This fic is a fill for the spideypool bingo 2019 prompt "curses"

Standing with his hands on his hips, Wade scrutinizes the crooked cottage that his teleporter has taken him to. Its roof is thick with greenery and vines, climbing plants cover the walls and frame the dusty windows, and a gap gleams between the wooden front door and the threshold. Slanting left, toward the stream flowing around its corner, the little house looks frozen mid-journey across the forest, rooted on the spot by the vegetation surrounding it.

A narrow trampled path leads up to the door, but aside from that the encompassing wilderness is unkempt, barely contained by thick layers of spider webs that veil branches that arch over the cottage roof much like mourning widows over their spouses' coffins. Sticky strings spun around the blooming bushes glimmer in the sun, and the stream gurgles happily as playful water drops launch in the air and dive back in. Birds chirp above him.

[They don't call him the spider witch for nothing] White offers.

"Yeah well, at least it's not a gingerbread house." Wade scratches his covered chin (he's in full Deadpool costume, as always). "You think he's got any beast spiders around here? Big enough for him to ride, like Hagrid's Aragog? With a preference for human meat?"

[We can still turn around and leave. Choose an eternity of self-hate and suicides if you're going to be a baby about this] Yellow says.

"After all the trouble we've gone through to find this dude? I say, bring it on, Spider Man!"

No way is Wade letting his eternal curse best him. So what if some bigass spider will want to eat him? He's survived worse, and he's both a confident shot and a stellar martial artist. Straightening his back, he shakes his shoulders loose, ready to meet this witch and his potential pet beasts. But before he can step forward, a man's voice stops him.

"I prefer Peter, but I suppose Spider Man isn't that bad of a name either."

Wade twists around, his hands shooting to his hips, drawing his guns and pointing them straight at the youthful man crouching among the ferns behind him. He's lightly suntanned with freckles dotted across his shoulders, arms and nose, and his eyes and hair are a matching chestnut brown. Dressed in silky, flowy white pants (woven by spiders?) that sit high on his slim hips, but otherwise naked, the man's toned figure is on display, long limbs, broad chest and all. A fist-sized, black spider scuttles over his bare toes and up his arm, settling in the crook of his elbow. Wade's first impression is that he's equal parts adorable and compelling. The man, not the spider.

The man – Peter – rises to his feet in a fluid motion, his weight rolling from his toes to his heels. The black spider leaps to sit on his shoulder. "I don't like weapons."

"I do." Wade grins through his mask, but deems Peter harmless and re-holsters the pistols. "But I don't judge those who don't. Wouldn't want to stare down my own barrel either."

"I wasn't worried." Peter strides past Wade and toward the cottage. "You were looking for me."

"So I was."

The spider on Peter's shoulder turns to blink at Wade with its eight beady eyes, before hopping into the web covered bushes. Different colored and sized spiders emerge to run around Peter's long legs like tiny excited dogs welcoming their owner home after a lonely day, dodging his feet each time they thump down on the ground. Though some set their exhilaration aside in favor of ogling Wade, full of mistrust.

"Come on in." Peter waves from the front door, leaving it open in his wake. The spiders that have taken upon themselves to narrow their many, many eyes at Wade glance from him to the cottage, daring him to approach. One of the bigger (Australian sized, not native to America, no sir, [Why is it even here?]) ones bares its teeth and snaps its jaw at him.

[Remember, as long as the curse is in place, even the poisonous ones can't kill us permanently]

[Unless they poison us and then eat our carcass and keep eating it before we can generate enough to gain consciousness]

[But hey, at least we'd stay dead in a sense, as long as the spiders are around?]

"Thanks," Wade calls after Peter and steps onto the path. The spiders closest to him move reluctantly to give way. One brave daddy long leg prods at his boot, testing the material before turning ([Wonder what kind of information it gained?]) and scurrying into the bushes with its legs flailing.

The inside of the cottage is as well-lived in as the outside is overgrown, a homely chaos reigning on all feasible surfaces and spider webs decorating those that Peter can't clutter himself. To Wade's left is a massive dining table and a cooking nook with a fireplace, and to his right is what must be Peter's workspace completed with ceiling high bookcases. Suspended overhead is a thick, wide web, much like an enormous hang mat. A beast spider must've spun him that one, because no sensible sized arachnid would be able to produce web thick like that.

