#just some cw stuff: | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pcr-alice · 11 days ago

Text

DPxDC - The Bat Key

there were a few posts going around a bit ago about Danny being Bruce's mentor in his early years, and they planted this idea in my head. i mixed in some cryptid danny for fun and to fit the halloween vibe. also on ao3

Batman grunted in pain as he hurried down the dark, townhouse-lined sidewalk. The cloudy night blocked the moonlight, and the lamps along the entire street were out, but they still moved between the shadows under the trees. The slash wound in his side was painful to the point that he had an arm around Robin’s shoulder to prop himself up. He scowled with each grunt. At least the blade hadn’t been spiked with venom. The same couldn’t be said for Red Robin’s wound. He was barely conscious, and Nightwing had to practically carry him. But they had finally made it here.

“Door.”

Nightwing hobbled up the few steps to the small porch and leaned against the wall to help hold some of Red Robin’s weight. Robin rushed to the door, already pulling a pick set from his utility belt. Batman managed to ascend the few steps himself, double checking the 13 to the side of the door.

“Wait.”

Robin scowled once again, but he complied. Batman pulled a small strip of metal from the lining of his utility belt. The tip was cut into a jagged, hooked pattern. He slipped it behind the bat symbol on his chest from underneath and twisted it a half spin. When he slid it back out, there was a house key attached to the end. Once free, he inserted it into the deadbolt and removed his hand. The temperature immediately dropped. Batman sighed in relief.

“What are –”

Robin’s question died before it was finished as the key began glowing green. It slowly rotated itself with the sound of grinding gears until a click echoed from behind the door.

“Oh great, I’m hallucinating” Red Robin wheezed out.

Batman turned the knob and pushed the door open.

“In.”

Robin entered first, crouched and alert. Nightwing followed, Red Robin draped over his shoulders. Batman took one more look around and spotted one of their assailants across the street, staring with their two glowing yellow eyes. He held the gaze for a silent few seconds, tension slowly leaving his body as they remained deathly still, then stepped inside and closed the door.

The large circular window high above the door lit the entryway with moonlight from the clear night sky. A staircase on the left led up into the dark, its railing marking out a small hallway balcony above. To their right was a small table, empty except for an unlit lamp. Past that on the same wall was an archway that led to a dark room pierced just enough by the moonlight for a large couch to be visible. The hallways straight ahead stretched into void.

“Couch.”

Once again, Robin entered first, disappearing into the shadows to scout the room. Nightwing lugged Red Robin into the room and laid him down on the couch to examine his wound. Batman followed and watched over the back of the couch.

“Bruce.”

Robin spun and threw a knife at the voice.

His senses had been honed to perfection since as long ago as he could remember. From the age of eight the only two members of the League who were capable of sneaking up on him were his blood relations. Now that he was out, Cain was alone on that list. Not even Batman could go unnoticed. Whatever this voice was, it managed to surprise him. But the League taught him to have no weaknesses, so even if his senses failed him, his reflexes could pick up the slack. The best tutors known to man had trained him with strict discipline, instilling perfect form and pinpoint accuracy that he could replicate from a dead sleep in pitch black darkness, all before he had even formed a single thought.

All together, this meant his blade was in the air before he could even parse what was said or what tone it was said with. When he realized that the voice had called Father by his civilian name in a calm greeting, he realized he made a mistake. But luckily, the voice wasn’t injured. Nor even startled.

“Danny.” Bruce greeted back.

This Danny had caught the knife by its handle well in front of his chest with what Robin evaluated to be his off-hand. Bright blue eyes pierced through the darkness straight to his position. They glowed in the darkness despite emitting no light, almost like a cat’s but without a source to reflect. If he had to guess, this unknown was a bit older than Red Robin. A bit taller, too. His deep black hair was unkempt, as if he had just been in a windstorm, sticking up at gravity-defying angles. He wore a dark robe made of fine material, not quite up to League wear standards, but too formal for a nightgown.

Robin cautiously stepped out of the darkness toward the others. Danny’s squinted eyes followed him, head angling slightly as it rotated to track his movement. Then they flicked away to look at Nightwing and squinted further. After a scant two seconds that stretched far too long, he raised his other hand to push his sleeve up, revealing a cheap plastic Batman-themed digital watch with a bright blue rubber strap.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” He murmured.

