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The jungle is a thick, horrible thing, muggy and overbearing. Heavy on his shoulders and never-ending and wet, just stupid wet, the ground tangled up with all these bright, exotic plants that coil around his ankles like they're trying to trip him on purpose. Alive around him, the whole place buzzing with the trill of a million insects and the squawking of tropical birds.
Something Peter has learned today? Not an outdoors person. Probably won't be doing any backpacking through South America anytime soon. Stumbling through some untamed rainforest, suit clinging to his sweaty body in one thin layer of damp red spandex – except for where it's been torn up by whatever Audrey II-type flora has clawed at him – has not given him a great impression. For all the times in his life that he's really, truly hated New York, he can now confidently say that he would take the concrete jungle over a real one any day.
A machete swings at his side, but no matter how much foliage he hacks away there always seems to be more – he tried climbing, but the tree canopy was twice as thick, and he can't see shit that's more than a few feet ahead no matter where he is. In an effort to fix the issue – that and make breathing feel less like an Olympic sport – his mask was torn off hours ago, stuffed into the pack that sits heavy against his back. Disheveled brown curls flop lame into his face, sweat-slick and flat against his forehead, and his vision is hazy as his gaze lazily flits back and forth, scanning for–
Well, something. Whatever. Any kind of sign of his alien parasite, sort of, which – of course it would get lost out on a desert island in a freak accident involving a Quinjet, just his luck. Why he insisted on being the one to find it is beyond him. Obviously, twelve-hours-ago Peter was naive and filled with hubris. Unaware of his own flaws and limits, which before now wouldn't have included ‘finding tarantulas in hair’ or ‘ocean of sweat behind knees’. What a fool he once was, innocent to the real hardships of this world.
It doesn't help that this was one of maybe three arguments Tony has ever backed him up on, which was half the reason anyone even agreed to let him try his hand at this shabby Bear Grylls impression. He said that Peter had a bond with the thing, a better chance of catching it peacefully, which – Peter doesn't really think something so one-sided can be a bond. Sure, he's sort of… attached, to Wade (that's what he calls his little specimen, at least in his head) but he's not even sure that whatever Wade is can feel affection. Only two total have ever been found, and the X-Men keep theirs on a short leash, so he doesn't suppose any of them have taught theirs the power of love yet.
And of course, now Peter will probably never see his again, even if they do find it, despite none of this even being his fault. Goodbye, opportunity of a lifetime. There's probably no chance of Dr. Jean Grey letting him have a poke at theirs, not that he particularly wants a poke at any alien except for his own.
“Wade?” He calls, not for the first time, voice desperate and worn. Anything he says seems to be swallowed up by the hot air and the thickness around him, plants acting like his own personal padded walls. The blade of his machete swipes and hacks through walls of growth in clumsy but semi-efficient arcs. “Waaade. Can you hear me, bud?”
Another useless look around reveals more of the same, but up ahead he can hear something new, which is at least a bit encouraging. Even with senses as enhanced as his, all that he's picked up on for the last few hours are the sounds of miscellaneous animals and plants, a constant soundtrack of noises that seem to belong in a YouTube video titled ‘Relaxing Jungle Sounds 10 Hours For Sleep’. Not that he'll ever find them relaxing again – maybe it's time to switch over to rain ASMR instead.
“Come on, don't you want to come… er, come home? Don't you miss the air conditioner? I miss the air conditioner. It's hot as shit out here, dude, you can't be having much more fun than I am.”
Not true. At least Wade isn't wearing spandex, and at least it can't feel every individual bead of sweat sliding out of its armpits. On the contrary, this is probably quite a good time to be a blob of amorphous goo.
It takes a few more minutes of moving forward at a steady pace, periodically calling for Wade like it's a runaway dog, before he can finally properly make out the new mystery noise – it's ocean, waves sloshing peacefully against shore. A few slashes reveal finally a burst of proper sunlight through the plants, and with a couple more he's stumbling out into it, standing against a line of trees that gradually grow more sparse as they feed out onto golden sand. It's still not ideal, it's still hot and pretty humid, but it's at least less claustrophobic than the jungle he just clawed his way through.
With a sigh like relief, Peter shuffles forward to peer out over the beach, raising his free hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It's all soft, light sands and glistening blue water that stretches in every direction. Very picturesque out here, or it would seem so under drastically different circumstances. Reaching behind him, he snags the water from the side pocket of his backpack and takes a long drink, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Having a beach day, Wade?” He asks aloud, just to hear something other than his own thoughts. “And you didn't invite me? I woulda packed my swim trunks, man, not cool.”
Of course, no response comes. Honestly, there's no sign at all of anything other than crabs and seabirds, but he would still rather stay out here and snoop around for nothing for a bit before he has to dive back into the ocean of vines and spiders (and no, the irony of Spider-Man trying to run away from spiders is not lost on him).
Skirting along the very edge of the beach – avoiding the sand, because the idea of getting sand in his skin-tight suit at a time like this makes him shudder despite the sweltering heat – Peter sticks to its curve, the way it hugs the rainforest and curls itself into a more secluded, rocky cove, shaded by palm trees and overreaching jungle canopy. It's over here that he finds his first lead all day, shielded by an outcropping of rock with waves crushed up against it – the shadowed sand underneath all disturbed, clawed out like a giant, frightened animal tried to run through it but couldn't find its footing.
There's an erratic trail of it that leads into the trees, where a clear path has been physically carved out, foliage ripped through like tissue paper to clear the way. Each plant Peter stops to look at has been sliced clean though, like someone took a clean, sharp blade to them, but the soil and roots are disturbed like whoever – or whatever – passed through was huge and careless in their steps.
