A/N: WARNING: This is a MATURE fic. It will involve violence, gore, strong language, gratuitous sex, dubious consent, and BDSM themes. 

Peter is well and truly doomed if not even the snow can smother the growing ache. It fills the empty spaces of his skull with static, bouncing off the soft tissue of his brain with a prickling that's too sharp to be comfortable. It leaves him feeling overstuffed, pushing at the seams of his head and bleeding excess fluid out of his ears.

Once upon a time, the snow would've only messed with his senses, smearing them like paint across a child's canvas, leaving him disorientated and aching for a bottle of Tylenol. Relying on his reflexes as much as he did, he used to despise it, hating the way it muddled the world around him. Now, though, he'd do anything just to get a taste of that drunken confusion again.

Now, his brain is too full. Too laden. Too much. It plants a headache so deep into his brain, rooting behind his eyes and growing like a tumor, that he feels less like a human being and more like an organism attached to a one-sided symbiote—just along for the ride, but suffering all the consequences.

Even as his head is bursting at the seams, and his senses are the equivalent of a drunkard trying to dance the Tango, the world is still frustratingly, painfully sharp.

Tires screech against the asphalt. Cars honk and veer. A mother screams.

Peter shakes his head hard and crosses the street without looking for oncoming traffic. There is none. At least, not for him. Cars zip in front and behind him, honking their horns as they narrowly miss his leg or arm, and he closes his eyes, massaging his temples in an attempt to alleviate the ache as images and impressions push against his brain, heavy with unwanted precognition.

A cabbie getting distracted on his phone, veering too close to the sidewalk. He will not see the little girl stopping to pick up her fallen glove. Her mothers' shriek pierces the air, shrill and horrified, as blood paints the sidewalk.

Peter sees it all like a movie playing behind his eyelids. The world, already moving at a snail's pace, becomes even slower as the events begin to unfold like the butterfly wings of Edward Lorenz's chaos theory.

He rubs his temple harder, narrowly missing a truck's headlight, and pauses to let a car zoom past. Down the street to his right, the cab is already veering towards the sidewalk just as a little girl in a bright pink raincoat stumbles and drops her mitten. Peter groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he makes it to the other side of the street and curls his hand in the collar of her coat, and pulls her away just as the cabbie curses and yanks on the steering wheel, coming up on the sidewalk and jerking back down, narrowly hitting another car. The people on the street jump back in panic, some scream, some curse, and the mother, realizing how close her daughter was to losing her head, gathers her into her body with wide eyes, hand splayed over the girl's pigtails. Her face drains of color, her mouth is open in horror, and her eyes flicker to Peter—he also knows this, despite his back being turned. He's already seen it.

"Thank you," she calls after him, gratitude puffing from her lips in a warm cloud of condensed breath that is snatched up by the cold greed of the winter wind, but Peter is already gone, engulfed by the multitude of people crowding the street.

His headache swells, throbbing now, and his face scrunches in discomfort. He digs his nails into his head until his fingers turn white.

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He doesn't know why he keeps coming back to New York City. He's tried running from it; rinsing off its stench, its filth, its life, like a layer of grime, but it's sunk too deep into his skin to ever truly be clean. The city dug its hooks too deeply into the meat of his body to ever truly free him, tethering him to its concrete floors and blood-mattered walls like a hog for slaughter.

Truly, he despises its overbearing closeness, its painful noise, and its habit of getting into trouble—resulting in the infestation of heroes and vigilantes that fight to hold off the rot. And yet, he feels more at peace amongst its clamor than any other city or metropolis he's wandered through. It sands his rough edges into smooth curves, settles his rippling frustrations into calm waters, and spreads across his skin like an oily balm. To fall back into its embrace is like sinking into the arms of an abusive mother—a painful ordeal that tears apart all the hastily sewn stitches keeping him together, but, oh, how he can't help but crave her love.

He let his feet drag him from street to street for a while, uncaring for where they'll take him, and unsurprised about where he ends up. The building in front of him is old and weathered, an old recreational center for troubled kids now refurbished as a homeless center for anyone down on their luck. An old potted plant—with a long-since dead plant inside—keeps one of the double doors propped open, just wide enough to let passersby know it's open for the public, but closed enough to keep most of the winter chill out. The banner strung above the door is wet and hanging limply to one side, and the words FEAST CENTER are faded where once they were colorful and inviting.

