Chapter 1: [1] Scrawny
Chapter Text
Calamity in New York is nothing new. Peter Parker has spent years and years dealing with the worst of it and even more often, the less than world-ending of it. Most of the time there’s a healthy in-between, giving Peter the opportunity to prove himself valuable to the massive city and its people since he can handle things the police definitely can’t, and pick up the slack when other supers are busy dealing with calamity outside of the city. New York is Peter’s home and he makes a point of taking care of it to the best of Spider-Man’s abilities. Right now, the tickling buzz in his skull that he’s affectionately deemed his “spider-sense” alerts him to shattered glass and warped steel beams raining into the street from overhead, and he reflexively grabs another pedestrian’s arm to yank them back from the nearest crash of a surprisingly intact window pane. They nearly drop their phone, which had held their attention until that moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks them hastily, his reaction ultimately innocuous as any other person could’ve caught and pulled them back all the same. They seem to be middle-aged, already frazzled with whatever had kept their attention on the tiny screen in one weathered hand. Hyperventilating, they dart wide but sunken eyes around the now evident chaos as others run screaming past. At least they’re aware of their surroundings now. When they look at him, stiff and bewildered, Peter releases their arm quickly and gestures for them to go. They mindlessly nod and take off in the opposite direction. He doesn’t even really need to be Spider-Man for moments like this, people generally don’t want to be around when things are blowing up nearby. Still, he’s glad they’d listened because he also needs to take advantage of this momentary lack of observation to duck into the nearest alley and strip out of his civvies.
The weather has been just so that he’s getting away with wearing his suit under his clothes the last couple of days, long sleeves and a hoodie inscrutable this last week. Summer has been suspiciously merciful this year, dropping off in the middle of July and leaving the tail-end of the month approaching sweater weather, and he would rather not think of the global climate implications that result in a mild New York summer. For now it works for Peter, who needs less time to change and can use fewer precious seconds webbing his bags high up on brick walls just beside the bottoms of fire escapes: not obvious unless you’re looking for it, and out of reach of any lazily curious person who might spy it. He’s about to do just that with his half-full messenger bag, peeling his hoodie off over his head and reflexively fixing his glasses, a brief peek of red and blue under his dark green Henley. Really, he should have just taken both his hoodie and the shirt off simultaneously, but he’d missed snagging the hem of the shirt, so he’s only one layer down when someone gasps theatrically at the other end of the alley, startling Peter.
Startling Peter. He’s rightfully confused that his spider-sense hadn’t alerted him to being watched, so he whips his head toward the source of the sound, and stares at a familiar red and black mask with blank white eyes.
Fully kitted out, Deadpool, the Merc With a Mouth, fearsome and violent gun-for-hire, and Spider-Man’s friend and occasional patrol partner, stands at the mouth of the alley, gloved hands smacked against his cheeks as he gasps again. Before Peter can convince his legs to move — to bolt, to escape, to avoid confronting Deadpool about catching him red-and-blue-handed — the mercenary is coming forward, the leather and kevlar of his suit creaking from being freshly cleaned and not yet softened with blood and sweat. He puts one fist on his hip and the other forms a waggling, accusatory finger that reminds Peter of his Aunt May when she used to scold him for leaving the orange juice on the counter after breakfast.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a seedy alley creep?” Deadpool asks in a playful tone, and Peter is frozen to the spot just gaping like an absolute moron , his heart racing as he wracks his brain for something to say to convince Spidey’s friend this isn’t what it looks like. “Listen, cutie, this is the worst time for whatever back alley shenanigans you were about to get up to,” the taller man goes on, looking down at Peter’s navy blue ESU sweatshirt half shoved into his messenger bag. Peter’s spidey-sense suddenly buzzes loudly, and something explodes in the street behind Deadpool, but neither man flinches and Deadpool continues. “You should be fleeing!” he scolds with the same jovial tone, though it looks like he’s frowning through the mask. How does he get it to do that?
“I— uh,” Peter replies haltingly, brow dipping. The mercenary isn’t reacting the way he should be if he’s caught Spider-Man changing in an alley, so Peter realizes he hasn’t actually been caught. Deadpool actually thinks he’s an ordinary citizen. Relief and a different sort of anxiety roll over him, and he straightens up, bag at his feet as he clears his throat uselessly, speaking in a slightly lower register than he does as Spider-Man. It’s a simple change that helps him maintain the illusion of separation between civilian and vigilante. “I was…?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the mask is scary, but I swear I’m a good guy now!” Deadpool assures him, waving his hand flippantly, under the assumption Peter’s hesitation is for recognizing the deadliest mercenary to exist and not because he hadn’t been recognized himself. “You should see me on weekends. I’m all puppy shelters and soup kitchens in my free time.”
Peter skeptically quirks an eyebrow and the blank eyes of Deadpool’s mask bore back into him for a few seconds, something crackling and hissing just around the corner. Deadpool fidgets, and Peter clenches his jaw.
“Alright, that’s not entirely true, but you, fine citizen— very fine, if I may say so—,” Deadpool sighs, and makes a show of looking Peter up and down. It’s so shameless, and Peter isn’t used to being looked at appreciatively when he’s not in the super suit. The brunet’s mouth hangs mindlessly open, and he ignores the weird warmth stirring in his chest. Spider-Man and Deadpool flirt a little, sure, but he’d never been on the receiving end of Deadpool’s vaguely horny commentary as a civilian before. A little hum of approval escapes the mercenary when Peter quickly bends to pick up his bag and hoodie, glad his shirt is practically a tunic and doesn’t show his ass off as much as his jeans would. He’s just as glad the Spidey suit he’s in today doesn’t have a high neckline to peek out from his collar. Hooray for some semblance of forethought. Before Deadpool can actually continue, Peter’s spider-sense blares again and he looks past the other super to the street a mere second before another explosion sounds, much closer than previous blasts.
Deadpool jumps into action even though Peter hasn’t reacted like he expects him to, unmoving. Must be a flight, fight, or freeze response. Silly civilian! “Alright, enough dillydallying, kiddo,” he grunts, surging forward.
Peter’s spider-sense doesn’t shift intensity or pace as the mercenary quickly scoops him up at the waist, hoisting him over his shoulder effortlessly and securing his legs with an arm over the back of his knees, and jogging off to the other end of the alley with Peter bouncing slightly. Frustratingly, Peter only just remembers that Wade Wilson hasn’t set off his early warning system since they’d first met as Spider-Man and Deadpool. Deadpool had only triggered his spidey-sense back then because he hadn’t realized Spider-Man had dropped into his fight and luckily for both of them, Peter’s reflexes had him dodging an otherwise perfectly aimed bullet to the head. Deadpool had profusely apologized, slipping out of the dark persona Spider-Man has rarely seen once he’d recognized his favorite superhero.
“Wow, do you work out? Your abs are harder than a latex fetishist at a kink club on ladies’ night,” Deadpool comments appreciatively, and Peter finally finds his brain.
“What?” he asks, both bewildered and mildly offended, heat in his neck. The way Deadpool is carrying him narrowly avoids smacking Peter in the face with the sheath and hilt of one of the two katanas crossed in the scabbard at the man’s back, and Peter absently holds the sword for better purchase to try looking at him over his shoulder, using his other hand at Wade’s mid-back over the scabbard to push himself further upright. He smells strongly of dry cleaning chemicals and leather conditioner under the gunpowder, gun oil, and traces of whatever cologne he probably hasn’t worn in days. “Dude, put me down, I can run on my own!” he informs him irately.
Deadpool is already weaving through the alleys between buildings, trying not to jostle the young man over his shoulder too much, poor thing. “No can do, Bright Eyes, I’ve gotta get you somewhere safer first.” He only comes to a stop when they’re back out on the street a block from the sources of explosions and a distant, dramatic evil laugh is coming through a tinny speaker. Peter can’t place the sound or voice, so it’s not a villain he’s dealt with before, but he doesn’t have time to play damsel in distress with Deadpool. At least the mercenary finally sets him on his feet again, brushing his hands together for effect.
“There!” he chirps with satisfaction, and Peter can see his unreasonably expressive mask reflect the grin on Deadpool’s face. He takes a moment to “dust off” Peter’s shoulders, and Peter shrugs him off with a frown. He adjusts Peter’s glasses, too, and Peter swats his gloved hands away, a blush crawling up his neck. “Now get moving, Legs, there’s no time to waste!” Deadpool commands, though he’s using the sort of voice Peter imagines he thinks heroes make announcements with. Typical. “I’ve got some heroing to do,” he adds with a little more mischief, swiftly unsheathing both katanas in the blink of an eye. He winks – or, the mask winks, somehow – and turns on his heel to race back through the alleys, leaving Peter with his messenger bag in his hands and his shirt slightly rumpled, frowning deeper at his retreat as Deadpool whoops and disappears around a corner.
Rolling his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, Peter quickly darts into a different alley to change and web up his bag properly, pulling his mask on and crawling up the wall to get a better vantage on the rooftops. He’ll have to ignore whatever the hell that had been and focus on pretending he’s just shown up when he joins the fight thirty seconds later in a full mask and super suit.
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It hadn’t been a tricky villain, some low-level bomber with ambitions well above his abilities. While the property damage had been substantial enough to be notable, Peter lets himself be glad no one actually got hurt. He’d had fun teasing the bomber and his back and forth with Deadpool was satisfying as always. The mercenary had shouted excitedly up at the webslinger when he’d caught sight of him and Spider-Man had greeted him smoothly as he’d swooped in to literally kick a bomb off-course, webbing it up in the air to contain the explosion before landing on a lamppost and commenting on Deadpool’s timing. All in all, Peter thinks he could’ve done much worse.
Having carefully changed back into his civilian digs before leaving the damaged area, Peter gets home a slightly sweaty mess. He would’ve preferred to change further from the scene, but hadn’t had anything usable in the vicinity between there and home, idiot. He needs to plant a few more small backpacks of clothes and water bottles around again, having long forgotten where a lot of the ones he’d hidden over the years are. Peter groans and strips out of every piece of clothing he’s wearing on his way to the bathroom for a shower. The binder resists, of course, it always does after Spider-Man does his duties. He struggles with it for a moment before throwing it onto the bathroom tile and climbing into his tiny shower with a deep, ragged breath, lungs now uncrushed.
After he feels more human, damp hair dripping slightly, he changes into an oversized shirt and lounge pants. He has homework to do, but refuses on principle to do it in day clothes. As Deadpool had put it, he’s done his “heroing” for the day, and he’ll patrol later tonight. Probably meet up with Deadpool again. Their team ups have been going remarkably well and for all Wade’s bluster, he really is trying his best to be… heroic. Better than he used to be. Peter hasn’t seen him kill anyone in months, apparently taking Spider-Man’s anger to heart when he’d blown up in his face last time. The words “disappointed” and “thought you were better than this” had been used, and Deadpool had seemed suitably chastised, enough so that Spidey hasn’t had to admonish him again since. Not that he can guarantee the merc isn’t stirring up lethal trouble when the webbed wonder isn’t around. But the way Wade had earlier announced to civilian Peter that he had “heroing to do” settles in the back of his mind as he pulls out his beat up laptop and opens probably too many tabs to continue his school work. The assignment isn’t too bad; it’s just a standard research paper of obscene length, but he starts to lose focus as a few hours pass and he realizes he hasn’t actually eaten anything today. Whoops.
Glancing down at his growling stomach in disapproval, he scowls. “Shut up,” he tells it half-heartedly, setting his laptop aside and wandering into the tiny, sparse kitchen. The fridge is mostly empty — he needs to go grocery shopping. He snags the near-empty carton of milk and his last clean bowl, glad he’s at least got some generic corn flakes left. Well, he’s got half a cup. It’ll do.
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“Oh, Webs,” Deadpool says with something akin to dissatisfaction. He and Spider-Man are sitting on the edge of a rooftop some 30 storeys up, the mercenary kicking his heels and comfortably leaning back on both hands as the smaller man reflects the pose and lolls his head to the side to look at him through the lenses of his mask. “I can hear your tummy from here. You eat today?”
Spider-Man’s mask shifts, and Wade imagines he’s frowning at him, which makes him smile a little.
Nailed it, the boxes supply.
“I ate,” Spider-Man insists, but he doesn’t sound very convinced himself. “Just— not much.” He huffs. “I was busy today.”
“What, that ten minute fight took up your entire day?” Deadpool muses, tilting his head. The way the city lights catch the material of Spidey’s suit make the silhouette of it a little sparkly, the red and blue lit with a soft gold. A little corona he probably can’t see on himself. Pretty. Wade winds up focusing on this outline. “I don’t buy it, Baby Boy.”
“Some of us have lives outside of this stuff,” Spider-Man sniffs, turning his nose up, but Deadpool knows it’s facetious. He pokes Spidey’s shoulder and the man sighs at length. “I’m fine. I’ll go shopping in the morning or whatever,” he goes on dismissively.
Wade scoffs. This makes Spidey look at him again, lenses contracting slightly. Spidey’s glaring at him. It’s adorable.
“Buddy, let’s get tacos,” Deadpool says decisively, clapping his hands together and rolling with a backward summersault to pop up to his feet. Spider-Man chooses to spin on his butt and hop up, setting hands on his tight waist. Deadpool absently looks at the shape his hands make over his hipbones. Stupid dexterous little spider and his stupidly sexy little body. He narrowly avoids sighing dreamily. What he wouldn’t give to put his hands where Spidey’s got his. “My treat, as per uszh,” he insists while turning on his heel, making for the fire escape before the hero can protest.
“Pool,” Spider-Man says anyway, tentatively trailing after him. He’s always hesitant when Deadpool offers to buy him food, which the mercenary fully doesn’t understand. “Alright, listen—,” he tries, easily catching up to Wade, who’s swung one leg over the edge of the roof. The larger man stops and gives Spidey his full attention.
“Yes, dear?”
“It’s— I’ll take us, it’s faster,” Spider-Man tells him, refusing to let uncertainty color his tone. He waves Deadpool back up and moves to another edge of the roof.
Deadpool gasps dramatically and for a moment Spider-Man seems to half-glance back at him. Deadpool hoists himself back up and skips to his side, clapping excitedly. “Are you gonna let me ride piggyback?” he asks with unveiled enthusiasm. “Sorry, Spidey-back?” Spider-Man heaves another exaggerated sigh and nods like this is just a chore he’s gotten used to, but Wade knows he’s just playing it up. “Besides, you know how much I like to swing with you—,” he jokes, and Spider-Man lolls his head to look at him.
We’re divorced, dummy, and Spidey is clearly the most eligible bachelor out of all the supers in New York. Any “swinging” is just polyamory. Or promiscuity. Whichever strappy stiletto fits.
“That. Uh, that sounded better in my head,” Deadpool admits.
“Doesn’t everything?” Spidey drawls, but he takes a step in front of the merc and gestures for him to hop on. Wade takes a few seconds to admire the elegantly shadowed shape of Spidey’s ass before he moves, knowing he can take his weight easily as he leaps onto his back without another thought, wrapping his arms around the webslinger’s shoulders with his legs almost fully encircling the shorter man’s waist.
Spider-Man may be smaller, but he’s all hard muscle and Wade gives his firm shoulders each an appreciative squeeze, resisting the urge to roll his hips and half-grind against the small of his back. Instead, because it’s been a while since he’d last done it, Wade teasingly slides a hand down Spidey’s side and then reaches under himself to swat at the hero’s perfect ass — just a little love tap! He’s never rough with his Spidey ass slaps, and he’s never even groped! Just little smacks.
Our restraint is superhuman.
He’d done it a few times in the past, and while the first time went poorly — Deadpool genuinely forgetting himself and that the relationship he’d cultivated with Spider-Man had been strictly in his head at the time — Webs hasn’t punched him in the face for it since. The second time he’d done it, it was just to be an ass himself, and instead of nearly dislocating his jaw like the first time the other man had instead punched his shoulder the way two bros sitting in a hot tub (Five feet apart, ‘cuz they’re not gay!) might jokingly make physical contact. Playful. All seemed to have been forgiven, much to Wade’s relief when he’d realized he’d touched Spidey’s butt without consent a second time. Wade Wilson really is a “consent is mandatory” kind of guy, sometimes he’s just bad at piecing together which experiences happened in real life versus just in his head; imaginary Spidey had already slapped Deadpool’s ass, so he’d mentally transferred the mutual snarky contact into real life by mistake.
The third time, they’d been talking to some uptight antagonist type and Deadpool had facetiously (well, maybe mostly sincerely) flirted with Spider-Man in front of them, using his favorite pet name and letting his hand linger half a second longer than he had the previous two times. Either to continue the farce or because he’s no longer impressed by the merc’s handsy antics, Spidey had just sighed loudly and folded his arms over his chest, continuing their conversation with the villain.
This time Spider-Man startles, making a buzzing sound from between his teeth and jostling Deadpool. Sharply whacking the taller man’s arm when he brings it back around the hero’s shoulders, Spidey brings his other hand up behind him to swat the back of Wade’s head too, otherwise basically letting him get away with it.
“Don’t wiggle, DP,” the hero instructs firmly, and Deadpool obediently tucks his chin into Spider-Man’s nape and nods against him while the webhead holds the other man’s wrists under his collarbone to keep him steady. He’s a pro at using one arm to swing their combined weight these days, and Deadpool tries not to think about how strong and steadfast and skilled the spider is, how much he’d like the hero to maybe literally throw him around again someday. (Ah, the good old days of hassling him while he was on patrol.) Spidey is warm, even though Deadpool runs a lot hotter than him, but neither can complain in the cooling weather. Instead, Spider-Man lifts an arm to aim a web shooter before leaping off the building with Wade in tow.
Spider-Man doesn’t even have to ask where they’re going. They have the same favorite taco truck, and Deadpool wonders briefly if that spidey-sense is also a Mexican food locator, because Webs totally knows where the truck is at any given moment, able to track it down even when it moves daily. Or maybe there’s an app that he checks. Do taco trucks have tracking apps? Wade makes a mental note to put a tracker on the taco truck so he can impress Spidey next time. Do spiders get impressed by tracking skills? He knows Webs has complimented his tracking skills before, since he uses such expertise when he’s working a job or they’re on a mission together. His heart skips a beat when he remembers the way Spider-Man had warmly laughed when Wade had said it was just his “keen women’s intuition.”
They land at the street corner a few dozen feet from the truck, civilians casually greeting Spider-Man, who – like the friendly neighborhood hero he is – brightly greets them in return, waving and only pausing to crouch and quietly speak with a kid who tugs on his hand. Deadpool half watches Spidey interact with this little one and half wanders toward the truck. He orders most of the menu without looking at the truck attendant, who doesn’t seem to care enough to demand his focus. He stuffs a hand in one of his pouches and pulls out a wad of crumpled bills, dropping them almost into the street when he blindly reaches for the metal counter and pays.
“Keep the change,” he tells them absently, leaning against the truck to watch with a melting heart as Spidey puts his chin in his hands and his elbows on his knees, the lenses of his mask squinting. Spidey is clearly smiling under his mask as he coos at this child, whose guardian smiles and holds their free hand while the kid proudly hands over a piece of paper.
Spider-Man gestures with fingers splayed over his chest. For me? And the kid nods confidently. Spidey takes the page and looks it over, chattering with the kid about whatever’s on it. He points at something and laughs, just loud enough to reach Deadpool’s ears in the noise of the crowded street. Bubbly. Stupid, cute, kid-friendly little bastard. God, he adores him. Before his brain can comment on the impossibility of Wade getting a similar laugh out of the webhead, the taco truck attendant bangs a hand on the counter next to the mercenary’s head.
Jolting, he snaps his attention to the offender with a sharp glare, but it’s replaced instantly with sheer delight at the sight of two large bags of food. He squeals, and the attendant rolls their eyes, familiar enough with the two masked supers that they weren’t remotely intimidated either way. “Awesome,” Wade breathes as he hefts the weight of both bags and gives a sloppy salute, the bag in hand knocking into his face. Ignoring this, he turns to join his spider’s side just as the hero rises and waves the kid and their guardian goodbye.
“Food!” Deadpool announces, and Spider-Man looks at him, carefully folding the paper the kid gave him and tucking it away before Wade can sneak a peek at it. “If you’re done being all perfect and sweet to small children, that is.”
“Ha ha,” Spidey says, head rolling slightly to help indicate he’s rolling his eyes under the mask. His gestures are slightly exaggerated compared to Wade’s, only because his mask isn’t nearly as expressive. He has to compensate somehow, and Wade loves every second of it. Folding his arms over his chest, Spidey angles his head to look at the overfull bags in both of Deadpool’s hands. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Hungry?”
“At least one of these is all yours, baby,” Wade assures him with a shit-eating grin, because Spider-Man’s head tips just slightly up to him. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere quieter, huh? My place?” Deadpool offers hopefully, and again it seems the webslinger hesitates.
They’d gone to Wade’s apartment in Queens — his real apartment, not just a safehouse! — a few times already in the last few weeks, after a few months of Wade trying to convince Spider-Man it was neither a trap nor such a mess that it would be totally disgusting to set foot in. Give him some credit, he doesn’t keep his precious babies (Read: weapons.) in an environment that would have Child Services take them away!
The first time had been a little awkward, since he’d floated the idea multiple times before Spider-Man had agreed and actually taken him up on the offer. He’d had to tell Spidey to wait outside on the fire escape for a handful of minutes while he’d picked up some last minute not-so-heroic things (Porno mags because we’re old school, a series of guns we meant to clean the night before, and a small puddle of dried blood from an injury we couldn’t remember getting.) before welcoming him in. Spidey had looked around thoughtfully, before decidedly flopping onto Wade’s massive couch and making himself comfortable. Something about his willingness to relax – even if he’d remained masked – had left Wade sighing happily.
They’d eaten three large pizzas and two tubs of ice cream that night, playing remastered video games that Spidey had soundly schooled him in for nearly every match. The few Wade had won he’d celebrated by throwing his arms up and then shaking the webslinger’s shoulders as he crowed with delight, making Spider-Man laugh and swat him away when he’d lingered maybe a little too long. He still finds himself lingering whenever he and Webs make contact. It always leaves a little pleasant spark on Wade’s skin.
Fuck, if he can convince Spider-Man to come hang out with him more often after patrols, he might die a happy man.
Well, die a happy man a few times. Many times. Every time? We’ll take it.
“Whaddaya say?” Wade slurs with the same hope swelling in his broad chest. He weighs the bags of tacos like he’s a scale, waggling his eyebrows just enough that his mask implies the motion. “Eh? Eh?”
Spider-Man tips his head back to face him fully, lenses contracting again. Not a glare. Scrutiny.
“Yeah, okay,” he says suddenly, taking the bags with no effort whatsoever and nodding for Wade to lead the way as if he doesn’t know where they’re headed. “Let’s go.”
Deadpool barely contains an excited squeal. Spidey is coming to his house again! And this time it won’t need a quick pick-up, he’d been well-behaved the last few weeks in anticipation of the possibility Spidey might come by. A win-win, probably; he does feel better when his place is cleaner. Makes him feel like a little bit less of a fuck up to have that control over his environment, even if he doesn’t stay there every night. Not that Spidey isn’t aware he’s got a dozen safehouses throughout the boroughs and takes jobs that send him out of town sometimes. He wonders if he could ask Spidey to house-sit. Maybe he’d come back to Spidey in his civvies – mask on, of course, Spidey’s very protective of his secret identity – just chilling on his couch and lazily playing video games and eating fistfuls of chips and popcorn.
GASP! What if he comes back and the place smells like Spidey? All warm cinnamon and salt-sweat and that faintly acrid smell his web fluid leaves behind…
Fuck , that’s a distracting thought. It’s distracting enough that Wade almost walks into traffic on a red walk light.
Spider-Man catches the back of his suit collar quickly, a bag of food bonking against his shoulder blade and spine as Wade tips awkwardly back onto the sidewalk. Spidey doesn’t let go, grip firm and tugging a little against Deadpool’s throat in admittedly a pretty pleasant way. But the lenses of Spidey’s mask imply he’s glaring again. Wade puts his hands up, palms to the sky, and shrugs.
“Thanks, Baby Boy,” he says evenly, and Spider-Man’s grip lingers a few more moments before the pedestrian light shows the little white walking person and the crowd around them begins to cross the street. Freed, Wade walks at the webslinger’s side, carefully taking one of the food bags from Spidey’s nearest hand. The hero doesn’t argue, and instead heaves another famously world-weary sigh. People give them a bit of a berth on the sidewalk, and occasionally Spider-Man returns a wave or a greeting, ever the professional goody-goody. At least it’s not too far to Wade’s place.
They weave a little, getting to Deadpool’s place by sneaking around the side alley and using the fire escape. Spider-Man would probably just crawl up the wall on his own, but he seems invested in hanging by Wade’s side after watching him nearly walk into traffic. Come to think of it, why is it so busy this late at night? More importantly, what was a little kid doing awake at this hour? Should Wade have scolded that guardian for having a five-year old out of bed at… what, midnight?
IDK, plot reasons? The author is a sucker for cute scenelets? It’ll come up in the last chapter?
“Should we go back out after this?” Deadpool wonders aloud, suddenly feeling like they shouldn’t be relaxing so soon. Usually nightly patrols don’t stop until closer to 1 AM. But Spider-Man thwipps a web to pull down the fire escape ladder to make things easier for the merc and shrugs. “I love watching you work,” Wade adds with a little smile to himself.
“It’s fine,” Spidey says casually, ignoring the other comment, and Wade nods in agreement. They’d been out really late the last few joint patrols together, calling it quits closer to 3 AM. But it had been quiet most of the night, and they’d dealt with that bomber earlier anyway. Wade decides he can leave the window open so Webs can rely on his spider-sense for any surprise screams in the distance. Yeah, that’ll work.
Once they’re at Wade’s window, he slides it open easily. He almost always leaves it unlocked, but hasn’t specifically said this to Spider-Man in case he realizes or successfully assumes it’s for him. That would be weird, right? A vague, open invitation to Wade’s home? Would Spidey hate that?
Maybe not, but it would be so much worse to hear him say he’d never even use it. What if he laughs? We’d deserve it after this absolute clown shoes attempt at friendship.
Spending much too long fretting and listening to the argumentative boxes berating him in his head, Wade hovers just inside the window until Spider-Man pointedly shoves a bag of food into his arm, still outside. Fumbling, Wade holds it and scurries to set all the food down on his big, thankfully cleared dining table, a sturdy solid wood piece he’d picked up from some disused warehouse somewhere or other. Craigslist, maybe. It could be a woodworking bench for all he knows. He’d just wanted something that could take a beating, and so far it had held up.
At Wade’s side after entering in complete silence, Spider-Man hums thoughtfully, almost startling the mercenary, who moves to flip the light switch by the hall. The hero hesitates for only a moment before he starts unloading the food, filling the table with tacos and a bag of fresh tortilla chips and bean dip and pico de gallo… When everything is out of the bags, he looks it all over and Wade imagines his mouth watering, because he definitely hears the spider’s stomach rumble again.
“What are you waiting for?” Wade teases, scooping up two wrapped tacos. After a beat of his own hesitation, he swallows a lump in his throat and lifts the bottom of his mask just over his nose, revealing only the bottom half of his face and unwrapping both tacos only enough to get a huge bite from both simultaneously. It had taken him a while to feel comfortable showing this much skin in front of Spider-Man (Our hero and probably a supermodel under his own mask.), but the smaller man had never commented. Even now as he looks at Wade’s face, all he does is tilt his head just slightly. Wade really hopes it’s not disgust that makes his lenses contract again. “Dig in,” he says through a mouthful of beef, lettuce, and cheese.
Spider-Man squirms, but not the kind that sends happy little shivers up Wade’s spine. The kind of squirming a little kid does when they think they’ve done something wrong. The kind of squirming Wade does when the boxes start to win arguments about how happy he deserves to be. Wade presses his scarred lips into a tight line, swallowing his too-big bite.
"Did you need more permission, or a hand-written invitation, or...?" the mercenary asks suspiciously. Spidey does this sometimes, this weird reluctance to accept things from other people, things that aren’t just fans’ tiny trinkets or kids’ drawings. Wade could understand a superhero being distrustful of a mercenary, especially being distrustful of Deadpool, what with his reputation, but he likes to think Spider-Man knows him better than that. The chief suppliers of doubt and mockery in his head start telling him he’d never been trustworthy to begin with, that it’ll only be a matter of time before Spider-Man gives up on him, so why shouldn’t it be now? "I swear it's all from the taco truck, baby, I didn't do anything to—," he begins, an edge of hurt and maybe bitterness in his voice, but Spidey's head snaps to look at him, lenses full and wide.
"What??" he blurts, panicking. Wade actually shuts his dumb mouth and raises both hairless eyebrows under his mask. "N-no, Wade," he assures him hastily, waving his hands in front of himself. Placating. Wade scowls, and the hero backtracks. "It's not that. I just—," he goes on uneasily, wincing, and the merc starts to relax a little bit again. He recognizes that particular sound. It’s one of the only outward signs Spider-Man is actively nervous. "Sorry. It's just. It’s weird that you... feed me," Spidey admits, looking back at the food. "Are you sure?" he asks, but there's hope and hunger in the question, and Wade melts a little bit. He’d had a rough time growing up himself, but he really hopes whatever makes Spider-Man anxious to receive food for free isn't what's keeping him scrawny. With a superhuman metabolism to beat Wade's, Spider-Man should be getting more than he usually sees the hero intake.
You don't see him all day everyday, the boxes remind him, stop making assumptions like an ass — “an ass out of you and me,” remember?
"I am, without a doubt, 100% sure, Webs. Please eat," he says with careful formality, gesturing grandly to the spread the shorter man had himself made on the table. He then takes another massive double bite as if to conclude his point. Shoveling an armful of food against his chest, he happily wanders to the sofa and dumps some on the low coffee table. Making a point of not looking back, in case some of whatever Spidey's deal is includes being watched, he waits patiently and continues scarfing down deliciously seasoned meat and cheese in crunchy shells.
After some rustling and a muttering of something like "too nice" (which the boxes uproariously laugh at), Spider-Man appears next to the couch with armfuls of food himself. Another beat, and he plops onto the cushions at Wade's side, briefly tipping into him before righting himself. Wade isn't sure if Spidey had noticed, but he feels a tiny electric jolt through his leg where they’d touched, even through the suits. Wade ignores the little chill up his spine and nods in approval as Spider-Man unwraps a couple of tacos the way Wade had, bringing them up to his face and stopping short just before he smashes food all over his mask. Wade tries very hard not to snort, turning his face away briefly. Cute.
Instead of hesitating like he had the last few times they'd eaten together, Spider-Man simply reaches his free hand up to lift and roll the lower half of his mask up over his nose like Wade had, and the mercenary spares a few moments to stare at what's revealed, slowly taking another bite of his doubled up tacos as he does.
Spider-Man has freckles . He hadn't seen them before, since they're usually on a rooftop or fire escapes in ambient city light, and the last few times Spidey had been over at his place, he'd constantly rolled the mask up and down in between bites, afraid to leave it up for too long even though it had been just Deadpool in the room with him. But now Wade can see a smattering of freckles over the bridge of Spidey's nose and cheekbones. The line of his jaw is shadowed just slightly with stubble, and he wonders how often Spider-Man has to shave. Even the boxes don't have a bad word to say when Wade dares to look at the other man's lips.
With the other super blissfully unaware of being watched, Deadpool catches a glint of sharp canines as Spider-Man brings the tacos up again and takes a giant bite of both. Pieces of lettuce and cheese and taco shells fall away and into Spidey's lap, making him look down and pout with the food in his mouth as he slowly chews anyway.
Wade bursts into laughter at him and Spidey gives a little half-offended chortle before covering his mouth with his other hand as he, too, laughs through his food when Wade doubles down and smacks a huge hand against his back, jostling more of the tacos into the hero's lap and onto the floor.
Chapter 2: [2] Shutterbug
Summary:
Peter runs into Deadpool in Central Park. Spidey gets another meal with Deadpool. There’s something suspicious happening at the docks. Deadpool has fanmail to hand over.
7927 words.
Notes:
Content warning for food/financial insecurity, discussion of mentioned human experimentation.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter levels his viewfinder and slowly adjusts the aperture to focus on a stretch of trees peppered along the path on one side of the reservoir in Central Park, able to sneak one edge of some of the wrought iron fencing between the path and the water. People pass through the shot, ignoring him as he crouches just so, face scrunched with his own focus. They’re all used to people snapping photos in one of the most popular tourist destinations in the city, one more hipster-looking tool is nobody to pay any mind.
Peter loves Central Park. He’s traversed almost every square foot of it himself in his nearly 24 years, people watching, taking pictures on every version of a manual camera, and running around climbing on things he shouldn’t, both as a little kid and as Spider-Man. It’s amazing what people get up to when they think their little pocket of the park is empty. Though it’s not the ideal environment for web slinging, Peter has other useful skills in the dark, and no one ever looks up anyway.
But today he’s not here as the crime-stopping, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, he’s here as plain old Peter Parker, photography hobbyist and slightly bored grad student. Class is out, and the light is still perfect to capture the midsummer trees reflecting a gorgeous gold without blinding him with the same reflections off the reservoir. A cool breeze comes across the water, and Peter shivers with a tiny smile.
Good thing he’d layered up, a scarf tucked around his neck and into his hoodie. He hadn’t bothered buttoning up his rough green toggle coat, since it isn’t cold enough yet and he wants it to count for something when he needs it in another hour. It’s a fact that spiders aren’t the best at thermoregulation, and it might be something like 72 degrees outside, but it’ll be in the low 60s soon enough. He plans on patrolling in a while, but he’s happy to just observe passersby and capture the park’s flora while he waits out the sun. He could also get a few “candid” shots of Spider-Man for the Daily Bugle, if the right moment presents itself and he doesn’t happen to run into—
“You!”
Jolting with alarm, Peter nearly drops his aging camera, something he hasn’t done since before the spider bite, but he’s glad he’s always in the good habit of keeping the strap around his neck so it doesn’t plummet to the pavement. Looking over his shoulder with a scowl, Peter meets the white eyes of Deadpool’s mask with a hot glare.
“What the hell, man?” he demands of the fully suited mercenary, who jogs up to him and waves enthusiastically. Peter glowers. “I almost dropped my camera, do you have any idea… how…?” he goes on, about to bring up how specifically not cheap replacing the equipment is, but winds down as Deadpool points at the messenger bag slung across Peter’s back and hip. Peter blinks, expression dropping from annoyed to confused as he looks where the man in red and black indicates.
On the outside flap of his bag is a small enamel pin in the shape of a heart, the Spider-Man mask filling it in. It’s maybe all of an inch and a half wide, and not too easy to discern from a distance, but it had been a gift from a civilian at a handmade market Spider-Man had passed one day in late spring. She’d explained that she’d designed and pressed them herself, beaming as she held one out for him while he’d been on his way to pick up Vietnamese street food from one of the vendors.
“Spider-Man!” Deadpool chirps, and Peter looks up at him through his lashes, over the thick frames of his father’s glasses. He doesn’t need them, of course, but they help sell the “ordinary human person who doesn’t have superhuman senses” ruse. And he likes the way they help frame his face, it draws attention away from some of his… softer edges. “I like your pin, shutterbug.”
One thing other supers never see in Deadpool is his weirdly sincere passion when he appreciates something. They see him in action, all snark and jokes and sometimes a slip of his violent, deadly mercenary persona, but they don’t see him when he’s just being… Wade. It’s Wade Wilson who compliments enamel Spider-Man pins on strangers’ bags. It’s Wade Wilson who buys Spider-Man food and scolds him for not eating. It’s Wade Wilson who picks up sick stray kittens, nurses them back to health, and hunts down safe homes for them. It’s Wade Wilson who tips every single food vendor 200%. Wade Wilson is standing before Peter Parker in a Deadpool suit, and the smaller man slowly rises to his feet, effectively softened.
“Thanks,” he finally replies, quieter when he meets the eyes of Wade’s mask. The mercenary sets his hands on his waist, and Peter’s eyes flick to note his belt of pouches and the pistols holstered at his hips. He’d named them something, but Peter suddenly forgets if Bea and Arthur are the katanas or the guns. Either way, he can’t pull his gaze from the 9mms strapped in. “Do you usually pack heat when you hang out at the park?” he asks wryly, looking back up at Wade’s masked face, unimpressed. Peter doesn’t care for guns on the best day, even if Deadpool is the best marksman he’d ever seen with such weapons. Did the Hawkeyes ever use guns? He imagines Clint and Kate taking aim at Deadpool with their bows and quickly dismisses the unpleasant thought of any of them being against one another.
“Who, Phyllis and Diller?” Deadpool says lightly, glancing down at his holsters and smiling fondly. “Don’t worry, Pumpkin, they’re harmless. Safeties ‘re on and everything.” Peter gives him the most disbelieving, sardonic look Wade has seen on such a pretty face, and he cracks a smile that makes the other man narrow his gaze. “Not a gun guy?”
“No,” Peter states flatly, folding his arms over his chest, careful of his camera. It’s probably the most expensive thing he owns, right before his shitty, ancient laptop. “Not a gun guy, Deadpool.”
“So you do know who I am!” Deadpool muses, sounding far too pleased as he mirrors Peter’s folded arms.
“Was that not clear?”
“Mostly when people realize who I am, they do a lot more screaming of my name, but not in a fun way like I hope to hear from you, Legs.” He grins wide enough it’s obvious through the mask, because there’s color creeping into the brunet’s ears and he’s pretty sure he’d earned it. “Whatcha doin’ out here, anyway?”
Peter takes a long moment to glare, mulling over what to say next. He knows Wade is a flirt, and that he takes very few important things seriously, even if he’s got a weirdly kind heart under all the kevlar and snappy comebacks. Looking between the eyes of the mask, he chews his cheek. “Thought it was obvious I was taking pictures?”
Deadpool scoffs, but it’s not derisive. He waves a hand airily. “Yeah, uh-doy. But what were you taking pictures of, Gorgeous?”
“Stop doing that,” Peter says half-heartedly, tiredly shuffling on his feet.
Deadpool pauses, hand mid-wave. He lowers it. “Doing what?” he asks innocently.
“I was taking pictures of the trees. And the rest of the park, I guess. The light is amazing right now,” Peter explains casually, deciding to blow right past the flirty pet names. He pauses and casts Wade a sidelong glance. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Wade echoes allowingly. He tilts his head and puts his hand back on his waist, taking an experimental step closer to the brunet.
He’s a bit taller than Peter, even though Peter is just under 5’10” in his beat-up sneakers, and the difference feels a lot bigger when Peter isn’t in his Spider-Man suit, even if his unruly hair deceptively gives him something like an extra two inches. The fully suited and booted Deadpool easily can and has walked right up to Spidey’s back and set his chin atop the shorter man’s head. And slotted his arms around his torso. And picked him up a foot off the ground in a reverse bear hug. He might not have super strength, but neither Peter nor Spider-Man are often lifted so seamlessly and… well, harmlessly. The first time Wade had done it, Spidey had been so sincerely surprised that he hadn’t protested, though when he’d come back to himself he’d squirmed and demanded to be put back down. Wade had only tried it again one other time, coming from the front for a proper hug that had still nearly crushed Peter’s lungs. But Deadpool’s impressive size and presence don’t deter Peter.
Peter remains unflinching as Deadpool looms over him, simply blinking up at him with a thoughtful frown. “And why are you crowding me?” he inquires, jaw set. His spider-sense is as dead silent as it usually is around Wade, so he’s not exactly sure what the merc is doing other than messing with who he must only recognize as an ordinary person.
“You can always back up. You’ve got everywhere to go,” Deadpool reasons evenly, nodding to the open space around them, at Peter’s back. This is technically true. They’re not even right up against the reservoir fence. Peter glances sideways and gnaws on one corner of his lower lip with a particularly pointed canine peeking out, brow furrowed as the merc watches.
“That’s not an answer.”
The “eyebrows” of the mask rise. “Just thinkin’,” he says quietly, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d say it’s curiosity underlying that answer. “Cute freckles.”
Peter reflexively pushes his dad’s glasses back up his nose for this off-handed comment. He’s not sweating and they aren’t slipping, exactly, but there’s heat in his cheeks and it gives his increasingly restless hands something to do before he tucks them into his coat pockets. He’s never stood this close to Deadpool without the Spidey suit. It’s a lot more intimidating than he’d given it credit for, now that he’s experiencing it firsthand as a civilian. But Peter has the advantage of being Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is too used to him being a goofy weirdo behind the scary auras and occasionally manic violence to be effectively cowed.
“So what are you doing here? Do you approach everyone that has Spider-Man merch?” he asks with remarkable ease, looking back to blank white eyes.
“Are they aesthetic?” Deadpool asks, back to friendly and bright, giving Peter tonal whiplash. He gestures to Peter’s face. “Your glasses. The lenses are fake.”
Peter definitely blushes at this. Most people either don’t notice or don’t care to mention. He grinds his teeth. Deadpool makes himself comfortable, leaning one hand on the concrete halfway up the reservoir fence, the other going back to his hip, a knee bent. He doesn’t otherwise move, and neither does Peter. “What’s it to you?” Peter’s voice is taut, but he manages not to let distaste drip on each staccato syllable.
Chuckling, Deadpool holds up the hand from his hip in mock surrender, but doesn’t otherwise disaffect his casual demeanor. Something about it makes Peter’s skin prickle. Of course he’s just being a dick. Wade might be a nice guy, but he isn’t nice 24/7. Even Peter is an ass sometimes, and it’s so easy to turn into an ass when dealing with a dick. He purses his lips slightly, sets his jaw for the taller man’s reaction, but Deadpool just shakes his head.
“Don’t get me wrong, I dig the whole, broke-college-student, hipster-geek thing, really I do. The fingerless gloves are a nice touch. It just feels like the fake glasses are an unnecessary reach,” he begins to explain, and Peter mindlessly, perhaps foolishly, reaches up to playfully push the back of his hand at the mercenary’s shoulder. Not a hard push or a shove, just the same thing he’d done to Harry, MJ, and even Flash back in the day, when any of them were being jerks. As he moves to do it, he realizes his mistake, but his spider-sense has no opinion to offer when Deadpool’s hand snaps up to grab his wrist just before Peter can make contact.
Peter’s entire body stills as he watches the merc’s suddenly neutral mask. Deadpool holds Peter there, but instead of flinching or tugging his hand back, Peter raises an eyebrow and extends his fingers to complete the light pushing gesture anyway.
“They were my dad’s,” he says simply, still in Deadpool’s grip. “I had to take his prescription out because I don’t need it.” He hadn’t needed glasses since the bite, and even then he’d been wearing contacts through the first year and a half of high school. He meaningfully touches an arm of the glasses with his other hand. “They were giving me headaches.”
Wade gives his wrist a squeeze. Not too tightly, not threateningly, just a little one, and Peter watches the man lower his arm to release it after a beat. He remains silent, and Peter slowly retracts his arm, holding onto the strap of his messenger bag and fearlessly staring at Deadpool through his zero-power glasses. The mercenary pushes off of the fence and leans in close, and this time Peter does take a step back, bending slightly as the taller man gets into his personal space again. A frown tugs at Peter’s lips, but Deadpool remains silent, searching the student’s face.
“Orphan?” Deadpool guesses, his voice much gentler than Peter expects.
“Sorta,” Peter admits, which feels strange given he had never talked about his family as Spider-Man, and bringing it up with Deadpool as boring old Peter Parker seems… different. “My aunt and uncle raised me. But it’s just…,” he goes on hesitantly, trailing off as a familiar sorrow creeps up on him. His gaze cants to the ground. “It’s just me, now.”
“That sucks,” Deadpool says with the same gentleness, and Peter’s face screws up for a moment. He hadn’t thought about May in a long time. He’s not over it, not by a long shot, but he’d been coping pretty well, not dwelling on it lately. “Sorry I brought it up,” the merc adds sheepishly, as if following Peter’s train of thought.
“Last…” Peter swallows thickly. “Last September. Pancreatic cancer. My uncle died when I was 15, but my aunt…” Why is he sharing this? This intimate detail about his personal life, with someone who is technically a stranger, and literally a hired gun? This is the worst idea he’s had in months, oversharing with Deadpool.
Deadpool swings back at the waist and groans theatrically at the sky, returning his fists to his waist and apparently shutting his eyes. “Fuck, my dude.” He looks to the reservoir, shoulders slumping as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Fuck cancer. That really, really sucks,” he emphasizes, reaching out to carefully pat Peter’s shoulder, and Peter knows it’s entirely sincere, because he’d done the same thing to Spidey when Peter had mentioned Gwen — he’d never mentioned their romantic relationship, of course, but her death hadn’t exactly been private. That memory is just as painful, but Peter had wisely sought counseling after the first few months so he could get back to being Spider-Man for New York. Something something survivor’s guilt, something something hero complex maybe, who cares.
“It’s, uh,” Peter says softly, “it’s okay.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s okay,” Deadpool disagrees, dropping both arms. “I feel like I should change the subject?” he says lighter, like he’s asking permission to press past the topic he’d brought up, wincing.
Peter huffs a short, breathless laugh that lets all the air rush out of his lungs, shakily sinking his shoulders. He takes the glasses off and rubs tiredly at his eyes. Damn, he’s really going to need to distract himself tonight. Patrol will be good for him. Maybe Spider-Man will run into Deadpool and ask for company. It’s a different beast to talk to Wade in the Spidey suit. Not like Wade will turn him down. Beginning to fold the glasses up to put them away after all, Peter pauses when Deadpool whines. Glancing up to the mercenary with a quizzical eyebrow raised, he waits for him to elaborate.
“I’m really sorry,” Wade says a little more urgently. “I didn’t mean to, uh, y’know. Bring up dead family members.” He fidgets, scuffing his boots on the concrete and looking anywhere but at Peter. It’s a strange sight to see such a big guy acting bashful, but Peter finds it equally endearing and has to tamp down the ease with which he starts to smile. “I really do like them on you, I’m just. Bad.” A pause. “At flirting? With most people, actually, once I get past the first few one-liners. I can be into kinda anybody, but, uh. The follow through is different.”
Curiosity and mild disbelief piqued, Peter pulls his posture back up slightly, intently watching Deadpool’s mask shift through expressions. “...Yeah?” he carefully encourages, once again thrown by Wade’s ability to switch gears.
Wade winces, rubbing harder at his neck, and Peter resists the urge to tug his elbow down.
Oh. Oh, no , he’s not resisting at all — Uh-oh.
Peter gently pulls Wade’s working arm down with a light hand on the mercenary’s elbow, and to his amazement, Wade doesn’t fight him, his fidgeting subsiding. With the merc’s attention finally back on Peter’s face, the brunet makes a point of putting his glasses back on, moving his fingers out to mime a firework as he lowers his hand again, wearing a cautious half-smile.
“I like how they look on me, too.”
-
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Deadpool finds Spider-Man less than twenty minutes after he picks up patrolling that same night. Spidey is grateful, of course, since it saves him the trouble of convincing himself to text the mercenary and the trouble of coming up with a good way to specifically invite him to team up for the evening. But he probably doesn’t need to worry about finding Deadpool in the future. It never takes long for him to find Spider-Man all by himself, so Peter wonders if next time he should just do his thing and wait for Wade to conveniently crop up. He decides not to worry about it, in the long run.
Deadpool continues to elude his spider-sense; years of honing stealth skills have left him extraordinarily good at sneaking up on people, sometimes even those with superior senses. He’s starting to get in the habit of moving a little louder when he approaches Spider-Man so the hero knows when he’s coming, rather than startling him and putting him on high alert before either of them need to be.
“You gonna be weird if I offer to get us falafel tonight?” Wade asks after they get through a few muggings and a convenience store robbery.
Spider-Man hums thoughtfully and taps his chin, perched easily in a crouch atop a closed news stand while Deadpool leans against its side. It’s actually quieter tonight than the last few nights patrolling together. No small children have approached him since last week, and he still has the drawing he’d gotten tucked in his suit, since he likes it so much. He still hasn’t shared it with Wade, making the merc suspicious he’s in the drawing, but every time he asks, Spidey just looks at him with a tiny twitch of his mask at the mouth. Wade really hopes he’s smiling when he does that.
“Define ‘weird,’” Spidey teases, but he shifts to sit like a normal person even if he doesn’t get down, long legs dangling as he grips scalloped edges of the stand. Deadpool has to administer the daddy long legs jokes very sparingly, because the hero makes this disgruntled sound and corrects him on how they aren’t even actually spiders every time, deliberately ignoring the all-important “daddy” part of the joke.
Spoilsport.
Deadpool moans loudly, patting at his thighs impatiently. “C’moooon, Webs! Don’t you wanna let me stuff your face?”
Spidey snorts, letting it fall into a handful of giggles, and Wade doesn’t resist the urge to give himself a small fist pump of triumph. Nailed it. “When you put it that way,” Spidey says slyly. “Fill me up, Wade.”
Oh, that is not fair.
Deadpool makes an exaggerated sexual whine, knees wobbling. “Don’t do this to me, Spidey, don’t give me hope.” He pushes off of the news stand and looks up at the hero, who’s got his chin in his hands, fingers curled by his cheeks and elbows on his knees as he tips forward. Haloed by a street lamp. Weirdly adorable, angelic little bastard. “I know a falafel guy. Owes me extra tahini,” he goes on more evenly, picturing Spidey’s freckles when he smiles, which he assumes is happening with the little bulges in the webhead’s mask. He’s excited to see them again. Giddy, even. He wants to catalog where they are, how many, if they get darker with the seasons and sun exposure. How much sun does civilian Spidey get?
That’s a dumb question, Spider-Man is the sun.
“I love tahini,” Spidey assures him very seriously, straightening up to hop down, landing gracefully to join Deadpool on the sidewalk. “How do you get a falafel guy to owe you tahini?”
“Saved his hole in the wall this one time. Some asshat with a European mullet tried to hold him up. He looked like a hair band with too little glam makeup and no taste in spandex.” He doesn’t otherwise elaborate, since the culprit wound up with fewer teeth, a fractured wrist, and a broken foot, but Spidey doesn’t ask.
“See, now why doesn’t Johnny get that about you?” Spider-Man mumbles as they walk, and Wade desperately wants to know if he’s talking about Fire Boy or someone in Webs’ personal life.
Probably the Flaming Fuckwad, he’s practically in love with Spidey. Not that we can’t relate…
Spider-Man is friends with practically every super he meets, being the perfect, friendly hero and all. Deadpool can’t blame them for how often they still caution Spidey to stay away from him. Spider-Man famously has a staunch moral compass, and the mercenary’s reputation as a brutal and thorough ki— unaliver had been well earned, and he had still been… bad, when he’d first met Spider-Man in person. It took them months to get along, and just as long for Wade to stop unaliving people, which had been Spidey’s biggest hang up to trusting him.
Now Spidey does trust him, and he’ll do anything to avoid jeopardizing that trust. Anything.
Including making sure Spidey’s three falafels are slathered in extra tahini, which gets him a delighted little noise out of the webslinger when he opens his wrapped food on the roof some twenty minutes later. It melts Wade’s inhumanly resilient heart. He’d even tipped Hamid extra despite their little deal, because he’d known it would be so worth it to see the way the spider perks up when he gets the sauce all over his face in his enthusiasm and hunger.
-
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Peter only ever comes to the Avengers Tower as Spider-Man, fully masked and protective of his secret identity even from other supers. While he appreciates the open invitation to join the Avengers — and the free access to Stark’s labs and tech that comes with that — Tony Stark himself rubs Peter the wrong way. Something about being an ex-war profiteer and ego maniac. He’s brilliant, Peter isn’t going to deny his literal genius, but his self-obsession and weird guilt complexes have historically been regionally (if not globally) traumatic, and Peter doesn’t want to be beholden to his decision making as de facto leader of the Avengers. Since Steve had retired as Captain America two years ago, the bulk of the authority had essentially gone to Iron Man.
“Who exactly is this for?” Spider-Man asks JARVIS suspiciously as he holds a bundle of reports and files he’d been going over at Stark’s lab for the last week. He’s had a lull in his thesis work, making it possible to focus on a particularly strange set of “coincidences” at the docks the last few weeks.
A lot of shipments of seemingly unrelated things keep winding up unaccounted for by legitimate businesses that operate out of the harbor, but there’s no sign of the merchandise showing up anywhere else yet. More unmarked vans than usual have been coming in and out of the area in question, a lot of quiet people wearing dark colors moving things under tarps. Those things range in size from small crates that easily could be moving boxes for books to crates you could fit a hippo in. More than once, one of the armed baddies had opened smaller crates labeled “MUTAGEX-41” and inspected the contents just before loading, and Peter caught sight of glass containers of something pale orange laid in cases and separated with wood fiber.
Normally, Peter would just drop in and deal with these obvious thieves immediately, but two days ago the vans had opened up on arrival and a handful of armed guards had climbed out and posted up around warehouse entrances and loading bays. Peter isn’t as reckless or shortsighted as he had been when he was a little younger. This is clearly a larger operation, a long game he needs to play carefully. He’s noted a lot of license plates, and there’s a rotation of the same vans every few nights.
He’s also noted the body types: usually two burly and strong people who do the literal heavy lifting, and three or four deceptively lean people with assault weapons. Every van has a driver who never leaves the cab, probably to ensure any necessary getaways are quick and efficient. Peter is certain each van has the same driver, every time.
After one particularly clumsy incident on the part of some of those shady people last night (one of the bigger baddies actually got slapped by a colleague carrying a gun, which made Peter feel… uncomfortable, somehow), he’d gathered and securely stored trace evidence for which he’d just finished the first composition analysis at the Avengers Tower: a thin, light orange-colored powder that reminds Peter of drink mixes from childhood, the sort that come in plastic containers with fine crystalline powders that mix into water and either really need sugar or are already hyper sweet. He can remember Uncle Ben getting excited when Aunt May would bring one home with the groceries. He’d go on about his own childhood and made sure Peter knew which ones went up into space with the astronauts and which ones were off-brands of which. Peter always liked the orange and cherry flavored ones the best. He could be talked into blue raspberry, especially because he and his friends used to show off their tongues to each other after seeing who could chug their drink fastest.
“Drs. Bruce Banner and Susan Storm want to see your findings on MUTAGEX-41, as you are the first to report this suspicious activity, Spider-Man,” JARVIS informs him, and the tension in Peter slips away. Okay, he likes and trusts both of those scientists. He’s a little flattered that Dr. Susan Storm has any interest, since she’s one of his biochemistry idols — four doctorates! — but it worries him a little that this means the case really is a big deal. He’ll handle it if he has to. And maybe he’ll get to just chat with both of them. He misses casual conversations with intelligent and educated people. He may be a biochem grad student, but Peter Parker is not the most socially gifted, and he doesn’t have a lot of free time to spend making new friends, even within his program. He’s barely even seen MJ in the last year. He’ll take what he can get, and it’s just icing on the cake if it’s two expert supers.
The AI lights up a panel on the wall, popping out a drawer for him to set the files in. Peter obliges, and the drawer closes. Maybe it’s a vacuum tube like at those banks upstate. He listens for the telltale rush of air and thumping, but hears nothing and tries not to pout about it.
“Thanks, JARVIS,” he says sincerely, and shrugs out of the lab coat he’d put on. He doesn’t need a respirator with the small upgrades he’d made to his suit, and his lenses are already specialty safety goggles, but the coat makes him feel more professional, and eventually he’ll have to wear one as a career scientist, so practice makes habit. He does use nitrile gloves when he’s in the lab, the material of his suit is still porous, after all. Peeling them off of his Spider-Man gloves reminds him to reapply for positions both at Pym Industries and Oscorp. Applying to Stark Industries seems like a bad idea. A conflict of interest and a risk of exposing his identity. Not that he doesn’t fully believe Stark has shady surveillance shit all over the tower that might have already identified him. He dreads asking, but maybe he can be subtle about it. Hell, maybe JARVIS would cooperate and not inform Tony if Peter asks. For an AI, it does seem to like Spider-Man, always particularly friendly compared to how polite and all business it is with a lot of other supers he’s witnessed interacting with it.
“You are very welcome, Spider-Man. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day. I will be sure to inform you of any further news regarding this case. Is it alright to communicate with you via your work phone? ”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter assures the AI, waving a hand absently, exiting the lab after glancing through the wired window of the lab door. No one else is around, so he feels better about using his preferred exit, stepping out into the wraparound hall that leads to the elevators, waist-to-ceiling windows showing off the city skyline.
“Hey, JARVIS?” he asks, tilting his head and hovering near a cracked pane, opened out from the bottom. Might as well ask while they’re more or less alone, even if the AI is probably doing a thousand other things simultaneously, running the tower and all.
“Yes, Spider-Man? ”
“Do you know who I am? My civilian identity.”
JARVIS doesn’t respond immediately, and a cold dread crawls up his spine. Shit.
“Mr. Stark has not specifically requested to learn of your secret identity, Spider-Man. My systems are integrated with the tower and are both advanced and unfortunately designed to be somewhat… invasive.”
“Uh-huh,” Peter says through a dry throat, stock still.
“I have locked all access to this information. Not even Mr. Stark has permission. As I understand, you made a specific request to remain unidentified upon your first entrance into the tower.”
“Wow, you remember that?”
“I remember everything, Spider-Man. I am programmed to retain information.”
“Right, right. AI, surveillance, massive storage and stuff… Thank you.” The anxiety bleeds away as he takes a deep, ragged breath. His identity is protected, his anonymity intact. Spider-Man smiles a little to himself and shakes off the last of his discomfort, further opening the nearby window. “You’re the best, JARVIS!” he calls over his shoulder as he crawls outside.
Both Tony and JARVIS know he does this, high windows being his preferred method of ingress and egress since it draws less attention and neither the public nor Stark employees can divert his attention. A friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is more or less expected to gladhand and occasionally take selfies with the public. His reputation has been doing very well, after several years of on and off popularity for this one reason or another. If pressed, he’d admit he sort-of likes that people want to prove they’ve been in his presence. Less for stroking his ego and more for showing that they trust Spider-Man. Trust is everything to Peter Parker.
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” JARVIS replies to the open window before it closes at the AI’s behest.
-
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A little over a week later, Peter runs into Deadpool. Again. Out of the suit. In yet another somewhat unexpected place.
He’s just coming out of Jameson’s office, worn down from being yelled at for the quality of his selection of photos: not enough of Spider-Man, and what he’s got is “crap,” etcetera. Peter can’t wait to get an internship, dreaming of the day he can get out from under the thumb of tabloid news and watching Jameson perform dramatically in front of a green screen like he thinks he’s a legitimate news anchor.
In some horrible alternate universe, more people might take someone like him seriously. Luckily for Spider-Man at least, his over the top performances, libel, and slander have only a niche audience. The rest of the Daily Bugle news is less absurd and more believable, but they get the best viewership during Jameson’s time slot, and his podcast is upsettingly popular. Peter has occasionally been granted coding privileges to help out the four IT folks who struggle to keep up with the site traffic, comments, and social media — Jameson is cheap and doesn’t want to hire any more tech people, his own stage crew being minimal at best. Sometimes Peter is tasked with editing others’ photos for the site. Those are the times he actually gets a useful paycheck. If he has to stick around, he’d prefer to be a full-time photographer, not just a freelancer with a Spider-Man focus and what he’d assumed to be basic computer literacy.
He’s just distracted enough that he nearly collides with someone large and sturdy, but they catch his shoulders just before he can plow into them. Dazed and mildly annoyed for being grabbed despite the near-impact being essentially his own fault, Peter looks up to find Deadpool’s mask looking down at him with the implication of raised eyebrows.
“Legs!” the merc chirps, something he seems to do a lot when he sees Peter. He gives his shoulders a squeeze and hums thoughtfully. “You have got to work out,” he mumbles appreciatively, and the brunet wiggles slightly until Deadpool lets go of his surprisingly firm deltoids, hands up in mock surrender as they have been with him before.
“What’re you doing here?” Peter asks, managing not to sound alarmed. This is where he works. This is where Peter Parker scrapes enough money together to stay afloat in his crappy studio apartment. This is where Peter Parker sells selfies and purportedly knows his alter ego personally. What is Wade Wilson — the mercenary known as Deadpool — doing here?
Deadpool holds up a finger for patience, and Peter clamps his mouth shut, watching him fish in his pouches for something. He emerges with a folded piece of paper that he opens up and smooths out against his thigh. Holding it up, he taps a printout of—
“Spider-Man?” Peter says, keeping the squeak out of his voice, even though it almost cracks instead.
“Yeah! I was hoping to reach his guy, I have fanmail,” Deadpool elaborates, looking at the photo and stroking the image of Spider-Man swinging past a familiar bodega. The motion is slow, reverent. It reminds Peter of cartoonish school girl crushes.
“What guy?” Peter hedges, dread seeping into his bones.
“The photographer! Excellent work, really, I’ve saved all his photos off the site. Named the folder ‘future husband.’” He pauses. “Don’t tell Spidey,” he adds hastily, sheepish, “I mean he knows I’ve got this huuuuge horny crush on him, I’d totally have his spider-babies, but I don’t think he knows how deep my love goes.”
Peter feels like he’s stepped into something he definitely wasn’t meant to see. Or hear. Or perceive in any way, ever. “Uh,” he says lamely.
“Your boss in there?” Deadpool asks, looking past the photographer to the editor/primary face of the Bugle’s door, his name printed on the frosted glass. Peter nods slowly, and Deadpool looks back down at him, waits a beat, then gently nudges the shorter man aside, since there are a few desks on either side of them and technically Peter is actually in the way.
Peter turns to give him room, hoping his anxiety isn’t too noticeable when he wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Gross. Fuck.
“Thank youuu,” Deadpool singsongs, striding past Peter and ignoring Jameson’s assistant, Betty, when she insists he can’t just go in there unannounced and without an appointment. The mercenary casts her a look, and she closes her mouth, going pale like she’s seen a ghost. Or maybe several ghosts of whoever the infamous mercenary has killed in the past. When the office door opens, Jameson immediately gripes about being interrupted, but when he catches sight of Deadpool closing the door, he falls silent.
Ignoring Betty’s half-assed protests, Peter quickly steps up to one of the office windows with closed blinds, and waits as he listens. His enhanced hearing means he doesn’t really need to be too close, certainly not pressing his ear to the glass, but he still wants to be nearby in case he needs to intervene. Even if it just means bursting through the door with some lie about a commotion outside needing the merc’s expertise. Or that Spider-Man is nearby. That would get Wade’s attention, he’s certain. Maybe even get Jameson to stop yelling at him for a day or two, wouldn’t that be nice.
The conversation inside isn’t quiet, but Peter’s hearing makes it crystal clear.
“What do you want, Deadpool?” Jameson demands gruffly, though there’s hesitation in his tone. He too knows this man’s reputation. “Come to prove me right about what you and the Spider-Menace have been up to?”
“Don’t … call him that,” Deadpool says sharply, impatiently, and Peter feels a curl of warmth in his chest. Wade always defends Spider-Man. “I’m actually looking for the photographer who takes these hot pics,” he goes on more casually, and Peter hears the printout crinkle. “I’ve got fanmail!”
“Send your stupid spider fanmail to the Avengers Tower, moron,” the Editor bravely snaps, and Deadpool sighs at length.
“Not fanmail for Spidey , you two-bit fearmongering asshole.” Wade scoffs. “The shutterbug!”
Peter’s heart performs an escape attempt to rival Houdini chained in a locked water tank. He works to control his breathing, but every muscle in his body is tense. His boss is totally going to give him up, Deadpool is not a man to be trifled with and his tone is enough to imply threat with or without the knowledge of who he is.
“Whaddaya want with him?” Jameson huffs, and to his credit, apparently won’t just sell Peter out. How weirdly… decent. Peter hadn’t thought Jameson had it in him, but his gall is a lot of his audience appeal. “Go away, he’s got an email address you can harass!”
“Touchy,” Deadpool muses, folding the paper back up. “Listen. Scout’s honor, I just have a letter for him. No harm intended, even if my stellar reputation precedes me.” Peter imagines he’s holding up three fingers, like the Scouts. It makes the corner of his mouth twitch upward, tension beginning to ease. “I already know his name, I just figured I shouldn’t do what I do best and also find out where he lives, y’know?”
Peter fully smiles at this, ducking his head. Big improvements from Deadpool. Atta boy. Betty gives him a look, since she can’t hear the conversation like he can, and Peter’s smile turns sheepish, but he doesn’t move away yet.
“Ridiculous,” Jameson says plainly. “Fine. Leave it on his desk, Betty will tell you where it is. Kid’s gone to lunch,” the man lies, but it’s true that technically Peter should be out of the building by now, under normal circumstances. Oddly, he doesn’t want Wade to see his tiny, messy shared desk space, and he fidgets where he stands as he mills over his next actions.
“Thanks!” Deadpool replies gleefully, but his voice drops low when he goes on. “And you should really lay off the Spider-Man hate. You and I both know he’s the best thing to happen to New York since chopped cheese.”
Jameson doesn’t have a comeback, and Peter has to scramble away from the office window as Deadpool’s heavy footsteps approach the door. In a split-second decision, Peter puts himself in front of Betty’s desk, ignoring the suspicious look she shoots at him. Clearing his throat, Peter squares his shoulders when Wade exits the office, the merc’s attention quickly back on him.
“Legs! Were you eavesdropping? Not the most subtle, standing right at the window, Pumpkin,” he teases, and Peter presses his mouth into a thin line as he thrusts a hand out, palm up.
Every part of him screams that this is inviting chaos and trouble into Peter Parker’s life, but the webslinger in civilian clothing waits patiently for Deadpool to say something so he doesn’t have to. Deadpool just stares at him for a good ten seconds, his mask reflecting a raised brow. Peter sucks in a deep breath.
“I’m Peter Parker, he/him,” he strains, no longer able to look Deadpool in the mask-eye. “The— photographer.” Fuck, is it hot in here? It feels hot in here. There’s heat in his ears and up his neck, sneaking into his cheeks.
“Damn, Bambi, does that color go all the way down?”
More nicknames. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and scrunches up his face. He feels something land on his open palm, and peeks an eye open to see an envelope with “Spidey’s ShutterBUG” written big in red crayon. Shoulders relaxing, he brings it closer to inspect the little drawing Deadpool made of himself holding a camera and aiming it to the side. There’s a little spider web in the top right corner where a stamp would go. It’s sickeningly cute.
“Aw,” he murmurs without thinking, but quickly shuts his mouth and looks up to Deadpool with determination. “You came here… to hand deliver fanmail… to Spider-Man’s photographer? ” he asks sternly, and Betty shifts in her seat on the other side of her desk, intrigued by the exchange in front of her.
“Yup,” Wade responds lightly, and he’s beaming under the mask. “You’re Spidey’s guy?”
“Wh— yeah. That’s me.”
Deadpool makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat, something Peter isn’t sure he’s ever heard from him before. Suddenly he really, really needs to know what it means.
“Why?” he inquires instead. It comes out more disbelieving than Peter would like, and he feels a little guilty for it.
Deadpool shrugs. “I like your stuff, Handsome.”
“Peter,” he corrects.
“I know,” Deadpool says mischievously, and the hero’s fondness for him briefly spikes. Jack-ass.
“I’ll… look at this when I get home,” he tells him honestly, gingerly placing it in the first pocket of his messenger bag, letting Wade watch his every move with it, being decidedly careful about it and hoping he’s not bright red.
“I don’t mind if you read it right here,” Deadpool says slyly, leaning in slightly, a shit-eating grin under the mask.
Oh, you absolute bastard, Peter thinks miserably.
“I’m good,” he says in a much higher pitch than he intends, eyebrows skyrocketing toward his hairline.
“I can only imagine,” Wade drawls, but backs off, smoothly turning to make an exit. He holds up a hand to wiggle his fingers in goodbye as goes, and Peter clutches the strap of his bag tightly.
Watching the red and black suit retreat, Peter only relaxes when Deadpool is fully out of sight. He sags, slumping to sit against Betty’s desk, gripping the edge with one hand and groaning with discomfort as he looks at the pocket of his bag where he’d tucked the letter. Betty chuckles softly behind him and he thoroughly ignores her.
“I get it,” she muses. “He’s dangerous, right? Kinda sexy.”
“Betty, please.”
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Peter really does wait to open the fan letter from Deadpool, and mostly free runs home so he can do it despite being tempted to swing his way back to expedite the process, knowing Deadpool might be on high alert after defending Spider-Man to Peter’s boss. He quickly shuts and locks his door, kicks off his shoes, and gingerly pulls the envelope out of his bag as he sets it on his small kitchen counter. Leaning against the sink, he pulls the letter out, only a tiny bit annoyed when a cascade of red and blue glitter pours out with it. At least if Spidey shows up to patrol covered in glitter, he can say it’s because his photographer showed him the merc’s fanmail.
It’s all written in red crayon — naturally — with a few doodles of webs and spiders, Spider-Man’s mask, and tiny self-portraits of Deadpool snapping more pictures. They’re pretty good doodles, really, but Peter starts reading with a faint smile on his lips.
Dear ShutterBUG (haha do u see what I did there??)
Hi! I’m Deadpool (aka Wade Wilson) (aka the Merc With the Mouth) and I am a BIG fan of your work. You capture the BEST sides of my favorite sexy superhero and I admire your talent with a camera. I bet you know all the best angles and all the best places to shoot the webhead from!! Only don’t actually shoot him cuz if you do I might hafta disappoint him and start unaliving ppl again jk lol I’m KIDDING, I’m KIDDING haha (omg don’t tell Spidey I even joked)
Anywho, I get the feeling you don’t actually believe any of the bullshit your boss spouts on the daily about the coolest guy in the world. I gotta say, you should take your talents somewhere that’ll appreciate you and not shit all over your BFF (are you BFFs?? I am so jelly uwu I would die to be BFFs with Spidey. or maybe I have?? haha it’s so hard to remember sometimes)
Thanks for the fap fuel, Mr Parker!! Is it Mr?? I dunno your pronouns or whatever, mine are he/him/his/hey you and sometimes we/us but you get my drift, we’re all on a journey and gender is a social construct, etc, other stuff with more vocabulary than I have
Love & kisses to you and your subject with the perfect ass,
XOXO Deadpool (call me Wade)
Peter reads it four times before he carefully folds it back up and tucks it back into its envelope. Kneeling to shimmy under his bed and pry up a floorboard, he pulls a box out and opens it. Inside are the many paper gifts he’s gotten from Spider-Man fans. (He keeps the trinkets in a different box under another floorboard.) He sets it on top of the drawing from little 8-year old Marla, the one he’d gotten the other night he and Wade got tacos, that he’d finally pulled out of his Spidey suit so it wouldn’t go in the wash.
It’s a pretty damned good colored pencil drawing of Spider-Man slinging webs on the Brooklyn bridge, and at the bottom is Deadpool with swords in hand and hearts for eyes, reaching up toward Spider-Man. He hasn’t shown it to Wade yet, because it’s too cute and it’s too accurate and Wade would absolutely lose his shit over it and probably steal the drawing, which is his , dammit.
He tucks it all away for safekeeping and remains half under his bed with his forehead resting on folded arms as he grins to himself, blushing a deep crimson.
Notes:
y'all can find me on tumblr if you're interested. i'm jackmischief over there too also (✿◡‿◡)
Chapter 3: [3] Questions
Summary:
Deadpool escorts an exhausted Peter safely home. They have Mexican food, Deadpool interviews Peter.
8473 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for extremely vague/implied transphobic behavior and equally vague/implied past sexual abuse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“We simply must stop meeting like this,” a familiar voice sighs, and Peter blearily lifts his head up from his textbook, useless glasses askew, to meet Deadpool’s mask.
The sun is miraculously still up, casting warm, mid-afternoon light through the campus library windows and skylights. One particular beam streaks across the other man’s shoulders, making his black and red suit look more washed out than usual, which is a pointless thing to notice when the important part is that an armed and masked mercenary is leaning over a study table in the mezzanine at Empire State University’s library and waiting for Peter to respond to his silly cliché.
Deadpool has his katanas crossed at his back, but not a firearm in sight, which at the very least seems to be a step down from his usual kit, and Peter’s both surprised campus security is nowhere in sight and glad the students and faculty around them aren’t seeing that extra strapped version of the expert marksman right now. There are already nervous whispers throughout the shelves and lounge areas, and Peter doesn’t need his enhanced senses to hear them when it’s practically at a dull roar. Or maybe it’s brain fog playing tricks on him. He’s not sure when he’d last slept for more than an hour at a time.
It’s been… affecting a few things.
“Shit, kid, you look like— well, like shit.”
“Huh?”
“I was gonna say ‘death,’ but she’s a dear friend and I wouldn’t wanna offend her by comparing your freshly-bitten zombie face to her perfect skull.”
“Deadpool,” Peter begins, steadily coming back down to earth and more importantly, his body. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, more sleepy and distracted than upset. “I ask you that a lot…,” he notes absently.
“I do hear it a lot, yes,” the red and black-clad man allows, leaning away to stand up straight again. He rubs the back of his neck and looks around the library. “I, uh. Had some questions for you.”
Peter hums in acknowledgement, slowly looking down at the textbook he’d almost passed out on. Organic chemistry. When did he get to the library, exactly? At least he wasn’t in one of the southern study rooms, an old haunt from his undergrad days when he and Gwen would wile away the hours studying and talking, to wake up with dead laptop batteries and highlighter transferred onto their faces from passing out much like Peter evidently nearly had. He’s been on autopilot for a few days. Midterms. Probably. Has he been showering? God, he really hopes he isn’t rank .
“As unbelievably cute as you are like this, we should probably get you somewhere more private where you can lie down,” Wade informs him, smirking slightly and coming around to Peter’s side of the table. “That actually wasn’t a come-on, for the record, I can be a perfect gentlelady. Even a gentleman sometimes.” Without letting Peter gather his wits enough to argue, the mercenary bends and takes one of his arms to set around his broad shoulders, easily heaving the smaller man onto his feet. The motion stirs Peter’s dumb groggy skull, and he groans, pushing a hand up under his glasses and rubbing at his face.
“What? Yeah. What?”
“Wow, you’re super out of it, huh? Alright, kiddo, let’s get you home. You got a dorm?”
“Apartment,” Peter says, using his free hand to scoop his pencils and pens and notebooks into his open messenger bag, his laptop never having come out. It takes him longer than it should, and Deadpool rolls his eyes and helps him out, holding the bag open for him and letting him awkwardly jumble his belongings inside. “‘S a ways away. Stop callin’ me a kid.”
“We’ll take a cab, huh?”
“Nope.” Peter manages to get the strap over his head, and situates his bag at his hip. “Gotta use the subway.”
“Why’s that?” Deadpool asks with amusement, simply keeping the student upright.
Peter snorts. “Metro pass.”
“Is that some poor people joke I’m too rich to understand?”
“Ohhh, he’s got memes,” Peter drawls. “What are you doing here?” he asks again, articulating each word as he starts to properly wake up. He’s angled his head to look at Wade and it’s entirely adorable the way his fluffy brown hair half falls in his face. Wade smiles to himself and shrugs a little, the smaller man lifting a bit with him.
“Tracked you down,” he answers honestly. “Got questions.”
“Are they Spider-Man questions?” Peter asks, close to disappointed. Before Wade can answer, he groans and rubs his eyes again. “Do I smell?”
Without missing a beat, Wade dips his masked head, making a show of giving the shorter man a sniff. “Like fruity cereal, bud,” he assures him, surprised. Berries and lemon covered in sugar. “What products do you use?” he wonders, letting Peter pick up the textbook he’d been face-planted in on Deadpool’s arrival. “I’m looking to change up my routine.”
You’re bald, fuckwit. And they don’t make fancy stuff that doesn’t burn your ugly-ass skin.
“Good. Showered,” he mumbles, rather than answering. “Spider-Man?”
“Very flattering, but no, I’m actually Deadpool. Deeeadpoooool,” the merc says slowly, patting his chest with his free hand. He sets the other on Peter’s closest shoulder. “Baaambiii,” he goes on teasingly, raising his eyebrows and tipping his head.
“Ass,” the brunet mutters, rolling his eyes and looking around the library with a furrowed brow, ignoring the other man’s delighted grin. How long had he been out?
“Actually, you can call me Wade, if you want. Wade Wilson.”
“I know who you are,” Peter mumbles, half defensive and half reassuring. “Where’re we going?”
“Wow, you’re… really out of it, aren’t ya?” Now he’s a little worried. Peter probably doesn’t remember how he got here, if he’s in this state. “How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Dunno.”
“Okie-dokie. How about this week?”
“Uh…” Peter squints at the sunlight in his eyes as Wade starts maneuvering him toward the elevator. “Seven.”
“Seven what, Pumpkin?”
“Seven.”
Wade snorts, shaking his head and hitting the down button to call the elevator. “Alright, hot stuff, let’s get you to bed.”
“You can’t come to my place,” Peter protests, but it’s more skeptical than angry or frightened, and he frowns— well, he pouts at Wade. “It’s too far, anyway. I’ll take the subway.”
“Cab,” Deadpool corrects sternly, “and you’re repeating yourself an awful lot, Legs, it’s not a great sign for your mental health.”
“ Mental health ,” Peter scoffs aimlessly and Wade rubs his upper arm soothingly, which does seem to make him lean more comfortably against the mercenary. “Never met her.”
“Okay,” Wade says, stifling laughter, “you’re going home and you’re going to lie down. Preferably face down, I would love to see you ass-up in bed.”
Peter groans in protest, flinging his hand up to weakly whack at Deadpool’s sternum. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Homework. Groceries, probably. Maybe laundry. Online bill pay.”
“That’s so many things,” Wade agrees, nodding solemnly. “All things that can happen either on the way home or at home, hm?” He walks them both into the elevator as it chimes softly and the doors slide open. Smacking the panel, he quickly shuts the doors. It only takes a few seconds to get to the ground floor and then he continues half-dragging the student to the exit, ignoring murmurs and stares for his suit, swords, and Peter’s admittedly suspiciously only-half-awake demeanor.
“You’re making me look like a creep,” Wade complains, but he’s smirking a little to himself, because Peter is leaning more and more of his weight against him as they get outside and to the street. The merc pats at a side pocket and pulls his phone out with the hand not securing the brunet’s arm around his shoulders. Tapping at a contact, he holds the phone to his ear.
“Hello, Mr. Pool!” Dopinder answers cheerily. “Are you in need of a ride today?”
“You know me so well,” Wade sighs. “I’m at the ESU library, can you meet us?” He rattles off a cross street and Dopinder lets out a knowing chuckle. Wade can picture his precious smile.
“‘Us,’ eh, Mr. Pool? Who is the lucky suitor?”
“Oh- ho!” Deadpool says loudly through a laugh, a little hasty. Peter lolls his head to look at him with a quizzical eyebrow raised. “It’s no one like that,” he goes on unconvincingly, and Peter narrows his big brown eyes at him. Wade pointedly looks the other direction. “Just getting a shiny new friend home for nap time.”
“Wade,” Peter mutters, frowning slightly, and Deadpool swings his head to meet his doe eyes. This is the first time the civilian has used his normal person name. He likes how it sounds in his slightly raspy sleep voice. “I can get home fine.”
“Damn right you can, Dopinder is a very reliable man,” Wade agrees smoothly, and the cabbie coos bashfully in his ear. “Now hush. Papa’s gonna get you home safe and sound.”
“At least you didn’t say daddy,” the shorter man grunts, looking into the middle distance at something across the street before Deadpool can make a joke about what else he could say instead. “…Is that yellow cab driving on the green, or do I just need more sleep?”
“Yes,” Deadpool answers simply. “Thank you, Dopinder!” he says into the receiver before hanging up on the man waving through the windshield of the incoming taxi.
“Your friend?” Peter guesses, deciding he’s too tired to scold anyone about what counts as a road as the cab pulls up to the curb in a more traditionally road safe fashion. At least no one had been hurt, as far as Peter can tell. The passenger side window rolls down and he squints to focus on the man leaning toward them and waving happily while Deadpool starts bringing him closer to the car.
“Speedy as always, my fabulous brown friend. You’re the best! Dopinder, this is Peter, he/him. Peter, Dopinder, he/him,” Deadpool introduces, patting the back of Peter’s hand over his shoulder.
“Hello Mr. Peter!” Dopinder says, and the student lifts a hand in greeting, smiling tiredly. “Are you coming with, Mr. Pool?” he goes on as Wade moves to the back door and pries it open, easing Peter inside.
“Am I coming with?” Wade echoes, looking directly at Peter, who is a tiny bit more awake now that he’s in the back of a cab. He seems confused and uncomfortable, chewing his cheek as he holds onto the strap of his messenger bag and scratches his nails against it. “Yoo-hoo! Bambi!” Wade singsongs teasingly, waving with just his fingers. Peter meets the white eyes of his mask and blinks owlishly at him. Alright, decision made on his behalf, then. “Okay, Sleepyhead, scoot over,” he sighs, shooing Peter to the other side of the backseat and swinging himself in with a grunt and a hand on top of the cab.
Peter barely gets out of the way before the larger man can crush him, giving a few mumbled protests as he situates himself pressed against the opposite window. Wade makes a dramatic show of putting on his seatbelt, watching Peter the whole time. The photographer quirks a brow and slowly does the same, clicking the belt into place while Dopinder shifts to look back at them through the partition.
“You will not be joining me in the front seat today, Mr. Pool?” he asks with some measure of disappointment, and Wade looks at him and reaches through the partition to set a hand against the man’s cheek.
“Don’t be jealous, bud!” he says sweetly. “I’m just gonna keep an eye on Mr. No Sleep, here. Looks like he’s never been in a taxi before.”
“I’ve been in taxis,” Peter objects defensively. Unconvinced, Deadpool drops his hand to give him an impressively skeptical look through his mask. “It’s just been a few… many years.”
“Address,” Deadpool instructs, and the cabbie turns to face forward again, adjusting his mirrors and waiting for instruction. Peter realizes Wade is talking to him and not Dopinder and he rambles off his address, feeling awkward for briefly forgetting how taxi services work and ignoring the nagging in the back of his brain for basically handing where he lives to the mercenary. And letting him tag along.
Wade chuckles and leans back in his seat, lacing his gloved fingers behind his head and getting more comfortable by crossing an ankle over his knee. He’s just big enough that it knocks his boot into Peter’s leg and Peter rolls his eyes, pushing Deadpool’s foot slightly further forward.
“Relax, Pumpkin, enjoy the ride.”
“I don’t have the money for this,” Peter says uneasily, realizing why he was so specifically uncomfortable. It’s why he takes the subway, his Metrocard isn’t cheap but it’s cheaper than cab fare.
“Who said you’re paying?” Deadpool scoffs.
“Logic,” Peter counters, “since I’m going home via this cab.”
“At my insistence.”
“To my place.”
“Are you inviting me over?” Deadpool says lightly, playful as he turns his mask to face Peter, otherwise keeping his hands behind his head.
“I seem to recall you inviting yourself over,” Peter mutters accusingly.
Deadpool moves a hand to wave off his comment. “Semantics. I’ve gotta get you through the door at least, then you can be all on your lonesome if that’s what you want, Petey-Pie.”
Peter stares, brow dipping just slightly. Wade hopes he hadn’t actually let disappointment sneak into his tone. He can move a bit fast for people — he pointedly ignores the derisive laughter in his head — but he actually doesn’t want to scare this guy off. He’s weirdly attached to knowing more about him in more “legitimate” ways than his impulses demand. He’s been staving off the urge to look into the brunet’s personal life like he would if Peter were a target he’d been paid to “deal with.”
“I really do have stuff I need to do,” the student begins carefully, angling his head to watch Deadpool sideways, drumming fingers on his bag before pulling his fake glasses off to absently wipe the lenses with the hem of his shirt. “Exactly how bored are you that you wanna come hang out with a broke college student who lives in Queens?”
“Exactly as bored as I am now.”
Peter snorts, his smile achingly genuine before he puts the glasses back on and sniffs. “Okay,” he allows casually. “I don’t have a TV. Or, like, snacks.”
Deadpool gasps theatrically, “No snacks?? I thought you said you were a college student!”
“A broke college student,” Peter reminds him.
“That simply won’t do,” Deadpool tuts, wagging one finger side to side and shaking his head. “We’ll be ordering takeout.”
Peter sputters in his confusion. “Wh— no? No, we’re not getting takeout,” he says disbelievingly, scoffing a few times and looking for all intents and purposes like he can’t figure out what’s happening or where he is. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. “I can’t afford takeout!” he tries, hands gesturing uselessly in the air, and he puffs out his cheeks after a few seconds of being unable to find any more of the words he’s after.
Deadpool laughs, pleased with these results and feeling a stir of desire for Peter’s strangely adorable freak out. This guy is definitely going to be on his radar from now on. “How about this? I get us takeout, you answer all my burning questions,” he offers with an edge of mischief, and Peter’s hands drop into his lap. “Consider it your half of the charges for food and fare,” the mercenary adds easily, waving to Dopinder, who lifts a hand to wave back as he smiles into the rear view mirror.
Peter glares. Wade really, really wants to know what’s going on in his head.
Do you even know what’s going on in your own head? the boxes tease, and he shoos them away, batting them toward the window. Peter looks at him with mild concern, but seems to chalk it up to Deadpool swatting at a bug. To cover his ass, Wade rolls down the window and shoos the “bug” all the way outside.
-
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-
Peter unlocks his door and tries not to let his pent up anxiety show as he grinds his teeth and steps into his crappy little studio apartment. Holding the door, he gestures grandly for Wade to enter, and the fully-suited mercenary takes an exaggerated step inside and immediately starts looking around. It’s a good thing Peter is in the habit of putting away anything spidery right after he comes home from patrols, because otherwise he would’ve had a much less explicable reason to keep Deadpool out of his apartment. Honestly, he’s surprised with himself for letting him come at all, even though Deadpool had basically invited himself and Peter feels weirdly obligated to acquiesce. The back of his brain still nags at him that this is overall a bad idea, that he absolutely does not have to give any excuses not to let Deadpool — a complete stranger as far as Peter Parker is concerned — follow him home, let alone inside . But he staunchly ignores it in favor of placating his curiosity for how Wade behaves around regular, non-super people.
Deadpool immediately walks through the entirety of the small studio apartment, looking the cluttered walls and surfaces up and down, leaning dramatically to peek through the cracked closet door and then poking his head into the tiny bathroom. He even opens and closes the mostly empty fridge, but doesn’t touch the cupboards and cabinets. Peter has to tell himself that since there’s nothing incriminating just sitting out, he has nothing to hide, and if he were the ordinary citizen he’s pretending to be, someone who isn’t law enforcement half-assedly snooping through his dingy little home wouldn’t be risky or nerve-wracking. Right?
Right.
“So you’re just a big nerd, huh?”
“Hm?” Peter hums in reply, distracted. He sets his bag on his tiny kitchen table by the window, toeing his ratty old shoes off, glasses tucked safely into a metallic blue case MJ had gotten for him years ago. It’s the same vibrant cobalt of his main Spidey suit, but Peter suspects it’s just a coincidence. Pulling out his laptop, he shuffles to his cluttered desk and sets it down in time to realize Deadpool has gone back and stuck his head fully into his closet now, holding the edges of the door and door frame. “Get outta there,” Peter scolds with a frown, and to his surprise Wade instantly retreats, closing the door back to the crack it had been open to before he’d looked inside.
“You just have so many flannels and geeky graphic t-shirts, Petey,” Wade chuckles, and Peter folds his arms in front of his chest, tipping his head forward slightly. Deadpool looks at him funny for a moment before he gestures meekly to the opposite wall. “And you like movies.”
“Who doesn’t like movies?”
“The Day the Earth Stood Still? His Girl Friday? Godzilla and Seven Samurai?” He gestures to what peppers the spaces in between his examples. “Musicals?”
“All classics, thank you very much. And I would’ve loved to see the original cast of A Raisin In The Sun on Broadway, who wouldn’t?” Peter flushes and bites his lips shut, glancing at the multitude of old black and white or color painted film posters interspersed between old playbills he’d found in antique shops with Aunt May back in the day. “That a problem?” he asks defensively as he hastily turns to flop into his creaky desk chair and face his laptop. His fingers fly across the keyboard as he enters his incredibly long password and logs onto a scientific journal publishing site. He should really change out of his day clothes, desperately wanting to be out of his jeans and binder and in lounge pants and an oversized shirt, but he settles for taking off his hoodie, leaving him in a geeky t-shirt and a red and black flannel, tossing the sweatshirt onto the bed. He should also be taking a nap, but he’s too keyed up now that Wade is here in his home. He suspects not a lot of people can just sleep in Deadpool’s presence.
“Hell no, it’s hot as fuck, you complete dork,” Wade assures him wryly, and Peter pauses, looking over his shoulder at him. Wade is grinning under the mask as he hovers by the wall with a poster for The Maltese Falcon , and Peter can picture the stretch of his scarred skin, having seen the lower half of his face exposed as Spider-Man, when he and Deadpool would get food or binge TV at Wade’s place. He knows the merc is deeply self-conscious — self-loathing, even — about his appearance, so Peter’s never even told him how little he cares about that sort of thing.
He’d be a hell of a hypocrite if he did.
“You’re weird,” Peter decides evenly, not a trace of malice or judgment in his voice, which he suddenly realizes he hasn’t had to try affecting because he’s already so tired. It slips lower and closer to vocal fry the more exhausted he gets, which is apparently normal for someone taking T. Makes his two lives easier to put on a lower tenor as the everyday Peter Parker. He talks a lot less than Spider-Man, anyway, who gets to use his natural voice: a little higher but much freer, the mask giving Peter the benefit of anonymity to speak without analyzing how quickly he’ll get clocked. Only a handful of times had people hassled Spider-Man about the pitch of his voice, and it hasn’t happened since he was a teenager. He thanks his lucky stars that second puberty has been good to him for it.
Deadpool clutches both hands over his heart and feigns a cry of distress. “You wound me!”
“I don’t think I do,” Peter says with a smirk, turning back to his computer to hunt down an article he’s supposed to cite. “I’ve gotta do some work. Uh. Sorry there’s not much to do,” he says sheepishly, wishing he’d picked up that Craigslist TV after all. He has a Gamecube and an Xbox 360 somewhere, he’d brought them with him when he’d moved out of his aunt’s house, but without something to play them on, the consoles have been sitting in a box in his closet for a while. He would’ve brought the TV from the house if he hadn’t needed every penny when the bank took it back after May had died. It’s amazing what even a small funeral costs. He’d been spared the difficulty of finding and paying for her burial plot, one had already been picked out for her next to Ben.
He should really visit them again soon.
Before Peter can drop himself into a spiral of shame and grief, Deadpool whips out his phone and spins on his heel to fall back onto Peter’s unmade bed, bouncing with the old springs. It had come with the apartment and Peter had shelled out for a zip-close mattress protector for safety. Cheaper than a new mattress. “Whatcha hungry for, Baby?” he asks, flat on his back.
“Anything is fine,” the student responds noncommittally, ignoring the pet name, his elbow propped on the desk and chin in one hand. He finally finds the right article and is glad the school pays for the access.
“So unhelpful,” Deadpool gripes, tapping away on his screen. “We’re getting Mexican. You like chimichangas?”
“Is it possible not to?”
Wade sighs dreamily. “A man after my own heart.”
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on Peter’s door, jolting him in his seat. Deadpool heaves himself upright with exaggerated effort and Peter yawns wide as the mercenary opens the door and accepts several bags from a bewildered delivery person. He jokes about his mask and waves them goodbye with his entire arm, the food all hanging off the other.
“What the hell did you buy?” Peter demands when he realizes how much food Wade is hauling to the small kitchen table. He gets to his feet, about to go to the table, but he has to pause to stretch with a groan, joints stiff and creaky. He’s usually in the habit of stretching before and after patrols, but he’d gotten lax the last few nights and now he’s paying for it on top of not getting enough sleep to recover.
“You’re a terrible listener,” Wade muses, pulling food out. He slows down to watch Peter reach for the ceiling on his tiptoes before easily bending in half to hug the back of his thighs.
His thighs. He’s practically folded in two! Does he get bendier? We must see just how flexible he really is!
Thoroughly impressed and a little turned on, Wade blindly puts a container on the edge of the table as Peter sighs with relief. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles, catching the food before it topples over, Peter remaining bent and stretching his hands out to splay his fingers flat on the fake wood floor. “It’s—,” he starts, and has to clear his throat, looking quickly back to the takeout bags as Peter straightens up again, “it’s chimichangas and enchiladas. And tamales.”
Peter hums, breathing in the smell of cumin and ground beef as he slowly approaches. He’s still a little stiff, but he feels a bit more awake with warm, enticing food in the room. Standing at Deadpool’s side, the man’s hands on his hips, Peter eyes him sideways.
“This is a lot of food,” he notes cautiously, a frown tugging at his lips, even though he’s definitely salivating at the smells alone. He knows Wade can eat as much as he himself can, but this looks like twice the usual amount. “How are you gonna take all the leftovers back with you?”
“What?” Deadpool asks with mild incredulity.
“What’s ‘what?’”
“I’m not taking leftovers anywhere, your fridge is fuckin’ empty, my dude.”
Peter blinks. Then he frowns properly, crossing his arms over his chest and holding his own bicep. “Pardon?”
“Look, Gorgeous. I told you I had questions, right?” Wade says meaningfully, turning to lean against the table, a box of still hot food in one hand. “This just means I get to ask even more.”
Right. The questions. Peter vaguely recalls Deadpool bringing it up at the library, but he’s still a little fuzzy from studying and lack of sleep. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he internally debates the merits of further argument. He could definitely use the food. If Deadpool eats like he usually does and Peter reserves his appetite to mimic that of a normal hungry college student, he’d get at least another two days out of whatever is left if he’s smart about it. Wade waits patiently for his decision. Dammit. Taking a deep breath, Peter lets it out in a long sigh, Wade chuckling with satisfaction.
“Deal,” the brunet mumbles, popping open the nearest container and swallowing an embarrassing amount of drool. Okay, he’s pretty hungry. Just needs to control his pace and the amount he eats in front of Wade. Scooping up a saucy chimichanga, Peter takes a massive bite and doesn’t fight the satisfied groan that slides out of him for the taste and heat. Hot meals are the best .
Wade is just staring at him (Sharp canines. Bet they’d sting so good.), the box in his hand tipping slightly before he realizes he’s losing his grip on it. Turning back to face the table and trying not to think about the obscene sounds the shorter man is making — it’s quite difficult, and he does his best to mentally talk his growing erection down — Wade hesitates. He hadn’t thought this part through.
We can’t eat in front of Peter, he’ll see our horrible nightmarish face!
“Wha’s wroh?” Peter asks through his second mouthful of food, brow furrowed as he watches Deadpool grip the edge of the table rather than plow through some of his favorite food. He swallows his bite carefully, taking a breath. “Don’t tell me I just grabbed your first choice?” he says without beef, beans, and fried tortilla in his way.
Wade laughs nervously, something he rarely does, a little different from the awkward forced laugh on the steps of the library. Peter lowers his chimichanga and waits patiently. The merc gets like this sometimes, and Peter realizes what’s wrong. He hates that he can’t address it, because Spider-Man is supposed to be the one who knows about the other man’s skin, not Peter. So he has to wait for Wade to bring it up, and that makes a strange, twisting discomfort settle in Peter’s empty gut.
“I can always eat later,” Deadpool reasons with a shrug, and Peter fully sets his food down, turning to face Wade with his whole body, setting a hand on the table and leaning slightly, crossing a leg to stick out in front of himself. This seems to surprise Wade, who looks away after a beat. “What?” he asks the front door instead of the person mercilessly staring at him.
“Is it a secret identity thing? Don’t want me to know more about who you are?” Peter hedges. Not an unreasonable assumption as Peter Parker, Ordinary Human Person.
“Hi, my name is Wade Winston Wilson,” Deadpool drawls, lolling his head forward to look at Peter from a drastic angle, holding out his closest hand as if to shake. “I’m also the infamous Deadpool, an unlikable mercenary who talks too much and never takes ‘important’ things seriously.” He makes the air quotes, of course, but there’s no real enthusiasm.
Peter snorts, not unkindly. “You’re plenty likable. And I already knew your name. Although, ‘Winston?’ Really?” he goes on with a small smirk.
“Mom was a fancy lady,” Wade defends.
“Not hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Deadpool stares back at him this time, white mask eyes increasingly eerie. But Peter doesn’t budge. He’s known to be stubborn, his friends used to bring it up constantly. “You really wanna know, Legs?” Wade asks, a challenge. There’s a trace of irritation, but also anxiety, and Peter suddenly feels more guilty for pressing the matter when Wade doesn’t know Peter like he knows Spider-Man. Even if he’d come here looking to feed Peter or get him to go to bed, Wade doesn’t owe him this extremely personal thing, something he’s deeply resentful of and regularly mocks himself for in front of nearly everyone Spidey’s ever seen him with. When he isn’t playing up bravado and facetiously calling himself “as handsome as an A-list comedy action star.”
“Yes,” Peter says gently, his gaze softening even as he doesn’t relent. “Are you okay?”
“I’m—,” Wade stammers, thrown by the added question. “I’ve got a hell of an ugly mug, Petey-Pie. You don’t wanna see aaaaany of this,” he goes on, gesturing around his mask while his other hand still clings to the edge of the table, tone joking but edged with caution. “You don’t look like you get a lotta sleep already, I’d hate to give you nightmares for the rest of your life.”
A pang of sorrow makes Peter tense up, but he forces himself to relax again, unwilling to give Wade the impression that his argument holds any water with him. “Too late. What’s one more horrible thing?” he says with a short, self-deprecating laugh that makes Wade’s mask reflect a scowl. Two can play the “I don’t like myself” game. “Seriously. Deadpool.” A pause, and Peter amends, “Wade.”
The scowl lessens, but the mercenary remains uncharacteristically quiet. Peter hopes the boxes he’d mentioned to Spider-Man aren’t harassing him, but now it seems likely. He’s pretty sure they’re brutal intrusive thoughts, and from what he understands, they royally suck.
“I don’t give a damn what you look like. But everyone has secrets, and if you need this one, I won’t stop you.” He closes his eyes and briefly pinches the bridge of his nose before going on. “Would it help if I told you I feel super weird eating in front of people who aren’t also eating?” he offers, entirely sincere. “I hate it. Feels rude and wrong.”
“Feels rude? ” Wade echoes, scoffing. But it doesn’t sound like he’s angry or defensive anymore, and Peter’s hope picks up. “Okay, Bambi. You win. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Good thing you’ve only had two bites. People have upchucked their last three meals after getting a glimpse of my shriveled avocado-cantaloupe hybrid face.”
“What the hell is wrong with those people?” Peter says with righteous indignation, face scrunching up. What a stupid reaction to somebody’s appearance. Spider-Man had been surprised , sure, curious and intrigued, but he’d left well enough alone. It’s not nearly as bad as Wade and apparently his boxes think it is, anyway. He obviously just needs better people in his life.
“Oh, Peter,” Wade says in a voice that softens the smaller man’s expression. Warm. Sympathetic. Exhausted. “You have no idea.”
Slowly, Deadpool reaches under the collar of his suit to grab the edge of his mask, and rolls it up slowly with both hands, just over his nose. Peter tries not to be too disappointed that he won’t show his eyes. Wade hadn’t even shown his eyes to Spidey yet, and he wonders what color they are.
His skin is scarred and webbed, easily comparable to a severe burn victim, plenty of whom Peter has met as Spider-Man and when he’d volunteered at FEAST years ago, before he’d had to take down the founder. Spider-Man had dealt with him as an actual supervillain, and what a hellish ride that had been. He still gets nightmares sometimes about what he could’ve been made to do under Mr. Negative’s influence. May had taken over the organization after that, and they’d been lucky to have her running it for the last two years of her life.
Wade’s skin reminds him of mountain rivers and hot springs, lowly risen craters with the occasional extra angry red patch. People barf at this? He really can’t imagine why. Tilting his head curiously, grateful that Wade is letting him observe this long without cracking a joke or covering back up, Peter squints. Wade’s lips are also scarred, but they’re a little smoother, and he wonders if they’re warm. Wade runs hot, if he recalls correctly, and Peter is tempted to touch his bare skin to feel for himself. He grips his arm a little harder to stop himself, considering how his hands apparently sometimes act of their own accord when it comes to touching Wade.
“Kinda taking a long time to run away there, Pete. Is it for dramatic effect?” Deadpool half-jokes, clearly deeply uncomfortable again, the tiny burst of confidence from Peter's reassurances gone. “I'm kind-of an audio processor, so if you could use your words?”
“Does it hurt?”
Wade falls silent again, studying the student from behind his mask and frowning just slightly. Almost nobody asks that. They ask what happened. They ask him to put the mask back on. They ask him if he’d been born this way. People barely ever ask what it feels like.
“All the time,” Wade finally answers, truthful and low, watching the brunet.
Peter nods once, twice, and then turns his attention to the box Wade had been holding before, picking it up and shoving it back into the mercenary’s hands.
“That sucks, Wade,” Peter simply says, gentle and honest. He meets the other man’s masked eyes and grabs up the chimichanga he’d started eating before. “You got a whole regimen for it?” he asks through another mouthful, and Wade slowly opens the food he’d been handed.
“Yup. Doesn’t typically make much difference. The irony of a mondo healing factor is that lotions, creams, ointments— nothing lasts. I absorb it, and then…” He waggles his fingers and moves them up, like he’s tossing something into the wind. “Pointless.”
“Damn, dude,” Peter says, ignoring the next pang in his chest. “That extra sucks. Like, so much.”
“What an articulate sympathizer you are.”
“I’m so sorry,” Peter says with some amusement, smiling around another too big bite and half covering his mouth with his other hand. “This food is just so good and, uh. I’m actually really glad you shared that.”
The lower half of Wade’s face pinches up, lips tight, but he’s biting back a smile. His next words are thoughtful, distracted. “You really don’t care, huh? It really doesn’t bother you.”
“I honestly can’t think of why it would,” Peter says after he’s finished another bite. “Fuck, that’s good,” he tacks on under his breath, scrutinizing the last third of the chimichanga in hand and sending a thrill of delight through Wade. Finally participating in the chowing down, Wade leans against the table again and plows into his own.
-
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-
Peter is an impressive eater, which Wade finds out first hand as they chat and easily devour two-thirds of the takeout. Wade doesn’t mention what a turn-on it is to see Peter happily stuffing his face with food and then immediately stuffing his face with more food. It’s not important.
Not important yet! Not for plot reasons, at least. Maybe.
At some point, Wade had unequipped his katanas and set them by the door. Peter knows Deadpool has several knives elsewhere on his person, so it’s highly unlikely he’s unarmed even now, but he hardly minds. The man isn’t exactly setting off his natural warning bells. He’s glad Wade seems comfortable — or maybe courteous — enough not to have Bea and Arthur in grabbing distance while he’s in a civilian’s home.
If we even accidentally hurt Peter, we’ll never let us live it down .
When it seems like they’re slowing down, and Peter hasn’t grabbed anything to start on next, Deadpool stretches in his seat, a crappy little fold out chair you’d find in a decaying bingo hall. He groans loudly, and drops his arms limply at his sides, legs spread wide and one boot knocking into the wall. Peter sits back himself and smiles lopsidedly at him, his own legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He’s not wearing his flannel anymore, just a nerdy shirt with “Ah! The element of surprise!” on the front. Peter looks like he’s more comfortable with Deadpool than he’d given the student credit for, long streaks of soft pinks and gold from the setting sun in his fluffy hair and cast across his shoulders and chest. Pretty.
“So,” Peter says slowly. “You had questions, right?” He’s starting to sound nervous, and Wade tilts his head. “I assume about Spider-Man?”
Ah. Right. That. Those questions. About Spidey. Definitely none about Peter Parker. Nope. Nothing about the doe-eyed brunet watching him intently and starting to frown the longer he takes to speak up. Shit.
“Uh,” Wade supplies unhelpfully.
Idiot, the boxes sigh.
“Yeah. Mostly. Since you’re his photographer, you’ve met him, right?”
“Um. Yeah,” Peter answers after a beat, brow furrowed. It’s kind-of cute how often he does that. “Yes I have.”
“Question number two: does he actually pose for you, or are you just in the right place at the right time?”
Peter’s eyebrows raise just slightly, and there’s half a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Both.”
“Right. Right. Of course.” Wade fidgets, pulling himself up to sit a little more normally in his chair, the joints squeaking with his weight. “Of course. He’s really cool, huh?” he goes on a little more easily. Spidey territory is good, he’s confident with this topic. He’s even comfortable with Peter, which is really nice and he doesn’t want to spoil it too early.
Peter seems momentarily conflicted, but he winds up smiling a little more. “I guess. We uh, don’t get a lot of time face to face,” he says wryly, stretching his arms up and slowly bending them to lace his fingers behind his head. “He’s a busy guy.”
Deadpool nods sagely. “Naturally. He’s sometimes a little tired when we team up. I think he works too hard when he’s not also saving the city from big bads and creeps,” he muses, flopping a hand up and down. “Doesn’t eat enough either. Which is bad, because I’m 100% sure his metabolism is even faster than mine. And I regrow limbs regularly.”
And rise from the dead, but if Peter doesn’t know that specifically, we’re not going to mention it.
“Yeah, he can really put it away,” Peter snorts, looking at the mess of empty takeout containers and wrappings.
“Does he ever sleep? I’ve seen Spidey yawn, but I know he’s gotta have a day job, too, and he’s stopping bad guys and bantering with my sweet ass late into the night, y’know? Until the wee hours. D’you think it could be a spider thing?” He mumbles as an aside, “Do spiders sleep?”
Ooh, ooh! We know this one! Technically: yes!
“I mean, he probably gets some sleep, right? I don’t exactly know his schedule, but if he can be up all night on patrol, he can’t just… not sleep.” Peter sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, chewing his cheek and squinting at the leftovers stacked on the corner of the table. He rises from his seat suddenly, busying his hands with putting the food in the fridge, facing away from Wade.
“Sounds like maybe you two have something in common,” the merc chuckles, and Peter slams the fridge door a little too hard, rattling its minimal contents and making Wade curiously look over his shoulder.
“I think you’re right,” the brunet mumbles meekly. “Maybe we’ve bonded over mutual loss of sleep.”
“How much did you sleep this last week?”
Peter hums for a few seconds, padding over to start scooping the takeout trash directly into the bin he brings over. “Seven hours?” he estimates, and Wade balks. “What?”
“That’s what you meant by ‘seven?’”
“Wwwhat?” Peter asks unsurely.
“Pumpkin, even I get more sleep than that and I don’t technically need it.” The taller man folds his arms in front of his chest and cocks his head to frown at Peter, who pointedly avoids his gaze, turning back to the kitchen after clearing the table. “Do you go to school full-time?”
“Uh. Sorta. I’m trying.”
“How much does that blowhard Jameson pay you for your photos?”
Peter chuckles dryly, humorless. “Couple hundred, sometimes. If this were 1962, it would be generous. Depends on how much I can make Spider-Man look like the bad guy.”
“That can’t be easy.”
Peter is quiet for a moment, ducking his head and setting his hands on the edges of the small kitchen sink. “It’s fine,” he decides after a stretch of silence that makes Wade squirm, the boxes informing him he’s trying way too much, that he’d said these questions were supposed to be about Spidey, that Peter might be an extremely private person and he’s making him uncomfortable while also invading his home turf. Peter starts washing his hands.
“When did you meet him?” Deadpool asks, keeping a throaty crack out of his words.
“Um. We were both younger, I guess. I didn’t start taking his pictures until I was… barely 16?”
Technically, Wade knows Peter Parker has been Spider-Man’s exclusive photographer for 8 years, but now he doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t know probably exactly how old the brunet is. “Wow, not even legal. Was Spidey a kid, then, too?”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter says easily, drying his hands off. He finally turns around to lean against the sink and tilt his head at Wade. “You couldn’t tell brand new Spider-Man was just a baby?”
“Hey now. Of course I could. He was just the coolest kid ever, that’s all.” Wade scowls as something occurs to him. “Wait, was it not obvious to everyone else?”
“I think it depended on who was trying to assess him, if anyone did.”
“But… I mean people can tell when someone’s not an adult, right? It can’t be just me.”
Peter smiles crookedly, eyes flashing with something Wade would like to see again. “Why? Because he was short?”
Deadpool huffs indignantly, and scoots around in his seat so he can face Peter again, even from the other side of the small apartment. “Short adults exist, Petey. Besides, you’ve been around teenagers, haven’t you?”
“Sure.”
“The kid wore scuffed-up sneakers, goggles, and like half a hoodie for his first full costume. His voice cracked. He was not shaped like an adult, you can tell when someone’s still growing, even when they’ve got developed musculature. And when they’ve got the fashion sense of a nerdy doofus with like, two friends tops.” Peter laughs brightly, and Wade smirks. He goes on, a little more relaxed again. “Didn’t it make you uncomfortable hearing people… I dunno, say how ‘sexy’ he was that early on?”
Peter’s amusement darkens for a moment, and he folds his arms over his chest tightly, hands gripping both biceps. He ducks his head again, and Wade worries he’s struck a nerve. The brunet is quiet for a long moment.
“They said a lot about him when he was younger,” Peter finally says, low and rough, but he doesn’t elaborate, just watching Wade from underneath his eyelashes. He looks exhausted again, and the mercenary wonders if he’d grown up with the hero. Wade also wonders if he should say something to soothe him, but he can’t think of anything that isn’t a joke or a deflection, the photographer’s eyes glazing over. “They still say a lot about him now.”
“You okay, Pete?” Wade asks with unexpected benevolence, and it seems to bring Peter out of a trance. The shorter man blinks a few times, straightening up and dropping his arms so that they bang against the sink cabinets. “Easy, buddy,” Wade says a little softer, shifting to get to his feet, rolling his mask back down and approaching Peter slowly.
Peter recoils once he’s closer, turning his head to the side and bringing one arm up over his chest to grab his opposite shoulder, and Wade stops.
Way to go, asshole. Now you’ve upset him. Look at his little face! He’s gonna cry, how could you do this to Spidey’s good buddy? You’ve disappointed him and Petey, you stupid fuckup.
“Sorry,” Peter says hoarsely, and he sniffles, big brown eyes glistening before he shoves his other hand at his face, the heel of his palm digging into his eye. “Sorry, it’s— it’s not you, I promise,” he huffs with a weak chuckle. Rubbing tears off his cheek, he offers a meek smile and looks back to Deadpool. “Just got in my head for a second.”
Wade’s hands hover between them for a moment, and he does his best to ignore the continued badgering from the boxes in his head as he reaches haltingly to give Peter’s upper arm a reassuring squeeze. “I get it,” he tells him quietly, honestly. “Got a hateful brain myself. You good?”
Peter tips his head to look at him fully, nose crinkled and brow furrowed, but he doesn’t seem angry or offended when he pushes his knuckles at his eye and answers. “More or less.”
Wade nods sagely, and rubs his thumb absently on the smaller man’s shoulder (His surprisingly built shoulder, what the fuck!), thrilled Peter allows him to keep touching after he’d somehow triggered his tears. He’s warm, but Wade knows his hand is probably a lot hotter to Peter. You try rebuilding cells nonstop and see how easy it is for you not to sit at a cool 105 degrees Fahrenheit all the time.
That’s about 40 degrees Celsius for all of you not in the US, Liberia, the Bahamas, Micronesia—
Heaving a ragged breath in, Peter shuts his eyes and hangs his head back to let out a long, dramatic groan that makes Wade chuckle. “I hate crying,” he tells the mercenary. “It’s so exhausting and I’m already so tired.”
“Speaking of,” Wade begins, having to really coerce his hand from the other man’s shoulder with internal threats of cutting it off himself, “I’ve kept you awake way too long, Legs.”
“I will always be awake for food,” Peter argues, but he’s wearing a half-smile as he says it, lopsided and playful as he looks at Wade again. “Which I can pay you back for, just gimme a few days.”
Wade scowls. He’d thought he’d made himself clear. “You don’t owe me for the food, Bambi.” Peter’s smile wavers, but Wade lifts the bottom of his mask again to show perfect teeth in a renewed smile, in case the message still isn’t getting across to this brainiac. “It was my pleasure.”
About fifteen minutes later, when Peter has collected himself and Wade seems satisfied he won’t immediately spiral, Deadpool resituates his katanas on his back and chatters aimlessly with the younger man, who he insists needs to go to bed early. Peter’s fridge holds so many leftovers he won’t need to worry about the next couple of days, and he can put off grocery shopping until the weekend. It does give him a bit more time to study after classes and before patrol, so he tries not to let his brain trick him into thinking about how he definitely owes Deadpool and it’s not as scary a reality as he’d always worried it could be.
On his way out the door, Wade pats his suit down before finding the pocket he’s after, pulling out a business card. He hands it to Peter with a grin behind his mask, and the shorter man accepts it with raised eyebrows.
“Call me! Or text me, whatever it is you kids prefer these days,” Wade purrs playfully, daring to set his gloved hand on Peter’s cheek for just a moment. The brunet glares at him for a moment, slowly lowering Wade’s hand but otherwise saying nothing. “Just don’t Snapchat me, I get distracted by all the filters,” he adds before striding down the hall and around the corner to take the stairs. Peter’s on the seventh floor, so he’s surprised Wade doesn’t take the elevator, but he shrugs and looks over the card in hand as he blindly shuts and locks his door.
It’s a thick cardstock, and printed on the front in red are the simple words “MERC FOR HIRE, TONS OF RATES, ASK ME HOW TO SAVE 15% OR MORE ON BULLET INSURANCE.” On the back, he’d drawn a little crayon doodle of himself firing guns, both monikers in black, his business phone number just below his regular name, a number Spider-Man has in his burner phone. After a few minutes of deliberation, Peter decidedly puts the number in his personal phone.
Notes:
yo what the fuck i'm so glad y'all are into this. i'm a sucker for fluffy shit so i couldn't stop myself. also does anyone know if responding to comments cheats the comment count?? i feel weird about it, i don't want ppl thinking i have more real comments than i do, y'know?? feel like i should look this up,,
Chapter 4: [4] Candy Bar
Summary:
Deadpool laments Spider-Man’s villains. Wade buys groceries and follows Peter home.
8380 words.
Chapter Text
Peter is vastly uncomfortable receiving charity, and he struggles to believe even Wade’s most sincere promises and assertions that Peter doesn’t owe him. He’ll figure out how to repay him for his company and the incredibly satisfying Mexican food, even if it probably won’t be with money. The only trick is figuring out a way to do that as Peter Parker, Totally Normal Regular Guy.
He could try to refuse food after patrols for a little while, but since Deadpool doesn’t know Peter Parker is Spider-Man, it wouldn’t count and it might actually hurt his friend’s feelings instead. Deadpool does seem to get a kick out of their after-patrol hangouts, and it’s easier for both of them to unwind after a hard fight when they can wrap up the night together by eating junk food and playing video games (Spider-Man usually wins, not for Wade’s lack of trying). Peter always sleeps better on the nights he gets some hang out time with Wade, even if they both keep masks and suits on and all they do is lounge around and talk.
Peter misses having friends, being so far removed from his civilian life lately, and Wade is a pretty damned good one under the flirting, endless commentary, and harsh violence when he’s working. He’s never once made Spider-Man feel obligated to be… perfect. He tells him all the time that he thinks he is , but Peter doesn’t feel from Wade the same pressure to actually meet such expectations as he does with other supers. He has to be a hero for the people, and other supers sometimes forget to respect his code, but Deadpool rolls with it.
They mesh well on patrol, both excellent improvisers, and the banter keeps his blood pumping and his spirits up during the trickier missions and fights. Or when they stop a certain type of criminal that often sends Peter a little closer to the edge of his patience and morals than he’d like: Spider-Man reels in Deadpool when he’s going too far, and Deadpool pulls Spider-Man from the edge when he might go over it. They’re good for each other. It had taken some time at first, but now they’ve built a mutual trust. Deadpool is Spider-Man’s best friend, even if he seems convinced Peter has that role in the hero’s life. Spidey never denies knowing Peter (himself), and Deadpool surprises Spidey every now and then by asking how Peter is doing.
“So I was talking to Pete,” Wade begins one night, maybe a week after the merc had overfed Spider-Man’s alter ego. He’s sitting with Spider-Man on a rooftop parapet facing inward, their feet on concrete. There are Indian takeout containers between them, mostly empty now. “You were just a kid when you started, right?”
Spider-Man munches on the last of the naan, mask rolled just over his nose as usual when it’s time to eat and he’s still wearing the suit. He nods, grunting in acknowledgement. Wade must have been sitting on this for the last week, so Spidey’s curiosity is piqued.
“D’you think… did your villains know?”
Spider-Man’s chewing slows. He pauses before swallowing, considering the question carefully. “Some knew,” he allows with a small frown, not elaborating on just how many had also known his secret identity at the same time. He’d been young and naive, and maybe he’d pulled off his mask in the wrong places a few too many times. Or had given himself away jumping the gun when he’d spoken to said villains as Peter. He’s much better at separating his two lives now, years later. “Or at least could tell,” he amends quickly. “Why?”
Deadpool scowls, scarred face stiff with the motion. He hasn’t pulled his mask back down yet, which makes Peter some measure of smug. Wade is getting more and more comfortable showing the lower part of his face even after he’s no longer shoveling food into it. Spider-Man dusts his hands free of traces of flour. “So, just… A bunch of grown-ass men—”
“There were some women.”
“—So a bunch of grown-ass adults were okay with unaliving a kid?”
Spider-Man’s lenses widen and he shuts his mouth. It had occurred to him plenty of times that his villains had wanted him dead, and that plenty of them still do, but he hadn’t thought about his youth being a factor in their planning. Some of them had gone really hard, too, now that he’s assessing it years later. They had really, really wanted him dead in the beginning. The same people who don’t know his secret identity make similar efforts to this day, so maybe he can’t really expect that any would have pulled their punches regardless.
“To be fair, lots of them were willing to wipe out at least half of New York, if not the entire eastern seaboard, so…?”
Wade stares at him, the white eyes of his mask ever unblinking. “Are you defending your would-be murderers?” he asks, though it’s a lot more like a disdainful statement.
“I—! No, not really,” Spider-Man protests, biting his lips shut. Deadpool grunts, and Peter’s heart sinks as the other man lowers his mask again, tucking it into his collar. “You seem really upset about it,” Spider-Man notes quietly.
“Can’t wrap my head around it. And I can wrap my head around a lot of bullshit, Spidey. Got a lot of high-level nonsense puttering around the ol’ brain pan.” He taps his temple harshly. “But even my fucked up stuff ain’t as fucked up as being cool with unaliving a kid.”
“Even a thorn in your side such as the obnoxious and obnoxiously persistent Spider-Man?”
“You and I both know I never woulda laid a fuckin’ finger on you when you were a teenage do-gooder, Baby Boy,” Deadpool admonishes.
“You usually use guns and knives.”
“I’m offended you’d even suggest I woulda shot you.”
“Or stabbed me.”
“Or stabbed you.” Deadpool shakes his head, setting his hands beside himself and slouching slightly. He seems to get lost in his thoughts for a beat, and Spider-Man frets he’s set the man’s boxes off. “I got a code, too,” the mercenary murmurs, and Peter’s discomfort shifts to guilt. “Even back in the day. You know I don’t hurt kids.”
Spider-Man tenses, but forcibly deflates it, shaking his head. “I know, dude. It’s actually really… it’s really sweet that you’re mad about it.”
Wade stiffens, remaining quiet again, and it always makes Spider-Man anxious when the taller man has nothing to say for more than fifteen seconds at a time. The stretches of silence when he’s in Deadpool’s presence still feel eerie and wrong, and he has to fill them for himself or he might have to get up and start pacing with impatience. The hero is about to open his mouth to do just that when Wade finally speaks.
“For the record, Webs. I’m still mad when anyone wants to hurt you. Just madder when they try to unalive you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to this city.” He pauses again, and Spider-Man can hear the echo of those same words from Wade saying them in Jameson’s office. Without the mention of chopped cheese, of course. “You’re… I mean, I know I’ve told you before, but I guess every embarrassing or selfish thing bears repeating if I have anything to do with it: you’re my hero. I… I don’t always have the best grasp of how to, to show that you’ve made a difference, but… It’s like— it’s like living by ‘What Would Spidey Do?’ gets maybe a little easier every day, y’know? All the stupid, fucked up demons in my head wanna fight it, and maybe sometimes I lose pretty fuckin’ hard—,” the mercenary’s voice breaks for just a moment, and Spider-Man grips his knees uneasily, wishing he could convince himself to reach out, “but I’m getting better at shoving your moral compass into the gaps between when my brain wants me soaked in somebody’s blood and when people need saving, right?”
Spider-Man shivers, and Wade watches the lump in the smaller man’s throat bob as he swallows. Fuck. He’s freaked him out. How come he can never just say a thing straight?
You don’t do anything straight, numbnuts.
“I’ve scared you,” Deadpool says solemnly, watching the spider shift awkwardly, bringing a knee up to his chest and draping an arm over it as he looks straight ahead instead of at Wade. “Was it the ‘soaked in blood’ bit? Because I promise I haven’t done that in like, months! Not even on a job!”
Liar.
“Or I didn’t enjoy it anyway.”
Filthy, filthy liar.
“Or, I didn’t want to enjoy it—,” Deadpool amends, increasingly higher pitched, waving his hands so he doesn’t use them to strangle himself for never shutting up. Spider-Man interrupts, cocking his head to look at him again, his exposed mouth in a neutral grimace.
“Wade,” the hero says simply. “I’m not scared. I’m not mad.”
Deadpool’s shoulders fall from where they’d practically started crushing his ears and he sighs heavily with relief, dropping his head back and clutching uncomfortably at the ache in his chest. “Right. Yeah. ‘Course not. You’re the bravest guy I know.”
Spider-Man snorts, and Wade peeks sideways. There’s a smirk on his lips now, and Deadpool’s stupid queer heart flutters.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’ve been doing really well, Pool. I’m proud of you, dude.”
Deadpool suddenly maneuvers to his knees on the same ledge, sitting back on his heels and squishing either side of his face as he looks at Spider-Man with a dreamy aura, hearts and stars manifested by his inconsistently cruel brain. Does Spider-Man know how he can just say the simplest thing and Wade will fall at his feet like a lovesick puppy? Spidey’s smirk slides into a knowing smile, and when he reaches out to knock Wade’s shoulder with his knuckles, the mercenary’s vision puts fireworks around the hero’s head.
“What?” Spidey asks with amusement, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but Wade could swear there’s pink tinging his cheeks. Spider-Man hardly ever blushes, but there’s something familiar about it, and Wade latches onto the color of it. “You’re staring. I think, I mean it’s hard to tell with your mask all the way on.”
“Oh, I’m staring,” Wade confirms, rolling his palms to squish the scarred flesh of his face around before he drops his hands into his lap. “I don’t know how you put up with me,” he admits after a beat, and this gets him a frown.
“Don’t do that.”
Deadpool’s heart hammers to a stop, and he blinks. “Do what?”
“The— the berating yourself thing. You’re always doing it.”
The merc chuckles tiredly, only a touch scolded. “It’s my thing, baby. Self-deprecation’s the name of the game for ol’ Pool.”
“I don’t like this game.”
“You don’t play it,” Wade points out, shrugging.
“I don’t like spectator sports, either.”
Huffing, Deadpool puts his hands on his hips and pouts under his mask, Spidey’s frown dropping right into a scowl. “I can’t just turn it off, Spider-Babe, the stream-of-consciousness chatter is my whole schtick.”
“Then pretend I’m saying it about me.”
This throws Wade right off, and his jaw hangs open for a long several seconds, during which time Spider-Man gets to his feet and starts stretching out his stiffened muscles. He's been doing a lot more stretching than usual lately, must not be getting enough sleep again. It’s just distracting enough to watch him do a few lunges with his back to Wade (Ass, ass, ass, fuck that’s our favorite ass—) that the larger man almost forgets what he’d been thinking about, resisting the urge to reach out and grope.
But it’s right there!
“No way!” he blurts, and Spidey hums, continuing his stretches with a deep back bend, curled upside down, hands and feet flat on the cool concrete and half-masked face upside down. “I could never let you talk like that about yourself!”
“Now you know how I feel when you do it,” the hero says, slightly strained, but it rolls off into a sigh as he flips his legs over and pops back upright. “Your brain is your worst enemy, Wade. It doesn’t hafta be like that.” Deadpool scoffs, and the webslinger turns to face him again, stretching one arm in front of himself and holding it there. “I mean, I’m not trying to say I think your mental health has an easy fix— or, maybe any ‘fix,’ but I am saying the negative self-talk isn’t helping.”
What the fuck does Neurotypical Nathan here know? the boxes accuse with vitriol, but Wade smacks the side of his head to shut them up.
“We don’t know he’s neurotypical,” Wade hisses to the side, making Spider-Man’s lenses contract. “And really? ‘Nathan? ’ Do we hafta bring him up? He doesn’t even go here!”
“Wade,” Spider-Man says quietly, just to pull him back to the present. Deadpool hums and faces him again. He’s mentioned the intrusive thoughts, his “boxes” before, but Spidey either hadn’t wanted to know more or has been waiting for Deadpool himself to elaborate on them this whole time. He’s not about to. “I’m really flattered you use me as your moral compass, but I think it’s important you know I know I’m not perfect.”
Deadpool makes a sound akin to disgust, balking. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look. My point is, the right thing has to happen every day. And every day, I have to remember what that’s supposed to be at any given moment, in every applicable context, and I still get it wrong. All the time.”
“You must be talking about your civilian life, Webs, because I have never seen you make the wrong choice in that suit.”
“Stop,” Spider-Man snaps, pointing an accusatory finger and pressing his mouth into a thin line of impatience. “Just shut up for a minute.” Wade holds up both hands in surrender after making a motion to zip his lips. Lots of people tell Deadpool to shut up, but Spider-Man is one of the few people he respects enough to simply obey such a command. “Just… Wade. You want to do good, and you use me as the example for what that looks like, right?”
The taller man nods and slowly gets to his feet, sliding off of the roof ledge. He lowers his arms to his sides when the spider approaches and pushes down on his biceps. He pretends not to be thrilled that Spider-Man has touched him so casually, outside of collaborating during combat.
“I want you to feel like you can use yourself as the example. We’re getting you there. I’ve only seen you doing just that the last couple of months. You leave the guns or you bring rubber bullets. Your attacks are nonlethal. I’ve watched you literally struggle to restrain yourself, even if you didn’t think or know I was watching.” Spider-Man takes a steadying breath, and the other super mindlessly mirrors the motion. “Wade.”
Deadpool’s heart picks up a marching pace that would trip up even the most experienced drill sergeant, both for hearing the sound of his name so many times and because Spider-Man — the star of his most innocent and most sexual dreams — moves forward to set both hands on Wade’s broad shoulders and smile at him with his mask still halfway up.
“You are good enough to be good to yourself.”
-
-
-
Peter Parker is panicking. There’s no wifi in this grocery store, and he hasn’t checked his bank account in days, and now that he’s standing in line to check out he’s suddenly positive he doesn’t have the funds to get what’s in the hand basket on his arm. It takes herculean effort not to accidentally crush his cell phone in his hand as he taps at the bank app and hopes to hell he’s even got the data left to try, not that he’s got a signal. Why is every damned building in this city a giant Faraday cage?
He’s fourth in line, and luckily the current customer at the little conveyor belt is extremely slow-going, taking their time unloading a full cart of groceries. Peter rarely even uses this grocery store, since it’s a little ways out of his way on a regular day, but the prices are a little lower than the few smaller places closer to his apartment and it’s on the way back from the Daily Bugle building. He’d actually planned to shop today after he’d dropped off his latest photos, so really he should have known to check earlier if he could even pay for things.
It’s only the essentials right now: toothpaste, bread (whole grain, in an effort to get a smidge more nutrition out of things), the cheapest gallon of whole milk available, eggs, and deodorant. He’s got enough shampoo and conditioner for another week (two if he stretches the shampoo and uses half as much conditioner), an extra bar of fancy-ish soap that had come in a care package from MJ months ago (before Peter basically went AWOL, and it smells like the fruity cereal Uncle Ben occasionally sneaked him when Aunt May had early morning shifts at the hospital), and several packages of instant ramen he can always fall back on in emergencies. Wait, how many is “several” in this case? Peter tries to think of a number while the app stalls and informs him there’s no connection for the fourth time.
Anxiety claws at his throat, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few steadying breaths. No need to panic. He even likes the instant ramen, and technically he’s not out of toothpaste yet. He can get another day out of it, and maybe the measly paycheck from the Bugle will be in his account by then. He should’ve opted for that direct deposit thing, or maybe he just needs to sign up with a different bank that will put his deposited checks into his account right away. Isn’t that standard practice these days? What the hell year is it??
He’s debating which item to put back. Eggs are excellent protein and more filling than just the milk, but he could maybe get more out of the milk. Swapping the eggs for cereal isn’t really an option, even generic cereal costs more than a cheap dozen eggs. Bread he could probably forgo, this inexpensive brand charges the same thing for most loaves it offers, swapping for a white bread won’t change anything. He really can’t sacrifice the deodorant, and he’d rather not skip the toothpaste after all since it’s so much harder to stretch—
“Good afternoon, welcome to the Green Apple, would you like paper or plastic today,” the cashier asks robotically, looking like death warmed over and they’d rather be literally anywhere else. Peter can relate.
He’s not sure when he’d gotten to the front of the line, phone still in hand and screen now dark from inactivity. He hadn’t managed to log in to his bank account, of course. And now it’s a bit late to return anything from his basket without looking like a jack-ass. And he’s not sure he’s feeling stable enough today not to break down if he can’t afford… what, maybe $20 of groceries? He opens his mouth to speak, to say something like “Sorry, never mind, I’ll put this stuff back,” chest tight and hands shaking, but he’s intercepted.
“Paper, duh, plastic bags are terrible for the environment. Don’t you know sea turtles choke on them?”