Peter bends over a collection of glass jars balancing on a leaning tower of well-read books. He pops one of the jars open and sniffs its contents before shrugging and dipping his pointer finger in the green slime within, licking it off and closing the jar again. It's not an act of seduction, not with that unconcerned expression, but it still does a mighty good job of directing Wade's full attention to his lips, and soft, wet looking tongue.

"This clearly isn't a social visit," Peter says when he is done tasting the slime. His eyes are kind, kinder than you'd expect of a witch living alone in the deepest parts of a forest or a witch who eats questionable goo out of a mason jar.

"Hey now, it could be if you wanted it to. If I had known the spider witch is this much of a looker I would've come sniffing around here sooner."

A curl of a smirk graces Peter's lips. "Points for trying, but flattery doesn't get you far. What do want with me?"

"It's not flattery if it's the truth!"

Peter crosses his arms over his middle and Wade pouts, but still rolls his mask up to his nose.

"Are you always all business and no play?" he whines and pulls his mask off, revealing the monstrosity that is his pockmarked, scarred skin. "Or maybe introductions are in order. You might know me as Deadpool, but my mama used to call me Wade Wilson in her most disappointed voice. Been cursed for about four decades now."

Raising an eyebrow, Peter saunters forward. "You're Deadpool?"

[He knows us]

[Wonder how. No roads or reception out here for miles. We must just be that good, even the American Baba Yaga has heard of us]

[Great job, fuckos, we're a famous mercenary]

[Don't blame me, this is all on the big guy]

Wade puffs out his chest despite the boxes. "The one and only."

"Huh." Frowning up at the mutilated mess of a pizza face that Wade calls his, Peter raises his hands to hover around his ears. "Can I touch you?"

"All you want, baby."

Gently, Peter traces along Wade's cheekbones and up his temples. They follow the path of scars across his forehead and nose, stroke his jaw and end by his chin. Peter's cool palms cup his face, his thumbs ghost over the bags beneath Wade's eyes.

"These are everywhere?"

"You bet."

He doesn't let go, but when their gazes meet, Peter's concentration breaks and his thumbs stutter in their path. He clears his throat.

"Sorry, uh." Peter's fingers fall away from Wade's face to drum against his own chin. A wrinkle mars the smooth skin between his eyebrows and Wade wants to wipe it off with his fingertips, but ignores the impulse despite Yellow's exaggerated, wanton groaning at the back of his mind. "These aren't the result of a curse. How did you get them?"

"Oh yeah, no, they're a souvenir." Peter tilts his head and Wade nods vigorously. "Yeah, got them on this trip to this one fucker's place. He was real sadistic, let me tell you. Had all these torture devices he liked to play with when we got together. Like fucked up BDSM without the safe, sane and consensual attached, and he never cared that I didn't even get hard. He was like you, too. Put a curse on me before I could blow his head off."

"He was like me?"

"Yup." At Peter's puzzled tone, Wade gestures around the cottage. "You know, a witch."

"Really? You'd call him a witch, just because he knows some magic? I'll have you know it's a title most of us work hard for. Do you have any idea how many years I had to apprentice for my aunt before she let me cast a spell on my own?" Peter waves his hand with a miffed expression. "People will call any asshole with some kick in their blood a witch these days."

"Francis was an asshole with some kick in his blood, all right."

"But did he know how to heal and nurture? Did he care for and love all life on Earth, maybe?" Wade barks out a laugh at the questions. "See. Plain disregard for everything a witch stands for." The liveliness in Peter's voice fades when he continues. "So what's your curse?"

"One hell of a healing factor."

"You heal super fast?"

"Yeah, from anything."

"Anything?"

"Right on. Can't even die."

Peter cards his fingers through his hair, his locks standing out in all directions. "The asshole forced immortality on you."

"Seems so," Wade says with a shrug. "I've tried everything. Name it, I've done it. I can give you a demonstration if you'd like me to."

Wrinkling his nose (a cute look on him), Peter shakes his head and crouches down to run his finger along the long row of thick books at the bottom of his bookcase. "No need, I believe you, thanks. Immortality is more of a problem than people think."

