spider webs (and other sticky substances)

James was hungry.

Fuck yeah, he was hungry.

He was incredibly hungry.

That was James’ mantra as he pushed himself (rolled off and faceplanted) off the sofa and walked over to the fridge, opening it.

James was, safe to say, conditioned. Frowned upon by Remus, he was still getting out of the habit of having stocked fridges at any convenience. But all James had to say was that they should blame Euphemia and Fleamont for giving him such a great life.

“Fuck off,” he groaned, tossing his head back as he opened a fridge that was so empty it could’ve been put back on display at the shops.

Of course, amidst the whole staying at Spidey’s house and fighting crime and beating fourteen year old angsty boys at Mortal Kombat 11, James didn’t have time to go buy food.

Obviously, he had time, but he forgot to.

So as James stared at the fridge as dry as his love life, he heard the insistent buzzing of his phone. 

“What the fuck,” he mumbled, picking it up and holding it to his ear with his shoulder as he walked around his flat wearing just joggers rolled up to his knees rummaging for any food he might have left around.

“Who is it?”

“...Who is it? Why, it’s the motherfucker about to absolutely demolish your ass in Just Dance this Friday.”

“Hi Peter. No Peter. Your stuffed animal looking ass is getting destroyed.”

“Excuse me? You go limp and fall to the ground when you try to do any moderately hard dance move in Just Dance and I’m the stuffed animal?”

“Well actually-”

“Shut the fuck up with this ‘erm, acshually’ shit, you are getting beat on Friday and I will see to it. Goodbye James. Bad morning James.”

James grunted, hanging up and looking around for clothes, realising he needed to go to the fucking gym as well, that beautiful godly bod didn’t create itself.

James, after stuffing his suit and everything into his duffle bag and stepping outside and did a quick 360, picking up a hoodie too.

Honestly, James was just trying to eat.

He was also trying to work out his tired muscles.

But, in a true James sense, he completely forgot to eat.

Once he had left the gym, sweat mixing with a shame boner because he walked past people doing squats once (and James was a respectful guy, he didn’t even look at anyone’s ass, just the thought of it. Damn, James needed to get laid really really soon), he winced as his stomach grumbled like thunder, enough for Zeus to be scandalised, which Zeus really shouldn’t get a say in anyway. Cheater.

But, in all fairness, James was pretty content.

To be even more fair, James was always content. Everyone said he was one of the happiest guys, all the time, 24/7, and he was.

James prided himself on being happy and content. People called him a chill guy. A cool guy. That one kid who’s alway grinning. Miserably and pathetically optimistic.

His slight degradation kink didn’t get any better when people called him that last one.

He was normally happy, until the fucker in the box brackets (James’ depressing internal monologue voice) started spewing (true) shit and depressing James.

But this wasn’t one of those times.

James was content, the kind of content that gives you inspiration to make fifty Pinterest boards about random shit. 

The kind of content that makes you calm down. 

The kind of content that makes you hear your separate brainwaves like a cool synth pattern in the start of a Tame Impala song. 

The kind that makes you think ‘damn, this world’s pretty cool’. 

The kind that makes you save those videos of the possible universe reversing from someone’s backyard and into a bunch of stars with the start of Eyes Without a Face by Billy Idol playing in the background.

The kind of content where you can feel the tension behind your head melt away and your eyes soften.

James felt like he had time to listen to chill music and not the blood rushing in his ears. 

He listened to the ‘content James’ greats - Call Me If You Get Lost era Tyler the Creator, Frank Ocean, Steve Lacy, all that shit.

This was a calm James Potter. 

Although a rare phenomenon, James was calm enough to slow down for a few seconds without worrying about a certain radioactive beautiful ass-bearing fiery sarcastic superhero or about his own superheroness.

Just James.

Sick slogan for a hoodie, by the way. The idiots that thought of ‘Elite Eleven’ could steal that one from him.

Until his stomach grumbled again, of course.

Then his post metaphorical nut clarity was interrupted for orgasmic snapshots of Mexican food playing in his brain.

“Fuck off,” James grumbled back to his stomach, keeping his headphones on and trying to find somewhere to eat. 

As he was walking down the street, a sign seemed to smack him in the face.

Because it did. A flyer came perusing down the street and temporarily trying to shove itself in any of James’ nose holes.

“What the-” he spluttered, pulling his attacker off his face.

REWARD FOR ANEEONE THAT GETS SPIDERMAN TO DANCE WITH A SOMBRERO AND A UKELELELELE!

COME COLLECT UR PRIZE OF A SPECIAL “PULSE POPPER” CHIMICHANGA MEAL!!!