Peter snaps his head to the source of the cheery voice, and why is he surprised to see the fully masked and suited Deadpool suddenly standing at his side? Mouth still hanging open, he tries to form a thought, but Deadpool is emptying his basket onto the conveyor for him and humming some pop song Peter doesn’t quite recognize. Before he’s fully back to the present, Peter manages to mutter, “That’s straws.”
“Hm? Speak up, Pumpkin,” the mercenary says lightly, scooting him along and past the card reader with big hands on either of the brunet’s shoulders.
“Turtles. The straws?”
“Right, right, right, right,” Deadpool allows, one katana knocking into the candy bars displayed opposite the conveyor. “Oops.” He bends to pick up the fallen candy, pauses, and then grabs a few handfuls of different kinds until he’s basically cleaned out the shallow shelves of every treat but chewing gum, arms full. The other katana narrowly misses the next customer in line as he turns to the conveyor belt, an impatient older man who had been crowding Peter without the younger man noticing.
“Watch it,” the man says hotly, and Deadpool waves a dismissive gloved hand full of candy before returning upright and adding the multitude of candies and chocolate to Peter’s groceries.
The panic creeps in again, and while Peter tries to tell Deadpool he actually, really can’t buy him a plethora of candy right now, the cashier mindlessly beeps his other items along. But Deadpool has produced an incredible amount of cash from one of his pouches and dropped the crumpled wad on the tiny counter under the card reader by the time the cashier is charging the candy. Peter’s jaw snaps shut, and he’s not sure if he’s more humiliated or confused when the checkout clerk just takes the cash and makes change, Peter’s groceries and Deadpool’s candy being gathered into two paper bags by the mercenary himself.
“Well?” Deadpool says evenly, when Peter doesn’t move and the cashier is irately scowling at the brunet for holding up the line. Peter looks to them, then to the change — most of it just the bills Deadpool had dropped, clearly having handed over too much to start — and back to Wade with wide eyes. “Get the change, Bambi,” Deadpool tells him with amusement, tilting his head curiously.
Peter obeys, moving sluggishly and habitually thanking the clerk as he trails after the taller man carrying his groceries in both arms. Deadpool moves quickly after that, heading to the exit, and Peter has to play catch up with both the taller man and his own brain.
“What are you doing?” he nervously asks the mercenary as they make their way down the street in the direction of Peter’s apartment building. “What’s happening?” he asks with even more apprehension, right on the cusp of delirium. Is this a dream? A weird waking nightmare?
“We got groceries,” Wade tells him simply, looking down at the shorter man trotting by his side as he strides down the sidewalk. Peter shakes his head, and Deadpool chuckles. “I wanted some candy, saw you inside, and you were already at the front of the line,” he reasons.
“What are you even doing in this neighborhood?” He’s not trying to sound accusatory, but his nerves are lighting up across his skin and he’s thinking about money and how this definitely means he’s even more in debt to Deadpool, whose longer legs are making it hard to keep up with him while Peter’s in this state. Any other day he’d easily keep pace, his powers granting him the stamina, but right now he’s got too much on his mind and all of it is money.
“Believe it or not, I’ve got a place not that far from here. I thought I’d go for a stroll, maybe see what you were up to,” Deadpool answers, and Peter is furious that he can’t read the tone, especially not with Wade looking straight ahead and fully masked. “Got snacky.” He shifts the bags to one arm and fishes in one, emerging with two candy bars the size of Peter’s hands, which admittedly aren’t small but are dwarfed by Deadpool’s when he holds them out. “Want some?”
Without really meaning to, Peter takes one and studies it like it has the answers to Deadpool’s line of thinking. It’s actually one of his favorites, which must be a coincidence, because he’s never mentioned it to Wade.
“That’s one of Spidey’s faves,” Deadpool says in fond approval, fiddling one-handed at one end of the remaining candy bar’s wrapper and making Peter’s nerves jump. “He always picks that one whenever we stop at a bodega on one of our late night rendezvouses.”
Oh. Well, that makes sense then. At least it’s a normal chocolate caramel candy bar that plenty of people consider their favorites, so Peter tries not to worry it’s any sort of giveaway, shaking his tension off. Glancing to Deadpool trying to open his candy with groceries in his other arm, Peter takes a deep breath and holds out his hand, palm up. They’re still walking, of course, and Deadpool takes a moment to notice before slowly handing the chocolate bar over and letting Peter open it for him before he returns it to the merc’s hand. The timing is just so that Peter realizes he might be about to roll his mask up, in public, on the street.
Peter’s eyes widen, and perhaps foolishly, he panics on Deadpool’s behalf.
“Shit,” he mutters, and snatches the candy back, opting instead to get behind Deadpool and start pushing at his back to hurry him along. They’re a few blocks out, and Peter has to pretend Wade’s heavy form is difficult to move, but he’s glad the taller man obliges and picks up the pace.
“And why are we doing confusing things?” Deadpool implores, looking over his shoulder as he redistributes the groceries to both arms and starts walking much faster at Peter’s behest.
“You were gonna take your mask off,” Peter grunts, glad his burning face is mostly hidden from his position of shoving the mercenary forward. “Last time you did that in public, you sorta freaked out when you realized someone might see.”
“When did I do that?”
Peter realizes a beat too late that it had been Spider-Man who’d seen that reaction live. Spider-Man had been snacking with Deadpool at sunset, both of them sitting in Central Park, Peter perched on the back of a bench and Wade sitting on the bench like a normal person.
-
Both of them had churros, and while they’d found a relatively secluded spot to pause and eat, Spider-Man with his mask rolled up to his nose, there’s always a chance someone would come by. But they’d been chatting and laughing and comfortable, and Wade had wanted to eat his own churro, so he had lifted the bottom half of his mask without thinking when he’d spotted someone in the distance approaching with a dog on a leash. Peter had simply rolled his mask back down, but Wade had smacked his bare skin in alarm and leaped to his feet, basically throwing his churro into flowering bushes and scrabbling his mask back into place. Spidey had watched, dumbfounded, as the so-called most deadly mercenary in the world had jumped into the same bushes and hidden as the dog walker passed. Spider-Man had greeted them brightly, and the dog walker had said something about how nice the weather must be for swinging ha ha, and then moved along down the path. Peter had waited until they were out of sight to turn and look at the bushes in full bloom, Deadpool’s fully masked head slowly rising from it, lightly dusted with pollen.
“You good?” Spidey had asked cautiously, knowing it was usually better to wait to address whatever weird thing Deadpool had done until the man came forth himself.
“Yeah, yeah. Yup. All good, now.” He’d laughed, a stilted, forced sound, and put his hands on his hips. “Almost let an innocent normie see my scary face. Wouldn’t wanna traumatize anyone on such a nice evening. Do you think raccoons had sex in this bush? Because under all the lovely azaleas, I smell something upsettingly close to cum over here—”
-
Peter stammers, and Deadpool waits but doesn’t slow down. “Alright, I’m sorry, Spider-Man mentioned it after I told him I met you,” he lies through his lying teeth. “He said you might be self-conscious, I’m sorry if I assumed—!”
“Spidey talks to you about me??”
The delight is evident in Deadpool’s voice, and Peter sighs with relief and angles him to turn the next corner, decidedly pushing a little harder so they can walk even faster. The Green Apple is further than the little shop two blocks from his place, but now they’re in the home stretch.
“Yup. Sometimes,” Peter concedes, hoping the anxiety in his voice isn’t any different from before as he ignores the sidestepping and murmuring from passers-by. They must be at least somewhat entertaining to see, a scrawny guy in an oversized coat shoving a near- mountain of a man in a red and black body suit, masked and armed with swords at his back whilst also carrying armloads of groceries. Throw on top that said masked man is squealing like a schoolgirl and they’re effectively turning heads. In the back of his mind, Peter thinks this might not be the best way to avoid drawing unwanted attention to his secret identity, but more eyes are on Deadpool than Peter’s face. “And since you were scared to show me when it was just us, I figured, why risk it?” This part at least, is entirely true.
“What does he say about me?” Deadpool asks enthusiastically, starting to speed walk enough that Peter stops pushing him and instead trails after him again, pretending to be winded. “All good things, I hope?” he goes on, and his tone is trying to reach joking, but Peter doesn’t need heightened senses to hear his nerves.
“Spidey’s not a shit-talking kinda guy,” Peter assures him, and he watches the mercenary’s shoulders relax. His eyes wander downward as he goes on, “He mostly talks about how, um. How well you’re doing.”
Good god, with all the weapons usually in the way or drawing attention, Peter often forgets how well-fitting Wade’s suit is. He might as well be wearing just spandex, the way it hugs his muscular ass. And the weapons had done nothing for his thighs — okay, maybe they do a little bit of a power thing, sue him — so seeing them closer to their natural shape does something twisty to Peter’s belly. Those thighs are tree trunks. For a tree Peter might want to climb—
Peter swats at his jaw, a half-assed attempt not to just slap himself, and snaps his head back up so he can’t keep creeping on Wade literally behind his back. Eyes wide when Peter glances further up again, he realizes Deadpool is looking over his shoulder and back at him.
“No, no, don’t let me interrupt,” Wade says slyly, smirking through the mask. “I believe you were admiring my rockin’ hot bod?” They’ve come to a stop now, Wade purposely remaining with his back to Peter, whose hands are clenched into white knuckled fists, arms stiff at his sides.
“I—,” Peter chokes, already hot pink, caught red-handed ogling his friend.
“Is it my lats? Delts? Don’t tell me it’s the glutes,” Wade teases, and Peter knows from his tone that he’s flexing, but refuses to take the bait.
“I hate you,” Peter decides in defeat, sighing as he brings the heels of his hands up to his forehead when Wade turns around, giggling.
“I know you mean love,” the taller man jokes, and Peter lightly punches his pectoral, just above one of the paper bags.
“Go inside, Wade!” Peter demands miserably, glad they’d at least stopped right at the stoop.
“Well I was hoping you’d be a gentleman and open the door for me,” Deadpool points out, hefting his full arms as if he hadn’t switched them to one arm more than once on the way over. “Seeing as I’m carrying both groceries and a magnificent physique up to yours.”
“You are the worst,” Peter mumbles, but hops up to the door and swings it open, standing out of the way so the larger man can pass through and go to the extraordinarily slow elevator. He also darts to push the call button, and thanks the known universe that the elevator is already there. Both men step inside and Peter hits the button for the seventh floor.
“Why did you do that?” Peter asks sternly once the doors shut.
“Which ‘that?’” Deadpool asks innocently, well aware of where this is going.
“You can’t keep buying me stuff.”
“I bought you lunch once, and this,” Wade asserts, wiggling the paper bags again, “was a drop in the bucket of what I make on any given job.” He pauses, sweats, and glances down to see the shorter man’s eyelid twitching behind his fake glasses.
Wow, so flattering, telling him we’re just so much better off than he is. Now he knows we’re trying to buy his love, moron!
“Oh, no. Don’t say it—,” Wade mumbles, already bracing himself.
“Are you insulting me?”
“Ah. You said it,” he sighs. He really hates it when the boxes are right, a chorus of their smug vindication in the background as he continues. “Pete, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m—.” Peter’s jaw tenses, and Wade curses himself for being such a sucker for the brunet’s gamut of emotional displays. He’s cute when he’s flustered. “I’m not a charity case, Wade.” God, could this elevator go any slower?
“I didn’t say that, Petey, and I don’t think it, either,” Wade says carefully, nervous but increasingly offended. They might not be super besties yet, but he’d hoped Peter would give him the benefit of the doubt when he accidentally says stupid shit. The feeling of dejection is about to spur the boxes into more cruelty when Peter visibly deflates, the rigidity in his posture melting as he sags, closing his eyes and hanging his head. As he slowly folds his arms over his chest and chews his cheek, Wade watches in quiet awe. This guy wears everything on his sleeve.
“Sorry,” Peter says softly, bringing one hand up to rub at his forehead, using it a bit like a blinder between them and gnawing on his lower lip. He does hate feeling pitied, but he knows Wade is just… being nice. Peter also doubts he’s doing it just to play hero. He’s watched Wade do surprisingly selfless things and then walk away with no expectations of reward or acknowledgement of how good or kind he’d been. “I know. It’s just— I can take care of myself.” Quieter, colored with more shame, he adds, “Most of the time.”
Oh, this is doing all sorts of unfair things to Wade’s little queer heart. He shifts the groceries to hold both bags with one arm, and sets his freed hand on Peter’s shoulder, startling him but apparently not enough for him to pull away. Peter even leans a little into it, dropping the hand guarding his face from Wade’s gaze.
“It’s cool, Baby Boy,” Wade says sweetly, and enjoys the little twitch Peter’s ear does when he uses the pet name. He doesn’t just throw that one around, anyway. “It’s not about charity. I just care if you’ve got what you need, y’know?”
“Yeah,” Peter allows under his breath, the elevator doors finally opening on the photographer’s floor. He slides out and walks hastily to his door to unlock it for Wade, who moves at his usual long-legged walking pace and gets there in time for Peter to push the door open and get out of the way again.
Peter’s place is as Wade remembers it, a little messy and cluttered, but he’s picked a few things up and done the dishes since the last time Wade had been here. It still smells like Mexican food, and Peter’s bed is just as untidy as before. Wade had totally gotten away with smelling his sheets that night, just getting to lie on his back on the mattress had been enough. Whatever laundry detergent Peter uses hadn’t been the culprit for the warm cinnamon scent Wade came away with when he’d gotten off the bed, and he’d already known it must be Peter’s shampoo or body wash that makes him smell like Froot Loops. He sets the bags on Peter’s kitchen table and unloads them while Peter doffs his coat and shoes, watching Wade move the whole time.
“You can take your shoes off, y’know,” Peter says lightly, eyes on the man’s massive combat boots. He could be so quiet in them, quiet enough to sneak up on Spider-Man, but right now he’s clomping around like Peter doesn’t have downstairs neighbors. “And the katanas. Y’know. Stay a while.”
“Yeah?” Wade asks, dumping the candy out of one bag once he’s more cautiously removed everything else. He brings the eggs and milk to Peter’s fridge, and pops it open, frowning slightly at how empty it still is. At least Peter had eaten the leftover Mexican at some point. He closes the fridge again, humming in thought. Peter obviously isn’t comfortable with people buying him things, but Wade might be able to get away with feeding him in other ways. A little cartoon lightbulb brightens in the corner of his vision, and he doesn’t even swat it away: he can always cook for Peter himself.
We do make a mean chili. And our pancakes are to die for. Got the real syrup for ‘em and everything.
“Wade, shoes,” Peter chuckles, and the mercenary glances down at his boots.
“Right!” Deadpool lifts one foot, prying the boot off and hopping once to keep upright. He’s actually got impeccable balance, not that Peter would have seen much of him in action to know, but the way the brunet folds his arms and leans back against the kitchen sink to watch with delight is totally worth exaggerating imbalance. Flopping the boot over his shoulder, he knows it lands perfectly upright next to the front door. He repeats the action with the other boot, giving two hops this time, and Peter suddenly has his phone out, aiming with one hand while the other hugs his ribs. “You can’t humiliate me, I’m the champion of masochistic embarrassment,” he says confidently.
“Good to know,” Peter muses, and lowers his phone to start tapping on the screen, his smile warm as he looks at the device. Deadpool takes his katanas off and sets the scabbard next to his boots by the door. “Thanks, man. I think Marty downstairs will hate me less, now.”
“Don’t get along with the downstairs neighborinos?”
“Usually I do, I find having no interactions for the most part is a good sign. It’s only a problem with neighbors in New York when they feel like breaking stuff about it.”
“Your neighbors break your stuff?” Wade asks seriously, and the tone is enough to pull Peter’s attention from his phone, which he quickly tucks into his back pocket, pushing his hoodie up and out of the way before returning the hem to cover his butt, which Wade realizes he’s never had the privilege of admiring. He knows this little tempter works out, he’s felt enough muscles to determine it’s unlikely his ass isn’t also a goddamned snack.
“Wh— oh. No, I mean when they’re breaking their own stuff, fighting and… arguing.” New York isn’t the only place it happens, of course, but there’s something special about the ancient walls of most NYC apartment buildings that lets every single intimate detail of the worst of peoples’ interpersonal problems leech through every shared wall, ceiling, floor, and hallway. Peter’s sensitive ears hear even more, naturally, but he’s gotten pretty good at tuning out things that don’t trigger his spider-sense. He hasn’t had to intervene with anyone in this building yet, in or out of the costume.
“They do that a lot?”
“Not really,” Peter says after a moment to think about it. “I think Marty mostly doesn’t like me because I sit on the fire escape a lot.”
Wade scoffs. “It’s not Marty’s fire escape.”
“He thinks I’m making a mess of his plants. I’m not, but it’s kinda sweet that’s why he’s so grumpy at me. I think he’s actually overwatering them.”
“So what fun mystery gen-Z thing did you just do on your phone?” Wade asks, switching to the subject that would reasonably hold his attention but also possibly get Peter to reach toward his ass again, which Wade does not look at longingly or anything.
“I like to think of myself as a Zillennial,” Peter muses, dodging the question. “Didn’t breach the 2000s.”
“Is this your way of saying you’re a big boy now?”
Peter snorts, tossing his head back a moment with a follow up laugh. “I’ve been a big boy for a long time, Wade, please don’t think of me as a kid.”
“Everyone younger than me is a kid,” the taller man hums, but his tone is playful, and he moves to lean against the kitchen counter next to Peter, wiggling his toes. His socks have a stretched out Captain America shield on them, and Peter quirks a brow at them. “What, you don’t have more than one fan favorite?”
“I just don’t have a lot of merch,” Peter elaborates, but he’s still smiling. “Credit to America’s ass, though, let’s be real.”
“Second only to Spider-Man’s,” Wade sighs dreamily, waving his feet side to side. Peter shifts slightly next to him, facing him more and leaning an elbow on the counter, his own legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Wade hums appreciatively, letting his gaze drag up the length of the smaller man, who raises an eyebrow again, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What?” the merc asks innocently.
“You think Spider-Man’s ass beats Captain America’s?” the brunet demands teasingly, a dusting of pink on his cheeks, though if it’s for the topic or the fact that Wade is looking him up and down again, Wade isn’t sure. “Bold.”
“I don’t make the rules. Cap’s ass is glorious and absolutely as perfect as a 100-something’s ass could be,” the mercenary allows, but he clucks his tongue and shakes his head, meeting Peter’s big brown eyes with the whites of his mask. “But Webs? His ass could cure my never-ending cancer.”
Peter laughs at this, throwing his head back again, the sound shaking his shoulders, and after a moment, he drops it forward, smiling shyly. “Have you told him that?”
Wade is distracted long enough by this man’s low tenor (So comforting. Why does it feel familiar?), he takes a beat longer to respond than he should have. “In a million ways, I’m sure! I profess my adoration on the reg,” he jokes, shrugging and looking at the mass of candy he’d poured out on Peter’s table. Peter follows his line of sight and reaches into his front hoodie pocket to produce the candy bar he’d opened for Wade on the street. He holds it out to the merc, who makes a little chirping noise of delight and accepts it.
“Y’know, I would’ve noticed my mask wasn’t up when I went to take a bite of this the first time. Probably could’ve been patient afterward,” the merc says, possibly fibbing about his patience when it comes to candy. He uses his free hand to catch the bottom of his mask and start slowly pushing it up, hesitating before it gets to his chin. Deadpool watches Peter’s face for any sign that he should stop, but Peter is just waiting patiently, a serene smile in place.
Wade braves the small surge of self-hatred that the boxes try pushing to the front of his mind, and finishes rolling up his mask to the bridge of his nose. He takes a giant bite of his giant candy bar, getting about half of it in his mouth easily and letting out a groan of satisfaction, bending his knees to emphasize his pleasure. “That’s the stuff,” he says through his mouthful, and Peter shakes his head fondly.
“So what were you really doing at the grocery store?”
Deadpool slows his chewing, but doesn’t stop. He debates how to answer this the most effectively without lying or coming off like the absolute stalker creep he is (Ya got that right.), but the longer he takes to answer, the higher Peter’s eyebrows rise. He’s tempted to see how high they can go, nearing the other man’s hairline, but he finally swallows his chocolatey treat and heaves a sigh. “I really was in the neighborhood to stop by. I was just passing on the way to your apartment, and I could see you through the front windows. It’s not a secluded store, y’know.”
“And, what? You saw me in line?”
Wade fidgets, drumming fingers against the Formica of Peter’s tiny kitchen counter. “I did also want candy.”
“You didn’t grab candy until you knocked a bunch over,” Peter notes lightly, gaze narrowed even as he wears a knowing smile. “You came in because you saw me.”
“Because I saw. You. Looking…” Wade has to pause and take another bite of candy, but Peter waits patiently, the seconds dragging on as Wade’s mouth suddenly goes dry. “You looked pretty freaked out,” he says through his food again, finding it a lot harder to swallow this bite.
“I was,” the brunet allows quietly, leading.
“I swear I wasn’t trying to be, like, a hero or anything. I know you’re… touchy, about money.” (Stop talking stop talking stop talking stop talking stop talking you absolute fucking numbskull—) “But you didn’t have a lot in your basket and I know the essentials are kinda important when you’re not working with a lot, and I remembered how empty your fridge was— is—,” he goes on, unable to stop and gesturing to the fridge behind himself, “and it was killing me to think you were gonna put everything back, even doing it yourself, I can tell you’re that kinda guy, and I didn’t want you to feel any weirder about having life-sustaining needs or like people were gonna judge you, which, y’know, fuck them if they were gonna do that—!”
“Wade,” Peter says quietly, brow furrowed.
“So I thought, ‘well shit, I’ve got money, I’ve got so much fuckin’ money I barely know what to do with it and it’s not like I’ve never been broke or hungry, so I can help out at least this once,’ right? And then I knocked the candy over, and thought, ‘whoa wait, what a good excuse to pay for everything myself,’ and also who doesn’t like candy—?”
“Wade.”
Now gesturing animatedly with his hands, chocolate bar still in one, unable to stop even as the boxes scream and beg for him to shut his stupid whore mouth, Wade babbles on. “So now I’ve got all this candy and you’ve got your, like, five groceries and you look like you’re gonna die of embarrassment because of course you are, I’m standing there drawing more attention to us, but I tell myself you should have the basics if that’s what you need, and I just. Also invited myself into your home, holy Muppet-humping shitballs.” Wade looks around the studio apartment, suddenly breathing very quickly, and he’s about to start rambling again, but Peter sets a hand on his shoulder, close to the collar of his suit (The nape of our neck, holy shit, and he’s so gentle—), and Wade’s swirling thoughts and excuses meander into a blank as he slowly shuts his mouth.
“Wade,” Peter says one more time, his smile both warm and tired. “I appreciate what you did. I can take care of myself, but. Um. Even I need help every now and then, and money’s been tight for… well, since forever, so. Thank you.”
His voice is so sweet and his words so… sincere and Wade can’t even hear the boxes trying to comment as he watches Peter’s big doe eyes look between the white eyes of his Deadpool mask like he can read Wade through them. Wade presses his scarred lips together, broad shoulders slowly relaxing, and he takes a few deep breaths, Peter’s hand staying exactly where it is, comforting.
“Okay,” Wade says softly, and Peter smiles a little wider, and Wade realizes he might be developing something like a crush. Or worse. Fuck. He’s emotionally cheating on his imaginary relationship with Spider-Man, isn’t he?? Shit. But Peter is real. He’s tangible, right in front of him, and when he pulls his hand away to brace against the sink again, Wade misses the contact.
“So when are we gonna hang out at your place?” Peter asks casually, pushing himself upright and moving to snag the candy bar he’d gotten sidetracked from on the street, peeling it open and taking a sizable bite with a satisfied hum.
“My place?”
“Yeah. I imagine you’ve got games and a TV.” Chewing, he waves absently to indicate his small apartment. “You’ll notice I don’t really have either. Been hunting down a TV on Craigslist for a little while, but keep getting distracted and stuff. I’ll get one eventually. I’ve got some older consoles, but the games aren’t terrible.”
“I’ve got a TV and games, yeah.” Wade’s chest feels light. Peter wants to hang out. He wants to hang out with Wade. “I can also cook,” he says with renewed enthusiasm. “I’m a damned good cook, you know,” he says with sincere confidence, putting his fists on his hips and puffing out his chest, earning another snort from the brunet as he takes a second bite of candy. “I’m gonna feed the fuck outta you,” he says more seriously, mask eyes narrowed to mimic a glare like it’s a threat.
“I could maybe be into that,” Peter teases for the wry smile Deadpool winds up wearing. “Wanna set a date?”
“I’d love to go out on a date with you,” Wade coos.
Peter chuckles, but he ducks his head again, and Wade grins with bewildered triumph. “Dinner at your place will do for now, I don’t have anything nicer to wear.”
Wade scoffs, waving a hand airily, still basking in the little blush he’s earned. It reaches Peter’s ears, which is every kind of adorable, and he permanently burns into his brain the image of the brunet shyly shrugging with those flushed cheeks and ears.
Notes:
whispers hello friends i will be replying to your comments over the weekend (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
Chapter 5: [5] Home-cooked
Summary:
Wade makes dinner for Peter and they spend a nice evening together. Peter falls asleep in an emotionally compromising place.
10372 words.
Notes:
Tooth-rotting fluff. This might actually be the cheesiest chapter. You've been warned.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wade hasn’t been nervous like this in a very long time. Anxious? Sure, constantly, about all sorts of things. The only kinds of things Wade Wilson does not get anxious about are his combat and tracking skills. Those he has an unceasing vise-like grip on, and they sit comfortably in the cold vibranium lockbox labeled “expertise” in fancy script in his brain. This specific box cannot be dismantled, crushed, or put through any selective sieve. His training and experience have solidified his abilities with firearms, explosives, blades, tracking and monitoring, and the general concept of “hunting” any remotely intelligent target. Wade is an excellent mercenary and there’s not a soul in the world who could or would deny he’s the best at what he does. No, he’s never been anxious about his penchant for violence.
Wade is nervous because Peter Parker, an ordinary human and very cute brunet he’d met a little over a month ago, is coming over to hang out and eat food that Wade is just finishing cooking. And Wade hasn’t wooed anyone outside of flagrant flirting and casual innuendo in a long time, Spider-Man notwithstanding.
It’s something about the way Peter has yet to look at Wade with any measure of serious judgment. The grad student (He’s gonna be a biochemical engineer! Precious little egghead!) has looked at him with dry sarcasm, sardonic amusement, and quiet curiosity, but the judgment attached to those looks has never felt like… superiority. Peter doesn’t look at Wade like he thinks he’s better than him. It’s bizarre and for a hot minute it had been off-putting for how unrealistic it had seemed, but now? Now Wade wants to be the sole earner of those thoughtful, squinty pouts.
He’s feeling braver tonight, so he’s not in his Deadpool suit, having opted instead for a comfortable pair of jeans, soft cotton t-shirt, hoodie, and Hello Kitty socks. He can’t bring himself to go without his gloves or the mask, so he’s already got them on. It’s just in case Peter bursts in through the door unannounced for whatever reason and Wade doesn’t have time to throw the mask and gloves on before Peter can see him exposed and gross with his freaky marbled skin so close to the food he’s supposed to serve the shorter man. Wade narrowly avoids letting that train of thought spiral, busying himself with pacing and eyeballing the unicorn-shaped egg timers for his various dishes.
He hovers in his kitchen, some sleek modern thing he’d admired for all of thirty seconds before decidedly signing the lease. It’s got plenty of other fancy things, and at least he hadn’t invited Peter to one of his shitty little safehouses elsewhere in the city. Wade has a couple in each borough just to be safe (Ha.), but this building boasts a working heat pump so it will be comfortable in hot and cold weather alike — a rarity in New York, so Wade figures it might be a good selling point for Peter to come back when the weather gets truly nasty one way or the other. He’s so scrawny, Wade’s not sure he has more than 5% body fat, which can’t be easy in the rough parts of winter in New York. Peter is usually in several layers when Wade sees him, only discarding a few after a couple of hours. He frets for a moment thinking about the grad student shivering under his blankets in that dingy little studio apartment, but reminds himself that’s not the point. He would invite Peter over regardless of the other man’s living situation. To be a good friend. Not because Wade is a walking space heater and he could totally keep the skinny little bastard company under a nice fuzzy blanket on the couch while they eat popcorn and make fun of B-movies Peter’s undoubtedly never seen. Just, totally innocent reasons. Yeah.
You’re not fooling anyone, dummy. It’s just us here, anyway.
“He’ll be here any minute,” Wade huffs, tightening the straps of his frilly pink and white “KISS THE MERC” apron, which flatters his hips and makes him feel pretty, thank you very much. “So shut up and let me have this.”
The boxes sound off in a string of indignant noises impressive to pull off in text, but don’t seem to have any words of dissent, so Wade tugs on oven mitts and checks the oven. It’s time to pull out the scalloped potatoes and roasted vegetables. He’s pleased with the color of the broccoli, which admittedly took him ages not to overcook when he’d first learned the simple cooking method. Trial and error in the kitchen had been his best tool, and holy hell if it hadn’t totally paid off in the end. He could feed Peter forever and never make a bad meal, one of the only other things in which Wade is truly confident.
He sets the potatoes and veggies on a couple of trivets along the freshly cleaned island counter — another serious luxury in the city — and moves to his fancy convection oven, a tiny little thing that predates the air fryer by… well, by being an air fryer you couldn’t take out of the wall. He pulls out absolutely stunning chicken breasts with just the right amount of crisping on the skin, the smell of warm seasonings filling the whole apartment, up through the high ceilings. Peter hadn’t told him any dietary restrictions, so he’s chosen to stay relatively safe and simple with the basics, and who doesn’t like roast chicken and vegetables?
“Dessert!” Wade blurts, smacking his purple kitten oven mitts against his mask in homage to Edvard Munch and Macaulay Caulkin. Each mitt has a picture of a teeny kitten meowing amongst clouds, the text “FEED ME, DAMMIT” in wavering blue font that feels very “graphic design is my passion.” Wade fucking loves them. But he does fling them off as he hops to the fridge to check on the chocolate cake, making sure the fudgy frosting is still set in the basic but elegant swoops and swirls he’d worked so hard on piping. He’s a little less confident baking compared to cooking, but he’s proud of this cake. If the batter had been anything to go by, it’s going to be fucking amazing.
“We are gonna woo the fuck outta this guy,” he growls excitedly, one hand on his hip as he pops it.
A knock on the door makes him jolt. Wade slams the fridge shut and has to quickly steady it, carefully peeking inside one more time in case he’d knocked the cake dome over. Good to go, he smooths his apron down with his Deadpool gloves, swallows his nerves, and clears his throat. Padding toward the door, Wade swerves at the last second and darts to the TV, flipping it on like he’d just been lounging around casually and not focusing so intently on the food, setting the table, and cleaning up and putting away all his miscellaneous weapons and gear all afternoon.
But wait, would that be too weird? Too suspicious, too obvious? Too— mean spirited? He doesn’t want to seem like some jack-ass being flippant about having a proper dinner together for the first time, he hates it when people do that on TV and in movies.
Or that one time someone did it to us back when we were still pretty, and it really hurt our feelings. What the fuck, Sasha?
“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, turning the TV off and scrambling back upright when he hears another knock. “Shit!” he repeats, feeling sick for making Peter wait. “Coming!”
Peter is clearly a nice boy, he doesn’t do that on the first date.
Sliding to a stop at the door, Wade takes only a moment more to fix his apron and secure his hood over his head, mask and all, and then he valiantly flings the door open and crows, “Petey!”
Peter Parker is standing at attention, fluffy brown hair somehow fluffier than when Wade had last seen it, wearing his stupidly adorable thick-rimmed fake glasses that used to be his dad’s, a wrinkly and untucked dark blue button-down with the top two buttons scandalously undone, and dark jeans that hug his lovely long legs. He’d even found a pair of black formal shoes, and Wade wonders if he’s had them since he was a teenager, because he can’t imagine Peter Parker has had much occasion to wear fancy shoes more than a handful of times in his life. Maybe he’d worn them to prom. Aw, Wade can totally picture teen Peter in a suit that’s too big with a carnation in the breast pocket. He tries not to be retroactively envious of whoever got to go with him and watch him probably dance like a dork. He’s got his big green toggle coat and a sweatshirt over one arm, a smaller brown messenger bag slung over his opposite shoulder, and he cracks a grin as he catches sight of Wade’s apron.
“You look super cute in that apron,” he says brightly, and Wade melts because he believes Peter believes it.
“O-oh. Thank you,” he says bashfully, and is glad for more than one reason that he’s got his full mask on. Peter takes a moment to appraise him entirely, and the grin falters. “Everything okay?” Wade questions after a beat.
“Yeah, of course,” Peter says, sharp-toothed grin shifting into a comfortable smile as he meets the white eyes of the Deadpool mask. “I’m glad you’re not in the suit,” he amends sincerely, and Wade must resist the urge to haul him into a hug, his chest aching. What a wretchedly validating thing to say. Instead, he steps aside and ushers the smaller man forward, which gets him a chuckle as Peter ducks inside. “Thanks.”
Wade carefully shuts the door behind him, and absently lets his gaze drop, only to be a little disappointed that Peter’s dress shirt covers and hides the shape of his ass from Wade’s prying eyes. Damn. He’ll get a good ogling in at some point. It’s only fair, since Peter had definitely been gawking at Wade’s beautiful butt the other day, and out on the street, no less! He truly, desperately wants to smack it (Just a little tap!) when he passes Peter and moves into the kitchen, but once again resists like the gentlelady he is. Instead, he offers to take Peter’s coat and hoodie, and the brunet smiles lopsidedly and hands them over, watching Wade move to a narrow door that opens into a hall closet.
“So, uh. Dinner is ready, if you’re hungry,” the mercenary says into the closet, hanging up the coat and denying himself a moment where he can just take a breath of Peter’s smell on it.
But it’s right there, he’s not even looking! Sniff like you’re very, very good at sniffing!
Wade doesn’t chance it, backing out of the closet and closing the door quietly, turning on his heel to see Peter hovering by the kitchen island, brown doe eyes wide as he takes in the sight of Wade’s work. “Oh!” Wade gasps, startling Peter into looking over at him. “I was gonna put everything in nice serving dishes,” he whines.
Peter chuckles, and shakes his head a little, impressed. “No way, dude, this looks amazing as it is. Did you make all of this?”
Peter’s interest brings Wade’s nerves to heel, and he walks swiftly over to the counter, gesturing grandly as though presenting a showcase on a primetime game show. “Scalloped potatoes, roast vegetables— that’s broccoli and rainbow carrots and kale with a little garlic salt and olive oil— and air fried (but unbreaded) chicken breast.”
“Wow, I think I literally heard those parentheses.”
“Thank you, I am a lady of many talents. I also made chocolate fudge cake for dessert,” Wade adds proudly, setting his hands on his hips and grinning. “All finished on time, I didn’t spill anything, and nothing stayed on fire for very long,” he jokingly lists, mask reflecting his wink. “Also, there’s wine in the fridge. White wine. Because of the chicken.”
People drink wine with nice dinners, right? He’s out of practice with whatever normies do when they do fancy mundane things. He’d just gotten something the wine guy had called “mid-level,” since it’s been such a long time since Wade had bothered with wine and he doesn’t want Peter to somehow figure out how much a pricey bottle goes for when Wade spending money makes him so uncomfortable. Sure, he drinks every now and then, certainly to fuck himself up if he needs to, but alcohol’s effects are slim to none and don’t last long if Wade doesn’t drink half a shelf of high proof. Fucking healing factor.
Peter grimaces for a hot second before he’s biting his lower lip, and Wade doesn’t miss the gesture or the glint of sharp teeth, cocking his head to the side. “You good?” he asks carefully, trying not to be uneasy about what he’d done wrong to make the shorter man pull a face like that.
“No, it’s— sorry, I don’t really… drink,” Peter clarifies, and Wade is annoyed for a moment that the brunet cants his eyes to the floor like he’s embarrassed.
“That’s cool, Gorgeous,” he tells him sincerely, a little stern. Peter glances back up to him, and he frowns. “Seriously, no judgment. It’s not like it does a lot for me, personally, my whack healing factor means I need something like three bottles of 90 proof to feel it for more than 30 minutes. And I’m not trying to get you drunk. The wine isn’t important.”
Death help us if Peter thinks we’re trying to make him do jack shit.
Peter groans quietly and rubs his face, taking a steadying breath, and Wade smiles a little, fond. “Sorry, yeah. That’s— yeah. So, wait. You, what, got the wine just for me?”
“Oh, uh.” Wade scrubs at the back of his neck, over the mask. “I woulda had some with you, if you wanted, but um. Yeah, I guess I did,” he muses. “But really, Petey. It’s no biggie,” he assures him, waving his hands in front of himself. “I shoulda asked you way before now, wow,” he grumbles, annoyed with himself.
Jack-ass, the boxes chide.
“It’s fine, I’m sorry it didn’t occur to me to mention it. I, uh, forget a lot of people just drink wine with dinner, y’know?” Peter laughs shyly, but he seems truly relieved that Wade isn’t pressing the issue, so Wade drops it entirely. He can always leave the bottle at someone’s door or something, or he can save it for cooking. It’s not sparkling, anyway, and cooking sherry is kind-of specifically mediocre, better to use something that tastes good to start. Peter smiles brighter again, looking over the arrangement on the island counter while Wade ponders uses for useless alcohol. “But Wade, you did… all of this, and baked a cake?”
“A chocolate fudge cake. Extra frosting. You strike me as a sweet tooth.”
Peter slaps a hand over his heart and gapes, feigning offense. “Not in a million years. I also hate kittens, own land, and have no idea what a chocolate fudge cake is.”
“I’m happy to educate you, you absolute monster ,” Wade says wryly, sliding to the fridge to pull the cake case out, which is really just a big glass plate and tall dome. He wants it to come out before they eat so that it will come to room temperature faster. Fudge should be between “lava hot” and “sort-of tepid” and never cooler. It loses flavor, as far as Wade is concerned, and he needs this chocolate cake to woo this nerd. “Ta-da!”
Peter edges closer as Wade puts the cake on the counter, pulling the dome up with a flourish. “Holy hell, that smells amazing. Everything smells amazing, Wade,” he praises with a happy sigh. “My mouth is watering.”
Now if only we could get his mouth watering in the boudoir... Wait! Don’t get horny, it’s way too early!!
Wade pointedly puts the cover back on the cake and hunts down his oven mitts, popping them on and gesturing for Peter to follow him to the table, scooping up the chicken and potatoes as he does. Wade sets the food down at the center and pulls out Peter’s chair for him. The brunet looks at him with bemused delight as he takes a seat, pink in his cheeks and ears. He scoots himself up to the table and smiles at the place setting, absently pushing his glasses further up his nose.
He’s blushing. He’s blushing! Do something else sickeningly romantic, hurry up!
“I’m working on it,” he hisses, hopefully out of Peter’s earshot. Moving back into the kitchen for the vegetables, Wade internally celebrates his successful gesture. Wade is so on top of things tonight, he’s still astounded by himself. He’d even put a pitcher of ice water out for water glasses, which he’d filled just before pulling everything out of the ovens. Returning with the veggies, he offers to dish Peter’s plate.
“Um, yeah. Yes. Please do,” the brunet says haltingly through a smile, resting his forearms on the table in front of himself. Wade takes his plate and gives him a few hefty scoops of potatoes and vegetables, forking a whole chicken breast too. Peter watches hungrily, patiently waiting for Wade to dish himself and sit at the adjacent edge. “I wish I’d ironed my shirt,” he muses, the pink spreading to his neck.
“Oh, Bambi, I don’t think you own an iron.”
“I totally do,” Peter mumbles shyly.
“Besides, I don’t care what you wear, you’re always sexy as hell,” Wade replies smoothly, and Peter responds with a tiny groan, pouting. Pouting . “Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he teases.
“You really don’t need to do that,” Peter informs him, picking up his utensils but not yet starting to eat. Wade squints suspiciously at his hands, long, elegant fingers deftly holding the flatware. What is he waiting for?
“Do what?” Wade asks vaguely, reaching up to the edge of his mask and carefully bringing it up over the bridge of his nose. Peter visibly relaxes, even though his posture doesn’t slacken. The reaction is just jarring enough that Wade’s hands hover awkwardly over his plate before he scoops up his fork, realizing what the photographer is waiting for. “Oh, gross, you’re so polite,” he notes, but now he’s smirking.
“The compliments. It’s really not necessary,” the smaller man says simply, and looks down at himself with a quirked brow. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with being polite?” he adds, smiling lopsidedly and narrowing his gaze as Wade busies himself filling his fork with potatoes and broccoli. Peter still waits for Wade to take the first bite before he starts digging in, clearly restraining himself from moving any faster, now focused on the food.
“Nothing, it’s just… Weirdly sweet?” the mercenary chuckles through a mouthful, and Peter laughs.
Good job barreling right past the compliment thing. We’re gonna do it again, right? Right? the boxes demand impatiently, and Wade wonders why they can’t be on his side all the time. Don’t look at us, you literally do this to yourself.
“Listen, my aunt and uncle raised me right, okay?” Peter assures him, smiling faintly and taking a bite of chicken once he’s cut a few pieces small enough.
Wade hums thoughtfully, already on another bite of food. He’d made a lot, really, since he’d seen how much Peter could get through, and he himself could easily clear the table if given the chance. Not that he technically needs to eat right now, he’s not healing anything and his cells are always going cancerously haywire anyway. “You mentioned them before,” he begins cautiously, testing the waters as he recalls their second meeting, when he’d inadvertently gotten a lot of personal information out of the brunet without intending to. He still feels a bit bad about it.
Yeah, you fucking dick, what was that about? He might be really cute when he’s flustered or sad or whatever, but we’re supposed to woo him, not dredge up childhood trauma and death!
Wade winces. They’re right, of course, but he really hopes Peter isn’t holding that against him.
“Yeah, they um. Took over when my folks took off,” he explains carefully, eying Wade sideways when he makes that little sound. “Ben let me get away with a lot more when it came to manners, but he always put on a show for May.” He smiles fondly at the memory, and Wade sighs silently with his relief. Not terrible memories, then.
“Are you putting on a show for lil ol’ me?” Wade teases, and delights in the way Peter flushes at the suggestion, despite his rolling eyes, which includes a little follow through with his head.
“You obviously worked pretty hard here, I just… wanna show you that I appreciate it, is all,” Peter explains awkwardly, chewing his next bite a little slower. Wade peeks at the other man’s plate, surprised he’d somehow gotten through half of it while Wade had been distracted. He’s impressed, and has to wonder how a skinny little guy like Peter, who is obviously swimming in that button-down already (Even if his shoulders fill enough of it, hot damn.), can inhale food like he does. An unpleasant jumble of thoughts occurs to him, but he pushes it down before the boxes can latch onto any.
“I’m flattered,” Wade coos, and watches Peter pointedly slow further down, avoiding Wade’s attention with one hand sliding to his knee under the table. “…Y’know in some places, it’s considered rude to have your hands under the table, out of sight. You could be doing any number of shady things down there with those spindly fingers of yours.”
Peter chokes slightly, quickly bringing his hand up to set it on the tablecloth, another little detail Wade is proud of putting out tonight. “Where?” he asks, bewildered.
“Buncha places in Europe,” Wade says lightly, conveniently forgetting specifics and resting his elbow on the table, languidly guiding another bite into his mouth as the color crawls back up Peter’s neck. Is it really this easy? Clearly he’s been wearing too many layers around Wade, covering up too much of his neck and chest. The merc needs to find ways to undress this man more frequently.
How else are we gonna get in those pants?
“Oh, shit, not like that ,” Wade mumbles, nearly dropping his forkful of food as the boxes dissolve into childish giggles.
“Hm?” Peter intones with a particularly large mouthful bulging one cheek, blinking owlishly at the taller man, and Wade can’t resist dramatically clutching at his heart, dropping his fork onto his plate after all to throw the back of his gloved hand up to his forehead and swoon. Peter makes an amused face as he starts chewing again, waiting patiently for Wade to right himself from sliding down in his seat.
“Nothing, nothing. Just super into the way you do things, Petey-Pie,” Wade sighs, and when he smiles, Peter’s big brown eyes lock onto his lips, and that just makes him grin instead. “It’s rude to stare, Pumpkin,” he adds slyly, and Peter’s eyes snap back to the eyes of his Deadpool mask.
“Hypocrite,” he says after swallowing his food, offering a little smirk.
-
-
-
“You can sit closer if you want,” Peter tells Wade after they’ve retired to the couch, dinner eaten up until the baking dishes and tray were empty, and the cake now missing several pieces.
Wade has handed Peter a can of soda, one for himself in hand as he shifts to get comfortable in his usual corner of the couch, pushed up against an arm. It’s a little unceremonious, probably, to have soda right after a nice dinner and dessert, but Wade needs to replace the coffee carafe he’d smashed during an episode several weeks ago, and Peter had enthusiastically accepted his offer of the sugary caffeine. He looks at his soda, and then to Peter on the other end of the couch, sitting on one of his legs, shoes discarded by the door just before they’d cut into the cake.
The way Peter sits feels familiar, but he’s pretty sure lots of people sit like that all the time, so he doesn’t waste much time dwelling on it, ignoring the niggling in his brain until it fades. The smaller man’s socks are striped with red and black and Wade has been trying not to take it personally in the best way. Peter slowly leans back against the plush couch cushions, slotting easily into them, and regards Wade sideways, head tilted and stupidly fluffy hair falling just slightly over his forehead. He’s taken the glasses off, too, and Wade gets the full experience of his bare face and his precious little freckles.
Can’t even count them, too many, too small, the boxes sigh, and Wade has to agree that it would be an entertaining and distracting endeavor, though he’s currently making a good starting effort. It’s not like he’s made any headway counting and cataloging Spidey’s freckles, anyway; lately he’s been keeping his mask down a lot, faster to cover up after eating. Not that Wade blames him, he knows the mask stays on longer as the weather starts to cool off, and summer’s on the way out. Wade realizes Peter is waiting for him to respond, halfway to cracking open his soda can, and the half-masked merc sputters.
“Whaaa… yeaaahh,” Wade slurs incomprehensibly, and Peter quirks a brow, one corner of his mouth tugged into a half-smile that shifts right into a smirk as Wade awkwardly lifts himself up and shuffles more toward the center of the couch.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Peter comments evenly, quick to open his soda and take a sip, watching Wade out of the corner of his eye. When the mercenary’s exposed mouth falls uselessly open and nothing comes out, he clarifies. “Shy.”
Called out, Wade snaps his jaw shut and drums scarred fingers on his can, planting his socked feet flat on the hardwood floor. He’d taken the apron off after they’d eaten, and now he wishes he’d left it on so he could fiddle with the frills and occupy his free hand with something other than the strings of his hood. He’d taken it down before cutting the cake, and suddenly wants to put it back up, give himself even just one more flimsy layer between his ugly face and Peter’s unrelenting eyes. His pretty, puppy dog eyes. He’d be proving him right, though, and Wade tries to tell himself he has a reputation to uphold. A reputation he shouldn’t remind Peter of, oh shit—
“Says the man who turns pink at the drop of a kind word,” Wade counters, and immediately curses himself for it.
What the fuck is wrong with us? Don’t point that out, what if it just pisses him off!
Peter’s lips part slightly, eyebrows raised, and he blinks a few times, and Wade definitely isn’t a little smug when aforementioned pink creeps up from the skin revealed between Peter’s undone shirt buttons and higher up his neck. Peter breathes in sharply, smiling like he’s trying not to. “Touché,” he says quietly, and sips his soda. “You can still sit closer,” he amends innocently, eyes still on the Deadpool mask as he looks at him from underneath his eyelashes.
“Foul tempter,” Wade mutters half-heartedly, and Peter flashes a wicked grin and a sharp canine. He’ll take it, this is a win, Peter is inviting his ugly ass to come closer and Wade hadn’t even had to sneak such proximity through humor or excuses. Is this moving too fast? Shit, the last time he’d been able to do this with someone, he’d first met them when he was handsome and had hair and could grow a beard. (We kept it stubbly at best.) He’d had a few wham-bam-thank-you-ma’ams since then, he isn’t ashamed to admit he’s paid for it before — even ugly freaks have needs — but he’d kept most of himself covered, only pulling out the Main Event, so to speak. He hasn’t even really kissed someone in years, and he’s not sure how many years ago it had been. Time becomes telescopic when you both die and come back regularly.
And now he’s thinking about kissing Peter Parker, beautiful and smart and eye-rolling Peter Parker. A regular guy who deigns to give Wade not only the time of day, but his company. Willingly. If Wade could let himself believe it, he even gives Wade those things happily . This is only their first date—
Is it a date? Does he know you think it’s a date? Are we fooling ourselves and we’re just having a really delicious meal and hanging out with a friend? Are we so delusional we think he’s romantically interested in our hideous ass?
“Don’t,” Wade growls to himself, ducking his head as he does, but Peter tilts his own at a more drastic angle, gaze narrowing minutely and vaguely reminding Wade of someone he can’t quite put his finger on, how is he doing that? Wade bites his cheek and shakes his head, facing the brunet again. “Not you, sorry.”
“I didn’t think you meant me,” Peter says quietly, still studying Wade’s mask. He takes another sip of his soda. “You good?”
Wade’s chest pinches, and it’s for the best that he can’t really suffer long term effects from cardiac events, because he might be having a tiny coronary. Just a little one. He’s embarrassed, sure, but there’s a comfortable relief in Peter’s distinct lack of reaction to Wade’s muttering that he’s already grateful for and doesn’t want to question. It’s not the first time tonight, but it’s also not the first time since they’d met that Peter had let him be when he’d clearly heard Wade respond to something internal.
“Yeah,” he says, voice hitching. He clears his throat and lets himself relax back, only a few inches between himself and Peter, who smiles warmly. “I’m good.”
“So are you gonna put on a movie, or am I gonna kick your ass in your favorite video game of choice?”
“Bold of you to assume I’m capable of choosing a favorite game.”
“Whatever,” the brunet snorts with mock derision, gently pushing at Wade’s shoulder. “I’m still gonna beat you. I won’t do that ‘let’s play’ stuff and watch you plow through some single-player thing while I sit and screw around on my phone.” Peter leans forward to set his soda can on the low coffee table, sliding a coaster under it first. A man after Wade’s heart. (That is mahogany!!) Even Wade has things he wants to treat nicely sometimes, things that aren’t even weapons!
Wade scoffs, setting a hand on his chest, jutting out his lower lip. “I’m offended you’d even suggest I’d sideline you like some teenage dirtbag, Handsome. I will wipe the floor with your sorry ass in Mario Kart, though.”
Peter’s eyes flash with mischief, and he grins slowly, flashing his sharp canines. Uh-oh. “Careful, that’s a challenge, and I played an inordinate amount of Mario Kart in high school. And middle school.”
“God, you’re an infant,” Wade teases lightly, but Peter’s grin falters. Wade had fully expected to be teased in turn, something about how Wade must be an old man, or not to underestimate Peter’s youth or something, but the photographer looks nervous.
“I’m not—,” Peter protests apprehensively. Wade nearly panics, his own wry smile slipping until Peter goes on. “I’m not too young for you.”
Now that throws him. Peter’s big doe eyes are pleading, and it looks like he’s going to hurt himself with how hard he bites his bottom lip as he leans over slightly, jaw set. The boxes screech with panic and completely inappropriate horniness.
“Y-you’re 24, right?” Wade says carefully, the boxes screaming at him unintelligibly. “You’re not too young for me, Pumpkin. I’m, uh, to be honest I didn’t think… you were, uh.” (Get it together, he’s watching us with those goddamned gorgeous eyes and you’re gonna make him cry! If you make him cry we’ll never be able to fix it!) “Were serious,” he finally admits, and is it hot in here? He’s sweating. Wade is definitely sweating. “I didn’t think you actually… I mean, I mean it, I just wasn’t sure if you really—.” His throat hurts, dry and tight. “If you were into it.”
Peter’s brow furrows deeply, and he frees his lower lip, now swollen and red. “What,” he says flatly.
“I didn’t know if you were really interested,” Wade reiterates hoarsely. He finally cracks open his soda and starts chugging it, both for something to do with his hands and to stop his mouth from digging him any deeper into this chasm of humiliation and uncertainty. Deadpool isn’t a coward, but Wade Wilson might be. Peter waits for him to finish, still with his brow dipped, and Wade wishes he’d drop it. Of course, he doesn’t.
“I accepted your invitation, didn’t I?” Peter asks with a tone Wade can’t identify, and that makes him freshly nervous, but Peter is still leaning in. “Your dinner date invitation,” he adds meaningfully, one brow quirking up. “To your home. Where you made me dinner.”
“And dessert,” Wade mumbles.
“And dessert.”
Wade’s knee starts bouncing, because if it doesn’t, he’s going to start wringing his hands like some weenie in a teen movie finally one-on-one with a love interest. Oh god, what counts as first base, again?? “Yeah, I guess you did.”
“You… think I don’t wanna be here?” Peter asks uncertainly, and he looks between the eyes of the Deadpool mask again before dropping his gaze to Wade’s mouth.
Wade presses his lips into a thin line, swallowing thickly. Peter’s eyes briefly dip to follow the line of his throat, and Wade ignores a swirl of arousal in his belly.
Is—? Is Peter ogling us? Use your words, big guy, maybe he’ll do that thing where he bites his lip again—!
“I dunno,” he says eventually, to a chorus of internal disapproval. This isn’t scrutiny he’s used to by any measure. People stare when he has the mask off, they stare when he shows enough skin, they stare when he’s wielding a weapon and they’re obviously his next target. The way Peter is looking at him is distantly familiar, reminiscent of days he would look someone else right in the eye without the mask on and without immortality and without boxes in his head telling him every damned day that he isn’t worthy of being looked at unaltered. That he isn’t worthy of being seen without some sort of filter between himself and whoever is looking on. “Do you?”
Peter scowls, or tries to, anyway. It’s definitely coming off like a pout, and Wade’s traitorous heart does a little handspring in his stupid aching chest. The boxes hush as the brunet speaks again, anticipating the response.
“Of course I do.”
Wade mindlessly crushes the empty soda can in his hand, but doesn’t otherwise move.
As if to prove his point, Peter stubbornly lifts himself up enough to scoot right up against Wade’s side, thigh to thigh — this guy has to work out, there’s barely any give when their bodies meet — giving a little huff as he leans against Wade, arms folded tightly over his chest as he sets his head on Wade’s shoulder. He pauses, pulling upright just enough to look around, and then tugs a black blanket off the back of the couch from his former corner and takes a moment to open it from the lazy folding job, draping it over their laps and promptly lying back against Wade.
Wade weakly tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt, breath refusing to come normally, overheated from a horrible combination of sheer joy and a slew of very naughty thoughts. He can smell Peter’s fruity body wash, feel his soft hair brush his bare chin when Wade looks down at him. He’s not sure when Peter had grabbed the remote, but he holds it up for Wade, and he takes it.
“Movie instead,” Peter says decisively, and Wade really, really hopes it’s because he wants to stay where he is instead of separate enough to use a controller and very possibly kick his ass playing Mario Kart. He wonders which character Peter likes to play and hopes there’s a next time where he finds out.
“Yeah,” Wade says in barely a whisper, numbly taking the remote from Peter’s hand, nerves alight where his glove makes contact with Peter’s lithe fingers. He now wishes he’d shucked the gloves, but even with Peter seemingly so comfortable, he’s not sure he won’t scare him off. Peter doesn’t know how bad it really is, how all-encompassing the Freddy Krueger horror is. He can’t risk exposing it too quickly. This is already a win, and if he takes what he can get now, he might have something to cling to when the other shoe inevitably drops. When he turns the TV on and chooses a streaming service, Peter startles him by pushing up slightly again and frowning as he grabs Wade’s closest arm, positioning it over his shoulders and settling even closer against him with a short hum, satisfied.
Wade is going to die. Maybe he’ll die and come back without moving, because he definitely isn’t moving now, his arm limply hanging over the smaller man’s shoulders, hand brushing down to Peter’s inner elbow, such is the difference in their size. He knows Peter isn’t actually tiny, even if he’s a little bit short, but Wade is 6’3” out of his boots and Peter sure feels small and firm and like maybe he’s supposed to fit against Wade right where he is. He puts on some thriller or other with actors he recognizes, and Peter hums his approval. Wade does his best to pay attention because if he doesn’t he’ll gape at Peter the whole time and it seems like Peter likes whatever the movie is supposed to be.
It doesn’t work, of course, because maybe twenty minutes in, Peter’s breathing has slowed and he’s started slipping, arms looser from where he’d kept them tightly crossed against his chest. He’s sliding ever so slowly — an agonizing, nerve-wracking pace that has Wade’s entire form rigid with disbelieving hope — into Wade’s lap. Asleep. Peter has fallen asleep against a trained killer with skin like a topographical map of the moon got spray painted with a nauseated, colorblind monkey’s interpretation of human skin tone. Against Wade. Now with his shoulder, folded arms, and head lying on the mercenary’s thighs, only a thin fleece blanket and their equally thin clothes between them.
Don’t get a boner, don’t get a boner, don’t get a boner, he tells himself, not even prompted by the boxes. Just the smell of Froot Loops and cinnamon, Peter’s warm body and slight weight — he’s just a little heavier than one might expect, which must be all that dense muscle he’s hiding under his clothes, but he’s certainly not notably heavy — and the incredible temptation to push hands through the mess of brown hair Wade knows is soft just from the look of it, and the way it had tickled his jaw earlier.
This is good. Peter clearly doesn’t get enough sleep. Wade can’t wake him for that reason alone. Not because this fulfills some weird unspoken need, not because it’s the most positive extended contact Wade’s had in years, and not because if he touches Peter’s hair with an ungloved hand he’ll really learn what it feels like against his sensitive skin.
Don’t be a creep, the boxes say, but they don’t add anything else, and Wade wonders if he could get them to shut up this easily just by being fascinated by the man in his lap more often. Unlikely, but a girl can dream.
Well. Maybe he can risk it. He may never get another chance, after all. Peter could wake up, realize where he is and whose lap he’s half-cradled in, and then examine his life choices and tell Wade to fuck off while he storms out the door, never to be seen again. Wade’s pulse picks up, and he rubs a gloved hand over his half-masked face before deciding: fuck it.
With his free hand, he bites the end of the middle finger of his glove, tugging it off. He throws it over the back of the couch and wiggles his fingers in anticipation. Okay. Just. A very gentle touch. Won’t even graze his scalp. Just confirming it’s as downy and light as it looks. For science. Peter’s a science nerd, right? He would totally appreciate this reasoning. Hypothesis: Peter Parker’s hair is softer than a basket of fuzzy ducklings.
Like a movie super spy checking a wall for a pressure panel in some top secret facility, he delicately brushes just the tips of his fingers over top of the first centimeter of Peter’s rich brown hair. He chomps down on his tongue almost hard enough to draw blood just to stop himself from whining. It is soft! It’s so soft he almost reflexively dunks his face in it, like he would a cat revealing its belly, only Peter probably doesn’t have claws to sink into Wade’s tender flesh in retaliation.
Pulling his hand back quickly, he tries to control his breathing so he doesn’t jostle the photographer awake, and Peter only stirs once, shifting to press more into Wade’s side and up against his chest, probably chasing his unnatural warmth. Carefully, he lifts his hand again, and this time dares to card it properly through Peter’s hair, lower and closer this time, the strands threading between his fingers and lightly tickling his marbled skin. Wade holds his breath as he repeats the motion, just a light tug that he doesn’t dare push further, despite how tempting it is.
Peter makes a small, soft sound in his sleep, and Wade pauses, still with his hand in his hair just above the smaller man’s ear. He waits for a beat, and when Peter gives no sign of waking, he continues with a tiny smile on his lips. He pets Peter’s hair for a long time, moving his fingers all over his head, making sure not to leave any strand unattended or make any one spot too sensitive from over attention. He easily tunes out the movie, and habitually notes there are a few tiny scars scattered over Peter’s scalp. Nothing bigger than an inch, and remarkably none of them interrupt the pattern of Peter’s hair growth. Wade never would’ve known they were there if he weren’t looking right at them this closely. There’s bound to be a story or two, but Wade has to fight a distant desire to fuck up whoever gave them to the smaller man.
Whoever dared lay a finger on Petey-Pie.
Once or twice he lightly scrapes blunt nails over Peter’s scalp after all, but each time it just makes him nuzzle a little closer to Wade, and the mercenary wants very badly to weep tears of joy, but he knows it’ll make his huge chest heave and Peter will wake. Can’t risk it, these are the most peaceful two hours of Wade’s life and he’s going to cling to them for as long as possible. Peter turns slightly a moment later, but settles again, both legs tucked under the blanket when he does, and when he sighs at length in his sleep, Wade pretends it’s just for him.
-
-
-
Peter awakens groggily, warm and surprisingly comfortable even though he’s definitely lying at a weird angle and definitely not in his bed. But experience tells him if he were somewhere he really didn’t want to be, he would probably be waking up upright and unable to move, so wherever he is doesn’t inspire survival mode. Whatever dream he’d been having slips away in a fog as he drags himself back into consciousness. It’s a nice change of pace not to wake up from a nightmare.
He sits halfway up slowly, feeling like he’s underwater, blinking blearily at rolling credits on a large TV screen. Large TV screen? He doesn’t even have a TV.
Panic grips him momentarily, and he sits bolt upright, a blanket sliding off his shoulder as he smacks a hand over the center of his chest. Fuck, he even slept in his binder. His ribs are really going to ache the rest of the night. He’s really lucky he’s got advanced healing, as incomparable as it is to a real healing factor like Deadpool’s—
“Wade!” he says, mouth tacky, and someone hums directly next to him. Peter turns, vision slightly fuzzy from his comfortable sleep, and blinks at Wade’s Deadpool mask pulled halfway up. Wade waves with the gloved fingers of one hand, the other tucked under his leg.
“Heya, Pete,” the man greets cheerily. “How’re ya doin’, sleepyhead?”
Peter relaxes almost instantaneously, groaning as he rubs tiredly at his face. At least he’d put his glasses away earlier, it’s always awkward to realize he’d nearly crushed them when he’d fallen asleep in a textbook or on the subway. “How long was I asleep?” he asks, voice raspy and low enough he doesn’t have to affect it for the moment.
“About two hours, give or take. You lasted like 20 minutes into the movie.” Wade’s voice is a little tight, but he relaxes when Peter meets his mask’s eyes.
“Did the good guys win?”
“Uh. Yes?” Wade decides after a moment, grinning a little too wide. Peter nods sagely, and Wade lightly holds his upper arm when he sways, sitting back on his heels, knelt at the mercenary’s side on the couch. “Hope you don’t mind, but uh. I didn’t wanna wake you, so… you slept… in, uh. My lap,” the man goes on cautiously, head angled slightly so he can gauge Peter’s reaction.
“Oh, dang,” Peter says simply, and smiles faintly. “Sorry. I guess it caught up to me. Been sleeping pretty badly.”
Wade makes a high pitched dismissive sound, waving his gloved hand airily, frowning in a don’t worry about it sort of way.
Stretching his arms high over his head, Peter groans again, not as stiff as he thought he’d be after falling asleep on a couch. He’s still warm, but that’s not surprising, considering Wade’s healing factor has him running a fever basically all the time. Apparently it makes him a fantastic pillow for napping. Peter may need to take advantage of it a lot more as the days get colder. Oh. Right. If Wade lets him, he hadn’t exactly asked to be trapped under Peter while he slept, like someone afraid to move a cat who’d chosen to get comfortable. Lowering his arms, he languidly runs a hand through his hair and pauses. He must’ve mussed it in his sleep, he’s usually pretty mobile. He hopes Wade isn’t downplaying his discomfort being Peter’s nap lap.
He snorts a little. “Nap lap,” he mumbles aloud, still out of it. But he slides off of the couch and rolls his shoulders, Wade watching him all the while. “Dinner was awesome,” he compliments as he stretches again, this time needing to bend forward and touch his toes, breathing out all the air in his lungs and splaying his hands on Wade’s polished hardwood floor. Polished hardwood? Intact, no dents or scrapes or splinters? Damn, this place is swanky. He breathes in again as he brings himself back upright, and pauses as he catches Wade staring. With a little smirk, he sets a hand on his hip and fluffs his hair again.
“Can I help you?” he teases, and maybe he’s also blushing. Wade had definitely been watching him stretch. It does something to the back of his neck and low in his belly, a fluttery sensation, but he focuses on watching Wade’s mouth pinch.
“Nope, I’m alllll good here, Legs,” the taller man says slowly, and Peter flashes him a playful grin. “Should, uh. Am I calling you a cab? It’s a little late for the subway. Nice boy like you could invite trouble at this hour.”
“I live very dangerously,” Peter jokes, and tries not to sound too much like he’s also disappointed. He’s not exactly a sex-on-the-first-date kind of guy for a multitude of reasons, but part of him wants to hang around longer. He’d let Spider-Man have the night off on purpose. Spider-Man had even mentioned to Deadpool that he has plans for this evening and won’t be on patrol. Deadpool had blurted that he has a date himself and that New York would probably be okay for one night without them. Peter feels a little guilty for abandoning the city for selfish reasons, but he hadn’t exactly taken a night off in… months, it seems. Oh hell, he’s going to need to focus a lot more time on his thesis starting tomorrow.
“Yeah, well. If you could not live dangerously late at night in the middle of New York, I’d appreciate it. For the sake of my poor little heart, huh?” Wade says, and his smile is warm and worried, and Peter feels heat in his cheeks.
“Aw,” he coos, smiling slyly. “Wade, that’s really sweet of you, but I’ll be okay. Besides, I don’t wanna put you out any more, you already fed me an amazing home-cooked meal.”
Wade cups his gloved hand around his mouth and stage whispers, “And a chocolate cake.”
“And a chocolate cake,” Peter amends with a smirk. “Wade.” The smirk falls and he holds his arms over his chest, squeezing his biceps and standing between the coffee table and the mercenary sitting on the couch, almost between Wade’s comfortably open knees. Wade hasn’t moved from his spot, one hand still under his leg, and Peter wonders if it’s fallen asleep. Wouldn’t his healing factor fix that pretty fast?
“Uh. Thank you. Seriously. I haven’t… I haven’t been out in a while, and I haven’t dated in— longer,” Peter goes on haltingly, chewing his cheek and no longer able to hold the man’s blank gaze. “This was really nice. But you don’t hafta do this,” he says, gesturing to the table and kitchen, the cake back in the fridge, “for me to want to hang out. You went pretty hard.” He smiles again, because Wade is starting to look like he thinks he’s in trouble, the eyes of his mask wide. “Not that I didn’t like it!” he assures, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It was awesome, seriously. I just mean, we can… hang out. I just like spending time with you, y’know?” Ugh, he feels like his face is on fire and he wants to flee. This isn’t even that vulnerable but he feels strangely exposed being forward like this. Spider-Man may seem fearless, but Peter Parker is an anxious coward.
“Okay,” Wade says softly, and Peter huffs a nervous laugh. “I have a confession,” he adds hastily, and Peter watches with raised eyebrows, waiting. “I. Put my hand in your hair. I played with your hair. While you slept. Didn’t ask, just did it.” He cringes, grimacing as he turns his face away, expecting Peter to be angry or disgusted. He’d laid hand(s?) on him without direct consent, after all, and consent is even one of Wade’s Big Things. He’d even backed off on slapping Spidey’s butt, despite how chill the hero seems to be with it these days.
“Okay?” Peter says blankly, confused. “And I fell asleep in your lap. I didn’t ask if I could do that.” He pauses, and bites his lower lip. “Or uh, cuddle. Before.”
“I don’t mind that you— cuddled.”
“I don’t mind that you played with my hair.”
They look at each other, apparently both wary only of themselves. Maybe it isn’t as big a deal as they’d both expected. It does leave both of them wearing awkward smiles, like two kids confessing to a mutual crush. Maybe that’s what they were doing, anyway.
“You can, uh. Cuddle me. Whenever you want,” Wade informs him carefully, scratching his exposed jaw with his bare hand, pulled up from under his leg. Peter doesn’t realize he’s staring at it until Wade realizes he’s not feeling leather on his face, but his actual, human nails.
“FUCK,” he blurts, scrambling up to his feet and shoving his bare hand into his hoodie pocket, looking around wildly for his other glove. Peter startles out of the way, but tries to help, looking under the coffee table and then the couch, spying it on the other side of the furniture. He hops over the back of it rather than going around, picking it up and tossing it to Wade in one fluid motion. Wade catches it and turns around to face away from Peter as he frantically pulls it back on.
Peter is genuinely miffed Wade is so upset about having just one hand exposed, but he feels terrible for staring like he had. It hadn’t been out of disgust or shock, not really, just a strange warm feeling of something like triumph: Wade had put his bare hand in Peter’s hair. He’d wanted to feel Peter’s hair with his bare skin, not just play with it. He knows he must be bright red when Wade turns to him again, and he briefly can’t meet his gaze, a sinking mortification in his chest that Wade might think he’s just another asshole who’s judging or put off by him.
“You can—!” the brunet quickly squeaks, and has to clear his throat, bringing his gaze back to… the full Deadpool mask. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “You can play with my hair. Whenever you want,” he says honestly, dejected as he takes a ragged breath, rubbing his upper arm. He keeps putting his arms between his chest and Wade, and he internally curses himself for the reflexive nerves that maybe make it seem like the barrier is about Wade and not… himself. “I, um. I like it when someone plays with my hair.”
The Deadpool mask is neutral, but Wade’s posture is rigid, and Peter knows he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big time. There’s no way Wade isn’t taking this personally, regardless of Peter’s words, so Peter steels himself and does something risky. His spider-sense is silent, anyway, so whatever’s going through Wade’s head, there’s no current threat of danger. He climbs over the back of the couch again, jaw set with determination as he takes the most direct path to get in front of Wade — hopefully not just Deadpool the lethal mercenary — who watches him in silence, following his movements with his entire head until Peter is standing on the couch cushion in front of him.
“Sorry I stared,” the smaller man says quietly, painfully sincere, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wants to touch Wade somewhere, a shoulder, his chest, his upper arm. He’d love to set it against his nape, since it had such an effect back at Peter’s place. His mouth falls open again, and he searches between the unmoving white eyes of the mask. “I’m sorry I was asleep for it,” he adds even quieter, reaching to rub the back of his neck since he doesn’t think he should touch Wade right now, eyes drifting aside and shame blossoming over his skin. It’s a lot easier to say intimate or serious things in the Spider-Man suit, when every inch of him is hidden behind modified spandex and his expressions and stupid fucking blushing can’t be seen.
“I’ve, um, imagined it a few times. I’d like to experience it while I’m conscious sometime, y’know?” Oh god, oh god , why is Peter Parker such a fucking dweeb? Why can’t he do the Spider-Man thing and say that as excitedly as he really wants to? Yeah, it’s all a little embarrassing, but he really likes Wade. He likes the way Wade treats him with utmost sincerity and barely concealed horniness. When Wade flirts, Peter doesn’t feel like it’s a joke. Wade isn’t flirting with Spider-Man when he’s flirting with him, he’s just flirting with Peter Parker. Very few people have ever been into Peter Parker the way Wade makes a point to be.
“Are you shitting me?” Wade’s tone is low and cold, and Peter deflates, lolling his head forward and hugging his arms to his chest again. Wade must not believe him. Peter had screwed up so much tonight in the span of three seconds. “You knew what the problem was, you jumped to help me find the glove.”
“I— yeah. I did.” Not that he agrees it had been a problem. Peter’s face burns, and he would tug at his shirt if he could pry his fingers from his arms. At least he has the guts to look at the Deadpool mask through his lashes, grinding his teeth. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
“Peter.”
He doesn’t flinch, exactly, but he does shiver. Wade barely uses his regular, full name, and as much as he grudgingly likes the pet names, hearing it in Wade’s deep, gravelly voice definitely does something to him. What horrible timing for his stupid hormonal libido. Does he need to space out his shots better? Or, fuck, is he late?
“I’m not mad.”
Peter lifts his chin, brow furrowed and gaze disbelieving. His grip tightens on his arms, and if he’d been grabbing anyone else, it would bruise.
“I didn’t have to ask. I was panicking, you helped.” Wade’s voice is still low, but the coldness is gone. Now he seems… thoughtful. Peter holds his breath as the mercenary goes on, moving so comfortably when he reaches up to set a gloved hand on the side of Peter’s face, the brunet’s knees threatening to give out. He can feel Wade’s warmth radiating through the glove, and Peter sighs, mindlessly leaning into it. He would be a great electric blanket on cold winter mornings. “Could I… call you tomorrow?”
Peter nods vigorously, sucking in a breath and easing his nerves, bewildered that this hadn’t spiraled, he hadn’t destroyed one of the only close relationships he’d been able to foster for himself as just boring Peter Parker in years. “Yeah. Yes. Of course,” he says enthusiastically, and Wade gently runs his thumb over his cheekbone, making Peter crack a grin. When Wade moves to pull away again, Peter finally frees his own arms to put his hand over his and keep it there. Wade obliges him, and rubs lightly behind his ear. “Wanna see your contact pic?” the brunet asks with some mischief, and Wade smiles beneath his mask, enough that Peter can tell he’s doing it.
“Hell yeah I do, Cutie,” Wade says brightly, and Peter’s heart soars as he reaches into his back pocket to fish his phone out. Had he slept with it back there? Dumb. He keeps his hand over Wade’s on his face all the while, which seems to entertain the other man. It just feels nice.
Tapping in his passcode quickly, he gets to Wade’s contact and holds it up to show him. It’s Wade halfway to pulling off his second boot in Peter’s apartment, one Cap shield sock visible while he works on the remaining shoe. He’s only standing on one foot, of course, and Peter really adores the way he'd captured Wade just looking up to Peter when he’d snapped the photo. “You rascal,” the merc muses, pushing the hand on Peter’s face into his hair to ruffle it, getting a snort out of the shorter man.
“Stop, stop,” Peter half-heartedly protests, swatting at him. “Here. Let me get a better one,” he says, switching to the camera because he’s absolutely going to get one for his lock screen and keep the stupid boot one for Wade’s contact. He turns slightly on the couch, leaning back into Wade’s shoulder, and Wade lets him, leaning forward slightly to make sure he won’t tip over. In selfie portrait mode, he tucks his face next to Wade’s mask and grins, his hair obviously a wild tangle of fluffy brown curls, but he doesn’t care.
“Say, ‘Spider-Man!’” Peter dares to joke, closing one eye and sticking out his tongue while Wade flashes a peace sign as he absolutely complies. He gets two “for safety,” and then takes a few seconds to assign his lock and home screen photos. He’ll get a different one for the home screen when he’s feeling brave again.
“Can I please call you a cab?” Wade asks, sounding like a kicked puppy. He throws in a couple of comical whines for good measure, and Peter’s face screws up as he sighs dramatically.
“Fine, yes. I’ll take a cab home. And you’ll call me tomorrow, right?”
“Oh, fuck yeah. You said I could, no takesies-backsies!”
“You can text me too. Y’know, whenever,” Peter says honestly, shrugging like it’s not a big deal. But it’s a Really Big Deal.
After Wade sends someone a message, probably the same cabbie that had gotten them both to Peter’s apartment last time — Dopinder, he thinks — Peter hovers just outside his door with his coat over his arm, hoodie preemptively pulled back on. He doesn’t wait for permission when he rushes forward and wraps arms around Wade’s massive chest, fingers locking at his back as he gives him a squeeze, narrowly avoiding throwing in super strength in his enthusiasm. Wade hesitates, but he leans his head down atop Peter’s puff of messy hair and returns the hug, a little lighter than Peter does, under the impression an ordinary person like Peter Parker might snap even under his less than super (but still impressive, Peter’s libido reminds him) strength. It doesn’t matter that he won’t, Wade is worried about him and Peter only pulls away to get on his tip toes and peck Wade’s masked cheek before darting down the hall with a short, mischievous cackle before Wade can react. Sucker.
Notes:
thanks for all the comments and kudos and bookmarks, oh my!! ♪(´▽｀) i'm so glad folks are enjoying this. i'm excited for the smut but that's still a few chapters away. also i guess i'll warn you now that i am wordy af with smut. so many words.
Chapter 6: [6] Copycat
Summary:
Spider-Man ropes Deadpool in on the activity at the docks. Wade does a late night check up on Peter at his studio apartment.
6224 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for mentioned human experimentation/implied past torture.
Have some plot, as a treat. This is the shortest chapter in the entire fic. It's all uphill from here, folks. Next chapter is 7.3k+, then 7.4+, and then a whopping 11.4+
We don't even go below 10k+ until chapter 13 (7.9k+). A reminder, the longest chapter is 17k+ so uhhhhhhhh be prepared, that's chapter 14. Because I can't say fewer words. Y'all will see. (✿◕‿◕✿)
Chapter Text
Several weeks pass and Peter Parker has never been more comfortable being himself. Spider-Man is doing well, of course; he’s always improved by upticks in his personal life.
A few years ago, there had been a blissful two months of Peter being unusually happy and sleeping well and socializing regularly, but he can’t really explain or remember why there had been an equally disastrous three months after that. Spider-Man had fumbled nearly every time he’d gone out on the streets that whole time and he’d taken a few dozen extra bad hits as a result, but eventually things had slid back into whatever Peter’s “normal” once qualified as up until recently. Now he’s on the upswing again — pun intended — and he’ll take what he can get if it means Spider-Man is on top of his game and Peter Parker now gets near-daily time with Wade Wilson.
Even patrolling with Deadpool has been going smoothly. The merc is cheery as usual, and Spider-Man sees him fall into fewer lows, even when things get… rowdy. He overtly hits on the smaller super less and less, but Peter still catches him admiring his form or his quick-thinking, and their banter hasn’t faltered an ounce, which Spidey is particularly grateful for. Spider-Man is a talker both to annoy enemies and to keep himself from getting too scared in hard situations. You can’t risk bad guys knowing when you’re rattled, another good reason he wears a full mask and you can’t see his eyes.
He tries to tell himself it’s because Wade is just doing better, but he wants to give himself some of the credit, because every time Peter and Wade say goodbye for the night and Spider-Man meets up with Deadpool to patrol the city, Wade seems like he’s coming off of a happy high that he rides into duty. Spider-Man might be confident, but Peter hasn’t felt real pride in a long time, and he wants to believe he’s been making Wade happy.
Spider-Man is out again tonight, and even though he hadn’t spent time with Wade that afternoon, he’s still in a spectacular mood at the prospect of hanging out with Deadpool now. Deadpool has even been steadily more and more comfortable leaving half his face exposed in front of Spidey, another thing to which Peter desperately hopes he contributes. Wade hasn’t made a self-deprecating joke about his appearance in a month, and every time he makes some crack, it’s about his mental health instead.
Okay, so internalized ableism isn’t exactly a triumph, but it’s still an improvement from his inclination to tackle multiple aspects of his self-hatred when he’s quipping with the webhead, or fighting hired muscle and amateur criminals.
They don’t necessarily plan their patrols together, they’ve just been teaming up for so long that it's a habit by now to seek one another out. It’s still usually Deadpool tracking down Spider-Man within half an hour of him swinging through the streets, or texting his work phone to check in, but he’s given up being concerned about it. Wade is still an expert mercenary, and the only times he worries about him knowing something Spidey’s not ready to share is when they’re just Peter and Wade. Because Peter has two secrets from Wade Wilson, and one of them he can get away with a lot longer than the other, because things are getting beautifully physical between them, and he’s been putting it off for literal months now.
He’s dwelling on it a little too much, because Spider-Man is distracted as he stares out at the city lights below, legs dangling over the ledge of one of the mid-level buildings in Brooklyn. He likes to start a little further from his home turf and get back around to Queens about halfway through the night, since starting or ending there too consistently might give at least Wade ideas. Then again, if he’s paying attention to any of Spider-Man’s patterns like he used to, that might also be its own giveaway.
Brow furrowed behind his mask, Peter brings one knee up and sets his chin on the arm he drapes over it. Is there a chance Wade has put together Spider-Man lives in Queens as a civilian? Why hadn’t this occurred to Peter sooner? He’s been working like this for years, only once in a while rounding out his patrols in his home borough. Shit, he needs to use some random number generator or something. Most of the time he doesn’t hit every borough every night, anyway. Which also means there might be a pattern of the boroughs he skips more often. Which ones has he been lax patrolling? He really can’t come up with the answer, scowling to himself when someone pipes up behind him.
“Lost in thought, Webs?” Wade asks, and Peter looks over his shoulder to see him kitted out in his Deadpool suit and mask, free of firearms but with his scabbards at his back. He brings guns on patrol less and less, and sticks to rubber bullets when he does. He’d gotten an earful from both Spider-Man and Peter the few times Spider-Man had caught him red-handed, and whenever Peter had “figured it out” after he’d come to see him after a job was done. Most astounding is that Wade seems determined to adhere to the no-killing rule even when he isn’t working with Spider-Man. The hero had made it perfectly clear that if he ever finds out he’d killed someone even on a job, they would be done. No more partnership, no more patrolling, no more friendship. Spider-Man would never speak to Deadpool again. A cold, hard drop. Unfortunately, the mercenary doesn’t necessarily know this threat extends to his relationship with Peter, but Deadpool has yet to test the boundaries.
Peter watches Wade walk to the ledge next to him, muscular thighs bumping the edge of the low concrete parapet that wraps around the roof of the building. Spider-Man rests his head on his knee, letting his fingers lace against his shin. He decidedly pulls out of the borough brain circles, and instead brings up something else he should’ve roped Deadpool in on long ago. There have been recent developments, anyway. Deadpool has some expertise in this particular field, now that Spider-Man has an inkling of just how dark and deep it goes.
“A few months ago, I found something weird at the docks,” he says by way of greeting, and Deadpool doesn’t crack a joke or pretend to be offended by the lack of it. Instead, he swings a leg over to sit at the other man’s side and idly kicks both feet. “I was checking out a weird case, missing shipments from regulars doing business in the area. Lots of shady people moving things after dark, the same vans and drivers, and always a team of no more than five other people. One night, one team accidentally left behind a weird substance outta this crate labeled ‘MUTAGEX-41.’ Water soluble, a superfine powder that reminded me of Tang.”
“Wow, I didn’t think you were old enough to know about Tang.”
“Fine, orange Kool-Aid.”
“Ehhh… I guess it’s still around, but it doesn’t necessarily not date you.”
“I analyzed it at the chem labs in the Avengers tower. Dr. Banner and Dr. Susan Storm both went over the results. We all agreed Mutagex-41 merits further investigation.”
Wade hums, tipping his head back and watching the sky. There’s too much light to see many stars this low amongst the buildings, but he can see an airplane or two, flashing lights sailing through the dark. “You goin’ somewhere with this, buddy?” he asks, not unkindly or even impatient.
“I got one other sample a couple of weeks ago, but we need more. Whoever’s messing with the missing merchandise is definitely involved with this stuff, which is suspiciously like a messed-up drug for supers. Or at least, a drug to mess up supers, like mutants and mutates.”
“How?” Wade asks, tone grave as he looks to the smaller man, and Spider-Man angles his head to focus his lenses on the merc to let him know he’s listening. “How does it mess with mutants and mutates? Does it hurt people?”
Spidey watches the man’s mask for shifts in his expression as he says, “It enhances mutations for a short period of time at the price of degrading both the mutation and the body.”
Deadpool’s mask is unchanging, and he stares. “You know that from one sample?” he drones skeptically.
“Two, but the first was a large sample. We need more. This looks suspiciously like— uh.” Spider-Man hesitates, suddenly nervous, because Wade hasn’t moved since he’d turned to look at him. “I have a feeling you have an idea,” he adds quieter, cautious.
“I unalived a lot of people to bury that evil shit show,” Wade growls, and Spider-Man shivers. His spidey-sense remains unaffected, but he knows this tone: his friend (technically his boyfriend, of which Wade is currently unaware) is much closer to being the hardened Deadpool than Wade right now. Peter stays very still as Deadpool continues. “Are you tellin’ me someone is out there messing with mutants again? Do we know if they’re dealing in people?”
“Not yet,” Spider-Man says honestly, hoping Wade isn’t thinking of taking off before they know more. Maybe he should’ve waited to bring this up, but he doesn’t want to leave Deadpool in the dark up until the last second. Something this potentially serious seems like it might really damage both their relationship and countless lives if Spidey tries to keep it under the merc’s radar for too long. He assumes Deadpool is already unhappy with him for waiting as long as he has to loop him in.
“But a lot of the merchandise that’s gone missing might, uh, suspiciously, possibly… y’know, be used for holding cells or building makeshift chemical production or medical facilities,” the webslinger goes on, voice tightening as Wade’s hands grip the parapet they’re perched on. He can hear the leather of his gloves creaking. “We’ve been going over employee records of everyone operating in a five-mile radius of the docks where I found the substance, which I don’t love doing, feels shady and invasive, but some of the dock and warehouse workers have former ties to the underground.”
“The mob is in on this?”
“Maybe.” So many maybes. Peter hates maybes. “A lot of people have dark pasts and aren’t responsible for ongoing darkness when they’ve left that life and those choices,” Spider-Man reminds him meaningfully, and slowly lowers his leg to hold onto the ledge on either side of his hips the same way Deadpool is, but he never stops looking at him. “Some are just trying to move on and do better.” He’s not just trying to get Deadpool to relate, he’d noticed a lot of the suspects really had been doing more charitable extra curriculars, as it were. Only a handful do the exact same charitable things with the same programs or companies, so he’s been looking into them more than the others. He’s also been checking links between the charities and parent companies, and it’s been skewing a lot of his school/hero/personal life balance. Things may overall be going well, but he’s not focused on his thesis as much as he otherwise would be.
“Is. The mob. In on this?” Deadpool repeats a bit more harshly, and Spider-Man’s lenses contract. “I may have wiped out as much of Weapon X as I could put bullets in skulls and burn facilities to the ground, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there are gangsters dredging up more human experimentation out of the same fucked-up pocket of so-called scientific advancement. Buncha mob families ‘ve got the cash to fund it. They could always use the muscle of exponentially boosted mutations, and if Weapon X used to churn out mutant soldier slaves?” He scoffs humorlessly. “It’s as possible as anything else, far as I’m concerned.”
“Wade,” Spider-Man says softly, and Deadpool’s fingers twitch on the concrete. “I’m bringing you in on this because you’re the foremost expert on what those people did and how the program functioned. Whether or not they’re involved is up for debate at the moment. The mob is likely, but I haven’t traced anyone specific to both the mob and Weapon X. I’m working on associates of associates, and while I’d rather not start hacking phones and tracing calls of people I can’t guarantee have done wrong, I’m pretty close to it now.”
The substance analysis of Mutagex-41 had resulted in some scary components, and he’s glad they’d determined it’s probably not administered with inhalation or skin contact. He dreads finding anyone actually in the middle of using it. Peter is a mutate by definition, and he can’t imagine what might happen if a drug that would both boost and harm him actually enters his system. From the composition, it’s possible he’d lose a lot of control over himself to a short-term psychosis. He absolutely cannot have that happen, there are too many factors for failure and exposure and people to get hurt. After discussing those lab results with Banner and Storm, a specific precautionary guideline had been put in place for anyone who might handle the materials.
“Spidey,” Deadpool starts slowly, but Peter is relieved he’s not using the full moniker. “If you don’t want me slipping, don’t bring me in,” he warns, gravelly and deliberate.
Peter narrows his gaze even more, the whites of his lenses small and studious. “Wade. I trust you to do everything that needs to be done, and nothing more,” he tells him sternly, but there’s no tension or expectation behind it, and Deadpool finally looks out to the city again. “I’m bringing you in because I trust you.” Deadpool’s head snaps back to him at that, eyes wider. “And I know you care about what happens to innocent people. It’s kind-of important here that you know what people have been through, if we find out it’s anything like what I really, really hope it isn’t. People might need someone exactly like you to save them.”
After a beat of silence, Deadpool heaves a long, exaggerated sigh, shoulders hunching up as he drops his head forward. Spider-Man feels anxiety slip away on the evening breeze. “Does this mean I get to meet the Susan Storm?” the other super asks playfully, and Spider-Man grins even though Wade can’t see it.
“That’s Dr . Susan Storm to you,” he teases, and Deadpool snorts, nodding.
“Right. Of course. She’s got, what, three doctorates?”
“Four,” Spider-Man corrects, sighing dreamily. Still one of his academic heroines, and such a nice lady. Absolutely worthy of schoolboy and fully grown adult crushes. “And she’ll kick your ass if you don’t call her ‘doctor’ before you’re friends. Which you’d deserve.”
“Oh shit, do you really think so??” he asks excitedly, and Spider-Man giggles, reaching over to shove at his shoulder with the back of his hand, glad to hear him joking again so quickly. Deadpool launches into the possibilities of how she might “absolutely wreck him,” and what it might feel like to use force fields as some sort of confinement bondage, which makes Spider-Man choke and fall into a fit of laughter that gets a massive, smug grin to curl under the mercenary’s mask.
“Okay, okay. Listen, DP. We can go check it out tonight, if you want to get eyes on the situation,” Spider-Man suggests, getting to his feet atop the parapet and setting hands on his hips, looking over in the direction of the river. “We’re not going in tonight, but it’ll help you get a good idea of what I’ve been seeing.” Assessing the distances and humming thoughtfully, he looks down at Wade, who has been silently looking up at him the whole time. “Want a ride?”
Wade gasps, clapping his hands as he always does when Spider-Man offers to chauffeur him across the city via web. “Spider-monkey or piggy-back?” he asks, maneuvering back onto the roof to avoid accidentally pitching himself over the side.
Spider-Man shrugs. “Whichever works best, we’re heading for the harbor from here.”
“It’s been a while since I spider-monkeyed,” Deadpool reasons hopefully, making grabby hands up at the hero. Spider-Man makes a show of rolling his eyes by additionally rolling his head up and around, but hops off the parapet and opens his arms. Squealing, Deadpool darts forward and leaps into his arms, still knowing the spider can take the brunt of his thrown weight easily. Wrapping his legs around the smaller man’s waist and an arm around his neck, he brings the other arm under one shoulder, leaving him enough space to move flexibly and swing them safely between buildings. He happily nuzzles Spidey’s nape, and the webhead sighs dramatically but doesn’t protest.
Spider-Man raises an arm to take aim at a building nearby, and squawks when Deadpool briefly slides a hand to gently pat one of his buttcheeks before hastily bringing it back up, wriggling to hold on tighter. “Wade,” Spider-Man warns, only so severe. “Hold still,” he adds more seriously before bending his knees to spring forward, a screech of delight ripping out of Deadpool’s throat.
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Wade is stressed with a capital “s.” He’s Stressed. He’s Stressed, and he’s spiraling. Spidey had said Weapon X copycats might be on the horizon. It’s hard to reel in the boxes when that particular piece of his past is brought up. One of the first things he’d done when he’d really become Deadpool was wipe out every location, every known associate, security team, doctor, and “scientist” he could get his newly disfigured hands on. He had watched so much of Weapon X literally burn, and the idea that it could be renewed somewhere and more people could be tricked or abducted and subjected to the things Wade had gone through to turn a profit for truly evil people hellbent on making money and spreading violence? It burns his tender skin, boils in the back of his damaged brain.
Spider-Man had been diplomatic about sharing what he knows, and Wade hadn’t seen anything particularly incriminating to tie to Weapon X when they’d staked out the docks that same night, or the next few. But it’s only a week later and Deadpool already feels the itch for vengeance again, something he’d thought he’d at least buried deeper than where it’s busting through mental soil like fucking crocuses in the snow. He’s on edge when he crouches outside of Peter Parker’s window on his fire escape in this early morning hour.
Peeking inside, he sees the brunet lying facedown on his bed in just a pair of boxer briefs (We can’t even really see his ass from here, too many shadows! Dis-a-ppooointeeeeed!), his bed sheet pulled halfway over his torso, long legs stretched out. It’s too dark to get much of a better look, the only light being whatever sneaks through the curtains pulled shut on the other wall, where Wade is at the fire escape window offering little more. He’s checked in on his boyfriend — boyfriend, boyfriend, they’d become official three weeks ago and the word still rolls around Wade’s traitorous skull like a fluffy cloud of joy when he thinks about it — when he’d been sleeping a few dozen times now, usually after a night of patrolling with Spidey. He doesn’t stick around long, unwilling to accidentally wake him and look like a total stalker creep.
Which we are, obviously. Going out with him doesn’t mean watching him sleep from outside his window isn’t stalking, weirdo. What are you, a sparkly Mormon vampire?
He’s surprised that this is the meanest thing the boxes have said all night, but there’s something more interesting than his potential status as a terrible hypocrite and gross stalker: Peter almost never has his shirt off when he goes to bed, and even though he’s lying on his stomach and there’s a sheet draped at a weird angle over his back, he’s clearly topless.
Holy shit, you really are a creep! the boxes laugh derisively, and Wade bites his cheeks hard.
Why does Peter sleeping topless make him… nervous? Surely it’s fine, it’s normal for people to sleep without a shirt or whatever, even Wade has done it when he’s been completely sure no one could possibly walk in on him without warning, in any capacity. But he’s never once seen Peter without a shirt on, much as he’s been trying to work up the courage to ask for the opportunity, and Wade strains to see faint marks littered over the rise and fall of his back and shoulder blades.
He and Peter are handsy, really they are, and Wade has finally felt good enough about their relationship to use his bare hands when he gets to touch Peter, as mostly PG as it typically is. He’d even gotten to touch a few scars on the brunet’s smooth skin, who’d assured him he’d been perfectly fine when Wade had brushed over a long, thin scar above his hip that angles toward his back. Something about an accident with a bike. Wade had also noted but not yet asked about a few others, faded to various degrees: flecks over his left bicep and forearm, a line that sits under his right ear and peeks just over the hinge of his jaw (He’s sensitive there.), traces of burns up both arms and over his left shoulder, and a small but extended starburst over his right deltoid that remains suspiciously familiar to Wade as a firearms expert. Those are just the ones he’s seen so far, since Wade has only seen the brunet in mostly layered states of dress since meeting him. He has briefly seen Peter in just boxers and a t-shirt, had caught sight of another suspicious gouging scar on his right outer thigh, but it had been an accident and he’d dutifully slapped his hands over his face and turned away when Peter had squawked his protest for being caught off-guard.
“Wade!” Peter had yelped, ducking back into his bathroom. “Jesus, can’t you knock?”
“The window was unlocked, I’m sorry, Petey!” Wade had bashfully whined in the direction of said window, palms over the white eyes of his mask. Peter is pale and lithe and oh how Wade adores the shape of those legs. “Sorry, I thought you said it was okay!”
“I— I did, didn’t I?” Peter had winced guiltily, hastily pulling on lounge pants. “Uh, it’s. I guess it’s not actually a big deal, you just— startled me,” he had reasoned, sounding perplexed before he’d stepped back out so they could order something to eat and watch dumb video compilations on YouTube.
“At least he’s breathing?” Wade reasons aloud, though it’s barely above a whisper. “Oops,” he adds even quieter, because Peter stirs right as he says it.
Flailing, Wade scrambles as quietly as possible, flapping his hands and looking around desperately. He opts for ducking, stretching one leg out so he can get low enough, tucking himself in a deep crouch under the low window sill as he holds his breath and listens to Peter sitting up in bed and mumbling to himself. There’s another few seconds of movement, and then the smaller man sighs and seems to settle again. Wade waits for a minute, two, before he slowly lifts his head, peeking over the edge and immediately blanching under his mask.
Peter is looking right at him, hair a mess, wearing a soft gray hoodie with folded arms and an exhausted expression as he blinks slowly down at the mercenary. He’s still unfairly pretty, even with bags under his eyes, and he looks like he’s waiting for Wade to do something.
“Dammit,” he grumbles in defeat, dragging himself up to his feet, his full height, Peter watching him sleepily. Wade tugs at his fingers shamefully, hanging his head and twisting the toe of his boot on the metal grating of the fire escape while Peter lifts his unlocked window and waves him inside, pausing momentarily to furrow his brow at Deadpool. After a beat, he comes forward and tilts slightly out the window, glancing around outside, stock still until he moves his head to look another direction with narrowed eyes. Leaning out of his way, the merc looks at him curiously, and reflexively tries to follow his gaze. “You okay, Petey?” he asks uneasily, the alleyway quiet and the fire escape devoid of other sentient life.
Peter blinks again, shrugging and nodding at Wade before he ducks back inside and pads to his little kitchen table, flipping the light switch for the overhead light. It’s not terribly bright on its own, but Peter still squints hard at the sting in his eyes as he slides into a flimsy fold out chair. He waits for Wade to come in, and the mercenary moves sluggishly but closes the window after himself. It’s chilly outside, after all, Wade doesn’t want to waste what little heating Peter has.
“Heyyyyy, Petey pumpkin pie, apple of my eye,” he awkwardly greets at last, hovering in the half alcove that separates the kitchen and dining area from Peter’s bedroom. Studio apartments afford so little privacy even within, how is Wade supposed to hide if there’s all of two half walls to hide behind? “How ya doin’?” he asks innocently.
“What’re you doing?” Peter asks, but it’s not judgmental or upset, just very, very tired. He shivers, and tucks his arms around himself, leaning onto his table, mostly bare legs tucked up under his seat. He’d meant to put on socks, but has to investigate Wade’s lurking first. “It’s like, 2 AM, Wade.”
“Sorry, Bambi,” Wade mumbles, tapping his fingertips together, hating how little he can think to do with his hands. “There’s just a lot going on in the vigilante world, and I was thinkin’ about how much you, uh. How much better I feel around you.”
Dumb, the boxes drawl, unimpressed, you big dumb sap, he’s not gonna buy tha—
“Adorable,” Peter allows, smiling lopsidedly, even though it looks like maybe he’ll tip over. “You couldn’t text first? Or wait until morning?”
“I figured texting you wouldn’t be much better at this hour,” Wade admits, though he feels a little lighter when Peter doesn’t seem to be building to any anger or distaste. Peter takes a big breath, but it’s rough and doesn’t seem to really fill his lungs, and he doesn’t move his arms, awfully close to face planting on the table. “Fuck, I really woke you up, huh? You look like you haven’t slept in days, Baby.” He pauses, and then crosses his arms over his broad chest, mask eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Have you been sleeping?” he asks soberly, and is both pleased and disappointed when Peter’s gaze darts away and out the window next to the table. Bingo.
“Trying,” Peter confesses hoarsely. He finally peels his arms from his body and rubs at his freckled face with both hands, pushing them back through his messy hair. He’d gotten a haircut last week, something basic that still leaves a gorgeous mop of gentle, fluffy curls even after cleaning up the back and sides. He wants to grow it out a little again as the weather continues to get colder, but had complained about having it all over the back of his neck and tickling his ears by the time he’d cut it.
Wade’s listened to Peter talk about sensory overload before, the grad student unbothered by talking about his ADHD after a few weeks around Wade, who really couldn’t care any less outside of trying to be accommodating when Peter is having a hard time. Wade thinks he’d be a hell of a hypocrite to be put off by Peter’s mental health when he’s been called a walking DSM-5 himself. “’S been hard lately. The uh— thesis, is kicking my ass,” he says with a breathless laugh and feeble smile.
“Oh, my precious brainiac,” Wade coos sincerely, approaching the table and leaning over it to capture Peter’s exquisite noodle against his waist, hugging the shorter man’s head and shoulders tightly. Peter’s muffled laugh against his suit is music to Wade’s ears, and he loosely wraps his deceptively muscular arms around Wade in turn, dragging him toward his chair so he can get closer. “You can’t do good science if your brain is melting,” he tells him as he softly plays with Peter’s hair, keeping him pressed close.
“I know,” he groans, grabbing at the back of Wade’s Deadpool suit and nuzzling harder against him. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and Wade rubs circles between his shoulder blades with one hand, trying not to feel weird that Peter had clearly put on a shirt under his hoodie before inviting him inside. He reminds himself Peter gets chilly easily, so it’s probably because he’s out of his nice warm bed. Wade’s other hand cradles the back of Peter’s head and neck to keep him close, but the smaller man pulls back enough to set his chin against Wade’s abdomen, looking up at him through fallen tufts of hair and his stupidly long eyelashes. He’s got a little bit of stubble from skipping a shave, and Wade absently starts tugging off one of his gloves. “What’s eating you?” Peter asks quietly.
“Big scary bad guy stuff,” Wade sighs, tucking his glove into one of his pouches and bringing his bare hand to push scarred fingers through Peter’s hair and briefly around to his stubbly jaw, the pad of his thumb catching along tiny prickles. The other man’s eyes flutter shut as he relaxes against him again, tucking his ear back to Wade’s abs, gripping him harder as Wade slides his hand over the back of his boyfriend’s neck and into his hair again. Soft and warm. Pliant and drowsy. “I don’t wanna stress you out more than you already are, Sweetcheeks. It’s being handled, slowly but surely.” Peter grunts in acknowledgement, and Wade chuckles. “Even Spidey’s on the case,” he tacks on proudly.
“Good?” Peter says with amusement, and shifts to peek up at him again, smiling faintly. He looks like he’s going to fall asleep right there, and Wade sighs dramatically.
“Alright, Baby Boy, it’s bedtime again. I’m so sorry I woke you.” He tugs lightly on the brunet, urging him to get up. He complies, leaning into Wade the whole time and taking just a moment to stretch his legs, on his tippy toes as he ducks his face into the mercenary’s nape. He yawns and lets Wade more or less drag him back to bed, clinging mostly with his arms and shoulders. He giggles quietly as Wade teasingly swings him side to side once they’re at the bed, before he’s eased to sit down on the mattress. “Now, you catch some more of those elusive Z’s, Sweet Thing, and your very attentive and doting boyfriend — that’s me, in case you weren’t sure — will get out of your perfect, irresistible hair,” he says gently, running his bare hand through it again, earning a lazy smile.
“You can stay, if you want,” Peter tells him so softly Wade wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t watched him say it. His breath hitches when Peter tilts his head and gently guides the hand in his hair around to his cheek and jaw, leaning into it and closing his eyes with a soft exhale. “You’re pretty good for cuddling.”
SCORE ONE FOR DEADPOOL, WHOO! BRING IT HOME, BIG GUY!
Celebrating internally, Wade cracks a somewhat overwhelmed grin and only hesitates for a second, running the pad of his thumb softly under Peter’s eyes, brushing his lashes. “You sure, Baby? I’ve, uh, only stayed overnight here a couple of times.”
“Yeah, ‘cuz you take off,” Peter chastises without malice. “I’ve invited you to stay a bunch of times.”
Wade falters. “You seemed, uh… A little nervous a few of those times, Baby Boy,” he begins carefully, enjoying the little twitch his ears give for this specific pet name. Wade doesn’t pull it out often, usually reserved for his other favorite guy, but it feels so fitting sometimes. (Yeah. Weird.) “I just like giving you the out, y’know? Don’t wanna overstay my welcome,” Wade adds uncertainly. It’s undisputedly happened before, and while Wade doesn’t care if he annoys the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., contractors, or bad guys, he can’t bear the idea of Peter getting sick of him. Peter puts up with his nonsense like Spidey does, but the way Peter has such full reactions when Wade is snarky or flirtatious, or looks at him with such utter sincerity when asking what Wade thinks of something, or leans into Wade’s touch without flinching or grimacing with fear or disgust…
Peter is somehow so much of what Wade hadn’t known he needs. He can’t stop the boxes permanently, Wade knows it could never be that easy, but sometimes they go on break or fade to so much background noise when Peter is around, which is some measure of peace. Other times, it’s almost like the boxes actually root for him. Even better, just like Spidey, he doesn’t hassle Wade about said boxes, how much he talks to himself, or his Bad Days.
“That’s why I invite you, dummy,” Peter snorts, crooked smile back in place, and he rests his hands, his long fingers, on Wade’s hips. “I promise I want you to stay.” He pauses, and then squints, probably thinking he’s glaring. “On one condition.”
“Yeah? What’s that, Gorgeous?”
“Mask at least halfway off,” Peter says very seriously, fixing him with big brown puppy dog eyes, and Wade can hardly resist. This time he doesn’t delay, reaching up and pulling his mask up over his nose. He still hasn’t taken it all the way off in front of Peter, even though he’s asked him so many times, but Peter flashes a winning smile in triumph for this much, and the mercenary chuckles.
“There he is,” Peter hums, and tugs at his hips as he scoots back on his bed, and Wade feels like the other man’s gaze makes him feel a little bit like he isn’t a warped and scarred monster under the rest of the mask, under the suit. He even sort-of wishes he had casual clothes with him to change into. They could wear hoodies together, and do something super dorky like put their hands in each other’s pockets.
Gross, you barely-secretive hopeless romantic.
Kicking off his boots, unbuckling his belt of pouches, and detaching his katanas, he leaves everything near the divide between rooms and pulls off his other glove. Wade leans back as Peter lies on his side, and he watches the smaller man scoot closer and press against his side, moving Wade’s arm so he can lie up in the crook of his armpit. Peter sets his head on Wade’s shoulder as Wade maneuvers his arm to wrap up and hold him there, brown hair tickling the sensitive, mottled skin of his jaw and neck. It sends little shivers through him, and he exaggerates one for Peter’s benefit, wiggling and giggling. Peter hums his approval and drapes an arm over his midsection, humming again when Wade carefully slides his bare hand up under the sleeve of his hoodie and rests it on his forearm, holding him in place. Peter takes a moment to hook a leg over Wade’s hip, narrowly avoiding Wade’s groin, and falls just short of pressing flush against him.
“Stay all night,” Peter instructs in a mumble, and Wade smirks. He gropes blindly for the bedsheet and a blanket. It takes him a couple of tries, because Peter has effectively latched onto him and keeps him still, but he eventually gets them both covered, reaching over himself to make sure Peter’s shoulder is enveloped. “If you leave, I’m gonna be real sad about it,” Peter says quieter, a tiny, perhaps playful warning once he and Wade are tucked in. Wade moves his free hand across himself to gently brush Peter’s hair back, reveling in the way he lets his full weight rest into his shoulder. “G’night, Wade.”
“Good night, Pete,” he replies under his breath, the boxes unable to come up with anything comprehensible as he lies comfortably on his back with Peter sleeping as he holds him. At some point he dozes off, and by then Peter has rolled onto his other side and dragged Wade’s arm with him, making Wade the big spoon. The smaller man’s back slots against him almost perfectly, and this time Peter does put his whole shape to Wade’s, tucking one leg back to rest between Wade’s knees and blessing Wade with the rare opportunity to touch Peter’s butt — though somewhat inconveniently he’s also touching it with his dick, so Wade lifts from drowsiness long enough to talk himself out of getting hard against his sleeping boyfriend.
Finally able to will the swelling down, he fully relaxes again and tucks his face into the back of his shutterbug’s neck and hair. If he dies here like this, it’ll be the most pleasant death he’s ever experienced. He breathes in Peter’s warm and fruity hair, the back of his neck, and vaguely dreams of Saturday morning cartoons.
Chapter 7: [7] Wall
Summary:
Peter has something important to tell Wade.
7324 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for discussion of [past experiences of] transphobic behavior.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wade fiddles with the strings of his hoodie, hovering outside of Peter’s apartment door in civvies, a worn leather jacket, and somewhat uncomfortable old sneakers he barely ever wears anymore with insoles that feel all wrong, his feet at a slightly weird angle. He’s got his Deadpool mask and gloves on, every other inch of skin covered with mundane clothes that for the most part really do help him blend in a little more on the street. He’s waltzed around New York doing ordinary things dressed up as Deadpool for years, of course, but he occasionally needs to go Stealth Mode, as he affectionately refers to it. Gloves aren’t a big deal in the cooling weather, but he still uses the full face mask. It’s the only thing that draws attention to him when he’s dressed like this, but never the same attention his naked face gets. You’d think people would be over staring at people with different or disfigured faces, but as much as things change, they also stay the same.
Peter had invited him over yesterday, but had needed to stay late at the library to work on his thesis. Wade had offered to keep him company, but Peter had sounded so stressed and impatient with whatever he’d had in front of him at the time that he’d turned him down and rescheduled for tonight. Happy just to get the time with his boyfriend, Wade had easily agreed.
He’s hoping to surprise him by showing up without the suit, since the brunet looks at him with such… fondness whenever he sees Wade in regular clothes. He even looks at Wade like that when he’s got his mask pulled halfway up and no gloves on. Peter sometimes lets barehanded Wade hold his hand when they’re lounging around on Wade’s couch or Peter’s lying up against him as they sit on his bed against the headboard, or when Peter is hunching over a textbook or reading on his laptop and Wade sits next to him playing on his phone. The mercenary hastily pulls his gloves off now, realizing he might get to see Peter light up when he sees so much of Wade visible even just in the privacy of Peter’s home. He’s tucking them clumsily into his jacket pocket when the door opens.
Peter, with his hand on the door handle, hair a mess and his father’s glasses askew, blinks dazedly up at him. He’s wearing his soft gray hoodie, one Wade now knows he’s had since he was 16. He’d once joked that it might be big on him now, but Wade should have seen him just swimming in it when he was a teenager.
“You were even scrawnier?” Wade had teased.
“Oh, I was the definition of a beanpole, dude,” Peter had mused.
“Why’d you get something so big?”
“I wanted a big one.” Peter had shrugged, and then deftly switched topics.
“Wade!” Peter greets cheerily. His voice is completely fried, but he doesn’t seem like he’s just woken up, so while Wade’s curiosity is piqued even as he lifts his mask over the bridge of his nose to grin at his boyfriend with immaculate teeth, he doesn’t question it. “You’re early,” Peter adds with a wry smile.
“Hiya, Pete! Not too early, right?” Wade asks with a chuckle, holding up and waving his naked hands with enthusiasm. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Nah, just wrapping up. You’ll hafta let me pick some stuff up, though,” he says, eyes landing on Wade’s hands before they’re habitually tucked into the man’s hoodie pockets. “It’s 475 square feet of mess in here.”
“’Course, Sugar Li—,” he goes on, cutting himself off as Peter suddenly makes a confused face and takes a step out the front door, leaning forward. Wade shuts his mouth and curiously watches the brunet as he looks up and down the hall, squinting, a frown tugging at his lips. The taller man glances around himself, unsure if Peter is looking for a package or a person. He hadn’t been followed (We’re good at knowing when we’re being followed.) and the way up had been nearly silent (Save for that overfed cat.), so Wade is positive there’s no one else in the halls. He’s about to ask if Peter is alright, but just as quickly as he’d come out, he steps back and holds the door further open, inviting Wade in with a warm smile. “Don’t mind if I doodly!” he chirps.
That was weird, right? Was that weird? Oh god, was he expecting someone else?
It’s really not that bad inside, no worse than Wade’s seen it before. Peter’s clothes are strewn in a few places, there are dishes in the sink, and the table and his desk are covered in scattered pages, notebooks, and textbooks. There’s a short plastic bin pulled halfway out from under Peter’s bed, and he moves quickly to that first as Wade takes his jacket and shoes off, revealing his Star Wars socks, Yoda’s face stretched a bit thin. It’s hard to find novelty printed socks that really fit his big feet, but they still spark joy.
Peter’s tired little smile is what ‘sparks joy,’ the boxes coo.
Peter shuts the lid of the bin and slides it back under his simple metal bedframe, turning to use his heel to push it a little further before he bends to start scooping up his laundry, a trace of pink in his cheeks, bringing out his freckles. Wade has tried counting them, but gets distracted by the rest of Peter’s stupidly pretty face and loses track every time. He’s distracted by the way he moves fluidly through his space, the brunet stuffing his clothes into an upright hamper. He has to pause to really squish everything down the second time he drops things off and pulls a face for a moment, mouth in a little curve of a frown and brow furrowed. When he starts cleaning up again, Wade smirks to himself and moves to sit on the edge of Peter’s mattress, waiting patiently. He’s more than happy to observe. He’s good at observation, after all. His work calls for it and he’s paid handsomely for the quality.
Peter’s feet are socked in forest green to spite the increasing chill outside, and he barely makes a sound as he lithely steps around on the damaged wood flooring. He knows where all the creaks are by now, never triggering a squeak or a groan with his weight, which Wade knows is more than it seems. Peter hides dense, lean muscle under his loose tops and aged jeans. Every now and then, he’ll wear something that hugs his arms and chest more, and Wade has been directly led to put his hands on Peter’s waist, even now admiring the abs that had been firm to the touch, picturing them under the swishing front of Peter’s soft sweatshirt. He sort-of hopes he’s not getting hard already, thinking about the shape of Peter pressed to him, at his back when Peter plays big spoon during cuddles, or when he slots against him as they get cozy on the couch for movies or binge-watching TV shows.
The thought of this makes Wade think of the times Peter has laid his own dexterous hands on Wade , on his bare, scarred skin, gentle and exploratory. As much as Wade fantasizes about all the things those hands could do to him, the places they could go , Peter always pulls back at the last second, flustered and apologetic, clamming up about whatever makes him nervous. Wade is a patient man — patient and observant — and he knows a few things about their relationship: Peter wants to do a lot more than just make out with him, but can’t seem to bring himself to actually do anything else; Wade has never once seen him with his shirt off (Except that one time we’d seen him lying asleep on his stomach, and that hadn’t technically been technically consensual? We still feel kind-of gross about it…); and Peter always redirects Wade’s hands when they wander south. Which is fair! He doesn’t exactly want to do anything Peter doesn’t want to do, it’s distinctly not his style. But when Wade asks or checks in, Peter is dismissive and anxious. He has his suspicions, but he doesn’t know if there’s a good way to broach the subject without sounding like a nosy asshole. Everybody’s got scars, even if they aren’t likely to be anything like Wade’s.
Maybe he just doesn’t actually want to touch you, dipshit. Ever think about that? Maybe he doesn’t want you to see him because he doesn’t want to see you in all your grotesque glory. You’ve scared off worse people.
“Shut up,” Wade mutters, grimacing at the sinking sensation the boxes prompt in his gut. They’re at their most cruel when they drop the we/us pronouns.
“What?” Peter asks lightly, jerking Wade out of his thoughts. “You good, Wade?”
Wade sighs, the sound rolling into an awkward chuckle as he rubs the back of his neck over the material of his mask. “Bless your precious little heart, Peter Parker, for not taking my bullshit personally.”
Peter quirks an inquisitive brow. “Do people usually take it personally?”
“I think you know they do.”
Peter shrugs one shoulder, smiling a little. “Hard to take it personally when I know you’re not talking to me.”
“Other people don’t always know that,” Wade huffs, tensing up.
“I know, Babe,” Peter goes on in the same casual tone, turning to stack the textbooks on his desk like he hasn’t just dropped a rare pet name on Wade while he’s feeling a little vulnerable. It pulls a whine from Wade’s throat, and Peter’s ear twitches, making him glance sideways to the mercenary with a tiny smirk. “Got something on your mind?”
“I thought I liked it when you said my name,” Wade hums, “but the little pet names?” He smacks his hands over his heart, and mimes it cartoonishly beating out of his chest. “It just does things to me. Really gets me going, Baby Boy.”
Peter’s neck and face light up red, ears twitching again, and Wade beams in triumph. He’s used that one every now and then, and it seems to have the biggest reaction of all his dorky little pet names for Peter. He used to exclusively call Spidey that, but he’s gotten in the habit of reserving it for special occasions on Peter. He always turns such a lovely color like salmon or magenta or scarlet — all those fun and specific words for reds and pinks. The shorter man angles his head into his fist and clears his throat before returning his attention to Wade.
“It’s becoming increasingly clear that I can do kinda anything and it gets you going,” Peter muses, voice finally evened back out to a pleasant, low tenor, smiling lopsidedly, flashing a sharp canine and nodding to Wade’s lap. The mercenary snaps his attention to his crotch, expecting he’s popped a boner after all, but Peter cackles. “Made ya look,” he teases, sticking out his tongue and hastily returning to his clean up, shoulders hunched slightly as he tries to hold back giggles while Wade tugs at the legs of his sweatpants, mumbling about dirty tricks.
When he’s done picking up, Peter tenses, shuffling to his windows with a distant look in his eyes. As the other man starts locking and obscuring all of his windows, Wade watches in silence, narrowing his gaze as he mentally logs this behavior: Peter doesn’t usually mind the windows being open. In fact, his curtains are usually pulled aside, and Wade had thought the locks on the sills didn’t work, since Peter doesn’t really use them. It’s foolish of course, anyone could sneak in here and… steal his geeky t-shirts? Raid his empty fridge? Maybe his thesis? Is academic espionage a concern for grad students? Either way, Peter is locking all his windows and closing both the blinds and the curtains.
Sighing, the student relaxes, the tips of his ears still a touch pink as he falls face first into a heap next to Wade on his bed. Wade angles to watch him with a dreamy smile, lying on his side and propping his head up with one hand. Peter wriggles and rolls onto his back, stretching out his arms and his long legs with a groan, letting his heels fall to the floor and dropping his arms onto his belly. He smiles lazily up at him. “Wanna get your ass kicked?” he asks playfully.
“Hm?” Wade asks, mask conveying raised eyebrows. He imagines Peter suddenly throwing him onto the floor and wrestling him into a compromising position, because Wade knows he’s stronger than he lets on and Wade would absolutely love to be held down by his upsettingly cute boyfriend. Maybe Peter would go with a classic and sit on his waist and pin his arms above his head, and maybe he’d kiss him long and deep and use those sharp canines to draw blood from Wade’s lips…
Do you think he’s maybe a power bottom? He does seem like a sub, though… Think he knows how to use a flogger? the boxes ponder, not fucking helping. He’s lost in this imaginary scenario and all the possibilities just long enough that Peter bumps his knee against his.
“In Smash Bros?” the shorter man clarifies. They’d tracked down a decent TV off of Craigslist, because Peter refuses to let Wade spend hundreds of dollars on something brand new and “too fancy” for his teeny studio apartment. Now he has a 32-inch “smart” TV from a couple who’d been moving upstate and replacing it with something bigger for themselves. He’s had it for a few weeks, and he and Wade have played a lot of older console games on it since. Wade is regularly soundly schooled: Peter might have been out of practice at first, but Wade had foolishly come in underestimating the brunet’s ability to catch up to himself. Sometimes it seems like Peter is holding back his skills and impressive reflexes, but he’s a fantastic co-op partner when they’re not feeling competitive. Wade often plays support when they do, even though Peter always insists he doesn’t want a “sidekick,” but a partner. It’s sickeningly romantic, as far as Wade is concerned.
“Ohhh,” Wade says, nodding frantically. “Yeah, that would be fun, too.”
Peter snorts, reaching up to push at his shoulder, leaning himself up onto his elbows. “I mean, I know you’re kind-of subby, but you’ll hafta show me how you like it before I can do that for you,” he says bravely, and Wade’s little queer heart skips a few beats, eyebrows skyrocketing as Peter realizes what he’s said aloud and bites his lower lip to control an impish grin, blushing brightly again.
Holy shit, this is DEFCON three, people! Places, places!! Wait, is DEFCON one the “all systems go” one or is that DEFCON five? Fuck it, three’s in the middle and we are definitely getting ready for something big here!
“Are you flirting with me??” Wade breathes delightedly.
“I flirt with you!” Peter protests with a scoff, rolling his eyes and taking his glasses off to look at Wade unimpeded, setting them on the little nightstand on one side of the bed. Whenever he has them off, Wade can see his freckles better, and he watches them shift as Peter speaks. “All the time, I flirt with you!”
“Not like that, Pumpkin,” Wade chides sweetly, puckering up his lips and twisting around to make loud kissy noises and lean over Peter, who laughs at him and pushes his face back. “I was really hoping you were switchy! Honestly, you’re pretty hard to read,” Wade goes on sincerely, smiling as he situates himself to lie on his belly, propped on his elbows with his chin resting on laced fingers, kicking his legs in the air and watching Peter fondly.
“I’m 100% certain I read as a sub,” Peter says with amused confidence, giving him a playfully disbelieving glare. The boxes make indignant noises for being unwittingly called out. “Not that it’s a big deal. Haven’t had a lot of, um. Y’know, experience either way. Not a lot of real relationships,” he elaborates, but he glances away when he says it, and Wade narrows his gaze in turn.
“Uh-huh,” he allows. “Do you… wanna talk about it? Like, maybe, really talk about it?” Wade hedges nervously, softening. They’ve briefly mentioned sex and boundaries and interests, but Peter has been just as quick to redirect the conversation to something less… intimate. It isn’t great for Wade’s confidence, or maybe even his mental health to some degree, but he’s not about to tell Peter that. It wouldn’t be fair, and he doesn’t want to push Peter into moving too fast. He can match his boyfriend’s pace, he can reel himself in as much and as often as possible if he has to. If Peter needs another three months, Wade will wait. If he needs a year, Wade will pledge to keep him in chaste kisses and good company the whole time.
If we hafta wait a year, we’re gonna get the shower walls pregnant.
Peter slides big brown eyes back to Wade, meeting the whites of his mask with his jaw taut. Not angry, not annoyed, just tense. They stare at each other for a few seconds, seconds that drag on Wade’s nerves and leave him screaming internally, chorused by the boxes.
“Yeah,” Peter says, voice cracking. Shutting his eyes, he clears his throat again and takes a few deep breaths. “Yeah, we should. Because I kinda wanna jump your bones all the time, but I have this, uh. Thing. A wall that I hit.”
Wade holds his breath and nods encouragingly (He wants to jump our bones! This is not a drill!!), dropping one arm and leaning on one elbow, scooting closer when Peter lifts his hand from where it had rested on his belly. Wade slides his freed hand into Peter’s, giving him a gentle squeeze and the brunet visibly relaxes, smiling feebly.
“I should’ve told you sooner, but uh. You’re actually only the second guy with a dick that I’ve been with.”
“Specific. I like it,” Wade chuckles quietly, thumb rubbing the other man’s knuckles. Peter’s so inclusive, what a good egg!
Exhaling sharply, Peter’s fingers curl into his hoodie as the hand in Wade’s tightens its grip. “Yeah, um. And the first guy, he was… Nice,” Peter goes on hesitantly, face scrunching slightly on the descriptor, like he’s not sure it’s the right word. Wade’s stomach flips in an unpleasant way, and he sets his mouth in a frown. “But. He got a little weird when, uh. When it came down to sex. He wanted it, I’m pretty sure, but he didn’t— he wasn’t ready for uh. Me. Like he said he was.”
Even the boxes are silent as Wade waits. Peter can’t maintain eye-to-mask contact, and looks up at his popcorn ceiling, going very still.
“So, y’know how uh, I don’t really let you touch me?”
“We’re touching right now, Pete. We touch all the time,” Wade assures him, lifting his boyfriend’s hand to his lips to set a gentle kiss on his knuckles, and Peter looks at him again like he’s broken the smaller man’s heart, lower lip quivering a moment and giving Wade pause even though he keeps the hand close. He can feel Peter’s pulse pick up, see his chest rise and fall a little quicker. “Are you okay, Sweetie?” he asks quieter, starting to get nervous again. Peter doesn’t pull away, but his mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks again in a voice rough as coarse sandpaper.
“Wade, I’m trans.”
A long, agonizing silence fills the room, and Peter starts stiffening up again, mouth pressed into a hard, anxious line as he searches Wade’s Deadpool mask desperately for any sign of… for a sign of anything. But Wade otherwise doesn’t move, and Peter starts to properly panic, face screwing up, eyes glistening on the brink of tears. Wade must be puzzling out how to say goodbye, Peter just knew he’d be really nice about breaking up with him even if he were repulsed.
“Wade,” he croaks, hoping to get it over with. “Please say something.”
“Hang on, I’m just adjusting fantasies,” Wade murmurs, the tip of his tongue poking out as he thinks.
“...What?”
“It’s not hard, barely anything changes, just a sec… yeah, okay. We’re good,” Wade elaborates, and offers a bright smile when he’s done, tipping his head to the side. “So, was he a fuckin’ weirdo because you’re trans?”
Peter stares, frozen in place again. This is not the reaction he’d been expecting, and he’d gone over potential reactions so many times in his head, dozens of options and scripts for each one, so he could be prepared for the rejection or the disgust or the confusion or, or, or. Wade seemingly rolling with it had not been on the list of things he’d geared up to handle, and maybe in hindsight that hadn’t been fair to him. But Peter is still stuck on reality. Eyebrows furrowing deeply, he sucks in sharply before he finally finds something to say.
“Th—,” Peter’s breath hitches. “That’s it?”
“What’s it?” Wade asks obliviously.
“You— Wade,” Peter scolds, creaking upright, the effort to move after being so tense making him grunt. His muscles protest, but he ignores the ache. He doesn’t take his hand from Wade’s, but he does sit up and turn to get further onto the bed, tucking his feet under himself as he frowns disbelievingly. “I’m telling you this so you can make a decision and no one has to, to be… more hurt,” Peter explains uncomfortably, stumbling over it despite all his months of mental practice.
“What decision?” Wade slowly gets up, too, and pauses before he reaches out to cup the side of Peter’s face. Peter flinches, apparently expecting something other than the soft touch, and a twinge of guilt has Wade slowing the motion as he smooths his scarred hand along Peter’s jaw. He’s trembling, and the mercenary’s heart aches. “Baby, did you think I was gonna freak out on you?” He’s a little hurt, but he’s not the sort of asshole who expects someone’s trauma to magically dissolve just because they’ve been having a better go of it this time around. “Was it because I took so long to respond?” he frets, embarrassed. “I was just thinking about how the only things that’ll really change are exactly how I’ll give you head and like, the color and size or your dick when we fuck, that’s all! I’ve got, like, a ton of dildos— oh you’re crying,” he babbles, tapering off quietly as his heart pangs at the screwed up face Peter makes.
Peter chokes on a sob, exhausted and relieved and still nervous as he leans into Wade’s hand, reaching to hold it in place as he closes his eyes. The tears slide right off of his cheeks, but he doesn’t try to stop them, and he doesn’t argue or resist when Wade carefully tugs him forward. He hates how badly he’s shaking, but Wade is warm and gentle as he maneuvers the smaller man into his lap. Peter drops his forehead to Wade’s nape, breathing in leather conditioner and maple, having difficulty getting a lungful in through his sobs. Wade holds him close and tight, rubbing up and down his back as he ducks his face into Peter’s hair, kissing his crown sweetly.
“Peter, I really care about you. This doesn’t change anything to me,” Wade tells him softly, one hand threading fingers through the brunet’s hair at the back of his neck, massaging in little circles. “I’m so sorry this was eating at you, I don’t want you to ever feel like you hafta hide yourself from me,” he goes on, trying to take his own steadying breaths to encourage Peter to match him, hoping he can ease some of the anxiety palpably bleeding out of his boyfriend and leaching into the air. “You know I’m pan, right?” (And arguably gender non conforming, if not kinda genderfluid… huh. We should really explore ourselves more.) “There’s no way I was gonna be a creep about this,” he murmurs into Peter’s hair, smiling sadly.
“Yeah, well,” Peter rasps, wrapping arms around Wade’s broad chest and tucking his knees up with him so he’s fully in the larger man’s lap. His bare feet are cold, but Wade doesn’t react because he’s more than happy to warm Peter up, being a human furnace and all. “Ollie said he was bi, so.” His voice is rough, dripping with his sheer exhaustion, and he sniffles as he nuzzles Wade’s nape, soaking his hoodie in tears. “It was fine until… until we took our pants off for the first time,” he says cautiously, and Wade rests his hand at the back of his head.
Oh, shit, Petey’s first cis man!
“Peter,” he whispers. “You don’t hafta tell me if you don’t want to. You don’t hafta relive it.”
“I think I need to,” Peter winces, grateful for how easily Wade can cradle him when he shifts so he holds the back of Wade’s neck and one shoulder, tucking his head up under the mercenary’s chin. He’s not so much bigger that he literally encompasses Peter, but the smaller man fits exactly how he needs to, and Wade encircles him with both arms as Peter absently plays with the collar of Wade’s t-shirt under his hoodie. He’s still crying, but he feels safer, a little better, starting to catch his breath.
“Okay,” Wade says simply, affectionately rubbing his cheek on Peter’s crown.
Peter recounts a relatively short-lived relationship with some mediocre-sounding white guy named Ollie, someone claiming to be bisexual and perfectly comfortable with Peter being trans. Said he still found him sexy, they kissed a few times and went out on a handful of dates, and when Ollie proposed taking the fourth date to the bedroom (Peter was surprised it took them that long, considering how close they’d come on the third date before Ollie had to bail for a work thing, which in hindsight Peter realizes was just an excuse to bail in general). It wasn’t the laugh that got Peter, they shared in that awkwardness when their pants slid to their ankles, Peter’s packer thudding on the floor. Peter wants to be able to laugh with a partner. The problem came when Ollie used the word tomboy as he laid hands on Peter’s hips. It came when Ollie pried at his binder before Peter got around to taking his shirt off. It came when Ollie joked about how he’d always wanted a butch lesbo to peg him. That’s when Peter shoved him off, furious and humiliated and invalidated and hurt. Ollie protested that it wasn’t a big deal, that Peter was overreacting and he just meant he wanted Peter to top him. Peter informed him misgendering him twice and trying to grope his chest so quickly was fucked up. He told Ollie the binder was a touchy subject, that he has to work up to taking it off with other people, and Ollie laughed again. But that time it was cruel, it was condescending. Ollie told Peter he should be flattered someone “with a real dick” even gave him the time of day, let alone wanted to take Peter’s clothes off at all. So Peter put all his clothes back on and left without another word. Crying on the subway really sucks, but he couldn’t be anywhere near Ollie after that. He lost his number and hasn’t heard from him since. At least he lived in Brooklyn last time Peter saw him, so it didn’t seem likely he’d ever just run into him again, having only met him on Grindr. He deleted the app, too, sure he wasn’t going to have any further luck with it, anyway. He deleted all the dating apps.
Wade listens attentively, tensing every now and then, holding Peter close and stroking his hair, his arms, his back, trying hard to be both gentle and firm so Peter knows he’s there, grounded, and Peter can use Wade to anchor himself to the present. Peter trembles the entire time, and when he spits out the words Ollie had used, his voice breaks on them; Wade flinches each time.
