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i gotcha now

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[object Object] https://i.imgur.com/JthpHRG.png

yes i recycled it whatcha gonna do 'bout it big guy?

[nick]Peter Parker[/nick][status]hot mess[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/UJ9szky.png[/icon][fandom]marvel[/fandom][char]Питер Паркер[/char][lz]your friendly neighborhood spider-man with one doubtful fan base[/lz]

[object Object]

Отредактировано Aleksandr Privalov (2021-12-20 16:43:31)



It's always the small stuff that gets you. Messed up sink in the bathroom, burned tortillas, no calls from your best friend. Or was it him who didn't pick up the phone? With such pace, I guess, we'll never know. Who's talking, by the way? Cut the balls. The bullet zips past my crotch.

All of this accumulates somewhere in the sternum, then creeps dangerously upwards, gets cozy in both temples. Then it explodes. Hard to tell, what's up. Whether it is the consequence of constant stress or quite literally several through-and-through wounds in my head. I am bored to death. Ah, that's why you decided to commit the most boring suicide ever? Shhh, be quiet, por favor. I didn't finish. No fancy bug villains or bloodthursty Clifford the Big Red Dog on the loose. No international trips or intergalactic threats. Just good old ultra-violence with good old scum of earth.

How many goons does it take to fuck up one merc? This time I am giving people a small joy of feeling superior. The relief in their eyes makes me a bit salty. I lazily pew pew my way to a brick wall. Oh, Barbara, what a day.

⁠— Ayo, I count to three, we stop shooting and go for a lunch, — I put hand to my mouth, giggling.

I spit teeth and soft tissue on my boots. The alley and my torso is like the fourth of July. Leaky'n'sticky.

I can't hear shit with all of this fuss, but I can bet there's an irony of starts aligning this way. I want to warn Spidey and he def would ignore me. Never listens to his elders.
and I oop

I take a quick pause before looking right into the eyes of anyone who will see this.
⁠— This is a love story.

⁠Somehow I taste my guts in my mouth and I would tell you another time how I know its them. The gunpowder smell mixes with other nasty stuff, blink and you missed it, if you live in New York you get used to shite and piss smell. It's the ambiance for me. I want to tell Spidey-pants not to bother scraping my shit from asphalt because no one cares. I am not tired but my exploding head says - yo, take a nap, pal. And who am I to say no to such offer.

[icon]https://64.media.tumblr.com/c5a085912ed2c48d2fa5206e207ea324/tumblr_o2mzznFBz31qkq3ido5_400.png[/icon][nick]Wade Wilson[/nick][sign] [/sign][lz]I'm on a skits mission with the bois[/lz][char]Уэйд Уилсон[/char][fandom]marvel[/fandom][status]GOD BLESS[/status]

Отредактировано 2D (2021-12-19 13:52:47)



Enter Peter Parker, a 24-year-old grad student from Queens on his way to the library /from a different library; and yes, he changes them during the day, he's sleep-deprived and doesn't have Wi-Fi, also, studies have shown that taking small breaks between hardcore preparation for your finals can actually improve your brain capacity, so fuck off/ when he hears an old lady addressing the barista:

'Excuse me, young man. I just saw that poor Spider-boy getting beaten in an alley, can you call 911, please? My son bought me a new phone and I don't know how...'

‘Sir. Hey, sir! Your coffee.’
‘Dang it. Can I refund it?’
‘Can you refund a freshly made cup of coffee?’

That’s how he ends up half-naked behind a garbage can, one hand zipping up the spider-suit, another – holding onto a 12-dollar-Starbucks-iced-mocha which Pete can only afford once a month on particularly shitty days thanks to NY ever-increasing prices. It has an Easter rabbit on its right side and his name on its left one, so Peter makes sure to cover it before jumping out of his ridiculous hideout /but then again, he is yet to encounter a hideout capable of making his entrance an ounce more graceful/.   

Talking about shitty days – the SpIdEr-bOy, though in full ammo, somehow is getting his ass handed to him in front of an anxious group of pigeons. Every single one out of the six gentlemen Deadpool decided to harass is in possession of a gun, but those don’t bother Pete as much as jesus-mother-loving-christ is that a grenade? so he stops contemplating whether or not let his presence known in order to avoid friendly fire and just goes for it:


Pete manages to attach one of the goons to the wall – he’s dripping blood from where DP’s bullet engraved itself into his collarbone – and slip on the pavement but remain his posture. The coffee, though, lands directly into somebody's guts in unsettling resemblance to a Banksy painting made of Slurpee.

‘Jeez, do I need to upgrade my boots for our next patrol? It keeps happening’ – Peter says half-jockingly, because the other half is too busy going bananas in the frenzy of his spider-sense, and he looks around still in time to say: ‘Hey, something's wrong…’ – before the whole concept of wrong shifts in front of his eyes.