It seemed that, while Zeus was busy getting hot and heavy with a bull (canon!), Aeolus, the god of winds or whatever (James’ Percy Jackson knowledge was a bit rusty, he hadn’t gotten to his yearly re-reading to keep Remus satisfied with his literacy or whatever) had answered whatever prayers he had going on in his head that he didn’t even know about yet.

James did have one problem though. How the fuck was he getting to Spider-Man? Who was going to teach the person who made this flyer spelling? How the everloving fuck was James going to convince Spidey to do this shit?

James decided to hump jump into it headfirst, looking around for somewhere he could slip into his Deadpool costume first.

Once he had gotten that leather and spandex deathtrap on, James set out to get his mouth on those chimichangas via. offering Spidey sexual favours.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

Did James mention he was lucky?

He was lucky.

Incredibly lucky, actually.

He cradled the flyer, folding it up carefully and sticking it somewhere in his utility belt, searching around for Spider-Man.

If only he had a sort of Bat Signal.

Because James definitely would not have abused it to the very extent.

James also had a bone to pick with whoever decided that getting Spider-Man there was the most important point.

The things James does for this city, and he gets absolutely no appreciation.

Minus the whole mercenary thing, and then the whole being the actual public menace thing. But other than that, he was working on being a better guy.

For his new interest in Spider-Man, James was cutting out the whole mercenary thing from his job description, because Spider-Man had this whole nun-monk-boy scout thing going on with a strict no killing rule, which James really didn’t want to fuck up.

Also, James had a new plan circulating around his mischievous ickle mind for getting Webs to agree to the sombrero-ukulele deal.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the nicest thing James had done.

But he was a hungry guy.

He also couldn’t turn down a deal.

James could feel his pupils dilate as his eyes caught on his mark.

Oof, sorry, merc language.

“Bingo,” he murmured, speeding up and following behind an unassuming Spidey, who was walking in front of him, probably trying to survey the city for either Venom or just normal crime.

James ran into four-ish people while trying to catch up with Spidey. 

One, because he was weirdly fast and determined to do something or get through the streets quickly.

Two, because James’ eyes wandered downward more than once as Spidey walked in front of him.

James reached out a hand to grab Spidey’s arm and pull him somewhere, but before he could pull it back or even process it, Spidey was whipping around and grabbing his arm, shoving him through an alley and tackling him right into a huge garbage bin.

Like, one of those government ones probably teeming with used needles.

Speaking of which, something was poking James’ ass.

But he was grinning.

It wasn’t because of the expired heroin probably injected into his buttcheek, but because he had Spiderman right where he wanted him.

“Hey, Spidey,” he cooed and cocked his head to the side, obviously grinning from underneath the mask.

“ What the fuck.” He hissed, punching James’ knee. (Dislocated now? Maybe. Probably.) “What was that?” He had started climbing off James (unfortunately) and walking backwards, leaving James splayed across the multiple bin bags.

“...Surprise?” James clambered off the middle of the skip (dumpster, for you ‘Muricans) and sat gingerly on the edge, kicking his feet.

He pulled the needle out of his ass, inspecting it. A twig instead? He looked closer and- nope, that’s rust.

James flicked the needle away, but not before pinching it so it wasn’t as fucking sharp anymore and turned back to Spiderman, whose mask eyes were narrowed into slits.

“Head’s up,” James grabbed his cocked gun and tossed it to Spidey, who obviously caught it and, due to a lack of use, fired it directly at James. 

“Fuck,” James grunted, clutching his thigh.

“FUCK!” Spider-Man dropped the gun, bolting over to James. “A-are you- fuck- are you alright- fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”

“Meh, not too much.”

“That’s- fuck. I-did I tear a femoral artery?”

Spidey should really stop with the nerd talk, or else James’ third leg was going to get a torn femoral artery from getting so hard.

“It’s fine, I heal quick,” James shrugged, not expecting Spider-Man’s trauma to wear off so quickly, his eyes narrowing again and definitely glaring at James from under the mask at the remark.

“Yeah, that’s why you ate my food for a business week when you were fine.”

“I- okay, that’s fair, but-”

“You know what? Why can’t you eat with chopsticks? I collected the fucking takeout you ate, one chopstick was untouched and the other was stabbed through the food.”

“Yeah, I figured I’d be in trouble if I used my dirty switchblade to skewer my food.”

James realised he had to put on a show to make his plan really work. 

“Ow,” he clutched his thigh tighter, not really feeling the shot.

Don’t get him wrong, even though he’s practically immortal, it’s not like he doesn’t feel pain. 