“Ollie” isn’t much to go on, but Wade is very good at tracking targets with very little information. Too bad Peter had deleted the app, or he could find this motherfucker a lot faster. Not that he’s going to tell Peter the guy might wind up with a literal broken penis in the next week or so. He’d just as soon break his legs, and while that doesn’t focus on the specific problem, he’s pretty sure Peter might actually be devastated if Wade breaks the guy’s skull instead, which would certainly stop him from hurting anyone else again. He cradles Peter’s head to his neck and noses into his curls, setting a kiss at his temple as Peter starts wrapping up.
“That was two years ago. I haven’t, um, been with anybody since then. And I only had girlfriends in high school and— through undergrad.” A beat. Another untold story, but he plows on. “So you’re um. The first cis guy I’ve been with since then, and the only person in almost two years. And.” He clutches at Wade’s clothes, feeling like a dumb little kid. Clingy, pathetic. He’s nearly detached from his body until Wade kisses his temple. He’s so tired. “And I really like you, Wade, I was just. Scared,” he murmurs, voice cracking again. Turning his face into Wade’s chest, he tries to breathe deeply again, pulse spiking. “I’ve got a lot of issues, Wade, this is just at the front, y’know?”
“Hey, Peter,” Wade says so quietly, anyone not right up under him (or with superior senses) wouldn’t have heard it. Private. Just for them. Peter presses further into him at the sound of his full name. “I really like you, too. And not that it’s a competition… but I have so many more issues than you. In the Actual Bad Stuff About A Person Olympics, I take gold in every event,” he adds teasingly, smiling into the other man’s hair, and Peter huffs a breathless laugh, sniffling. “This is nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing, it’s who you are, and I really like who you are, I’m not tryin’ to say you should just be what I like, or, uh, shit—,” Wade goes on, grimacing at himself.
Seriously?? He just bared serious relationship and gender trauma and we’re mocking him like that fake, ass-wiping fuckhead Ollie Somebody! What the fuck is wrong with us!
“Wade,” Peter sighs, sliding his hands up to the back of Wade’s neck, fingers just under the scrunched edge of the Deadpool mask. Wade doesn’t even flinch, surprising them both. “Don’t ruin it,” he adds with some humor, smiling against his collarbone. “I’m busy falling for you.”
Wade whines, pulling Peter tighter, an arm around his folded legs and holding at his hip so he has the photographer in a bundle in his lap. “Don’t say that so soon after crying, not when your voice is so sexy, all wrecked like that,” Wade teases shamelessly, both to alleviate tension and because he’s pretty sure Peter is trying to tell him something else important, and that terrifies him. Peter briefly pinches his earlobe, making him squawk, the sound rolling into laughter. “Seriously, Petey, that voice? Ugh, honey. It’s everything,” Wade goes on with a dreamy edge, humming as Peter pushes long fingers up to rub and lightly scratch at the base of his skull, just under the edges of his mask again, but he doesn’t push further.
Wade quiets, debating.
He showed us his…
Swallowing a flood of anxiety and self-hatred, Wade steels himself. He’s shown his face to plenty of people. Sometimes just to freak them out and make them leave him alone, sometimes as an intimidation tactic on a job, sometimes he trusts someone enough to let them in on the not-so-secret secret. On the list of bad things in the world, there are at least a handful of worse things than his naked face. All-encompassing cancer, for one thing. Human experimentation. The way Spidey had looked at him, even through the mask, when Wade had come back from a job a couple of weeks after they’d first met and Wade had 100% unalived people to get paid. Yeah, there are worse things than showing his boyfriend his face. His very sweet, soul-bearing boyfriend who already touches him without hesitation and sometimes stares at Wade’s lips like he wants to devour him in every sense of the word.
“Wade? Hey, are you okay?” Peter’s voice breaches his solemn thought process, and Wade realizes he’s asked more than once. Leaning back just slightly, Peter searches the white eyes set in panda-style rims of black. He’s nervous. “I don’t like it when you’re quiet,” he tells him cautiously. “When you get all in your head,” he amends, chewing his cheek. He knows Wade’s brain is… more than just unkind, sometimes.
“I’m gonna take my mask off,” Wade says decisively, and Peter’s big doe eyes widen almost comically. It fills Wade with warmth, heart swelling two sizes bigger. He’ll die of cardiomegaly if Peter has anything to do with it. “Yup. It’s time. You’ve earned it,” he says quickly, hoping not to psych himself out as he pulls his hood down and reaches for his mask. But Peter catches his wrists, looking alarmed.
“Wade, you don’t hafta do that, I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to guilt you, or, or earn anything,” Peter says uneasily, even though he’s blushing and his eyes have dropped to Wade’s mouth again. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I don’t owe you,” Wade scoffs playfully, and tugs his arms backward to get Peter to follow with his grip, pulling the brunet into him. “I want to,” he assures him softly.
Wade ducks slightly to catch him in a kiss, and Peter makes a tiny sound of pleasure and immediately returns it, hands sliding from Wade’s wrists to his shoulders as the mercenary tugs the rest of his mask away, dropping it behind himself on Peter’s bed. They don’t break apart yet, eyes still closed, and Peter shifts in Wade’s lap, letting Wade guide his arms up over his shoulders and around the back of his neck as they begin to tip over. Wade lies on his back, Peter draping over him with his true, full weight for the first time, their hips sliding over one another’s. Peter makes another little sound, a soft gasp, but they don’t stop kissing for what must be several minutes, becoming languid and comfortable. When they do finally stop, Peter lifts up just slightly, hands braced on either side of the larger man’s head, and he beams.
Peter is beaming at Wade’s fully exposed face, every crater and rivulet and pockmark layered under mottled skin. He drags featherlight fingertips over the shapes of Wade’s face, the mercenary searching him for traces of fear or disgust and coming up with nothing of the kind. “Oh,” his boyfriend murmurs breathily. “You’re so pretty, Wade.” Peter brings bent elbows up to rest on Wade’s chest so he can hold the man’s face with both hands, thumbing gently over his cheekbones and along his bald brow line. With his elegant jawline complementing his straight nose, Peter has never seen a more beautiful person with more beautiful eyes, humming quietly and running his fingers back over Wade’s barren scalp, cupping the back of his head and cradling his face with his other hand.
“I didn’t know you had hazel eyes,” he says gently, reverent. “They’re so fucking gorgeous, Wade,” he praises with a swell of aching adoration in his chest, and his face briefly screws up, dried of tears but struggling.
Wade squirms under his scrutiny, bewildered by Peter’s words and the sound of his name on his lips while he’s looking down at him like this, like Peter has never seen anyone like him and can’t get enough. He barely has time to process the compliments; Wade doesn’t get those sorts of words directed at him in earnest, pushing heat into his chest, his groin, even his cheeks. He doesn’t even have time to appreciate the swearing — Peter saying fuck ordinarily sends a thrill through him — feeling even more lost when Peter looks like he might cry again. He’s running the gamut of emotions himself, somewhere between awe, pure joy, and suspicion that this can’t last (Nothing good ever does for us.), but he settles on anxiety when Peter sniffs above him.
“Uhh, oh, um, Petey, ah— please don’t cry again,” Wade says miserably, his own hands coming up to hold either side of the brunet’s perfect face. “I mean, I know I’m a mess, but,” he begins, right back to self-loathing, but Peter swiftly ducks and captures his lips in another kiss, cutting him off and earning a throaty grunt. Cinnamon. Salt from his tears. Wade is enamored with the taste of Peter every chance he gets to kiss him.
Peter smooths his hand over Wade’s scalp, holding his jaw lightly with the other hand, and Wade can feel him smiling against his lips, which makes Wade smile, and after a few seconds of Peter’s tongue teasing his, they start cracking up. It doesn’t take long for them to both dissolve into giggles, Peter bouncing slightly atop Wade as his chest and belly move with his laughter, and that makes them both laugh harder, so Peter has to tuck his head into the crook of Wade’s neck to keep them both from knocking teeth.
Wade drags heavy hands up Peter’s back, gentler when he smooths over the hem of what he’d once thought was a short undershirt and now knows is a binder, coming up to rub Peter’s shoulders and push both hands into his hair, scratching his scalp lightly. It pulls a satisfied sigh from the brunet, but Wade slides his hands back down before repeating the motion, and Peter starts to relax against him. Pecking the smaller man’s temple, Wade hums in approval.
“So that went really well,” Peter mutters, scooting his arms up under Wade’s back, pinning them both to the bed. “I don’t know what I expected.”
“Do I get to make an Arrested Development joke here?”
Peter curls his fingers to dig blunt nails into Wade’s shoulder blades, but doesn’t put much effort behind it. “Smart-ass,” he drawls.
“Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,” Wade supplies anyway, and Peter turns his head just slightly to briefly bite at Wade’s exposed neck, earning a yelp and another fit of giggles. “Ow! Your teeth are so sharp, Jesus,” he muses, and Peter hums lowly. “Although, I do like biting, I guess you should know that.”
“Of course you do,” Peter chuckles darkly, and lightly drags teeth over the sensitive, warped skin one more time before setting a kiss over the spot he’d first bitten. “You’re so predictable— sometimes,” he says fondly. “Hm, except for the whole, uh. Trans thing just now, where I was dreading your reaction and you did probably the best thing anyone could’ve done for me instead of anything I was imagining.”
“Give a girl some credit,” Wade mumbles, but he rubs his cheek at Peter’s nape again, and Peter slips a leg between his, their hips flush together. “…Does explain why you’re never hard even when I’m definitely making you horny as hell.”
“Yeah, um. Sorry about that.”
“Why are you apologizing? Besides, you could’ve just had erectile dysfunction, I wasn’t gonna judge.”
Peter barks out a laugh and blushes, hiding his face in Wade’s shoulder, gripping at his back again as Wade starts listing the statistics and demographics of who has erectile dysfunction at which ages in the US. “Dude,” Peter chastises aimlessly.
“So is it a packer? It’s very convincing,” Wade assures him curiously, setting his hands on Peter’s hips. “I did stare a few times.”
“I noticed,” the shorter man says wryly, and lifts his head only enough to look at Wade again. “But, um. I do want you to touch me. I promise I always have, I was just…” He grimaces. “Like I said before.”
“I am perfectly happy to touch you, babe,” Wade says sternly, “and I was always gonna go down on you, really not much has changed at all.” Peter flushes a hotter pink and doesn’t really answer, but he’s grinning mischievously and pressing a kiss to Wade’s cheek, making him squeal when he finishes it off with a gentle bite. Wade gasps suddenly, jolting Peter when he grips at the other’s shoulders.
“Wade?”
“Do you have a strap-on?? Like I said, I have so many dildos, I was gonna ask if you wanted to use them anyway, but now we can definitely change up your size and shape when you wanna fuck me,” Wade goes on excitedly, the boxes warning him he’s going to get hard again if he keeps it up. “I’ve got a whole closet of fun sexy time stuff—!”
“So you’re gonna take your mask off when it’s just us, right?” Peter interrupts quietly, hopeful and studious as he shifts to meet Wade’s pretty hazel eyes. He admires the flecks of green and gold and can’t seem to look away. “I like being able to really look at you, meet your pretty eyes.”
What a dork, the boxes agree with each other, truly unable to come up with a negative spin on the brunet’s words. Peter may not completely silence them, but sometimes he helps make them a lot more bearable. Wade makes a show of humming thoughtfully, squinting up at the ceiling like there’s actually any question. To be fair, there are many circumstances where there would be. But Peter looks inarguably sincere.
“Okay!” Wade chirps, shrugging like it’s no big thing. (Except it’s a Huge Thing!) Peter wiggles atop him and holds the other man’s face still with both hands so he can pepper it with smiling kisses. “We should have a real talk about sex and stuff, though, Pumpkin,” he adds after basking in the sickly sweet attention, his hands squeezing Peter’s hips but staying above the more tempting curves just a little lower. He’s resisted Peter’s butt for so long, the brunet always wearing something big enough to cover it or angled away from him just so. The only time Wade gets to make full consent contact is when Peter plays little spoon during cuddles, when he more or less shamelessly pushes right up against the taller man and steals his arm to hug his waist. Then again, Wade had technically never specifically asked — he might have been withholding for Wade’s own comfort. Fuck! (So many wasted opportunities!) “I wanna make sure we’re on the same page about stuff.”
Peter nods, resting against his chest again, hiding his face in the mercenary’s neck. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. But we should cuddle right now because I’m fucking tired after all that, crying gives me a headache,” he mumbles, sounding as worn out as all his heavy limbs feel. Wade shudders beneath him and he lifts his head to quirk a brow at his boyfriend. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just your filthy words,” Wade coos honestly, and Peter snorts. “Dirty boy, you kissed your aunt with that mouth?”
Peter laughs again, a little louder, and he holds Wade’s jaw to direct him into a kiss. “Sucker,” he murmurs pleasantly, kissing him again and again.
Notes:
Ollie is of no consequence. ╮（╯＿╰）╭
It's important to me that y'all know queerphobia is not exclusive to cisheterosexuals. I know y'all probably do know that, but it bears repeating. That was a pretty personal insert of experience, and it's certainly not the worst Peter or myself have had. Be good to each other. Oppressors don't need your help making life harder for queer folks. Remember — punch up, not down, not out. (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
Shanah tovah! Today's the last day of Rosh Hashanah, y'all.
(I'll be replying to comments again very soonly!!)
Chapter 8: [8] Sexceptions
Summary:
Deadpool talks to Spider-Man about approaching Peter regarding Sexception lists. Peter’s spider-sense is acting oddly. Lists are exchanged. They talk about sex.
7532 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for discussion of sex. Mixed language for Peter’s parts. Things start to get steamy, but nothing explicit yet. Hooray for talking about sex with your partner(s)!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So, uh, I’m seeing Pete tomorrow,” Deadpool begins, suited up in red and black as he approaches Spider-Man at the far end of the industrial harbor, where they’d agreed to meet for one more stakeout before tracking the vans through the city. There are indirect ties to Weapon X after all, and last time they’d observed the activity at the docks, one of the drivers had used the word “subjects,” which had nearly tipped Deadpool over the edge and dashed his patience on the rocks of trauma. Spider-Man had dutifully stopped him, one super-strong hand latched and sticking onto his shoulder, the other stuck to the nearest wall, just in case.
“Your boyfriend or my photographer?” Spider-Man teases, knowing full well Deadpool had given him all the credit for meeting the man.
“And I wanted to go over a Sexception List,” the mercenary goes on, undeterred.
Spider-Man tips his head back slightly, since Wade can’t see his raised eyebrows. “A Sexception List?” he echoes curiously, though he’s got a good idea of what he’s about to hear.
“Yeah!” Deapdool chirps, pacing in front of the spider, who is currently perched on the roof of a semi-truck parked a block from the fenced in section of the dock they’re planning on monitoring. He looks up at the hero, the other super’s head tilted sideways now. “Y’know, for the exceptions to the, um, cheating rule. In a relationship.”
“You want exceptions to who you can cheat on your boyfriend with?” Spidey asks skeptically, but there’s mostly humor beneath it.
“Well, I guess the point is more that if you can get with the people on the list, it doesn’t count as cheating. Sexy exceptions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But,” Wade presses, picking up the length of his strides as he paces, now looking at the asphalt and gesturing aimlessly with his hands. “I don’t want him to think I’d just drop everything because of the list, y’know? We just started getting more up close and personal, more down and dirty, more pedal to the metal — if you catch my drift — but it would just be for big time chances, right? The supremely rare possibility to get with a handful of mostly celebrities, right??”
“Are you asking me or yourself?” Spider-Man chuckles, moving to take a seat and lean forward with his forearms on his thighs.
“I’m audio processing, Spidey, Jesus,” Deadpool huffs nervously, and the smaller man chuckles and gestures for him to go on. “Anyway,” Wade presses. “You’re at the top of my list, for the record—,” he ignores Spider-Man as his lenses contract, “—but what if Petey’s list is attainable?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the hero asks, unimpressed, propping his chin on the heel of one hand and gesturing with the other palm up. “Isn’t the point that you’re agreeing the list is okay? You can’t be jealous if you’ve got a list yourself.”
“Okay, but like. My list is you, and Thor — mighty or classic, I’ll fuckin’ take ‘em — and AOC — she could green my new deal — and Captain fuckin’ America, and the endlessly classy and eternally hilarious Bea Arthur!”
“She’s dead, Wade.”
“That’s not the point!” Wade shrieks in distress, throwing his arms up. Spider-Man tips his head the other direction in silence, otherwise perfectly still. “Spidey! What if his list has a co-worker, or a co-ed, or that barista who makes his weekly coffee treat splurge the best? He’s so fuckin’ precious, no one would turn him down if he asked! He could have anyone he wants!”
“Wade,” Spidey begins carefully, gently. “What is this actually about?”
Deadpool hesitates, arms still in the air. He heaves in a ragged breath and sighs heavily, slumping as he shuffles to bonk his head against the side of the truck the shorter man is sitting on. “Pete’s too good for me, Webs,” he says miserably, prompting the hero to crawl down the metal paneling and slip around to lean back, stuck just above the mercenary’s left shoulder, folding his arms as he sits on his heels to wait patiently. “I’m. I’m mostly joking with this list anyway, you know me. I kinda just wanna be able to keep flirting with you without feeling guilty, but— the point is, it would hafta be mutual attraction and we all know I’m nobody’s first pick,” he elaborates roughly, lightly thumping his head a few times. “What if that nice barista gives him their number and he just texts them on a lark and they hit it off and Peter realizes I’m just some violent lunatic who might get him killed by proxy one day?”
Spider-Man is quiet as he studies Wade’s mask, the white eyes set back in the black angled to imply his crushed self-esteem. Taking a deep breath himself, Spidey sets a comforting hand on Wade’s shoulder and squeezes. “I think you’re giving yourself too little credit again, buddy. He’s obviously into you, haven’t you been hanging out for a couple of months? And dating for weeks?”
Wade chuckles humorlessly. “It’s sweet of you to remember that stuff.”
“Have you talked to him about this?” Spidey asks evenly.
“No,” Wade admits. “I mean, you know each other, so maybe he’d forgive me for putting you on the list, especially since you’re the coolest superhero and I could never have you,” he goes on without letting Spider-Man’s small choking cough derail him, though he does reach up and thump his huge hand on the smaller man’s shoulder blade. (Silly spider, choking on air.) “I know I’m being a total hypocrite here, Spidey. I wanna make him feel confident and sexy, but I also wanna touch your butt.”
This time Spider-Man guffaws, tossing his head back and forgetting he’s up against a truck, so it knocks a little and he sucks in sharply, but just pitches forward to keep laughing. Wade pouts behind his mask, putting both hands on his hips in mock offense. “Wade, oh my god,” Spider-Man wheezes, a hand over his abs to help soothe the light ache. “Just talk to him! And ask if you can touch my butt.”
“Can I—?”
“Him, not me.” A pause. “Okay, also me. But my point is: from everything you’ve told me, he’s not about to flounce off with a barista he might be casual friends with when he’s got you: an attentive, thoughtful partner who makes sure he eats and sleeps like a normal person is supposed to, and gushes about him to just about anyone who’ll listen. Including me. I bet he trusts you enough that you don’t hafta worry about this, Pool.”
The eyes of Wade’s mask are wide, and Spider-Man wishes he could see the real thing when Deadpool curls his fingers up against both masked cheeks. “Spidey!” he keens, angling one hip and popping a foot up. The webslinger rolls his eyes, with his whole head so the mercenary knows he’s doing it, and then pushes at his face and climbs back up the truck.
“Hurry up, Wade, we’ve got bad guys to surveil!” he says over his shoulder, crouched on top of the truck and launching a web to make quicker work of reaching the docks.
“Coming!” Deadpool singsongs, a comfortable happiness making him jog to catch up while he puzzles out how to broach the subject with Peter.
-
-
-
“Petey!” Wade calls as he enters his apartment, only kicking off his boots after remembering the other man fretting about how nice Wade’s floors are, and how it physically makes Peter ill to think of damaging something no doubt extremely expensive. It’s the merc’s place, but Peter still gets a little nervous about how well its kept, as if footing the bill himself or thinking Wade gives two flying fucks about what a fucking landlord thinks of his living habits. All the blinds and curtains are closed, something Wade is used to Peter doing the last couple of weeks he’d come by. When Wade had asked, he’d assured him it was about distractions.
“It’s just harder to concentrate if I can look out a window, y’know? My thesis is still kicking my ass, I’m gonna blow a gasket if I miss one more personal deadline.”
“You can always study in the spare room, Hot Cakes. There’s just the one window.”
“Not a gun guy, Wade, remember? Sitting amongst your arsenal is not conducive to healthy study habits. That stuff sometimes gives me mad anxiety,” Peter had pointed out, so Wade had dropped it. It’s not like it’s a big deal, even if the view could be pretty fantastic from way up on the 17th floor.
Peeling his mask off, Wade sighs and looks around, the sound of Peter padding down the hallway from the bedroom catching his attention. He perks immediately.
Peter had arrived early, but Wade had given him a key the day after they’d made themselves official, so every time the brunet shows up of his own accord, Wade counts it as a personal victory. He keeps the fridge stocked and extra towels out, space in the closet and half a dresser empty for Peter’s things, which have slowly started to trickle in. Every time Wade comes home to find him already there, his little queer heart overflows with joy.
“Hey, Wade,” the shorter man greets, smiling lopsidedly and moving to sit at the kitchen island, hopping onto a bar stool and setting down an open notebook, a mechanical pencil sliding off of it and onto the counter. Wade can see a dozen chemical formulas and a few additional notes, and there might be other diagrams, but he doesn’t pay it much attention for long when he’s got the big brain who’d written it all sitting in front of him. Peter’s in his soft gray hoodie and blue joggers, fuzzy red socks on his feet. “How was the escort detail?”
“Fast as hell, not sure why they wanted me, but it’s their possibly ill-gotten dough to spend, right?” he jokes. (Which is weird, considering how much of that possibly ill-gotten dough we were transferred… Are we really not gonna challenge that?) He tugs his gloves off and tosses them carelessly over his shoulder, bee-lining for his boyfriend, snuggling up to his back and wrapping his arms around his waist. He buries his face in Peter’s hair as the grad student snorts and wriggles. “Can we talk?” Wade asks the brown fluff, trying not to come off as nervous as he is.
“Sure,” Peter says lightly, reaching back to rub at the base of Wade’s skull, making him sigh. “You sound a little off, is everything okay?”
He can read us like a wordy nerdy book, the boxes chime smugly.
“It’s actually about two things, but. I was talking to Spidey last night,” he begins slowly, keeping his tone light. “Aaand, I had this silly idea. For fun. You ever heard of a Sexception List?”
“Like, a list of people your partner says you can sleep with without ruining your relationship?”
Wow, on the money! Pete is so smart.
“Yeah, yeah! I thought, maybe it would be entertaining to each make a list. Just five people!” he goes on, rubbing Peter’s sides as he kisses his crown and leans back.
“You wanna sleep with other people?” Peter asks meekly, an edge of hurt in his voice. Wade can feel the color drain from his warped face, but Peter tilts his head back to issue him an exaggerated pout and puppy dog eyes. Relief replaces Wade’s guilt. “How could you?” Peter whines.
“Aw, come on, sweetie, don’t tell me you don’t have fantasies of other hot bods,” he teases, playing along and tracing between the smaller man’s ribs. He squirms a little for it, pout twisting into a crooked grin, a too-sharp canine catching on his bottom lip, one that he uses to chomp on Wade so well. “I know I’m the prettiest pig at the fair, but surely you’ve bounced around other sexy beasts in that noggin of yours?”
Peter glares at him from upside down for a second. “Don’t call yourself that, you’re a. A majestic wolf,” he says, fumbling a moment. He crosses his eyes to indicate he’s aware it had gone terribly, but plows on. “There’s nothing piggy about you physically or metaphorically, and you’re the sexy beast I want the most.”
Wade coos, holding Peter’s head at its current angle and kissing his forehead sweetly. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones I think are the sexiest,” Peter mumbles, blushing lightly and leaning back into the mercenary. “And if we’re going with county fair metaphors, you’re blue ribbon material. But a wolf. You’re a blue ribbon wolf, first prize,” Peter goes on, increasingly clumsy as Wade starts threading his fingers through the brunet’s hair. “Nn, Wade,” he half-heartedly protests, and has to force himself to pull away, tipping forward again to turn around on the stool and face Wade directly. He takes a moment to lean in and wrap his arms around his boyfriend, setting his chin on his chest and letting the taller man drape his elbows over his shoulders. “What do you wanna talk about?”
“Sex, baby,” Wade singsongs, and Peter’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Well, specifically a Sexception List, but we still need to talk more about sex, too, Hot Pants.”
“I’m definitely in sweats right now.”
“Hot Lips, then,” Wade reiterates, waving a hand airily. Peter glares. “I thought I’d show you a list I made and um. Get your approval.”
“Ohhh, you’re being weird,” Peter says as if it’s a revelation, nodding solemnly. “Lay it on me, babe.”
Wade winces, and the brunet smirks. “I wrote it down,” he informs Peter dutifully, fiddling in a pouch at his hip and pulling out a half sheet of paper, wrinkled and written in his familiar red crayon and all capitals. Clearing his throat dramatically, he loosely holds the back of Peter’s head and squints at his writing. “Number one: Spider-Man,” he begins carefully, glancing down to see Peter biting back a smile. “Two: Thor. Three: AOC.”
“The congresswoman?”
“Hell yeah, Petey-Pie.”
“Carry on.”
“Four: Cap.”
“Naturally.”
“And five: Bea Arthur.”
“She’s dead.”
Wade lowers his list and sulks, popping out his lower lip. “That’s what Spidey said!”
“You told Spider-Man about your Sexception List before you told me?” Peter counters in disbelief, but his tone is teasing enough that Wade relaxes when he angles his head to bite just under Wade’s pec and make him squawk. “What else did he say?” Peter asks, nuzzling the spot he’d nipped.
“I think he totally ships us,” Wade muses. Peter hums skeptically. “He basically said I should trust you not to leave me.”
“What does that have to do with sexceptions?”
“Uh,” Wade breathes lamely. “The… part where I was worried you’d leave me?”
Peter imitates a game show failure buzzer. “Try again.”
Wades whines, shuffling his socks on the kitchen tile. “I just thought you could have anyone you want, so if you actually knew anyone on your list, they could easily seduce you because you’re so seductive.”
“So, wait, am I the slut or are the sexceptions the sluts?”
“I didn’t mea— hey! You and I both know ‘slut’ is a piss-poor insult.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult,” Peter opposes, “I’m trying to figure out why you think I’m either seductive, or being seduced by people on a list you haven’t seen yet.” He smiles wryly. “Aw, you think Captain America would want to sleep with me?”
“He’s a total GILF, right?”
“Total GILF.”
“Wait, so Cap is one of yours, too?” Wade gasps theatrically, stilling the hand in Peter’s hair. “Wait, you have a list already?”
“Yeah, dude, I’ve had it since I was 18. It was a joke that my girlfriend MJ played, but then we came up with one for me.”
Are we jealous of MJ? Wait, is that the same MJ Petey’s been dodging for a while? Oh, we’ve gotta investigate this chick .
Wade deflates. “That’s cheating, you haven’t updated it?”
“Mad because you wouldn’t be on it?” Peter hums smugly. The merc pouts at him again, distracted by doe eyes. “I did update it, Wade. About a year ago.” He smiles sweetly now, batting his lashes and sliding slender fingers over his boyfriend’s belt. “Guess who’s number one?”
“It better not be me,” Wade says very seriously, expression schooled to neutral. He’d never believe it.
“I hadn’t met you yet, of course you were only number three,” the brunet replies without missing a beat, and Wade smiles wickedly. “Cap first, and y’know what, actually? Either one. Steve Rogers or Sam Wilson.”
“Oh, agreed.”
“Johnny Storm second—,” Peter continues, and Wade scoffs loudly, rolling his eyes.
“The Flamin’ Numbskull?”
“Yes,” Peter confirms. “You’re third, Dr. Susan Storm is fourth— and so help me Wade, if you make an incest threesome joke I will fight you—!” Reaching up just in time, he pushes Wade’s face up a bit, holding his jaw shut until Wade closes his mouth into a shit-eating grin.
“I just adore you,” Wade says through his teeth, gently tugging Peter’s ears to get him a giggle and the freedom to turn into Peter’s palm and give it a kiss.
“Last is… don’t judge me.”
“I reserve the right to judge you if you’re gonna say something really, really dorky,” Wade says as though he could possibly be disappointed. Peter’s fingers fiddle at the zipper of his Deadpool suit under his collar, and he beams, lusty rainbow hearts floating and popping around Wade’s vision of the smaller man. Peter’s cheeks and ears are pink, and Wade keeps playing with his boyfriend’s hair. Unassuming, but really, truly hoping.
“Spider-Man,” Peter mumbles with half a smirk, dropping his forehead to Wade’s belly.
Wade throws his head back and gasps for so long, Peter is sure he’s exceeded his lung capacity by the time he drops his head forward again, stars in his hazel eyes. “D’you think he’d be open to a threesome??” Wade asks in awe, voice heady and eager, and Peter stifles laughter when he swats at Wade’s chest. “Well hang on, then, he might be attainable!”
“You should really move off the ‘attainable’ thing, babe.”
“I didn’t think you went for Spidey like that, you’re just so professional,” the merc goes on fondly, though he’s still dazed. Having a shared crush on a super like Spider-Man is giving him a thousand naughty ideas, but Peter’s hot pink face and neck are distracting him to slightly less… crowded fantasies.
We’ve got it bad for this guy, huh? But would we really give up the perfect hero? Would we give up Spidey for boring, human, milquetoast Peter?
“Milquetoast?” he defensively snaps aloud, starling the brunet. He quickly sets his hand on Peter's crown and smiles apologetically. “Pete’s my favorite,” he reasons with the boxes, even with the man in question right in front of him and watching him with curious intent. “I’d give up anything for you,” he tells Peter solemnly, as if he’d been in on the start of Wade’s internal argument.
“Aw,” Peter coos jokingly, but he’s still flushed that pretty, pretty color, so Wade breathes a sigh of relief for being forgiven. “Whatever prompted that, it’s very sweet. But I guess you talk him up so much that, maybe, I could see the appeal?” He smiles lopsidedly, big brown eyes scrunching up with it.
“I thought you said you changed your list a year ago?” Wade hums suspiciously, squinting.
“Oh I changed where you were on the list,” Peter drawls, smirking. “Besides, he does have a nice butt,” he mumbles, dropping his forehead to Wade’s belly again.
“God, you’re so queer,” Wade huffs fondly, and tousles Peter’s hair, lightly tugging to get him facing upward so Peter will slide off the bar stool and to his feet, pressing against him. “So, four supers and your boyfriend,” Wade concludes slowly, taking Peter’s glasses off and setting them on the kitchen island behind the shorter man, leaning them both to do it. He stays at this angle, setting one hand on the edge of the counter, the other holding Peter’s weight at the small of his back. Peter doesn’t flinch, either trusting his strength or reliant on his reflexes to catch himself. Wade chooses to believe it’s because he knows he won’t let go. “Sounds… less attainable?” he tries dubiously, cocking his head to eye his shutterbug sideways.
“Thank you, very flattering,” Peter snorts, hanging onto the back of Wade’s neck, one leg bent slightly and the other stretched out between the merc’s. “Thought you were worried these unattainable celebrities would want to seduce me,” Peter goes on wryly, but he’s stroking behind Wade’s ear with his thumb and smiling faintly. “What happened to hot slut Pete?”
“Not the best drag name, a little on the nose and terribly un-punny. We’ll work on it.”
“Wade.”
“Am I allowed to spank Spider-Man?”
Peter’s eyes pop, and he chokes on a laugh, needing to aim himself away when he has to cough, catching himself on a bar stool with the hand that had held Wade’s face. “Fuck, Wade,” he wheezes, throat tight, and he pointedly ignores the tiny, pained sound Wade makes. Peter recognizes it as horny, now. “What?” he laughs incredulously, voice a bit pitched as Wade looks pleadingly at him.
“It’s just! I guess ‘spank’ is a little dramatic, I’ve mostly only been slapping his ass a little every now and then, it’s not like I’ve ever used a paddle or a flogger or laid him over my lap and made him count,” Wade rambles nervously, though he can imagine doing just that now that he’s said it aloud. He knows the Spidey suit is in four pieces: top, bottom, mask, boots. Therefore Webs could even keep most of his suit on if Wade wanted to see the pale skin of his glorious asscheeks turn bright red from the contact. “Now there’s a thought.”
“Wade, please.” Peter shifts to face him again, thumping his sternum to help clear his throat again, voice back to normal, if not a touch rougher now. He hums at length, squinting as he studies the taller man’s imploring hazel eyes. “Is Spider-Man okay with it?”
“Is it okay with you?”
“I think it’s supposed to be a two— well, I guess a three-way street. I’m okay with you slapping Spider-Man’s ass if he’s okay with you slapping his ass. He’s your hero, right?”
“Oh yeah.” Wade nods in big swings of his head. “Big time.”
“And you’re not trying to sleep with him, are you?”
“Babe, I may be a flirty, fighty, foxy weirdo, but I’m surprisingly faithful.” He rights the both of them again, wrapping arms around Peter’s shoulders and back. “Sexceptions aside, I’ve got mucho complex feelings about Spider-Man, but Baby Boy, you’re… you’re my boyfriend. You’re my Peter, I couldn’t come home to anyone but you.”
“I think that’s about half as romantic as you think it is,” Peter lies, because he’s hot pink again and this version of his side eye is the one Wade recognizes as “trying not to admit defeat,” something Peter doesn’t often need to wield, but Wade’s earned a few times. “But I believe you. Besides, American culture might be a tad uptight, but there are worse things than agreed-on physical affection with friends.” He misses having friends, especially the kind you could just lie on top of after a hard day and hold onto when you laugh too hard together. He has those things now in Wade, but it’s a little different when you’re also romantically involved.
“You say that like Canadian culture ain’t.”
“My point is, I’m good. And I approve of your list. As long as you’re cool with Johnny Storm asking me to dinner when he hears he’s on my list,” Peter teases, a dark flash of mischief in his eye when Wade exaggerates a scowl. “Them’s the rules.”
“I’ll talk to Spidey,” Wade grumbles, only mildly put out by the results of Peter’s sexceptions. The Human Torch and Wade still don’t exactly get along, since he’s convinced Wade is an irredeemable psychopath and all. Spider-Man jumps to Deadpool’s defense whenever he catches Hothead grilling the merc about his latest activities or how he’s a terrible influence on the webhead, and since Spidey and Flamebrain are friends, he backs off. “Does he know you totally wanna mack?”
“Nobody says ‘mack’ anymore, Wade.”
“He doesn’t, does he!” Wade concludes triumphantly, and Peter rolls his eyes with a little roll of his head. “Can I tell him?” he asks conspiratorially.
“No,” Peter says simply, turning his nose up with fake snootiness. “I don’t wanna step on any toes. Besides, he’s last on my list… Is there, um, anything else you wanna do with Spidey? That I should know about?”
Wade frets, shaking his head despite warmth in his neck. He doesn’t blush much, but it’s usually a dead giveaway if you can manage to make him do it. “No, Sweetcheeks, you’re really the only one I wanna take home and ravage.”
“I don’t believe you,” Peter says coyly, and his smirk is dangerous again. Wade squirms as his boyfriend narrows his gaze. “I know you’ve got horny spider brain, Wade, spit it out.”
“Would you be amenable to roleplay?” Wade slurs impulsively, eyes wide as he claps a hand over his mouth.
Are you SERIOUS, dude?! Oh god, Pete’s only kidding, don’t spring this self-indulgent kinky shit, what if he thinks we’re trying to make him compete with Sp—
“Like, you want me to dress up as Spider-Man?” Peter asks slowly, carefully, a little distant as the humor slips off his face, replaced by something Wade can’t identify. It makes him sweat. “In bed?”
“Aaahhhhh uhhhhh,” the taller man intones aimlessly, floundering as the boxes scream obscenities and start going into panic mode. “Yes?” he tries honestly, shoulders creeping upward as he prepares for a well-deserved rejection.
“I… don’t think that’s a good idea. Right now. Maybe another time,” Peter says, pulling himself closer to Wade in reassurance, the strange look in his eye and timbre of his voice gone again.
Oh, thank Thor’s Glorious Hair for that one, we nearly fuckin’ blew it, dumbass, the boxes wheeze, but their tone shifts. That’s also technically not a “no,” so…
“Of course,” Wade croaks, and hastily clears his throat. “Naturally.” When he pauses again, haltingly reaching for Peter’s face, the brunet smiles sheepishly. “Can we talk about the other stuff now?” Wade murmurs, bare fingers connecting with Peter’s jawline, brushing momentarily over the scar over its hinge, and Peter leans into his hand, eyes sliding shut as Wade hums.
He shifts, dipping to catch under Peter’s thighs and pick him up easily, something that always makes Peter grin and wrap his legs around Wade’s waist. Setting his hands on either side of Wade’s neck, he massages the scarred skin with long fingers and lets Wade bring him to the couch. Sitting heavily with Peter now in his lap, Wade smooths his hands over the other’s thighs and up to his hips, under his hoodie and atop his joggers. It’s more comfortable like this, both sitting down, and Peter does fit perfectly in Wade’s lap at this angle. While he wants to admire and praise his boyfriend’s body, he knows it will distract from the task at hand if he lets his own hands wander. Peter seems to think the same thing, moving his hands to hold Wade’s shoulders instead.
“First thing’s first,” Wade begins with such ease and seriousness that Peter blinks rapidly and stumbles into the appropriate, attentive mindset for the conversation. “Hard limits: body parts, words, actions. Stuff I’m not ever allowed to touch, say, or do to you. Or with you. Triggers, squicks, big yikes… -es. The No-No List, if you will. Could be anything. You could say I’m not allowed to touch your genitals, and then I would never touch your genitals. You could say,” Wade puts on a voice to imitate Peter, and it’s not as insulting as he momentarily worries it might be when Peter just rolls his eyes and head again, “‘Wade, darling, my dearest, fondest, badass mutant boyfriend,’” he goes on, cracking a smile that Peter reflects. “‘If you ever so much as speak the word ‘cabbage’ in the bedroom, I will sell your immortal soul to the highest bidder and refrain from ever gracing you with my presence again.’ And then I would never say the word ‘cabbage’ in the bedroom. To avoid that torturous fate.”
“Do I hafta say it like that, or could I just communicate the words I don’t wanna hear?” Peter asks wryly, “I’m not very creative.”
“That’s a bold-faced lie, Pumpkin, but I forgive you.” Wade boops his nose when he snorts, and Peter catches his wrist to set a quick kiss on his knuckles. “This could also include how you want me to um, refer to your body parts. I know not everyone wants the same language around that stuff,” Wade goes on, back to a nervous sort of seriousness, now.
“Like my vagina?”
Wade grimaces. “Yeah. I know not all trans guys are comfortable with words like that, I, uh. I actually don’t know how you even feel about yours. Your— vagina.” So clinical which makes Wade more uncomfortable than any goofy euphemism does.
“It’s complicated,” Peter says with a quirked brow. Wade nods sagely. “But, uh. To sort-of help you understand, I’ve never wanted bottom surgery? I don’t feel like I need an attached penis, packers do me well enough most of the time, anyway,” he elaborates slowly. “So. You can call it a few things…” A devilish smile crawls onto his lips, revealing sharp canines as he starts listing language Wade is allowed to use. “Pussy…”
Wade gasps.
“Cunt…”
Wade gasps a little louder.
“Vulva…”
Wade giggles.
“Vagina.”
Wade doesn’t react, waiting patiently.
“Clit and cock are also fine, actually, but usually when you’re referring to my dick.”
Wade whines, squeezing Peter’s hips a little too tight for a moment before he catches himself and kneads gently at the same spots, Peter breathing raggedly above him. “And how do you feel about me touching your pussy and dick?”
Peter swallows thickly, and shrugs like it’s no big deal, waving a hand back and forth on his wrist. “I was hoping you’d do it a lot, actually. And fuck me there sometimes.” A strangled sound escapes the merc, and he looks up at his favorite brunet with starry eyes again. Peter is pleased it’s all for him, this time, no spidery sentiment attached. “You said you have a lot of dildos, right? Lots of shapes and sizes?”
“And colors,” Wade supplies weakly.
“Yeah, you said you want me to fuck you, too, right? Because I think about it a lot.”
Wade groans at length, curling forward to push his head to Peter’s belly, careful of his chest, and the smaller man smiles serenely at his success as he brushes his fingers over Wade’s bare scalp, tracing over the raised shapes of his scarred skin. “And you can , um, touch my chest, but I might need to work up to, uh, letting someone else take the— the binder off, for a little while. Just, words like ‘tits’ a-and ‘boobs’ stay in the bedroom, and I guess ‘breasts’ too… I mean, unless you’re not referring to me.”
“I think you like my tits,” Wade says with a smile full of perfect teeth, making a point of thrusting his chest out more when he sits back. Peter absently sets a hand over one of his glorious pectorals, giving it a light grope to make him exaggerate a moan before he drops forward to Peter’s collarbone.
“They’re impressive, I’ll give you that,” Peter allows with a half smile, but chews his cheek before going on, hand sliding to Wade’s sternum. “I thought I’d be uncomfortable with you touching my chest, but I think I was more uncomfortable with how it might make you look at or think of me. But you… really didn’t treat me any differently when I told you.”
“Mostly the dildo thing changed. And how I’m gonna give you oral— but that’s about it!” Wade assures him, nuzzling to listen to Peter’s heart rate pick up in his chest, now that he has permission to make contact. Ugh, it’s firm, Peter is totally holding out on how built he is under all his layers. The brunet is the one to make a weak noise in the back of his throat this time, melting. “Anywhere else?”
“I’m not big on receiving anal, but I haven’t tried in a long time, so that might be different with you,” the smaller man murmurs, and Wade sighs and rubs his hands slowly up and down Peter’s sides, hoodie bunching up as he remains directly on his skin. “But I’m more than happy to give you anal, if you’re interested.”
“Oh, very,” Wade assures him with a wicked smile.
“How about you? Anywhere I shouldn’t touch? Words for your parts that you don’t want used? Or maybe, um. Dirty talk you don’t wanna hear?”
“Oh, honey bunches of oats with berries and cream, I want you to touch me anywhere your little heart desires,” Wade growls playfully, dragging Peter closer in his lap and sitting further back into the couch cushions, holding the other man’s hips so their groins meet. Wade is maybe half-hard, but Peter isn’t packing today, which Wade only knows is a triumph because he makes a point of packing if he has to leave the house, and has stopped wearing it when it’s just the two of them… which means he doesn’t think he’s going anywhere else today.
They don’t specifically plan for overnights every time they get together, but Wade’s self-esteem doesn’t exactly let him believe it’ll happen every time, even if historically it has in the last three weeks. He hisses quietly when Peter rolls forward against his growing erection. “I’m good with all the classics, Legs, except maybe ‘member,’ something about that one is wacky,” he goes on with surprising casualness. “And uh. I guess don’t call me the kinds of names the supers do. ‘Nutcase,’ and ‘psychopath,’ and ‘lunatic’ and all that.”
Yeah, that’s our job!
“Noted,” Peter lows. Like he’d ever call Wade that shit anymore. He’s learned a lot of things in his time with the mercenary as both Spider-Man and Peter Parker. “I, uh. I’m not big on the trans slurs in bed. I-I know some people like it, or at least don’t mind it, but they don’t work for me.” His expression falters, and Wade guides him a little closer as he slides his hands further up the brunet’s back to his shoulder blades, tipping him forward slightly. “I’m not necessarily into degradation? Sometimes it works,” he goes on, now turning pink again, eyes cast aside. “Or maybe it’s fine because I also don’t think it’s very degrading? Just intimate? Words like ‘slut’ and… ‘whore,’” he goes on, quieter with each word. Grunting miserably, he brings both hands to cover his face. “Actually I think those would be fine, coming from you,” he mumbles, shy again despite how well he’d been doing, dammit.
“I would love to be your whore, Baby Boy,” Wade purrs, and delights in the shiver he can feel roll up Peter’s whole body. “And we can experiment. We can call those ones ‘soft limits,’ so we’ll check in when we try them out and go from there, okay Pumpkin?” He holds Peter’s wrists gently and pulls his hands away from his scarlet-tinged face, chuckling darkly as he keeps them down at the brunet’s sides. Peter’s face momentarily twists with what Wade decides to interpret as excitement. “You’re really fuckin’ cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that right?” he growls, smirking.
“Wade,” Peter grumbles, pouting at him but finally meeting his eyes again. The taller man’s pupils are blown and he’s fully hard under him. Peter bites his lower lip, a sharp sting from his teeth urging him to lighten up. “Is there stuff you really like?” he asks softer, eying Wade sideways as he ponders himself. “Stuff you definitely want me to do?”
“I think I’ve established that I will take anything you give, Gorgeous.” But Peter frowns at him for it, and Wade chews his cheek. “Not specific enough?” he asks, guilty.
“Only one of us can be vague and weird about sex things, and I’m way more practiced in that than you are,” Peter chastises lightly, pulling his wrists out of Wade’s loose grip to cross his arms over his chest and look at him sternly. “I know you have ideas.”
“You’re really strong and I want you to wrestle with me. And pin me down. But also I wanna pin you down, maybe because you’re so strong, but you let me get away with so much and it’s really hot,” Wade blurts, and he’s immediately on a roll when Peter’s eyes widen and he tilts his head to listen. “I wanna tie you up in really compromising positions with rope or like, those straps you can get that are like belts but specifically for bondage? And I want you to do the same to me—”
“You are like, the definition of a switch,” Peter mumbles absently, squinting, but falls silent again to let Wade continue.
“—I wanna get my hands all over you, and I’ve always wanted to touch your butt, like, really grope it, because I know you’re hiding that perfect thing from me for some reason and maybe that hurts my feelings a little bit, but—”
“You can touch my butt!” Peter squeaks, but clamps his mouth shut again when Wade’s eyelid twitches like he’s glitching.
“Yeah?” the merc eventually breathes, catching up to reality when the boxes stop screeching about victory and trophies for excellence in flirting. “Uh, right. Yeah. Good.” There are cartoon stars and hearts in Wade’s vision, bursting out from Peter’s fluffy hair like a halo. “Oh, Petey-Pie,” he rumbles.
“Please continue,” the brunet insists, one hand pulled from clutching his biceps to hold over his mouth like he’s studying something very important whilst simultaneously shutting himself up.
Confidence growing, Wade drags his hands back to Peter’s hips, lifting him just slightly. Peter rises with the motion, and Wade can hear his breath hitch when he grinds him down over his erection, impeded by their clothes but giving effective friction and pressure enough that both of them breathe soft moans. “I wanna put things in your mouth. Toys. My fingers,” Wade goes on, lust guiding him as he holds Peter down in his lap, and the smaller man’s hands move to brace on Wade’s wrists, but don’t push him away. Peter sucks his lower lip in and flutters his eyes closed. “My cock.”
“Wade,” Peter warns in a small voice, brow furrowed, but he doesn’t otherwise move, just breathing carefully as Wade smooths his hands back over the tops of his thighs and rubs up and down.
“I wanna push your pretty face into the mattress and bite your neck while I warm you up with my fingers. I want you to bite my neck when you fuck me sideways with your favorite dildo. I wanna tie your arms behind your back and have you sit on my face.” He rolls his hips up into Peter’s crotch again, and the shorter man lurches forward, catching himself on Wade’s shoulders, breath shallow and eyes hooded as he watches him through his lashes. “I wanna hear you moan and say my name when I drown in your pussy,” he adds with a wicked grin, immensely pleased with himself when Peter shudders. He can see his toes curl in his socks. “I wanna pull your hair… and wrap a hand around your throat,” he goes on a little slower, voice still low and meaningful but tone bordering caution. Not everyone likes breathplay or even being held by the neck, and they’re trying to establish some boundaries.
Peter keens, ducking his head as he grinds harshly down against Wade’s thick bulge. “Yeah,” he rasps, the sound wet as he tries to swallow a thick lump in his throat.
“Oh, that works for you?” Wade purrs, relieved and thrilled and definitely somehow even hornier now. “Think you’d wanna choke me?” he presses hopefully, and Peter nods frantically, but doesn’t yet show him his face again. “Good boy,” he hums, and doesn’t really mean anything by it, but Peter whimpers softly and his grip on Wade’s shoulders tightens.
Lightbulb!
“Oh,” Wade breathes, “oh you’re a praise kink kinda guy, aren’t you?” The revelation feels belated, he’ll admit, but better late than never, because he can see the tips of Peter’s ears burning crimson even from this angle where he’s avoiding showing his face. “C’mon, Baby Boy,” he encourages, keeping one hand on the brunet’s hip and bringing the other up to cradle his jaw and drag his face up to meet Wade’s gaze. “Can you look at me, Sugar? That’s a good boy.”
Peter looks wrecked, the sort of wrecked Wade thought he’d have to work a lot harder for, that ripples through his nerves and lights them up with victorious pleasure. Peter’s big brown doe eyes are pleading, lips tugged in half a grimace, his face ablaze. Wade greedily drinks in the results. How had he not pieced this together before? It’s obvious, in hindsight, that Peter struggles with compliments and rarely lets Wade get away with talking the photographer up in front of him. He always blushes or dismisses it or has an excuse to leave the room or look away.
“Couple more things to cover,” Wade says calmly, like he’s not about to bust a seam in his suit or in his brain at the sight of Peter’s red face in his hand and the steady, eager roll of the smaller man’s hips against him. “Safe words, for one. We can always—,” he goes on, but has to pause and fight a groan to maintain composure when Peter bites his bottom lip and twists into the next roll downward, “—stick to red-yellow-green. For now. Red for a full stop, yellow to slow down and check in, green to keep going, holy shit.”
He struggles to continue, tipping his head back and breathing in deep as Peter’s hands move to his nape and tug helplessly at his suit collar with another grind of the brunet’s hips. “Bambi. Light of the moon and stars. My favorite Petey-Pie. We’ve gotta finish talking before we can do more than this,” he tries to insist, but it’s getting harder to resist Peter when he’s leaning in and their faces are inches away, now. “It’s kinda… important,” he grunts, hazel eyes locked on his boyfriend.
Peter shakes his head. “Highlights,” he demands, wincing weakly and pressing his forehead to Wade’s.
Wade puts both hands on Peter’s hips again, forcing him to still after bringing him down once more, earning a stretched whine in the back of Peter’s throat as he tries to stay put himself. “Highlights,” Wade allows in a growl. “Rough sex?”
“Yeah.”
“Mutual fucking?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Choking?”
Peter huffs impatiently. “Yes.”
“Manual bondage? Like holding you down?”
“Absolutely.”
“Regular bondage?”
“Very likely.”
“Praise?” Wade rumbles, and Peter shudders again, making his grip flex on the brunet’s hips.
“Please,” Peter winces.
“Mouth stuff?”
“I hate you, hurry up,” Peter complains with another whine, but he’s nodding the whole time.
“Hair pulling?”
“I insist.”
“Biting?”
“Uh-huh,” Peter strains, grinding his teeth when he can’t grind his hips.
“Easy on your chest?”
“Just wait for the binder to come off, j-just at first.”
“Spanking?” Wade asks thoughtfully.
“Maybe not the counting part,” Peter says with a breathy laugh.
“Red-yellow-green?”
“Yeah. Yes. Green,” Peter says quickly, and his mouth is so close to Wade’s that the merc can’t resist, surging forward to capture them with his own, pulling a moan from the smaller man, who pushes in to meet him full force, parting his lips and laving his tongue forward to breach Wade’s mouth. Slotted together, Peter’s hands holding Wade’s head both to brace himself and direct his boyfriend, the pair kisses with enough tongue to make the metaphorical French blush. Their hips grind and clash and maybe Wade imagines it but he’s pretty sure the other’s fingers are stuck to his skin when he maneuver’s Wade’s face at a tighter angle to deepen their kiss.
“Bedroom,” Peter commands breathlessly when they finally part, but it’s only long enough for Wade to nod obediently and scoop Peter up into his arms, firmly planting his big hands on Peter’s ass and supporting his thighs with his forearms. Peter moans like a goddamned porn star, tipping his hips and wrapping his arms around Wade’s neck and shoulders as the taller man rises from the couch with him in tow. Wade walks quickly to the bedroom and kicks the door shut behind them, the boxes cheering them on in chorus.
Notes:
Peter and Wade pretty much skip discussion of aftercare here. Do not skip Aftercare Discussion with your partners, folks. I imply later that they’ve basically had the conversation and we see appropriate behaviors, but it is vital that kinky relations are followed up by aftercare, especially if you decide to go harder than what these two will get up to. (But also after what these two get up to!!) Hell, aftercare is beneficial after all sexy times. Remember to drink water and talk about what worked and what didn’t work. Be careful and easy with each other. Next up: the actual Fun. 😎
Chapter 9: [9] Sexceptions 2: The Sequel
Summary:
Peter’s spidey-sense is a pain in the ass, but our heroes have a fun night together.
(They bang.)
11,486 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for explicit sex (oral, vaginal). Mixed language for Peter’s parts (pre-discussed).
Have fun!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s a lot of fumbling for a hot minute while Peter clings to Wade and Wade moves to the bed. Since Peter had been camping out with all of his thesis materials spread across the rumpled comforter: textbooks, notebooks, and a pile of pencils and highlighters filling up the entire king size bed. Wade had been all set to literally toss the brunet onto the mattress and then climb over him, all romantic and horny and in control of how fucking giddy he really is, but the bed being occupied by Peter’s smarty student life throws a whole toolbox of every wrench you could name off the top of your head into that short-lived plan. So instead he settles for pausing at the foot of the bed and bringing his brain out of libido fog just long enough to break the kiss, making Peter whine impatiently.
“Your stuff,” Wade breathes, nodding to the bed, and Peter looks over his shoulder and down at his mess from earlier.
“Aw, hell,” he grumbles, scowling and dropping all at once from Wade’s hold, the mercenary disappointed to lose his warmth and weight. Peter hastily gathers his things and just as unceremoniously scoops most of it into his messenger bag, almost dropping it on the floor in the corner before realizing his laptop is included. Everything else, remaining pens and a hardcover book or two, he sweeps onto the floor with an arm, making Wade snort as he slightly more carefully kicks it all into the same corner. He only takes a moment longer to check that the curtains are closed, unwilling to let his spidey-sense run so keenly in the background that it ruins their good time.
Peter’s spider-sense has been bothering him for a few weeks, kicking up faintly whenever he’s around Wade or Wade’s apartment. At first he’d thought it was somehow the merc triggering it, which had broken his heart a little considering the timing had put it right around when Peter came out to him as trans. That would’ve really, really sucked, but then he’d realized it buzzes at the back of his skull sometimes when Spider-Man is out with Deadpool on patrol, too, at the same low level of nearly negligible. He’d felt it when he’d caught Wade sneaking around on his fire escape, something odd that his spider-sense had stopped registering once Wade had come inside and the window covered up. He’d felt it in the hallway leading to his front door when Wade had come over on the day Peter had come out, but it hadn’t followed the man into Peter’s apartment. For the last two days, Peter’s been feeling it whenever he leaves for work or class: he’s felt it getting coffee at his usual little shop, on the train, in the halls at ESU, and when he sits down at his shared desk at the Daily Bugle. His hackles have been raised in public for almost four days as the niggling sensation gets a little worse each day.
Spider-Man has every reason to be anxious and paranoid, and poor Peter Parker had been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder well before the spider bite that gave New York its friendly neighborhood superhero. On top of maintaining an alter ego, Peter still faces legitimate threats constantly, like the villains who would love to target him and everyone he cares about if they could. He still has to be careful where he changes into and out of the Spidey suit. He still has to fight people who don’t care if innocent lives are affected or lost when they fight the snarky thorn in their side who won’t just eliminate them permanently himself. If his identity were to ever get out, he could lose everything, including his freedom: he still qualifies as a vigilante, since he won’t give out his identity to permanently sign up with the Avengers, even though he retains some special access with the team and its facilities by virtue of simple friendships and being helpful when the Avengers need backup.
So, normally, Peter’s anxiety and paranoia are more focused, better justified. When Spider-Man is out fighting those villains and bad guys and investigating bigger fish, his spider-sense is immensely valuable. The danger of an incoming bullet or fist, an impending explosion or falling debris, being too closely observed or even someone simply thinking about causing harm — anything that could be construed as a threat — sets off his internal alarm system. It feels just slightly different if the threat is focused on Peter rather than others, so having the alert of danger specifically toward himself whining quietly in the background of his mind for weeks, and then having it kick up to a higher gear the last few days is exhausting.
His anxiety has otherwise been doing great the last few months! He’s managing with a particularly high dosage of anti-anxieties thanks to those Avengers affiliation privileges: they can get a hold of medications so he doesn’t have to use his secret identity and draw attention or have a notable medical record. After discussing it with Dr. Banner, he has a massive supply of supplemental anti-anxieties for a “John Doe,” along with an equally ample supply of Adderall generics. So far he’s made due with the testosterone Peter Parker is prescribed, since somehow the idea of the Avengers knowing he’s got ADHD and anxiety isn’t nearly as terrifying as them knowing he’s trans. It helps that Wade is around. Whether or not he’s purposely been helping Peter mitigate his anxiety, Peter feels significantly less paranoid and overwhelmed when he’s spending time with the talkative mercenary. Neither Peter nor Spider-Man have had a panic attack in months either, so Peter’s been taking it all as a win.
But this new, ongoing spidey-sense trigger has been making it a little harder not to slip. Spider-Man needs to speak with Dr. Banner about what to do. It’s not normal spider-sense behavior at all, and Peter might have his suspicions that he’s being followed or watched, but he’s starting to feel… unwell. And Spider-Man can’t afford to feel unwell when he’s doing his work, helping people and stopping catastrophes before they can escalate. The only peace he really has from his loud new normal in the last 80-ish hours has been when he’s behind closed doors (and windows) with Wade. Wade, who adores him despite every annoying, boring, or different thing about him. Wade, who makes him food constantly and sends him home with leftovers and baked goods when he doesn’t just stay over. Wade, who texts him bedtime reminders when they aren’t sharing a bed. Wade, who tries his best to beat Peter and Spider-Man at video games, who defends Spider-Man with his life every time they team up, who looks at Peter like the sun shines out of his “perfect” ass.
Wade, who is currently looking at Peter like he could eat him alive in the best ways.
Sure that they’re all alone now that his spider-sense has fallen silent for the time being, Peter grins wickedly back up at Wade and doesn’t wait for him to speak again, instead hopping right back up into his arms. His hands are insistent at the back of Wade’s head as he directs the taller man into another feverish kiss, scratching lightly at his scarred skin.
“We good, Baby Boy?” Wade asks in between kisses, still breathless. “Though I confess, just watching you move around like that was keepin’ me all hot ‘n bothered.”
“Yeah,” Peter responds, “’s good now, bed, get on the bed.”
He doesn’t need telling twice, and Wade spins on his heel to fall onto his back, keeping Peter atop himself as he pushes a hand into the brunet’s soft, fluffy hair: one of his newest obsessions. Well, maybe not new, but one he gets to indulge in practically whenever the mood strikes him, which just happens to be often. Peter sighs against his lips when he does and Wade drags his other hand down Peter’s back, catching the hem of his hoodie and sneaking his hand up under it so he can feel Peter’s warm skin as he trails it up over his binder and down again, repeating the motion. The smaller man shivers from the press along his spine and Wade growls quietly as blunt nails press against his scalp.
“Pete,” Wade murmurs, and Peter hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t pull back from kissing himself stupid until the hand in his hair turns into a fistful of it and Wade tugs him back. Peter moans and looks down at him with hooded eyes. He had insisted Wade pull his hair, he’d literally asked for this, and he is not disappointed. Peter bites his bottom lip as he hums again, words not coming to him. Wade looks like he’s seeing a heavenly light as he meets Peter’s gaze with those lovely hazel eyes. “What can I do for ya tonight?” Wade asks, voice low and hoarse. He’s hard beneath Peter’s hips and the brunet wastes no time rolling into him, earning a grunt.
“I think you mean,” Peter begins throatily, his face a pretty, soft pink, “what can we do for each other?”
“What, you won’t let me pamper you? Can’t I make you cum first?” Wade chuckles, and Peter starts fiddling with the collar of the Deadpool suit, unlatching it so he can get to the zipper. “Cripes, Beautiful, you’re so impatient,” he teases, but his pupils are blown and his fingers curl tighter in Peter’s hair. The other man’s breath catches and Wade slides the hand on Peter’s spine up to the back of his neck and holds him firmly, rucking up his sweatshirt and getting another shiver out of him; his hands are so much bigger than Peter’s, and he hasn’t been with anyone so warm and strong, and Wade is looking at him like he’s actually happy to be here. Peter feels his chest squeeze with something he doesn’t know how to name, and Peter hates unknowns.
“Fucking hell, Wade,” he grinds out, eyes flashing with hunger. He revels in the little whine that the simple act of swearing gets out of Wade, lips spreading into a sharp-toothed grin. “If I’m not on my back with your head between my knees in five seconds, so help me, I will never throw you to the floor and pin you into submission,” he threatens delightedly, and Wade’s eyes go so wide it would be comical if he hadn’t accented it with an upward snap of his hips, pressing the bulge of his erection into sensitive folds. Peter hisses, flushing hot pink at the embarrassing squish in his boxer-briefs, already soaking wet.
The mercenary sits up a fraction before he swiftly rolls them both, switching their positions so that Peter presses back into the mattress with Wade’s arm under him. The larger man looms over him with a rumble low in his throat, looking the brunet up and down so slowly Peter grins triumphantly, biting his lip again and yanking Wade’s suit zipper down. Wade doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with tugging at the waistband of Peter’s joggers and eyeing him like a piece of meat he plans to gorge on. Peter lifts his hips helpfully and Wade glances to his eyes for confirmation before he pulls his pants down; Peter wiggles them off his ankles and Wade discards them somewhere off the bed, moving his scarred hands back to the shorter man’s underwear while Peter pulls the Deadpool suit zipper down past his boyfriend’s navel. Wade is just about to strip Peter of his underwear when Peter insistently shoves down the shoulders of the red and black suit.
“I wanna see,” Peter says by way of explanation, and Wade seems to just now realize how exposed he’s becoming. It still blows him away how casual and eager Peter is about seeing him uncovered. They’d taken off a lot of clothes in front of each other, and while Peter hadn’t, Wade’s even gone fully shirtless several times; letting Peter ogle him from the back of the couch while he makes them pancakes or sits and cleans his guns and blades at the sturdy dining table. Peter might not like guns, but he sure as hell likes watching Wade focus so intently while handling his weapons with such care and the sort of affection that he’d named his katanas and pistols after favorite comediennes. “C’mon. Share,” he teases, and Wade looks at him and blushes like a shy school girl, pausing from his efforts to get Peter naked to get himself more so.
“This is a two-way sharing street, right? We’re gonna make Big Bird proud?” the merc says as he shimmies the suit down, pulling his arms out of the tight sleeves. Peter is quiet as he watches the revealed, muscular expanse of craters, raised rivers, and blotchy red patches that make up the map of Wade’s skin, smiling dreamily as he clamps onto his bottom lip again, Wade’s eyes locked on his naturally sharp canines. “Maybe Bert and Ernie would be prouder?”
“They’re not invited,” Peter informs him through a growl of his own as Wade pushes the suit down his hips. “Oh,” he whines when he sees the vibrant red of lacy panties. He knows Wade’s got a decent collection of cute and sexy panties, and he tells himself Wade had put these on especially for him, knowing they would be getting together tonight. The lining of lace does nothing to disguise the outline of his thick cock, and Peter swallows roughly. “Nice panties,” he compliments sincerely, voice cracking. Is it hot in here? No, no, it’s not hot in here; it’s just Wade in a pair of panties with his suit riding below his hips.
Wade glances down, attention pulled from Peter’s mouth to double check which ones he’s wearing. (The red lacy number with the mesh window for the butt, duh.) He’d forgotten easily, since Peter’s been most of what’s on his mind for the last several hours. “You like ‘em?” he asks softly, his shyness contrasted by a smug smirk. He knows they look good, but he’s still pink-faced, and Peter wonders if he knows how he looks when he blushes.
“Red is definitely your color.”
“Looks good on you, too, Bambi,” Wade counters, smirking at the color blossoming from Peter’s face and neck down under his hoodie. Wade gets distracted rucking up the deep blue garment lettered with Peter’s university’s acronym, the smaller man jolting and laughing with surprise as Wade ducks to press gentle kisses over his belly. “Fuck, you’re so cut,” he praises eagerly, tracing fingers over the defined shape of Peter’s abs.
The touch sends little zips of pleasure through Peter’s core, and he’s got a hand in his own hair, pushing it back as he tries to even out his breathing, watching Wade from his flattened angle on the bed. “Look who’s talking,” he mumbles, toes curling in the bed sheets. He uses one foot to teasingly nudge the Deadpool suit further down Wade’s thighs and to his knees, admiring the solid V of muscles that sit just above the man’s hip bones.
“What, my cum gutters?” Wade asks, smirking for the bark of a laugh it gets out of Peter.
“They can’t be called that,” Peter says through a giggle, a surge of joy just from being able to joke with his partner without it feeling forced or awkward. He trusts Wade so implicitly he’s not overthinking what he can say when they’re in intimate settings… Huh. He hasn’t had this since Gwen.
“Oh, they definitely are,” the taller man assures him before Peter can get distracted by a distant pit in his stomach. “Listen, sweet thing, am I still sucking your dick or are you gonna keep distracting me?” Wade demands playfully, fingertips gliding along the waistband of Peter’s boxer-briefs again. Peter smiles crookedly from his position and shrugs like he’s perfectly innocent, grabbing the edges of his hoodie and wiggling to get out of it, lifting his hips again so Wade can slide his dampened underwear off and toss them to the floor as well. “Holy shit,” Wade mutters tightly, because Peter’s only in his binder now, flushed and breathing hard as he looks up at Wade like nothing he’s ever seen before. No one’s looked at him like that in so long, and even when they had, it hadn’t been with such a hazy, lazy smile and big brown puppy dog eyes getting darker by the minute as his pupils dilate with lust.
“That better be a good ‘holy shit,’ Wade,” Peter muses, a distant nervousness flickering over his face, but Wade nods for several seconds, on his knees between Peter’s and slowly drinking in the smaller man’s toned muscles and pale skin.
Does he ever see the sun?? He could audition for the next vampire franchise, which better not happen anytime soon, nothing compares to the homoeroticism of Interview Wi—
Delighted by the way his gaze is coloring so much of Peter’s skin pretty shades of pink and red, bringing out his freckles, Wade’s eyes linger on the starburst scar on Peter’s outer thigh, something he’d caught a glimpse of a while ago but hadn’t been able to really eye until this moment. The tissue has healed well, but he tries to refocus rather than worry about why Peter has a fucking gunshot wound on his leg. It’s bad enough there’s one on his shoulder. (It's weird, though, right? That he’s never mentioned being shot? To us? The unstable mercenary with dozens of guns in the next room? Right??) Wade hums and gently strokes fingertips over Peter’s skin, avoiding the scars. Even the stretch marks that shimmer faintly with silver on his thighs are hypnotizing. Every part of Peter is pretty, pretty, pretty .
“Pretty,” Wade supplies aloud, fond and giddy. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, Baby Boy.”
Peter groans, hiding behind his hands even as he relaxes into the mattress, knees dropping to spread his legs further open and bringing Wade’s attention to his swollen clit, a sight that does nothing to lessen his own arousal. “Could you not?” Peter whines, voice rough again already. “Your five seconds are long up,” he reminds him, muffled by his palms, head tipped back, “I’m totally never gonna throw you around and hold you d—!” He interrupts himself with a gasp when Wade grabs his hips and yanks him closer to the edge of the bed.
Peter flails just slightly, more to get a grip on the sheets than in protest as Wade drops to sit on his heels on the floor, hauling Peter’s legs over his shoulders and prying his thighs further apart with a low hum. Peter can feel his hot breath on him, well aware he’s dripping when Wade noses at his inner thigh and sets little kisses on the delicate skin, one hand briefly vanishing to adjust himself in his panties. “Wade,” Peter says aimlessly, propped on one elbow as he sets a hand on the back of Wade’s head, the man returning his own to hold both of Peter’s legs again. Not to pull him forward, not to direct or insist, just to touch him again, slender fingers gentle on his boyfriend’s scalp even with the almost-callouses on the pads of his fingers.
But Wade looks up at him with a dark lust he hasn’t had the opportunity to witness until this moment, and Peter’s breath hitches.
“I love it when you say my name,” the mercenary rumbles, and Peter sucks in sharply as the man slides his arms up over Peter’s thighs and keeps him spread open, ducking to lave long and flat against the wet folds of Peter’s pussy, sliding his tongue between the lips and following the silky line of skin up to the tip of Peter’s cock, dragging out a weak moan from the brunet in the process. Peter shakes on his propped arm and keens when Wade dips to slowly repeat the motion, blunt fingernails catching on some of Wade’s scars at the back of his neck as Peter’s hand shifts and his fingers flex.
He tastes better than Wade could’ve imagined in his many, many fantasies, and he’s not about to let this part go too fast if his boyfriend is already shaking under his attention. Peter’s eyes are squeezed shut, but Wade is happy to watch the play of his expressions and hear his soft panting breaths as he continues, rolling his tongue and moving upward to suck Peter’s enlarged clit into his mouth with only the lightest drag of his teeth over the hood of it before he’s swirling his tongue over the head.
Peter chokes on a gasp when Wade slides his tongue down to shortly dip inside while he’s still got his dick in his mouth, and does he know no one’s done that before? He repeats that a few times before picking up the pace and focusing on his dick, smoothing one hand under Peter’s thigh, creeping closer to his cunt with the pads of his hot fingers. Digging his heels into Wade’s back, Peter tries to haul himself up in a half crunch so he can put both hands on Wade’s head, narrowly avoiding tugging him closer as Wade moves one hand under Peter’s leg and nears him; his fingers tease around the already slicked skin below Peter’s vulva. “Fuck,” Peter huffs, brows curled upward as he bites his lip again. “Wade,” he pleads, fingernails at the base of his skull twitching. “Please.”
Ask and ye shall receive.
Wade growls, the vibration of it against Peter’s pussy and surrounding his dick yanking a yelp out of the smaller man, and Wade’s hand tightens around his thigh while the other slips a finger carefully inward. Wade angles his head just slightly so he can turn his palm up and curl his forefinger, rubbing small circles as he moves further inside, each bob of his head brushing the tip of his nose into short, coarse hairs. Peter reflexively digs nails into Wade’s skin after all, and the little whine the man gives startles him. Peter immediately rubs gently over the same spots, apologetic and embarrassed.
No one’s ever gotten him this worked up with oral before, so he isn’t sure how to get a hold of himself. But Wade stops moving, keeping his finger in place even as he looks up at Peter with a little glare. Confused, Peter briefly frets that he’s done wrong after all, but Wade reaches his less occupied hand to Peter’s wrist and smooths over Peter’s hand; he makes Peter grab him again and pushes his own head forward. Peter finally catches on, the anxiety gone in almost an instant as he experimentally urges Wade closer, the merc’s practiced mouth engulfing that much more of him. Wade rewards this spur of confidence with another finger, carefully slipping in his middle finger to join the digit rubbing long ovals into the brunet’s tight heat. Peter shudders, the motions rattling his whole body, and after a beat wherein he sets his hands on either side of Wade’s head, he meets Wade’s darkened eyes with his own and drags him forward and back, effectively fucking into the taller man’s eager mouth.
“Hn,” Peter winces, but excitement spurs him on, and Wade returns his hand to Peter’s thigh to steady himself, feverishly wiggling his tongue to tease where his fingers delve into his boyfriend and sucking back up along the length of Peter’s dick as his eyes slide shut again, distracted by the heat and taste and softness of the man in his mouth. Peter holds Wade close and pushes him back just slightly, a rolling motion of his hips twitching forward to meet the tug. It feels like he’s being swallowed whole and Peter can’t keep the most consistent rhythm as he controls the pace, but Wade moans in approval and again the sensation has Peter breathing hard. His cock and his cunt thrum with an ever-present pleasure, little bursts of it bubbling through him and making his brain pleasantly fuzzy.
Wade’s fingers reach up to his knuckles inside of Peter and when he curls them again, he hooks over his G-spot, sending sparks of heat through Peter’s core and up his spine, making him swear loudly. Wade takes this as encouragement, letting Peter face fuck him as he rubs along that same spot, occasionally twisting to delve a little deeper before returning to it. After a couple of minutes teasing him, Wade slides in a third finger to stretch him a little more and Peter whines, fingernails leaving crescents at the base of Wade’s skull, the little shocks of light pain making Wade groan again.
Wade is rock hard, enough that he nearly pushes his panties down simply by performing oral, the line of elastic straining to contain him a faint ache. But he doesn’t touch himself, doesn’t pull his hand from where he pushes up Peter’s thigh to grip his hip, thumb pressing into firm muscle and over the jut of bone. Fuck , he’s been deeply attracted to partners before, he usually is if he gets this far with someone, but something about Peter and what Wade can see is his inexperience receiving head (Or at least good head.) has the scarred man weak. Wade knows Peter wrecks him, he knows the brunet’s doe eyes could have him at the other’s beck and call if Peter ever wanted him to be. He knows Peter wouldn’t ask that of him in a million years because he’s too good and too awkward and too smart to waste his time with someone like Wade— but he does, he does waste his time with Wade. He’s wasted months with Wade, of his own volition. Sure, maybe it was after Wade had bothered him a bunch, but he tries not to let that guilt taint this victory of being on Peter’s radar so securely that Peter comes over without Wade having to invite him, eats Wade’s cooking like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted (Every time!), wants to see him naked, wants to play video games with him, wants to make out with him…
Wade hums at length, and Peter mewls at the vibration, curled forward, flexible enough that his forehead and his fluffy hair brush Wade’s crown with each forward thrust into his mouth. His name is a mantra on Peter’s lips, and Wade rumbles deeply in his chest and throat when Peter’s breath picks up with the increasing swells of pleasure washing over and through him.
“W-Wade,” Peter warns meekly, voice cracking again, a sound Wade could die a happy man hearing as many times as he possibly can. “Wade, I’m gonna cum,” he says with a little more uncertainty, tugging him back slightly, worried about god knows what because Wade isn’t about to stop eating him out. He grips him in place with the hand on his narrow hip, moving his fingers faster in and out of Peter’s cunt. “Ah,” Peter breathes, seeming to get the picture and only hesitating another moment before he holds Wade’s head close, cock pushed against the roof of Wade’s mouth with his tongue rolling firmly along the underside. Peter shudders as Wade’s fingers curl up to press over the hook of his G-spot again. “Wade.”
Peter may not scream, but the reverent way Peter sighs his name has Wade’s cock twitching all the way out of his panties. He hums a low tune this time, a gentle repeating pattern with a melody Peter doesn’t yet recognize as he remains still at Peter’s behest. Peter breathes in hot pants above him, twitching and pulsing against Wade’s tongue, clenching at delicious intervals around Wade’s fingers and spilling more wet heat into Wade’s hand. Wade curls his tongue along him through it, fingers twisting slowly in and out to drag out Peter’s orgasm, which has him dropping back onto the mattress, his own fingers light and twitching against Wade’s head, miraculously staying in place as he breathes raggedly through the waves of full-body pleasure.
When Peter’s body has stopped spasming around his fingers and in his mouth, Wade slowly pulls back, lapping up translucent cum as he does, briefly setting a kiss on the sensitive tip of the smaller man’s clit. Still breathing heavily, Peter weakly lifts his head and Wade smirks as he rises slowly. Gently lowering Peter’s legs, he brings his slicked fingers to his mouth to lick them clean one at a time. Peter’s face screws up with a wince, eyes raking down Wade’s chest to his hips and landing at a dead stop over Wade’s leaking erection, sprung out of panties the same color as Peter’s cheeks and ears.
“Mmm,” Wade purrs teasingly, Peter’s big brown eyes snapping back up to his face. Well, they were brown, but now his pupils are dilated even more than Wade’s, judging by how much darker they really seem. It looks like black pools have overtaken both irises. Something primal in the back of his brain makes Wade shiver; Peter looks positively wild like this. “Told you,” he snarks affectionately.
“Told me what?” Peter asks, husky and distracted, darkened eyes dropping back to Wade’s dick. He’s seen it before — by accident, really, Wade having walked out of the bathroom after a shower and startling when he’d seen Peter already lounging on the bed with a sci-fi novel in hand, since he’d arrived while Wade had been washing up — so Peter knows he’s huge and uncut. But the contrast of his mottled, rippled scars against the scarlet panties is a special kind of sexy, and Peter gnaws on one corner of his lower lip again, which drags a whimper out of Wade, who shuffles his feet and bounces in place for a moment. Naturally it translates to his cock, making it bob, and Peter sighs raggedly.
“That you’d cum first,” Wade says with a wink, his face shiny and wet as he wipes a hand down his jaw and chin, eyes locked on Peter’s and heart rate picking up when Peter’s lips part. He makes a point of licking his palm this time and Peter squeaks, shakily pushing himself upright again, shuddering at the warmth leaking from his spent cunt. They both look down at it and Wade sighs dreamily, which makes Peter’s eyes flick to his face again as he swallows his nerves, strangely proud that he’d made Wade so utterly horny by getting off himself.
“Did you want a prize?” Peter jokes, but there’s a mischievous edge to the question, and his smile is a creeping thing that brings out his canines. By the time it’s stretched across his face, he looks a little feral, eyes still dark as Wade holds his breath and starts tipping forward between his boyfriend’s legs onto the bed. His hands land on either side of Peter’s hips to catch himself, unable to look away from those black, blown pupils. Did his big doe eyes get even bigger? “First place gets to fuck me,” Peter supplies smugly, still hot pink even as his success in practically hypnotizing Wade makes him look like the cat who’s seconds away from eating the unsuspecting canary.
“Yeah? Is there an entry fee?” Wade croaks, because if he doesn’t say something with words, he’ll say it with breathy, needy moans and he wants to save those sounds for when he claims this offered prize. Peter reaches hands up to cup either side of Wade’s face, thumbs caressing under his hazel eyes as he drags the taller man closer, lower over the length of his body. Wade crawls forward as Peter shifts himself further back up onto the bed.
“You’ve paid in full, baby,” Peter coos, and heat rushes over every inch of Wade’s sensitive skin. “So get some lube and bring me your cock or we’re gonna have a problem,” he commands, the threat both playful and intensely convincing, spurring Wade to nod obediently and move away only long enough to fumble in a nightstand drawer. He comes back to his boyfriend’s almost dangerous aura of lust and satisfaction, settling between his legs once more.
Peter hums lowly in approval, smoothing hands over Wade’s shoulders and down his arms before he sits up and moves them to Wade’s sides, holding the other man still as Wade sits back on his heels. Wade is so painfully hard and horny, overwhelmed with Peter putting on such a dominant tone that he struggles with the bottle enough to make Peter lightly pull it away from his hands, which fall uselessly at Wade’s sides. He swallows the lump of lust in his throat and watches Peter easily pop the cap while staring down the mercenary.
“Eep,” Wade says in a tiny voice, watching animated hearts and stars burst from his obscenely gorgeous boyfriend’s face and hair and blackened eyes and wicked grin. The boxes have been mercifully quiet, and it’s only now that they chime in with encouraging, growing cheers, like a stadium of sports fans doing sports fans things— okay, Wade has no idea what most sports people do when they go to sporting events, he’s really only familiar with the chaotic energy of hockey, but he gets the sense rousing and enthusiastic crowds are usually involved, and the boxes are happy to supply only encouragements for once in their miserable existence.
Peter pours lube into one hand, warming it up between his fingers before dipping down and wrapping those slicked elegant fingers around Wade’s waiting cock, unerringly watching him the entire time, expression cool and smug, pleased with the way Wade gasps and closes his eyes. Wade sways a little, falling forward to drop his head on Peter’s shoulder and hold the small of the other man’s back, holding up his weight with the hand on his bed. Peter hums sweetly, pressing a kiss into Wade’s temple as he smooths his hand to the base of his boyfriend’s erection before tugging slowly back up. Wade’s breath is heavy and hot against his skin, even through the fabric of his binder, and Peter looks down long enough to pour more lube directly onto Wade’s cock, earning a sharp gasp for the brief chill. Wade tucks his face into Peter’s nape, flooding the smaller man with a happy sort of ripple that turns to heady lust when Wade opens his jaw to bite down on the flesh there.
“Wade,” Peter hisses, grip twitching a little tighter as he pumps Wade at an agonizingly slow pace.
God, Peter’s hand feels amazing. He’s got lightly calloused pads and fingertips, and the brief friction against his warped skin feels so amazing, with just an edge of discomfort smoothed slightly by the lube and reading perfectly as the near-pain that Wade sometimes needs, craves. Wade mindlessly rolls his hips into Peter’s hand and the smaller man growls, angling his head further to the side when Wade starts sucking a bruise onto his neck, sliding a little closer to his collarbone, stopping short of the edge of his binder before he nips and drags his tongue over warm skin. Peter’s breath comes faster, and his wrist twists at a slight angle with each upward pull. Wade keens as pleasure throbs through him, coiling in his belly and balls.
“Peter,” he groans softly, and Peter whines, hand stuttering around him. Wade pulls him closer with the hand at his back and Peter arches, head lolling back as he picks up the pace and slides his other hand up Wade’s side to the back of his neck. “Petey, you’re killin’ me,” Wade groans lowly, brain abuzz and limbs heavy with want.
“I’m not hearing a real complaint,” Peter breathes with a little chuckle, but even Wade can tell he’s getting lost again, expression softer when the larger man lifts his face to catch his gaze. It’s still nearly black, maybe even blacker with the way the borders of his irises almost look to have expanded, and Wade bites his cheek almost hard enough to draw blood when Peter flashes a toothy half smile. He desperately wants Peter to chomp down onto his shoulder, into his neck, maybe a pec. He’s even curious about what those little daggers might do to his dick if (Or maybe when?) he fucks Peter’s pretty mouth.
D’you think his eyes will still be all feral like this with our cock in his mouth? That would be so fucking hot.
“Not a one,” Wade agrees roughly, and he’s leaking more precum, further easing the slide of Peter’s palm and the rolling grip of his fingers. But he’s getting a little impatient and needy, and Peter smells like cinnamon and sex, and Wade knows if he lets Peter keep this up he’s going to waste an orgasm before they get to the good part. Not that his refractory period isn’t mere minutes, but Peter had promised him a prize, and he’s not about to leave sexy money on the table. “How do I claim my reward? I’m not big on paperwork, y’know.” He noses along the brunet’s jaw and moves his lips to his earlobe, catching it briefly between his teeth. “D’you wanna be in charge, Pumpkin?” he asks quietly in Peter's ear, managing to be a little responsible even in the haze of desire.
Another whine out of the smaller man, and Wade nuzzles his temple and down to his nape, nipping lightly at the bruise he’d given him. He could listen to the little sounds Peter makes all fucking day and never be disappointed or bored. Wade is certain Peter doesn’t even know how many he makes, which can of course be something they discover together. Peter shifts closer to him, ducking his head to interrupt Wade’s mouth, much as he wants the taller man to continue.
“No,” Peter admits softly, and for a moment Wade is worried there’s something wrong, pulling back enough to see Peter’s bright red face and a pleading, hopeful look in his dark eyes that melts the mercenary’s concern. “Mostly I need you to fuck me? Really bad. Like,” Peter goes on breathlessly, meaningfully slowing his hand even as he squeezes a little firmer, rolling the pad of his thumb over the head of the other man’s cock. He scoots even closer and Wade holds him, dragging his hand up between Peter’s shoulder blades. “I feel. Needy, ha,” Peter says softly, like he has to give Wade a reason for wanting to get railed by his big, sexy, generous boyfriend. He groans, retroactively embarrassed for how he’d demanded Wade give it to him when he’s losing the thread of command the longer Wade breathes at his neck or speaks sweetly to him. Peter Parker can’t hold onto confidence the way Spider-Man can, and he wonders if there’s a good way to channel that part of himself without giving up his identity ahead of time. He’s almost trapped himself in feeling badly for keeping Spider-Man and Peter separate even from Wade, but the mercenary’s hand crawls up to cradle his head as he squeezes Peter’s side.
“Oh, Baby Boy,” Wade rumbles, making Peter shiver. Holy shit, does he love that rumbling sound. “I love it when you’re needy, don’t you dare feel like you can’t ask me for things,” he goes on, gravelly and lit by the fires of specifically being asked to fuck the brunet — more than once! “There’s all the time in the world for every little thing you wanna do with me, Pete, and I am more than happy to find and fulfill every little piece of what you want. What you, ah. Whatcha need...” He drags scarred lips over the shell of Peter’s ear and nibbles lightly. Peter squeaks a little laugh. “Need more lube?” he asks meaningfully before he lets himself get too into it again. Peter is very distracting.
“Y-yeah, I, uh. Always do. It’s the hormones,” Peter explains hastily, self-conscious again, but he picks up the bottle with his clean hand, still steadily working Wade’s length as the merc holds out his palm.
“Sweetcheeks, you don’t gotta explain jack shit to me. Too much lube is always better than not enough,” Wade assures him sternly, smiling gently and kissing under his earlobe, the curve of his jawbone, the spot that works like magic on the other man’s skin. Peter winces, moving carefully to open the cap and pour lube into Wade’s palm, clicking it shut again and setting it further away when Wade lifts his gaze to meet Peter’s. He slides his lubed hand between Peter’s legs and gently opens him up again, fingers parting wet lips and easing gently inside. Peter sighs into Wade’s neck, turning his face to breathe the scent of gun oil, burnt sugar (nitroglycerin?), and maple. Peter’s into it. Or maybe he’s just into Wade. Either way, every breath is delicious.
“Okay,” Peter allows quietly, grateful and increasingly horny, because as desperate as he is to get Wade inside him already, he appreciates the man’s words, reassurances, and his slow hand as he works Peter up again. He tries to breathe evenly, but it’s not easy when the hand at the back of his head dips to wrap around the back of his neck, big enough to put Wade’s fingers close to touching over his trachea even from behind. “Fuck,” Peter croaks, because Wade squeezes to apply just the right amount of pressure in just the right places to slow the blood that reaches his brain and it’s giving him just a little headiness that he revels in.
Peter’s been strangled and suffocated by villains and criminals more times than he can count; it seems like they favor trying to separate his head from his body either very literally or just by putting something between the two. But Peter has never once been turned on by it, the threat against his life too real, the efforts too fatally dangerous to be enticing or remotely arousing. It’s not the same as it is with someone he trusts, with someone attentive and cautious, and Wade never goes for his windpipe. As lust darkens Wade’s eyes like it does Peter’s while they gaze at one another, half-lidded and heavy, Peter already knows he’d let Wade bring him to the brink of unconsciousness. He’s pretty confident Wade would say the same of him, considering how vocally he’s assured both Spider-Man and Peter that he’d like them to actually throw him around. Wade is still watching him when he lightly bats Peter’s hand from his erection, which truly aches at the sight of Peter’s dazed face, the little smile he gives when Wade eases him onto his back on the bed and pushes his legs further open again.
“Fuck, Baby Boy, I really do love it when you swear like that, it’s like seeing a nun figure out what masturbation is for the first time. Sinful. Fucking hot as hell,” Wade groans. Peter hisses and closes his eyes, tipping his head back and displaying more of his blushing neck as Wade lines up against him. He’s so hot, they’re both burning up against each other, and Wade hikes one of Peter’s legs up higher, knowing he’s flexible enough that the strain isn’t unpleasant. Peter catches his lower lip between his teeth again. “Think I should fuck you missionary?” he muses, getting ideas from his own jokes. “Or turn you sideways?”
“Dammit, Wade,” Peter half-heartedly complains in a heady voice, wiggling his hips lower in an attempt to convince him to move while something nags in the back of Wade’s brain for a split second at the higher pitch of Peter’s voice. “If you’re not gonna fuck me—,” he begins, but Wade brings the hand at the back of his neck up into Peter’s hair and grabs a handful, startling his words into a gasp. His brain’s nagging is short-lived, and even the boxes don’t try to distract him when Peter bares his sharp teeth, but the brunet’s not snarling or arguing, his nearly black eyes sliding shut. Wade feels him twitch over the head of his cock.
“Who says I’m not gonna fuck you, Handsome?” Wade coos, directing Peter’s face to the side, enjoying the way his lips part as he pants, gripping at the bedsheets and the headboard respectively, knuckles white. “I’m just thinking about the many ways I could do it. I like it when you whine, y’know?” Peter winces as Wade pulls the other man’s head back a little more, face mostly pressed into a shallow pillow. Jesus Christ, his boyfriend is so unfairly sexy, how is he getting away with this all the time? How have they waited this long? “Are you gonna be good for me if I turn you over, Pumpkin?” he asks smoothly, though it’s also a cautious request for permission.
Peter whines, nodding even in Wade’s hold.
“Gonna give me your words so I can give you my dick, Sweet Pea?”
Peter takes a few steadying breaths. Wade waits patiently. “Do I have to?” he asks in a small voice, and Wade honestly isn’t sure if he’s being bratty and difficult or just shy. Either way, Wade adores it.
“What, give me your beautiful words? Or did you not want my cock?” Wade muses, teasingly pulling his hips back just slightly, enough that they’re no longer touching in the most intimate places. Peter mewls, dropping his hand from the headboard to set it on Wade’s wrist where he holds Peter’s hair. He doesn’t push or grab, just rests there, a connection. Something to hold onto. “Hm?”
“Words,” Peter clarifies, and Wade suspects Peter might be discovering the first layer of subspace, which Wade hadn’t expected to be so satisfying to edge him into. Peter had been squirming and needy when he’d given the shorter man head, sure, but not like this. It’s just as sexy, really, just a different sort of sexy and Wade embraces the primal urge to take advantage of the gift of his boyfriend’s submission. He’d always wondered what it would be like to dom someone who could maybe, actually kick his ass. He’d imagined it with Spidey enough times, and the hero falls into the “could actually kick my ass” category; Peter is clearly stronger than he looks when he’s just in his regular, mostly loose clothes that hide all his muscles, so Wade is excited to take him up on the offer of getting thoroughly manhandled in the future.
Wade hums long and low, feigning how deep he has to think about it. “If you can’t use your words, baby, I need you to give me signals of some kind, okay?” he murmurs soothingly, but his voice stays deep and rough and he can see it physically affecting the smaller man beneath him when he shudders with his whole body. Wade’s super-queer heart swells with joy and flattery and renewing confidence that Peter has never just yanked his chain about his feelings for Wade. What a time for affirmations! Peter gives his wrist a little squeeze. “Good boy,” Wade praises sweetly, and Peter whines again, shutting his eyes and exhaling sharply as Wade shifts the both of them.
Keeping the hand in Peter’s hair, he eases the photographer’s leg from his shoulder, ignoring his little wince of protest at Wade’s distinct lack of coming closer. Instead, he reaches under Peter’s ass, earning a squawk and short laugh of surprise; Peter quickly catches himself with his own hands as Wade maneuvers his body over entirely, dragging him back when he catches under his hips, the younger man’s ass in the air as Wade kneels behind him. Peter’s breathing is erratic, curls soft between Wade’s fingers as he briefly pets through his hair and gets a new grip, leaning over his boyfriend’s back, the head of his cock brushing against his wet entrance. Elbows bent, Peter braces and grips at the sheets on either side of his shoulders, heart pounding against his ribs.
“This okay?” Wade whispers at Peter’s ear, breath hot and damp and Peter is 100% certain he’s messing with him until Wade noses under his ear and waits patiently for a response. Peter can’t really form words, and he’s glad Wade had established that he doesn’t need them if he can indicate a go-ahead. So Peter nods. “Double tap if your words don’t work and you need me to stop, baby,” Wade says gently, and Peter’s chest seizes with a wretched combination of affection, lust, and relief as he nods again, enjoying the little tug it gets him with Wade’s hand in his hair. They’ll go over safe words again soon, a couple of other signals to accommodate when either of them might become nonverbal like this. Peter’s lips part with a sharp inhale. “Good boy,” Wade repeats, and Peter nearly comes apart there and then, squeaking and hiding his face in the sheets, nodding mindlessly.
Wade sighs dreamily, absolutely enamored, tracing fingertips across Peter’s abs as he slides his hand to one hip and again nudges his legs apart with his knees, lining up. “Now hold still, Gorgeous. I’ll fuck you so good if you do,” Wade instructs simply, watching the blush spread over Peter’s shoulders. Peter obeys, chest expanding with each careful breath he takes as Wade holds the base of his cock to steady himself and slowly press into the wet hole waiting for him. There’s little resistance, Peter still stretched from Wade’s earlier efforts and slick with Peter’s arousal and a good helping of lube to make the tight entry smooth. Wade groans loudly, grabbing Peter’s hip once he’s far enough in, pushing Peter’s head further into the mattress, careful not to suffocate him and angling him just enough to the side that he can also hear the little strangled moan the brunet makes once he’s almost bottomed out. “Jesus cocksucking Christ, Pete,” Wade grinds out through his teeth, thrilled with the way Peter arches his back as they slow to a stop so Peter can adjust.
“Wade,” Peter says, strained and needy. “Holy shit, Wade,” he adds hastily, slurred and breathless as he gasps for air. Not because Wade won’t let him have it, but because he’s never been fucked from behind, and he’s never been fucked with something so thick from someone really, truly eager to participate. Wade’s dick is textured and hot and every little ridge of the scars on his skin is like having a more interesting ribbed toy inside of him. Dildos can’t compare. He wriggles his shoulders, fingers twitching in the bed sheets, and Wade rumbles behind him as the motion ripples pleasure through the both of them. “Hnn,” Peter winces. “W-Wade, please.”
“Please what, Sugar Bear?” Wade says, way too put together when Peter is still crumbling. But Peter can’t find the words, trying to gyrate in place to indicate his desires. Wade tuts, and Peter’s face burns when the taller man moves the hand in his hair to the back of his neck again, pressing down to plant his shoulders against the mattress and still his squirming. Peter exhales sharply with the force of it. “Did you want me to move?” he teases, and Peter nods miserably. “Good boy,” Wade sighs, falling into a short string of obscenities when Peter clenches around him as a result of the praise. “How can I say no to you?” he says facetiously, chuckling darkly when Peter grunts with mild frustration that Wade is dragging it out. But the way he tightens around Wade’s cock again tells another story.
Wade obliges.
Slowly, Wade pulls about halfway out of the brunet, breathing deeply in tandem with him before rocking forward again, Peter leaning heavily into the mattress as a result. He gasps when Wade starts to repeat the motion, moaning softly while Wade finds a rhythm, freeing Peter’s neck and shoulders so he can get a better hold of the other’s hips, firm and sturdy. Holding him right where he wants him, Wade snaps his own hips into and out of him.
Peter whimpers, pushing his face into the bed under him, his hands scrambling for purchase as though Wade doesn’t have a perfect hold of him, as though he’d ever let Peter just flail when he could hold on and feel every little motion from his boyfriend around him. Pleasure and deep affection for the smaller man drive Wade forward as Peter relaxes and tenses at perfect intervals while he fucks him, sighing and moaning, gasping every other time Wade drags over the curve of his G-spot. Wade had no idea Peter could be so vocal, though he’d always hoped. His fantasies often exaggerate the sounds that he’s getting now, in actual reality, but holy ever-loving orphan-collecting DC Comics hero! The litany of sounds Peter is making just for Wade, because Wade is pleasuring and fulfilling him — he couldn’t have imagined it this sincere.
“Wade,” Peter whimpers, and Wade slides one hand up his back, over his spine, and Peter arches into and away from his hand, nerves alight. No one has ever fucked him like this, all of Peter’s experiences too young or too shy or too far from understanding what he’d wanted or needed even at the time. It’s nice to have someone more experienced here, someone who takes him through the parts he’s too shy to ask for, the parts he’s not sure he’s supposed or allowed to ask for. Wade is so accommodating, even after Peter had thought he could top the larger man earlier. Something had gone wrong in Peter’s head, but not so wrong he’d wanted to stop, and not so wrong that he’d felt the need to evaluate it in the moment. He’ll analyze himself later, right now he’s got Wade and Wade’s huge cock filling him up and pulsing pleasure into his core, and his scalp stings just slightly from where Wade had held his hair just right. “Wade,” he repeats, because he can’t remember other words.
Growling deep in his throat, Wade smooths the hand on Peter’s back into his hair again, but he doesn’t pull, just dragging fingers through the fluffy curls and lightly scratching as he bends over him again, which gives him a deeper angle to thrust into Peter’s pussy when he noses at his cheek affectionately, the brunet’s skin a bright burning scarlet. He never stops moving, and Peter wonders if it’s the stamina granted by his healing factor or if Peter can pretend he just does this to the mercenary. Maybe it’s both. He’s not about to ask, he’ll just take it, take Wade’s gravelly voice in his ear sending warm waves of excitement through him in wake of the pleasure.
“You feel so good, Baby Boy,” Wade breathes, lips brushing the shell of his ear, a place Peter hadn’t been aware could be this sensitive. “I’m getting close, Peter. Fuck, you’re so gorgeous, look at you under me...”
Peter’s scalp is alight where Wade touches him; his belly tightens and his legs tremble as Wade continues to rock easily into him. Wade isn’t being gentle with his thrusts, but the hand that doesn’t have a vice grip on Peter’s hip is gentle and sweet and exploratory, snaking around to Peter’s front, fingers sliding through some of the slick of lube and Peter’s wetness to roll fingers around his dick, the pressure just enough to make Peter groan, shuddering violently.
He hadn’t mentioned to Wade that he usually can’t get off without clitoral stimulation, but Wade is no fool, and he isn’t about to leave Peter hanging. He gives a gentle tug as he rubs over his cock, lightly pinching the length of it every few seconds. It’s somehow close to too much, but Peter’s hips twitch into Wade’s hand, and he pants heavily, sweaty and thrilled and needy. Peter twists himself just enough to kiss the corner of Wade’s mouth, almost chaste. Grateful. Comfortable. Affectionate. Maybe even full of that elusive L-word Peter dreads saying aloud for fear of jinxing it.
To Peter’s surprise, this makes Wade’s hips stutter against him, the hand on Peter’s dick pausing for a fraction of a second, a momentary lapse in the otherwise consistent percussion, pulling a whimper out of the brunet. Wade takes his hand off of Peter’s hip and grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair again, making him yelp and angling him to get a proper kiss as he moves again, pressing that much more over Peter’s clit. Peter groans as he tries to prop an elbow just enough to hungrily meet his mouth again. Wade nips at his lip and lolls his tongue forward, and Peter parts his lips invitingly, returning the gesture feverishly, bringing a hand up to hold the back of Wade’s neck for support and to get him that much closer, sucking and licking and staking claim of each other’s mouths. Wade is definitely an excellent kisser, and if he’d had the wherewithal to ask, Wade would return the sentiment and then steal Peter’s lips again to prove it. Peter has never enjoyed kissing more than when he kisses Wade. They even make out like sloppy teenagers sometimes, and when they break away giggling, Wade looks at Peter like he’d personally hung the stars, and Peter looks at Wade like he’d held him up to the sky to do it.
It comes to a head less than a minute after Wade starts kissing Peter, and Peter’s nails dig into his merc’s neck as his fingers cling for purchase when the buildup starts. “Wade,” he warns weakly, biting the taller man’s lip a little harder than he intends to, and he’s pretty sure he tastes blood and something bitter, something distantly familiar, but Wade’s sharp gasp of pain for the momentary sting dissolves into a moan of pleasure, so he doesn’t dwell on the guilt. He himself can’t fight the pants, the moans that escape his lips as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and nearly overwhelming. Wade breaks the kiss only long enough to let Peter cry out, pleasure pulsing through him, his cunt spasming with the flood of it, curling his toes and shuddering through his nerves. Wade is moments behind him, the tug at his balls and the rush from his core rolling with his hips as his rhythm falters, though he picks up the pace of his hand on Peter’s cock to push him through orgasm, slowing only when Peter keens from the overstimulation. Then something else occurs to him.
Shit, they hadn’t talked about where he can cum, shit, shit! He can’t exactly contract or spread anything, but he’s proven that he can get someone pregnant, and they hadn’t explicitly discussed cumming inside, so Wade quickly pulls out moments before he cums, ripping another cry from the smaller man at the sensation of loss. Instead he tips away and paints both Peter’s back and the edge of his binder with thick white spurts, hand resting on the smaller man’s hip. Falling forward, Wade groans into Peter’s shoulder and drags his teeth over the skin while pleasure continues to rock him, stroking himself through the orgasm. He grunts softly when Peter’s hand smacks Wade’s away and instead takes over, reaching down between his legs and under his dripping cunt to finish Wade off himself as the larger man presses his weight against his ass, over his back. He bites affectionately at Peter’s shoulder again, earning a soft, huffing laugh and gently setting a kiss over each spot until both of them are spent.
Breathing hard, Wade carefully takes Peter’s hips with both hands and delicately pulls the smaller man’s legs out from under him to lie Peter on his side and more easily get him on his back, helping ease his stiff shoulders and arms to relax as he carefully climbs over him again. Lying on his side, the mercenary presses to his boyfriend, tucking a leg over his hip. Peter is breathing carefully, still flushed and sweaty and thoroughly wrecked when he lolls his head to look at Wade with dark eyes and a dopey grin that Wade immediately reflects. He brings a hand to gently stroke his knuckles along Peter’s jawline, and the brunet’s eyes flutter closed. They fly open again when he registers that there’s something on Wade’s lip, and he looks at him with wide eyes.
“I bit you too hard,” he blurts, though his voice is rough and cracks immediately. He’d wanted to, he wants to bite Wade all the damned time, especially when he makes those goofy grinning faces at him, but he shouldn’t have risked biting as hard as he had, even if Wade wants him to. Not that Wade can know why. Wade blinks dumbly at him, unaware of the red bead that sits on his lower lip, a primitive part of Peter’s brain purring with satisfaction at the sight of it. A part Peter has to tamp down immediately or he’ll do something alarming and inexplicable like lick it up or try to suck on the likely closed wound. Worse, Peter knows Wade would undoubtedly think it incredibly sexy, and Peter can’t afford to get him interested in something the brunet can’t do for him often — or maybe ever again, shit.
Wade frowns slightly for the panic on Peter’s face, but he follows his eyeline and touches his own face, brushing over the little drop of blood and the already healed puncture from Peter’s sharp canine. The smaller man looks truly mortified, frozen where he lies as he stares with big brown eyes, his pupils starting to contract again the more he frets in place of enjoying it.
“Did you?” Wade asks playfully, beaming. “I quite enjoyed it,” he muses, unsurprised at how quickly the pain had vanished. Wade hadn’t even felt it for more than a second when it had happened, and he heals lightning fast, anyway. But he pauses, and touches the spot again. It’s actually a little numb. Odd. Doesn’t feel like he has a fat lip though, and the sensation is already returning. “Huh,” he says aimlessly, and Peter looks like he’d appreciate the bed swallowing him whole right about now, wincing when Wade touches the same spot, blood now wiped away. “It’s no biggie, Petey-Pie,” Wade assures him with a comfortable smile and a gaze focused on Peter’s mouth, even as it presses into a thin line. “Really, Pete, I’ve wanted you to bite me since I met you. You just looked like you’d be good at it. You are, by the way, I’m super into it.”
Adorable vampire Petey, fuck yeah! Sink your teeth in, baby. Get a bite of this meat popsicle.
“Uh-huh,” Peter strains, but he watches the sincerity in Wade’s face stay put, not replaced by anger or fear or even disbelief, and he starts to relax again, letting himself enjoy the afterglow before his anxiety and admittedly very reasonable concerns can tarnish fantastic sex. “Okay,” he allows in a smaller voice, but he’s clearly relieved, taking a deep breath in and out. It quickly turns into a sharp gasp, making Wade jolt as red lights up in Peter’s cheeks and ears while he groans and covers his face with both hands.
“What, are you okay, babe?” Wade says, a little dazed still. Peter nods, and Wade sets a hand in his hair, stroking his fingers through the damp tangle of it. “Gonna share with the class?”
“Condom. We didn’t even think about it, you had to just— pull out, oh my god,” Peter says miserably, embarrassed and annoyingly turned on. Being in the heat of the moment isn’t the best excuse, but he probably should’ve mentioned it when he was coaxing Wade to grab lube.
Wade laughs, shyly nuzzling at Peter’s ear, nosing at his temple. “Yeah, I remembered that at the last second, sorry. Uh, if it helps, I can’t get or give infections or diseases? I’ll admit I don’t know the, um, full extent of what your hormones do,” he goes on more sheepishly.
We should do some research after this, it miiight be relevant in the future, big guy.
“It’s,” Peter begins, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes and grimacing, still flushed. He’s not ashamed so much as disappointed in himself for thinking with his libido. “It’s really unlikely I’m… at the o-other risk. T kinda messes that up, for the most part. Which is obviously totally cool with me.” Wade kisses his cheek sweetly, nodding and mentally logging the information away as the other man smiles a tiny bit. “That was really fun, Wade,” the brunet sighs, turning his head to look at the mercenary as the larger man drapes an arm over his waist and stretches his leg from Peter’s hip to lay over both of his legs. He adores how large Wade is in comparison to himself, even if he’s not exactly engulfed most of the time.
He feels safe with Wade. It’s nice to feel that way about someone bigger than himself for once. He revels in the peace of lying with Wade in their own sweaty mess, his spider-sense silent as Peter lets his eyes drift closed and a content smile sit on his lips. Wade is safe. Wade is affection and lust and humor and Peter feels like he’s at home when he’s with him.
Oh. Home. Oh. That L-word word claws at him, and Peter realizes he doesn’t have to be scared of it. He doesn’t have to be scared of what it means, because Wade is here, and Wade can’t die, and it doesn’t matter if they’ve only been dating for a couple of months because they’ve been friends for over a year now, and Peter trusts him. Better, he doesn’t just trust him.
“I think I’m in love with you,” Peter says, a genuine revelation. He hears Wade’s breath hitch, and he turns his head to look at him, setting a hand over the other man’s arms as he looks over his beautiful scarred face and meets wavering hazel eyes. Hazel eyes full of green and gold and warm brown and twinkling lights of adoration. “Oh yeah,” he says more confidently, chest swelling. “Yeah, I’m definitely in love with you,” he tells him, eyebrows raised and a grin creeping onto his face as Wade looks like he might cry, which sends a pang of deep affection through his whole body. “I love you, Wade.”
“Peter,” Wade rasps, and it sounds like he’s going to argue, so Peter reaches up and cups his cheek, grinning lopsidedly and effectively shutting him up. The brunet’s fluffy curls are mussed at every angle, and as far as Wade is concerned, the way the bedroom light shines through with a faint golden hue might as well be a halo for the cutest nerd he’s ever met.
“I love you, Wade Wilson,” Peter says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “I mean it. I’m in love with you. You make me feel safe and cared for. My s— my anxiety dulls around you. You’ve only ever made me feel good about my body and my mind. You look at me like I invented pancakes. I’m totally in love with you.”
“Peter,” Wade repeats, and he can’t get a whole breath in.
“Wade, you feel like home to me.”
“I love you, too,” Wade admits weakly, because he’s known for weeks, but couldn’t stand the idea of rejection from someone who might be the actual perfect person for him. Fragile, sweet, clever Peter Parker who trusts him like only one other person has, and Spider-Man says he’s totally on board with how much Peter means to him. Spidey will always have a place in his heart, Wade knows it, and he’s pretty sure Peter knows it and doesn’t mind, and doesn’t that make him all the more perfect?
“Fuck.” Wade’s voice cracks, and he shifts up onto one elbow to gaze lovingly down at his shutterbug. “Peter Parker, I love you so much,” Wade adds, choking on traitorous tears, and Peter makes a soft sound as he holds Wade’s face between his hands, kissing his tears away like the amazing boyfriend he is, letting Wade cry his stupid happy tears, relieved and warm and basking in the sincerity. The boxes have nothing to say and this might be one of the happiest moments of his life and he’ll fucking savor it forever. When he gets enough of a hold of himself, he takes Peter’s face and their lips meet in a gentle kiss, sweet and soft. It’s sickeningly romantic and Wade plans to relive it every single night he’s able to dream.
Notes:
After sexual activities, especially but not exclusively the kinky ones, practice aftercare. It's good for you and any partner(s) involved! (✿◡‿◡) Aftercare can look like different things for different people, but always drink some water and literally take a breather. Talk about what worked and what didn’t work. Be careful and easy with each other. Cuddling is highly recommended. It’s okay to have mixed feelings about what y’all did and still have enjoyed yourselves.
Chapter 10: [10] Gift
Summary:
Wade gives Peter a belated birthday gift. Peter has a breakdown, but luckily Wade is a very doting partner. Peter takes some snazzy photos of Deadpool before his messed up spidey-sense situation comes to a head.
13437 words.
Notes:
SPOILER CONTENT WARNING (SORRY IDK HOW BEST TO DO THIS)
extreme angst, non-consensual drug use, and kidnapping.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Dammit, Wade!” Peter snaps, throwing a hand up and pushing himself away from the table with the other, quickly getting to his feet and reflexively stopping his chair from toppling over. Righting it, Peter tightly grips the back and grinds his teeth, slowly pushing it back into place under the table. Wade watches him with bare, raised eyebrows, hazel eyes a little wide at the brunet’s outburst. “I really—! You shouldn’t have done this,” he says a bit quieter, shoulders tense as he glares at the solid wood of the large dining table in Wade’s apartment. He can’t bring himself to look at Wade or the thing in front of him, embarrassment hot in his cheeks and ears. Well, embarrassment and flattery. Well— embarrassment, flattery, and horrible, traitorous affection.
Wade blinks at him, well aware this reaction is warranted as far as Peter is concerned, but he’s patient. He folds his hands on the table, sitting very formally as he waits for his boyfriend to gather his thoughts. Wade isn’t trying to mess with him or his anxiety, but Peter’s… thing about money usually gets him in a tizzy if Wade spends so much as a dime on his boyfriend that he can’t immediately justify it as being for “basic needs” or “survival.” Like Peter isn’t allowed to have even small luxuries.
“You can’t… I don’t want you to—!” Peter struggles, but his shoulders start to sag, and he drags his big brown eyes up to look over at Wade from under his lashes and over the rims of his father’s glasses. His chest aches. “I don’t want you to think you hafta buy my love,” he finally sighs in defeat, flexing his fingers and ducking to tap his forehead on the edge of the chair back.
There’s a box sitting between them on the table, wrapping paper decorated with random, fake trigonometry in red crayon carefully opened beneath it. Peter had almost gotten away with not telling Wade his birthday. Almost. But Wade had weaseled it out of him a month ago, just before he’d come out, before Spider-Man had brought Deadpool in on his latest criminal investigation.
“So what’s your sign?” Wade had asked innocently through a mouthful of oversalted hashbrowns one day at one of their favorite cheapshit diners. He’d rolled the bottom of his Deadpool mask up to his nose so he could eat, but they’d taken a small booth in the back of the diner to avoid any extra scrutiny. Not that Peter had minded at all, he’s always happy to have some measure of control and awareness in public. Perks of being an anonymous superhero include being on guard for potential danger or catastrophe at any time.
Peter had been stabbing a few bites of nearly undercooked french toast, having deliberately avoided ordering pancakes in front of Wade. The merc had informed him he might need to cut off the hands of anyone who dared sully Peter’s palette with inferior pancakes. Only Wade is allowed to fill the pancake-shaped hole in Peter’s heart. “What are you talking about?” Peter had asked with a quirked brow, his next bite hovering in the air.
“Your star sign! Y’know, western zodiac? I’m a Scorpio, coming riiiight in under the cut off,” Wade had elaborated, squinting one eye through his mask and gesturing like he’s squeaking by the imaginary deadline. “November 22nd,” he’d clarified.
“Oh, uh. I think I’m a Leo?” He’d jolted when Wade smacked his hand down on the table, rattling the napkin dispenser and sugars. “Jesus, dude, what?”
“I missed it!” Wade had complained, sounding genuinely disappointed and dropping his fork dramatically onto his freshly empty plate.
Peter had laughed brightly, relieved but unwilling to admit it. “Yeah, uh. Next time, I guess.”
“C’mon, baby, when is it? When’s your birthday?” Wade had begged, slapping his palms together and lacing his fingers, pouting as he’d leaned over the table, nearly dipping his hoodie strings in the leftover ketchup smeared on his plate. It had made his scrambled eggs palatable. “Pleeeeeease? If it helps, I do technically already know how old you are.”
“Wade!”
“What, these things are relevant!”
“Are you gonna leave it alone if I don’t tell you?” Peter had conceded, watching him with a dull look.
“Oh, honey,” Wade had teased, trying to convey the waggling of his eyebrows through his mask. “I think you know I’m gonna hassle you about it every few days until you tell me when I get an excuse to shower you with presents.”
“No present showers!”
“Future showers?”
“Weak. Solid D-minus.” Peter occasionally letter-graded Wade’s jokes, and had skeptically folded his arms over his chest for this one.
“I know, sorry, the author’s having a hard time getting me to convince you, it’s just so in-character for you to avoid receiving nice things you don’t think you deserve,” Wade had said with plain disappointment, baffling Peter just long enough to catch him off-guard.
“What are you talking about?” Peter had sighed. Wade does this sometimes, starts talking about reality like it’s separated from another reality no one else is privy to. Usually Peter doesn’t mind, even finding it charming sometimes. It’s an interesting way to process life and he’s not always the best at coping with reality himself.
“You deserve nice things, and I know you don’t like me spending money on you, so what if I only get you one (1) nice thing?” Wade had bargained, for all intents and purposes negotiating with his hot date. “Just the one!”
“I swear to god, Wade, if you buy me a laptop,” Peter had warned, glowering suspiciously and pointing an accusatory finger over his breakfast for dinner. Wade had threatened more than once to replace Peter’s ancient “chonker,” sending him links to expensive gaming computers and high powered processors that he’d be happy to get so the grad student could start building his own. Peter was capable of it, naturally, being such an egghead (Heart eyes, motherfucker!), but the price tags on everything Wade had been excited about had made Peter queasy, his frugal instincts screaming for mercy.
Wade had put up a hand with three fingers raised. “Scout’s honor.”
“Wade, that’s the Girl Scouts salute,” Peter had mused, biting back a smile.
“Actually, I think most Scouts do the three fingers.”
“Yeah?”
“Besides, they’re way better than the Boy Scouts, Pete. The Girl Scouts are specifically anti-racist and also were never queerphobes,” Wade had insisted, turning his nose up like he wouldn’t have heard another word about it.
“I know,” Peter had assured him warmly, then smiled like he’d had a secret. “Alright. If I tell you, you’re only allowed to get me one thing. One singular thing. No, like, accessories or bonus content or whatever,” he’d allowed, eying Wade sideways when he’d beamed.
“One nice thing,” the merc had agreed, and reached forward with a pinky extended.
“Dork. Dorkpool,” Peter had chuckled, though he’d met him with his own pinky, and thus they’d sworn on it. “August 10th.”
“August 10th!” Wade had squealed.
Now that singular belated birthday gift sits in the box between Peter and Wade, and Peter looks so miserable Wade almost feels guilty. Except he’d apparently followed the rule: one singular gift, and Peter hadn’t stopped him when he’d specified that it would be nice. So the taller man doesn’t feel that bad at all as he pushes the box closer to Peter.
“You don’t even know what it is yet,” Wade reasons mildly, eyes locked on his boyfriend’s twisting expressions.
“I know the dimensions of the box,” Peter counters, one corner of his mouth pulled in. “So I have a good idea.”
“I noticed you’ve been eyeing it.”
“I eye a lot of things I don’t intend to have.”
“You eye a lot of things you think you can’t have,” Wade corrects sternly, pursing his lips and angling his head. Peter’s gaze narrows, but he doesn’t argue. “Does it help if I tell you this is also for selfish purposes?”
Peter hesitates, and Wade knows it’s the right trick to play.
Sucker.
“Yes,” Peter allows slowly, visibly less tense. Things not being just for him does make him feel less… burdensome. He’d grown up poor. His aunt and uncle were charitable, but their little family only had what they needed and Peter never wants to take what he doesn’t need for himself. Spider-Man is supposed to be a role model. He has to be good, he has to lead by example, and good role models give. They don’t take. It had been translated from Peter to Spider-Man even before he’d been popularly recognized as a hero, not that Wade yet understands the depth of Peter’s anxiety around receiving gifts. Or help. Or what could be interpreted as charity. “What’s your selfish purpose?” he asks curiously, though he’s still skeptical.
“I’m gonna commission you. Gonna put you on a real payroll for your work. I want a photoshoot, and if Deadpool is gonna do a photoshoot, it’s gonna be with a high-ass quality camera and the best photographer that some mondo USD can buy!”
“Wade,” Peter says flatly, unimpressed.
“What? I wrote you fanmail, pumpkin, I adore your photography,” Wade reminds him. “I even wrote that fanmail before I ever knew it was your cute face behind the camera, in case you forgot, so it wasn’t just lust that spurred me to fangirl at you,” he flashes a cheeky grin and Peter rolls his eyes, exaggerating it with an accompanying roll of his head. “But Spider-Man’s butt was definitely involved,” he adds, deadpan.
“I have taken very few pictures with Spider-Man’s butt in them.”
“Oh, but Bambi,” Wade sighs, smiling lazily as he sets his chin in one hand, elbow propped. “They’re some of your best work.”
Peter’s eyes flash a moment, and he clears his throat loudly, scratching at the back of the chair now as he avoids Wade’s gaze again. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know your best work is apparently shots of your own butt.
“Alright,” the brunet says, standing up straight and drumming fingers on the chair before he tucks his hands under his arms both to keep from fidgeting more and to warm up his stupid spindly fingers. He should put on another layer. It’s been getting cooler and he doesn’t thermoregulate as well as he had once upon a time. At least with the season they’ve been able to get away with decorating for Halloween, sneaking orange and black and purple decorations up all over Wade’s apartment, spidery themes unironically up on the windows and walls, a skeletal cat on the end of the table and various pumpkins awaiting carving on the kitchen island. Peter and Wade apparently share a deep fondness for Halloween. Who would’ve guessed? “What are you commissioning?”
“Please open it first?” Wade asks sweetly, and Peter doesn’t miss the edge of hurt in his voice. Wade really has been good about not buying him expensive things, even when Peter pointedly struggles with things he offers to replace or upgrade. Wade would unalive someone even now to get him new binders and a better quality packer. He’d unalive a lot of people to get him that new laptop he definitely deserves and probably genuinely needs. He knows Peter’s replaced the power cord at least twice and the graphics card once in the last five years. “It’s just the one thing, I didn’t get any of the fancy add-ons or a tripod or anything!” he insists, but casts his gaze to the box instead of maintaining eye contact.
“Yeah,” Peter agrees quietly, embarrassed for making a scene. Wade has never held money over Peter’s head, he’s never pressured him to accept anything he’s uncomfortable with. Wade isn’t mocking or manipulating him, he knows this. It’s just a hard mentality to break after watching Norman Osborn torment Harry growing up, and the way the apple occasionally hadn’t fallen so far from the tree with Harry himself. Scooting the chair out again, he takes a seat and brings the box forward, popping the tape on either end and peeling it away.
Snugly tucked into the unassuming cardboard box is another, smoother box with a simplistic design, the outside informative with images of the contents, and Peter holds it carefully in his hands, making sure he’s stuck to it so he can’t possibly drop it. He’s definitely gonna be sick. It’s the latest model of exactly the one he’s wanted for years, and Peter knows it costs upwards of $2000. Two. Thousand. Two thousand American dollars! It’s the most expensive thing Peter’s ever touched outside of a lab, or maybe devices villains had used to cause catastrophe. And this is just the camera without the additional lens, which Peter maybe could afford separately if he could spare the cash savings for another month. His chest squeezes and his eyes sting, and he has a hard time breathing when Wade pipes up again.
“I lied!” Wade confesses quickly, positively ashamed as he taps the tips of his ungloved fingers together, eyes cast aside again as Peter looks up with glistening puppy dog eyes. He can’t bear to meet them after breaking his pinky promise. “I got you two things. I’m sorry, Petey, it just seemed incomplete without… without this part,” Wade mumbles, bending to his side and grabbing another box from somewhere under the table. This one is also wrapped, different dimensions than the camera box, but Peter has a sinking feeling it’s exactly what he’s thinking of, like Wade had read his mind. Wade slowly pushes it toward Peter with one finger, wincing when Peter just stares at it, cheeks and ears burning brighter.
Gingerly, Peter sets the camera box down and picks up the other box, the wrapping paper covered in crayon drawings of Spider-Man and Deadpool, and this time his heart seizes for a moment. Is this Wade’s way of telling him he knows? Is this some ass-backwards way of saying he knows Peter is Spider-Man and giving him nice things is blackmail?
No— no, he’s not going to think like that. His spider-sense would be going off, even with the curtains drawn and the blinds shut. It’s just the two of them here, and he doesn’t sense a threat with any part of him, instinctual or otherwise. It’s just Wade and paranoid Peter. Wade wouldn’t do that. Part of Peter is certain he couldn’t.
“I thought it was weak sauce that all the stuff online makes it look like the camera comes with one, so I thought I’d give you the complete, actual, whole thing,” Wade tries to explain, fidgeting in his seat the longer Peter gapes at the packaging. He’d drawn on it himself, of course. He hopes the art isn’t as offensive as his presents seem to be. Peter is buddies with Spidey, right? That isn’t just some long-winded fever dream? “Y’know, what shoulda already been just one (1) thing…?” Peter looks like he’s about to collapse in on himself, even if Wade still admires the colors he’s turning, the way his freckles stand out when he blushes so vibrantly. But the brunet doesn’t move, and Wade starts to really worry. “Peter?” he asks, about to get up from his seat in case he’d sent the man into a catatonic state by purchasing expensive electronics.
“It’s the lens, isn’t it,” Peter croaks, sniffling as he delicately pulls on the taped ends and slides the box out. “Yup,” he confirms weakly, and hiccups on a small sob as he sets the wrapping paper down and shoves the heel of his hand under his glasses, eyes shut tightly against the burn of tears. “It’s the lens,” he says wetly.
“Pete,” Wade winces, getting up from his seat and coming around the table after all. His hands hover around the brunet’s shoulders, unsure if he even has permission after making him cry, which Peter is definitely doing as his shoulders hunch in and he ducks his face away from Wade. Peter has tried to tell Wade he has blanket consent to touch him, that he’d use a safeword if the other man were to overstep in any capacity. But Wade still hesitates, long used to people shrugging him off, slapping his hands away, or committing violence in response to even casual touch from him.
To be fair, we’re very tactile. And annoying. But let’s maybe not scare off our Baby Boy? Just in case.
“Ugh, Petey, I’m so sorry, I-I wasn’t tryin’ to— you’re just so good at— and I wanted you to feel like—!” Wade stumbles, full of false starts and half-finished thoughts, fingers itching for contact.
Peter finally sniffles and looks up at him with shining, red-rimmed eyes, freckled cheeks wet as he turns toward Wade. He swallows thickly and hastily takes his glasses off, setting them clumsily on the table and holding the box with the camera lens close to his chest. He rubs at his eyes, trying to push the tears away before they blur his vision too much and make it that much harder to see Wade, who’s watching him cautiously, his heart thrumming much too quickly to be healthy in anyone who wouldn’t just get right back up after a coronary. Peter tries to open his mouth to speak, but it only screws up as he tips forward into Wade and grasps at the front of his hoodie, tugging himself closer and burying his face in his boyfriend’s belly. His heart is beating too fast and he can’t breathe normally. He really hates crying.
Wade slides his hands over Peter’s back and shoulders, rubbing a light massage into taut muscle as Peter slides an arm around his waist, gripping at the back of Wade’s sweatshirt while clinging to the lens box like he’s stuck to it. The larger man dips fingers into tufts of Peter’s hair, and Peter sobs against him, pulling Wade closer with some of that secret strength he hides so well. It would be sexy as hell if the brunet’s tears were born of overwhelming pleasure and not… whatever mix of offending emotions have his boyfriend smashing his face into him and trying desperately not to make much noise. He’s only seen Peter cry like this once, after he’d awoken from a bad nightmare that he still wouldn’t talk to Wade about. But Wade hadn’t pressed, only wrapping him in his arms and holding him close, letting Peter weep and cling to him like he’d been afraid Wade might float away into the ether if he hadn’t.
“I’m sorry, Baby Boy,” Wade murmurs guiltily. “I really didn’t mean to make you cry—”
Yeah, well, you broke him! You went too far and now he’s crying! You finally, actually, truly hurt Peter and you even told him it was for selfish reasons! What do we do now??
“Don’t,” Peter rasps, shaking his head against the taller man’s stomach, the motion shifting into a nuzzle as he sniffs. Fuck, he’s so gross. Sorry, Wade’s sweatshirt. Crying is the worst. “I’m not mad.”
“D’you wanna sit on the couch, Sweet Pea?” Wade asks softly, and Peter nods after a beat but doesn’t pull away, limbs stiff.
He’s not willing to let go, like he can’t risk it. Like Wade will float away.
Or fall.
Wade is quiet as he shifts, strong enough to adjust how Peter holds onto him even though it takes him effort. He manages to heft the brunet upward, reaching to scoop him up in a sort of bridal carry while Peter keeps his face hidden against his chest, the box with the new camera lens clutched to his own. Wade takes that as a good sign, that Peter isn’t rejecting his gifts after all, but everything else about how Peter grips onto his back and won’t show his face makes Wade’s gut churn, his sensitive skin itchy. He hates it when Peter is miserable, hates it when he catches glimpses of him clearly fighting back a private hell when he thinks Wade isn’t looking, the way his face screws up sometimes when he looks out the window or he brings up past relationships. Wade knows it’s complicated, that there’s always more than one story, but he hasn’t pried with the hope that Peter will come to him when he’s ready.
Easing to sit on the couch with Peter in his lap, he lovingly wraps arms around him and urges his head onto his shoulder, kissing his crown gently, threading soothing fingers through his hair. Peter sniffles again, slowly relaxing even as he remains curled up to Wade’s warmth. It’s cute how easily the smaller man is chilled. Wade is happy to be his space heater, especially when it means he’s getting extra boyfriend cuddles as the weather gets colder.
Finally, our healing factor is worth something. Ain’t that a nice change of pace?
More to this point, he only lets go of Peter long enough to reach behind himself and shimmy a large fuzzy red blanket out from between himself and the couch, dragging it over Peter and meaningfully wrapping the both of them up in it, humming with satisfaction. He’ll make his boyfriend so cozy he’ll have no choice but to realize Wade is here for him and making no demands. He’s patient, like Spider-Man is endlessly patient with Deadpool’s shenanigans. He can do the same for Peter’s sorrow.
Peter sighs raggedly and nuzzles Wade’s collarbone, his erratic breathing starting to even out again. His face is red from crying, sure, but some of that color is still from how much he adores Wade. Wade feels bad about his presents because he’d made Peter a pinky promise, but Peter could concede the lens is sort-of important to both his civilian photography and his… extracurricular work. Not that Wade knows how often Spider-Man has taken actual pictures for evidence during more involved investigations. He only hasn’t pulled it out for this latest one because he’s working so closely with Deadpool, and his merc might recognize the way he holds his camera or positions himself for a shot, the way he frames a capture. He might even recognize the camera itself, and now he definitely would. Wade has come with him on a few of his non-Spidey work assignments, something he’s been getting more of the last few weeks. He always watches Peter like he’s never been more fascinated by something as simple as photography.
Wade had even gotten him the updated model with higher-performance image stabilization, which is how Peter would get fantastic action shots much more easily. The older man had paid so much attention to detail, had sneaked in relevant questions about how Peter uses his camera or the functions he likes best. Peter had obliviously answered, always good at babbling on when it comes to subjects he knows a lot about or has keen interest in. Which Wade knows and evidently takes advantage of. No one’s paid Peter’s interests that much mind since Gwen.
He hasn’t even told Wade about Gwen, and the guilt he feels around hiding her like she’s the shameful subject — and not what happened to her, not how Peter is responsible — has hit him like a freight train full of cement slabs. The man he loves doesn’t know he’s a murderer.
The fact that Wade is technically a former assassin does not factor into Peter’s feelings on the matter.
The man he loves, who buys him expensive gifts that Peter really does appreciate and will definitely use, who makes sure he’s had something to eat before leaving the apartment in the morning, who drapes him in warm blankets and holds him close and kisses his head like he’s not a troublesome jackass, who begs Peter to bite him and had cried when Peter had said he loved him for the first time… Peter doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve nice things or nice boyfriends who ask him to move in. He doesn’t deserve three meals a day and the best sleep he’s had in months. He doesn’t deserve to be spoiled the way Wade spoils him.
“How can you love me?” Peter asks in a tiny, pathetic voice. Even though he dreads the answer, dreads it’ll be something that he’s thought of before, that will confirm that this is just some long-lasting fantasy he has to wake up from. When Wade doesn’t immediately answer, Peter stiffly tips his head back — every one of his muscles is tense and yet so weak — to look Wade in the eye. Ice slides through every nerve at the hard stare Wade is giving him and he shrinks back slightly, biting his cheeks hard enough to really hurt.
“How could you ask me that?” Wade lows, like he’s offended. Offended. Peter can’t breathe, looking rapidly between Wade’s beautiful hazel eyes. He doesn’t move or fight when Wade’s arm slides behind his shoulders and he grips Peter’s opposite deltoid, the one a bullet had torn through two years ago, his other hand sliding over Peter’s middle to hold his hip. There’s a crack in the other’s severity, and Peter manages to suck in a sharp breath. “Easily,” Wade tells him firmly, and Peter is utterly lost.