He pushed his sleeve further to reveal another, different watch, analog and much more elegant with a black strap most likely made of leather. It looked like something Father would wear to a gala. His eyebrows raised as he looked at it.

“Late, too.”

Batman grunted. Danny dropped his arms to his side, grip loose on the knife. He dipped his head at Damain and looked at Batman.

“My son, Damian.”

Damian tensed at the revealed information.

“He’s sharper than you were.”

“Being raised in an assassin cult will do that to you.”

Damian tensed even more despite the relaxed familiarity, almost teasing tone, that Batman fell into. Danny hummed a deep note and nodded his head toward Nightwing.

“Dick?”

“Nightwing.”

“And the one bleeding all over my couch?”

“Red Robin. Tim. Also my son, not by blood.”

Danny hummed again and lazily tossed the knife into the air toward Robin (who easily caught it, of course) as he walked to the other side of the couch. His movement made no noise whatsoever. Nightwing stepped back cautiously, positioning himself to step between Danny and Red Robin at a moment’s notice.

“What kind of poison?”

“We don’t know.”

He sat down on the edge of the couch to look down at Red Robin but paused as he was leaning down. Instead, he pushed up his sleeve again, and the watches were gone. In their place was some sort of wrist computer that took up half his forearm. The screen was covered in undecipherable text and was surrounded by several buttons marked with hieroglyphics. Robin narrowed his eyes and gripped another knife behind his cape.

“If you throw another blade, I’m confiscating all of them.”

“Stand down, Robin.”

He scowled but let go of the knife. Danny looked to Batman.

“You seem to be getting a call, Bruce. You can take it in the entryway.”

Batman nodded and walked back out the archway, tapping his comm.

“Oracle. We’re safe for now. Red Robin is being treated for poison”

Robin and Nightwing watched him go, turning back after a brief second, only to flinch into defensive stances.

The entire room had changed. It was now lit by a blazing fireplace with a large coffee table between it and the couch where Danny and Red Robin were situated. The table was covered in supplies – glass bottles with colored liquid, mason jars filled with water and fruit and herbs, bowls of nuts, trays of fruit, plates of granola balls, and stacks of labeled first aid kits.

They each stole a look back to Batman, who kept speaking over his comm, not bothered in the slightest.

“I know you can’t. Have the others pull back.”

He flashed them the hand signal for safe.

“I’ll explain when we return. Hour at most.”

They focused back on Danny to see that he had a much larger first aid kit open on the floor next to him and was skimming his fingers across Red Robin’s forehead, brushing his hair away.

“Oh, this one’s cute,” Tim slurred, and he was Tim now, his mask resting on his chest.

Danny snorted and shifted Tim’s uniform away from the slice in his side. He wiped the blood away with some bandages and tilted his head in confusion. He lifted a bloody finger to stare at it. His eyes squinted and he brought the finger up to his nose, where he gave it a sniff. A low growl vibrated through the room, and Robin gripped his knife again. Danny tapped the bloody finger to his tongue, and Robin threw his knife. Or he would have, had Batman not caught his arm.

“Well?” Batman asked.

“It’s a good thing you brought him here,” Danny responded, voice deeper than even Batman’s, “No one should have access to this.”

He raised his other hand and a glowing green post-it note shimmered into existence in his palm. He flicked his wrist toward Nightwing, offering the note to him between two fingers. It was now covered in tiny writing, just as indecipherable as his wrist computer had been.

“Take this into the greenhouse,” he nodded to a door behind Nightwing that had almost certainly not been there before, “Give it to the Gardener; she’ll get you what you need.”

Nightwing hesitantly took the note and looked to Batman, who nodded to him and began walking to one of the chairs next to the couch. He stepped backwards to the door and cracked it open, giving them all one more glance before slipping inside and closing it gently behind him.

Batman slipped his cowl off and grabbed one of the bottled drinks, twisting the cap off and taking a large sip.

“I’ve tried countless times to replicate this flavor, all of them unsuccessful.”

“It’s made with long-extinct fruits, Bruce. I’d be impressed if you managed it.”

Bruce grunted as the door behind him opened and Nightwing stepped in, looking slightly shell-shocked, carrying two small jars and no post-it note.

“Took you long enough,” Danny scolded while gesturing him over.

He handed the jars over and sat down in the chair opposite Bruce, squinting in confusion at his lack of cowl and relaxed snacking. Robin slid into place next to him, still tense and on guard.

