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Ooh, Spicy

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As it turns out, the guac costs extra, but the wormholes are free.

Wade immediately decides that interdimensional travel is a whole lot better with a burrito shoved in your mouth. Even if that original universe steals the last bite. [Our universe sucked anyway.] [Yeah, Spidey’s dead in our universe.]

The white box hits him like a punch in the gut. Which usually isn’t all that painful, for him, but you’ve gotta keep the metaphors somewhat relatable for the reader. Wade sinks to his knees on the street outside some other New York City burrito joint and sits there for a moment to gather his bearings. The universe has granted him his mask, at least. Wouldn’t want the space-time continuum shattering in response to his ugly like a mirror in an old-timey cartoon.

‘One.’ He decides to make a list of things he knows for sure. ‘I’m in New York City.’

[Sure are.] [No shit, Sherlock.]

Wade scans around for more clues as to what on Earth could make this universe special enough for him to end up ass-backwards, mid-burrito, and stuck somewhere in good ol’ NYC. He sort of wishes the interdimensional gods had veered a bit southward and dumped him someplace else. If he's going to be depressed, why can't he be depressed on the beach? Or at Disney World? Or any place that doesn't remind him of--

‘Two.’ [Sixty-nine.] [Four-hundred-and-twenty.] ‘Two. It’s the same time of day. Sun’s still high in the sky.’

[Ooh, Eastern Standard Time.] [My favorite.]

Then his gaze collides with an all-too familiar pattern beneath the arm of a baggy green jacket. The costume’s become pretty typical in his universe, but then he sees the guy’s face and his eyes bug out of his mask.

‘Three.’ [Blind Mice.] [Little pigs.] ‘No! Three, that’s Peter!’

“Excuse me,” Wade manages to say out loud, scrambling from the sidewalk and weaving through the crowd of people, but the man doesn’t turn around.

“Spiderman,” he tries, a little more urgent this time.

Still no response. If anything, he walks faster.

“Peter,” he says, his voice carrying over the crowd, and the man stops dead in his tracks.

Then Wade’s in an alleyway, pressed against the side of a brick building. He goes limp, pretends to be too weak to hit back. No point in fighting this universe’s version of Spidey; his own Pete’s plenty unalived back at home.

“It’s me,” he croaks, and Peter readies his web-shooter, aiming it at his mouth. He starts talking. Fast. “I’m Deadpool. Wade Wilson. I’m from another universe. In that one you’re dead and I’m more than a little bit bummed about it.”

Surprisingly, that’s what gets Peter to loosen his grip.

“You’re from another universe?” he sighs. “That’s so last week.”


This universe’s Peter Parker is older, divorced, lonely, tacks a B onto his name, and is more than happy to buy Wade an Oreo McFlurry or two in exchange for information. One order of fries later, Wade learns that he and a bunch of other Spideys dimension-hopped sometime last week and saved the city from collapsing into glitchy nothingness. No big deal. The new Spiderman that’s been thwipping around in Wade’s dimension -- Peter’s careful to avoid his real name -- is a sweet kid, a quick learner, and can turn invisible.

“Can you turn invisible?” Wade asks.


“Not that you’d want to with a face like that. You’re still quite the Spiderbabe, Petey, don’t you forget it.”

“What?” Pete laughs, and waves a hand at his face. “This is what you call a mess. I haven’t shaved in a hot second and my ex-wife just double-dumped me. I’m not exactly doing too hot.”

“If you think you’re a mess,” Wade says, “then my mask is definitely staying on.”

Peter shrugs.

“Cool with me. Taking off masks without permissh is definitely a no-no in my book.” He spoons ice-creamy goodness into his mouth and keeps talking around the bite. “So, what’s your end of the story? How did you know the other me?”

“We were…” Wade pauses. He’s getting a little teary under the mask. His throat suddenly feels like it’s been crushed from the inside out. It's hard to talk, which is a first for him. “We were friends. I liked him a whole lot. He was a sweet guy, like you. Blond, lovable, very friendly-neighborhood, not a fan of un-aliving, and too good for his own good. I miss him a whole lot.”

[Aww.] [Awwww.]

“I'm sorry,” Pete says, his eyes warm.

“It's not your fault,” Wade says, averting his gaze. “So I’m guessing you don't have a ‘Pool in your universe?”

“A what?”

“A Pool comma Dead. A Merc with a Mouth. A tragic Anti-Hero sans the dark and stormy nights.”

“Nope,” Peter says, grinning. “Looks to me like you’ve got a big enough personality for all the dimensions combined.”

[We've also got a big enough…] [Hey! I was going to say it!]

Wade ignores them and fixes his gaze on Peter. He’s got Oreo crumble on his chin. He wants to lick it off.

“So there’s multiple Spideys, but just one of me? How’d I even get smacked into this dimension anyway? The multiverse needs to learn to share their toys.”