Something unsettling and heavy settles in the pit of Peter's stomach as he crouches to examine the damage more closely. There are no foot or pawprints, no claw marks, nothing to indicate anything other than just… mass. It's an uncomfortable thought that makes the hairs on the back of his neck tingle – Wade functions a lot like a liquid, just with no set volume. It fluctuates and expands and shifts at will just to fill whatever container it's in; Peter has watched Wade go from a pinprick of goop in a tiny vial to filling up a fifty-gallon aquarium in a matter of minutes. Out here, with nothing to keep it contained, theoretically it could just non-stop grow and grow and–
Despite the heat, Peter's blood suddenly feels cold. He thinks he probably needs to find Wade, like, yesterday.
The path of destruction carries him deeper and deeper into the jungle, machete tucked into the sheath hooked to his pack, unneeded at the current moment. Around him the air seems to grow a bit colder, and gradually goes silent – besides the shifting of plants with the slight breeze, there's nothing else. No birds, no insects, no chattering of playful monkeys in the treetops. Just his own heartbeat and footsteps, softened by damp, churned up soil like a thick carpet.
Paths offshoot and lead to dead ends, loop back around, erratic and exploring. At some point the trail veers sharply off to the left, driving him further away from the beach and, eventually, to an area where the trees and plants thin. It’s opened up enough that he can at least see more than three feet ahead of him, but it seems darker than it should be, especially here where the canopy isn’t quite as thick, so he taps the spider logo across his chest and watches the flashlight beam wash over the scene ahead of him.
He’s in a sort of clearing, staring at a rocky, hilly outcropping ahead. It’s not very big, but has a presence like a predator, an animal that lies still but watches and waits – poised to attack, a slumbering beast. The trail winds clumsily through the clearing, hugs along the side of the rocks, and then curls along the other side, disappearing from view. When Peter moves forward he creeps, sneaking like he really is trying to escape the attention of the stone beast, Spidey-sense tingling in faint warning.
As he grows near, his hand runs along the stone, rough and slightly damp and jagged, almost sandpaper-y against the pads of his fingers through the spandex. When he pitches right to follow the trail, expecting more solid rock wall, he's forced to stumble to a clumsy stop, coming face to face with the yawning, hungry mouth of a cave.
It’s… extremely dark, unnaturally so. When he examines it closer, he finds that it's covered in an opaque film that stretches over the opening like thick, pitch black saran wrap. Against every instinct and his own better judgement, every single nerve in his body hot and frantic like a sparking wire, Peter reaches out to press his shaky hand against it, flattening his palm to the surface with a morbid curiosity.
The first thing he notices is that the thick appearance is totally deceptive – on the contrary, it feels quite thin to the touch, like he could rip right through it. Only that's also deceptive – an experimental push reveals absolutely no give to the strange, fleshy thing. Peter has the erratic thought that it seems to be breathing, life shuddering through it in faint, unpredictable… whispers. Like something thought of lungs expanding and contracting and then tried to project it into his mind, and only half-succeeded.
“What the fuck,” he wheezes, watching the material beneath his hands with hawk-like intensity.
Finally, after a long minute, he decides that he must be imagining the movement – but then just as he’s starting to consider hacking through the thing with his machete, it suddenly gives a big heave and peels away with a wet, viscous sound. Stumbling backwards, Peter watches as it retracts, something uncomfortable and panicked squirming in the pit of his stomach – even the way it moves reads as unnatural, not quite liquid, not quite solid. It reminds him a lot of the gates from Stranger Things, dividing in half in a weird, fibrous split, thick strings that seem to detach from each other and curl away to make a gap. Even more, it reminds him a lot of Wade, which is exactly what he was afraid of.
Glancing down, he feels a sharp pitch, like the ground just fell away beneath his feet. His path of ruined soil unmistakably leads straight to this cave. Taking a deep, steadying breath – that does nothing to ease the trembling of his hands – he counts down from three in his head, then forces himself to take a step through the opening.
Inside, that unnatural darkness continues, engulfing the walls and ceiling and floor. Even the light of Peter’s flashlight doesn’t seem to make it much better. When Peter walks over to the wall, he reflexively reaches out to touch again, as fascinated as he is disturbed. In here the dark, fleshy stuff seems thicker and more solid, yet even still he can feel the way it molds and clings to the walls, can feel the contours of the rock beneath. It’s not exactly moving like the door was, but maybe… pulsing faintly, like the heartbeat of an injury.
“Huh,” he says softly, unable to restrain the intrigue in his voice. There’s another, heavier throb beneath his hand, and then–
Peter
Making an extremely undignified, unmanly noise, Peter jumps back. Even still, his hand clings, involuntarily stuck – something that happened a lot when he first got his powers, but hasn’t in years. It makes a familiar but ancient panic swell in his throat, and he immediately tries to tug it back to his body. It doesn't budge, so after a few more frantic yanks he anxiously resigns himself to his current position, at least for now.
Nervously, he glances around, then asks, “What was that?”
And then, again:
Peter
With a hard shudder, Peter stares blankly at the wall, wide-eyed. The voice isn’t even really a voice, except it is, it’s just – something he understands in an instinctive way more than anything, something vast and unknowable that rumbles something equally incomprehensible which gets molded and squashed until it’s digestible. It’s certainly not a thought that comes from Peter, but it feels close, like it could be a thought that comes from him, like something nestled into the shell of his skull and started whispering manipulations against his brain.
It’s claustrophobic. For a second his skin feels disgusting and tight, then it doesn't, then the suit just feels disgusting and tight. The voice doesn't seem to care much.
Come
Deeper
There’s a reflex to laugh at what sounds like a weird line in a bad porno, but the humor never really comes to him. He just feels disoriented and confused, vision glued absently to the bright red splay of his fingers against the dark wall. When too long goes by and he doesn't offer a response, the thing rumbles again, simultaneously displeased and pleading.
