Chapter Text
“Did somebody order a clown?”
The voice was loud, familiar, and directly behind Peter. Already dreading whatever was about to happen, he turned and found himself face-to-chest with a recognizable red suit. Per usual, it smelled faintly of blood.
“I can’t make a balloon animal more complex than, say, a human penis,” Deadpool continued, “but I’m pretty sure I have one of those water-squirty flower pins somewhere in these pouches.”
“Uh, what?” He asked dumbly, wishing he had his mask on to conceal the dread creeping over him. If Deadpool had somehow discovered Spider-Man’s secret identity, he wouldn’t out him in the middle of a grocery store full of civilians, right? Peter always figured that nightmare scenario would end with Deadpool auctioning the info off to the highest bidder.
“Aw, don’t be scared, College.” Deadpool gently honked Peter’s nose. “I’m basically Spider-Man’s sidekick! And as a hero-in-training, it’s my solemn duty to cheer you the fuck up, because you smell about one spilled milk away from suicide and it’s really freaking everybody out.”
Peter glanced around, perplexed, and saw that many of the other shoppers were indeed casting uneasy looks in their direction. It wasn’t a large store, but it was packed with the usual rush-hour traffic, and Peter’s heightened senses were very much not enjoying the overwhelming jumble of scents and sounds.
“Are you sure you’re not the one freaking them out? Also, since when does Spider-Man have a mercenary sidekick?”
Peter preferred to think of their current arrangement as something closer to babysitting. Deadpool had approached Spider-Man a few months back, claiming to have turned over a new leaf and begging to shadow him so he could “learn from the best”. Clearly, Peter’s bleeding heart had gotten him in trouble again. Deadpool had probably been planning this from the start.
“He knows who we are!” Deadpool exclaimed in delight. “And here I am, caught without my pearls and fluffy autograph-signing pen! But don’t worry, my killer-for-hire days are behind me. Strictly vegan mercing from here on out. Or maybe it’s closer to vegetarian, since Spidey lets me get away with some light maiming if the situation calls for it. Anyway, it’s definitely you, College. Don’t try to smelt-it-dealt-it on me. You’ve got so much distressed omega smell coming off you, I can practically see the cartoon stink lines.”
Huh. This conversation wasn’t going where he thought it was.
Peter frowned and gave a perfunctory sniff to the scent glands on one of his wrists, only to realize that Deadpool was actually right. Jesus, no wonder that older alpha lady had given him a hug and paid for his hotdog at lunch! You remind me of my grandson, his ass. Peter’s scent was practically screaming his unhappiness at everyone with a working nose. It was probably only social nicety that had prevented some well-meaning stranger from wrapping him up in a blanket and cooing at him. Instead, he got to be confronted by Deadpool, an alpha whose social graces pointed to being raised by wolves.
“Shit,” Peter muttered, self-consciously tugging his old college sweater lower over his hands. “My usual brand of scent blockers got dropped by my insurance...”
“Well, your new one sucks,” Deadpool informed him cheerfully. “But aside from that, what’s got you all bothered in the not-so-hot way? C’mon, step into Dr. Pool’s office and tell me everything. Nothing says spontaneous therapy session like the soup aisle.”
“Ignoring, for the moment, the fact that you are in no way a licensed therapist— I’m fine,” Peter lied, edging towards the checkout line. “Just tired. And hungry.” And stressed, paranoid, lonely, touch-starved...
“Is that dinner?” Deadpool asked, indicating the single pack of ramen in Peter’s hands.
“Yep.” Ah, chicken ramen, the flavor of depression and student loan debt.
“Not anymore it isn’t!” Deadpool karate-chopped the small package out of Peter’s hands and threw an arm around his shoulders, tucking him into the alpha’s side and herding him out of the store. “Dinner’s my treat! What’re you in the mood for? If you had your heart set on ramen, I know the cutest little hole-in-the-wall a few blocks over. Perfect place for a first date.” Deadpool’s mask winked.
“Uh,” Peter floundered, his exhausted brain grasping for some sort of excuse and coming up empty.
Deadpool must have noticed his internal struggle, because his voice was a lot softer and surprisingly soothing when he said, “Hey, if you want me to leave you alone, I will. Just let me pay for your dinner first, okay? It’s what Spidey would want me to do, I know it.” He brought up the hand not around Peter’s shoulders, proudly displaying a What Would Jesus Do style wristband, but with a Spider-Man sticker in place of the J.