Temptation pools in the tips of his fingers, making his hands feel heavy. It would be so easy to walk inside and find a spot next to one of the space heaters to chase away the cold. Or play a game of chess with one of the elders always looking for a young ear to impart life lessons and bits of wisdom. The smell of soup wafts through the crack, barely enough to carry on the wind, but Peter catches it with all ten of his fingers and digs into it with his nails. It's brothy, with onions, meat, and vegetables, meant to fill the stomach and warm you up from the inside out.

The temptation becomes an itch.

He knows the hands that spent hours preparing that soup. A meal as familiar to him as these streets. More, even. He can taste the broth on his tongue, feel it warm up every nook and cranny of his being. He'd come home from school on cold winter days to a bowl of this very soup, cheeks red and glasses fogged.

The longing feels like a dagger right through Peter's ribs. Looking only makes it hurt worse, but he can't take it out less he bleed to death.

He takes a step towards the door and then turns on his heels, fleeing in the opposite direction.

His apartment is the same as when he left it.

Nothing is changed, nothing is missing, and nothing has been added. It's dark, and his head will only throb worse if he turns on the light, so he shuts the door behind him and tosses his coat to the side, weaving his way through the darkened apartment with a practiced ease he doesn't even need his spider-sense for.

The parties Harry threw in here. The late-night talks and movie marathons. Studying on the couch with his books spread out on the coffee table. Bleeding out in the bathtub connected to his room. Hiding the bloodied towels from Harry, who insisted that the dryer kept eating them up.

Peter veers to the small kitchen and grabs an icy bottle from the fridge—some alcohol drink he'd randomly grabbed from the corner store down the street the last time he was here—and presses it to his forehead, hoping it'll numb the ache.

Groaning, he collapses onto the couch, an arm and leg dangling over the side, as the cushions bend comfortably around the curves of his body, akin to falling into the embrace of an old lover. He lets the darkness comfort him as a drop of condensation slides down the glass bottle and collects on his skin. He takes a deep breath of air that he holds hostage in his chest for as long as he can—8-10 minutes, give or take—and then releases it.

The old octogenarian couple living next door, who's been there ever since Peter started and graduated college—and will probably still be there long after he's died—are watching the same 80's sitcom they have been for the last 10 years. Someone new had moved into the apartment downstairs—a baby monitor crackles like aluminum foil in his ears (it's a wonder the baby can even sleep), and the man living upstairs has another woman over to fill the time as his wife works a night shift at the hospital several blocks away.

"Yeah, like that, baby. Just like that," he pants as the bed rustles and the frame rhythmically thumps against the wall.

Peter cringes and throws an arm over his eyes. His sleeves catch onto the prickly hairs beginning to grow along his jawline and he makes a mental note to shave before he leaves New York. He never did look good with a beard.

"A five o'clock shadow, yes," MJ said, running her manicured hands along his jaw, scratching at it with her nails like she'd trim it for him personally, "but a beard? Sorry babe, but it's just not you."

Peter had been offended at the time, but after letting it grow and fester like a ratty alley cat—and after receiving a shaving kit from Flash as a birthday present in May (his birthday was in August)—he accepted that he just couldn't pull it off. Not like Eddie could. The asshole.

Another moan, followed by panting and the slap of flesh-on-flesh, that Peter can't ignore no matter how hard he tries to block it out. It doesn't help that it's been a while since he's performed maintenance on his body in that way, much less had sex for the sake of pleasure. A realization his body is very unhappy with now that it's been reintroduced to the sound of coupling.

He allows himself a second to feel weird about listening to his neighbor's boning, more so that his body is actually having a reaction to it, before he sighs and unbuttons his pants and frees his already half-hard penis, giving into it. He strokes himself firmly, urging the blood to flow as quickly as possible, and closes his eyes, focusing on the rustle of the bed, the thump of the bedframe against the wall, soft breathy pants and moans, and the wet sounds of sex. It doesn't take long to get fully erect, but that's not what he's worried about.

