Work Text:
I want you so hard
I want you so good
But can you trust me?
Yes, you know you could
My friends are talkin'
And they're tellin' you
"Don't waste your time 'cause the boy's bad news”
I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News) -- Eagles of Death Metal
Spider-Man always helped a person in need. Spider-Man rarely swore and was always polite and courteous to figures of authority. What he was doing was technically illegal, vigilantism, but other than that, he cooperated with the police. This is what the citizens of Queens, New York knew about Spider-Man. What they didn’t know about him was that Spider-Man liked to drink.
It wasn’t like he was in any danger. Peter didn’t have an addictive personality and his healing power burned the alcohol off with ease. He had to drink a substantial amount of alcohol to feel even tipsy. He had embraced alcohol during his college years, as a way of blowing off stress after exams. But now he was twenty-eight and school was a distant memory.
He’d found a bar that was exactly what he was looking for. The perfect place for Spider-Man to blend in. After all, who would expect the red-and-blue symbol of justice to hang out in a bar for illegal mercenaries?
The bar owner, Weasel, was a strange guy. Skinny and coiled in on himself, like a sleeping rattlesnake, peering through the world through a thick pair of glasses. Oh, he was shrewd, Peter knew that much. He was smart but he hid it under a foul mouth and nonchalance. He wondered if Weasel suspected he had powers. A man of Peter’s size shouldn’t be able to consume that much liquor.
Peter strolled in, leaving the chill of the evening’s air behind him. A few regulars glanced up and gave him a nod. He returned it. He was becoming a regular himself. He climbed onto a barstool and dug out his wallet.
“What’ll it be?”
“A couple of vodka and cokes to start off, please.”
“Doubles, right?” Weasel
“Yeah.” There was no sense in pretending that he wasn’t planning to drink a lot. Weasel knew what he was after.
The nice thing about Weasel was that he didn’t fill the air with unnecessary prattling. Occasionally, after a successful night of patrol when Peter still felt the wind in his hair, he’d buy Weasel a shot. But after nights like this, Peter just wanted to be left alone, to wallow in his misery. He gulped down his two drinks and then, perhaps Weasel was in a good mood, he set down a free shot in front of Peter’s elbow.
It was a Fireball.
Peter threw it back. Warmth burned in his throat but he felt stronger.
An hour later, Peter was feeling more relaxed, leaning on the bar, making grand gestures as he spoke.
“I never wanted this, you know…” he declared, upending his empty glass over his mouth so the last dregs could fall in. “It was a thing, and I didn’t, but then I was like, um, when in Rome?”
“Uh-huh.” Weasel muttered, not looking up from his rag. He was cleaning a glass, still standing by Peter’s side of the bar, so he couldn’t be too bothered.
“And I was like, oh cool, this is different and awesome, and then I was happy --”
“Oh, good.”
“-- but now, I don’t know, man, it’s too much work and I just wanna sleep, can’t sleep anymore. This stuff’s the only stuff that makes it good. What is this stuff?”
“Air. Your glass is empty. You were drinking bourbon just now, though.”
“Mm. Gimme another?”
Weasel sighed but passed him the bottle. “I should feel bad about enabling you but you spend a lot of money here, so…”
“I work three jobs.” Peter proudly told him. “But don’t ask me what I do in private ‘cause it's a secret. Big secret.”
“Sucks to be you. So, what were you saying?”
“I just get so tired. And I don’t get respect. And I want, I just want…” Peter paused and peered at the bar. There was a spill on the bar, it kind of looked like a spiderweb. “I just wanna get laid.”
“Yeah, I hear that. We get hookers here sometimes.” That wasn’t what Peter meant, but he appreciated Weasel was suggesting stuff.
“What was that about hookers?” A man said as he slid into the adjacent barstool. His voice was familiar but then, Peter did come here a lot.
“Hey, Wade. My boy, Peter, was saying he wants some wiggle in his lap. You know any girls he could go see?”
Wade laughed. It was a deep belly laugh, something very honest and unpretentious. “I don’t have a Filofax with their numbers in or anything.”