Danny unscrewed one of the jars and stuffed a roll of bandages inside before screwing the lid back on. He tossed it to Bruce without looking (who easily caught it, of course) and unscrewed the lid off the other jar.

“Help yourselves, by the way,” he vaguely gestured toward Robin and Nightwing with his head and pointed to the table with his elbow.

Bruce shook his jar and pulled some of the bandages out, sliding them underneath his suit around his wound. Danny scooped a finger’s worth of paste out of his jar and spread it over Red Robin’s wound. He screwed the cap back on and tossed the jar to Bruce just as the other one came flying back to him. They were both easily caught, of course.

Despite the initial hiss of pain, Red Robin’s whole body had been relaxing since the paste had been applied. His eyes slowly opened while Danny was cleaning his hands off and flicked around the room in a quick assessment.

“Who’s this?”

“Danny.” Bruce supplied.

Red Robin looked around the room slowly this time, taking in Bruce’s cowl-less head, the half-drunken jar of colored drink in front of him, the pile of nuts in his hand, Nightwing’s slightly traumatized face and awkward posture, Robin’s irritated scowl and distrustful glare, and he groaned loudly.

“Please tell me this isn’t another Selina situation. He’s like my age.”

“Bold of you to assume my age and gender.” Danny deadpanned.

Red Robin gaped back.

“I met Danny when I was first starting out as Batman.”

“When he was what, eight?” Dick blurted.

“Still with the assumptions,” Danny muttered to himself.

“We thank you for your assistance...Danny.”

Robin was stiff and formal and struggled through the Danny. But that didn’t stop Danny from giving him a slight smile. He looked down at Red Robin then up at Nightwing then finally back at Bruce.

“I like them,” he declared, grabbing a jar of water off the table.

Bruce grunted as Danny unscrewed the lid and handed it to Red Robin.

“Danny has not aged since we first met.”

“Not exactly, but whatever,” Danny mumbled as he tidied up the first aid kit.

Nightwing opened his mouth as if to speak but shook his head and kept quiet. Robin stepped forward to grab a banana off the table with a polite nod to Danny. Red Robin stared down at the jar in his hands. It was full of cold water with a thick slice of pineapple and sprig of mint. After a quick glance to Bruce, he took a sip that turned into a gulp that turned into him emptying the jar in one go and releasing a contented sigh afterwards.

“Do you know anything about the Court of Owls?” Bruce asked.

A tremor shook the house. Bruce tensed in reflex but didn’t leave his chair after a glance to Danny. Nightwing leapt to his feet. Robin slid backwards and drew a blade. Red Robin jolted up and winced through the half-eaten pineapple slice in his mouth. There was a tense silence for several seconds.

“Only that they are not welcome in Gotham,” Danny eventually replied.

After a few more seconds of silence, Danny flicked his eyes to the fireplace mantle as a small object tipped itself over. Nightwing shot his hand out and snatched it out of the air before it could hit the ground. He opened his fist and looked at a miniature gargoyle statue in confusion.

“I may have to become involved,” Danny nodded to Nightwing, who gently replaced the gargoyle on the mantle.

Bruce grunted. Danny tilted his head, staring into the middle distance.

“The occult shop on 4th and Finger between Asher’s Deli and Panadería Golosos,” he recited.

“There is no such shop.” Robin scowled.

“You are correct,” Danny turned to look at him, “And now that you know it’s there, you’ll be able to find it.”

“Emergencies?” Bruce asked.

“Entryway table, same rules.”

The exchange seemed to satisfy Bruce, who stood with a grunt and pulled his cowl back over his head. The others rose with him and followed him toward the entryway, each nodding a thank you to Danny as they went.

They stepped back into the moonlight of the entryway and saw the previously empty table now had four keys laid out on top of it, evenly spaced and covered in a thin layer of dust. When they looked back through the archway they came from, they saw a dark room back to its original form, no Danny to be seen anywhere.

Batman grabbed one of the keys and slipped it into a belt pouch. Robin followed his lead and took a key for himself.

“Father, were you ever going to inform us that you befriended a vampire?”

Batman grunted and cracked the door open to peer out.

“He’s not a vampire,” Red Robin scoffed, grabbing a key for himself.

“I don’t know, creepy house, magic shit, you should’ve seen the gardener,” Nightwing swiped the last key with a flourish.

“He tasted your blood, Drake.”

“He what!?”

“That was after you called him cute,” Nightwing teased.

