hard at jokes that bad.
 
“Children under the age of 8,” Wade watched the girl with wide eyes as she
hugged her chest, then proceeded to roll around on the ground.
 
Dads.
 
The woman wiped tears from her eyes—which was terribly ineffective considering
she was wearing a mask—and re-entered her squatting position from earlier.
 
And people so crazy, they eat batshit for breakfast.
 
“You got that right,” Wade shook his head as the woman continued to laugh. She
was mostly upright, but she hugged her knees—squatting in a pile of broken
glass, but somehow not bleeding all over the place.
 
She eventually calmed down, but still giggled. With a quick nod, the laughter
stopped and she jumped up, arms stretched wide like a cheerleader.
 
“Wooo! That was a good one,” She wiped once more at her eyes, shaking her head
slightly. Looking back up at Wade and Parker, she smiled toothily—not a cutesy,
‘girl next door’ toothy grin, but ‘psychotic shark monster’ toothy. “Anyways,
who’s the damsel in distress here?” The mask was cut to reveal icy blue,
playfully wide eyes—but there was something about them that screamed crazy.
They made him think of his Calculus teacher from high school.
 
You took calculus?
 
That joke was intended for the author’s best friend, who will probably be the
only reader to understand that reference.
 
Thought I was going crazy there for a moment lol. Pooly would never do calculus
XD.
 
“Well! C’mon! Which of you is the damsel!? I need to know so that way I can
help! If I don’t know who needs the helping, then I won’t be very helpful now
will I?” She threw her arms out in exasperation, tilting her head to the right.
Every motion she made was over exaggerated—like she was in a cheap straight-to-
tv Disney feature.
 
In my professional opinion, I highly recommend that we book it. Crazy people
are one thing. Crazy women, on the other hand…
 
Normally I would point out that you are being a sexist pig, however, I agree on
this one. I think we should go, and study this from a distance. From the very
beginning, something has been really weird about this whole thing. I don’t like
it.
 
“Yeah. I think you’re both onto something here.” Wade looked at Peter in the
corner of his eye, and frowned at the defensive pose the kid had taken—ready to
fight instead of flight.
 
“Well, I’m just gonna skedaddle. Smell ya later!” Wade smiled and backed away
towards a different window—which was conveniently open. He quickly spun around
and bolted out, depressing the transporter button on his belt while in midair
like a badass. With a blink, he found himself safely on the ground and across
the street from the warehouse. Turning around he saw Peter and the girl
watching him from the window. With a quick wave, Wade ran off.
 
That was close.
 
Bob would be so proud of us for that one.
 
“Shut up! You were all for running away a minute ago!” Wade hissed and glanced
over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed, scaring the shit out
of a bald man in a rumpled business suit, tie askew to reveal a telling amount
of red lipstick framed hickies.
 
Doesn’t change the fact that this wasn’t our most macho moment.
 
Not macho is better than castrated, which I’m pretty sure that girl was more
than capable of.
 
They’d grow back!
 
“Doesn’t make it any less painful,” Wade shuddered as they turned a corner,
grabbing onto a pole to spin around. A bit of mild parkour usually helped heal
the sting of cowardice.
 
It’s like we’ve all forgotten about what this interpretation of Spider-Man is
known for.
 
“So all in all, I think this particular mission was a bust,” Wade muttered
grumpily, slouching down on a black bench to catch his breath, ignoring the
fact that it was already occupied. Shaking his head sullenly, he pulled out a
knife and started to carve a rude image into the armrest, picking up his leg to
plop it down on top of a sleeping hobo’s lap.
 
Think that’s pretty safe to say.
 
The hobo’s snores stuttered and his eyes opened. He looked over at Deadpool,
then at the leg in his lap, and turned over so that his head was gently resting
on Wade’s ankle.
 
Agreed.
 
“Oh, fucking Pikachu’s pissy cunt!” Wade yelped, and jerked out of the bench,
knocking the hobo in the teeth with his knee. The hobo merely readjusted
himself and went back to sleep.
 
People stared at him warily, giving him a wide berth as they walked by—hands
clutching belongings nervously—as Wade frantically hailed for a cab.
 
What?
 
“Did I remember to turn off the stove?”
Chapter End Notes
     So, who's that Pokemon!? I mean character. Shit I play Pokemon too
     damn much.
      