Please?
Suddenly coming back to himself, Peter finally peels his hand away and steps back, head swiveling. The entrance has closed back up, plunging him into darkness, but even still he can see where the cave deepens, and he only deliberates for a second before following the soft slope into the Earth.
As he walks, he doesn’t touch the wall, but gets the vague sense that it doesn’t really matter. Surely whatever that thing was could use even the contact between his feet and the floor to speak. Hell, maybe it could disregard it completely and just fill the air with the boom of its voice, wrap him up in it like a blanket, compress him. It must not matter. At the back of his neck, Peter’s Spidey-sense is constant, but it ping-pongs between screams and whispers in irregular, arbitrary bursts, like it doesn’t know what to make of the situation, either.
In turn, the cave narrows and widens, making him squeeze and crouch; at times, Peter thinks he can feel the walls fluctuating to make more room. At others, he thinks he can feel something urging him through the narrow gaps, curled around his ankles or pushing at his shoulders. He tries not to think about it too hard so that he doesn’t get sick, eyes squeezing shut against the pitch black darkness, relying purely on some primal instinct to guide his way.
Finally, after what feels like hours – but might have been minutes or days, who cares, Peter has lost track in his daze – the tunnel thins then gives way to another cavern. It’s huge, so tall that he can’t even see the ceiling, and cold. He must be very, very deep underground. Creeping forward, Peter squints, searching for another opening to explore, and thinks he finds nothing. Further in he walks, hoping to get a better look at the back wall, concluding it to be too dark to be able to really tell what's what from such a far distance.
Standing there examining the edge of the cavern, he doesn’t notice it until it’s too late. Curling around his waist, Spidey-sense giving a frightened buzz as something firm but fluid slips under his backpack to slide languidly over the base of his spine and curve along his hip. At first he shudders and then he freezes full-body, a stiff breath coming out shaky against his lips.
Peter that unknowable, eldritch thing positively purrs, Pete Petey Peter-Peter Pumpkin Eater
Why does it know my name Peter wonders, and slowly looks down, where the thing is slowly creeping up his stomach. A thick, flexible appendage that starts thin but widens the further down it goes. It’s covered in patches of red and black and these big white circles with smaller black ones inside like eyes, and it feels so familiar, like he’s seen it somewhere before. But then, wouldn’t he remember something so–
Oh, shit.
“Oh shit,” Peter gasps, “Wade?”
Deadpool the thing corrects. Then it adds, apparently with some deliberation, Can call me Wade
You can call me anything you want
Princess
Immediately, Peter feels some kind of faint indignation at the nickname, but for once his own stubbornness seems to take a backseat to, um, everything else happening.
“You… grew,” he says stupidly, gaze trailing up the strange limb, trying to track it to its origin. The only thing he can say for sure is that it seems to sprout from the dark ceiling; Peter can’t see what exactly it comes from, but he can sense it, a pulsating, shifting lifeform clinging to the overhead stone. Despite its lack of discernible shape, Peter can feel a headache throb in his skull just from trying to look at it. For a moment he just stares, and then, with another bout of realization, “I was right. With nothing to keep you contained, you… grew.”
Evolved
“Evolved,” Peter amends faintly, glancing back down. More limbs have poked forward, sliding under the straps of his pack, pushing at them until it slips off and slumps to the floor. When he sways they tighten and grip, steadying him. His body seems torn between fight or flight mode and ease. He feels like a prey animal, a rabbit being lovingly groomed by a wolf.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Peter glances around, not sure which – which tentacle to linger on.
“Could you always talk?”
Not talking
Peter rolls his eyes. Of course Wade – Deadpool? – his unruly, erratic alien is also pedantic. Like scientist, like specimen.
“Fine, could you always communicate? Like this?”
Yes
“Then – then why didn't you?”
We need to touch
Never touched me
For some reason, Peter frowns at this, feeling the strangest twist of guilt pull in his chest like a fish hook. Of course he never touched it – that would've been such a huge, unacceptable risk that Tony never would've let him look at a lab again, let alone play around in one. Still, the voice is so – disappointed, or whiny, or something, it just makes him feel irrationally bad.
Curious and, for some reason, regretful, he reaches out to touch one of the smaller tentacles, which moves and shudders like it's surprised, but then curls up like it’s… pleased. His fingers run up and down the length, finding it textured and gnarled like knots of scarred flesh.
“I'm a terrible alien owner,” he says thoughtfully. Wade gives a faint rumble.
Not my owner
Take your glove off
“I’m kinda your owner,” Peter mutters, but lifts his hands to methodically unhook his gloves from the insides of his sleeves and yank them off, discarding them on top of his pack. “Or I was. Now you're…”
Trailing off, Peter runs his bare fingers along the larger tentacle, which has lazily moved up to his chest. The surface feels a little slimy, like the skin of a frog. He expects to come away with a film of mucus coating his fingers, but instead they just feel warm and tingly, like the pins and needles after your sleeping limb wakes up.
The big tentacle chases his hand, so Peter curls it back around and pets it. Meanwhile, a small one finds a rip torn in his suit and wriggles inside, running curiously over the bare skin on his side, stroking his ribs. It feels kind of nice, if he doesn't think too hard about it. Or, well, even when he does think about it, to be honest. He'd already been a little attached to Wade before, and now that he's past the initial anxiety and reflexive fear, he finds himself growing looser and more relaxed. More curious than cautious. A thumb glides over the tip of the tentacle he's been playing with and finds a curious indent, which he notes to ask about later.
A new tentacle pushes its way into the mix, tiny and flitting over his nose and cheekbones and browbone. It lingers on his lips, tracing the bottom one, then curls around his chin, tilting his head side to side. Unable to help himself, Peter laughs, feeling weirdly sort of flattered.