Peter bites his lip, pumping himself faster, even as his brain sharpens, filling him in on things he doesn't care to know.

"Yeah, you like, huh." The man is going to say, so full of confidence.

"Yeah. Yeah, just like that." She's going to say back.

Peter winces at the lie but shakes his head, trying to shake it off. His head is already humming and the world is playing out in front of him, even as he scrambles to stay behind.

The laugh track from the sitcom. The old couple discusses their favorite episodes. The husband knocks into his dinner tray and shatters his glass on the floor. The baby is going to wake up and cry. The man in the room above is going to finish, and the woman is going to be disappointed.

"Yeah, you like that, huh?" He says, confident.

"Yeah. Yeah, just like that." She lies.

Peter grits his teeth. "Come on," he hisses, bucking up into his hand, desperation creeping up on him like an unwanted guest.

"Let me hear you, baby," the man is going to say. "Come on, tell me how good it is."

A laugh-track.

The woman is going to moan, pulling him closer, moving against him, seeking a friction he isn't satisfying. Peter's interest is ebbing.

"Haha, this has still gotta be one of the best episodes," the old husband says. "This one and the one when they- whoa, hey!" A glass shatters.

Peter pumps himself faster, desperate.

"Let me hear you, baby," the man says. "Come on, tell me how good it is."

The baby cries and its older brother walks into its room to soothe it.

The man finishes with a cry and the woman mimics half-heartedly. Peter lets himself go with a frustrated huff, sinking back into the couch, and pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still hard, but the moment had passed, and his interest flags. The brother below is attempting to sing his baby-sibling a lullaby, the old couple laughs and talks about their favorite moments in the show as they clean up the glass, and the woman gets up to attempt to get herself off in the shower as her lover curls up on the bed, already half asleep.

Peter could try to hold onto the sliver of heat still marinating in his gut, but there's no point. He knows this song and dance all too well, and it's just as unfulfilling as the last several times he's attempted to match its tune. There's a specific brand of dullness that comes with knowing the future. It takes away an edge he didn't realize he craved until it's sanded down and smooth.

"Hello? Spider? I have a job I think you'll find most profitable for someone of your...caliber."

Peter tucks himself away and uncaps the bottle to take a long swig, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and rifling through his bag until he finds his work phone. He stares at it in his palm, impatience growing like algae, before it finally lights up and he flips it open on the first ring.

"Yes, I'll take the job."

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Spider is the best at what he does, and what he does isn't very nice.

He likes to tell people that because it pisses Logan off. The catchphrase was slowly becoming his own, stolen like candy from a very angry, very stabby baby with cigar breath. The gnarled old mutant promised to flay his hide for it, especially on those warm, sunny days back when they were tracking operatives in Russia and there weren't better things to do with their time. Fortunately, Peter had a knack for evading the pointy end of Logan's fists, and his hide remained—more or less—intact.

As amusing as it was to print the catchphrase on business cards and slip them into Logan's wallet, it was actually surprisingly accurate for Peter, considering his "friendlier" moniker in the past. He is the best at what he does, and, well, what he does isn't very nice.

It's not very nice of him to kick the back of Slasher's arm, splitting the bone into two floppy pieces and shooting him in the face. Or was it Scratcher? Shiver? It's hard to keep track of every new name that popped up in the merc'circle jerk—though Peter was generally regarded as more of an assassin if you wanted to get technical. Not a lot of people cared for semantics, least of all poor Shrouder, who was nothing but splattered brains on the wall now.

Peter is on the ceiling before the body hits the floor and arches backward in clear defiance of gravity, throwing the knife he'd slipped from late-Skiver's belt, which impales another merc in the eyes and comes back out through the other end of their skull, messy with blood and brain matter. A valid attempt at getting the drop on him if he didn't sense them coming five minutes ago.

"Freeze! Hands in the air!" Two security guards. The one on the left is nervous and twitchy. The other has an eager trigger finger.

Peter releases the empty clip from his gun, tosses it aside, and loads a fresh clip as the sounds of feet on linoleum reach his ears. The security guards are coming up the stairwell now, jittery and full of adrenaline since the alarms went off, and they heard gunfire. Newbies, probably. Their first official breaking and entering. It's cute.