"For real?"

Peter hums an affirmative and pulls out a leather-bound book from the shelf. Three brown spiders jump off and scrambles to regroup on the floor below. One of them misses an eighth leg, but it nimbly limps along its friends.

"And here I thought I was alone about being a miserable bastard."

"It's not just you. My aunt treated a few immortals in her day. It can be a gift for a while, but at some point you'll have had your share of life. When you get there varies, but in the end . . ." Peter flips the book open and pages through it at a mindboggling speed, ". . . everyone gets there. I can't do anything about your healing factor, but I can give you an elixir that lets your body age. If you take it every week, you'll eventually meet a somewhat natural death. How old are you now?"

Wade has half a mind to wag his finger at Peter (a lady never reveals her age!), but answers still. "Thirty-seven."

"I see." Peter keeps flying through his book, stopping somewhere in the middle. "Here it is." He bounces back onto his feet and scrambles through the tools on the third lowest shelf before him. Pliers, wires and screws roll aside, and at least ten spiders escape Peter's voyaging hands, until he finds a pair of glasses that he pushes onto his nose. Mumbling under his breath, Peter sets the book down on the brimming shelf, and when it inevitably tips toward the edge, he snaps his fingers at it like one would at a dog. Thick, white web shoots from his wrist, sticking it in place. And whoa yeah! Dude's able to shoot webs from his wrists.

[Wait a minute – that explains the hang mat web thing. He doesn't have an Aragog, he is the Aragog!]

"Seems like he is."

"He's what?" Peter asks and absent-mindedly shakes a jar filled with yellow, glowing flowers Wade's never seen before. Not that he's paid much attention to flowers in the first place. Looking over at Wade, who's still standing on the threshold, Peter pauses with the jar in hand. The glasses slide down the bridge of his nose and he pushes them up again. "Uh, come in, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Wherever there's room."

Wade strides in, leaning in to look at the piles of things on Peter's dining table. A green spider with thick hairy legs emerges from under a dirty washcloth, meets Wade's gaze with its twinkling eyes and leaps off the table in Peter's direction. When it makes it up to him, all he does is wriggle his fingers at it, while still going through his stock. The satisfied spider bounds into the space left behind by Peter's heavy book.

"Can I ask what your deal with the spiders is, Spider Man?"

"Are you versed in the concept of familiars?" Peter asks, still not looking up from his jars.

"Can't say I am."

"Well, common folk often think them to be demons assisting witches with their magic, but to be more conspicuous about it, they take on animal forms." Peter pulls out a mortar and pestle and throws two yellow, glowing flower petals in the mortar. "They have it all wrong, obviously, but who's surprised? Nowadays people don't even know what a witch is. It's more like I have a sort of energy about me that anyone can sense if they're attune to it. Some animals like specific energies so much they flock together around the sources. And for me it's spiders. They adore me, I adore them. We get along well."

"So they're your pets?"

[Ask him if he can communicate with them]

"Can you talk to them?"

"Yeah, I guess I can talk to them, sort of. But they're not my pets, they come and go on their own whims."

[That's so cool! Ask him if Charlotte's Web is a true story]

[It's not, dumbass]

[You never know. Ask him, big guy. Do it]

Wade doesn't ask, because firstly, he doubts that Peter knows what Charlotte's Web is and secondly, while checking out Peter's things he finds a dirty pan and the spiders sliding along its oily surface. And wow, the spider witch does not wash his dishes any more regularly than Wade does based on the old-dried-food-stink that mingles with the otherwise pleasant aromas of herbs and flowers in the cottage.

"Sorry, I'm bad at this hosting thing, I rarely get guests that stay for long. Or in general. If you're hungry, there's bread in the cupboard to your left. This will take a while." Peter shakes a jar filled with black liquid that sloshes with his movements. "I won't have time to cook dinner if you want this ready before sundown."

"I can make pancakes if you want to."

"You would?"

"Sure. They're damn good too."

Peter straightens his glasses, trying to hide the light flush on his face when he asks. "Do you mind then?"

Wade beams. "Not at all. A stack of special pancakes à la Deadpool coming right up."