Not to brag in traumatised or something but by 24 Pete has seen his fair share of exploding heads. DP being DP had to outdo every single one of them, though. Peter actually notices him winking before his ears fly all the way to North Dakota, and the street gets quiet for a second.
It’s the deafening kind of silence which rips your heart out to give you time;
it’s the shocked inhale when you don’t even have a familiar face to say goodbye to;
it’s contained madness, saved for later, exquisite leftovers to fuck you up from inside out

‘No. Wait. Wait a second.’
He exhales. Police sirens are going nuts one block away, and Peter knows it’s his Morse code for ‘get the fuck out of here’ but his knees go numb and he just stands there.

Which, in hindsight, is not the smartest thing to do while being surrounded by a handful of people with heavy armoury. 

‘Get the bug’.
'Arachnids aren’t bugs, moron.’
‘I’ll do it myself.’

[nick]Peter Parker[/nick][status]hot mess[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/UJ9szky.png[/icon][fandom]marvel[/fandom][char]Питер Паркер[/char][lz]your friendly neighborhood spider-man with one doubtful fan base[/lz]



Technically, it could be a dirt nap, but it's just a nap, okay? There's no permanence, as it is defined by the dictionary. And I definitely have zero rest every time it happens. You whine quite a lot lately, have you noticed that? I really closed my eyes for a moment before skeleton hand cups my face and presses it to strangely warm breasts. Were they always warm like this or it's an afterglow of having your head go woohoo? I kinda hope to level up my face with Death and see the smug British pop-star wonder Damon Albarn, but it's just a skull. A pretty skull. The one I know and kissed many times. She also knows me well, and I would say she is disappointed. I can't tell for sure because she has no facial muscles and we're not in 90s comics, no one really draws angry skulls like that anymore.

I am standing there, several feet apart from my still pathetically twitching body. Puto, pendejo, cabron. If I knew Spidey would be here, I'd wear my best leopard print thongs. I could have known, could I?

— Bae, long time no see, I missed you.  — I really did, before I kinda revoked my desire to die like a backstabbing, conniving piece of shit without putting a fight. — Listen, I really need to go back for a moment, uh.

I see how Spidey gets, how they say it in Russian, опиздюлен. He really shouldn't be here, poor little bastard. No glimpse of thought in those drawn on his mask plate-eyes. Or maybe that's my reflection. Wait a min...

Wade, it's not how it works, — she murmurs.

Oh, how she does that silky sexy little voice of hers, she doesn't have vocal cords. Get you a woman who can do that, I tell ya. I kinda feel impatient now that I have a reason for that. She still soothes the nape of my neck, makes me want to forget for a moment.

— Bae, c'mon, don't be a bitch.
Call me a bitch again, Wade. — I bite my tongue as she tightens her grip, changing the mood. — That's what I thought.

I feel like someone just slapped me with a wet fish. Okay, Batman, we take it from here. I guess all I can do is memorize the van where they shove him and enjoy the moment with her, sucking on those sharp phalanges. I'm glad he didn't see me like this. He saw your shit splattered like Pollock's vomit projectile. He can handle some finger-sucking.  Also, true.
anyway, so.
I am more than convinced I could chill a bit more there, especially when things get naughty between two... I don't really know how it's called. Death is not a ghost, right? Anyway. I am sure Spidey is not counting his teeth or his ribs, or... I asked her if he's gonna be okay. She didn't answer me, but I swear there was hope in her eyes sockets. She better not be lying to me. Or else.

Also, aside from fuckery back there in the alley, I need somehow not to retraumatize him by crashing everyone who laid a finger on him into a potato soup. Hope he loves potatoes tho. Or soup. I wave off pink hearts floating around my head. Not now, c'mon. I need to save a spider princess from big bad docks.

[nick]Wade Wilson[/nick][status]GOD BLESS[/status][icon]https://64.media.tumblr.com/c5a085912ed2c48d2fa5206e207ea324/tumblr_o2mzznFBz31qkq3ido5_400.png[/icon][sign] [/sign][fandom]marvel[/fandom][char]Уэйд Уилсон[/char][lz]I'm on a a skits mission with the bois[/lz]



Peter isn’t impressed with himself. Hanging from a ceiling like a particularly fancy piece of jamón wrapped in iron chains, he wakes up to a dark empty room / and boy is the room inside of him all swollen and dark too / only to notice the mocha cup on the floor right in the middle, with his stupid name facing his stupid unmasked… well. Face. fuck.   