Against his better judgment, Peter felt himself softening. Maybe letting Deadpool follow him around on patrols these past few months hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all. Maybe Deadpool really was trying to turn over a new leaf. And maybe Deadpool’s heavy, warm arm pressing him into an even warmer body felt frustratingly good in contrast to the biting October air.
“It’s okay,” Peter conceded. “We can do dinner. Who am I to argue with what Spider-Man would want?”
“That’s the spirit!” Deadpool crowed. “In Spidey we trust!”
*
Somehow, Peter managed to talk Deadpool into going for Italian. That did not, however, stop the alpha from whining about his craving for empanadas the entire way there.
It wasn’t that Peter didn’t like empanadas; it was just that Deadpool had, without fail, bought Spider-Man a snack after every single one of their patrols, and those peace offerings tended to take the form of Mexican food truck fare. Peter was obviously in no position to complain about the free food, but he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to get a little variety in his diet.
When they first walked into the bustling little restaurant that Deadpool had steered them to, Peter was convinced they’d be in for at least a half-hour wait, but the hostess (“Anna,” declared her nametag) took one look at Deadpool and led them straight back to a private little nook away from the main seating area.
“Best seat in the house!” Deadpool cheered, collapsing into the single booth and pulling Peter down next to him. “You’re the man, Ann!”
“If you trip someone again, I will seat you out back with the trash,” she warned in a lovely, lilting Italian accent.
“Like Lady and the Tramp! That is so romantic. Will Angelo come play accordion for us and everything?”
Anna smacked him over the head with a menu before thrusting it into his gloved hands. “No trouble! I mean it!” Then she turned to regard Peter, who blushed when she very visibly softened in response to his distressed scent. He really must smell like the world is ending for her to have noticed over all the other restaurant smells. “Don’t worry,” she said, handing Peter his own menu much less violently. “If he is bad, I will kick him out, but let you stay.”
“What the shit!” Deadpool protested as she bustled away. “How is he the favorite already? He hasn’t even said two words to you!”
“Maybe that’s why she likes me so much. After you, I’m like a breath of fresh air.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me, College! Anna, come back, he’s being mean to me!”
“For the love of god, please stop calling me College,” Peter said. “I graduated like five years ago and now that word just makes me think of all my unpaid student loans. I’m Peter.”
“Hello, Peter.” Deadpool’s voice was suddenly much deeper, cutting through the background noise, and Peter couldn’t repress a shudder at the sound of Spider-Man’s real name rolling off the mercenary’s tongue. “College grad, money problems, god-awful scent blockers, tired, hungry. The pieces are coming together. What else? Am I detecting a whiff of tragic backstory up in all this mess?”
“Pretty sure what you’re smelling right now is veal piccata,” Peter hedged as a waiter passed them with a tray full of food that made his mouth water.
“Veal is pretty tragic,” Deadpool agreed. “It’s beef, but it’s baby. So sad, yet so delightfully tender.”
“Title of your sex tape,” Peter said, finally cracking a smile and his menu.
Deadpool stared at him for several seconds before shoving his nose into his own menu. “Shut up, Yellow,” he muttered. “And don’t say pegged, you’ll turn me on.”
Against his will, Peter’s smile widened.
*
“Is it possible to overdose on pasta?” Peter wondered aloud through a mouthful of lasagna. “If I go into a carb coma, you’ve got my permission to pull the plug. Do not resuscitate.”
“Goes double for me, Petey,” Deadpool agreed, barely understandable around cheeks bulging with fettuccini alfredo. “Does it mean less if I can’t die though?”
Peter shrugged and continued working his way through a truly formidable amount of food. “God, this is just as good as Aunt May’s.”
“Don’t let Angelo hear you say that; he’ll have a fit.”
“It’s a compliment! May could only cook like four things, but those were the best four things you’d ever eat. She always said I was her pride and joy, but we both knew that was actually her lasagna, and I couldn’t even be mad about it. It was that good.”
“I’m noticing a lot of past tense there, Petey-pie,” Deadpool said casually, as if his words didn’t make Peter’s stomach drop at the reminder. “Do I spy another piece of your tragic backstory puzzle?”
“Wow,” Peter said, unable to stop himself from going on the defensive. “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes. Why don’t you do me and everyone else a favor, and use some of your blood money to buy a little tact?”
