Chapter Text
When they’d been dating for about six months, Wade asked Peter if he wanted to meet his daughter.
Next to him on the couch, Peter jerked his head to the side with a fallen jaw. “Whaaat? Since when has that even been an option? You said you never see her. That she doesn’t even know you.”
[[We, uh, misspoke.]]
[SURPRISE! We’re lying liars who LIE!]
“Almost never,” Wade replied with a shrug and affected nonchalance, focused on the Buffy rerun. “The odd Christmas or birthday. Halloween has become a bit of a tradition I guess. Thought you might like trick-or-treating with us.”
Peter scowled a little at his performance, and leaned bodily over his boyfriend to retrieve the remote. Wade let it happen, even though Spidey promptly turned off the telly and sat staring at him conspicuously and with expectation. With a quiet sigh, Wade folded his spandex mask into a cap and turned to face Peter for the inevitable heavy conversation that this was about to turn into.
[CRACK! Spidey’s got us whipped good!]
[[Eye contact during important discussions is not an unreasonable demand, brah.]]
Peter gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, a comforting acknowledgement of Wade’s actions; but the younger man was more focused on the verbal exchange. “Why is now the first I’m hearing of this? You never keep secrets, or so I thought.”
Wade shrugged again, even though he knew that wasn’t a sufficient response. It was hard to verbalize the abundance of thoughts and feelings he had about his daughter when he hardly understood them himself. “She’s. . . precious. I have to protect her, especially from myself. She makes me feel –”
[Lovewonderadorationextacyheartbreakmourningterrordespair! DANGER!]
Wade swallowed and looked down at where his fingers were tightly gripping Peter’s. Peter maintained his quiet attention until he sighed and finished roughly, “Afraid.”
The fear was deep, detailed, and pervasive. Most obviously, he was afraid of unintentionally putting Ellie in danger, or of accidentally hurting her just by being who he was. He also worried about contaminating her, or corrupting her, for surely there was little else that could happen to an impressionable child spending time with the Dreadful Deadpool. And of course, cuz he was inherently self-centered, Wade’s worst fear was of caring too much, of being rejected and wounded by his own inability to parent, and of the awful, unbearable guilt that would consume him if any harm came to Ellie.
Peter studied him for a moment, as Wade tried not to cringe under the scrutiny, hoping that his lover understood him well enough that he wouldn’t have to explain further. It was a relief when Peter left it at that and pulled him close for a hug. “I’d love to go trick-or-treating with you and your daughter. Terrifying little kids and gorging on junk food: sounds like you in your element.”
“Oh, definitely. It’ll be the best Halloween since you had a snot-nose yourself. Guaranteed,” Wade promised, then wrapped his arms around the sinewy body, grinning and nuzzling his bare face into the crook of Peter’s neck. The tight skin on his cheeks felt inflamed and irritated today, and rubbing it against Peter felt divine. “Mmm. . . Maybe I should go as a horny tomcat. Meee-ow!”
Peter pushed firmly back into Wade’s touch, quipping lightly, “If I’m a sexy Chihuahua, then you can be one of those hairless Sphynx cats.”
[I’d totally hit that.]
Wade had to laugh at that, breaking their embrace. “That sounds kinda hot. Who gets mounted in that scenario? You know how I enjoy triple X nature programs.”
“Don’t be gross,” Peter shot back, amusement clear in his voice. “There’ll be none of that.”
They were silent for a rare, long minute, just enjoying each other’s presence. At least, Wade was trying to; he couldn’t help the creeping fear that had awoken with thoughts of his beloved, distant daughter. His life had steadily improved over the last months, largely because of Peter, but experience had taught him well that happiness was merely the setup for a more dramatic collapse.
[Shit’s due to go fubar any second now. Deny if you want, but we all know it. We can feel it coming.]
Wade pulled Peter back into his arms, holding on possessively and burrowing as close as he could. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life,” he murmured fearfully into Peter’s collarbone. “If I really am cursed, now’s when it all comes crashing down.”