“Huh?” he says, because he can’t form real words, brow dipping and hands trembling, the lens box still sitting between his chest and folded up knees, now sitting atop Wade’s arm. Wade’s fingers slip under the waistband of Peter’s jeans but don’t travel any further, his thumb brushing small circles over the jut of his hip bone, and Peter’s chest seizes again as his boyfriend gently squeezes him. He’s so warm. Wade’s breath hitches, making Peter’s eyebrows jump toward his hairline. Wade is… nervous? He stares as the taller man’s lips twitch and his eyes shine.
“Easily, Peter Parker,” he repeats, trying to sound stern, but his voice breaks and he has to take a deep breath, hugging the brunet closer. Peter can’t take his eyes off the twist in his expression, the way he struggles to maintain some semblance of composure, as if Peter isn’t already a vulnerable mess himself, as if he’s about to judge Wade for becoming the same. “I love you so easily, how could you say that?” he goes on, tipping forward to touch Peter’s forehead with his own. Peter leans up just slightly to meet him, unable to look away.
“I-I… I don’t…,” Peter stammers, awash with too many emotions, heart rate kicking up again. Guilt, shame, disbelief, relief, gratitude, exhaustion… that stupid L-word Peter is getting used to again. Fuck. “ Wade ,” he chokes. The lump in his throat hurts, but he can’t swallow it. “I really like the gifts,” he tells him meekly.
Wade huffs a laugh, the sound stuttered. He angles to kiss Peter’s brow before resting again, their breaths mingling. Maple and cinnamon. “Ohhh, Petey-Pie,” Wade sighs, trying to lift the mood as he pulls Peter closer and tucks the brunet’s face into his nape and ducking to do the same, breathing him in. Peter’s breath is short and shallow, but Wade can feel his heart rate steady to a mid-tempo beat. When he speaks again it’s quiet, cautious. “I’m fucked up.”
“Wade,” Peter murmurs at his neck, but Wade continues.
“I’m fucked up, Peter. I’ve done some seriously fucked up shit, the kinda shit that literally lands me in hell all the time. Then Spidey, my hero, tells me I don’t hafta be bad, that I just hafta work on being good, that it’s somewhere in me already.” He laughs darkly, but the hand on Peter’s hip glides to the small of Peter’s back, and Peter pushes his own hands around Wade’s sides and to his back, crushed between the larger man and the cushions of the couch. He doesn’t care, sniffling and closing his eyes. “Then you came along, and you didn’t once look at me like I was bad. You were never scared of me. You sassed me.”
Peter snorts, surprising himself, but Wade noses fondly under his ear, tickling just slightly, and Peter feels himself relaxing again. Wade takes this as his cue to go into full doting mode, soothingly running his hands over Peter’s back and through his hair.
“You put up with me like Spidey does, but it’s… different. You’re distant sometimes, Pete, but I somehow… Usually I take things personally. People don’t think I do because I’m a violent smart-ass who’s crazier than a thousand zany straws at a haunted circus carnival, but. You’ve never made me feel like the distance is about me, not really.” He pauses and Peter assumes his boxes are harassing him again, but he waits. “I see you, Peter.” Peter sucks in sharply and holds his breath, fingers twitching in Wade’s hoodie at his back. “I see how much you care about people, how important it is to you that you do the right thing for everybody but yourself. No wonder Webs trusts you so much.” He drags a hand up to the back of Peter’s neck, brushing fingertips into soft curls, and the brunet’s heart swells as he finally exhales. “I see you. You’re so smart and capable and you don’t take shit, even though I think you sometimes think you deserve it.” His tone is stern for a moment, but he softens again.
“You know how, when you get back from class, and you drop your stuff by the door?” Wade begins, and Peter can’t for the life of him figure out where this is going. “Sometimes you fling off your shoes, and they kinda go opposite directions, and you wander off to grab a snack or something? You always go back to tidy your shoes. Just— you pick ‘em up and line ‘em back by the other shoes.” He smiles sadly, because Peter tips his head back and stares at him in utter confusion. Wade can practically feel the waves of anxiety coming off of him. “You stuff your face, too, when you’re hungry. Just jam your cheeks full like a chipmunk. Or a hamster. It’s so fucking adorable, and you refuse to chew with your mouth open, so sometimes it takes you a hot minute to finish your combined four bites.”
Peter’s jaw clenches, and Wade watches with a swell of pride as pink climbs up the photographer’s neck and into his cheeks, lighting up the tips of his ears.
“You let me get away with a lot of bullshit, Sugar Bear: You let me drive-by grope you. You let me steal your hand just so I can hold it, even when you’re working. You let me steal your legs when we’re lounging over here on the couch. You let me feed you experimental cooking—,” he goes on, and Peter interrupts in a raspy voice.
“You’re an amazing cook, Wade, it’s not exactly troubleso—”
“Ah ah!” Wade chastises, holding up a finger to Peter’s lips, and the smaller man half smiles and obediently quiets. “I’m not done yet, Baby Boy. Let a lady finish.” Using the same hand, he strokes through Peter’s hair, lightly scraping nails over his scalp and reveling in the way his boyfriend leans into his hand and slides his eyes shut.
“I see you, Peter Parker,” he repeats. “You’re a certifiable genius, and sometimes you babble about stuff you’re really passionate about, and I could listen to you talk about genetic makeup, and how the ESU lab centrifuges are on the fritz so you get to use the ol’ hand-crank kind, and how your thesis advisor is being a ‘dillhole’ all fuckin’ day. Your big brain is so clever, and you feed it with dorky sci-fi and old movies and Vine compilations and kicking my ass in video games. Which you’re way too good at, by the way, it’s absolutely criminal.” Peter huffs a laugh, and Wade breathes him in dreamily. “The way you can’t take a compliment? Way too cute. I never thought I’d fall for someone with a praise kink to rival mine, but here we are.”
Peter opens his eyes at this, pouting in a way that Wade is sure he thinks is a frown. Wade scritches lightly at his scalp and the expression melts into rapt attention, Peter’s big brown eyes boring into him.
Wade sighs pleasantly, little stars popping off of Peter’s head in his vision. “Your puppy dog eyes, Bambi, they get me every time. I can barely say no to you when you look at me like that,” he tells him calmly, basking in the vibrant crimson that replaces the pink of Peter’s blush. “And your hair,” he goes on, pushing his fingers through it a few times, just giving them both a moment for him to pet his boyfriend and cradle his head closer. Wade sets his chin atop his crown and hums a low rumble in his chest. Peter sags against him. “It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt, and you always smell like Froot Loops, and rain, and cinnamon— it took me a long time to realize it’s mostly your toothpaste. You brush religiously but don’t like mint, which is weird but I respect it,” he teases gently, and Peter pushes his face into his shoulder, that cinnamon breath warm on his collarbone.
“It stings,” Peter reasons quietly, and Wade nods sagely and kisses his crown.
“I love your body,” Wade goes on with a touch of mischief, and Peter whines quietly in the back of his throat while the mercenary elaborates, thumbing over the other’s hip bone. “I love how secretly fit you are, and how you fit against me. I love your neck and your shoulders and your arms and your legs… and Dat Ass, baby, it rivals the best of ‘em,” he chuckles and Peter grasps at his hoodie with twitching fingers. “I love the way you move under me, with me, when we’re hot ‘n heavy,” he goes on, tucking his face to murmur at Peter’s ear, kissing the bright red shell of it, “how every part of you tastes and feels. How you want to look at me, all of me, even though I’m basically a walking horror movie franchise.
“You ask for my opinion on stuff I have no right getting a say in,” Wade speculates, giving Peter no time to protest his momentary self-deprecation. “Like, you’ve shown me your photos for work and asked which pic is better. How the hell can I tell? It all just looks amazing to me, but I’m no expert and you still want my approval sometimes, and that just… it makes me feel valuable.” Peter tenses a moment and lifts his head to glare at Wade, but Wade shakes his head. “I know you think I’m valuable, that’s my point, love,” he says sternly, and Peter’s mouth drops open to speak, so Wade gently sets his hand over his mouth to stop him again, which makes Peter shiver the tiniest amount, and Wade soaks it in triumphantly. (No time to be horny!) “You make me feel valuable all the time, baby. And not just because I can do things for you. Lotta people only care about what I can do for them, and yeah that’s usually my job and what I’m paid for, but you don’t… ask for anything. You don’t ask me to take care of you, or feed you, and you sure as hell don’t command me to,” he says, a tightness in his voice for a moment.
“…Everyone else wants something from me and then can’t stand to look at me afterward. ‘Deadpool, retrieve this device. Deadpool, intimidate this cartel. Deadpool, protect this stupid giant piece of modern art that’s actually a fucked up mind control machine. But oh! We don’t want you to tell anyone we hired you. Put the mask back on, we’re about to have lunch and you’re not invited. Take this money and go, we can’t be affiliated with the likes of you…,’” he elaborates miserably, and Peter sets a hand on his wrist to lower it, uncovering his mouth.
“Wade, I’m sorry people use you,” the brunet says with an ache of angry sorrow. “You deserve so much better than that.”
Wade ignores the swirl of disbelieving relief, and latches onto the deep affection that Peter stirs instead. “Peter,” he says quietly, and closes his eyes to take a breath. “Sorry, this isn’t about me, but it is about how you make me feel,” he tries again, and Peter bites his lips together. (Still sounds like we’re making it about us…) “Because you make me feel like a person, Pete. You make me feel like you want me around for more than just my mad skillz and hot bod.” Peter rolls his head with his eyes, smiling faintly and letting Wade redirect his face to look at him with a gentle hand on his jaw. “You trust me, Peter Parker,” Wade says quietly, and Peter locks eyes with him. “You’re one of two people on this whole dumb planet who trusts me, and that’s… that’s everything, because I know you don’t trust a lot of people either, and I trust you, too. I trust you as much as I love you, and I love you so fucking much, Baby Boy.”
Peter’s eyes sting again, and the sting zips through to his heart. He watches the adoration and gloom on Wade’s face as he grinds his teeth and does his best not to hyperventilate. Wade doesn’t even like himself, but he loves and trusts Peter. Wade wants to take care of him and feed him. Wade finds him attractive and always looks at him like he’s a masterpiece to be respected and admired. Wade likes his hobbies and thinks he’s smart. The shorter man’s heartache melds with a sense of wonder and joy, and Peter finally swallows the lump in his throat, pressing his face hard into Wade’s scarred neck, reveling in the texture. Wade may hate his skin, but Peter loves it. It’s unique, recognizable. Sometimes he gets distracted tracing the raised rivers of it. The only thing he doesn’t like about it is how much it hurts Wade.
“You sentimental bastard,” Peter mutters, not an ounce of heat behind it. Wade carries on, undeterred.
“I hate it when you’re sad, Peter,” Wade murmurs, pushing the hand up into his hair, petting him gently. His fingernails lightly scratching over his scalp earn a shudder as Peter really starts relaxing into him, even as tears well in his eyes again, soaking Wade’s hood. “That’s selfish. I know. But I do, I hate it when you’re sad, when you stew in your misery. Misery you don’t share. I don’t know what you’re thinking sometimes, Pete, and it makes me nervous. I mean, I get nervous sometimes, but— and you’ve been scared lately,” he goes on haltingly, losing the thread of what he’d hoped to say.
Peter tenses suddenly, eyes open as he tries to control his breathing, acutely aware of how loud it is until he can get a hold of himself. His heart beat, on the other hand, he can’t control. It hammers in his ribcage enough to hurt. Wade can’t know why he’s scared, there’s no way to explain his spider-sense being on high alert without giving himself away. He’s not ready to tell Wade, he can’t .
But why not?
“Like that,” Wade notes solemnly, squeezing Peter to his chest. “Your little rabbit heart. It— it’s not me, is it?” he goes on, lightening up his hold when it occurs to him he might be making Peter feel trapped. Peter does seem to like finding solitary or small places to hide sometimes. He likes corners and shadows, never argues when Wade’s merc experience has him cautious in public, putting himself between the student and the cars on the street or the entrances to shops and restaurants. And Peter has been jumpy lately, literally jumpy. Yesterday Wade had rounded a corner coming down the hall in the apartment, and Peter had sprung back like a- like a lemur or something, catching seriously impressive air.
A lemur? That’s the jumping animal you think of? Ooh, but Zoboomafoo! the boxes giggle, but Wade ignores them. That’s a hell of a dumb reference, clearly the author is a fuckin’ millennial.
His big doe eyes had been particularly appropriate in that moment, reminding Wade of the cliché of a deer getting caught in headlights. He’d apologized profusely, embarrassed after realizing it had only been Wade, but Wade hasn’t forgotten. Peter has been on edge this last week, coiled to flee every time they go outside, closing all the blinds in the apartment before additionally drawing the curtains, like he’s convinced someone is watching them. Or him? Wade has considered this, monitored their surroundings whenever Peter is also on high alert, and has not yet spotted anything particularly worrisome. He plans to bring it up with Spidey when they get together again, close to going in on the activity at the docks. If regular human Peter is feeling this specifically anxious in a way his anxiety hasn’t presented before (As far as we’re aware, mind you.), Wade will start taking precautions, including actually putting proper locks on the windows and turning on the security system he’d installed ages ago every time they leave the apartment or he leaves Peter there alone. He can also set up extra locks on the door, the two deadbolts don’t feel like enough with Peter so exhaustively on edge all the time.
Ordinarily, Wade doesn’t bother with security since he’s notoriously good at tracking people down and can’t be killed for long. People don’t mess with Deadpool. But Peter is a fragile civilian, and Wade wants him to feel safe here if he’s going to convince him to move in. He’s so damned close, too, Peter is just worried about having his own space. So Wade has offered to turn one of his walk-in closets into his arsenal to free up the spare bedroom for him. It had stung to think that Peter wouldn’t want to share his bed all the time, but Peter had assured him it doesn’t need to be a bedroom, and that’s incentive enough.
“It’s not you,” the smaller man mumbles into Wade’s neck and he shifts, slowly reaching an arm out from under the blanket, leaning away only long enough to set the lens box out of the way on the coffee table. When he moves back into Wade, he adjusts to put his knees on either side of Wade’s hips, bringing them closer and pressing his entire torso into Wade while hooking his arms under Wade’s to hold onto his shoulders from behind. He puts his face right back into Wade’s nape, breathing him in and exhaling sharply. “You don’t scare me, Wade. You… the opposite of scare me, whatever the hell that is,” he assures him sincerely, and Wade can feel a tiny smile on his lips, basking in their shared body heat. He could have Peter up against him all damned day.
“Baby Boy, it kills me that you’re ever scared,” Wade says gently, and Peter sags into him again, breathing out long and heavy, tucking under Wade’s jaw.
“’M not supposed to be scared,” Peter says so quietly that Wade would’ve missed it if Peter weren’t right up under him. He does that sometimes, either sure Wade doesn’t hear it or not aware how close he is when he does. Not that Wade can judge, considering how often he replies aloud to the boxes in his head.
“Pete,” the taller man says, letting him have his quiet words without challenge. “I see you when you’re trying to be independent. You don’t like relying on anyone else, and I respect that, but I want you to know that when I offer things or, or myself and my time and stuff— I’m not trying to control you or take away your independence. I would never cage you.” He can feel Peter’s face scrunch up against his neck, his eyelashes tickling, and the shorter man holds his breath a moment. “I don’t think you owe me anything. Ever. That shit is creepy as hell, you’re your own person and I’m grateful you share any part of yourself with me. But I know that’s what it is: sharing. I don’t own you. I don’t want to own you. I mean, outside of a kinky setting, anyway. Which, honestly, actually, you absolutely own me in every way that matters,” he starts rambling, flustered even at the very start of sexual implications.
“Wade,” Peter says simply, putting him back on track, his heart slowing to something less concerning the longer Wade talks. Spider-Man used to be so wary of Deadpool talking his ear off, used to being the annoying, talkative funny guy to bad guys and other supers himself. It had been jarring, not that he had exactly thought of Deadpool as competition, just that someone could keep up with him and share a similar (albeit slightly darker) sense of humor.
But Peter? Peter Parker loves to hear Wade Wilson talk. He’s just good at redirecting Wade when he gets himself off-track. Spidey can do something similar on patrols with Deadpool, but he hasn’t really needed to lately. Deadpool’s ranting somehow keeps circling back to Peter, and even Spider-Man can’t resist a little self-indulgence sometimes, though he has to pretend Peter is just a friend and not an alter ego the whole time.
“I see you, Peter Parker,” Wade tells him, deadly serious. “I see you and I love you, easily. All of you. Even the parts you don’t want me to see, or love. It’s too late. I’m so deep in it I’ve abandoned all hope. But no one else can enter here, or I’ll be so jealous.”
“Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”
“Then you should peg me in bed and we’ll see what happens.”
Peter pulls an arm out from around Wade and swats the back of his head lightly, smirking as he presses a little kiss to the underside of his boyfriend’s jaw. “I love you, Wade,” he tells him gently, using the same hand to gently cradle the side of his face, lifting his head to rest it on Wade’s shoulder and admire his profile with a lopsided smile on. His face is still wet and he’s still flushed with a mix of shame and affection, and while Wade enjoys how it looks on Peter, he wishes he could quash this version of shame in him. Peter meets Wade’s gaze with big brown doe eyes, and the older man melts, playing with his fluffy hair. “I’m sorry I, um. Freaked out. About this.” He gestures vaguely behind the couch to the dining table, the gifted camera. “I’m sorry I’m weird about money. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“I can tell.”
“I have a lot of opinions.”
“Wanna share?”
“Can I share other stuff first?”
“Always, babe.” Wade pecks his forehead sweetly. “But can I make Feel-Better Pancakes and discuss the sexy action shots I’m gonna commission from you before you do?”
Peter hums happily, offering a lazy smile. “Cinnamon pancakes?”
“Weirdo.”
“I’ll let you put maple syrup on mine.”
“You heathen, with your jams and butters,” Wade mumbles, feigning distaste and crossing his eyes.
“They’re gonna get stuck like that,” Peter chuckles, and Wade sticks his tongue out only to have Peter swiftly nip at it and make him yelp. He pouts, still with his tongue out.
“Ow,” he complains falsely, and Peter moves up to hold his face between his hands and come in for a kiss, which Wade is more than happy to immediately reciprocate. He hums softly and gently cards fingers through Peter’s hair again. When they part, he meets Peter’s big brown eyes, still rimmed with red but only damp. Pretty as he is when he cries, Wade would rather he not do it for long. “Can I… give you some good words that I got a couple ‘a months ago?” He smiles warmly, Peter’s thumb stroking lightly along his cheekbone. “From one of my best friends.”
“Good words, huh?”
“They’re in a good order.”
“Mm-hmm. Hit me.” Peter’s own smile is serene.
“You are good enough to be good to yourself, Peter.”
Peter stills, expression unreadable when his smile falls. Wade holds his breath, but the brunet starts to smile again, ducking his face lower and gently headbutting Wade’s collarbone. “Those are good words,” Peter murmurs, breathing him in. The smaller man sighs as Wade strokes the back of his head, threading through soft curls. “Thanks, Wade,” he says quietly. “I’m super in love with you, y’know.”
“Oh thank god,” Wade wheezes with mirth, grinning mischievously. “Whew! Otherwise this woulda been awkward!” He yelps again as Peter chomps at his pec.
“B-minus,” Peter drawls, and Wade pouts.
-
-
-
Clad in his Deadpool suit and with Bea & Arthur held aloft, Wade stands atop a large rock in Central Park, posing an awful lot like a revolutionary war hero leading the charge in a neoclassical painting. Peter is certain he’s seen this pose in the MoMA, but he gets comfortable at his angle crouched on the pathway, lining Wade up in his shot to avoid washing him out in the afternoon light. He’s genuinely proud of himself, really, getting Peter to agree to this project and the fee he’d insisted on. Only the best for his baby, even if his baby had argued he isn’t professional enough to take the commission at the rate Wade had proposed. But Wade had done his research, he knows what the big dogs charge for a gig like this. Peter could be a big dog in the photography world if he weren’t so insistent on being a huge science geek instead. Wade admires his big brain and academic ambitions, but the sort of environments Peter is so comfortable in makes Wade’s warped skin crawl. He won’t be able to comfortably visit Peter at work when he finally gets a big cushy job stirring beakers and observing slides and whatever else a biochemist does in a genetics lab.
Wade isn’t stupid. He knows he’s not, regardless of what other supers and the general public think, but chemistry and genetics are not his strong suits. Weapons manufacturing, development, and engineering? Check. Building, deconstructing, and defusing bombs? Check-a-rooney. Criminal habits and psychology? Check and check. Infiltration, tactical analysis, and subterfuge? That’s a big ol’ check. Anatomy and physiology? Actually also a huge check, Wade has adapted well to knowing how a human body functions and malfunctions under certain violent attentions… and under certain healing mutations. He knows how to inflict immeasurable pain with a few light touches, how to kill someone in a hundred ways — and that’s him being uncreative. He knows how a normal body heals and what his does with its obscene healing factor.
But Peter can build a computer. Peter can sequence a genome. Peter can use Photo Editing Software™. Peter could probably get to the moon if he had the equipment and inclination. That’s a biochemistry field right?
Astrophysics and aeronautics, actually, but it’s cute you’re still pretending to be an idiot. And Peter is a biochemical engineer, you idiot.
They’d gotten several shots of him looking heroic or menacing on rooftops, after Wade “helped” Peter up fire escapes, which he’d protested was surely illegal even as he grinned and swiftly scrambled up ladders and stairs, happy to do it anyway. He looks at peace on rooftops, smiling against the breeze and squinting into the light. He’d taken a few cityscape shots before setting Wade up in various poses, taking all of Wade’s requests and suggestions to heart as he did. Wade is confident most of the time, until he starts trying out Spider-Man poses. Peter just grins at him, and Wade’s big queer heart throbs with affection for the warmth behind it. Shrugging easily, the brunet gives him tips, coming forward to tap lightly or adjust Wade’s position to more accurately emulate the mercenary’s favorite superhero, reminding Wade of the cutest but least pervy yoga instructor imaginable. Peter would know best, of course, considering he’s Spidey’s exclusive photographer, so Wade naturally trusts his judgment. It helps Wade every time Peter throws out words like “majestic,” or “stunning,” or “Wade, you hafta hold still, you’re gonna scare the birds.”
What doesn’t help is the way Peter occasionally pauses, lowering his camera and frowning deeply as he looks around, scanning their surroundings and passers-by. He’d even paused on one rooftop, going stock still and staring at another rooftop nearby at an HVAC unit interrupted by steam from a nearby vent. Wade can tell Peter’s anxious again, his knee bouncing any time they sit down, his eyes skimming the horizon when he’s not looking through his viewfinder. When they’re back on the ground, Peter is even twitchier, making some kind of physical contact with Wade the entire time, brushing against his side, or holding his hand (Holding our hand! Squee!!), or sitting thigh-to-thigh, and Wade takes a moment to text Spider-Man a request to meet up that same night rather than wait until the next. Maybe he’d even come to the apartment and see for himself how nervous Peter is? Wade would also love to see them in the same room to complete a sexual fantasy he knows must remain fantasy. Just in the same room! Two perfect asses, back to back. Or front to front. He suspects Spidey would be exasperated, but Peter might humor him.
That may very well be true, but Peter is biased. A biased genius who’s stupid enough to love us, the boxes sigh.
Either way, Wade suggests that they head back to the apartment and order delivery, the last light of the sun ebbing away and casting the sky in pinks and gold. An edge of violet over the silhouettes of the taller buildings complements the Halloween decorations all over the city in shop windows and storefronts. Peter agrees without hesitation, and Wade slips his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders on their way to the trains, relieved when he relaxes more once they’re making contact. Peter doesn’t leave his side the entire way home, and at some point Wade realizes every point of contact has Peter putting himself between entrances or open spaces and Wade. He puts himself between Wade and the doors of the subway car when they snag a seat in one corner. He walks on the street side, jaw set and big brown eyes alert. Ordinarily, Wade takes such positions, and Peter seems comfortable letting him. But it’s different today, and that’s what makes the taller man particularly nervous.
What does Peter think he’s protecting him from?
“Hey, Petey-Pie?” Wade asks evenly as they approach his apartment building, Peter’s arm snug around his waist and Wade’s arm back over the smaller man’s shoulders. Peter takes a moment to look at him, intensely focused. “You good, baby?” Wade asks quietly, quirking an eyebrow under his mask.
“Hm?” Peter blinks owlishly up at him. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just. Anxious, I guess,” he supplies unconvincingly, reaching to haul the lobby door open.
“Uh-huh,” Wade says flatly. “Wanna do the boudoir shoot another time?” he asks in a lower tone, hoping to distract his boyfriend.
Peter grips the door handle too long, catching himself when he fails to walk away. “The what?” he sputters, and Wade grins wolfishly, waiting for Peter to unlatch from the handle, flexing his fingers as Wade musses his hair with a gloved hand. “The what?” he repeats quieter, squeezing Wade’s hand when he takes it in lieu of an arm around his waist again.
“The boudoir photos! I think it’ll be fun,” Wade says with obvious amusement, hitting the call button for the elevator. He doesn’t usually like to use the main entrance to his apartment. He’d much prefer to come in and out via his own window, but Peter shouldn’t be scrambling up fire escapes all the time, and the lobby receptionist is appropriately passive at the sight of his full body red and black suit. He likes her. J-something. Or maybe A-something. One of those -ay suffix sounding letters, probably. “Or do I need an appointment? I’m sure you’re a busy man,” he teases, tugging Peter along after him when the elevator arrives. Peter hits the button for their floor, and Wade grins again when he sees the pink in his boyfriend’s ears and cheeks.
“No,” Peter murmurs, and clears his throat, tension sliding off of him when the doors are closed. It’s just them in the elevator now, no one to eyeball suspiciously and only one entrance to worry about. Wade hates seeing Peter so antsy, but sighs with relief for this momentary reprieve. “I’ve got time. I’ve uh, never done a boudoir-style shoot before, though. My specialty is a lot more… public?”
Oh, you’ve got plenty of specialties in private, Pete. Always selling yourself short.
“You made me feel really good about myself today, Bambi,” the larger man says gently, and Peter looks at him again with those all-too-appropriate puppy dog eyes and tightens his grip on Wade’s hand. “I bet you’d make me feel sexy in some pseudo-pornographic photos, too, yeah? Could throw on some costumes, you know I’m more than prepared for Halloween, Legs. Fishnets, cat ears, the whole nine. Just for me ‘n you. But I might give Spidey some of the action shots you took, I look amazing even in full uniform— have you seen my thighs?”
Peter smirks, narrowing his gaze slightly as he drops it to graze up and down the mercenary’s figure, which flares desire in Wade’s core. White mask eyes widen along with his, his jaw hanging open at the devious curl of the brunet’s lips. His gaze lingers around Wade’s butt and thighs, his groin, a low hum of appraisal in his throat.
Is— is he ogling us? Holy shit, is he looking at our junk?? Oh my god, how lewd. Quick, take your pants off, maybe he wants to fuck in an elevator—!
“Oh,” Peter begins slyly. “I’ve seen them.”
Wade giggles, setting his free hand on his waist and popping his hip even as his brain screams with bewildered lust and whatever semblance of bashfulness is left in him. “Mr. Parker, I’ll have you know I’m a nice girl.”
“Are you?” Peter teases with amusement, glancing back up to Wade over the rim of his father’s glasses and under his lashes, one of Wade’s favorite looks from the photographer. “I’ve been with nice girls, they’re nothing like you.”
“You’re right, I’m a deviant in disguise and there’s no telling what dirty little secrets I hide behind this gloriously innocent demeanor.”
“I have some idea.”
“Oh, Baby Boy,” Wade purrs, reveling in the way Peter’s throat bobs as he swallows. Wade bends sideways to Peter’s ear as the elevator doors open. “This is gonna be fun,” he whispers.
-
-
-
Peter awakens in a groggy daze, slowly sitting upright in a baggy Golden Girls t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, hair sticking up absolutely everywhere and barely able to pry his eyes open in the soft light of mid-morning peeking through barely cracked blinds, the curtains half open possibly so Wade could get ready in the morning without disturbing Peter by turning on the overhead lights. He appreciates that Wade hadn’t opened the blinds any further; the distant, ever-present hum of his spider-sense has been making open windows positively nerve-wracking. His alarm hadn’t gone off, but at least he doesn’t have class until 11. It’s nice waking up in a heated apartment that doesn’t give him goosebumps the second he slides out of bed.
Wade keeps offering to let him move in, even suggesting he can clear out the spare bedroom to give Peter what would essentially be a home office. Peter is perfectly happy to share a bed with Wade, after all, but it’s hard to secretly be Spider-Man if he can’t come home to at least a small private space where he can put on or take off the Spidey suit under his clothes, hang out on the walls or ceiling, and stash equipment or the little things he’s sometimes gifted by the public. He’s still got his studio apartment, but he’s rarely there lately. It’s a lot like a shoddy safehouse for Spider-Man rather than a place he lives anymore. Most of his clothes have already migrated to one of Wade’s bedroom closets and a few dresser drawers. Most of what Wade owns in terms of clothes are Deadpool suits, anyway, so Peter has plenty of room to more or less take over the space. Half of his books are over here. He hasn’t got a lot of kitchen things or furniture, but his gaming consoles are set up with the huge living room TV now. He’s only left the basics in the studio bathroom, mostly so he can wash off sweat and grime after dealing with a surprise event in the middle of the day, or a night on patrol before heading back to Wade’s anyway.
It’s been increasingly tricky to believably beat Wade home after patrols, and he’s had to make excuses for Peter being out late if he wants to hang out with Deadpool as Spider-Man on patrol nights. Wade is just as happy to get time with either of Peter’s alter egos, but does always seem a little disappointed when Spider-Man turns him down after a good night working together, saying he’ll let Peter know they can all get together another time. Spidey always cites work in the morning or an ongoing side project, anything to assuage anxiety over the possibility the merc may take it personally. Somehow, all of this schedule conflict has yet to garner Wade’s suspicions about Peter and Spidey being the same person, so Peter will take advantage of his lovestruck obliviousness for as long as he can even if it expands a little pit in his stomach with guilt for hiding this objectively important fact about his two lives.
It’s a little exhausting being Peter Parker as often as he is these days: Peter didn’t used to talk as much as he does with Wade, so affecting the slightly deeper voice when he’s not in the super suit can fry his vocal cords a little faster than would be ideal. But Wade seems to go for the raspier sound he makes when he hits that point, since admittedly it’s also about where he sits when they’re deep in amazing sex, or even getting handsy on the couch. Or in the kitchen. Or the shower, which Wade had been so thrilled to be invited into the first time that he nearly passed out from the blood rushing to his dick; Peter still teases him mercilessly about it to this day. It’s also the voice Peter has when he’s just woken up, which Wade gushes about being “truly too precious, Petey-Pumpkin-Pie!” At least Peter Parker the student and photographer isn’t expected to speak much, so he can mostly rest the affectation when he’s not with Wade. It’s really the only physical change he has to make between his vigilante persona and his “regular guy” persona. The full face mask (Peter really hates to admit it’s technically a full hood, because the word “zentai” cropping up in his brain in reference to his suit is extraordinarily embarrassing, and hadn’t occurred to him until one petty criminal years ago commented on it, that life-ruining jackass) does wonders for anonymity. For all anyone knows, he dyes his hair forest green and paints his nails fun colors and oh my god why isn’t he doing that already?
Peter contemplates all the ultimately innocent things he could get away with as an anonymous super vigilante as he washes his face and brushes his teeth. He attempts to school his hair into something just slightly less absurd, though he does like the bedhead look on himself. Wade does too, which makes him crack a smile as he hears him praising his “super fluffy” hair in his mind.
Then comes one simple conundrum he faces most days: Spider-Man suit under his clothes, or in his messenger bag? He’d put a semi-secret compartment in the side for it and his web shooters, so they wouldn’t immediately be out in the open if his bag were upended or stolen. Either way, he’d have to stash his mask either in with his suit or somewhere on his person. Usually he prefers to have it with him, since the mask is the most important part of the suit. To the same effect as his bag, and because the mask is just the right specialized lightweight material that can be minimized, he’s got a pocket for it both in his toggle coat and in the hood of his favorite hoodie. His suit boots are also specialty and thin, so he can stash them similarly in his bag, since he doesn’t usually put them on under his regular shoes. With his spidey-sense on such high alert lately, he figures it will be better to have his mask on hand for any possible emergencies today. Something in the distant buzz of that same sense tells him not to put on the suit yet, so he decides to put the suit, boots, and web shooters in his bag, closing up the compartment and tucking his mask into his hood.
He snags a bagel out of the kitchen, slathering on some schmear and carrying it in his mouth like an anime protagonist as he gathers his things and shoves his feet into ratty sneakers. It might be time to buy new ones, but he dares not mention it in front of Wade, lest he try to buy him something way more expensive than Peter needs. He can’t imagine having the energy to worry about scuffing pricey sneakers.
Peter layers two hoodies under his green toggle coat because it’s nearly Halloween and “brisk” is the nicest way of describing the weather. He takes half a second to pull on fingerless gloves; he might be able to stick to things through many layers, but it makes him feel a little better to touch directly whenever he can help it, and even Peter Parker uses this spidery aspect every now and then. It helps him stay upright on the subway and on the bus without looking like he has inhuman balance, which he does. He’s about to head out when he remembers to check his phones.
Since he’s alone, he pulls out both his regular and his “work” phone. Nothing but a cheery good morning text from Wade on his personal phone. He’s out on a quick intimidation job he’d told Peter about a few days ago. Mostly emojis. His work phone also has a message from Wade, and he quirks an eyebrow at it.
From [🧨Pool⚔] 3:23PM
hey spidey!! Pete is real on edge, i think he thinks he’s bein followed n u know how we’re doing important scary hero stuff all the time? yeah he’s just a beautiful precious fragile civvie w a stellar but innocent ass n just to be safe i think we should talk about a protection detail, could switch off between us 2. lemme know what u think!!
This is also accompanied by a dozen, less decipherable emojis, and Peter smiles shyly to himself, even as it slips away into guilt. Wade isn’t stupid, he knows that, Peter had just hoped he’d been less obvious about his suspicions. But Wade could tell what he was thinking anyway, and was worried for his safety. Stupid concerned boyfriend, noticing the brunet’s anxiety and trying to sneakily help out.
Groaning, he rubs his face and replies an affirmative, apologizing for not getting back to him the night before (to be fair, Peter and Wade wound up busy with a sexy photoshoot in the bedroom, and the kitchen, and on the couch…), agreeing to talk to him that night when they meet up. They’re so close to taking this operation down, Peter is sure he’ll feel better when they have. He puts the work phone on silent and switches off the vibrate, tucking it into the same compartment as his suit. He subtly checks it throughout the day, but just like he doesn’t want his suit to just peek out, he doesn’t want people knowing broke-ass Peter Parker has two phones for any reason.
Locking up the apartment — there are three deadbolts now, because Wade is paranoid about Peter’s paranoia and had put another one in yesterday and really it’s sort-of sweet — Peter pointedly ignores the low hum of his spider-sense, tired of how long and strongly it’s been active lately. Something setting it off at this rate for this long hasn’t happened before. It’s gotten to the point that the student isn’t sure it’s an entirely valid sense anymore. Even if he is being watched, it seems like there might be something seriously wrong with him. He’s been able to mostly ignore it even as he remains on high alert once he’s left the building, heading for his usual coffee shop.
It sits just a block out of the way between Wade’s place and the subway station, and had been four blocks out of his way when he’d been staying at the studio apartment. But they had an incredible blend that his barista friend and old classmate had assured him is relatively basic, but Peter hadn’t found a better place to get a latte or a fancy blended caramel-chocolate monstrosity for when he splurges. The former classmate, Jordan, always asks him how he’s doing and Peter does the same, and they always chat while Jordan gracefully makes Peter’s drink for him. Even as broke as he is, Peter always tips well, because he’s had to work in food service and every little bit of cash and kindness helps in the face of viciously entitled customers and low wages.
“Hey, Peter,” Jordan greets brightly, an actual morning person who never fails to smile at him like they mean it. Their hair is a seasonal pumpkin orange, a change up from the fluorescent yellow it had been the other day. The whole shop is decked out in cutesy Halloween décor: gel decals of bloody handprints on the windows, orange and black streamers on the walls, mobiles of jack o’ lanterns and black cats with arched backs and fangs bared hanging over the pastry display. “The usual?”
Peter blinks dumbly, standing at the register counter. There’s no one behind him in line at the moment, but his spider-sense buzzes a little stronger when he looks up, adjusting his fake glasses. He knows it can’t be Jordan, Jordan has never triggered it and nothing seems any different about the shop other than the new person hastily wiping down the counter behind his friend with their back to Peter. Not weird, the counter does look like there’d been a spill, so Peter decides it’s nothing to worry about, shaking his head a little and sniffing. “Actually, I could go for the special today, Jordan,” he says, craving the brief sugar rush it might grant. Even if his body is already functioning at double time with his nerves so on edge, his brain is tired, and it’s a fact that sugar is instant chemical gratification. Peter could use the little pop of happiness. “Love the hair. How’s things?”
“Thanks! Things ‘re great, actually. Seeing this new girl.” Jordan taps on the register screen, smiling bashfully, and Peter flashes a grin.
“Yeah?” he presses encouragingly, fishing in his pocket for his wallet, emerging with a tenner. “The girl from the bodega?”
“She’s really nice. Her name is Josefina,” they answer dreamily, accepting the ten and making Peter’s change. Peter takes it and drops the remaining bills and coins in the tip jar, decorated in purple and black glitter glue with a little sign in bubble letters that says “Treats Only” with a little winking face in a witch’s hat drawn at the end. Jordan winks themself and writes his name and shorthand for his drink on a biodegradable cup, setting it aside. “Hope you don’t mind, we’ve got a trainee here. Tanya, she/her,” Jordan goes on, gesturing to the person who’d been wiping the counter.
Startling, Tanya turns around and slaps the rag over her shoulder. She’s short, dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and blue eyes wide as she gives a little wave to accompany her awkward smile. She can’t be older than 20, and Peter’s spider-sense jolts before falling back into the familiar, irritating low hum. Peter grinds his teeth and ignores it, tucking his wallet away and debating when he should call Dr. Banner about this extrasensory bullshit. “Hi,” she says simply, and takes the marked cup, examining the drink code on it. “I haven’t blended anything before,” she adds sheepishly.
“Hi. I’m Peter, he/him. And I’ve got some time, anyway, no worries,” Peter assures her honestly. Jordan pats Tanya on the back and folds their arms over their chest, sparkly purple nails tapping absently on their long sleeves. He shrugs, and walks to the end of the counter where finished orders get placed. He watches absently as Tanya carefully measures the ingredients, fumbling awkwardly with the pump of caramel, and Peter wonders if his spidey-sense had gone off because she’s about to spill something slippery and hurt herself. He shifts his weight just slightly, close enough to reach out over the counter and snag her arm if she were to fall. She does fumble one of the syrup pumps onto the floor, splashing chocolate syrup onto her apron, and Peter reflexively catches the bottle before it can topple and make things worse. She swears to herself, apologizes to Jordan, and thanks Peter as she fetches a differently colored pump from under the counter. Jordan laughs lightly, waggling their eyebrows at Peter, who bites back a wince at the next peak of his spider-sense as Tanya secures the new pump onto the chocolate bottle.
While the blender is going, Tanya offers him another awkward smile, and Peter smiles warmly back. He’d made a dozen worse mistakes when he’d worked at a sandwich shop. The only difference is he’d had a spider bite to grant him unnatural reflexes, so he’d had to make a point of actually letting himself fail a few times to avoid suspicion that he’s anything but an ordinary human. She pours the drink into his cup and shakes up the whipped cream canister, giving him a little extra and winking clumsily. He smiles wider and exchanges knowing looks with Jordan as he takes it.
He flinches when he makes contact with Tanya’s fingertips on accident, spidey-sense crying out for the very brief moment, but it’s subdued again when Tanya stands back with her hands on her hips, smiling proudly. Peter pokes a straw in and takes a meaningful sip. He hums in approval, grinning with the straw between his teeth. “Awesome,” he says firmly, and then waves to the both of them as he heads for the door. “Say hi to Josefina for me!” he calls over his shoulder, and Jordan practically cackles, clapping Tanya on the back again.
Weaving easily between other pedestrians and sipping his frozen drink, Peter walks briskly down the street. He might not thermoregulate like a normal person, but he’s a sucker for a cold drink even when it’s snowing. Well, if he’s inside when it’s snowing, he’s not that self-destructive. There’s something peaceful about being in a crowd as just another New Yorker, and his personal danger alert system is sitting at the same awful new normal of just-slightly-too-much-not-to-be-concerning. The drink almost warms him, really, as he nears the subway station entrance and he finds himself relaxing a little more, senses be damned. In fact, he’s so relaxed that he has to stick to his drink cup, grip loosened as he starts to slow down, only half a block from the station. Weird.
His spider-sense screams, and Peter frowns at his drink, sluggishly pulling to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. What the hell? He sways on his feet, confused and mildly annoyed. He’d gotten plenty of sleep, finished his bagel, and the sugary caffeine in his hand should be a temporary boost. But he feels heavy and sleepy. Oh. Maybe his spider-sense isn’t just screwing around.
Uh-oh.
Eyes widening, he chucks the drink into the trash can a few feet away, landing it perfectly into the basket even as melting coffee splashes onto the flap of the lid. His heart rate picks up, and he looks around hastily for any sign of someone watching him. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck!
He hasn’t been drugged in a long time, but how could he ever forget this horrible weighted feeling, like his limbs are solid lead and his head is stuffed with wet cotton? His mouth goes dry as he sways on his feet, clutching the strap of his bag and stumbling quickly into a lamppost to steady himself. He should’ve seen this coming, but his early warning system has been badly on the fritz, so he’s been disregarding every little spike in it. Like an idiot. It suddenly keens in the back of his skull and he startles, spinning around to slap an incoming hand away.
The offending stranger holds up both hands, eyebrows raised. Peter can’t really make out any distinguishing features of their face, he’s just pretty sure they’re a masculine adult an inch or so taller than him. They say something, but it takes a beat for it to reach Peter’s brain.
“Are you okay?” the voice finally registers.
“I’m fine,” he lies stiffly, grabbing the lamppost and sticking his whole hand to it to avoid drawing more attention by falling over. Fuck, is it this person? Who had drugged his drink? Jordan wouldn’t have, he’s confident. Maybe that new barista? She had triggered his spider-sense a couple of times, but why? Why would she drug him? “Hey!” he protests, breathing hard when the person sets their hand on his elbow, trying to throw them off and finding himself alarmingly unable to so much as shrug them off.
“Sorry, you just look like you’re about to collapse,” they reason, hands up in mock surrender again, sounding annoyingly sincere. Peter scowls at them. “Can I call someone? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“No ambulance,” Peter slurs, turning pink as people start to notice this little scene, “can’t afford an ambulance.”
“Alright, okay,” the person placates, and someone else comes up behind Peter, his spider-sense too occupied just screaming behind his eyes to be helpful anymore when they set hands on his shoulders and pull him back upright from his slide against the lamppost. Peter takes his hand off the cold iron and tries to brush the other person off of him even as his head lolls and his knees threaten to give out again. “Look, can we just give you a ride to the hospital, maybe?”
“No hospitals,” Peter says, because it’s getting harder to speak and if there’s a slim chance these people really are just good Samaritans, he still can’t risk showing up at a hospital and exposing himself as either a mutate or a super. “Dammit,” he breathes, unintentionally leaning back into whoever is behind him. He can’t even control his neck enough to look over his shoulder, grimacing as his legs give out and two arms catch his weight under his armpits. “D-don’t,” he says weakly as he’s righted only enough to look like he’s still standing as the stranger in front of him pats his upper arm soothingly.
“Easy, buddy, okay,” they say lightly, and there’s a tiny smile on their increasingly blurry face as Peter and his draping limbs are pulled toward the mouth of the nearest alley. Other passers-by aren’t concerned, either uninterested in others’ business or relating to the expense of medical transport. “It’s okay, we’ll take care of you…”
Peter wants to shout, throw a punch, kick these guys in the balls. Hell, he’s tempted to organically web them up even with his face out in plain sight, but his limbs are unresponsive, and blackness closes in on him. He winces as he falls heavily into blissful silence, his spider-sense cut off with his consciousness.
Notes:
i love hearing (reading?) from y’all. are you ready for some mild action??
Chapter 11: [11] Escape
Summary:
Peter works to escape his kidnappers, Deadpool works to rescue Peter.
14994 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for non-consensual touching (non-sexual but also implied potentially sexual), somewhat graphic action, blood, mentions/discussion of human experimentation, extremely vague/implied past sexual abuse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The smell of industrial cleaner starts burning his nostrils, slowly pulling Peter away from the blanket of still blackness settled over his entire body. His head throbs, but it’s hurt a lot worse before from things as dumb as dehydration or sleeping in the wrong position, so it’s not his most pressing concern. When he starts to gather consciousness again, he’s steadily aware he’s got bigger problems than a headache. Before he can really move, he realizes he’s sitting upright in a hard, uncomfortable metal chair that chills his skin even through his jeans and hoodies, his coat missing along with his glasses. His head drapes forward, heavy and thrumming with his pulse as he begins to really come to; he doesn’t try to lift it or pull on his limbs, trying instead to focus as a cold dread settles into his nerves.
Peter doesn’t sleep upright if he can help it. When he finds himself in such a position, he’s usually waking up somewhere… unpleasant. Waking up not reclined means he’s not at home in bed, not at the library after falling asleep in a book, and not curled up on Wade’s lap. Peter awakening upright means he is Not Safe. This fact is emphasized when his spider-sense starts to keen before ebbing to run at a low level in the back of his skull again.
Shit.
Rather than struggle, Peter keeps his head down and his breathing as even and slow as he can to maintain an illusion of sleep for anyone that could be observing. Most people who manage to get a hold of Spider-Man have him under close watch, since he’s notoriously slippery as a captive. He will be again, of course, but first he needs to get his bearings and understand what’s happened. He wracks his brain for a timeline, the last thing he remembers before blacking out. Sweet blended drink. Almost to the subway station. Realizing he’d been drugged. Strangers feigning concern, laying hands on him— he’d been so heavy and weak. Then nothing. Now he’s here. So Peter focuses on stretching his senses and assessing the situation.
There’s that strong smell of powerful chemical cleaners still assaulting his nose, a trace of stinging, cheap cologne in the air, and a stale sweetness left in his mouth from the coffee drink— oh, there’s cloth in his mouth. A cleave gag with a big knot holding down his tongue. It tastes like soap, like someone hadn’t bothered to rinse it out after a wash, and he’s grudgingly glad it’s probably at least clean. It’s rough, too, maybe muslin or cheap cotton. Burlap? He hopes not, but it does scratch his skin when he carefully tenses his jaw to test out the hold of it. Pretty tight, but it’s clearly more for inconvenience and proving a point than to actually shut him up. He could easily scream bloody murder with this thing in so he’s either expected to be quiet, or the room is sound-proofed. Maybe both.
With the smallest movements he tests out what else they’ve got him trapped in: there’s thick rope around his shoulders keeping him upright against the back of the chair and metal handcuffs keeping his wrists behind it, cinched almost too tightly just under the cuffs of his hoodie sleeves. Something wrapped around his ankles attaches him to either of the front chair legs, his knees open and his feet— hey! They’d taken his shoes off! Rude. The concrete is cold through his dorky novelty taco socks, a replacement gift from Wade for the socks Peter had accidentally torn up while trying to retrieve them from behind the dryer. They’d gotten caught under the weird foot at the back end and he’d used a hint too much strength prying them up, ripping them in half. At least these ones don’t have holes.
Clearly, whoever had brought him here is not aware of just who they had abducted. This isn’t about Peter being Spider-Man if they’re treating him like an ordinary civilian with regular handcuffs and rope. Good.
Peter relaxes a bit, hoping he hadn’t noticeably tensed before, and listens carefully. The room is metal and smooth plastic, the floor concrete. It’s not very big, if the soft, muted rush of air circulation means anything, his steady breathing the only other sound. No one else is in this room, but they might be watching from elsewhere nearby. There could be cameras, but Peter would rather not drag this out any longer than he has to, so he cautiously lifts his head just enough to check his surroundings.
The room is indeed small, no more than ten by ten feet, reminding him of smaller police station interrogation rooms. But there are no one-way mirrors or any visible cameras in the ceiling corners. It doesn’t equate being unmonitored, but usually if people are watching you when you’re locked in a small room, they want you to know they’ve got eyes on you, making it just as unlikely the room is miked. He doesn’t see his bag, coat, or shoes anywhere, and he can’t risk leaving things like his suit or web shooters behind. He notes a locked metal cabinet with drawers, screwed into the wall like you would secure furniture against earthquakes and wonders what’s in it, hoping it’s as innocuous as just his stuff and not something more insidious. Maybe the cabinet is just empty.
He stares at the heavy metal door ahead of him, a tiny, wired window centered at about eye level. It doesn’t look like anyone is there right now but Peter doesn’t take his eyes off of it as he listens, focusing on what he can hear outside of the room. It’s tricky, definitely some level of sound-proofing impeding even his enhanced senses, but he can tell there are two people in whatever stretch of hallway is on the other side of the door. Someone is stationary, probably just outside the door, and there’s someone pacing… no, making rounds in an adjacent hallway.
Okay. He can work with this. He needs to know where he is, who’s holding him, and what they want. Nothing about what Peter can remember happening gives him any real answers but if he recalls recent stakeouts well enough, the cleaner he’s smelling had been faintly coming off of those teams moving things at the docks. He may well be wherever those people have been taking their stolen goods. The cologne he doesn’t recognize, but given the characters he’d seen he’s not surprised someone isn’t springing for the good stuff. Not that Peter would, either, being more of a “just fucking shower” kind of guy. Then another thought occurs to him.
Spider-Man and Deadpool had almost proven whoever’s running the stolen goods out of the docks is also abducting people, a new iteration of the former Weapon X terrorist supplier bolstering and torturing mutants and mutates alike by keeping prisoner “patients” and experimenting on them. The two supers had been planning to infiltrate tonight, having traced the vans to a disused warehouse in Brooklyn; well-guarded in numbers, several heavily armed people and a handful of clearly superpowered muscle-types, not a lot of tech security from the outside. Peter feels stupid. Waiting this long to get inside had clearly backfired and there’s no telling how bad it is to be a prisoner-patient in this place, if there are any. He’d like to think it’s a big “if,” but the sort of heavy-duty cleaner still tearing up his sinuses is pretty commonly used by very bad people trying to clean up dead bodies and medical waste. He’d come across a few too many such scenes mid-process in his time as a masked vigilante and the smell has been forcibly committed to memory.
Peter swallows a groan. This is bad. He’s too blind in this to be sure of what he needs to get through to get out of here. He has no idea how deep inside this building he is. They’d pulled up blueprints of all the warehouses under suspicion, but Deadpool had been the one to really study them, part of his expertise being infiltration. Spider-Man ordinarily involves himself in everything to as much depth as he can but he’s been distracted by his haywire spidey-sense, his thesis, and… well, Wade, so he’d let the mercenary run point on certain aspects.
It’s a good thing he’d put his mask in his hoodie. Though even if he can put his mask on, he can’t use it until he’s sure no one in this place could point to the once-captive Peter Parker and say, “That’s the guy! That’s Spider-Man!” So no Spidey suit until there’s no chance of eyes on him, digital or otherwise. He’ll definitely have to pull his punches more than usual and while he’s unable to wear the mask, he’ll have to seem extraordinarily lucky. Maybe he’ll find some moderately heavy objects to “clumsily” whack people and utilize the “self-defense” version of his combat skills rather than all out hand-to-hand and acrobatics.
He really, really doesn’t want to have to use his organic webs. If he can’t put on the mask, it would be a dead giveaway that Peter Parker is at least mutated if not also Spider-Man. His spinnerets are useful in a pinch but he’d developed a variety of web shooter fluids to give him better tensile strength, shooting range, and a slew of inorganic tools like tasers and sound waves. His natural webbing is also stickier, making him the only one that doesn’t stick to it, which isn’t actually very useful for all of Spider-Man’s purposes. He’d rather not let people know Spidey even has organic webs, it’s been a closely guarded secret since the bite when was 15, much like his… other spidery attributes.
He absently tongues the tips of his canines. He hasn’t had fangs his entire career as Spider-Man, but every few years, he— well, he mutates. The spider bite is the genetically altering gift that keeps on giving. He’s had naturally sharp canines ever since his adult teeth had come in, but the spider’s venom had honed their shape and when he’d been almost 19 it had made them truly dangerous: now Peter can inject numbing, paralytic venom with a meaningful bite. If hard pressed, he can spit a similar substance, which he’d learned after a handful of curious experiments at the time. As far as he can tell, his nifty toxungen would cause permanent damage to eyes or other mucus membranes.
Luckily for everyone, Spider-Man being in a full mask all the time means he hasn’t accidentally whipped out either of these traits even when he’s been truly terrified or in actual mortal danger. If he thinks about it for very long, he’d always had a distinct inclination to bite people after his first mutations, but it had been passing and fleeting at best, attached to fury and fear. Since developing the venom he’s been much more interested in biting into flesh and drawing blood than he’d like to admit, something that still mostly happens when he’s angry or freaked out but has also taken on a more… sexual edge. He’s fortunate Wade is so into biting because it seems to satisfy Peter’s strange, feral desire to sink his sharp teeth into something soft and warm.
Since then he’s mutated only one more time, and at least that one still seems innocuous enough that Peter is mostly confident it hasn’t come up again. He’d only seen it happen once himself, after turning 23. He’d been sort-of out of it, worked up after a long night and a nearly fatal run-in with the hunter villain Kraven. So he hasn’t had to think much about his eyes going black since then.
The fight had felt instinctual, the spider in him panicking about being turned into prey by an expert predator who’d managed to tranq him; the dose hadn’t been enough to last long, but enough to slow him down and let Kraven get far too close for comfort, nearly maiming him. Once the tranquilizer had worn off, he’d been more agile, his eyesight and reaction time a little better; he had more easily found his mark when he’d leapt into dark corners and moved through shadows. It hadn’t exactly been obvious through the lenses of his mask, so Kraven wouldn’t have seen Peter’s brown human eyes blow out to fully black, encompassing even the sclera.
Peter himself hadn’t realized until he’d rolled through his window and darted into the bathroom to catch his breath some fifteen minutes after defeating the villain, bloodied and bruised and coursing with more adrenaline and maybe cortisol than he usually would be that long after a fight. The lightbulbs above the mirror had stung his eyes a little, and at the time he couldn’t think why. But then he’d caught his reflection, startling himself with a yelp and leaping backward onto the bathroom wall, sticking to the cheap tile with his feet tucked up under himself.
“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” he’d fretted, gaping at himself and the shiny, solid black slowly edging away from his eyelids, retreating into his pupils, the meager light of the bathroom no longer just a little too bright.
There’s a chance it’s happened again, since Peter assumes it’s caused by getting worked up by blood-pumping hormones, but it’s likely only happened behind the Spider-Man mask so it hasn’t exactly presented a problem yet. Peter figures the timeline on his small additional mutations means he might see another in about three years.
Peter definitely doesn’t want to use his fangs, anyway. It specifically requires a lot more close-quarters action than Peter Parker should be comfortable with as an innocent civilian being kidnapped by scary organized criminals. Being masked as Spider-Man means he isn’t exactly free to bite people anyway, not that he wants the public to know about it; Peter never wants to scare kids. He needs them to trust Spider-Man, not be afraid of him, but his fangs and venom might legitimately do that, to say nothing of solid black alien eyes. So, he mentally amends, not only should there be no suit, but no spinnerets, no venom, and no super strength. Cool. Cool. Great. Okay, he can work this. He’ll just have to be particularly clever about how he gets out.
Good thing he’s a clever guy.
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From [🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 9:34AM
Hey, DP. Sorry for radio silence, got wrapped up in some personal business last night. We can talk about Peter when we meet up tonight. I’ll swing by and check in with him when he’s out of class. Wouldn’t want our fave shutterbug in any trouble ;]
Wade swoons. Spidey doesn’t always use a lot of emojis (Unlike Peter, who humors our communication style. Fuck, we just love it when he sends us the kissy wink!), so seeing even an old-school emoticon sends his heart fluttering. He’s not surprised Webs is willing to help look after Peter, since they’re definitely buddies and the superhero definitely wouldn’t willingly let a delicate normie be at risk if there’s threat of danger. He’s too good for that. He’s even historically fallen for some really fucked up ploys because of it; it’s amazing how easy it is to get him into a burning building or running toward an explosion if he thinks there’s someone in need of help.
It’s sort-of a precious thought picturing Spider-Man carrying Peter bridal-style out of ash and rubble, and Wade entertains an extension of this fantasy that has Peter oh so grateful and Spidey being all embarrassed and serious about it… then Peter offers to show him how grateful he is, and Spidey — being a nerd who’s probably had like, one girlfriend — has no idea what Peter means, but because Peter is a sinful little tempter, he rolls up the hero’s mask and starts teaching the webhead how to kiss—
Hey big guy, look at the time.
Wade hums curiously and glances to the digital clock display crawling around the perimeter of a news building. He’s in Manhattan, taking a break in between an intimidation job and cashing in the card. He doesn’t remember how he got here, just that he’d been hoping that one hot dog stand he likes is still around; his brain had brought him here in between mental reruns of Gilmore Girls and Melrose Place.
“Oh, shit!” he blurts and pulls out his phone again, his other hand holding five hot dogs with all the fixin’s. He also doesn’t remember finding the hot dog stand but now he’s standing off the curb with delicious conglomerate meat sticks nearly drowning in condiments, so he shrugs and wanders toward the nearest alley to find a fire escape to climb. It’s the middle of the day and Wade may be a freak, but he’s not looking to draw double the attention to himself by showing the innocent public his curdled milk, monster movie skin. So he’ll take his meal and video call on a rooftop, thanks.
Wade and Peter have a scheduled “lunch date” on the days Peter works or has class. They’d worked it out so that Wade could video chat with Peter for at least fifteen minutes during a break. Wade can’t even take credit for it, thinking Peter would get sick of him if he’d had to hear from him even at work. Peter himself had asked out of the blue one day, while they were lounging in the living room, Peter with his legs up on the back of the sofa and holding his phone above his head while Wade had sat on the floor and leaned back to sit next to him, game controller in hand.
“D’you wanna make a date?” Peter had asked after a while of comfortable silence, only the sounds of farm animals and splashing water to accent the passage of time.
“What kind of date?” Wade had teased, pausing his cozy farming sim game to give the brunet a sultry look. Peter had smirked at him from his upside down angle and set his phone on his stomach.
“The video call kind. Since we can’t have lunch together every day.”
Wade’s big dumb heart had swollen with disbelieving joy. “I would c— you wanna vi— with me—? Every day?” he’d sputtered, hazel eyes wide and sparkling with hope.
“If you were trying to say you’d like to video chat with me when I’m on lunch breaks, then yeah. I wanna do that,” Peter had confirmed, reaching up to smooth his palm along Wade’s jawline, making him sigh. “Is that cool?”
“Baby Boy. It’s ice cold,” he’d deadpanned, tipping over to kiss him after he’d laughed in response, muttering about C+ work.
So today, they’re scheduled for a video chat at 12:20, and Wade makes it up to an inconspicuous rooftop just in time to flick to Peter’s contact, pulling up his mask and sitting on a raised ledge. He starts the call, kissing the image of his boyfriend’s dorkiest laughing face before he can pick up and catch Wade being weird. He waits, chewing another doubled bite of hot dog and swinging his legs back and forth.
Peter doesn’t pick up.
Wade ends the call and then tries again. And again. Maybe Peter had forgotten and left his phone on silent, the merc knows he turns the ringer off in class. But he doesn’t turn off vibrate, so maybe he put his phone in his bag? But he never lets the bag out of his sight for more than a few seconds at a time, so how could he not notice it buzzing?
“Peter?” he asks the unanswered call with worry, his intuition displeased with this unusual event. Peter always picks up by the fourth ring of the first call. Wade has never had to dial again, let alone a third time.
Something is very wrong.
Yeah, or he’s busy getting even smarter, maybe meeting new people. Kid’s the most gorgeous boy we’ve ever laid eyes on, you think he isn’t constantly flocked by peons who want to bask in his infinite cuteness?
“He hates it when we call him a kid, remember? And people don’t appreciate our Petey, you know that,” he responds glumly, but scowls as he sends Peter a rapidfire text.
To [😍Baby Boy🥵] 12:24PM
heyyyy darlingest boy where r u did u forget ur phone?? we’ve got a lunch date to keep
Wade finishes his hot dogs in the six minutes he allows for a response before he starts to panic.
“Fuck!” he shouts, suddenly on his feet and pacing the graveled roof.
Where is Pete?? This isn’t like him, he should be answering, and he always answers texts quickly if he’s not already with us!
“Don’t you think I know that!” Wade seethes, but his voice is a lot more hysterical than accusatory as he kicks at the wall next to the roof access door. “Shit,” he hisses, switching to another contact and risking a phone call.
Spider-Man doesn’t pick up, either, the call going to voicemail after ringing for what feels like ages. Then Deadpool’s phone rings on its own, and he picks it up without looking at the caller ID, too impatient to waste the .2 seconds it would have taken him.
“Have you heard from him?” he blurts into the receiver, expecting a familiar, comforting tenor to answer. What he gets is an amused soprano.
“Who, your boyfriend?” the caller asks snidely, and Wade’s entire body stiffens. “Deadpool, I presume.”
“I dunno,” Wade says evenly as a bizarre calm lays over him. “Depends who’s calling.”
“I’m the one with your boyfriend in my basement!” they reply cheekily, and Deadpool growls lowly, a sound that tends to chill the common criminals and disgusting monsters he’s paid to hunt or terrify. “Ooh. Big scary man,” they go on in a higher pitch, mocking. “Does the big scary man want to know where his precious little boytoy is?”
“The big scary man wants to know if you prefer your brains splattered on canvas or a nice wood grain. I’m thinking I could go fairly avant garde today, really spice things up at the next silent gallery auction,” the mercenary coos facetiously, cracking his neck. “I won’t ask about your preferences for your innards, though, that’s always an artist’s personal touch.”
“You and Spider-Man need to back off,” the voice goes on, more work and less play.
“I really hope you know how ransoming works, buddy. I need proof of life before you get to any of the terms and conditions.” His jaw clenches so tightly he feels it in his fucking eyes. There’s a chance this is some weird and very stupid scam, that he’ll just need to teach this person a very painful lesson. But there’s also a chance they’re a serious and real threat, in which case the lesson might well be fatal . “So you either put Peter on the phone or I hang up in five, four, three…”
“Pete’s a little preoccupied at the moment, so I’ll do you one better,” the caller assures him. There’s quiet shuffling for a few seconds, seconds that might as well be minutes where Wade’s patience is concerned. “There, that one is pretty good.”
Wade’s phone buzzes twice in a row, and with a suspicious frown he checks to see a notification for two separate photo attachments from the unknown number. He taps open the first picture and his frown vanishes, instantly replaced by a severe neutrality as he processes what he sees.
In the foreground is a copy of the New York Times with today’s date. In the background of some small, grayish white room is a security guard in all black standing beside and looking down at someone tied to and slumped in a chair, someone with brown hair wearing a green coat; one of the guard’s hands is in the slumped person’s hair. Wade’s blood starts to feel itchy under his aching skin. The next photo is similar, but now the guard is pointing comically at the now obviously unconscious person as they hold up their head by their hair to show their unconscious face to the camera.
One has to marvel at the resolution modern smartphones can reach. It’s high enough quality that he can see the detail in Peter’s face: not your standard lookalike or dupe, and barring the use of some extra fancy tech, that’s really his boyfriend. That’s really Peter being manhandled by some creep making a joke out of his unconsciousness. That’s really Peter tied to a metal chair in some tiny room, who the fuck knows where. Wade’s blood isn’t itchy anymore but it is molten hot and clouding the edges of his vision.
“A newspaper? Really?” he says so evenly he might be able to convince himself he’s unbothered.
“I thought it would help get the point across.” The caller chuckles like it’s a clever joke and not just one more nail in their coffin. “We want all of the evidence you’ve collected, including digital records— I don’t care if they’re on a hard drive or a network. Though we suspect neither of you are stupid enough to store important information on a network, are you? It would prove a problem, as far as we’re concerned. If you don’t cease any further involvement with or investigation into our business, we assure you there will be consequences.”
“And who’s ‘we,’ honey?”
“You’re familiar with my old colleagues, I think. But they’re not around anymore, thanks to you.”
The phone nearly cracks in Wade’s hand, the leather of his glove creaking. “If you wanna visit, I could show you where they’re staying.”
In the cold motherfucking ground, b i t c h.
“I’ll take a rain check. Until such time as you and Spider-Man have given up your pursuit of our work, Mr. Parker will remain under our… supervision.” They hit the word in a dubious tone that has Deadpool a sixth of a second away from stabbing the next person to cross his path. Luckily for that hypothetical stabbing victim, the masked mercenary is currently completely alone seventy feet above street level. “In the meantime, I suggest you discuss with your little insect friend how you’d like to proceed. If you cannot bring yourselves to stay away from our business, we might need to see how much stress it takes for your boyfriend to discover his own mutation.”
Scorching, suffocating rage momentarily drags the crimson on the edges of his vision to the center of it, and all he can see is the red he wants to make this person bleed. Deadpool, tall and thick with ropey muscle and years of experience sending people to meet his good friends in hell, lets out a long growl that rumbles deep in his chest. It’s the sound a predator makes when threatened, ready to fight tooth and claw for the right to survive. Only Deadpool doesn’t fight for himself like he used to, when he’d have a challenging opponent or couldn’t satisfy his bloodlust. Back when he had nary a compunction for murdering people who got in the way. Back when he took only assassination contracts for eight months in a row. Deadpool fights for Peter Parker, now. Peter Parker who is unconscious and tied to a fucking chair with at least one person laying their filthy hands on him.
“I assume you don’t really know who you’re talking to,” Deadpool begins, sly and falsely patient. “And I assume you’re young. Unenlightened. You ever seen a man bisected by a collapsing building? Head ripped off by an angry superhuman? Impaled by a steeple a la The Omen or Hot Fuzz? What about on a wrought iron fence during a thunderstorm in a small village in Eastern Europe? Midsection blasted away by extradimensional lasers? Torn apart and eviscerated by ravenous, mangy dogs in Egypt?”
“Interesting threats.”
“Oh they’re not threats, cupcake. They’re experiences. I’ve died so many times in so many different ways, and I have always, always come back,” the man sweetly elaborates with a sick smile. “Gives a gal ideas, sure, but my point is: if you so much as bruise my precious Baby Boy,” Deadpool goes on, dropping an octave, “you and yours will never be rid of me. I will never stop hunting you or hurting the people you’re connected to; I won’t just hurt you , I’ll hurt your mother, your father, your sisters, cousins, besties, your fucking grocery store checkout clerk— everyone you’ve ever so much as spoken to is fair game.” (Spidey will be so disappointed. Peter may never forgive us—) “I found every last one of your Weapon X ‘colleagues,’ you little shitstain, and when I find you? You won’t have a single acquaintance or loved one to go home to before I make sure you meet my ex-wife in literal hell.”
Silence on the other end. Deadpool can hear breathing, a little too steady not to be an affectation for his benefit. Satisfaction curls a cruel smile on his lips.
“That’s a promise, by the way. It’s also a threat. A threatening promise that neither you nor anybody in your life will ever know peace again if anybody harms Peter Parker.”
There’s fumbling on the other side of the line, someone putting a hand over the receiver. He can’t distinguish words, but hushed, urgent tones make it through before there’s clarity again, the caller’s voice remarkably even. “You and Spider-Man have 36 hours to comply, Mr. Wilson, or there will be consequences.”
We just love it when they’re brave.
“Wade Wilson is on sabbatical, honey. You’re talkin’ to Deadpool.”
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The handcuffs are easy. They snap with a simple yank and Peter could pry the steel bracelets open in half a second, but there’s movement outside the door so he keeps his arms in place and lowers his head again, feigning expected unconsciousness. It doesn’t seem like they’d planned on Peter being anything but ordinary even though he hadn’t gotten more than a third of the way through his drink before the drug had kicked in; they’d been waiting pretty close by the coffee shop for him, maybe even expecting him to pass out sooner, so it had been potent nonetheless. Whatever they’d drugged him with, his metabolism has nearly run through it. He’s still a little logy but the unpleasant heaviness and discomfort from the onset is gone. He probably won’t even falter when he gets moving, and if he does, he’ll shake it off. He’ll get back up. Spider-Man always gets back up.
Peter freezes as his spidey-sense tingles just the tiniest bit above its current quiet hum. There’s noisy jangling at the door, someone unlocking it. Peter relaxes to maintain the illusion of sleep, hears the door swing open and two sets of footsteps enter: combat boots and masculine voices already too loud in his tired ears. A fresh wave of that cheap cologne hits him like an involuntary walk through a department store fragrance section.
“What’s the point? We already sent the pictures. What’s he gonna do, wake up and break out? He’ll be asleep until tonight,” one bad guy says in a nasally whine, slowly circling Peter in his chair. The brunet’s doubled sweatshirt sleeves are long enough that it’s not obvious that the handcuffs are broken, but Peter gets the sense neither of these people are actually going to check right now. “I could be on break.”
“You can take a break after we re-up the sedative,” a stern voice grunts, and Peter tries not to let his heart rate pick up. The guard opens drawers of the metal cabinet in the corner of the room with some light clattering. “Orders from higher up. That oral stuff is fine or whatever, but this injection will last longer.”
“You’re gonna poke him? But he’s still out!” the same whiner protests, and Peter agrees. Why are they sedating him again if he’s supposedly already unconscious? Are they trying to kill him? He doesn’t even know what the sedative really is or how dangerous it might be to an ordinary person when preemptively double-dosed, just that he’s not into needle delivery systems if he’s not injecting himself with his hormones.
“This guy is sleeping with Deadpool, Hector, do you really think he’s a normal human?” the other, now arguably extra bad guy snaps, and Peter grits his teeth. Ah. That’s what this is about. They’re after Wade. It makes his nerves spike with righteous indignation: if these people think he’s going to let them use him to get to Wade, they’ve got another thing coming. “Boss says we gotta keep him out, anyway, easier to transport a limp prisoner than, say, an argumentative one,” they go on, too close to smug for the brunet’s tastes. He now mentally refers to this henchperson as “Worse Guy.” Peter keeps his eyes closed and schools his expression when a rough hand grabs a fistful of his hair and lifts his face. “Damn,” Worse Guy adds almost distractedly, and Peter now knows which of these goons is wearing the overpowering cologne. He fights the reflex to wrinkle his nose.
“Doesn’t Deadpool look like a serious burn victim?” the whiner — Hector — asks with a tone of confused curiosity. “Because, whoa. This kid is like, TV attractive.” Peter chooses not to be flattered by this, being that he’s a hostage barely containing bubbling anger the longer they shit talk his boyfriend. “How’d he land this guy?”
“People are attracted to danger,” the person holding his hair says thoughtfully. “Maybe this guy is an adrenaline junkie.”
Well…, Peter internally concedes, and nearly flinches when Worse Guy frees his hair to take his jaw, moving his head side to side.
“How old is he? Holy shit, did we kidnap a kid?” Hector frets, too close to Peter’s ear as they lean in. They set a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter has to consciously resist shrugging it off.
Worse Guy snorts, pressing a little harder into Peter’s skin. “Maybe we did him a favor, huh? That freak seems like he’d like ‘em young.”
“Ha, but don’t you like ‘em young, Grant?” Hector the Bad Guy chortles.
“Don’t be foul.” It’s clipped, mildly offended but not a real denial, and Peter’s skin crawls with a horribly familiar anxiety the longer they keep touching him. They’re not particularly rough, lightening up now, but he’s pretty sure they don’t need to touch his face for what they’re about to do. “Get the hypo, I pulled it out,” Worse Guy — Grant — commands.
When Peter hears Hector the Bad Guy huff and move to the metal cabinet, he splays his toes on the cold floor for the small additional leverage it will give him. The hand that had been in his hair returns, Peter’s jaw freed as his head is pushed back to reveal the long stretch of his bare neck, and that’s his fucking cue because he’s not about to let these people jam more drugs into his body without a fight.
Peter moves so fluidly and so swiftly that the guards are still in shock by the time they realize he’s awake and mobile.
Sweeping his arms forward and up, he knocks the grip out of his hair and the needle from Grant the Worse Guy’s hand, grabbing their elbows and wrenching their weight forward to slam his forehead into the bridge of their nose. They barely have time to whimper before they crumple to the floor at Peter’s feet, the photographer’s expression hard and distasteful. Pulling the gag out of his mouth and smacking his lips at the soapy taste, he doesn’t even have to leave the chair, because the other guard rushes him, fumbling with a sub-machine gun to take aim. But when Peter looks up at Hector the Bad Guy with a scowl, they’re much too close, standing at point blank range. Amateur.
Peter grabs the barrel, shoving it backward so the butt of the gun smashes into their face, nearly crushing the narrow end in his hand as the offender gasps through the blood.
“Yoink,” Peter says humorlessly, jerking the gun forward and off to the side of the chair, the strap of it around the bad guy’s shoulder and back bringing them along as Peter sends them to the floor along with the weapon. The rope around his shoulders had been useless as soon as his wrists were free, so he lifts it and tosses it aside, bending and pretending he has to work the rope off of his legs while Hector the Bad Guy groans and starts to push themself up on all fours. Peter huffs with annoyance, ankles pulled from the chair, and reflexively goes to shoot a web but catches himself at the last second; springing up to spin and stand over the offender, he hauls them back up to their feet by their weirdly appropriate tactical black turtleneck. “Let me get that for you.” Removing the gun from over Hector’s torso, he throws it over his shoulder as though it weighs nothing. It slips his mind for just a moment that he might already be showing superior strength, but he doesn’t feel too guilty when he punches Hector across the cheekbone, effectively knocking them out and letting them fall to the floor in a heap on top of their coworker. Amazing what it takes to get some people down versus others.
Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, Peter crouches and checks their breathing; he’d broken the bridge of Grant the Worse Guy’s nose, splitting the cartilage, so Peter turns their head so they won’t choke on their own blood. He pats them both down, coming up with a set of keys and two different keycards. He can’t know how many access doors these two are cleared for or how many doors are card-coded at all, but these might make getting out easier.
Turning to the metal cabinet, he’s glad it’s been opened and unlocked, the door of it revealing his messenger bag, glasses, gloves, coat, and shoes, which he takes a moment to collect and put on. There’s no telling what he might step on in this place and even his dingy sneakers are better than basically going barefoot. Peter Parker reportedly needs visual correction, so even his fake glasses sell the illusion to the people he needs believing it; fitting them back onto his face makes him feel strangely less naked, anyway. He digs out his phones, surprised they’d survived everything, just turned off. Well, he doesn’t often carry them in his actual pockets if he’s got his bag, maybe they think any phone he’d have had fallen when they’d grabbed him?
He tries not to overthink it. He’ll take small wins when he gets them in this place.
Peter squints at the collection of pre-filled syringes in the top drawer and looks to the floor where the one he’d nearly been injected with lays. He doesn’t know what’s in them, other than the vague intravenous sedative mentioned before. Peter doesn’t prefer to use drugs as tools, but an emergency syringe or two could prove useful if he wants to get out of here without revealing he’s a powerful mutate. If he doesn’t need them, he can always use one to figure out what the hell is in it.
Switching on both phones and scooping up the three pre-filled sedatives, he tucks the phones into his bag and the syringes into his coat pocket, trying not to feel slimy about it. Pressing against the wall next to the door, Peter stills as he listens for any sign of other bad guys in the vicinity. Convinced he should make it down the next couple of halls without being intercepted, the brunet bounces on his heels and takes a minute to stretch, still a little stiff. Time to go home.
“Okay,” he whispers to himself. “What is it DP says?” Ducking out of the room, holding his messenger bag close to his body as he lets his now cooperative spider-sense play lookout for him, Peter starts the search for an exit. “Right. Maximum effort,” he grunts, stopping at one corner and quietly backing into the wall again as his spider-sense dutifully buzzes.
Cameras. Shit. He has to expect at least a few inside the building, so he forces himself to relax and pause to formulate a plan.
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“C’mooooon, Spidey,” Deadpool grinds out between clenched teeth, already in the back of a cab, his phone pressed to the side of his face as he pats his pouches for ammo. The cabbie is some poor schmuck who’d unfortunately recognized him when he’d thrown himself through the open back door of the vehicle stopped at a curb after letting out a previous fare. Deadpool had demanded to be the next fare, and the driver had nearly gotten away too, hitting the gas and letting the mercenary start to slide off the seat, but a katana slicing through the gap of the partition between driver and customer is a pretty good incentive to cooperate. Deadpool is heading for Brooklyn, pretty fucking sure these scum-sucking, ass-blasting motherfuckers are holding his perfect boyfriend at one of the warehouses he and Spider-Man had narrowed down only days ago. He’s confident of one operation in particular that they should’ve moved in on at least a week ago, but he’d been so preoccupied with having a happy personal life that he’d been slacking on his heroic duties.
He’s not feeling very heroic right now.
“FUCK,” he blurts when the ringing goes to voice mail again. He smashes his phone against the window, cracking both but miraculously not destroying the device in his hand. The screen flickers but doesn’t die, and the momentary anger at himself boils back into rage that he hadn’t been able to stop Weapon X at all. It had just migrated. It had just changed hands, the ideologies of sick, greedy bastards who are happy to exploit anyone who isn’t like them for profit. Now his arrogance, his neglect to follow through with anyone who’d clearly had the same idea as the monsters at Weapon X, has resulted in putting innocent Peter in the line of fire.
What would his mutation be? Never would’ve guessed our new ones, before it happened. Think he’ll be super strong? Maybe he’ll turn invisible. Or fly! What if he grows plants? Maybe he’ll shoot laser beams from his eyes! Or duplicate himself— clone jutsu!!
“We are not celebrating Pete’s possible mutations!” Deadpool bites, startling the driver, who is already a sickly shade of green and refusing to look at him in the rearview mirror. “We are going to rescue him before they can so much as lay a filthy fucking finger on his beautiful body, got it?”
These ass wipes sure have balls, kidnapping Petey in broad daylight, snapping pictures and— and touching him while he’s unconscious. Deadpool tries to puzzle out how they would’ve swiped him off the streets, since Peter would’ve been heading to class and it’s occasionally difficult to just drag someone around on crowded streets or through a crowded subway. People in New York are usually too good at minding their own business, but part of him holds out a glimmer of hope that someone would have made a stink if nobody involved had been in a full body costume or looked like a super, which he also can’t guarantee, come to think of it.
“Shit,” he hisses, feeling like an absolute fucking moron as he googles the coffee shop Peter frequents. Why the fuck hadn’t it occurred to him to talk to that one barista Peter’s friendly with? What if they know something? Peter goes there most days he leaves for work or class if Wade isn’t there to make him coffee and breakfast at home. He hits the screen a little too hard, worsening a crack when he hits the listed phone number, but it still functions when he holds it up to his ear again.
“Carter’s Coffee,” greets a familiar voice, and Deadpool has to really try not to sound accusatory or worried.
“Heyyy, Jordan, right?” he asks, and it’s pretty clear he’s hiding something. “It’s Deadpool.”
“Deadpool?” Jordan echoes. “Wow, you sound different on the phone.”
The mercenary waves a hand dismissively, attracting the wary gaze of the driver through the rearview mirror. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Uh. Have you heard from Pete today? He hasn’t been answering his phone and I’m. Worried.”
“So you called a coffee shop? Aren’t you a big scary badass with guns and swords?”
“Have you. Heard from him,” he says slower, clipped. Everyone seems to think he’s big and scary, but nobody fucking acts like it until he whips out said guns and swords.
“He was here this morning, opted for his blended drink instead of the latte.”
Deadpool grabs the back of his neck and rubs hard. “Was he acting strangely? Cagey? Tense?”
“He was exhausted. But he did seem a little on edge, even though he was perfectly friendly as always. He was even really nice when our newbie made a mess doing his drink.”
Deadpool straightens up in his seat, lungs burning in his broad chest. “Newbie?”
“Yeah, we have a trainee in, Tanya’s only been here about a week. It was her first blended drink, she spilled some chocolate syrup—.”
“How well do you know this girl?” Something wiggles in the back of the merc’s brain for the name, but he can’t place it.
“I just told you she’s new.” Jordan pauses. “Look. Deadpool. Buddy. Peter seems to really like you. Adore you, I daresay, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here, given your public reputation.”
“I don’t have time f—!”
“Dude, shut up, I’m not done,” Jordan sighs, and Deadpool genuinely admires their fearlessness, given his reputation. “His little Spider-Man pin came off, the one from his bag. So I tried to chase him down the street, figured he might worry it got lost somewhere worse, right? He likes this thing. But by the time I caught up to him, there were these people talking to him. He looked sick, but I couldn’t get over to him before they were taking him through an alley.”
“What,” Deadpool says tightly, furious and definitely about to crush the phone in his hand. “Why the fuck didn’t you call the police!”
“Because fuck the police?” They had him there. He presses his lips into a tight line. The barista continues, only a little defensive. “And I didn’t exactly have your number, so I couldn’t call you, either…” Jordan sighs, softening. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything more helpful, I’m kinda worried about him, too. But I did see the van that drove out of the alley by the time I got there. Got a plate. Some security company.”
“I’m all ears, Jordan.”
-
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So far, getting out of this place as Regular Person Peter Parker is proving difficult. He’s taken a couple of hits from batons, avoided stun guns, and dodged one attempt to actually tase him. He’d incapacitated a few people along the way, mostly guards and one person in a lab coat that had said “Holt Securities” over the breast pocket, which does not bode well. Holt Securities is on Spider-Man & Deadpool’s list of top suspects running shady shit behind the scenes, under their legitimate security company services. They set up security and alarm systems in people’s homes. They run local ads on TV, boasting flexible rates. Their so-called mission statement is inclusive in that vaguely pandering way that’s honestly a red flag for anyone mentioned in it, including “alternative families.” Peter wouldn’t have trusted them to install window locks without leaving some bug or other spyware behind. Now he’s pretty sure this company has been targeting mutants and mutates with whatever the hell tech they use. Spider-Man hadn’t found any particularly correlated missing persons cases during their investigation into Holt Securities, and he’s relieved he also hasn’t yet found any prisoners on his way out, but that doesn’t preclude the possibility there are prisoners, only that no one else seems to be held in this part of the facility.
This facility is also much bigger than Peter would have thought based on the buildings they’d been seeing. He assumes he’s in a sub-basement, since he also hasn’t seen a single window on his way through. His instincts keep telling him to move upward, but he hasn’t found any stairs or elevators yet. Peter thinks it’s likely the blueprints of all the buildings they’d looked into were either outdated or specifically inaccurate to hide this activity. He shouldn’t be surprised, who files their evil lair with the city planning office?
With the advantage of surprise and no cameras in sight, Peter darts forward and catches two armed guards at the back of their heads, pushing them down to meet his knees with a crunch as he springs upward. It’s enough to make them drop their guns and reach for their broken noses, so Peter grabs the bodies of each weapon and spins on his heel, using them as leverage to yank both guards forward to the floor in a half-turn that plants them facing either direction from one another. Peter quickly disarms them, sorely tempted to crush the barrels like he nearly had in the room he’d awakened in, but he can’t show his hand, his super strength.
Oddly, it’s equally difficult not to crack a few jokes while he works to get himself out of here. At least without Deadpool around to bounce jokes off of, he’s having a slightly easier time holding his tongue. Peter Parker might be a snarky bitch sometimes, but Spider-Man is the one with the quips, and he really would like to avoid drawing any parallels between the two if he already can’t stop himself utilizing Spidey’s moves every now and then.
He checks the bad guys’ pulses and angles their heads according to how much their noses bleed, and presses on when he determines they’re still alive and not about to drown. In the back of his mind, he debates asking Wade to teach him how to dismantle guns when he gets home. He knows how to take ammo out of pistols and shotguns and hunting rifles, but other than yanking clips out of automatic weapons, Peter doesn’t know how to disable a firearm when he can’t just smash it.
Imagining Wade losing it with glee at being asked about guns, Peter smirks to himself and ducks when his internal danger radar alerts him to someone trying to hit him with the butt of one from behind. He drops, sweeping a leg out and sending the offender off-balance and flat onto their back. Grabbing their ankle, he hauls them forward and snatches the gun, shaking his head and tutting in disapproval before he sucker punches them in the face with his free hand. Their head lolls to the side, and after yet another pulse check, Peter takes the gun off the strap and tosses it aside, adjusting his slipping glasses. Usually Spider-Man’s schtick is a lot of disarming, dodging, and incapacitating, so he’s at least happy he hasn’t actually been fired on ye—
Jerking aside, Peter whips around with narrowed eyes at the guard who’d shot three times at him, missing only because of Peter’s spider-sense. It’s behaving normally again, and he decides not to dwell on why as he resists the urge to literally flip out of the way when the guard fires again. At least no one here is one of the massive mutants Spider-Man and Deadpool had monitored for weeks at the docks, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself against them without using his powers. Shit, better not jinx himself.
Peter comes in closer, gaze unrelenting as he meets the guard’s eyes, wide with confused disbelief. He dodges another series of shots, slipping under the barrel and knocking the guard’s arms upward with his elbow, messing with their grip on the SMG and slamming backward into their chest as he grabs a wrist and the back of their neck, shifting to use his own back as a fulcrum. The guard yelps as Peter flips them over and sets his foot on their shoulder once they’re on their back before him. He hops and kicks the gun away rather than putting his weight on the dislocated arm — you’re welcome, asshole — and watches their eyes roll back in their head.
“God damn,” Peter mumbles, only a little winded. “Why always with the guns?” He’d been surprised by how many people he’d come across without them, really, but he’s never happy about how many he does see.
He’s suddenly hungry. His ribs and cheek ache, his arm hurts from taking on three guards who had ganged up on him and managed to land a few hard hits before Peter had quickly ducked out of the way and let them whack each other instead of him. He rubs it absently, searching for a stairwell. It feels like he’s been doing this for hours, how deep does this place go? It’s taken him so long to find stairs, so he runs faster when he finally spots a labeled emergency exit, the lit-up sign above it lifting a weight off his shoulders. Hauling the stairwell door open, the grad student groans with relief. The large painted number on the wall looms over him, but it’s not as daunting as he’d feared it would be. “3B,” he reads aloud, rubbing his face tiredly.
Ew— sticky gloves, sticky fingers, and not from his own powers. They’re a little grimy and bloodied now, presumably from fighting his way out and the number of bloody noses he’d issued. Pressing his lips tightly together, he steels himself for what will likely be more fighting as he takes the stairs three at a time. He’s in the home stretch, and then he’ll be back at the apartment with Wade, and Peter can collapse on the bed and demand his boyfriend cuddle him until he feels better again.
-
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The Holt Securities facility is indeed in Brooklyn, a block away from the disused warehouses he’d been looking into with Spider-Man. He’d narrowed it down from other options with a quick check into the last pinging of Peter’s phone, another thing he would’ve remembered to try sooner if he weren’t periodically blind with white hot rage just thinking about what they might be doing to his precious Petey-Pie. His service dropped several blocks away, but this place is the logical conclusion after going over his lists again. It had been on the list of considered locations under Holt Securities in his research, and Deadpool suspects the company is using the warehouse for storage rather than operations, which should have been obvious, considering how other contracted targets had operated in Deadpool’s experience. With the actual business offices attached to this suspected property, he’d been more dismissive of it before. He usually comes back to the corporate side of things when he’s done with the operations side. But there’s no time for “you fucking idiot” hindsight (Wrong! There’s always time for “you fucking idiot,” you fucking idiot!) when he’s got a pretty brunet to save and a lot of people to unalive.
Don’t… don’t unalive anyone, the boxes plead.
Wait, plead? The boxes don’t plead. They whine and demand and insult and give running commentary, but they don’t plead .
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Deadpool scoffs. “Not only did these disgusting bastards kidnap our Baby Boy, they’re experimenting on people. This is nouveau-Weapon X, guys, there’s no letting this place just continue to be.”
We’ll break his heart.
“He’ll get over it,” Deadpool says, but hesitates even as he does. The boxes don’t usually try to stop him from committing extreme violence, the change in tune is jarring to say the least. But… he’s been so good: good for Spider-Man, good for Peter. He hasn’t unalived anyone in months, not even when neither of the other men could keep track or possibly learn about it. He’s not even sure which he/him/his the boxes are talking about, here. But they’re right either way, and for a moment, the hardened mercenary persona falters. “Fuck. Fuck, fuckity fuck-a-doodle!” he laments, smacking his hands on either side of his head, even with his katanas drawn, thus hitting himself with the length of the grips.
He’s watching the building from an adjacent rooftop, in the middle of the afternoon, but it feels like he can’t afford to keep dicking around like this. One of the most important lives he can think of is in there somewhere, possibly being tortured, and the other most important life he can think of isn’t answering his fucking calls. But he can be mad at Spider-Man later. Right now, Peter needs him. Peter needs him to save him from very bad guys, bad guys Deadpool will begrudgingly allow to live.
“Think he’d be okay with some light maiming? Just a few missing limbs. Maybe a missing torso?”
C’mon, man.
“If I don’t unalive these people, they’ll do it again,” he tries to bargain. People like this always do.
Peter first. They kidnapped him, let him decide if you can obliterate them. At the very least, surely he’ll be amenable to burning this horrible place down. Infrastructure is expensive, it’ll take forever to rebuild! We’ll have plenty of time to round them up the way a hero would. We even know the specific company now; their properties and subsidiaries and partners are going down.
“What’s to stop them starting over fresh somewhere else?” he challenges, but quickly moves on, “And even if he’s MIA or AWOL or whatever the fuck he’s doing right now, Spidey would back us up however we get Pete outta there.” Deadpool hums thoughtfully, tapping the flat of Bea against his leg, pacing on the rooftop. He would fret about his hero a little more if he didn’t have bigger fuckers to fry. There’s no time to discuss with Webs what to do about their abducted shutterbug. “He’s buddies with Peter, he wouldn’t just let this happen to him.”
You keep saying that, even specifically “buddies,” what is your deal, big guy?
“Maybe I’m jealous!” Deadpool says in exasperation.
But we’re dating Peter and we’re BFFs with Spidey!
“Then I’m selfish and I want both of 'em all to myself!” he counters, sighing dramatically and sheathing his katanas again, sitting heavily on the edge of the roof. He’s still screwing around too much, he needs to get moving, but he’s waiting on a window of opportunity that will make it easier to get inside with fewer casualties, which he’s only interested in because Peter’s puppy dog eyes and Spider-Man’s big ol’ lenses will break his stupid queer heart if they find out he went to excess. Even for a good cause. Well, maybe they’d forgive him for a good cause.
Like saving the children! Who will think of the children?
“Alrighty, Petey-Pie,” Deadpool murmurs, rising once more, steeling himself and letting the familiar old calm wash over him, the hardened mercenary persona taking more control again. It’s the part of him that used to be a notorious assassin, that could wipe out drug cartels or entire families of organized crime in 36 hours. The part of him born out of Weapon X, which has birthed whatever the fuck Holt Securities is up to. Holt Securities, which is holding Peter Parker hostage to get to Deadpool. “Deadpool who’s gonna fuck some shit up and be home in time to cuddle with Pete and watch a Golden Girls marathon on TV Land,” he growls, stalking forward and turning to catch the ledge, dropping onto the fire escape with remarkable dexterity. Deadpool can be completely silent if wants to. Deadpool can sneak up on superhumans if tries. Weirdly, he can somehow even sneak up on Spider-Man without trying hard at all. He still hasn’t asked what that’s about, since no one else seems capable most of the time, as amusing as it is to be able to spook the webhead.
Deadpool is a master of infiltration, covert ops strategy, and intimidation. He just hasn’t been utilizing all of his skills in the last few months, since so many of them most successfully relate to unaliving targets or troublesome bystanders. To be fair, he’d backed off of bystanders ages ago. Even before he’d gotten to meet Spider-Man in person (And become besties!) he’d started considering it… unnecessary. People just being in the way is always a problem, but even before Weapon X, he’d told himself it was faster, easier, got him where he’d needed to be. But the whole “means to an end” thing sounds a lot like fascism anyway, and Deadpool may be a mutant freak but he’s not a fucking fascist.
“Think Pete would mind if we unalived Nazis?” he wonders, landing on the ground across the street from the facility.
…Okay, we could probably get away with testing that theory.
Sneaking into places during daylight hours is particularly tricky, especially in a red and black suit like his. Not the most subtle, but that’s never been its purpose. The point of the suit is to be noticed, a beacon of impending terror for bad guys and targets, recognizable and impossible to escape. (Aaand it’s harder to see when we’re bleeding.) The suit is a threat. The suit is a warning. But people are often still stupid enough to try fighting him, even before he’d started pulling his punches and using rubber bullets.
But he’s got real bullets today. He’s got backup ammo. He’d recently sharpened Bea & Arthur, and they too were itching to taste blood. The longer Deadpool dwells on the sheer arrogance of these people kidnapping his most beloved person is what pisses him off the most. They really think he’s just going to back off? Had they done absolutely no research? Were these dipshits actual amateurs? Who the fuck do they think erased Weapon X off the face of the earth?
He takes the front entrance just as the guards are trading places for shift change, one too impatient to wait for his spot to be filled again before heading off. The others — two coming to replace the two stationed at the gate and the one who didn’t bail early — see him coming, and he waves a little with his fingers. They scramble to pick up their weapons, stashed under the long counter of the little station one would ordinarily stop a car at before the gate gets buzzed open. But Deadpool is faster, and he doesn’t even speed up as he pulls a single pistol, Phyllis, from its place at his hip, issuing a shoulder and gut shot each to the three very, very stupid guards, shattering the glass of the station window. Not even bulletproof. Some fucking security company. It makes him angrier, somehow, because maybe that means their little façade of being a security company is even more fabricated than he already knows it is. Is their front even convincing?
Their bodies drop, and Deadpool ignores the gasping and groaning, hopping the gate as he readies another clip, putting it in a closer front pocket. He doesn’t waste time ducking along the fence or being subtle as he approaches the loading bay at one end of the facility. (Ha, like we were ever gonna try being stealthy!) Whatever. Priority one is Pete, and wasting time isn’t worth the risk.
He knows better than to go through some sort of lobby in the main business building. It’s not about bystanders here, just the fact that a lobby means offices, and offices mean narrow halls and tons of doors and a stupid amount of cubicles, and if you’re an evil corporation holding cute boys hostage, you’re not keeping those cute boys in the fucking offices.
There are several trucks parked and unloading suspiciously familiar crates and machinery into the building, and already he sees people scrambling. Gunshots aren’t quiet, after all. He’d forgotten silencers, which may not actually silence shots, but suppressed fire is a little harder to hear from further away, and the light from the muzzle fire would be equally subdued. Well, he hadn’t exactly forgotten, it’s not like he’d stopped off at home, he just has real bullets on hand from his intimidation job earlier. Hadn’t needed silencers at the time, barely even shot off a round. So he’s got ammo to spare, and then some. Deadpool figures every single one of these sad little hench-type people will recognize him, anyway. They know what they’re in for. Maybe the smarter ones would flee.
Wait— no unaliving!! one box winces. Even if they deserve it, the other adds darkly, but they fall silent again as he holsters Phyllis and reaches up behind himself to unsheathe Bea & Arthur instead.
He feels the first few bullets, sprayed clumsily from someone barely holding onto an SMG thirty feet away, but doesn’t flinch. The pain is fine, he’s had so much worse. And he’s nearly in unalive-mode, barely resisting the pull when he sweeps the blunt edge of Arthur across the shooter’s chest, knocking the wind out of them and swiping it backward to slice open the back of the bad guy’s knee with the sharp edge, shredding a couple of important tendons. They scream, collapsing forward and trying to hold their leg, and Deadpool sighs with satisfaction. The loading bay lights up with gunfire, and while he starts zig-zagging, he snags a knife from his boot and flings it into the shoulder of a nearby gunner. They shout while they reach to clutch their arm; with their aim off, another bad guy gets hit with enough friendly fire to go down before Deadpool’s second knife hits the same bad guy again. This time, with the blade sticking out of their side, they go down hard.
That other baddie is definitely dead, the boxes say solemnly.
“Good fucking riddance,” Deadpool snaps. He hadn’t pulled that trigger, so he can convince himself it’s no big deal. He’ll feel bad about it later. Possibly. “Incoming!” he announces cheerfully.
He gives them warning and everything, but the next bad guy doesn’t react quickly enough, and meets the massive mercenary’s shoulder with their hips, flipping easily onto the ground and crying out as they land on their own shoulder. It’s a shoulder kind of day. A sending people to the floor with your shoulders kind of day. He can hear clunky footsteps as reinforcements start trickling in. Deadpool is about to plow into another hench-douche when something legitimately roars, leaving a ringing in his ears as people stop firing.
Deadpool stops in his tracks, whipping his head around to see someone the size of Juggernaut and half as handsome standing like a fucking ape on the loading dock, flanked by a few more traditionally sized humans with guns. He and Spider-Man had seen a few oversized mutants on the docks, but this one might be enhanced with the same drug Spidey had found and analyzed, judging by the bulging veins, lack of a visible neck, and the distorted, uncomfortably taut and blemished skin of their face, somehow just on the wrong side of worse than Deadpool’s.
“Woooow,” Deadpool muses, mocking and laughing shortly. “Who invited you to the party, ya big ol’ HGH spokesperson reject?” he asks with exaggerated cheer, pointing a katana at the mini boss. “You gotta be kidding me,” he laughs snidely, “you look like someone thought a blender bottle of steroids and pizza grease would make a good spotter at the gym!” The mutant heaves with each breath, eyes wild and yellowed teeth bared as their gigantic fists clench and unclench, but they remain on the dock. Deadpool flinches when somebody fires and manages to actually hit him during this momentary distraction. It spurs the others into action again, apparently feeling better with their TTRPG tank backing them. Deadpool hisses as they fill him up with bullets, and the blood loss does make him a little lightheaded, but he has a job to do.
And that job is getting Peter the fuck outta Dodge.
He weaves just a little, to annoy more than really dodge as he starts stepping sideways and toward the center of the bay. He slices, disarms, and barrels over three more bad guys, the shooters running out of ammo quickly enough. As they fumble to reload, the merc shakes his body like a wet dog, showering spent bullets as he rapidly heals; he’s been eating right and sleeping well, what can he say? He rolls his neck on his shoulders, flexing his grip on his katanas.
“What, King Kong doesn’t wanna play?” Deadpool shouts, cackling under his mask and holding both arms — and katanas — out in invitation to the oversized mutant. “I’d say ‘I’ll be gentle,’ but I’m a lunatic, not a liar.”
The huge mutant roars again, jumping off of the loading dock, the asphalt cracking under the weight of them as they land and threateningly slam their anvil fists on the ground. Deadpool is sure he feels the earth shake. Holy shit. He cracks a manic grin.
This could very well be fun.
-
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Peter can hear a gunfight by the time he breaches the stairwell door to the ground floor. He’s about to run toward it, but quickly shrinks back against the wall, watching with a furrowed brow when a few guards run by. They move toward the gunshots and shouting, and Peter peeks carefully around the corner for more guards or cameras before decisively following after them, comparatively lighter on his feet even in his beat-up sneakers. There are others encroaching on the same spot, so Peter backs off a little and finds a good unlit corner aisle to crouch in, well out of the way of the last camera he’d spotted. For a company boasting security, they don’t seem worried about their own. Then again, the more illegal activity you engage in, the less you want potential evidence to be available, so maybe not having cameras in the worst parts of your facility is wiser.
It’s a big loading bay, the floor concrete like the rest of the facility, full of equipment, crates, and boxes Peter recognizes from stakeouts. Definitely the people Spider-Man and Deadpool have been staking out at the docks. Sometimes he hates being right.
Peter’s spine tingles as his spider-sense blares: a moment later, a deafening roar rips through the loading bay and rattles his bones. Peter has to clap his hands over his ears with a grimace. What the hell is that thing! It’s not like any animal he’s heard before, but like an amalgam of predators starved of sustenance and ready to tear apart the next amalgam of meat that crosses its path. Even his human instincts are telling him that’s the sound of something that would like to take a bite out of him. Heart racing, spidey-sense at a low thrumming, Peter dips out of the corner enough to get a better look outside through the massive open rolling garage doors, and freezes on the spot.
An enormous… mutant? Holy shit, what happened to them? They’re even bigger than the people Spider-Man and Deadpool had seen at the docks! They’ve got to be at least eight feet tall, their muscles swollen to uncomfortably unrealistic proportions, arms too long and heavy, making them hunch forward with the weight of them even if their legs also look wide as ancient tree trunks. Peter’s back aches just looking at them. The mutant has no shoes, and what little else they’re wearing leads Peter to believe they might have once been the size of the mutants he’d seen at the docks after all — it looks like the shredded material had once been regular clothing, but much like the Dr. Banner’s, it had been ripped and torn by a transformation to something too big to fit.
“Y’know, spandex isn’t that bad,” Peter grumbles mindlessly.
“Who invited you to the party, ya big ol’ HGH spokesperson reject?” a familiar, playfully chilling voice calls out, and Peter mentally beats himself for not thinking that Wade would come looking for him, not knowing Peter could most likely take care of himself. He doesn’t hear what other snarky thing his boyfriend says, because he’s quickly ducked back behind the aisle of shelves he’s hiding in, rapid-fire running through all his options.
Deadpool is here because Peter Parker had been missing, and if Spider-Man shows up without proof Peter is safe, the super vigilante might be facing a rougher relationship with the mercenary. If Peter Parker, an ordinary human civilian, shows up in the middle of a gunfight after magically escaping a guarded facility, Deadpool would have capital-q Questions Peter can’t answer without revealing his alter ego. If he ignores this fight and Deadpool dies or is seriously hurt when Peter has the power to help, he would be the worst boyfriend ever and rightfully never forgive himself.
“Dammit,” he hisses with his heartbeat hammering in his throat, fumbling through his bag once he’s hidden again. He hadn’t bothered to actually check his phones after turning them on. He pulls out his stashed “work” phone, and blanches. Dozens of messages and missed calls from Deadpool. He checks his personal phone and winces. Wade had called for their video chat lunch date, and tried a few more video calls, and then panicked in several texts and regular calls. Peter feels ill. Wade had been so worried about him, and Peter would’ve been mere minutes from making it out on his own if his big, sweet, dumb fucking himbo boyfriend hadn’t come charging in so damned soon!
“No thoughts, head empty,” Peter growls to himself through his teeth, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Bet they tried to blackmail him and he just. Lost it.”
Another roar tears through the cavernous warehouse, making Peter flinch, his ears twitching. The brunet peeks around the corner again, watching studiously as the mutant jumps — well, hops, Peter can’t imagine it’s easy to jump with a frame like that — into the loading bay below. His eyes widen as the ground trembles just slightly on their landing. Shit, he needs to make a decision, Wade is going to be in a lot of pain very soon if he’s already got his hands (and his chest) full of bullets. Squeezing his eyes shut, Peter rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. Okay. Time to play the risks.
Shrugging his messenger bag to the floor, he fishes in the secret compartment to pull out his web shooters, securing them on his wrists and pulling the Spider-Man mask out of his innermost sweatshirt’s hood. It’s a damned good thing his outermost hoodie is a generic navy blue and not necessarily recognizable, if Wade should spot him. He doesn’t have time to put his boots on, but he shucks his sneakers and taco socks — even more recognizable than his hoodie, shit — and rips his gloves off just in case, taking off his toggle coat (cumbersome, recognizable) and pulling on the mask, tucking the ends into his shirt collar. Okay. He can do this. Bouncing on his heels, he flaps out his arms, wincing when he can hear something wet smack into the brick outside. “Okay!” he whispers, stretching his neck and arms again. “I’ve got your back, babe,” he murmurs to himself, crouching before he springs into the air and shoots a web into the rafters.
When it connects, Peter yanks himself upward, narrowly missing a backup bad guy, who turns around when they feel the rush of air behind them. But Peter makes it into the beams and supports above in relative silence, and the gunner’s attention is brought back to whatever wild havoc Deadpool is wreaking outside. Time to do a classically Spider-Man thing and be a “crafty little bug.”
Wade’s words, not his.
Peter moves a few beams forward, swinging his weight easily without using any web until he’s about fifteen feet back from where the backup bad guys take formation below. With the right setting, Peter hastily shoots one hench-baddie with each wrist, and before they can register that he’s done it, Peter drops down behind the beam he’d been on and uses the force and inertia of his weight to yank the both of them into the air. They shout, alarmed, but Peter is zipping back in the rafters in a split second, webbing their mouths and taking their guns. He webs the weapons separately into a corner of the ceiling as the other two backup shooters turn around and notice their coworkers strung up.
“Hiya!” Spider-Man calls out cheerily. “I was just in the neighborhood, thought I’d check in, see how much evil you guys have really been up to.” He dodges bullets, hopping between support beams and crowing with delight. “Wow, I hate to say it, but I think y’all trained with the Empire.” He snags one of their guns with a web and makes a point of bending the barrel before tossing it back to the floor. It’s probably not very healthy that he feels better than he has in hours, being able to fight like Spider-Man again. He swoops down, feet landing hard on the unarmed bad guy’s shoulders, making them buckle and shout with pain. Peter hops and rolls forward, popping up with an almost comical uppercut between the remaining shooter’s gun and their face. He catches the gun against his own back and brings it forward, crushing the barrel this time, which is even more satisfying than just bending it. Glancing outside, he discards the damaged weapon and focuses on where he can see Deadpool. The taller man has both glinting katanas stabbed into the space between the giant mutant’s not-neck and shoulder.
Peter’s breath leaves him. Not because this might be a lethal blow on a different person. Not because it clearly isn’t Wade wielding those blades right now — it’s definitely Deadpool — and not because Spidey is worn out and needs a snack, or a nap, or both. But because the late afternoon sun is casting orange and gold and soft pink and purple behind Deadpool, and he looks majestic as all variety of fantastic creatures when he tears his katanas up from the mutant’s flesh, a spray of dark red blood following the smooth motion in an arc. Deadpool kicks off their shoulder into a backflip, landing with his swords out and a leg stretched behind him, and Peter thinks of big cats and wolves and even sharks when he watches the thick muscle of his boyfriend rise to stand. He can imagine him baring his immaculate teeth in a furious snarl, moving like a predator on the hunt. Peter’s breath rushes back all at once and he sucks in sharply, sure he’s bright red under his mask, his pulse rushing loudly in his ears.
He gets to make out with that beast, that powerhouse. They are so gonna fuck themselves into oblivion later. Ugh, he’d missed Wade, his chest aching with affection and desire as he rumbles out a hum and smiles dreamily to himself.
The enormous mutant stumbles, falling against the dock platforms and roaring haltingly. The wound is gushing, and Deadpool slowly cocks his head at an angle that should definitely hurt, but he just watches them teeter and glare hotly at the merc as they slap a gigantic hand over the wound to apply pressure. The remaining shooters seem to have run out of ammo, most of them on their knees with their hands up in surrender.
“You got my messages!”
Spider-Man blinks, and then looks to Deadpool again, realizing how truly stupid he had been to stand basically in the middle of the warehouse in full view of the loading dock. And Deadpool. Who is looking at him, demeanor less menacing, less deadly as he waves with his whole arm, even though his katana is flinging blood, dripping it onto his suit.
“D’you know where Pete is?” Deadpool asks loudly. Spider-Man reaches an arm out and shoots a web off to the side, rather than answering with words — because he can’t, his voice has just left the building — unable to stop looking at the other super as he does. He runs and swings, just out of the peripherals of the loading docks. “What the fuck?” Deadpool says incredulously as the spider disappears from sight.
Spider-Man knows he has all of ten seconds to be Peter Parker again, before Deadpool catches up to him, because he definitely hears those steel-toed boots hitting concrete and closing in. Skidding around his shadowy corner, Peter quickly peels off the mask and web shooters, stuffing them precariously into his bag and pulling his coat on, shoving his feet into his shoes. He’s just gotten his hands back into his gloves, putting the glasses back on as he turns the corner and slams into Deadpool’s solid chest. It actually hurts for a second, so when he hisses in pain and rubs his face with his yucky hands, it’s entirely believable.
“PETER,” Deadpool yelps, catching his upper arms and looking at him with wide, white mask eyes. His voice breaks when he looks over Peter’s disheveled and slightly damaged appearance, hardly able to process the last few minutes or this second. He yanks his own mask all the way off when Peter blinks blearily up at him, and Deadpool is Wade again, hazel eyes shiny with tears and the most tragic expression Peter has ever seen on him, flooding Peter with adoration and guilt and sorrow himself. “I was so worried,” Wade breathes, clutching the smaller man to his chest, strong arms encircling him as he buries his scarred face in Peter’s hair, nuzzling down into his shoulder and kissing up and down the length of his neck, over his ear, back to his crown, lingering in his fluffy curls. “I was so scared… Oh my god, I was so ready to unalive every single motherfucker in the tristate area,” he confesses through his teeth, trembling slightly, and Peter huffs a short laugh, melting against him and wrapping his comparatively scrawnier arms around Wade’s waist.
“I’m okay,” he strains, because Wade is holding him so tightly it might be akin to wearing a binder for 16 hours straight, to which he can speak from experience. “Wade, I’m fine, let me breathe.”
Wade reluctantly loosens up, holding his boyfriend out enough to look over his precious, beautiful— bruised and bleeding face, what the fuck?
WE’LL WASTE ‘EM—!
“Who did this to you?” he demands darkly, and Peter frowns, unwilling to let the mercenary cloud his boyfriend again. “I’ll waste ‘em—!”
“No, you won’t,” Peter says sternly, trying to sound authoritative rather than fondly exasperated. It only works halfway, because Wade quirks a hairless eyebrow and eyes him sideways. “Spider-Man dealt with it.” He technically isn’t lying, but he does feel… icky about it.
Wade visibly relaxes, dropping his head back with a relieved shout. “Spidey, you absolute gem show!” he squeals, dragging Peter into his chest again and wrapping him in another bear hug, twisting the both of them side to side. Peter can feel the joy coming off of him, warming and sending pleasant thrums through his tired limbs, some of his guilt ebbing. “Where’d he go? We hafta thank him! And I hafta chew his ass out for not answering my calls.”
“Uhh, he’s chasing down a lead. Got me outta the basement and had to keep… doing the. Y’know.”
“The hero thing?”
Peter laughs breathily, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so. Had a lead on a name for the person he thinks drugged me,” he says, a little smushed, so he angles his head out and rubs his face against Wade’s bloody, hole-punched suit. Oh. “Ahhh, yikes ,” he grimaces, pulling away a little when he realizes how nasty both of them are.
“Oh. Guess I’m pretty gross, huh?” Wade chuckles, letting Peter take a half step back and sticking a finger through a hole, tugging the suit away from his body. He’s still bloody, but the wounds have sealed shut again, leaving his skin and suit a tacky, vaguely goopy mess. “Yeah, that’s another suit gone,” he sighs. “Wait, a name?”
“Tanya, Tanya Marring,” Peter replies, smoothing his rumpled hoodies and adjusting his sloppily donned coat. His shoelaces haven’t really been untied in a while, so he doesn’t bother to check, too anxious to draw attention to his hastily donned clothes.
“From the coffee shop?” Wade asks, voice taut. His gaze flicks between Peter’s tired doe eyes. Something about that name, what the hell is it about that name? “Jordan said she’s a newbie.”
“You talked to Jordan?” He’s mildly surprised, but he probably would’ve come to the conclusion they’d be worth talking to, if Peter had been in Wade’s position. “I mean, yeah, she made my drink… this morning? Is it still today?”
“Technically it’s always today,” the merc supplies unhelpfully, and Peter gives him a dry look. “You disappeared this morning,” Wade amends softly, and takes Peter’s face in his gloved hands. He reeks of blood, gunpowder, and sweat. Peter doesn’t mind. “How’s the other guy look?” Wade jokes, and his eyes widen when Peter’s expression cracks.
“I got ‘em,” Peter says weakly, sniffling, and he feels terribly guilty for his reaction, because Wade couldn’t have known what his uncle Ben had said during his last few days, and it’s just a classic quip, and maybe Peter really is tired and overwhelmed. His spider-sense had been driving him up the wall for weeks, and now that it’s calm again, maybe eerily so, he can feel that sapped energy catching up to him. His body aches, his face stings for a bruise under his eye and a cut in his lip. Even his wrists sort-of hurt from how tightly they’d handcuffed him, Grant the Worse Guy’s cologne still lingering on his skin from where he’d touched his fucking face. Peter hates being captured. He hates being drugged and losing control of his own damned body like that, being at the mercy of very, very bad people.
“Sorry,” he says through a wet laugh, pinching at his eyes under his father’s glasses, head pressed to Wade’s grimy shoulder. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ve had… way worse.” Wade gently sets his big hands on Peter’s back, between his shoulder blades, and it’s warm and familiar and soothing, and Peter sighs raggedly underneath the touch. “I missed you,” he admits quietly, and Wade kisses his crown again, lingering. Peter can feel him trembling again, and he frowns deeply, tipping back to look suspiciously up at Wade.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks gently, but Wade shakes his head adamantly.
“Uh-uh. We’re not gonna talk about me right now,” he says firmly, and deftly holds Peter’s face when the brunet opens his mouth to protest. “Let’s get you home, Peter. I’ll talk to Webs later,” the taller man murmurs into his soft hair when he leads Peter back into his chest, lightly rubbing the back of his neck and breathing him in again. Cinnamon, tucked in under all the exhaustion and sweat, over something else familiar that Wade can’t name. Rain?
Peter presses his face into Wade’s collar, ignoring how gross it is this time as he swallows hard. Wade has stopped shaking now, but Peter is wobbly on his legs again. He wraps his arms around Wade’s torso and curls his fingers into his suit, the blood-damp bullet holes. Wade came to get him and got hurt. Peter doesn’t care that he heals, doesn’t care that he could get up and walk away even if someone had emptied ten AR clips into him. Wade feels pain, and Peter had been stupid enough to fall for a fucking drugged drink, and Wade wouldn’t have had to come here at all if Peter were smarter— or at least if he hadn’t been solely relying on his spider-sense to determine threats. Wade had come to rescue his delicate civilian boyfriend, and Peter might as well have been exactly that for all the good his powers had done him when he’d been kidnapped. His eyes sting again, and he sniffles pathetically, hating himself for it. For hurting Wade. For lying to Wade about who he is.
“I love you so much, Baby Boy,” Wade says even quieter, because he’s been angry a million times before, but Peter’s abduction had him scared for the first time in a long time. When Peter presses harder into him, embracing him tighter, Wade can hear him choke on a small sob. Wade breathes through his own leaking tears before he dares to pull his mask back on and bend to scoop his smaller boyfriend up. Peter’s hands are stiff as he pulls them from Wade’s back to wrap arms around his neck instead, ducking his face to his shoulder. The mercenary carries him out of the loading bay, past the collapsed bad guys smart enough to stay down and the one or two who had died by friendly fire. There’s one ambiguously alive or dead hench-dick stuck in the wall after being flung into it by a direct hit from the massive mutant, who has evidently passed out from blood loss, their chest expanding slowly with shallow breaths being the only thing to indicate they hadn’t died.
Peter doesn’t have the energy to think about who had and hadn’t survived this particular incident. Weepy, tired, hungry, and grateful his protective boyfriend is there to just haul him out, he rests in Wade’s arms.
Notes:
A DOOZY, I TELL YA. i debated breaking this up into 2 chapters but then i thought, “why would you do two brutal cliffhangers in a row, you evil bastard,” so y’all got this long-ass chapter instead 🙃😘
Chapter 12: [12] Keep Talking
Summary:
Wade and Peter recover at home. Peter floats an idea for Halloween.
11571 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for depictions of dissociation, extremely vague/implied past sexual abuse, mentions of pedophilia (not explicit).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wade gets Peter several blocks away from Holt Securities before he calls Dopinder. They’ve undoubtedly got security footage of the two of them leaving, and Wade now debates putting his boyfriend in a safehouse somewhere and coming back to torch the place to ash and cinder while Peter recuperates far away from people not even a step removed from eugenicists. But he actually can’t imagine leaving Peter alone after this. Even as exhausted as he clearly is (And probably traumatized from being drugged and kidnapped.), Peter trembles slightly in his arms. He may not be small in ordinary contexts, but he fits so perfectly against Wade’s broad chest, in his thick arms, that the mercenary feels like he’s holding a small, broken animal. A small, broken animal that Wade is going to take home, clean up, feed, and cuddle so vehemently Pete might hate him for it.
Don’t jinx us, asshat!
“Just smother you with affection,” Wade goes on aloud, muttering into Peter’s hair as he tucks around a street corner and finds a semi-secluded spot about twenty feet into the alley to lean against the brick of an older residential building. There are people around, passers-by on the sidewalk and cars on the road, but considering Wade’s formidable appearance — full mask back on, his crossed katana scabbard still strapped to his back and his suit messy with dried blood and bullet holes — no one has tried to stop him or ask about the man in his arms. Thanks, New York.
Peter groans quietly, turning his face more into Wade’s shoulder. All of him aches. The drugs may have worn off, but weeks of being on constant high alert has caught up with him, draining him. And yeah, his face, side, and arm hurt from getting hit a few times; he’d had to dodge with significantly less agility when it came to hand-to-hand against the few guards he couldn’t sneak up on. He’d dodged bullets with more grace, unwilling to risk a gunshot wound, falling just short of leaping into the air or backflipping out of the way. The bruises will heal fast and Peter knows he’ll have to explain that somehow, but he’s tired right now. He wants to fall asleep so badly. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t taken a hit to the face or head that would warrant a concussion, but he also can’t remember if staying awake or letting himself sleep is actually better; he valiantly tries to stay awake just in case. When he absently wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, his knit glove comes away with flecks of dried blood.
“Yuck,” Peter mumbles, dropping his hand to his stomach and sighing raggedly.
Wade has his phone to his ear, sliding down to sit on the filthy ground, the dampness under him probably something gross, but it frees a hand and gives Peter a lap to settle in. When Dopinder picks up, he’s his usual cheery self. Wade promises to pay to clean out the back of the cab if he’ll come get them from Brooklyn and continue to be a “ray of dappled sunshine made man” who doesn’t ask questions. “I’ll fill you in another time, my delicate friend, but I need to get Petey into a shower and feed him something substantial first.” He glances down to Peter, whose eyes are closed, but he’s pulling a frowny face. “You need both of those things before I let you collapse in bed, Pumpkin,” he tells the smaller man, phone angled up to avoid confusing Dopinder, who still sometimes mistakes Wade’s affections for his boyfriend as regular flirty banter.
“Okay,” Peter grumbles in concession, huffing another sigh, expression relaxing as he sets a hand over Wade’s sternum. Just to feel his heartbeat. Wade is warm and comforting, even as they sit in this dank alley, the smell of piss and rotting food dampened by his exhaustion and the smell of Wade. It’s getting chillier as the sun starts to set and Peter shivers, pressing into that warmth. “I’m tired,” he says aimlessly.
“I know, Sweets. I’ll make you pancakes and tacos while you shower this nasty bad guy shit off, okay?” Wade offers, smiling almost sadly as he cradles him closer, rubbing a hand up the back of the brunet’s neck. He can feel some of his tension ebb, and Peter noses closer.
“I am on my way, Mr. Pool,” Dopinder says gently. “I hope that you and Mr. Peter are alright?”
Well, “alright” might be a stretch. Should we take Petey to the hospital? We can definitely afford it, maybe he won’t argue while he’s in shock—
The boxes don’t deserve a response to that; Wade knows Peter’s feelings on hospitals and emergency rooms, and he’d feel so betrayed if he woke up in a hospital bed whether or not Wade would be there with him.
“We will be. Thanks, Starshine.” Tucking his phone away again, Wade puts his other arm back around Peter’s bent legs, holding his hip. “You’re gonna let me take care of you, right? You— that whole thing back there, Pete…” He struggles to come up with the right words, the boxes supplying several more unhelpful suggestions until he lands on one. “I never thought someone would go after you to get to me.” (We never thought someone could matter enough. Or stick around long enough for anyone else to notice.) “I’m so sorry,” he says weakly, squeezing Peter tighter to himself, like he could slip away if Wade dared let go, a sentiment to which Peter could relate.
“’S okay,” Peter murmurs, shrugging one shoulder, the one that doesn’t hurt. “I’m Spider-Man’s exclusive photographer. I’ve been used before,” he tells him honestly, detached. He’d gotten himself out of those situations, too. Only once had someone else come to the rescue for Peter Parker, and it had been more that his civilian alter ego had stumbled into a hostage situation than being specifically targeted. He hadn’t had the time to sneak into costume, but Daredevil had shown up to handle it and Peter hadn’t thought interfering with the blind vigilante was necessary. He has switched to a credit union, however. “People think I’ll tell them who Spider-Man is.”
“Pete.”
“Hm.”
“How many times have you been abducted?” Wade asks in an unreadable tone.
Peter thinks about it for a while. Maybe too long, because Wade makes a tiny, worried sound in the back of his throat. But the brunet has to consider how many times he’d been captured as Spider-Man compared to Peter Parker. He can’t relay the times the webslinger has been spider-napped, so he tells Wade, “Three.”
“Three?” Wade echoes incredulously, shifting to sit up more and frowning deeply enough that it shows on his mask. “Three times?”
“I guess four, now.”
“Peter, what the fuck?” Wade asks, pitching up. “When? Who??”
“It’s fine, Wade, Spider-Man showed up most of the time.”
“And the other times?” he presses, unrelenting.
“Just the one. Daredevil got there first.”
Grunting with disapproval, Wade tips his head back against the brick, pushing his hand into Peter’s hair and making him whine. He gloms onto this little detail partly to avoid spiraling with a slew of indignant emotions that poor Pete has been targeted so many times. “He’s a character, isn’t he?”
“Why, cuz he’s stoic and righteous?”
“That’s a character! I bet he doesn’t even know any good jokes.”
“That’s n— can’t be true.”
“He’s so serious all the time. And a little preachy.”
Peter snorts. “Spidey’s a little preachy, sometimes.”
“Yeah, but he’s non-denominational preachy. Moral high ground, but not holier-than-thou, y’know? And he makes you feel like you can be better, Daredevil just sorta. Scowls at ya.” Well, he might also try to believe in you, but he’s given up on Deadpool. (Who’s got the time? He’s busy micromanaging the fuck outta Hell’s Kitchen.) “And Spidey’s never given up on me. He’s just a spunky little spitfire with a strong moral compass, like yourself,” the merc muses, playfully poking Peter’s temple before messing up his hair. Peter grunts, turning a light shade of pink, and Wade takes this as a good sign.
…Hang on—.
“Wade,” Peter begins meekly, gripping at the strap of Wade’s suit. Wade doesn’t know. He— he still doesn’t know. Peter’s been hiding this for months, maybe technically a whole year. He wants to tell him, but maybe he’s in too deep. Maybe if he tells him now, Wade will just be hurt: hurt that Peter took so long, hurt that Peter lied in the first place, hurt that his hero is really just some boring nerd from Queens. Hurt that he’d wasted time and pain coming to rescue Peter when he maybe could’ve saved himself…
Peter knows Wade loves him. He knows Wade loves Spider-Man, too, even if it’s a little different. When it comes to Peter, Wade has only ever been caring, generous, considerate, funny, gentle, supportive, protective—
“Yeah, baby?”
Peter sighs, breath hitching as he closes his eyes, his heart twisting in his chest. He can’t. Not yet. Maybe Wade will figure it out on his own. Peter’s been adamant about keeping this secret, but Wade is notoriously observant. It’s one of the more ridiculous reasons he’d been reticent to let Wade get a good look at his ass for so long; he knows Deadpool has the shape of it memorized because he used to never stop talking about the glory of Spider-Man’s bubble butt . But…
Wade can also tell when Peter is about to flip out. He can tell when Peter wants to smash his laptop or kick a wall and intercepts with a distraction, redirecting Peter’s attention so he can calm the hell down or reevaluate what to do next. Wade grounds him. Hell, he grounds Spider-Man. None of the other supers respect Deadpool, still stuck on his kill count like they don’t take lives left and right themselves; apparently Deadpool getting paid is always the default “yeah, but I’m different” argument. The things he’d done in the past aren’t the only things that make up Wade Wilson. It had taken Spider-Man way too long to come to this conclusion himself, wasting two months giving Deadpool the runaround, evading him in the city, getting mad at him when they’d crossed paths. But Deadpool had been nothing if not persistent, and eventually had convinced Spidey to give him a chance. Tears prick his eyes anew and his face contorts with a pleasant melancholy. He doesn’t deserve Wade but Wade refuses to let him even think such a thing.
“I love you so much,” Peter croaks, voice cracking. That weird little baby man Cupid fires a goofy little cherub arrow at Wade right then, and the merc can tell it splits into a dozen more, all of them hitting him directly in the feels.
It’s not like it’s the first time Peter has said it. They say it a lot to each other now, Wade in particular is incapable of stopping himself from mentioning it at least three times a day, whenever he catches Peter doing something painfully adorable like fidgeting with his glasses. Or being a grumpy kitten when he’s trying to get ready in the morning. (He’s just not a morning person, that’s why we make him coffee and breakfast when we’re home, duh.) Or moaning about his thesis when he’s bent over the table and lying on top of a dozen printed out research papers and at least two text books. Or flipping through photos on his camera or videos on his phone with his tongue poking out of one corner of his pretty, pretty mouth.
“Ugh,” Wade groans loudly, blushing himself and wrapping his favorite guy up in his arms, rubbing his cheek on top of his fluffy head. Peter squawks, sniffling. He pulls back enough to hold the side of Peter’s face, gently directing him to look up at him; the younger man’s face is pink and wet, and Wade has to quell rage at the sight of the bruising on his cheek and jaw, and the small split in Peter’s lip. He hasn’t asked what happened yet, he wants Peter to feel better, safer first. Food and a shower, cuddles and sleep.
The remedy to cure all ills: love and attention! And maybe some antibiotic ointment; that cut needs to heal so we can kiss him properly.
“I love you more than I love those spicy beef chimichangas from that food cart in the Bronx. With the good queso,” Wade sighs blissfully, though it’s tinged with sorrow. Peter is shaking a little bit again and Wade kisses the top of his head when he tries to swallow a sob.
Peter hardly notices when a cab pulls up and Wade carefully maneuvers him up into his arms again. Before he knows it, he’s being buckled into the back seat, Wade pressed up to his side without buckling in himself. Peter wants to scold him, but he knows Wade will dismiss it right now because he’s got an arm around Peter’s shoulders, tipping his head onto his own and taking his glove off so he can put a bare hand into the other man’s hair again. Peter shakily takes off his glasses and rubs at his face with both hands, trying to get a hold of himself as he leans into Wade’s hand and side. He’s thinking about how Wade had gotten hurt and it’s like he’s been holding onto more pieces of grief than he’d thought, and every piece is broken glass slipping between bleeding fingers.
It has been over a year since May passed, and longer since Gwen, and longer since Ben, but Peter is tired of losing people. He thinks of Aunt May, how for once he’s not even responsible: May had had pancreatic cancer. It’s the one cause out of all his loved ones’ deaths that Peter can’t figure out a way to blame himself for, despite his best efforts. The spider bite had been radioactive, so he’d tried to find traces of radioactivity in himself that could have affected cancer cell growth, experimenting with Geiger counters and a dozen different analyses at Stark tower, but coming up virtually empty. Radioactive genetic alterations aside, Peter’s body gives off only a negligible amount of additional becquerels compared to the average, unmutated human. He himself doesn’t even have the genetic predisposition for cancer, but May’s parents had smoked two packs of cigarettes a day each while she was growing up, and she’d said as much once she’d been diagnosed. Peter knows it had been the most likely cause, but it still doesn’t make him feel any better.
Peter is lucky he isn’t having a panic attack, frankly, and he focuses on his breathing to keep it that way: in through his nose, out through parted lips. In, out, repeat. He can’t manage to stop crying either way, sniffling pathetically and resting into Wade’s warmth as he hugs arms around himself, gripping his hoodie tightly under his coat. Wade kisses his crown and Peter bites harshly into his lower lip. He can taste and smell the blood he draws; copper and salt, worsening the split, but he doesn’t care. The minute focus on the pain holds his attention as he sits with his fidgety boyfriend. He’s just as out of it when the taxi pulls up to Wade’s— no, their apartment building. That apartment is his home, he knows it. The studio is just a place he sleeps sometimes.
He lets Wade unbuckle him, limbs floppy and heavy as the mercenary gets out and comes around to his side of the car, opening the door and easing him out onto his feet. Peter blinks and follows as Wade tugs his hand to guide him onto the sidewalk. Traffic is moving along as usual and Peter’s brain mercifully tunes out the roll and screech of tires, honking, and rumbling engines. The stench of the city hits him hard all of a sudden, urine and fabric softeners, car exhaust, and a dozen different palettes of cuisine, but his brain tamps all that down too. It makes his skin hum and stir so he squeezes his eyes shut. He hears Wade lean into the front passenger side and speak to the driver. Dopinder, Peter remembers distantly. He’s really nice.
Opening his eyes, Peter’s chest aches when Wade turns back to him, fully masked. When did he… where’d his face go? Peter hears him say something, looking over at him with concern evident through that same mask, and Peter’s shoulders relax as Wade gently but firmly holds them, keeping him upright; he hadn’t realized he’s been tipping sideways since getting to the sidewalk. Some part of him is grateful when the taller man starts talking a mile a minute in his low, comforting voice. Wade’s thumb brushes under Peter’s split lip and he doesn’t even flinch at the sharp sting the dry leather elicits as it tugs gently at torn skin. Wade pulls a face, warping the Deadpool mask, turning around and patting over his own shoulder. He bends his knees and Peter nods as if he can hear what Wade is saying. Some part of him seems to understand and he moves on autopilot to fall forward and drape himself over Wade’s back with a sharp exhale, wrapping his arms around the other’s neck. Warm, solid, strong Wade grips the brunet’s thighs to support his less than cumbersome weight. Peter closes his eyes again and rests his face in his boyfriend’s nape as he’s carried into the building.
