barely got out alive

a writing blog for calciseptine

[calciseptinefic]

ANACONDA

In which a giant slime monster plays a direct role in Peter's sex life (but not like that). Or, Peter embarks on a journey of self-discovery.

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 01

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"So what are we looking at?" Peter asks conversationally as he swings over to Midtown, late one morning after receiving a yellow alert from the Avengers. He lands next to Hawkeye, who is perched on the roof of one of the buildings. "Bad touch anime? Or gelatinous cube à la Dungeons and Dragons?"

Below, and a block down the street, an enormous and amorphous mass of lime green goo inches slowly forward. It picks up everything not bolted to or rooted in the ground. Much like a slug, it's fattest at the middle, while the front and back ends taper bluntly. Peter measures it against a nearby building and lets out a low whistle when he sees that it is about seven stories tall.

"Well, the thing ate Tony like, ten minutes ago, and he is both untouched and undigested." Hawkeye shrugs one nonchalant shoulder as he continues to stare at the monster through his scope. "So. Neither?"

Peter squints into the mass and—yep. There's Iron Man, embedded within the slime like a maraschino cherry in a Midwestern jello dessert.

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[calciseptinefic]

handle with care

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Explicit || Part 01

inspired by @smoky-moka's recent spideypool artwork

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After half an hour of struggle—in which a variety of inanimate objects are turned animate and try to chew Peter's limbs off—Peter manages to corner the wizard into an alley.

"C'mon, man," Peter pleads, equal parts exhausted and annoyed. There's unidentified slime oozing down his right calf from when a trash can attempted to swallow his foot, and it smells, predictably, like garbage that's been left out too long in the late July heat. "Let's just call it quits, yeah?"

"Mark the Marvelous, Master of Magic, stops when he pleases!" the wizard crows. He raises both hands high above his head as he speaks. His short cape falls away from his rounded shoulders and the long fake beard looped behind his ears quivers.

"I mean, is there even a point to all this?" Peter rubs one weary hand over his masked face. "Give me something. Anything. Like, are you making commentary about the evils of capitalism? Or maybe you're mad about the constantly decreasing funding to public services?"

"A master such as myself is above such petty social constructs!" the wizard warbles. His voice is high-pitched, vaguely nasal, and all-around obnoxious.

"So..." Peter drawls, "you're just doing this because...?"

"Transformation of the mundane into living monsters is a showcase of my skill!"

"Right. So it's for the vine, or whatever." Peter feels a dull throb right in the center of his brain. He's on his way to a headache and wants nothing more than to web this guy to the wall, snap his wand in half, and then go home and take a shower—except the last time Peter tried to shoot him with a web, the wizard had brought it to life, and the way it scuttled around disturbed Peter enough that he's unwilling to try again until he has a clear advantage. "Look, Mark, I'm sure you're an okay guy underneath your store bought wizard costume, but you can't keep aliving bike racks that eat people's dachshunds—"

"I sense condescension in your words!" Mark the Marvelous shrills. The wand in his still upraised hand trembles. "Do you doubt my abilities, Spider-Man?"

Peter should say no. He should lie to Mark the Marvelous and say that his skills are unparalleled, that Peter does not doubt him in the least, and that he is very intimidating in his short cape, wired hat, and ugly gray beard—except Peter is kind of a jackass, and he's not in the right headspace to fake it. So he lifts a hand to chest height and rocks it from one side to the other in a so-so gesture.

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continue on ao3

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[calciseptinefic]

TRUST FALL

WADE WILSON/PETER PARKER EXPLICIT || ~22K || COMPLETE

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At least Deadpool's having fun, Peter thinks sourly as the man below him plows steadily through the mass produced army. Wires spark. Oil leaks. Metal heads and limbs skitter across the road and sidewalks, macabre even in its bloodlessness.

Aloud, Peter asks, "Is it weird to feel bad for the robots?"

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or, Peter takes the plunge.

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available on ao3

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[calciseptinefic]

... and a wiper fluid chaser

a post-movie spideypoolverine get together fic

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker/Logan || EXPLICIT || Part 04

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The trip back to New York is long and quiet. Laura manages to doze until they enter the urban sprawl of the city, where the never-ceasing bustle of traffic and distant scream of sirens make it hard for her to stay asleep. She sits up begrudgingly as they drive through Newark, rubbing her face with one hand and checking her phone with the other. Logan sees her open a text messaging thread and type a response.