He's still got a few minutes, so he retrieves his knife from where it embedded itself into the wall and cleans it with the sleeve of the dead mercenary's shirt. The steps get louder and Peter lifts his gun and fires without looking as the two guards around the corner.

"Free- AGH!"

The first guard hits the ground, clutching the nubs where her fingers, and part of her hand, used to be. The other guard barely squeezes the trigger before he gets a bullet in his kneecap. They're unimportant. All they're going to do is stay there, crying and clutching their injuries, until paramedics arrived and he doesn't care to waste the ammo. He breezes past them from the ceiling in a red and black blur.

This was supposed to be a "profitable" job for someone of your "caliber." So why the fuck is he rubbing elbows with a guy with a giant "S" on his chest with a name like "The Shiv."

Huh, actually, Peter might've shot him before he introduced himself; his name nothing but a whisper in Peter's brain that he didn't bother memorizing because he was not even supposed to be there.

Whatever. He's stopped waiting for people to catch up when he was already miles ahead of the race. It took too long and drained his patience like a colander, which didn't typically make him anymore "friendly" than he used to be.

"Never again," he hisses, jumping from ceiling to wall to floor, webbing doors shut before the people behind them can burst through and grate on his patience even more. Then again, maybe he'll leave one open just to stir the pot. To see if they had any tricks up their sleeves he didn't see coming (they don't).

Or maybe he'll track down whoever commissioned him and carve their eyes out with his paring knife. They've officially earned themselves a place in his black book.

"I'm never taking a job from this bozo again."

The "bozo" being a random no-name offering a lot of cash to take out a mutant trafficker and download their files to a hard drive, to be delivered to an undisclosed address as soon as it was obtained. An easy job, good money, and beating up traffickers was already a hobby of his. It was just what he needed.

That is, until every newbie in the biz took the same job, too green to know when to back off.

"The money goes to whoever snags the prize," he could imagine Bozo saying. "To ensure the job is completed."

Peter was going to ensure that Bozo is intimately acquainted with a tombstone as soon as he got out of this clown-fest.

It's not unheard of for a client to hire more than one pair of hands to do their dirty work, but it's still a shitty thing to do. It's telling of just how paranoid the client is, and how desperate they are for their target to be taken out. Something Peter will look into later when he doesn't have to deal with Black Ant marching through the door up ahead and trying to melt his brain with a laser gun.

He's going to turn the corner, see Peter, and recoil.

"Oh no, you don't! This job is mine!" He's going to shout and shrink down, flying at him the size of an ant to attack him from above and pepper him with lasers that are going to activate the sprinklers.

Peter takes a second to debate whether he wants the sprinklers to go off. It makes the walls slippery, but it'll also wash away evidence and clean up his tracks. He hums to himself, pulling a small silver orb out of one of his pouches, and counts the seconds.

Nah, his webs will dissolve within the hour and he's going to wipe the cameras on his way out, anyway.

He flicks the orb, and it flies down the hall, rolling across the floor and coming to a stop at Black Ant's feet, just as he turns the corner. He recoils in surprise, seeing Peter crawling on the ceiling.

"Oh no, you-"

The orb pulses, releasing a condensed electromagnetic wave that knocks Black Ant's servers on their ass and the mercenary hits the floor like a deep-fried toaster. Peter doesn't pause to make sure Black Ant is out. He knows he is. It'll take 5 minutes for his processors to come back online, and 6 more to do a full system check, and Peter will be long gone by then.

Even rubbing elbows with every other hired gun on the block, this job is still laughably, boringly easy.

He kicks open a vent and uses it as a pathway to his target's panic room. Not directly into the panic room, because not even they are that stupid, but it pops him out in their office and he makes his way from there. The panic room door is metal and several inches thick. Peter considers his options.

If he wanted to draw it out, he could punch it until the hinges gave out or the door popped like a soda can—whichever came first. Or he could waste time and pick the lock. Or —he dipped his fingers into his pouches again, withdrawing a small tube—he could dissolve the hinges in acid and see how well his new formula works.