At some point they’re up in the apartment and Wade is gently easing him onto the sofa. Peter falls onto his side, not even bothering to bring his legs up. Wade lifts them onto the couch for him, getting him to lie down properly as he takes off the smaller man’s beat-up sneakers, and Peter accepts an offered novelty taco pillow, holding it to his chest as he tucks his face into it. It smells like Wade (gun oil and maple), and it smells like Peter (cinnamon and petrichor), and something about both of them commingling in this small way brings the tears back. Peter wonders where his glasses have gone when he smashes his messy face harder into the pillow. He’s not sure how much time passes by the time he realizes he’s sitting up again, his coat and second hoodie pulled off, shoes gone and bare feet a little grimy from the warehouse floor. Wade is out of his Deadpool suit when he kneels before him to gently cradle his face. Peter leans forward into his warm, bare, beautifully scarred hands. Something damp drags across his skin and he realizes his boyfriend is trying to clean him up. Peter does his best to be present enough not to be in the way of himself while Wade babbles at him. He winds up nearly ripping the taco pillow, holding it too tightly and only registering that Wade is gently pulling it out of his hands when he hears the word “shower.”
“Okay,” Peter croaks, throat dry and tight. He frowns slightly at the sound of it. He’s thirsty. Holy shit, he’s really thirsty. Peter starts to rise, and Wade hastily rises with him, still talking, and Peter knows he’s trying to be gentle and friendly and calming, and the brunet forgets what he’s doing. He stares, unfocused, and Wade holds his face again, directing Peter’s gaze to his own.
“Pete, I’m gonna take care of you, but I need to know if you can hear me yet, okay? We got somethin’ a second ago, but you’re still pretty out of it, Baby Boy.”
Peter takes a few deep breaths, blinking through the brain fog and nodding. Wade’s voice is a little muted, but this time he registers the words. “Thirsty,” he says in the same rough voice. He swallows hard and can’t look at Wade’s beautiful hazel eyes any longer.
“Okie-dokie, Pumpkin. Let’s get you some water and then a shower, okay? Think I can leave you in there alone, or are you gonna slip and fall and make me regret not purchasing a LifeAlert™ button? All the infomercials want me to and I’m very suggestible,” Wade rambles, and Peter finds it a little easier to come back into his present reality the more he hones in on Wade’s voice. God, he loves his voice. “I’ll get you some clean clothes and we’ll patch you up properly once you’re all squeaky clean, eh? Still want pancakes? We can skip the tacos if it’s too much. My appetite gets wonky after uh— y’know. Episodes. Sometimes. Although I guess I do eat like a fuckin’ race horse on steroids once in a while. You don’t wanna know how much of a single taco truck I can put away if I’m in the mood, y’know?”
“Okay,” Peter says softly, and Wade pushes his hands through Peter’s hair, making him shiver. They’re in the bathroom before Peter knows his legs have moved, a water bottle in his hand, one of the fancy vacuum sealing kind that keeps things cold for hours. It’s a deep forest green that Peter really likes. He assumes Wade had filled it for him in the last few minutes, minutes that Peter can’t remember; he hasn’t dissociated this hard in a long time. He can’t exactly worry at the moment, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to flip out about it later. Maybe. Or maybe he’ll just be resigned to it. He’s so exhausted. At some point, the bottle is open and has less water in it, so maybe he’d taken a sip or two.
“Whoa, okay,” Wade says uneasily when Peter tips into him once he’s nearly naked. It’s not easy undressing someone who isn’t exactly on the same mental plane as oneself, but it’s not like Peter’s never helped out Wade in a crunch.
Deadpool has shown up several times bleeding from somewhere most people ordinarily don’t or missing a limb (or two), and Peter has been so calm, so in-charge and stern and delicate with him every time. He’d issue impressive emergency first aid, staunch bleeding, wrap tourniquets, apply pressure dressings and super glue (Trust us.), realign broken bones, stitch up bigger wounds, and deal with a lot of clean-up if Wade ever needs to be down to recover. He heals like lightning, but something like entirely re-growing severed limbs is a slightly slower process than reattaching them, and Peter remains incredibly level-headed for a civilian. (Level-headed and skilled, we know his auntie was a nurse, but…) Wade adores him more and more every time Peter frowns in disapproval when he gets back from a job in more than one piece or with fewer organs than tradition dictates.
“Okay baby, I’m gonna sit you on the toilet,” Wade narrates, doing just that, and Peter holds onto the edge of the sink counter to steady himself, his other hand with a vise grip on a now half-empty water bottle, “and I’m gonna get in with you, okay?”
Peter nods, looking over at the bathtub while Wade strips himself. He knows Peter usually wouldn’t mind but he feels like he shouldn’t take his underwear off right now, so when he’s just in his boxers he helps Peter back to his feet so the smaller man can step out of his boxer-briefs. Peter doesn’t even flinch when Wade carefully pries his binder off too, pulling a tiny, worried whine from Wade when Peter doesn’t reflexively try to cover his chest for a second; even after all this time, he’s usually still in the habit of a moment of self-consciousness about his chest when the binder comes off.
His Prettyboy Shutterbug isn’t present enough to be in his body — his lightly bruised, scarred body. Wade knows most of the stories for the litany of faint lines and starbursts, but he makes a mental note to ask for the full story for all of them next time he has the opportunity.
He’s too young to be all marked up like this without some kind of explanation, big guy. It can’t all be school bullies and klutziness. We know what a fucking gunshot wound looks like. We’ve sewn up a thousand stab wounds. This shit is sus AF, the boxes gravely remind him. But Wade doesn’t waste time dwelling on literal old wounds when he’s trying to help with new ones.
Wade sits him back down and starts the shower. Eventually they’re both under the warm spray and Peter chokes on another sob as he leans back against his boyfriend. Wade starts mumbling soothing things, talking about sci-fi reboots and how much he’d like to try getting high and going to the planetarium sometime because it’s been years, y’know? And weed is even legal now, and probably those laser light shows are still a thing, maybe, and he’d love to hear Peter correct him about constellations and quantum theory and how long a parsec is. (Something, something, Han Solo was compressing space not misusing the word, something.) Peter sniffles and nods absently, turning around when Wade urges him to and setting his hands on Wade’s wide chest, fingers tracing rivulets of his scars.
Wade gently cleans them both off, giving Peter’s body a careful onceover for any injuries he might have missed while the man was fully clothed. At least he doesn’t find any fresh cuts, bruises, abrasions, or punctures on his skin. The bruises don’t look any worse, at any rate, and the cut in his lip has stopped bleeding. There are a few spots near his ribs and it looks like something big had hit his upper arm, leaving an unhappy bloom of… huh. Purple. Little early for that, but Wade’s bruise timetables are a little skewed after dealing with his own healing factor for so long. (Or he’s a speedy healer, he does have a pretty whack metabolism for such a scrawny guy.) He’s gentle as he moves over warm skin, taking the showerhead down to make rinsing Peter off a little easier while his boyfriend’s having difficulty moving. Wade only risks washing Peter’s hair after the other man manages to nod at the offer of the shampoo bottle.
His face is already looking a little better as Wade gently massages his skin, squishing his boyfriend’s cute little face around between his fingers, careful of his lip and cheekbone. The brunet closes his eyes while Wade carefully examines him for any surprise cuts or bruises; Wade supposes there’s a good chance the mess is more dirt and grime than blood or bruising like he’d thought back at the facility, now that most traces of his injuries don’t seem too bad with a clean face. To be fair, Wade had still been fighting off the red haze surrounding and staining his vision by the time he’d found Peter, so he might’ve imagined how badly he’d been hurt. Peter makes a couple of soft sounds when Wade takes too long playing with his cheeks a little close to a bruise, and the taller man apologizes gently, lightly kissing the tip of his nose.
Eventually, he’s drying his boyfriend off, wrapping him up in one of Wade’s extra-soft, oversized bath towels and scrubbing at his wet hair with a smaller one, kissing his forehead. Wade grabs another towel and dries himself off in a scramble, hopping into the bedroom with his wet boxers hanging off one ankle. He only takes the time to pull on a fresh pair, picking through the dresser drawers for something for Peter, who hovers in the bathroom doorway holding the towel tightly around his shoulders. He nods when Wade kneels at his feet and holds up fuzzy socks, moving sluggishly as he’s helped into them. They’re a bright green with little frogs on and Peter looks down at them, wiggling his toes and making Wade chuckle. He gets him into clean boxer-briefs and lounge pants that actually fit, because he knows Peter will happily wear Wade’s clothes unless they literally fall off of him; he gets the sense Peter’s not in the mood to hike up his pants the rest of the night, but he’ll be too chilly if Wade lets him hang around in just his underwear. He puts the brunet in one of his own hoodies, the garment large enough that the hem sits mid-thigh, which makes him look even younger, even smaller than he is.
He’s so cute like this! Quick, take a pic for posterity! He looks like a proper twink, wow . Really hope he doesn’t have Grindr, the otters and bears and masc gays would eat him up—
“He’s having a mental health crisis, guys, can you just leave it alone?” Wade mutters, frowning deeply when Peter doesn’t react to it at all. Not even an ear twitch. “Cripes, he’s still pretty far gone. Maybe food will help. You hungry, Baby Boy?”
The pet name is what makes his ears twitch, and Wade breathes through the tiny bubble of relief the motion brings because now Peter seems to be aware Wade is speaking to him, glancing up from where his gaze had wandered to the floor. He blinks big brown eyes at him, and Wade sighs quietly, stepping into sweatpants and coming forward to wrap Peter in his arms. He pulls him into his bare chest and ducks his nose into damp hair. They both smell like Peter’s fruity soap now, but Peter breathes him in so deeply that Wade is almost hopeful he’s starting to come to. He doesn’t press it, just pulling back and kissing the brunet’s cheek before taking his hand and carefully leading him back out to the kitchen.
He sets Peter on a bar stool and pulls an ice pack from the fridge, wrapping it in a kitchen towel and meaningfully bringing it up to Peter’s swollen cheekbone. Peter replaces Wade’s hand with his own, holding the ice pack over his too-hot skin and slumping forward onto the island counter, looking more exhausted the longer he sits, the blankness edging away as Wade puts on an apron and starts pulling mixing bowls and milk out. Wade peeks over at him periodically to find Peter is watching him intently when he’s cracking eggs one-handed and warming up the griddle. His cute little face scrunches up in misery when Wade starts mixing the batter, but when the taller man turns to address it, Peter looks at him so sadly that the words catch in his throat.
“Can you keep talking?” Peter rasps weakly, and Wade’s big dumb queer heart cracks.
“Uh— oh! Uhhh,” Wade begins pathetically. Peter and Spider-Man are the only people alive who have ever told him to keep talking without sounding shocked at his competence or knowledgeability about whatever topic he’d be going on about. He doesn’t flounder every time, but he’s a little surprised Peter’s first proper sentence in the last couple of hours is asking Wade to turn on his motor mouth. The whisk stills in his hand and his jaw hangs open uselessly. Peter just keeps looking at him with that same tragic expression, and Wade feels heat in his cheeks, speechless for the first time in months. Right when someone specifically wants him not to be! How can he do this to his precious Petey-Pie? “Did you know the spiders we commonly call ‘daddy long legs’ aren’t spiders at all?” he finally blurts, eyes wide.
What are you talking about, you fucking dweeb??
Peter blinks at him, waiting.
“Yeah, Spidey taught me that. Because he refuses to let me make daddy jokes, I think. So I looked it up, and it’s weird how many different insects we just call ‘daddy long legs,’ too.” He puts cinnamon and extra vanilla in the batter and starts vigorously mixing again; he has to stop himself from overbeating, turning back to the stove so he can switch the whisk for a scoop, his other hand slapping butter onto the griddle. The sound of it lightly sizzling makes Peter close his eyes as he takes a deep, steadying breath and fills his nostrils with the familiar, comforting smells of Wade’s cooking. Wade starts making enormous Feel-Better Pancakes as he continues. “There’s only one that’s actually a spider. That we call ‘daddy long legs,’ I mean, mostly it’s a bunch of other types of arachnids that aren’t technically spiders.” He starts talking about taxonomy and how insects and arachnids used to be so much bigger than they are now, “Because the oxygen content in the atmosphere meant they could build bigger exoskeletons, which is gnarly as fuck, and can you imagine coming across Queen fuckin’ Shelob in real life?? I mean, it has a certain appeal— oh. Huh, I might be a bit of a monsterfucker, isn’t that not remotely surprising?”
Peter has visibly relaxed when Wade turns back around with a plate of perfectly cooked, massive discs of pancakes. He slides it across the counter and grabs up the multitude of toppings and syrups that Peter likes to arrange them semi-artfully in front of his boyfriend whilst slipping the real maple syrup over just in case Peter feels like humoring him tonight. Peter slowly pushes himself up, shifting the melting ice pack and smiling faintly at the plate in front of him, looking to Wade just as he turns back to the griddle.
Fixing up his plate with peanut butter and maple syrup, knowing Wade would dramatically gag and then drown his own pancakes in the syrup, Peter manages to control his body well enough to also take a bite. He starts to chew but has to stop because it’s so incredibly good. The pancakes are hot and fluffy, and it’s his favorite brand of peanut butter, and okay the maple syrup is really delicious all of a sudden, and there’s the perfect amount of cinnamon to send the warmth through to his fingertips, and fuck— Peter is crying again. He tries to hide it, because Wade’s back is turned and he doesn’t want to worry him, but he doesn’t catch his own little sniffle when he wipes the sleeve of Wade’s hoodie over his eyes.
“Shit, that bad?” Wade asks, trying to sound playful, but even in this state Peter can tell the taller man is terrified when he turns back around.
“It’s really good,” Peter assures him weakly, setting his fork down and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, the soft fabric of Wade’s sweatshirt absorbent. He can feel himself again: how fucking worn down he is, how frayed his nerves are, how heavy his head and his heart sit. “It’s so good, Wade,” he praises in the same rough voice, even though he’s about to break down again. “I’m s-sorry, i-it’s not you,” he tries to say, but it’s stuttered and wet and he’s half-lying on the counter once more, almost falling on his food. “It’s not the pancakes, they’re amazing.”
Wade is behind him then, the griddle turned off and his hands on Peter’s back as he gently rubs circles and massages his shoulders and neck. Peter whimpers and leaves the ice pack on the counter, letting Wade tip him back into his chest and slide arms around his shoulders as he tightly grips the larger man’s forearms. “I know, baby,” Wade murmurs in his ear, nosing above it. “I’ve got you.”
Peter hiccups, hiding his face in his hands again, in the sleeves of Wade’s blue hoodie. He loves how Wade’s clothes smell and he hates how much he’d missed him in that facility. It had only been a few hours, and he’d thought he hadn’t been scared, but now that he’s home with Wade again? He’s scared about how he might have never come home at all. He might have been trapped in that facility a lot longer if he hadn’t woken up just in time not to be drugged again. He could have been clocked as trans, as a mutate, as anything but an ordinary cis guy who happened to be attached to the company’s intended target.
He hadn’t liked the way those two guards had talked about him in that room, moving his face around, pulling on his hair, lingering. He’d been so focused at the time, so intent on escape, he hadn’t let himself panic the way he’s starting to now. He never wants anyone but Wade touching him like that, not ever again. Villains who manage to lay hands on him at all usually get a comeuppance like those guards had, but he’s not keen to be a captive again. He’s not keen to remember being too young to defend himself. He’s not keen to be thrown back into a body that was all wrong, that he would be reminded wasn’t his to control anyway. He shudders violently and Wade hesitates, lifting his hands from Peter’s body, but Peter sucks in sharply and turns around to wrap his arms around Wade’s broad torso, burying his face in the same frilly apron Wade had worn when they’d had their first date months ago.
He doesn’t want Wade to stop touching him. Wade is safe and kind and has never judged Peter for any of his weird bullshit or mental health episodes. Wade doesn’t even know how helpful Deadpool has been to Spider-Man in similar ways; Peter used to have a lot more panic attacks while in the Spidey suit, but the last few times he’d come close to one, Deadpool had been there to redirect or distract him, one of the only effective tactics against Peter’s anxiety. Spider-Man hasn’t cried alone on an empty rooftop or in an abandoned building in months, clutching his chest and daring to rip his mask off just to get a full breath into painful lungs before he can soak the costume in tears and snot, trembling and half-numb. Peter’s anxiety attacks have been manageable of late, and Wade is a big part of maintaining his sanity. He can’t even articulate his gratitude or the fear he feels at the very notion that he could one day be in a situation where he may never hear Wade babble at him again.
“Thank you,” Peter breathes, voice breaking over and over, “I’m sorry, Wade, I… I love you, I’m sorry—.”
Wade gently holds him, just tightly enough that Peter feels secure but not so tightly that he can’t cry freely, shoulders shaking as he sobs into the apron, fingers curled against Wade’s scarred, bare back. Peter hates this feeling, so fragile and pathetic and uncontrolled. He hates losing control. He hates being drugged, he hates being abducted and caged. He hates how easily he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book: a drugged drink from a stranger. His spider-sense had tried to warn him but with it buzzing so much in the background lately, he’d ignored it. He’d thought he was just sick, that he’d needed to see Dr. Banner because his personal alert system had just been broken. He’d ignored one of the only parts of himself that could protect him as a civilian, and as a result he’d woken up in a tiny room with his hands cuffed and no goddamned shoes on.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Wade says softly, running a hand up Peter’s back, into his hair and down again. As much as he loves Peter clinging to him and saying he loves him, this is breaking his heart. Peter had been used to get to Deadpool, and even if he’d said it had happened before, Wade can’t guarantee this hadn’t been the worst version of it, that this threat of being held indefinitely and experimented on hadn’t pushed him past some invisible threshold of tolerating the super world as an innocent, extremely mortal civilian.
Holy shit, does he even know how close he was to that? To being a lab rat for a bunch of evil sadists in the name of science?? Holy Christ cracking shitballs, do we tell him?? the boxes panic.
“I’m so sorry, Petey, this is all my fault,” Wade confesses, chest taut and fingers stiff as he threads them through Peter’s drying curls.
“Don’t,” Peter mutters, shaking his head against him. His throat doesn’t hurt anymore but his voice is still raspy. “I don’t care about that. Bad people want to do bad things, someone would’ve pulled this shit eventually,” he reasons, starting to come back to himself more than he thought he might. Defending Wade seems to be doing the trick, accessing a different part of his brain and thought process. “I knew the risks,” he adds carefully, scowling as he angles to push his forehead to Wade’s sternum, eyes closed. “I… I have a lot of problems, Wade. This isn’t even…” He laughs weakly, dragging his hands forward to Wade’s sides. He can’t talk about that. Wade doesn’t need to know. It’s not like he can do anything about it. It was so long ago, and it’s Peter’s problem. It’s Peter’s burden to deal with.
“I don’t blame you for anything,” the smaller man insists, sniffling and looking up at Wade again with shiny brown eyes. His face is pink, eyes red from crying, and he frowns with determination. “You came to get me, remember? That’s all you could’ve done.”
“I could’ve been with you this morning,” Wade counters meekly, but he looks like Peter has granted him passage into the Good Place, even if he doesn’t believe it possible.
Peter shakes his head. “I was going to class.”
“I could’ve dealt with them sooner,” Wade adds more seriously. “I should have.”
Instead you wasted time, big guy, and Peter got drugged and kidnapped. Spidey had to rescue our boyfriend because we were too busy working and daydreaming about our future with him. A future that almost didn’t happen. What were you gonna do if they had him somewhere else, huh? If they started poisoning him and drowning him and burning him and suffocating him—?
Wade’s fingers hook in Peter’s hair, and the brunet’s brow furrows as he watches the momentary darkness drift across Wade’s face. “Wade?” he says in a tiny voice, and Wade blinks at him, returning to the devastated look he’d been giving Peter and clenching his jaw. “Wade,” he repeats more firmly.
“I’m here,” Wade assures him delicately, relaxing his hold in his boyfriend’s hair. The way Peter is looking at him with those fucking puppy dog eyes is going to destroy him. “Sorry, I’m here. I’m always here for you, Pete,” he says quieter, and really hopes he’s not lying.
“Are you okay?”
Wade stares down at him, confused and cautious. He strokes through steadily re-fluffing brown hair as he debates how to answer. Peter sometimes calls him out, when he’s talking too much to the boxes or starts busying himself in ways some might call “manic.” He’s never actually discussed his… mental health with Peter before. As understanding as Peter has been, the other man hasn’t had the misfortune of seeing him when it’s… bad. When he can’t just wait around to feel better, or distract himself with work, or when he fucks up so badly he doesn’t deserve to—
“Ahhh, Baby Boy,” Wade sighs, smiling sweetly. He thinks. He’s trying not to look like he’s been caught with both hands in the mental illness jar and his mouth stuffed full of pages of the DSM-5. “I’m peachy keen.”
“Wade,” Peter says lowly, and suddenly he looks annoyed instead of worn out and sad. Well, a change of pace is good, right? “What aren’t you telling me?”
Wade is not panicking. This is not a panic moment, he can’t panic while Peter is coming out of a dissociative state and still has tear tracks on his pretty face. He’s totally not panicking, but he sure is fretting. The merc bites his bottom lip, worrying the scarred tissue and unable to escape Peter’s analytical stare.
He knows he knows he knows he knows he knows you’re a fucked up mess and you nearly unalived a bunch of people just ‘cuz you were scared of losing him, you dishonorable shithead! What if you’d hurt him? What if you’d hurt Spidey? What if you spent all that time not unaliving people and he’d been transferred to some other place and you still lost him after all, you fucking COWARD—!
“Wade,” Peter hisses, and as he sits up a little more and pulls Wade closer to himself, Wade realizes he’s been scowling. “Wade, look at me.” The mercenary obeys, and Peter squeezes his sides with both hands, tugging the taller man to stand between his legs. “You can’t just go quiet. You’re scaring me,” Peter tells him in his best impression of authority, but his voice cracks.
Wade frets again. “I don’t wanna scare you,” he admits, voice scratchy. He closes his eyes and groans, lifting a hand to rub at his face. He feels so brittle, like all of his joints will creak if he moves much. The boxes aren’t helping, just continuing the onslaught of would’ve-could’ve-should’ve . It’s a bad sign when they drop the “us” and “we” pronouns. That had happened at the facility and it’s happening now; it happens more and more when Wade nears… old habits. “I’m sorry, Sweets, I’ve just got a— a bad brain. It’s made of snips and snails and bloody ammunition trails.” Wade tips his head back, trying to suppress some of his tears, feeling guilty for stealing focus. “I just… kinda lost it when I realized you were missing.” (When that motherfucker called and so casually threatened you, Pete. That photo did it. That photo of you unconscious and tied up!) “I might’ve— just. It was hard,” he tries uselessly, letting Peter pull his hand from his face.
“I’m okay,” Peter says, expression softened. He’s tired again, tired and maybe a little worried when he reaches up to cup the side of Wade’s face with slender fingers. “You got me, remember? I wasn’t there very long. The, uh. My, um, my face?” He tilts his head side to side, briefly avoiding eye contact. “That was me fighting back. No one hurt me until I did, and… you should see the other guys,” he says, echoing Wade’s earlier sentiment. It seems to fracture some of his resolve again because he takes a ragged breath and blinks back new tears. “I’m scrappy,” he jokes roughly, sniffling.
“You shouldn’t hafta be,” Wade growls, but he hauls Peter into his chest again, angling the smaller man’s head to his sternum so when he hunches he can rub his face on his boyfriend’s soft, mostly dried hair, careful not to press on his bruised cheek. “You never should’ve gotten that far, I shoulda taken those chucklefucks out sooner. Shoulda burned that place to the ground the second me ‘n Spidey got wind they could be suspects.”
“That’s not how it works, Wade,” Peter says, muffled by his scarred skin and grasping at Wade’s shoulder blades from up under his arms. “You were doing it right.”
“Yeah, and it got you abducted, didn’t it?” Wade grumbles tightly, but Peter rubs Wade’s bare back the way Wade had been doing for him and Wade’s tension starts to trickle away. “I just. I couldn’t stand— th-the audacity of— if it weren’t for you ‘n Spidey, I woulda…,” he tries, stuck in false starts.
“You got a little more old Deadpool again out there, huh?” Peter guesses carefully. Wade stiffens against him again, and Peter sighs, the sound fragmented. “I know it’s hard for you.”
“Peter,” Wade cautions, but the brunet continues.
“I don’t know a lot,” Peter amends deliberately, nuzzling his neck sweetly and letting Wade tip into him, taking some of his weight. “I… I know the boxes in your head are intrusive, that you talk to them sometimes. I know you dissociate when you go into ‘merc-mode’—,” he goes on, but Wade interrupts.
“I call it ‘unalive-mode,’ actually.”
“Right. Because you still merc without it. Sorry,” Peter agrees, nodding. “I know it’s hard, and I know that you were… tortured to get to that point. I remember you mentioned the program that brought out your healing mutation.” He doesn’t name it, worried it may be a trigger in itself. Spider-Man only uses the term “Weapon X” in specific contexts, and Wade had only mentioned it by name to Peter once. Neither persona ever uses the A-name. Or the F-name. Wade nods, his bare fingers lightly twirling Peter’s hair as the brunet takes a deep breath.
“I know you don’t trust or like yourself, Wade.” Peter bites his tongue when Wade stills for a moment, but when he starts petting Peter’s hair again, the smaller man lets out a ragged sigh. “But I really like you. I trust you. I even love you,” he says, summoning all his strength to sound as playful and sincere as he feels, kissing the crook of his neck. “I’m not trying to fix you. Nothing’s that easy, and I think you know I can’t save you from yourself any more than you could… save…,” he trails off. This isn’t about him. It’s about Wade. “But I’m here, okay? I’m here when it’s hard. You’re doing so good, Wade, you’re so good and I don’t think you understand that.”
It’s literally the least he can do, be there for Wade when his brain starts being unforgiving and cruel, dragging Wade into past darkness and the excessive violence he’s been trying so hard to combat. As far as Spider-Man and Peter Parker know, Wade Wilson and Deadpool have been nonlethal for months. Pulling punches, using blunt edges and rubber bullets, and keeping bad guys alive even when they do despicable things. It had been difficult to convince him to try, considering how many upsettingly good points Deadpool had brought up when he and Spider-Man had first started working together.
-
“Pedophiles don’t fucking stop, Webs!” Deadpool had snapped one night, throwing his arms out for dramatic effect, one such culprit pinned to a wall with Arthur through his right shoulder. “Pedophiles and rapists! Number one repeat offenders, every time!” he’d shouted grandly.
“DP, I’m not saying they don’t—,” Spider-Man had protested, hands up in mock surrender as he’d walked carefully in a half-circle around the mercenary and the criminal behind him. He’d hoped to get between them; Deadpool had his right palm on the butt of one of his pistols now. “I’m saying the victims and their families don’t get any justice if you just take him out.”
“Bullshit,” Deadpool had scoffed, shaking his head and wrapping fingers around Diller’s handle. “He can’t hurt anyone ever again if I erase him from existence,” he’d insisted, the gun out and aimed at the man’s head in a split second. But Spider-Man had been a millisecond faster, webbing it out of the merc’s hand and into his own, pointedly popping the bullet in the chamber. Deadpool had growled with frustration as the hero then dropped the clip out of it, one of the few things he actually knows how to do with a gun. It’s the extent of his knowledge but he’d figured he shouldn’t crush the weapon his colleague has made a weird point of fawning over every now and then. Spidey hates guns, but he’d known he wouldn’t earn any points with the infamous mercenary by destroying his prized possessions. “I really hate it when you do that!” Deadpool had complained, gesturing wildly to the hero’s web shooters and where the clip had fallen.
“Listen, Pool,” Spider-Man had begun.
“Don’t you dare nickname me while we’re having an argument!”
“Listen, Wade,” Spider-Man had pressed more meaningfully, making the larger man gasp theatrically. “You think he’s gonna have an easy time hurting anyone after what you’ve done to him? Look at him!” Deadpool had turned slightly to oblige, smirking darkly to himself at the crimson flow from his implanted blade, the way the creep had wheezed. “That’s lifelong physical therapy right there. He’s not holding anyone down again. I doubt he can hold his own dick with what you’ve severed.”
The mercenary had grunted, folding his arms over his broad chest and looking over his victim thoughtfully. “So, maiming is on the table?” he’d mused.
“Wade!”
“You don’t sound disappointed about that part.” Deadpool had chuckled, lolling his head around to look at the webslinger. “So, what? I can’t kill ‘em, but you’re cool if I hurt ‘em bad enough to disable ‘em? This guy might cash in on disability checks, but that’s fine?”
“I’ve sent bad guys to the hospital,” Spider-Man had steadily reminded him, and Deadpool had miraculously quieted. “Not every time. But I… There are some people I’ve injured long-term,” he’d barely elaborated. His jaw had tensed and the white eyes of Deadpool’s mask had narrowed in scrutiny. Glancing at the man pinned to the wall, Spidey had determined it unlikely the finally unconscious man could’ve heard any of this. “Killing won’t solve the problem, Wade. We already know the death penalty isn’t a deterrent to violent crime.”
“It’s a hell of a deterrent to a dead guy,” Deadpool had pointed out, angling his head at the super in blue and red. Spider-Man had approached properly this time, shoulders slumped as he’d exaggerated a groan. “Can’t repeat sick shit when you’re dead.”
“And what if he were like you?” Spider-Man had said with arms folded, only a few feet from the merc now. “You wanna play cat and mouse with the likes of this dillhole?”
“First, don’t compare me to ‘the likes of him’ ever again. Second— I would definitely chase an immortal pedo to the ends of the earth, Spidey.”
“That’s not really my point.”
“Your idea,” Deadpool had shrugged.
“He lives, and everyone gets their day in court.”
Deadpool had bristled, and Spidey’s lenses had contracted with suspicion. “He doesn’t deserve—,” the taller man had begun through gritted teeth.
“I meant the kid. The family. Whoever else he’s hurt,” Spider-Man had interjected before Deadpool could further misunderstand. Evidently this had worked, because Deadpool had relaxed, slowly tapping his fingers on his biceps. “You did good, Wade,” Spider-Man had quietly assured him, daring to reach out and clap him on the shoulder. Deadpool had just looked at his hand in quiet awe, so the hero had chosen not to take it as a silent “get the fuck off of me.” Clearing his throat, Spider-Man had given his shoulder a purposeful pat before taking his hand away, Deadpool’s mask following the movement of it the entire time.
“I’ll call someone I trust not to let this guy off easy.”
“No generic 9-1-1?”
“I’m not a kid anymore, Pool,” Spider-Man had said vaguely, turning away and pulling out his phone. “I know most cops can’t be trusted.”
-
“You’re giving me too much credit, Petey,” Wade says miserably, but he can’t bring himself to let go of Peter when the brunet starts to stand up on shaky legs. Wade makes a point of shifting their weight, holding at the small of his boyfriend’s back and setting his other hand on his hip. Peter pulls back first and Wade reluctantly allows it, the shorter man’s hands reaching to hold either side of his face. “I should be good because it’s good, not because I’m trying to impress you.” (Or Spider-Man!) “I should… I should be good because it’s the right thing to do.”
“The right actions can happen before the right motivation is there,” Peter reminds him gently.
“It’s hell in here, Pete,” Wade adds darkly, jaw set as he meets Peter’s calm gaze. He softens the longer he looks, because even though Peter’s eyes are still rimmed with red, he’s smiling so warmly and sadly that Wade is effectively distracted thinking about how fucking beautiful he is; there’s something that feels wrong about someone this beautiful trying to tell him he’s good, trying to tell him he’s doing better. It feels stranger than when Spidey does it, telling Wade how he’s good enough to be good to himself.
This is it, big guy. Scare him off, we can’t hurt him if he’s not here. He doesn’t really grasp who we are. Peter and Spidey are blinded by their own innocence— poor Petey is naïve to a fault.
“Sometimes I like causing pain,” Wade says ominously, and Peter cocks his head, still waiting with that stupidly pretty smile in place. “Sometimes I like hurting people. I’ve unalived more people than I can count. I stopped keeping track a year after Weapon X. You don’t want to know more about what’s in my head or what I’ve done.”
That wasn’t very cash money of you. So ungrateful, we are a delight.
Peter hums, tilting his head to the other side and eying him sideways, apparently unfazed. “I know you’ve unalived people. I know you were in Special Forces. I know you’ve been a mercenary for years, even before the healing factor.” His smile shifts to a smirk, any traces of sadness wiped away. “And I always wanna know more about you, Wade.”
Wade groans at length, bending at the knees so he can drop his head back dramatically. “That’s so dorky!” he gripes. “I don’t think you get the full picture, Legs. I’ve got red in my ledger,” he goes on mysteriously, but there’s an edge of humor in his tone now. It’s hard to feel like too much of his old self when Peter is just… gently holding him, still with his hands on Wade’s scarred face, continuing not to be put off despite Wade’s less-than-maximum efforts. “I can’t always control it,” he tries to press, because it’s true, and even as his heart pounds in protest, the boxes are pleased with his honesty. “I almost didn’t want to, earlier. I woulda torn apart every single little pissant creep in that place.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t,” Peter repeats with a quirked eyebrow. He gently brushes his hand over Wade’s mottled scalp and Wade exhales unevenly, hands twitching where they hold his boyfriend close. “I’m so proud of you,” he adds with a happy sigh, leaning up to peck him on the lips.
“I.” Wade swallows thickly, searching Peter’s inquisitive face when he looks at him with those doe eyes. “I didn’t wanna break your heart, Bambi,” he professes guiltily. Peter’s face wavers and he strokes his thumbs under Wade’s eyes, over the raised rivers of his skin, and Wade is afraid he’s somehow done exactly that with only one dumb sentence. (Way to go, loser. Of all things to ruin it…) “Uh, it’s just,” he tries to intercede before Peter can say something like, “Too late,” or, “Well now you have.” Peter still beats him to it.
“I’m very flattered, Wade, but you didn’t even come close.” When Wade whines, Peter moves his hands to the back of his neck, massaging firmly. “Now. I’m gonna sit on the counter. I’m gonna eat these amazing pancakes. You’re gonna make yourself some, and I won’t even comment when you soak them in syrup,” the brunet says sternly, pulling Wade’s face back down so he can kiss the tip of his nose before chastely kissing his lips again. He snorts when Wade makes a comical attempt to deepen it this time, grinning lopsidedly at the way Peter sweeps back from his wiggling tongue. “C’mon. My pancakes are getting cold,” Peter insists, turning momentarily to pick up his plate and fork, taking Wade’s hand and bringing him back to the griddle.
He does as he’d said he would, hopping up onto the counter next to the bowl of batter and setting his plate on his lap. He makes a show of taking a big bite, eyebrows raised, and Wade watches the food enter his mouth before hastily putting his hands back to work so they couldn’t wander over and his fingers couldn’t get caught between Peter’s lovely sharp teeth.
When they’ve both eaten, Peter drags Wade to the couch and pushes him onto it; the larger man grins adoringly as he lies back and Peter climbs on top of him. He wriggles until he’s comfortable, and Wade settles his arms around him, dragging the fuzzy red blanket down over them. He reaches blindly for the TV remote, flipping on something they’ve already watched together for some background noise, and Peter rests his head comfortably on his chest. Wade sighs, stroking through Peter’s messy brown hair until his breathing evens out and he’s finally asleep. They don’t leave the couch all night, Wade eventually drifting off with his boyfriend half-curled atop him.
-
-
-
“Halloween is in a couple of days,” Peter begins one evening, after finally finishing up his thesis work for the day. He’s hoping to wrap it up fairly soon, plowing through summer semesters to get it done that much quicker. He could really use a job that takes him away from the verbal abuse of J. Jonah Jameson and lets him actually work in his field. He knows it’s a lot to ask these days, he doesn’t know a lot of people his age who get to work in their fields at all — especially not those who’d gone into the humanities. At least New York is pretty good for science careers. Mostly it’s either here, the west coast, or Texas, and Peter would prefer to stay in New York.
Wade looks over the back of the couch, game controller in hand. He tosses it aside, having paused the game when he’d heard the bedroom door open. He’s already started rearranging things in the spare room so Peter can have an office, a little personal space in the apartment so he feels completely comfortable moving in. After the uh, Holt Industries Incident™, Peter has been that much more amenable to the suggestion, thrilling Wade to no end when he’d floated the idea again the following morning, talking about how he’d been mentally referring to this apartment as “home” for a while anyway.
“Wanna dress up and throw candy at kiddos?” he asks with a shit-eating grin. “You got a costume somewhere, Gorgeous? Not gonna lie, I’m really curious what you’d choose.” He pictures Peter dressed up in a Deadpool suit, and even if it’s just some cheap spandex knockoff (He’d hafta make it himself, dingus, we’re not exactly mainstream appeal. He’s not gonna find a DP suit in a fuckin’ Kroger’s.) that still clings to all of his lovely, lithe muscles, Wade would be so sincerely flattered he might melt. After jizzing in his pants. Possibly twice.
“Not gonna go out with Spider-Man?” Peter muses, smirking as he wanders into the kitchen and gets himself a glass. “It’s a night for mischief, after all.”
“Nothing compared to mischief night in Jersey.”
“Ew,” Peter laughs. “You’ve been to Jersey?”
“Ha ha, classic New York, now say something about where you’re walking,” Wade drawls, rolling his eyes and twisting to drape his arms over the back of the couch, setting his chin on the cushion.
“Oh, me? Over here, personally. It’s over here that I’m walking,” Peter cheekily replies, pointing toward his feet and smirking as Wade cracks half a smile.
“I mean, I thought about it. But Spidey and I haven’t tried making any plans, and. Y’know. I know you really like Halloween,” he supplies sheepishly.
“I could write a dozen essays on queers and Halloween,” Peter hums happily, pulling orange juice out of the fridge. “I do love it.” He lifts a leg to show Wade his pajama pants, covered in jack o’ lanterns and lit candles. Wade remembers him mentioning that people used turnips before they’d used pumpkins, when he’d folded those same pants four nights ago while doing laundry, wearing some raglan shirt with black cats on the sleeves. Tonight he’s even wearing black and purple striped toe socks; these look particularly silly when he wiggles his toes, and Wade barks out a laugh for Peter’s additional waggling eyebrows. “I have… something,” he finally admits, the expression on his face suddenly unreadable as he takes a sip of his drink, watching Wade out of the corner of his eye as he returns the carton to the fridge.
“Ooh. Mysterious,” Wade teases, raising a hairless eyebrow and smiling mischievously. “Do I get a hint?”
“Maybe,” Peter says vaguely. “Hm. I guess you’ve maybe brought it up before?”
Wade wracks his brain, frowning in thought. “Can I get another hint?”
“Starts with ‘S’ and ends with. Uh, I guess a lot of things, to you. Starts with other things, too, come to think of it.”
Wade blinks. “Is this in English?” he asks awkwardly.
“C’mon, babe,” Peter says smugly, leaning casually against the kitchen island and sipping his juice like it’s a fancy cocktail and he’s showing off for some kind of high class clientele. Either that or Wade is just imagining him in a sharp suit and he’s bad at James Bond-esque fantasies when he’s looking at his too-cute boyfriend. The glasses aren’t helping. Well, maybe a Kingsmen-esque fantasy would work. He’s about to imagine Peter throwing open an umbrella and chucking his drinking glass at Wade’s head when the brunet instead puts the glass down and sets his chin in his hand, elbow propped on the counter. “Alright. Bigger hint. You get to touch his butt.”
Wade gasps so quickly and deeply that he nearly winds himself, springing up over the back of the couch and darting for Peter, whose eyebrows skyrocket at his enthusiasm. “You’re gonna wear a Spidey suit??” Wade breathes delightedly, blushing a little as he claps his hands together and holds them at his lips, bouncing on his heels as he pulls up to a stop in front of Peter. The brunet watches him with plain amusement and picks up his OJ to drink more as Wade starts babbling. “Fuck, that would be so hot, you’re just the right height, I think, though with your hair I guess it’s harder to say. I actually can’t imagine you with a mask on, is that weird? Mostly I would never cover your face without having to like, really, really try. Unless you’re into blindfolds? Would that be bad? D’you wanna try blindfolds?? We can start with me, I do love it when you surprise me, anyway, and it’s not like we’ve never tried gags— I MEAN—!” He waves his hands in front of himself with wide eyes, but Peter just laughs at him.
“We can talk about the sex stuff later,” the brunet assures him, smiling fondly, cheeks a soft pink. Wade gets horny-brain fast when he’s talking about Spider-Man, oddly enough especially if Peter is also in context. Peter can’t share the dramatic irony with him yet, but he’s sure some day Wade will laugh with him. Probably. Oh god , he really hopes so. “Um, speaking of. You asked a while ago if I would, uh. If I’d wear— a Spidey suit. In the bedroom,” he begins almost shyly. Dammit, he’d hoped he’d bring this up while exuding sexy confidence, but now he’s a little embarrassed. Entirely unfair. “So, uhh.”
Wade’s lovely hazel eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Are you offering to wear a Spidey suit for bedroom roleplay after we’re done passing candy out to small children on the street?”
“Gross, when you say it all at once like that—,” Peter groans, rubbing his temple with one hand over his eyes.
“No, no, no, no, no!” Wade assures him hastily, stepping forward and flapping his hands. He whines, gently pulling Peter’s hand from his face and turning it to kiss his knuckles. “I mean, that is my question, but uh. Y’know, it’s all separate,” he goes on, relishing in the way Peter blushes a little brighter, face scrunched with his bashfulness. “Fuck, you’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“Wade,” Peter whines, nasal and exaggerated. “D’you wanna see me in the costume on Halloween or not?”
“Oh, fuck yeah, Baby Boy.”
“Then I need you to, uh. Be prepared?” Peter says with a sideways glance. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m expecting you to be absolutely stunning in a Spider-Man costume, babe, are you going to defy my expectations by magically making it look bad?” He scoffs. “With your fantastic body? Impossible!”
“Wade,” Peter huffs, hot pink now. Wade grins in triumph and dips to kiss his cheek. “I just mean, it’s not what you’re thinking of. Right now.”
“Lotta vagueness outta you today, Sweets. I’m digging it so far. Should I be worried?”
“No,” Peter says confidently, cracking a wicked, toothy grin. “I think you’ll like it, because you’re a Spidey nerd.”
Wade squeals and claps excitedly. “Okay, okay. I can do this. I can be patient. No preview?”
“No preview.”
Wade pouts. “Fine. I can wait. It’s only two days away. I can wait two days.”
“Can you?” Peter teases coyly, scooping up his juice one last time and sauntering back toward the bedroom. Wade watches his ass as he goes, and grins slyly to himself. “Don’t stare, it’s rude,” the smaller man calls over his shoulder before he walks into the bedroom, turning to point an accusatory finger and stick his tongue out. Wade’s grin widens.
Notes:
y’all are fuckin’ brilliant. i’m always happy to wrench on your heartstrings and frustrate you with identity shenanigans. don’t worry, they’re both idiots. ♪(´▽｀)
there’s also a joke in here that really tickled my proofreader and i’m very proud of it
Chapter 13: [13] Halloween
Summary:
Dr. Banner checks in with Deadpool. Peter shows off his Halloween costume, and they have a fun night out. Peter asks to try something he hasn’t in a long time.
7954 words.
Notes:
No content warnings to note, as far as I can tell!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The day before Halloween Wade gets a call from an unknown number. That is to say, Deadpool gets a call, because when he answers with, “Harry’s House of Whores, what can I do ya for today?” the response that follows is a vaguely familiar voice he can’t place hesitantly asking for the merc.
“Uhh,” a masculine voice uncomfortably sounds, “I was hoping to reach Deadpool?”
Wade is standing on a chair in the dining area of his apartment, Peter busy showering off the explosion of orange-colored cupcake batter from their earlier baking efforts. The plan is to have cupcakes for themselves and hand out candy to others as they walk through the neighborhood Peter grew up in. He’d mentioned that his aunt and uncle used to dress up in matching couple’s costumes and post up with a card table on their porch, setting out two bowls of candy that included one with sugar-free options for diabetic kids. Peter’s favorite Halloween memory is the year he’d dressed up as Buzz Lightyear while May and Ben were Jessie and Woody. It still hurts Wade’s teeth with how sickly sweet it had all sounded when Peter had talked about how unquestioning they’d been, letting tiny Peter put on a “boy’s” costume so young, even before the boy himself had any inclination of who he really was.
The scarred man slaps another gel decoration onto the dining room wall, this one another large black bat that tries to fall off as quickly as Wade puts it up, so he smacks a hand over it and leans weight into it as he continues with his phone call.
“This is he,” he says with casual humor. “And who may I ask is calling on this fine All Hallow’s Eve-Eve?”
“I’m Dr. Bruce Banner. I, uh, work with Spider-Man,” the caller begins, and Wade checks the status of the bat decoration under his hand, squinting suspiciously as he waits for it to fall.
“Ahh,” Wade says brightly. “Oh, I know who you are, Jolly Green Giant. The question is, why call me at all?” Deadpool chuckles, though he definitely has his attention. The bat stays where he’d put it, so he bends to the table and picks up the plastic sheet for another handful of gooey tombstone and arched-back cat decorations. “I’m not Spidey, much as the costume confuses the general public.”
“I know you were at the Holt Securities facility,” the man says with what sounds an awful lot like accusation, “Spider-Man told me you two were working together on the— case.”
Slapping a couple of cats up, Wade eyes them warily as he adjusts his own tone accordingly. “That doesn’t sound like me. I thought I was supposed to be the Big Bad Scary Mercenary, why would lil ol’ ‘unhinged lunatic’ me work on an investigation that threatened people’s lives if I wasn’t gettin’ paid?”
“Not my words,” Banner insists, but there’s guilt there anyway, “and Spider-Man only has good things to say about you. I can easily believe you’d want to help people without getting paid. But let’s not pretend that’s always been the case.”
Wade… twitches. “Wow, you’ve sure done all your homework,” he says with thinly veiled vitriol, “do those files tell you about the times I wasn’t gettin’ paid, or are you making assumptions like all the other so-called ‘heroes’ out there?”
“All I know is,” the other man says through a sigh, “Spider-Man trusts you. Cares about your opinion on this. Wanted your input immediately, as soon as we found out what was in the chemical compound he’d found.”
Catching a falling cat without looking, Wade more gently reapplies it to the wall, smiling bashfully with a delighted warmth in his chest. “Aw, Spidey said he cares,” he coos, entirely sincere. “Still doesn’t answer my question, silver fox Lou Ferrigno.”
“Who—? Doesn’t matter.” The hero sounds exhausted already. Wade is good at wearing people out in mere minutes, and at the moment he’s taking pride in it. “I wanted to let you know that we’ve apprehended the metaphorical ringleaders of the organization. Spider-Man was worried about ties to the mob.”
“Are there?” Wade questions more seriously, the same way he’d asked Spidey weeks ago, stepping down from the chair and looking over the progress of the haunted house scene in colorful gel across the dining area wall. They should’ve put it up sooner but he knows Peter is going to love it; it looks fantastic, very hokey and cute. “Are there ties to the mob?”
“Amazingly, none so far. All the ex-gangsters were lucky to have survived leaving their criminal families. You probably know what happens when certain families consider someone disgraced or dishonored.”
“It’s hard to keep all your fingers intact when you leave the Yakuza,” Wade agrees.
“Right. So there’s no mob involvement, but we have higher-ups in custody. They’ll be under S.H.I.E.L.D. supervision for the foreseeable future.”
“You got everyone in leadership? How about the motherfucker who called to threaten my Baby Boy?” Wade’s jaw clenches as he moves to a window and leans on the sill. He scans the area studiously, more wary of leaving windows open than Peter is anymore. “Femme voice. Condescending. Seemed too young to be making that kinda call. Didn’t sound like they really knew who they were talkin’ to.”
We owe them a few promises kept, the boxes growl, and Wade nods to himself.
“Deadpool, we’ve got it handled,” Banner says firmly. “How is Peter, by the way?” he asks a little more gently. “Spider-Man mentioned you were able to get him out safely.”
Wade’s heart cinches up and he looks over his shoulder toward the hall to the bedrooms. “He’s the one who did the work, took off before I could thank him. But Peter’s home now, he’s doing… alright,” Wade decides. Fuck, there’s a horrible guilt settling in his gut again. What if Spidey hadn’t been there? He’d gone over the possibilities a hundred times, and none of them would have resulted in zero deaths. He’s glad Peter had been basically ready to go by the time he’d gotten there, or Deadpool wouldn’t have had enough control not to slaughter everyone inside that building to get to his innocent civilian boyfriend.
“That’s good,” Banner says with surprising sincerity. Wade can hear him smiling. “Good. Uh, I called you, Deadpool, because Spider-Man isn’t picking up right now. But I figured you’d see him sometime soon.”
“You tried texting? He’s more of a texter when he’s not out ‘n about.”
“I did both. But, y’know. Peter might as well know, since he’s a part of this. Hard for him not to be, now…,” Banner goes on, trailing off into a mutter that has Wade raising a hairless eyebrow. “Anyway. Say hi to Peter for me. I’ll talk to Spider-Man later.”
“Sure thing, doc. Say hi to Dr. Storm for Peter, would you? He’s a huge fanboy, she’s basically his heroine of choice.” Wade chuckles to himself as Banner laughs shortly.
“Did Spider-Man warn you to call her ‘doctor?’”
“He sure did. Figured it was good advice. She’s a force to be reckoned with. On Peter’s list, if you catch my drift.”
“I don’t, but that’s probably for the best,” Banner muses. “Uh, happy almost-Halloween, I guess. I’ll let Spider-Man know of any progress updates, and if you want, I could keep you in the loop?”
Wade doesn’t answer immediately, surprised to no end that he’s being considered important enough to be looped in at all at this point. Spider-Man had been the only one involved who’d contacted him or worked with him on this debacle, so he’d assumed the other supers didn’t want to be associated with him as usual. Old habits die hard, so Wade is now entirely suspicious that this is some weird long game by the supposed “good guys” to try and trick him into feeling accepted so they can use him and then throw him away when he’s no longer useful. Again. Amazing the backhanded ploys some so-called heroes will try.
Not Spidey, though. Never Spidey. So, maybe because Spidey is the middle-man in this situation, Banner could be trusted not to be a manipulative hypocrite like other Avengers have been before. Like S.H.I.E.L.D. has been.
They’re lucky we haven’t spilled our regenerating guts to the webhead about how many times we’ve been a tool for them, just to be dismissed and mocked in the same breath.
“Deadpool?” Banner says cautiously, and Wade snaps back to attention.
“Yeah. Yeah, that would be great. You get wind of anything else like this shit, any human experimentation or mutant chemical weaponry bullshit, you gimme a call,” he instructs lowly, slipping just slightly into the severity he can’t reel in so well when it comes to this topic. “Uh,” he goes on, softening slightly, his chest aching as he thinks of Peter and his spider. “Y’know what? If you do, can I ask you to do me a favor and not tell Spidey about it?”
“I’m not liking this favor, Deadpool.”
“I just mean, Pete and Webs are close. I’m involved with both of them, and those sick chucklefucks went after Peter because of me. I don’t think I could stop myself from… losing it, GG, if anything happens to them because of me.” (‘Again,’ big guy.) “Again,” he tacks on weakly.
“Sorry, ‘GG?’ What’s that?” Banner asks, skirting right past Wade’s angst.
“Green Guy. Tin Man’s not the only one with the nicknames, bro.”
Banner chuckles. “Sure, DP,” he says in a tone similar to Wade’s, and Wade flashes a smug smirk to the empty hallway before looking back out the window. So far nothing suspicious, but he pulls his eyes from the surrounding buildings and watches the street below. “Say hi to Peter,” the good doctor repeats. “He’s an interesting guy, if his file means anything.”
Wade’s smirk vanishes. “What file.”
“Not a criminal record. And we’re not stalking him,” Banner assures him, and Wade hears shuffling paper in the background, a creaking chair. “His academic record. Research papers and the like. Kid could be a superstar in his field if he’d apply to the right places.”
“He applied for internships in a lot of places the last couple of years,” the mercenary presses, scowling. “No one ever got back to him. Now he’s on the lookout for a real job, since he’s gonna have the degree soon, anyway.”
“Did he ever apply to Stark Industries?”
“He’s a biochemical engineer, what would Stark want with him?” he asks harshly. He doesn’t care for the billionaire, even though he knows his industry would be lucrative in the right position. But Peter’s degree wouldn’t exactly apply, so he’d never applied.
“Oh, not Stark. Me. I’d hire him in an instant, a real position. So would Susan. Once he’s got his degree, he’d be more than welcome.”
Wade perks, mood shifting in a blink. He glances down the hall one more time before moving to the far corner of the room, in case Peter comes around the corner and hears him before he can finish being a sneaky little bastard. “Are you serious?” he says quieter, though his own excitement is palpable. “Dr. Susan Storm would hire Petey? He could work at the Baxter building?”
“I’ll be honest, Deadpool. She questioned his taste in men,” Banner begins, and Wade deflates a little, mildly annoyed on top of being just a little offended even if he can’t really blame her, “but she respects the good work you’ve done, and she likes Parker’s portfolio, as it were. Tell him to leave an application with you, and when you and Spider-Man next come by the Tower, we’ll get it to her.”
“Directly??” Wade hisses in sheer disbelief.
“Call it a favor for a friend.” A pause as Wade’s eyebrows jump. “Uh, to be clear, the friend is Spider-Man. We’re not friends yet, Deadpool.” Banner waits for Wade to stop laughing, taking it as a good sign rather than derision.
“Spidey talked up Peter?” Wade asks once he’s recovered.
“No, but considering how quick he was to help out when he was kidnapped and that they’ve known each other for so long, I figure it’s a friend of a friend situation. And we can always use more brilliant minds on the New York scientific scene.”
Wade smiles fondly, picturing Peter in his father’s glasses and a lab coat, pondering over test tubes and microscopes. He’s imagining a stock photo, probably, just with Peter’s face in place of the generic subject’s. It doesn’t matter, he knows his Petey-Pie is a smart cookie and deserves to fulfill his dreams of working somewhere in his field with other smart cookies. Peter is a snickerdoodle, by the way, in this imaginary cookie jar of intelligent people.
It’s the cinnamon! God, we wanna smell him so bad right now. Hurry up in the shower, Baby Boy!! Or better yet, we could go join him…
“He’s nearly done,” Wade tells the boxes, and Banner hums inquisitively. “Uh, Pete. He’s almost done with his thesis.” Which is true! “He fast-tracked himself through this master’s stuff and it’s basically killing him, so you fuckers better be grateful when you hire him.” Banner laughs, and Wade feels like he’s accomplished something by getting the notoriously tragic Hulk alter ego to laugh more than once. “How much does it pay?” he wonders, more out of curiosity than seriousness.
“Susan and I are pretty generous when it comes to new hires. Tony could be convinced with very little work on my end, if Peter wants to apply with me.”
“Are you trying to snipe my boyfriend out from under Dr. Storm?” Wade teases, keeping his voice low even as he smirks. “Mr. Banner, he’s taken.”
“Pete’s a little young for me, DP. Or anyway, I’m too old for him. I’m also unfortunately a classically heterosexual man, so he can do much better.”
“Yeah. Duh. He’s got me.”
“Right,” Banner says lightly, and Wade preens. “I’ll keep you and Spider-Man posted. Let Peter know we’d take his application. I guess I’ll talk to you later, Deadpool. Happy Halloween.”
“He thinks you’re really cool, too, y’know. For the record. He’s always been impressed by your work and your big brain. He’s just totally enamored with Dr. Storm,” Wade tells him, but quickly signs off before the man can get another word in edgewise. “Byeeeee! Bye!” He hangs up just as Peter comes down the hallway, rubbing a towel over his wet hair.
“I think I got it all out of my hair,” the brunet announces loudly, patting his head at an angle. “But I got water in my ears,” he adds at the same volume.
Wade tucks his phone away and goes to attend to his damp boyfriend, grinning like he’s got a secret.
-
-
-
“You ready?” Peter calls from the bedroom.
Wade has his hands over his eyes, sitting on the couch facing the opposite direction of the hall and doing his damnedest not to sneak a peek in the muted reflection of the TV screen. Wade is wearing a mid-tier Thor costume: printed spandex with darker shading to imply muscles for those who don’t have what Wade has in spades, with a helmet and armor pieces of better quality, some sort of crafted foam from a cosplayer on Etsy.
EVA foam, big guy. It’s not that hard to remember. Somebody spent a lot of time on this shit, and we look a-may-zing in it.
“Either way, the wig and helmet wait. Don’t wanna scare the kiddos off of blondie just ‘cuz they see my uggo melty face in his costume. Kids are smart, but trauma’s trauma,” he reasons quietly, shrugging like he’s not just hurting his own feelings. “I’ll mask up after we see Peter’s Spidey costume.” Now he’s excited himself again instead, and he giggles and kicks his legs out, nearly hitting the coffee table.
“Alright, weirdo,” Peter says fondly on the other side of the couch.
“CHRIST,” Wade yelps, whipping around. “You’re so quiet somet—!” The word dies in his throat, and Wade’s hazel eyes blow up to the size of Cap’s shield. “Oh my god,” he says in a grave baritone, turning his entire body around and climbing over the back of the couch slowly. Peter takes a couple of steps back to accommodate him, holding his arms out and spinning once in place. “Oh my god. Pete, you big fucking nerd,” he goes on carefully, back in his low tenor, but there’s a mischievous grin crawling onto his lips.
Peter is wearing a hoodie consisting of only a red hood and well-fitting sleeves over a tight-fitting dark blue spandex torso piece that climbs up his neck, a spindly spider spray painted on the front and back in black. Black webbing meticulously patterns the hood and sleeves, which of course end in attached fingerless gloves. (He’s so cute in all his fingerless gloves, what a doofus.) He’s got something akin to joggers in matching dark blue, the same webbed red fabric from the sleeves sewn over the waistband and cuffs. He’s got literal knee pads on, scuffed up from what might have been actual use when he was younger. The beat-up knee-high sneakers are Wade’s favorite part (Aside from how tightly this thing fits Peter, holy ever loving mother of sin and visible abs.), red knock-off Converse All-Stars with black toes, soles, and laces still long enough that he’s wrapped them twice around his calves before tying them. Incredibly, Peter’s attention to detail means he even has a few sewn tears in places, like repairs Spidey would’ve had to make after a fight. He even has a red face mask with black webbing. (In some universe, billions of voices just cried out in collective global trauma.) He’s wearing a packer, but Wade only notices because he is painfully turned-on and ogles every inch of his costumed boyfriend, looking him over more than once and grinning wide enough that his face hurts. He pauses at Peter’s magnetic, smiling eyes as he holds up a finger, asking for patience and pulling something out of a surprise zip-close pocket in his joggers. Peter affixes a pair of angled, slightly domed black goggles over his eyes, tucking the strap behind his head and putting the hood up, some of his hair flopping over his forehead and the goggles.
Peter in hoodies is evidently just a very specific kink of Wade’s; he especially adores Peter’s fluffy hair in chaos, peeking out from under the hood. And something about knee-high anything is undeniably sexy. (D’you think they make a thigh-high version of the same shoes? …Think Petey would wear them for us?) The clingy tightness across his chest is just as hard on Wade’s growing hard-on—
“Ta-da,” Peter says brightly, slightly muffled by his mask, and Wade’s big queer heart melts. “Oh. And…,” he adds, pulling something else from his other pocket. “They’re a little clunky,” he muses, putting wide black bands around his wrists and adjusting the button over his palms. “Web shooters,” he explains sheepishly, showing Wade the black contraptions as he steps forward. Wade is quiet as he dutifully takes his boyfriend’s wrists and examines the hard plastic bracelet devices. It looks like modified and heat-molded PVC piping, small boxes with a tiny opening on the end where Spider-Man’s web fluid cartridges go. They don’t even look like store-bought versions; Peter had made these. “I used to be smaller,” Peter says shyly, shrugging his shoulders to indicate the fit of his hoodie and top as he watches Wade inspect his web shooters. “It didn’t used to fit quite this tightly. Guess I filled out some,” he mumbles happily. “Even got a little taller…”
“Oh, Peter,” Wade murmurs, turning the brunet’s hands and lifting them to his lips to kiss his knuckles sweetly. His whole body is warm with affection and how genuinely impressed he is with the craftsmanship of the costume. It feels appropriately low-budget but also clearly a labor of love. “This is the OG suit. The original, baby Spider-Man suit. It’s fuckin’ fantastic,” he praises, and even behind the mask and goggles, he can tell Peter blushes because he reflexively squeezes Wade’s hands and clears his throat. “You are so utterly precious,” he sighs dreamily. “Have you shown Spidey this? I think he’d be really flattered.”
“Yeah, he uh. Helped me out with some of the specifics,” Peter says distractedly, head tilted as he maybe looks at Wade. It’s hard to tell with the immobile and appropriately bug-eyed goggles since they aren’t expressive like Spidey’s updated suit lenses. When Wade snorts at this realization, Peter hums lightly. “You like it?” he asks quietly, searching for approval, and Wade frees his wrists to slide his gloved hands along either side of Peter’s jaw and cup his face. He can feel Peter’s smile grow behind the mask.
“Baby, this is so hot of you. Like. Just so incredibly sexy? I can’t even describe how horny I am. You don’t look like a kid, either, I hope you know. But you do still look like a lithe little twink, it totally works. I’ll definitely hafta beat your incoming Spidey-adoring public away with sticks tonight. Maybe even two-by-fours. You’re gonna get hit on so fuckin’ hard, be prepared.”
“Do I at least look like a twink who could throw a bus at you?” the grad student asks wryly, folding his arms over his chest but otherwise staying put so Wade can keep holding his face, which has definitely warmed under his hands through the taller man’s praise. “Because that’s the goal, here. If I could throw a bus at you to prove it, I would.”
Wade whines, slapping a hand over his heart and jostling his foam armor. “Ouch, Baby Boy, you’d throw a bus at me?”
“I guess I just mean in general. A feat of super strength that would intimidate you accordingly,” Peter muses, reaching up to set a fingerless gloved hand over Wade’s. “You’re gonna wear your mask, aren’t you?” he asks a little quieter, sorrow laced in the words even if Wade can’t read it on his masked face or through the goggles.
“Can’t scare the kiddos while I’m supposed to be Thor. I did go as Freddy Krueger a few years ago. People were very impressed with my ‘make up,’ I’ll have you know.” Peter’s fingers twitch over his hand, but neither of them move. “Besides, this way I can mask up alongside you,” he reasons, hoping the sharpening angle of Peter’s head tilt isn’t judgmental.
Actually, it might be disappointment, bud. He always perks up when we take the mask off. He does keep saying how much he loves to see us.
“Could we… turn the tables this once?” Peter floats carefully, standing very still as he sets his other hand on Wade’s wrist, pointedly trapping his hand where it holds him. “I could be masked up and your face could be out and about?” This time Wade can hear his apprehension. It’s a big ask, Peter knows it, but the hope is there. The hope is one of the multitudes of things Wade loves about Peter, and he hates when he crushes it with a bout of his own self-loathing. But then something more surprising happens, and Peter slowly straightens up, squaring his shoulders. Wade can feel him grinning through the mask, and quirks a brow expectantly. “If you want, when we get home we can… y’know. Fool around. While I’m in the suit,” Peter offers, feigning innocence as he nuzzles meaningfully into Wade’s hand.
“Oh, you little shit,” Wade mutters, scandalized and glaring. It sends another, bolder bolt of arousal through him because Peter shyly twists one toe of his knee-high sneaker on the floor and shrugs, absently stroking up and down Wade’s forearm with those slender fingers. “That’s dirty. Dirty boy,” he grumbles half-heartedly.
“That is what I’m offering,” he assures him slyly, and Wade pushes the hand on Peter’s face back into his hair as the brunet hums. But it’s sucked into a gasp as he grips Peter’s hair and hauls him forward none too gently. Peter half-stumbles closer and soon they’re only inches away from each other with Wade directing Peter to look up at him, and for a split second, the merc actually sees Spider-Man ; the desire in him stirs anew and he only feels a little guilty for it because he’s pretty sure Peter is doing it on purpose anyway, by offering to engage in a little screwing around with the suit involved. Wade had only suggested it the one time and Peter had been awkward but basically admitted he’d just wanted to put it off. Who knew this is what he’d been hiding?
Eyes half-lidded, Wade smirks darkly. He can’t see Peter’s eyes behind the black bulbs, but it feels oddly familiar either way. He brings his free hand up to drag his thumb just under the goggles, above the edge of the face mask, gentle on delicate skin. Peter shivers and Wade knows he’s on the right track. “So what made you decide Halloween was the perfect time to whip out the super suit?” he asks coyly, holding Peter perfectly still, up on the balls of his feet. Peter doesn’t waver, and the taller man knows he’s studying him.
“Figured it was about time,” Peter hedges, and Wade raises one eyebrow slowly. “Besides, I’m uh. An occasion kinda guy? Gotta have a good reason to dress up,” he goes on, and Wade looks at his mask wondering just which naughty little smile he’s wearing under it. “I love Halloween,” he says meaningfully, “and I knew you’d get a little jealous if anyone else did look at me wearing this. You’re kind-of a Spidey simp.” A pause, and Peter’s voice gets a little lower. “And maybe a little possessive?” he reminds him.
Called the fuck out! the boxes cackle.
Wade grunts, eyes canting aside with some measure of guilt and bashfulness rolled into one. “Maybe,” he allows. “Maybe I’m more possessive of you, though,” he tries to say with more confidence, but it sounds exactly like he hopes Peter reciprocates. “Spidey’s great, but I like you more.”
“Aw, really?” Peter asks, and Wade expects it to be teasing, but he sounds just as awkwardly sincere; the moment goes from sexual tension to romantic tension. Wade brings Peter further up with his fistful of the brunet’s curls, tugging his mask down with his other hand and angling his head to kiss him sweetly, warm and affectionate and reassuring. Peter hums against him, parting his lips to deepen it, and sets his hands on Wade’s nape, moving all the way onto his tip-toes to better reach him as he leans against his chest. Wade’s arousal doesn’t dampen, but he’s distracted by how happy Peter sounds, the way his fingers shift to the base of his skull and hold him at their current angle. Within a few seconds, Wade slides a hand around sleek spandex to pull at the small of the brunet’s back and hold Peter flush against him. Peter huffs a laugh between them, and Wade smiles into the kiss and dramatically dips the both of them, hand gliding to Peter’s knee to hike up his thigh as Peter reaches to hold the merc’s shoulders.
Peter chuckles breathlessly and breaks the kiss, reaching to push his goggles up, setting them above his forehead so they hold his hair up in ridiculous tufts. Wade beams. “As hot as this is,” Peter concedes with a wry smile, “we do actually have too much candy not to pass it out tonight.”
Wade scoffs. “I could live off candy,” he argues, ducking to nose under Peter’s jaw, only a tiny bit disappointed that the blue spandex covers his pretty neck. Taking his hand out of Peter’s hair, he tugs at the stretchy fabric so he can mouth at the spot under his jaw and ear. Peter makes a soft sound that always drives him wild, but Wade doesn’t go any faster even when Peter’s fingers clutch under his foam armor. “Besides, you really will get hit on so much more than you think, people adore Spidey.”
“They don’t flirt with him, though,” Peter argues with a snort, even though he’s closed his eyes and dropped his head back a little, hot pink.
“They would, if he’d hold still for one damn minute,” Wade growls playfully, dragging teeth over the exposed curve. “Like right now? Opportune moment to hit on Spidey. Lucky me, I’ve got him right here,” he sighs. Peter tenses for a moment, which immediately makes Wade stop and pull back, the playfulness gone. “Pete?”
“The suit,” he says plainly, blinking for a moment and then relaxing again, his newest smile lazy and pleased.
What the hell was that? Did we do something wrong?? Oh, fucking snack cakes, is he jealous?
“You okay?” Wade asks nervously, still supporting Peter’s weight even though he tries to will his erection away. He really doesn’t want to be horny if Peter’s not into it. “You, uh, got all not-fun stiff for a second there, pumpkin.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Peter laughs breathlessly, burning bright red. “I’m good, I promise.” He uses one hand to hold the side of Wade’s face, big brown eyes warm. “Let’s go out. Throw candy. Maybe there will be caramel apples and popcorn for sale! The local park sometimes gets a bunch of food vendors on holidays, if we make it out there after my old neighborhood. We’ve got all night, Wade.”
Wade searches his face with a narrowed gaze, looking for traces of that momentary lapse of comfort, but Peter just grins wickedly and flashes his sharp canines at him instead. “Yeah?” Wade asks to be sure.
“All night, babe,” Peter purrs, leaning up to peck him on the cheek.
-
-
-
Peter smiles every time he looks at Wade while they’re out, even when it’s hidden by his mask.
Wade had decided at the last minute to forgo the Deadpool mask after all, tucking it into some mysterious pocket so he would have it just in case, but by the time they step outside of the apartment building, Wade is bare-faced and doing his very best not to feel like everyone is looking right at him. A few people do over the course of the night, but five out of six of them actually just ask for pictures of Wade and Peter in their costumes. To his credit, Peter pulls some impressive Spidey poses that have Wade and his libido double taking. He knows Peter is flexible, but he’s pulling some serious Hawkeye Initiative poses, making passers-by giggle and one lady — in bloody demon regalia that reminds Wade of his ex-wife — claps enthusiastically as she snaps a few extra angles. Peter always thanks them for their compliments, wishes them a Happy Halloween, and dips his hand in the big backpack he and Wade trade off carrying to give out handfuls of candy, which always astonishes people. Adults never expect to receive treats on this most auspicious of holidays and Wade can tell it brings Peter joy to surprise them with it; more than once they remain in stunned silence until Wade says either something cheeky about their costumes or something alarmingly innocent about whatever their kiddos are wearing.
Both Peter and Wade fawn over kids’ costumes and Peter geeks out about one 8-year old kid in a brown pinstripe suit and paper 3D glasses, crouching with his feet tucked close under himself to chat with them; Wade pauses to admire his commitment to the Spidey bit. The kid pulls out a funny stick thing that lights up blue at the end and Peter crows with delight.
Well that’s… familiar. Huh.
A niggling in the back of Wade’s head rears again. It’s been doing that the last couple of months, whenever he watches both Peter or Spider-Man — and he watches both Peter and Spider-Man a lot. But he can’t put a finger on why the funny nagging keeps trying to get his attention, so he dismisses it again.
Well, there’s the obvious explanation, big guy.
Wade asks about the kid’s costume afterward and Peter informs him he needs to be educated in 2000s British sci-fi TV, “Even the trainwreck ones!” He starts explaining how even North American channels like SyFy (“Back when they actually spelled it like ‘Sci-Fi,’ I think?”) had terrible shows that were basically excuses to use fun new CGI engines, but some were pretty good or at least charming. They make plans to have TV marathons of some of Peter’s favored shows and eat Mexican takeout; Wade is happy for any excuse to watch Peter be comfortably geeky around him, and new reference material couldn’t hurt.
A handful of times, someone really does hit on Peter, but he seems oblivious to them, which baffles Wade. You’d think, “Holy shit, I hope you’re an adult!” in a tone of awe would be crystal clear, the pair of slightly inebriated orange and yellow crayons pausing to blatantly ogle Peter as they pass the brunet on the sidewalk, humming in approval and turning to walk backward so they could see Peter’s backside retreating. Wade aims his prop Mjolnir with his entire arm at them, narrowing his gaze meaningfully, and they laugh amongst themselves and stumble onward. Peter blinks at him for turning around, doing so himself out of curiosity, and Wade shrugs dismissively.
The second time people hit on Peter, they hit on both Peter and Wade, and that throws the taller man far more than Peter’s adorable obliviousness. It’s a couple, too, or so they seem, hanging out by someone’s front walk, what looks like a party raging on with neon strobe lights flashing through the screen door accompanied by a thumping beat and the distant sound of a xylophone. They’re matching as Jack & Sally, full makeup and high quality costumes. The Skellington offers a low whistle, leaning out as their patchwork partner does.
“He-llo, heroes!” Sally purrs, smiling deviously and wiggling their fingers in greeting. Wade slows to a stop, comically spinning on his heel to look around in case they were speaking to someone else. He points dramatically to himself and Peter in question, to which the Pumpkin King nods in response. Peter halts a few feet away, unaware of why they’re stopping, but he gasps when he sees the couple’s costumes and comes over quickly to gush about the quality of Sally’s dress and how impressive their face makeup is while both strangers smugly accept the attention and come in a little closer to both Wade and Peter.
Something’s fucky…
“Love the classic Spider-Man look,” the Pumpkin King says, gesturing to Peter’s costume, and the brunet looks down at himself like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. “Your attention to detail is everything.”
Sally steps to Peter’s side and bends forward to look at the webbing pattern, lifting Peter’s arm to get a closer look. Peter allows it in silence, evidently either comfortable or in shock. “Wow, did you make this whole thing yourself?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, distracted. He looks over his shoulder at Wade, whose eyes are wide. “Uh. All of it, yeah, I mean— I didn’t, uh. Make the spandex or anything,” he goes on clumsily, breath picking up. He’s both confused and flattered in equal measure, his senses at an impasse.
“You’re a hell of a seamster,” they say in approval, smirking coyly at him, only an inch or so shorter. Wade imagines Peter’s blinking erratically behind the goggles as his brain short-circuits. Sally tucks some of their literal yarn hair behind one ear.
“Did you make this armor?” Jack asks, startling Wade when he appears right at his side. The merc has no idea when they got there, sneaking around while Peter and Wade were distracted by Sally’s shameless hands on Peter’s arm… which haven’t moved yet. (Hey, wait, no touching—!) The tall stranger squints at the careful filigree in the foam. Their eyes rise to lock with Wade’s, skeletal makeup making the stretch of their grin even wider. “Wow, a god was the right costume choice for you, wasn’t it?” they muse, but their attention quickly drops back to Wade’s body when their hands gently settle on his bicep. “You're really fit,” they mutter delightedly.
“Right?” Sally says from Peter’s side, their hands similarly on Peter’s upper arm now.
Oh, shit. Something’s literally fucky.
Wade is so unused to positive attention when his naked face is out that it takes him until this moment to really realize this couple’s vibe — while he can respect it, he knows Peter isn’t really the casual sex type and he himself is pretty monogamous in the end. Some of that possessiveness Peter mentioned earlier makes him frown slightly as he watches Sally lightly plucking at Peter’s sleeve.
These people are definitely on “all systems go,” so do something before Peter freaks out!!
“Got mine online,” Wade answers Jack hastily, shrugging the Skellington off, ready for this to be over. He gently sets a hand on Peter’s shoulder and points out some dinosaurs on the other side of the street; effectively distracted, Peter turns to look at the gaggle of homemade dinosaur costumes and coos delightedly, smacking his hands over his masked cheeks and pulling his arm out of Sally’s grasp in the process.
While his boyfriend is distracted, Wade glowers at the couple and meaningfully shakes his head. “No thanks, Disney’s premier goth couple,” he says lowly.
Jack puts up his hands in mock surrender and Sally shrugs like it’s no big loss; they wander back into their party before Peter can notice, whispering to each other and giggling as they glance back at Wade and Peter. Wade watches them get inside before he quickly turns to Peter and urges him to cross the street, putting the backpack of candy in his hands so Peter can shower the tiny prehistoric beasts in deliciously refined sugar.
It happens one more time, ironically by another costumed Spider-Man. Peter doesn’t seem to realize he’s being flirted with by this store-bought but admittedly ripped hero cosplayer, who Wade will grudgingly concede pulls off Spidey’s mannerisms pretty well. Peter is able to strike up a short conversation but remains blissfully unaware that when this Spidey sets a hand on his shoulder and throws their head back with a laugh, they keep their hand there afterward.
“Name’s Bobby, he/him,” Other Spidey introduces himself, and Peter habitually shakes the offered hand, the two ending the gesture in a quick knuckle-tap like it’s natural. It sends a pang of jealousy through Wade again, but even the boxes know it’s no reason to worry. Peter is young, maybe it’s normal to dap after a handshake these days? “Can I get you some popcorn, maybe shoot the shit?”
Wade stands with his arms crossed and his prop hammer hanging from his wrist all of two feet away from them, staring this interloper down; this character is fully aware of what he’s doing, right in front of Wade like he’s not even there. Some part of him is trying to give Peter space to be independent and socialize as he pleases, but the brunet declines politely and thumbs over his shoulder at Wade.
“I’ve actually got plans, but thanks!” Peter chirps, painfully sincere, and the mercenary’s heart does a triumphant backflip. “But hey! Happy Halloween!” Peter adds, and shrugs the backpack off his shoulder to shove a hand in, emerging with enough candy to effectively baffle the other young man into silence. He fills the guy’s arms against his chest and offers a two-fingered salute.
Ha! SUCK IT, SPIDEY!
“Bobby” nods and only somewhat nervously excuses himself, saying how nice it was to meet him and how cool his costume is, which makes Peter laugh shyly, but Wade steps closer and Bobby makes his exit. (He has chosen… wisely.) Wade always feels protective of Peter, but he does his best not to be too possessive despite joking about it, knowing it’s not really his place even as badly as he wants to hold all of Peter’s attention at all times.
They take a break by sitting on a bench near the dog park, which used to be a parking lot if Peter recalls correctly, and snack on some of their remaining candy. Wade sits on the bench with his legs spread wide and stretched out, loudly sucking on a caramel apple lollipop that’s stuck between his teeth while Peter sits balanced on the back of the bench facing the other way, kicking his feet and munching on a fistful of M&Ms. Peter has his goggles back up in his mussed hair, mask shoved in his sweatpants pocket and the backpack behind him on the bench at Wade’s side. Wade had set his Thor helmet next to his hip on the other side, leaving the wig on because it cracks him up and makes him feel pretty. Peter tells him how lovely he looks in it, how glad he is they hadn’t just used a super cheap one, how they could probably curl and style it pretty easily if Wade wants to. It makes the merc blush and crunch a little too hard on his lollipop.
“Easy, babe,” Peter snorts, eyes a little wide at the sound, but Wade shakes his head, chewing the broken pieces slowly. “I mean, I know your teeth will recover, but my poor ears won’t,” he teases, flashing a grin and dumping another snack size pouch of M&Ms into his mouth, leaning back dramatically.
“It’s like you have no regard for my dental health,” Wade sighs, rolling his eyes and swapping which cheek he holds the lollipop in, his speech slightly slurred for it. Peter chuckles. “How’re ya feelin’, Petey-Pie?” he asks lightly, turning his head quickly to look at him so the wig swishes.
Peter watches him fondly and wonders if Wade knows how endearing he really is when he’s comfortable with himself. He hasn’t reached for his mask all night: an accomplishment as far as Peter is concerned. “I’m good,” he begins thoughtfully, scrunching up his candy trash and tossing it underhanded into the half-covered bin a few feet away. It lands silently inside and he smiles at Wade. Wade who makes him feel safe. “Can I… suggest something?” he asks, suddenly nervous. Wade raises a naked eyebrow at him but nods slowly. He definitely has the man’s full attention, so Peter tries to face him a little more, steeling himself. “Y’know how I, uh. Don’t drink?”
“Uh-huh,” Wade says lightly, narrowing his gaze a moment.
“I was thinking,” Peter stalls, “that maybe I could try it again? With you. Because I don’t wanna do it alone or with the wrong people.” He chews his cheek, barely able to hold Wade’s thoughtful gaze. “I mean, last time I drank, it really sucked. I got hammered, I think, and I felt like total garbage afterward. And it felt… bad, not having full control of myself. I was with my friends at some random kid’s house for a party, a-and it made me feel all loose and fun at first, yeah, but it didn’t last. I don’t…,” he babbles, but trails off, swallowing thickly through a distant roll of nausea. Wade shifts in his seat to drape an arm over the back of the bench, setting his hand over Peter’s where it grips the painted wood. “I can’t just lose control of myself and feel okay,” he finally says.
“Petey,” Wade begins gently, taking his boyfriend’s hand to give it a squeeze, watching tension fall off the smaller man’s shoulders as he smiles meekly at Wade. “If you really want to, we can give it a try and just stay in and play games or something basic. Get you used to how it feels so you’ll know where your limits are.” He grins, and Peter breathes in and out raggedly. “We’ll replace your bad experience with a better one. But you know it’s not a big deal if you don’t drink again, right?”
“Yeah,” the brunet allows, but gnaws on one corner of his lower lip. “But sometimes I feel like I’m missing out.”
“Eh,” Wade says vaguely, waving his other hand dismissively. “It’s not the end-all-be-all of fun stuff to do, Pumpkin. Really depends on what you’re after when you start drinking, y’know? If you go in feelin’ sad, you’ll probably just feel sadder. You go in mad, you might get angrier,” he explains, shrugging. “Some people are just happy drinkers, singing karaoke like they’re gonna get scouted by a mysterious producer across the bar. Some people mope ‘n wallow. You strike me as a happy drinker, Sweetcheeks. But we’ll see.” He winks. “I’ll make you something tasty, too, none of that piss water American beers get away with.”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees, wrinkling his nose. “Beer is definitely not my thing. Even smells wrong.”
“Gotcha. No beer,” Wade confirms, nodding sagely. He’s good with beer as long as it’s not the cheap stuff, but at this point the only reason for Wade to drink something with such a low alcohol content is the taste, so most domestics aren’t good enough anyway. “I’ll take care of ya, Baby Boy, don’t you worry,” he says slyly, gently sliding his hand around to the underside of Peter’s bare wrist through the gap between his fingerless gloves and hoodie sleeves. The gloves are only half-attached to his sleeves, probably so he can do things like wash his hands without taking the hoodie piece off. The merc smooths over faint traces of burn scars, and the brunet shivers a tiny bit when he brushes over what he’d always assumed is a tiny skin graft; these are scars Peter hasn’t explained yet, but Wade is patient. Peter smiles shyly, pink in his cheeks.
“Do you… maybe wanna get outta here?” Peter asks evenly, tipping back slightly to peek in the backpack, though he doesn’t move from Wade’s touch. “We’re nearly outta candy to give away. Could finish it off on the way home, it’s getting late for the kids anyway.” Scooting the bag further from Wade and shimmying downward, Peter slides to lie with his legs over the back of the bench and his head hanging over the seat. Wade frees his wrist and shifts while Peter laces his fingers over his stomach. “I was thinking—,” he begins, but Wade’s wig tickles his cheeks and he chuckles as his boyfriend grins down at him, positioned above him halfway off the bench.
“Budget upside-down Spidey kiss,” Wade informs him quietly, which Peter doesn’t fully understand, but he smiles crookedly again as Wade leans further down and they kiss gently from their fun new angle. Lips part in invitation, but very quickly they both dissolve into giggles, Wade having to duck his head to Peter’s shoulder as they fill the evening with laughter. “Okay, not conducive to making out, the upside down kiss thing.”
“No, that was— really awkward,” Peter agrees, pushing himself up on his elbows. They kiss upside down sometimes, usually in this exact position, but adding tongue into the mix seems to be a swing and miss. “Wanna go home and make out for real?” he offers with a smirk, a brighter pink dusting his cheeks, freckles barely visible in the low light of the nearest street lamp.
“Ah, Baby Boy,” Wade hums, grinning wolfishly, which is definitely a look in the blond wig. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Notes:
Peter’s OG Spidey costume is inspired by this cool-as-hell design by Rosy Higgins, with a couple fanart editions of other ppl in love with the design. Mine wouldn’t look exactly like this, but hot damn does it deserve all the credit for inspiration:
Rosy Higgins on tumblr (original designer)
Fishnones or hello-shellhead on tumblrAlso, uh. The next chapter is literally the longest chapter in the entire fic, clocking in at 17.6k+ words. It— it’s smut, y’all, it’s just smut. Please forgive this shorter chapter, because it’s followed by probably-technically-marathon sex. ˋ( ° ▽、° )
Chapter 14: [14] Halloween 2: Electric Boogaloo
Summary:
Wade and Peter make it home for a very busy night in the bedroom.
17932 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for explicit sex (oral, vaginal, anal). Mixed language for Peter’s parts (pre-discussed). Hooray for enthusiastic consent! (✿◠‿◠)
Haha remember how I estimated this at 17.6k+?? Yeahhh,,
This is still the longest chapter in the fic. I have decided not to be sorry. Have fun, y’all. (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter doesn’t give Wade much time to get through the door before he literally jumps him, leaping into his arms and wrapping his legs around Wade’s firm waist, throwing one arm around his neck so he can wrench his webbed mask down and hold his boyfriend’s jaw to put him exactly where he wants him, grinning devilishly when Wade yelps in surprise and drops the now empty backpack on the floor. Wade quickly catches Peter under his thighs, achingly close to groping his ass as he meets the crash of the brunet’s lips on his with a deep hum. Peter is flushed pink, hair once again trapped under the black bulbs of his goggles above his forehead even with the hood of his costume still up. Wade squeezes his thighs and Peter whines into his mouth, sliding the hand on Wade’s jaw around to the back of his head under the wig and pulling himself closer.
Balance regained, the mercenary nudges the front door closed with one foot and shifts Peter’s weight to lift the same foot and fumble with his boot. Peter doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and biting just shy of too gently as Wade discards his shoes with one flailing hand. Peter’s enthusiasm, the heat of him, the way he looks in his homemade OG Spidey suit, the way he’d so perfectly emulated Webs, right down to how he’d handled little kids— all of it. All of it has Wade so painfully horny for his brilliant, sweet, smart-ass little Shutterbug.
Peter is smiling as he kisses him, fiddling with the straps of Wade’s foam armor at his back with his free hand and trying to get it off, so Wade reaches up behind himself to undo the clicking buckles. Peter hums in approval, pushing the armor out of the way and leaning away only long enough to lower it to the floor carefully; it was expensive, it looks really good, and Wade appreciates that he’s treating the costume with care even when he returns to Wade’s mouth with renewed enthusiasm.
“On or off?” Peter asks breathlessly, gently tugging the wig at the base of Wade’s skull, and Wade pulls the whole thing off in response, tossing it to the back of the couch and beaming when Peter smiles that lopsided, half-shy smile. The brunet’s freckles stand out against his skin when he blushes deeper, and Wade sucks in a breath. “What?” Peter asks, the smile curling into a smirk as his eyes fall to Wade’s lips.
“Nothin’ Sweets. You’re just very spidery when you’re excited,” Wade muses, and a thread of hot arousal laces down his spine and straight to his dick when Peter’s smirk flares into a dangerous grin. Fuck, he loves those sharp teeth. “I love it when you’re clingy and wild,” he goes on, returning both hands to Peter’s upper thighs, just under his perfect butt, rolling his palms over the slight give of the smaller man’s flesh. Peter hums long and low, picking up that familiar rasp Wade just adores. “You’re like an insatiable, deceptively strong gymnast. You ever make it to the Olympics?”
“I had other priorities,” Peter muses darkly, hands on either side of Wade’s neck as he ducks to mouth under his jaw, pressing his thighs harder to Wade’s ribs, heels digging into his hips. “Are we doin’ this here or the bedroom?” he asks slyly, teeth scraping just over Wade’s jugular as he tips the man’s head back with slender fingers. “I’ll make it work either way,” he assures him smugly.
Wade groans, closing his eyes and bucking his hips up against Peter, who gasps quietly and wiggles his own hips. “¿Por qué no los dos?” he says through gritted teeth when Peter bites over his pulse with an amused hum. “Fuck, Baby Boy, you rile me up so fast.”
Peter doesn’t speak his response, holding Wade’s head back and sucking a bruise into his nape, warm and insistent as he scrapes his teeth over the spot when he draws back and brings Wade’s face to his again, kissing him so deeply and passionately that he chases away whatever distant belief is left in the merc that this couldn’t possibly be his life; Peter definitely wants him, and there’s no pity or long con making him latch onto Wade like he does. He tries to impress this as he meets Wade’s tongue with his own, Peter’s hands pressing firmly over Wade’s shoulders and squeezing in pulses back up to his neck. Fuck, Wade is built. Fuck, he’s so turned on seeing him in skin-tight spandex. Wade isn’t the only one into super suits.
He does prefer the Deadpool suit on Wade, though. No one else could wear it like he does. No one should even bother, Wade is the real deal and Peter genuinely wants so badly to fuck Wade in his costume but he’s really not sure Wade would be okay with it. His associations with the suit are very different from Peter’s; he sees a protective, skilled partner in justice when he sees the Deadpool suit while Wade sees a necessity soaked in blood and shame. Peter can’t ask him to change the context just to get off in costume. But he can definitely put on a Spider-Man suit for Wade, who apparently thinks it’s just a very convincing cosplay by a secretive fanboy.
Peter had needed to make small adjustments to the suit for the first year he’d worn it, of course. The details became sharper, his hands steadier with a needle and scissors, using May’s sewing machine — one thing he wouldn’t dare sell off for a multitude of reasons. Oddly, all her efforts to teach him sewing and basic clothing repair hadn’t taken until after the spider bite. Then it had been like a switch flipped in his head, and suddenly he’d liked using thread to build, repair, design, and— ohhh, that explains a lot.
His original suit had needed letting out pretty early. Spider bite or not, Peter had been growing at the time, but he’s extremely satisfied with how tight it is now that he’s a grown man with years of HRT under his belt. It had been incredibly validating to completely pass in his classic suit even back in the day, but he definitely doesn’t hear jokes about his voice or hips anymore, even in the skin-tight updated suit.
Aside from streamlining the design, the most important change Peter has made to his suit would be real gloves — can’t go around leaving truly strange fingerprints everywhere, after all, something even certifiable genius teenage Spidey hadn’t really considered until something like the third costume he’d made. Not to mention the soft cotton joggers have also become skin-tight spandex, which was an update he’s sure could be mutually appreciated. One of the reasons Peter had chosen his oldest costume to wear tonight, repairs and updates and all, is because even with Peter all grown up Wade wouldn’t be able to see Spidey’s spandexed ass even in the tight cotton joggers; nothing hugged the glutes like spandex and while the shape is still alluring, Peter had been sure the comparison would fall flat.
Wade sighs sweetly when Peter slows the kiss, fingers splayed over his neck and the back of his head. Peter is overheated in the best way, his chest heaving and his dick hard. He’s wet already — of course he is, he’s making out with his merc — and can’t resist bucking his hips into Wade’s abs to grind his packer firmly against himself. The head of Wade’s erection bumps the heat of him and makes Peter grin against the larger man’s mouth. No cup in the Thor costume, huh?
The smaller man sighs dreamily even as he turns the kiss more languid than impatient. The change of pace seems to frustrate Wade just enough to make him hike Peter up higher and slap both hands over his ass. Peter’s breath hitches and he breaks the kiss to drop his head to Wade’s shoulder and bite his lower lip.
“Bedroom,” Peter decides roughly, dragging blunt nails over the back of Wade’s neck and turning his face to his nape, mouthing over dry but smooth craters and nipping at his jawline. Wade doesn’t waste time, his grip firm on Peter’s ass as he hastily makes for the bedroom. “Wade,” Peter whines aimlessly, trying to push himself harder into his boyfriend, but it’s difficult from this angle and when he’s fallen out of Wade’s arms onto his back on the bed, he reaches up expectantly.
Wade sets a knee between Peter’s legs and crawls over him, lowering onto his elbows on either side of the brunet’s head to meet him in another eager kiss as he drags that knee steadily upward. It presses between Peter’s thighs and he bumps them further apart as he pushes a hand through Peter’s hair to pull his goggles off and blindly put them on the edge of the bed. He repeats the motion for his face mask, taking it off Peter’s ears while he kisses him, making the smaller man smile crookedly. Peter reaches between them and into his joggers to maneuver his packer out, unwilling to keep the obstruction any longer than necessary. He lets it fall to the floor off the edge of the bed, because he has priorities and Wade is priority number one.
Spreading his legs with a ragged sigh, Peter moves to wrap around Wade’s waist again, but Wade presses his thigh directly against Peter’s cock unimpeded now, and rolls his hips to push against his sensitive, wet cunt and sending shivers right through the brunet, sparking in his core. He grips tightly at Wade’s upper arms with a groan, dropping his head back as Wade lowers to keep his weight there, half pinning his boyfriend to the bed and pulling a longer groan from his throat. Peter’s breath is short and shallow as Wade noses under his jaw, one hand tugging down the stretchy blue fabric out of the way of his elegant neck.
Wade is hard against Peter’s defined abdomen, and god does Peter know how much Wade loves his fucking tight little body? He swallows thickly as he breathes him in just under his ear (Cinnamon, Saturday mornings, damp soil after a long rain.), making Peter shiver again and Wade moans as he peels the spandex further down so he can kiss up and down Peter’s neck. Leaning more of his weight on the smaller man and earning a soft sigh for it, he uses his freed hand to drag roughly down Peter’s side, the costume an easy slide under his touch.
He gets to Peter’s hip and snakes his hand under the waistband of his joggers to catch and rake the spandex top up to Peter’s waist. Settling his big hand on Peter’s bare skin gets a whimper out of him, and Wade whines himself, cock twitching against Peter’s as he rolls his hips again, shifting lower so the next roll is directly against warm folds, offering fresh friction.
“Fuck, Pete,” Wade growls, breath heavy as he laves at the sensitive spot under his ear, near the hinge of his jaw. “How are you so sexy?” Peter winces, and Wade already knows he’s bright red. “You look amazing in this costume. Red really suits you. Blue suits you. Black suits you…,” Wade goes on lowly, threading fingers through Peter’s hair and kissing the shell of his ear. “I love you in a hoodie. I love you in those sneakers. Your web shooters are really cool,” he goes on, smirking slightly as Peter huffs a little laugh. “Spidey should be jealous of how good you look, Petey-Pie. You look like you could kick someone’s ass and they’d thank you for it.”
We certainly would. You should really ask, big guy. I bet he’d indulge us, he’s so strong and he seems to really be enjoying this…
“No one thanks Spider-Man,” Peter breathlessly points out, voice low and raspy, which sends a wave of pleasure through Wade. He grinds his hips into Peter’s as a reward, and Peter sucks in sharply through his teeth. “Wade,” Peter says, sounding strained as the taller man pushes his hand further up his belly, sliding under the hem of his binder to squeeze the ribs at his side. Peter keens and Wade lifts his head just enough to see Peter biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood, brow furrowed and eyes closed tightly. “Wade, please,” he breathes.
“Please what, Baby?” Wade purrs, and Peter grabs at Wade’s back and curls his fingers into the material of his costume, stretching it enough that Wade hears a few tiny pops. “Someone’s eager,” he teases mercilessly, settling his fingers in the gaps of Peter’s ribs. He’s no longer skin and bones, which pleases Wade in its own way; he likes it when Peter gets enough to eat. Even Spidey looks healthier lately. “Want me to take care of you?” he asks coyly, fondly. Peter shifts below him, his hands on Wade’s sides, his breath more calculated and even, and Wade hums inquisitively.
“You always take care of me, Wade,” Peter says gently, a sweet assurance, but then his grip on the mercenary’s sides tightens, and after a few confusing and exhilarating seconds, Wade is manhandled flat onto his back, Peter looming over him. With the hood up, Peter is cast in shadow that doesn’t hide his reddened lips or blown pupils. He grins down at Wade, almost feral, and Wade is the one to shiver. “Can’t I take care of you tonight?” Peter murmurs, but it’s a lot less like a question and more like an insistence, because he’d somehow unzipped the back of Wade’s costume before flipping them over and the merc’s eyebrows are raised with desperately horny curiosity.
“I— I mean, yeah,” Wade answers clumsily, watching the vaguely intimidating way Peter grins mischievously again, flashing his dangerous canines, like he’s looking down at delicious, willing prey beneath him.
Maybe he is, because Wade is so turned on that his aching erection is visibly straining under the suit and Peter thinks about how good it feels having it pressed against him, so he fluidly rolls his entire body down against Wade with a satisfied hum as he lies flush against his boyfriend. Wade groans and grabs his shoulders, still looking surprised. Peter loves how his hazel eyes focus on him, pupils steadily dilating, and he can feel his own blush pushing down his neck, spreading over his chest and into his ears. The other man just watches him, eyes raking appreciatively over what little exposed skin Peter’s got, and Peter never feels more attractive than when Wade looks at him. He’s never felt so desirable as just Peter and even though he’s in his original Spidey suit, Wade isn’t looking at Spider-Man. He’s admiring his boyfriend, who is just… Peter Parker.
No one had looked twice at Peter Parker since Gwen. Not until Wade had nearly caught him switching alter egos in that alley months ago, and Wade had hit on him even then. Wade had sought Peter out. Wade likes his photography, even if it’s only because he’s the foremost Spider-Man “shutterbug.” Wade thinks he’s gorgeous and leggy, and calls him Baby Boy more than he calls Spidey that anymore. In fact, Wade hasn’t called Spider-Man “Baby Boy” in at least a month. Now it’s just for Peter, and it’s Peter’s favorite pet name, as embarrassing as it can be. Maybe it’s the gender validation. Maybe it’s just the way Wade soaks it in sincere affection every single time, and how he usually saves it for important — or really sexy — moments.
Wade fawns over Peter in ways he doesn’t fawn over Spider-Man. He makes the saddest face when he can tell Peter is struggling, even if it’s just something innocuous like when he can’t find a word he’s looking for, or he keeps dropping things because he’s consciously being not sticky in front of Wade, or he’s had a hard day in class or on the subway. Wade makes him Feel-Better Pancakes and brings him glasses of water when he’s working and remembers to pull his binders out of the dryer. Wade loves him, and feeling loved again is so much better than Peter could have ever expected or dared to hope.
For a moment, he fears his brain will throw Gwen at him the way it always does, but instead of dropping him into a pit of survivor’s guilt and grief and shame for replacing her with Wade, he just thinks about how happy she would be for him, because Wade makes him happy. And Wade isn’t trying to replace anyone, he’s just trying to love Peter; it’s all he’s ever done.
“You’re so beautiful,” Peter murmurs, the wild grin morphing into an adoring, dreamy smile. His hands come to hold Wade’s face, just basking in how warm and alive and real the man who loves him is. “I love you so much,” he adds, ducking to kiss him so innocently that Wade almost forgets what they’d been doing, his own eyes sliding shut as he smooths his hands up Peter’s thighs at his sides. His hair tickles Wade’s face and the older man giggles, which makes Peter giggle; for a moment they just enjoy each other’s company, Peter setting his forehead on Wade’s and breathing with him, their chests rising and falling in tandem.
But Peter is still incredibly turned on, only spurred further by his boyfriend’s sweetness, his attention and eagerness. So before either of them can dare wind down, he pushes himself down on Wade’s waist to sit on his hard cock, knowing he’s about to soak through his joggers and Wade is going to feel it through the thin spandex of his Thor suit.
And feel it he does, groaning in a deep rumble that goes right to Peter’s dick, making his pussy twitch as Wade grips his thighs tightly, large hands strong and steady even as Wade breathes in raggedly, looking up at Peter through half-lidded eyes. Peter sits up to put more weight on him, leaning back slightly, setting his own hands behind himself on Wade’s thighs and squeezing the muscles there as he lets a soft moan slip from his lips. Wade drops his head to the mattress as Peter rocks atop him, arousal finally breaching his joggers enough that it darkens the fabric. The brunet whines softly, biting his bottom lip again and looking down as he lifts his legs slightly to put that much more weight on Wade’s thick cock when he can’t get enough pressure. “Ah,” he breathes, “fuck, Wade.”
Wade rumbles again, low in his throat, in his chest, and Peter can practically feel it meet him at their groins; the sound ripples up his spine and he squeezes Wade’s hips with his thighs, the larger man’s fingers digging into the meat of them. Heady and eager, Peter has to remind himself he has some semblance of a plan for this, and he can’t just grind away or they’ll both get side-tracked. No, Peter has two things he wants to do before Wade fucks him, because it’s Wade’s turn to be pampered and Peter knows his refractory period is going to make it all possible. The shorter man takes a deep breath and tries to get a hold of himself long enough to slow the roll of his hips, making Wade’s breath hitch as he lifts his head just enough to meet Peter’s eyes.
Oh, Wade looks like he’s halfway gone already, pupils engulfing his irises and face clearly flushed even under his marbled skin. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but it takes him a moment and Peter has cruelly come to a hard stop pressed firmly down onto him with wet heat he can definitely feel dampening his spandex costume. Peter bites his lips shut when Wade looks at him miserably, barely upright when Peter tips forward, shifting his weight and making Wade groan long and low as Peter sets his hands on Wade’s shoulders.
“Hnh, Baby Boy, you’re fuckin’ wreckin’ me already,” Wade fake complains, unable to look away when Peter’s dark eyes catch his. He smooths his hands up his boyfriend’s thighs and to his sides as Peter snags the top of his Thor costume and starts dragging it down over his shoulders and arms, forcing Wade to let go of him as he starts stripping him. “Oh,” Wade says in a small voice, wiggling to help Peter peel the spandex further down. He misses Peter’s weight when Peter lifts himself up to continue slipping the onesie down, slower over his hips as he grabs his underwear with it, revealing his leaking erection with a tiny, almost embarrassing bounce.
“Ah, Pete,” Wade winces, having to fist his hands in the sheets when Peter continues to move downward. He doesn’t stop until the costume and underwear are tugged off over his feet, leaving him completely exposed on the bed.
Peter hums in approval, the sound a little rough with lust as he drinks in the sight of his fully nude boyfriend laid out just for him. Wade looks torn between delight and bashfulness, which Peter really loves to see because vulnerability looks so good on the merc and he’s sure Wade doesn’t know. He’s clearly excited, breathing unevenly with his erection laying heavy against his belly. Peter drops the costume in a heap before he steps slowly forward again, crawling over Wade’s legs and gently stroking fingertips over Wade’s hips. He grins wolfishly, encouraged by the way Wade’s eyes widen as he bares his teeth, his actual fangs.
Wade may not know that’s what he’s really looking at, but Peter knows Wade likes how sharp his canines are, likes when he breaks skin, likes the faint numbness he apparently still hasn’t realized is a paralyzing, anesthetic venom and not just lusty endorphins flooding his brain. Peter has been careful not to consciously release the toxin when he bites Wade, because they both enjoy it when he does but Peter doesn’t want to freak him out if he finds out just how many other truths Peter has been effectively dodging for months.
At least Deadpool doesn’t know Spider-Man has venom, so he might not draw that particular parallel but he’d at least put together that Peter is a mutant or mutate, and considering everything that had happened with Holt Securities… Peter already feels guilty as hell for keeping that close to the vest. He tries to tell himself that what Wade doesn’t know will only temporarily numb and paralyze him.
Peter looks Wade up and down again, this time even slower as he admires the rise and fall of his broad chest, the way his scars decorate his mottled skin in those familiar webbed rivers and craters that Peter has had the privilege to run his hands over, put his mouth on. He’s so grateful Wade is comfortable sharing this with him and Peter is going to show him exactly how happy it makes him. With a grip on Wade’s hips, he urges him a little further up the bed before nudging his legs further apart with his knees, a move Wade uses on him all the time that apparently works both ways.
Wade scoots, watching Peter’s face and hands as the brunet rubs his thumbs over the V above his hip bones before smoothly tracing down to his inner thighs and squeezing with his palms. Wade lets out another rough breath, and Peter’s grin cools to something mischievous and calculated as he lowers himself, lying halfway on the bed and setting his knees on the floor. He sticks the balls of his feet to the wood through his shoes, too, anchoring himself for good measure.
“Jesus, Pete,” Wade says weakly, their eyes locked. The smaller man’s are nearly black already and the boxes in Wade’s head are dead silent as he watches Peter pointedly prop up on his elbows and loosen the fingerless glove attachments of his costume, tugging at his wrists to tuck them into his sleeves. Wade’s dick twitches when Peter’s lips curve higher again, less inhibited the longer they maintain eye contact, and he swallows the lump in his throat with effort. “You’re so gorgeous, Baby,” Wade says, bending his knees just slightly so he can sit a little further upright. He desperately needs to see what Peter’s going to do, needs to watch when he lays those dexterous fingers on his c—
Humming slyly, Peter wraps one hand around the base of Wade’s uncut cock, appreciative of the way his boyfriend sucks in through his teeth. Peter would be embarrassed at how his own mouth is watering, but he’s been practicing with dildos the last couple of weeks when Wade has been away on jobs overnight, and his merc is going to feel how much improved Peter is at giving head. Wade is going to make that sexy rumble in his gorgeous deep voice again, a dozen times, if earning it is the last thing Peter Parker fucking does. His brain is fuzzy with arousal and need, and while he really wants to touch himself, Peter is going to give Wade his whole attention until Wade or both of them are spent, dammit.
With languid strokes, Peter moves his hand up and down the length of Wade’s erection, the organ hot to the touch, the texture enticing in itself. He thinks about how it feels when Wade is inside of him, how he’s better than any toy Peter’s ever used. Humming absently, he licks his lower lip and gently tugs it into his mouth, biting down when he sees Wade’s gaze dip to watch it. He smirks a little, still with his lip caught, and tips his head at an angle to watch Wade’s face as he rolls the pad of his thumb over the head of his boyfriend’s dick, slicked with precum.
Wade makes a little strangled noise that goes right to Peter’s cunt, making him sigh and wiggle his hips over the edge of the bed, ears and cheeks hot pink. Twisting his wrist, he pins one of Wade’s legs open further and keeps his elbow there, the slightly rough pads of his fingers running along the vein on the underside of the other man’s cock with each meaningful tug upward.
“Fuck,” Wade grinds out between his teeth, eyes still on Peter’s mouth, so Peter frees his now swollen red lip. “Jesus Christ, you’re unbelievably sexy like this, how do you do that?” he goes on breathlessly, making Peter blush harder even as he grins darkly back at the scarred man.
Peter feels powerful like this, driving the larger man wild while he lies pliant before him. Peter would never have the confidence to behave like this outside of a Spider-Man suit, not that he’d really realized it until recently. He should have guessed, considering Spider-Man is the cumulation of every best thing about him: Spider-Man uses his natural voice and doesn’t hesitate to tell bad guys what’s what, Spider-Man is quick-thinking and an excellent improvisor, Spider-Man can talk to strangers easily and comfortably. The mask affords something stronger in Peter, counterintuitively making him feel like he’s not pretending when he just… exists. So Spider-Man gives Peter Parker the guts to lead, to take what he wants when it’s offered — and holy hell is Wade offering. Even without the mask, Wade is offering to let Peter do as he pleases.
So he does, because his nerves are alight with anticipation, and the thrill in his core warms through his pussy and thighs, and if he doesn’t do this now he might psych himself out. Glancing to his working hand, the sight of the webbing pattern on his sleeves, the swell of excitement at the back of his neck slides all the way up into his hazy brain. Peter pushes a hand through his hair, away from his forehead and cheeks, and looks back to Wade for just a moment before he focuses on the length of firm flesh in his hand. Specifically, dragging his tongue from the base up to the tip, where he then looks up to Wade through his lashes.
Wade is white-knuckling the bed sheets, his breaths short and shallow, and Peter has never seen this particular version of awe in him before. Wade is just gone, eyes glazing over as Peter kisses the head of his cock before licking his lips and taking it into his mouth, fingers wrapping the base to steady him. This gets a long, wavering whine out of Wade, and Peter slowly pumps his hand along the lower half of his penis as he works the head with a thoughtful hum. The texture is interesting along his tongue, against the smooth skin of his cheeks and lips, and evidently his boyfriend agrees because Wade’s hips shift just slightly, putting him closer to Peter even as he narrowly avoids bucking into the smaller man’s mouth.
Peter smiles faintly. Wade is so accommodating in little ways, even if this is mutually beneficial. Peter can move straight up and down at this angle, starting to slowly bob, circling the head of Wade’s dick with each peak of the motion. The pace is deliberate, to work Wade up and see how long he can resist trying to move as Peter squeezes a little harder at the base of his cock with each small stroke of the lower half.
Wade is what one might traditionally call “well-endowed.” It’s never been a secret, and it’s hard to miss it when you so much as catch a glimpse below his waist when he’s in the Deadpool suit, cup or no. He’s not modest about it, but he also doesn’t reference it nearly as much as he used to before he’d personally met Spider-Man, and now the dick jokes and self-deprecating brags are almost exclusively for Peter’s ears. Deadpool’s infamous flirtations started dropping to a minimum once he’d started officially dating Peter, and Spider-Man seems to be the only other recipient these days.
Peter revels in this fact as he does his best to get half of Wade’s impressive erection in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he rolls his head forward and back with each dip up and down. He intercepts his falling hair, curls draping over his forehead and eyes. He doesn’t realize Wade is admiring even this about him, how it frames his face, how his lithe fingers catch in the strands. Peter is so focused and increasingly needy as he works Wade’s cock that he doesn’t register the obscene sounds he’s making, slurping and humming softly, wincing when he gets further down than he’d expected himself to so soon, bumping the back of his throat with the head. But Wade notices.
Wade soaks in every little buzz against his sensitive skin, every little whine and unfairly hungry sound Peter makes. It takes everything in Wade’s power not to grab his head and rut into his soft, ambitious mouth. It takes until this moment for him to realize that Peter is working a technique, that he’d clearly been practicing to get this deep, that he must be painfully horny to keep his mouth this wet. Wade’s breath stutters when Peter again reaches to push his own hair back, his cheeks, ears, and neck red, turning his shoulders just slightly as he urges Wade’s thighs further apart.
He shows Wade a little more of his eagerness when he starts picking up the pace, more confident with how low each bob gets, his fingers slicked with drool as he continues to lightly squeeze the base. Wade pries a hand from the sheets, weight on one elbow, and reaches forward to soothingly replace Peter’s hand in his hair with his own, brushing fingers through and scraping lightly against his scalp, encouraging and undeniably affectionate. The brunet moans quietly at the sensation, a reward itself as it reverberates around Wade’s cock.
Peter’s half-lidded, nearly black eyes rise just enough to meet his gaze and Peter almost pauses at the sight of Wade’s dopey smile, the way his brow line curves upward. The smaller man catches Wade looking at him that way sometimes, and recognizes it as helpless adoration; it bubbles something warm in Peter’s chest and groin. Peter laves his tongue over the head one more time, eyes locked on Wade’s as he begins to lower, breathing in through his nose as he pushes the heated length of Wade down his throat until he chokes just slightly, holding his breath.
Wade visibly tenses as he gets further down, eyes widening slightly for the throb of pleasure and just how hot Peter’s fucking throat is, holy shit. Peter is deepthroating him and Wade’s growl resonates deep in his chest, fingers tightening just slightly in the brunet’s soft curls. He feels his boyfriend hum and vibrate around him as Peter moves up just enough to breathe, swallowing around him, and Wade clenches his jaw, expression melting with lust at the crimson burning beautifully across Peter’s skin.
Wade does his damnedest not to haul Peter’s head back down over him, because Peter is in charge right now and this is already a fantastic position they rarely get into. Peter has historically been nervous about performing oral, and Wade had been more than happy to help him figure out the best course of action the few other times they’d gotten his mouth on Wade’s dick. Wade could honestly never get head again if it made Peter uncomfortable or anxious, but Peter had insisted he learn. Insisted Wade let him give as good as he gets, and he’d said it with the cutest look of determination Wade had ever seen on his pretty face.
Obviously, Peter is getting very good at this.
“Peter,” Wade says roughly, hips twitching when Peter gets him all the way in for just a moment, caught in the back of his throat. The small gagging noise Peter makes pulls a whimper out of Wade, his dick throbbing in the tight space, and Peter swallows again before he has to pull back to breathe, popping off of him entirely and panting hotly over the wet organ in front of him as he catches his breath. “Holy mother of cocksucking fucknuts,” Wade slurs, and Peter huffs a little laugh but doesn’t waste time getting his boyfriend back in his mouth, supping at the head and splaying his hands over the tops of Wade’s thighs as he urges him to lay his legs flat.
Unsticking his feet and shifting his knees onto the bed, Peter tucks his legs up under himself and delves deeper again, able to get the leverage as he basks in the undivided attention Wade gives him, the way his grip tightens in his hair but doesn’t try to control the rhythm. Wade is torn between the urge to slam up into Peter’s throat and lie back to watch him work like Wade is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He manages the latter, able to pet Peter’s hair with the brunet’s new angle even as Wade rests back again, dropping his head onto a pillow and sighing.
“Goddamn, Baby Boy,” he murmurs weakly, “you’re really fucking good at this, you been throat-fucking dildos when I’m not home?” he guesses, and Peter whines softly on a downward press for the embarrassingly accurate assumption. He’s even mostly tamed his gag reflex as far as Wade can tell, what with his cock filling the younger man’s throat. “Good boy ,” he praises, even though he would never have dreamed of asking him to practice. But this means that Peter had wanted to, had wanted Wade to fuck his mouth deep enough to choke.
We’re totally gonna marry this boy. Think he’d wear a ring? Does he even like rings? …Does he like Ring Pops?
Peter is building to an impressive pace, pushing Wade far back in his throat as he digs blunt nails into the taller man’s thighs, thighs Peter regularly thinks about when he admires his boyfriend in his super suit or fitted jeans or even sweatpants hanging low on Wade’s hips. He loves how strong Wade is, how strong he looks when he’s moving through a fight like a fluid powerhouse or standing at the other end of the bed before he climbs over Peter and they fuck each other stupid.
That’s Peter’s goal here, to suck Wade into an oblivion of lust and climax, the desire to please him soaking a bigger, darker spot on his joggers. His boxer-briefs are done for, a warm, sticky mess no longer clinging to him. He only gags a few more times, wet and rough, curling his tongue with each pull upward only to drop far enough down that he briefly noses into Wade’s groin again and again.
A familiar tug low in his belly, in his balls, and Wade hisses, fingers latched in Peter’s hair as the brunet drags his teeth up the shaft for a split second, a small but delightfully sharp pain that gets Wade to remember where he is. He tugs Peter’s hair gently, trying to urge him up, but Peter is distracted, pausing low down and swallowing around him again. Wade grunts and shakes his head, pulling him up more insistently.
“Pete, I’m gonna cum,” he warns, and Peter’s too-dark eyes flash as he looks to him, Wade’s dick all the way down his boyfriend’s throat, Peter holding his breath. “You don’t hafta do that, baby,” he tells him sincerely, though his voice is taut, orgasm threatening to make him spill before he can pry Peter up and off. “Fuck, you’ve been so good, I-I know you don’t really—,” he tries to assure him, though his vision is fuzzy around the edges and his view of Peter is surrounded by dreamy hearts and rainbows and stars.
Peter swats his hand away, and Wade obediently takes it from the other man’s curls as Peter holds Wade’s upper thigh and grasps the base of his cock, stroking at varying pressures while he slowly moves up to the head. The drag out of his wet mouth makes Wade groan in harsh fragments as he sits up more, a hand propped behind himself while Peter eases back onto his tucked legs and continues bobbing over half of his dick. It’s still enough that Wade feels his orgasm seize his hips, and he really does have to concentrate not to thrust up when it hits, rolling over him in quick pulses and trickling into his limbs just as Peter’s mouth pops off of him again.
His hand strokes up and down at a smooth easy rhythm as he presses the flat of his tongue to the underside of Wade’s cock, mouth open. Wade rumbles out a loud moan, the sound generated in his chest and throat as Peter whines quietly, shuddering with Wade against his lips. “Peter,” Wade strains tightly, watching with wide eyes as white tendrils paint Peter’s tongue, his lips, and up onto one cheek as Wade cums halfway into his boyfriend’s waiting mouth; it makes the crash of pleasure harder, thrum deeper. Peter flinches but hums in approval, eyes half-lidded and pupils still blown in what Wade has to assure himself is a perfectly normal way, even as the strange sensation of being preyed on strikes him again.
Wade can’t exactly complain, it only fuels the pleasure as he grasps either side of Peter’s head, gazing into his big dark eyes heavy again as the brunet agonizingly pumps him through orgasm, milking the last of it before he finally closes his mouth. Wade watches the bob of Peter’s small Adam’s apple as he swallows, and a rumble reverberates through him as he swipes a thumb through the splatter of cum on Peter’s cheekbone. A little groan escapes the brunet, and he sets a hand over Wade’s to guide his thumb to his lips, taking it into his mouth and cleaning that off as well, unable to look away from Wade’s gorgeous hazel eyes.
He’s still burning a bright scarlet. Peter’s never swallowed after giving head, but Wade looks like he’s never seen anything so satisfying, like he’s going to start fingerfucking his mouth next, and if Peter hadn’t already formed a plan for the next part, he’d oblige and get right to sucking on Wade’s strong fingers like it would be his pleasure. It would, but he pulls Wade’s thumb from between his reddened lips slowly, breathing heavily as he maintains eye contact.
“Lie down, Wade,” Peter instructs in a rasp, his throat pleasantly sore as he stares Wade down with almost alien eyes.
Are his eyes usually that big? Where’d the rest of the whites go?? the boxes wonder, but Wade doesn’t really give a shit when it makes Peter look like a wild animal, which is probably the sexiest thing next to what just happened. Or anything else Peter does when they’re together. Really, he’s surprised they can focus on something like that when Wade is otherwise mindlessly obeying and settling back on the bed with raised eyebrows and evident curiosity. He watches Peter move from the bed, eyes dropping to the darkened bloom between Peter’s legs, his costume joggers wet as he leans over to the nightstand and pulls lube, a black nitrile glove, and condoms out, setting them back on the bed. Wade sees him lick his lips as he saunters casually to the closet.
Opening the door, Peter flicks the light on and pointedly rummages amongst the shelves specifically designated for sexy stuff, things carefully arranged with everything laid out in plain sight, lest something fun be lost to some corner or confine. He waves a hand and wiggles his fingers between a few things, humming thoughtfully. Wade eyes the wet patch on his sweatpants and gnaws his lower lip, effectively distracted as Peter makes his selections and closes the closet door. Wade moves to sit up curiously, but Peter looks to him with a severity he’s never seen before and he pauses, eyebrows still canted upward.
“No peeking,” Peter says lightly, despite mischief in the tone, a devilish grin sliding onto his pretty red lips. He’s a bit of a sweaty mess, but he hasn’t taken off anything other than his packer, headgear, and gloves, even still in his stupidly sexy knee-high sneakers. Wade obeys, leaning back again. “Good girl,” Peter praises gently, and Wade beams at the ceiling, a little pink in the cheeks.
He’s still coming down from a very satisfying orgasm and Peter speaking sweetly in ways Wade usually does makes him feel warm and fuzzy. Peter sets something on the bed and crawls up between Wade’s legs, sharp teeth out when he grins atop him. His mussed curls hang around his face as he leans to kiss Wade, whose eyes slide shut as he sighs into Peter’s warmth. He tastes himself for only a moment, and he couldn’t care any less.
“You wanna be a princess tonight, Wade?” Peter murmurs gently, tracing his jaw line with his fingertips, romantic and far too aware of what Wade likes to hear when he’s not in charge. “Keep bein’ my good girl?” Peter’s face is a soft pink now, matching the blush under Wade’s marbled skin.
He knows just what to say! Seriously, do we marry him now or later?? Later, later, okay, okay.
“Because I noticed you were trying so hard to let me set the pace,” Peter notes, kissing his cheek. “You wanted to face fuck me so badly, didn’t you?” he goes on teasingly, kissing the hinge of Wade’s jaw, his hands on either side of Wade’s head. The mercenary tries to breathe evenly, angling his head to give Peter room to mouth slowly over corded muscle along his neck. “But you were such a good girl, Wade. I liked it when you were petting my hair.” He leans in again, lips brushing his boyfriend’s as he whispers, “I liked sucking your dick, too.”
Are diamonds too boring for a ring? Everyone’s got a diamond, right? We’ll need something way more special-er for Peter when we marry the fuck outta him, the boxes purr.
Wade whines and pushes both hands through Peter’s hair, knocking the hood of his costume back so he can more clearly see the color in the smaller man’s cheeks as Peter breathes in and out irregularly. He relaxes some of his weight over the larger man, setting his hands just above his pecs. “Next time you can fuck my mouth yourself, hm?” Peter offers, trying to sound smug but coming off a lot more shy than he’d meant to. Dammit. But Wade seems to be thrilled either way, holding his face and smiling so sweetly that Peter blushes brighter.
“You did… so fuckin’ good, Baby Boy,” Wade assures him, pulling his face down to kiss his forehead, lingering. “That was maybe the best blowjob I’ve ever had. You look so delicious when you’ve got my cock in your mouth,” he sighs, and Peter squirms atop him. “Was there something else you wanted to do?”
“Oh, I’m definitely gonna fuck you,” Peter says, matter-of-fact, holding one of Wade’s wrists to pull his hand around and kiss his knuckles. Wade shudders, his grin crooked. “First I’m gonna open you up with my fingers. And then I’m gonna fuck you into the mattress. Return the favor for how good you fuck me, Baby,” Peter goes on, confidence renewed by the way Wade’s eyes glaze over. “I don’t do it enough, so maybe we should dress up more often?” he muses, just a touch embarrassed for confessing the costumes do it for him. The irony doesn’t escape Peter, but it goes right over Wade’s head.
“I am… beyond okay with that. Super okay. Probably even fine with it,” Wade teases, grinning at Peter with his perfect teeth. Peter flashes another feral grin, eyes still dark. “You make a good Spider-Man, Petey,” he sincerely commends, hands moving to squeeze Peter’s sides. “You might even be hotter than him,” he adds mischievously, and Peter dips to bite at his nape, earning a delighted yelp and giggle. It’s really the highest of praise, coming from Wade Wilson. He tries not to think about it beyond that, stuck in Horny Mode.
“Knees up, Princess,” Peter commands wryly, and lifts himself from Wade’s naked body, ignoring the cooling squish in his underwear. He still hasn’t touched himself, but as tempted as he is to rip off his joggers and lift his hips to sit on his boyfriend’s bare cock — which is already starting to get hard again — he resists. Duty calls… that is, Wade’s whimpering, painfully aroused bottom face calls, a flattering thought that shoots through his core and warms him all over again. “Can’t wait to see your needy face,” he says slyly, smirking as Wade watches him kneel between his knees. “You’re really cute when you want me,” he adds with a dangerous grin, something giving a rubbery squeak and light snap.
“I’m so glad you think I’m cute all the time,” Wade says cheekily, though he grips under his thighs and keeps his legs spread for Peter, licking his lips absently as the brunet pops the cap of the lube bottle he’d brought over. Wade watches Peter tip it into his now gloved hand to coat his fingers, and Peter glances up as he snaps the lid shut again, looking at Wade from under his lashes and smirking. “God, you’re so hot,” Wade half complains, half praises, basking in the glow of his boyfriend’s blush. It’s still so easy to make him turn pink, turn red, and the merc really hopes it stays that way even as he forces Peter to get used to simple things like compliments.
“Says the prettiest princess I’ve ever met,” Peter replies evenly, and Wade’s little queer heart pangs with affection and a tiny burst of gender euphoria.
That’s us! He’s talking about us!!
They had taken more time to talk about language in the bedroom over the last few weeks, and while it isn’t strictly bedroom-bound for Wade, he certainly feels what Peter had described as “gender euphoria” when feminine endearments are directed at him. Wade’s gender experience is more complicated than he’s really bothered to self-assess until recently, and Peter has a laundry list of recommended literature, blogs, organizations, and forums where Wade could talk to others about it. Literally.
Peter had compiled several lists one day, distracted by the task for hours until he’d presented his findings to his boyfriend with himself listed at the top, smiling lopsidedly and pecking his cheek. Peter had promised that Wade could certainly be his princess if he wants, turning a delicate pink as he’d assured him. So Wade is more than happy to be a princess, and just as happy to be a good girl, especially for his adorable little nerdy Petey-Pie.
“Oh, Baby Cakes Topped With Strawberries and Extra Frosting, you are my favorite,” Wade giggles with glee, and before he can say more, he gasps softly at a gentle press against his hole, slick and warm, Peter smoothing his free hand along the crease of his hip and thigh. Wade drops his head back again, trying to relax even as he feels excitement burn in him again.
Peter slowly traces around the ring of muscle, watching Wade’s fingers twitch where he holds his thighs up for the brunet. Bending slightly over him, Peter angles his hand to rub from under his balls over his perineum with lubed fingers, grazing his hole a few times and making Wade huff softly. It’s pleasant, sending a few little shivers through him, but Wade knows Peter won’t go much faster yet; he’s a tease, for one thing, and always makes sure the larger man is fully prepped before he finally gives Wade what he’s really after. A low hum of approval sounds from the younger man and Wade looks down at him hovering above his belly as his finger prods Wade’s entrance. A ragged sigh escapes him when Peter carefully breaches his anus, dark eyes locked on the hazy hazel of Wade’s.
Peter looks positively dangerous as he tips his head down to watch Wade from under his long lashes again, which sends bolts of pleasure and a tiny pulse of intimidation through Wade’s core, wrapping around his chest. His dick twitches against his abdomen, half-hard again, and Peter slowly looks down at it, smirking. Wade wants it to be both condescending and appraising, so he lets himself believe it’s a little of both as Peter agonizingly slowly slides his middle finger into Wade, remaining fingers splayed between Wade’s ass cheeks.
Peter gets further in with a few slow rolls of his palm, down to the first, then second knuckle until Wade is keening, shoulders tense. He tries to keep his legs up, but Peter deems his efforts insufficient and hikes one up over his shoulder to lift him slightly, other hand now holding Wade at the back of his hip, firm and steady to keep him that much more angled and open while the larger man presses his head back into his pillow.
Fuck , Wade loves how stable Peter is, loves how deceptively strong his little Shutterbug is, how cautious he is with Wade’s body. Always holding firmly but never too tightly, like he’s afraid to really grab Wade, even when they roughhouse into making out and then inevitably sex. Peter has pinned him countless times, easily held him in place, put Wade exactly where he’s wanted him, but Wade always feels like he’s holding back, as if Wade can’t take it. He’s a mercenary, for fuck’s sake (And essentially immortal, which is probably more relevant—), but the last time he’d brought it up, Peter had been anxious to change the subject and Wade had grudgingly allowed it.
But when Peter holds him like this, steady and sure and sickeningly supportive, Wade doesn’t feel like he needs more. It’s not like anyone had offered this sort of thing before, anyway. Even Vanessa couldn’t catch his weight for very long, but Peter doesn’t even tremble. The same can’t be said for Wade, who shudders when Peter begins working his perfect, slender finger in and out of his ass, dragging a groan out of him whenever he grazes Wade’s prostate. The bursts of pleasure punch out little moans and Wade tries to reel himself in enough to look at Peter again, trying to breathe carefully while the other man slowly twists his wrist to offer more friction.
Peter’s eyes are big and black as he watches… no, observes Wade. When did he put his hood back up? Fuck, that shadowy look is terrifying in the best way. Wade’s brain is a jumbled mess of want want want and passion and something else strange that tries to get his attention but is easily stomped on by the wave of lust that accompanies Peter circling the pad of his finger over his prostate again. A deep rumbling moan breaks from between Wade’s lips, and Peter presses upward as he drags his finger back out to the first knuckle. Wade is about to roll his hips insistently, but Peter just adds a finger and carefully presses back into his hole, stretching the muscle wider and making Wade whine. He’s fully hard now, leaking precum.
There are many benefits to having an incredible healing factor, not least of which is getting in several rounds of sex at a time.
“Aww, it’s only two fingers, Baby,” Peter coos, and the way he rakes his eyes from where he works Wade’s hole up to his mouth can only be described as hungry. “I love your voice, Princess,” he sighs teasingly, and Wade bites his lip with a wince, which makes the brunet’s eyes flash. “Good girl,” he growls, twisting inside of him again, back to the second knuckle. “You’re so tight,” he notes lowly, baring his teeth in a feral grin when Wade bashfully looks away. The hand at Wade’s hip grips him tightly then, just surprising enough that Wade sucks in through his teeth and frees his lower lip.
“Wanna see you, Wade. Gonna be a good girl and look at me?” he murmurs, and it’s exactly the right amount of smug and sweet so Wade hypnotically turns his gaze back to the black engulfing Peter’s irises.
“Fuck,” Wade whines, squeezing his own thighs hard enough to bruise, little blossoms of color that begin cycling through the healing process. The heat from the smaller man’s fingers inside of him, from the way he drinks Wade in, curls in his belly and blossoms in his chest; he can feel that look thread out to his fingertips. “Y-yeah. I can be good,” he says meekly, swallowing hard when Peter gets both fingers all the way in and rubs deliberately over that sweet spot again. Wade groans, repositioning his hands to hold behind his knees, trying to open up his untrapped leg more. Peter leans back slightly, but ducks to mouth at Wade’s thigh held up against his shoulder with a soft chuckle.
“I know you can, Princess,” Peter encourages sweetly, nipping the scarred skin delicately as he twists his wrist again, making Wade whimper. The sound has Peter biting a little harder, face flushed as he watches Wade from the corner of his eye.
“Holy shit, Baby Boy,” he says aimlessly, and Peter moves to mouth higher up the man’s leg, bent slightly and dragging his fingers back out of his boyfriend. Wade squirms, dropping one hand to the mattress when Peter takes his from the taller man’s hip, reaching just out of sight. Wade waits as patiently as an achingly horny and needy princess can, and a thrill shoots through him at the sound of the lube bottle opening again.
Peter’s mouth moves from his thigh so he can shift to get more lube onto his fingers, but then the bottle is capped and Peter holds the outside of Wade’s thigh to lift him more. He circles Wade’s hole with three fingers now, and Wade tries to get a hold of his breathing. He’s relaxed enough, but he’s excited, and Peter puts that sinful mouth back on his sensitive skin and latches on. Sucking a short-lived bruise as he breaches Wade’s hole again, Peter pushes all the way in and turns his hand only enough to hold the perfect position inside of him, letting Wade adjust as he sinks his teeth into his inner thigh just enough to draw blood.