"Told Peter we'd be back in fifteen," Laura tells Logan.

A chaotic mix of emotions bubble up in Logan's chest at Laura's statement: curiosity and embarrassment, accusation and guilt. It doesn't take a genius to know that they've been talking about him. He's the one who ran away without explanation or forewarning; the one who ended up in some dinky bar in Pennsylvania; the one who had to be brought back home.

Outside the truck, a gentle snowfall begins. A blanket of clouds hangs low above the skyscrapers, caught between tangerine orange and ghostly gray, and artificial lights streak by, blotches of pale yellow and red, the glow of them haloed by fluffy clusters of snowflakes. It is beautiful, in an austere and industrial way, and Logan focuses on that instead of the dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He knows staying is the right thing to do—knows that he does not want to live another decade without the cauterization of closure, whatever that might be—but there is still a large part of him that screams at him to not be an optimistic fool blinded by hope.

"If you break the steering wheel," Laura drawls, interrupting Logan's spiraling thoughts, "you pay for it."

Finger by finger, Logan loosens his white-knuckled grip.

The last portion of their journey back to the city seems to take forever and simultaneously no time at all. Logan takes an endless number of turns onto an endless number of streets before pulling up to a familiar curb and parking. He does not turn the engine off as he and Laura unbuckle their seatbelts and step out. Then, after they unload the motorcycle, Laura declines to go inside with Logan.

"I do not need to be around for whatever this is going to be," Laura says, pointing first at Logan and then upwards towards the apartment. "Again, I'm happy that you've ménage à trois'd your way into a semi-functional polycule—"

Logan mentally echoes the word polycule with no small amount of confusion.

"—but Thanksgiving was bad enough. I feel like I already know way too much about how your dynamic works, and I don't need further validation." Laura pauses to grin. The angle of her mouth is vicious. "Besides. Do you really want me to stay and watch as Peter rips you a new one, both literally and figuratively?"

The dread squirming in Logan's gut twists so sharply it makes Logan nauseous. The personal hurts he carries has always been less terrible to bear than the disappointment of the people he loves, and he knows that he really fucked up this time.

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Laura pulls Logan into a farewell embrace. The gentle, lingering pressure of her arms around his torso belies the annoyance in her tone as she says, "You look like a kicked dog. Just... let him yell at you for a bit, okay? He was worried."

It has been years since someone has worried about Logan, years since someone truly cared about his well-being. It settles oddly on his snow dusted shoulders as he stands on the sidewalk and watches Laura drive away, his eyes unblinking as the truck's taillights grow smaller and smaller. When they disappear—the vehicle swallowed by distance—Logan stands out in the cold for several minutes longer, the icy chill of early December doing nothing to bolster his already brittle resolution.

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continue on ao3

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[calciseptinefic]

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The Avengers used to be one of hockey's most formidable teams—but after seven years of not even making it to the play-offs, former captain and now head coach Steve Rogers decides to take a calculated risk. A Spideypool hockey AU with established Steve/Tony and Sam/Bucky.

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When Pepper Potts shows up to Steve's office without Tony, Steve knows immediately that someone snitched.

"Ms. Potts," Steve greets as she steps inside.

"Rogers," Pepper replies. She is impeccably dressed in a lilac pantsuit and nude slingback heels, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of tied back. "May I...?

"Yes, of course." Steve gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Make yourself comfortable."

The armchairs in Steve's office are over-sized, over-stuffed monstrosities in navy blue. Steve had picked them for comfort rather than form, and Pepper frowns as she tries to sit on the edge of the seat cushion without being swallowed. Steve waits until she's settled before skipping the social niceties he might have otherwise indulged in—asking her about her weekend, chit-chatting about the weather, offering her a drink from his mini-fridge—and asks the question at the forefront of his mind.

"So," Steve says as soon as Pepper is done fixing the fall of her blazer. "Who told you?"

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[calciseptinefic]

💰 BIG YACHT MONEY 💰

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || ONE-SHOT

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Wade is sat on the stool furthest from the front door, doomscrolling through his TikTok account and drinking a Shirley Temple through a crazy straw, when the computer on the backbar pings with a notification. It's a familiar enough sound that Wade does not give it any notice until Weasel grabs the newly minted gold card from the laser etching printer and says, quite loudly, "Holy shit fuck."