Peter placed a hand around Wade’s jaw and pulled his face up for a tender, lingering kiss. “You’re not cursed, Wade.”
[[The heavy foreshadowing says it all.]]
[We’re about to get royally fucked. And not in the good way.]
! ^_^ !
Deadpool had lined up a three week contract with Mossad, and so flew to Israel, teetering between reluctance to leave Peter and excitement at the prospect of violence. The local team was intimidated enough to be (moderately) respectful, so Deadpool worked with them to uproot some well armed and well entrenched terrorists. It was a slow, bloody mission, and several times Pool found himself slipping out of videogame mode at inappropriate times. One second he’d be stalking through underground tunnels, racking up kill points like it was nobody’s business; the next moment, he’s bored and wishing he was back home with Peter, then suddenly worried about Peter’s welfare in his absence. His deadly surroundings were just so inexplicably dull compared to the fascinating banalities of his life with Peter. Not since Cable had anyone or anything been able to hold his attention over guns and explosives.
As had become his habit, Deadpool sent frequent texts to Peter, often at inappropriate times, like in the bathroom or in middle of a shootout; once he even sent a selfie taken with an impaled enemy, still holding the bloody body upright with his katana. That behavior was fairly typical for Pool, though by the end of that first week of absence, he noticed that Peter’s replies came less frequently, and were both less witty than usual and more pissy. He didn’t make too much of it, as Peter’s tendency to bottle up his stress yielded occasional bouts of frustration and irritability. Given that he wasn’t even there to misstep, Pool didn’t really think that Peter was mad at him.
[I can’t wait to get home! Peter will be all wound up and waiting! He’ll let loose and take out his frustration on us! He’ll take us fast and rough, trying to prove who’s boss, but then lose control and cum too quick. That’s when we’ll turn the tables – like, literally tie him to the dining room table – and really show him who he belongs to! We’ll tease his pretty prick until it leaks again, and finger his twitching hole until he’s begging for my cock! Oh, fuck! Spidey, I can’t wait to be home and buried in your glorious ass!]
There wasn’t a lot of down time during the mission, even less of it private, but Pool still managed to jerk off almost every day. Like with the texting, it didn’t always have to happen within an entirely appropriate context. This one time [at band camp], while on morning watch, he even sent Peter a pic of his dick, standing erect as he lay in the sand, the harsh Negev Desert stretching away in the background. He had wrapped some toilet paper around his massive cock, then labeled the picture Lawrence of Arabia. Whitey was pretty sure that instant classic deserved more than the lame LOL that Peter sent back.
On the last day of his trip, Deadpool went to take a shit and surf his phone, which led him to alarming headlines about Spiderman executing Massacre. A sobering wave concern crashed over him as he recognized immediately that something had gone seriously wrong. Spiderman did not kill, least of all with a gun. So what the fuck had happened in his absence?! He felt completely out of the loop, like he was missing something that he should’ve been aware of beyond this ominous impression that it was Too Late.
Still on the toilet, Deadpool typed a quick text, ((U ok boo?))
Despite the time difference, Peter responded almost immediately, ((Fine))
That wasn’t very informative, so Pool fished again, ((Just saw headlines. U dirty harry now?))
((Sometimes hard choices must be made. Justice was served))
Well, that could be taken a couple of ways, none of them good, and it certainly wasn’t the guilty reaction Wade was expecting. They kept their messages deliberately vague for security reasons, but Peter’s response seemed uncharacteristic, however little Deadpool could actually read into it, and it did nothing to ease the older man’s concern.
((I’ll be home tomorrow, eta 1400. Love u))
After nearly a minute without the expected response, Deadpool put the phone down and finished up in the bathroom, feeling confused, wary, and a little hurt. Had Peter had an epiphany while he was gone, or had Massacre pushed him to the breaking point? Had something happened to change Spiderman’s position on killing? What trouble was waiting for Wade back home? As tempting as it was to just go ballistic and force someone to fly him home A-sap, Deadpool had better control over himself these days.