Wade practically screams, but Peter recognizes this scream as briefly overwhelmed pleasure and triumphantly laps at the tiny beads of blood as he pulls away from Wade’s textured skin. God, he so loves how Wade feels in his mouth, it’s got to be criminal. He sets a few gentle kisses around the very temporary hickey and flicks his tongue over the last of the bleeding as the tiny punctures seal up. Wade grasps blindly at the sheets, trying to find purchase as arousal throbs through him, and he clumsily takes himself in hand, holding the base of his aching erection and tugging. The added pleasure of finally touching himself makes him moan, but Peter’s fingers start to move and Wade’s hand stutters.
“Hmm,” Peter muses, voice low and raspy as he licks his lips and watches Wade’s hand with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t remember telling you to touch yourself, Princess. Thought you were gonna be good for me?” he says with false lightness, dragging teeth over his thigh again, fingers digging into Wade’s hip even as his working hand starts to pick up the pace. He knows he doesn’t have to physically stop Wade, because his merc is such a sucker for being told what to do in bed that Wade whimpers and nods, prying his hand away from his cock. It bobs and hangs over his belly again, and Wade harshly clamps onto his bottom lip as he looks to Peter pleadingly.
“That’s better,” Peter purrs, lightening up on his hip to stroke featherlight fingertips down along the leg he’s currently mouthing again. “Good girl,” he adds pleasantly, the twisting of his fingers inside of Wade pulling another rumble out of him as his knuckles bump his prostate in quick succession.
He spends a few minutes just finger fucking his boyfriend, basking in those perfect rumbles with his own underwear and joggers drenched, worsened every time Wade makes another sound for him, little whines and low moans. Peter curls his fingers with each outward pull, kneading the bundle of nerves that keeps ripping those pretty noises from the other man. Wade obediently keeps his hands away from his erection, heavy and dusky and dripping.
Peter knows it drives him wild to have to wait, but the payoff always has Wade limp and pliant once he hits orgasm after a bit of denial. Besides, Wade doesn’t get bossed around much, not by anyone he respects enough to listen to, anyway; he’s always eager to please when Peter (or Spidey) whips out any amount of command, and Peter feels powerful again as he watches Wade writhe under him from just his hand and mouth. He glances to the strap-on and dildo he’d brought over, one of Wade’s favorites to get fucked with, feeling a rush of pride that he’s about to make Wade cry out for him again and again.
When Wade looks like he might actually explode if Peter continues to tease him, he slowly pulls his fingers free, the other man’s hole twitching as he gasps for breath and rubs his face with one hand, sweaty and panting. He cranes his neck and looks both disappointed and excited as Peter pulls back from him. Tossing the glove into the small trash bin by Wade’s nightstand, Peter smiles deviously and slowly pushes at the waistband of his joggers. Wade watches the movement of his hands, the way he untucks the cuffs from his knee-high shoes; he’s able to leave them on as he peels both the sweatpants and his — holy shit, soaking wet boxer-briefs — off and drops them carelessly to the floor.
“Oh fuck,” Wade mutters brokenly, and repeats it ad nauseum as Peter picks up his strap-on from the end of the bed, slowly stepping into it and tightening the straps behind his hips. He snaps a strap over his thigh and grins playfully, canines peeking over his lip, darkened eyes shrouded by his hood, and wow does Wade really like Peter in a hoodie. Especially this one, with the spider on his spandex top clinging so perfectly to the shape of him, his waist, the definition of his abs. Wade doesn’t know how he does it, but it’s not important because Peter pops the lube again, dripping it over the ribbed blue dildo secured to Peter’s groin.
Wade exhales roughly, vision fuzzy pink on the edges as he admires the way Peter smiles at him, the danger of it gone for a few moments as he teasingly sticks his tongue out while he languidly strokes the dildo, a bright blue that matches his top. (How fitting!) The brunet nears the bed again, shifting on his knees as he uses his lubed hand to rub over Wade’s entrance. Wade yelps and laughs, but spreads his legs invitingly, heart racing with affection and arousal as Peter briefly presses the tip of his thumb against him.
“Good girl!” Peter praises sweetly, hiking one of Wade’s legs up over his shoulder, because Wade is taller than him and he can easily take the weight. Wade gasps this cute little gasp that makes Peter’s heart swell as he pushes Wade’s other leg up, knee angled out as his legs are effectively spread again. He nips at Wade’s other thigh this time — to balance out the attention, of course. Rubbing the cool head of the ribbed dildo over Wade’s slicked hole, Peter lifts his hips a little more with his clean hand and watches Wade at an angle.
The smaller man bites mid-thigh and lolls his tongue forward as he nudges his colorful cock past the outer ring of muscle, groaning softly as Wade moans and drops his head back. Arching upward and allowing Peter’s hand to catch more under him, Wade gives them the necessary angle for Peter to both kneel comfortably and rock his hips closer and closer. Together they moan, sweaty and excited as Peter reaches the hilt, the feedback pressure against himself making it a little harder to focus as Peter waits to let Wade acclimate again; the dildo is bigger than Peter’s three fingers, so Peter is worried he’ll unintentionally hurt Wade if he doesn’t let him adjust first.
Wade can tell Peter’s worried about this specifically because he always is; Peter’s experience with penetration had been a mixed bag before Wade. (Lube is your friend, kids, and don’t be ashamed to use more! More is … well, more, and it’s always better than not enough!) It both fills and breaks the mercenary’s heart that Peter is so cautious with him, a pointedly, technically indestructible mutant. But that’s another reason to love the doofus: he doesn’t want to hurt Wade. Wade might heal from fatal wounds and rise from the dead but he still experiences pain, and Peter doesn’t want to cause his boyfriend any pain he doesn’t specifically ask for. So when Wade quite quickly gets impatient, he sets his hand over Peter’s on his thigh, and Peter looks like he might break when Wade smiles lazily at him, still breathing hard.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” he mutters, and Peter bends forward to bring the other man’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “I really, really need you to fuck me, Baby Boy,” Wade tells him hoarsely, wiggling his hips and whining when he can hear Peter’s breath hitch. The smaller man pulls his hips back slightly, only an inch or two, before he rocks forward again. Wade bumps up on the bed with the motion and exhales sharply as Peter’s tongue flicks over scarred fingertips, blackened eyes locked on Wade’s melting expression as the dildo grazes his prostate again. Wade shudders with his whole body, and Peter growls low in his throat, sucking Wade’s index finger into his mouth and curling his tongue with the length of it as he starts to pick up the tempo.
“You’re so beautiful,” Peter sighs, resting Wade’s fingertips on his lower lip and smirking as he watches Wade’s face, the way it delicately pinkens. He gyrates his hips with the next few thrusts, groaning softly at the pressure against himself as he nips Wade’s knuckles when his boyfriend grasps his hand and gasps quietly. He breathes in deeply when Wade whines and lets each outward thrust come out a little further, making each roll back into Wade feel deeper, teasing that sweet spot with the ridges of the dildo each time. The pleasure pulses as Peter finds a steadily increasing rhythm, and Wade whimpers as his legs tremble. “Hn, Wade,” Peter pants, turning Wade’s hand to kiss his palm sweetly, “get on your side, Princess.”
Wade only takes a moment to register the instruction, and Peter frees his hand so he can carefully twist his body, supporting himself enough to let Peter continue fucking him as the shorter man carefully maneuvers Wade’s leg around front, hooking an arm under his knee and sliding along the bed to lie close behind him. Pressing into Wade’s back, Peter snakes an arm around Wade’s neck before anchoring his shoulders back against him and kissing his nape when Wade squirms, keening in a way that makes Peter so fucking wet he can feel himself dripping again, slicking enough of the base of the dildo that it adds to his own pleasure with the feedback.
“Fuck,” Peter rasps, squeezing his merc’s deltoid and pulling him so Wade halfway leans back into him. In this position, Peter can get deep inside of him again, hips snapping more upward as he digs his heels into the mattress to anchor himself.
“Pete,” Wade pants, shuddering for the word slipping out of Peter’s lips at his neck. He sets one hand on the forearm just under his collarbone and squeezes firm, lean muscle. “ Fuck , Baby, you’re so strong,” he praises excitedly, rock hard and grabbing at his boyfriend’s hip so he won’t touch himself yet. “Ngh, c-can I—?” he begins to beg, and Peter latches his hot mouth onto the curve of Wade’s neck, nails digging into the taller man’s shoulder and tearing a delighted yelp out of Wade when he simultaneously hits his prostate again. “Ah, fuck.”
“How badly do you want to touch yourself?” Peter asks lowly against the other man’s nape, planting kisses up and down marbled skin and nibbling his earlobe when Wade angles his head invitingly. His hips don’t stop or slow when he hikes Wade’s leg up further. Wade’s breath catches in his throat and Peter preens with a pleased hum, smirking against the base of his skull. Wade’s body heat and the soft give of his flesh and the desperate sounds he can’t stop making further fog Peter’s brain with lust and a deep need to keep him. It’s not possessiveness, exactly, but it’s damned sure close. “I know you’ll be a good girl, Baby. You’ll keep those lovely hands off until I tell you, right?” he implores, biting gently around a sinuous cord of muscle along Wade’s neck. His skin tastes like sweat and copper, smells like traces of burnt sugar — nitroglycerin, from what Peter can only guess must be explosives.
Wade’s mind is reeling from desperation to obey Peter’s command, but the pleasure from inside — settled and filling his core, radiating up his spine and through his thighs and balls — is making it hard to resist wrapping a hand around his throbbing cock. The friction of it rubbing against his abs with each thrust is maddening. So he tests the waters, blunt nails scraping the webbed sleeve of the other’s costume, his other hand sliding back around to Peter’s ass and making his boyfriend laugh breathily. “What happens if I don’t?” he asks impishly, biting his lower lip as he arches his back.
Peter hums, feigning thinking about it as he cruelly, so cruelly , starts to slow the roll of his hips. Wade gasps theatrically, but the loss of the near-constant pulse of pleasure from his prostate is truly unfair. Even Peter’s kisses become gentler. The taller man grinds his teeth and turns his head to moan into Peter’s elbow. “That’s cheating,” he argues helplessly, half kneading and half pushing Peter’s perfect ass to try urging him to move faster again. “F-fuck, Petey, please? I won’t touch, I promise.”
“You sure? You sounded so tempted,” Peter teases, laving his tongue over Wade’s pulse point, scraping his sharp canines over it.
Vampire Peter!! Vamp-Peter, goes chomp chomp, Peter! the boxes say gleefully, speaking up for the first time in the last ten minutes. Wade huffs a weak laugh.
“N-no, I’ll be good,” Wade assures him breathlessly, wiggling his hips insistently. Peter chuckles darkly, nipping the shell of his ear.
“Of course you will, Princess,” Peter says evenly, even though he’s had to focus on his breathing to keep up the façade of control. Jesus, Wade is so fucking sexy and he has no idea what it does to Peter. So Peter tells him. “God, you’re so hot, Wade, you turn me on just by opening your mouth,” he sighs, picking up the pace again, Wade shivering in his arms. Peter hugs his torso closer. “You’re so thicc— that’s two C’s, Wade, you’re two-C’s ‘thicc,’ fuck,” he growls, and Wade groans louder. “I love your thighs,” he says, hiking the man’s thigh higher and giving it a meaningful squeeze, “I love your ass.” A particularly deep thrust for emphasis, and he stays in deep to press against the meat of Wade’s butt, smiling pleasantly just under the man’s ear. Wade’s chest heaves with his breath, and Peter revels in the expansion and contraction of it against him. Big and warm and sensitive. Mercifully, he moves again, rather than teasing him too much.
“I love how gentle you are,” Peter goes on softer, though he rocks into Wade at a near-punishing rhythm, making him wail. “I love how considerate you are. Your cooking is so fuckin’ good, Baby. You pout so cutely when I whoop you in games… I feel so safe with you…”
The compliments have his heart and tummy in a tizzy, and Wade is sure he’s got hearts in his eyes as he flushes a bright pink under the rivers of his skin. Peter even feels safe with him, and no one’s ever said that before. Most people say they’re afraid of him, that he’s batshit crazy, or some flavorful combination. Wade whimpers, soft moans coming with each thrust.
“Y-yeah?” he manages, and Peter nods into his neck, squeezing his shoulder lightly. Wade wonders if Peter is anchoring him or himself and slides his hand from Peter’s ass back to his hip; he pushes his boyfriend’s top up to make direct skin contact while his other hand strokes under the sleeve along Peter’s arm where it lays across Wade’s collarbone. Peter winces quietly at his ear and his grip tightens on Wade’s deltoid. “Pete—,” he tries to go on, but Peter ducks his face to the curve of his neck and gyrates harsher thrusts. Wade’s arousal makes it impossible for his voice not to falter into strangled moans with each one.
“I love you, Wade,” Peter breathes in his ear, kissing it softly before returning to his neck to sink his teeth in.
Wade cries out, a heated tugging in his belly that tightens in his balls; Wade’s vision gets fuzzy as he feels a trickle of blood and the pain of the bite vanishes in half a second. It’s impressive, how Peter can fully break skin and the pain doesn’t linger. Wade wouldn’t even mind the pain, since it’s coming from Peter and he’s sitting at a low level of it every waking moment anyway, but Peter licks over his bite and trails kisses up and down his trapezius as Wade feels the buildup of encroaching orgasm. “Baby Boy,” he whines, clutching at his arm and throwing the hand he’d had on Peter’s hip up and behind himself, grasping the base of the brunet’s skull; Peter’s hips stutter as Wade presses the smaller man’s face to his nape, and Peter rewards him with another bite, sucking a hickey into the same spot; he barely draws blood as he does and Wade is briefly disappointed that he can’t feel it for a moment.
“You wanna cum, Princess?” Peter whispers at Wade’s ear, breathing him in deeply when Wade’s fingers twitch at the back of his head. “I won’t stop even if you touch yourself,” he finally allows, shifting up slightly, the angle just different enough to distract Wade before the taller man pulls his hand away from Peter’s head to grab his leaking cock with a loud moan. It takes him a moment to come back to himself long enough to remember how to jerk off, his pumps clumsy as Peter slides the hand on Wade’s shoulder along and up to cradle his neck and head, angling Wade’s face to kiss his cheek before he nips at his jawline. “Good girl,” he praises when Wade twitches helplessly halfway atop him.
Wade cums with Peter’s name on his lips, a deep rumbling in his chest that then gets pitchier as he repeats it, and Peter grinds his teeth as he tucks his chin over Wade’s shoulder, nuzzling their cheeks and looking down the stretch of Wade’s torso to watch. It drives Wade wild, that Peter wants to see, that Peter holds him so tightly and keeps his promise to keep going, pushing roughly into him even as the cascade of orgasm washes over Wade, a hard shudder rippling through him. Thin ropes of white erupt from the reddened tip, landing messily across Wade’s chest and abdomen. Peter continues to roll into him, only slowing slightly as Wade shakes against him.
Stiffly, Peter pries his hand from Wade’s thigh, urging him to lower his leg before he glides the same hand over the jut of Wade’s hip. He nudges the other’s hand away to wrap his own around Wade’s dick and gently stroke him through the little aftershocks of orgasm. Wade can barely breathe, overwhelmed and well beyond sated. Peter’s hand is slender and strong, and he doesn’t hold too tightly as he eases him through until Wade starts to soften. Peter frees him then, splaying his hand on the mercenary’s abs and feeling him breathe. His own breath is ragged and heavy, his hips slowed to a stop all the way inside him, pressed against Wade’s prostate but unmoving, which makes the spent man whimper and his muscles twitch before he relaxes again.
“Gorgeous,” Peter murmurs, eyes closed as he sighs dreamily, knowing he’s soaked the bed beneath himself, still horny and trying not to focus on how badly he needs to finish. Wade is heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction, and Peter lets himself grin against his neck, proud he’d brought Wade to this state. He’s sure he’s bright red, probably has been the whole time, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. Especially not because Wade regularly tells him how pretty it is, how red is definitely his color. “Wade, you’re so… you’re everything I need. I love you. I love fucking you— I love it when you fuck me. I just really love you,” Peter babbles quietly, voice nearly cracking as he presses himself closer, making Wade wince for the dildo still in his ass. “…Want me to pull out?” Peter asks with mild amusement, realizing he should probably not drag Wade through oversensitivity even if his refractory period is basically inhuman.
“Just a sec,” Wade strains, basking in Peter’s warmth at his back, the pleasant discomfort of formerly tensed muscles now loose and limbs floppy. He chuckles to himself, and Peter noses under his ear. “That was amazing, you’re like if I could fuck the raw sensuality of Bea Arthur. Like if that sensuality had freckles and could look at me like I’m a prime-cut steak dinner served rare,” Wade says confidently, tugging Peter’s arm away so he can take his hand and give his knuckles an exaggerated smooch, making Peter laugh. “I really adore how you top me, Pumpkin,” he muses, and Peter squirms behind him, the dildo rubbing his sweet spot again and making him jolt. “Ah, okay, maybe time to pull out, yeah,” he says in a rush, laughing again.
Peter carefully cants his hips back, easing out of his boyfriend with a breathy moan as it releases a little stream of his own wetness. He bites back a whimper, his enlarged clit hard even as he tries not to stay that way. The goal had been to pamper Wade and he’d accomplished that; it’s not a big deal not to finish, it’s not the only thing he wants out of sex anyway. Wade is so good to him, he just wants to show him in different ways how badly Peter needs his merc sometimes, and sometimes that means anal sex that leaves him breathless in Peter’s arms. Wade shifts carefully when the brunet doesn’t move as quickly as he’d thought he would, and Peter realizes his boyfriend will notice how stupidly turned on he is if he doesn’t distract him.
“You were such a good girl,” he assures Wade sincerely, scooting away enough to let Wade lie back, remaining on his own side and propping up on an elbow. Peter tips forward to kiss Wade lightly on the lips, lingering with a little hum when Wade lifts an arm to push a hand into Peter’s hair under his hood.
“Can I return the favor, Pete?” Wade murmurs, and the smaller man frowns just slightly, caught.
“It wasn’t a ‘favor,’ Wade,” Peter tries to intercede, gut twisting.
“I know, Baby,” Wade says softly. “But you know I don’t love to get off if you don’t, too, Petey,” Wade points out, craning his neck just enough to look down at the strap-on. “Besides…” He flashes a cheeky grin, looking into Peter’s dark eyes with his own, still blown with orgasm and arousal even as his body comes down. “I think you know I’m good for it.”
“I’m happy to spoil you, Princess,” Peter protests, and it’s true. It’s just a lot easier to top Wade when he’s… not just Peter. Not that he’s going to elaborate on that with Wade. Oh god, he’s waited so long to tell him. Should he just tell him? What if he doesn’t believe him? Peter could totally make him believe, but shit. Right after mind-blowing sex might not be the best time. But when is the best time, when he’s kept Spider-Man and Peter Parker separate this long? Aw hell, he’s basically just lying to Wade at this point—
“You’re making a face,” Wade chastises, and Peter quickly schools it to neutral, caught again. “Are you doing that silly guilty thing? Cuz you don’t top often?”
Peter flushes, pressing his lips tightly together into a thin line. He could swear one of Wade’s mutations is telepathy. “No,” he half-lies, because at least Wade isn’t guessing he’s Spider-Man.
“Then let me assure you, Petey Pumpkin Pie,” Wade says roughly, turning to face Peter, who can’t take his eyes off of Wade’s pretty hazel as his boyfriend gazes meaningfully at him. “I always enjoy what we do together. And I would so love to fuck you right now, if you’ll have me,” the taller man purrs, and his lazy smile makes Peter weak. “Because I really enjoy fucking you.”
“It’s—,” Peter tries to protest, absently pulling at the straps of his equipment to loosen it, take it off, but his brain gets foggier the longer Wade looks at him with gorgeous and stern hazel eyes. “It’s fine,” he says hoarsely. He’s not lying this time, not exactly, but Wade has been able to puzzle him out in the bedroom with remarkable ease, so even if his Shutterbug says he’s good, he knows Peter will fucking roll over for him if he tells him to. Hell, he’ll roll over if Wade asks him to. Peter’s eyes drop briefly to his boyfriend’s dick and gnaws one corner of his bottom lip. “I’m good,” he squeaks, and now it’s a lie.
“Babe,” Wade chuckles smugly, pushing his hand into Peter’s hair again. The smaller man’s entire body quakes, and he shuts his eyes. “I’m telling you I want to fuck you. Can’t I treat my Baby Boy when he treats me?”
“N—,” Peter starts, but stops himself, embarrassed and eager and grateful Wade can say the words he can’t. “Yeah,” he says shyly, feeling silly for being shy at all. He knows he doesn’t have to be, that Wade’s teasing is purely affectionate and it’s extremely unlikely he’s going to turn around and change his mind at the last second, leaving Peter to his own devices — which he’d be totally fine with! He’s a grown-ass man and there are plenty of toys and vibrators in the bedroom, and it’s not like Peter doesn’t occasionally use his own damn hand.
Wade leans and kisses Peter’s forehead through his sweat-dampened hair. The brunet’s cheeks and ears are pink. “Then get that dick off so I can give you mine,” he urges wryly, reaching to help undo the straps as Peter fumbles with them, energy picking up when Wade kisses him sweetly. They shift and Peter wiggles out of the strap-on with a content sigh, the base of it dragging over his clit and making him groan. Peter reaches to brace on Wade’s shoulder when the other man comes over him, nudging his legs apart and revealing just how horny Peter really is. Wade’s hairless eyebrows raise as he looks down between them, and Peter winces, hiding his face in his hands.
“Damn, Baby Boy,” Wade growls, tracing fingertips over his boyfriend’s swollen dick and the pool of slick on the sheets, between his folds, making Peter squirm and swallow a whine. Good thing they’ve got a mattress protector on, holy shit. “You’re fuckin’… fuck,” he mutters mindlessly, licking his lips.
“Sorry,” Peter groans miserably. He’d really tried to hide it, he feels so weird not being able to give Wade a good time without making a mess even when he doesn’t get off. He’s surprised his hormones let him get this far, but Wade does exceptional things to Peter’s libido. “I’ll wash the sheets later, I jus— mmph,” Peter tries to promise him, but Wade has pulled his hands from his face and smashed his lips into Peter’s in an impatient, heated kiss that Peter positively melts into, tension swept away as he relaxes to let Wade trap his forearms against the bed.
“Don’t apologize, Pete,” Wade growls, gathering both of the brunet’s wrists into one hand and pressing them above his head into a pillow. Peter’s face is hot pink and his darkened eyes are half-lidded as he watches Wade’s face. “You got like this because you fucked me?”
“Um.” Peter winces guiltily, grimacing sheepishly. “And uh. Because of the, uh. BJ.”
Wade groans at length, tossing his head back for effect before he ducks and kisses Peter hard enough to bruise, drawing a whine out of him. “Fuck, that’s hot. You’re so fucking hot, how do you do that?” he demands when he pulls back before diving down to steal his mouth again.
Peter laughs dizzily between kisses as Wade continues to work him up. “Do what?” he manages to ask, raising his hips needily as Wade lowers his own over him, pressing their cocks together. Peter moans loudly, surprising himself.
“That. That sexy thing, I can’t get you off my mind, ever. I think about you all the time. I adore you, Peter,” Wade explains roughly, peppering his face with little kisses and ducking under his chin to mouth at Peter’s neck, pulling at the neckline of the spandex in his way. As hot as the costume is, covering up Peter’s neck is practically a criminal offense. If he’d been in an updated Spidey suit, Wade would have access to at least half his neck as soon as he’d taken the mask off. He should totally find a really good updated cosplay for Peter, he already looks amazing in this older version.
Like, way beyond amazing. Like, the real deal. God, why haven’t we seen Petey in butt-hugging spandex yet? The joggers are cute and all, but c’mon! Nothing hugs Dat Ass like spandex.
Wade pulls back a moment to admire how Peter looks in the red and blue, the spider over his heaving chest, the webbing he’d worked so hard on over the sleeves and hood. Peter’s fingers flex above him, and Wade groans. “You like being in the costume?” he asks, voice deepened with desire.
“Y-yeah,” Peter admits, burning crimson now, complementary of the red in his costume. “It. It gives me confidence,” he admits in a tone that Wade’s heard a handful of times and still can’t quite place, like maybe Peter’s trying to tell him something but doesn’t know how. Wade grins wolfishly down at him and Peter’s lips stretch into a lopsided smile.
“I noticed, Hot Stuff,” Wade teases, and Peter’s smile shifts into a triumphant grin. The taller man ruts against him, sliding between his wet folds and over his dick, pulling a breathy whine from his boyfriend. “So allow me to show you exactly how attracted I am to you, whether or not you’ve got a really good Spidey suit on.” He glances down again, smirking. “Or those adorable shoes.” Peter curls his toes in his knee-high sneakers, chuckling. “…Think I’ll try something you might like.”
Peter is slipping into big dumb sex brain again, unlike the sex brain he falls into when he tops; Wade has barely done anything and already he’s getting cock stupid. Dammit. “What thing?” the brunet manages to ask as Wade smooths his hand down Peter’s side, his hip, his thigh, hiking up his knee. He switches the hand holding Peter’s wrists and repeats the motion with the smaller man’s other leg, bringing them closer together as Wade moves to press directly against his crotch.
“Wade!” Peter blurts, voice taut. Wade doesn’t let go of his wrists as he takes one of Peter’s ankles and moves his leg in front of his body, repeating the motion until both legs are pressed against Wade’s chest, Peter’s feet in the air and his pussy exposed against the length of Wade’s erection. “Wade,” he repeats in a whimper, twitching. Wade rumbles, that sound that always messes up Peter’s brain, and he furrows his brow and closes his eyes as he bites his lip hard. His vulva and the tip of his dick are on fire where the textured skin of the other man’s erection slides against him.
“Love your teeth,” Wade murmurs lowly, and Peter’s eyes flick open, pupils blown wide again already, “fuck, and when your eyes go dark like that.”
“W-what?” Peter asks, more surprised than anything, but Wade grinds against him, immediately distracting him. The brunet writhes, pressing up into Wade’s grip on his wrists and bucking his hips with some difficulty when Wade grabs his ankles together in one hand. Now he’s got Peter pinned, leaning into him and sending a thrill up his spine. He can break the hold, of course, but he really doesn’t want to. “Ah—,” he gasps, “fuck.”
“Love that dirty mouth,” Wade goes on teasingly, rubbing against him and moaning for how wet and pliant Peter is, how he gazes dazedly up at Wade with his lips parted. He glances across the bed, spotting the condoms and lube, and hikes Peter’s ankles closer to his neck so he can snatch up a condom and the little bottle. They should get a pump bottle at this rate. “I’m tempted to tie you down, baby,” Wade muses as he sets them closer by and leans into his boyfriend again.
They’ve been experimenting with light bondage lately, much to Wade’s sheer delight. Peter is much newer to it than he is, so it’s been a careful process of steady introduction. Peter loves being held down, but he’s been more hesitant with other restraints, so every step forward is a shared victory. Peter huffs, shoulders wiggling, fingers flexing and curling. “Aw, was that a ‘yes please,’ Petey?”
“I-I’m just… also i-impatient,” Peter stammers out honestly, trying to focus long enough to speak coherently.
“Handcuffs are pretty quick,” Wade reminds him. He bounces both eyebrows and looks to the nightstand. “The double-locking kind. Sturdy. Chose the bedframe for just this sort of occasion,” he goes on temptingly, grip tightening over Peter’s wrists. The brunet bites his lip and looks to the nightstand. “Right at the top,” Wade tells him meaningfully, loosening his hold. Peter flushes brightly and nods, so Wade fully frees his hands and watches him reach out, fumbling with the drawer knob and fishing for the cuffs while Wade takes the moment to tear open the condom, pushing Peter’s legs higher, closer to the photographer’s chest. He groans as he rolls the condom on while Peter pulls out the cuffs, trembling when Wade squeezes his inner thigh. Wade is dripping lube onto his wrapped dick when the clink of metal catches his attention again.
Peter hastily affixes a cuff around one wrist, and Wade watches with smug amusement as he stretches his arms to put the other cuff around one bar of the headboard, the bedframe a solid metal because Wade has always liked to have somewhere to anchor fun things. Peter chews his bottom lip as he closes the second cuff around his other wrist and gives them a little experimental tug. Secured, technically; Wade doesn’t know how easily he could break both the cuffs and the bedframe, but he still likes it, still likes something to resist against. His cheeks and ears burn bright with the heat crawling up his neck.
When he looks back to Wade, the other man’s expression is almost dangerous, sending arousal through Peter’s core, his cunt twitching again as he wraps fingers around the little links between his cuffs. He bites his lip harder when Wade carefully adjusts Peter’s legs to set an ankle over each of his shoulders, the canvas of his shoes rough on Wade’s sensitive skin. Wade lifts his hips more and pushes forward, bending Peter into himself with his knees pressed to his own shoulders as Wade leans down and captures his lips.
The smaller man breathes a satisfied sigh, melting under the attention of Wade’s expert mouth, parting his lips in invitation; Wade accepts with a hum, meeting Peter’s tongue with his own. Angling his feet to lock behind Wade’s head, Peter keeps him close and wiggles his hips to feel Wade’s length firmer against him, arousal keeping him alert and making him impatient again as Wade takes his time exploring his boyfriend’s mouth. Peter grunts softly, nipping Wade’s bottom lip, and Wade chuckles, rocking into him teasingly but not yet moving to get himself inside. Peter nips again, this time letting his canines catch textured skin, and Wade groans quietly, setting his hands on Peter’s thighs and squeezing.
“You want me, Baby Boy?” Wade asks slyly, but when Peter opens his eyes, the other man is smiling dreamily down at him. If he squints hard enough, he’s pretty sure he can see hearts in Wade’s eyes. It makes Peter’s chest swell and he nods frantically. “How could I say no to such a handsome face?” the merc says playfully, finally, finally taking himself at the base of his cock and pulling back only enough to carefully line up by feel alone. He wants to watch Peter’s face when he breaches the tightness waiting for him.
The only reason he hadn’t opened Peter up with his fingers first is because his boyfriend seems actually desperate, which means he wants the rough stretch first, wants Wade’s dick immediately; the larger man would never allow it if he hadn’t known the Look™ Peter gives from previous experience. If he’s being honest, it’s one of the hottest things Peter does in the bedroom — demanding to be fucked without much prep — which is mildly alarming but way more flattering considering Wade isn’t exactly a… small guy.
Big guy’s got a big dick, ayyyyy! Hurry up with that big dick, Peter’s waiting!!
Peter sharply sucks a deep breath in through his teeth when Wade presses his cock head in. The stretch is just enough to border on painful, but not for long because holy shit is he so goddamned horny and eager and ready, soaking wet and trembling. He lets his breath out in a weak moan, biting his lower lip and dropping his head back between his arms, hands clenched into fists.
Wade rumbles for the encompassing heat, the way Peter’s legs press to either side of his neck, and Peter winces as the reverberations seep pleasantly through his nerves. Wade growls, maybe a touch possessive when he sees Peter physically react to the deep sound in his chest; his cute, dangerous canines are near to breaking the man’s own skin already as he bites his lip harder the further Wade leans into him. He knows Peter will use his safe word if he needs to, they had discussed how Wade himself isn’t comfortable with Peter pushing his own limits just because Wade is having a good time, which had made Peter blush and agree that he’d call it or tap out if things were ever too much in a bad way.
Right now, this is just right for Peter. He squirms beneath his boyfriend when Wade is nearly balls deep because this halfway-to-plow-pose position is somehow new for them, and how did Wade know it would be so effective? Peter groans long and low when Wade finally comes to a stop pressed flat against his quivering thighs and ass. Wade waits patiently, letting Peter twitch and huff and adjust since he’d already gone in without preamble.
But he’s not complaining! Peter feels amazing, periodically clenching around him as he acclimates to Wade’s size, and the taller man can comfortably lean into him to keep Peter bent at this particular angle because he’s flexible and pliant and making soft little whines the longer Wade stays still inside of him. Two can play the teasing game, this is just a little payback; once he’s sure Peter is ready, he remains where he is, just breathing steadily and watching Peter’s jaw tense, his brow furrow.
“W-Wade,” Peter rasps, tugging his cuffs a little, looking up at him through dark, half-lidded eyes. “Please,” he says meekly, trying to move his hips, but Wade holds them firmly in both hands, keeping him in place and earning a whine. “Hnn, Wade,” Peter says more urgently, almost scolding as he licks his lips. “Please move…!”
Wade tuts, kneading his hands down and around to Peter’s ass. “Well,” he begins casually, even though it takes effort to control his voice (As if we’re not fucking losing it ourselves, fuck. Peter is so hot and tight, god we love him so much—!), “I was hoping you’d be a good boy and be patient. After all, you wanted me so badly I didn’t get to fuck you with my fingers first. I didn’t even get to eat you out, Sweetcheeks, what a shame.”
Peter keens, flushing brightly again; Wade knows exactly how to fluster him. Nobody had ever wanted Peter the way Wade wants him, he can barely wrap his head around how sincerely attracted to him Wade never stops reminding him he is. And Wade is good at sex — well, fantastic, if the way Peter is thoroughly sated and exhausted after a good night with him means anything. Or a good afternoon. Or a good morning after a good night. Shit, most days Wade looks at him like he’s walked in on People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive changing after a steamy shower. Like Peter could put on a muumuu and balaclava and still make the merc jizz in his pants.
“Wade,” Peter begs, whimpering and pulling a little harder on his cuffs, clanking against the bedframe bar. It takes all of Wade’s resolve not to start rutting into him like an animal, but when he finally obliges and slowly pulls halfway out, Peter laughs gratefully through another groan, pressing his head back between his arms and into the pillow. “Fuck,” he chokes when Wade rolls back into him, hitting just as deeply. “Fuck, Wade,” he repeats, swallowing the hard lump of desire in his throat, pleasure thrumming in his cunt, through his core and up his spine. Wade picks up a steady, agonizingly middling rhythm, halfway out and back in each time, punching a soft little moan out of Peter with each thrust. He’s starting to lose his words, brain hazy again — that cock stupid thing that Wade does to him — and he lets himself mindlessly moan as Wade fucks into him.
Wade can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s blushing face, the way his expression goes slack as he’s rocked on the bed. It burns in his belly, the way Peter feels surrounding him: the light give of his flesh where Wade holds his hip and ass. He’s unable to resist groping as he keeps the other’s legs over his shoulders, the angle perfect for getting all the way in as he holds Peter up just slightly. They’re both sweating, the faint hum of the heater in the background not cause enough when Wade has his favorite person wordlessly begging under him.
Peter is just small enough in comparison that Wade can reach one hand around where he’s holding his leg to firmly grasp Peter’s jaw. Peter’s eyes flutter open to obediently look up at Wade, lips parted as he continues to let his voice out with each hit inside of him, cracking on a whimper when Wade hums in approval. He’s so gorgeous like this, pupils blown, his cheeks and ears hot pink, gazing dumbly up at him with lust and pleasure to match Wade’s. He bends further over him, earning a loud groan as he curls the other man’s body that much more and plants his mouth on Peter’s again.
The kiss is rougher this time, both of them using teeth and tongue, too hungry for each other to slow down. Wade starts kicking into a more severe rhythm, each thrust harder and somehow deeper , and Peter is coming apart at the seams as pleasure ripples through his entire body with each thrust; an unrelenting storm of it lingers at his vulva, and he’s certain he won’t even need to touch his dick to get off this time, a rare occurrence that has only ever happened with Wade.
Wade who can barely contain himself as he works into Peter’s pussy and mouth, his hand moving to wrap around Peter’s throat with light pressure on either side just to give him that faint blood choke, the kind that makes Peter’s every nerve seem to lift. The combination of sensations is pushing him to the brink, building up as they pant into each other’s mouths, kissing becoming trickier the longer Wade fucks him, both of them getting lost in pleasure and heat and affection. Even Wade can feel orgasm pulling him forward, the boxes in his brain quietly singing some romantic song from the 80s that he can’t actually place himself when he feels it thrum in his belly, tightening in his abdomen.
“Pete,” Wade says aimlessly, loosening his hold on the other man’s neck, reveling in the way he sucks in a deep breath and his lips twitch into a faint smile for a moment. “Fuck, Peter,” he grinds out between his teeth, their eyes locked on one another as Peter swallows hard again. “I’m gonna cum, Baby Boy,” he tells him roughly, and Peter nods unevenly, whimpering and flexing his fingers by the bedframe. “Y’want me to fuck you past yours?” he asks, groaning deeply. Knowing Peter’s voice, his moans have hit the tipping point, and he’s about to reach the same height. Peter nods again, excitement and arousal making his impending orgasm kick into high gear when Wade holds his throat again, this time just to steady him, his thumb pressing up under Peter’s jaw to tilt his head back and making the brunet shudder.
Wade is more than happy to oblige, rumbling in his chest again as his orgasm sweeps over him, rolling up his spine and down his thighs, cock pulsing inside of Peter as he fills the condom. Peter writhes, spasming around him as he hits his own climax, crying out sharply for the flood of endorphins washing through him, hands clenched into fists and straining the cuffs; the bar of the bedframe creaks slightly but he doesn’t care enough to let up as his pleasure cascades, wracking his body with orgasm.
Wade rumbles again, setting his hands on the tops of Peter’s thighs and anchoring himself so he can fuck Peter through the last of his own pleasure and into the smaller man’s increasing oversensitivity. Peter breathes raggedly, wincing a moan with every other thrust as Wade does his best to drag him through it, per request. He won’t be hard for too much longer, but he knows if they keep this up, he may very well get hard again in mere minutes, which spurs him on.
God, we could fuck Pete forever.
It hurts in the best way, Wade sliding in and out of his twitching, aching vulva as Peter steadily comes down. He twists his wrists, realizing he really does need to stop pulling or he might snap the bar and it could fly forward and hit Wade. He doesn’t want to hurt Wade, and he can’t give himself away like this. What he can do is bask in the pain-adjacent oversensitivity until Wade softens and has to carefully pull out of him, though by the time he does it’s a bit more like he slides out, wet and heavy. Peter tries to breathe evenly but he’s still whimpering every few breaths out, shivering from the aftershocks and trying to focus on Wade, who keeps Peter’s legs over his broad shoulders and pants just as hard.
“Fuck, Petey,” Wade says breathlessly, beaming and dazed, and Peter smiles lopsidedly up at him, toes curled tightly in his shoes before he can start to relax his legs. “You feel so fuckin’ good every time,” Wade praises, reaching to his face again, gently cupping the side of it and brushing his thumb under blackened eyes. They do seem bigger, but it could easily be part of Wade’s vision playing tricks on him, because it’s also decorating Peter in cartoonish pastel hearts that float and pop around his soft brown hair.
Pool-o-vision is cheesy as hell, how are we getting away with this?
“I love you so much,” Peter croaks, voice rough and weak. He tries to reach for Wade only to be reminded he’s attached to the bedframe. Right. Cuffs. Cuffs he shouldn’t just snap. He huffs a little laugh and leans into Wade’s hand on his face, closing his eyes. “You always make me feel amazing,” he murmurs sweetly, turning enough to kiss Wade’s palm. Wade runs the pad of his thumb along Peter’s bottom lip, red and swollen, any puncture from his teeth already invisible again. “Ugh, Wade,” Peter fake complains, “Wade, cuffs.” He jangles them meaningfully and Wade’s hand disappears.
Leaning over Peter just because he can, making the younger man grunt and chuckle softly, he reaches into the nightstand drawer and fishes the little keys out. More carefully, he unlocks the cuffs, pausing to frown just a bit at the tiny angle the bar of the bedframe seems to be at before gently lowering Peter’s arms to his chest, the limbs stiff and limp. Peter hums appreciatively, enjoying the dull ache and closing his eyes as he finally starts to breathe evenly.
Wade sits back on his heels and carefully maneuvers Peter’s legs down from his shoulders, shifting backward to delicately set them on the bed. Peter’s heart twinges with fondness for how deftly, how carefully Wade always treats him after sex. The aftercare is stellar with his merc and Peter smiles crookedly at him again, rolling his shoulders and wrists before he stretches his arms out and makes grabby hands for Wade.
Wade smiles almost shyly and shifts to lie half on top of Peter, wrapping his arms up under him and burying his face in the hooded curve of Peter’s nape, breathing him in with a happy little hum, careful to leave their sensitive genitals enough space to recover before he lets himself relax his hips into Peter’s. Peter wraps his own arms around Wade’s shoulders and neck, stroking over his bare scalp with gentle fingers, rubbing the back of his neck and closing his eyes, comfortable and sated.
For a few minutes, they just hold each other, the room quiet save for the distant rush of air from the heater in the ceiling and their easy breathing. Peter kisses Wade’s crown, lingering against his scarred skin, and Wade hooks one hand over Peter’s shoulder from under him, gently bumping the other’s jaw aside to nuzzle under his ear at his neck.
“You’re my favorite,” Wade reminds Peter another few minutes later. “I love you, Pete,” he adds softer, and Peter’s little queer heart could burst.
He’ll say it all the time if Wade wants him to. Wade already tells him every day, maybe every hour if he’s able; the least Peter can do is make sure his boyfriend knows it’s reciprocated. “I love you too, Wade,” he replies delicately, painfully sincere and maybe a little sad. If Wade picks up on it, he lets him have it. Peter miraculously isn’t stuck in his head, he’s just amazed he has this with someone; he knows he might even have it for a long time and that’s just a tiny bit scary in its own way. But Wade is here, in his arms, and Wade loves him, and it’s the best part about being alive. Spider-Man is a close second, but Wade? Wade takes the cake, the grand prize, the gold medal.
“Wanna watch scary movies until we pass out?”
Peter grins knowingly, nudging Wade’s head and rubbing his cheek on his crown, kissing his forehead. “Hell yeah, I do.”
“Will you let me mock the protags?”
“Not if I mock ‘em better,” Peter snarks, and Wade tips his head to kiss the spot just under Peter’s ear and by the hinge of his jaw, making Peter clutch him tighter.
“Is that a challenge?” Wade says quietly in Peter’s ear.
“Merely a threat,” his boyfriend teases, and Wade falls a little more in love.
Notes:
Oh, Peter. The games you play with your identity…
(Okay, so I am sorry for the last line. Extra cheesy, just for y'all. 😘)
Chapter 15: [15] Footage
Summary:
Spider-Man debriefs with Drs. Banner and Storm. Banner reveals a secret. Peter has a few drinks and tries to share something important.
14682 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for alcohol use, mentions of transphobia, extremely vague/implied past sexual abuse.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Spider-Man finds himself standing at the far end of his preferred chem lab in the Avengers Tower, arms folded as he stares at the collected samples of Mutagex-41 in the refrigeration case on the wall. There are several dozen samples now, many collected from the facility he’d been… “brought” to several days ago. They had only recently determined the substance doesn’t need to be kept and handled in a proper clean room, which is a relief considering how many times he’d handled it in this very lab. He’d been in sufficient PPE after the first analysis but at the same time, Spider-Man likes to be cautious; hearing for certain that the powder needs to be ingested or injected after being solubilized in saline had made him feel better. At least it hadn’t been a respiratory risk after all. All the same, today he’s in a lab coat, protective goggles over his mask, and nitrile gloves over his super suit gloves.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had arrived on the scene soon after Deadpool & Peter’s… departure from the Holt Securities facility, and had agreed to let Drs. Banner and Storm bring back Mutagex-41 samples for continued study, the rest of the compound having been confiscated by the DODC. Banner had invited Spider-Man to debrief the same evening according to the voicemail he’d left on the webbed hero’s work phone, but Spider-Man had turned him down, giving some vague reasoning like needing to be out of town for a personal emergency as soon as Peter had had the wherewithal to respond the next day; day-of had been too soon, all things considered, not that Bruce would know the real reason the hero had taken a rain check. Peter knows Bruce is aware of Deadpool’s involvement, but apparently he’d consulted Wade about joining the debrief and Wade had wanted to put it off until Spider-Man could participate, claiming the webslinger had done the real rescuing.
People keep underestimating Deadpool’s ability to push credit off of himself and onto others. Even if technically Peter had gotten himself through most of that stupid facility, he’d been exhausted and drained by the time he’d gotten to the ground floor. Frankly he’d only been able to deal with the handful of guards in that loading bay because Deadpool had already been there, handling the majority of them and soaking up bullets. If Peter had been forced to handle all those armed and/or mutated people alone, he might’ve gotten badly hurt; he would have fled the facility, sure, but even if he’d skated by without severe injuries, he wouldn’t have been able to get home without having a breakdown in some alley somewhere first — if not for the adrenaline crash, then for the emotional crash.
Wade had been there to get him safely home even though he couldn’t have known the strong possibility that the stress of it would’ve caught up to Peter either way. He doesn’t remember every part of what had happened after they’d gotten into the back of Dopinder’s cab, but he remembers coming out of it and comforting Wade hours later — which means he’d fully dissociated and Wade had taken care of him during that whole time.
His heart pangs and he misses Wade already, which is embarrassing. Or it would be, if he could actually think of a reason he shouldn’t miss him.
It had been awkward as Spider-Man to dance around his “exit” from the facility when it had come to explaining himself to Deadpool. They’d met up for patrol two days later, just before Halloween, and Deadpool had been… odd, is one way to put it. Odd enough that Peter had realized Wade had been holding back around him after the incident.
-
“Webs!” Deadpool had shouted, climbing over the barrier between the smaller super and himself. Spider-Man had been standing at the edge of the water, overlooking the Hudson near the Brooklyn bridge, having climbed down from the usual paved path. “Webs!” he’d repeated eagerly, watching Spider-Man sidearm a rock to skip it across half the stretch of the water between riverbanks. The mercenary had whistled, impressed, and come up to his hero’s side. Spider-Man had turned to give him dorky finger guns with both hands and Deadpool had snorted. “You been dodgin’ my calls for a reason, Spider-Babe?” His tone had been cautious, a touch hurt, and ever so slightly dubious.
Spider-Man had clenched his jaw and grabbed his own shoulder, rubbing absently at the sore muscle there; the bruise had been gone for a day so the ache had been more psychosomatic, but Spider-Man hadn’t exactly been in the headspace to address that. “Only a little. Been looking into Holt Securities, my lead. That Tanya character, I’m kinda comin’ up empty—.”
“I remembered why I knew that name!” Deadpool had blurted, and Spider-Man’s lenses had briefly widened before contracting curiously again. Spidey really hadn’t managed to pull up much even after studying all their evidence and researching her background; too many jumbled figures and difficulty with keeping his train of thought on track. “And I think she’s in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, so uh. We might not see her again.” He’d sounded put out and Spider-Man had assumed it was because he wouldn’t be able to enact the particular brand of justice he’d hoped to. He knows Wade wouldn’t kill her, but he also knows she wouldn’t have come out in one piece after both drugging Peter and apparently being the one to make the ransom call.
“You knew the name?”
“I recognized ‘Tanya,’ so when I found out her name was Marring, I remembered…,” Deadpool had begun, pulling his phone out. He’d pulled up a website on his phone and held out the screen to show the webhead. “This bitch,” he’d said sharply, pointing at the phone as Spider-Man had leaned in to squint at it, “is the youngest CFO of some foreign enterprise that had opened a branch overseas… specifically here in New York. She’s the finance lady. Apparently her ambitions stretched into science and mutations because she’s been running the show on the money end. If we didn’t expose Holt Securities, they would’ve effectively gotten absorbed by her parent company, and her uncle's the CEO.”
“Nepotism rears its ugly head again,” Spider-Man had mumbled absently, taking the phone a moment to scroll through the opened article. Now he feels dumb, it shouldn’t have been difficult to find this information. Had he been so out of it that he hadn’t really been processing anything he’d looked at? And an accountant had been behind his kidnapping? An accountant who’d posed as an awkward barista? How… unexpectedly irritating. And a little embarrassing. “What are her ties to Weapon X?”
“Her uncle was buddies, fuckin’ frat bros with the lead scientist in Canada. At the branch I was— in,” Deadpool had explained slowly, tensing as Spidey had handed his phone over. He’d brought it back to his face, scrolling through. A picture of Marring had come up and his eyelid twitched under his mask, the white of it reflecting the tiny motion. “Apparently torturous ambition runs in the family,” he’d ground out through his teeth, but his shoulders had slumped.
“You good, DP?” Spider-Man had asked quietly, stepping closer and setting his hands on the taller man’s upper arms; comforting, but avoiding getting closer when touching Deadpool with both hands had been intimate enough. He hadn’t been Peter in that moment, but Spider-Man, and Spider-Man has been purposely keeping his professional distance since Peter and Wade had started dating to maintain some semblance of separation between identities. So far he hadn’t been challenged on the change in behavior, since it’s about the same level of contact he’d been initiating before Wade had become… familiar with Peter Parker.
“Yeah,” Deadpool had chirped, but his voice had cracked. He’d cleared his throat and shrugged, phone back in a pouch. “Just glad we got Pete outta there before this son of a taint had hurt him more.” Something grim had settled over him again, and Spider-Man’s chest had tightened. “They… they were gonna mess him up, Spidey. They said they were gonna do to him what they did to me.”
Spider-Man’s jaw had tensed but he’d patted Deadpool’s arms reassuringly before dropping his hands again. He hadn’t thought about that, the apparent close call he hadn’t really considered in the moment — it hadn’t occurred to him even when they’d pulled out the syringe to drug him a second time. Besides, Wade had been clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, evidence of turmoil, and Spider-Man could tell his brain had been trying to fight him even then. He’d needed to say something, so he’d chosen honesty. “It didn’t happen, Wade. You did great, buddy, and I’m really proud of you. Peter said you saved him.”
“But you saved him,” Deadpool had protested, tapping the hero’s chest with his forefinger, the touch light as he’d pointedly ignored the reassurance.
“He’s not giving me the credit, Pool. You’re his hero, here.”
Deadpool had straightened up a little, folding his arms over his broad chest, conflicted as he’d looked out to the water at the flickering reflections of city lights in the dark ripples. “He said that?” he’d asked softly, but shook his head quickly. “You’re just saying that,” he had hedged, arms dropping as he’d started fidgeting with his fingers. It still amazes Spider-Man how anxious Deadpool can be. How can anyone look at Wade and only see a heartless monster?
“No, dude. Peter is.”
“Why’d you bail so fast?” Deadpool had asked, again in that mixed tone that had then set Spidey’s nerves on edge. At the very least, he hadn’t sounded happy. “Pete nearly fell over when I got to him. ‘N why were you in civvies, anyway?”
“I only got your messages like 20 minutes before I got there, dude,” Spider-Man had lied so smoothly he’d almost believed himself. “I rushed over, but vents are a whole thing and we didn’t exactly have the blueprints for that place, y’know?” He’d held his breath as the lenses of Deadpool’s mask had narrowed to slits, the mercenary looking him up and down slowly. “I really am sorry. Your messages were really freaked out and I didn’t wanna make Parker wait any longer— I went as soon as I could,” the vigilante had tried to assure him, but his voice had quieted with guilt and discomfort. He had folded up his arms to self-soothe, since throwing himself into Deadpool’s arms for a hug had seemed inappropriate after being scolded.
“Civilian life gettin’ in the way?” Deadpool had said slowly.
“Wish it hadn’t. I’m just glad Peter was okay.”
Deadpool had taken in a breath long and big enough to exaggerate the lift of his shoulders, and then let it all out in a long, loud sigh, dropping his head forward. “I was super freaked, Spidey. A superfreak. Super freaky.” He hadn’t even sung it, and that’s how Spider-Man knew he would have to reestablish some of their mutual trust. The idea that he’d done this to himself grated against his ribs. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you were there. I just got—,” the merc had tried to elaborate, but when he’d lifted his gaze back to Spider-Man, his mask read as miserable. “I came pretty fuckin’ close to breakin’ the rules, Webs — it messed me up. And Petey was a mess, too, you shoulda seen him after…” When he hadn’t expanded, Spider-Man had wondered if he was avoiding disclosing Peter’s mental health or just couldn’t find the words.
“I’m sorry, Pool,” Spider-Man had croaked, swallowing an awful lump in his throat. He’d tried to push the rush of anxiety and shame from his veins, but he’d done this to Deadpool, to Wade. “Peter never has a bad word to say about you, y’know. He really thinks of you as his hero. You’re always there for him. He might’ve been happy to see me, but he was overjoyed to see you, DP.”
Deadpool had fallen silent, his gaze distant as he had looked out over the water again, the glistening reflections of the bridge and the cityscape on the gently rolling river. Spider-Man had swallowed his uncertainty. After what had felt like ages, the mercenary had returned his attention to the other man, who’d visibly relaxed when the mercenary had evidently come back out of his head.
“We messin’ up some bad guys tonight, Spidey?” he’d asked in the excited, mischievous tone Spider-Man is used to. If he’d been putting off riskier emotions, Spider-Man hadn’t had the heart to challenge him on it right then, too relieved himself not to take the semi-win. “Could use some exercise.”
Wade couldn’t have seen it under the mask, but Spider-Man had grinned at him. “Oh yeah. Let’s get to work.”
-
Drumming his fingers on his bicep, Spider-Man narrows his gaze at the bright orange substance, his lenses mirroring the gesture. “Bet this stuff was in that mutant’s system,” he mumbles to himself, picturing the absolute wall of a mutant that Deadpool had sunk his katanas into so expertly. He tries not to dwell on how elegant the man had been, doing his work unhindered by Spider-Man’s direct scrutiny. He hadn’t killed anyone, even then; the deaths that S.H.I.E.L.D. had confirmed there had been friendly fire. Peter had consoled Wade’s dip in mood when it had come up the following day, believing he wouldn’t have killed them even if he’d lost more control. Whether or not Peter trusts Deadpool enough for that to be fully true hadn’t been important because Wade would have done — and clearly did do — his damnedest.
Bruce entering on the other side of the lab gets Spider-Man to turn his head. The older man chats casually, holding the door open for—
Spider-Man gasps, lenses widening as he brings his hands up to either side of his jaw, fingers curled. He turns to face the door, lab coat swirling around him, and swallows a squeal.
Dr. Susan Storm, in all her brilliant, genius glory with her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and her white coat buttoned closed — so professional! — enters the lab behind Bruce, who closes the door with a light laugh at something undoubtedly clever that she’d said. Spider-Man almost sweats when her pretty cerulean blue eyes land on him, and he throws his arms down to his sides, standing up straighter and resisting the urge to melt under her attention when she smiles at him.
Dr. Susan Storm is smiling at him! At Peter Pa—! Well, okay, she’s smiling at Spider-Man, but the effect is the same! He gets a little starstruck every time she graces him with her presence but Spider-Man manages to clear his dry throat and step forward when she comes toward him. His voice is only a little squeaky when he greets her.
“Dr. Storm,” he says as evenly as he can, and bites his tongue when she offers a hand to shake, ever the courteous professional. God, she’s so cool. He manages not to make a complete fool of himself, lifting his hand at a totally normal speed and accepting hers with a firm but not crushing grip. He even pulls away when she does. Are his hands clammy? Oh, right, he’s got the nitrile gloves on, she wouldn’t be able to notice, thank Rousseau. “Great to see you again,” the vigilante says, internally cursing the little crack in his voice.
“Spider-Man,” Dr. Storm greets in turn, still smiling when she gestures to the cases behind him. “Your initial analysis of this substance has been invaluable. You and… Deadpool, right? You two have been immensely helpful.”
“Deadpool, yeah. We’ve been working on this for weeks. Over a month. More?” Spidey babbles, and he’s glad he’s got the mask on because he’s sure he’s blushing pretty hard, already tongue-tied. “We were about to move in on Holt Securities’ warehouse when, uh… they abducted Parker.” Mostly true. They’d narrowed down where to look but Peter had wound up on their main campus rather than at the warehouse the supers had been planning to infiltrate.
“How is Peter?” Bruce asks, and Peter realizes he hadn’t even acknowledged him yet.
“Oh, Dr. Banner!” Peter blurts, embarrassed, stepping to Bruce and shaking his hand, too, clapping his other hand on his upper arm, much to the older man’s amusement. “Sorry, I j-just, uh,” he stammers awkwardly, but Bruce shakes his head.
“I get it,” he assures him, kind enough to leave it at that, moving to the box of gloves next to the refrigeration cases. When Peter turns to look at Dr. Storm again, she’s grinning at him, eyes sparkling with similar amusement. Peter feels like he’s been caught red-handed fanboying, which he has.
“You’re very sweet,” Dr. Storm says gently, and Spider-Man groans, dropping his head into both hands with both elbows braced against his chest, face definitely hot under his mask. “It’s a pleasure to work with you, Spider-Man. Johnny says hi.”
“How is he?” Peter asks into his hands, shoulders slumping.
“He said to tell you he’s still got the same phone number, in case you lost his contact?” She quirks an immaculately sculpted eyebrow and the webslinger winces guiltily.
“Sorry, I’ve just… been busy? Distracted,” he admits and smooths his hands over his head to the back of his neck, lacing his fingers. He thinks about how much time he’s spent with Wade and smiles lopsidedly. “I’ll text him later. I think we were supposed to have a movie night a while ago.”
“He says you’re a cutie-pie under the mask,” she replies with a devious smirk, and Peter can’t stop the squeak from escaping him this time.
“He what?” Spidey asks miserably, blushing again. Well, Johnny is on his list for a reason, and really they’re good friends. It’s just been a long time since Peter has spent much time socializing as either a civilian or vigilante, not counting time with Wade. “He’s never even seen my face!”
“I believe you roll the mask up halfway when you two gorge on junk food?” she muses, leaning comfortably back against the sturdy lab table behind her. She crosses her arms and Peter flexes his fingers at the back of his neck. “He misses you, got worried when you didn’t reply to his last message.”
“That’s so—,” sweet? “— awkward, he told you that??” Spider-Man groans, the guilt weighing a little heavier in his chest. He does miss hanging out with Johnny. He misses MJ, too, he should definitely also text her. Part of him even wants to check in on Harry, but he’s not sure he’s equipped to handle seeing the man that had dropped Gwen, even with their shared history and memories. That disease had royally screwed Harry’s mind on top of ravaging his physical body. Besides, he’s been so wrapped up in his thesis and… well, his shared bed with Wade, that he’s been neglecting the social lives of both his alter egos. “Sorry,” he mumbles gloomily, turning his face to the ceiling and heaving a sigh. “I wish he’d left you out of it, this isn’t your problem.”
“It’s not exactly a problem. And he’s my brother, he tells me things because we’re close,” the brilliant scientist assures him, smiling kindly. Spider-Man eyes her sideways, hoping she’s sincere but willing to take whatever words she’ll give him. “Speaking of close, how is Peter doing? It can’t be easy on a civilian to be kidnapped and more or less held for ransom.”
Spider-Man tucks his hands into his lab coat pockets so he’ll stop fiddling with his head and neck. “He’s a little rattled, but W— Deadpool has been really helpful. They’re uh. Dating,” he explains carefully, watching her from an angle again to gauge her reactions, but she seems undisturbed, nodding. Aware. “Peter is… tougher than he looks,” the vigilante says with a faint but hidden smirk.
“That’s what Deadpool implied,” Bruce says from over by the cases, pulling a tray of sealed dishes of Mutagex-41 out. He brings it to the table, and both Dr. Storm and Spider-Man shift to stand on either side of him. “Or, he implied Peter’s a smart guy and you and Deadpool would look after him,” the older man clarifies. “S.H.I.E.L.D. wants these samples for their records since the DODC is storing the rest of the substance, so we should decide what else we want to examine about it before we no longer have access.”
“I didn’t see any prisoner-patients while I was in the facility looking for Peter,” Spider-Man tells them, trying to focus on the task at hand and not his friend’s sister — Peter’s heroine — being so nice and pretty and casual with him. He’s died and gone to biochemistry nerd heaven. “But I didn’t explore the whole place and it wasn’t laid out like any of the blueprints or floor plans Deadpool and I had studied.” He looks to Bruce. “You said S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t find anyone, either?”
“All the set-ups for prisoner-patients, but no one yet on site.”
“Then what were they guarding?”
“The production of this chemical compound,” Dr. Storm supplies with a firm nod, tapping her nails on the cool metal table. “The goal seems to have been testing it out on the streets using volunteers that weren’t being held hostage before moving on to forcible human experimentation,” she elaborates with a thoughtful hum. “A weird way to do it, considering it’s difficult to guarantee or mitigate results and side effects that you don’t monitor, and you run the risk of your volunteers getting arrested with aggressive effects like these. So far we don’t see evidence of standard law enforcement being involved, but time will tell; we’re not so naïve that we don’t understand there’s rampant corruption amongst police or even our own government agencies.”
“They’re a security company on the surface,” Spider-Man points out, grinding his teeth. “They may have been monitoring subjects from afar. Bugging homes. Phones.”
“So, still terrible scientists, just another brand of terrible,” she mumbles, scowling. She’s even beautiful when she scowls and Peter tries not to stare, focusing on the sealed container Bruce is holding to the light.
“It’s stable, innocuous, needs to be mixed and injected or ingested orally,” Banner comments, pushing his glasses further up his nose even as he looks over the rims to examine the powder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to market it publicly in the future. Not fully commercially — I doubt it would make it to over-the-counter pharmacy shelves, but shady things wind up in bodegas and convenience stores all the time.”
“Okay, but honestly not a lot of sympathy for people buying ‘male enhancement’ drugs at the corner store,” Spider-Man drawls, and preens just a little when Dr. Storm chuckles. “Wouldn’t it be just as easy to distribute it like hard drugs? Street dealers and stuff? Pretty sure that’s what they’ve been doing for ‘volunteers,’ if they haven’t just hired whoever has the desired reactions.” He pictures the massive mutant again. They’d looked warped, neck too wide and muscles bubbled beyond the worst steroid abuse he could imagine.
“S.H.I.E.L.D. is being less than forthcoming about the mutants they’ve got in custody,” Dr. Storm says, voice taut. “Which I’ve been having words about with Director Fury. He’s reluctant to share results and I’d like to think it’s for more compassionate reasons than are truly likely.”
“Where’s Deadpool?” Bruce asks Spider-Man directly, turning his gaze to the masked super.
Spider-Man is genuinely confused, mask lenses wide. “What? What do you mean?”
“He said he’d come by today.” A pause, followed by sincere disbelief. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Not exactly,” Spider-Man replies, visibly tensing. Wade hadn’t even mentioned it to Peter, but in hindsight that’s probably what Wade was talking about this morning when he’d told Peter he had a “meeting” today, before he’d left much earlier than Peter now knows he’d need to if this debrief were the only thing he’d be doing today. Which means Deadpool is off somewhere doing something he doesn’t want Peter or Spider-Man to know about. Then again, Peter had said he had a meeting with his thesis advisor today, so maybe Wade had assumed he’d have time to do it and not concern the brunet with any more Holt Securities stuff. Spider-Man shifts his weight between his feet. Can he really blame Wade for keeping it to himself after Peter had broken down and very literally dissociated on the way home from the whole thing? “Wish he had,” he begins uncomfortably, and as if on cue the door of the lab busts open, slamming loudly into the wall.
“WHOO!” Deadpool shouts, and all three scientists turn to look at him with either eyebrows raised or mask lenses wide.
The mercenary is dripping blood, plenty smeared on the floor in his wake, and Bruce’s jaw drops open as the mercenary “dusts” his hands. He’s decked out in all of his weapons, mercifully sheathed and holstered, and Spider-Man wracks his brain for how he could’ve gotten into the building undetected.
“Spider-Man, Drs. Banner and Storm,” JARVIS chimes above them, making everyone glance mindlessly to the ceiling. “My Dope-Ass Fresh Prince has arrived.”
“Thank you, JARVIS,” Bruce mutters tiredly, and sets the Mutagex-41 container down, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. “How did you get in, Deadpool?” he asks with the same tone.
“The back door,” Deadpool says proudly, preening for JARVIS using his preferred title while he’s in the Tower. “What?” he adds, sounding confused as Storm and Spidey continue to stare at him. “What??”
“The blood, dude,” Spider-Man sighs, exasperated. “What did you do?” he demands more seriously, turning around properly and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Oh, yeah.” Deadpool looks down at himself, at the bloody boot prints he’d trailed in. “Uh, sorry, I’ll clean that up,” he lies, and looks sideways at the other supers. “Sorry I’m late?”
“Deadpool,” Spider-Man repeats meaningfully and Dr. Storm glances between them, remarkably calm. “The blood.”
“It’s mostly mine,” Deadpool says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. One of Spider-Man’s lenses twitches, so he quickly amends, “It’s not as bad as it looks!” He shakes his hands in front of himself. “It stopped bleeding a few minutes ago!”
“What happened?”
“I just— visited. Some people. At a place.”
Dr. Storm folds her arms as well, leaning back against the table and quirking an eyebrow as she observes this exchange with crossed ankles. This draws the mercenary’s attention from Spidey to her.
“Hi! You’re Dr. Susan Storm, right?” Deadpool greets, the stretch of a smile clear under his mask. “Petey says hi. He just adores you,” he coyly tells her on his approach, and Spider-Man nearly chokes. “Anyway, I uh. Didn’t unalive anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he assures the webbed hero, stopping a few feet away from both chemists. “But they had a lot of guns.”
“This is the 24th floor,” Dr. Storm notes, narrowing her gaze thoughtfully. Deadpool blinks at her, the gesture translated through the mask. “How did you get up here without JARVIS alerting us sooner?” This time the question seems to be relevant enough for the merc to answer.
“Would you believe that I bribed it?”
Silence fills the lab and Spider-Man bites back a smile when Deadpool remains perfectly still, giving nothing else away.
“JARVIS?” Bruce eventually asks.
“'Bribe’ is a strong word, Dr. Banner,” the AI says plainly. Spider-Man snorts but tries not to do it twice.
“How does one ‘bribe’ an AI?” Dr. Storm asks, half smiling, eyes on Deadpool.
“He offered access codes to S.H.I.E.L.D. and DODC security systems,” JARVIS answers, and Bruce’s eyes bulge.
“JARVIS!” he admonishes. “You accepted it?”
“I could have hacked their system at any time, but this expedites the process.”
“Why and how did you have those codes?” Spider-Man asks, trying to sound more exhausted than amused and failing. “What did you do, DP?”
“Visited people,” he repeats innocently and clears his throat loudly. “So. The stuff? You’re gonna give it all over to S.H.I.E.L.D., right? Now you can check up on what they’re doing with it— ‘n the DODC too, those guys seem super sketch!”
The room is silent again before Bruce begins plucking his gloves off, throwing them out and rubbing his face with both hands while muttering about Nick Fury, law, AI programming, and suspicious activity. Spider-Man can hear every word but it’s clearly an internal debate so he doesn’t comment, letting Bruce talk to himself as he paces the lab. Dr. Storm pushes off the table and steps up to Deadpool, who straightens up and puts his arms at his sides apprehensively, which is a hell of a look when he’s drenched in (mostly) his own steadily drying blood and sporting what Spider-Man now can see are dozens of bullet holes.
“I don’t like your methods,” Dr. Storm says evenly, but she smiles a little bit. Deadpool’s mask eyes narrow slightly and he angles his head away to warily watch her sideways. “But you’ve done very well here, Deadpool.” She looks to the ceiling, stepping back again. “JARVIS, if you would be so kind as to share that with the Baxter Building’s network that would be wonderful, but I’ll take a hard drive if necessary. We can continue monitoring on both ends. If we come up with anything of note, my research team and I will get back to you all.”
“Whew,” Deadpool says, chuckling with nervous relief as the rigidity slides off of him, half flopping sideways like those little wooden toys that droop when you press up on the bottom, loose-limbed and heavy. “Ahh, I thought you were gonna kick my ass, ha.”
“I thought about it,” Dr. Storm teases, and even Peter relaxes, privately swooning over her easy sense of humor. What a class act. “But I generally only kick the asses of very bad people. I’ve heard you’re moving away from that.” She glances meaningfully back to Spider-Man, who blinks dumbly before pointing at himself in confusion. She smirks at him and he waves bashfully. “You two did a good job here. I’m sorry about what happened to Peter. Tell him he can always hand in his application personally.”
Spider-Man barely catches the shriek in his throat. What??
“I was gonna surprise him with the good news tonight, we’re gonna have drinks and do a puzzle,” Deadpool says brightly, and then he’s upright again, smiling shyly and tapping his fingertips together. He doesn’t seem to notice the way Spider-Man’s comically huge lenses turn to him. He leans over a little, looking past Dr. Storm. “No offense! You’re second fiddle only to Miss Bombshell, here,” he tells Bruce, who has finally stopped pacing but throws his arms up in dramatic defeat.
“Okay!” Bruce sighs in exasperation, rubbing his forehead again, his other hand on his hip.
“I’ll allow it,” Dr. Storm muses, eyebrow raised. “Keep us in the loop, too?” she asks the other PhD in the room, and Bruce lifts his hand in acknowledgment, moving to pull up a stool to the table of samples with fresh gloves on. She glides back over to Spider-Man, who’s been rooted to the spot since Deadpool had entered the lab. Offering a hand again, she accepts his after a beat of his inaction. “I’ll see you again, Spider-Man,” the woman assures him, and with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that nearly stops the young man’s heart, Dr. Storm waves over her shoulder and makes her exit, kitten heels clicking on the tile. “Bye, Bruce!” she calls as she steps through the door Deadpool hastily moves to hold open for her, walking around the merc’s bloody footprints in the hall.
“Yeah,” the older man replies vaguely, affixing goggles over his glasses and a mask over his mouth and nose. “Listen, Spider-Man,” he says quieter, while Deadpool leans out into the hallway, transfixed by seeing Invisible Woman in the flesh. The visible flesh! “There’s some footage I think you should see,” he murmurs, eyeing Deadpool’s lifted boot as the mutant tilts further and further out of the lab, clinging to the doorframe. “But just you.”
“That’s super sus, Bruce. What are we hiding from Deadpool?” the webbed hero mutters good-naturedly, matching his less conspicuous tone anyway.
“Trust me, kid.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Sorry. Trust me, kiddo.” Spider-Man scoffs and pushes his friend’s shoulder with a closed fist. Bruce smiles to himself. “Call it sensitive, Spidey.”
“Sure. Send it to me? Or is it the kind of sensitive that I need to pull up a screen for while I’m here?”
“Either-or, but probably the latter. Just to be safe.” They both look over at Deadpool, who’s finally back on both feet and shutting the door. He says something quietly to himself and Peter wonders what the boxes are saying to him. “I know you trust him, but uh. Someone might be in too deep.”
Spider-Man slowly turns his head back to Bruce with his gaze steady, the effect a little extra eerie with his motionless lenses. “What are you talking about?” he demands gravely, still on low volume.
“I’m making it sound really bad, aren’t I?” Bruce asks with a sigh. “Why don’t you take a look now, I’ll uh, bore Deadpool while you’re at it.” Pulling a tablet out of his lab coat, he taps in a passcode and opens a set of videos. “Here,” he says carefully, pulling up two videos side by side.
Spider-Man peels his nitrile gloves off, tossing them in the garbage and accepting the device when it’s handed to him; he wanders off toward the refrigerators as Bruce clears his throat and beckons Deadpool over to start talking his ear off about the molecular structure of the orange Mutagex-41 in the sample dishes. Deadpool obliges, coming to stand at the physicist’s side. To his credit, he tries very hard to pay attention, avoiding looking at Spider-Man altogether even though the webslinger hardly notices, focused on the screen in front of him.
The videos with no audio are security camera footage from Holt Securities, one from a hallway in the third basement — the level Peter had spent the most time on — and the other is from the loading dock and pseudo-warehouse. Both were angled from high places that Peter remembers clocking as he’d moved through the facility, but still he stiffens, watching himself as Peter Parker slink through the hall and right up behind a pair of guards walking. Video Peter crouches and spins one leg to sweep the feet out from under one guard, popping back up to shove their shoulder down and increase the force with which they land on their back; winded, they stay down. The other guard whirls around and pulls out an extendable baton, but Peter dodges it easily and ducks to spring upward directly in front of them with a smooth uppercut that knocks them back just hard enough that their feet leave the floor before they’re lying on it. The video stops. Spider-Man frowns and starts the one next to it.
This time he watches Video Spider-Man swing up into the rafters from a dark corner off-camera, web up the bad guys and continue to take care of business. He isn’t seeing the problem until he watches Video Spider-Man execute the same duck-and-pop uppercut on a gunner. Spidey blanches under his mask, gripping the edges of the tablet a little too tightly, the screen rippling rainbows at the pressure until he forcibly relaxes.
How many people have watched these videos? How many people have watched these two videos side by side? How many people could see the moves had been identical to one another, performed in perfect symmetry? Spider-Man had mentioned that his photographer knows self-defense, so saying he could more or less take on armed guards isn’t beyond believable, but having a matching move to a Spider-Man finisher isn’t exactly easy to explain unless he could say the hero had been the one to teach Peter self-defense. But self-defense doesn’t typically include offensive punches, so that avenue might be a nonstarter. Dammit. Shit . Of all things that would give him away, it’s something just as stupid as him outright saying, “Hey Bruce, ever notice how you’ve never seen Parker and me in the same room?”
“You good over there, Webs? Y’ look like you’re in the middle of an aneurysm,” Deadpool jokes, one elbow on the table propping up his chin, hip popped out. Bruce looks over the rims of his glasses at him, goggles set aside, otherwise neutral when his eyes meet the spasming lenses of Peter’s mask. Spidey realizes his own eyes are twitching with his burst of anxiety, so he takes a deep breath and nods as normally as one can with evidence of one’s secret identity in one’s hands. “Wow, Spidey, are you sure?” Deadpool asks with more sincere concern, furrowed brow showing through his own mask.
“I’m good,” Spider-Man clarifies, voice high and strained when it cracks. Clearing his throat, he holds his arms out and shrugs, the tablet screen locked as he does. Both Deadpool and Bruce raise their eyebrows. “Just disappointed I missed a sale on Captain Marvel merch,” he lies evenly, surprising himself but apparently convincing the mercenary, who nods sagely. “Dr. Banner, could I have a word?” he asks smoothly, but doesn’t wait for the older man to answer before striding out of the lab with the tablet still in hand, removed protective goggles clacking loudly on the table as he passes.
He rounds a corner and listens for the sound of anyone else in the area as Bruce half-jogs after him. When he’s sure they’re alone and with the knowledge that JARVIS already knows, he rounds on Bruce and fearlessly crowds the other super against the nearest wall.
“Who else knows?” he says sharply, grateful his anxiety is coming off as righteous anger. Bruce, to his credit, holds his hands up in mock surrender and leans against the wall. He might be the Hulk, but the spider can still give him a run for his money with his obscene super strength. “Did anyone else watch this parallel? This footage?”
“Someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. went through all of it, but I’m pretty sure it was just an intern who hadn’t slept in two days.” A pause. “I watched the basement footage and, uh, I think the privilege of having seen you— Spider-Man, in action, in person — made me look twice.” He lightly sets his hands on Spider-Man’s wrists and the vigilante realizes he’s clutching the man’s lapels and keeping him pressed to the wall. “I thought it would be good to let you know.”
Spider-Man pries his fingers away and guiltily drops Bruce’s lab coat, taking a step back. He tips his face to the ceiling and takes a few calming breaths, tightly folding his arms over his chest and trying to ground himself again. He can not lose it in the Avengers Tower. “Sorry,” he croaks, because his lungs hurt and his heart is racing, cacophonous in his ears. “Sorry, Bruce, I’m… it sucks to be forcibly disclosed,” he explains tensely, internally screaming at himself for doing exactly what he hadn’t meant to do by whipping out too many Spidey moves as a so-called civilian.
“I’m not about to advertise it, Spider-Man.”
“Does anyone else know?” he asks urgently, looking to the other scientist again.
“I’m… not gonna lie, bud, I think Dr. Storm figured it out.”
“What!” Peter squeaks, gripping his sides.
“Well, yeah, was the wink not obvious?” Bruce frets, but shakes his head, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “Listen. No one else knows.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “But you might wanna tell your boyfriend sooner rather than later. Just a personal suggestion from a friend.”
Peter studies the physicist’s face, the permanent exhaustion colored in purple bruises under his eyes. He glares. “How long have you known?” he questions lowly.
Bruce casts his gaze away, and Peter feels ice crawling up his spine and all down his arms. Fuck, that’s a bad sign.
“Listen. Spider-Man. I’ve worked with you in the labs a lot. You’re incredibly smart. I’m not a biochemist or an engineer, but I can follow when you do your thing, and you’ve got… some niche expertise.” He pulls his blue gloves off and tucks them into his coat pocket. “Dr. Storm is a colleague. She scouts potential employees, even if they never interned for her,” Bruce goes on cautiously, and Spider-Man has to remember to breathe. “If you’d applied to be an intern earlier, she would’ve seen your work sooner, but uh. I get why you don’t exactly have time. Either way, I mentioned you knew a lot about genetics and technical engineering, and she joked about how she’d read a few research papers from students at ESU…”
Peter feels weak. He stumbles to the wall, turning around to sink down against it, knees pulled up to his chest as he drops his forehead onto them and hugs his legs. “She’s known, too?” he asks miserably, fighting the urge to scream. That’s two supers — two supers who were also scientific geniuses. “The whole time?”
“Only a couple of months, Spidey,” the older man assures him, but he slowly lowers himself to the floor, too, setting a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder when the younger man winces. “She’s impressed with your work. She would’ve eventually reached out to you, once you got your degree. She’s looking for good research scientists.” Peter nods numbly, still with his masked face hidden. “She would never blow up your spot, man. I won’t either. I’m a little envious, actually, that you can still be anonymous. We wouldn’t take that from you.”
“JARVIS knows, too.”
“Yeah, that uh. Was unavoidable, bud.”
“I know,” Peter whines, squeezing his legs closer. “He said he’s restricted all access to the information. Not even Tony knows.”
“Good. He’d be weird about it,” Bruce muses. “Mostly in a good way, I think, but you’d definitely get a lot more equipment showing up at your place. And way more calls, he still thinks of you as a mentee.”
“He has… boundary issues.”
“That’s true.” A gentle chuckle. “So we’re not about to tell him.”
“Can I just…,” Spider-Man begins uneasily, rubbing at his forehead. “You found out… because I’m a scientist? Really?”
“Well I didn’t follow you home, if that’s what you mean.” Bruce shrugs. “Susan and me? We’re pretty smart, Spider-Man. I haven’t gone snooping beyond your academic career, if it helps. Anything else I know is only what you’ve told me about Peter Parker as Spider-Man.” He holds up a hand when Peter whips his head around to protest. “Don’t get me wrong, you play it close to the vest, alright? But it’s also not hard to figure out you’re a 20-something nerd with interest in genetics, chemistry, engineering, and staying in New York. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t maybe sorta keeping an eye out for any relevant applications.”
“You expected me to wanna work here?”
“Yes and no. Hoped, maybe. What can I say?” The physicist smiles warmly and Peter’s shoulders sink away from his ears. “I like you, kiddo.” Spider-Man groans, and Bruce chuckles, patting his own knees and pushing himself back up to his feet with a grunt. He makes to walk back to the lab, moving sideways as he adds, “Take your time out here, but. Real quick— when it’s just us, do you still want me to call you Spider-Man?”
“For now,” he answers roughly, angling his head to watch his fellow super nod. Bruce nods curtly and walks on.
Spider-Man lingers in the hallway, still clutching himself and feeling far too exposed even fully masked and suited, even in a lab coat. His mind is reeling, giving him a headache, and he’s so close to a panic attack that he has to close his eyes again and breathe for a few minutes. Okay. He can live with Dr. Banner and Dr. Susan Storm knowing Spider-Man is Peter Parker. There are certainly worse people who’ve found out, and he’s wanted to tell Wade for ages, but keeps putting it off.
Well. They’re having a night in tonight: drinks and a puzzle, as Deadpool had so gleefully informed Peter’s idol. Peter is mildly terrified to try alcohol again after how it felt when he’d been a senior in high school, after the horrible feeling of losing his faculties and waking up in some house of a kid he’d never met, Harry and MJ half atop him and the heavy throbbing of a hangover behind his eyes. Sure he’d recovered quickly, but that same morning he’d found out there had been a fire in a residential building half a mile away, and Spider-Man could’ve been there — should have been there. Four people had been hospitalized and Spidey should’ve been there to knock that number down, if not wipe it out to zero casualties. But he’d gotten drunk instead, let himself try chemical “freedom,” and not only had it scared him to be so slow to react — worse than before the bite, how can anyone live like that? — heavy-limbed, and foggy-headed. He’d awakened feeling nasty sick and people got hurt when he should’ve been alert.
But he does want to try it again. In a safe environment with someone he trusts, on a night he knows someone sober — or someone who can become sober very quickly — can help take care of the city in an emergency. Wade would spring into action if he had to, even if Peter has to sneak away and text him as Spider-Man that something is up and the webbed wonder couldn’t make it. He can turn on specific alerts in the little enhanced police/news scanner app he’d developed for himself; lower level things won’t come up but city-wide trouble or disasters should ping. Yeah. This will work, and Wade had been so excited to be trusted with Peter being this kind of vulnerable with him.
Fuck. He really loves Wade. Fuck, he has to tell him.
Or. Maybe he can tell him… indirectly?
It’s a half-assed plan at best that he starts to formulate as he rises and heads back down the hall toward the lab, tablet heavy in his lab coat pocket. It could backfire, but so could any other version of his goal.
That’s a problem for future Peter.
-
-
-
“So I got a few things to try.”
Wade enters the front door already speaking and Peter looks up from his phone, lounging on the couch. Deadpool had left the lab shortly after debriefing with Dr. Banner and Spider-Man, but he’d even announced that he had shopping to do and that shopping had been the liquor store down the street. He goes into the kitchen with three massive, full totes of alcohol and mixers, giddy as he remembers his part-time stint as a bartender back when he’d just left service and before he’d started contracting full-time. He couldn’t do any of the showy tricks, but he could still make a mean drink, better than Weasel could, anyway. Well— maybe to rival Weasel in a small competition judged by amateurs who were already drunk as skunks.
“Damn, dude, that’s only a few?” Peter says from the living room, draping his arms over the back of the couch and resting his chin on the cushion. He’s wearing his father’s glasses and one of Wade’s hoodies, the rich blue one worn super soft by time. “Looks like you brought home an entire bar. Was that necessary?”
“Just wanted you to have five-star options, Legs! Or at least five options, but I kicked in for the good stuff just in case,” Wade chirps, taking his baseball cap off and setting it on the counter next to the bags, grinning as he knocks his hood back. He’d stopped off at one of his crappier safehouses after his meeting at Avengers Tower and showered so he could change into civvies. That suit had been done for, anyway, and the shower had been just enough to clean him off before he took off to buy half a liquor store. “I figure you’re more of a cider man than a beer man, and it’s good to start with the basics.”
“Something, something, beer before liquor?”
“Ah, that’s mostly nonsense, it’s all about moderation and shit. Just watch your alcohol content, your proofs. People just drink too much beer before they start in on the shots, doesn’t mean it’s the booze’s fault they can’t count.” He pauses, pulling bottles out of the totes. “Well, okay, technically booze is at fault, but people go hard and that’s on them!”
Wade’s gotten wasted plenty of times. Technically he can still do it, but it leaves his system so fast it’s hardly worth it unless he’s self-medicating after a bad fight. He’s got a stash of coke somewhere for the same purpose, to take the edge off of losing limbs or (Ironically—!) brain damage. Not that Peter needs to know about that; Wade doesn’t want him getting the wrong idea.
Pete’s not stupid, he’d understand it’s for Bad Times, big guy, the boxes try to assure him, but he ignores them and continues transferring bottles from bag to island countertop. Unless he thinks we’re secretly a drug dealer, wouldn’t that be hilarious?
“So no plans to go hard?” Peter hedges, watching Wade move and fiddling with his father’s glasses in his hands. Wade glances over at his tone, and Peter elaborates. “I mean, I’m probably a lightweight,” he allows, but determination flickers across his face and Wade quirks a hairless brow. “But I’ve got a mean metabolism.”
“You are the cutest Dispose-All I’ve ever met,” the merc chuckles, but shakes his head sternly. “But nah, we’ll go pretty easy tonight. Lightweight or no, it’s been a while and it might take longer than you think to feel it hit your system. Don’t want you taking a handful of edibles because you can’t feel it yet, y’know?”
“You got edibles, too?”
Wade barks a laugh, but quickly covers his mouth. “Nope, no weed for you just yet, Baby Boy, you’re way too new to the ‘altered state’ crowd.”
“I’ve used weed before,” Peter mumbles in protest but he doesn’t sound confident about it. “Freshman year of college.”
“Aw,” the larger man coos. “Was it your dorm mate’s ditch weed?”
“She had a medical card. And a huge bong.”
“Ooh, so the good stuff. Well, Pumpkin, as much as I’d like to believe you had a good time, the face you’re making is giving me doubts.”
Peter schools the tension from his jaw and brow line, but he winds up frowning again anyway. “Another time,” he agrees in defeat. “So I get a cider and…?” he presses hopefully, shifting to kneel and propping himself up on his elbows, chin on the heel of his palm.
“And a basic bitch cocktail, Love, we’re not partying.” When Peter pouts at him, he smirks wryly. “We can go sugary sweet or classy and bitter.”
“Isn’t all alcohol bitter?”
“No. But most of it is at least a little bitter. Or sour. And bitey.”
Peter’s nose scrunches up in the cutest way and Wade’s mental image of him gets even woobier, popping little stars from the bridge of his preciously crinkled nose. “Not a fan of bitter. Bitter means poisonous.”
“That’s the idea, babeyyy, get that good toxicity. And poison ain’t always bitter.”
Peter mumbles something Wade doesn’t hear, and he clanks the tequila bottle next to the triple sec, eyeing the brunet suspiciously. “I know this is a tad hypocritical of me, Petey, but d’you wanna share with the class?”
“Venom is bitter, too,” Peter repeats hastily, pouting at him again. Wade hums thoughtfully. “Which sweet cocktails should I try?” Peter adds quickly, angling his hand so his fingers curl in front of his mouth, glasses back on.
“Well, we can go classic and make you a margarita, good ol’ rum ‘n coke, a cosmo, a lemon drop, that sorta stuff.” Wade searches a drawer and sets a few mixing tools down, things Peter recognizes but can’t name. He just remembers one bit of the double-sided cup with a handle is called a “pony,” and it cracks him up.
“Is a Long Island iced tea actually iced tea?”
“No, dear, not at all. And that’s a little hardcore for you.”
“Gotcha.”
Peter finally climbs over the back of the couch and comes to sit on a barstool at the counter, pulling a few bottles toward himself to curiously examine the labels and contents. “Thank you,” he says quietly, unable to meet Wade’s eye when the taller man pulls a six-pack of hard lemonade out to put it in the fridge with the cider. “It means a lot to me that you’ll do this with me. For me.”
“Ah, Sweets,” Wade sighs, coming around to wrap the scrawnier man in his arms, smooshing his face into his chest and ignoring the sharp press of the frames of his glasses. “I’m thrilled you trust me enough to want to, that means a lot to me.”
About thirty minutes later, with delivery on the way and a hard apple cider in Peter’s hand, they get set up at the kitchen table with a 750-piece puzzle, Wade complaining he won’t have the attention span for anything more if it’s not a detailed picture of Peter’s handsome face or Spidey’s glorious ass. Peter had rolled his eyes but turned a lovely pink, and Wade had basically won when he’d instead pulled out a puzzle with a kitten and a puppy sharing a rain boot under an umbrella. Even Peter couldn’t resist a darling coo at the sight of it before he took the box and dumped all the pieces out immediately.
“Strategy!” the brunet announces and starts sorting the edge and corner pieces, which makes Wade’s heart throb affectionately. (We stan a dorky king.) He could weep at the sight as Peter finally pops the bottlecap of the cider in his hand, reflexively catching it when it flies a little further than anticipated. Wade apparently doesn’t realize it’s not a pop- or twist-off cap, but he is impressed when Peter squares him with a look and pointedly takes a sip. He immediately pulls a face and holds the bottle away from himself, swallowing thickly and shaking his head. “Gah!” he protests wetly, sticking his tongue out, “that’s totally bitter. Sour. All of it.”
Wade throws his head back and cackles, taking the bottle from his boyfriend, who leaves his tongue out of his mouth and gets up to get a glass of water. “That reminds me, Babe, definitely hydrate whenever you drink. It’ll save you the hangover unless you totally trash yourself.”
Which won’t be happening tonight, no sir-ee. We’re gonna take good care of Sp— Petey!
“Okay,” Peter agrees in a rough voice. Holy shit, why do people like this stuff? He fills a tall glass at the sink and downs it all in one go to wash the taste out. Wade is at his side, then, grabbing a fancy shaped glass above him and filling it with ice to combat the alcohol’s burn. Peter refills and turns to lean against the sink, humming in approval for the way Wade fills out his jeans when the man turns to the island counter and draws the brunet’s gaze to his incredible thighs and ass. Peter sets his water down and wraps his arms around Wade’s waist from behind, nuzzling between his shoulder blades.
“Ugh, that’s so adorable,” Wade mutters and starts making his boyfriend a hurricane with him attached to his back, because it’s fruity and sweet like Peter, he can get away with it being unblended, and now he’s got like six different juices to use. Peter stands on his tip toes to peek over his shoulder and watch him mix the moderately complicated cocktail.
“It’s pretty,” he notes softly and kisses the back of the taller man’s neck with a little smile. “Like you,” he adds gently, terribly sincere. Wade feels really nice against him like this and Peter reluctantly lets him squirm around to face him, decidedly putting his chin on Wade’s collarbone when he does.
“Flattery will get you free drinks,” the taller man says wryly, kissing Peter’s forehead and holding up the bulbous glass for him.
Peter peels away and accepts it with both hands. Having seen what went into it — a lot of juice and rum — he’s less skeptical as he takes a sip. It’s a little sharp but very sweet and he makes a tiny chirping sound of approval, taking a longer sip.
“Good?” Wade asks with a smirk.
“That’s good,” Peter agrees with satisfaction. “Thank you.” He grins toothily at Wade, and walks back to the table to resume sorting edge pieces like a good little nerd.
Wade finishes off Peter’s abandoned cider but otherwise doesn’t partake. He might not get drunk like normal people, but he wants to be fully lucid—
The boxes laugh uproariously at him.
Okay, fully sober for Peter, who is just a fresh baby darling to drinking in a safe place with someone he trusts for the first time in years.
It’s easy enough to occupy him with the puzzle and Wade knows Peter is having a good time when he dutifully puts his emptied glass down, the remaining ice tinkling softly, and aligns two joined sides of the puzzle with the edge of the table. He smiles and splays his hands to proudly show his work.
“May used to do a lot of puzzles,” he says fondly, and Wade is briefly worried he’s about to drop himself in a grief spiral, but Peter just keeps smiling. “She could do a thousand pieces in a couple of days, if she let herself sit down for ten minutes.”
“What kind of puzzles?” Wade prompts, compiling a puppy paw in front of himself.
“She liked landscapes the best. But she did cartoons with me when I was little. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Power Puff Girls… you name it, she’d humor me.”
“That is just precious,” Wade informs him and Peter nods in agreement.
“She also taught me first aid. She was a nurse,” he goes on absently, assembling an edge, eyes flitting over the pieces. “I’m pretty good at it, if you recall.” His skills might technically exceed basic first aid, but it’s helped pretty effectively whenever Deadpool gets badly messed up, considering hospitals are more or less out of the question for the mutant. It really does suck to sew up your own stitches, so he’s been happy to do that for Wade when his healing factor is occupied with bigger tasks like regrowing limbs.
Of course, the extent of Peter’s first aid abilities only somewhat apply to himself; Deadpool has been plenty helpful to Spider-Man when the webbed hero has been in need anyway, but Wade comes home to Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. Amazingly, Wade hasn’t noticed the few gashes that he’d patched up for Spidey on Peter’s body, most of them healed to near or actual invisibility compared to the ones that had lasted, still painting the canvas of his pale skin. Or if he has, he’s attributed it to whatever cover story Peter had managed to eke out when he’d asked at the time.
Shit, he needs to tell Wade everything. This is such a stupid not-plan, to let himself try leaking hints when he’s tipsy. Never form (or half-form) plans when you’re trying not to fall into a panic attack. Whether or not this backfires won’t matter if it doesn’t work at all .
“I do,” Wade says softly, smiling sweetly, setting his chin in one hand and watching Peter pick through little pressed cardboard puzzle pieces. “I appreciate it, too, Baby. It’s way easier not to bleed out around you. Me ‘n the hardwood floors appreciate it.”
“Such a romantic,” Peter teases, smiling bashfully anyway. “She had to teach me because I kept getting all banged up when I was a teenager.”
“Never as a tiny tot?”
“All the time as a tiny tot, just… more as a teen, y’know?” he floats, eyes on the puzzle.
Wade hums thoughtfully. He can relate, to a degree. But Peter doesn’t need to hear about his traumatic childhood right now. “You screw around a lot? I noticed you used to skateboard.”
“Oh, I was skateboarding, free running, getting into fights…,” Peter says vaguely, shrugging, but glances up to Wade through his lashes, over the rims of his glasses. Wade blinks.
“You? Getting into fights?” he prompts disbelievingly. “Who’d wanna fight you?? Precious little nerd that you a— oh. Right. You’re too smart.” He nods grimly, and Peter laughs quietly, ducking his head again.
“Sure. That’s why.” Not because he’d started running around in a costume at night and picking fights with criminals. Not because he’s trans. But Peter suspects Wade could put together that last one and is just being kind to keep from opening a chasm in Peter’s chest; it’s still hard to talk about that particular trauma. College and grad school have been so much better in comparison to middle and high school.
“Wait, what was that other thing?” Wade says, hastily gesturing sideways like he’s trying to swipe back in time. “’Free running?’ Wha’ huh?”
“Free running?” Peter says imploringly and suddenly realizes his opportunity. “Parkour, Wade. I do parkour.”
Wade mimes spitting out his drink, which is already empty. “Wha’ huh?” he repeats loudly, more exaggerated. “Petey, you do parkour? Hardcore parkour? Flipping over balustrades and leaping down staircases in increasingly unnecessary but super cool ways??”
“Yeah, Wade. What did you think I was doing to stay fit?” Peter chuckles, heart rate picking up. Come on, come on, come on, Wade, he mentally encourages, eyes bright with hope as he smirks. “I hate this term, I do, I really do, but: I’m what they call an ‘urban acrobat.’”
“How did I not know this?” Wade is reeling, slapping the palms of his hands on the table and watching Peter with a massive grin.
No wonder he’s so bendy and quick and can scramble up fire escapes, it explains so much—! the boxes muse, but hesitate. Wait a goddamn second…
“Baby Boy!” Wade squeals. “I totally wanna see you do parkour!”
Peter squirms shyly in his seat. He’s oddly flattered. He shouldn’t have kept that such a secret but considering how directly tied to Spider-Man parkour is, he hadn’t wanted to reveal this particular hand until he’d needed to. Now seems as good a time as any, since Wade clearly isn’t putting anything together yet. “There’s technically a gym I sometimes go to.” Not a lie, he just can’t afford to be a regular. “Sometimes I free run home from class. Gotta be careful with my bag, though.”
“Is that why you take off without stuff sometimes?” Who goes to the gym without a duffel bag? That’s a gym people thing, right? Squeezable water bottles and short towels and crop tops? Ooh, he’d love to see Peter in a crop top, showing off his gorgeous abs…
Yeah, we’d sure love to see them in spandex…
Peter’s big brown eyes flick up to Wade’s dazzling hazel, and he watches him for a beat. When had Wade noticed that? Sometimes he leaves for patrol before Wade heads out to work or to meet up with Spider-Man. His excuse is usually going to the gym and so far, so believable. “I mean. Yeah,” he says with a little shrug. “I could totally climb the walls, y’know?” Go big or go home, right? Surely this will give Wade pause. “Hang from the light fixtures and kiss you upside down, but for real,” he offers cheekily.
Dude… dude! Code Webs!!
Wade’s eyes widen, and he cracks a smarmy grin. “You wanna dress up like Spidey again?”
What the hell is wrong with you! the boxes hiss disbelievingly. Wade staunchly ignores them.
Peter blinks. What.
“I’m not complaining, you were so hot, Petey,” Wade goes on, and his grin is increasingly excited as he leans forward and gives him a dramatic wink. “Wow, knowing you do parkour makes you in a Spidey suit even hotter, that’s. That’s wild,” Wade breathes, scratching at the table’s surface and groaning. He wonders what Peter looks like in an updated suit, not for the first time. He doesn’t notice the edge of disappointment in Peter’s expression but the brunet wipes it away quickly, clearing his throat when Wade sets his chin in both hands, elbows on the table in the middle of the scattered puzzle pieces. “But unsurprising. You’re just too gorgeous.”
Peter flushes, deciding to try again later. Wade, you horny bastard. Now he feels a little buzzed from the cocktail, but knows it won’t last long. He eyes his empty glass and tries to think of a way to convince Wade he’s ready for more, but Wade is suddenly watching him with a narrowed gaze and Peter finally looks up at him with his lips pressed tightly together.
“Want another one?” Wade guesses like he’s reading his boyfriend’s mind. Peter has determined he’s not telepathic, but it still throws him how right on the money he is, sometimes, while other times… not.
“Is it okay?”
“I know what you weigh, and even as a lightweight, we’re hydrating you. I’m right here in case you stop enjoying it,” Wade allows, smiling serenely when Peter smiles crookedly. “Wanna try a different one?”
“Yeah!”
Wade gets up and starts making him a sex on the beach; Peter snorts at the name when Wade introduces it. A knock at the door distracts both of them and Peter gets to his feet and waves Wade off to answer it himself, the mercenary chuckling and focusing on the cocktail he’s making for his boyfriend. Peter picks up the dropped off delivery Lebanese food and sets it on the island counter, clearing space of liquor bottles and wondering what blue curacao is. He fetches a couple of plates without swaying on his feet, starting to dish them both up while Wade tops off his sex on the beach with a maraschino cherry.
Wade steps over to put the glass into Peter’s hand, taking their full plates to the table and sweeping puzzle pieces aside with his arm, Peter on his heels and sitting down in front of his plate a moment later. Peter sips delicately at first and groans happily as he takes a bigger drink a moment later. Wade meaningfully lowers the brunet’s arm before he can chug it, but seems more amused than worried. They eat and chat, Peter distracted by how satisfying his food is, doing his best to be reasonable about how often he takes a drink from his cocktail. It’s really good, so Wade must be a good bartender. Or Peter is just an easy drinker. Maybe both. Either way, he’s finished the drink by the time they’ve shoveled all the food into their bellies.
“I’m kickin’ your ass at this puzzle,” Peter notes about ten minutes later, now definitely buzzed even with food to help absorb the booze. It’s nice, a warm and fuzzy feeling under his skin, lightly dulling his hypersensitive senses.
“Can you get your ass kicked at a puzzle?” Wade teases, but Peter is expertly filling in from the edges while Wade works on snippets of the overall image. “Oh, shit,” he says, impressed.
“Yeah,” Peter agrees smugly. “I’m good at puzzles. I like ‘em.”
“I can see that.”
“No,” Peter insists, giving Wade a hard look that makes the merc fight a smile. “Like, really good at ‘em.”
“Prove it.”
“Gimme a Rubix cube.”
Wade laughs, putting his hands up and gesturing to himself. “What about Wade Wilson says ‘I own a Rubix cube?’”
“The part that says you’re an 80s nerd ‘n people constantly challenge your intelligence,” Peter answers mercilessly, and Wade claps a hand over his heart, groaning.
“So cruel,” he says tightly, feigning misery even as his heart sings. (Christ, just gettin’ read.) “I came out to have a good time and honestly I’m feeling so attacked right now.” But Peter is right; he owns at least one Rubix cube and he’s actually decent at solving them, but he’s excited to see Peter do it. “Alright, Mr. Smarty-Pants.” He rises from his seat again and wanders into the spare room, Peter’s up and coming office. Because he’s a very good boyfriend, he has solidly resisted the urge to snoop through the few things Peter’s brought over in cardboard boxes, even though one is tantalizingly labeled “KEEPSAKES.” He knows if Peter wants to share them, he will someday. He roots through the closet and emerges with a puzzle cube, one or two colored stickers peeling. He flips it around mindlessly, trying to make it interesting as he emerges from the room and rounds the corner.
Peter jolts and Wade glances up to see him sit heavily back into his seat, cheeks red and eyes wide like he’d been caught. Caught doing what, Wade certainly can’t say, but he pauses on the other end of the table with eyebrows raised and Peter’s blush spreads to his ears and down his neck.
Oh, now, that. That is shifty behavior right there.
“Nothing,” Peter says unprompted, and then snaps his jaw shut, eyes somehow widening even more. Wade grins wolfishly, curiosity piqued. “Nothing!” the brunet protests again, a tiny bit childish as he quickly wraps his arms around himself and eyes the hall behind Wade. Wade turns slightly and glances around, then feels silly for falling for it when he hears an inexplicable but also somehow distantly familiar clacking from Peter.
Whipping back around, Wade squints suspiciously. Nothing on the table has moved but Peter’s hands are shoved into the front pocket of Wade’s stolen sweatshirt, the drawstrings of the hood now over the other man’s shoulders. “O-… kay,” the mercenary allows uneasily. “Should I be nervous, Petey?”
“Wh— no,” Peter assures him breathlessly, eyes glued to Wade’s face. “No,” he says a little more calmly.
“Uh-huh,” Wade says skeptically. “Do I need to leave the room again, let you finish up whatever super secret thing you were doing?”
“No,” Peter responds too quickly. Wade hesitates, suddenly getting genuinely worried, but Peter can see it on his face and schools his expression into a mischievous little smile that steadily relaxes his boyfriend. “It’s nothing. Just gotta put something away.”
“Is it a sexy thing?” Wade teases almost hopefully, and Peter shakes his head. “Okay. Should I close my eyes?” He makes a point of covering both eyes with his hands and whacks himself in the nose with the Rubix cube. “Ow,” he mutters, rubbing the tip of his nose and getting a short giggle out of Peter, who’s on his feet and coming over to take the puzzle. Still rubbing his nose, Wade watches as Peter smiles serenely and flips the cube around with long, dexterous fingers; in mere seconds, he’s gotten two sides matched up again. “Holy shit, Babe, that’s so hot,” Wade complains, setting his forehead on Peter’s crown and watching his hands from a bird’s eye view. Peter smiles triumphantly and keeps puzzling. “So what naughty thing are you hiding from me, Pete?” he asks absently, and Peter doesn’t answer until he’s finished the puzzle about a minute later.
“Not… naughty,” Peter tries to answer smoothly, and sets the completed Rubix cube in Wade’s waiting palm. He inspects it as if there’s a flaw to be found. “Uh, just. Absentminded. One sec.” Peter hastily excuses himself, skirting around Wade and dashing down the hall into the spare room, which makes Wade doubly suspicious.
He’s definitely got something good. What’s he doing?? Why won’t he share?
“He can have secrets,” Wade reminds them, even though he’s dying to know, leaning backward to look down the hall just in case. He can’t even hear Peter doing anything until there’s a soft clatter and Peter mutters a swear word. Wade whines, fidgeting in place. Should he check? Peter is at the very least tipsy, what if he’d fallen over? That’s a great reason to go peek! But Peter stumbles out of the room and rights himself immediately, arms out and eyes wide again.
“Honestly, Pete, you look like you’re hiding porno mags from your very Catholic father,” Wade muses, but relaxes when Peter huffs a laugh and brushes down the front of his now empty hoodie.
“It’s pretty hard for a Jew to be Catholic,” Peter jokes, and Wade hums.
“How do you feel?”
“Nice,” Peter replies shyly, walking back down the hall toward him and bumping into his side, sliding his arms around Wade’s chest. And he does feel nice, the warmth just under his skin pleasant. He’s only a little bit clumsier than usual and he doesn’t even mind that it feels a little like how he was before the bite. He can still feel all his limbs and doesn’t feel sick. Wade supports his weight when he leans heavily against him. “Can we watch a movie?” he asks, feeling lazy. And brave.
The shorter man had barely managed to sneak past Wade with his web shooter, which had been tucked up under the table from a previous hasty stashing. When Wade had left the room to find the Rubix cube, he’d bumped it onto the floor with his knee and then proceeded to launch a spit of web onto the ceiling when he’d bent to pick it up. He’d then tried to jump and swipe off the little glob of webbing, barely getting a hold of the dangling string of it before Wade had come back into the room. There’s still a small piece of it attached to the off-white paint not far from the light fixture but he’d avoided looking up to the ceiling when Wade had caught him, so for now Wade isn’t aware of it. Now the web shooter is in one of his boxes in the spare room, and it’s only because he knows Wade has been actively resisting snooping that he trusts his merc won’t find it.
Peter has another little plan, but this one is a longer game, so he’ll enact it later. It’s not like they haven’t technically done the first part before, but the follow up later will be the truly important part. He’s not really sure when he’ll be able to pull it off, but he’s going to kiss Wade upside down again tonight and get it fresh in his boyfriend’s brain. If he has to repeatedly kiss him from some version of upside down until he can work up the nerve to execute Phase Two, so be it. “I don’t feel like sitting upright,” he admits. The alcohol isn’t the only culprit, mostly he’s feeling clingy; he’s had to consciously unstick from Wade every time they’ve made contact tonight.
“Of course. But we totally hafta finish this puzzle in the next few days or it’s gonna stress me out,” Wade bargains, and Peter nods firmly, nuzzling at his chest with a happy sigh. “Still got your legs, Legs?” Wade asks, setting a hand in Peter’s fluffy hair and stroking his fingers through it.
“Sea legs, but yeah,” Peter hums. “’S nice.”
“Am I going to regret offering you one more drink, baby?” Wade asks cautiously. The goal isn’t to make him black out, after all. “Maybe something with less alcohol in it? I’ve got hard lemonade.”
“Strawberry?” Peter mumbles into his shirt, hands running up and down the taller man’s sides. Muscular. Firm. Warm. Dreamy. He traces the paths of raised scars and Wade settles his other arm around Peter’s shoulders.
“You know it, Sweetie.”
Peter nods and only pries himself off when Wade gently tugs at his hair to urge him up again. Peter is steady on his feet once Wade has righted him, moving to lean back against the couch and holding onto the edges of it on either side of his hips. He watches Wade move to the fridge and pull out a bottle of pink alcohol. He gestures for Peter to sit and collects his water glass to fill that, too. He’s a responsible boyfriend, after all. He wants Peter to know he’ll be taken care of, no matter how far this little experiment tonight goes. The brunet grins lopsidedly, flashing a canine as he tips himself backward into the couch cushions, scooting to lie with his legs hanging over the back and his head over the seat, kicking his feet idly.
Wade chuckles and tickles the sole of one of Peter’s feet as he passes, making him yelp a giggle and kick out at him. Wade narrowly dodges it and sticks his tongue out as he comes around to sit next to his tipsy boyfriend. “Now, how’re you gonna drink like that?” he challenges, setting the bottle and glass on the coffee table and leaning over him slightly.
“Carefully,” Peter replies, reaching up to stroke his knuckles down the larger man’s jaw. “Wanna see?” He beams again.
“Maybe next time, sweetheart, it’s gonna be real awkward if you cough and snort up hard lemonade everywhere,” Wade teases, and Peter lightly pinches his earlobe, making him half-heartedly protest, catching his wrist. “As entertaining as that would be.”
“How about if I lie in your lap?” Peter offers mischievously, and yeah he’s a little buzzed but he likes cuddling all the time, and it’s not out of the norm for them anyway. “Is it less embarrassing if I spill hard lemonade on your crotch?”
“For you, yeah.” He pats his thighs invitingly and Peter makes a soft sound of approval, scooting around and lying his legs across the rest of the couch as he eases his head and shoulders onto Wade’s broad lap. He loves Wade’s thighs, firm and strong and comforting as Peter gets cozy. He smiles comfortably when Wade pulls down the red fuzzy blanket and drapes it over him. Wade rarely needs a blanket for comfort, being a walking radiator, but Peter gets cold pretty easily. Sometimes Wade wonders if he’s got poor circulation or something.
Or something.
“Good?” Wade asks softly.
Peter blindly reaches to the coffee table, and Wade snorts as he bends forward slightly and picks up the lemonade to hand to him. Peter tips his head up only enough not to splash it everywhere as he takes a sip. He holds it in his mouth and squints as he evaluates. Swallowing, he nods sagely in approval. “That’ll do.”
“I’m so glad,” Wade says dryly, but dips to kiss the tip of Peter’s nose. Peter holds the lemonade in one hand but reaches up again to slide his hand to the back of Wade’s neck and pull him to his lips, kissing him gently, long and sweet. Wade breathes him in, parting his lips, and Peter brushes his tongue forward to meet his. They kiss slowly, languid and comfortable, until Peter winces quietly in the back of his throat. (Uh-oh.) Wade pulls up and threads fingers through his curls. “I know, Baby. And you’re very inviting, but you’re also a little drunk.”
“Yeah,” Peter pouts, but feels a swell of painful affection for Wade and his determination to never take advantage of him. Peter wonders if they should talk about one of those kink acronyms he’s been reading about.
There are a lot of things he wants to try with Wade, things that would put him off with anyone else. Things that would only ever be fantasy if it weren’t for how much he loves and trusts his boyfriend. Handcuffs aren’t enough. Even gags aren’t enough, and now Wade knows Peter can deepthroat the fuck out of him, too. He wonders how good Wade is at rope rigging, something that Wade has mentioned a handful of times and that Peter’s always been curious about. But Peter has been… hesitant to try bondage, all things considered with Spider-Man’s experiences. He’s happy to do the tying, already an expert of sorts regarding knots and “rope,” but while he wants to try being tied up, he definitely can’t picture it being fun with anyone else.
“Can we have morning sex?” he offers curiously, a little distracted thinking about the possibilities of his web shooters.
I’m gonna marry that boooooooy, marry him anyway! the boxes sing, switching genders to fit their situation. Even though Wade is unimpressed by this particular song, the sentiment remains the same because his heart aches as he scratches the other man’s scalp lightly and earns a shiver.
“Sure, Baby. Let me know how you’re feeling when we get there, okay?” He chuckles as Peter tips up slightly to take a bigger swig of the lemonade.
“Can we put on The Day The Earth Stood Still?” the smaller man asks a little roughly, the lemonade stinging just a little, but in a pleasant way. He looks when he moves to set it on the coffee table this time, and sits up again to drink down the water. When he finishes, his eyes pop for a moment, and then he laughs at himself, wiggling to sit all the way up and get to his feet. “Gotta pee,” he says with amusement, hopping over the back of the couch and heading for the bathroom. Wade watches him go with a lazy smile.
“He always does that,” Wade muses.
Need to pee??
“No, jump over the couch, you dummies. He hardly ever just goes around. The parkour thing totally tracks.”
Uh-huh. Gonna… explore that thought a little more, maybe?
“What’s there to explore?” Wade hums, firmly in the camp of Not Fucking Tonight. The boxes hadn’t shut up all evening. He’s going to cuddle his buzzed boyfriend and save any critical thinking for another time, dammit.
Wade turns on the TV and flips through the services on screen, finding the old sci-fi film his boyfriend had requested and smiling to himself. It’s strange, being happy like this. A part of him is terrified he’s going to blow it in an instant, that it will be ripped away from him because he’s not supposed to have it. He’s not supposed to be happy, or fulfilled, or even comfortable. Distantly, he hears the toilet flush and the faucet run, but he stares at the screen grab of the movie and ponders how hard he’d crash if he really were to lose all of this — his loving boyfriend Peter, his unaliving sobriety streak, Spider-Man’s respect — and winds up shuddering just in time for Peter to pad back down the hall and stand behind him.
“You’re making a face,” Peter notes, gently tipping Wade’s head back to look at him upside down with deft fingers under his chin. But his smile is kind and warm and Wade loves him so much it physically hurts. “Did you know I love you?” Peter asks lightly, but doesn’t give him the opportunity to respond, moving forward just slightly to kiss him sweetly from upside down. It almost deepens but then they both remember how awkward and goofy it had been to try making out in this same position on Halloween, so they dissolve into giggles instead. Peter has to drop his forehead to his arm on the back of the couch, fingers gentle as they settle on Wade’s jaw and the side of his neck. “If I fall asleep,” Peter says through a sigh, turning his face to the side, Wade doing the same so they can look at each other, “will you stay with me?”
Wade’s big queer heart pangs and he looks at Peter’s faintly sad face, lifting a hand to stroke through his hair. Peter’s gorgeous doe eyes slide shut as he breathes out. “Of course, Bambi. I’ll always stay. Especially when you ask me to.”
Peter climbs over the back of the couch to get into Wade’s lap again, turning around onto his front so he can drape more of his body over the taller man’s lap, arms folded as he rests on Wade’s legs with his own pulled up under himself. Wade resituates the blanket and immediately pushes one hand into Peter’s fluffy curls again, petting him firmly with the occasional, lightly teasing tug. With his other hand he starts the movie, setting the remote aside so he can rub soothingly up and down Peter’s back. He gets to touch Peter. He gets to cuddle Peter. Sleepy, tipsy Peter who trusts him so much.
“Oh!” Wade gasps brightly, startling Peter in his lap. Peter shifts, pushing himself upright enough to look expectantly at Wade with raised eyebrows. “Banner!”
“Wwwhat?” Peter intones uncertainly, frowning slightly.
“Banner. He said— shit, Pete, the Hulk and Invisible Woman totally want you to work for them!” How the hell could he forget to tell his Petey-Pie the good news! “Goddammit, sorry, Baby Boy, I totally forgot to tell you earlier!”
“Wait, wait,” Peter says carefully, gently patting his merc’s leg and squinting suspiciously. “Are you saying something about Dr. Banner and Dr. Susan Storm?” he tries to parse. He’s glad Wade had brought it up, it would’ve been awkward if he’d had to say he’d heard from Spider-Man first. “Working, huh?”
“I mean, they’re both offering you a job. Separately. Respectively. Soon as you get your degree.” Wade beams, immensely proud of his Brainiac Shutterbug. “I’m s’pposed to take your applications right to ‘em, soon as you got your official title as a… it’s not a PhD, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” Peter chuckles, smiling lopsidedly. He’s genuinely excited at the possibilities, so his blush is a combination effect from the alcohol and bashful delight. “They said that? Really? How come?” he dares to ask.
“They know you’re clever, duh. And I think they’ve seen your research and thesis stuff,” Wade explains proudly, booping the brunet on the tip of his nose. Peter scrunches it up again and Wade sighs dreamily. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow, huh? You look like you’re ready to stop thinkin’ with that beautiful big brain that’s gettin’ you jobs left ‘n right.”
“I’m a little drowsy,” Peter allows shyly, his smile still warm as he carefully settles back down on Wade’s lap, sighing softly as his boyfriend strokes through his hair again. “Deal. Tomorrow,” he mumbles halfway into Wade’s lovely, shapely leg. Mm, Wade’s thighs. He absently runs his hand up and down the length of the other man’s leg. Wade chuckles, settling the blanket over his definitely tipsy boyfriend and starting up the requested movie, playing with his hair and running his hand soothingly down the stretch of Peter’s back all the while.
Peter is so comfortable that he nearly drifts off in the first ten minutes of the movie. Wade’s hands feel so fucking good and comforting and safe , how had he resisted getting to know Deadpool — and thus Wade — for so long? Spider-Man is an idiot. He smirks to himself for this revelation but he breathes Wade in deeply, committing to memory the maple and leather conditioner and gun oil as if it’s not already saturated in his brain. He’s dizzy with it, and maybe with the alcohol, but before he drifts off into blissful sleep he mumbles, “Love you, Wade.”
“Love you, too, Baby Boy,” Wade murmurs in turn, setting a little kiss behind his ear. Eventually he falls asleep, marveling at the fact that he hasn’t gotten so much real rest in the last 30 years as he has when he’s with Peter.
Notes:
don’t you love the impossibility of how long this is being dragged out?? boys get ur shit together ffs
Chapter 16: [16] Bodega
Summary:
Spider-Man is a little reckless. Spidey and Deadpool handle an unusual criminal incident. Wade and Peter hang out at home.
14639 words.
Chapter Text
The chill of autumn is finally making New York’s mild summer look like the real fluke it had been. It’s barely November and they’ve already dipped into the 40s. Spider-Man had modified his suit again, making it more insulated so he doesn’t have to start wearing scarves, thicker gloves, and beanies. He tells himself it’s because those things get in the way, that someone could pull on a scarf and choke him, that he might somehow lose sticking power through extra gloves, that he can’t necessarily afford to lose outer layers swinging through the city and dropping something down a grate he can’t relocate. He tells himself those things because the bigger problem shouldn’t be a problem anymore: Deadpool will recognize his clothes.
More specifically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend Wade Wilson will recognize when the same clothes the grad student wears are suddenly on the webbed wonder. It’s not impossible that Peter, Spider-Man’s exclusive photographer, might have some of his things every now and then, but the chilly vigilante wearing several outer layers from someone Wade definitely knows also gets cold easily seems unlikely. Suspicious. Worthy of scrutiny. Peter wants Wade to figure it out, but that seems like an even dumber way to be revealed than Wade failing to understand all of Peter’s not-metaphors the night he’d had cocktails and passed out in his boyfriend’s lap. Peter had practically confessed (he thinks, he’s pretty sure) and Wade had remained oblivious.
It’s not impossible to find a solution. Peter had spent the little allowance he’d had growing up to buy dozens of used backpacks and clothes, after all, to leave them across the city as emergency supplies. He can sort-of get away with trying to do the same thing now. He can’t let Wade know he needs something, anyway, not just because it’s technically Spider-Man that needs it; if Wade gets wind Peter is in need of something, the merc will go out of his way to help, which means spending money he doesn’t need to spend, especially not now that Peter is saving so much money by paying way less rent living with his boyfriend — his boyfriend who had to be convinced Peter should contribute to rent at all.
The brunet already feels weird only paying half of what he’d paid for his dinky little studio apartment, but it means he can afford to buy Spider-Man some patrol-time-only cold weather layers. He should really start looking for some of his old backpacks, he’s pretty sure he’s got some usable stuff in a few of them. Probably. He’d been relatively practical about it, even as a teenager.
Perched on the balls of his feet in a comfortable crouch on a spire above the city, Spider-Man shivers and awaits a signal that he’s needed below. The new insulation is making a difference in the growing chill, at least; now the masked vigilante is only shivering every few seconds instead of operating on constant vibrate. He still kind-of feels like a phone getting spam called by car warranty scammers, but at least now he’s not exhausting himself ahead of schedule. The vantage here has him relaxed, and even the noise of traffic and the gentle clouds of steam from restaurants, food carts, vents, and manholes aren’t impeding his efforts to be on the lookout. A gargoyle sits a few feet below him, a grotesque off to his side, and he turns his head sideways to hum thoughtfully at the distorted face of the statue.
“I should tell Deadpool where I am,” Spider-Man informs the grotesque, which doesn’t respond. Too bad, he’d love to see one come to life and sing about how datable he is. Or he’s just a little tired and cold, and he’s thinking life should be more like an animated musical. It would certainly spice up patrols.
He palms over the device in the thigh of his super suit: a small smartphone more or less paid for by the Avengers, one of those little perks of being affiliated with the team while remaining outside of it. Peter would prefer a bigger screen, and has the next cheapest size up for his personal phone, but the smaller the better when it comes to keeping it on himself while he’s swinging hundreds of feet in the air or getting kicked in the gut, etcetera. He eyes his messages, the screen lighting up his mask in the dim glow of the evening streetlights below. Maybe he should take Stark up on that integrated suit stuff, it would save him a lot of trouble if he could talk to a system in his mask and not carry around a breakable, losable cell phone. But if he makes it onto Dr. Storm’s research team, she might let him utilize the other labs and he can fabricate his own suit without Stark’s input or the man himself breathing down Peter’s neck.
Stark is… not his least favorite person, and he’d done a lot for Spider-Man in terms of early tech upgrades, but he’s pretty entitled every time he speaks to the spidery super and definitely treats him like he’s still a kid. Really, that’s the worst part: Spider-Man is still thought of as the baby when it comes to most other supers. It’s not his fault his… enhancements happened when he’d still been a teenager while most everyone else had been basically an adult when they’d gotten super… -ified. He knows a handful of other younger supers, and that’s been a hell of a saving grace, all things considered. Even Black Cat had been a good friend, despite that she could also, possibly, definitely be considered an ex after a whirlwind fling when Spidey had been 20. Johnny Storm has also been a really good friend, and— oh, hell.
“Dammit, still haven’t texted Johnny,” he mumbles guiltily. Spider-Man had completely forgotten even after Dr. Susan Storm had brought him up only a few days ago! Distracted, he pulls up the flaming hero’s contact and hovers over the message option. “And say what?” he hisses to himself, dropping his head forward and groaning. Dumb. How do you initiate conversation after months of radio silence? Peter Parker had ghosted so many people in the last six months. He owes MJ a massive apology. He should’ve kept better contact with Flash, even— oh hell, he should see how F.E.A.S.T. is doing! Last he remembers, Flash had been volunteering at the shelter, and a lot of folks have told both Flash and Spider-Man that the other had offered them the organization’s help during hard times. Flash had become a different person after high school; humbled, though Peter couldn’t specifically say why. At least he’d stopped being a weird, shitty transphobe after realizing he’s just really, super gay for Peter — and Spider-Man, which really couldn’t have been more obvious.
“Okay, so, I didn’t notice either,” he concedes awkwardly, shuddering. He’s still not sure how he feels about it, even though he’d forgiven the blond a long time ago for bullying him throughout high school. Puberty is hard, he kind-of gets it; he’s going through a semi-permanent second puberty himself and testosterone is a hell of a drug. Not that it’s an excuse, Peter can just see how someone like Flash had come to do the things he’d done.
Spider-Man sighs and flips back to his contact list. He doesn’t have his personal phone on him, so he can’t message MJ or Flash, anyway, though he’s dreading what he should say to Johnny and second-guessing that he should even try. But it’ll be so awkward if Dr. Storm accepts his application and he somehow runs into Johnny, even if it’s only uncomfortable for the super clinging to a secret identity; the Human Torch doesn’t know Spider-Man is just some geek from Queens.
“Come on, Spider-Man,” he grunts, jaw clenching. “Don’t be a coward.” Tapping his messages, he scrolls down to Johnny and tries not to feel too badly about the last three texts he’d gotten from him, first days and then a month apart.
[From 🔥Flaming Idiot (affectionate)🔥] 5/3 3:41PM
Hey I know you’re probably in class or something, lemme know when you’re free again!!
[From 🔥Flaming Idiot (affectionate)🔥] 5/9 1:01PM
Did you see that new comedy with that one pop star? Way funnier than I woulda thought. Would see it again, come with!!
[From 🔥Flaming Idiot (affectionate)🔥] 6/7 2:19AM
Miss you, bud
Peter’s heart sinks. Fuck. Poor Johnny. He does miss spending time with him, they’d meshed really well together. Johnny had always been a good partner when they’d fought alongside one another. What’s he up to now?
[To 🔥Flaming Idiot (affectionate)🔥] 8:04PM
Hey Johnny, I’m really sorry for ghosting you. It wasn’t personal, but it still really sucks. Wanna plan a movie night soon?
He’s about to hit send when someone clears their throat from behind him, making him jolt and fumble the phone; he sucks in sharply through his teeth and flicks his wrist out to web it at the last second, catching it before it can hit the gargoyle’s head below and flicking it up so it doesn’t hit the building when it swings. Spider-Man sighs with relief as he pointedly sticks to it in his hand, lenses contracting as he glares over his shoulder at Deadpool, who’d clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Heya, Webs,” the mercenary greets, hastily lowering his hand. There’s neither a single firearm nor holster on him as he steps to the ledge at Spider-Man’s side. “Flirtin’ with the Flaming Douchewad?”
Spider-Man heaves a much heavier sigh this time, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Deadpool isn’t totally out of line when it comes to his attitude toward the Human Torch. Johnny is practically a different person when the merc is around, aggressive and weirdly protective of the webbed hero. “He’s not that bad, DP, he’s just, uh… he doesn’t trust you.” Because he thinks you’re a bad influence on me, he doesn’t add. Which also feels like being babied, to a degree. He can take care of himself, dammit, he’s a grown man! He frowns at his screen, the message still in the textbox. Should he send it? “And I’m not flirting,” he mutters.
“Why not? The guy is clearly in love with you. Practically everyone is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Spider-Man dismisses with some trepidation, still staring at the screen. That… might explain the vibe of Johnny’s texts. He squints at some of the older ones: friendly, accommodating, funny… flirtatious, the longer he evaluates.
“…Goddammit,” he grumbles in defeat, cheeks burning. He’d thought Dr. Storm had been pulling his leg, but Johnny Storm might actually have a crush on Spider-Man. “Am I leading him on?” he asks Deadpool miserably, looking over and up at him with pleadingly wide lenses.
Deadpool shrugs, taking a seat with a short concrete spire between his legs rather than trying to balance on top of it the way Spidey is; the hero follows the movements with his head. Deadpool might be deeply in love with Peter, but he still enjoys Spider-Man’s attention when he gets it. He tries not to preen too much anymore. “I dunno, but Dr. Storm sure made it sound like you broke his heart when you stopped texting him.”
Spider-Man winces. Oh, the timing. Maybe if he’d never gotten closer with Deadpool, he would’ve been more responsive to whatever Johnny was going for. In a roundabout way, he can picture Spider-Man being with the Human Torch, but not Peter Parker being with Johnny Storm. Not that they’d be less compatible, it just seems like there’s a good chance Johnny would lose interest. Peter is much less interesting than the webslinger: less confident, grumpier, fewer puns. It still confuses him how someone like Wade — vibrant, quick-thinking, snarky, sweet Wade — can even stay interested in an awkward ball of anxiety like Peter. Even Black Cat hadn’t been interested in Spider-Man’s alter ego, and Johnny might be bi but he sure as hell can’t guarantee the blond isn’t also a transphobe. Fuck.
“I’m gonna do it,” he says tensely, and then miraculously, he does.
Deadpool whistles lowly, clearly amused. He reaches up, poking the spider’s knee, and the hero quickly puts the phone away again. “Did you do the thing?”
“Yeah,” Spider-Man huffs. “Might be weird.” He groans again, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead and shifting to face Deadpool even as he remains crouched atop the spire. Dropping his forearms onto his knees, he hangs his head. “I don’t even have time to hang out and I just offered to do a movie night!”
“Aw, you sure you’re not hot for the hothead, Spidey?” Deadpool teases, folding his arms over the spire before him and propping his chin in his palm, smiling slyly through the mask. “I hate to admit it, but you’d be cute together.”
“You don’t know that,” Spider-Man mumbles and looks out to the city again. Deadpool tips his head side to side, humming in disbelief. “You don’t know what I look like,” he reminds the taller man, something odd in his tone.
“I respect you too much to think you’d look bad with whoever you wanna get with, Spider-Babe,” Deadpool responds smoothly, and Spider-Man slowly turns his masked face back to his friend — his best friend. “What?” Deadpool shrugs, palms to the sky. “I just want you to be happy, Spidey!” the merc insists defensively. “I’ve got, like, the best boyfriend in existence, and I just hope you can find someone who can make you as… as happy as Pete makes me,” he goes on more sheepishly, smiling shyly and folding his hands atop the spire between his legs, setting his chin on his fingers as he observes the bustle below.
Spider-Man is going to be sick. He’s kept this secret way too long and Deadpool is such a sap . He doesn’t even know he’s telling Spider-Man he’s the best boyfriend in existence, he doesn’t know he’s wishing him the happiness he already has with the merc himself. Shit, has he ever told Wade how happy he makes him? Peter had said he loves him a hundred times, but what if those words aren’t enough? He examines Deadpool’s lax posture, tilting his head at a sharp angle to see the way blank white mask eyes seem somehow unfocused, the corners of his smile visible through the red material over his face. Wade… seems happy, like everything he’d said had been strictly sincere and dreamy and romantic and Peter you idiot—
“I think I’m not far off,” he murmurs, smiling a little himself, definitely blushing behind his mask. Deadpool seems to perk up with curiosity, kicking Spider-Man’s heart rate into gear. He swallows roughly, straightening his back a little as he steels himself. “Wade…,” he tries, and Deadpool hums in acknowledgement, but danger nearby buzzes up the back of his neck and he whips his head in its direction. Deadpool notices the shift and immediately starts to get up.
“Where ‘re we goin’, Spidey?” he asks, watching the smaller super as he slips easily off the spire and motions for Wade to follow. The webhead seems focused again, so Wade decidedly forgets that Spider-Man had been about to say something. “How far?”
“Close,” Spider-Man answers shortly, stopping at the other end of the roof. “Two blocks away at most.” He tenses, his spider-sense almost itchy. Not the end of the world, not so disastrous that he needs to call for more backup, but bad enough that he jumps over the ledge before Wade can ask for clarification.
With his pulse racing, Spider-Man shoots a web and swings around the corner of the nearest building. At the peak of his arc, he launches another and tries to breathe evenly; he can’t hear explosions or gunfire, screams or even loud voices. What is it? What’s setting him off? He hopes to hell it’s not another false alarm — he’ll lose his damned mind if his spidey-sense actually breaks, let alone if there’s another long game that will ramp it up like the whole preamble to busting Holt Securities had. But this isn’t a background tingle that’s started getting worse. This had hit him hard out of nowhere, so he can only assume it’s about to get ugly very quickly.
He’s honing in on it, a bodega on the corner, and Spider-Man lands on a lamp post close by to see two people exchanging words inside, the cashier behind the counter aiming a shotgun at someone with their hands up on the other side. He recognizes the cashier as Jose, the bodega owner’s son. He’s talked to him a handful of times as a civilian, when he’s stopped in for a strawberry milk or a sandwich on the way to the Daily Bugle building. He seems like a good guy, no older than 19, but he looks like he’s actually going to shoot whoever has their arms up in surrender. He hops down from the lamp post, eyes never leaving the young man’s hands on the gun. The street isn’t busy, only a handful of passers-by on the sidewalks and a few cars. It’s early in the night, really, so that would normally feel off, but he’s got more important things to worry about.
Especially when he notices the “customer” has something glowing green under their coat.