“What are you doing?” He asks, but lets himself be touched this way and that, limbs prodding at every tear in his red spandex, seeming intent on finding every dip and curve. “That tickles, man.”
I’m exploring
Snorting, Peter releases the bigger tentacle, and it slides instead along the inside of his wrist, up to his elbow. Just poking around, apparently as curious as he is. In union they all tug and pull him forward, and Peter goes, feeling increasingly calmer with each touch.
Maybe he should do something – go get that empty air-tight container he brought along from his pack, or press the little button on the emergency pager securely tucked in his ear – but something about this is far, far more tempting.
After all, back in the lab, Wade will just be relegated back to a fish tank – contained and shrunken. No more touching, or communicating. Peter wants to learn about it – him? – and what better way is there to do that than to just ask questions? Especially with something that seems so friendly.
“So you, I mean, you know me,” Peter says, statement not question, because it said his name, like, six times, so. “Yeah? I mean, did you, like – like, see and hear everything? Everything that happened in the lab?”
Wade affirms the idea with no response, just a feeling like ‘yes’ that shudders through Peter. His comprehension of it makes no sense, but somehow he just understands.
“You could hear me? Understand me?”
God, he's told this alien a lot of embarrassing things. And probably done a lot of dumb stuff he doesn’t remember.
“That's–” Self-conscious, Peter blushes and clears his throat. “Um, you speak English?”
Learned
From you
You talk a lot
Talk talk talk
“Quick learner,” Peter muses, then scrunches his nose up as he registers the last part. Again, a feeling that isn’t his own simply pulses through him – amusement, a laugh with no sound. Another feeling, this one from his own brain, scratches down his back, satisfying and ticklish. “Hey, okay, that's, that's rude. You just don't talk very much, a guy's gotta fill the silence. Or, I mean, I guess you don't talk at all.”
A tentacle coils loosely around his forearm, and Peter studies it thoughtfully.
“So then, what are you doing? How can I hear you?”
On this one, Wade seems to pause, struggling for an answer. Absently, the tentacle flicks back and forth – a lot like how Peter might absentmindedly tap his fingers or click his pen while considering a particularly puzzling problem in the lab – and Peter watches it like a cat might watch a metronome, feeling unreasonably dazed. A little dizzy, like he has vertigo. Like the feeling of teetering on the edge of a skyscraper.
Connecting it responds finally.
“Connecting,” Peter echoes softly, blinking himself back to awareness. “Connecting, okay. It feels like – like your thoughts are my thoughts. Is that what it is? We're sharing thoughts?”
Yes
Sharing mine anyway
“Only yours? You can't hear mine?”
I could
I can
If they’re loud enough
“Huh,” Peter says, articulate. Feeling distracted by all the touch, embarrassed at the fact it's distracting him. Eager to learn but unable to force himself into focus.
It must take a special kind of touch starved, he thinks, to be feeling all dopey from an alien… doing whatever it is, right now. When was the last time he was just, touched? Outside sex or a friendly shoulder pat? Let alone was explored like he was the fascinating thing in the room? It's weird and makes him feel a little pathetic and greedy for even thinking about it in such a way.
Possibly oblivious to his feelings, tentacles curl absently around his body, poking in spots they've already poked, like they've just been waiting for the opportunity to examine and familiarize themselves with him. The way they move feels purposeful yet aimless, like the hands of lovers. Immediately, Peter feels even worse for making the comparison, so he shoves it away and moves on, grateful that it was only whispered from a recess of his brain.
“And the, uhm,” raising a hand, Peter gestures vaguely around and raises his eyebrows, hoping his question translates, unsure of how to word it. ‘Are we in a cave made of you?’ unfortunately just sounds sort of stupid.
New home
It's not exactly what he meant to ask, but Peter will take any information he can get. Still, he can't help but wonder, where was the old home at? The lab? The home planet, wherever that may be? Every question makes three more pop up to take its place, like that stupid HYDRA slogan.
“New home,” he agrees lamely, “right. Uhm. Why? Did you just not like the lab, or…”
Liked you
The lab wasn’t enough
Needed more room
“Right,” Peter agrees, pretending like he understands completely, “You needed more room so you could…?”
Evolve
At that, Peter raises an eyebrow.
“You needed a whole cave system just to evolve?”
The question hangs heavy between them: if Wade needs all this to evolve, what exactly does evolving entail? There’s a long, hefty pause before Wade finally responds.
… I will grow
Grow, Peter thinks, taken aback. Grow? Grow more than it already has? Either Wade can't tell that he's still processing or doesn't care, because it continues.
Consume
Expand
Consume? Expand? Peter wants to ask, but he doesn't get a chance to make Wade expand (LOL) on that thought – without warning, two big tentacles coil themselves up around his calves then his thighs, squeezing appreciatively. The grip on them is firm, meant to restrain, to manhandle, not to explore or steady. Something about it makes Peter's heart give a hot pulse in his throat and his Spidey-sense make a loud reappearance, too little too late.
Breed
All at once, that comforting feeling is gone. Whatever it's replaced by, Peter can't name it – something intense just under his skin that makes him squirm back and forth, eyes big and surprised, caught off-guard.
Wade, for its part, seems unconcerned with the movement, tentacle lazily releasing his arm to glide down his side. Peter can feel the intent in the movement – his gaze tracks it carefully, mixed feelings clogged in the back of his throat, each one overwhelming and unnameable.
A rush of adrenaline and panic thuds at his temples, and he reflexively reaches down to pry its tentacle away from where the thing has settled on his hip, pinching and grabbing. Changing course, it curls up to push at Peter's reaching hands, then wraps around both of his wrists and tightens. Rising up, lifting and lifting until his hands are restrained above his head, stuck together even when he wiggles and tugs at his arms.