“Filofax. Jeez, how old are you?” Peter mumbled, staring balefully at his empty glass.
“Forty-three. How old are you, dumbass?”
“Twenty-eight.” Sometimes, he felt much older.
“Damn. You look like a toddler, dude.”
Peter turned to look at him but his grin dropped. Wade had a smooth, Hollywood voice, the kind of voice used to do voiceover work for Nissan commercials. He’d expected a handsome guy, perfect hair, white teeth. Well, Wade did have nice teeth, actually. But his face was pink and mottled like candle wax, his eyes (a pretty shade of chocolate) had no eyelashes or eyebrows to frame them. His head was bald and every inch of his skin was puckered and scarred. Peter’s brain was sluggishly chugging along but he had enough mental energy left to shoot Wade a charming smile. He didn’t want to insult the man. It couldn’t be easy to look so ugly.
He opened his mouth to say something nice but his brain short-circuited and what came out was: “Well, you look like God left you in the oven for too long.”
Weasel spluttered wetly, he’d been watching their back-and-forth over a beer.
Peter wished he could take the words back, he really didn’t want to get punched in the face. Although the booze would probably deaden a lot of the pain. Wade was a big guy, bulky and broad-shouldered, his t-shirt sleeves were straining around his biceps.
But instead, Wade laughed and slapped him on the back.
“I like you, Peter, was it? You got a mouth on you.”
“Yeah, I even know how to use it,” Peter joked, but for the second time that night, he regretted his choice of words. Wade grinned at him with those perfect pearly whites, openly appraising him.
“Is that right?” he chuckled.
“Uh….”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“You did not save the bar from pirates!”
“I did, I totally did! Weasel, tell him!”
Weasel shrugged. “Yeah, he totally did.” he deadpanned. He left them to serve another customer.
“You’re so full of it, Wade....Wade...”
"Wilson." Wade grinned. How were his teeth so perfect? Peter didn’t realise he was leaning in until Wade threw out an arm to stop Peter falling on him.
“What?”
“Your teeth are, you never wore braces, did you? Your teeth are so straight.”
“Yeah,” Wade murmured, his mouth brushing Peter’s hair. When had he got so close? Oh yeah. It was Peter who had got close to him. “But I’m not.”
Peter had difficulty processing what Wade meant but when his brain kicked into gear, his eyes widened in shock. Oh.
Wade opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted by the tinny strains of Salt ‘N’ Peppa’s Shoop playing. Wade took a cellphone out of his jeans. Wade glanced at the screen and grimaced. “I gotta take this,” and departed. Peter shrugged and helped himself to the beer beside him.
Once Wade was gone, Weasel appeared. “You and Wade looked pretty cosy back there,” he said casually, but Peter sensed tension in his tone.
“We’re just drinking.”
“Okay. Keep it at that. Wade Wilson is my friend but I know him. And trust me, you don’t want to get mixed up in his shit.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“You’re not a merc, dude, you don’t get it. Wade has done stuff that would make you puke. Don’t fuck him.”
Peter frowned, reeling at the change in mood. “I wasn’t going to -- oh my God, I don’t like him like that, he looks like a lump of dough!”
“Whatever you say, man.” Weasel chuckled, his eyes squinting at Peter through the thick lenses. “It’s free advice, you don’t gotta take it.”
Peter pushed his empty glass away, feeling slightly sick. He stood up and the room lurched. He was drunker than he thought. Maybe Weasel was right. This was a bar for mercenaries, Peter didn’t belong here and Spider-Man definitely didn’t. He pushed himself away from the bar and blearily stumbled to the restroom.
He’d feel better once he’d splashed some cold water on his face.
The bathroom was more poorly-maintained than the bar. Peter had been in this establishment many times over the last year and he’d never seen anybody clean anything. He couldn't even make out his reflection in the streaky mirror.
“Hey, I got a bone to pick with you!”
Peter gulped, turning around to stare up at the ravaged and unforgiving face of Wade Wilson.