     Shit I stole:
     “Hide yo kids, hide yo wife” Kevin Antoine Dodson
     Undertale
     Pokémon
     Yeah, I didn't squeeze as many references in this time. I did quote
     the movie a bit, though. If you see any other things I quoted and
     didn't cred, lemme know. Cuz credit is important. But comment plz cuz
     I like reading them and they encourage me to write more which is good
     because then it means I get better and the chapters are better and
     world peace is still not really a thing but comment anyways cuz I
     said so. See y'all later, byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
     8=========================================D
***** Peter isn't as in Control as He Thinks He is *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter thinks he knows what's going down but like he doesn't. Sorry
     baby boy, but you ain't know shit
Chapter Notes
     A little bit late, but this chapter wanted more attention. Needy lil
     bitch. So, enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Peter was plopped onto a chair while his kidnapper paused to look away and
mumble something—like a reality tv show contestant talking to a camera, except,
of course, minus the camera. Peter fought the urge to beat his head against
something. How the Hell had he let himself be caught by this lunatic!?
 
Thankfully, Peter hadn’t been blindfolded or knocked out on the way to their
location, so he knew where they were. It was a rundown part of New York—pretty
close to where his last…ah…incident…as Spider-Man had occurred. The thought
made Peter frown. Had he found, or more aptly, been found by the murderer? The
man definitely acted unbalanced enough.
 
Of course, Peter was one to talk. Hello psychopathic kettle, meet sadistic pot.
 
“It makes me uncomfortable when you call me son,” Deadpool complained as he
straightened up and looked around for something in the dusty warehouse.
 
“You should be looking for your marbles, because you’ve obviously lost them,”
Peter muttered aloud, rolling his eyes—inwardly, however, he was shivering in
anticipation: and not in the good way. Nervously watching the man look around
for something—and wasn’t that a scary thought—Peter absently picked at his
cuticles and chewed the inside of his cheek, formulating a plan in his head.
Doing what he did best, Peter observed, forcing himself to focus on his
surroundings instead of the sheer panic building in his chest and ears—tearing
away at the inside of his cheek with his teeth, wincing a bit when he pulled a
hangnail too hard—
 
Peter took a deep breath. Now was not the time to roll over and play dead.
 
Scanning the area, Peter catalogued everything in his mind; gutted, defunct
machines with shredded wires arbitrarily poking out—were those claw
marks?—computer screens bashed in—a reddish brown stain over by an overturned
desk on the left—shattered window, no brick or ball in sight indicating more
innocent origins. All covered in a thick layer of dust, sprinkled with rat
droppings.
 
Conclusion: control station of some sort—likely a dubious sort involving
cackling super-villains and pointy objects—sieged a good ten years ago.
 
Frowning, Peter recalled the fractured remains of a rail that he had seen as
they entered the room before he was plopped down on the chair and forced to
look in the opposite direction. There were trails behind some of the
splinters—squinting his eyes as he concentrated on it—like they shot through
the dust like little meteors. Clearly that had happened more recently—since
their motion disrupted the dust. Judging by the few splinters on the loft and
the direction they mostly pointed in—someone had been pushed into it and fell
through the rotting wood. Utilizing the thinner layer of dust on the pieces he
could generate timelines for the footprints in the dust.
 
Peter took a good look at his captor. The man was entirely clad in a red
leather suit—white eyes—and not a single patch of skin to be seen. Interesting.
The need for anonymity amongst villains was understandable—but what was
Deadpool hiding? What was so big that he needed to cover his entire body?
 
Deadpool turned and looked at Peter, tilting his head.
 
Peter stiffened and clenched his fists, until he realized the man wasn’t
looking at him. Deadpool was staring over Peter’s shoulder at something,
frowning as if listening to something important. Taking a deep breath, Peter
looked back at his surroundings and gleaned as much as he could. There was so
much information there—
 
“Thanks!” The man smiled, breaking Peter from his concentration. Peter wanted
to punch him in the face—but then he realized the man was looking dead into his
eyes. This time he was definitely in the same world as Peter. With stuttered
breath, he watched in tense silence as the man sauntered up to him and wagged
his finger, hips moving in a weird disjointed fashion. Narrowing in on one of
Deadpool’s leg, Peter noticed the man was moving it ever-so-slightly wrong. Old
or new injury?
 
“You,” The man jabbed Peter in the middle of his forehead. He sounded like he
was trying not to laugh. “Punk. Don’t get any ideas,” He crossed his arms over
his chest and scrunched up his face—like he smelled something weird (probably
his own breath: it was telling that Peter could smell it all the way through
leather). “I’m just gonna grab some rope. K?” The man tilted his head back and
stared down at Parker. Was he trying to be condescending? Because it wasn’t
working. He looked like a drunken orangutan.
 
Peter wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream or laugh—the idea of being tied
down was not on his top ten list of favorite things to do—and of course, as per
usual, his life preserving instincts left the building, delegating Smartass to
take charge of his mouth. If it hadn’t been for the spider bite, he’d have been
dead a long time ago—hero or not.
 
