One AM in a deserted, neon-lit laundromat called Laundropalooza is not exactly when and where Peter thought he’d run face-first into Wade Wilson again, but it is.
–
“I think I’m growing on you,” Wade says. “Like a mold. Or a lichen.”
Peter has a lot of mold in his bathroom. “I don’t think that’s always necessarily a good thing.” But he can’t deny that Wade is right. Peter is absolutely screwed: Deadpool has grown on him, an awful lot. But he’s not about to tell Wade that.
“Sometimes it is,” Wade says. “Like with blue cheese. Or penicillin.”
“I’m allergic to penicillin.” Or at least he was. Peter probably isn’t allergic to anything, anymore.
This bad idea looks a hell of a lot like a rocky cliff from where Peter’s standing, the whole thing just waiting to collapse. But Peter’s still climbing it, eagerly grabbing fistfull after fistfull of crumbling rock, hoping it doesn’t collapse under the weight of his own stupidity. He literally cannot seem to stop himself where Deadpool is concerned.
In lieu of the new tumblr settings, can I make yet another plea with those of you who read fics and consume art on tumblr to please reblog them?
Fics and art will die on a creator’s dash if they aren’t reblogged. It’s never been more true than now.
If you want to keep receiving content from creators, reblog the the content. If it’s something you enjoyed? Reblog it. It’s not hard. I am going to make a point to reblog everything I read from now on. (With the proper tags of course), as well as all the art that I see on my dash.
I cannot make it simpler. Posts WILL die unless they’re reblogged. No one will see your ‘like’. Your like is a bookmark for YOU to find it later. Your reblog means the world to a creator because it means you are willing to go the little extra distance and recommend this to your followers.
Don’t let creations die on the dash of those who created them.
Reblog to save a creation.
Reblog to keep a creator creating.
Reblog, please.
Ironically, Tumblr ate my last attempt at this post, so I’ll keep it sweet:
1. It makes content creators’ day when you interact with us, especially reblog.
2. Comments and tag blathering are really, really special to me, and I look at allllll my reblogs just in case someone said something interesting in the tags.
3. It works. @dresupi reblogged something of mine and I immediately got more notes.
Wade’s brain was doing the boogie-woogie again, which was hardly a surprise considering he was piloting a fucking Jaeger without a partner. His nose was bleeding by the time he returned to base, and the veins in his eyeballs had swollen, popping a few of the subconjunctival capillaries and giving his vision a reddish haze.
And that wasn’t all. Dizziness gripped him in wracking waves, sending bile climbing up his throat. Wade’s guts churned and his mind fizzed like a bottle of cola, but hey, at least he’d killed Thanatos, the infamous Kaiju whose entire head was made of teeth. Yard-long teeth. Now that was a creature in need of an emergency dental job.
Except that it was dead, so… less dental job, more dissection. Stark would have a field day with the remains.
“Wilson,” said Marshal May Parker. She was waiting for him on the landing bay, stern and in uniform. “You’re still alive.”
“Eh, I’m already healing. I’ll be okay. After all, I’m the only freak around here who survived a Kaiju’s poison. And that was worse. Way worse.”
Marshal Parker fell into step beside him as Wade headed to the medbay, as was routine after a skirmish. “Dr. Stark argues that your body metabolized the poison and converted it into a healing serum. I hope he hasn’t been pestering you overmuch for tissue samples.”
“Tissue samples are sorta meh. Fluid samples, though? Those can be fun. I offered to jack off for the sample if Stark had a nudie magazine lying around.”
The marshal huffed out a startled laugh, her diminutive frame somehow managing to exude both authority and amusement. “Did he?”
“’Course he did. He’s Stark.”
“Well, let’s all hope he’s making progress with simulating your metabolization of the poison. If we can figure out how to replicate that process on a cellular level, all the Jaeger pilots will be able to heal themselves.”
“Aw, I’m gonna miss being the resident freak.”
Marshal Parker frowned. “It’s a pity you’ve been ostracized by the pilot community.” She paused. “I might have a remedy for that situation.”
“A cure for my personality? Sorry, Marshal, but not even Stark has a serum for that.”
“I mean,” the marshal said, “I might have a partner for you.”
Wade stopped dead in his tracks. “A what?”
“A copilot. His epigenetic sequence matches yours in the relevant categories, rare as your sequence is. He’s only just graduated from the pilot program, so he’s eighteen and without a partner. I’m going to suggest you two spar in the Kwoon Combat Room to determine whether you’re as compatible as your genes suggest you are.”
Wade’s heart began pounding. An agonizing, terrifying hope bloomed within him, a hope he’d never dared to entertain. “Who… Who is he?”