[[“Going ballistic” just isn’t the same when you let it happen. :( ]]
[Oh well. Getting blasted out of Israeli airspace would only delay our return anyway.]
There was no doubt that the fastest way back was in fact on tomorrow’s scheduled transport, through the approved channels. Pool would just have to be patient, which was at least something he had a lot of practice with, if not actual skill.
Deadpool got through the next day by allowing his jitters to run wild and by being as obnoxious as possible. On the plane he talked loudly to himself, making everyone else as anxious as he was, while also getting up frequently to pace through the cabin. It didn’t matter that he had just completed a mission with several of the other agents traveling with him, everyone looked and treated him like a bomb about detonate. It was a pretty common reaction to Deadpool generally, but on this day he felt like he just might explode from the rapid swell of manic energy.
His actual return to NYC was anticlimactic, as Peter wasn’t even home, and Deadpool was forced to retreat to his old, neighboring apartment so relieve his disappointment and frustration. He sat angrily in his Throne of Solitude, rocking it violently back and forth as he hurled throwing knives and stars at the wall, eventually progressing to shooting it outright with his silenced Beretta. Still, Peter had afternoon classes then work, so his absence didn’t become truly concerning until evening approached without even a text.
Wade had gotten accustomed enough to Peter’s eager attentions to recognize that this was not a typical return, especially considering the length of their separation. Usually Peter would be cutting out of work early to “check him for injuries”, or swinging home for a quicky on his break between classes. Deadpool’s trepidation grew the later it got, and when the sun set he returned to their shared apartment to wait in the dark, the red of his leather suit still visible from the light pollution pouring through the window. All his anxious energy had finally condensed into a powerful spring, coiled dangerously tight and frozen still, waiting with bated breath to trigger.
Sometime after eight, a key slid loudly into the lock and the front door opened, allowing in one Peter Parker.
[Spidey!!!] [[Wait for it!]]
He was sexy and cute as ever, even frowning and distracted, turning on the lights and taking longer than it should have to sense the other’s presence. Finally he glanced at the couch – then did an obvious double take. Deadpool struck an exaggerated sexy pose on the couch, and gave a little finger wave. “Hi, Spidey! I’m ho-ome!”
Deadpool couldn’t wait any longer, he sprang off the couch and bounded up to his boyfriend, excited to see that Peter looked healthy, and like himself. Peter’s eyes widened at his energetic approach, and he stumbled back a step before stiffly allowing Deadpool to wrap strong arms around him. “Deadpool. Uh, welcome back.”
Deadpool registered the lack of enthusiasm, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing two handfuls of firm ass, squeezing and parting those cheeks even as Peter twisted violently and forcefully shoved him away. “DOWN!” Peter commanded harshly, with an angry scowl. “There will be NO MORE TOUCHING! Is that clear?!”
“Double-yuh tee eff?!” Deadpool stumbled back as he found his balance, getting pissed even as the confusion and worry flared to life again. Was this part of the larger pattern of uncharacteristic behavior? Or maybe Peter really was mad at him? They usually couldn’t wait to jump each other’s bones, particularly after significant time apart, so perhaps this was this some kind of scene? That idea tantalized, and was certainly more appealing than any alternatives.
Peter growled, apparently deeply in character, “I don’t like repeating myself. Are. We. Clear. On the touching rules?”
They glared at each other for long seconds, until Deadpool’s thoughts and doubts eroded his resistance and he submitted with bad grace. He nodded reluctantly and forced himself to keep his distance, raising open palms in an appeasing gesture. He tried for meek, even though his tense shoulders and thighs screamed anything but, “Whatever you say, boss.”
