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Deadpool is dangerous.
There’s no question about it.
He’s volatile and unpredictable, pure chaos crafted into a man. He wears blood on his hands and shadows on his soul, but more importantly, he’s so morally gray that he’s a villain in all but name, so Spider-Man keeps a careful eye on him, waiting for the day when Deadpool finally tips over the edge.
“I find it incredibly flattering that you’re stalking me, Webs,” Deadpool tells him. “It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.”
“I’m not stalking you,” Spider-Man corrects, long-suffering, because they’ve had this conversation before. “I’m keeping you from crossing a line you can’t uncross.”
Deadpool seems to take this as a challenge, stepping closer. Too close, already crossing one line he shouldn’t have. Peter’s spider-sense whispers an old, familiar warning in his head. “Tread carefully,” it seems to be saying, but this is Deadpool, and Spider-Man isn’t about to put up with his bullshit, so Peter stands his ground.
“Which line, Webs?” Deadpool asks, amused. “The ‘good guy, bad guy’ line? Because I hate to break it to you, but I crossed that one forward, backward, and sideways on a pogo stick years ago.”
“You know what I mean,” Spider-Man replies.
“I don’t, but I love it when you get stern.”
“I’ll stop you if I have to.”
It’s meant as a warning, a threat, and a promise, but Deadpool is immune to them all. He only reaches out and slaps an amicable hand onto Spider-Man’s shoulder as he steps past. The touch strikes like lightning through Peter’s entire body, tingling through him. Deadpool’s hand slips away, but the intense static charge lingers on Peter’s skin.
“Do what you gotta do, Spidey,” Deadpool says. “But know that bigger guys than you have tried and died.”
Then he saunters off with a backward wave, leaving Spider-Man behind. Peter stares after him for a moment too long, while a strange, disorienting feeling rises in him. Not quite fear, but maybe a wordless hunger.
…
Deadpool sometimes turns up drenched in blood in the New York night, and Spider-Man has no idea whose blood it is. It could be Deadpool’s. It could be someone else’s.
“It’s mine! It’s mine!” Deadpool swears merrily when Spider-Man asks. “I got shot. A lot! Very rude.”
Sometimes it’s, “I got stabbed! Do you wanna know how many times? I counted!”
Once, “My arms got ripped off. But look, they grew back!”
Without evidence, Spider-Man has no idea whether any of it is true. He suspects the other guy looks even worse than Deadpool, but again, there’s little Spider-Man can do without proof.
“I can hear you frown, Spidey,” Deadpool tells him. “Stop it. You’ll ruin that pretty face.”
“You haven’t even seen my face,” Spider-Man points out. “What makes you think it’s pretty?”
“Educated guesswork based on your ass. I just know you’re a looker,” Deadpool replies, giving Spider-Man a pointed once-over. Peter can feel his face flush under that heavy, intent look.
“Avoid the subject all you want, Deadpool,” Spider-Man says, trying to focus on the topic at hand, “But if I find out even a drop of that blood belongs to an innocent—”
“Then what, Spidey? A stern lecture? Disappointed hands on hips?” Deadpool asks. “What can you do against someone like me?”
Frankly, Peter has no idea.
“I’d find a way,” he promises lamely.
Deadpool snorts. “That sounded braver in your head, didn’t it?”
“Shut up.”
“There he is, my favorite little grump.”
Peter refuses to back down. “Nobody is undefeatable.”
“We can go right now and test that theory,” Deadpool offers, something dark and eager entering his voice. He reaches for a sword.
And Peter knows, without a doubt, that if he agrees now, it will be his blood that Deadpool wears next. His spider-sense doesn't just twinge; it screams, a fire alarm blaring in the back of his skull telling him to retreat. Yet, defying every instinct that has kept him alive in this city, the answer slips from Peter’s tongue before his common sense can stop it.
“Alright.”
Spider-Man is fast, strong, and dangerous, but Deadpool is something else entirely. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t tire. He doesn’t hurt for long. When Spider-Man attacks, Deadpool welcomes each blow with open arms, taking hits that would’ve killed a lesser man. His counterattacks are quick and unhesitating, his sword biting into Peter’s flesh coldly and cruelly. Spider-Man still gives it his best shot, fighting harder than he has in a long time.
