Deadpool and SpiderMan

The alley behind the old warehouse in Brooklyn was one of those spots the city pretends don’t exist: cracked brick walls tagged with faded graffiti, crushed cans rolling in the cold wind, puddles of dirty water reflecting the neon glow from the buildings around. An old security light flickered at the top of a crooked pole, throwing dancing shadows on the walls like they were laughing at the whole mess.

Right in the middle, hanging about ten feet off the ground, Spider-Man and Deadpool made the most ridiculous package New York had ever seen. Thick black nylon ropes, knotted tight and reinforced with makeshift barbed wire, looped endlessly around them. Spider-Man faced the pole, arms pinned behind his back and pressed against Deadpool’s chest, while Deadpool was back-to-back, katanas still strapped on but useless as hell. Their legs were tangled in a way that looked almost deliberate—knees bent, ankles crossed—and the whole bundle dangled from a rusty hook on the pole, swaying slowly.

Spider-Man shifted his shoulders, hunting for any give in the ropes, but only managed to make them swing more. His mask was slightly crooked, mouth exposed, and he let out a frustrated sigh that fogged in the chilly air.

“Deadpool... seriously. If you make one more joke about this being ‘couple’s bondage,’ I swear I’m webbing you into a permanent cocoon.”

Why did I let him talk me into going first? One second we’re arguing over who drops down the rooftop first, the next these guys catch us off-guard and... this. Perfect. My spider-sense was too late again.

Deadpool twisted his head as far as the ropes allowed, the red-and-black mask almost brushing Spider-Man’s shoulder. His voice came out rough, dripping with mockery but real amusement.

“Easy there, Spidey. Loosen up those tense shoulders. Look at us: all snuggled up like an unwanted Christmas gift that everyone’s gonna pretend they like. Bet the morons who hired us are snapping pics right now, like ‘mission accomplished, check out the living meme.’”

He wiggled his hips just a bit to test, and the whole package spun slowly. The ropes creaked like they were complaining.

Spider-Man closed his eyes for a second, breathing deep to keep from snapping.

“You’re... actually enjoying this, aren’t you? Like, genuinely having a good time being wrapped up like a holiday turkey.”

“Enjoying? Dude, I’m in love. My healing factor’s already tingling, itching to bust through these ropes, but where’s the fun in escaping in two seconds? Let’s soak in the romantic vibe. Low lighting, cold wind, you pressed against me... it’s like a budget date. What more could we want?”

If I can just stretch my arm a few inches... maybe reach the web-shooter on my wrist. Or maybe I just wanna punch that masked face first.

Deadpool chuckled low, the sound echoing in the empty alley. He flexed his arms, but the ropes tightened, forcing them even closer. The wind gusted again, making the pole groan metallically.

Spider-Man huffed, but couldn’t help a short, tired laugh slipping out.

“You’re impossible. Seriously. How does anyone stay this optimistic while tied to a pole?”

“Practice, web-head. Years of practice. So tell me: wanna try escaping or keep enjoying the hug? ‘Cause I vote for option two. My personal heater.”

The swaying slowed, leaving them in a brief quiet. Just the wind, the creak of ropes, and the city throbbing in the background.

It all kicked off three hours ago: an illicit weapons cache over on the East Side, controlled by those second-rate Hammerhead lackeys. The mission sounded simple enough—in and out, disable the goods, and vamoose. Spider-Man desired a stealthy approach, no trouble at all. Deadpool? Deadpool craved "boom." They debated the strategy the entire journey, Deadpool adamant explosions offered "catharsis." Eventually it all went south: Spider-Man, webbing baddies to the ceilings, Deadpool, firing and chuckling, and at the climax chucked a homemade grenade into the main arsenal. Boom. The building trembled, flames erupted like awful fireworks, and both of them barely made it to a adjacent roof before it imploded.

Now, it was past midnight, and there they were, perched on the precipice of a high-rise residential structure in Midtown. An autumn wind really bit, carrying far-off horns and the gleam of Times Square. The Manhattan skyline sparkled like always, the Empire State Building glowing red and blue this evening some dumb holiday probably. Spider-Man's mask was raised to his nose, his sweaty mouth and chin visible. Deadpool kept his mask down but cut a eating hole. Amongst them a squished pizza box they snatched from a 24-hour place on the road and a greasy paper bag filled with hot chimichangas. Deadpool insisted were "authentic street Mexican"

Spidey took a slice chomped slowly while fixated on the horizon.