Taking his time rummaging through Peter's cupboards and the mountains of things lying around in search of clean bowls and spatulas, sugar and flour, and spooking countless of spiders hanging out or building webs as he goes, Wade finds all he needs. Most of the spiders move out of his way, but a few opt to cling to him or whatever utensil they sat on before he disturbed their peace. A fat black one refuses to budge off the wooden spoon Wade uses to stir the batter with and so it holds on as he cooks. It even seems to glare at him when he ramps up an off-key version of If I Knew You Were Comin' I'd've Baked a Cake.

[Should've gotten off the cruise when it still could] Yellow cheers.

[Wish I could get off this cruise too] White grouses.

Since Peter doesn't complain, Wade doesn't bother with his haters and belts out the lyrics with even more fervor than before. When he lets go off the wooden spoon, the fat black spider jumps off. Doesn't even sway after the breakneck carousel ride around the bowl. Badass familiars, these spiders, unlike the whiny boxes Wade got.

[You're the whiniest of us all]

[He so is. Always crying and complaining, can't even stand light teasing]

Wade drowns out the chatter within his head by singing louder and readies a clean pan for the first pancake.

"You find everything all right?" Peter asks after the fifth If I Knew You Were Comin' I'd've Baked a Cake. He's grinding in the mortar, but his attention is on Wade, his face open with an attentiveness that sends shivers down Wade's spine. It's like he sees more than he should with those witchy eyes. "Sorry for the mess. It's just how I live. My aunt used to complain about it, but in the end even she gave up. Spiders love chaos." A tiny, embarrassed smile creeps across his lips. "And so do I."

"No problem, my spidery friend."

[He's subtly hinting that he hates our singing voice]

[No way, he liked it, and you're mad because you didn't get to decide the song]

Assessing Peter's posture (hunched inward, close to his jars and books) and expression (still focused), and finding both neutral, Wade decides his audience neither loved or hated his voice (or choice of song) to the extreme. But even so he should keep his mouth shut for now. Except when Peter turns and Wade catches sight of one of the glowing yellow flowers stuck in his wild hair.

"You got something there," he blurts out.

Peter halts, mortar in one hand and an empty mason jar in the other. "I do? What?"

"A," Wade gestures with the spatula he turns the pancakes with toward his bald, uncovered scalp, "flower. One of those yellow ones."

"Oh." Peter frowns and rolls his eyes upward as if he could see the flower on his head. He shrugs and raises the empty mason jar in his hand. "It'll fall off. I need to fill this with fresh water, I'll be back soon."

"Sure, yeah."

[Remember when the big guy was like "what if the scary witch got gigantic beast spiders"? This is his scary spider witch]

[He's adorable]

[Did you just call the big guy adorable?!]

[Obviously I was talking about the witch]

When Peter returns inside, it's without the flower. Instead, a band of daddy long legs come in riding on his flowy pants to explore his workspace. He doesn't acknowledge the freeriders except for when he has to swat them out of the way so they don't fall into his open jars or cups.

"So . . ." Wade breaks the silence, drawing out the o. "You apprenticed for your aunt?"

"Yeah. This used to be our place, but now it's just mine."

"You're all alone?"

"Aside from the spiders?" Peter asks, his tone amused. "I get visitors from time to time. Childhood friends or people in need, like you."

"No neighbours?"

"Not for miles, no."

"What happens if you're in need of help then?"

"Don't worry about me, I know how to take care of myself." Peter presses his lips together to contain a grin, and Wade believes him.

[He's like us]

[A fellow lone wolf! Pry about his abilities]

[I vote for letting sleeping witches lie]

[That's what Beni Gabor would say if he was here]

Wade's inclined to agree, at least about the sleeping witch analogy.

"The best pancakes you'll ever have are ready," he says when he flips the last pancake on top of his (rather impressive, if he's allowed to say) pile.

"Sweet, give me a second and I'll be too." Peter takes a pinch of whatever he's grinding and sprinkles it in a small wooden bowl. After a careful swirl of a spoon in the cup, he takes off his [Cute] [Nerdy] glasses and brings it to the dining table, where Wade creates a space for them to eat in by shoving some of the disarray aside.

"Here you go. Your first dose," he says. Next to the stack of golden pancakes the thick grey contents of the potion bowl look even less appetizing.