Peter glared at him with such an expression of repulsed fascination that Pool couldn’t hold his gaze, dropping his eyes as he froze under the harsh scrutiny. After a long, considering pause, Peter stalked closer and then walked slowly around him to inspect him from every angle, a disgusted curl to his lip.
[Anyone else think he’s an awfully good actor? This scene is kinda meta for my tastes.]
[[Shut up. This is gonna get ugly.]]
“I suppose you want me to screw you?” Peter sneered in passing, and Pool felt a jolt of arousal and adrenaline flood his body. This was definitely a scene, if not one much to his taste. Maybe Peter was intentionally messing with him, pushing his comfort zones and excising old wounds. Peter had to know that making the disfigured man the object of disgust and shaming would strike close to home, but was clearly arrogant enough to believe that he could make Deadpool enjoy it.
“If you’ll have me,” Pool answered demurely, playing it up as best he could, and confident that he could take anything Peter Fucking Parker wanted to lay on him.
[[This is stupid, brah. We’re doing better, granted, but it’s all still broken glass underneath. Yuh dig?]]
Peter was silent for long enough that Pool just had to glance up. Peter was lurking close, staring at him with a hungry expression, like he was going to devour the masked mercenary; covetous, like he wanted to take all of Deadpool and use him up. Pool felt a flush of pleasure at having such intense attention directed at him; the aura of danger skipped right past Pool’s wary brain and went straight to his appreciative dick.
“Strip naked,” Peter demanded, eyes narrowed lasciviously and lip quirking up on one side. “Then get on your knees.”
[That’s more like it!]
“Yessir!” Deadpool responded. He peeled off his leather as quickly as possible, feeling less comfortable under Peter’s scrutiny than he had in months, since their early times together. Never before had those warm, generous eyes felt so cold and critical, and Wade cringed a little as he revealed the rough canvas of his skin. He left his hood for last, getting down on his knees before he removed it, face bent down and away from the other’s unforgiving stare.
“Good boy,” Peter praised, voice even but hard, as though addressing a dog. He even patted Wade’s scalp gingerly, as though reluctant to touch. “Now give me your hands.”
Wade didn’t hesitate to reach up to his beloved Peter, only to have Peter react with superhuman reflexes, web shooters peeking out from his blazer sleeves and roping Wade’s wrists together. Arousal and fear fought and fed off each other within Wade, making his dick rock hard as Peter added an extra layer of webbing so that he wouldn’t be able to break with strength alone. When Peter was satisfied with the binding, he let Wade’s hands drop to his lap, then took a hold of Wade’s chin and used it to direct his face up into Peter’s unforgiving inspection.
“You poor thing. You really are hideous, aren’t you?” Peter mumbled with wonder, apparently to himself, but his words raked blunt paths through Wade’s chest.
[[Peter! What the fuck are you doing?!]]
He tried to pull away, only for Peter’s grip on his chin to tighten painfully. “Real Freak Show material. It’s hard to believe I’d even give you the time of day. . .”
Peter released his chin then, which Wade immediately tucked into his collarbone, barely needing to act for this “role”. The veil between reality and fantasy was too thin here, and Wade had to clamp down tight on the deep soul-hurt, already bracing for whatever worse was to come. He’d told Peter he could take anything his saner, kinder boyfriend could dish out, and that would always be true. Peter thought he was so clever and subtle, messing with Wade like he did sometimes, but Wade wasn’t exactly new to emotional manipulation. It was both a symbol of his boundless trust and a sick point of pride: he would never safeword, never tap out, never stop Peter.
“You’re more docile than I was expecting, Deadpool,” Peter mocked openly. “I like it. The only way this is going to happen is my way. Do you think you can handle my way?”
[We can handle anything. We are literally indestructible.]
[[Not this horseshit again.]]
Wade found himself breathing heavily with some heady mixture of stress and arousal, and he answered with difficulty, “You know I can.”
Peter laughed, strange and deep, as he stepped closer, positioning himself before the kneeling Wade. Then he unzipped his jeans, pulled out his semi-hard cock, and challenged. “Get me ready then.”