He regretted the harsh words as soon as they were out of his mouth. The resulting silence was loud and painful, and Peter found himself unable to look at Deadpool as he pushed around the food on his plate. Their little standoff ended not even a minute in (though it felt like ages to Peter) when guilt got the better of him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, chancing a glance up at Deadpool’s uncharacteristically blank mask. “That was... I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”
There was a beat of silence and then the alpha gave himself a full-body shake, like a dog coming in from the rain. “Touchy subject; read you loud and clear, sweetums,” he chirped. “So, speaking of Sherlock Holmes, Spidey and I were detective-ing the other day—”
While Deadpool launched into an animated retelling of their recent recon mission, Peter slowly relaxed and went back to his dinner. The merc’s version of events was riddled with inaccuracies and embellishments, but he was an engaging storyteller, and Peter had a surprisingly enjoyable time during the rest of their meal together. When they were both finished, Deadpool called their waiter back over to order one of everything from the dessert menu despite Peter’s (half-hearted at best) protests about being full.
“Trust me, Petey, you’ll change your tune when you catch of whiff of ol’ Angie’s fresh tiramisu,” Deadpool assured him. His mask was still shoved up around his nose, and the small amount of visible skin was wafting a deliciously comforting alpha scent that had tricked Peter’s tired body into feeling safe and calm. It didn’t help that the restaurant was warm, the body heat radiating off Deadpool was warmer, and Peter was pleasantly full for the first time in forever.
The alpha was still talking, but his tone seemed gentler, more of a soothing rumble than anything, and it took Peter’s sluggish brain a few seconds to realize that a question was being asked of him: “So, I know I’ve overstepped a lot of bounds already – and you’ve been such a good sport – but I gotta ask... are you in some sort of trouble, Pete?”
“Trouble?” Peter blinked back at him, feeling stupid and slow. “How do you mean?”
“Not particularly encouraging that the answer isn’t an outright no,” Deadpool commented. “But I mean any kind of trouble, big or small—I’m no size queen. Cat run away from home? I can find it. Or one that looks similar to it and can learn to answer to the same name. Need help figuring out your taxes? I’ve got a great numbers guy who’ll getcha that sweet government refund moolah, no problemo. Or maybe—” Deadpool’s voice dipped into nearly a growl and his scent seemed to grow even stronger. “Boss getting a little handsy? Can’t make your rent, so the landlord’s asking for certain favors? Seeing somebody who gets too rough with you sometimes, but they’re always really sorry afterwards so it’s probably fine, right?”
“Nobody is abusing me!” Peter exclaimed, shaking his head a little as if he could simply dislodge the alpha pheromones that were working to soothe him.
“No?” The threat in Deadpool’s voice (and scent) fell away in a heartbeat. “Okay, so maybe nobody’s hurting you, but is anybody helping you, Petey? And I don’t just mean like through your heats, I’m talkin’ everyday boring-ass life. Being alone for too long is a slow, ugly ride straight to Feral Station. Take it from me, baby boy, no amount of pride is worth going there. That place is worse than New Jersey, and I don’t say that lightly.”
Peter’s mouth opened automatically, a denial on the tip of his tongue, but he was derailed when Deadpool’s hand came up to swipe a gloved thumb under his bottom lip. His lip, traitor that it was, turned hot and tingly at the attention.
“Sauce,” the alpha said blithely. (He was lying. Peter would put money on it.) But then, instead of pulling back, Deadpool shifted to cup Peter’s cheek. His hand was huge, warm, and careful, cradling Peter’s face like it was something delicate and precious.
Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that touch. Deadpool was holding his face exactly like Aunt May used to, every morning, when she would scent mark him gently before sending him off to school.
And Peter, well, he couldn’t be sure if it was that unexpected memory or the strength of Deadpool’s pheromones or just his own touch-starved omega instincts, but something broke him. An involuntary shudder wracked his body and a low, mortifyingly needy whine managed to escape his tight throat. The alpha’s answering rumble was so deep that Peter could feel it reverberating in his chest.
“Aw, sweet thing,” Deadpool murmured, leaning closer. “Can I hold you, Petey-pie? We can pretend I’m the one who needs a hug if it makes you feel better.”
Peter honestly couldn’t believe this was happening. This little breakdown was a long time in the making, he knew that, but he’d never pictured it happening in a public space next to Deadpool of all people. Right now, though, he couldn’t even bring himself to speak, much less care. Closing his eyes, Peter sagged forward and tried to muffle another choked whine against Deadpool’s chest.
“I know, honey, I know. Here we go.”