“What d’ya want?” Peter muttered, his eyes darting around, finding it hard to look Wade head-on.
“You drank my beer.”
Oh shit. He had drained a full beer that had been on the bar next to him, but he’d assumed it was another freebie from Weasel, not Wade’s drink. He could apologise, maybe offer to buy him a fresh one, but Weasel’s warnings were ringing in his ears and Peter was nothing if not contrary.
“Yeah, maybe I did. So...so fucking what?”
Wade scowled down at him. “And here I thought you were a decent guy. You got a problem with me?”
Peter’s spider senses were blaring in his head, tingling his skin and making gooseflesh rise on his arms but he ignored it and the liquor helped him do that, filling him with a sense of bravado.
He stepped forward until his chest was brushing Wade’s (he had to look up to meet Wade’s eyes, which kind of ruined the effect) and whispered: “And what if I do?” He pushed on Wade’s chest and was gratified to see Wade stumble back.
Wade let out a frustrated exhale and his sour breath ghosted on Peter’s face. “I’m not getting into this with you. You’re not worth it, you little shit.” Wade’s words were calm but then his arms shot out and his hands clamped around Peter’s wrists. He struggled but Wade’s grip was vice-like, unbreakable and Peter was too drunk for this. He was forced to walk backwards by Wade’s bulk and realised with horror, he was being led to a cubicle.
“No, no, no, I didn’t, I’m not --” But then Wade was hauling him in his arms as if Peter was a sack of potatoes and then he was being tipped over, his vision swimming and he was gonna puke, Weasel was right, he shouldn’t have spoken to Wade, but the porcelain bowl was right there, growing closer, and too close, he could see the darkness inside it, the water, the faint stains.
His head hit the water and he squirmed, trying desperately to seal his lips closed, but then he heard the whirring of the plumbing and gusts of water coursed down on his head, flooding his nose, splashing his closed eyes, his mouth. The flush ended and Wade let him go, delicately sat Peter down on the toilet bowl and closed the cubicle door behind him. He heard the swing of the door as Wade left. And then there was silence.
“Gross, gross, gross!” Peter sprang up and rushed to the sink, gagging and coughing madly. He washed his mouth out with water several times, gargled it and spat it out. Rinsed his hair with hot tap water until his curls were slicked down to his forehead. He felt shivery and slimy, cold droplets of water working their way down his neck, making his t-shirt stick to his back.
He knelt under the hand dryer, careful not to let his hair get sucked in the machine. He was able to dry his hair a little bit, but it was still tousled, curls sticking up in random directions and damp in places. Fuck Wade. What a jerk.
He was still trying to dry his hair when Wade swaggered back in, fifteen minutes later. Peter glared at him, but it was hard to glare on your knees with your hair being blown around.
“Weasel seems to think I owe you an apology,” Wade said.
“And what do you think?”
“You say sorry for stealing my drink and I’ll apologise for giving you a swirly.”
“No.”
“No apology for you, then,” Wade said. He shuffled over to one of the urinals and fumbled with his belt.
“Whoa, hey, what are you doing?”
Wade half-turned to face him, one hand still on his belt buckle. “I gotta drain the dragon.”
“Not while I’m drying my hair, asshole!”
“Why are you drying your hair in a public bathroom?”
“BECAUSE YOU FLUSHED MY HEAD IN THE TOILET!”
“Hah, yeah. But you stole my drink!”
“That, that’s not comparable! You can’t even, just, just, stop it!” He marched over to the man. Wade had unfastened his jeans and his belt was hanging loosely by the loops. He could see a hint of blue, a pattern that was instantly recognisable. Was Wade wearing Spider-Man themed underwear? He should have been flattered but instead, he saw it as a taunt. Wade rolled his eyes but didn’t stop what he was doing.