Red Robin froze with his mouth open, eyes slowly widening.

“I was hoping I just imagined that.”

“Seriously Tim, he’s probably like 300 years old.”

“Tt, I believe Brown would call this robbing the cradle.”

Nightwing and Red Robin turned to look at Robin in silent surprise.

“Shall we leave?” He ignored their incredulous looks and followed Batman out the door.

They scrambled to not be the last out the door, finding themselves in an entirely different part of the city than they entered from.

#dp x dc #dpxdc #my writing #i personally think this works best in a pure batman universe (no JL)#but imagine it how you will #also im ambivalent on how dp fits in #same universe/different dimension/something else #theres clearly some sort of time stuff going on #that could fit into it too idk #probably not ghost king danny #maybe cw apprentice cuz of the time stuff #or maybe theyre just chilling #not totally happy with my writing here but it is what it is

263 notes · View notes

anonymous-dentist · 10 months ago

Text

As promised, at long last!!, here's the Spiderbit Spideypool au!! :D

The sun sets over Quesadilla City, breathing its last for the day.

Similarly, the guy at Cellbit's feet is also breathing his last. He's got a machete stuck through his windpipe cutting off his air, and that's probably what's making him choke. It's either that, or it's the gloved hand choking him right beneath his chin, or it's the thumb- his own- lodged in the back of his throat.

Once upon a time, this dude was one of the Federation's finest insurance sales representatives. He, just like every other disgusting piece of shit on the Federation's payroll, made a living off of scamming widows and orphans and puppies and whoever into selling their souls for mediocre insurance policies that just so happen to never apply. He has a list on his Notes app filled with all the people he's fucked over, and there's one name right at the bottom of the list that single-handedly made him a target.

Sometimes Cellbit really loves his job.

"What?" Cellbit taunts, leaning in real close to the asshole's face. He removes his hand from the man's throat and slowly moves it up to the man's mouth. He pries the man's lips open and pinches his slimy, blood-covered tongue between his pointer finger and thumb.

Smiling beneath his mask, Cellbit tilts his head just slightly- just enough to be noticeable in the dying light of the sunset- and he asks in a low, mocking voice, "Cat got your tongue?"

He laughs at the way the man's eyes widen in sheer terror.

The asshole's hand twitches; his phone, with the Notes app open, is just inches away from his trembling, spindly fingers. It's focused at the bottom of the list, and the name there:

Roier Brown

Roier is a very wealthy man with a dead son and a good-for-nothing husband. Well. He used to be a wealthy man, but then the Avengers smashed his house in with his son in it and he lost everything in the lawsuits that followed. Hence the cheap, terrible, scam insurance. It's all he can afford.

Personally speaking, Cellbit is of the opinion that Roier deserves better. But since he can't afford better on his crummy journalist salary, Cellbit torturing and murdering the man that scammed Roier out of his hard-earned money is just going to have to do.

Cellbit clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "You should know better than to try that."

'WOW, WHAT AN IDIOT!!' Voice A laughs.

'show him who's in charge around here' Voice B orders, and Cellbit lives to serve.

He twists his machete, slow.

The man gurgles at him, pale in the face and very much on death's door.

(Unfortunately for him, Cellbit has met Death himself, and She's a very nice woman. This man won't get a chance to see the Other Side, not if She has anything to say about it.)

They're on top of the roof of an abandoned gas station somewhere towards the Favela, so it really isn't surprising when there's a very annoyed whoosh of air and the soft thumping of someone landing on the roof behind Cellbit's back and tripping over his own webbing.

'SPIDER-MAN!!!' Voice A exclaims.

'my hero <3' says Voice B with all the adoration in the world.

"Shut up," Cellbit annoyedly mutters; this is his conversation with Spider-Man, thank you!

The man's eyes brighten, hopeful. Hah! As if Spider-Man would help someone like him.

On cue, a sticky thread of webbing attaches itself to the handle of Cellbit's machete just above his fingers. A tug, and the machete is yanked from the man's throat, finishing him off with one last bloodthirsty shink!!!

'finally'

Cellbit stands up and twirls dramatically, hands flying to his cheeks. His eyes, and the white eyeholes of his mask, widen in put-on shock and horror.

"Spider-Man!" he gasps. "You just killed that man!"

Spider-Man, of course, is not amused. His eyeholes narrow. Arms crossed, hip cocked... oh, he's angry.

'UH-OH!!!'

