Man-Made Monsters [Marvel]
Title: Man-Made Monsters
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own Wolverine: Origins, X-Men, the Marvel universe, or the characters said universe/franchise contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Marvel and Fox. No infringement intended.
Fandom: Marvel, Wolverine: Origins-verse.
Continuity: Movie
Characters: Wade Wilson/Deadpool, William Stryker
Warnings: Creeper smut, slash
Summary: In which, Stryker is a special breed of disturbing.
Author’s Note: There are days when I feel incredibly creepy. This is one of them. Semi-sequel to With The Best Intentions.
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It was impossible to tell what had led up to this situation; perhaps a specific gesture on the part of the staff, one too many averted eyes, the way this section of the lab emptied so very quickly after hours. Or maybe he just wanted to see his handiwork, to stare down at what he had wrought, in pride and sick fascination. In any case, it ultimately didn’t matter; he always slipped his cardkey, sidled in to watch every night, stark in his uniform against the grey. It was not a dank tomb; the room perpetually put forth the faintest whiff of disinfectant and detergent, the lights a comfortable but bright hue of off-white, sheets kept starch clean. Every effort was made to keep it sterile and calming, geared for the easy rest of their project after each harrowing experiment.
There had been mishaps, in the beginning. The first injections had almost killed him, his body quite nearly rejecting the replication of Logan’s mutation. At one point the swords were too long and too sharp, and had simply burst free from his forearms when he had thrashed, screaming from behind his sealed lips. The flesh had been slow to grow back, nothing like Logan’s rapid process, and had to be sewn back together like a plant splicing to fully knit closed the wound. And still he had fought, had jerked away in a mindless haze, twitched and spasmed and keened, muscles weak from lack of use but still terribly distracting for their work.
Then, of course, they had increased the constant dosage of morphine and the flailings had trailed off; whatever other objections toward the doctors’ methods, they learned from their mistakes.
On the gurney-bed, experiment XI - the ‘Dead-Pool’, as Stryker had decided on (proud as any parent) - turned his head, eyelids flickering in fevered sleep, coated in a thin sheen of sweat. His hands clenched, the blade beneath his skin pressing tight against his bound forearms, held firmly in place by thick leather straps to circumvent any more unfortunate… instances. The same style of padded restraint held his ankles and waist, keeping him as immobile as possible to allow minimal damage to his freshly mutated flesh. They had to be careful, so careful, to make certain he couldn’t hurt himself.
They had made a monster, but left just enough of a man to make his existence tolerable.
Of course, now that his body had accepted Logan’s mutation and well on its way to the enhancements, who was to say there were not other abilities that could be added, changed - brought together in a singular, indestructible whole?
Stryker exhaled sharply, hand rising to adjust his collar, suddenly feeling far too warm in this ostensibly chill little room.
This had happened to Stryker before, to a lesser extent; odd moments when his head would turn just so during the tests, when his shoulders flexed against whatever needle they’d forced in. But it had never this intense, or pointedly sexual - the Dead-Pool had become so dear to him, like family, his progeny in this world. Stryker braced back against the door, the cold of it leeching in like the ache of sobriety after a long night out, and breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, fending it off. There was time enough for that at home.
The incapacitated man’s head rolled back, sliding off the small pillow.
Stryker was across the room almost before he could register it, gently tilting his head back up, directing it back to rest on the center. There was a thin, ragged whimper - maybe, it was hard to tell with his mouth closed like that but it was necessary (so very, very necessary) - and the Dead-Pool leaned away, face contorting in fear or rage or pain or something more indefinable.
Stryker smiled fondly, raised a palm to set it on his brow, thumb rubbing his clammy temple reassuringly. William’s free hand skittered down, tugging the blanket from where it had been sloppily draped over the Dead-Pool's chest. God, his skin itself was so cold, but the heat from inside him was radiating, burning straight through. And he was slick. Damp. Twitching restlessly, and rolling his head and made that sound again, that muffled sound that was so much like a moan…
Well, we all have our weaknesses.
Stryker leaned forward, keeping one hand on the Dead-Pool's forehead, the other trailing down to tug his own zipper, pulling it along with a slow release of pressure. His shoulders hunched forward, like he hadn’t since childhood, wanting to glance back at the door to make sure he was alone but liking that edge of danger, of discovery - it only took a few pumps to get himself up. A few more to get himself fully prepared.
Carefully - ever so carefully - he bent forward, setting his lips against the thick stitches, chin trembling. His tongue slipped free of its own accord, quick and bashful, tasting the peculiar material, the antiseptic taste sharp and burning all the way down his throat.
He swallowed nervously, and began that quick, jerking rhythm, on the wet sound of his pleasure breaking the sanctity of the moment. He nuzzled into the Dead-Pool's cheek, tongue laving a long trail of saliva along the curve of his jaw. Worked his mouth against the catsgut until he was raw and chapped and his little nothings became only broken sounds.
This was perverse, wrong-but-it felt-so-
At the edge of his perception, something moved, just a flash, quick as a moth’s frenzied flutter. He looked up and Wade stared back, empty, empty of anything intelligent or human but aware, aware of what he was doing and where he was and Stryker gave a surprised groan at the wet heat suddenly coating his palm, his fingers.
There was a flicker of emotion, of something, and the Dead-Pool’s eyes slipped closed again, falling back into restless sleep.
Stryker, breathing ragged, stumbled back, hand still slick with his shame, and whispered, “Perfect.”