Silence falls over the bar. The video Wade is watching—a compilation of Captain America's shield ping-ponging off villains to the beat of a newly viral song—practically screams into the quiet. Wade does not bother to turn it down; he already knows how the next few minutes are going to play out.

"Well?" one of the newbies asks as Weasel turns to look at the curious faces of the crowd. Weasel is flushed, the red somehow making the blotchy acne scars on his cheeks even more prominent. "What is it?"

In the dim light, the gold card flashes as Weasel holds it aloft. The name on it is too small to read at a distance.

"This," Weasel says, projecting his nasally voice as much as he can, "is a bounty offer from Kingpin. For fifty million dollars."

Wade can practically hear the crack of a couple dozen vertebrae as every neck in Sister Margaret's snaps to attention. There's the shuffle of feet and the murmurs of "Fifty million? Did he say fifty million?" and "Who the hell is Kingpin shelling that kind of dough out for?" and "That ain't even big yacht money."

"Who's it for?" someone with more than two connecting neurons shouts.

At this, Weasel pauses. The gold card dips a few inches, as Wade knew it would, and a giggle bursts out of his mouth like a delighted bullet. No one pays Wade any real attention, however; they are all too busy salivating at the thought of carrying out Kingpin's latest hit and cashing in that sweet sweet check—even if it is only little yacht money.

"Ah, well," Weasel hedges. "It's..." He clears his throat. "It's for... It's for the Spider-Man."

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continue on ao3

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[calciseptinefic]

... and a wiper fluid chaser

a post-movie spideypoolverine get together fic

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker/Logan || EXPLICIT || Part 03

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After Peter leaves, Logan lies atop the bed. He is curled into a ball—chin tucked to his chest, knees pulled up to his vulnerable stomach—and his eyes are shut, blocking out the thin winter light filtering in through the closed blinds. The heavy smell of WadeandPeter is a blanket for his senses, warm and muffling. It is nice, for a time—but there is a tiny flicker of panic building below Logan's sternum that grows larger and larger, feeding on the tinder of Peter's soft assurances and the mistakes Logan has made before—on JeanandScott—until, suddenly—the urge to move—to run—to flee—bursts inside him, burning and unignorable. Logan does not think as he extricates himself from the now suffocating sheets; as he pulls on thrifted jeans and a simple crew neck sweater; as he layers on his sherpa-lined leather bomber and ties the laces of his steel-toed boots.

In a distant and abstract way, Logan knows what he's doing is dumb. He knows that his problems will remain his problems until he faces them head on. But the unlucky years of his long life have turned him into a coward, and the patience he's been shown chafes. The ceiling feels too low and the walls have begun to press in. The apartment—once a haven—is now claustrophobic, now a cage, and Logan stumbles out of the bedroom like an animal released from a trap, beelining to the kitchen with the singular focus of escape. There is money stashed away in a small cardboard delivery box in the cupboard above the fridge, and he brings it to the kitchen table in trembling hands. The contents are the crumpled remains of whatever Logan has in his pockets when the week is over and—when he opens it up and counts it, placing the bills into stacks—it adds up to a few thousand dollars. It isn't a lot, especially not by New York City standards, but it's enough to make a spur of the moment decision.

Or as spur of the moment as a previously planned out bus ride and two exchanges on the subway can be, anyway.

The secondhand auto shop is a squat brick building with a flat roof and one level. It's old but clean, and all the vehicles outside are arranged neatly on the cracked pavement. Inside there are three employees: two men milling about and one sat behind an ancient computer in the office. When Logan walks in, the closest sales guy comes over to him, smile plastered on his face. He's a middle-aged man with a flat top haircut and a slight paunch. The name tag attached to his heather-gray quarter-zip sweater reads MIKE in all caps. Mike shakes Logan's hand, introduces himself, and inhales to start his spiel—but Logan cuts through any bullshit sales pitch by telling the guy exactly what he's looking for. Mike nods agreeably before grabbing his jacket and leading Logan outside, where it takes less than five minutes for Logan to make a decision.

"Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look like that X-Men guy?" Mike comments idly once they are back inside. "Ah, fuck. I forget his name."

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[calciseptinefic]

... and a wiper fluid chaser

a post-movie spideypoolverine get together fic

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker/Logan || EXPLICIT || Part 02

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Thanksgiving is the happy crush of too many bodies in a too small space and Wade flouncing around in a frilly apron with a sweetheart neckline.