As he slipped his hands down his pants and pulled out his dick, Peter's mouth ran dry. He knew he was staring but he couldn't find the strength to look away. Damn Wade, stupid, arrogant jerk, of course, he'd have to have to dick like that. Peter had regrets in his life, he'd slept with men he didn't respect because his obsession with huge cocks had clouded his judgement. He hated Wade for this. If Wade had been a bit nicer or they'd met under different circumstances, maybe Peter could have whispered something in his ear and taken the guy home. He narrowed his eyes, taking in the sight of the exquisite, reddened flesh, wishing he could reach and...no, don't even think of it. Wade felt the weight of Peter's gaze and he turned his head to glare at him.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Are we gonna have another problem?” Wade said, frowning at him.
Peter shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.
“Huh,” Wade said. “That’s what I thought.”
Peter didn’t say a word, hoping that Wade would get bored and leave him alone. No such luck.
“What is up with you? You were so mouthy earlier, now, you won’t even look me in the eye. Was it the swirly? Are you really so pathetic that a dumb prank will make you clam up? You didn’t even start wigging out until I took out my coc-- wait. Are you into this?" Wade gestured down at himself."This is what does it for you?”
“It’s not you,” Peter spat. He couldn’t bear to have Wade think he liked him as a person. “It’s your...size. I’ve never been able to say no to a guy who --”
“Has a monster dick.”
“--is well-endowed.” Peter finished smoothly. He was determined to remain calm and not let this dumb jerk rattle his cage any more than he already had.
“Cool, alright,” Wade nodded. “Just got one more question for you.”
“And what’s that?”
Wade grabbed Peter’s hand and pressed his palm to the bulge between Wade’s legs. “Are you able to say no to me? ”
Peter ripped his hand away but Wade’s groin had left a lingering memory of warmth on the skin of his hand. Coarse denim and smouldering heat. And something thick and hard, barely-restrained.
“I have no interest in anything you could offer me.”
Why did Wade have to crowd him like that? Peter took a couple of steps to put some space between them, “No? You don’t want to touch it? Touch yours?”
Peter took another step backwards and his back hit the wall. “Not happening.”
“Why don’t you take a teensy peek at it? Just one?”
Maybe...one look...couldn't hurt...
Peter was unable to tear his eyes away. This was his real weakness. The only reason he’d fucked Flash Thompson through his school years was that the jock had been gifted with an impressive dick. But he had nothing on this. It was eye-watering.
Would he even have been able to fit it inside? He would have given it a good try.
“Touch it. I won’t move. I won’t do anything, just -- just put your hand on it.”
Peter’s hand was sickly white under the flickering light. He saw his fingers trembling like feathers, reaching out. It didn’t feel like his hand. It wasn’t his hand. He wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t degrade himself like this. This was a disembodied hand that had no relation to Peter’s body and it wasn’t Peter’s fault if this ghostly, clawed thing stretched out and curled around Wade’s cock.
It was warm, a thick root emerging from the cavernous burrow of his jeans. Peter tightened his fist around it, felt it throb along with Peter’s pulse. Hot, bleeding heat into his hand. He needed it. Hungered for it. He drew closer, drawing his arm in and Wade grinned smugly. He had him.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Peter gasped. He kept throwing worried looks at the door of the cubicle. It was a tiny box and he felt suffocated. He was very conscious if somebody walked in right now, they’d see his sneakers and Wade’s boots on the floor. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out what was going on.
“Shh.” Wade’s hands were everywhere, running over Peter’s hips, squeezing his waist, grabbing a handful of his ass. It was possessive as if he wanted to mark Peter, claim every inch of skin that he touched. His touch was burning hot like a branding iron, even when he’d move his hand away, Peter could still feel the phantom ghosts of his lingering fingers.
Wade’s breath was pleasantly warm on Peter’s neck as he spun him around so Peter was facing the door. Pushes him on the back so Peter’s nose is against the door, with Wade right behind him, that hot wall of muscle pressing into his back.
He heard rustling and he twisted his head, trying to see what Wade was doing. Wade’s hand reassuringly rubbed Peter’s lower back and then his hands fell lower, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of Peter’s jeans. He yanked them down, with Peter’s boxers too. Peter winced at the friction.