He’s just used to it.

“I- fuckk, do you want me to get you to a hospital?” Spider-Man winced. It was touching that he cared that much, to be honest. “I mean, I’ve got a mild healing power too, but stitches help sometimes?”

“No, it-it’s fine, I don’t need stitches. But, if you really wanted to do something for me…” James grabbed the flyer from his utility belt, handing it to Spidey.

“No. Fuck no. Absolutely not.” Spider-Man shook his head apprehensively, shaking the flyer in James’ face after reading it. “I’m not doing this shit. This is a poorly made, poorly writt- oh, you fucker. This was why you threw that gun at me. You motherfucker.”

“Hey, come on, you shot me, the least you can do is jump around wearing a sombrero.”

“No. You have regenerative powers anyways, so it really doesn’t matter.” He spun around on his heel and started to leave.

Time to bring out the big guns. 

“Okay… but I know you care. You don’t feel like it doesn’t matter. You feel bad you shot me.” A shot (pun not intended) in the dark, but apparently it shot something , because James saw Spidey’s shoulders tense and his fists clench and unclench. 

“You’re wrong.” He muttered, shoulder slightly relaxing and slumping, easing James into a feeling of victory. “But. If you pay me.”

“Sexual favours? Done!” James exclaimed, still clutching his thigh from preventing the blood from spurting everywhere.

“ No. Money.”

“I-fine.”

“Where is this place anyways?” Spidey asked, holding it up and flicking the flyer with his index finger and thumb, walking off with James trailing/limping behind him.

“It’s a bit further downtown,”

“So then we’re probably gonna need a taxi.”

“Don’t worry, Webhead,” James pulled out his phone, shooting a quick text. “I’ve already got one on the way.”

“I don’t think anybody’s letting you in their car with blood everywhere.”

“No worries, Webs, they know me. And my bloody tendencies. Very well, actually.”

“O-kay?”

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

“Yo, my main man, Dopinder!” James reached through the window to dap Dopinder (Deadpool’s loyal taxi driver friend) up with a bloody hand (which Dopinder barely flinched about this time) and opened the door for Spidey. “Ladies first,” he bowed.

“Then you go in.” Spidey scoffed, pointing for James to go in the car first.

James sighed, stomping on the ground with his bad leg and rolling it around, making sure all the bones were in place, and sliding in the backseat.

After they were both in the car, James watched Spidey look around the back of the car, eyeing the miscellaneous brochures attached to the back of the seat in front of James and the air fresheners all around.

James sighed, leaning back in the seat. “Take us to heaven, Dopinder.”

“Like… the strip club?”

“What? No, the- the-” he snatched the flyer off Spidey, holding it up in front of Dopinder’s face. “This place.”

“Oh, right, you betcha, Mr Pool.”

Dopinder started driving, doing a dangerous 360 u-turn and driving back around, all three of them ignoring the incessant honking from other cars.

“So, Deadpool, who’s this?” Dopinder asked.
A silence followed that James realised he should’ve filled a few seconds too soon.

“Oh-oh, I’m Spider-Man.” Webs piped up, glaring at James, reaching out a hand to give Dopinder a handshake but realising he was driving.

“The guy on that billboard?” Dopinder pointed to the huge livestream of JJJ yelling at an unflattering photo of Spidey landing face-first on the concrete (in James’ opinion, it wasn’t that unflattering. More endearing, to be honest.)

“Uhhh, yeah.”

“So, how’s Geeta?” James asked, trying to fill the awkward silence with his unnecessary rambling.

“I… don’t think I think she’s a Hindu goddess anymore?”

“Oh! That’s…good? Unless it’s bad. Because then-”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve joined a cult, not too bad, just some light late-night stuff. Have you ever read Fight Club?”

The rest of the ride was silent, except for 80’s bollywood music playing on the radio as James cheered Dopinder on in his head for not letting his crushes consume him (James couldn’t relate) and doing something about his predicament.

“That’ll be 27 pounds,” Dopinder announced once they had arrived.

“Uhh… okay,” James started digging around his utility belt pockets, pulling out cash. “That’s five pounds… ten… twenty… twenty one… twenty two and three and four and five… that’s a grenade, I’ll take that back… twenty six… that’s a switchblade, I’ll take that back too… wait. Hold on, let me dig around, I know I have more.”

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

“What the fuck did you do,” Spidey growled under his breath (very sexy, by the way). James wasn’t sure if that was directed to him or Spider-Man was berating himself.

They were standing outside a beat up brick building, strip club-esque neon sign half-hanging on it. The door was a beat up and scratched glass door, and the whole building was shoved against another, lodged up near a fire escape staircase winding down the other building.