“Wade,” he says, going for scolding and ending up somewhere more frightened and shaky. “What are you doing?”
Shhh
You're my favorite Petey
Gunna fill you up real nice
Something flutters in Peter's stomach at that, something that feels like it should feel utterly wrong, and he shakes his head like he can physically will it away. The tentacles which have already slipped into the ragged holes in his suit curl and grip and tug hungrily, the ones at his legs keeping his feet pinned to the ground. A small one lovingly pets the underside of his chin and Peter's eyelids maybe flutter and droop, just a little.
So perfect
Perfect perfect
My perfect Petey
“I, I don't,” stammering, Peter gives another try at wriggling, but everything tightens around him at once, holding him in place. Something flicks up his inner thigh and brushes feather-light between his legs. “Don't?”
It comes out more like a question than Peter intends it to be, and Wade reflects it right back to him, Don't? but doesn't move away, rubbing and pressing at the curve of his crotch through the thin fabric. Peter can’t help the soft, desperate noise he makes, or the way his hips try to push down into the pressure, stopped short by the tens of flexible limbs that tighten around his body again like a vise.
Only he could help it, if he wanted to – right now, it would only be a matter of tilting and crushing the side of his head against his shoulder to press the emergency alert in his ear and the others would come running to rescue him. For some reason, what he does instead of that is clench his fingers against his palms and exhale something shaky into the cold, stale air.
Relax
I’ll take care of you
Pressing up, Wade's tentacle applies even more pressure, a vague, shifting thing that does little more than tease and tantalize. Peter has to clench his jaw just to avoid asking for more, but he supposes the whiny thing that catches in his teeth does more than enough.
Between his legs, the tentacle twitches, curious and somehow smug. It feels like the equivalent of somebody condescendingly asking him ‘oh, yeah?’ after he moans. Of course, Peter doesn't know how he picks up on that, but he knows somewhere that it's the intention.
Feels good doesn't it princess
“Don't,” he echoes weakly, the protest flimsier again than he means. It does feel good, and it's making his head fuzzy, making it hard to think. There's now a weird precision to the way that Wade is touching him, the two barely separated by the suit, that's extremely distracting.
Honestly, though, he thinks that even if he really was resolved and completely persistent in his denial, even if he was thrashing and screaming trying to get away, Wade wouldn't let him go. But he's not doing any of that, so who knows? This is pretty uncharted territory for, um, probably everybody. Although, Wade seems very sure of itself.
Feel even better when you're pumped full
With that, tentacles hook behind his knees and push insistently until they buckle, effortlessly hoisting him up into the air instead of letting him fall. At Peter's startled yelp, one slinks up and firms along his back, as if just to prove that Wade is supporting him. Peter glares aimlessly into the dark and there’s a sensation like laughter against his ear.
Such a stubborn thing brushing a tentacle against Peter’s cheek, Wade curls it over his temple, pausing to feel the faint throbbing of his heartbeat beneath the tender skin before trailing to his ear. Here it wriggles curiously against the plastic earpiece nestled under the shell, then crooks behind it to tug until it slips out and, after a long second, clatters to the ground. Barely biting back an anxious yelp, Peter gasps and twists to the side, wrenching his body around to look over his shoulder. For a moment Wade loosens, allowing him just enough movement to see that the floor is definitely much, much further down than he previously thought, and his stomach drops right out his ass. Reflexively, his nails bite into his palms until blood trickles down the heels of his hands. And sooo cute
A tentacle runs through his mop of sweaty curls, petting his head affectionately, coiling and winding to slowly grip at a swath of sticky, damp brown hair. With a hard yank, it wrenches his head to the side, forcefully baring his neck like a submissive prey animal. Something pulses hot in his stomach and wriggles like it's alive – excited but in a way that makes him feel sick, humiliated.
Gasping out a small, embarrassing sound like a mewl, Peter pulls at his bound hands. Of course, the tentacle’s grasp simply constricts again, until the grip turns bruising and painful. The feeling makes him throb needy between his legs, and his eyes squeeze shut, unable to face the shame that comes with it.
Don’t be embarrassed
Something briefly flicks, then, against the side of his throat, leaving behind a wet spot. Sticky like saliva. The limb, small and flexible, returns to stroke up and down lovingly, sweeping over the flutter of his pulse, which is quick and erratic. It leaves behind that strange, half-numb sensation and a warm, damp line, like a tongue trailing over the skin.
This is what you were made for
I’m going to use you the way you were meant to be used
The way you really want to be used
Tucked into the warmth beneath his legs, Wade’s tentacle trails and grips down his inner thigh, then slides right back up to twitch against his clit with unnatural accuracy, considering it doesn’t even really have access to it. Peter’s teeth clamp down on his bottom lip, but not quick enough to even muffle his moan, let alone stop it.
When his mouth parts he’s panting like a dog, each breath thick and constricted, and when he speaks what comes out, mortifyingly, is “Please”.
All at once, Wade’s smug satisfaction rumbles through his skull and down his spine in twitchy, hot bursts of electricity. It makes all the hairs along his arms stand up. His Spidey-sense has been screaming the whole time, protesting his lack of control, urging him to run. Why he didn't when he had the chance is…
There's a series of faint, wet shk sounds beneath him that make his eyes shoot open, neck straining against the grip in his hair to try and look down. The tentacle between his legs has pulled away a little bit to start sprouting small, pale hooks like blades which emerge out of the mottled, multi-colored flesh from weird, vertical slits. Peter watches it with an uneasy fascination, blinking dumbly.
“Wha–?”