“Let me know when you’ve had enough,” Deadpool says cheerfully, after his sword has carved a long, bloody slash into Spider-Man’s side.
Spider-Man grits his teeth and attacks again. He uses his speed. He uses his strength. He uses his webs and every skill he has learned over the years. He gives himself permission to be at his cruelest, holding nothing back.
It isn’t enough.
Deadpool’s swords whittle away at Spider-Man’s defenses little by little, until Peter feels the aches all around his body. He’s exhausted and bleeding profusely. He hits the rooftop again and again, until he inevitably reaches his limit. He goes to his knees and can’t get up. His defeat is brutal, absolute, and ugly.
The cold steel of Deadpool’s sword settles threateningly against his throat. His gentle hand reaches out to tilt Spider-Man’s face up by the chin.
“Look at you, baby boy,” the mercenary says, almost softly, “Maybe I wouldn’t feel so inclined to cut you up, if you didn’t bleed so pretty.”
For a moment, Spider-Man is sure this is the end, but then Deadpool graciously lets him limp away alive. It wasn’t a given thing.
Peter makes his way home, exhausted, broken, and beaten, collapsing onto the floor of his apartment and staining blood all over the linoleum. He stares at the ceiling, breathing raggedly through the aches in his body. His pride stings even worse than the bleeding cuts mapping his body.
“Look at you, baby boy,” the memory of Deadpool’s voice whispers again in Peter’s head, “Maybe I wouldn’t feel so inclined to cut you up, if you didn’t bleed so pretty.”
A shiver runs down Peter’s spine. It’s still not fear, but that wordless hunger again, only more defined.
…
“You’re hurt,” Daredevil remarks when Spider-Man encounters him by chance in the New York night two days later. “Your breathing is off. Pained.”
“Just another Thursday in New York. You know how it is,” Spider-Man says as lightly as he can. “I’ll be fine.”
“You remember I can hear lies, right?” Matt asks. “I can smell the old blood, and your heartbeat always picks up when you stray from the truth.”
Peter stiffens a little under his mask, uncomfortable. “Wow. I’ve got nothing but huge respect for the devil sonar, but you’re abusing your power.”
“I’m not trying to pry. I’m trying to give you a warning you desperately need.” Matt takes a slow step closer. “You’ve been spending time with Wilson.”
Peter instantly knows who he means, even though the name is unfamiliar. “I’m not spending time with him. I’m keeping an eye on him. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Daredevil asks gravely. “I know Wade Wilson, Spider-Man. I’ve shared rooftops and bloody alleyways with him. And I know what happens when someone like him and someone like you cross paths.”
“You don’t like him,” Peter guesses.
“It’s not about like or dislike.”
“What is it about then?”
Matt is quiet for a moment, considering his next words. “His heartbeat doesn’t change when he kills.”
Peter blinks in confusion under his mask. “What?”
“When a normal man takes a life, his heart races,” Daredevil continues. His tone is somber, each word carrying weight. “Adrenaline, guilt, fear, horror, maybe even excitement. The body reacts to those. The body knows it’s doing wrong, even if the mind disagrees.”
Peter feels suddenly uncomfortable, suspecting he knows where this is going.
“Wade's heart doesn't change its rhythm. It stays steady. Calm. Lazy. He cuts a man in half, and to his nervous system, it’s no different than buying a hot dog from a cart.”
Peter recalls how easily Deadpool held the sword to his throat. He remembers how warm and steady Deadpool’s hand had been on his chin. It’s a strange contradiction that still stands out in Peter’s memory.
“He isn't a tragic antihero waiting for someone to show him the light,” Matt says, taking a step back toward the edge of the roof. “He is a man who operates outside of morality.”
“Well, he didn’t kill me,” Peter mumbles, knowing full well that it’s a feeble defense. “He could have, but he didn’t.”
“Maybe so. Just… be careful, Peter,” Daredevil says. “If you start thinking you’re an exception to some kind of a rule, you won’t even hear him coming. He doesn’t play by any rulebook.”
With a faint whistle of cable wire, Daredevil vanishes into the night.