"I didn't know he could cook anything other than pancakes," Logan admits to Vanessa, who is the first person to arrive at the apartment that last Thursday in November. She looks beautiful in a maroon sweater dress and fashionable boots, her dark hair swept up into an elegant French twist, her lipstick the color of blackberry juice.

"He doesn't, usually," Vanessa tells Logan fondly as Wade bounces around in the kitchen, chopping and dicing and simmering and stuffing. "But he likes to go all out for special occasions."

The rest of the guests trickle in over the course of the morning: Laura and Yukio and Ellie and Colossus, Rusty and Peter Wisdom, Dopinder and Buck. Around one, Peter and his aunt arrive, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed from the cold. Peter smiles wide at Logan as he takes off his handmade scarf and beanie, and gestures Logan over with a twist of his chin.

"Aunt May," Peter says, introducing them. "This is Logan. Logan, this is my Aunt May."

May is a handsome woman in her late fifties. Her dark hair is streaked with silver; her skin is tanned from hours in the sunlight and soft without the elasticity of youth; and there are wrinkles around her eyes and mouth from a life lived. She has readers hanging from her neck by a beaded chain and a plain gold wedding ring on her finger.

"It's nice to meet you, ma'am," Logan says politely. He kisses the back of May's extended hand instead of shaking it, a habit from several lifetimes ago that overtakes him whenever he's trying to be on his best behavior.

"Oh, a real gentleman!" May giggles. Her laugh is nearly identical to Peter's. "And handsome, just like Peter said you were—"

"Aunt May!" Peter hisses, flushing, not looking at Logan. "It hasn't even been two minutes—"

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[calciseptinefic]

... and a wiper fluid chaser

a post-movie spideypoolverine get together fic

Wade Wilson/Peter Parker/Logan || EXPLICIT || Part 01

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When Logan decides to stay with Wade in his dimension and is given the quickest apartment tour known to man—here's the fridge, here's the beer, here's Blind Al's cocaine stash don't tell her about it it's funny I promise—Wade hands him the ugly chihuahua, salutes, and says, "Well, peanut, it's been nice, but I have to go see a twink about victory sex."

Logan blinks. Blinks again. Wade elaborates no further as he turns on his heel and leaves, two hundred plus pounds of muscle and weapons barely making a sound as he run-skips out the door. There's... really no other way to describe it other than skadoodling.

"You'll get used to it," Blind Al says as she shuffles across the old floorboards.

"The skadoodling?" Logan asks.

"No, that will always be disturbing. Hate it when he moves around like a goddamn cartoon." Blind Al waves a hand in the vague direction of the door. "I meant the disappearing to go see the boyfriend. He'll be gone for—ah." She tilts her head to the side, considering. "Three days? Four?"

Logan adjusts the mutt in his arms. "I didn't know he had a boyfriend."

"He's shockingly quiet about it." She shrugs, nonchalant, and stops in front of Logan, hands outstretched. The dog lolls over to her, fixing its bug-eyed stare lovingly on the woman. "He's a civilian, I think, and Wade's pretty careful considering everything. But that's neither here nor there. Did Wade even show you where the shower is? You fucking reek."

Logan does not point out that he barbecued every cell in his body for a solid minute while twin streams of matter and anti-matter flowed through him, and that he is entitled to every ounce of stench he emits. Instead, he grunts, then follows Blind Al to the dinky bathroom and helps himself to as much hot water as the tank will give him. He's too tired to think about anything: not about saving an entire universe, not about finding himself, not about Wade, not about the mysterious twink boyfriend. It's all the same shit anyway, just a different day of the week. He'll compartmentalize once he's clean, had a nap, and drank every cheap bottle of domestic available to him.

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[calciseptinefic]

TRUST FALL

a canon-verse spideypool get together fic featuring tooth-rotting fluff and ✨feelings✨