Spidey lets his eyes move to the garment, staying low and out of the bodega kid’s line of sight as he observes from the outside; whenever he looks at it, his spider-sense spikes. He has no idea what the glow is, and even as he wracks his brain for some possibility — alien tech, a light filter for a power source, a comic book rod of uranium — he can’t yet be sure. Spider-Man hates unknowns, and whatever’s in that coat is a dangerous mystery. Worse, the way this person’s shoulders are relaxed even with their hands raised in the face of a shotgun barrel tells the spider they’re not worried about a thing. Clearly they aren’t equipped with a supernatural threat alert system because the vigilante is coming to the conclusion that if the kid shoots this person, something very, very bad is going to happen. Since he can hear everything from where he is by the grace of his enhanced senses, he doesn’t try to get inside just yet, hoping to scope out the situation a little more first.
“You can just fuck right off,” the cashier says loudly, expression hard as the other person shrugs slowly.
“I’ve got things to discuss with your father and uncle, boy. Where are the grown-ups?” A trace of an Eastern European accent, but Spidey can’t say which language for sure.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about or who you are, but I don’t care.” He pumps the shotgun to load the chamber and prove his seriousness, making Spider-Man tense. “Get out of my fucking store!”
The masked vigilante is running out of time but he doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until he hears familiar footsteps behind him; Deadpool winks at him through his mask and Spider-Man has to silently watch in frustrated disbelief while the merc pushes open the bodega’s front door, setting off the little bell and alerting both potential culprits to his presence as the taller super saunters casually toward the aisles. Spider-Man is just fast enough to both stay out of sight and put his foot between the door and the door jamb, stopping it from shutting all the way.
Jose, the young cashier, points the shotgun at Deadpool on his way through an aisle, startled but apparently smart enough not to just pull the trigger. It’s worth noting that he’s got his finger in the right place to indicate he’s learned some measure of gun safety, despite cocking the weapon and even as he scowls at the intruder in the red and black body suit. The person in the mysteriously glowing coat slowly turns their head to look at Deadpool with a frown of their own, sunken eyes hard and angry.
Peter takes a deep breath, staying low and mumbling to himself, “Guess it’s time to improvise. Leave it to Deadpool to start the scene.”
“Y’all got those spicy cheese puffs? I’d give you the brand name, but they’re not paying the writer so it doesn’t seem worth it. We all know what I’m talkin’ about anyway,” Deadpool calls from a far aisle on one side of the bodega, moving far too comfortably, like he hadn’t seen the double-barrel and the faintly pulsing green light under the coat. “Love me some spicy cheesy snacks. Gotta pick up something sweeter for my BFF, though.”
“What the hell are you doing!” the cashier demands, probably hoping he sounds intimidating, but he sounds just as scared as he should be. Whether it’s because he knows Deadpool’s reputation or because he’s just pointed the shotgun back at the gaunt “customer,” the young man couldn’t say, Deadpool seemingly unaffected either way. “Can’t you see something— something’s going on?” he shouts, unable to label whatever’s happening in front of him.
“You should leave, stupid man,” the previously silent person agrees, voice smoky and harsh through their accent. If Deadpool has to guess, they’re Russian or Ukrainian. “This is between me and the Ramirez boys.”
“Ooh, that a gang?” Deadpool muses, tossing one unappealing snack over his shoulder in favor of another. His desired munchies are here somewhere. “You should really stay away from those, kiddo, I hear gangbangers are dangerous.”
“We’re not a fucking gang!” the bodega cashier protests, deeply offended. “That’s— are you being racist? Shit , man, what are you even doing in here?” he goes on incredulously, starting to lose his nerve, the shotgun lowering ever so slightly.
“Hm?” Deadpool hums absently, “Oh, me? I’m mitigating the situation. Looks to me that one of you is a bad guy and the other is a scared kid.” Deadpool shrugs, finding a bag of his desired spicy cheesy snack and exclaiming in triumph. He grabs a few extra and walks toward the cashier, snatching up two of Spider-Man’s favorite candy bars on his way. The young man behind the counter realizes his aim has dipped while watching the super, so he quickly lifts the gun again; without missing a beat, the mercenary gets in between the weapon and Glow-y Coat.
“Hi! I’m Deadpool, he/him. Mostly. A girl can use he/him whenever he feels like it,” he says, chipper and casual. “Nice to meet you… Jose,” he adds, squinting briefly at the name tag on the cashier’s shirt.
“What. Are you doing,” Jose hisses, trying to aim away from the super as he leans forward and drops his snacks on the counter.
“Well, normalizing introductory pronouns, but I was also gonna pay for these,” Deadpool says plainly, pointing at his snacks and candy like Jose is being silly, “unless you’re cool with me just taking off with it all?”
“Who the fuck are you?” the sickly person demands from behind him, and Deadpool looks over his shoulder.
Glow-y Coat looks like a cigarette come to life, sallow and pale and breathing like their lungs are already made of ash. They stink like they’ve been inhaling cigarette smoke all day too, which doesn’t bother Deadpool, but he’d hate for it to permeate his own suit and drag such pungence home to Peter; his boyfriend could be sensitive to strong smells sometimes. Deadpool drops his gaze to look at the opened front of the coat and raises both eyebrows.
There it is, a series of glowing green plastic bottles attached to their torso, wrapped sloppily in duct tape belts: a bizarre sci-fi version of a classic suicide bomber’s rig. There are at least nine bottles, about the size of a normal soda bottle, the caps screwed on but also held down with the same duct tape. Deadpool hums thoughtfully. He’d been right to get between the kid and this cigarette-reeking weirdo; clearly this sickly pale bad guy wants to be shot, only tense now that Deadpool is standing between them and the cashier. He half turns to face them, elbow propped on the counter as he sets his other hand on his popped hip.
“Someone’s not a very good listener,” he teases, chuckling like he’s joking around with old friends. “Deadpool. He/him,” he repeats meaningfully, offering a hand to shake. “May I ask your pronouns, so I know how to refer to you when I watch you get your ass handed to you in about thirty seconds?” The bomber creep starts to lower their surrendering hands, snarling, and Deadpool sighs dramatically, dropping his own. “Ugh, this is taking too long, are you gonna monologue?” he whines. “Please say no. I don’t really care why you’re in here harassing teenagers with radioactive Mountain Dew. Just know whatever brought you here, it was a pleasure to distract you for this long.” He grins with delight and lifts his hand again to wave at Glow-y Weirdo with his fingers.
Both Jose and the bomber are silent for a beat before the kid says, “What?”
A soft thwipp sounds from above and the bomber’s face is suddenly covered in webbing at the same time the shotgun is yanked from the cashier’s hands. The bomber reels back, hands flying up only to get stuck to the web as they screech. Deadpool reaches back to grab the front of Jose’s shirt and throws him to the floor behind the counter as he leaps over it himself, knocking the snacks around; the kid’s yelp of surprise gets cut off by a grunt of impact. Spider-Man drops from the ceiling to web the bomber’s hands in place before they can do anything to possibly trigger their set-up.
The bomber kicks out blindly, and Spider-Man sidesteps the effort but just as quickly webs their shoulders and leaps onto the ceiling again; he lifts and attaches the web so the offender dangles a few inches off of the floor, thrashing angrily. Switching web shooter settings, Spidey nudges his captive to start them spinning and drops again to create a cushiony sac around them with an ongoing thread of specialized webbing, trying to secure the sloshing bottles in a thick buffer of sturdy pseudo-silk. He can’t be sure the bottles are stable because he doesn’t know what’s in them, but this webbing can withstand some intense levels of explosives so the plan is to at least minimize more of the potential damage by encasing them.
“Bomb squad,” Spider-Man instructs loudly, looking over his work as he detaches the webbing from his wrists and circles the squirming culprit to inspect his work. Deadpool lies back comfortably on the floor, one knee bent as he sets an ankle atop it, phone out.
“’Kay!” Deadpool answers. “Ah, ah,” the merc says sharply, free arm flying out to yank the cashier back to the floor, easily holding him down with a big hand over his chest. “Stay down, kiddo. It’s not safe for a sweet baby like yourself to get caught up in the family business.”
“My family’s not in any kind of business but this one!” the bodega kid hisses through his teeth, pointing to the tile beneath him. “Fuck you, ‘gangbangers,’” he adds hotly, glowering and effectively distracted from whatever the webbed hero is doing on the other side of the counter.
“Maybe not, but that walking ashtray and their pretty glowing bombs seem to think there’s a reason to come in here lookin’ like a 1960s cartoon promo for nuclear power,” Deadpool points out, holding one finger up to indicate the kid needs to be quiet and wait before he puts his phone to his ear. “…Is this Lisa Kim? Yeah, hi, I’m Spider-Man’s bestie, we’ve got a chemical bomber subdued for ya,” he begins cheerily, rattling off the address.
“Allies incoming,” Spider-Man announces tensely from the other side of the counter, and Deadpool scowls.
“Y’know what? Send your favorite boys in blue. Preferably the least racist you can scrape up, huh? And before you say shit, the bad guys are white as fuck, so you’ll have even less excuse than usual for shooting anyone who doesn’t look like a fuckin’ ghost.” Technically he can’t verify that the bomber’s backup is all white, but considering the Russian accent he’d heard and the slimy mobster vibe the bomber gives off, Deadpool is willing to bet some hard cachiche on it.
“Deadpool!”
“Coming, dear!” he says in his aforementioned bestie’s direction, lurching upright and hopping onto his feet. “Not you, cupcake,” he tells the cashier firmly, and Jose glares at him again but stays down.
“Be mad at me later, Webs, I was just tryna get you inside,” he says quickly to the hero, sliding over the counter again, waving his hands and pausing as he admires the other super’s web work. “Niccce,” he adds, rocking his head on his neck in a rolling nod.
“Thank you. And I’ll be mad at you whenever I want, Pool, but right now I need you to get Jose out of here,” Spider-Man says shortly, impatient but clearly even more anxious. He drops into a low crouch with one leg out and an arm angled back at his side, hackles raised. It makes even Deadpool uneasy, recognizing this lower stance as particularly “ready to go” for Spidey.
“You look like you’re expecting an army,” Deadpool counters hesitantly.
“The cavalry,” the smaller man corrects, lenses contracting as he narrows his gaze, listening to a massive van barreling down the road from a few blocks away. “We need to keep this asshat from getting hit, there’s no telling what the bombs do.”
There’s a prickling discomfort under his skin as Spider-Man realizes this means he’d come into this scenario headlong, impatient to handle an unknown threat as usual without considering possible outcomes. Sure, he deals with big mysteries all the time, the kind that he doesn’t have time to assess properly, but he hadn’t always been this shortsighted. The last few years had left him… negligent, in many ways. He’d been impulsive and hasty, jumping into situations where he’d been outnumbered or outgunned and narrowly gotten out only lightly scathed — if he hadn’t instead stumbled home needing stitches and to set alarms for every couple of hours while he slept through possible concussions. He thinks about Holt Securities, how he’d managed to at least try to formulate a plan of action before breaking himself out. What’s the difference between that day and now? Being forced to work without his mask? Not having Deadpool at his side?
Remembering why he wanted to get out in the first place?
“W— well am I getting the kid out or backing you up?” Wade scoffs, looking between Spidey and the counter, unaware of the short-circuiting in the spider’s brain at an internal revelation. “I don’t wanna just leave you here if they got more ‘a that cartoony glowing shit, Sp—,” he tries to go on, but Spider-Man’s head snaps to look at him.
“WADE,” the hero barks, making Deadpool flinch slightly with surprise. He softens at the mercenary’s reaction; he’d only raised his voice like that a few times since they’d become besties months ago and Wade hadn’t joked about it being a turn-on last time. “Wade,” Spidey repeats weaker, and Deadpool realizes the other super is trembling.
They don’t know what’s in the bombs, and Deadpool can’t protect Spider-Man from every blast, even if he’d pulled it off so far. Peter dreads the possibility that he won’t make it back home to Wade, that he’d been so foolish diving into this threat that it would result in finally, actually getting himself killed if the explosives can’t be deflected or blocked. He dreads the possibility of dying here tonight because he dove into danger without thinking of the people he loves — again — and this is how Wade finds out who Spider-Man really is.
“If this goes sideways, we can’t both be here. I need you to get Jose somewhere safe.” The webslinger’s voice comes out a little louder, but it’s still rough and apprehensive.
The mercenary stares down at his hero, a thousand emotions swirling in his gut and up into his chaotic brain as the boxes issue a slew of jumbled commentary, the key sentiments being, “we’re so unworthy” and “now that’s a real hero” and “wait what??” followed by a confusing mix of self-loathing, righteous indignation, and sheer panic. Briefly overwhelmed, the taller man hesitates and looks Spider-Man directly in the lenses.
“Why are you talking like anybody’s gonna die?” Deadpool asks cautiously, though his voice is low. When his spider remains silent, the boxes demand he stand his ground. “Why are you talking like you’re gonna die?” he amends, defensive.
Spider-Man looks back at the webbed-up bomber before focusing on Deadpool again, shaking his head slightly. “That green stuff? It’s pretty strongly setting off my spidey-sense,” he explains slowly, muscles taut and only getting more tense. “If it gets hit, if whatever it is gets out of those bottles, I can tell it will be bad— devastatingly bad, DP. I don’t know if it’s combustible, biological, or chemical, but there’s a good chance this guy’s buddies ‘ve got guns. If one bottle breaks, it might break the others and the fewer people there are to find out what kind of damage this stuff causes? The better.”
“That’s a lot of leaps, Webs,” Deadpool grinds out, discomfort and anxiety clawing at his skull. The boxes are not happy with him. “I mean, I know those are kinda your thing, but you’re acting pretty blasé about potentially being blown up.” His skin starts to ache the longer he thinks about the ever-selfless hero once again pulling unnecessarily reckless shenanigans.
As if Deadpool is one to talk.
“I deal with explosives all the time, Pool.” Spider-Man laughs shortly, humorless. “What’s a few missing limbs in the name of protecting everyday citizens?” Shit, why is he giving Deadpool attitude like this? He doesn’t actually want things to turn fatal, he doesn’t want anything other than to make sure everyone is safe and that he can wrap Wade up in his arms when it’s all over. But his anxiety for his mistake, for the possibility that he’s done his last truly stupid thing, is unsettling him so much that he’s getting defensive of that same truly stupid thing! He begs himself to stop, but Spider-Man can’t just stop.
“Spidey,” Deadpool says in a small voice, the roil of itchy disquiet slipping up his throat. “You can’t say that to me. You don’t grow limbs back.” He breathes in sharply, frowning deeply behind his mask. “Whatever’s in those things that’s got you scared like this— if it kills you? It— kills you.”
Spider-Man’s jaw visibly flexes, his heart pounding loud in his ears. Doesn’t Wade think he already knows that? “And?” he grunts.
“Spidey, if that shit goes off and we die, I’ll come back. You won’t,” he reminds him gravely, biting back some of the harshness the boxes are trying to get out of him and stepping forward. He fumbles for what to say next because Spider-Man just keeps looking at him, just keeps breathing hard and rough. Deadpool thinks about what would happen to Peter, a long-time friend and confidante of the hero, if Spider-Man were to be killed on the merc’s watch. He thinks about what would happen to himself, too, since Spider-Man is both his closest friend and his moral compass, how he’d surely lose his way and fall to pieces if it weren’t for Peter — who might still wind up picking through the pieces of an even more dangerous lunatic in the absence of Spider-Man. He thinks about the mystery of Spider-Man’s family, how horrific a way it would be to finally learn his identity, how he’d be responsible if he were to let Spider-Man die and ruin the lives of that family and every decent New Yorker. Heroes aren’t supposed to die , they’re supposed to save the day and walk away to do it again tomorrow. People like Deadpool are supposed to die; bad people are supposed to die. “You’re my hero, Spider-Man, I can’t just walk away if you think you could die.”
“Every night I could die, Wade! Every night,” Spider-Man argues immediately, shaking his head minutely. “That’s what we do, Wade, we could die any time! I could die,” he goes on, voice breaking, and Deadpool’s hands flex into fists before he unclenches them again. Mercifully, Spider-Man can’t remember the last time he’d considered how much easier it would be to die in action than live with the guilt of the lives he couldn’t save, lives of people he loves, lives of strangers who hadn’t deserved to be casualties over the course of Spider-Man’s so-called heroism. But if Spider-Man has to die to keep everyone else safe, he’ll do it. He’ll do it, he has to, even if it means he’ll never see Wade again—
“Then you need to let me do this part!” Deadpool snaps impatiently, scowling. “I’ll stick around, you can take the kid!” He’s about to step forward, but both supers turn their heads at the screeching tires down the street.
The incoming van nearly collides with a few incoming cars, horns blaring as drivers swerve. The remaining pedestrians out on the sidewalk scatter, some shouting with alarm as it skids to a halt outside, sliding around to put the side panel door facing the store and cutting off any response Spider-Man could have come up with.
Spider-Man pushes panic down and shifts his weight, finally returning his attention to the front door, sure that Deadpool can hear him swallow the lump in his throat. His spider-sense screams at him and he watches with widening eyes as six armed criminals climb out of the van wearing belts loaded with the same glowing green bottles as the person trapped in Spider-Man’s web sac.
Confusion blurs into fury; what’s the point of sending one guy on an explosive vendetta if you’re also going to come in with backup kamikazes anyway? Exactly how much destruction do these people think they need to wreak to get whatever they’re after? There’s really no telling what the glowing concoction actually does, just that it hurts the vigilante’s head with the way it sets off his spider-sense. If his instinct is up to snuff, it could take out a whole block with a weird explosive, or poison the area with some kind of drug; either way that’s minimum dozens of inevitable innocent casualties, including deaths. He isn’t sure if this has anything to do with gangs or the mob, Deadpool had probably just been using that as a distraction, but he has to wonder about the full motives of whoever the hell these people are.
“Hey! Jose!” Deadpool blurts as Spider-Man continues fretting internally. “You recognize this guy?” He waves a hand at the bomber hanging from the ceiling, even though the cashier is out of sight. “What’s he want with your family, exactly?”
“I don’t know!” the young man calls from the floor, staying out of the way. “Maybe… maybe they want the bodega? That’s so stupid,” he floats disbelievingly. “I-I know there have been whackos trying to intimidate my dad and uncle into leaving this neighborhood! Dad’s had to chase assholes like this away before but we’re not bad people! My dad is a good guy!”
“I’m not loving this version of an explanation, really not painting your pops in the best light in terms of not being shady behind the scenes!” Deadpool irately tells him, watching the criminals spread out. Shit. They’re going to have to keep any bullets from hitting the human cigarette or those belts. What a weird fucking night with way more comic book bullshit and so many more emotions than he could’ve predicted.
“I mean they want the territory, but we’re just people!”
“Why do they want the territory?” Deadpool demands impatiently, whipping his katanas out. Spider-Man risks a glance over to him, which turns into a double take, and even through the less than expressive mask, he can tell his spider is furious with him for staying when those white lenses contract. “Fuck, you better stay back there, kid, if you get blown up I’ll never hear the end of it!”
“It used to belong to some Russian gang, but that was 20 years ago. The Russians left!” Jose winces when the bodega door shatters despite being unable to see, glass raining on the floor as they step through with raised guns. “Shit!”
Spider-Man has already mentally numbered the bad guys and webbed an assault rifle out of Bad Guy One’s hands, launching it somewhere behind them, the weapon sticking to the freezer cases at the back of the store. Deadpool growls in frustration and rushes forward, ducking fire by sliding on his knees; the bullets hit food on the shelves, exploding boxes of cereal and crackers. Swapping the way he holds his katanas, Deadpool slams the hilt upward and sends it into the underside of the nearest gunner’s jaw, their teeth clacking as they’re laid out, hitting the floor hard with the follow through of the blunt edge of the mercenary’s sword across their torso. He takes only a moment to slash the shitty liquid bomb belt off with the sharp edge, slinging it away on the floor down an aisle, hopefully far enough out of the way of any stray bullets.
“Wow, I wish you guys had called ahead,” Spider-Man says brightly, and only Deadpool recognizes the strain behind it. “I would’ve put up streamers for the party!”
Spider-Man launches a web at another gunner — Bad Guy Three — when the weapon is raised, and hauls himself forward as it attaches to the offender’s hands, yanking them toward himself as he kicks upward; his foot connects with their midsection as he tosses them head over heels onto the floor behind him, quickly pulling and twisting himself up into a crouch as Bad Guys Four and Five aim their rifles at him now that he’s even closer. Holding his breath and following the hum of his spider-sense, he flips up out of the way when they fire simultaneously, trying to follow him but firing well beyond where the vigilante is, a stupid and risky thing he’d been afraid they’d do even with terrifyingly mysterious bombs attached to their own belts. The shooters instead hit more shelves, splattering soap and shampoo all over the floor of an aisle too close to their dangling criminal accomplice. It seems the name of their game is reckless abandon, evidenced even by the first bomber having been so comfortable inviting gunfire from Jose.
Spider-Man lands on Four’s shoulders and grabs their head, throwing their combined weight backward so they topple into yet another shooter — Bad Guy Six — as he spins another kick into Five’s sternum. It earns a loud “OOF” as Five stumbles onto their back, the wind knocked out of them. “You should really get that looked at,” Spidey jokes tightly, webbing Bad Guy Five’s arms and hips to the floor. “I might’ve broken a couple ribs there.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Deadpool growls, grabbing the collar of Bad Guy Six and hauling them away from Spidey’s fray when they move to grab the smaller super. Deadpool expertly relieves them of their belt and gun a split second before they’re suddenly striking him in the shoulder, neck, and knee. The pain bursts over him as he’s briefly stunned and he knows his knee is going to be fucked up for a hot minute when the hinge doesn’t bend so well, but he manages to gurgle a breath through his shocked windpipe and catch the next hit; grabbing their fist and twisting it inward and upward, he forces Six to turn on their heel and down onto one knee with half their back to him. Annoyed, Deadpool yanks their wrist backward at the same time he sets his boot on their upper back, dislocating their shoulder. His jaw is taut as Six screams in pain, and he lets them flop forward to the floor, swiftly slamming one katana into their jacket above their uninjured arm to pin them down and taking up the other sword again so he can help Spidey out.
The webbed hero is busy with Bad Guy Four, who’s a bit bigger than the others and has managed to snag his ankle and throw him off their shoulders. He tucks into the roll and gets up just as quickly, of course, springing between Four’s legs to catch his weight on a display case and jump right back onto the ceiling as they swing a meaty fist well after he’s slipped beneath and behind them.
“Too slow!” the webslinger says, crawling toward the far wall with fridges full of beer and soda. “Tell ya what, I’ll give you a second to breathe, then you can try again,” he adds mockingly, dangling momentarily on a string of web and saluting with two fingers. “Sound good?”
Deadpool takes this moment of distraction to slice the belt right off Four’s waist, darting forward to catch it and distantly amused that he also cuts their coat at a fun angle. Bad Guy Four looks down at Deadpool for a split second, attention divided, and Spidey drops onto a shelf at the end of the aisle; standing briefly, Spider-Man shoots a web at Four’s hand when it goes up under their damaged coat to pull out a tucked away handgun, sticking it to their middle back.
Bad Guy Four angrily shouts something in what must be Russian, and Deadpool is sure he recognizes a word that sends a particular flare of righteous indignation through him. They make to dive for a belt of bombs nearby but Deadpool steps up with a little flourish to kick them in the jaw like he’s going in for a penalty kick. Probably. The writer doesn’t know sports very well, are penalty kicks in soccer or American football? Deadpool’s more of a hockey guy, anyway. Regardless, Bad Guy Four falls heavily onto their side and Deadpool pointedly picks up the bomb belt and tsks .
“What was that for?” Spidey asks breathlessly, but doesn’t sound particularly upset about it as he hops off the shelves into a crouch, picking up two bomb belts himself, eyeing the still conscious shooters as he rises. “I mean. I’ll kick a guy in the head, I admit, but—.”
“They said a very rude thing,” Deadpool answers, and resists the temptation to lift his mask and spit on them.
“How do you know?”
Deadpool snorts. “I know all the naughty words in most languages, Webs. They called you a cocksucker.”
Spider-Man is quiet for a moment, studying the mercenary. “So?” he finally says, vague.
“So it was an insult, and a homophobic one.”
“You call people that all the time, Wade,” the hero points out, and Deadpool imagines he’s raising an eyebrow. At least he seems to be calmer again. “You’ve definitely called people ‘cock-gobbler’ before.”
The taller super sets his hands on his hips and pouts behind his mask. While he loves to hear Spidey unabashedly say things like “cock-gobbler,” the hero misunderstands. “Yeah, but I’m queer, I can say it. They can’t.”
“How do you know they aren’t also queer?”
“Not the point. Have I ever called someone a cocksucker— or even a cock-gobbler with hate?” Deadpool challenges, setting a hand over his chest. Spider-Man’s head tips sideways as he ponders.
“I don’t think so,” he muses, surprised. “So, what—? It’s fine if it’s not insulting?”
“Most things are, as far as I’m concerned,” Deadpool allows with a shrug, bending to pick up the other belts.
“Does it matter if I’m not queer?” Spider-Man questions curiously, head tilted. “Getting called that.”
Deadpool snorts again, rolling into laughter just hard enough to slap a hand over his belly for a moment. Spider-Man crosses his arms over his chest and waits patiently. “You’re queer, buddy, no question,” the man clarifies.
“What makes you say that?” Spider-Man demands dubiously. Neither super seems to notice the criminals silently observing this scene with confused albeit disquiet curiosity.
“The… everything,” Deadpool says, gesturing awkwardly to the entirety of the webbed hero. When Spider-Man says nothing and remains perfectly still except to angle his head and narrow his lenses at the mercenary, he huffs in exasperation. He starts counting his points on his fingers, holding them up for Spidey to see. “Oh, come on! First off, you’ve never told me to fuck off when I’ve hit on you— not in a way that implies it’s because I’m not strictly a lady, anyway. And ‘B,’ you flirt with your friends and people I assume are strangers, and thirdly— sometimes you even flirt with your actual enemies!”
“All of that is meaningless,” Spider-Man reminds his best friend, shrugging. “I could just be a good ally with a fantastic sense of humor, comfortable with myself enough to be a little… extra friendly.” He pauses. “W—! Wait, I don’t flirt that much!” He certainly doesn’t flirt with his enemies; people who want him dead aren’t really his type.
“Oh, Spidey,” Deadpool sighs, all-suffering. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what!”
“Gaydar, buddy! Or, I guess— queerdar?” He hums, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I can tell,” he supplies confidently, hands back on his hips.
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It’s kind-of a real thing,” the mercenary argues playfully, smirking. “Either way, even a good ally would call out that homophobic bullshit, so I kicked them in the head.”
“I…,” Spider-Man tries, fails, and gives up, dropping his arms to his sides and rolling his head around. “DP,” he starts again, but Deadpool tuts at him.
“And! You’ve mentioned going out with a guy. That one’s the real giveaway, Spider-Babe.”
Blushing behind his mask, Spider-Man fidgets in place for a moment, bouncing on his heels before he collects himself again. Deadpool looks like the cat that ate the coming out canary. “Fine. I just don’t try to advertise it, okay?” Not that he hasn’t been tempted to show up to Pride with a bisexual flag for a cape, the only time anyone would see him in a cape , of all things. It’s just better that the general public speculates rather than outright knows — not counting their captive audience, who all seem to be fascinated if not still uneasy.
“Don’t worry, those who know, know,” Deadpool teases in turn and exaggerates blowing a kiss that Spider-Man exaggerates dodging, earning a dramatic gasp. “And everyone who’s weird about it can suck a cock.” Spider-Man groans at him, and Deadpool lets himself preen for a moment in the hero’s mild displeasure. “Yup! But ultimately, my point is: fuck that guy.” He points to a glaring Bad Guy Six with their dislocated arm, and for a split second of spider-influenced Goodness, feels like he should pop that arm back into place before leaving this loser for the pigs. The feeling passes. “And that guy. Y’know what?” He gestures with both hands to the general vicinity and scattered criminals. “Fuck ‘em all.”
Spider-Man laughs once, weakly, tiredly, hearing sirens in the distance before Deadpool does. Realizing Wade had distracted him, he quickly moves to web up the discarded guns, bundling the weapons the same way he’d wrapped up the first bomber, who occasionally wriggles like it’s going to make a difference. He takes a beat to web down the unsecured and unconscious bad guys; if he’s a little rougher than usual, he feels a bit justified in it. The belts are still setting off his spidey-sense, though it’s died to a dull thrum instead of a constant roar. Deadpool carefully takes the ones Spider-Man is holding so the webslinger can focus on subduing the offenders, figuring he’s the best person to hold onto them until the bomb squad arrives.
Deadpool wonders if he should take them to an emptier space and tell the bomb squad where he is, but it occurs to him he doesn’t have the clout that Spider-Man does, the webbed hero’s relationship much-improved with law enforcement; the merc might get shot a few dozen times without Spidey around to clarify that Deadpool isn’t the bad guy. Even if Spidey doesn’t trust most of them, the majority of cops no longer deliberately make the masked hero’s life harder. But they’d probably be happy to fill Deadpool with bullets if he even breathes wrong, and he’s already got to make repairs to his suit. Maybe Pete could help him out, he’s great with a needle and thr—
“GASP!” Deadpool blurts, and Spider-Man casts him an unimpressed glance for saying the actual word aloud. “Pete!” he clarifies, and Spider-Man straightens up, lenses expanding. “Oh shit, what time is it? I told him I’d be on patrol but I never texted him what time! What if he thinks I bailed on Bad Sci-Fi night?” Wincing, he pats himself down for his phone as Spidey imperceptibly relaxes. “Sorry, Pete,” he mumbles meekly, finally finding his phone and hastily tapping out a message. When he’s done, he seems to slow down for a moment, raising his head to look right at Spider-Man, who goes perfectly motionless.
“You were gonna let yourself get killed,” Deadpool says flatly, and Spider-Man can see the scowl through his mask. “You—! You big dumb—!” He shoves his phone back into his pocket and stalks forward, coming right up into the younger super’s space and looming over him with an aura awfully close to anger and resentment. The webslinger doesn’t flinch, his spider-sense unresponsive to the merc’s approach as usual, though he tilts his head back so they stay face to face as Deadpool practically leans into him. “How could you?” the other man demands, voice low and… hurt.
“How could I what?” Spidey asks softly, even though guilt and confused affection simultaneously chill and warm his nerves. He’d messed up. He’d messed up and forgotten he doesn’t have to be reckless and now Wade is taking this personally. It’s not subtle, but Spider-Man assumes it’s not supposed to be.
“You can’t just… accept that shit, Spidey. You were resigned to it! We dealt with it, nobody— WHO DOESN’T SUCK,” he goes on, loudly emphasizing the words as he glares around at the webbed criminals, “—got hurt. But you were convinced this could’ve been deadly, and you just! You just…!”
“Just what, Wade,” Spider-Man deadpans, his affection slipping instead into that aforementioned resignation. He’s so tired. He’s so tired and he loves this stupid asshole so much. How is Peter Parker supposed to reveal himself as the inconsistently impulsive, self-destructive Spider-Man now, if Deadpool acts like this even without knowing Spider-Man is his boyfriend?
A horrible pit opens up in his gut; he has to tell him, and the hardest part will be convincing Wade to let Peter make his own decisions — that he can’t turn off every part of who he is just because he’ll be in danger, that he’s not trying to be careless or irresponsible with his life anymore. He can’t say those things yet even though he has no other good reasons to hold onto this secret, not from Deadpool. Not from Wade. God, he’s such a coward , enough that he evades the important part of his thoughts, the answer he wants to give. At least he doesn’t lie.
“…Wade. The reality of being Spider-Man means sometimes I’m ready to die protecting people.”
“We could’ve evacuated the building!”
“Uh-huh,” Spider-Man drawls disbelievingly, shoulders heavy. Tell him, he tells himself. But instead he says, “We didn’t have time.” And maybe they hadn’t, but what if the police could’ve been there by the time the bomber’s backup had arrived?
“We could’ve called it in sooner!” Deadpool counters, realizing his mistake a second too late and snapping his jaw shut.
“You’re right.” Spider-Man folds his arms over his chest, grinding his teeth for a moment. He doesn’t feel small, per se, but he sure feels like he could crawl into a dark corner and hide there for a little while. “I should’ve taken more time to assess the situation, and it was really, really stupid of me not to. But what if we had called the bomb squad or the cops ahead of time?” he presses, and hates himself for it, “What if more people were around to get blown up if one of us made a mistake? What if I had made a mistake?”
This isn’t what he wants to say. He sounds like he’s defending his actions but he’s not trying to make excuses — he’s trying to explain himself, explain Spider-Man to someone who doesn’t realize they’re in love with the man behind the mask. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to lose or leave Wade, but he’s still acting like he’s alone in the world every time he puts on the suit. Like at the end of a bad day, he still just goes home to a tiny studio and patches himself up, eats a bowl of cereal, and sleeps under four blankets when the heating goes out.
But Spider-Man doesn’t go home to a dark, empty flat. He goes home to his boyfriend, his merc, the one who frets over the slightest bruising on his skin. The one who cooks for him and looks like a goofy deity of flavor in a frilly apron and kitten oven mitts. The one who wraps his arms around Peter in their shared bed and warms his entire being with gentle words and a solid frame. He goes home to his Wade, who right now looks for all intents and purposes like Spider-Man is breaking his heart and cruelly crushing the pieces into the sidewalk with the heel of his boot. Nausea bubbles in his gut and the wallcrawler has to jab his fingers into his arm to stop from nervously fidgeting.
Deadpool’s arguments are backfiring, but still he tries to impress his point. “Do you…?” He pauses to breathe deeply, rolling his head on his neck and shaking out his arms before clapping his hands flat together and bringing them to his masked lips in marked concern. “Do you even care if you die?” he challenges as he looks at Spider-Man again, pointing his hands at an angle toward him. There’s not a lot of heat left to back his words but it seems to affect the spider, whose next breath hitches; Deadpool latches onto it, anger boiling in his lungs. He hears the sirens now, too. “Do you!?”
“Of course I do,” Spider-Man says uncomfortably, and Deadpool grabs his upper arms when he starts to look away, terrified of being seen again, that Deadpool will know he’d nearly given up not long enough ago. “Wade, I care,” he tries assuring the mercenary, but Deadpool isn’t buying it when the hero can’t even face him.
“You know what grief does to people,” he urges not unkindly, and that gets the other man’s full attention again, the smaller super stiffening. “You’ve lost people, haven’t you? I know you have. I’ve lost people, too, Webs. But you’re not just some lunatic gun-for-hire from Canada, you’re Spider-Man. You can’t be reckless, you can’t be careless about when you throw yourself into deadly situations—!”
Spider-Man’s next breath hurts because the last time he’d been so comfortable with impending death, he’d been grieving Gwen: the girl he’d loved and the girl he’d let die. Then he’d lost Aunt May, and the terrifying blankness of grief had nearly consumed him again. Now he has Wade, who can’t leave him the way the others could and had. He would die for Wade, even if Wade very literally couldn’t do the same and stay dead. The very idea that he could somehow lose Wade at all drags his next lungful of air over stinging barbs in his chest, and he desperately hopes Deadpool can’t tell what he’s thinking, desperately hopes he can’t feel him trembling. What happens if he dies and never sees Wade again? But he can’t let anyone else die just because he’ll miss Wade, or, or just because Wade will miss him! He… he has to save…! He’s supposed to be a hero, and heroes put their lives on the line even when they have their whole world to live for.
“You’re right!” Spider-Man snaps, fists clenching at his sides. “I am Spider-Man!” His whole body aches, and Deadpool’s grip on his arms may bruise as the man remains in place, unaware he’s the only thing holding the shorter super upright. “That’s exactly what I have to do! The whole point of me is that I go in first, Wade! I go in fast , and I go in reckless, and do what cops can’t— what they won’t! I deal with both the big bads and the small ones, I take risks because people’s lives matter.” Spider-Man’s voice cracks. “I can’t just flee every time there’s life-threatening danger!”
“I never said you should flee!” Deadpool protests indignantly, reeling, and Spider-Man gawps. “I’m just saying you’re smarter than going in blind all the time, Spidey! New York needs you!” He falters, a twinge in his big, stupid queer heart. “I need you,” he presses a little quieter before picking up the volume again when Spider-Man closes his mouth and shivers under his hands. “We took our time with Holt Securities, didn’t we?”
“That was different. We were assessing a threat, this was happening right in front of me—,” the younger man counters, growling with frustration at himself, at the sting behind his eyes before he amends, “in front of us!” He finally lifts his hands, grabbing either of Deadpool’s forearms and digging his fingertips into the stiff muscle. “You have to trust me, trust that I’m gonna do what I hafta do!” Until I can’t come home to you.
Deadpool can’t believe what he’s hearing, ignoring the boxes screaming for him to haul the spider out of there himself or literally slap some sense into him. “Of course I trust you to do what you think you’ve gotta do, Webs, that’s what I’m saying!” He fidgets, grip loosening on the other man’s shoulders, but he can’t bring himself to let go yet; Spider-Man’s hands let up slightly in turn. Blue and red lights alternate across the costumed supers as the police and bomb squad finally pull up. Ordinarily with Deadpool at Spider-Man’s side, they’d be well out of sight by now, but with the unusual bombs to debrief and a moment to themselves, neither make a move to exit the scene. “But you don’t hafta do any of that alone,” Deadpool explains quietly.
Spider-Man has to bite back a swell of emotion he can’t openly express with Deadpool. Not here, not as Spider-Man. He hangs his head and squeezes Wade’s arms before letting his hands slide away to hang limply at his sides. It’s shame that makes his heart seize and it takes every ounce of self-control not to let himself tear up, lose his voice, or start hyperventilating. He’d very much like to run away and have a good old-fashioned panic attack right now, wallow in how many times he’d escaped death just to throw himself back into the line of fire like nothing else matters. He’d like to battle with himself about the very obvious reasons to stop doing just that and think about who’d be left to mourn him. But before he can flee, one foot turned out to run, Deadpool hauls him into his arms and embraces him so fully that Peter nearly breaks down right there.
Peter’s senses burn, increasingly susceptible and overwhelmed by the cacophony of police and sirens and incoming questions, car doors slamming and officers shouting, and he weakly wraps his arms around Wade’s firm, warm torso. Wade feels like home and it crushes Peter’s heart that he can’t— won’t just tell him that.
Deadpool gently tucks his best friend’s head into his neck and holds him securely, tightly enough that Spidey can let his legs give out and still be held upright. Wade is solid and Spidey can practically feel the other man’s misery and affection and desperation wafting off his scarred skin and through his super suit, just as he knows Deadpool can feel him quivering.
“C’mon, Spider-Babe,” Wade says softly at his ear, clearer than the sheer noise surrounding them, a balm over the grating discord, “I’ll cover this, talk to the cops. Get home, okay? Text me when you’re in. Text Petey too, will ya? I just… you’re— you’re important, okay? And you hafta take care of yourself.” He chuckles awkwardly. “Can’t take care ‘a other people if you can’t take care ‘a yourself, right? And, y’know, you can always call me if things go sideways. I’m here for ya.”
“Yeah,” Spider-Man croaks, and for the thousandth time regrets that he hasn’t told Deadpool who he is. Wade takes care of Peter more than he knows; he can only hope he’s returning the favor even half as much. Maybe not throwing himself at potential death is one way to convey how important Wade is to him. It’s getting easier to breathe the longer Deadpool holds him, the physical pressure easing his nerves. “Are you sure? I can talk to them, I know y—,” he tries to insist, but freezes up when Deadpool just hugs him tighter.
“Go home, Spider-Man,” the merc gently tells the man in his arms. Wade thoroughly misses his boyfriend and wishes he could embrace both Spidey and Peter simultaneously in a big group hug, right here. It’s selfish, he knows, and the boxes aren’t letting him hear the end of it, either. (Oh, you mean like how you think Spider-Man’s death would somehow be all about you, and your grief, and how much you would suffer? Are we wrong, big guy?) But he’s sick of losing people. It would tear him apart to lose Peter, too, even more than losing Spider-Man, and he dreads what could happen if he were to somehow lose both. (Good grief.) Deadpool had been a marked disaster after losing Vanessa, and New York doesn’t deserve another episode of The Spiraling Mercenary: Deadpool Goes HAM and Unalives Everyone Who Crosses His Path. He breathes shakily and goes on.
“Hug your loved ones, your pets, your plants— I dunno, just… It’s okay to be alive, bestie,” Deadpool murmurs, only loud enough for Spider-Man to hear.
“Uh,” someone says in a wavering voice from nearby, and both supers look to the register counter. Jose the bodega kid is standing on the other side of it, where he’d previously been hiding, and he’s awkwardly watching Spider-Man and Deadpool have their intimate moment. His hair is a bit of a mess, his eyes wide, and the masked supers assume he’s either in shock or about to be. “Do I…?”
“There will be an ambulance,” Deadpool tells him simply. “Get checked out. Call your dad.” Unbothered, he watches the young man nod stiffly and carefully step around the counter. “But maybe wait over here by us, in case the cops see you first,” he adds after a moment. Jose just nods and stumbles to stand in front of the register, eyeing the strung-up bomber hanging from the ceiling with a tired glare and deciding to lean against the counter when his legs wobble. “Poor guy, must be his first super fight,” Deadpool sighs knowingly.
Someone in uniform approaches, so he peels himself away from his hero and dares to hold either side of his face, tipping him forward to set an exaggerated kiss through his mask atop Spider-Man’s head. “I love you, Webs, but you need to love yourself, too.” Before Spider-Man can say anything, dazed, Deadpool urges him to leave, turning him around and pushing him lightly away from the cop cars and finally quieting sirens outside. “Go, go, go, go, go,” he says encouragingly, shooing him along.
Spider-Man falters, looking back at Deadpool as he starts picking up the pace while heading for the door marked “employees only.” When he can finally pull his attention back to the present and out of a half-formed internal spiral, he lifts an arm to launch a web, pulling himself up into the air and making his way toward home.
Deadpool returns his focus to the scene after a few beats of watching his BFF take off. Someone wearing a lot of body armor is trying to get his attention, so he eventually redirects it to them with his hands on his hips. “Right!” he blurts. “Okay, so, that’s Jose,” he says, pointing to the bodega cashier, who raises a hand in absent greeting, definitely going into shock. “He’s a good kid, probably not technically injured, but maybe get a paramedic over here real quick? Anyway, these 80s-movie tools had these bottles of cartoon radioactivity…”
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Spider-Man is too out of it to take the time to change before going home, a little raw for all of Deadpool’s insistent efforts to prove the vigilante should give a shit about himself more often. Deadpool — Wade — is an expert in jokes, violence, sex, and cooking, but Spider-Man and Peter Parker are the only ones who get to see the sincerity of his smile or hear the hidden goodness behind the words he says to an audience of one. At least, they’re the only ones who’ll give him credit for those things, even when his practiced heroism isn’t so private.
Peter wants to make sure Wade knows how much he means to him, that he knows he’s become Peter’s primary reason to live. He’s not sure the best course of action besides the obvious sex and verbal praise, not after realizing how intertwined the troubles of being a vigilante with a secret identity and being close to another super are. But there has to be a way to reward him for pulling Spider-Man off the ledge and keeping Peter Parker grounded! He knows he’ll have a clearer head to think of it after he has a hot shower and maybe a tiny, post-not-quite-near-death-experience breakdown before Wade gets home.
Climbing in through the bedroom window, he slides it shut after himself and hastily pulls the curtains closed before he yanks his mask off, sucking in a breath unimpeded. His legs are shaking, so he lets himself drop to his knees and sit back on his heels, breathing hard. It’s not enough, so he groans and slides onto his ass, dropping onto his back and stretching his legs out to lie spread-eagled on the floor with his mask in hand.
“That’s better,” he mutters to himself, closing his eyes and focusing on his breath in the dim room. He’s no longer on the verge of a panic attack but he’s definitely exhausted. He’s trying not to think about what had happened, about how ready he’d been to hang around mystery bombs without learning more.
Instead, he thinks about how Deadpool had given him an in at the bodega without even discussing it. About how Deadpool had immediately gotten young, civilian Jose down behind the counter as soon as Spider-Man had made his appearance. About how Deadpool had refused to leave him alone to fight armed assailants with unfamiliar bombs. About how Deadpool has always been a fantastic partner in vigilantism, backed off when Spider-Man hadn’t been comfortable enough with him yet, and jumped in the line of fire for Spider-Man countless times. If he’d had a final life to give up, Wade had done it a hundred times for Spider-Man by now, if not more. So instead of thinking about the waiting emptiness of the long dark, or how that’s where Gwen and Ben and May are, or how easily he could’ve joined them with one goddamned stray bullet— he thinks about Wade.
Peter’s whole body warms and he smiles fondly at the ceiling, heat in his cheeks. That idiot really loves him, doesn’t he? Fuck, he’s so lucky. He can’t fathom how Wade had ever struck up interest in ordinary Peter Parker but he’s grateful the mercenary had kept at it. “Pestering” could’ve been one word for it but considering how quickly Peter had reciprocated, he hardly would’ve used it for long. Wade is… persistent, which is part of why he makes such a fantastic mercenary, so he’d persisted after Peter and Peter had taken only a handful of weeks to be fully into it. He knows it’s because some part of him had always been curious; ever since Spider-Man had first met Deadpool and the older man hadn’t set off his spider-sense despite his reputation, he’d wondered what about the infamously deadly mercenary means his danger sense couldn’t even register his mere presence.
Rather than continue to evaluate how he’d gotten so fortunate, lying on the floor of the apartment he shares with his thoughtful and impressive boyfriend, Peter sits up and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. Shower, right. He should order them something to eat. Peter can’t cook on his own for shit beyond macaroni and cheese or toast. Making a sandwich or pouring a bowl of cereal hardly counts. He could attempt pancakes but he’d never stand up to Wade’s immaculate Feel-Better Pancakes, and would make a laughable mess in the kitchen anyway. Too bad they’d eaten up all the Halloween cupcakes they’d made together, he’s sure a hit of sugar would help make him feel better and those cupcakes had come out delicious despite the incident with the stand mixer. Somehow Peter is just better in the kitchen with Wade at his side.
“Shower!” he says aloud to himself, so he’ll get up and do it faster. He strips out of his suit, padding into the hall in just his underwear and binder so he can stuff it into a box in the spare room — his soon-to-be office — which makes him blush a little. He and Wade must really be serious if he’s sleeping in Wade’s bed and getting a personal space to himself in the same apartment. Peter is serious, way more serious than he’d ever have anticipated, so the grad student again ponders the best way to assure Wade that he means the world to him.
His binder fights him again once he walks into the bathroom but soon enough he’s stepping into the shower and washing off the sweat and grime and anxiety. He’s been meaning to develop a super suit with a binder built in, but this way he can wear his civvies as a first layer, in case he’s not out and about and doesn’t need to be ready at the drop of a hat. Sure, doing it that way means he occasionally has to strip to dress into the suit, but he’s been doing that for years anyway. He wears the costume under his clothes often enough it hasn’t made too much of a difference; the problem is more about accidentally revealing any part of it when he does. He’d rather not leave it to chance that he might somehow reveal enough skin that he’d have to change out of the suit and leave himself without a binder. He manages to tear or rip the damn binder during fights and has to repair it either way, if he’s lucky enough that it’s even salvageable. Once he’s clean, dry, and wrapped in a giant bath towel, he wanders back into the bedroom and habitually reaches for his phone on his nightstand.
Oh shit, his phone! Wade had mentioned texting Peter, and he probably doesn’t have a lot of time before his merc gets back, now that he’s taken the time to shower, but it’s not on the nightstand. He frowns, hastily scrambling the towel over his damp hair and pulling the dresser drawers open with sticky toes. Throwing on a t-shirt, fuzzy socks, and boxers, he tosses the towel over the laundry basket and darts out of the bedroom for the kitchen. His phone is on the island counter and he slides to a stop to pick it up, checking his messages. He snorts at Wade’s contact; the man himself had of course changed the name.
[From 🥰My Future Husband✨] 8:41PM
hey Petey baby!! 💖🖤 im wrappin up patrol w webs 🕸 be home soon!! sorry i didn’t message u sooner BB. 😔 luv u n see u for bad scifi tonight 👽🔫🤖 we can totes get in @ least 1 movie b4 i send u off to dreamland 😴
He smiles dopily and taps out a quick message himself before opening a delivery app and ordering Mexican. He’d sort-of forgotten Bad Sci-Fi night himself while he’d been out on patrol. Suddenly he has the answer he’s had for months — a good way to show Wade how important he is to him, easy and obvious and it’s about damned time. Well, maybe he has two ideas, but even still it has to wait, because it’s late, and he’s exhausted, and the rest of his energy is going to be devoted to eating good food and cuddling his boyfriend when he gets home.
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“Fuck, cops are dumb,” Deadpool sighs as he walks down the street, several blocks from the glowing bomb incident. The bomb squad had more or less secured the weird explosives and the backup bad guy Spidey had taken out first spilled his guts about how the bombs would have acted as a pressurized acidic blast that would’ve eaten away at organic and inorganic materials alike. So Spidey had been right to worry as much as he had; if any of those bottles had burst, the webbed hero and the bodega kid could have gotten limbs melted off… or worse. “At least Jose’s dad showed up. But did you see that lady pick up the bomb bottles like she was gonna take a swig? And they call me crazy,” he mutters, ignoring the looks of passers-by.
Do you really think they’d be law enforcement if they were smarter?
“I think it has a lot more to do with power than intelligence, fellas.” He’s hunting down a cab but even this busier street is low on taxis. He’s hardly even scuffed up, so unless it’s the katanas and mask, he can’t possibly be putting anyone off with his state of mess.
State of dress, dummy.
“No, I’m pretty sure I meant ‘state of mess,’” he tells the boxes evenly. “Should I just call a Lyft or whatever?” he mumbles.
They banned us from all the rideshare apps, remember, big guy? Too many stained seats, and the stench of death really gets into the upholstery.
“Right. Hard to wash out the viscera and all that. Cabbies sometimes still hose out their back seats! Probably.” His pocket vibrates, and Deadpool chirps as he pulls out his phone to see a text from his precious Petey-pie.
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 9:06PM
kk. just had a shower so I’m all squeaky clean to fall asleep on the couch w you anyway. 😘 totally wiped. I’m gonna order Mexican, I’ll get you those chimichangas n a big horchata 🖤💖
Where is his ring? Get this boy a ring. That’s a marriage thing and we have got to marry him immediately.
“Shh,” Wade hushes the boxes, staring at the message with a dreamy smile, “I’m basking. Besides, it’s only been a few months, I don’t wanna scare him! Fuck, I also don’t wanna get a ring he’ll hate, it would be so awkward if he hates whatever we pick. Besides, I’d want him to have a say in it, y’know?” An almost sad sigh. “After all, he’s gonna wear it the rest of his damn life…,” he mumbles. Shit, Wade still hasn’t even sneakily asked if Peter would want jewelry at all. Is there something else he could get that would function the same way as an easy reminder of his undying affection?
Speaking of the rest of his damn life… you, uh, got any other deep thoughts on Pete?
“Deep thoughts? Moi?” The merc scoffs. “You guys sure are full ‘a yourselves.”
We literally watched him lift the bed last week , big guy. He straight up picked up one side and put that thing at a 30-degree angle. Fuckin’ wild.
“Oh, c’mon, it was barely 20,” he argues sharply, scowling into the middle-distance. “And so what, we can do that!”
We could do like a tight 15, sure, but the bedframe’s heavy, idiot. It’s not exactly aluminum, and it’s not hollow, either—
“We like it sturdy.”
That thing’s gotta weigh 200 pounds on its own. Not to mention our fancy, dense-ass foam mattress.
“Are you serious? You’ve seen his biceps, you can’t tell me you don’t know he’s strong.”
Okay, jackass— what about the black eyes?
He scratches the back of his neck, the mask itchy where it meets the suit. He needs to change out of it, so he looks around for a cab and then steps out into the street on the next one’s approach.
The vehicle screeches to a halt, and the cabbie starts gesturing wildly and shouting in Urdu, but Deadpool waves them off and sidles around to the backseat. Climbing in, he gives the driver his address and they grudgingly throw their hands up in agreeable mock surrender and start making the appropriate turnaround. The mercenary resumes his previous conversation, fully ignoring the dubious glare of the cabbie through the rearview mirror.
“What about them?” he hisses, leaning his head on the window.
It’s not normal to literally have your eyes go black during sex!
“That’s—!”
Literally, you fuckin’ moron! The whole eye? That’s monster shit right there. Demonic. Pete’s no ordinary guy.
“Yeah, he’s the man of my dreams,” Wade insists impatiently, “what’s your point?”
Code Webs, dude! Come on!!
“Peter is not Spider-Man, you motherfucking assholes, and if you bring it up again I’mma shatter our knees with a fucking meat tenderizer and soak our head in hydrochloric acid so you obnoxious dickwicks can take a fucking timeout!” Wade seethes under his breath, unaware of the pure horror on the driver’s face as they overhear. The threat seems to work well enough that the boxes don’t offer further comment; Wade’s pulse starts to wind down at last, and he distracts himself reading through Peter’s texts again. He feels better already, pushing the topic of his internal conversation far out of his thoughts.
Less than 20 minutes later, he’s outside of his building and darting to the elevator. When he’s in the hallway to their front door, he spots their Mexican food delivery on the floor and scoops up the paper bag and drink carrier; clumsily opening the door, he bumps it shut behind himself with his hip.
“I’m back!” he announces cheerfully, and Peter’s head pops up from the other side of the couch, his hair disheveled and a lopsided smile on his face.
Awwww, the boxes coo.
“Hey, Wade,” he rasps, hauling himself upright and draping his arms over the back of the couch. He looks Fifty Shades of Tired™ but equally pleased to see the mercenary, who quickly brings everything to the coffee table. He only takes another moment to take off his mask before his eyes are on Peter again.
“Ooh, love the outfit,” Wade teases as he spots what Peter usually wears for pajamas. He loves seeing Peter comfortable. Bending over, he kisses his boyfriend gingerly, humming softly for the smile he feels against his lips. “I’m gonna rinse off real quick, ‘kay? Eat up, I won’t be long,” he instructs, pushing a gloved hand through the other’s still damp hair.
“Okay,” Peter replies quietly, smiling shyly and scooting forward to unpack the food containers.
Wade really does rush, eager to eat and watch something dumb and fun with Peter. When he’s back, clad only in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, Peter has set a knife and fork next to his food, plowing into his own chimichanga with both hands and huge bites. While they both know the utensils will go unused, it’s a sweet gesture from someone raised with but currently eschewing good manners. Peter grins up at him with the chimichanga raised and half a bite of it in his mouth.
“That good?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Peter agrees through his food. “Have you tried the red enchilada sauce?”
“On a chimichanga? Peter! That’s sacrilege!” Wade gasps, plopping down next to him and chuckling as the brunet bounces slightly and quirks an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’m gonna do it,” he says mischievously, accepting the little container Peter offers. Unwrapping the top half of his food, he pours the sauce on and takes a massive chomp out of it. A moan escapes him and he nods slowly in approval while Peter smirks triumphantly and leans against him. “What’re we watching?” he says through his next mouthful.
“One of those monster movies with a dozen sequels that never get better.”
“Or do they only get better?”
“Nope, they all suck and it’s amazing.”
Wade sighs happily, makes sure his face isn’t covered in sauce, and then threads fingers through Peter’s hair to tip his head over and kiss his crown. Peter turns pink but smiles at his chimichanga. “We should watch the Godzilla movies sometime,” he suggests not at all slyly, having completely forgotten the posters Peter had put up in his old studio apartment, which he had not at all helped take down and carefully roll up so the grad student could put them up in his new office, many in lovely simple frames Wade had certainly not persuaded Peter to let Wade get for him.
Peter perks. “Yes, yes we should! I have copies of all of ‘em, even the old ones. The practical effects are everything, you’re gonna love ‘em. I even have the worst of the newer ones. That’s my gigantic radioactive son, is Godzilla,” Peter babbles gleefully, taking another bite and half covering his mouth with one hand as he continues to talk, unable to stop after getting started on an interest this long after his meds have worn off.
Wade just watches him quietly, eating his food as Peter goes on about how differently Japan treated the concept of radioactivity and nuclear fallout compared to the US, and how CGI is “all well and good” but he misses the authenticity of practical effects in some of the newer films. Eventually they get around to streaming something that is truly terrible, pressed together under two fluffy blankets, food containers and empty beverages neglected on the coffee table.
Peter barely leaves Wade’s side all night, uncharacteristically clingy: he rises with him when the taller man gets up to get them both water, helps him put away the leftovers, and brushes his teeth at the same time when Wade catches his eyelids getting heavier 40 minutes into the movie. But Wade doesn’t complain, grateful he hadn’t needed to be the one to initiate this proximity after everything that had happened with Spidey; being close to Peter makes him feel a lot better about it all, about what he’d said to Webs, and he sincerely hopes the shorter super is at home and spending time with the people closest to him.
Both Wade and Peter fall asleep with the TV still on, Peter curled up in Wade’s lap with his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder and his boyfriend’s arms around his chest; Wade’s hands circle his hips, keeping him close and satisfying some protective instinct. They sleep dreamlessly through the night without interruption.
Notes:
i swear there will be resolution soon omfg y'all are awesome
Chapter 17: [17] Code Webs
Summary:
Wade sees an old friend and finds himself in denial. Peter forgets his mask at home and winds up Doing The Thing.
13927 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for me having too much fun with “texting,” mild sexual content.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you seriously living with the kid?”
It takes Wade a few seconds to register that he’s being spoken to, preoccupied with picking through the weapons in a back room of Sister Mary’s (We’re not calling it “Hellhouse,” you can’t make us!), where Weasel is leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He makes a point of shoving his glasses further up his nose, eyes appearing dramatically shrunken for the lens power. His hair is greasier than usual today, and even Wade can smell his B.O. through the usual stench of the merc bar. But he’s busy and Weasel is bored, so he’s clearly about to start prying well beyond what Wade has offered himself. To be fair, Wade had offered a lot (Overshared, big guy, the term is “overshared.” Let’s be honest with ourselves.) and then reeled it in about six weeks ago, like he’s started keeping the progress with his so-called boyfriend a secret.
“Yeah, I’m living with Peter . He has a name and it’s a really good one,” Wade says sternly, though his eyes are on a rocket launcher that he would really like to have but doesn’t technically need for this contract. Probably. (Better safe than sorry? One little RPG couldn’t hurt.) “And he’s not a kid, he’s just not, uh—.” (Say it. Say it, you perv.) “As old as me.”
Listen, what’s an almost 12-year gap in the grand scheme of things? We’re fuckin’ immortal, anyway.
Weasel honestly can’t think of a reason his longtime friend has gotten so cagey out of nowhere when it comes to talking about Peter. He’d been impossible to shut up for a while, even as Weasel moaned and groaned every time the super had started gushing about his yet-to-be-seen paramour. Wade barely ever shuts up, sure, but most of the time he switches topics at random, talks about contracts, or just wants to come in and get as trashed as possible for as long as possible. It’s even been months since he’s done that ; Weasel hasn’t had to break into backstock bottles since September. Wade had also stopped coming to the bar after getting really fucked up on a job, so the bartender hasn’t been responsible for keeping him from bleeding out on the bar counter since… August, holy fuck. Apparently he’s been able to get a more qualified nursemaid to deal with his bullshit, on top of a boyfriend. Shit, maybe it is his boyfriend sewing up whatever’s too big to heal easily.
Shit is wild, Weasel thinks disbelievingly as Wade lifts a scoped rifle to inspect the stock. He hasn’t even seen this mysterious boyfriend before, a guy he keeps pointedly referring to as a “kid” around Wade to get a defensive rise out of him. Weasel has known Wade Wilson since well before his… unfortunate skin problems, and he’s somehow one of the bartender’s only real friends. Running Hellhouse is no walk in the social life park; handling so many contracts for so many dangerous mercenaries, bounty hunters, and borderline (or just straight-up) criminals barely leaves time to make unrelated connections. Except for the whole Weapon X stint, Wade has been around consistently since his special ops days, so seeing a semi-familiar face for something like a decade can get a guy attached. Even if Wade is sometimes just as shitty a friend as Weasel.
“Wade,” Weasel huffs, used to being ignored if the merc is actively distracted, but the sound of his name gets the man to hum in acknowledgement. “I was asking about your imaginary boyfriend. I still haven’t met him. You won’t even show me a picture, even though I know you’ve got a bunch on your phone since you talk about it all the time,” he starts, getting more nasal the longer he complains, but Wade stands up straight and stills for a moment. Weasel watches the usually mouthier merc set the gun down and turn to look at him, and tapers off his next sentence. “Like, I don’t know why you hafta make shit up for months…”
“Weas,” Wade begins evenly, and Weasel’s eyebrows rise as the taller man reaches into a pouch at his thigh to pull out his phone. “You literally never asked to see pics, my dude,” he tells him simply, flashing a huge grin behind his mask. Weasel knows exactly what he looks like without it but Wade isn’t known for comfortability in even semi-public places when it comes to his face. He takes it off now, though, and Weasel rolls his eyes as the super’s grin widens.
“That’s never stopped you from showing me shit I don't care about before,” the other man argues petulantly, but he drops his arms when Wade steps up to him and flips through photos.
Wade shoves the phone into Weasel’s face and proudly proclaims, “That’s my Pete!”
Weasel has to grab the phone and pull it further from his glasses to actually see the screen, and thus the photo Wade is so excited about. Fixing his glasses again, more out of habit than necessity, the scruffy man frowns thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay,” he concedes grudgingly, tipping his head side to side allowingly. “I guess he’s cute. And young,” he tacks on a little more judgmentally.
“I told you he’s a grad student,” Wade huffs, snatching his phone back only to find more pictures, turning to stand and face the same way Weasel is so he can swipe through the pictures. Weasel sighs like this is the most boring thing he’s ever been forced to endure, but looks anyway.
Wade shows him one of Peter half-posed in an exaggerated lean away from a propeller hat Wade’s extending, the glove of his Deadpool suit barely visible holding the edge of the short green brim; the brunet is grinning lopsidedly and pushing Wade’s arm away. Wade swipes to another: a selfie of Peter and him with a hood pulled over his head somewhere in Central Park, standing on a boulder and looking out at a stone bridge. Weasel’s not actually from New York and knows fuck all about Central Park so he has no idea where it’s supposed to be, but he’d admit only under duress that it’s not bad for a selfie. Wade is babbling happily, showing a slightly blurry snap of Peter with a massive sandwich halfway out of his mouth, sheer determination on his face as he realizes he’s being photographed. The next picture is even blurrier but it’s obvious Peter is blushing, the sandwich out of sight and a hand coming for the camera lens. Weasel actually snorts for that one, and Wade beams triumphantly.
“Alright, stop,” Weasel says miserably when Wade shows him another candid of the younger man perched on the back of a sofa with messy hair, wearing a raglan shirt and maybe sweatpants, facing the TV and watching some animation Weasel doesn’t recognize. It’s weirdly more intimate than the photos with Peter’s face in them, because even Weasel can tell it’s Wade’s place and the guy looks really comfortable where he is.
“Wait, just one more,” Wade insists, and pushes his weight into Weasel’s scrawny shoulder. The man concedes with a grunt, and frowns at the phone screen when Wade pulls up a normal picture of the person Weasel will now grudgingly call Wade’s real, actual boyfriend. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Wade murmurs reverently.
Peter is sitting on a roof somewhere with one leg over the edge and one knee bent with an arm draped over it. A sunset lights him in warm hues as he smiles lazily and looks out to the city below with his fluffy hair cast in an ethereal glow, windows reflecting gold, orange, pink, and purple in the background. Weasel glances sideways at his friend, who has gone quiet again, an uncharacteristically soft expression on his rotten avocado face. He presses his lips tightly together and narrows his gaze suspiciously before piping up, “You’re in love, you fuckin’ sap.”
Wade nods absently, but frowns after a beat and looks up at him like he’s just insulted him by pointing out the obvious. “Of course I am,” he says defensively. “He’s my favorite,” the merc adds with a dreamy sigh.
Weasel looks at his friend as he distractedly goes through his photos, most of which contain either his boyfriend Peter, or Deadpool and Spider-Man. The selfies are getting excessive, though as far as Weasel is concerned, anything more than two selfies is excessive. But in a way he’s relieved; some of the selfies are even Wade without the mask, including the one of the couple in Central Park that Wade had already shown him. Only ever with Peter, though, and only a handful in public places, but still — an improvement in the man’s self-esteem if ever he’s seen one in the last… what, five years?
“When did your face get fucked?” the bartender wonders aloud, then quickly shuts his mouth and crushes his lips together.
“About five years ago,” Wade confirms, tone distant as he pauses on another picture of Peter wearing glasses, a baggy sweatshirt, and tight jeans in what looks like a library; tall shelves of books on either side of the window where Peter sits draped with his head resting against a huge window pane, a leg up in the huge windowsill while the nearest drapes toward the floor. His face is in profile and his eyes are closed, fingers laced over the knee bent up to his chest. It’s not an exciting picture, Weasel doesn’t even really see what’s so interesting about it when Wade stares at it for a long time. The handler is about to say something about how he should probably make a rule regarding screen time when he’s got a bar full of criminals to get back to, but then Wade’s expression shifts from affectionate to focused, and Weasel assumes he’d get slapped if he were to interrupt that current train of thought. Instead, he leans slightly to look over Wade’s huge shoulder at the screen again.
Wade is going back through the photos rapidly and only slows when he hits a series of Spider-Man captures. One has Spider-Man flashing a peace sign from the edge of a rooftop — funny how Wade keeps falling for shorter guys who aren’t afraid of falling off of tall buildings, which Weasel considers a special kind of crazy. Another of Spider-Man dangling upside down from a large web design behind him and mock-saluting the camera… oh, there are a few shady guys trapped in the webs. Is this the Spider-Man equivalent of hunting trophy photos? There’s one of Spider-Man leaning comfortably against the bars of some kind of thin railing high up on maybe a balcony or a fire escape, a leg propped up and a leg dangling, fingers laced over one knee, masked face in profile…
“Huh,” Weasel says aloud, eyebrows pinching together, mouth half open. “Your boyfriend sits exactly like Spider-Man.”
When Wade says absolutely nothing, Weasel dares another peek sideways at him; he looks alarmed, then thrilled, then dubious, then… like maybe he hurt his feelings? Then — worst of all — the mercenary relaxes to a sort of blankness that makes Weasel quickly and uncomfortably step back and reflexively fold his arms over his chest again. He’s about to suggest Wade take whatever emotional outburst he’s about to have outside, but Wade shakes himself out, shoving his phone into a pouch; he ducks forward to hop around and fling his limbs about with an awkward laugh, coming off as delirious.
“Wow, that was weird, huh?” Wade says too cheerfully, but his expression is just as it usually is when Wade is functioning at whatever the hell his “normal” could be considered. Too bad Weasel knows when his friend is wearing a practiced smile. “They’re good buddies from childhood, y’know, ‘s not that weird they got similar mannerisms,” he reasons with a shrug.
Is he trying to convince Weasel or himself?
Weasel frowns again, confused by this brief emotional rollercoaster but still too familiar with Wade’s mood swings to really question it too much. At least he wasn’t brooding anymore. “O… -kay,” he says carefully, and Wade turns back to the crates of mid-size artillery to start perusing again. The bartender slowly lets himself get comfortable against the doorframe after a few minutes of standard, obnoxious but moderately amusing commentary from his friend.
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“We are not talking about this,” Deadpool grinds out between his teeth, roosting in a building that’s under construction (Classic!) with the scope of a stabilized sniper rifle trained on a window several blocks away. He’s lying on his stomach, the concrete beneath him cold enough to make him shiver just once. He could’ve done this the fun, messy way and gone in guns blazing, but he’s not about to break a months-long sobriety streak just because he’s a little bit frustrated. “That’s dumb and impossible, and there’s a reason we haven’t thought about it in weeks!”
Okay, but, hear us out, the boxes insist in a skin-boiling, snooty tone, what if Pete is Spider-Man?
“That’s so—! I hate you both so fucking much,” Wade growls, but he’s not doing enough to hide the uncertainty sitting on the back of his tongue. What the hell kind of proof is two similar pictures supposed to be, anyway? People sit like that all the time!
His perfect face in profile?
“Spidey’s mask obviously changes the shape, what are you talking about?”
That jawline, big guy. The one we trace so we can kiss under his ear… The boxes sigh, smitten. Besides, it’s not just the mask. Dat Ass is no joke .
“Asses often look alike on people with similar builds,” Wade articulates meaningfully, but it doesn’t exactly disprove the boxes’ point. “And we already know Pete is fit as hell, my Baby Boy does parkour,” he goes on, smirking as he pictures Peter vaulting over benches, scrambling up trees, and flipping up fire escapes like a certain webbed hero—
Wade takes a moment to physically smack himself on either side of his face before just grabbing it and resting his elbows on the unfinished concrete, groaning when the boxes preen. “This is so stupid! There’s no way Petey-Pie is Spider-Man, okay? He’s just a regular guy.”
Who was never afraid of you, who can literally pin you to the floor without breaking a sweat, who does that little holding-super-still-then-cocking-his-head thing…
“Ha. Cocking,” Deadpool wheezes weakly. Unimpressed, the boxes plow on.
Listen, just don’t dismiss it next time there are signs, right? There are soooo many signs! He’s at least a mutie of some kind, right? With the strength and the black eyes? How are you missing th—?
“Because we can’t have both!” Wade shouts, throwing his arms out and dropping his face to the concrete, smashing his nose hard enough to hear a crack. “Aw, fuck, I can’t believe you’ve done this,” he grumbles to himself in an exaggerated English accent, hastily rolling onto his side and peeling his mask up and completely off before he can press his freshly broken, bloody nose further into his face.
Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Wait. So your argument that Pete isn’t Spidey is… what? We can’t date Peter and also be friends with Spider-Man?
“No,” Wade replies miserably, sighing wetly. He hocks up the blood in his throat and spits it into his duffel rather than swallow it, aiming for an empty corner. Nobody likes coming back to mystery blood stains, if Deadpool’s personal experience says anything, so he’ll clean it out later to cast less suspicion when the construction workers get back Monday. “I’m saying…” A tense laugh follows a loud popping crack as he resets his nose with both hands, sniffing painfully and moving his jaw side to side to test out the hold of the shape. It’s already healing; he’s glad he’d reset it quickly or he’d have to break it again just to get it back to passably normal. Cartilage is a bitch to heal properly when you regularly get your face smashed in. “It’s not possible, because shit never lines up like that for us!” He can feel his own heart breaking at the thought of a potential reality where he even suggests this idea to Peter only for him to laugh in his face about it. He wouldn’t, Wade knows he wouldn’t, but he can’t risk it. His voice is hoarse when he goes on.
“I wanted to be with Spidey once upon a time. Then I got Peter, who is the actual human embodiment of the perfect, non-super guy for me. He’s sarcastic, he gives me shit as good as he gets, he kicks my ass at games, he makes the cutest faces when he’s frustrated or horny… He gets me. He gets you jackasses, even more than Ness did,” Deadpool rambles, huffing and pointing at the ceiling like he can address the boxes in the physical world. He might not have given Peter a thorough rundown of the mess in his head, but the brunet still treats him with respect and love even when he’s having a Bad Time. “And Spidey never returned a single advance, anyway—!”
Are you stupid? He’s gotta be stupid. It feels like the boxes are cupping nonexistent hands around nonexistent mouths and speaking directly into his ears as they shout, HE LETS US TOUCH HIS ASS, BUDDY!
“Yeah, after I explained the Sexceptions!” Wade replies hastily. “And it took Pete ages to let me touch his butt!”
Categorically untrue, he let us get away with it all the time! And do you remember when Spidey specifically gave us permission to touch his butt? the boxes lead.
“…A. A little while after we’d touched Pete’s,” he says in a rush, “but come on, that’s the dumbest reason! A good ass is a good ass!” He taps the palm of one hand insistently with his forefinger, frowning at it.
Then why can’t we have both asses in one?
“We’re not WORTHY!” Deadpool snaps, and the boxes go quiet. He’s tense, practically standing on the balls of his feet, and he doesn’t even remember getting all the way up off the floor. “Fuck!” he blurts, voice breaking. He grabs his hips and hangs his head forward, pacing as he tries to collect himself in the strange silence of his brain. Stupid boxes, never saying anything useful when he needs some goddamned help processing, always treating him like an idiot. “We’re lucky enough to have Peter , guys. What are we thinking? We can’t also have our precious spidery role model! They’re two different people, we’ve gotta— gotta just—.”
He shakes his head, moving his hands up to rub the back of his neck. He feels nauseated with guilt. This argument is like saying Peter isn’t enough, and Peter is everything. He doesn’t need to have Spider-Man when he’s got Peter! He’s not abandoning Spidey or his deep love of the goody-two-shoes, he just… doesn’t need to have some compounded, amalgamated person to be happy; Peter makes him impossibly happy, happier than he remembers himself capable of being. Vanessa might even be proud of him for how happy he’s been lately.
Is this because you’re scared?
Wade snorts, both annoyed and relieved the boxes have something to say again. “Be more specific.”
You’re already scared of losing one of them. If they’re the same person, you lose both of them if anything happens to one of them.
“I hate you,” he repeats lowly, but the conviction he can usually throw behind it is empty. He doesn’t want to think about it any longer. If Peter is Spider-Man, it means he’s never not in danger and often throws himself into danger both willingly and recklessly. If he’s Spider-Man, it means he’d rescued himself from Holt Securities even though Deadpool definitely saw Spidey show up! It means—
It means he’s been lying to Wade for ages, and that hurts too. Wade can sort-of see why he’d keep the secret for this long, but at the same time, doesn’t Spidey know he’d never give him up, come hell or high water? Hell and high water? Doesn’t Peter know? He’d rather die, stay dead, and never see Peter or Spider-Man again than take something that important from the wallcrawler. Maybe. Most likely. Okay, so the only reason he’d ever give Spidey’s identity up is to save Peter, but if they’re the same person, would he ever have to do that? Holy shit, he can’t even fathom never seeing Peter again—
Staaahhhhhhp, this isn’t helping! the boxes whine, and Wade has to agree he’s talking himself in compulsive, anxious circles.
“It’s not Peter,” he says decisively and drops back to the unfinished floor like he’s about to start doing push-ups, but instead settles with the rifle to sight it again just in case he’d bumped it after breaking his nose. “Spider-Man and Peter are two different people and that’s the last we’re ever gonna talk about it. Capiche?” When the boxes don’t answer, he assumes he’s won for the moment.
He can’t think about such possibilities. They’re absurd, and the evidence is circumstantial at best — even though Peter is clearly a closeted mutant or mutate, and maybe it hurts Wade’s feelings the tiniest bit that his boyfriend hasn’t told him as much yet. Deadpool does his damned research except when it comes to research into secret identities, because he’s a good bro and that’s the code! The super bro code: don’t fall in love with your hero’s alter ego. Maybe. Something like that.
Dammit, Peter is not Spider-Man!
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“I have to tell him I’m Spider-Man,” Peter tells his grungy reflection gravely, looking and sounding exactly as exhausted and messy as he feels. He’s in the super suit sans mask and it’s a good thing Wade isn’t home because he’s going to need to really scrub out the ash and soot from the earlier fires; he’ll need to use the bathtub to do it.
His regular red and blue suit is shadowed in large black patches with soot, and he smells exactly like a house fire: acrid burning plastic and synthetics, oak, and pure choking carbon. Peter’s sense of smell is much stronger than Wade’s, which is apparently saying something considering the traces of scents the mercenary can recognize, but he still wants to get rid of it. He figures he’ll open windows and dig out some odor neutralizers from the spare room — that is, his new office — and he’s planning to spray or wipe down every surface he’s even been near since coming in through the bedroom window.
The vigilante rubs at his sore throat, not nearly as damaged as it would’ve been in a less equipped suit; he’s glad he has the respirator, but since it’s lowkey nanotech meshed into the fabric of his mask instead of being a full, solid device, it’s not really designed for spending something like 20 minutes total in the horrible heat of continuous, thick smoke. It’s more for two-minute bursts of getting through bad structural fires after a fight. Or flu season.
He’s standing at the bathroom mirror and debating the validity of his own internal argument: a list of Very Good Reasons To Tell Wade, which he starts to recite aloud. “I have to tell him because we love each other, and I want to share all of myself, and he loves Peter even more than he loves Spider-Man, and that’s kinda… kinda all I ever wanted.” His shoulders deflate slightly as he searches his own tired brown eyes. “To be… myself with someone. Just Peter. I don’t hafta be a hero when I’m with Wade.”
He blinks at himself a few more times before he starts peeling his suit off. Now he definitely thinks he’s going to need a suit with a built-in binder for times he knows he’s not hiding the suit under civvies, like for missions or patrol, when he’s often changing directly into a suit at home first, anyway. If he can just rinse off first, he’ll wear something he can get dirty again while he cleans up. Then he’ll have a proper shower and forcibly remove the smell of woodsmoke and burnt plastic from his hair.
It’s odd to think he never would’ve considered showering twice in one day when he was living with his aunt or completely broke in the studio flat. He’s never been so spoiled with reliable hot water but he tries not to waste it all the same. Climbing into the bathtub, he hastily starts the showerhead, jolting at the cold even though he hadn’t bothered trying to warm it up first. His ribs and ankle hurt, badly bruised from a rough tumble across rubble. There are small cuts in his hands from shattered glass, a few similar scrapes over his shoulders and back, but his mind isn’t really on the pain.
Wade is out on a job somewhere, something about destroying falsified evidence for someone who would, “totally just slide right out of court or right back outta prison, I promise, Petey,” if the evidence were to make it to legal proceedings. Wade has been discerning about his jobs for a few years now, even when he’d still been taking assassination contracts, so Peter believes him when he says the target is a bad person and their supportive evidence is bullshit. Wade is a true professional, so while he won’t lie to Peter about what kind of contract he’s taken or what he’s off to do on the west coast (or in Mexico, or Cambodia, or Morocco, etcetera), he doesn’t give him real details. Whether it’s for Peter’s safety or because there could be other repercussions, Peter has never heard a name or specific location and doesn’t really want to try looking for trouble by hunting online or asking other supers for any possible… tangentially related news.
With Wade gone, Spider-Man is swinging solo on patrols again, and he’d let it slip his mind that he probably shouldn’t take on two muggings, two robberies, and two burning buildings in one night. One fire had been a house in Astoria, the other an office building in midtown Manhattan, both electrical failures according to the occupants. When it comes to fires, though, Spider-Man just gets people out and lets the FDNY handle any necessary investigations. The fire marshal seems like a nice lady from Spider-Man’s interactions with her, and once or twice he’s been summoned directly to aid with rescue efforts. At least they’d gotten everyone out tonight; he doesn’t need any more dead bodies to litter his nightmares.
Sure, Spider-Man sees a lot of death and for the most part he can handle it. But if even a small part of him can find a way to take responsibility, the bodies haunt his sleep for months on end. Some stick around for years, but for now at least no more innocents will join Gwen and Uncle Ben on the worst nights.
After erasing all evidence of a suited super covered in soot walking through the bedroom and bathroom, giving said suit a thorough scrubbing and setting it to wash, and taking a shower with the purpose of washing off his actual body, Peter flops onto the bed in his pajamas and smushes his face into Wade’s pillow because it smells like him. “Should’ve come in through the living room,” he mutters into the soft fabric, the sheets a plush material that doesn’t irritate Wade’s sensitive skin. “Keep forgetting about hardwood floors.” He’s worn out, a little hungry, and starting to feel lonely after three days without his boyfriend. His boyfriend is somewhere in Hong Kong, Peter thinks, but he’s due back by tomorrow night. He considers the pros and cons of going out on patrol when he expects Wade will hope to come home to his very normal civilian boyfriend once he’s back in town, and Peter really, really wants to see him as soon as possible. Eh, he’ll do some light patrolling after class in the afternoon and ask someone else to take over for him for the night; New York will get by without him for a night or two, he’s no longer so attached to the idea that he’s the only savior the city has.
Lifting his head, he pulls his “work” phone from the nightstand and taps out a couple of messages to other supers asking if they can cover him tomorrow night. Then he grabs his personal phone and opens his thread with Wade, smiling to himself as he tells him good night and to message him when he’s on the plane home. Wade will probably have at least one stopover on the west coast since he’s on the other side of the Pacific, but he knows his merc will message him as soon as he’s able, possibly a hundred times if he’s bored or idle enough.
Peter falls asleep with the light on and his suit still in the washing machine. He won’t remember to hang it to dry in the spare room until he blinks himself awake at 8 AM the next morning, when he’ll scramble to do just that after remembering Wade would be home at some point that same day.
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[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 3:36 AM
BB!! sweetest boy of mine!! 🥰💚 im on my way back to the states, dont have too much fun w/o me yet 😜 gonna make u pancakes 🥞 n force u to endure a golden girls marathon ♥🖤 (if my DVD box sets are intact, hope u didnt party too hard in my absence 🥺)
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:02 AM
guess I’ll hafta cancel the rager I was gonna throw ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:02 AM
besides, it’s not a party w/o you, babe 😎😘 btw you’re mine for tonight, spidey can suck it 😛
[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:03 AM
🤩🥰👀🍆🍑💦 i luv it when you use kaomojis, u huge fuckin dork
[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:03 AM
ur just my type ♥🖤
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:05 AM
oh good I was worried 🙄
[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:08 AM
ill text u when i get in, i totes expect u to be ready to have ur mouth stuffed n ur hands held 🥰😈
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:08 AM
dude
[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:09 AM
what?? u dont wanna eat my pancakes?? 😘
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:09 AM
you’re incorrigible.
[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:09 AM
yeah n u luv it like i luv u
[From 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:09 AM
I can’t even believe I’m sleeping w you, perv
[To 😍Baby Boy🥵] 8:10 AM
oh we do a lot more than sleep, bbcakes 🔥😛
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[To 🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 8:45 AM
hey bestie, 🤩 im hoppin a few planes home today ✈ but ive got plans to be w/ my bf tonite, can u handle patrol alone one (1) more nite?? ☠
[From 🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 9:01 AM
Sure, DP. Have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. 😉
[To 🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 9:03 AM
aw cmon that’s like literally anything fun. spoilsport 😝
[To 🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 9:03 AM
thanks, webs. ill let u know when im available again. time to get fuuuuuucked 🥵🍑🍆💦🥒🍬👅🍭🧁🎉🎆🎶😍🍀✨
[From 🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 9:06 AM
Wow I hate your emojis, thanks.
[To 🕷Spidey Webs🕸] 9:07 AM
👁👄👁
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It takes all of Deadpool’s patience not to launch himself out the cabin door when the wheels hit the tarmac in New York. It’s not a commercial airport he’s landing in, but it’s a little place upstate that also sometimes, occasionally, maybe gets certain illicit drug deliveries for certain organized groups of like-minded people. People he’s occasionally been on the wrong side of, sure, but money greasing palms is a hell of a deterrent for old grudges. And Deadpool had made a pretty penny several hours ago, pennies he’d transferred into various accounts to catch (Read: bribe the pilot of—!) a private jet in Nevada four hours ahead of schedule to get back to Peter three hours early. He’d texted his Baby Boy just as he’d left, but Peter hadn’t yet replied to his message. The only way Deadpool can actually keep himself in his seat is to double check his phone.
“Fuck’s sake!” he says loudly, and it’s a good thing he’s the only person in the passenger cabin. “The fucking message never sent!”
Then send it now, idiot! Holy shit, Peter must be worried sick!
“I mean, I’m early, right? I guess I’d technically be in the air still, right now, if I’d gotten on the other plane,” he mumbles thoughtfully. It will certainly make his return a surprise! And Peter had seemed eager to see him as soon as possible, so there’s really no losing, here. “He’s just about to get out of class, anyway. He’ll barely beat me home!” he notes, a pleasant satisfaction warming his aching skin. It’ll take him maybe an hour to get to the city from here. Deadpool happily tucks his phone away, not realizing the text had finally gone through.
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Peter’s phone pings while he’s wrapping up in class and turning his phone back on. He smiles dreamily at the text from Wade, about twenty minutes old. Peter pulls his phone off the charging cord he’d been using with a battery bank during the lecture, since he’d failed to charge it overnight and it had nearly died after he’d set foot on campus two hours ago.
[From 🥰My Future Husband✨] 1:34 PM
taking off! 🛫 see u tonite baby boy!! 🥰😍😈👅🥞♥🖤
Cool, that gives him something like four hours to patrol and then have a shower before Wade gets home. Peter tucks his laptop back into his bag and slides his arms back through his coat sleeves. He pulls a slouchy beanie over his head as he steps out of the building, shivering with the chill and thinking he’ll need to warm up a little longer than usual to patrol this afternoon. The colder seasons are a little tricky but tinkering with his suits has still been worth it, the one under his clothes comfortable and insulated enough that it could be fleece-lined if he hadn’t already known better. As long as he keeps moving with the right suit, even snowy weather shouldn’t totally bar him from getting things done.
He's ready to dip off onto a busy street about ten minutes later, mindlessly fingering his sweatshirt hood, but something isn’t right, the tiniest tingle at his nape. He slows as he walks, brow furrowing as he tries to assess what’s wrong. Phone in his pocket, not missing his phone. Glasses still on his face. Patting down his bag determines he hadn’t forgotten his computer, either. Then what’s—?
The grad student gasps sharply, gripping his hood tighter. Where’s the lump of his mask? No, no, no, did he seriously forget to bring his mask? Swearing under his breath, Peter shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, dropping his head back to groan at the sky. Dumb. Amateur hour, Parker. Now he has to go home first, anyway. That’s alright, it’s not the end of the world but he’ll need to be quick if he wants to get as much patrolling in as possible before Wade texts him that he’s back in New York. And he’ll have to use the front door like a normal person unless he can cheat and climb up the fire escape, which he can sort-of get away with in civilian clothes; the neighbors have seen and heard him and Wade do way more annoying stuff than pass by their windows on the fire escape. He picks up the pace again, speed walking for the subway and hoping he can catch the next train back.
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Wade is starving by the time he gets back home, and when he returns to a locked door and no lights on, he assumes Peter hasn’t gotten back from class yet. Which is fine with him, he can shower first and start the promised pancakes. He does kind-of stink like jet fuel and B.O., so he’ll save Peter the adorable wrinkled nose face and just clean up ahead of time. He drops his duffel in the bedroom and strips out of his Deadpool suit, tucking it deep in the hamper so it doesn’t act like the worst aromatherapy candle on the market. Who the fuck markets the smell of their vagina, anyway?
Entitled wealthy A-list white ladies, duh.
“Point taken,” Wade grunts, and impatiently waits for the water to reach just the right temperature not to sear his tender flesh or freeze the drier parts off. He’s not subtle about how much he hates his skin, but it’s approaching a Bad Skin Day and he so doesn’t have time to flinch every time he’s touched when he wants so very badly for Peter to touch every inch of him when the brunet gets home. He giggles gleefully at the imagery, blushing bashfully and stepping under the spray to get washed up with his specialty soap, tempted as he is to use Peter’s fruity stuff.
Don’t get too excited. Sometimes class really takes it outta Petey, remember? Morning texts aside, he might need a breather and all the pancakes you could possibly make before he’ll be down to, y’know. Go down.
“Who says he’s gonna go down?” Wade mumbles, rubbing lather off of his arms and sighing. “I mean, me first, amirite?”
Aren’t you hella jetlagged?
“Shh, shh, shh,” Wade soothes, “of course not. You forget my magnificent curse: healing too fast for jet lag to mean shit. And I barely need sleep.”
Right. Right. Cool. So… sex with Pete when he’s in?
“Probably, but so long as I can kiss my baby, I’ll live with putting it off a little longer.” He’d gone a couple of years without positive (Or at least not antagonizing—) touch, after Vanessa had… Then he’d gone right back to paying for it when he’d really needed to get some. He shrugs, enjoying the warm water as it helps his muscles relax a little more. He doesn’t have to think about those times anymore; he’s got Peter, and Peter willingly, enthusiastically touches Wade all the time, and it’s probably going to kill him some day. Can you die from an explosion of love and affection in your once cold, dead heart?
And his heart grew three sizes that day!
“Okay, listen, we only stole Xmas that one time,” he grumbles, finally shutting off the water. Then he hears the front door, having forgotten to put the bathroom fan on and leaving the bedroom door open. He perks, sloughing off the excess water and grabbing a towel; he hastily pats his head and shoulders down, wrapping the towel around his waist and padding barefoot over to the front hallway.
When he gets there, Peter is stock-still with one shoe stepping on the heel of the other, halfway to taking it off. He’s cute as ever in his big coat and father’s glasses, fluffy hair a stylized mess. He’s so beautiful that Wade’s heart skips a beat and the boxes catcall the man from inside his head. Peter’s gaping at Wade with wide brown eyes and if Wade doesn’t already firmly believe Peter absolutely adores and has thoroughly missed him, he’d take offense to how anxious he looks — like he’s been caught doing something when all he’s doing is coming home to find his boyfriend back ahead of schedule.
“Hey, Pumpkin!” Wade greets brightly, smiling like Peter has just told him he’s the prettiest princess in all the land (Because he has before and we l o v e d it.), sheepish and affectionate. “Guess you really didn’t get my text, huh?”
Peter takes a moment to collect himself and then manages to get back to taking his shoes off. He’d initially planned to just rush inside, grab his mask, and take off in the suit from the bedroom window, but habit had him taking his shoes off indoors. So now instead of accidentally coming out of the spare room with his Spider-Man mask on, he’s been granted a brief reprieve from his own stupidity with this interlude. He barely has time to be annoyed with himself or panicked about definitely almost revealing himself to Wade — because it’s Wade, and Wade is home, and Peter had missed him.
He breaks into a massive, toothy grin, remaining shoe flung off somewhere as he darts for his damp boyfriend, who immediately opens his stance and catches Peter when he leaps into his arms and latches his legs around the taller man’s naked waist, circling his arms around his neck. Wade laughs shortly against his mouth when Peter demandingly kisses him, using one hand to cradle the back of his neck and hold him close. Wade holds under his thighs, squeezing gently, just a little teasing. More important is meeting the fever of Peter’s kiss and pushing past his boyfriend’s lips with his tongue, which makes Peter sigh so sweetly he’s seconds away from half-hard.
Peter only breaks the kiss when he needs a few deep breaths, brushing his thumb under Wade’s gorgeous hazel eyes; he’d missed looking at them. He smiles lopsidedly. “Hi,” he greets at last, huffing an embarrassed laugh even though Wade is beaming.
“Hi,” the merc echoes in what Peter has deemed his “sexy deep voice,” a comforting baritone that nears that rumbling Peter can barely get enough of. Peter knows he could ask Wade to do anything at all right this moment and Wade would just do it, no questions, no hesitation.
“Welcome back,” Peter says breathlessly.
“Happy to be here, Baby Boy. I forgot how eager you get when I’ve been gone,” Wade lies, because he thinks about it literally every night he’s not home. Sometimes four times a night. But fucking his hand isn’t nearly the same as fucking the real deal.
Slut.
Maybe so! But Wade’s hardly ashamed of it. What kind of insult is “you like sex,” anyway? Society is wild.
“How about I remind you?” Peter suggests slyly, smirking deviously as something flashes in his pretty doe eyes. “I’ve gotta put some stuff away, but how about I meet you in the bedroom? Go wait for me?” he goes on a little quieter, closer to Wade’s ear, his cheeks and ears on fire.
Wade groans, kneading the meat of Peter’s thighs and ass, the other man’s cinnamon breath stuttering and his fingers flexing where they rest at the back of Wade’s head and along his jaw. “I can do that,” he says huskily, a lot of his circulation focused around one place down south. He lets Peter lean away and sets him back on his feet. Peter glances sideways up at him before pecking his cheek and pushing Wade’s shoulders meaningfully back toward the bedroom.
“Go!” he laughs when Wade makes a show of dragging his feet and helping Peter out of his coat. “I got it, I got it,” he assures the larger man, such a lovely shade of sunset pink that Wade can now categorize as “horny shy,” one of his favorites. He’s waved off and Peter is indeed shrugging his coat off to toss it with blind expertise onto the hook by the door. Wade walks backward to watch as Peter grabs the hem of the top hoodie to peel it off first, like he can’t take them both off at once.
Booooo.
But he obeys, walking back into the bedroom and quickly drying the rest of his body off; his skin suddenly feels way better already, like Peter’s very presence is a balm. Maybe it is, since Wade does actually have fewer Bad Skin Days these days, and when he does Peter attentively takes the specialty lotion and helps him reach the spots he himself can’t when it hurts to bend or flex too much.
“Fuck, I love ‘im,” Wade mutters as he hangs the towel back up in the bedroom and debates whether or not draping himself fully nude on the bed is better than half tucking himself under the covers like he’s pretending to be modest. That feels funnier though, so he goes with option B and settles on one side of the bed with the sheet covering one leg and his crotch, the other bent upright so he can make a show of posing with his head propped on one elbow. Still a classic pose for the mercenary but with that amusing censorship that keeps his movies rated R instead of NC-17; he’s hit the quota for full frontal acceptability by now. Raring to go, Wade is definitely close to being fully erect when there’s a soft sound behind him at the window.
Whipping his head around, Wade yelps comically and hauls the bed sheet up to his chest to cover his naked breasts. “Spidey!” he admonishes when the webbed hero pauses halfway through the quietly opened window, the lenses of his mask widening slightly at the sight of Wade trying to protect his modesty. (HA!) “Warn a gal before busting into his bedroom unannounced! I’m—,” he begins, but lowers his voice conspiratorially, like it’s not obvious, “—I’m nude! ”
“I can see that,” Spider-Man muses in his pleasant tenor, and Wade narrowly avoids swooning even though he’s still got Pete on the brain. “Uh—.”
“You just missed Pete!” Wade realizes, grinning cheekily. “Though you’re definitely interrupting, Webs. Can we uh, take a rain check?”
“Wade,” the other super says hesitantly, one foot still out on the fire escape, the other tucked under him up on the sill. “About that.”
“No, no, seriously, we’ll get dinner sometime, all three of us, but uh. We’re about to be in the middle of something.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Preferably that something being me or Pete, but—!”
“Wade, please—.”
“Come to think of it, d’you two ever just hang out without me? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two in the same room before.”
Spider-Man shifts, crouching with one leg in the room and a hand holding the window open. “You haven’t,” he confirms carefully, his tone unreadable.
Code Webs, Code Webs! Pay attention!!
“We’ll hafta change that, then. I’ll admit, I’m dying to watch your chemistry in person—!”
“Wade!” Spider-Man repeats more urgently, and Wade snaps his jaw shut to keep from rambling any further. “It’s me,” the spider says shortly.
Wade blinks. “Yeah, duh, it’s you.” He tilts his head at an angle and smirks at his BFF. Silly Spider-Man, always stating the obvious. “The mask is kinda the giveaway, huh Spidey?”
Oh my god.
“Oh my god,” the younger man grumbles in disbelief, rubbing said masked face and pulling his body all the way into the room, turning and shutting the window behind himself with an exasperated sigh. He sets his hands on his narrow waist and remains with his back to the merc, looking skyward. “Am I really doing this?” he mutters skeptically to himself. “I am. I’m really doing this.”
“What’s taking Pete so long?” Wade says, because he’s distractible and horny and a little overwhelmed at the possibility of seeing Peter and Spider-Man interact in real time for the first time ever, finally. (Jesus everloving FUCK, big guy, you are unaliving us.) “He’ll just be a sec, I’m sure.”
“WADE.”
The mercenary looks back at Spider-Man with his bald eyebrows raised, the hero now facing him with his hands out like he’s gesturing to the entire room. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Spider-Man says firmly in a slightly lower voice, using the affectation he does when he’s just an ordinary civilian, something in hindsight he should’ve been doing whenever he put on the suit instead. But Spider-Man is freer than Peter Parker and Wade Wilson is the only reason Peter talks much at all these days.
Wade stares at the webslinger, his hero and best friend in the whole entire universe, no takesies-backsies. “That’s so weird,” Wade murmurs vaguely, squinting slightly and matching Spidey’s contracting lenses. “You sound like Peter.”
OH MY GOD, we will unalive you ourselves!
“Yeah, it was never a huge difference, I’m actually really surprised you couldn’t tell,” Spider-Man says thoughtfully, slipping back into his fully natural voice, not as low or rough but still very clearly from the same speaker when heard one after the other. He pauses, holding one elbow and drumming his fingers along his jaw. “Should I give you some back to back examples?” he asks in Peter’s voice, and Wade’s eyes start to widen at the same time as his face pinches. “Heya, DP, did you want the chicken or the lamb shawarma?” he asks in Spider-Man’s voice, an applicable example of a commonplace conversation between the webhead and Deadpool. “Oh! And I actually do wanna watch 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea with you, I wasn’t kidding about that the other day,” he tacks on in Peter’s more fried vocals.
“Spidey,” Wade says meekly, and Spider-Man stops and looks at him, fingers curled against the underside of his chin. He takes a moment to instead fold both arms over his chest with a strong stance and his hips canted just slightly forward; the way he’s standing is upsettingly familiar in an equally upsettingly congruous way, and Wade wonders if he’s doing it on purpose.
Obviously he’s trying to tell you! That’s right— you, not us! We already told you!
“Wade,” the man in red and blue says more gently in Spidey’s voice, sending shivers up Wade’s spine. That’s the way Peter says his name when he thinks he’s breaking the mercenary’s heart, when he’s on a tenuous edge himself. “Wade, I never meant to lie to you, I swear,” he goes on even quieter, his shoulders rising just slightly as he shuffles his feet and looks shamefully down at the floor, dropping his arms to hold his wrist behind his back. He feels worse putting anything between them right now, even if it’s just his arms. “Just. The timing, it— it got out of hand.”
“This is a real weird way to play a prank on your bestie, bestie,” Wade says, voice wavering as he tries to process what’s happening, the boxes pitching a fit to the tune of ‘we told you so.’ “Lemme just get Pete, and we can uh. Hash this out,” he goes on, eyes a little unfocused as he grabs up the bed sheet and wraps it around himself like a strapless dress or a towel made for a literal giant. He slides one leg off the bed, about to stand.
“Wait!” Spider-Man says curtly and shoots a web to secure one of his wrists to a junction of bars on the bed frame before Wade can actually get out of bed. Wade stares at the webbing, brain short-circuiting. “Sorry, uh. Just—,” the wallcrawler goes on, and then Wade’s whole forearm is stuck to the cool stainless steel, his elbow at a right angle as he gawps at it with wide bulging eyes. After a beat of silence, Wade turns his head to look at Spider-Man.
Holy shit holy shit holy shit, that’s so fucking hot, we have always wanted Spidey to web us to the bed! Or a wall (again). Or a stripper pole. We’re like 15% through a wet dream, hurry up and kiss him, let’s get on with it!!
“Did he loan you his web shooters, Petey??” he asks in excited disbelief, and Spider-Man is left reeling, his wrists still raised from aiming at his boyfriend. Wade laughs breathily, clearly a little nervous. “Wow, you almost had me there, I totally thought you were Spidey!”
“Wade… what?” Spidey asks tersely, unintentionally in his lower register while on the border of annoyed and exhausted. “Seriously? Two seconds ago you thought I was Spider-Man! What makes you think I’m just in cosplay?”
“Well, first off, Spidey would never web me to the bed, we’re not romantically entangled,” Wade insists, sniffing and turning his nose up.
“That’s— ugh, fine, then what about the costume?”
“Have you seen your baby Spidey cosplay, Petey-Pie? It’s so good,” Wade praises, because every part of his brain that isn’t the boxes refuses to see what’s in front of him.
“I think I prefer it when you call it the ‘OG’ Spidey costume,” the smaller man complains. “And it’s ‘so good’ because it’s legit, Wade. I made it myself.”
“I know,” Wade says lightly, and Peter wants to throttle him just a little bit. Is this what other supers feel like all the time around Deadpool? “That’s why it’s so good.”
“So now you think this is a cosplay costume, not a real, actual superhero costume?” Spider-Man gestures to the length of himself, the design a variation on his usual theme with red and blue, the shades a little different and the material stronger than his last one, a line of black through some of the outlines of it giving him a little more definition and sparing him tiny pockets for extra web fluid cartridges and the trackers and drones he’d finally upgraded at the Avengers Tower. But Deadpool has definitely seen this suit, should recognize it from patrols with Spidey during the last few weeks; he’d even commented on how good it makes the other super look, as usual. “And the web shooters are just on loan? Seriously?”
Wade hums, looking the shorter man up and down, tipping his head side to side. “I mean, it’s amazing. Actually, it would explain a lot that you’re the one who makes his costumes,” Wade reasons, and Spider-Man groans loudly, slapping both hands over his face like he’s going to claw through it. “Did you—?” Wade begins innocently and Spidey holds up a finger to silence him.
“I did not borrow them from Spider-Man, Wade. I made them, I made all of it. I made them for myself, because I’m Spider-Man,” he says as clearly as he possibly can, staring the mercenary down through white mask lenses and pointing at his own chest with both hands. “I literally webbed you to the bed, Wade! The suits, the web shooters, they’re all the real deal!”
“You do web shooters, too?” Wade breathes in awe. “I totally believe that, you’re so smart, Baby, and your OG replicas were fuckin’ impressive,” he praises, and while Peter feels it turn his face pink under the mask, Wade is sailing right past the point.
“Come on, Wade,” Spider-Man practically begs, pushing his palms over the top of his head, the motion swift without his hair in the way.
Wade then regards the spider skeptically, eyeing him sideways and absently flexing the fingers of his trapped hand. His mouth is dry, his brain is working overtime to consolidate facts he knows to be true: the man in front of him is Peter. Peter is in a very convincing Spider-Man costume and has the hero’s web shooters for some reason. He can change his voice to match Spidey’s exactly and sure, they do actually sound like they could easily share a voice; come to think of it, Spidey sounds like Peter when he’s focused or badly injured and Peter sounds like Spidey when he’s moaning and panting in that pretty heady voice when they’re in bed—
“Wade, I—.” Spider-Man huffs as Wade stares, remaining uncharacteristically quiet. The webslinger drops his head back, trying to collect his thoughts enough to figure out how to proceed. He totally didn’t have to do this today, he’s basically improvising after being surprised at the merc’s early return. He’d missed him too much, so now he’s impulsively revealing his secret identity and Wade doesn’t even understand. Rolling his neck, Spider-Man steels himself. Confidence, Spidey. Spider-Man is confident and self-assured, and Peter Parker has got to channel that if he’s going to go all the way through with this half-assed, last second plan.
“Wade,” Spider-Man repeats firmly, keeping to his natural voice, the one he doesn’t have to put on for the people who might see his unmasked face. “What’s it gonna take to convince you, Wade?” he finally asks, hands back on his hips as he steps closer to the bed, determination in his voice. For whatever reason, this is what gets Wade’s hazel eyes to meet his mask lenses, and Spider-Man waits patiently, unmoving. He can’t let this drag out until he loses his nerve. It’s too late to back out now.
“You haven’t done anything only Spidey can do,” the merc points out, excitement and dread stirring in his gut.
Whaaat are you doing, big guy? the boxes ask uneasily.
“You want me to prove I’m Spider-Man?” the smaller super asks dubiously. He crosses his arms over his chest again, angling his head slightly forward. “You are just. The dumbest smart person I’ve ever met,” he mumbles with a trace of fondness. “Since you’re the expert,” he drawls, “what’s something only I can do?”
“Super strength,” Wade suggests hopefully. (Uh, this seems like a bad road to go down—) “Shut up ,” Wade quickly hisses at the boxes, and mercifully, despite everything, Spider-Man lets him have it without comment. “Yeah, super strength. Spidey can lift like ten tons.”
Spider-Man bends sideways slightly, tucks a hand under the bed frame, and easily lifts until the bed is balancing precariously on only two legs at a sharp degree angle; Wade squawks as he starts to slip with the tilt of it, some of the pillows tumbling to the floor before Spider-Man sets the bed back down. He folds his arms back up and waits again, taking a deep breath to summon patience and calm his nerves alike. “That good enough?” he asks grumpily, maybe a little amused that Wade has to right himself again, the man’s eyes wide and betraying delight.
“Okay, pretty good,” Wade allows, and now Spidey is glaring at him, the black edges of his lenses dwarfing the whites as they contract. “But I already know you can lift the bed, Pumpkin.”
“… What? ”
“Yeah, noticed when ya were vacuuming two weeks ago,” Wade points out.
“You saw that?!” Peter almost shrieks in disbelief and embarrassment. Stupid vacuum cleaner and its stupid shrill decibels fucking up his stupid sensitive hearing! He’d been organizing and cleaning up the spare room and had figured he’d get the bedroom while he was at it. He hadn’t even realized Wade was home at the time!
“Gotta do something else, Hot Stuff,” Wade encourages, and now he’s wearing a shit-eating grin that both infuriates and soothes the webbed hero. Love does funny things to a person. “What else can Spidey do that other mutates can’t?”
“You knew I was a mutate?” The shorter man grumbles a few unkind words to and about himself, shoulders deflating. This is definitely not how he thought this would go, half-planned or otherwise.
“I mean, not necessarily, but I guess I shoulda.” (We knew! We told you!) “Either a mutate or a mutant,” Wade reasons, humming thoughtfully and wiggling his fingers on both hands, impressed that the webbing hasn’t even budged. It’s undeniably the real thing. “How about the, the sticky thing?” he suggests helpfully, smiling innocently.
Are you seriously making Pete perform for us? …I mean, don’t stop, it is pretty sexy.
“Oh, for the love of—!” Peter grunts, and doesn’t even need to crouch to hop up to the ceiling, an arm up when he clears the two additional feet of space no longer left between his fingertips and the ceiling, immediately attached. “Happy?”
“I can’t believe you’re letting me say this,” Wade mumbles, heart rate picking up. “But… crawl around,” he insists gleefully, drawing a circle in the air with one finger. If some of Peter’s anxiety starts to ebb, it’s for the best; his boyfriend isn’t freaking out anymore, or at the very least he’s not having an existential crisis.
“Seriously?” Spider-Man growls in frustration, but there’s very little actual anger behind it, more a sort of resignation to getting it over with. Lifting himself up with some of that easy strength, he flips so his toes also touch the ceiling and crawls over until he’s directly above the bed. Attaching a web onto the spot above Wade, who’s craning his neck upward and beaming like his entire year has been made, Spider-Man starts to descend upside down, legs bent and knees out. He comes to a stop with a tiny bounce when his masked face is level with Wade’s big dumb grin. “Good enough?” he demands.
Do the thing. Do the thing, do the thing!!
“Okay, so you’ve got the strength and the stickiness,” Wade allows, tapping his chin and eyeing the other super as he angles his head back. Spider-Man easily holds the webbing between his feet without losing even an inch and starts pulling off one of his gloves as Wade scrutinizes his lenses. He’d always wondered what’s behind them, if Spider-Man has blue or brown or green eyes, if he’s hiding bushy eyebrows or maybe has a gap in one from a scar or a sexy little aesthetic choice. (Pete would look good with one of those!) Now that he knows, he can picture Peter’s handsome face easily.
“Yup,” Spidey confirms with a weary sigh, tossing his glove aside and onto the floor as he starts tugging his sleeve up just slightly.
“How about spidey-sense?”
“I…” He hums shortly, thoughtful. “I actually can’t prove that one to you right now.”
“What?” Wade scoffs, ultimately disappointed. It’s such an unusual mutation; he’s so curious about it and has always avoided letting himself grill Webs about how it works or what the limitations are. He figures it’s an important defense mechanism and maybe his hero doesn’t want someone to figure out how to counter it. “How come?”
“You don’t set it off, remember?” Spidey muses, and Wade actually gasps.
“What??” he breathes in shock.
“What, ‘what?’ I’ve told you that before,” Spider-Man snorts.
“No the hell you haven’t!” Wade blurts, smacking his cheek with his free hand. “I don’t ping your danger radar?”
“I mean. No, dude.” Spidey hesitates, the lower third of his forearm revealed as he ponders. “I swear I’ve told you that before,” he says with less certainty. Had he really not mentioned it? He’d thought Wade had been taking advantage of it in the goofiest, least malicious ways possible. “How else do you think you can sneak up on me, ever?” he points out.
“I just thought I was special!”
“You are, but it’s because you don’t trigger my spider-sense!”
Wade squeals with delight. “Is that why you’re so jumpy sometimes? I actually surprise you?”
“Yeah,” Spider-Man admits in a grunt. “I don’t love it, to be honest. You’re the only one who can do that, it usually goes off if I’m even being watched. That’s why I was so miserable just before— before Holt Securities,” he explains, increasingly uncomfortable. Oh, god. He doesn’t want to talk about that right now, he doesn’t have the guts—
“Jesus,” Wade breathes, seemingly letting that particular comment go, “but it’s so cute.” He smiles adoringly then, and Peter thinks maybe he’d gone about this all wrong in general. Wade isn’t totally losing his mind for being betrayed, and he hasn’t tried storming out or even told Peter to fuck off yet, either. “You always give me this precious little relieved smile when you realize it’s just me.”
“You make noise I can hear to let me know you’re coming, when we’re suited up,” Spidey notes quietly. “And, actually, I think you do the same when we’re not,” he adds, brow dipping. “I did notice that, by the way. Um. Thanks.” It really does make him feel better and he knows Deadpool is perfectly capable of infiltrating the most heavily surveilled places without ever being heard, spotted, or leaving a trace — when he wants to, anyway, otherwise it’s all loud explosions, snarky jokes, and littered casualties.
“Much as I love startling you, Webs, I like it more when you’re glad to see me coming. It’s suuuper validating when you greet me by name, y’know? I guess I’ve just always loved your voice,” the larger man sighs teasingly, his smile almost sheepish.
“Oh god,” Spider-Man groans in his supposedly lovable natural voice, embarrassed to no end and rubbing his forehead with his bare hand. Then he remembers why he’d brought it out. “Oh, right,” he says plainly, looking at Wade and using his organic webbing to cover his boyfriend’s mouth, a burst of the white substance sealing his lips and holding his jaw shut.
Wade makes an alarmed sound, eyes nearly popping out of his head. There’s a moment where he flounders, flapping his hand like he’s eaten something too hot, much to Spidey’s amusement. Wade wisely doesn’t try to touch it, instead reaching to grab Spidey’s wrist as the webslinger returns his gloved hand to the web line holding him aloft; Spider-Man allows it, the merc searching pale skin for any sign of where the web even comes out, where this spinneret could even be. He’d never noticed anything unusual on Peter’s arm, but now that he’s scrutinizing it up close, squinting hard and looking for something specific, he can see the tiniest discoloration of even paler skin low on his forearm, just below the natural creases of where the other man’s wrist bends. Anyone else might easily attribute it to an old skin graft or small scar if they could even make it out, but Wade still doesn’t see any opening. This is possibly the most exciting development out of everything — not counting the actual reveal, which he’s starting to have a more difficult time denying.
Are you stupid?? You’re stupid, it’s official. Moron.
“I don’t use it much,” Spider-Man says by way of explanation, skin warmed under Wade’s touch as always. He’s less anxious now, too. Maybe he should’ve been touching his boyfriend more throughout this effort. Wade is gentle even though Peter can tell he’s dying to really explore, recognizing that deceptively intelligent glint in his pretty hazel eyes.
“It’s not as effective for what I really use my webs for, and it runs out kinda fast, all things considered. It requires a lot of dietary protein,” he goes on, dangerously close to starting a ramble. “I developed the web fluid to be stronger than what I produce, and I can use a wider variety with it than with these. I’ve only got, like, two different organic kinds— the stringy kind and the, uh, webby kind? It sorta splays more, like, uh. What’s on your mouth.” He swallows thickly. “I can definitely use it, it lasts longer than my web fluids do but it’s also way stickier, and it’s not actually the most effective all the time for what we do, y’know?” Wade’s fingertips glide over the miniscule opening, a spot Peter has more or less easily hidden or kept covered day to day, and Spider-Man shivers. “They’re. Kinda sensitive,” he admits awkwardly, fingers flexing, “so the web shooters are a better choice overall, and I can just kinda position them over the same place on my wrists. Gotta consciously, um, summon my webs, I guess, so even though I use the same gesture, I’m not webbing up the inside of my suit or— clogging anything,” he goes on, starting to squirm when Wade deliberately goes over the same spot again, having noticed the previous reaction. Spider-Man slowly brings his arm back in to avoid taking this particular risk because Wade touching him gently like this does things to him anyway.
Wade immediately lets go, holding his hand up to show he’ll behave; he points to the webbing on his mouth, humming meaningfully, and Spider-Man shakes his head.
“Don’t touch it,” he instructs, instead feathering fingertips around the edges of it himself. “It’s really, really sticky,” he mutters almost shyly, delicately rolling the edges and slowly peeling it away. When the entirety of the web piece has come off, Peter launches it onto the ceiling so it can’t get stuck to the bed or the carpet or some other part of his boyfriend.
“It’s silky,” Wade murmurs. “And yeah, sticky,” he notes after clearing his throat, absently touching his freed lips. “It doesn’t stick to you, though, huh?” Spider-Man nods carefully. “Handy.” His voice is even but Wade’s eyes are alight as he goes on slyly, “Spidey. Spider-Babe. You’ve got a wrussy.”
“…A what,” the other super says flatly.
“Or is it both wrists? Either way, you’ve got at least one wrussy, and that is so fucking hot,” Wade goes on, a devious grin sliding over his freed lips and Peter wonders if he should’ve kept him quiet just a little longer as heat crawls over his cheeks and into his ears. “A wrussy?” he repeats when Spider-Man remains silent. “Y’know, like a pussy, but it’s on your wris—?” he tries to explain, in case Spidey doesn’t understand the portmanteau.
“I get it!” Spider-Man croaks, maybe possibly regretting that particular reveal just a tiny bit. Wrussy. Please. “Wade,” he says uneasily, debating using his “civilian” voice since it’s what Wade is used to hearing when he says the sorts of things he’s about to say. He decidedly doesn’t affect the change after all, because he doesn’t want to fake it in front of Wade anymore.
The mercenary hums in acknowledgement and focuses on him, tempted to reach out and peel the mask down with Spider-Man (Spider-Pete?) right in front of him. His chest pangs with affection and confusion and elation. He hadn’t been sure this could be real at all, it could’ve been an elaborate fantasy in his head, his imagination getting away from him again. Is he imagining any part of this? That would really suck, because the more he confronts what’s right in front of him, the happier he is.
Well, not just happy, but we’ll allow it.
But he won’t unmask Spidey even if Spidey is trying to tell Wade exactly who he is. That’s the bro code, the… boyfriend bro code? He’ll work out the semantics later because Webs is sliding his bare hand gently over his cheek to cradle his jaw, and his dexterous fingers are so familiar that Wade feels like a complete idiot for not recognizing the obvious signs every single time they were presented to him.
What are we, last week’s takeout? Unbelievable.
“Wade,” Spider-Man says softly, and with his gloved hand he reaches for the hem of his mask where it attaches to the top of his costume. Wade stops him by grabbing his wrist again.
“Can I?” Wade asks quietly, reverently. If Spidey wants to unmask, Wade being the one to do it is a different story; he’s literally dreamed of what he would get to do next, becoming a little fidgety the longer he’s down a usable arm.
Spider-Man nods silently and reaches his hand to again hold onto the line of webbing he’s dangling from even though his feet could still do the job, remarkably managing not to twist around. Wade smiles dreamily and feels for the seam, catching the edge of the mask and carefully pulling it down. With a soft rustle and a shake of the hero’s head, Spider-Man is unmasked, revealing Peter Parker and his mess of fluffy curls, his big doe eyes shining with worry, his adorable freckles and his nervous smile, cheeks flushed a warm crimson and the tips of his ears a complementary shade. Even upside down, Wade recognizes the lower half of his face as Spidey’s and feels like a Grade-A, First Class Fool for not realizing sooner.
That’s it. We quit. Screw you guys, we’re goin’ home!
“You um, seem to get a kick out of this, though I’m still not really sure why,” Peter says softly, a tiny smile in place as he uses both hands to cup Wade’s face between spindly fingers and pull him forward just slightly, planting an upside down kiss on his scarred lips.
For a second Wade’s mind short-circuits again, a strange and blissful second wherein he’s allowed to have two good things at the same time: two good men who care deeply about him, two lives he doesn’t have to separate because one is too dangerous for the other. Wade knows this kiss, this simple, silly gesture he’d shared with Peter at least two dozen times (We were counting.) while doing mundane things like hanging out, talking, spending time in the park. Peter would be studying, Wade would pass the table and tip his head back gently to set this kiss on Peter’s lips. Wade would be cooking, Peter would sit behind him on the counter and pull him back by the shoulders, tracing fingertips along his jawline before tilting his face back and sweetly giving him this kiss. Wade would be sitting on the couch playing video games, and Peter would snag either side of his face and plant this same kiss on his lips with an earnest smile before hopping over the back of the couch to join him. Jesus, they even shared this kiss on Halloween night, while Peter was literally wearing a Spider-Man costume.
Their upside down Spidey kiss. It’s stupidly romantic, and Wade resists trying to deepen it.
“The freckles,” Wade mutters when they part, a little dazed and maybe also turned on again, shaking his head a tiny bit and making Peter smirk. “Aw fuck, and your canines! ” Wade whines. He’d definitely clocked how sharp they were on Spidey, and adores the same thing about Peter’s pretty, fuckable mouth, and how had he not put together the pattern of his freckles and his precious, sharp teeth?
We fucking told you! But you never listen to us, you ungrateful, horny bastard.
“Uh,” Peter begins uneasily, “about that.”
“Do you have actual fangs?” Wade demands very seriously, his narrowed gaze studious, daring the spider to lie to his face as he watches the brunet’s mouth. He absently traces the shape of Peter’s bottom lip with the tip of his forefinger, hand gentle against Peter’s cheek and fingers resting under his chin. The brunet turns an even brighter shade of red and bites his lips together. Instead of answering aloud he nods slowly. “The extending kind?” Peter shakes his head and Wade nods sagely. “So they really are your canines… Venom?” he presses curiously.
It takes Peter a moment to reply but he nods again. “It’s, um. Paralytic. A numbing anesthetic, but the anesthetic might also kinda feel good? So, uh, a numbing paraly—euhhh?” he starts explaining, but flinches in surprise because Wade is suddenly holding his mouth open and thumbing experimentally over his upper canines. Peter shivers again, but doesn’t try to close his mouth even as he complains, “Waaayeh!”
“Incredible,” Wade comments simply, sincerely, and Peter whines softly, his anxious and increasingly horny brain registering this as praise whether or not it is. He relaxes his jaw just enough to rest his teeth on Wade’s knuckles but doesn’t apply pressure. “Ohhhhh,” the larger man says in revelation, nodding to himself. “That explains why it’s so fun when you bite hard, sometimes.”
Peter huffs indignantly, still vibrant red as his brow furrows with a half-executed frown. “Oehh-iies?”
“What, dear?” Wade teases, but frees his teeth to let him speak. Peter immediately sticks his tongue out at him but repeats himself nonetheless.
“Sometimes?” he demands with feigned offense.
“Aw, Petey,” Wade coos, brushing fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. Peter breathes unevenly and looks both miserable and relieved. “I always have fun with you, I promise. Got any other tricks up that wrussy?”
“I hate you.”
“I know you mean ‘love.’”
“Never say that word again or I won’t kiss you for a week,” the brunet threatens sternly, and Wade’s teeth clack as he snaps his jaw shut with a squeak. Peter presses on, satisfied with this reaction. “Other ‘tricks,’ though. I guess, not really?” Peter answers, chewing his cheek and glancing away. “I think my eyes, uh. Get darker sometimes,” he says, getting quieter. “When I’m worked up.”
Wade’s eyes widen cartoonishly. “They totally do!” he crows, and Peter jolts, wincing. Wade grins wolfishly at him but lowers his voice a bit. “They do, Pumpkin, I just thought I was like, imagining it. Cuz I do that sometimes, y’know, imagine things, so do the boxes— but your eyes go black when we fuck.”
“What?” Peter says, mortified. “It happens when we have sex? Fuck!”
“Yeahhh, that’s the stuff,” Wade jokes, humming and laughing shortly when Peter harmlessly whacks his shoulder. “Yeah, babe, they get all big first, like your pupils ‘re swallowin’ your irises, but then it looks kinda like your irises get way bigger, too. Like the black is spilling out. It’s wicked fuckin’ cool, Sweets.”
“N-not, like, the whole eye?” he asks cautiously, and Wade raises an eyebrow. Peter presses his lips into a thin line and takes a deep breath through his nose. “They’ve done that before, the, the whole thing. The black is just. My whole eye. Both eyes, both just go black,” he elaborates clumsily, “It’s kinda scary? But also pretty cool.”
“Why have I never seen this outside ‘a the bedroom!”
“Um, it probably happens the most when I’m in the mask,” Peter tries to assure him.
“You get horny on patrol??”
“What? No, Wade, I just mean,” Peter hastily corrects, extremely embarrassed Wade had noticed this particular mutation in a bedroom context. “I think I mostly mean ‘worked up’ like, when I get a rush of some kind. Adrenalin, oxytocin, dopamine… y’know?” His puppy dog eyes are begging Wade to cut him some slack, so Wade concedes with a dramatic sigh.
“Right, fine, that’s just so boring,” Wade says, rolling his eyes. Peter pouts. “It’s way funnier if you’ve got a violence kink. We’d get along so well.”
“Wade.”
“Yeah, okay, we get along like gangbusters.” He laughs and pretends to flinch as Peter swats him again, “I’m talking about how hot it would be if you liked beating people up, cuz, y’know. I’m amenable to being your punching bag.”
Peter whacks him one more time for good measure, Wade grinning triumphantly. “Yeah, I know,” Peter drawls drily. “Your masochistic streak is not unfamiliar, babe.” He smiles fondly, softening as his boyfriend keeps beaming at him. “Wanna know another secret?” he asks lower, waving Wade closer since he probably shouldn’t swing himself into the merc. Wade leans in, making a show of offering his ear. “Watching you fight turns me on,” the brunet whispers delicately, biting his lip and smiling lopsidedly, perhaps smug when Wade leans back to look at him with mischief in his eyes.
“Oh?” Wade muses. “Is that so? Tell me more.” The boxes cackle deviously in his head and Wade plays with Peter’s hair, absently rubbing the back of Peter’s neck, which seems to encourage the brunet.
“You’re just. Really good at it? And you move like water, you just flow and adapt,” Peter explains, heart beating faster. He doesn’t mention the burning feelings Wade gives him when Deadpool is expertly using his firearms, just in case it’s too much or gives him the wrong idea; there’s something about the power of it, the way Deadpool rarely misses by accident or wastes a bullet. Maybe another time. “You’re just, powerful and smart and fuckin’— ripped,” he adds hastily, Wade perking just slightly when Peter swears, voice dropped for just a moment. The mercenary swells with each word of praise, a fluttery happiness in his belly. A fluttery, aroused happiness. “Call it… a competence kink. And, maybe a-a super suit kink.” Peter winces, close to a swoon now that he’s gotten talking. “You’re just so strong and good at what you do, and you happen to do it in a really, uh. A really good suit.”
“You like my suit?” Wade asks, voice level and smooth as Peter nods without meeting his eye. “Noted.”
“And your body. And your voice. And your face. And your eyes,” Peter tacks on haltingly. His face is on fire. It’s not embarrassing, not really, he’s said all of these things to Wade before, but now that Wade knows he’s Spider-Man, he knows Peter has seen all these parts of him in… other contexts. It feels like the shorter man had been spying on him, in a way.
“Hmm,” Wade hums lowly, and Peter can hear the beginnings of that rumble he can’t get enough of. “You know we’ve gotta bang now, right?”
Peter laughs once, breathlessly. “Wade, c’mon,” he says skeptically, but Wade’s smirk is smug and his eyes are darkening with lust, and Peter realizes all the blood in his head is trying to get somewhere else when he looks at Wade’s lips. “Oh,” he says lightly. “You’re serious.”
“Are you opposed?”
“No,” Peter says with a little shrug, matter-of-fact. He’s already wet, even, not that he would’ve admitted it without invitation.
“Good, because I’ve always wanted Spider-Man to web me down ‘n fuck the spidery daylights outta me.”
Peter grins, revealing his canines— no, his actual fangs. “We can do that,” he agrees and releases the web he’s been hanging from, expertly turning in the air quickly enough to gracefully land upright in a crouch on the bed between Wade’s legs, dipping the mattress. Peter’s libido has taken Wade’s overall reaction to his secret identity as a solid green light to act on his next series of impulses. “But you know you’re gonna hafta be my service top first, right?” the brunet purrs, eyes half-lidded as excitement bubbles in his chest and in his core. Wade is already naked, after all, barely concealed under the bed sheet.
Wade growls low in his throat, the sound zipping down Peter’s spine as he shifts to kneel, starting to peel off his other glove. “I love it when you use me,” the taller man sighs sincerely, and Peter dares to slide his bare hands up and down his boyfriend’s gorgeous, broad chest, curling his fingers to drag short nails over mottled skin and avoiding gouging the driest patches with practiced ease. Wade moans softly and rubs his free hand up and down Peter’s side, pressing over his ribs.
“That’s my line,” Peter says quietly, still a little embarrassed when it comes to saying these kinds of words aloud. Wade already knows he has trouble, knows him so well, but Peter also knows it drives his mercenary up the wall when he does say it. “But for ages I’ve wanted to web you to the bed and ride you. Y’know, that way you can’t touch me? Because I know you want to,” he teases slyly, and while he’s still blushing like he’s an inexperienced kid, he knows exactly what he’s doing to Wade.
“Fuck, Pete, don’t leave me hangin’,” Wade groans.
“Then you’re gonna do exactly what I say until I’ve cum, Princess,” Peter informs him sweetly, smiling as he leans to his merc’s ear and nips the shell of it. Wade whines, squeezing Peter’s waist over the super suit, disappointed only because he’s unable to make direct skin contact. “Is that clear?” the smaller man murmurs in the same knowing tone, edging even closer.
“Yeah,” Wade breathes, mottled skin flushed across his chest and cheeks.
“Good girl,” Peter praises gently, kissing his temple and leaning back. “Then let’s get started.”
Notes:
watching all of you get so frustrated with Wade & Peter's Identity Shenanigans 🥰😈 i bring you the first resolution (✿◡‿◡)
Happy Halloween, y’all 😈😘🎃☠️
Chapter 18: [18] Code Webs 2: Escape From New York
Summary:
Wade Wilson has sex with Spider-Pete.
9541 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for explicit sex (vaginal). Mixed language for Peter’s parts (pre-discussed). A bunch of kinks, mostly what you’ve already seen to differing degrees.
i’m so glad y’all enjoyed the reveal. congrats you’ve won some smut!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter is gone from Wade’s personal space for only a moment, just long enough to retrieve his web shooters and affix them to his wrists again, an easy, serene smile on his lips. Content. Comfortable. Increasingly turned on the longer Wade’s eyes follow his movements with anticipation.
He takes his time, fiddling with tiny dials to modify which type of web he wants to shoot, absently pushing a hand through his messy hair before suddenly aiming for Wade. He doesn’t have to look, the spot already in his periphery, and when he aims true and snags Wade’s ankle the larger man laughs delightedly. He exhales in a rush when Peter yanks him just slightly, momentarily forcing his legs to spread, and his spider hums in approval; stepping over and smiling with more mischief, he adds a cuff of webbing and attaches a cord of it to the foot of the bed frame.
“Ooh, Spidey,” Wade coos coyly, a flush of pink under his skin. Is it okay to call him that? Peter quirks an eyebrow but he’s smirking as he pointedly untucks the bedsheet and tosses it half over Wade’s lap, so he assumes it’s acceptable for now. Webbing Wade’s other ankle, Peter secures it near the other and brings his merc’s legs closer together again. Wade lightly tests the hold of it, trying to bring his knee up, but the web has no give. Arousal stirs in his belly. “Wow, not flexible at all, this the stuff ya swing with?”
“Yup,” Peter answers simply, climbing over the bed frame and standing on the bed. Wade tracks every motion with a dopey little smile. Spider-Man — who also happens to be his boyfriend Peter — bends at the waist and sets his hands on his knees, studying Wade’s face and eyes, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips when Peter starts lowering into a crouch just over his thighs.
Peter pulls himself closer and sits just shy of Wade’s lap with knees bent on either side of the man’s hips and his feet tucked on either side of his barely parted legs; trapping Wade’s growing erection under the bed sheet pulls a groan out of the older man, and Wade promptly grabs Peter’s side again for something to hold onto that gives him contact with the person already driving him wild. The brunet’s hands are cool and steady as he moves them over Wade’s ever-overheated skin, sweeping down his chest, around to squeeze his hips and flanks before smoothing up his waist and back again; he’s careful of the roughest patches of skin, as attentive and cautious as always of causing him undue pain or discomfort.
Wade can get Peter to give him pain, but his boyfriend is well aware of which kinds of pain Wade finds fun and which are unpleasant reminders of trauma. The larger man basks in the attention and the careful focus Peter puts on pressing harder over deep tissue, a pseudo-massage that Wade typically responds very well to regardless of how naked either of them are at any given time. Peter’s hands slowly warm the longer they explore and he sighs happily as he scoots further forward; the packer in his suit nudges the merc’s subdued cock, making Wade whine and squirm.
“Ah, Pete,” Wade mumbles, gripping the brunet’s hip and watching big brown eyes flick to meet his hazel from under long lashes.
“Aw,” Peter teases, caressing Wade’s cheek and cupping his jaw, brushing his thumb under his eye in a gentle gesture Wade easily relaxes into after so many times experiencing the affection attached to it. He swallows hard when Peter takes Wade’s free hand and raises it at an angle matching his webbed arm against the bars of the bed frame, the smaller super leaning further in until their chests are nearly flush, ducking to the other man’s ear.