“Yeah,” Peter rolled his eyes despite the roar of panic ringing in his ears.
“You go get some rope to tie me up with, and I’m just gonna stay right here,
nice and quiet, so you can go grab it. No need to worry about the hostage. Go
on,” With each word, Peter begged his mouth to stop, but of course, it didn’t.
Superman had kryptonite, Spider-Man had the verbal shits. Something crunched in
his hand—and out of the corner of his eye, trying not to draw too much
attention to whatever he had destroyed, Peter saw the moth-eaten armrests of
his chair. With a deep but shaky breath, he loosened his grip enough to not
completely pulverize the chair.
 
“You’re being obvious,” Peter whispered to himself and removed his hands from
the armrests and instead gripped his forearms, absently scratching at his skin.
Looking back up, Peter took in the man’s reactions.
 
His kidnapper’s jaw dropped for a second in shock, before it twisted into a
sneer. There didn’t appear to be any anger, however—weirdly enough, he
looked...proud? The Spider senses were on edge however, crackling under his
skin like static electricity.
 
They itched.
 
“Listen, kid,” Peter rolled his eyes at that, they always insisted on calling
him a kid. They always seemed to forget the unstable psychopath twitching under
his skin, thrashing for release. “I’m actually kinda starting to like you,”
Peter bit his tongue before a rude quip about reverse-Stockholm Syndrome
spilled out, “Mouth off to me again,” Jaw clenched to stop his lips from
forming the That’s what she said that pushed against his teeth, “I’m going to
have to do something neither of us is gonna be too happy about.”
 
Deadpool reached his hand out—slowly, deliberately—Peter grasped his arms hard
enough to break the bones of an ordinary person—ready to leap—
 
But the merc merely ruffled his hair, sniggering like he hadn’t been inches
away from death. Peter dug his nails into his skin—anchoring them down before
his hands caved in to the urge and ripped Deadpool’s arm out of socket and
shoved it up his ass. He felt the air sting against his wounds and tried to
relax a bit—it would be a bit not good to leave a free DNA sample. Thor knew
what the Hell this guy would do with it (okay, maybe not, but he’d be able to
find out maybe).
 
“Wonder what having a normal life is like?” Peter whispered to himself, keeping
an eye on his kidnapper as the man walked away to a corner of the room—not
letting himself think too hard on the idea of rope. He needed to observe—to
learn—the more he learned, the faster he learned the quicker his escape—
 
Leaning back in the chair, Peter frowned when he felt something weird nudging
his ass. “There’s no fucking way…” Peter whispered, leaning forward and bit to
reach around and feel at the object, keeping the man in his sight and hopefully
not looking too suspicious if his captor turned around before he could properly
inspect the thing. His fingers touched cold metal, and Peter wanted to laugh.
 
“I was actually kidnapped by this guy,” Peter took the gun and examined it in
his lap, looking at it in wonder, noting that at least the safety was on.
Slowly, he shook his head. Looking back up with gleaming eyes, he
grinned—biting his lip to hold in his laughter.
 
“Poor you! Mocked by your own hostage,” Peter smirked as the man froze—this
time, Deadpool was listening. And if he wasn’t, then soon he’d have no other
choice. Because now they were playing Peter’s game. “If you give me a minute, I
might be able to work up a few tears for you. Oh wait. Nevermind. I can’t.”
 
Peter watched the man carefully, heart beating in excitement as the man
flinched. Sneering, Peter slowly stood up while the man muttered something to
himself. The man relaxed again, worlds away from Peter. It was fascinating how
the mercenary could slip in and out coherency so quickly.
 
The business end of the gun aligned with the back of his kidnapper’s head, and
he released the safety, hands steady, the fear and panic on the back burner of
his brain.
 
Click.
 
“What was that for?” The man huffed and stood up straight. Then, the man
stiffened and cursed to himself. Spinning around, he looked at Peter, sighing
disappointedly.
 
“Oh fuck. You shouldn’t have done that, kiddo,” The man shook his head and
looked over to the right again. “We’ll see. I agree, though. Kid’s got some
mejor cajones on him,” He sounded impressed that time? Peter was going to go
insane trying to keep up with the man’s mood swings. Looking to the right,
Deadpool sighed and started talking again, playing with a length of rope in his
hands.
 
“Who are you talking to?” Peter demanded, the flash of the gun caught the
mercenary’s eyes. His face was hard as he watched the man shut off and look
away again. “Who are you talking to!?” Peter asked more forcefully. The man
looked over at Peter again, a bemused look on his face.
 
“Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Peter with the Gun! What was the question
again?” The man was scratching his chin, deep in thought.
 