At least Deadpool's having fun, Peter thinks sourly as the man below him plows steadily through the mass produced army. Wires spark. Oil leaks. Metal heads and limbs skitter across the road and sidewalks, macabre even in its bloodlessness. Aloud, Peter asks, "Is it weird to feel bad for the robots?" No one answers. Peter doesn't have a comm—those are for the big boy Avengers, not their reserve of gofers like Spiderman—and nobody is near enough to hear him. All of the other heroes are strategically spread out in a wide rough circle; they had formed a perimeter to contain the deluge of robots spewing from one of New York's many abandoned subway stations, and have been working on tightening the circle ever since. Problem is, the robots keep erupting from the ground like a hoard of ants abandoning their hill, ceaseless and seemingly infinite. Not even the Hulk's excellent smashing seems to be doing much. Together, the Avengers and other city-based vigilantes have maybe managed to push everything down to a radius of three city blocks, which is... not great. Sighing, Peter lifts one hand away from the brick wall he's attached to and runs a gloved hand over his masked face. The general lack of progress is frustrating, especially since Peter had hoped to be back on campus in time to make his inorganic chemistry lecture. Ten percent of his grade is attendance and—while Gwen has offered multiple times to sign in for him while he was out saving the city—Peter still hasn't given them his log-ins. It feels too much like cheating. Below, Deadpool whoops loudly as he swings his katana around, decapitating and dismembering robots with the same glee as a teenage boy playing video games. The noise brings Peter out of his head, reminding him that he needs to focus on the robots and not the slow descent of his grade point average. An A- won't kill him. Probably.

available on ao3

[calciseptinefic]

the eight second hold on

a spideypool bull riding au

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Summary: Back in 2004, National Geographic wrote an article on bull riding and called it "the most dangerous eight seconds in sports". Peter—who has been riding bulls since he was seventeen—can't help but agree.

or,

"C'mon, vaquero," Wade purrs. "I wanna see how you ride."

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Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || ROUND TWO: DULUTH (cont.)

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With the distraction of Mary Jane gone, a spike of anxiety causes Peter's chest to tighten. His heart rate kicks up. His fingers tremble. He double checks his pockets for his wallet, his cellphone, the keys to his rental car. It is a brief stall, a routine to ease the hard edges of his nervousness, and he breathes deep as he does it. His eyes watch the second hand on the wall-mounted clock, tracking the thin red rod as it moves around in a circle.

Peter has never been good with people. As a child, as a teenager, as an adult, he has always been too honest and too earnest to be anything other than awkward. Over the years, he's learned how to make small talk and how to mimic the expected responses, but he still struggles when a conversation goes on too long or when he isn't able to mentally shoulder the burden of faking it. The number of times he's messed up and gotten an odd look is no longer a quantifiable number—it is an inevitability. So he knows it isn't a matter of if he's going to make a fool of himself in front of Wade but a matter of when.

Problem is, Peter doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of Wade. Wade Wilson is a bull riding legend, funny and cool and handsome, and Peter is... Peter. Nerdy and weird and not much to look at.

Ain't nothing you can change about that, Peter thinks as he looks away from the clock. He can't leave Wade waiting any longer. Just gotta rip it off like a band-aid.

Squaring his shoulders, Peter exits the locker room. The large hallway is empty save for a tall man leaning against the opposite wall, shoulders pressed to the concrete, one ankle crossed over the other. His eyes meet Peter's the instant Peter emerges.

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CONTINUE ON AO3

or start at the beginning

[calciseptine]

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wade's look for chapter 04 of the eight second hold on

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It's Wade Wilson. Waiting for him, as Mary Jane had warned. Yet what she had failed to mention—and what Peter would have really liked to have been informed of—was that Wade was waiting for him while looking like absolute sin. He stops dead at the sight, his eyes raking down Wade's body without an ounce of subtlety.

Wade is wearing a black linen guayabera with bright red embroidery. The fabric strains to contain his muscular body, and there are enough buttons undone to expose his chest and the light brown hair that grows there. The short sleeve shirt is tucked into his straight leg jeans; his leather belt sports a heavy silver and red coral buckle; his crocodile boots are midnight dark. He isn't wearing a hat. Instead, a pair of double bridge aviators rest atop his head, the golden wheat of his hair only a few shades darker than his sun kissed skin.

"Howdy," Wade greets with a jaunty little salute, hopefully unaware of how dry Peter's mouth has gone. Wade pushes off the wall and crosses the space between them in three long-legged strides. "Ms. Watson tell you I was out here?"

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[calciseptinefic]

the clean burn

a modern no powers spideypool au

Summary: Saturday night. Sushi and saké bombs, tequila shots and Malibu cokes. Wade has Peter half bent over the pool table, hands on his hips, and whispers, "Wanna get out of here?"

notes: happy two year anniversary to this fic! never posted it to tumblr so uh, here it is you thirsty heathens warnings: contains drinking, explicit semi-public sex, size difference, daddy kink, and Dom/sub undertones

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PART ONE: SALT

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It's been a good week for Peter.

