Chapter 2
So.
Deadpool has no arm
Not exactly the romantic start to a night of sex in the city-ing he was planning on having, but it’s basically grown back already, and it takes a shit ton more then some measly dismemberment to kill his meet–cute dreams.
Also, his fingers are tingling, which means this whole thing is just about done.
He stumbles to a stand, stretching. Across the skyline, he watches as the sun sinks to shades of oranges and red’s and comes to the more than mildly uncomfortable realization that his favorite neighborhood Spidey’s watch time is almost here, and he’s going to have to find a way to explain the giant pool of blood he’s been sitting in for the better part of an hour. Gonna be on probation again, yep. Good luck with that one, Wade Wilson. “That could’ve gone, like, way worse. He could’ve cut off my dick.”
You could’ve cut off your dick. Losing that arm was totally on you.
[We did like the biting thing. Maybe he’s keeping it as a souvenir]
I think he’s throwing it against a wall repeatedly, but that's a theory, too
“Don’t be so pessimistic, White.” The spot on his neck is still burning, which is probably a concern, and Deadpool has to wonder if he just met a vampire. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s done on one of his off days. “That dah-lin’ little love bite he gave me is still pumping its fun juice into my system. He didn’t even buy me dinner.” He fans at his face, feigning a swoon into the brick. “Dontcha’ just love it when a guy treats us like every other gal on the block? I haven't even shown him my Victoria's Secret collection.”
[Next time a multidimensional traveler drops by, make sure to flash ‘em and trap ‘em. Wasn’t that always Spidey’s favorite saying?]
New idea, how about next time we kill the guy instead of making small talk. Crazy, I know.
[Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. A room full of rats. Rats make me–]
“Okay!” His voice is chipper. Bright. He did not just lose a time traveler built like Arnold Shwarzeneggar. He did no such thing. “Okay, see, what we’re going to do is just not talk about it. Not at all. Spidey and his stupid hot moral compass does not need to know all about this.”
He’d be pissed you let him get away.
[Or happy you didn't maim someone! That’s three days in a row now.]
“He did say if I managed to get five gold little star–stickers in a row, he’d treat me to some empanadas. Daddy needs his empanadas.”
Why would you ever call yourself that in any context ever.
“Hey! Kink-shaming is not allowed in my mind palace, thank you very m—”
There's a very sharp, very distinct whizz. If Wade could grow hair, he’s pretty sure it would have just singed. His smile stretches way wider than it probably should, even as he pivots on his heel, smacking right into a very impressive chest.
Plot armor, ladies and gents. Very real and very much not dead, saving one horny lunatic one step at a time.
“Hunky!” Miguel looks like he’d rather Deadpool have imploded on the spot. “I knew you’d be back for me!”
When he speaks, the words are low and smooth and no, c’mon he just came, go away, badly timed boner—“Your arm. It’s..” He shudders, a small motion, and Wade tries very hard not to stare at the faint outline of his nipples. “Your arm. I have it. And–and so do you.”
“Uh, yeah. I regenerate. I’m totally in himbos, if that's the sort of thing you’ve got going on, but I was pretty clear on that, I think. With the gun. And stuff.”
Miguel scrubs at his face, lips curling into a grimace. “Himbo,” He mutters under his breath. “Estoy siendo llamado himbo por una anomalía loca.”
“Get a little wine and some ibuprofen into me and I’m basically fluent in spanish.” He waggles his eyebrows, grinning. “Va a la library ahora, if you get my drift.”
Miguel stares at him. Really, really stares at him, then very lowly, says—“You need to get in the portal.”
“I don’t need to do anything, Papí.” He pokes a peck and jesus. Okay, uh, wow. He goes to poke again, but Miguel swats his hand away. “What I do need is you, me, a candlelit dinner by the beach and my unlimited supply of warming lube; strawberry flavored.”
“Alright.” Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just–okay. Okay. I am…not doing this.”