Wade obeyed promptly, rising higher on his knees and placing his bound hands on Peter’s thighs for balance. He eagerly licked and sucked on the swelling prick, hoping to bridge the distance of the scene, just closing his eyes and taking comfort in Peter’s familiar salty taste and his musky scent. Wade hummed in pleasure as he worked the familiar length down his throat, and if he just had a hand free to touch himself he would be in heaven. He’d missed this, being with Peter, pleasuring him.
The pleasant experience didn’t last long before two strong hands gripped Wade’s skull, just enough warning for Wade to open up for the rough thrust. The onslaught picked up speed rapidly until Peter was fucking his face fast and forcefully, holding Wade’s bald head still as his hips pistoned forward, pushing the hard cock down his throat. Each sharp thrust was punctuated by a grunt of distress, as Wade struggled not to gag around the thick protrusion pushing down this throat. It took every ounce of willpower not to fight the assault, the boxes suspiciously silent. For a minor eternity, Peter used his mouth roughly and inconsiderately, and Pool let him, until he grew lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Pool began to struggle instinctively, and finally Peter released him, pulling his wet cock from Wade’s bruised, gasping lips only to then knock him to the ground with a swift kick just below the ribs.
[HOLY CUNT! Spidey’s keeping it real! Fight or fuck? FIGHT OR FUCK MOTHERFUCKER?! HOW’D YOU LIKE DEM ORANGES?!?!?!]
Sprawled on the ground, Wade gasped for air and fought nausea for long seconds, mind flooded with hysterical noise and only half aware of Peter jerking off above him. He struggled to his hands and knees, only to gag noisily and spit up a largish glob of acidic saliva, thick with precum; a beat later, Peter was grunting and groaning, then hot cum splashed on Wade’s scalp and naked back. It was sufficiently shocking that Whitey shut up for a second and Wade was able to regain enough equilibrium to wipe his raw, wet lips on his shoulder and look up at Peter. He couldn’t have verbalized what he was expecting, perhaps some kind of regret or sympathy, but what Wade got instead was a flash of surprised vertigo from Peter’s gleeful expression.
Whitey’s voice started back up again, sounding faint and distant like background music. [♪♬ Gave you all I had and you tossed it in the trash. You tossed me in the trash, you did. ♪♬]
But of course Peter was enjoying this, why else would he do it? Lots of people got off on hurting others, and Wade was so good at taking it – so durable, and yet so broken. If Peter wanted to see him shatter, well, as Wade had said before, he trusted Peter to make it up to him, or at least take care of him later. So Wade settled back on his knees, weight resting on his heels and head bowed. Naked and scarred and marked up with cum, it was easy to feel worthless and disgusting.
“Well, that was fun,” Peter announced with satisfaction. “Did you enjoy that, Deadpool?”
[Yes!] [[NO.]]
There was no doubt what the answer was supposed to be, even if Wade’s delivery lacked enthusiasm. “Yes.”
“Oh! But did you want to orgasm?” Peter taunted with an audible grin.
[Now that you mention it. . .]
Wade nodded cautiously, torn between hope and dread. Ol’ Reliable, of course, was still swollen and ready to go, despite the increasing psychological disconnect. Peter barked out the same, jarringly strange laugh, then ordered, “Go present yourself on the desk. I’ll be in when I feel like it.”
[♪♬ Now I know I’m being used; that’s okay, man, cuz I like the abuse. I know he’s playing with me, that’s okay cuz I got no self esteem. ♪♬]
Wade fled to Peter’s room, trying not to hyperventilate. His body insisted Horny!, but his mind kept screaming Danger!, and his goddamn pride wouldn’t let him bow out of a scene that was messing with him maybe more than he could handle.
[[So we have pride these days? Don’t be fucking ridiculous! Just look at us!]]