"We near croaked, yeah literally? The explosion chucked junk everywhere and my spider-sense is still blaring."

Beat tired arms are sore from slinging webs but its done. No folks got hurt that matter

Deadpool jammed half a chimichanga at once and rattled on while food bits flew.

"Died? Nope, we regenarated, Or I did you just looked cute and sweaty. Tell it Spidey It was a great scene, like in 90's action movies. I'm the bombastic hero and you whine after. Perfect match"

He scrubbed his mouth with the glove and stretched his legs his feet just dangling, wind messing up his mask.

Spider-Man gently chuckled shaking his head.

"You're a live hazard. Without me yanking you you'd be a pile of ashes."

"You'd miss me, admit it. Life would be dull without me" No explosions, no bad jokes, none of this. He gestured at both, the pizza, rooftop, that glowing city.

Deadpool took a chimichanga, dangling it near Spider-Man as bait.

"Cmon, eat one. Therapeutic it is. After savin' the day, nothing tops trans fats and spice, eh?"

Spider-Man, hesitating, finally took a bite, rather small. Sauce, of course, dripped down his chin.

"Okay. Damn good. But next time, no grenades, we stick to the plan."

Deadpool tilted his head, his black mask's eyes catching city lights.

"No grenades? Thats asking a fish not to swim, I suppose. But fine, I will try. For you, web-head."

They went quiet for a moment. Just eatin, the wind blowin', and the city below pulsed. Fatigue set in quickly now. Sore muscles, adrenaline crashes hit them—yet up here on the world's edge, it felt peaceful, y'know? For now.

Deadpool spoke first, his voice lower, almost thoughtful.

"You know, Spidey, missions like this, make me remember why I still do it, eh? Not for cash, glory aint the reason. For these moments, like a cold pizza rooftop, with best, chaotic partner?"

Spider-Man glanced sideways, his smile obscured, beneath a half-pulled mask.

"You're gettin' sappy? Watch out, or you’ll melt the mask, haha!" Perhaps. Or, possibly, I just enjoy their presence. Shhh, it's a secret.

With gentle laughter, weary but united, they shared a moment while the city continued its relentless rotation far, far beneath.

A chilly autumn night enveloped New York, as if it wanted to ignore it's inhabitants. The rooftop of a timeworn building, not too far from Washington Square Park, was deserted save for Spider-Man and Deadpool, perched on the edge of crumbling brick. Although the city's lights twinkled afar, a biting wind swept across, it bringing hushed horns and rumbling garbage trucks sounds.

Their patrol had ended—a routine, rapid handling of petty thefts. Deadpool had insisted on halting, his gaze glued to a plump pigeon which landed nearby, it was picking at phantom crumbs on the concrete.

Deadpool gave the bird a slight nudge with his boot, a soft chuckle escaping. "Observe this fellow. He's got more nerve then a lots of hero's i knoe. Yo, pigeon, up for being my partner? Pigeon-Pool, that sounds epic."

Spider-Man, he still wore his mask and his arms were folded over his knees, replied with a weary smile. “You've chated to a pigeon for five minutes, I reckon he’s winning. Y'know, you're free to go any time.”

The pigeon cocked its head, almost as if it understood the jest. Deadpool chuckled again – that laughter it faded, quick, cause Spider-Man’s spider-sense went tingling. A ping of not-full danger, yet something felt terribly amiss. A weight, a heavy pressure upon his chest, sat upon him.

He leaned in, eyes squinting at the alley below a drop of three stories. The sole light, a failing yellow flicker, struggled from a busted streetlamp.

Below, against a grime-coated brick wall, located on a side street close to the college, where likely students stumbling out from late classes or a party—four fellas had someone boxed in. That person, {{user}}, was plastered against the wall, their arms raised for defense, however the punches struck far too rapidly. A fist hammered into the stomach, making them fold double. Another kick removed their legs, and off they went, sliding down the rain-slicked pavement. Loud laughter erupted—mean laughter, the sort born from brief flashes of power. “Look at the loser thinking they have right to walk round here. ” Another fist in the face, blood dribbling, staining the concrete. They refused to stop. Kicks landed on ribs, hair yanked, and spit. The bullying transmuted into a uglier state, continuing unchecked because no one saw. Up until this instant.