“No way to tell,” Pete says, frowning. “Maybe there’s another swirly multi-dimensional gadget lying around. My hope is that your universe just got a wee bit unstable from all the dimension-jumping and you fell through a tear in the fabric. The most important thing is that you get back right away.”

“Mhm,” Wade says. “And what if I’m not particularly attached to Universe Numero Uno?”

“Your particles are pretty clingy regardless,” Pete sighs. “You’ll get a little glitchy, and then you’ll probably die.”

“Ooh, fun. Can’t wait.”

“I wouldn’t call it fun .”

“Oh, dying sounds like a blast and a half, baby. Maybe it’s a piece of cake for you and all the other Spideys, but for me it’s near-impossible. Scratch that, impossible.”

“You’ve got powers, then?”

“Oh, you thought I fight off the big bads by talking them to death?”

Pete cracks a smile.


“The main thing is probably the heal-y stuff. If I get sliced or burned or shot the cells just keep coming back. I also know how to fire a gun, unlike most of the supers I know. What else?” Wade thinks. “There’s a couple other crazy powers, but I don’t need to show off or anything. The point is, dying is usually a no-go.”

“I guess that’s a temporary fix, considering I’ve no clue how to get you back home anyway,” Peter mumbles.

“You?” Wade says. “I’m the one who got my ass landed in the middle of your New York City, I’m the one who’s gonna get my ass out.”

“Yeah, right. I’m not leaving you on the street, Wade. You’re coming back to mine.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that .”


Petey B. Parker’s place is mostly decorated with take out bags and cardboard moving boxes piled on top of one another.

“Home sweet home,” he says, and flops onto the bed.

At least he’s got a bed. Well, a mattress. Either way, Wade’s definitely not opposed to fucking on it.

[We’re going to fuck him on it?] [Wasn’t that a little obvious? Read the tags.]

Wade sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress. He’s never done anything gingerly in his life, but Peter makes him nervous for no good reason.

“Double-dumped, huh?” he says.

“Yep,” Pete says, shutting his eyes and stretching out on the mattress.

Wade swallows hard. Big sad talks are never any fun, but he’s got a feeling Peter could use someone to talk to.

“The wife?”

“The ex-wife. That happened pre-dimension-hopping. I thought I could get her back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was kind of expecting it,” Peter says, and opens one eye to look Wade in the mask. “I won’t be offended if you’re trying to get in my pants.”

[He knows?] [He knows!]

“Of course he knows,” Wade mutters, and then remembers that Pete B. doesn’t know about the voices shacking up in his brain. “I mean, yeah, of course you know. It’s obvious. You’re hot as hell and I’d definitely be down to clown, Pete. But I was serious about being sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “C’mere.”

Wade inches closer and immediately finds himself little-spooned.

“Don’t ever say ‘down to clown’ again,” Peter whispers into his shoulder, and leans in to kiss his cheek through the mask.

“Fine,” Wade chuckles, grinding back against the general vicinity of Peter’s dick. “All set for this baguette?”

“Shut up,” Peter laughs.

“Make me,” Wade says.

[Ooh, spicy.] [My knees are getting weak.]

“You mean with my dick?”

“Yes,” Wade says. “Yes, please.”

Peter’s wearing sinful grey sweatpants and Wade’s tempted to tear through the suit as he palms through the layers of fabric.

“Take this off,” he says, snapping the spandex against Peter’s hip.

“You too?” Peter says, sitting up and stripping.

“Nah,” Wade says. “I look kinda gross.”

He’s getting naked very quickly, too quickly for Wade’s brain cells to take it all in. Happy trail? Check. Nice bulge? Check. Holy-fucking-shit-he-goes-commando-underneath-the-suit? Check.

“You think you’re gross? Have you seen me?” Peter snorts.

His dick is half-hard and already gigantic.

“You? Gross? Baby, you’re hotter than an egg-cooking sidewalk in July. I’m like, low budget horror movie monster gross.”

“I won’t take your mask off if you don’t want me to,” Peter says. “But I’m not gonna get judgey. I just prefer my hookups with faces.”

“Fine. That’s fair. Try not to toss your Oreo cookies,” Wade says, and tugs off the mask in one go.

There’s no need to do a slow reveal; quick and painful does the job.

Peter doesn’t wince.

“And?” he says. “You’re hot, Wilson. Take off the rest.”

Wade’s mouth opens and then shuts. Then he strips. Peter kisses him, which is oh-so nice, but then he remembers he’s supposed to be doing something special with his mouth. He scoots down on the bed and pushes Peter’s legs apart, tracing his tongue from his inner thigh to the base of his cock. He repeats the motion and Pete shivers, bucking his hips up. He’s a lot harder now than he was. Score.

“C’mon,” he says shakily, voice coming out half-laugh half-moan. “Don’t tease.”

“Hmm, okay,” Wade says, and swallows his dick in one go.