Wade had spread his legs wide and bent over on the Ikea desk, weight resting on his elbows and forehead bowed over his bound wrists. His asshole twitched at the exposure, but Wade didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability, and even worse was the feeling of being unwanted, which only grew as minutes ticked by without any sign of Peter. Wade had to challenge himself again and again not to break down, break apart, or, fuck forbid, break scene.
[Cuz we’re not fucking crazy, god dammit! We’re a fucking sex ninja, and this is gonna have a spectacular ending!]
[[Whitey is delusional, don’t listen to him. We need to stop this before it gets worse. Fight back if we have to.]]
Wade’s whole body jerked at the thought, and raised up a little before dropping back into position; his cock throbbed and oozed. There would be no fighting Peter, Peter got whatever he wanted, no questions asked, and the very temptation was proof that he was being Crazy. The best Wade could do was breathe evenly and try to endure with grace.
Peter did come for him eventually, and Wade couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder to take him in, still fully dressed and holding an almost empty Jarritos bottle in his hand. He smelled like spicy Mexican delivery and his lips were parted in a predatory grin. “Well, well. I’m beginning to remember why I keep you around, Deadpool. You aren’t much to look at, but you sure are obedient.”
Wade bared his clenched teeth in reaction to the rankling words (obedient?!), but didn’t otherwise move from his exposed position. Peter noisily swallowed the remainder of the orange soda, then banged the glass bottle down on the table with a loud, threatening thud that sent a jolt of anxiety through Wade.
[It’s just a scene! Smile, dude, we’re about to get drilled like a little boy at a NAMBLA convention!]
[[That’s sick. You really think we’re gonna enjoy this? We are so fucking stupid. And weak, and ugly, and disgusting. I fucking hate being part of this loser train.]]
Wade whimpered at the spiteful words, unprepared for Yellow to turn on him so quickly. Yellow had mellowed in the last six months, seemingly happy with Peter, but clearly the self-loathing was not hidden deep. Overwhelmed by the boxes’ nattering on top of the stress of the situation, it seemed to Wade that his mind was shuddering apart with conflicting thoughts, feelings, impulses. “Just shut up!”
“What did you say?!” Peter growled with sudden rage, surging closer and shoving Wade – ♪♬ back to reality; oops the goes gravity! ♪♬ – slamming him down, so that his bound wrists shot forward while his chest and face crashed hard onto the desk. Wade grunted and flinched in pain, but he still didn’t struggle when Peter grabbed his hands. Then with a Ppphhhttt!, Peter webbed Wade’s hands to the desk.
The cheap desk was no match for Wade’s full strength, but the webbing was secure and the position awkward enough to make escape challenging. Wade reflexively tested the restraint, only for Peter to grab his skull and smash his face into the desk again with a resounding crack. Blood immediately poured from Wade’s broken nose, but he didn’t have time to process because Peter was leaning over him, jeans digging into Wade’s bare thighs and ass. His amazing, heroic lover hissed with so much vitriol that spit dripped into Wade’s ear, “I will not tolerate disrespect! Especially not from garbage like you!”
Peter spat a larger, intentional glob of saliva on Wade’s cheek and he shuddered even as Peter used superhuman strength to grind his face into wood. Skin ripped and blinding agony flared from his broken nose, shocking Wade into struggling against his restraints, but it was too little too late. Peter kept up the painful grip on his face, and the threatening pressure against his ass, until Wade’s desperate bucking and kicking waned, then faded to nothing more the occasional spasms of a beaten body. As was their way, the boxes were silent witnesses to his suffering, suddenly mute when reality turned up to full volume.
Peter finally released his bruising grip of Wade’s skull, then commanded harshly, “There won’t be any more disrespect, will there? . . . Answer me, scum!”
Wade dragged his swollen face to the side, anything to take the painful pressure off his fucked nose, and breathed wetly through the blood. It took him long seconds to respond. “No.”