The alpha’s big arms gathered him up and pulled him right onto Deadpool’s lap, tucking Peter’s head into the crook of his neck where the pheromones were strongest. His hands started rubbing a slow rhythm up and down Peter’s back, stopping occasionally for a gentle squeeze to the back of his neck, and holy fuck that was nice. Peter could actually feel himself melting, going utterly boneless in Deadpool’s arms, and the tension headache he’d been enduring for the past two weeks was already fading away like it’d never been.
“Ohhh,” the alpha sighed into his hair. “That’s the stuff. You’re smelling sweeter already, baby boy. This what you needed? Just a little lovin’ and a shoulder to...” Deadpool trailed off for a moment before making a breathy, punched-out sort of sound. “Whoa. Wow. That’s a first. Petey-pie, you’re purring.”
Huh, Peter realized blearily. So he was.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had anything to purr about. And okay, so maybe it was a little pathetic, but this was Deadpool. If working with him as Spider-Man was any indication, the merc did more humiliating shit than this on a daily basis. So what if Peter was purring while getting cuddled by a strange alpha in public? Just last week, Deadpool had dropped his full punch card for a free pizza off a building and jumped after it. Spider-Man had had to chase after and web the card down just to stop the alpha from bleeding all over the sidewalk while he limped after it. Peter shuddered at the memory and Deadpool held him even tighter, which should not have been as comforting as it was.
For a while, Peter just floated. He let himself be petted and rocked and cooed at. In return, he purred and mindlessly nuzzled into the alpha’s neck, leaving a faint scent mark. (It was generally considered rude to do this without permission, but Deadpool seemed to heartily approve if his happy alpha rumble was any indication.)
Then, from nowhere, an abrasive tune that Peter recognized vaguely as “Pop Goes the Weasel” started to play. Deadpool cursed, fumbling one-handedly with his pouches to pull out a beat-up flip phone. Peter tried and failed to contain a soft noise of distress when one of those big, warm hands left his back.
“Don’t pout, Petey,” Deadpool scolded affectionately, dropping a kiss in his hair. “This’ll only take a sec, then I’m all yours again.”
Peter wanted to protest that he wasn’t pouting, but he settled for showing his displeasure with a quick nip to the alpha’s neck.
Deadpool’s entire body jerked in response, hips bucking up instinctively with a heartfelt groan that appeared to be dragged from the very depths of his body. “Jesus poledancing Christ, babydoll, are you trying to make me cream myself before the cannoli even get here? No, I was not talking to you, Weasel!”
A nasally voice answered back through the phone, and Peter could’ve used his Spidey hearing to eavesdrop, but he was having a hard time focusing on anything outside of Deadpool’s firm grip on the back of his neck. It was stimulating both scent glands at once, and that combined with the alpha arousal Peter could still taste on his tongue had coaxed him back into warm, fuzzy pliancy. The physical evidence of that arousal – unobtrusive yet undeniably there – was trapped beneath his ass, and Peter was unsurprised to find that he was half-hard in his own pants.
God, he needed to get laid. If a pain in the ass like Deadpool could get him going like this, Peter’s dry spell had officially gone on too long.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Deadpool scoffed into the phone. “That was one time and it was in a dream. You might as well have been Donald Trump or someone equally unfuckable for all the say I had in it!”
Peter noted absently that a little Spider-Man charm dangled from the corner of Deadpool’s phone. He didn’t even know they made cellphone charms anymore. Then again, he also didn’t know they made flip phones anymore.
“Fuck off with your semantics! Do you have what I asked for or not? And make it snappy; Daddypool’s a little occupied at the moment.”
The alpha’s hand finally released Peter’s neck, only to slide upwards and bury itself in his already messy hair. Peter’s breath hitched and shuddered as Deadpool started to gently scratch and massage his scalp.
“Well, it’s a start. I’ll look into it. Keep digging; let me know if you find anything else. Buh-bye now!” He made a loud smooching noise into the phone and snapped it shut. Barely a second later, his newly freed hand was back on Peter’s spine, squishing him deeper into the alpha’s chest with a pleasant amount of force. Peter felt his own chest start to rumble as his purring picked back up again. Deadpool groaned in blatant appreciation. “I can’t decide if you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever met, or the brattiest. Look at you, purring away like a dream, as if you didn’t just bite the shit out of my neck. Such a vicious little vampire.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Peter mumbled, nuzzling back into the neck in question and inadvertently scent-marking it a bit more. “I barely nipped you.”
“Definitely a brat,” Deadpool said fondly, giving his hair a little tug.