Then he remembers. Peter’s big. Real big. And he hasn’t sucked dick in a hot minute. Wade’s gag reflex kicks in for a second, which almost makes him regret the flirty porn star line, but really, it was worth it, and he’ll regain control of his throat momentarily. Once he does, he remembers how to breathe, clenches his left thumb in his fist and manages to bob up and down again. Hooray for Buzzfeed articles on deepthroating. He hollows his cheeks, improvises with his tongue, and soon Peter’s making throaty little sounds that are turning Wade’s legs to flan.

“Ahh,” Pete gasps. “Ah, Jesus, give me a second. I want you to fuck me. Or I want to fuck you. We can flip a coin for it, I’m not picky. Oh, Christ, you’re good at that.”

“Alright, alright,” Wade says, pulling off and mouthing around the head a little bit, just to tease. “Don’t shoot your web just yet, Spidey.”

Peter chokes on a laugh.

“How long have you been waiting to say that line?”

Wade doesn’t answer. He just laughs, his breath puffing hot and teasing against Pete’s cock. [We definitely did that on purpose.] He watches the man’s eyes flutter shut. [Hot. Worth it.]

“Top bunk or bottom bunk?” he says, and Pete thrusts into his fist, impatient.

“Whatever you want,” he breathes. “We can do it again later. Not a life or death decision.”

“Cool,” Wade says. “You got lube in one of those moving boxes? Cause I’m gonna fuck you good, Spidey.”

Peter nods weakly, and Wade rolls off so that he can go grab it, but Pete just reaches under one of the pillows and tosses him a tube, along with a condom.

Wade doesn’t pull the line about how protection isn’t necessary because he can’t get sick, since hey, even to him that sounds like a big fat lie. He doesn’t mind playing safe. No big deal.

Then Pete flips over and Wade’s suddenly very glad he decided to play pitcher. Peter’s got cake. Like, good cake. Really delicious cake. Funfetti flavored. With icing and rainbow sprinkles. And yeah, yeah, everyone and their mother has known about Spidey’s sweet ass since the dawn of time, but getting up close and personal with it is a whole ‘nother story. Wade’s been wanting to grab it, squeeze it, bop it, twist it, and/or pull it for as long as he’s known the guy. He uncaps the lube and warms some in his hand.

“C’mon, Wade,” Peter murmurs. “Stop internal monologue-ing and fuck me.”

“Fine, fine.” He holds up a slick hand. How many fingers?”

“Two. Be quick.”

Wade likes it rough when he’s on the bottom, but Pete’s a sweet guy, so he stretches him open good and proper, taking his time with it. Three fingers later, Peter’s clenching and gasping and begging for cock like a pretty boy in a porn vid.

“You good?”

“Great. Wonderful. Spectacular. Fuck me.”

Wade rolls on the condom.

“With great patience comes--”

“That’s not how it goes.”

“Maybe the saying’s different in my universe,” Wade teases, and then he pushes inside before Pete can respond to that one. “Oh, fuck , baby, you feel good.”

He thrusts experimentally and Peter’s whole body shudders. He pushes his ass back.

“Move,” he gasps, and Wade does.

Turns out Peter likes it rough too, and Wade grabs onto his hips and pulls, fucking him quick and dirty.

“I’m gonna finish way too quick,” he warns him, but Peter just nods.

“‘S fine. Cum in me,” he whispers.

Then he does. Fuck, it feels good. The orgasm rattles through his body and Wade nearly collapses. Then he pulls out and eats Peter’s ass until he sobs and cums all over the sheets.

“Your building got laundry?” Wade asks as he’s tying off the condom. “Might wanna wash those, baby.”

He tosses it into the trash and starts re-dressing in the suit. The mask stays off. It’s only fair, he thinks.

“Yeah,” Peter yawns, gathering them in his arms. “Let’s do it.”

They make out in the elevator, and the laundry room, and then again in the elevator on the way back.


Wade wakes up glitchy.

“Ah, shit,” he says.

His arm is flickering in and out of existence. Peter’s fast asleep. He shakes him awake with the remaining exist-y arm.

“I’m getting all pixelated,” he murmurs in Pete’s ear, and the man blinks his eyes open just in time for him to see Wade fading into the newly washed sheets.

“Spiderbabe, I don’t feel so good,” Wade says, and then he’s nothing but thin air.

“Wade!” Peter shouts, snapping awake. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God.”

He flies out of bed, pacing frantically.

“I killed him!”

“Whoa, whoa, Petey, it’s fine,” Wade says from the bed, fading slowly back into the room. “I told you I couldn’t die if I wanted to. See? I’m all here.”

He stares down at his half-there torso.

“Almost all here. Give me a minute.”

Peter’s eyes widen.

“How on earth did you do that?”

“No idea,” Wade yawns. “Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s Maybelline. Either way, I guess you’re stuck with me. Wanna get breakfast burritos?”