A wry smile curled Marshal Parker’s lips, and that itself—the sight of the marshal, smiling—was astounding. Her voice changed, too, into a gentler version of the cool, confident, commanding tone Wade was used to hearing. “My nephew.”
Summary: Deadpool keeps having sex with Peter and Peter… Peter keeps letting him.
Additional Tags: Big Bang Challenge, Embedded Images, Canon Universe, Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slow Burn, you’ll see, One-Sided Relationship, Secret Relationship, Fuckbuddies, Dirty Talk, Size Difference, Dubious Consent, Dark Wade, Dark Peter, kinda but not really?, Sex Toys, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Rough Sex, Barebacking, Top Wade Wilson, Bottom Peter Parker, Power Bottom Peter, Large Cock, Size Kink, Size Queen Peter, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Hate Sex, Self-Hatred, Self-Esteem Issues, Light Angst, Angst and Porn, Panic Attacks, about secret identity getting revealed, Dom/sub, Light Dom/sub, Bondage, Light Bondage, Dom Wade, Sub Peter, Kissing, Rough Kissing, Time Skips, Blow Jobs, Biting, Breathplay, Unsafe Kink Practices, First Time, Identity Reveal, Injured Peter, Safeword Use, sorta, Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feeding, Gentle Sex, Subspace, Subdrop, No Boxes, Minor Peter/OMC, have a little faith in your author, Cheating, Netorare, Cuckolding, kinda, Cumdumpster, Creampie, Jealous Wade, Possessive Wade, Marking, Bruising, Phone Sex, Anal Fingering, Disassociation, Aftercare, Discovery, Voyeurism, Break Up, Topping from the Bottom, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, no actual non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Confessions, Hate to Love, Two-Sided Relationship, Relationship Reveal, all the tags
Pre-internet era: You walk into a room and sit down at a table. Someone brings you a turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a soda. Perhaps you are a vegetarian, or gluten-free. Doesn’t matter; you get a turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a soda.
Usenet era: You walk into a room and sit down to your turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a soda. Someone tells you that over at the University they are also serving BLTs, pizza, coffee, and beer.
Web 1.0 (aka The Great Schism): You walk into a room. The room is lined with 50 unmarked doors. Someone tells you, “We have enough food to feed you and a hundred more…but we’ve scattered it behind these fifty doors. Good luck!”
Web 2.0 (present): You walk into a room. Someone points at the buffet and says, “Enjoy!” You turn to see a 100-foot-long buffet table, piled high with every kind of food imaginable. To be fair, some of the food is durian, head cheese, and chilled monkey brains, but that’s cool, some people are into those…and trust me, they are even more psyched to be here than you are.
Tumblr (a hell pit): You try to serve yourself a baked potato. An angry child runs up and slaps the plate out of your hand. “NIGHTSHADE PLANTS ARE POISONOUS,” the child yells. You are hungry. The child gives you a turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a kick on the shin.
The fact that a potato is replaced with a different form of potato is what makes that last one so accurate.
I don’t want to ruin it for anyone but that one scene in “In a City, Reconstructed” is literally Credence standing outside Percy’s house with a boombox playing Peter Gabriel while Percy overcompensates with #aesthetics like he’s a 21-year-old whose crush saw him at the grocery store in sweatpants with no makeup on.
Also I definitely wrote it while listening to “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by the Proclaimers.
Agreed. Completely. When Graves lets Credence fuck him, it’s precisely that– *letting* him– and he doesn’t let Credence forget this for one second. I think the position would really reflect this, honestly? Graves on his back on a table or counter, legs spread, and credence between them while he works; no way would he let Credence take him from behind, impersonal, and he’s certainly not going to ride him, because far too much work, quite fucking honestly, and besides– the whole point of this is for credence to show *his* devotion and commitment. Graves reasons it would be entirely cruel to deny him a chance to excitedly (if sloppily, shakily) fuck out his enthusiasm into his savior/father/lover/what-have-you, whatever graves is to him.
When Credence fucks Graves, it’s intensely intimate, praise dropped warm and close between them like kisses from Grave’s strategic tongue, his hands smoothing up and over Credence’s biceps as he bends in two with his effort, fly in a honey trap, in-in-in and done so quick that graves just reaches up to palm his cheek and says, “look at you.” Grave’s ass is full of come and his cock is hardly stiff, lolling, brazenly unaroused, between his legs (Credence is bad at this, and knows it, only one sweet stroke for every ten, worthless). But as Credence pulls out and Graves pulls in, calloused hand on neck and ribs, so that his boy might fortify himself against his chest, he tells him: wonderful. He is so proud, he says, as Credence’s wobbling arms loop around his neck and don’t let go.
He is so proud of his boy.
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