Peter wasn’t sure what noise he made as he tipped his head back, begging for more, but he was pretty sure it was obscene. The alpha made a funny, choked sound, but obligingly pulled Peter’s hair again. Fuck, that was so good. And also very bad, because if Peter started getting slick, his pitiful scent blockers weren’t gonna do shit to hide it.
“Perfect, sweet little thing,” Deadpool crooned, blissfully unaware of Peter’s predicament, “but a brat nonetheless. God help me, baby boy, you’re too much.”
A throat cleared behind them, and Peter cracked open an eye to see their waiter delivering the desserts with a distinctly uncomfortable smile before beating a hasty retreat. Peter squirmed with embarrassment and made a clumsy attempt to climb off Deadpool’s lap, but the alpha’s arms locked around him. It would have taken no effort at all on Peter’s part to break free with his Spidey strength. The real battle was mental fortitude, and he just didn’t have enough of it to make himself leave that warm embrace quite yet.
Deadpool beamed down at him, the scarred lower half of his face on full display. He was holding a cannoli up to Peter’s lips expectantly. “Say ah, sweetums!”
Well, what was one more indignity? Peter opened his mouth.
*
“Up and at’em, Petey-pie! Time for sleepy little omegas to be heading to bed.”
Peter raised his head and blinked around blearily. When the fuck had he fallen asleep? Also, where the fuck even was he?
“You conked out during dessert,” Deadpool said, and Peter realized with a start that he was still on the alpha’s lap but they were in a cab now. A cab parked outside a familiar apartment building.
“How d’you know where I live?” He demanded, or tried to demand if he wasn’t still slurring with sleep.
“I took a peep at your wallet while you were snoozing, Peter Parker, age 26.” In typical Deadpool fashion, the merc seemed to either not understand or not care about how that was a breach of privacy. “Didn’t want to wake you. You definitely need to catch up on some Z’s. Also, you should really consider becoming an organ donor. If I wasn’t absolutely riddled with cancer, I’d be making so much bank on the black market. It’s the heroic thing to do. Anyway, as thrilled as I am to have been your body pillow for this evening, Daddypool’s got some work to do.”
Deadpool opened the car door and nudged Peter off his lap and out onto the sidewalk.
“Don’t forget your leftovers!” He added, shoving several takeout boxes into Peter’s hands. “And you can call me whenever, okay, baby boy? Day or night, rain or shine, I’ll be your pillow anytime. Sweet dreams, Petey!”
Deadpool blew him a kiss and slammed the taxi’s door. Peter heard him yell something that sounded like “step on it, Dopinder!” and then the cab was screeching away into the night.
“What the fuck just happened?” Peter asked.
The homeless beta sitting nearby didn’t have an answer, but Peter gave them his leftovers anyway.
*
Peter didn’t end up patrolling that night. Instead, he collapsed onto his bed and promptly passed out for eight dreamless hours, which had to be some kind of record for him.
He woke to the sound of multiple texts coming in rapid-fire directly in his ear. Still more than half asleep, he wiped the drool off his cheek and groggily checked his phone. 7 new texts from an unknown number.
[Friday 6:22 AM] Unknown
good morning petey!
did u sleep ok? hope ur lil nap didn’t throw off ur schedule 2 much
but if it did i will take full responsibility and rock u 2 sleep anytime
o check outside ur door btw!!!
left u a lil sum’n sum’n
and if u need anything else, sugardaddypool is just a text away
don’t be a stranger, bb boy <3
Groaning, Peter dragged himself to his front door and found a package containing at least ten different kinds of scent blocker. He even recognized a few high-end brands that he’d only ever tried through free samples.
Huh. That was... really thoughtful, actually. Peter felt strangely warm as he stared down at the gifts. Deadpool had – shock of shocks, wonder of wonders – really come through for him last night. Peter felt better today than he had in months, and it was all thanks to a good meal, a good cuddle, and a good rest.
Good alpha, his hindbrain insisted, but Peter wasn’t nearly awake enough to unpack that mess.
[Friday 6:29 AM] Peter
Hey Deadpool. Thanks for everything last night. I’d say sorry for falling asleep on you, but this is the most rested I’ve felt in ages so I don’t even regret it. I don’t know how to thank you for all these scent blockers, but you’re totally saving my neck (literally). Spider-Man would be proud :)
Peter sent the text, but continued to stare at the screen while he absently finger-combed his hair. A faint hint of Deadpool’s scent – stale, yet still comforting somehow – reached Peter’s nose, and he made an impulse decision.
[Friday 6:30 AM] Peter
I’ll let you talk me into Mexican next time.