Spider-Man, for just a shade longer than usual, stayed frozen. Fists clenched, stretching the suit fabric over the knuckles.

Once again. Somebody always is getting beat in a dark street, sadly. Someones always figures they can, cause no one tells them otherwise.

I really shuldve gotten here earlier.

I’m suppose to be gettin' there sooner always.

Deadpool ceized pokin’ the pigeon. His mask veiled his feelings, yet his stance changed shoulders tensed, head angled. He noticed everything the way {{user}} tried to withdraw arms quivering, body shrinking after each smack. The bullies' guffaws slashed the atmosphere like blades.

“... crap.” Deadpool's whisper came outta low, with not a jibe for many hours. “This ain't just no bar brawl. They are breaking someone. "

Spider-Man was up already his web-shooter prepared, but something stopped him - a cool rage mashed with a sorrow he knew overly well. He seen his own image in the situation: the kid battered at school, the uncle who died cause he was frozen. The stress compacted his chest.

“They won’t cease without us, " he murmured, voice gruff. "We need to get going down. Immediately. "

Deadpool stood real slowly, katanas tapping on his back. No funny remarks this time. He glanced at the alley, later to his friend.

“Yep. Lets conclude it. Yet Spidey observe their expressions.” They feel nobody cares. Lets prove that someone indeed cares.

That pigeon, it took fright and vanished, while they plunged off the roof edge. Webs, jumps, everything, they fell down, into the blackness. The rooftop went quiet, with only far off noises echoing thumps and laughter soon to become panicked shouts.

It all started with one of those boneheaded schemes only Deadpool could dream up. The guy had snuck into Doctor Strange’s Sanctum Sanctorum right in the middle of one of those awkward “hero hangouts” where everyone pretends they’re besties—Avengers sprawled around arguing about multiversal threats while sipping enchanted beer. Deadpool, being Deadpool, decided the ancient spellbooks looked “boring as fuck” and swapped half of them out for hentai manga he’d been hauling around in his backpack. Yeah, actual glossy-covered hentai with titles like Tentacles of the Abyss or Heroines in Heat. He grabbed one real grimoire—the kind with pages that glow faintly and seals that could rip open portals to hell—and bolted like a kid who just pulled off the ultimate prank.

Of course the magical alarms went nuclear. Strange lost his shit, called in every heavy hitter to hunt down “the merc with the mouth.” Thor was ready to cave his skull in with Mjolnir, Cap gave the classic “responsibility” speech, but who actually stuck to Deadpool like glue? Spider-Man. Because of course. He’s always the one stuck cleaning up everyone else’s mess. “With great power comes great responsibility... and chasing idiots like you,” he muttered under his breath while swinging rooftop to rooftop after the red-and-black blur tearing through Manhattan streets.

The chase was pure Deadpool chaos. Jumping over cabs, tossing smoke grenades that smelled suspiciously like tacos, yelling pop-culture references nonstop. “Hey Spidey! This is straight-up Tom and Jerry but with katanas and webs!” Spider-Man almost had him—one perfect web-line snagged Deadpool’s arm to a streetlight, another wrapped his legs like a burrito—but the merc, being the unpredictable disaster he is, yanked the stolen book out of his bag. “Time for a quick getaway spell!” Except in the panic he fumbled the bag of still-hot chimichangas he always carries (because priorities). Spicy sauce, melted cheese, ground beef—everything splattered right across the ancient pages.

The book did not appreciate the seasoning. Runes flared blood-red, air crackled, and a portal ripped open directly under their feet—a swirling mess of psychedelic colors like someone threw the multiverse in a blender. “Whoops! That wasn’t the chimichanga recipe section!” Deadpool yelled as they got yanked in. Spider-Man shot a desperate web-line toward the nearest building; it stretched, stretched, then snapped. They spun through the void screaming, cursing, one loud “THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” echoing into nothing.