The tip of the tentacle curls in and one hook catches the fabric over his perineum, slicing through the thin red spandex like a hot knife through butter. Realization dawns on Peter in a cold rush, pushing a shaky gasp from his chest, his eyes squeezing shut again as that hook draws up and closer to the exact spot Peter doesn’t want it. As his heart beats a thick, sickening rhythm in the hollow of his throat, Peter holds his entire body rigid, breath frozen in his lungs.
It seems to last a horribly long time, the feeling of that thin, hooked thing slicing through his suit and gliding through all the wetness that’s gathered between his thighs. The dig of his nails into the already-bloody crescents on his palms is so tight that it makes his hands start to tremble. Despite its precise movements, Wade seems to linger teasingly, its amusement a faint thing that tickles the back of Peter’s mind. It finds Peter’s fear funny, which is…
Not hot, the weird eldritch monster about to fuck you is not hot, it’s not. Nothing about this is hot.
Is that why you’re so wet?
Ohmygod get out of my head.
Pressing a laugh against Peter’s brain, Wade rips clean through the fabric, exposing him all the way to the cold air. The hooked appendage peels back, and Peter blinks open one eye to watch the barbs retract as quickly as they appeared, swallowed up cleanly by the textured skin. If Peter weren’t so consumed by this weird terrified-horny thing his brain is doing, he’d find that more interesting.
Instead, all he can focus on is the way the tendril curls back between his legs, hovering over his slit. Two smaller ones seem to split off, peeling his slick folds apart to reveal his erect clit and his hole, which is swollen and drooling with want. Wade brushes through the mess – it makes an… uncomfortably gooey sound – and purrs, pleased.
Such an eager thing it praises sweetly, Aren't you?
Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Peter's first instinct is to shake his head and deny. Of course, he can't shake his head right now, so instead he starts stammering, trying to defend himself.
“I– no, I– I don't–”
Shhh
The limb against his throat moves to flick over his parted lips, small and ticklish. Peter's tongue pokes out to chase the sensation, and Wade's tentacle first brushes then slides along it, pushing easily into his mouth. Suddenly it seems a lot bigger than it was just a second ago, bulging at his cheeks, stretching his jaw out. As it roams over the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth, Peter draws in a shaky breath through his nose, then finally lets his jaw go slack, silently welcoming the intrusion.
With an approving murmur, it wriggles further, and just keeps… going, sinking down into the back of his throat. Peter doesn’t have a gag reflex (and that’s not a Spider-Man ability, okay, that’s Peter Parker magic, got it?) but even still, it feels–
Well. Actually, it feels… good? No, not necessarily good, but also not bad. Satisfying. Maybe right? Yeah, it feels right. Foreign and strange as it is, the wriggling of that thing – deep in his throat and fluid – feels weirdly natural. A ticklish touch that seems to stroke against the walls of his throat in time with the rubbing between his legs. His whole throat relaxes and so does the rest of his body, turning soft and pliant.
Between his legs, a tentacle hooks and slides between his cheeks, rubbing at his hole. Peter squeaks, surprised, and it comes out as a wet gag.
Nice butt it snickers, running up and over the curve of his butt before sliding back down. Peter blushes, which feels ridiculous considering everything. Almost as cute as you
The tentacle rubs and presses against his hole, then pauses its movement to a slow stroke. Against him, Peter feels it throb a big blob of liquid from the tip, then slide back and forth between his cheeks to spread the lubricant around evenly. Once it's thoroughly slick, it stops to push at the ring of muscle until it pops past, finding little resistance with as thin as it is.
Pushing in deep, the limb goes still, absently flexing to stretch him out. On the contrary, the one down his throat gives a lazy sort of thrust, pressing and bulging against his throat.
Physically, it doesn't feel particularly pleasurable – mostly it just feels kind of weird and thick in his throat, like sickness – but mentally, it makes him feel… used, like a toy. The thought is white hot and lights his brain up, and everything seems to jerk and twitch, a moan muffled and wet against the gag Wade has made him.
Apparently noticing all of this, a little tentacle wraps firmly around his t-dick, which is just big enough to give a few lazy strokes to. Tugged in time with the thrusting down his esophagus makes it all feel like one fluid thing through his body, and the tentacles inside him feel like he's completely full, like Wade is touching him everywhere. Everywhere except–
There's a pressure again against his puffy, slick entrance, a mortifying squelching sound even as just the tip of the tentacle pushes inside him. Peter feels panic flare through him at the sheer thickness of the rest of it, gasping (and subsequently choking and coughing around the blockage in his throat) as his walls clench down, trying to prevent it from pushing any deeper.
TOO BIG he thinks frantically, as loud as he can, and each of Wade's tentacles pause where they are, considering this. Suddenly, he feels the thing give a little shudder and then… thin out, shrinking inside him with a weird, liquid movement. A question lingers silently between them – ??? – and Peter realizes it's checking to see if the size is comfortable.
It's… weirdly sweet, or it would be, except right as Peter feels the relief wash over him – acceptance, confirmation, yes that's okayness – the limb shivers and thickens again, swelling back to its original size like it's filling back up with something viscous, as if just to prove that it could make itself smaller but that it won’t. The sound Peter gurgles in response is incoherent but disapproving all the same, and Wade's snicker is teasing.
It's okay princess
You can handle it
As the tentacle pushes deeper, a dozen other tiny ones flick and caress his skin. Peter was right – it's big, falling well over the line of too big, and fitting inside is a struggle despite how turned on Peter is, despite how he purposely unclenches to make the entry easier. Wade, however, was also right – the stretch hurts but it isn't just manageable, it's good, a pleasurable ache as he's slowly split open.