The paste is white and horrid smelling, and immediately hisses and bubbles as it makes contact with the metal alloy. As it eats its fill, Peter does an inventory check. He doesn't carry heavy artillery on him; guns are bulky and he's built for stream-lined fighting that doesn't accommodate for wind resistance. Swords are too long and get in the way—it's not his preferred style of maiming, anyway. He has a few knives strapped to his hips and thighs, a diverse collection of web cartridges, and pouches full of goodies he'd cooked up in his kitchen. It's all he needs.

The hissing slows and the metal groans under its weight. Peter doesn't bother checking its progress, he knows it's almost weak enough to buckle on its own. But where's the fun in that? He plants his foot in the center of the door and pushes outward with his toes; the door groans again, then whines, and topples, hitting the ground with a loud THUD that rattles through the floor.

Peter has his knife out, and his next steps are already laid out in a neat and tidy list.

1). His target is sitting in their chair

2). They're staring slack-jawed and open-mouthed, surprised at his arrival.

3). The back of his head is an explosion of brain matter, skull fragments, blood and —wait. No. That can't be right.

Peter's spider-sense stops. Hitches. Recalibrates.

The coppery tang of blood poisons the fresh air outside the panic room and he stares at his target, who's sitting in their chair, slack-jawed and open-mouthed, with a gruesome depiction of their recent demise painted on the wall behind them. Peter's knife gravitates toward the only other person in the room still pinging his radar.

"It's about time someone got here," says a large, hulking man who's lounging on a plush leather couch, feet propped up on a granite table, as he pops a candied cherry in his mouth. His suit is a familiar combination of black leather and red Kevlar, hung heavy with guns, knives, grenades, pouches, and a pair of duel-katana's strapped to his back.

Fucking Deadpool.

Of course.

It's been years since Peter's last seen him—surprising, considering they're (now) similar line of work—but his deep, garbled voice is just as annoying as the last time he's heard it. It brings back old feelings of resentment and frustration, a typical combination when handling Deadpool.

"Deadpool," Peter growls back, holding up his knife. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Waiting for someone to let me out. Which you did. Thanks a bunch." Deadpool stretches his arms above his head and arches his back, spine popping as he hums in pleasure, before rubbing his thighs and hauling himself up. "It was really starting to stink in here. He ate burritos for lunch, and it was not as pleasant coming back out as it was going in."

Peter glanced between him and the heavy door. The alarms couldn't have gone off more than 10 minutes ago and the target was down the hall in his office when they did. It'd take him less than a minute to get to the panic room. How the hell did Deadpool-

"Waited in here until he got here, babe," Deadpool says, adjusting the belt holding his heavy pouches with one hand and gesturing to the dead target with the other. "It's so much easier hiding in the rabbit's den than fighting for it with the other dogs. Heh, you should've seen the look on his face." He makes a gun with his fingers and mimics shooting. "Pow! It was hilarious."

Peter shoves his knife back into its sheath on his thigh and rises to his full height, not bothering to hide his annoyance. Great. This was all just a colossal waste of his time. Fantastic.

"Aw, don't be mad," Deadpool coos, waggling his fingers at Peter. "You almost had it, Skippy. Maybe next time," He strolls towards the open door, hips sashaying, and Peter's spider-sense thrums, forging the world in crisp lines and stark colors.

He can see the next moment clearly : Deadpool strides past him, bumping their shoulders on his way out. The flash drive is in the second pouch on his left. Ripe for the picking.

Peter may not have gotten the target, but he can still get the information his client wants and negotiate at least half of the fee—more even, considering he had to take out three other mercs on his way here. It's only fair.

He doesn't bother moving out of the way as Deadpool strides up to him, knocking their shoulders as he leaves the panic room. Peter moves with the motion, fingers slipping into the lip of the pouch and clinging to the drive, pulling it back out in seconds. His hand curls around it and he takes a step away, only for a hand to catch his wrist and yank him back. Deadpool jerks him close and twists him around, shoving him up against the wall with his wrist pinned to his back.

Peter stares at the wall with wide, startled eyes.