Spider-Man stands there alone for a long moment, staring off into the night.
…
Peter heals. He always does. The cuts on his body close up, until they’re little more than a part of the map of scars that decorates Peter’s skin.
“Look at you, Spidey,” Deadpool greets when they see each other next. “Looking better already!”
“No thanks to you,” Spider-Man replies.
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser,” Deadpool says. “It’s a very unattractive characteristic on an aspiring superhero.”
“You carved me up like a Thanksgiving turkey, Deadpool,” Spider-Man says flatly, his voice tight. “Sorry if I don’t feel like throwing you a parade.”
Deadpool tilts his head, his gaze raking over Peter’s body, as if gazing through his suit to where the fresh scars now sit under the red and blue fabric. It’s an intense look, one that Peter feels almost like a physical touch.
“I held back,” Deadpool says, his tone suddenly dropping its exaggerated theatricality, slipping into something quiet and unnervingly soft. “You know I did.”
Peter’s throat feels dry. His spider-sense is mute, but his skin prickles all the same. Here comes that familiar, strange feeling that has been haunting him.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Spider-Man asks, but his voice is barely above a whisper.
“No,” Deadpool replies, stepping into his space. “It’s supposed to make you realize I prefer you intact.”
It sounds like a confession or a declaration.
Peter wants to step back to put distance between their bodies, but that feels like another defeat. He wants to stand his ground, but he knows that won’t be enough, not against someone like Deadpool who’ll always push for more. So, Peter does the only thing that he has left:
He steps even closer.
He can feel the heat radiating off Deadpool through their thin suits. They’re close enough now to share body heat and breathe the same air.
“Every time I see you, I make the same bad decisions all over again,” Spider-Man says.
“Aw. I’m your toxic pattern.”
“You’re toxic, I’ll give you that.”
“Hurtful, but possibly accurate,” Deadpool agrees.
He doesn’t sound apologetic at all, nor does he move away; if anything, he shifts his weight forward, anchoring Peter in place with his presence.
"I’m a red flag in full-body spandex,” Deadpool declares, almost proudly. “You should run, Spidey. Web away. Call the good guys and tell 'em I'm corrupting the youth."
Peter's spider-sense gives a tiny, useless flutter in the back of his mind. Peter ignores it. He reaches out, his fingers lightly brushing the leather strap that crosses Deadpool’s chest. Deadpool grows still, attentive. Peter curls his fingers around that leather strap and pulls him even closer. Their masked faces are nearly touching now, little more than a breath away.
“Try harder,” Peter tells Deadpool, the words whispered close to his masked mouth. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Deadpool’s reply is unhesitating. “We’ll work on that.”
Then he sways closer, clearly aiming for a masked kiss. Peter shoves him off without a warning, putting his arachnid strength behind the push. Deadpool stumbles back and falls over the edge of the roof with a satisfying startled scream. Peter lets him fall for a fraction of a second before he leaps over the edge too, catching Deadpool with a web as he falls.
Spider-Man leaves Deadpool hanging upside down in a cocoon of webs before swinging away into the night.
He can hear Deadpool’s laughter behind him as he goes.
Peter’s mouth curls up with a smile under his mask.
…
To make things complicated, Deadpool has large, warm hands.
Peter knows this all too well, because those hands start to linger on his person, invasive and bold. Deadpool slaps a hand onto Spider-Man’s shoulder when they share a rooftop in the fading light of a sunset. He pats Spider-Man on the back in celebration after Spider-Man has secured a decisive win in a fight against some villain or another. Sometimes Deadpool’s fingers wrap around Spider-Man’s wrist as he drags the superhero along on whatever misadventure has caught his attention.
Deadpool just becomes tactile. He reaches out easily and lets go slowly, which is frankly driving Peter a little insane for all the wrong reasons.
“Spidey!” Deadpool often calls his name when they run into each other in the New York night.
Spidey. For some reason, it sounds different when Deadpool says it, almost like a pet name, warm and intimate.
“Deadpool,” Spider-Man greets back cordially, trying to sound casual even as Deadpool reaches out and throws an arm around his shoulders, leaning close conspiratorially. In Peter’s chest, his heart does a treacherous double thump against his ribs. There’s nothing casual about that.