“Actually, I could do this all d–Oh!” Somehow, Miguels scooped him into his arms, throwing Deadpool over his shoulders. He grunts, adjusting his weight, and Wade doesn’t have enough time to check to see if his guns are stabbing him in the face before they’re walking ahead. “You know, I’m not all that upset by this.” He giggles, letting his head droop against Miguel's back. Yeah, his ass looks even better up close, all perfect and bubble-butt like. “I am sooo not upset by this.”
“Don’t speak.” Miguel grinds out. They step through the portal and Deadpool blinks, rapidly trying to get his vision to adjust. “I would be so, so very happy if you didn’t speak.”
“That’s what she…holy shit. Holy shit.”
Spidermen.
Spider-people?
Spiders.
Everywhere.
“This is heaven,” He whispers, craning his head to look. Against the wall, an absolutely jacked Spider-dude wails something along the lines of pain, indescribable pain, and, harrowing memories and Deadpool's eyes widen, mouth going slack. “Is that guy, like, outlined? You’re seeing that too, right? Doth thine eyes deceive me?” A beat, and awh, fuck, he just had a terrible idea. “Wait, wait, is this a human trafficking ring for super sexy spider hunks? Because I am into bad boys, but Spideys made me go clean, scouts honor.” He holds up two fingers, pressing a fist to his chest, but when Miguel doesn’t reply, he groans, fumbling for his katana.“..Always the hot ones…stupid–fucking..ugh..always the hot ones.” He positions the point of the blade right where Miguel's heart should be, throws his arms back, and–
A cool, calloused hand wraps around both of his wrists. Both of them. The sound Deadpool makes is more than a little indecent, and at least two Spider-people avert their eyes.
“If you attempt that again I will break both of your arms.”
He huffs. “Shoulda’ responded when I gave you the option, buddy.”
“Why would I entertain such a stupid question? This isn’t a..” Miguel's nose wrinkles, “Human trafficking ring. That’s pretty insulting to say, actually. Real hurtful, and all that.”
“Oh, so what? All these hot spider men are just hanging out in your portal-pocket dimension because they want to?” His knee jabs into Miguel's gut, and in response the hand keeping him propped up tightens its hold on the back of his thigh. Don’t pop a boner on your kidnappers shoulder, Wading–pool. “Yeah, sure. You can call me Jesus Joseph and mother Madonna if you think I'm believing that.”
Miguel actually stops walking at that, staring vaguely off into the distance. He must’ve reached his Deadpool limit for the day. No worries, it happens to the best of us.
“You are–no. No. This is the spider society. We are the spider society. This isn’t a “portal pocket dimension,” this is another universe. How are you not getting this? Lyla, how is he not getting this.”
A small, holographic woman pops up from thin air, and Wade gasps so loudly he chokes. “Well, maybe the blood loss from ripping his arm off is affecting his brain. We should do some poking around in the lab. Or, you know, let him go.”
“You have a lot of opinions for someone at the whims of whether I pay the electricity bills or not.”
“You have a lot of comebacks for someone whose wardrobe is at the whims of me disconnecting the wifi.”
“I’m in love with you,” Deadpool whispers, and Lyla laughs, doing a twirl as they step into the elevator.
“I’m glad someone appreciates me, right, Miguel?”
“I’m going to wipe your code.” He deapans, and she laughs again, fizzing out.
Deadpool blinks, and suddenly something occurs to him. “You said ‘we.’ “We are a spider society.” You’re a Spider–person?”
Miguel dumps him on the ground, stalking towards an impressive amount of levitating computers. Tony Stark, who? “What did you think I was?”
“Uh,” Deadpool crosses his feet, propping his head up on his fist. “A really hot supervillain. Ooh, or like, sexier me. You ever fuck an alternate dimension version of yourself? Crazy stuff.”
You’d have a higher chance of getting in his pants if you closed your mouth every now and then, I think.
[Why are all spidermen doomed to being the hottest people we know and why haven’t we fucked more of them yet]
Miguel waves him off, expertly ignoring every word to have just come out of his mouth. “So, what, you can’t die? That’s your gimmick?”