Cellbit tries not to wince at Voice A's terrified screech. Instead, he clears his throat and drops his hands to his sides, swinging them until they end up behind his back. He clasps his hands together, shrinking into himself even though he really knows that this won't work.

"Deadpool," Spider-Man coolly says.

"Spider-Man."

"What did I say about murdering people."

"...Not to do it without you?"

"Then what the fuck is this, culero?"

Spider-Man gestures towards the corpse with both of his hands... and with the machete, still loosely held in his webs over by the body. It scrapes across the roof, scuffing it up and kicking sparks up and making Cellbit actually visibly flinch.

'our baby...'

'HE NEEDS TO PAY!!!!!'

Choked, Cellbit says, "He's- it's fine."

Spider-Man, of course, knows that Cellbit isn't talking to him, so he continues his angry rant, slipping into Spanish that Cellbit only halfway pays attention to. But can you blame him? Spider-Man's suit is skin-tight, and Cellbit is a very weak man.

'HE IS FORGIVEN!!'

'our angel...'

"Muy guapo," Cellbit agrees. He sighs dreamily as Spider-Man paces around the rooftop ranting at the top of his lungs, uncaring of prying eyes. Why should he care? Anybody stupid enough to spy on Deadpool is as good as dead, everybody knows this.

Suddenly, Spider-Man rounds on him and points an accusing finger.

"And!" he snaps, back in English for the sake of poor Voice B. "You missed dinner, you piece of shit!"

Okay, this Cellbit does feel sorry about.

His eyeholes droop sadly. His shoulders sag, and he scuffs the toe of his boot against the roof.

"Desculpe, guapito," he says, and he really means it.

Spider-Man points for just a second longer before relaxing and slumping to the ground by the dead man. He picks up the man's phone, sees the name at the bottom of the list, and lets out a long, drawn-out sigh before groaning loudly and flopping onto his back on the rooftop. He holds the phone above his face, scrolling up through the list.

Cellbit takes a seat opposite him. Out of respect for the deceased, he takes one of the man's hands and covers the gaping, bleeding, rotting hole in his neck with it.

'that should make the reporters happy' Voice B comments.

'BUT IT'LL MAKE CUCURUCHO PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSED!!!' Voice A cackles, way too excited over something that's probably actually going to give Cellbit a bigger headache than he already has thanks to his voices being annoying little shits today.

"Cucurucho won't find this guy until it's too late," he tells the voices.

A pause.

"It's already too late," he adds. "So they'll just find him later."

"If they find him," Spider-Man counters. He carelessly tosses the phone to the side and drops his hands onto his chest, watching the sun set above him. "Man, I wanted to kill this guy."

Cellbit frowns. "I didn't think you'd mind..."

"Nah, don't worry about it. It's fine. Just let me get the next one, okay?"

There are countless Federation employees. Some are agents, like the mysterious new "Agent Jabberjaw" wreaking havoc by the docks. Others are white collars, like the dead man by Cellbit's knee. And others are heroes, like the Avengers.

'i hate those guys...'

'THEY LITERALLY SUCK'

'i miss bobby...'

Voice B breaks down into sobs, and Voice A starts shouting for them to shut up and stop crying because crying can't bring the dead back to life but revenge will so they're going to get revenge obviously and Roier's gonna be right there with them and he's gonna get to choke Cucurucho with-

"Gatinho," Spider-Man says, pulling Cellbit out of his head, "help me clean up the body before the cops get here. You're supposed to be retired, remember, pendejo?"

Cellbit rolls his eyes. "I'm doing them a favor."

And Spider-Man rolls his own eyes: "I know, but they don't."

Of course they don't. The Avengers, under Cucurucho's instructions no doubt, labeled Deadpool a villain years ago back when Cellbit was more active. And then he met the love of his life and he retired from mercenary-ing to try and build a real home life for the first time in his (memorable) life.

And then Bobby died, and not even a superhuman healing factor could keep Cellbit's then-boyfriend from almost dying in the ambulance.

"Maybe we should do it out of costume," Cellbit muses.

He looks down at his costume with a small, thoughtful frown. He designed it years ago for easy movement and easier repair, but he's also gotten older. He can stab a guy, sure, but it's a little too hard to raise his arms above the shoulders for Cellbit's tastes.

Spider-Man raises a teasing eyebrow; Cellbit can't see his face, but he knows him enough to know exactly what his face is doing at all times.