When the portal finally spat them out, it wasn’t some dramatic battlefield or alt-New York. Nope. Straight onto the floor of a bedroom. A big, sprawling bedroom that looked like someone had turned an entire apartment into a shrine to degeneracy. Dark gray walls lit by pulsing purple neon strips in the corners, king-size bed with black sheets all twisted up, shelves crammed with manga volumes and anime figures, massive TV mounted on the wall with a PS5 paused mid-game (looked like Devil May Cry—demons frozen on screen). But the real show-stealer was how blatantly filthy the place was.

Posters everywhere: Alucard from Castlevania in a dramatic pose, cape billowing, but with that extra fanart edge—red eyes smoldering, fangs out like he’s about to bite something other than necks. Batman all brooding, hood half-pulled, except the art had him cuffed and looking way too vulnerable. Dante from DMC, sword raised, clothes shredded, cocky smirk that said he knew exactly how hot he was. And the cherry on top: a life-size dakimakura pillow tossed in the corner—Vergil, Dante’s brother, wrapped up in thick black tentacles, face caught somewhere between shock and way-too-into-it. Pure thirsty fanart that made you wonder who the hell lived here.

The nightstand was worse. Monster-shaped dildos—tentacle ones with suction cups and moving parts, dragon-claw grips, vampire-fang vibes, even sword-shaped ones. Bottles of lube labeled shit like “Essence of the Abyss” and “Demon Seed.” Fuzzy black handcuffs, hero masks with very strategic holes cut out, stacks of open hentai volumes with dog-eared pages. The whole room smelled faintly of incense and something muskier, more personal. This wasn’t just an otaku room. This was an otaku room that had seen some things.

Worse still: when they crashed through, Spider-Man’s webs—the ones he’d used to catch Deadpool—tangled around both of them. They ended up half-bound together in the most awkward goddamn position. Spider-Man flat on his back on the floor, legs tangled with Deadpool’s, Deadpool on top, arms pinned together by sticky webbing. It was like a forced hug gone horribly wrong—Deadpool’s masked face inches from Spider-Man’s shoulder, katanas poking uncomfortably into ribs, webs tightening every time they squirmed. The more they struggled, the worse it got; they just rolled a little, knocking over a stack of manga that rained down on them.

“Fuck, Spidey... your webs turned into erotic superglue or what?” Deadpool rasped, half-laughing, half-breathless.

Spider-Man shoved with his shoulder, only managing to make them rock together. “This is your fault, Deadpool! You slathered the book in chimichanga sauce? Seriously? Now we’re stuck in some pervert’s universe!”

Jesus Christ, what even is this room? It’s like the bedroom of someone who jerks off to heroes getting wrecked by monsters. That Vergil pillow with tentacles? Who buys that? We need to get out before whoever owns this place comes back and thinks we’re... delivery.

Deadpool flexed, trying to break free, but the webs just stretched and snapped back tighter, pressing their hips together. He let out a low, dirty chuckle. “Hey, look on the bright side: thematic décor. Batman all tied up over there. Bet the owner’s a fan. Imagine if they walk in right now and see us like this... all snug, wrapped up, ready to play.”

He shifted his hips just enough to tease, voice dropping to that gravelly, teasing tone. “Admit it, web-head. This position isn’t the worst. My chest on your back, webs squeezing... kinda feels like a multiversal blind date gone filthy.”

Spider-Man’s face burned under the mask (thank god it hid it). He shoved harder, webs only pulling them closer. “Shut up! This isn’t funny. We’re trapped in a room full of... monster dicks and tentacle pillows, and—listen.”

They froze. Footsteps. Coming down the hallway outside the room. Light, steady steps—like someone coming back from grabbing a drink or takeout. The doorknob rattled softly. Spider-Man’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Deadpool went quiet for maybe the first time ever, then whispered right against his ear, breath warm through the mask fabric. “Showtime, Spidey. Whoever this is, we’re completely at their mercy. Webs, compromising position, pervert paradise... if this doesn’t turn into NSFW fanfic, I’ll eat my own katanas.”

The footsteps got closer. The door creaked open a crack. Hallway light spilled in, catching the neon glow on the posters, the shiny toys, the glistening webs.

Spider-Man gave one last desperate tug—webs only tightened, gluing them even more flush. Please let this be a normal person. Or at least someone who doesn’t bring extra tentacles.

The door swung wider. A shadow fell across the threshold.