“Oh, I can die, trust me, it’s just not fun. Screwing Lady Death is fun the first couple dozen times, but christ, I’m pretty sure she’s sick of me.”
“Lady–” Miguel whisks around, apparently caught off guard, “What? Lady Death?”
Deadpool opens his mouth, then closes it, moving to stand. He circles the room slowly, trying to pretend every aspect of his being isn’t basically bullseyed onto the brooding, spider-people cult leader of his dreams. “You know what, forget it.” He sidles up to Miguel's slide, peeking at the servers, “It’s a whole lot less interesting then whatever you’ve got going on, big boy.”
Miguel grimaces and yum, fangs. Deadpool tries not to shiver at the memory of them piercing through his skin. “..If you could just not call me that, I’d probably kiss you.”
A beat, and Miguel seems to actively wither, gritting his teeth. ”That was–”
“A bad thing to say, yeah.” He taps the spot above his heart, grinning. “I’m a sensitive, sensitive man, Miguel. Immortality does not make me immune to heartbreak.”
Grinding against his spider eggs mid-conversation is probably more subtle than this
“Who says I'm trying to be subtle?”
“Excuse me?”
“The voices in my head, sweetheart.” He slinks an arm over Miguel’s shoulder (on his tiptoes, because this guy is monstrous, even for Deadpool and his platform boots) and tries not to cackle when Miguel doesn’t immediately suplex him into the wall, opting to instead go back to typing rapidly at a keyboard. “When you scrunch up your pretty face like that, you look like my therapist, which is so not a turn on. Unless you have a pair of glasses. And you're willing to partake in the misuse of a clipboard, in which case I’m–”
“You really don’t know what I’m doing, do you?”
Wade blinks, tilting his head. “Should I, two-Oscar-Isaacs-in-a-trenchcoat?”
“You're not right.” Miguel hums, and he says it like it’s a fact. “I’ve only ever seen one of you, and that shouldn’t be possible. That’s not how the multiverse works.”
[What a poor, poor soul. He thinks there are any rules to the multiverse at all.]
“So, what? Sexy science?” He waggles his eyebrows under the mask, leaning closer. “I’m down if you're down.”
And Miguel–
Miguel does not say no.
“You’d break.” Is what he does say. His eyes are dark and he’s looking at dozens of places, and none of them are Deadpool. “You’d break and that's—no. That’s not what I do”
Spidermen and their fucking complexes.
“Miguel,” Deadpool stresses. He grabs at his wrist, pressing it to his chest. Miguel's fingers are large and warm and dig into the spots where the leathers been worn down. “A gun can’t kill me, and a big dick won’t kill me. A guy once shoved a bazooka up there–long story–and I–”
Miguel grips his chin, and when he speaks, his voice is a rumble, ground out through his teeth. “You talk too much.”
[Yesyesyesyesyeysyeysyeysyeysyesyesye–]
Wade is practically vibrating as he drops to his knees, fumbling around for the zipper Miguel doesn’t have. “Yeah, yeah, let me find a better use for my mouth and we can let this whole ‘sliced my arm off’ thing slide. And–” He wets his lips, grin shaky. Miguel can’t see his face, and there's too much scar tissue for it to happen anymore, but—god, is he trying to blush?
Modesty is a cruel mistress that abandoned us years ago; tell her to fuck off
“You–you can go back to super-hot-mega villain-sexy-version-of-me, right? With, like, the mask.”
Above him, Miguel snorts, and Deadpool is probably going to slice through the crotch of his pants if his dick keeps up this pace (?), mouth going wide as the particles climb up Miguel's face again, shuttering it completely. His hand finds the back of Wade's head, holding it in place.
“This is an experiment, understand? This is–” Wade finally clicks something, and a part of the suit fizzes out; the cup comes apart in his hand like leather pieces, and Miguel chokes. “This is a test of your–”–Deadpool rolls his mask up, hums to himself–“–your healing factors, and your–your–”
His lips wrap around his dick with a pop.
