Peter can't say it's not an addiction anymore.

All it took was one snort of powder, one piece of solvent paper, one prick of a goddamn needle inside an abandoned room with cum cooling between his thighs, and he was dominated by a fixation for the newest drug on the streets of his brain: Motherfucking Deadpool.

At first, he tried convincing himself that this wasn't a deep, all-consuming hunger; that he wasn't desperate to taste Deadpool's impulsive, violent, unpredictable disposition, like a sweet nectar that quenched a thirst so deep inside it was like discovering water for the first time.

And then he did some soul-searching, really connected with his innermost wants and needs. He took a job near Connecticut to unload his stress on a group of wanna-be drug peddlers overstepping in someone else's territory. He was knee-deep in corpses with his fingers gouged into a peddler's throat when he came to this conclusion: he is completely and utterly fucked.

Or, more accurately, he wants to be completely and utterly fucked.

Which isn't exactly new. He quite enjoyed fucking and being fucked—he didn't have a preference for either, so long as he got to orgasm. The problem with his most recent discovery is that the only way to—possibly—get completely and utterly fucked was by poking a dangerous, unpredictable beast that might hurt him instead of hump him.

What made matters worse was that Peter didn't even mind the first option. This he found out while imposing on Deadpool's latest kerfuffle—not a healthy choice, but a chronic one. This time, Peter sits on one of the tall stools lining the bar, deep in observation to test his new hypothesis. Deadpool told him to announce himself, so while Peter wasn't shaking his hand and telling him he'll be at table 3, he wasn't trying to hide his presence either.

He sips on a rocks-glass of whiskey he'd stolen before the fight broke out, and leans against the bar, watching shamelessly as Deadpool broke a beer bottle over the head of a biker he had in a headlock, and shoved the shattered neck into the guys' friends' throat, tearing out their jugular in a spray of blood. The stale smell of cigarette smoke and nacho cheese sauce was quickly becoming overpowered by the sour stench of sweat and gunpowder, and Peter sank into the blanket of it.

Deadpool doesn't acknowledge him, though Peter did specifically what he'd requested, and he would've been more annoyed if he wasn't fascinated by the expected turn, especially after their last encounter. Peter shifts in his seat, adjusting his legs, just thinking about it. The warmth of Deadpool's arm had lingered on his skin long after he left; Peter went home holding his throat to fasten that heat like a cherished pearl necklace. Arousal still smoldered in his gut, rippling with heat waves that warmed him like a slowly steaming kettle.

Peter blew out a stream of steam, kettle bubbling, as Deadpool rams a bouncer's head into the edge of the bar hard enough to crack their skull. A twinge of jealousy sticks in his stomach when Deadpool leans over the bouncer's body, almost encasing them entirely in his girth, to grab a fork, which he launched across the room, sinking into a patron's eye.

Lucky, Peter grumbles, taking an extra long sip of his drink that has him hissing through his teeth. Maybe if he bumbled at Deadpool with nothing but a weathered bat, he'd get some attention, too.

"Who ordered the garlic chicken wings?" Deadpool demands, grabbing the dead bouncer by the collar with one hand and a platter of the aforementioned chicken wings with the other. He throws the body into the second bouncer's arms, who catches them in surprise, and shoves the chicken wings in their face. "Chicken wings are supposed to be spicy, you small-cocked motherfucker!"

Peter's spider-sense ripples and he kicks the stool closest to him down and webs a butter knife farther up the bar into his hands, holding it pointy-side up at a slant. A few minutes later, one of the bloody patrons notices him and bares their teeth, offended that he's sticking to his knitting—as Aunt May would say—and rushes him. Peter rolls his eyes and doesn't even look away from Deadpool—who's violently pouring an entire bottle of hot sauce down the bartender's throat—as the patron trips over the stool and impales themselves on the butter knife.

Shoving the patron aside, knife and all, Peter grabs the whiskey bottle nearby to top himself off (god, how he wants to be topped off) and whistles, impressed, as Deadpool breaks one of the wooden stools over his knee and shoves the splintered leg deep into the chest of a bushy-bearded man with slitted eyes and clawed-fingers—another mutant, then.

The man slides to his knees with a bloodied gurgle and collapses. That was the last of them, any others had fled, and those who stuck around didn't last very long.