"Naughty, naughty," Deadpool tsks in his ear, the vocal fry of his voice harsh with amusement. He twists Peter's wrists and Peter is too stunned to fight back; his entire body comes to a smoking, grinding halt as he races to catch up with the last few seconds, scrambling to figure out what the fuck just happened. "That's my drive, fair and square. Keep those sticky little fingers of yours to yourself, Spidey, or you might lose them. M'kay?"

His face is so close Peter can feel the vibrations of his voice against his skin. Can feel the heat of his body radiating through his layers of leather and Kevlar, the smell of blood lingering on its fibers like it'd been stitched in during manufacturing. He presses into Peter, his entire body pushing him up against the wall in warning, and Deadpool's pouches, his guns, and the hard muscle of his body cage him in. The stylized belt buckle of his face punches into Peter's skin, right on his tailbone, like a fucking tramp-stamp, and his breath hitches.

Deadpool lingers for a second longer, something like a chuckle raising the hairs on the back of Peter's neck before he pushes off. "You should probably do something about that." He says over his shoulder, strolling out the door with a chipper wave.

Peter stays where he is, up against the wall, trying to catch the fluttering bird that is his heart as it frantically flaps in his chest. Deadpool's body heat lingers against his back—the heavy weight of his weapons—and he still can't make sense of how it happened. His spider-sense said...Deadpool was supposed to...

It was never wrong.

It's never been wrong. Not for years. Not since he's honed it to such a fine point that it tattoos the future on his eyelids with nothing but absolute certainty. No one has ever gotten around it. Not even Logan, who's made it his personal, lifelong mission.

How the hell...

Slowly, Peter turns, looking where Deadpool had disappeared down the hall. He swears the smell of smoke and gun oil lingers.

How the hell...

"You should probably do something about that."

Peter looks down at himself and is actually surprised by the erection straining against his pants. His skin feels hot—electrical—like a live charge of wires running through his body instead of veins. It crackles and sparks with every hitch of his breath and he presses the heel of his hand against his erection in a numb, far-away attempt at making it go away, but the next thing he knows his hands are slipping past his waistband and he's gripping himself. A spark ignites in his gut, lightning a fire he hasn't felt since...since too long. His mind races through the last few minutes, trying to pick apart where it had gone wrong, where it had misread the lines.

Deadpool strides past him, bumping shoulders on his way out. The flash drive is in the second pouch on his left. Ripe for the picking.

Ripe for the picking. He shouldn't have noticed Peter's fingers slipping in. Peter should've been long gone before Deadpool thought to check his pouch to make sure it was still there. He can still feel the shape of the flash drive in his palm. Can feel the stamp of Deadpool's belt buckle.

"How the hell?" Peter hisses, leaning back against the wall and pumping himself hard and fast, overcome by the arousal bursting through him like a ruptured geyser. "How the hell?" he scrunches his eyes shut as his orgasm builds, careening at him with the speed of a bullet train that hits him directly in the heart, so fast and precise it's actually terrifying.

His orgasm hits him hard, punching out of him with violence befitting of the man who'd left him pinned against the wall, unaware of the mess he'd left in Peter's brain. All the tangled wires and misfiring charges that were once a precise, infallible machine. Peter slumps completely against the wall and slides down to the floor, staring at his dead target, and at the mess he'd made on his hand.

"How the hell?" He whispered.

For once, his spider-sense doesn't have the answer.

A/N This fic is based on the Assassin Spider-Man from earth-8351. In that comic, Peter Parker is trained by Niles Argent and Wolverine and becomes an assassin. He gets so good at hand-to-hand combat he beats Black Widow easily, works with and is on par with Wolverine, and honed his spider-sense SO much he literally just KNOWS things. He predicted, word-for-word, a skirmish Wolverine had with a sharpshooter a hundred feet away from where he was at. He sensed and manipulated an attack by SHIELD to his advantage. He knows if your going to attack him even before you do. If you think normal spider-sense is OP, this is like og spider-sense but on STEROIDS. There's no getting the jump on him.

This is just a lil fic based on that concept, except that kind of precognition takes the shine out of living. It gets boring when he knows everything that's going to happen. The world is going in slow-motion and he's in fast-forward. Nothing surprises him or catches him off guard anymore.

Until....