Spider-Man has been fighting that night, and Deadpool gets jealous when Spider-Man fights people other than him. He pretends he doesn’t, but Peter learns to recognize the signs over time. He becomes dramatically pouty and whines like a child.
“Look at you,” Deadpool says now, clicking his tongue. “All bloody and battered. Have you been having fun without me? So rude!”
Spider-Man snorts. “I actually prefer whooping ass without you there getting in my way at every turn.”
“Cold, cold, cold,” Deadpool whines dramatically. “You’re so ice cold, Webs.”
“I’m sensible. There’s a difference,” Peter corrects, lying through his teeth because he’s many things, but sensible is rarely among them. No sensible man would tempt fate like he is by leaning slightly against Deadpool’s solid body right then and there.
“Sensible? Sensible doesn't wear red and blue spandex and pick fistfights with themed villains.” Deadpool leans in even closer, resting his masked forehead against Peter’s temple playfully, practically speaking into his ear. “Come on, confess. You missed me. You were out there fighting, thinking, ‘Gee, I wish a ruggedly handsome mercenary was here to solve this with explosives.’”
Peter wishes for many things. He does. Lately, an alarming number of those wishes have included Deadpool one way or another, but in that thought lies a confession Peter isn’t ready to make.
It would be incredibly easy to turn his head now and breathe the same air as Deadpool again, their faces too close, their masked lips nearly touching. The idea sends a thrill down Peter’s spine.
That wordless hunger is easily recognizable by now, but Peter is loath to give it a name.
He pushes the feeling aside.
“I don’t generally wish for people to get blown up, Pool,” Spider-Man replies instead, elbowing Deadpool a little to put some much-needed distance between their bodies.
Deadpool lets go, but he doesn’t go far. He lingers by Spider-Man’s side long into the night.
Peter tries not to read too much into it.
…
A couple of weeks later, Black Widow is the one to ask, “What’s your interest in Deadpool?”
“What? I have no interest in him!” Spider-Man defends quickly before he realizes he could’ve just pretended not to know what she’s talking about.
Natasha gives him a searching look. “We’ve updated your file.”
“Huh?”
“The ‘known associates’ section,” Natasha clarifies. “Yours used to be empty.”
“Wow, that’s pretty depressing,” Spider-Man jokes to hide the real sting.
Natasha’s expression doesn’t even twitch. “Now it says Deadpool.”
“That’s even worse.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“It’s not like that,” Spider-Man protests. “I’m just keeping an eye on him. Someone clearly should. He’s a disaster waiting to happen. A public menace!”
“I have no doubt that one day he will lose his mind and kill us all,” Black Widow says calmly. “And there’s nothing we can do to stop that. Doesn’t mean we have to waste time and energy on a lost cause.”
“He’s not a lost cause,” Spider-Man says, oddly defensive. “Not yet anyway.”
“And that’s the interest I’m talking about,” Natasha says, and there’s a flicker of something knowing in her eyes.
Peter realizes that this isn’t a friendly chat between colleagues, but a discreet interrogation by the most skilled spy in the world. Peter is willing to bet his left kidney that she’s updating that file in her head right now.
“I have no interest in him,” Spider-Man insists, but he can feel his cheeks heat up under his mask with embarrassment, almost as if he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. He just knows that Deadpool would have a good laugh about all this if he knew.
“It’s not like that,” Spider-Man repeats weakly.
Natasha’s mouth quirks up in a humorless smile, and she says nothing more.
…
Deadpool keeps taking liberties with Spider-Man, and Peter is uncertain how to stop it.
Deadpool always sits a little too close. He has seemingly abandoned the concept of personal space and decided to live in Spider-Man’s instead. He leans close, pressed against Spider-Man’s side, as he speaks and speaks and speaks, always running his mouth a mile a minute.
Deadpool’s touches start to become too intimate and bold.
Those curious, large hands abandon Spider-Man’s shoulders and wrists and stray to his waist instead, fingertips skimming boldly down the curve of Peter’s side. Sometimes Deadpool’s hand settles low on Spider-Man’s back. Peter sometimes leans into those warm touches by accident, allowing them to last longer than they otherwise would.