Peter lost it and fired a warning shot, aiming for a beer can on one of the
iron beams—left behind from a time when the owners of the warehouse were less
particular about its occupants.
 
The bullet blasted the can off the beam with a satisfying clang. Peter was good
with guns.
 
Too good with guns.
 
“I asked you who the Hell you were talking to!” Peter snapped, training the gun
back on the mercenary. Guns were comfortable—the cold metal, the power to end
and maim a life with a simple squeeze of a small trigger. The power to finally
end years and years of abuse and pain and misery. His finger itched to pull the
trigger, begged to do it—just contract an inch and bang. Problem solved. Let
someone else clean the rest.
 
Peter needed to be careful or else he was going to lose it. He was already
losing it. Insanity was creeping in, clouding his reason with temptation. It
was just so frustrating! All of his careful and calculated decisions, and he
was caught by this! This had gotten the slip on him while he was weak and
worthless Peter!
 
Right now, not being Peter would help things.
 
Peter didn’t listen to the man blabber his answer beyond the confirmation that
Deadpool was insane. There were more important things he needed to find out.
 
“So. Who hired you?” Peter asked, letting his grip on the gun relax a bit. He
needed to breathe—in and out, in and out.
 
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
 
Peter grit his teeth, then closed his eyes and counted to ten, listening to the
sounds around him to ensure his captor didn’t get the slip on him—a-fucking-
gain—focusing on the task at hand rather than his internal war.
 
“STOP SHOUTING IN MY HEAD!!!!!”
 
Peter’s eyes snapped open and he was startled to see the man whacking his head.
His finger stiffened and he contemplated what to do, when the whacking stopped
and the man was massaging his temples and muttering.
 
“What was that about!?” Peter lowered the gun, frowning at the man.
 
“The boxes went all capslock on me,” Peter opened his mouth to ask what the
boxes were exactly, and what the hell ‘capslock’ meant in that context, but the
man continued on, jabbering a mile a minute. “They got the idea from the fifth
Harry Potter book and enjoy torturing me with it every now and then. Fuck you,
JK Rowling! Fuck you and fuck capslock!Harry too!” The man finished by shaking
his fist in the air.
 
“Ooooooooh kaaaaaaay. Sure. Great,” Peter was getting a headache. Gun
forgotten, Peter rubbed his forehead.
 
“He thinks he’s got it all under control, but he doesn’t know our secret
weapon!”
 
Peter jolted to attention at that and held the gun up again. The insanity from
before had faded while Deadpool beat himself upside the head, but now it burst
behind his eyes, full force. “W-what secret weapon? The ability to talk someone
to death, because I think I already knew about that one,” Peter fought for
control in his mind, willing his brain to hold its ground instead of rolling
over as psychopathy’s bitch. He was stronger than this. He could do it.
 
“Not exactly, kiddo.” The man laughed, oblivious to the struggle in his
captive’s mind.
 
“Come any closer and I’ll shoot!” Not good, not good! He was losing himself
more and more with each passing second.
 
The man kept coming closer, laughing, and Peter was falling into the dark,
panicking at the sight of the rope still in Deadpool’s fist—heart thrashing in
his chest—pulse jumping in his veins—overpowering his ears—his index finger
hugged the trigger—the trigger that felt so warm and calming in his hand—just a
slight twitch—everything would be under his control again—yes, control! Control
was what he needed—
 
Bang!
 
The gun fired and Peter was watching from above, still there, still aware, but
no longer the only one calling the shots. The bullet seemed to travel in slow
motion—Deadpool’s eyes never changed, still laughing as he advanced towards
Peter.
 
The bullet and Deadpool met, and it ripped through his chest, a half inch shy
of his heart—precisely on target. The skin rippled at the impact, and red
filled the spot. However, other than the red spot on his chest, the man didn’t
flinch or jerk or even acknowledge that he’d been shot in any way, he just
howled with laughter.
                                        
“If you’re aiming to kill, then I got bad new, son,” The man snickered then
continued to sing, “I got 99 problems, but dying sure ain’t one.”
Chapter End Notes
     Shit I stole:
     There’s a Superman reference, but it’s so generic that I don’t even
     know if it counts
     The Office (haven’t really watched it, but that’s where the “that’s
     what she said” thing came from, right?)
     Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
      
     So comment and tell me I'm pretty. Or maybe not the last part since
     you have no idea what I look like, but yeah. Comment. Even if all you
     have to say is penis. One penis in hand is better than two in the
     bush (that came (gross) out a lot grosser than I thought it would).
     Bye guys until next week-ish probably most likely
      
     COMMENT
     8============D
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