If Aunt May could see him now she would totally let his language slide despite a life-long rule against profanities.
That’s how unimpressive this all is.
fuck fuck fuck   

Peter wiggles in his portable metal cage but whoever came up with it had enough idea of what Spider-Man is actually like not to allow any movement whatsoever, so the only thing he achieves is a bunch of 180 degrees swirls which echo through the walls and wake up the invisible force outside. By the way the floors shake, Pete muses about whether his captor is an old pal or if there’s some heavy competition in town but a familiar football head enters the room before its pump body and Peter doesn’t know how to feel about his correct guess - relieved or petrified.

Random criminals don’t care about his identity unless they can sell it to someone, but Fisk will sure use every bit of leverage he can get – that’s the difference between mob bosses and caricature villains like Doc Ock. Granted, they’d known each other even before the accident and there might be something humane still left in Otto preventing him from coming after everything Peter holds dear, but he's not the first to unveil his secret and keep it to himself. It’d be foolish to expect the same thing from the Kingpin, though.       
‘Oh, hey, Willie. Nice torture chamber. Have you redecorated?’ Peter says through an apparent / well, now it is apparent, okay? / gag in his mouth.

Spider-manning 101: never let your enemies know how exhausted, scared, or scarred by a sudden loss you are; first of all, little daisies of clogged blood on your flower field of a face will speak for themselves, second – power feasts on fear, therefore whatever little power you have kept will stick to you as long as you don’t exchange it willingly. 

‘Who the hell is that?’
‘That’s Spider-man, boss.’

For a second Fisk’s face gets so close to Peter’s, he can recognise little wrinkles around the Kingpin’s eyes while the man’s drilling into Spidey with the fierce of a thousand suns, and it’s incredibly unsettling. Eventually, he steps back and adjusts his tie in that determined manner that usually brings all the bad decisions on the table.

‘Tell me, Sally. How old do you think he is?’
Sally is doomed, Peter thinks with a mix of sympathy and regret. What the fuck is this goddamn day?
‘Well… He’s about… About twenty? Twenty two?’
‘Ah-ha. So, if I’ve had that pest around for eight years now…’
/ oh, Willie, you remembered! /
‘…how can this child be Spider-man, Sal? Do you think a twelve-year-old caused all that mess at the Rockafellar’s?
/ technically, he didn’t cause the mess, he cleaned it up and right before Christmas too, but whatever /

Fisk almost breaks Pete's jaw trying to ungag him, and it’s good old improv time when it finally happens. Peter has to soften his voice slightly which is the direct opposite of what he used to do in his teens.
‘Who’re you?’
‘I’m…’ there’s no denying the name now, it’s still staring him in the eye from where Fisk crashed it with his big boy’s shoes, but Pete still has to inhale because saying it aloud feels so incredibly wrong, ‘Peter. My name’s Peter. I’m… I’m… a cosplayer.’
‘A what?'   
‘Cosplayer, boss. Young people pretend to be different superheroes, or anime characters, or book and movie characters by making clothes and various kinds of armour; it’s quite cool actually.’
’Shut the fuck up, Sal.’ 
‘So. You pretend to be Spider-man?’
‘Only for special events. Not in everyday life!’ Pete says trying to sound scandalised with the assumption. ‘I was on my way to one when I heard an old lady saying she saw Spider-man nearby. I decided to check for myself, and that’s when… when…’ his voice almost turns normal for a second, as if pushing gravel through his vocal cords, and Pete has to silence himself before this ridiculous façade crumbles. The thought of playing along is unbearable when in reality all he wants to say is

‘I hope you’ve missed Ryker’s because I won’t eat, sleep or stop until you’re rotting there with your three life sentences, you fucking human garbage’.   

If it wasn’t for Aunt May he wouldn't care; there’s not much he has to lose these days.

‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Wilson, boss.’
‘That roach again.’ he exhales, shrinking like an enormous ballon doll in the middle of winter, and gazes at Peter with a half-smile. ‘Don’t you know better than to wear the scum’s costume around the city?’
‘Well, they don’t sell yours at superhero conventions. Sir.’
Fisk’s smile widens and he actually cackles.
‘Get rid of him, boys.'

[nick]Peter Parker[/nick][status]hot mess[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/oEerLu5.png[/icon][fandom]marvel[/fandom][char]Питер Паркер[/char][lz]your friendly neighborhood spider-man with one doubtful fan base[/lz]



Un, dos, tres, cuatro, just like Cupcakke taught you. Instead of CPR, you slice a ham sandwich out of morons who thought it was a good idea to stand against me. Side note: I feel this is the wrong timeline to quote her. Smarter goons have already left the territory, deciding that Kingpin's wrath is actually not that bad. Both ways to go see St. Peter like that suck, I don't blame them. You should understand one thing. I am the motherfucking force you reckon with. That to say, I dump several dead bodies from the window close to the ceiling.

— Woohoo, come get me Kingpin, Imma slap the shit out of you.