When they sit together on rooftops, Deadpool slaps a hand on Spider-Man’s thigh in the middle of some excited anecdote or another. He always forgets to remove it, that hand resting almost absently too high on Spider-Man’s leg.
Peter feels each touch burn through his Spider-Man suit. He might as well be naked for how intimately those touches land on him. He has no shields against this, no barriers, no defense mechanisms. He just sits there helplessly and lets Deadpool stake a claim.
Peter is strong enough to lift cars. He could definitely take that wandering hand and lift it off his person. Peter tells himself to do it. He tells himself to elbow Deadpool off. Anything.
He does nothing.
Instead, he listens to the heartbeat that pounds in his ears, wishing desperately that Deadpool can’t hear it too.
Deadpool doesn’t even seem to notice the way his hand is wandering. He just keeps rambling on about some street vendor who got his order wrong, while he idly drags his thumb back and forth on Peter’s thigh. It’s so casual that it’s terrifying. Deadpool isn't even looking at him, yet Peter can barely breathe.
Peter wonders if maybe this is some elaborate mind game he doesn’t know how to play. Then he wonders if this monster of a man is just naturally this undisciplined and affectionate. Peter doesn’t know which option is worse.
“Spidey?” Deadpool calls. “Webs? Light of my life? Are you even listening to me?”
“No,” Spider-Man admits, forcing the syllable out through the strange blockade in his throat.
“Aw, man, do I have to start over?” Deadpool groans theatrically.
Peter finds his voice. “Stop touching me.”
Deadpool’s hand goes still. “Do you want me to?”
Peter considers it, then lets out a shaky sigh. “No.”
Deadpool’s thumb returns to its aimless pattern.
“Anyway!” Deadpool says, continuing from where he left off, “This vendor, Spidey, he had the IQ of a chopped-up cucumber.”
“Takes one to know one,” Spider-Man mumbles, but gets completely ignored.
“Hey, hey, speaking of vegetables,” Deadpool exclaims, “If you were one, Spidey, you’d be a cutecumber!”
Then Deadpool laughs like it’s the funniest thing, because clearly he’s an idiot if Peter ever saw one. Yet, Peter’s face heats up at this stupid, corny pick-up line.
“Thanks,” Peter hears himself say in lieu of a clever comeback. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Are you trying to flatter this horror show, baby boy?” Deadpool asks, amused. “Save your breath.”
“Horror show?” Peter repeats, casting Deadpool a baffled look. “With a shoulder-to-waist ratio like that, you’re pretty easy—”
Peter catches himself mid-sentence and forces his mouth shut, trapping the rest of his sentence behind his teeth.
There’s a beat of heavy silence between them.
Then Deadpool snorts. “Did you just call me easy, Spidey?”
Peter feels his face heat up.
“On the eyes!” he hurries to finish his sentence. “Easy on the eyes. Visually accessible. Not easy, as in… you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with that either!”
Peter finishes his awkward rambling with embarrassed silence.
For a moment, Deadpool only looks at him, then he says, with feeling, “Cutecumber.”
Then his thumb sweeps along Peter’s thigh again a few times, as if to remind Peter that the hand is still there. It doesn’t exactly help.
“You were saying something about the vendor with the IQ of a cucumber,” Peter says weakly to distract Deadpool.
“Oh? Oh! Yes, I was!” Deadpool realizes and returns to his winding anecdote with enthusiasm.
Peter listens to him talk and finally acknowledges that he may already be in too deep.
…
A couple of days after that incident, Wolverine, who’s always cynical and tired, like maybe he has lived for too long, turns up to offer his opinion. Peter didn’t see that one coming because Logan isn’t exactly the type to talk about feelings, but clearly, Wolverine’s annoyance with Wade Wilson outshines even his cynicism. Or perhaps he isn’t as indifferent as he always pretends.
Either way, Peter can guess what Wolverine is about to say even before he opens his mouth, just from the look he casts at Spider-Man.
“If this is about Deadpool, I’ve heard the lecture already,” Spider-Man says.
“You think you can change ‘im, kid?” Wolverine asks gruffly. “You think he’ll magically start to care about your little moral code?”