Deadpool tosses the broken stool aside and finally turns, and a tingly chill runs down Peter's spine. His spider-sense ripples again, the waters agitated, as Deadpool stalks forward, yanking a knife impaled on a hapless truck driver's back—to thrust into Peter's gut? To pin his hand to the counter? To rip through his suit fiber by fiber? Every option makes his stomach flip-flop.

His spider-sense flips through possible outcomes like an inexperienced dealer with a deck of cards, fingers fumbling, and brow dotted with nervous sweat. When Deadpool stands before him, tall and broad, blocking out the dim-overhead lights, the cards spill, scattering across the floor like autumn leaves succumbing to winter's invasion.

Deadpool presses the tip of the bloodied knife under Peter's exposed chin and lifts his head up, exposing the cords of his neck that flex as Peter swallows hard. He pulls the bottom half of his mask up with the other and plucks Peter's drink out of his hand, tipping his head and tossing it back. With a pleased hiss, he drops the empty glass in Peter's hands and pulls the blade along his skin as he walks past, drawing a featherlight line across his throat that drips with beads of blood; a new pearl necklace for Peter to fasten around his neck.

He can already feel the sting if Deadpool just dug in a little deeper. His neck is a blank canvas made to be painted in thick, wide strokes made possible by the knife jerking upward through his jugular. Peter's fingers twitch, itching to wrap around Deadpool's wrist and pull the knife in deeper, so long as he kept staring at him like that. So long as his spider-sense hid beneath the surface of his mind like a child hiding under the bed.

But, without another word, Deadpool withdraws the knife, rolling his mask back down as he strolls out of the bar, whistling a merry tune that disappears behind swinging doors. Groaning, Peter presses the heel of his hand to his cock, which is already at half-chub, and traces the cut along his throat reverently.

"God, I'm so easy," he squeezes himself through his pants and follows Deadpool's footsteps out of the bar and into the cold winter night, though the other merc is already gone.

<><><><><><><>

Peter drinks water, wine, scotch, coffee, juice, milk—anything of the liquid variety—but it's at a construction site in Lower Manhattan that finally gives him an opportunity to quench his thirst.

Why this time is different remains a mystery, but Deadpool is quickly establishing himself as an enigma solely designed to cross Peter's wires. Just like before, he announces his presence by sitting high on a steel-framed wall in the light of the full moon; not in the open, per se, but not hiding in the shadows.

Head in hands, limbs curled inward to stave off the cold, Peter hums in delight as Deadpool wraps a thin, electrical wire around a construction worker's neck—the only one working late who happened to be the next chump on Deadpool's list. The wire barely cuts through skin, so the chump must have a level of invulnerability. Maybe not enough to be called invulnerable , but thick skin at the very least.

With a roar, the worker jerks hard, jamming his elbow into Wade's ribs with an audible crack, flinging him off his back. Peter cocks his head as Deadpool disappears into a sheet of drywall, manifesting a cloud of cement dust that magically transforms into silvery fog under the moonlight. The worker picks a hammer up from a work table and lumbers to the Deadpool-shaped hole.

It's easier to sense what the worker will do.

He's going to climb through the hole, pin Deadpool down with a boot on his chest, and bury that hammer in his head until there's nothing left but pasty brain matter.

A tickle scratches up Peter's throat, coming out as a giggle because he knows that's not going to happen; it's all a matter of how Deadpool will rewire the future.

Peter slides down the support beam to get a better look at ground level. A loud buzzing RRRRRR noise cuts the air as Deadpool emerges, wearing a neon green vest, having found himself a buzz-saw that he revs like a car engine, rearing to be let loose.

"Bone-Saw is ready!" he proclaims, like he's speaking to a cheering audience, and lunges. The teeth of the saw skirt along the worker's skin at first, but slowly begin cutting into flesh, digging up the softer tissues underneath. Despite the worker's shrieks and attempts to create distance, Deadpool follows him step by step. The worker swings his hammer wildly, catching Deadpool in the shoulder with the claw, throwing him off his feet.

The buzz skitters across the concrete floor, jumping and sending sparks flying in the air. Peter shoots a web line, shutting it off.