It's also intense, more intense than anything he's ever felt – more intense than it maybe should be, something all-consuming, a feeling that seems to engulf his whole body. Even if his mouth weren't already wrenched open like it is, it would be wide open around his ragged, wet gasps, spit rolling down his chin in little sticky rivulets, even though he's having infinitely more success breathing through his nose. Muscles in his back spasm and twitch erratically, which Wade soothes over with soft, patient strokes. By the time it's bottomed out, Peter's legs have started shaking from exertion, his eyelids droopy and impossibly heavy.
For a minute it just sits, flexing slowly in the wet heat of his body, like it also needs time to adjust. The thing is so deep and big that it feels like it's in his stomach, each throb and twitch against his cervix pulsing and squirming in the very pit of his belly.
The stillness doesn't last long enough, though, and the first thrust is bruising and sudden, enough to make tears spring to his eyes. A tentacle pries at his clenched fingers and slips beneath them, giving him something to hold onto, but even as he white-knuckles it Wade doesn't slow the pace – tentacles fucking into him hard from every angle, stuffing him full in ways he can't even fully comprehend. Everything just becomes sensation, the heady feeling of being pushed and pulled and pinched and manipulated like a ragdoll, intoxicating and mind-numbing.
Gripping desperately at the tentacle in his hands, Peter tries to use it to tether himself to reality, but still finds it slipping uselessly through his fingers, the very concept of it shifting around like loose sand, as pliant and malleable as he is. The world seems to fluctuate and narrow to the tentacles twitching and throbbing, the constant and simultaneous in-out, out-in, bending and twisting his body at will. He’s always been flexible but when he goes lax, he might as well be made of gelatin, limp and soft as he just lets himself be – used. That's definitely what it is now – no other word for the way he's being folded in half and fucked right now.
Except he's not just being fucked, he's being bred. Right now he's nothing more than a few holes to be pumped full, and even worse, he likes it. Even the shame of it all, a thick thing stuffed down his throat alongside Wade's tentacle, isn't enough to stop the incessant tug in his stomach, the tightening, the coiling. The way his eyes glaze over and his mind goes blank as he simply loses himself to his base instinct.
There's something happening in his mind, thoughts or communication, but his brain seems like it's wrapped in fuzz, coiled around it like TV static. Squeezing and prodding and… cramming his thoughts all full…
God, even his brain is being fucked. No part of him left untouched, uninfluenced.
Poor thing Wade coos suddenly, and Peter flinches and jerks, the voice like an unexpected, searing touch down the length of his spine. Trying so hard to pretend
Isn't this so much easier?
You're right where you belong
Yes, Peter thinks deliriously, and then about a hundred more variations of that, thoughts somehow slurred and sticky, yesyesyeahyuhhuhyeahyesyeah. A second later there's another lazy pump to his cock, and Peter doesn't know how he knows but he knows, he knows it's a reward, a reward for being obedient, for knowing his place, for inadvertently admitting that Wade knew best. It only takes three strokes for him to come, which should be embarrassing, except everything is just – white, for a second, as he spasms and clenches and flutters, unpredictable and rhythmless, body too overwhelmed with the all-consuming stimulation for his movements to be anything but sporadic and instinctive.
It just seems never-ending – there isn't a moment where the tentacles slow their pace, even when his body starts riding the thin edge between pleasure and pain, or when he careens right off the edge into pure overstimulation. Legs shaking down to his toes, body trying to wrench away from the unrelenting pounding, the constant rubbing on his clit which twitches and throbs as wetness leaks down his inner thighs in hot, sticky pulses.
Reflexively his legs try to clamp together, but strong, flexible limbs keep them pushed and wrenched apart, pressing until they're spread as wide as they physically can be. Normally Peter would find this humiliating, being put on display like this, exposed and shown off, but all he can focus on is the needle-y, tingly sensation running through him like an electric current. Inside him, Wade thickens again – greedy, like it's trying to stuff him behind his limits, mold him until he fits it just right, until he's built for it – and something tightens again in his stomach, coasting right off his last orgasm, a build so quick it gives him whiplash.
Ffuuuuck, he thinks, and then, fuck, ohh fuck, fuck, a litany of dumb thoughts that seem to leak out his ears – or maybe out his cunt, who's to say. The only thing which breaks the barrier of pure stupid is the trill of Wade's smug laughter.
That's right, Pete it praises, condescending, That's exactly what we're doing
Good job
Hateyou Peter thinks furiously, even though he can't bring himself to mean it, Hateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhhhh–
The second orgasm rocks through him like nothing he's ever felt before, splitting his brain in two, a sudden thing that feels like it had no build-up. The sound he makes is animal, all gagging and wet and overwhelmed as tentacles crook inside his throat and against his cervix. Fingernails dig into alien flesh, body contracting at random like he's possessed, which – he may as well be possessed, owned. For one delirious, orgasm-hazed moment he thinks, that doesn't seem so bad – just being kept here, all wrapped up and stuffed full and…
When he comes back to himself, he's crying, face all gross and damp with tears and spit. He's still completely full, but each tentacle has gone still, fluctuating and pulsing – a wet, hot, sticky sensation inside his body, sliding in thick spurts down his throat and pumping him full to the fucking brim. Too lazy and sated to care much about the implications of being filled up with load after load of weird tentacle monster cum, Peter just relaxes, basking in the feeling of being all warm inside, of every inch of his body being stroked and appreciated. Absently he tongues at the limb still shoved down his throat, and he doesn't stop until the flow finally slows and stops, and it pulls out of his mouth with a sloppy noise, a gag, and a fresh spill of spit down his chin.
His first attempt to make a noise comes out weak, strained, ache-y. When the tentacle in his hair releases its grip and slides down to support his neck, there's an uncomfortable, throbbing pain at the base of his skull that doesn't let up. Despite it, he finds himself soothed as another limb strokes softly through his curls, eyelids fluttering sleepily.