"Does it taste as good as it looks?"

The corner of Peter's mouth twitches even though he does his best to look serious. "Better."

"I'll take your word for it, Spider Man," Wade says and raises the bowl in a cheer, gulping the whole elixir down in one go. The texture is thick and slimy on his tongue, but the taste is fairly neutral, as promised. He slams the cup down with a whoop and heaves half the pancakes onto his plate. "Onto the main course!"

Peter digs into the foundations of the pancake tower with more grace than Wade has ever eaten anything with. The spiders don't mind the spraying pancake bits as they crawl around the table, rather focusing on investigating the relative cleanliness of the space Wade had opened.

"So, what do I owe you?"

"Huh?" Peter licks his fork clean and blinks at Wade. One of the spiders have taken to building a web between his forearm and the tabletop, and refuses to take the hint when he shakes it. "Get off, come on. You know I can't sit here all evening."

"Payment, for the elixir?"

"Oh, that." Peter bites his bottom lip, but when the spider on his arm attempts to weave another web between him and the table, his eyes flashes red. "That's it. No is no. I'm not playing this game right now." Cupping the spider in his palm, Peter brings it to the floor behind him and shoos it away. It runs in a circle before taking off toward the fireplace. By the time he turns back to Wade, another, larger spider has made itself comfortable in Peter's hair. He tucks a stray strand behind his ear with a sigh. "What is it worth to you?"

"Worth to me?"

"Yeah. I gave you the elixir. In exchange I want something of equal worth to you."

"Just anything of equal worth?"

Peter shrugs. "That's what I said."

[Male Minima De Spell here doesn't know how a business transaction works]

"Witches get to set their own rules, good for them." Patting down his pouches, Wade tries to remember where he stuffed the money he got for turning a pedophile into a target practice dummy two nights ago. He had refused the single mother's check at first, but she had insisted to get it off her hands. The money had been his, she had said and called it dirty.

[That's our kind of money, baby!]

"Enough?" he asks when he pulls out a roll of hundreds and props it before Peter.

Peter regards the money, then Wade. Picking up the roll, he opens a nearby cupboard, pulls out a straw basket and throws it into a growing pile of bills. Unblinkingly he shuts the cupboard again, his gaze never losing the unnerving alertness that burns Wade when it rakes over him. "That covers this week's dose, yeah."

[What does he see when he looks at us like that?]

[We might not want to know]

"Good, good." Wade claps his hands together. "I should get going then."

Peter's shoulders hunch forward. The spider on his head slides with the movement, its legs seeking purchase against his right temple. "Ah. I'll show you out. Thank you for the pancakes, they were awesome. No, I'll deal with the dishes, it's fine, you can leave them."

Striding to the door, but unable to pass over the threshold yet, Wade pauses with his mask in hand, about to pull it over his head. "Thank you for the elixir."

"No problem." Peter leans against the door frame. "I'll see you next week again?"

"You will?"

"Yeah, for the next dose?"

"Oh right, yeah. The next dose." Wade laughs loud and dons the mask. "Yup. See you next week."

"Uh, yeah, I'd give you some in advance, but it's best to take when it's fresh. I'll have a cup ready for you." Frowning, Peter peers at Wade. "It's not a problem, right?"

"Not at all."

"Great. See you then, Wade."

Wade grins, fiddling with his teleporter. "Next week, right. It's a date."

"Sure, but you better bring pizza. They don't deliver this far out and I do have some standards," Peter says, right before Wade punches the button. He had planned to cooly back a few steps onto the narrow path in Peter's garden (as not to accidentally teleport anything or anyone with him [Like one of those Aussie spiders]), but stumbles on his way, like a hotter, clumsier James Bond swaggering out of a (consenting!) Bond girl's bed instead.

The last thing he sees before the world melts into a colorful mesh and he lands on his back on the roof of a taco truck in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, New York City, is his first real Peter smile.

I fear spiders, but they love hanging out with me. This is sort of a tribute to them

If you enjoyed, please leave me some feedback, thank you! 🕷️

I also thank my dear friend and beta, Robyn, for her continuous support & help!

My tumblr username is sweetsoursugarcube. If you head over there you can see my spideypool bingo card and what other prompts I've been given