"Sonuvabitch!" Deadpool snarls, yanking the hammer out and rolling his shoulder. "This is my masturbating arm."

The worker doesn't have much to say, whimpering over his profusely bleeding arm as he is, and stumbles towards the exit. A sad attempt to get away, but an attempt nonetheless—Peter can give him points for that. Deadpool follows casually, scooping up a rebar as he goes. The worker is almost to the exit when Deadpool winds his arm back and throws the bar javelin style, sinking into the worker's back.

Not deep, considering the semi-invulnerable skin, but Deadpool rectifies that by grabbing the worker by the back of his shirt and shoving him into a sectioned off slab of concrete sticking with rebar.

The worker lands with a wet squelch and a gurgle, unable to even look down at the rest of his skewered body due to the bar that had impaled his throat. Placing the tip of his boot on the worker's chest, Deadpool pushes down, forcing him in farther until blood seeps from his wounds and he is well and truly stuck. A nasty surprise for the rest of the construction crew when they came by in the morning; Peter's tempted to stick around just to see how that'd go.

But then Deadpool stands back, breath coming out in puffs from his mask, before abruptly turning and stalking towards Peter. Peter goes ramrod straight, a thrill climbing the rung of his spine. Never has a neon green safety vest looked more intimidating.

Peter doesn't move, frozen in place until Deadpool is directly in front of him. Then Deadpool drops his hands on Peter's shoulders and unceremoniously shoves him to his knees. Peter goes without a fight, heart beating so hard he feels it in his ears. His stomach twists in anticipation as Deadpool unzips his fly and already has his mouth open before he shoves his dick inside.

Deadpool is thick and heavy, filling Peter's mouth completely and opening his jaw to an almost uncomfortable level. It's the heady, musky scent coming off him, mixing with sawdust and cement, that makes Peter's head spin. Thick fingers wind into his mask, pulling on both the fabric and his head, eliciting a sting that makes Peter moan.

"Yeah, just like that you stalkery little creep," Deadpool chirps, thrusting his cock deep into Peter's mouth, personally bobbing Peter's head with both hands. "May as well do something useful if you're going to follow me around like a lost puppy."

Something useful, his brain echoes. An implication that he was supposed to help take out these guys? It's a general rule of thumb to not interfere with someone else's job unless you were also contracted. In such cases, the first person to take out the target wins the race.

Unless you wanted to be a dick and cause trouble.

Something useful, he repeats. Perhaps an implication for something else. He can do that. He lets Deadpool take the reins, pistoning into his mouth at his own pace, but when he slows enough for Peter to take a breath, Peter runs his tongue along the underside of his cock and sucks the tip gently.

"There we go," Deadpool rumbles, hips jerking. "Show me what that mouth can do. Doesn't seem like you use it for anything else."

He eased his grip up and Peter wraps his mouth around the top of his cock, sliding his tongue along the top, catching on a bit of skin as he pulls back and forth. Uncircumcised, then. Another unexpected development, though Peter's not sure why he expected anything different. Logan was also uncircumcised. A default of their healing factors.

He pumps the half he doesn't have in his mouth, suckling gently on the other, while Deadpool's hands flex and soften on his head, running along his scalp like he's petting him. Peter shivers, dick having already rapidly filled out, but it throbs under the attention, tenting in his pants.

He stops stroking Deadpool to rub at himself through the spandex, but Deadpool's fingers twist violently in his hair, yanking his head. "Nuh-uh, hands up here, Skippy. You know the rules."

Peter groans, returning to Deadpool's cock and sucking harder on the tip, making Deadpool hiss and seize his hair again. He takes more into his mouth, only stopping when he feels the tip probing the back of his throat.

I can take more. Just because he personally hadn't been able to get off in far too long, that doesn't mean he doesn't know how to get other people off. It was quite easy, actually. A little too easy. It had been just another avenue to explore to keep his brain entertained. He knows what they'll like before they want it. Sees what turns them off and what will rev them up. It helped for a while, but eventually, even that lost its spark.

But Deadpool is a blank slate. Peter can't tell what he wants. His spider-sense thrums, but it's honed on Deadpool to the point that the man's smell, the warmth of his body, the feel of his rough, textured skin under his hands—pressed against his tongue—is all that occupies his mind.