"You know that I'm naked under here, right?" he asks.

The voices stop shouting at each other long enough to start giving very detailed descriptions of what they think Spider-Man looks like under his suit.

Very detailed descriptions.

"Uh," Cellbit says, voice cracking, "or we can just do it now!"

"What, you don't want to see me naked?"

'is he offering????'

'I HOPE HE IS!!'

"We get to see him naked all the time," Cellbit says, though he also knows that Spider-Man has never seen him naked. (As it turns out, Spider-Man sleeps naked, and he chose not to mention this until the honeymoon.)

Spider-Man's eyeholes crinkle in amusement. "Well, if they want to see me naked..."

He makes a grand motion with his arms before reaching for the hidden zipper on the back of his costume.

'yes!!!!'

'OH MY GOD YESSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

Cellbit flushes the same shade of red as his costume and covers his eyes with his hands. He likes Spider-Man's body, but he does not want him stripping on a roof for just anybody to see.

Spider-Man laughs. "Calma, calma, I'm teasing you, gatinho! Una broma!"

Cellbit peeks out between his fingers and sees, indeed, a fully-clothed Spider-Man.

"I knew that," he tells him. The voices call him an idiot, and so he repeats it louder: "I knew that! I knew it was a joke!"

"Ah-huh," Spider-Man says, not believing him whatsoever.

He stretches his arms above his head, groans, and hops to his feet. He stretches again, cracking his neck and shoulders.

"Guess dinner tonight is takeout," he comments.

Cellbit wrinkles his nose. "He tastes bad."

"You haven't bitten him yet, have you?"

Spider-Man sounds mildly disappointed; if anyone heard him talking like this, he'd be labeled as a villain by the end of the week. But, then again, he and Deadpool have been known for their... unique relationship since before Deadpool's retirement. They tease. They joke.

Cellbit shifts uncomfortably. "Well... no."

They have dinner together every night.

"Then how do you know he tastes bad, eh?"

Spider-Man reaches across the corpse and lightly baps Cellbit on the back of the head disapprovingly.

"We're taking him," Spider-Man tells him. Of course, Cellbit doesn't argue. How could he?

So Cellbit stands, and he goes to get the man's phone from where Spider-Man had thrown it earlier. Behind him, Spider-Man picks the man up from off of the roof and slings him over his shoulder.

God, he's strong...

'STRONG AND SMART AND HANDSOME AND BEAUTIFUL AND KIND AND'

'and generous and muscular and sweet and caring and'

...and perfect.

If Cellbit didn't know any better, he'd say that he may, in fact, have a bit of a crush on Spider-Man.

And isn't that funny?

(Roier slips into bed shortly after Cellbit does. Fresh out of the shower, he smells like Cellbit's body wash: vaguely mango-y.

He curls around Cellbit's body like a quotation mark, slotting in behind him perfectly. He holds Cellbit close, eyelashes fluttering against the back of Cellbit's head.

"You were right," he admits, words muttered into Cellbit's hair. "He tasted horrible. I brushed my teeth, like, a million times, what the fuck?"

"I told you," Cellbit says. He squeaks as he gets a pinch to his side for his troubles, ouch. "Hey!"

'do it again...'

'DUDE WHAT THE FUCK?'

"Let me pick next time," Roier says. "My turn."

"Fine."

As if Cellbit could ever tell his husband no. He deserves everything and more... though all Cellbit can offer is killings in his honor. That's all he can give, but Roier deserves more. But it's what Cellbit can provide, and so it will be what he gives him.

Cellbit can't die. He's tried, and Death has sent him back to the world of the living with a tired sigh every time. Immortality is cool and all, but...

But Roier almost died in that ambulance. Bobby did die in the house. Richarlyson could die in the next great Avengers battle. Pepito...

Once upon a time, Spider-Man was a hero. But then his son died, not that anybody outside of a select few knew that, and he stopped working with the Avengers entirely.

Blood is crusted on Spider-Man's suit, hung in the secret panel in the bedroom closet right next to Deadpool's suit.

Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, yeah, but his home life is something entirely different.

"Stop thinking," Roier orders. "I'm trying to sleep."

Cellbit smiles into his pillow. "I'll try."

It's the least he can do.)

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#cw violence #idk how i feel about this one?#but can you tell. i read some of the comics as a teenager #trying to get both the deadp00l stuff and the cell stuff mixed together just right was HARD okay??

241 notes · View notes