The whole thing reminded him of a grottier, dirtier Sabrina Carpenter’s ‘Looking At Me’ single cover picture. (Google it.) (Yeah, that’s right, he was an OG fan) (ever since Girl Meets World.)

“You know what you remind me of? Puss in Boots.” James remarked before pushing the door open, brandishing the flyer and triumphantly stomping in.

If it made any difference, James really wasn’t expecting it to be busy at all. But there were a few people with their hoods over their heads at tables eating nachos and enchiladas and possibly alcohol-poisoning worthy pint glasses.

“I’m looking for the owner of this place,” he declared, Spidey following with the single most embarrassed look he had ever seen on him.

“That’s me,” they heard a New Zealander/Kiwi accent or something from behind the counter.

Some kid that looked 12-ish hopped over it, strutting over to James and Spiderman.

He eyed them suspiciously, as if he wasn’t the kid declaring owning this possible drug ring front.

“ What the shit? No you aren’t, who actually owns this place?” James scoffed, watching as the kid walked up to him and punched him in the thigh, right in the bullet hole. “Ow!”

“How do I know you’re actually Spider-Man?” He asked, glaring up at Spidey. The kid snatched the flyer from James, who was spluttering on the ground from pain.

Spider-Man grinned under his mask like he was waiting for it, cracking his neck. “What do you want me to do?”

“Uh… shoot a web out and grab me that bottle of gin.”

Spider-Man did just that.

“Crawl on the walls.” The kid demanded next.

Spider-Man did that too. Not only that, but he crawled on the ceiling.

“Do that thing where you get the web from the ceiling and cross your legs and sit upside down.”

Spiderman did that too, which, by the way, did not help James’ staring issues.

Holy fuck. Definitely didn’t help.

“Fine, you’re Spider-Man,” the kid conceded. James let out a breath of relief. Finally. The food.

“But. It’s not fair.”

Fuck off, kid, what now ?

“This guy’s Deadpool. You two fight crime together or have gay sex or whatever. I actually don’t know what you two do together, but you’re a duo. Automatic advantage and all that shit.” He continued, picking at his nails.

“I- what?” James spluttered in disbelief.

“I’ll still give you the food or whatever, only if I get to pick the song. The flyer was for him just standing there, but now he has to sing karaoke of any song I pick.”

James felt Spidey’s eyes on his face like fire. James winced.

“Hey, bud,” Spidey told the kid. “Punch him in the nuts, would you?”

That kid had a really strong fucking punch. It was like his fist was made of fire or something. *wink* *wink* *wink* *wi- okay stop*

James threw himself onto a chair, cradling his whole lower half.

“What’s your name anyways?” He asked the kid.

“Rusty.” He replied, focused on covering up a huge crack in the wall with old Mexican movie posters.

“What’s ‘Rusty’ short for?”

He just got a look .

“Uhh, okay. Who actually owns this place? Like legally?”

“Legally? Nobody.”

“Respect,” James giggled.

“Who owns it? Juggy.”

James was just going to act like he knew what that meant.

Something he had been doing since he was introduced to the concept of quadratic equations at the ripe age of 11.

“Hey, Oxidised, or whatever your name is, this is stupid.” Spidey reemerged wearing a sombrero and limply holding a ukulele.

“Your face is stupid. Don’t you want to get food for this guy?” Rusty jabbed a thumb in James’ direction, getting him in the side.

“No.”

“Fair. He’s an annoying little cunt. But still, too late, little guy.”

James shrugged at the questioning look Spider-Man gave him at the ‘little guy’ comment from a twelve year old.

“Well… there aren’t any security cameras, yeah?” Webs sighed.

“Nope.” Rusty replied simply, hooking up a beat-up computer to a huge projected karaoke screen. 

Right, so they couldn’t get security cameras, but they could afford a massive karaoke system? Okay.

The blue screen caught all the patrons’ attention (as if the two suited superheroes weren’t enough) and everyone turned to the stage that had lifted off the ground.

Another thing they had wasted their money on.

But it was cool as shit, so.

Rusty pulled out a microphone on a stand, putting it to the front of the stage.

Wait, was that a microphone?

James squinted, he might need a new prescription, because was that-?
“No.” Spider-Man crossed his arms, shaking his head so vigorously that the sombrero almost fell off.

“Too bad, bugboy.” Rusty shrugged.

“I am not singing into a dildo strapped to a mic stand.”

“Come on, it works like a microphone, it’s all we’ve got.”

“Do it, Spidey!” James heckled.