“Diosmío,” The hand on the back of his skull slides down to cradles his neck, fingers flexing, and Wade smiles around the weight on his tongue.
He was right, by the way. This fuckers dick is as good as his ass.
How unfair.
“So fuckin’ enthusiastic,” It’s more of a grunt then a sentence, really, and Deadpool lets himself wonder how long it’s been since Miguel has gotten a grade A blowjob from someone with the skillset he has when the polite request at the base of his skull becomes a very sudden immediate demand, yelping when he’s shoved further down.
[Hot, but also very rude. We should bite him.]
Odds he kills us for that aren’t as low as you’re making it seem.
Ok. That’s…an admittedly good point.
Maybe not bite (fingers crossed, but Miguel should be doing enough of that for the both of them) but maybe just—
On the next uptake he lets his teeth drag, just barely, tongue swirling at the tip, and the sound Miguel makes is nothing short of an ego boost; Deadpool–1, Sexy Cult Leader–0.
He pops back up, grinning. “See, if we had introduced ourselves like this from the beginning, I’d let you poke me with all the little needles your heart de–”
A large, rough hand grips at his jaw, and a sick little twist of thrill bleeds through him when something sharp and distinctly claw-like digs into his face. Miguel's face is still hidden, but the lighting is low, and the room is hot, and Wade would probably still be into this if Miguel decided he really was getting all hot and bothered ripping limbs off and sucking the blood from people. “Cerraré tu boca si tengo que hacerlo, acuerdo? I won’t hesitate to slip something in here that you can’t get out.” To prove his point—or maybe see how far Wade is willing to take this, who knows—He slips the pad of his thumb into the corner of Wade's mouth, humming when he accepts it. His glove tastes like leather and blood and something vaguely bleach-y, and Wade gives his finger as good of a finger blowjob as one possibly could, hands fumbling around the base of Miguel’s cock.
And oh, my god. Miguel’s cock.
Now, Deadpools little Petey Pie is pretty well endowed for who he is (there must be some sort of viagra in that spider serum, honest) but Miguel.
Miguel is in a league of his own.
His dick is thick, which is where the real problem comes in, because it’s pretty hard to give someone a handy when their rods about as big as an apple is wide. Even now, sucking on a thumb while his free hand mixes with the spit and rapidly building precum in his palm, it’s harder than it should be to maneuver Miguel's dick in a position that isn’t weighing down his wrist.
Speaking of…
[We might wanna tune back in and stop rubbing our own dick right about now. Miggy looks pretty fed up.]
Deadpool blinks and oh, huh, would you look at that, Miguel is tapping at his cheek.
“Move.” He’s grinding out. His hand tightens on the base of Wade's neck to the point of hurt, digging into his airflow. “Is this all you can do? Move.”
His eyes flatten, even as his dick sings praises and hymns and raises to full mask like some sort of cringey hentai lightsaber. “Listen, this isn’t even my style, so if i could just—”
He presses down the hard line of Miguel's chest, watching him fall onto his back. It’s a little more than satisfactory when Wade manages to slide onto his hips, hands pinned on either side of his head.
“First time on the bottom?” He purrs, and Miguel's mask disintegrates faster than he can figure out a way to take apart his own suit. His snarl is vitriolic, dark.
“What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wade grabs his hands, digging his fingers into Miguel’s palms. It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to hit a spot, and the claws pop out with a short, strangled yelp. He grins. “Now, If you could please tear me out of this suit, that would be pretty fucking great.”
And we could check it off of our sex bucket list.
Miguel growls but concedes, grabbing his hips and tearing with a little more force than necessary. “Happy?”
He angles his ass over the head of Miguel's dick, slams himself down before any objective can be made. His mouth goes slack, head thumping onto Miguel's shoulder even as he jerks out a moan. “Yeah I–fuck,” He giggles, “Okay, shit, not my brightest moment. Gotta ultra-powerful lube secretion organs on you that I don’t know about? Because if not, then this is going to be–”
The first thrust has him screaming.