“Good.” Peter backed up then, and Wade watched him dip into his pocket and fish out a pair of latex gloves. He put them on meticulously and Wade felt a clench of fear even before Peter said the words, “This is going to get messy and I don’t want to catch anything. You still wanna get fucked, you filthy cunt?”
[Um, ah. . . That’s a hard one. Get it?]
[[Nooo, fucktard, it’s not a hard one – neither the question nor our dick. Just say NO!]]
Wade had lost his boner around the time his nose had broken, and the boxes’ little exchange triggered a sudden epiphany: Peter wanted him to say no! Peter was beating and abusing him in order to “teach” him that he can, and sometimes should, say no. The thought was a profound relief, and was followed immediately by the consideration that maybe Peter did need limits, if he was gonna try messing with Wade to this extent.
Wade still had to swallow around the rock in his throat that found it so hard to admit to an inexplicably humiliating defeat, “No, Petey, I’m done. . . Oxygen.”
Peter barked out his eerie laugh, almost sounding like some stereotypical supervillain, and reached for the lube. “That’s my safeword, Deadpool. You don’t have one. You didn’t want one, so you certainly don’t get one now.”
Wade’s stomach dropped sickeningly. It was the same feeling he’d had when reading about Spiderman murdering Massacre, except so much worse. Something was very Wrong, and Wade had been astronomically stupid and foolish to allow himself to be placed in an extremely compromised position. His eyes widened in horror as he watched Peter pick up the empty Jarritos bottle, then stroke it obscenely with his other hand.
“So you’re just gonna rape us?!” Wade challenged in borderline disbelief, thrashing uselessly against his bindings. He tried to kick out, but Peter had shifted his weight and dug his knee painfully into the thick muscle running up the back of Wade’s thigh; a moment later, a powerful latex covered hand gripped the other thigh, effectively pinning Wade’s hips to the desk. Wade grunted and arched his spine and threw his head back, but to no effect.
Then the mouth of the glass bottle was pressing into Wade’s tightly clenched hole. He whimpered in fear, even as Peter assured, “Oh, poor unlovable Wade, the pathetic pity fuck. You’ve spent six months daring me to find your limits, you can’t call rape now just because I finally grew a pair and found those limits. I am the superior Spiderman, and you’re just a repulsive, nasty slut who’ll let anyone do anything to you. You ASKED for this, you DESERVE this, and don’t you forget it.”
Then the glass shaft was forcing its way into Wade’s body, and the guttural terror made it impossible not to close up against the dangerous invasion. He needed to relax into the penetration, to avoid injury from the insertion of the blunt rim, but also to avoid breaking the neck of the glass bottle. However, those thoughts just stoked his fear, and his muscles clenched reflexively against the intimate agony stabbing into him, forcing him open.
“Stop! Please, Peter, stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Wade cried out desperately in panic, before cutting off his weakness by biting straight through his lip, so that even more blood flowed over his face and slicked up the table. In the background, a devastated Steven Tyler tried to give voice to his heartbreak.
[♪♬ I was cryyyin’ just get you, now I’m dyyyin’ cuz I let you, do what you dooo to meee! ♪♬]
Then, just like that, he disassociated. His body was bound and bent over a desk, nose broken and a glass Jarritos bottle drilling into his ass, but his mind dimmed these outside stimuli. Without any conscious effort, his mind shifted away from the distant horror and pain of the physical world, to focus instead on his inner kingdom, where thoughts were sharp and clear for once. “A superior Spiderman”? Why did that sound so familiar? Where had he heard it before? A flash of inspiration supplied the answer: according to canon, Dr. Otto Octavius takes over Peter Parker’s body, using his memories to live his life and be the Superior Spiderman.
[[You useless, luckless, braindead waste of space! You’re letting a supervillain fuck us!]]
[Wouldn’t be the first time. . . You think Spidey will count this as cheating?]
Thoughts in tangled a whirlwind, Wade moaned piteously, “Shut up shut up shut up. . .”