Spiderman glared at him, stepping off the stage to stand next to James while Rusty introduced him.

Everyone in that whole place started cheering once Rusty came on stage.

“That fucker in the suit’s performing Casual by Chappell Roan,” Rusty announced as the crowd (albeit small) went wild (probably not because Spiderman was performing, but for the mention of Chappell Roan).

Obviously this was the first time Webs had heard what song he was singing, according to his widening mask eyes.

“You know it, right?” James whispered to Spider-Man.

“Of course I know it,” he scoffed.

“Okay, fine, geez, just… pretend you’re thinking about your first codependent lesbian relationship. Even if you’ve never had one. Just think of it. It’s what Chappell would’ve wanted.”

“Thanks.” Was the dry response before Spidey got on stage.

James watched (probably with heart eyes) as Spidey walked up on stage, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Uh, hi, guys-”

“SING THE FUCKIN’ SONG!” Rusty heckled from the side of the stage, starting the music.

James sent a shit-eating grin Spidey’s way as he had another glare sent his way before Spiderman took a deep breath and started singing.

Holy shit.

Spidey could sing.

Note to self: James had to ask Webs if he took singing classes.

He had his mask pulled up to his nose and James watched with twinkling eyes or something like that as he sang the ballad of the gods.

James saw Rusty mime for Spider-Man to play the ukulele (with broken strings) so Spidey probably rolled his eyes and starting to limply strum halfheartedly where the strings would’ve been while singing: “Knee deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”

His voice was smooth as glass, and James, admittedly, couldn’t help but gawp as Spider-Man licked his lips between verses.

“Whoa,” he heard some girl from next to him mutter, obviously as entranced as he was.

James was only half-aware that his mouth was open, gaping as Spidey hit the high notes with ease, admittedly also watching the fact that his mouth was so close to a dildo.

Shit, don’t get hard James.

Also, don’t focus on the slight whiny lilt of his voice when he hits the high notes at 3:11.

Oh my god, James, don’t get hard.

James also noticed the way Spider-Man’s lips curled into the kind of grimace way when you’re saying something kind of sad and brutally honest and trying to get your point across and the way his nose slightly flared when he sang the lines about hating himself near the end.

Safe to say every drop of blood in James’ body was focused on his heart and dick. Kind of… like… jumping from both.

When Spidey finished the song, he pulled his mask back down and leaned away from the mic, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Uh, can we get the food?”
“Oh, right,” Rusty disappeared into the backrooms or something, coming back out two minutes later (in which James spent the whole time staring wide-eyed at Spidey, who was glaring at James) (very hot) with a takeout bag on a tray. 

James looked inside and gasped, salivating from the bag full of chimichangas.

“Hey kid, at the risk of catching a case, I fucking love you.”

They heard a distant roar from the kitchen.

“Russel! Nothing can stop the Juggernaut!”

“I-I’m sorry, the what?” James turned incredulously to Rusty/Russel.

“Uh… that’s Juggy. Also, he didn’t approve the flyer. Also, you might wanna run.”

“Oh fuck,” Deadpool grabbed the bag and Spider-Man’s arm, dropping the tray and booking it out, Spider-Man waving bye to the girls that were standing next to James earlier.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

“You sing well, Spidey, goddamn,” James panted, leaning his hands on his knees once they had sprinted a solid five blocks away from the Juggernaut (whatever he is).

“Shut up, eat your fucking food.” Spider-Man grumbled breathlessly, sitting down on the floor and leaning his back against a streetlamp.

“Come on, I’m just saying, that was pretty hot,”

“Quoting what Juggernaut might have said at one point in time somewhere: I’m gonna rip you in half now.”

“Okay okay, fine, jus-”

They both paused for a second as they felt their communication devices buzz.

“Um, yes?” Spidey answered first, and James sat down next to him to look at the projection of Fury on his wrist.

“It was inevitable, having both of them in cells on the same helicarrier, but-”

“ No.” Spider-Man groaned.

“I’m afraid so, yes. Venom has reunited with Mr Brock and they have successfully escaped the helicarrier, assumedly going back to London to find you two.”

James groaned, tipping his head back. “So what do we do?”

“All we can do before they resurface is be on a lookout. Watch your backs even more than usual and always be on alert. Especially Spider-Man, it seems he’s more of the target.”

“Probably because of his amazing singing voice.”

“Shut up.” Spider-Man narrowed his eyes.

“It’s sad I’m not the target,” James sighed wistfully. “I was a merc too, you know what they say. ‘Always the targeter, never the target’.”

“I’ll let you take one good look at the world before I carve your eyeballs out and spread them on my toast.”