It’s clipped with a not-as-gentle bite into Miguel's shoulder, and in turn Miguels buries himself even harder, mask slipping back on as he growls. “You did this, so y–you're going to live with the consequences. It shouldn’t be that bad,” He smirks but it’s sloppy, rough around the edges. I glimmer of incisors poke into the flush of his bottom lip, and his eyes go dark even as Wade scrambles for purchase. “After all, you made it so fucking clear to me you could regenerate.”
“I can!” He babbles, shaking a little from the holy-shit of it all. He tears off a bigger part of his suit (rest in pieces) and pulls out his dick, almost weeping when Miguels chooses that time to adjust them and the friction drags against his base. “Shit–fuck, yeah, I can–I can do whatever you want me to and more, baby, just keep–”
Miguels grabs him by the neck and bites hard into his pulse, and, well, that’s pretty deserved. He’ll keep his neck Rick and Morty reference and his back pocket.
Wade is moaning now, full on pornstar, trashy shit. Miguel's cock is hitting that sweet spot like it was made for it, his toes are actually curling in his boots as he rapidly jerks his dick, trying not to come right then and there when a sharp, stinging heat shoots through his veins for the second time that afternoon. Miguel fucks like he has something to prove, and Deadpool would probably let him write a whole dissertation paper with his come if it means he keeps doing this.
“Is this what you wanted?” He grunts. His claws are piercing through the mass of scars on Wade's flesh and just digging in because he wants to, because he can, and he pulls the more Wade bounces on his dick, either trying to skewer him or kill him or whatever else. The blood is probably the pretties shade of crimson he’s ever seen and he laughs out loud because this is great, holy fucking christ, this is the greatest things his general shittyness has ever led to.
“Put the mask back on,” He slurs, and Miguel looks like he’d roll his eyes if he could. Instead, he shifts his hands so that one of them is grabbing a handful of Deadpool's ass. “Fucking–I don’t know, put the mask back on, tell me I’m a piece of shit, do something—”
A hand cracks against his ass, and Wade doesn’t realize he’s coming until Miguel sneers, doing it again.
[Should our wedding cake be vanilla or chocolate? I’m thinking a mix of the two, so that way we can appease everyone]
“You were su–” He moans, buries himself even deeper and what a fucking record, Wade is hard again “–supposed to last with me, Deadpool.”
“I am!” His neck almost dislocates as he nods, and he slumps into Miguel's arms with the sort of damsel-in-distress—ness Gwen Stacy could only wish she had (too soon?) “You’re little scorpion bite thing doesn’t really make it easy for me, you know. Be a little appreciative of my–”
Miguel flips them over before he can finish.
Which is, frankly, very rude and mildly hurtful, but this new position is doing things that just riding him on the tile couldn’t possibly ever do and Wade isn’t really sure sex will ever be the same, especially when Miguel smacks him again, almost like a tester.
“I am not a scorpion,” He voices slurs together, dark and heady and faintly accented. “Do not discr–fuck. Diosmío, you know what I m––whatI mean.”
Maybe, if Deadpool were in a sounder state of mind and possibly able to string together a cohesive, competent thought, he’d have found something poetic about Miguel falling apart the moment someone out of his comprehension tore apart his expertly made web, or something along those lines, but his ass is probably going to be bruised for days and the only thing he can think to actualize is—
Miguel is hot when he’s about to come.
And come he does. His voice twists and breaks and Wade lets himself fall on the floor as Miguel pumps ropes of come like it’s nobody's business and his muscles just decide they might as well stop doing their thing while he comes, anyways. One super hunky, super strong Spiderman is here to protect him and his darling toosh in case of an emergency, so what's the point in caring?
Miguel slumps by his side, oddly content with just…existing within his presence until the post-sex haze wears off.
The peace is nice, and the peace is quite, and Deadpool lets it last for four whole minutes—four minutes longer than his usual—until:
“So. Round two?”