Good boy Wade murmurs affectionately. Big tentacles around his hips, coiled around his waist, slowly tilt him backwards until he's practically tipped upside down. In an effort to keep himself feeling stabilized, Peter winds his arms around the big tentacle he's been gripping in his hands, hugging it to him like a big teddy bear.
For a second, he braces himself for the feeling of being empty – of Wade pulling out, of the way he'll feel all weird and stretched and cold afterward – but it never comes. Instead, something throbs against the soft, slick skin between his legs, then thickens and… knots up, the flesh forming a big, fleshy knob settled just against his entrance. Loopy and stupid as he feels, Peter can't quite grasp what it is until it pushes and pushes and finally pops past his entrance, stretching his hole around it, keeping him nice and plugged up. The noise Peter makes in response is desperate and scratchy and his head lolls gently to the side, pushing into the tentacle carefully playing with coils of brown hair as his eyes squeeze shut. Settling in for the long haul, he squishes and pets the limb he's got wrapped in his arms.
You're as perfect as I imagined it purrs softly. Touches feather over his temple and cheek and brush so soft down his sides and back, his whole body still faintly trembling and pulsating. Take care of you
“Www,” Peter says, then coughs weakly into the cold, dark air, voice raspy and thin. Throat burning with the exertion of speech so quickly after having such a ginormous thing shoved down his esophagus. Still, he tries again. “Wade.”
Pete
Shaking his head, Peter gazes off somewhere into the darkness, slowly feeling the fuzz dissipate from his mind. His hand strokes an even rhythm down the length of the tentacle. Legs lazily coiling around the one still curled between his thighs, wrapping himself around it. There's an urge, always, to touch after sex – to cuddle and wrap himself around a partner like a sleepy cat. Maybe it shouldn't be like that now, but it is. It's worse, in fact. There's just something addictive about it, about the presence of another entity squashed inside his skull, about the way he can feel Wade's emotions like they're his own, concern and fondness and something a lot deeper, sort of ancient and animal. About how determined Wade was to keep him here, no matter how – inappropriate? Immoral? – the methods may have been. Peter isn't used to being obsessed over like this. It's flattering. It feels weirdly safe, secure.
As he’s sort-of considering this, sort-of just spacing off, a small tentacle crooking under his chin brings him back to reality, coaxing him from his thoughts.
Hi
“Mm. Hi.”
Okay
?
“I'm okay,” Peter wheezes what might be a laugh. Contemplatively running his hand over the tentacle, feeling gnarled, rough flesh beneath his hand. Given everything that just happened, it seems almost silly to be thinking about the reason he came in the first place, and yet… “Wade?”
Think you said that already
“Shut up,” Peter mumbles. The limb under his hand sways meaninglessly, curling and pressing into each stroke. Even touching it is a stark reminder of the whole… situation. Is Peter going to get pregnant? He's been on birth control since the moment he was old enough to go on it. Who's to say they're even compatible, species-wise? Can you get an alien abortion? Whatever. These are Future Peter problems.
“Will you come home?” He asks finally. “Please?”
Back to the lab
?
“Yeah. Come back to the lab.” Still staring into the dark, Peter tries his best for puppy dog eyes. Whether puppy dog eyes are an effective tactic against a stubborn alien made of amorphous goo and tentacles is yet to be seen. “With me?”
There's a feeling like consideration. The stubbornness, the unwillingness to give up even one thing that it owns – Peter or the cave, which is more valuable. Oddly, Peter experiences the whole thing alongside Wade, unsure of how intentional it is, how much it's trying to share and how much just slips through. Surely it knows that it could keep Peter here, anyway – against his will, if it had to – but Peter can't tell one way or the other what it thinks of such a scenario. Maybe it suspects that the others would find him eventually, regardless, or maybe it doesn't care to trap Peter if he doesn't want to be. Eventually, it thinks a grumbly thing and quivers like it's giving a big, resigned sigh.
No more jars
“No more jars.” Peter agrees easily.
Or aquariums
“Or aquariums.” He agrees again.
Want to be with you
This makes Peter smile, inexplicably. He looks down. “Sure. I’ll figure something out.”
Promise?
“Promise.”
Distrust. Hesitation. It doesn't trust the others, that's what Peter thinks. It's weighing options again. Peter tries not to feel too egotistical when he comes out on top, again.
Okay
Want to be where my Petey is
“Yeesh,” Peter snorts, but he's 100%, undoubtedly blushing, which seems a little insane and ridiculous, considering. Apparently pleased with this reaction, Wade purrs and pets the side of his face. “Never woulda pegged you for such a sap.”
Only for you Petey-pie
…
“I told you,” Sighing, Peter leans back in the quinjet and stares at the ceiling. Shame burning the back of his neck, he couldn’t even bring himself to even look at the Iron Man suit, much less make eye contact with the man inside it. “I just asked it to come, and it came with me.”
“Just came with you,” Tony scoffs at the idea, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.
“I think it likes me,” Peter mutters. Every shift in his seat calls attention to the dried liquids between his legs, all sticky and caked on the skin. He had to sew his suit back up there with his emergency kit, and he can feel the seam in all the wrong places no matter which way he moves.
In his lap, Wade shifts and sloshes inside its air-sealed glass container. Peter doesn't know how, but he knows it's laughing at him. Vindictively, Peter flicks the glass, but Wade just taps it right back.
Rolling his eyes at the ceiling, Peter coils his arms around Wade's container to hug it closer, and Tony makes a displeased noise.
“I see you two are close now. Had a little bonding retreat, did you?”
Unable to help himself, Peter snorts a laugh – his voice was the hardest thing to explain, and he's still not sure Tony was fully convinced by his flimsy excuse – and closes his eyes.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “You could say something like that.”