Academically, he's doing well. He aced his first dreaded Calc III exam; he's ahead of his readings; the protein gels he ran in his research lab gave clear results; and he has no homework due by midnight on Sunday. Financially, he's doing okay. He saved all his weekly tips from his part-time job so he could go out with his friends on Saturday; he buys two sushi rolls instead of one; he splurges on several saké bombs; and afterwards, he still has cash when they leave the restaurant.

"Well, it's only 8:30-ish," Harry announces as their small group spills onto the sidewalk. Peter is sandwiched between Mary Jane and Gwen, arms tangled around each other. The three of them giggle as they stumble into the cool night air, though the incoordination comes more from silliness than being drunk. "Where do we wanna go next?"

"Sports bar, sports bar," Johnny chants. He jumps up and down and pumps his fist in the air, his short, bleached locs bouncing with his movement. "Sports bar, sports bar, sports ba—aaaah!" Johnny groans when Felicia elbows him in the ribs. "What the hell was that for?"

"You were being obnoxious, Johnny boy," Felicia says sweetly, batting her eyes at him. She's wearing a pair of incredibly long glue-on lashes that—combined with her black bodycon dress and sky-high high heels—make her look like a movie star. "Besides, no one wants to go to the sports bar and drink piss warm pitchers of Miller."

"Yeah, well, no one wants to go to that fancy cocktail bar at the expensive hotel either—"

Felicia takes a swipe at Johnny, which he dodges with a grin. She reaches out again, trying to grab his unzipped Patagonia windbreaker, but he just hides behind Harry, who remains unamused at their antics. The way Felicia and Johnny play-fight reminds Peter of a cat batting the nose of a big dog. He laughs at the mental image and buries his face into Mary Jane's shoulder, his glasses digging into the bridge of his nose. She smiles at him and ruffles his hair. Her manicured nails scratch pleasantly on his scalp.

"Lightweight," she teases, even though Peter is barely tipsy. Then, ignoring Johnny and Felicia, she asks, "Where do you wanna go, tiger?"

Peter thinks of the crumpled ones he has left in his pocket. A little more than ten, a little less than twenty. Enough for a glass of thin lager and a handful of $1 bottom shelf shots. So he says, "Sister Margaret's?"

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[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 11

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The small tartane cuts through the black sea quickly and quietly, the sound of low waves breaking against the ship's body no more than a rhythmic whisper. Dillon continues to stand in the center of the dock, funneling the magic needed to push the boat forward, his hands twisting and twisting and twisting. Above them, the fireball bobs along, matching the speed of the tartane; it casts enough light and warmth to stave off the thickest shadows and deepest cold of the night.

Briefly—in the moments after Toomes straightens and walks away—Peter contemplates jumping overboard. Surely they cannot be that far away from shore, and Peter has always been a strong swimmer. He could get away. He could be free... as long as he correctly remembers the direction where land is.

As long as the current doesn't drag him down and drown him.

As long as the water isn't too cold and he doesn't freeze.

As long as the giant eels that live in the inky sea don't sink their teeth into his flesh and devour him.

Peter turns his head from the railing. Squeezes his eyes shut and folds his arms over his knees, bringing them closer to his chest. He knows that being taken to Latveria—to the mysterious Octavius—may lead him to a worse fate than being torn apart by man-eating eels, but he's too exhausted to attempt another escape, especially after the last try ended so poorly.

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CONTINUE ON AO3

or start at the beginning

[calciseptinefic]

the more i do wrong the more my love grows deep

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || 5958 notes: a spideypool western au because i am nothing if not predictable

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The journey through the desert is a miserable slog. Reprieve from the oppressive heat comes from only one of two things: either a small town that rises like a wooden oasis between stretches of parched barren earth, or the blissful fall of night. Peter tends to stay away from the former—tiny towns remember even unremarkable men, and Peter cannot afford to be remembered—so when night comes he is grateful for it, breathing out the stagnant warmth of the day.

Beneath him, Benji lets out a similar neigh of relief.

"I know, bud," Peter commiserates, patting Benji's long neck. "I know."