I am awfully quiet, am I?

I make a short call during the interlude.
— Yeah, — his voice is kinda sexy, ngl.
— Listen, Devil, you gotta take care of that Fisk guy. Or else.
I can say all types of nasty stuff. Beating around the bush feels good, but not now.
— Who's that?
Oh, he got tense and shit. I wipe katana's blade with my sleeve. Hey, Matt, how many fingers I show you right now?
— A very concerned citizen.
I hang up on him like he is a bitch and he owes me. I'm not sure what's up with all of these ethical dilemmas. Just push the motherfucker under the bus. Or, to feel less guilty, pull the leverage. Do something. Okay, who's next on my contact list?

this episode is provided to you with the support of "who the fuck cares about continuity".
"who the fuck cares about continuity", like, for real?

I notice the back of Spidey's head and sign. Oh, it will be a little bit harder than I thought, not to peekaboo into his face and spoil all anonymity things. I shouldn't, should I?

— Dude, close your eyes and hide your face for God's sake, — I yell at Spidey and get on my tiptoes to jump on Fisk.

That's a great suggestion, thanks Diane, because in seconds I am throwing guts left and right. Fisk is not an idiot, so he kinda backs off and tries to stay as unnoticeable as the fact that his people blew my head out and kidnapped a cosplayer (I'm not gonna tell them, Spidey). When the dust settles, there's no one alive in the room except me and Spidey, and I slap the palm on my eyes. The floor under my boots sounds like a good pussy.

— I will not look, Spidey, hang on, — I snap chains and he falls like a bag of cornmeal. — Listen, whatever you think - don't. — Awesome advice. Do you follow it often?

[nick]Wade Wilson[/nick][status]GOD BLESS[/status][icon]https://64.media.tumblr.com/c5a085912ed2c48d2fa5206e207ea324/tumblr_o2mzznFBz31qkq3ido5_400.png[/icon][sign] [/sign][fandom]marvel[/fandom][char]Уэйд Уилсон[/char][lz]I'm on a a skits mission with the bois[/lz]



'Sure, using what exactly? My incredible willpower?’ Pete yells back, catching some human dust with his lungs when katanas start to dance around. He is still chained up to the ceiling way too well to even inhale properly (which, given the situation, is actually an advantage – nothing is as difficult to get rid of as somebody else’s bodily fluids vaporised into your face /the kind of knowledge you get for hanging around mercs/).

To be fair, the subconscious part of Pete’s mind is thankful for this sudden break, and the way the chains resemble an anxiety blanket (if anxiety blankets possessed any ability to strangle a person in their sleep), because, brewed in his own intoxicating shock, Pete goes through different stages of grief in one incredible power jump, landing somewhere in between annoyance and horror.

By the time DP is finished, the place looks like a graveyard / though, come to think of it, graveyards are usually solemn and Poesque, so maybe a slaughterhouse would be a better comparison / covered in goo, and Pete falls onto the floor with a nauseating feeling in his gut, halfway to the surface picking between a graceful leap and getting his mask on as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the former has to go for the sake of the latter (they both know DP has infamously bad self-restraint when it comes to all things hidden / he once spent three days with no food or sleep in order to get all the Riddler’s easter eggs in the Arkham Knight /).

There’s the kind of silence between them which feels intense – mostly, because Pete radiates intensity – and grows with every second. He is so overwhelmed with emotion, he has no idea how to unravel it into something simpler, something he’ll be able to deal with without a meltdown in this satanic circle of rearranged human limbs.

‘You!’ he starts in a fierce but somehow wickedly wounded tone of voice, and points a finger at Deadpool, digging it into the man’s chest as if reaching for his heart, ‘THIS WHOLE TIME YOU’VE BEEN IMMORTAL AND YOU DIDN’T BOTHER TO TELL ME? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!’ his therapist / just kidding, he’s a Columbia student, not a Colombia drug lord – where would he get himself a therapist? / anyhow, his behavioural psychology 101 course book would tell him that a big percentage of suppressed emotions eventually turn into anger (and anger sometimes turns into angry tears, it’s complicated) so whatever he feels is normal. Yet, it comes as little consolation.

‘And this… this over here…’ Pete gestures over the Tarantino scene they’re experiencing first hand and drills the whites of his mask into DP’s nonchalant facial expression. ‘Why? WHY??? Sweet Jesus, I need to sit down.’ Wade’s mouth goes agape, and Peter hurries to interrupt what can only be a face-riding joke, ‘Don’t even think of it.'

[nick]Peter Parker[/nick][status]hot mess[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/UJ9szky.png[/icon][fandom]marvel[/fandom][char]Питер Паркер[/char][lz]your friendly neighborhood spider-man with one doubtful fan base[/lz]


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