“I’m gonna give you what you need, baby,”
“Are you? Or are you just gonna keep talking?” Peter bit back, and yelped at a flash of discomfort. Wade had just swatted his ass! He looked over his shoulder, preparing to unleash his best glare on him, but instead saw a sight that made his knees weak: Wade was tearing open a sachet of lubricant with his teeth.
Peter swallowed, turning back to his view of the door. It was a less appealing sight than Wade, but safer. Much safer. His spider-sense was freaking out at him having his back to a stranger, but was Wade really a stranger at this point?
Finally, Wade’s hands were on him again. Peter exhaled, splaying his hands on the door.
“You’re taking too long,” Peter hissed. He was trying not to move, but every twist of Wade’s thick fingers inside him made him give an involuntary wiggle.
“Yeah, well, stop squirming,”
“I’m fine. I’m open enough.”
“You’re not, you’re too tight. I don’t wanna tear you open.”
“I can take it.”
Peter impatiently pushed back on Wade’s fingers and Wade muttered something under his breath that sounded like “ Greedy bitch, ” but didn’t alter his pace. He was dripping lube all over Peter’s jeans, not deliberately, but it was a nuisance.
“I’m ready! If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m walking out that door!”
“Yes, sir,” Wade chuckled. There was a rustle, some sort of crinkly paper and then something hard and big was nudging Peter’s ass. Peter tried to relax his muscles, but he couldn’t help the hiss of discomfort as Wade breached him. He entered him slowly, working the first inch in, holding Peter’s cheeks open with his fingers, guiding himself in. Peter bit his lip, feeling his body stretch to accommodate the absurd girth. This is what he wanted. He wanted that burn, to feel like his body had no choice. It had never had any choice, since the spider venom had worked its way through his system, forcing his body to change. All his body could do was adapt to new intrusions.
Wade was muttering words of encouragement under his breath, in Peter’s ear as he worked his way into him. Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You’re a good boy...do you think you can take another inch? Gonna get you so loose…
Peter should have hated it, should have found it condescending or not sexy at all, but he couldn’t help it, he melted under Wade’s firm hands, his flirtatious words.
At some point, Wade reached around to cup his hand around Peter’s cock, rubbing his calloused fingers along the length of it, his hand dipping lower to fondle Peter’s balls. Wade was rocking into him, firm but trying to be gentle, Peter could feel his restraint, that he was struggling not to pound into him. He wanted him to go hard, he wanted it to hurt. He was opening up, Wade’s cock was sinking in deeper with every thrust, and occasional jolts of pleasure buzzed inside him, somewhere hidden. Those sparks of hot pleasure crawled right down to his cock, making it ache in Wade’s hand. He needed more friction, needed more of Wade, so he pushed his hands against the door, using it to prop him up as he impaled himself backwards on Wade’s cock. Wade’s head fell heavily on Peter’s shoulder, dripping sweat on his shirt and when he pulled out and pushed it back in, he was going harder, pushing in him, there was that force Peter needed, there was that fullness.
He moaned, the sound muffled by the door, the staticky music playing from the stereo speakers, Wade’s own low groans. He felt warmth burst inside him, and he was falling, flooding with sensation, channels of pure heat travelling through his body. He was aware of Wade pulling out of him, damp, stickiness dripping down Peter’s legs and his body felt too empty without Wade there. But Wade was pulling up Peter’s jeans and tucking him in, and it was nice of him. Peter raked in a few rattling breaths, bringing in the musky scent of sex.
Wade looked more composed than he had any right to. Zipping up his jacket, his jeans. Zipping and buttoning and tucking everything away. Peter found it hard to look him in the eye but didn’t have to worry about that for very long, because Wade was unlocking the cubicle door and they both squeezed out of the narrow box.
“I’ll...uh, see you back at the bar?” Wade said, and Peter shrugged. He wasn’t sure there was any reason to linger. Wade was a good fuck, and minus the swirly, he’d been good company. But he and Wade were from two different planets. A mutant and a non-mutant. It would never work out!