The setting sun is a crimson sphere on the horizon, smearing the desert landscape into ochre watercolors. Above, the moon rises as a sharp crescent in a bruise-colored twilight. Peter finds an outcropping of rock to shelter them as purple sky turns to star-studded black. He sweeps the sandy ground with his worn boot heel, making sure there are no snakes or scorpions lying in wait, before falling into routine:

Remove Benji's saddle, reins, and bit. Give his sable coat a quick brush. Feed him. Make sure he has water. Take a few stale swigs from his own canteen and swish it around his mouth to wet his tongue and teeth. Start a small fire. Chew and chew and chew on some dry jerky and drier hardtack to sate the demands of his stomach if not his palate. Shake out his thin bed roll. Remove his boots, lie down and settle. Cross his arms behind his head and stare up at the twinkle of stars, tracing the soft lavender arm of the Milky Way as it streaks endless above him.

Near him, Benji falls easily into sleep. Peter can feel the drift of the horse's unconsciousness through their connection, an amorphous sensation that feels like looking into a canyon with no visible bottom. Peter longs to join him, to let his weary eyes rest, but for some unknowable reason, he cannot. The crackle of the fire is loud in his ears and there is something on the edge of his senses he cannot name, neither wariness nor fear, creeping closer and closer and—

"Well howdy, cowboy," a familiar voice drawls through the night.

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[calciseptinefic]

as you wish

a spideypool au inspired by the princess bride

Summary: Several years after having found true love and lost it, talented and brilliant apothecarist Peter finds himself engaged to be married to Duke Harry Osborn, young lord of the realm. It is a marriage of convenience for Peter and nothing more. But the night he is married, Peter is kidnapped by a small team of criminals for unknown reasons. More shockingly, as they run further and further away from all Peter has ever known, the criminals learn they are being relentlessly pursued by the infamous rogue, Deadpool. But not all is as it seems; the longer Peter remains in Deadpool's clutches, the stronger the memories of his past return, and another sinister scheme—one beyond Peter's imagination—begins to unfold.

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || Part 10

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As the man in black makes his declaration, Peter stiffens. He has not heard that name in years. Not since Weasel came to the apothecary to tell him that Wade had been killed. But Peter does not need a reminder of who Deadpool is—Weasel had told Peter enough.

"You? Deadpool?" Toomes says with a disbelieving snort. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe," Deadpool responds as he twists the wrist of his broken arm. He's testing it, Peter realizes, even though there's no way he should be able to move it around without significant pain. He shouldn't be able to move it at all. "I am not here for you."

"There is no reason for you to be here for the boy, either."

Shrugging, Deadpool goes to pick up his fallen sword and dagger. He is uncaring of the way both Toomes and Peter watch his every movement: Toomes warily, Peter numbly. Deadpool shakes grave dirt off his dagger before returning it to his sheath; his sword he keeps in his right hand. The ready stance he takes once his grip is around the hilt is familiar to Peter—it is the same one Wade preferred.

"My reasons are none of your concern," Deadpool answers. "Which is a deeply unsatisfying and vague thing to say, I know, but you're just going to have to live with the disappointment."

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CONTINUE ON AO3

or start at the beginning

[calciseptinefic]

the eight second hold on

a spideypool bull riding au

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Summary: Back in 2004, National Geographic wrote an article on bull riding and called it "the most dangerous eight seconds in sports". Peter—who has been riding bulls since he was seventeen—can't help but agree.

or,

"C'mon, vaquero," Wade purrs. "I wanna see how you ride."

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Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || EXPLICIT || ROUND TWO: DULUTH (cont.)

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As he exits the pit and begins to navigate the maze of fencing, Peter removes his helmet, gloves, and vest. No one pays much attention to him. The lead up to the actual event is a mess that rarely comes together until the night of, and most of the people dealing with the logistics are employees of the arena. They have some experience with making the space appropriate for rodeo—it's a popular enough sport—but it's not exactly a weekly occurrence.

One of the younger reserve riders, Miles Morales, is climbing onto his bull as Peter makes his way back to the team. Johnny claps Peter's shoulder; Flash gives him a nod; Eddie has his feet kicked up and hat pulled over his eyes; and Gwen sits next to Mary Jane, who gestures him over with a shit-eating grin on her face.

Like a man walking to the gallows, Peter obeys.

"It weren't nothin'," Peter hisses as he dumps his gear and plops onto the bench next to Mary Jane. "So say nothin', alright?"

"I wasn't going to say anything," Mary Jane says at the same time Gwen asks, "What are we talking about?"

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CONTINUE ON AO3

or start at the beginning