New York night...it was one of those made for mayhem: fine rain falling nonstop, skyscraper lights mirroring in puddles like the whole city had been brushed with wet neon. Electro, the bad guy of the moment—again, 'cause the dude never learns—, ran across Hell's Kitchen rooftops like he owned it, zapping blue lightning that blew up lampposts, and making cars below honk madly. He'd stolen some infinite battery prototype from some tech company and, yeah, now thought he ruled the world.

Spider-Man and Deadpool had been tailing him, oh, for like twenty minutes. Spider-Man, jumping building to building with his accurate webs, trying to flank the guy, while Deadpool... well, Deadpool was just bein' Deadpool. Running in a straight line, katanas out, shouting stuff like "Hey, Sparky, c'mere and lemme give you a reality check!", and shootin' bullets that bounced off everything, except the target. The original plan, super easy: Spider-Man immobilizes, Deadpool distracts. But plans never live past their first contact with Deadpool, right? They were close to nabbing Electro the villain, who just jumped onto an old building's roof, sparks flying everywhere — when {{user}} just popped out. From a side fire escape, leaping right in front of the villain with a speed neither anticipated, landing a hit that made Electro stumble back. It was quick, clean, practically beautiful to see. Electro blinked in surprise, attempted a blast of electricity, but {{user}} had already rolled aside, kicking his legs. The villain plopped down hard on the wet ground, weak sparks fizzing.

Spider-Man, mid-leap, web still taut, paused to watch. Mask hid his face, but you could feel a mixture of relief and a "what the heck was that?".

Deadpool, tho, slipped on the wet rooftop trying to stop, arms windmilling, and crashed right next to them. He tumbled twice, katanas flying off, ending up flat on his back, staring up at the rainy sky.

"Holy shit. That was damn sexy," he blurted out, voice raspy, breathless from running, still panting. Who are you, fallen angel from the sky? Cause i've just fallen in love and my healing factor doesn't heal a broken heart.

Spider-Man landed beside, webs retracting slowly, he lightly smacked the back of Deadpool's neck a hit that hurt more from embarrasment than strength.

“Stop it Wade. We were just about to catch the guy, and you're here making a soap opera scene." His voice came out a bit hoarse too, a mixture of tiredness and a laugh he was trying to hide. "And you there. thanks. Seriously. Saved us from another stupid chase."

He held out his hand to help Deadpool up but the mercenary ignored and stood up on his own shaking the water off his mask like a wet dog.

"Saved? Saved what? I was about to land a deadly blow with style! Like katana in the chest, sparks flying, epic soundtrack and then you come and ruin the party in two seconds." Deadpool pointed to {{user}}, but his finger was trembling a bit from adrenaline. "You stole my moment, rookie. My heroic moment." Alright, I feel like the clown arriving fashionably late for the punchline, again.

Spider-Man crossed his arms, head bobbing.

"You're always the clown, Wade. That's, like, not news."

Electro, sprawled on the ground, attempted rising, but Spider-Man webbed his hands to the roof—blink. The villain cursed under his breath, sparks fizzling in the rain.

Deadpool hobbled nearer — he'd bruised his knee pretty badly on that fall —, poking Electro with his boot.

“Hey, sparky, chill— we’ll call those blue boys. An’ you." He pivoted back toward {{user}}, tilting his head. “Seriously, who are you? 'Cause, if you're a fresh hero hoping to impress— congrats, you did. Left me jealous as heck, I hate to say it, but it was beautiful as all hell."

Spider-Man sighed, eyeing the pair— the webbed villain, the soaking-wet chatterbox Deadpool, {{user}} standing there, you know, nonchalant.

“Okay, guys. Let’s haul this dude to the cops before he recharges and barbeque us. And Deadpool—try lay off flirting with everyone, please? It's becoming awkward."

Deadpool guffawed, his head flung back, raindrops flyin' off his mask.

"Awkward's my middle name, Spidey. And if savin' the day with flair is awkward, then I'm the king of it."

They stood there a sec, the three of them breathin' hard in the rain, the roof drippin', sirens startin' to wail below. Chaos hung in the air—like it always did when Deadpool was around—but this time it had a different flavor, maybe. Maybe it wasn't so bad sharin' the spotlight.

He did better than us today. And Wade's pissed 'cause he knows it. This'll be somethin'.

Spider-Man shook his head, hidin' a smile.

"Let's bounce before it turns into a real soap opera."

.