An inebriating and grounding experience that simultaneously makes him warm and floaty.

Invigorated, Peter doubles his efforts, gripping Deadpool's waist as he fucks his mouth on his cock. Spit dribbles down his chin and the bitterness of pre-cum fills his tongue; Peter hollows his cheeks and sucks like he's lost in the desert and this is his only oasis, because that's what it feels like. God, it's been so long since he's felt this turned on; since giving something as simple as a blowjob makes him feel like he's about to burst.

"Ah, not bad," Deadpool moans, gripping the sides of Peter's head like he might crush it to a pulp. A zing shoots up Peter's spine. "A little sloppy, but I've always liked them messy." A hand reaches down to massage Peter's throat as if getting a feel for it, and Peter pops off long enough to say, "I can hold my breath for eight minutes."

Deadpool's fingers dig into his skin, pressing against his windpipe. "So many features in this one," he growls, dark and gravely. Peter barely has time to take a full breath before Deadpool crams his dick back in, all the way to the root, until Peter's nose bumps against skin. He fucks Peter's throat like he's getting reacquainted with his favorite fleshlight.

Peter focuses on holding his breath and keeping still, opening his mouth wide enough to give Deadpool easy access. His own dick throbs, achy beneath the confines of his suit and he whines, burning with the need to touch. He grips Deadpool's hips tighter to fend off the desire, fingers digging so hard into the hipbone that Deadpool's hips stutter and he grinds his dick into Peter's throat.

His stuttering hips are the only sign Peter has before cum pours down his throat in hot bursts. Peter chokes on the expected intrusion, bitterness flooding his mouth, but Deadpool doesn't release him until he's milked dry. With a satisfied sigh, he let go of Peter's head and Peter fell back, coughing, leftover cum dripping down his chin, sloppy with the spit already there.

He looks up at Deadpool, who grips his chin, tilting it from side to side to admire his handiwork. Deadpool's foot slips between Peter's legs and presses against the tent in his pants. Peter eagerly moves forward, his cock aching so badly that he doesn't even mind humping Deadpool's leg for relief.

But Deadpool pinches his chin, yanking his head back up. "Not so fast, Boy Scout."

Peter looks at him in confusion. "What?" he croaks, voice utterly wrecked and raw.

"Don't touch yourself," Deadpool says breezily, pats Peter's cheek, and then tucks himself away and heads to the exit.

"What?" Peter repeats, but he doesn't respond; doesn't even look back or acknowledge him. In seconds, he was gone, the only evidence that he was there being the stiffening body impaled on rebar and Peter's throbbing hard-on.

Peter stares at his boner, veins burning, groin tight with want. His hand inches towards it. He doesn't have to listen. Deadpool didn't even stick around to make sure he won't. He wouldn't know.

At the last second, Peter tears his hand away, slamming his head back against the wall with a growl of frustration, cracking the brick. Deadpool's order–command? Suggestion?–wraps around his hands like puppet strings, and Peter can't understand why he's even entertaining it. But that deep, vocal fried voice nests in his ear, crooning at him to keep his hands to himself. For whatever reason, he listens. He doesn't know why, but maybe he'll find out, and the thought coats his skin with a sweet promise that it'll be worth it.

It better be worth it.

The cold slowly reinfects his body, chilling the mess on his face until he irritably wipes it off. Only when he's shivering and his erection has succumbed to the bitter winter cold does he climb to his feet.

"Motherfucking Deadpool," he growls, diving head-first off the building, irritation bubbling in his gut.

But it's completely smothered by an itch; an itch to run into Deadpool again as soon as possible; to watch him until he's noticed. Until Deadpool does something about it. He massages his jaw, appreciating the ache deep in the hinges of it, indulging in the muskiness in his nose, coating his mouth, that is so intimately connected to Deadpool, that if Peter were to pick it out in a crowd, he'd be able to follow it to its source. Eagerness trips on his heels, falling over itself with giddy excitement. Already his hands feel clammy, a tremor roosting in his fingers, ready for his next hit.

He climbs through the window of his apartment and collapses on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Motherfucking Deadpool, he sighs, dreamily. 

A/N: 

Peter: Help! I've fallen into lust and I can't get up!