Spider-Man gets defensive. “No, but—”
Wolverine gives him an unimpressed look. “I chopped Wilson to pieces a few times, and he grew back wrong. He just doesn’t learn lessons because he’s screwed up in the head. Different. You’re trying to teach compassion to a hand grenade.”
“I’m not trying to teach him anything,” Spider-Man defends. “I’m just keeping an eye on him.”
Wolverine turns away, perhaps recognizing a lost battle or maybe losing interest.
“The closer you look, the more it will hurt,” he still calls over his shoulder.
…
And so it continues over the following weeks. They all come to Spider-Man one by one: heroes, antiheroes, borderline villains, seemingly everyone. They all look at him and somehow seem to see Deadpool’s fingerprints all over him, because their next words soon get familiar.
They say, “Compassion won’t pay your medical bills, Spider-Man.”
They say, “He’s looking for an anchor. He’ll happily drown you to keep himself afloat.”
They say, “You’re only giving him an audience while he kills.”
They say, “Son, if you start ignoring the body count, it’s only a matter of time before your own lines blur.”
Always the same tune, just a different song.
Peter lets them talk and feels a rebellious feeling rise from within. It joins that wordless hunger, making him think of Wade Wilson.
…
Deadpool runs his mouth constantly, and these days, about forty percent of his never-ending commentary is either suggestive innuendos or blatant, bald-faced flirting. He says outrageous things so casually and easily that it leaves Peter’s ears burning for hours afterward.
If that were all, Peter could handle it, but combined with the relentless touching, it just gets too much.
“This guy, Spidey!” Deadpool says once, excitedly recounting a story from his latest job. “He was huge. A total monster of a man! The kind who could crush skulls between his hands!”
Then he stops to take a look at Spider-Man. “But perhaps that isn’t all that impressive to you. You’re probably strong enough to crush people’s skulls between your tiny, little hands, aren’t you, Spidey?”
“I have zero interest in trying,” Spider-Man says firmly. “Gross.”
“I figured,” Deadpool shrugs, but sees his opportunity to add, “But if you ever feel like crushing people’s skulls between those frankly sculptural thighs, I volunteer as tribute. Hot.”
Peter can hear the suggestive leer in his voice. Deadpool slips an arm around Spider-Man’s slim waist unhesitatingly as if it were his right, tugging him closer.
In that moment, Peter thinks about them all, Matt, Natasha, Logan, and every other person who warned him. He hears them all for a moment in his head, just a cacophony of noise, telling him not to trust this man for a second.
Peter quirks a smile under his mask and makes up his mind.
“If you’re that eager to get between my thighs,” he says, pronouncing the words carefully, lingering on the syllables, “You can just ask nicely.”
It takes a beat before the words seem to register in Deadpool’s brain, but then he goes dangerously still.
“What?” he chokes out, surprised.
“You heard me.”
Deadpool stares at him. Peter starts to wonder if he should backtrack and maybe laugh this off.
He needn’t have worried.
“This is me,” Deadpool breathes. “Asking nicely.”
Peter doesn’t hesitate. He moves, throwing a leg over Deadpool and settling into his lap. Deadpool’s hands rise to his hips, nearly searingly hot even through their suits. His grip is so tight it’s surely putting a set of bruises on Peter’s skin.
Peter reaches out to roll Deadpool’s mask gently halfway up for better access. Then he curiously traces the revealed, scarred lips with his fingertip. Those lips part with a small, helpless breath under his touch. Peter wants to taste them.
“Everybody warned me about you,” he says instead, pushing up his own mask halfway, too.
“Smart crowd.”
“They said that you’ll be the death of me.”
“Did they now?”
“I know what you are, Wade Wilson,” Peter says quietly. “I’ve had your blade at my throat. I’ve seen the blood on you. I know you’re a man who knows how to kill.”
Wade’s hands tighten on Peter’s hips, his intense gaze searching Peter’s half-visible face for something. Maybe hesitation. Peter knows he won’t find it.
“Why then?” Wade asks, curiously.
Peter lets out a slow breath, completely surrendering to that wordless hunger he has been fighting for weeks. He gives it a name. Desire.
“Because I want to find out if you’re a man who knows how to kiss.”