“Gonna need you to keep your hands to yourself for a little while,” Peter tells him calmly, even though his cheeks light up vibrant pink. Wade’s fingers flex but he doesn’t move when Peter pulls his hand away. A pleased hum from Peter makes it hard not to turn his head and mouth at the spot under his boyfriend’s ear, the hinge of his jaw, knowing he would melt for it.
“Okay,” Wade instead rasps in agreement. Peter doesn’t move away when Wade hears the thwipp, feels the web hit his arm and trap it against the bars. His dick twitches in response, Wade unable to pull his arm away when he gives it a try. “Fuck,” he mumbles excitedly, unable to stop himself from grinning like a maniac. Peter finally leans back, smirking, and Wade moves his torso forward to follow him but Peter splays his fingers over Wade’s sternum and easily pushes him back, pressing him against the cold bed frame and the pillows crushed behind him. “Damn, Baby Boy. Now I really get to see you, huh?”
Peter pauses but his smirk remains in place, his hand securely on Wade’s chest. “What’s that mean?” he asks curiously, though there’s an edge of suspicion in his tone.
“I’ll just be really disappointed if you pretend I can even pin you after this.”
“Oh, Wade,” Peter says, the smirk morphing into a devious grin, presenting his top fangs. “You won’t even try?”
The mercenary squirms again and Peter lets him; Wade’s legs lift and tip the brunet just slightly, Peter’s packer pressing harder against his erection. Pleasure jolts through firm flesh and he has to resist thrusting upward. “I’ll do more than try, if that’s what you want, Pumpkin. I’ll tie you up tight and touch you everywhere I can get my goddamned hands, if that’s what you want—.” He sucks in sharply through his teeth when Peter grabs his jaw with the hand that isn’t keeping him back. It shoots a thrill through Wade’s nerves, and his hands curl into loose fists. Peter mercilessly grinds his hips forward, and Wade winces when he keeps his crotch pressed to the taller man’s erection.
“I want a lot of things, Princess,” Peter says lowly, grin waning to a knowing smile. He pinches the hinges of his boyfriend’s jaw just slightly to make him open his mouth, Wade’s breath hot and damp as he breathes a little harder, tugging uselessly on his webs. “It’s cute that you wanna give them to me,” the brunet goes on, dipping so he’s level with Wade, the mercenary incapable of tearing his eyes away from the darkening in Peter’s. “And you will, because you can’t help yourself, can you?” he purrs, immensely satisfied by the way Wade’s brow curls upward as he whimpers and tries to nod in his hold. “Good girl,” Peter murmurs an inch from Wade’s parted lips, pulling a sigh out of him.
Instead of bridging the gap to kiss his merc, Peter lifts himself so the crotch of his suit no longer presses Wade’s uncut cock into his legs, leaving it tenting the bed sheet as Peter pulls away entirely. Wade whines in complaint for the missing friction and weight. The webslinger pecks his cheek teasingly, smirking again as he slides off the bed and opens the nightstand drawer to pull out lube and condoms. Then he toes his boots off and makes a show of tracing his fingertips along his waist, following the invisible seam of the suit’s pants. The material of the Spider-Man suit — being the real thing, after all — is flexible and smooth to the touch, the only raised pieces of it the respective spiders on his chest and back, and the black line that gives his lean muscle definition.
“Ooh, baby,” Wade growls playfully, and Peter smiles deviously, catching the waistband and pulling it down. “Oh,” Wade tacks on weakly. No underwear. “Just, uh. Goin’ commando under the suit, huh?” he says roughly, only dragging his eyes up to Peter’s when the brunet snaps his fingers for his attention.
“You want orders today, Princess?” Peter asks with a coy sort of seriousness, a sincere request that he’ll take any answer to.
Wade wiggles on the bed, testing his bindings, and after a moment of internal debate (Oh ho, nuh-uh, we’re not touchin’ this one, this is all you, big guy. We’re just here for the show.) decides to nod enthusiastically, reveling in the smug upturn of one corner of Peter’s smile. His chest swells with affection and arousal as Peter threads his long, elegant fingers through his curls again, humming and eyeing the larger man’s form, deliberately lingering on the sheet covering Wade’s cock. He licks his lower lip and pulls it into his mouth, irises nearly drowned in black. Fuck, fuck, Wade should’ve known it wasn’t normal for the brunet’s eyes to do that but he’d been so lost in the moment every time he’d seen it, usually preoccupied with either his or Peter’s dick. Damn, and Spidey had shared so many new Spidey secrets with him, too, the reminder of which makes him that much hornier for him— for his boyfriend, his Spider-Pete.
Spider-Pete, Spider-Pete, does whatever a Spider-Pete does…
He giggles, the timing just so that Peter is sliding from the foot up to the middle of the bed and lying lengthwise at Wade’s side. Peter drops the lube and condoms on the mattress behind himself and props his elbow up, his chin in one hand as he smiles sweetly up at Wade. He looks back at Peter with a pout, squirming because the smaller man isn’t even touching him! He wants the contact back, wants to feel his spidery sweetheart (So many things make so much more sense now that we know Peter is Spidey. Oh— oops, uhhhh we’re leaving again, BYE!) put his hands on his wretched skin and make the ache of it go away, wants him to kiss his impatience away, wants him to put that perfect little mouth on his—
Wade startles when Peter sets his hand on his dick over the bed sheet, a light pressure gliding easily up and down along soft fabric as he slowly works the length of it. Wade whines, this being a similar concern to missing the contact: Peter’s hand on him, but not on him.
“What’s the matter?” Peter asks innocently, batting his lashes with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth again as he bites back a crafty grin. “Am I doing something wrong?” Wade hisses as Peter gently squeezes before pulling away.
“No,” Wade says miserably, and Peter chuckles darkly, dragging his knuckles over the bare skin between Wade’s hip and thigh instead, tracing the crease. So close and yet so far. “No, I liked that, I promise.”
“Then are you gonna be a good girl for me?” Peter goes on simply, “Are you gonna take what I give you? Let me take care of you?” Wade quickly nods, watching the progress of Peter’s elegant fingers. “Then here’s your first order, Princess: I want you to hold still. Can you do that, Wade?”
Wade swallows the lump clinging to the back of his throat, heat pooling in his core, excitement thrumming through his veins. His cock twitches and he clenches his jaw, giving his web trappings a light tug one more time. Secure. Spider-Pete wants to take care of him, with his fluffy hair that Wade can’t play with and his pretty pink lips that Wade can’t kiss and his darkened eyes drinking in the way Wade can’t escape his gaze. He shivers and summons his voice. “Yeah.” He does his best to stop wiggling, even though he loves the feeling of resisting the webs.
“Atta girl!” Peter chirps, pushing himself up and sitting back on his heels, slowly dragging the bed sheet away from Wade’s lap, the gentle friction of the material over his sensitive cockhead making him whine; the swollen organ bounces while Peter carelessly tosses the sheet aside and hums from his chest, a low sound he rarely makes, both impressing and thoroughly turning Wade on. Peter runs his hands up and down Wade’s sides from his knee to his pectorals, slowly climbing over him again, and it really does take everything in Wade not to lean forward into his touch. It makes his skin buzz in the best way, nerves both settling and alight under lightly calloused fingers. Does Spider-Pete’s stickiness give him the callouses? The pads of his fingers are really where the roughness is but it’s really not bad — Wade could hardly say anyone else’s skin comes close to “bad” — and it feels amazing when the other super teasingly brushes over his alert nipples.
Settling atop Wade’s thighs, his own spread to accommodate the difference in their sizes, Peter thumbs his merc’s nipples for a brief moment before sliding his hands up to rub either side of Wade’s neck, rocking the man’s head ever so slightly with the motions. Wade groans, the pleasant relief of the massage making it both easier and harder to relax with Peter half-naked in his lap— oh god, Peter is half-naked in his lap! He drops his gaze to his boyfriend’s cock and rumbles happily in his chest, a much deeper, animalistic sound compared to what Peter had made; when he makes the sound, Wade feels Peter’s fingers twitch firmly against the back of his neck and the base of his skull, and Wade lifts his eyes to see his face.
The brunet’s irises are completely black now, and while the initial, instinctual reaction in Wade’s lizard brain is a trace combination of alien threat predator flee, Wade doesn’t move a muscle, enraptured by the familiar, distant feeling that Peter is dangerous. How had he not put everything together sooner? Not that he could’ve ever guessed Spider-Man’s eyes go black. He’s just distracted enough that he doesn’t realize where the other super’s hands have gone until one is wrapped around Wade’s dick; he jolts and gasps softly, looking back down again while Peter’s head tilts thoughtfully. “Fuck, baby, that feels amazing,” Wade breathes, his boyfriend’s strong fingers encircling him as his hand moves with practiced precision up and down the length of him. Using just the right amount of pressure, Peter occasionally twists his wrist to complicate the sensation. “Pete,” Wade says quietly, aimlessly, earning a quiet hum.
“I’m right here, Princess,” Peter murmurs, his other hand smoothing along the curve of his neck, over his shoulder, and across a raised arm. He gives the merc’s flexed bicep an appreciative squeeze, smiling to himself and repeating the little circuit again, rubbing the muscles. “You’re doing so well,” he notes, pleased and finding himself even more aroused when he sees Wade’s weak expression, brow dipped and lips parted, his chest expanding with a deep breath. “I’m really barely touching you,” Peter teases, ducking to nuzzle under his ear, his hair tickling the mercenary’s skin and making him whine. “You’re so pretty when you’re needy though, when you’re being good for me.”
The praise nearly makes him buck into Peter’s hand, but Wade stomps the urge down in favor of being good. Peter rewards him with a series of gentle kisses just under his jaw and Wade mindlessly tips his head back to expose more of his throat when Peter edges lower, grazing his sharp teeth over warped skin. Wade isn’t sure when he’d done it, but Peter’s other hand is gone from him for a few seconds; Wade’s dizzy brain registers the sound of a cap clicking open and shut but he’s not aware of what’s happening until the hand is gone from his leaking cock.
“Baby Boy,” Wade groans when Peter’s thighs squeeze around him, crushing his legs tighter together beneath the spider. He couldn’t move if he tried. “Holy shit,” he hisses when the brunet replaces his hand with the other, slicked with lube and picking up his comfortable, languid pace from before. Peter begins to speed up, the motion made even easier with the lube, and pleasure warms through the merc’s groin, hips, and belly; even his toes curl as Peter latches his mouth just over a pulse point on Wade’s neck, sucking sweetly and slowly applying pressure with his fangs.
A thrill shoots up into his brain and he hopes Peter will really bite him again, use that venom he’d been oblivious to up until now. Wade tries to ask for it, but his mind is a bit fuzzy when he realizes he can feel something warm and wet between his legs. Managing to angle his head just so, giving his boyfriend the canvas of his neck, he steals a peek just past Peter’s working hand and to the smaller man’s cock; Peter is hard too, and Wade moans weakly at the faint shine of his boyfriend’s arousal dripping onto the marred skin of Wade’s thighs.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, nearly bucking again, but Peter sinks his teeth into his neck and Wade can only cry out. His erection throbs as his spider hums lowly over his skin before releasing it, licking over the tiny punctures and cleaning up the beads of blood he’d drawn. “Fuck, Sweets,” Wade half laughs, breathless and way closer to orgasm than he’d thought he was two seconds ago. “A-are you gonna…?” he tries, focus jumbled.
“You want the venom, Princess?” Peter purrs, kissing over the spot he’d bitten. A strange, feral part of him is satisfied for having done it while his embarrassed, doting side wants to soothe the small injury. “You won’t feel it for long if I do, but you might find it impossible to move for a second.” He hadn’t let himself calculate how long the paralytic would work on Wade because for so long he’d refused to even consider using it, let alone reveal he has real fangs that could deliver such a thing. Now he’s thinking they should quite literally experiment so Peter can be measured and precise when he acquiesces to Wade’s inevitable future requests for anesthetized bites; he’ll need to come up with a way to propose it that won’t sound like Peter thinks of him as merely a test subject, considering the man’s past.
“Can we try?” Wade asks, curious and painfully aroused, whimpering when Peter’s pumping fist slows. “I’ll still be good, even if you don’t wanna,” he assures his favorite wallcrawler, still loving how toppy and dominant he’s being. Wade’s getting a dozen fantasies brought to life as it is, all while combining Peter and Spider-Man into the singular, real man in his lap. The man who’s webbed him up and giving him an expert hand job.
“Hm,” Peter muses, kissing wetly down Wade’s neck again, his dry hand coming up to cradle the other man’s head, thumb pressing lightly on Wade’s temple. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he explains quietly, stroking him faster again, rolling the pad of his thumb over the head of Wade’s cock every few strokes, making the taller man’s hips twitch. “It’s more that… it would probably be more fun when you’re not already stuck,” he chuckles. Wade huffs, though it’s not disappointment so much as consideration. “But I’m happy to bite you, when you’re good. Good girls get hard bites, right?”
“Yeah,” Wade replies quickly. Peter drags his fangs lightly over another spot, closer to Wade’s jugular. “Y-yeah we do.” He wonders if he should ask about the blood. Peter usually licks it away but he’s not sure if it’s about the blood or if the blood is just tangential to the biting; Peter is very clearly into the biting part. It’s hard to really think much about the backend of kinks when Peter has his elegant hands on him, when he sets a kiss on Wade’s Adam’s apple. Wade’s little queer heart flutters.
“Still with me?” Peter whispers at his throat, hand loosening on Wade’s erection. He’s getting much better at recognizing when Wade is still on earth, floating in big dumb sex brain space, or delving deeper into his psyche than he should in a given moment; he’s pretty sure Wade is just sex stupid but he’d rather check-in than take advantage of his gorgeous boyfriend.
Wade sighs dreamily. “Oh yeah,” he confirms.
“Good. Good girl,” Peter murmurs pleasantly, relieved and eager to return to his duties making Wade lose his mind to that big dumb sex brain. He gives Wade a few more teasing strokes, the thick cock in his hand twitching. “Because I’m going to open myself up and I want you to watch,” he goes on more mischievously, grinning darkly as he pulls back, leaning almost an arm’s length away. Wade groans when Peter’s clean hand presses along the side of his neck to trace his thumb up his trachea, using it to tilt Wade’s head back and mirroring the motion himself to look down his nose at his merc — an immortal he’s very steadily pulling apart at the seams, someone who will beg him to keep going even if it means he falls to pieces. Peter is an expert with thread in his hand, so he plans to sew love and trust into every new stitch by the time he’s done putting Wade back together. He can be a real sap like that.
Wade’s belly bubbles with arousal for the way Peter looks down at him with his blackened eyes, the whites of his sclera no longer visible. Alien threat predator flee. But he wants to be Peter’s prey; he’d always wanted Spider-Man to eat him alive, so to speak, and it looks like his Baby Boy is going to indulge him.
Peter takes his hand from Wade’s neck only to bring the bottle of lube into view, popping the cap and dribbling a little more onto Wade’s erection, making him flinch at the brief chill; it warms quickly while Peter continues stroking him, making a further mess of his own hand in the process. The brunet tosses his head just slightly to flip a few curls off his forehead, shutting the bottle again and dropping it to the mattress. He smiles knowingly when Wade’s breath picks up, face pinched and fingers flexing where they remain caught against the bed frame. Finally, the hand on his cock is gone and Wade carefully looks down between the two of them to watch Peter’s slicked hand brush over himself and down between his legs.
Peter sighs raggedly, shoulders tensing a moment before they relax, and Wade’s heart moves with him, melting through his ribs and surely following up the line of Peter’s slender frame. A look of pleasant contentment replaces the brief furrow of Peter’s brow and he doesn’t have to monitor Wade to know he has the man’s full attention; he can practically feel Wade’s gaze drag over his abs, his thighs, the V that directs the eye to follow the shifting roll of Peter’s hand over his swollen cock, pressing fingers between dripping folds. Wade’s eyes trace the line of his boyfriend’s fingertips to watch the spread of his inner lips; Peter cants his sharp hips upward to help Wade really see when he circles the tip of his middle finger around his entrance and pushes gently inside.
Another sigh slips out, blooming into a moan, and Peter uses his clean hand to lift his suit top a little more, setting it just under his binder and exposing more of the smooth skin of his abdomen, the little trail of hair leading to his groin. Wade’s head is underwater, the only clarity of sound is every little breath and soft moan from Peter’s mouth as he carefully fingers himself. The only thing that isn’t blurry and out of focus is Peter’s body atop him, Peter looking to him with hooded, black eyes… Peter biting the corner of his lower lip so a fang catches the delicate skin. Wade does his damnedest to behave, to remain still and wait his turn even as his hands clench into fists and anticipation rides his nerves. The impulse to lean forward and put his mouth on Peter’s neck, the desire to push the brunet’s hand away and replace it with his own, the increasing impatience to actively participate and make Peter as desperate as the mutant is— well, Wade is struggling to do as he’d been told.
Peter gently rocks into his own hand, pressing his palm over his clit and rolling against it gets both some much needed friction and pushes his finger deeper into himself. After a few rolls, he adds his ring finger, curling inside of himself and taking another shuddering breath as he grazes that handy little curve within; he glances to Wade and basks in the sheer determination of the man’s focus on him, his pretty hazel eyes zeroed in on Peter’s pussy. The smaller super is already blushing — he still can’t seem to reel the reaction in, embarrassing as it is to be so obvious and easy to read all the time without a mask on — the burn of scarlet across his chest, up his neck, on his cheeks and in his ears. He rarely touches himself with such attention on him, more inclined to touch Wade’s dick than his own at any given moment, but apparently he should be doing it more often if it makes Wade look at him like that. He hums with smug satisfaction when he looks at the way Wade’s flushed erection bobs where it barely sits against the taller man’s thighs, already beading pre-cum.
“How sweet,” Peter teases, feeling so much more confident talking like this when he’s in his Spidey suit, even if all that’s left is the top. “I love the way you want me so bad , Princess.” They’ll have to try this when he’s also in the mask, when Wade is in his Deadpool suit; he’s entertained plenty of fantasies wherein Spider-Man and Deadpool fuck themselves senseless on a rooftop after a good night of patrolling. He’d bend Wade over a parapet, or Wade would shove him into a brick wall — they’d get scrapes from concrete and roof gravel, maybe tear their suits a little bit in their fever to get at one another. He’s distracted just enough by the mental image of Deadpool with blood on his suit going down on Spider-Man with the city lights sparkling around them that he doesn’t realize he adds a third finger into the next slide back inside of himself. He whimpers for a moment and hauls himself back to the present, twisting his wrist to give himself more texture, more friction.
“Petey,” Wade croaks, the sound followed up by a needy whine, and Peter meets his blown pupils as he pushes his fingers deeper and rocks his hips again, thighs still spread and clenching around Wade’s. His merc is built like a fucking linebacker, which Peter only knows because he’d caught a handful of high school football games when he’d taken photos for the school paper and Flash had never shut up about the Great Sport of Football and which positions need to do better or be sidelined for poor performance. But Peter isn’t thinking about sports or Flash when he thinks of Wade, he’s just thinking of his gorgeously muscled thighs and the width of his shoulders and the way his arms flex when he starts tugging on his webbed bindings the longer Peter denies him the opportunity to touch. “Baby Boy, I’m dyin’ over here,” Wade says, lips and throat dry and tight, and wouldn’t he love to wet them again by shoving his face into Peter’s slicked cunt.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” Peter instructs evenly, unbothered as he continues to fuck his own fingers. His little smirk when he catches the other side of his bottom lip with his teeth tells Wade that Peter is ready to hear him beg properly. “I think you know I’ll indulge you,” the brunet assures him playfully, “if you’ll be a good girl and ask for it.” Fuck, he really wishes he could be like this without the suit, but clearly this is working for both of them, the webs straining for just a moment before Wade catches his breath and uses his words.
“Please, Pete,” Wade practically wheezes, grimacing and worrying his lip with his perfectly straight teeth. “Please sit on my dick, fuck, oh my god,” he breathes, toes curling. He’s on the brink of really trying to get out of the webs, desperate for Peter to touch him again, desperate to get his hands all over the smaller man’s exposed skin, into his hair — to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. “Pretty please?” Peter slides his free hand down his side, over his hip and thigh, to lean forward just slightly and drop his hand lower, giving Wade’s balls a teasing squeeze. Wade can’t stop himself from bucking just once, surprised. “Ah, sorry, baby, I’ll be good, ugh, p-please,” he babbles, laughing and wincing as the pleasure pulses from his balls to his core before Peter’s hand wraps around his dick again. “Fuck,” Wade squeaks, tossing his head back as the other super strokes him.
“I’ll forgive you, just this once,” Peter purrs, heart pounding with excitement. He really wouldn’t have guessed someone begging to fuck him would be such a turn on, but Wade’s voice is so broken and needy; Peter feels self-assured and sexy as he continues pumping Wade’s cock and lifting himself to edge forward. His hand disappears from Wade in a final, almost too-tight upward drag that takes some of the excess lube off; his merc takes a beat to breathe hard and collect himself while Peter swipes his hand on the bed to dry it just enough that he can tear open the condom packet suddenly in his other hand. Wade is barely able to see straight but everything comes back into sharp focus when he realizes the crinkling he’s hearing means he won’t have to wait much longer.
Wade sucks his teeth, cock throbbing as Peter sets a condom on the head and slowly — too slowly — starts rolling it down with a series of firm downward strokes down to the base. Peter looks entirely too pleased with himself and Wade decides he should be tied up and helpless at the spider’s mercy way more often. Clearly he can even just ask for it! He’s obviously not opposed to begging for it either, since it seems that’s really, really doing it for both of them. He swallows thickly, throat still too dry when Peter pops the cap of the lube one more time, filling his already wet palm and warming the substance slightly as he shuts the bottle and tosses it aside. Peter slicks his boyfriend’s wrapped cock and lifts his hips again to slide the excess over himself, between the folds of his labia as he holds the lips apart.
“Fuck,” Wade growls as Peter carefully guides the head of his aching cock to his entrance, warm and spread open for him. Peter’s beautiful red blush seems to glow over his fair skin, the freckles across his nose and cheeks emphasized, complemented by the color. “God damn, Pete,” he huffs, a swell of affection and a bolt of pleasure moving through him simultaneously, “you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous.”
“That’s my line, Princess,” Peter says quietly, smiling almost shyly as he starts to sink down over the taller man, his partner in vigilantism, his loving boyfriend. Wade is bigger than his three slender fingers but Peter likes it that way, likes Wade to finish the stretch himself. He groans with Wade, setting his dry hand on the man’s broad shoulder and squeezing as pleasure buzzes under his skin, warms through his vulva and radiates inward, settles in his core; he doesn’t stop moving until he’s sitting flush against Wade’s lap, legs spread on either side of the merc’s hips. “Fuuuck,” Peter sighs at length, wet fingers slipping to gently pinch his erect clit.
Wade keens, still a sucker for Peter swearing, the simple sound enhancing the impossibly tight squeeze of his boyfriend around his dick. Peter’s strong thighs pressing into his hips make it that much harder to breathe as they adjust to one another, and Wade can’t take his eyes off of Peter’s cock as the brunet rubs it down a few times, lightly pressing it against the base of Wade’s where they both meet, Wade buried deep inside of his boyfriend. The larger man is so close to losing the thread of being good, fighting the natural urge to thrust upward into that wet heat. Peter knows exactly how to mess with him, exactly how to drag out just the right moment when he’s in the lead. Wade is proud of him, even; they’d come so far in this department in just a couple of months.
He looks up at Peter with stars in his eyes as the other super pushes his hand from his dick up to Wade’s abs, pressing over the shape of muscle under his marbled skin, grabbing the top of his hip and squeezing as his other hand slides to grasp the back of Wade’s neck. Peter brushes his thumb along Wade’s jawline, a shape he’s always appreciated, a shape he’d always known would come with a beautiful face even when Wade still couldn’t believe it possible. He smiles almost sadly when he smooths his hand over his merc’s crown and down to the back of his neck again, grasping with just enough pressure to be comforting, reassuring as he gazes into Wade’s adoring hazel eyes. Then Peter begins to lift himself, watching Wade’s lips part as he tries to breathe evenly. The motion makes Peter’s thighs quiver but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t even pause as he nearly comes off of Wade, almost all the way up on his knees.
Fuck, does he loves fucking Wade. He would’ve been happy with anything Wade might’ve had: any shape or size, scarred or smooth, cut or uncut. Wade is perfect for him anyway, but it’s some defiance of Parker Luck that Wade’s penis is a sizeable, textured thickness that feels better than ribbed or textured toys, hot and with the perfect natural give that makes it possible to get deep enough inside of him to feel full and wanted when he lowers back down onto his boyfriend.
“Wade,” he says, voice taut and eager. He’s not going to fall apart yet — he can’t when he’s going to make Wade wait to touch, after all — but he’s going to let himself get a little lost before he frees the larger man. He moans as he grinds down once Wade is all the way back in, dropping his head back as he holds behind Wade’s neck for support, setting his other hand behind himself on Wade’s thigh with a grip just shy of brutal. “Fuck, you feel so good, Princess,” he praises shamelessly, the heat of the blush across his skin a perfect addition to the gentle pulses of pleasure with each rise and fall of Peter’s hips, a pleasure reflected in the other man’s hazy, half-lidded gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Wade sighs dreamily, words followed by a long groan as his arousal is met with Peter’s, their breaths uneven and heavy as Peter starts to find a rhythm. The hand at Wade’s neck pulls forward and around just slightly, Peter’s dexterous fingers flexing over the larger man’s vertebrae as his thumb pushes up under his chin to force his face to tip skyward once more. Wade can still watch him from this angle— in fact, he really can’t take his eyes off of the webslinger, which Peter seems to know when he lolls his head to the side and looks at him with hooded eyes of solid black. Wade shivers, the reaction traveling from the tips of his toes up to the top of his head, and Peter inhales sharply when he feels it under his thighs, under the hands he squeezes on Wade’s leg and neck, the cock inside of him twitching.
“You’ve been so good, haven’t you? Such a good girl.” Peter sounds delighted, his voice lighter, breathier than it had been, but he lets a low moan interrupt before he goes on, gyrating and grinding with the next few drops of his hips; his boyfriend groans weakly for the imposed positions and praise doing sinful things to his ability to focus. “Do you want a reward, sweet Princess?” he asks, not a trace of mockery to be found. Wade basks in it, nodding and wondering if Peter can see him blushing under all his scars.
Peter absolutely can see it; groaning quietly, he pushes off of Wade’s thigh to tug himself closer to his broad chest, the angle changing up for both of them. The two moan and sigh, Peter briefly stuttering in his motions until he finds the right roll again, holding either side of Wade’s neck as he presses their mouths together hungrily. Wade melts under his kiss, meeting him with feverish desperation and soft moans, brushing his tongue forward and catching it on the smaller man’s fangs. He doesn’t even flinch when Peter gently bites, the pressure just enough to sting. Wade tastes blood and something bitter, and he can feel Peter hesitate against his lips; he dares to encouragingly surge forward and the brunet relaxes again in an instant, their kiss rough and sharp. The merc isn’t sure, but his mouth and throat might feel slightly… muted for just a second before he’s very busy being flooded with a pleasant tingling warmth that ebbs in a few moments.
Peter shifts just slightly, not pulling away but setting the balls of his feet on the bed so he’s in more of a crouch. Wade isn’t quite following what’s happening until Peter’s hands hold onto the back of his neck and he uses Wade as leverage to bounce a little harder, lift himself higher before each drop back down onto his merc’s cock. Peter has to break the kiss, huffing staccato moans with each low hit deep inside of him at this varied angle, dragging over the curve of his G-spot and making his cunt pulse with the pleasure of it. Wade rumbles with Peter’s favorite sound and the brunet whines softly as it goes straight to his dick; he clenches around Wade and the other man grits his teeth and shudders.
“Wade,” Peter says weakly, digging his nails into scarred skin just hard enough that Wade winces and bites his lower lip. “Tell me what you want, Princess,” he demands, still firm enough to sound stern even though his voice is strained. “I wanna hear it.”
“Please let me fuck you, Baby Boy,” Wade grinds out, dizzy and excited and dying to move. “Been so good, please,” he begs, and those are the magic words because Peter sinks onto him one more time and grinds downward to push the other super’s cock that much further into him for just a moment.
“Then fuck me, Wade,” he commands breathlessly, grinning like a wild animal, his expression as triumphant and dark as his eyes. He drags his hands and blunt nails over Wade’s shoulders and down his chest, massaging hard over his pecs. “And I’d better scream or you’re in trouble,” he adds threateningly, ducking under Wade’s ear to sink his teeth into Wade’s neck.
Wade cries out with startled pleasure but his brain clicks into the Obedient Autopilot setting, his hips jerking upward into Peter without hesitation as lovely pain blossoms over his neck, making his dick throb inside of his perfect boyfriend. The pain lasts less than a second, replaced by that lovely warmth that threads through his nerves and numbs the site; his spider draws back from his neck enough to free Wade’s mottled skin from his teeth and laves over the healing punctures sweetly, moaning with Wade’s movements and steadily adjusting his position so he’s back on his knees. Pleasure washes over Peter with each hasty upward thrust of his merc’s hips, soaks his vulva just as he continues to soak Wade’s cock. He probably hadn’t needed so much lube this time but holy hell if the slide in and out isn’t the perfect sort of easy even as he tightens around his boyfriend again, pulling a weak moan out of him.
“Wade,” Peter says roughly, nuzzling at his neck with hot, damp breaths, bouncing gently with each hard thrust that interrupts his breathing. Wade can’t think enough to form words, lost in how good Peter feels — how good he feels when he’s affectionately nosing at the mercenary’s neck and under his jaw, the sound of each tiny moan he punches out of the brunet with each thrust mingling with low groans of his own. “Wade, I—,” Peter goes on, strained and tensing just slightly when he lifts upward before they slam into each other again. “I’m close, Princess, you feel amazing,” he explains with a delicious little whimper.
“Pete— Webs—,” Wade manages, doing his best to keep hitting home when Peter’s bouncing becomes more erratic. He feels like he’s gotten away with something when Peter digs nails into his skin, black eyes as heavy as his breath as he brings his face closer to the larger man’s neck. “C-can I say that?” Wade asks breathlessly, heart rate kicking up. He’d always dreamed of getting with Spider-Man, but the mystery that held the novelty of those old fantasies has been solved; he’d expected to be more thrown off by the revelation and current resulting sexcapade, but having Spider-Pete? All it does is make the fantasies more personal, the reality sharper like his spider’s precious fangs.
“Only cuz you know it’s me,” the hero murmurs with a sly smile, lips hovering near Wade’s pulse point. After all his fretting about Peter Parker not being good enough compared to Spider-Man, the fact that he’d finally come clean to Wade puts hearing the alter ego’s name into a new perspective; Wade isn’t talking to an anonymous BFF, he’s talking to him.
“Y-yeah.” The mercenary isn’t sure if he’s close or not, though as far as he’s concerned the smaller super’s mouth back on his neck and sucking a short-lived bruise while Wade fucks into his tight pussy is more than enough to fulfill him, even if he doesn’t get to finish. Wade feels incredible begging; seeing the way Peter reacts to being wanted drives him up the wall with lust and affection. Joy flutters under his sensitive skin, adding to the rush of pleasure as his boyfriend continues to fuck him with raw enthusiasm.
He realizes he doesn’t want to call him by his super persona after all, because Spidey and Peter are one and the same and it’s better because now he knows Spider-Man’s name; he’d even been unknowingly saying it for months. “Ah— Pete. Petey, I love you so much,” Wade breathes, like it’s a revelation, like he hasn’t said it a thousand times.
Peter practically mewls, tucking his face into the crook of Wade’s neck, biting his lower lip and losing a little bit of his self-control; his hold on being in charge starts slipping as his merc nuzzles at his temple and into his chaotic mess of curls. Wade breathes him in, jerking his hips up in hard thrusts, and Peter grips his shoulders as his pleasure begins to tip over the edge. “Fuck, Wade!” Peter cries out, pressing his face harder into the man’s comforting warmth, hips stuttering erratically as he spasms and contracts around Wade’s cock, making the other man gasp. He tries to keep going and to Wade’s credit he picks up the pace on the brunet’s behalf, rocking him through the flood of arousal and relief as Peter whimpers and moans, his muscles starting to give out with his climax; he’s clinging to Wade with arms around his shoulders, cradling his trapped boyfriend’s head to his neck in a desperate embrace as Wade’s thrusts also become inconsistent.
Wade finds himself reaching the edge all at once and hits his own orgasm not long after Peter starts to become a heavy, loose-limbed weight in his lap. Still he thrusts, the brunet whining and hiding his face in Wade’s neck again as the older man groans with the tug in his balls; he pulls weakly at his restraints as the bright, hot pulses of pleasure wash over him and he cums. “Pete—,” he gasps, and Peter rubs soothing circles into Wade’s back, over his shoulders, on either side of his neck as they both shudder through aftershocks. The smaller super is a little overstimulated but refuses to move away or lift himself off of Wade, and his merc seems to find it just as difficult to separate anyway, webs or no. “Baby Boy,” Wade murmurs aimlessly, and Peter hugs a little tighter to him, panting.
They breathe together for a few moments. When Peter leans back, Wade sees familiar and well-deserved rainbow hearts floating and bursting into glittery red and blue confetti around his boyfriend’s head, his fluffy hair a mess and his eyes still dark, the spidery blackness retreating ever so slowly back into Peter’s irises, then his pupils. Wade sighs happily and wants once again to reach up and push his fingers through his Shutterbug’s hair to drag him back in for a kiss, but he doesn’t have to because Peter tips forward again and moves gentle hands to cradle Wade’s face as he presses sweet kisses all over scarred skin before meeting his lips with a soft hum. Wade melts again, letting Peter keep the kiss slow and romantic; it satisfies the neediness still clawing at the back of Wade’s brain, floating in the ether of endorphins and a swirling gibberish mantra of Peter Spidey good good mine love loves me Peter sex Webs fuck love love love. He’s still a dazed jumble of affection and post-coital bliss when Peter cautiously rises, Wade’s softening cock falling back into his lap, wet with lube and cum and oh god, that was so fucking hot.
Peter exhales raggedly and eases to sit just in front of Wade’s sloppy lap, a wet mess himself. He laughs a quiet, husky laugh, smiling sheepishly and pushing a hand through his sweat-damp hair. The brunet looks at Wade with the prettiest, laziest smile. “Wade,” he says gently, and Wade responds with a dopey grin. “I’m gonna toss the condom and undo the webbing, okay?” he tells his princess, reaching to cradle his face again, looking between pretty hazel eyes with mutual adoration and trust.
“Aw,” Wade coos, voice a mile away as his brain catches up to the present. “Already?”
“Yeah, babe,” Peter chuckles, leaning in to kiss his brow. “We can always do this again later, but it’s time to stretch and cuddle.” He still feels amazing but there are a dozen other emotions stewing under the surface and he could really use the aftercare. He’d be hard pressed to think Wade doesn’t also need some gentle, close-quarters contact after everything that had happened in the last hour. He sets a kiss atop his merc’s head. “Because that was awesome but I actually do want you to touch me, and right now I need it to be snuggles.”
“Yeah,” Wade sighs pleasantly, cheeks warm. “I want that, too.” Peter’s smile brightens a moment and Wade mirrors the gesture. The spider drops a hand to Wade’s lap, carefully pulling the condom off of his boyfriend’s penis and kissing his cheek as it gets him to shudder before he relaxes again.
“I’ll be right back, okay? I promise,” Peter says delicately, because it can be particularly upsetting to be abandoned after sex, even if it hadn’t been a rough scene. He slides carefully off of the bed, taking a moment to find his upright balance again with an amused smirk at himself. “Right back,” he reminds Wade and quickly leaves the room. Wade really is alone for only a few seconds — which he spends being dazed more than anything — before Peter returns with a small spray bottle in hand.
“Hold still,” Peter instructs softly, climbing back onto the bed and shaking the little bottle. Rather than yank his boyfriend’s limbs free, the brunet sprays some translucent liquid over the webbing on Wade’s arms; the mutant flinches, a tiny piece of him expecting a chemical burn, but it’s only the webs that start to dissolve away and Peter tenderly rubs soothing hands up and down his shoulders and arms once they’re freed, helping his circulation and setting little kisses on his knuckles. “Good girl,” the smaller man murmurs, smiling serenely and kissing Wade’s cheek when he hums happily. “ So good, Princess.” Peter moves down to free his merc’s ankles, too, Wade stretching his arms out and rubbing the skin of his wrists thoughtfully; it hadn’t hurt and there are no traces left of the webbing or whatever the solvent is, which Wade assumes is by design.
Clever little bug.
Oh good, they’re back. Oh, well. Nothing will spoil this! Wade is winning at life, dammit. He’s got Peter (Spider-Man. Spider-Pete!) and he’s going to cuddle with him probably until one of them is literally starving. Wade watches Peter slough off the dissolving web, too impatient to let it take more than a few seconds. He gently massages Wade’s feet and ankles, too, rolling palms and fingers up his calves and climbing back up onto the bed, trailing one hand lightly up the length of Wade’s body until he’s tipping Wade’s head to press a kiss on his cheek again, cupping his jaw as Wade stretches each leg and rolls each ankle.
“Hey,” Peter greets quietly, tugging at Wade’s hips, urging him to lie flat on the bed with him. “Hold me or I’ll pout,” he tells him with a lopsided smile, and Wade flexes his arms and fingers before wiggling lower on the bed and lying at Peter’s side.
“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Wade chuckles and turns to face Peter, who scoots himself closer and wraps his arms around Wade’s waist, burying his face in his boyfriend’s broad chest and breathing him in, the scent of leather conditioner from his suit and copper from his skin. Wade sighs dreamily and curls around his spider, limbs only a tiny bit sore anymore as he encases the smaller super. Peter shifts, tucking a leg over the taller man’s hip and humming softly in approval when a hand starts stroking his hair; Peter shivers pleasantly and closes his eyes.
“I love you, Peter Parker,” Wade murmurs sweetly, kissing the brunet’s crown and smiling to himself. Peter makes a little sound he could only describe as a chirp.
“I love you, Wade Wilson,” Peter replies in the same soft tone, fond and amused and feeling like his whole body is both heavy and floating. He hadn’t minded the alter ego nickname earlier, but there’s something more romantic and satisfying hearing that phrase with his real name in it after sex.
They rest like this, basking in the afterglow and the comfort of each other’s presence. They’re still messy and probably going to be uncomfortably sticky and itchy if they don’t really clean up soon, but it doesn’t feel important enough to care about yet. Outside, the sun is finally starting to go down and Peter wonders how long ago they’d even come into the bedroom. It doesn’t matter until he hears Wade’s stomach grumble, and then he smirks and nuzzles closer, giving Wade’s larger, much warmer body a squeeze.
“Are you hungry?” he asks with obvious amusement.
Wade hums thoughtfully, scratching lightly over Peter’s scalp and smiling for the way his breath hitches and he leans into the touch. “I guess I haven’t eaten in, uh.” He pauses to think about it, squinting at the opposite wall of the bedroom. “Maybe two days?” He’d been distracted. (Because we were right about Spidey, don’t forget—!) “Could be worse, not like it’ll kill me,” he snickers.
Peter whacks his side harmlessly. “We should eat, then. I’m getting hungry too. Amazing how taking the lead takes it outta you, huh?” he jokes, and if he’s blushing a little, Wade can’t even see it when the younger super noses at his collarbone.
“You did really well, Baby Boy,” Wade assures him, knowing Peter hadn’t been fishing for reassurance but giving it to him anyway. Peter curls a little tighter to his chest, so Wade regrets nothing.
“Next time I’ll actually fuck you, I promise,” Peter mutters shyly, embarrassed he’d pretty much topped from the bottom, which must be cheating, right? He feels a little weird about it even though he hadn’t regretted a thing in the moment.
“Ugh, Pete,” Wade says with a dramatic sigh and roll of his eyes, tugging gently at Peter’s hair, making the shorter man whine with exaggerated misery. “You definitely fucked me properly,” he tells him sternly, and Peter smushes his face against the curve of Wade’s neck, shifting a little higher on the bed to do it. “You don’t hafta worry about that. I definitely had to sit back and let you do what you wanted. That totally worked for me, Sweetheart.” He tugs on Peter’s hair again, just a little harder, only enough to urge him to pull away from his neck so Wade can meet his eyes, which are back to their normal big, gorgeous brown, pupils dilated but definitely human. The mercenary strokes fingers through curly hair, soothing as he smiles adoringly. “There you are, Bambi,” he teases, kissing Peter’s pout. “I’m just saying, Petey-Pie,” he begins calmly, “I like every way we’ve fucked, yeah? So much. Like, so… so much.” His voice briefly slips into low and horny but he fights the pulse of desire because they have so much time for that later and right now they’re recovering; inhuman refractory period or no, he gets the sense they both need this time together. He knows he does. Peter looks amused by this but remains quiet and waits for Wade to continue. “I don’t hafta get penetrated to be the bottom, babe. I was not in charge there, that gets me where I wanna be when I bottom, okay?”
“Okay,” Peter says in a small voice, and when he’s looking over Wade’s face, the mercenary believes that Peter believes him, even if there’s internal conflict to combat as they get better and better at sex with each other. “…Thanks, Wade,” he adds with a bashful little smile, and now Wade wonders if he’s doing all these cute things to make him even crazier.
Yeah— crazy in love!
“Shh, shh,” Wade hushes the boxes and Peter snorts. Whether or not he had assumed Wade had been responding to him doesn’t seem to make a difference because Peter tucks his head under Wade’s chin and nuzzles his neck again. “Hey. I love you. Like, an embarrassing amount. I would get so teased in school if I liked you this much… and if we were still in school,” he mumbles. “At the same time.”
“Didn’t you go to school in Canada?”
“Damn. You’re right. I woulda been that guy with the boyfriend who lives in America. Nobody woulda believed you were even real! Embarrassing.”
“Dork,” Peter practically cackles. “If it helps, no one would’ve believed I had a Canadian boyfriend, either. But I might have gotten musicals sung at me about it.”
“God, you’re right. They woulda Avenue Q ’d the hell outta you.”
“Wanna order food and binge watch something dumb and hilarious?” Peter offers, kissing the hinge of Wade’s jaw while the larger super continues petting his hair. It feels so good and he’s practically liquid on the bed, humming. “Well, maybe after a shower,” he suggests.
“We’re kinda gross,” Wade agrees. “Yeah. Let’s get squeaky clean, get some chimichangas, and pass out in front ‘a the tube like a normal couple.”
“I don’t think you care about being a normal couple,” Peter teases and has to concentrate on summoning the use of his limbs again, slowly starting to sit upright.
“Oh, I don’t,” Wade confirms, stretching out on his back with a groan, arms peeled away from Peter only long enough to satisfy the stiffness in his own limbs before he drapes an arm around the hero’s waist again. “But it’s fun to play pretend,” he adds coyly, smirking up at Peter, who looks down at him from where he sits to stick his tongue out at him. “I’m gonna grab that tongue one day, Pete,” Wade warns.
“I’d like to see you try,” Peter challenges with a mischievous grin.
“Are you gonna bite me when I do?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Peter huffs, smirking when Wade does.
“I am a completely innocent and harmless vanilla gal, baby!” Wade pretends to sulk. “I would be simply wrecked if you bit me.”
“You would definitely be wrecked,” Peter muses and dips to kiss him gently, lingering before he forces himself to get up and head to the bathroom. “Come on, or I’ll steal all the hot water!”
“Yessir,” Wade mumbles happily, rolling off the bed to trail after his favorite person.
Notes:
ugh i love them so much 🥺😫
Chapter 19: [19] Rooftop
Summary:
Spider-Man misses Deadpool, and deals with a criminal incident on his own. Spidey gives DP a gift. They celebrate with rooftop sex.
16516 words.
Notes:
Content Warning for explicit sex (vaginal) and a bunch of kinks you’ve already seen to differing degrees. Mixed language for Peter’s parts (pre-discussed).
this is the last smut in this fic, but there’s smut in future works, including a prequel/sequel for this AU, and a different Spideypool project (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Spider-Man crouches on the corner of a roof ledge high above the city just past midnight, the lights of Manhattan bright and stinging his tired eyes. He’s just out of it enough that some of the lights seem like starbursts, and he briefly wonders if his healing factor would conquer astigmatism. Does he need to worry about that? It would be pretty inconvenient to need any kind of vision correction again, though he supposes if it comes down to it, he can integrate something into the lenses of his mask and he can put a real prescription back into his father’s glasses. Either way, if the city looks like a spill of sparkling gems on black velvet, it could be much worse.
Spider-Man ironically already has jewelry on the brain when he zeroes in on the sound of shattering glass several stories below. It’s a small jeweler’s, a place he’d passed at least a hundred times on patrol, thick windows with elegantly arranged glass display cases behind the large front window pane boasting more ethical, synthetic diamonds. Jumping from his perch, he swings to get closer, less than a block away by the time all the burglars have gotten through the front door. They hadn’t wasted much time trying to be subtle, though picking a place not far off the main drag for tourists is gutsy. Must be the late hour making them think they’d go uninterrupted. Spider-Man sighs. One man’s casual arrogance is Spider-Man’s reason to put on a mask.
He lands near-silently by the door, stepping around broken glass and shaking his feet out; he doesn’t even need to be sneaky, the four burglars in all black are occupied at the far end of the shop. Two of them have crowbars, using them to smash the glass out of the front of the display cases while the others scoop the display contents into open backpacks with sweeping arms. Hopefully this place has good insurance, what a ridiculous mess. He can’t even imagine what insurance must cost in this city since the advent of superheroes and supervillains on top of all the mundane criminals. At least this smash-and-grab crew seems to be made up of ordinary people, though there’s a distinct lack of foresight to having so many people on a robbery job in New York City without someone on the lookout for vigilantes.
It’s incredible how many criminals forget that Spider-Man makes regular appearances at crimes in progress. He’s not even the only hero in the city dealing with small time stuff like this! Amateur hour. Any other night, he’d have crawled along the ceiling and webbed their weapons and the bags of jewelry out of reach before dropping into the middle of them and inciting a small measure of organized chaos. Tonight feels different, and while he knows why, it’s still a little odd. Calling attention to himself when he probably doesn’t need to isn’t about recklessness, but ever since revealing himself to his boyfriend it’s been a little trickier not being… distracted on patrol, and it’s only been a few days. He’s just been on patrol a lot in that time.
He’d been assured it’s only bad timing — that Wade hadn’t accepted the job in Mexico just because Spider-Man had finally confessed his secret identity and then fucked his brains out — but it’s hard not to feel like that’s the case when Wade had just come off a job the same day of Peter’s second “coming out,” only to leave promptly for another job the following morning. He hadn’t realized how much he’d gotten used to Wade’s company at home, or Deadpool’s company when they’re out in super suits. So maybe Peter is craving a little more attention than he usually does from complete strangers, let alone criminals.
Spidey waits for a few moments, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for one of them to notice him. He could be a professional (technically), he could do this the smart way, since he hadn’t exactly waited to see if these people had any other weapons on them. Instead the webslinger clears his throat meaningfully when it feels like they’re taking too long to catch on to his presence, adding a little cough into his fist.
“I know not everyone likes surprises,” Spider-Man comments casually, holding his hands palm up and shrugging when the bad guys react, spinning around. They’ve all got ski masks on, which likely means they’re either repeat offenders or they’d known there’d be a chance for witnesses. Maybe both, maybe neither; it’s not important enough to give him pause. When one of them to his right reaches into their jacket and alerts his spider-sense, he reflexively webs their wrist and yanks it back out, attaching it to the flat base of a broken display case.
“But look at it this way!” the vigilante chirps, ducking when the closest burglar with a crowbar takes a swing at his head. When he straightens up again, he catches the tool on an attempted backswing. Yanking it away, he throws it out the shattered door; it slides across glass shards and hits a newspaper dispenser out on the sidewalk. “Now we can have a nice conversation!” He strikes a fist at the offender’s jaw, a simple but effective right hook that knocks them back. He punches them with a follow-up left hook and they go down. Spider-Man immediately webs them to the floor for safe keeping.
The person stuck to the display case reaches more clumsily into their jacket with their clearly nondominant hand. Peter doesn’t let them make any progress, webbing to their shoulder and pulling both himself closer and the burglar off-balance; he cracks them across the face, using his own momentum to jerk them to the tile with the same web. It yanks on the burglar’s webbed arm but the resulting grunt isn’t enough to worry Spider-Man about how much force he’d used. The super debates taking the pistol out of this person’s coat and disarming it but first he has to contend with the other two robbers. The remaining one with the crowbar wields it like a baseball bat, which is pretty standard and arguably the best way to make it an effective melee weapon. The other with a backpack digs around in it, triggering Spider-Man’s spidey-sense again.
“That’s a nope,” the wallcrawler says simply, popping the “p” and webbing the backpack to himself before tossing it in the air. Just to do it, just because it feels like he hasn’t been doing enough sticky tricks tonight, he flips up onto the ceiling, catching and webbing the bag in place. He could’ve tossed it and webbed it from the floor, but this way it startles the burglar enough that the masked vigilante only has to deal with the crowbar for the next few seconds. He drops, then feints left when the criminal rushes at him with it. Their stance is strong enough that Spider-Man could believe they’re actually an athlete after all, so maybe their ability with a swinging crowbar would be more precise than the last guy’s, but Spider-Man is a lot faster than most bad guys, and he can hear the whip of the metal in the air; he’s agile enough to duck again and catch their elbow, pinching it just so and upsetting a nerve that makes them lose their grip with the affected hand. “I’m not hearing the most thrilling anecdotes, does the conversation hafta be dead in the water?” he gripes.
“Shut up!” barks the squirming crowbar baseball star.
“That’s more like it! Scintillating.”
He webs up the crowbar criminal, kicking lightly at the back of their knees so they collapse to the tile, just in time to swivel out of the way of clumsy fists from the remaining burglar. He sighs dramatically, pushing the crowbar criminal across the floor with one foot, away from the broken glass of shattered display cases as he simultaneously catches the next wide arc of a punch from the rushing burglar. He shifts his weight and twists the burglar’s wrist at an unpleasant angle, forcing them to their knees. He sets a careful punch to this one’s face as well, not enough to break their nose or fracture any bones but enough to daze them; he frees their fist and nudges them with very little force to put them on the floor with their buddies. He webs their shoulders and both arms for good measure.
Quick work, but these things really should be. Four standard-issue criminals versus Spider-Man is hardly a rough time for the webbed hero. He sets his hands on his waist and appraises his simple work. There are sirens in the distance but none of them are new or close enough to be responding to this store’s silent alarm, so he decides to stick around a little longer. Webbing each criminal, he makes sure the guy he’d knocked out is still breathing, moving to pull the gun from the burglar’s coat and dropping the clip out of it, popping the round in the chamber. He sets it on an unbroken display case before hopping back onto the ceiling. This particular burglar’s bag has been setting off his spider-sense, so it feels more specifically pressing to investigate its contents; the webhead unzips and empties every pocket, letting gemstones and jewelry tumble into a small web net he’d hastily constructed just under it, leaving the other backpack down on the floor.
Out of everything it could’ve been, it’s just another pistol, the same make as the one he’d just disarmed. He does the same with this one as he had the last, letting the magazine fall to the tile with a clatter along with the chambered bullet. He stuffs the gun back into the pocket he’d found it in and zips it back up. Aiming a web shooter at the gun he’d left on the counter, he flicks it up into his hand and tucks it into the same bag; he’ll leave them up here out of reach.
“Not your usual MO,” someone says on the other side of the broken entrance, and Spider-Man’s head snaps to look under himself from his upside down crawl on the ceiling. His heart leaps as a coil of warmth settles in his core, radiating into his chest.
“Deadpool!” Spider-Man says brightly, surprised and delighted. He drops down to the floor, landing in a silent crouch and tipping his head up to look at Wade in his full red and black costume, katanas at his back and mask over his face. He’s gorgeous, and the hero grins lopsidedly behind his own mask. “I thought you were out of town?”
Deadpool walks across the broken glass, undisturbed in his thick combat boots, and surveys the damage and webbed criminals. “Actually, it got called off, kinda last second,” he explains, pausing before his spider and itching to wrap him up in his arms. He’d missed him, even though it couldn’t have been a full 60 hours since they’d last seen each other. But this is the first time he’s seeing his boyfriend (Boyfriend, we’re Spider-Man’s boyfriend, that’s our Pete! That’s our Spider-Pete!!) on patrol while being aware it’s him under the familiar mask of his bestie. “It was a little shady, honestly, I thought about hanging around and investigating what the hell made the amb— the uh, client, change their mind.” Oops, ha ha. Almost slipped up. He’s usually so good but Spidey is rising to his feet with his lithe form all springy and tight, and his slender fingers curl into a loose fist as he bumps Deadpool’s shoulder— it’s all very distracting. Now he knows all the little sparks he’d felt on contact with the other super during the last several months were more meaningful than he’d let himself believe.
No, no, we believed it was meaningful, you just wouldn’t listen when we told you it was m e a n i n g f u l. Jack-ass.
“Oh, like you two had any idea,” Deadpool hisses off to his side, and Spider-Man wanders toward the front of the store, planning to exit. He gestures for the merc to follow, and because they hadn’t actually discussed how to behave around each other on patrol yet, the taller super resists reeling Spidey in for a tight hug but doesn’t resist giving his spider’s perfect butt a little swat on his way past. The hero turns and quickly hits his shoulder again, this time with a little bit of force.
“Dude!” Spidey scolds, but there’s a smile in his voice.
“You said I could!” Deadpool reminds him, and Spider-Man continues on out the door without additional comment. A win, Deadpool is sure, and the truth since both Spider-Man and Peter Parker had told him he could touch Spider-Man’s butt! He’d kept it pretty innocent, all things considered; he still hadn’t groped Spidey, as tempted as he’s been the entire time he’s known the webslinger.
Well, now we have to, big guy. Got the green light ‘n everything!
“Meet me on the same roof where we had Thai food three weeks ago,” Spider-Man instructs once they’re out on the sidewalk and he can hear sirens actually approaching. He looks over his shoulder at Wade, the white eyes of the Deadpool mask wide. He grins behind his own mask. “Don’t gimme that look, I know you know where it is,” he teases. Deadpool lifts a finger to say something but Spidey preempts him. “And I hafta grab something before I meet you, that’s why you’re not getting a ride,” he assures him, and even Deadpool can hear the smirk as he pouts and drops his finger.
“Oookaaay,” the mercenary complains, sagging and making a show of being disappointed. “Am I supposed to grab anything?” he asks carefully, eyeing his boyfriend suspiciously. Had he forgotten something? Was it a special day? Is Spidey acting weird or is it just that Deadpool is still rocked by the reality of the dual existence that is Peter Parker and Spider-Man? What could Petey be picking up? “Food?” he guesses aloud.
“I mean, sure, but I got it,” Spider-Man chuckles, turning back to him and lowering the arm he’d raised in preparation of swinging away. “You’ll see, Pool. I promise,” he says slyly, and moves for a moment like Peter does when he’s going to give Wade a drive-by kiss on the cheek. He seems to catch himself just before he’s stepped all the way up to Deadpool, and the larger man can just imagine the blush when Spider-Man quickly swerves instead and gets a little running start before he lifts an arm to shoot a web. Deadpool grins triumphantly to himself, hands on his hips as he watches his boyfriend’s gorgeous ass expertly swing away.
We get to tap that, now.
“We’ve been tapping it for a while, actually,” he notes.
Don’t ruin this, big guy. Get a good slap on Dat Ass next time— throw in a nice, thorough groping! We know he liiikes it.
Deadpool holds his face and sighs dreamily. “I like it too,” he hums. A pause, and he frowns thoughtfully. “Shit, which roof is he talking about?” He fumbles, spinning in place and flapping his hands, whining as he wracks his brain trying to go by what they’d had for Thai food on patrol three weeks ago in an attempt to associate the food with the location. In midtown Manhattan they usually get the same thing from— “Right!” he blurts, darting away just as blue and red flashing lights start reflecting on shop windows just down the block.
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Peter is nervous.
This is so silly. It’s so dorky. But he wants to show Wade how important he is and revealing himself as “Spider-Pete” (Wade’s term, not his) is a step — a bounding leap, even — he’d taken in the right direction. He doesn’t regret this little project, though, he’d worked on it for a couple of weeks in anticipation of sharing his alter ego with Wade. He’d been able to utilize his skills with Avengers Tower tech and his somewhat more natural talents with needle and thread (and sewing machine) as his own tailor. He’d never made anything like this particular gift, but he’d used his own materials too, to make it more personal to the both of them. Both Dr. Banner and JARVIS had been sworn to secrecy when it came to the digital histories of Spider-Man using Stark’s tech for a couple of properties in both pieces.
“Thanks, JARVIS! I like your new integration panels. Say hi to Pepper for me!”
He crawls out of the window on the 24th floor of the Avengers Tower to the tune of JARVIS’ well-wishing, his little project safely tucked in a stealth pocket of his suit, the other piece under his costume. He would’ve kept them at the apartment but he’d really thought Wade wouldn’t be back for at least another two days, so he’d left them in the lab in a safe place that the AI had assured him would remain undisturbed. It’s in defiance of the ol’ Parker Luck, really, since the Tower is a lot closer than their apartment in Queens. Maybe next time he’ll stash things in one of Wade’s Manhattan safehouses. It still surprises Peter that Wade’s nicest place isn’t on the island, being that it’s more central, but he’d yet to really interrogate the other super about why. Now to get dinner.
He knows Wade will like the gift, will think it’s adorable. He even knows he’ll put it on immediately and then get a look at Peter’s, and it gives him butterflies to think of the way he’ll smile at the brunet when they take their masks off to kiss, because Peter really wants to kiss Wade as soon as possible and this is as good an excuse as any to sneak in a “welcome back” kiss while they’re out in semi-public on a rooftop in midtown Manhattan.
“He likes dorky things,” Peter reminds himself, a bag of Thai takeout webbed into a bundle he can carry with one arm. He’d gotten good at holding something (or someone) in one hand while swinging with the other. It’s not ideal, but it works well enough if he takes fewer sharp turns on his route, which is why they’d had this same takeout on the same roof last time; with the restaurant only a few blocks away, he never has to go far to find a familiar and relatively undisturbed rooftop where he can take breaks or eat. “He likes dorky things, and he likes me. I mean, okay, he loves me— shit.” He blushes under his mask and tries to calm his pounding heart because if he’s a babbling mess when he tries to show Wade the gifts — the silly little token of Peter’s affection — he might chicken out. “Okay, okay, Wade loves me, I can do this,” he mumbles to himself, giddy.
He elegantly sticks his landing, giving the bag of food a little leeway to swing off its own momentum before he checks the rest of the roof for—
“Webs!”
Peter turns to the sound of heavy-booted footfalls as Deadpool rushes at him with his arms out; Peter manages to set the food down before he’s nearly tackled right off his feet. He returns the embrace, laughing shortly when Wade hops up to wrap his thick thighs around Spider-Man’s waist. He’d done it a handful of times before he’d known what the webhead looks like under the mask, but now he shamelessly nuzzles at the hero’s neck and shoulder, something Spidey wouldn’t have let him get away with before; now he knows he’s cuddling his boyfriend, not hurting Peter’s feelings or making Spider-Man uncomfortable. (Well, unnecessarily uncomfortable, anyway. We usually thought it was kinda funny to mess with him.) Now he can get away with way more pseudo-public displays of affection with the webslinger of his dreams.
PPDA, pseudo-public displays of affection. Do we get it copyrighted? Will anyone ever use the term again?
“Hungry?” Spider-Man asks, picking up the takeout again. Deadpool nods and walks to sit on a horizontal ventilation shaft, steam pushing out from between metal slats of the outlet off to his side. “Got a few things,” Spider-Man says distractedly, opening the bag up and setting everything out next to Wade. He sets down two large sealed cups of slushy orange drink and hands Wade two wide straws with a pointed end each. Wade gasps, accepting the straws and picking both cups up, inspecting the bottoms for black balls of tapioca. He crows with delight when he spies them in one and frees a straw to stab the flimsy plastic seal on top with a cackle, opening the blunt end of the other straw for Peter with his other hand. “You remembered,” he purrs, like it’s difficult to remember to get Wade mango boba tea. “What’s yours?” the merc asks, even though he definitely knows.
“Thai iced tea,” he explains. No boba for him, he doesn’t like the chewiness. Says it does something “fuzzy” to his brain. Wade gets it; some textures just fuck you up. “Not everywhere does a blended version, so I’m a fan.” He pushes Wade’s favorite entrée toward him and hands him chopsticks, pulling his mask up over his nose. He’s still uncomfortable unmasking in the suit while there’s any chance someone could see, and Wade feels similarly for very different reasons. Nonetheless both of them are only half-masked when they pop open their food containers and have a break to eat and chat, Peter snapping his chopsticks apart and facing Wade until he’s done with his pad see ew. Only then does he set the carton down and pick up the pre-opened straw, which makes his chest tight in a pleasant way. He punctures his drink, giving it a cursory stir before sucking a third of it down with a content smile.
“You have such cute eating habits,” Wade teases fondly through a massive bite of yellow curry, nearly dribbling some out of his mouth. Peter watches him the whole time and snorts when Wade tips forward quickly because he can’t catch all of his mess, letting some fall to the dusty rooftop. “It’s weird to see the difference between now and when you were shy about eating around me,” Wade teases through a laugh once he’s actually swallowed his food.
Spider-Man scoffs. “I was never shy about eating around you,” he protests, turning to face the same way Wade does and sipping his drink a bit slower as he leans an elbow against the vent shaft Wade picks himself up to perch on.
“Maybe not, but Peter sure was,” the merc points out quieter, and even in the low light of the city around them, Wade can see his boyfriend blush slightly. He lets his volume tick up to its usual bright brashness. “You were stupid polite on our first dinner date, remember?”
“You worked so hard on it, I didn’t wanna make you think I was, like, rushing or something!” the webbed hero huffs defensively, but Wade just beams at him. Peter gnaws thoughtfully on one corner of his lip. “You’re such a good cook Wade,” he grumbles, making Wade squeal. He turns briefly to pick up a crab rangoon and bites into half of it with a crunch, pausing at the taste. Aw, he’d forgotten the sauce. He’s about to turn and grab it, but then finds Wade smiling and holding it out to him with the lid already off, his own mouth stuffed with more curry. Peter blinks at him, even though it’s invisible in the mask, and slowly dips the remainder of the rangoon in the sweet and tangy sauce before bringing it to his mouth and popping it inside.
Wade makes a little happy noise and sets the sauce aside again, bringing his curry container up to his mouth and scooping the rest of the saucy rice in with an exaggerated, “Aahhhh,” followed up by a quiet, “yum, yum, yummers!”
Peter is pretty sure he’s going to explode. And Wade thinks Peter is cute. “Hey,” he says mindlessly.
“What’s up, Hot Stuff?” Wade asks simply, chewing and setting his empty container down to pick up his drink instead. He sticks the straw in his mouth right when Peter hooks his fingers under his webbed mask and pulls it up to his forehead. Wade chokes. “Babe!” he hisses, almost dumping his drink when he leans over and grabs the edges of Spider-Man’s mask, trying to bring it back down. “Silly spider, we’re still in public!” he stage whispers in mild panic.
“Wade,” Peter chuckles, waving his hands away. “Wade.” The mercenary stops trying to fix his mask for him and Peter carefully peels it all the way off, shaking out his hair. By all rights, it should be flat and stuck to his head like he’d been wearing a bike helmet, but his curls cannot be contained so instead it just fluffs back up. Wade is just slightly hypnotized by it; he wants to play with and tug on it but he usually wants to do that whenever he sees Peter, so he’s gotten decent at holding back when they’re not actually alone. A semi-public rooftop might be the wrong time to work himself up anyway, despite logistically dangerous fantasies about fucking Peter in the Spidey suit near a roof ledge with a fantastic view of the city as a backdrop. “I’ve got something for you,” Spidey says a bit quieter, patting his costume over one hip and carefully pulling a small red satin bag out of it with a shy smile.
“Ooh, pressies?” Wade coos, grabbing his drink again and munching on a boba ball before adding, “You sure your pockets aren’t magical like mine? I mean, I guess it’s my pouches, and it may or may not technically be canon, but—.”
“D’you want your gift or not?” Peter challenges with a smirk.
Wade pouts but sets his drink back down and nods carefully, squinting. “Much as I love the look on your face, I do get a little nervous when I see it.”
“Why’s that?” Peter asks, his smirk curling more at the edges.
“See, that? That right there,” Wade mumbles accusingly, pointing at his boyfriend’s increasingly mischievous expression. “That’s shit’s sus.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter innocently says with a shrug, dangling the little bag in front of Wade. “Besides. This is hardly sus, it’s more like it’s, uh. Goofy?” His smirk turns to that shy smile again, and Wade’s big queer heart pangs with affection.
“I love it when you’re a doofus, Baby Boy.” He claps his hands together and points his fingertips at Spider-Pete. “Lay it on me.”
“Okay, well,” Peter begins awkwardly, taking one of Wade’s hands and setting the bag in his palm. They both take just a moment to marvel at the differences in the shapes and sizes of their hands in comparison; Peter had never let himself analyze it while they were in their costumes, since they hadn’t exactly been holding hands as supers. It does weird bubbly things to his tummy and maybe also his dick, so Spider-Man pulls his hands away and grasps them behind his back so he can’t spend any time examining them while he’s trying to be a romantic weirdo. “I, uh. I made them,” he says slowly as Wade carefully opens the cinched top and slides a length of what could be a weighty ribbon into his palm.
Wade brings the gift closer to his face, squinting as he identifies it. “Is this a bracelet?” he asks quietly, picking it up in his other hand to lay the length of it over his fingers, turning it in the dim light and humming absently with interest.
It’s not complicated, a red band a little over a centimeter wide with a little flat heart-shaped metal piece in the center. Wade blinks at the design on the metal: half of Spider-Man’s mask and half of Deadpool’s. He looks at the band again and recognizes it as a piece of one of Spider-Man’s suits, the shapes of black spider webs and katanas stamped in the space of the faintly shimmery red material, a light embossing. The closure clasp is a suspiciously elegant and simple thing that could be a magnet or something equally smooth and unobtrusive. The whole bracelet is thin and sleek, just heavy enough not to feel ticklish and with nothing to snag on Deadpool’s warped skin; even the heart-shaped piece with their masks is integrated rather than loosely attached with some sort of backing.
“I thought, uh. That it would be nice to have something that’s about us? But isn’t gonna be in the way. Or ruin the lines of your suit,” Peter elaborates, smirking for a moment, so deeply in love with Wade and his sense of humor. “I didn’t know how you felt about jewelry on a daily basis but I know your skin can get irritated with contact, so I used titanium because it’s sturdy and hypoallergenic, just in case. I could’ve asked, I guess, but I didn’t want you to know I was up to anything even if it’s not that big a deal.” The longer Wade stares at the bracelet in complete silence, the more anxious Peter becomes about his decision. It’s not just dorky, it’s supremely dorky, and maybe even Wade Wilson has a limit for absurdity. Peter starts fidgeting, folding his arms over his chest to half-hug himself and bouncing one heel.
“I, um. I was thinking about the Spider-Man pin I have. The one you noticed in the park. When you met Peter for the second time,” he explains quieter, heat rushing up his neck and spreading from his cheeks to ears. Fuck. This is so dumb. Why did he do this? Who the fuck gets a bracelet to tell someone “I love you?” Some— some bland, basic cishet jack-ass who knows one thing about his girlfriend, that’s who— and the one thing he knows is that she wears jewelry! Oh, hell, and he’s seen Wade in jewelry a grand total of three times: once after he’d managed to find literal buried treasure early in their friendship as supers (it had to go back to Atlantis, much to Wade’s chagrin). The second time, Wade had been in drag and impressed everyone by convincingly putting earrings on his mask to accompany his giant statement necklace. The third time had been after Wade had met up with some old friends who’d gotten into music production, and he’d come home with massive gold chains and a grill that says “DEADPOOL” in what Peter is still suspicious are actual diamonds.
Dammit. Peter is so embarrassed, what had he been thinking?
“I. Uh. Oh my god. I’m sorry—,” Peter frets haltingly, anxiety seizing his throat in a vice grip, making it hard to swallow the lump sitting right behind his tongue. Maybe he’ll choke on it instead. That would be nice, get him out of this mortifying display of his own childish inability to think things through. “This was stupid.” He hides his hands behind his back again, carefully pulling at one of his gloves so he can start disconnecting the matching bracelet he’d made for himself, technically part of the gift but clearly just another mistake. The brunet is barely a jewelry guy himself, he’d just been thinking about friendship bracelets, and how Wade has been a friend and then a best friend and then even more for so long, and how he deserves to have some tangible proof that Peter adores and takes him seriously, and—
“I love it, Pete,” Wade says gently, and Peter snaps out of his internal spiral long enough to hear him add, “you are just the sweetest thing, Baby Boy.”
Before the smaller super really knows what’s happening, Wade has hopped off the vent and Peter is in his arms, getting crushed against his warm, broad chest. Peter’s brain stutters, short-circuiting, and he takes a moment to catch his breath, not realizing he’d been so close to tears until this moment— even more embarrassing. But Wade just holds him, cradling Peter’s head to his shoulder and lifting him just slightly so they fit perfectly together. The brunet takes a ragged breath in and smiles meekly, burying his face in Wade’s neck, dry cleaning chemicals and gun oil and leather conditioner filling his senses. Under it is Wade’s inexplicable natural scent, faintly metallic hidden under the comforting sweetness of maple. Peter brings his arms up to wrap around Wade’s torso, clinging tightly as he breathes him in.
“I love you, Wade,” Peter tells him softly, muffled by the collar of the Deadpool suit. His voice cracks, but he goes on, “I made another one. For me. I’m wearing it.”
Wade hums happily and squeezes Peter’s deltoid and waist, where his hands have settled. “Gimme just one more minute and then I wanna see,” he says teasingly, even though he plans to cling to Peter the rest of the night regardless. They should go home, screw patrol.
No, screw Petey! If you can’t do it good, do it hard. As they say.
“Oh, I’m gonna screw him good ,” Wade mumbles in response, and Peter huffs a little laugh into his neck and nuzzles at it again. “Sorry, Gorgeous, I swear I can contain myself,” Wade whines guiltily, prying himself away so he can kiss Peter’s exposed forehead. Peter is smiling so sweetly and looking a little dazed, eyes rimmed red with the effort not to cry; Wade wants very badly to lie him down right here and kiss him until he can’t speak. And then fuck him until he can’t walk.
Ugh, tease.
Peter quietly pulls his arms forward and between them, tugging his glove off and pushing his sleeve up, showing Wade his matching bracelet. It’s practically invisible once his suit is over it, so Wade knows Peter had spent a lot of time making it easy to disguise. He pinches the little metal ends, smooth and innocuous, and the bracelet slips off. He holds it up so Wade can see the red material of the band is from his Deadpool suit, probably one he’d ruined already, one Peter had saved to take this scrap from. The same webs and katanas are embossed into it, along with the little titanium heart featuring their masks. Wade is going to cry himself, his chest swelling with pride and adoration and how genuinely impressed he is with Peter’s handicraft. “I thought, this way… you could wear a little bit of my suit, and I could wear a little bit of yours,” Peter explains shyly, cheeks and ears burning a brighter scarlet.
Wade grabs Peter’s face with both hands and hauls him up for a feverish kiss, making the smaller super squeak with surprise. But Peter melts into him, leaning heavily forward and holding onto the side of the taller man’s neck with one hand, the other anchored on one of Wade’s wrists with the bracelet between his fingers. Peter hums sweetly when Wade rolls his tongue forward to be granted permission when the webslinger parts his lips. Wade trails one hand from Peter’s face down his chest and around his waist, settling on one hip and pulling their bodies flush together. He slides the other hand to the back of Peter’s head, threading gloved fingers into his hair and making his spider shiver when he gives a gentle tug on the strands.
Peter’s horny! He wants the D(eadpool)! Are you really gonna withhold the D(eadpool)? Give that boy a good DICKING.
Wade resists shouting at the boxes to shut the hell up while he’s working.
Peter’s fingers pull at the collar of his suit, trying to get Wade to come lower, come closer as he pushes himself up on his tiptoes. Peter isn’t short, not really, but Deadpool is a broad-shouldered powerhouse of heat and hard muscle and Spider-Man is a narrower frame of lean muscle and dancer’s grace; when they’re in the right position — and let it be known, there are so many “right” positions — they fit together like they were built for one another. Wade grips Peter’s hip a little harder as he feels his dick responding to their contact, how much he adores the man in his arms, how Peter rolls his hips forward against him, the packer built into his suit pressing directly against him as Wade bends forward slightly, making Peter arch his back and gasp softly into Wade’s mouth.
“Wade,” Peter mumbles, wincing when Wade’s teeth catch his lip. “W-Wade, d’you, d’you wanna—?” he tries to eke out, brain already hazy with lust and excitement and relief that he’d finally told Wade who he is. That they could do things like make out on rooftops in their super suits.
“I wanna fuck you so bad ,” Wade growls lowly at Peter’s ear, nibbling his earlobe and making his boyfriend keen, slender fingers pressing hard into thick muscle as he clings to Wade’s shoulders, occasionally grasping at the collar of the Deadpool suit like he wants to pull it down. Peter’s mouth is soft and his breath is warm as he kisses Wade’s jawline and down his neck. “Wanna fuck you right here, Petey Pumpkin Pie, holy shit. With the bracelets? You’re so romantic, did’ya know that?” he groans, mouthing under his spider’s ear by the hinge of his jaw, a familiar hot-button spot. Wade deliberately teases it and Peter angles his head to give him better access, panting short and heavy.
“Says the hopeless romantic,” Peter tries to tease, but it’s reedy and a little slurred so there’s a chance Wade won’t have understood anyway. Peter moans quietly, rutting his hips up again, making Wade flinch before he curls his fingers tighter in Peter’s hair and hears his breath hitch right by his ear. “Wade,” he winces. Fuck, he’s feeling needy now, hiking a leg up over Wade’s hip. So much for toppy Spidey confidence. Mostly he wants Wade to rail him into next Tuesday.
Apparently Wade is thinking something along the same lines because the hand on Peter’s hip slips back to his ass and firmly gropes, just enough to ripple pleasure and excitement up Peter’s spine. He sighs weakly and manages to summon brain power enough to put his bracelet back on before he drops it, quickly returning his hands to either side of Wade’s neck to catch his weight when Wade slides a leg between Peter’s and dips them as though they’re dancing. “Wade,” Peter hisses as the man drags teeth over his earlobe again.
“I love it when you say my name, Webs,” Wade says lowly, angling Peter’s head further back with the grip in his hair. Peter easily acquiesces with a shiver and a small groan, clearly getting a little lost in the moment; something about Wade referring to him with Spider-Man’s nicknames while they’re messing around out in semi-public view definitely gets to him, a response Wade clocks immediately. “I didn’t get to fuck you yet, Spidey,” Wade muses in the deep, rough timbre that Peter goes wild for. “You webbed me down and had your way with me, shouldn’t I get a turn?” he questions lowly, surprised he’s this coherent when he’s got his hero pliant in his arms and gripping in pulses along his shoulders, slender hands moving up the sides of his neck to pull Wade’s mouth back to his waiting throat. “Does your web fluid stick to you, baby?” the mercenary asks with cloying sweetness, kissing gently under Peter’s chin, contrasting the sturdy hold he has in the brunet’s fluffy hair and over his ass, groping the other cheek and pressing Peter’s body against his own.
“It can,” Peter grinds out, finding it hard to make words work when he’s overheated and eager and desperately horny. Stupid Wade, teasing him like this on a rooftop. Stupid Wade, gushing over his dumb little handmade gift. Stupid Wade and his sexy fucking voice and his big warm hands and his blabber mouth saying things that are making it that much harder to think rationally. “Ah, fuck, Wade,” he complains half-heartedly, biting his lower lip and craning his neck when Wade’s mouth finds his jugular. Wade rumbles for him and Peter mindlessly repeats the word that had earned it. “Fuck.”
“Naughty. Bad spider,” Wade mock-scolds, chuckling. He rights the both of them quite suddenly, setting Peter on wobbly legs but still holding him flat against himself, the hand on the shorter man’s ass shifting up to the small of his back, keeping their hips flush. They both briefly wish the packer weren’t in the way, but there’s really only one way to be rid of it and Wade will most certainly get to it soon.
“Gimme a web shooter, Bambi,” Wade murmurs, keeping his hand in Peter’s hair and bringing the other up where Peter can see it. Peter keeps himself leaned into Wade when the steady force of his strength isn’t crushing their pelvises together, fumbling with his web shooters behind Wade’s back and obediently bringing one to Wade’s waiting hand. Wade smirks, and Peter swallows thickly. “You want me to be rough with you, baby?” the mercenary purrs, freeing Peter’s hair long enough to affix the device around his own wrist. The younger super is glad he’d built it to be adjustable because Wade’s wrist has got to be nearly twice as big around as his. When Peter’s eyes linger on the way Wade is setting up the web shooter, rather than giving him an answer, Wade boops his nose.
“Yeah,” Peter rasps, voice caught in his throat. His gaze flicks to the white eyes of the Deadpool mask and he absently flicks his tongue to wet his lips. Wade notices.
“Yeah?” Wade confirms. “Want me to web you up, Spidey?” he asks, and still his hands aren’t back on Peter, who is practically climbing him in his impatience.
“Yeah. Yes.” Peter whines a little, nosing at Wade’s neck because it’s warm and he smells amazing and Peter would really, really like to stop being teased now, thank you very much. “Please, Wade,” he begs, because he doesn’t do it very often and Wade tends to lose it when he does. It works, because Wade grabs a fistful of his hair again, another pleasing rumble in his chest that Peter can feel against him when Wade insistently pushes the brunet’s face harder into his neck until Peter takes a deep breath of him and sinks his teeth into marbled skin.
Both of them moan and Wade uses both hands to pick Peter up under his thighs, holding him against his body and reveling in the way Peter clings to him, wrapping his legs around Wade’s tight waist while the he turns them around to drop Peter on top of the ventilation shaft; the spider’s teeth draw blood as they’re practically torn out of the larger man’s flesh. The vent is warmer than Peter expects, the building running heaters in the chilly weather, and he lands with a soft grunt to accompany the quiet metallic clang from his weight. He props himself up on his elbows, licking a wet stripe along the taller man’s neck to catch the droplet of Wade’s blood that had followed his fall.
Vampire Peter!! Vamp-Peter, goes chomp chomp, Peter! the boxes singsong, a now possibly tired favorite. It doesn’t stop the throb through Wade’s cock at the sight of Peter’s tiny satisfied smirk when he catches the way Wade’s jaw clenches at the sight of Peter licking his reddened lips.
Wade leans over him, tugging him closer to the edge of the vent with strong hands wrapped around Peter’s ankles; he doesn’t crush but his grip is solid and grounding and just tight enough that Peter’s skin lights up even with his suit’s boots interrupting the contact. The motion is simple and Spider-Man is a thousand times stronger than Deadpool, but the small display of power goes right to the brunet’s cock and he can feel himself already wet enough to soak through his underwear.
Wade ducks to nose at his abdomen and Peter sets a hand over the back of his head, fingers flexing over the material of his mask as Wade’s teeth catch the material of his suit. Peter flexes to keep himself upright as he uses his other hand to loosen the careful seam between his trousers and top, rucking up the hem. It’s a little secret of Spider-Man’s that he uses some of his natural stickiness to keep the pieces of his suit in place — how else could he keep spandex-adjacent material from riding up without a onesie? Wade moans quietly, Peter’s muscles even more defined as he keeps himself curled, and Wade glances up to see his boyfriend digging teeth into his bottom lip, face lit up hot pink.
“Beautiful,” Wade assures him with a wicked grin, and Peter sucks in a sharp breath when the taller man slides a hand from Peter’s ankle up his leg, trailing over to his upper thigh and making him tremble before he relaxes again. He’s much easier to work up than he realizes, but Wade is happy to drag everything out as long as the brunet keeps looking at him with darkening eyes and sharp fangs and soft, almost imperceptible little whimpers every few breaths, every time Wade moves closer to his groin or gives his flesh an appreciative squeeze, or… Wade hums thoughtfully and sets the other hand from Peter’s ankle over his sternum, pushing him down to lie flat. Peter complies immediately, arms dropping limp on either side of his head. Big brown eyes never leave the Deadpool mask as the mercenary steadily rises to loom over his boyfriend and his messy hair, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Wade rubs small circles with his thumb further up Peter’s inner thigh and snags the fingertip of the glove on his other hand with his teeth, pulling it off and throwing it carelessly over his shoulder. He’ll find it again later. More pressing is getting his fingers in Peter’s mouth.
He pushes his bare hand through Peter’s hair, the vigilante’s eyes fluttering for a moment as he frees his lower lip and breathes in deeply. He leans into the touch for a moment and then Wade is holding his jaw firmly, pinching at the hinges to pry open his mouth. Peter’s heart rate skyrockets, but he dutifully opens against the sharp press and Wade’s thumb lifts his upper lip to inspect his fangs again, something he seems to thoroughly enjoy. “No biting,” Wade says with a knowing smirk, and Peter huffs wordlessly in response, jolting when Wade sets two fingers on his tongue and holds his jaw down.
Peter whines, the sound small but unmuffled. It’s music to Wade’s ears. Peter’s fingers twitch and he reflexively sets his hands on Wade’s wrist when the larger man presses further back along his tongue; it’s neither a push nor an insistence, merely an anchor, an excuse to touch Wade. Wade doesn’t gag him — not yet anyway — but he starts a careful, appreciative slide in and out in long clockwise ovals the way he might if he were rubbing down between Peter’s legs, just to make it interesting, to fill more of the space his boyfriend offers up. The brunet’s breath is hot and damp to accompany the warm wetness of his tongue and Wade can feel the uncomfortable strain of his cock against his suit. Wade keeps Peter’s mouth open, every little sound he makes loud and clear for the mercenary. Peter brings his knee up to press against Wade’s side, needing more contact; he flinches when Wade’s other hand kneads at his inner thigh, dangerously close to his aching cunt.
Wade rumbles deep in his chest and Peter winces, brow dipping just slightly. He can’t really get his eyes to focus and he doesn’t think he needs to, because his attention is on the heavy, languid pressure of Wade’s fingers in his mouth, getting just slightly further back every few strokes. A moan escapes him when Wade eases his jaw shut around the digits and Peter registers instructions to suck; he immediately does, closing his eyes and wrapping his lips around Wade’s intrusive fingers.
“Holy jumping baby Jesus, Webs,” Wade says gruffly, thinking his balls might fucking burst when Peter takes his fingers in his mouth like he takes Wade’s cock when he’s sucking him off, giving them the same attention with his tongue and with little bobs of his head, humming when they brush further back in his throat. Wade adds a third finger on the next downward roll of Peter’s head, making the smaller man give a short moan on his way up again. But he makes quick work of soaking his ring finger, too, and Wade starts to fingerfuck his boyfriend’s mouth while his other hand catches his waistband and starts tugging the bottom half of Spidey’s super suit down his hips.
Peter takes a deep breath and uses his gloved hand to assist in taking his skintight costume pants off, still with the other hand on Wade’s wrist, light and twitchy when Wade’s fingers get deeper and further. His hands are so big, his fingers are so strong, and Peter’s brain is stuck on how skilled they are with weapons, with hand-to-hand combat, with how he touches the brunet using such care and devotion and excitement even when they’re rough. He’s keeping the smaller man’s head and shoulders more or less pinned to the vent with the hold on his face. As Peter lifts his hips to help with his trousers, Wade doesn’t even take them off all the way, just pulls them down to his ankles, caught over his boots, and why is that just as hot? Wade leans his body forward, trapping the garment and thus Peter’s legs to the vent, the hero’s knees spread open to accommodate the merc’s hips between them.
Wade can feel the heat of Peter’s arousal even through his suit, grinding forward to press against it through Peter’s underwear; he glances down and grins mischievously at the sight of bright blue panties. Peter had once been so embarrassed that he even owned any panties, worried it would affect how Wade interpreted his masculinity, but Wade had promptly shown Peter his own collection and effectively shut down that anxiety in private spaces. Better, Peter only puts on panties when he expects Wade to see them. Had he been putting panties on while Wade had been working, in anticipation of his return?
Has he been patrolling in panties for the last two days??
Wade groans at the thought and Peter whimpers so sweetly, teeth grazing the knuckles in his mouth when Wade traces hot fingertips along the hem of the seamless undies, lacy on the sides. (Holy FUCK.) It’s a pretty contrast between Peter’s fair skin and a blue awfully close to that of his Spidey suit. Wade picks at the low band of the underwear, then catches sight of the dark spot Peter’s making between his thighs. He moves just enough to grab Peter’s leg and bring his knee up, the other coming with it because he’s basically shackled the spider with his half-removed suit. On closer inspection, the merc can see just how wet his boyfriend has really gotten, and his attention snaps up to Peter’s dazed expression, where his lips wrap around Wade’s fingers and black fills in his irises.
“Goddamn, Baby Boy,” Wade growls, and Peter’s lips quirk in a tiny smile on the next upslide of Wade’s fingers. “We’ve barely even gotten started.”
Peter hums an amiable affirmative and squirms just slightly, his gloved hand grasping at his bunched trousers. It’s cute how Wade is always so blown away by how turned on Peter is by him, how easy it is for Peter to get distracted by Wade’s hands and his voice, his stupidly stacked shoulders and back and biceps; Peter could literally climb him like a tree and Wade wouldn’t even sway. And those are just physical attributes! Wade has no idea how meaningful his sense of humor is, the way he seems to forget to take care of himself but remembers little things about Peter and what makes the brunet happy, his enthusiasm for old comediennes and music from the 70s and 80s. Wade is everything Peter now knows he’d needed in a partner, both in vigilantism and romance. Peter guides Wade’s fingers back into his mouth one more time before pulling off and tipping his head back to breathe carefully, letting out a small, breathless laugh.
“Yeah, dude. And it’s really working for me,” the unmasked hero muses, voice catching on a little, “ah,” when Wade’s hand rubs just under the leg line of his panties. He’s usually more comfortable in boxer-briefs, but he likes what wearing panties does to Wade’s resolve — specifically that it seems to dissolve the longer his boyfriend gets to look at him in them. Peter shivers when Wade pushes his palm up under the edge of the vibrant blue material and smooths scarred skin along his hip, lifting Peter just slightly to snake that hand around to his bare ass. Peter huffs a laugh, smiling and blushing. “Wade,” he complains playfully.
“Hold on, I’m doing something,” Wade informs him absently, trying not to think of his nearly painful erection and focus instead on bringing his hand back to the front of Peter’s groin. He lays his hand over Peter’s cock, rolling his palm down over it, fingers pressing against the wet spot and curving to conform to the shape of him when Peter sighs and cants his hips upward to meet the friction. “Fuck-a- doodle, Baby Boy,” the mercenary groans, grabbing Peter’s jaw and lifting his head, pulling him more upright to force his big dark eyes to meet the whites of Wade’s mask. Peter’s hand flexes on Wade’s wrist, the other planted on the vent at his side. “You’re so hard for me.” He kneads gently over the smaller man’s cock again, fingers lingering on the press into him, making his boyfriend whine, wet lips parted. Oh, Wade really likes how wrecked Peter already looks. “Fuck, Webs, if I’d known it would be this much fun to fuck you on a rooftop, I woulda done it months ago,” the larger super says stiffly, grinding mindlessly against the vent shaft because Peter’s crotch is occupied with his hand as it mirrors the roll of his own hips.
Peter smirks, even with his jaw trapped in a firm hold. “No you wouldn’t ‘ve,” he argues good-humoredly, reaching for the collar of the Deadpool suit, fiddling with the clasp that hides just under the top edge to get a grip on the zipper pull. “Cuz you’d ‘ve thought you were cheating on me.”
Wade whines, pouting a little and giving Peter’s dick another hard press, earning a tiny broken gasp as Peter’s fingers fumble with his costume collar. “No regrets. I get to do it now,” Wade reasons. He leans in closer to press his lips to Peter’s, moving his hand from his jaw to the back of his neck to keep him close and curled forward. Peter sighs raggedly into the kiss, bare hand sliding to cradle his merc’s face while the other drags Deadpool’s zipper down; he has to lean even closer to push it past Wade’s navel as the taller man kneads him enough to far worsen the dark spot on his panties.
“Wade,” Peter murmurs, tipping his head the other way to kiss him at another angle, increasingly heated, more teeth and sharp little sucks on Wade’s lips and tongue. “Are you gonna fuck me on this rooftop or tease me until I lose my mind?” he demands in a soft tone, though it sits low in his throat and Wade can hear the challenge in the honey of it. “I was promised rough,” Peter adds teasingly, smirking against Wade’s mouth as the man pants. For emphasis, Peter reaches for Wade’s swollen dick with a satisfied groan, making Wade grunt and clench his jaw. “I love it when you’re gentle, babe, but I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” Peter assures him, voice cracking and hand shaking as he palms his boyfriend through the thin cotton of his boxers. It’ll be the second time they’ve fucked since Spider-Man had revealed himself to Deadpool, so Peter is really hoping some of Wade’s fangirl passion will be part of it. He’s the only fangirl Peter wants to (or will) sleep with, after all.
He said “fuck!” Fuck, we love it when he says “fuck.” Well? What are you waiting for? Spider-Man’s begging you to fuck him, what’s taking so long?
“Then I think you need to turn around and spread your legs, Gorgeous, because I’m more than happy to oblige,” Wade growls, slipping his fingers up into Peter’s hair and tugging him slightly away. Peter can’t reach his dick anymore, but the pleased smirk on his lips accompanied by the pretty pink in his cheeks and ears is going to make him cum anyway. How the ever loving fuck did he land Peter Parker? Spider-Man? (Spider-Pete!) Wade gives the brunet’s crotch one more rough, circular kneading, making him yelp and hum before Wade’s hand is gone and he’s instead pulling Peter forward again with the hand in his pretty curls.
Peter grins, hastily following the pull, scrambling to get down onto his feet, his bare hand on Wade’s wrist again, just to keep himself steady enough that neither of them unintentionally mess up his neck before Wade can at least get inside of him. Shit, he’s already imagining it, has been for the last ten minutes, and Wade barely lets him catch his balance before he’s turning Spider-Man around and pressing his front to the ventilation shaft. Peter’s legs and knees bump into it just hard enough to rattle the metal, and Wade yanks his slighter body flush back against his own as he maintains the hold he has in Peter’s hair. The longer Wade grips it, the longer there’s a pleasant ache in his scalp at the strain, and the wetter Peter gets.
He wouldn’t have guessed hair pulling would have this much of an effect on him, but at least in combination with Wade’s body heat, his big hands — one now flat against his back as Wade better lines up their bodies — and his mouth at Peter’s ear, it’s enough to make the embarrassing squish of slick between his legs worse. Peter is half a second from bringing a hand up to hold the back of Wade’s neck as he tilts his head to expose more skin, but Wade presses sharply at his waist and pushes Peter down onto the vent, knocking the wind out of him in a grunt as he’s bent in half. The webbed hero sets his palms on the metal, warm but nowhere near as warm as Peter’s face and chest and cunt.
Wade holds him there, fingers tight in Peter’s hair, making him wince as he bites his lips together and tries to find a suitable position for his legs, wiggling until Wade steps on his costume’s trousers, locking them only far enough apart for him to feel vulnerable. Not enough to really expose him, not enough to grant Wade access, but the larger man drapes himself over his spider, sparing none of his considerable weight. Peter moans as his head is angled enough to watch Wade’s delicious grin through dark, hooded eyes.
“It’s so hot when you squirm, Pumpkin,” Wade tells him lowly, inches from his face. “You’re blushing. God, I love it when you blush,” he says, voice taut. His free hand drags down Peter’s side, his hip, curving around the seam between his leg and groin to grasp over his panties again. Peter can feel Wade’s thick cock pressing between his buttocks as his boyfriend pulls him closer with that same grip, fingers moving with the intention of getting under the soft fabric covering the hero’s pussy. “What’s the word, baby?” Wade asks a little more seriously, hands stilling.
“Vermillion,” Peter answers without hesitation, even though his voice is hoarse. “Hard stop.”
“And?”
“Saffron. Slow down.”
“One more, Sweetums.”
“Chartreuse. Green light. Go.”
“Good boy,” Wade praises sweetly, setting a gentle kiss on his temple when Peter winces for the praise. “Where are we?”
“Chartreuse,” Peter grumbles, wiggling under Wade’s weight and pressing his hips back insistently. “C’mon, please?” he says a little quieter, impatient and already basking in the encouragement. He wants Wade to praise him again, so he leans into desire and tells him in his needy voice, “I’ll be good.”
What in the genetically altered and/or radioactive spider-biting hell are you waiting for, big guy?!
“Fuck yeah, you will,” Wade groans, and gives his cheek a quick peck for good measure before he lifts his weight from Peter’s back, earning a little whine of disappointment even as he watches Spider-Man take a full breath. He teasingly rocks against Peter’s ass and Peter turns his face into the vent with heavy pants as Wade brushes his hand through his messy curls to get a fresh grip, pressing the smaller man’s forehead to the metal. “Y’know, I found a cute li’l bottle of lube and some condoms in one of my pouches,” he informs his spider with amusement and Peter groans softly, elbows lifted as he plants his hands on the metal with another press of Wade’s hips and erection against him. “Funny, though, I don’t remember putting them in there.”
“Aren’t they magic?” Peter says roughly, testing the hold of the suit around his ankles, kept still under Wade’s combat boot. He could easily tear out of it of course, but the point is that if he didn’t have super strength, Wade would have him well and truly pinned; Spider-Man is drawn to Deadpool’s strength even if his own outmatches it by miles. He’s not about to just admit he’d tucked the lube and condoms in the pouch himself, Wade’s already figured it out and the more he thinks about it the more embarrassing it is. It’s not like he’d done it before the reveal! But it does mean he’d sneaked them into the pouch shortly before Wade had left for the job he’d just gotten back from. When Wade stills behind him, Peter knows he expects a confession. “Wade!” he huffs with a stubborn pout the merc can’t see from this angle.
“Come on now, Sweet Thing,” Wade purrs deviously. “Tell me what you did.”
“I put them in there,” Peter confesses hastily, unwilling to let Wade drag this out when he’s desperately in need of more contact. He squirms, trying to get Wade’s cock back against him, the firm heat that’s got his panties soaked. “I put them there, and I really want you to use them now, okay?”
Wade’s big queer heart flutters and he sighs dreamily, making Peter shiver. The larger super trails one hand down his hero’s spine, between his shoulder blades and lightly over the perfect curve of his ass before he gives it a sharp, playful swat; the brunet yelps and groans impatiently. Wade turns his wrist over to examine the web shooter he’s still wearing, and experimentally aims at Spidey’s gloved hand with fingers splayed on the vent. When he webs it down with a quick press of the button, Wade squeals with delight, Spider-Man turning his head slightly to watch himself tugging at the hold. It doesn’t give — Peter knows it won’t without more effort — and his pulse picks up.
“This thing is so fun,” Wade comments sincerely, promptly repeating the action with Peter’s other hand, locking them both in place. Peter whimpers and tries to pull his hands away just short of engaging his super strength. “Fun to be webbed up, too,” the merc muses knowingly. “We’re totally using this stuff all the time, now. Well, maybe we’ll supplement it with straps ‘n rope. I think you’ll get a kick outta the stuff I’ve got in mind—.”
“Wade,” the spider whines with exasperated misery. “Please get on with it!” Peter sucks in sharply through his teeth when Wade snags a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, making him crane his neck and half lift himself up from the vent, stuck at an odd angle with his hands webbed in place. Deadpool leans against him again, halfway over his back with a hand grazing fingertips across Spider-Man’s belly as he pulls the vigilante’s hips up, making him flex and twitch as he grinds his teeth.
“Careful, Spidey,” Wade murmurs lowly, ducking to the brunet’s nape. With the hand in Peter’s hair, he turns his boyfriend’s gorgeous face to look at the other end of the rooftop. “We’re still in public, y’know. Wouldn’t want a concerned citizen coming through the roof access door to see what all the noise is about.”
A spike of panic shoots through Peter’s brain, his blackened eyes flicking to the door. It hasn’t moved, he can’t hear anyone coming, and his spider-sense is dead silent, but Wade is right; they’re doing all of this with the vague chance someone could interrupt, and Peter isn’t wearing his mask. His breath becomes a little more ragged but he can’t deny the possibility of getting caught isn’t a little exciting. He’s quick and strong enough that in a pinch he can probably at least hide his face, and he’d rather the public know Deadpool and Spider-Man have sex than that Peter Parker is Spider-Man. It’s strange to think that a year ago, he would’ve considered those two options equally distressing. Wasted time, really. They could’ve been making out in their suits so much sooner and banging on rooftops months ago. He lets out a tiny huff of a chuckle, his smile lazy but triumphant. Better late than never, right?
Wade can see Peter’s brain working through this entire thought process even from his less than stellar vantage point. He can see it in the way Peter’s muscles stiffen, the way his breath quickens, the way he slowly relaxes before those quick breaths get a little deeper. He can feel how hot the younger man’s face is, see the tips of his ears burning crimson, and Wade knows he’s moved past potential mortification and landed on “really horny.” He wonders briefly if Spider-Man has been an exhibitionist this whole time or if Deadpool is just bringing it out in the brunet now. His heart rate kicks into second gear when he catches Peter’s little laugh, and he feels a confusing and elating mix of squishy adoration for the sound and a stern edge of what’s got to be faux-authority — the authority of a dom with a naughty sub to chastise. Amusement isn’t supposed to be the vibe, so Wade knows he’ll get away with his next move.
Peter whimpers sweetly when Wade yanks the brunet’s panties down over his ass and rubs his dick against wet folds, soaking the front of his boxers, the material a bit rough against delicate skin. He pushes Peter back down hard, leaning up against him as he lays his weight across his back once more. “Something funny, Spides?” he murmurs at the smaller man’s ear, turning his head so one side of his face presses into the vent. “I could always cut you out of these webs and put you on your knees instead.” Oh, fuck, his heart is hammering brutally against his ribs. He’s incredibly turned on when Peter’s breath hitches but Wade is always just a little nervous that he’s gone too far when he gets to talking like this. “Give you something better to do with that pretty mouth.”
Peter whines, but when he looks sideways up at Wade, his irises are fully blacked out, the edges of them starting to expand. Oh. He’s fully on board. Wade gives him a few seconds to say something in case he needs to tap out or challenge him and indeed be repositioned. But it looks like Peter’s naughty little smirk means he’s enjoying himself. The backward roll of his hips also seems to say they’re good to go, wet heat against Wade’s throbbing cock enough answer.
“Good boy ,” the mercenary praises, and Peter bites his lower lip, bright red as Wade lifts them both just enough to slide a hand down to Peter’s hip and grip over the crest of it, pulling the webbed hero’s body from the vent. Snaking the same hand down and forward, he shudders with delight as he brushes through short hairs to press over Peter’s erection and lower, easing between his folds and dragging two scarred fingers up and down. Spider-Man moans softly, fingertips twitching beneath his improvised bondage. “Oh, Webs,” Deadpool rasps, moving his hand from the man’s hair to the back of his neck, applying the same amount of force to keep him still as he circles the warm hole he can picture opening wider for him. “For me?” he tacks on teasingly, even though his heart swells with the reality that it is, it is for him. Peter wants him, wants him here and now.
Peter tries to breathe evenly as Wade starts to finger him, dipping into him with practiced digits, and Peter decides he’s not ashamed that Wade can start with two right away. Pleasure radiates into his belly, coiling around his core and making him shiver with shallow breaths. Wade hums lowly in approval as he works him open, no need yet for lube while the shorter super is having zero difficulty imagining all the ways they’re going to make a mess on rooftops across the city. The pressure at the back of his neck is grounding and Wade gives a gentle squeeze when he angles his wrist to curl his fingers inside, each move in and out rubbing the sensitive canal such that Peter groans, letting his lip free from his teeth so Wade can really hear it. The mercenary echoes the sound, ducking to mouth at the small of Peter’s back, making him yelp in surprise for the warmth, the damp kisses Wade sets there. Stupid romantic boyfriend.
“Wade,” Peter protests insincerely, pleasantly soothed while the larger man’s fingers stroke languidly back out of him until he’s empty again. Peter catches his breath and whines, but Wade doesn’t make him wait long, circling three fingertips over his entrance before carefully nudging back inside. The stretch isn’t painful but it takes some adjusting, the brunet squirming under Wade’s firm hand at his neck, tugging at the webs and appreciating their hold. Before Wade, there weren’t a lot of vulnerable positions involving bondage that Peter had been willing to be in; most of Spider-Man’s experiences being heavily restrained were very literally painful or hostile, being that he’s a masked vigilante with a rogue’s gallery of varied creeps and unstable assholes who typically wanted him dead or at least indisposed semi-permanently. Peter had even surprised himself by being into Wade’s hand wrapped around his throat, but considering his spider-sense has never once gone off at Deadpool’s touch or presence, he knows Wade would never actually hurt him. But he’ll manhandle him at Peter’s request and holy shit does that do it for the webslinger. “Hnn, Wade, please,” Peter breathes.
“Hm?” Wade’s voice is deep and distracted, but he knows what Peter is after, finally down to the last knuckles of all three fingers. He starts the slide in and out slowly, teasingly, amazed at how wet Peter still is and the way he can feel him contract around his fingers. (Goddamn, that’s gonna be our dick any minute now.) He kisses one of Peter’s ass cheeks, earning a small chirp that Wade turns into an honest to fuck yip when he follows it up with a quick bite. Chuckling, he moves back up to press his masked forehead between Peter’s shoulder blades, basking in the soft sigh it pulls from between his boyfriend’s lips. “Did you need something, Spidey? Because I’m pretty sure you’re gonna take what I give you tonight, Baby Boy. Don’t worry, though,” he says smoothly, curling his fingers again, hooking over the brunet’s G-spot and dragging a strangled moan out of him. “I won’t be too gentle.”
As if keeping this promise, Wade thrusts in and out much faster; even covered in lube and Peter’s wetness, the raised scars of his fingers provide a slightly rough friction against Peter’s inner walls that has him practically writhing. Pleasure pulses with each drag, his vulva warm and just tight enough that he knows Wade’s cock will still stretch him; there’s a faint ache already and Peter melts into the vent, groaning quietly at length, biting his lips together. He hopes Wade isn’t messing with him, they’re sometimes bad at actually being rough with each other and Wade is so doting that Peter more than once has had to remind him that he’s literally superhuman. To be fair, Wade has also had to remind Peter he’ll heal near instantaneously from the majority of things that could happen to him in the bedroom, though Peter could probably argue things could be different with the knowledge of his Spidey strength in play. Just in case, and maybe because he wants Wade to have an excuse, he smirks faintly and speaks up. “That a promise? Cuz so far you’re treating me like royalty,” he flagrantly challenges. “Aren’t you gonna fuck me, Princess?”
Wade’s motions stutter, so Peter knows he’s accomplished his goal.
“Oh, you are such a little shit,” Wade mutters fondly, and then his fingers are gone, followed quickly by the hand at the back of Peter’s neck. The brunet is left briefly untouched, bewildered at this reaction to his playful taunting, but there’s crinkling and the tiny snap of a cap popping open; by the time Peter dares to lift his head and look over his shoulder, Wade shoves him back down with a hand splayed over the side of his head.
Peter’s skull meets metal just short of painfully, the subtle ringing cut off as he moans shortly, fingers flexing under his webs. The vigilante gasps and quickly bites his tongue when Wade’s hand moves from his head to push his hips back down against the vent, urging him further up against it. Hot, slicked fingers rub over his pussy again, and this time Wade can get a more straightforward angle from directly behind Peter. The smaller man keens as Wade’s dry hand settles between his shoulder blades, leaning enough weight on him that he can’t get a full breath in. It sends little thrills through him, his toes curling in his boots, ankles still trapped in the leggings caught under Wade’s boot until he lifts it from locking Peter’s legs in place and instead knocks his knees further apart, forcibly opening him up further. Peter’s train of thought is effectively slipping into big dumb sex brain, fuzzy and fulfilling. It’s not the only thing that’ll be fulfilled, he thinks distantly He’s pleased with himself for a split second before his attention is drawn again to Wade — more specifically, the blunt head of Wade’s wrapped cock sliding between his wet folds, a long, low moan from the larger man rattling Peter’s cunt with the depth of it.
Peter gasps, the sound stuttering in his throat as it tapers into a wince on the way out. He presses his cheek to the vent, eyes closed as he lets the feeling of Wade pushing into him quickly radiate pleasure up through him, no ceremony or caution necessary when he’s so ready, when he wants Wade’s dick to be what completes the stretch. He’s not really aware that his fingertips have made dents in the ventilation shaft, and he wouldn’t really care, so rather than try to stay motionless, he shifts to resist Wade’s hand holding him down. Wade sometimes needs help finding ways to be rough with him, and Peter has assured him he’ll help; a little resistance seems to do the trick, much fun as it is to otherwise be pliant for him.
Wade cannot believe how much fun it is to fuck Spider-Man doggy style over a fucking vent on a rooftop, especially not when he’s squirming so deliciously beneath his hands. When Spidey starts trying to rise as Deadpool is getting inside of him up to the hilt, his brain latches onto the reminder that his boyfriend asked for rough, that he wants Wade to hold him down and direct him. So he sets his hand at the back of Spidey’s neck again, and this time lets more of his weight pin him to the surprisingly warm metal. He’s glad it’s not cold, even though that would pose its own interesting element; this is their first time screwing in public, so one more little measure of comfort for his spider surely can’t hurt?
He doesn’t want comfortable! He wants you to fuck him stupid— what does he call it? “Big dumb sex brain?” Yeah, get him to subspace like he wants, dummy!
But Wade is focused on how fucking good Peter feels, how hot and tight and soft he is, a near-constant thrum of pleasure from the squeeze of the brunet around him. He grunts once his hips are pressed against Dat Ass and he’s all the way in, fingers gripping roughly at the sides of Peter’s neck; they’re big enough to settle just over the veins and arteries that give the shorter man that heady feeling he seems to like so much. He can hear Peter suck in a sharp breath, sees his blackened eyes flutter open and shut, clearly experiencing that little blood-choke high, so Wade eases on and off of it as he starts to pull back out; can’t have his Baby Boy losing consciousness, but he’s happy to edge him toward it when he knows Peter likes it.
He moves slow only for this moment, until it’s just the head left inside, until the webslinger lets out a needy little whimper and lifts his hips. He grabs Peter’s hip and both pulls the brunet back onto himself and thrusts forward, the hit harsh as he punches a gasp out of him; the sound dissolves into a moan and Wade growls appreciatively as Peter clenches around him. The merc starts to repeat the motion, over and over, setting a pace that has Peter rocking against the vent, his gorgeous ass bouncing as Wade fucks into him.
Peter’s brain has definitely gone mostly offline, hazy with lust and pleasure and a trace of smugness that he’d coaxed Wade into this punishing rhythm. Moans and whines and even a slightly embarrassing mewl all escape him as Wade yanks him back and thrusts, pushes away, yanks and thrusts, pushes away. Spider-Man can’t think linearly, losing track of time, he just knows that when Wade rumbles in his chest, his boyfriend is just as lost in pleasure. He’s done that to him, Peter is making Wade lose the thread of coherence. His neck aches where Wade holds him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. At some point, that hand is back in his hair, taking a fistful and lifting Peter’s face from the vent, craning his neck again, arching his back. Peter whimpers when Wade rocks back into him and comes to a stop all the way inside. Pressed uncomfortably against the vent, Spider-Man tries to breathe evenly, tries to focus his eyes somewhere ahead of himself, the twinkling lights of the city a lovely backdrop to their activities but not enough to hold his attention when he really, really needs his mercenary to move again.
“Wade,” he says in a small voice, dizzy with desire. His own dick is pressed to the metal of the ventilation shaft, more friction granted to it when Wade pointedly grinds against him, somehow pushing just a little deeper into him. “Ah, Wade, please,” he begs weakly instead, “Don’t stop—!”
“Get out of your webs and I’ll keep going,” Wade instructs smugly, and because he’s being held with his face away, Peter can’t see the wicked grin his boyfriend’s wearing. “C’mon, Spidey. I wanna see that super strength. I want you to prove to me that I should be fucking you a lot harder.”
Harder? Wade could go harder? Oh, that bastard.
Peter finds his voice again, even though it remains strained and breathy. “You been holdin’ out on me, Pool?”
“Have I?” Wade replies innocently, tightening his grip in Peter’s hair and pulling a sharp wince out of him. Webs isn’t the only one who gets a kick out of hearing his alter ego’s name during sex, he could reward his little hero for that. “I dunno, guess you won’t find out until you break out of your webs, baby.”
Challenge accepted. Not that it’s actually much of a challenge — it’s not like Peter’s been drugged or dampened at all. He rolls his eyes and smirks, the gestures undercut by the fact that Deadpool can’t see them, but Spider-Man takes all of two seconds to pop his hands off the vent, the metal creaking with the pull of the webbing as Peter holds both hands up for a moment. Wade shudders behind him, groaning; Peter can feel his boyfriend’s cock twitch inside of him and with just a little extra smugness, he hums with satisfaction and sets one hand on Wade’s wrist behind his head.
“Good boy,” Wade grinds out, so beyond turned on he’s not sure his dick could ever be harder — unless maybe Spidey were to turn around and punish him for being so withholding. Maybe with a paralytic bite whilst webbing him to the floor? (Another time, big guy. There’s no way he wouldn’t be into that, the naughty little minx.) But he hauls the brunet up off the vent, Peter gasping sharply as he’s brought back onto his own two feet. Pulling out of him in one swift motion, Wade lets Peter’s confused yelp drive him; he steps off of Spidey’s suit trousers, turning him around abruptly, his body pulled flush against Deadpool’s as he’s brought up to his tip toes. Wade’s dick is caught between Peter’s legs so he’s still rubbing against his messy pussy when he walks him back to the vent. With the hand not still in Peter’s hair, he hikes up one of the brunet’s thighs and grabs his ass. A moment later, he’s sitting the younger man back on the vent.
“Wade,” Peter utters aimlessly, bewildered by the flurry of motion, jostled and still buzzing with pleasure and excitement as he sucks in a breath, holding it. Wade bends to untuck the ends of his costume’s pants and yank them off; it’s not too tricky with Spider-Man’s boots being so tightly shaped to his legs. Peter tries to be marginally helpful, still dazed enough that he’s not sure what to do with himself, impressed that Wade can keep a hold of his hair while he strips him, forcing him to look skyward and grasp loosely at the man’s wrist. Wade is doing all the things that make Peter warm and fuzzy, affection and lust swirling into the pleasure filling his nerves as Wade hikes one of the smaller super’s ankles over his shoulder and jerks Peter’s body closer to the edge of the vent. “Wa—,” Peter tries to repeat, but gets promptly cut off by his merc’s infamous mouth slamming into his own.
Their teeth clack but the brief jolt of pain is drowned by a shared moan, Peter parting his lips immediately as Wade lines his cock up against him and directs his boyfriend’s face to the angle he wants; the mutant invades his mouth with his tongue, expertly distracting him as he finds Peter’s entrance and wraps a big hand around his hip bone, hauling him forward as he thrusts into him again. Peter’s breath hitches and Wade frees his hair to hold his weight at his back, his spider flexible enough to maintain this wide open position and stay upright, which drives Wade absolutely batty with desire. They really need to figure out just how bendy Peter can get while they fuck, because now that he knows he’s sleeping with Spider-Man, his fantasies have gone from separating his boyfriend’s alter egos to combining him into one glorious, very real superstar in Deadpool’s Theater of the Mind.
Peter’s hands are on his shoulders for support as he ducks his face into the crook of Wade’s neck, and while Wade thoroughly enjoys the way the brunet pants and moans so close to his ear, he has other plans for those hands.
“Hands behind your back,” he commands gruffly, his own holding Peter’s hip and settled over the top of his lifted thigh. “Two can play the no-touching game, Webs,” Deadpool teases, smirking as he nips his boyfriend’s lip. When Peter leans back to look at him with solid black eyes, shivering with Wade’s next upward thrust, the merc digs short nails into the hero’s soft flesh. Peter groans but nods obediently, reluctantly prying his hands off of Wade’s shoulders as the man puts his own on Peter’s waist for more stability. Incredibly, he doesn’t need to slow down once the shorter man’s wrists are crossed at the small of his back; using the borrowed web shooter to stick them in place, he applies a second layer for the hell of it. Peter huffs and gives an experimental tug, but is clearly preoccupied when Wade’s hand snakes under a trapped arm and supports his back as it settles behind his neck again.
“That’s better,” Wade coos, emphasizing his pleasure with increasingly abrupt snaps of his hips. Peter keens and twists his wrists experimentally, dropping his head back as Wade does get deeper, just as promised. Compared to his original suit — the one he’d worn on Halloween — this Spidey suit reveals more of Peter’s neck without the mask, so Wade takes advantage of the exposed skin and tucks his nose under Peter’s chin. The moan slipping from Peter’s mouth as he drags his teeth over the delicate skin of his throat makes him growl. Peter feels so good inside, even as the little pricks of his growing stubble scrape Wade’s scarred lips; Wade can’t resist steadily sucking a bruise into his spider’s neck as his own pleasure wraps around his middle, thrums in his dick and tugs at his balls. He can hold Peter just so — slightly arched back, craned neck, legs open — with the smaller man’s voice soft and full as he moans before him. It’s enough that Wade knows he won’t last much longer. Between thrusts, he can feel Peter twitch around him and with his hand on the back of the other’s neck, squeezing occasionally to interrupt the blood flow to his pretty head, he has enough leverage to keep fucking him and drag a hand over his naked abdomen. Peter flinches reflexively at the surprise touch but Wade drops his hand to the wallcrawler’s cock, catching underneath it with his thumb, stroking it with some of the slick from all the pushing and pulling just below it.
Peter moans weakly, shoulders tensing as Wade rubs and pinches, making his hips twitch at the contact, little bursts of pleasure hitting his core. His vulva is soaked in constant sensation that makes his vision tilt as Wade’s mouth moves just under his ear. He can hear the larger man’s breaths getting heavier, his groans interrupting Peter’s moans with every other thrust deep inside of him. It’s starting to feel overwhelming, Peter’s hands clenching and unclenching behind his back, locked above the base of his spine.
Fuck, fuck, is it really almost winter? There’s just so much heat between them. Wade’s hands, his mouth, his dick, it’s all so hot, Peter’s entire body is on fire in the best way; he knows he’s blushing everywhere. He whines, trying to find words again, needing something — something he knows Wade will give him if he can just get himself to say it.
“Wade,” he whimpers, the words still not coming to him. “Wade, want—,” he tries, tapering off into a whine, into louder moans, but Wade brings his mouth over Peter’s jawline, tipping his head forward with strong fingers and meeting his lips with a feverish kiss. Peter sighs dreamily, close — so close — and Wade seems to be on the same page.
“Gonna fuck you past it, Baby Boy,” Wade informs him breathlessly, moaning softly before returning to the brunet’s mouth, pleased that he tries to nod, tries to assure his big, beautiful boyfriend that he’s more than okay with that. Wade has never been subtle about how much he likes it when Peter can cum first, and who doesn’t like how it feels to have someone squirming with an orgasm while you’re still inside of them?
Cowards, that’s who!!
“Fuck, Wade, please,” Peter strains, breaking the kiss to duck his head to Wade’s shoulder, bent forward at what would be a very uncomfortable angle for anyone half as flexible as Spider-Man. Wade slips his hand into Peter’s hair and tugs harshly at inconsistent intervals as Peter clenches around him, gasping and shuddering and burying his face in Wade’s neck, breath hot and damp and teeth close to catching on mottled skin. “Wade!” Peter says miserably, twisting slightly as the man continues to fuck into him even as his orgasm hits.
It washes over him in waves — sneaking waves that catch you off-guard and sweep you out to sea in mere moments; it radiates from his cunt into his core, up his spine, curling his fingers and toes as he writhes. Wade’s hand on his cock slows but doesn’t stop, dragging out the pulses of pleasure as Peter clenches and spasms around his boyfriend. He moans weakly, cut off into a soft keening as Wade keeps his promise and fucks him past the peak of it. “Ahh—,” he breathes, the sound strangled as he slides into oversensitivity, just this side of painful as lingering pleasure claws at him, aftershocks heightened by continued stimulation.
Wade groans as Peter continues to seize and twitch around his dick. “Fuck, Pete,” he grinds out, the sound of his voice broken and needy in its own way, which just makes the swells of Peter’s overstimulation stronger. “Such a good boy.” Finally, finally , Wade can feel the tightening in his own belly, the bubble of wait, wait, almost, wait, bursting at last.
The mercenary’s hips stutter, but he keeps up his steady thrusting when orgasm strikes, Peter’s hypersensitive whimpers fueling the pleasure that rocks him, settling in his core and making his dick throb as he fucks his spider until he can barely keep himself standing. Wade moans softly and begins to slow, the drag of his cock just a little achy as Peter occasionally clenches around him, a panting mess against him. The hand at Peter’s neck and shoulders rubs the muscles there gently, and Wade comes to a stop while he’s still inside of him, breathing hard and trying to focus again amidst the haze of orgasm and the thrill of executing near-public sex. Peter is almost limp in his arms, breath shallow but even, and Wade finally pulls his hand from his boyfriend’s clit, earning a tiny whimper as the smaller man flinches.
“I gotchu,” Wade murmurs sweetly, kissing Peter’s temple and reaching behind himself to pull a short knife from his belt, a nano-fiber composite blade that can cut through Spider-Man’s webs. He holds Peter’s body to him as he peeks over the brunet’s shoulder and carefully cuts around the edges of the webbing that traps Peter’s arms behind his back. When there’s enough torn, he helps the smaller man bring his arms to rest at his sides and only leans away from him enough to slowly lower Peter’s leg from his shoulder, perching him on the edge of the vent. Peter whines quietly at some of the soreness, though he knows most of it will be gone in only a couple of hours; he’s been well-fed and well-rested, after all. Wade’s been seeing to that.
“I gotchu, Sweetheart,” Wade repeats softly, setting the brunet’s heart aflutter, “I’m gonna pull out, yeah?” Peter nods, darkened eyes glazed over but a tired little smile on his face. Wade holds his breath and eases his softening penis out of his boyfriend, earning another whimper followed by a shudder. Wade smooths a hand over Peter’s hair and urges the shorter super toward himself again, encouraging his legs to settle on either side of Wade’s hips. “C’mere, Baby Boy.”
Picking Peter up with one arm under his upper thighs and one across his back, Wade moves to lean back against the vent, sliding down to sit with his legs folded to give Peter a better place to sit in his lap, the brunet’s arms tucked just under Wade’s his hands hooked over the larger man’s shoulders from behind. Peter sighs quietly, eyes closed as he rests his head on Wade’s chest, his shoulder, nuzzling at the opening of his suit where he can get to Wade’s bare skin, his collarbone. He hums pleasantly, and Wade holds him close and noses at his hair as he starts petting soft, sweat-damp curls. His other hand rubs smoothly up and down Peter’s back, brushing webbing away from his costume top every now and then, vague amusement in his absentminded humming.
They’re both still messy — sloppy, even — but neither of them really care, too busy basking in the afterglow of each other. Besides, the aftercare is one of their favorite parts, even if neither of them has articulated this truth aloud just yet. Peter can breathe in Wade and how sweet he is, the taller super doting and adoring, and Wade can soak up Peter’s satisfaction and how good it feels to be actually, truly wanted, the spider affectionate and caring as he rubs both hands down Wade’s back in an echo of the merc’s own motions.
“Hey,” Peter says quietly after a few minutes of comfortable shared silence. Wade hums. “I love you. I’m glad we did this,” he elaborates with a lopsided smile at Wade’s neck, where he sets a little kiss.
“I love you too, Petey-Pie,” Wade sighs happily, and maybe he’s blushing a little, resting his hand on the back of Peter’s head and kissing his crown. “That was fun. We’ll hafta do it again sometime,” the man assures him with a smirk.
“I was thinking we could do it again tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Or the next day. Could try an every-other-day thing.”
Wade snorts, ruffling Peter’s hair affectionately. (Where. Is. His. Ring?) “I forgot how horny you can get,” he muses.
“I wasn’t this horny until you, thanks,” Peter protests wryly. Wade gasps and coos, and Peter tips his head back, setting his chin on his merc’s shoulder as he grins. “It’s totally impeded my ability to function day to day. How are you gonna make it up to me?”
“I was thinking an every-other-day thing.” Wade flashes a wicked grin and Peter’s steadily normalizing eyes flash with mischief.
“Negotiations can start after we get home. I’m not so sure I’m capable of normal patrol right now.” Peter closes his eyes and nuzzles Wade’s jaw with a soft sigh. “Not complaining, just saying,” he adds with amusement, hoping his sincerity is plain.
“Are we gonna cuddle more?” Wade asks cautiously.
“Like you hafta ask,” Peter scoffs, kissing Wade’s cheek and starting to peel himself away. He pauses thoughtfully and narrows his gaze suspiciously. “Don’t you normally wear a cup with your suit?”
“Yes, yes I do,” Wade says with a cheeky grin.
“Well?”
“Honey, I found the lube and condoms, I’m not an idiot.” Wade cackles when Peter rolls his eyes, his pretty little head following the motion as it always does. “I dunno if you know this, but erections are a bitch in a cup.”
“Can’t relate,” Peter jokes, offering a dazzling grin that shows off his fangs.
“Might not wear cups anymore when we patrol together, not like it was, uh…” He stops himself, pressing his lips into a thin, guilty line. Peter stares expectantly, waiting. Wade winces, clears his throat. “Not like it was so great before. When we’d patrol together— before.”
Oh god oh god oh god he knows, he knows we got boners for Spidey! But, but he is Spidey, that’s gotta count for something, right??
Peter hums at length, a sly smile on his lips as he gives Wade a quick once over from where he sits in his boyfriend’s lap. “Shocking,” he drawls.
“Meanie,” Wade pouts, but threads of tension slip away from his shoulders when Peter leans in and gently kisses his lightly flushed cheek with soft lips. “Sorry, sweets.”
“Eh, I’m over it,” Peter snorts. As if it had ever been a problem. He’d noticed once or twice but had gracefully dismissed it in favor of whatever actual task they’d been dealing with at the time. “Besides, whenever I was turned on, you just couldn’t see, so. Y’know. We’re even.”
Wade gasps theatrically, leaning back slightly to gape at his spider with wide white mask eyes. “You were turned on?!” he demands accusingly.
“Sometimes.” Peter shrugs nonchalantly. “I told you I think you’re really attractive, why are you so surprised?” he teases fondly.
Wade groans, thumping his head back against the ventilation shaft. “Wasted opportunities, I tell ya.”
“I know,” Peter agrees softly, setting his head back on Wade’s shoulder. The chill of the night starts to creep in, unnoticeable while they’d been fucking themselves stupid but now giving Peter tiny goosebumps. “…You’re my favorite space heater, Wade, but uh. We should probably get outta here. And have a shower.” Together, he doesn’t have to add.
Wade fiddles with one of his pouches, pulling out a little travel pack of baby wipes. Peter laughs once, taking it with a bashful smile and carefully getting to his feet. He offers a hand to help Wade up too, and they carefully wipe each other down, gathering their trash and laughing as they hastily finish off their neglected drinks; Peter shivers dramatically as the still-cold Thai tea saps some of his body warmth, and Wade laughs at him. Fully suited up again, Wade and Peter — Deadpool and Spider-Man — swing their way off the rooftop and head toward their shared home, a shared shower, and an early night, during which they’ll watch familiar favorite TV shows and kiss each other to sleep on their shared bed.
Notes:
we’re almost done with the main story, folks!! Thank you so much for hanging in like you have!! 🥰🤩 the last chapter will be about half this long, see ya then 😘
Chapter 20: [20] Home
Summary:
Peter and Wade have a much-needed conversation and are big dumb idiots in love.
Content Warning for explicit discussion of grief, survivor’s guilt, and Wade’s boxes.
Notes:
This fic is dedicated to my beta reader and fabulous gf for all her love, attention, feedback, and ideas. I don't think I would've written this the way or length that I did without her, let alone published it for others to read.
A special thanks to my proofreader and very good friend, as well. The patience she had to go through this massive fic (which is also longer than I estimated it to be when I started publishing it) for a fandom she's really only tangentially attached to (blame my gf and me) was stellar, and she deserves all the treatos for her feedback and suggestions, too also! (There's a massive author's note at the end, just a heads up.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter had put it off for too long. He should’ve started this conversation the morning after Wade had gotten back, after Peter had “come out” for the second time. He should’ve emailed his thesis advisor that he’d been sick and needed to reschedule. He should’ve clung tighter to Wade in bed that following morning, remembered that revealing his secret identity to Wade Wilson — Deadpool, the Merc With the Mouth, his best friend and loving boyfriend — means that Wade deserves to hear why Peter had withheld something so important for so long. Spider-Man may get away with keeping his alter ego under wraps, but Peter Parker? Peter Parker is dating a super who happens to also be BFFs and crime-fighting partners with Spider-Man; it hardly feels fair that he’d excluded Wade from this particular truth after well over a year of companionship, several months of which have also been romantic.
He can’t put off discussing how it had made Wade feel any longer. Today’s the day they talk about it—
Except.
Wade keeps dodging him.
Not the sort of dodging that Spider-Man used to do when he’d first met Deadpool, when he’d tried his best to just leave the vicinity every time Deadpool had caught up to him. When he’d been distrustful and too willing to believe a bunch of other supers with their own hypocritical agendas regarding the masked mercenary. No, Wade ducks the conversation but he can’t stay away from Peter any more than Deadpool could’ve stayed away from Spider-Man.
“Wade,” Peter begins hesitantly four days after the reveal, barely 36 hours after their first rooftop sexcapade. He takes a seat at the kitchen island counter in boxers and a t-shirt, fuzzy blue socks on his feet and an equally fuzzy red blanket over his shoulders, a too-big cape that he tucks in over his knees. The brunet briefly wonders if he’d always managed to accidentally color-code himself as Spider-Man or if Deadpool’s penchant for Spidey merch was really to blame. Wade putters around the stove, setting up to make waffles; he owns two Belgian waffle irons, far too impatient to wait on one at a time despite the sheer size of even a singular waffle. “Can we talk? About my, uh. About Spider-Man?”
“I was thinking,” Wade says with his regular morning cheer, something Peter cannot remotely relate to, “blueberry today, chocolate chip on Friday?”
“Um, yeah,” Peter agrees, brow dipping. His pulse thrums in his throat and he tries again. “I just, I wanted to explain why I… waited so long?”
“I got so much deli roast beef, babe, I’m gonna make you the best French dip sammiches,” Wade goes on almost absentmindedly, remaining with his back the smaller man, who bites his lips tightly together. “Got a fuckin’ perfect baguette I picked up today.”
“You’ve already gone out?” Peter asks, effectively distracted. “It’s barely eight AM!”
“Ah, but now I can hang out with you aaaaall day,” Wade singsongs with a happy little sigh, finally turning around with a little green basket of blueberries in his hand. He grins at Peter and the younger man’s resolve melts into a smile of his own.
It goes like this for another twelve days: Peter tries to bring it up as diplomatically as he can and Wade dismisses, redirects, or fully manages to escape the room in a passably believable way. Or it would be believable, if the last time hadn’t been to supposedly pick up dry cleaning when Peter could quite literally turn his head and stare at the last pick up of Deadpool suits covered in plastic and hanging on the back of the bathroom door; Peter had mentally graded the effort as C-minus at best. Maybe if they hadn’t been in the bedroom, lounging on top of each other in the late afternoon, and Wade hadn’t used this excuse when he’d also barely had any clothes on. Maybe if he hadn’t needed to service the lie by hastily putting on civilian clothes and ducking out of the apartment, Peter would’ve been more inclined to buy it.
That one had sort-of — maybe hypocritically — hurt Peter’s feelings.
“Wade,” he says when they’re finally taking Halloween decorations down, the way some people wait well after the new year to take down Christmas trees and lights. It still amuses him that Wade had put window decals on the walls, leaving behind the vague, oily imprints of the shapes behind. He wonders if they should paint over or try to clean it off, doing his best to rearrange the gel decorations on the thin plastic sheets they’d come on so they can use them again next year. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll be with Wade next Halloween. There’s no doubt he’ll be with him for the foreseeable future, which is why he desperately wants to have this conversation and get it over with. Clear the air. Reassure his boyfriend and partner that he loves him with every part of who he is, even if it had taken him so damned long to share his complete self.
“Hm?” Wade hums, standing on a chair to take down a cutesy mobile of bats from the corner of the dining area. He looks down below his raised arm to smile serenely at Peter.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and I really need to know how you felt about it and how you feel about it now because avoiding talking about what a dick I was is really stressing me out and I really care about you and I know I should’ve told you sooner and it was really shitty of me not to and I’m so sorry Wade, please, please talk to me,” Peter says all in a rush, needing to heave in a deep, staggered breath when he dares not interrupt his own verbal run-on sentence. The plastic clutched in his hands crinkles, a gravestone decal bent in half. “I love you so much, and I know I hurt you, and it’s kinda freaking me out that you haven’t had a reaction that wasn’t just— how horny you got day-of.”
Oh no, the stream of consciousness babble is really starting up. Peter’s chest tightens and his mouth goes dry and his rabbit heart tries to bust out between his ribs, and why is Wade just staring at him? Peter fumbles with the plastic sheet of bloody handprints and cemetery pieces and sets it on the dining table so he doesn’t drop it on the floor or crush it with his stupid sticky fingers, trying to compose himself long enough to speak a little more normally, control the pitch of his voice so it doesn’t jump an octave.
“I trust you more than anyone in the world and I just— stupidly, it— it’s so stupid but I couldn’t tell you, so I didn’t, but I should have, I know I should have! It wasn’t fair to just spring it on you and then just— just distract you with sex? I mean that’s not why I wanted to have sex, when we did, I just, it worked out that way, I swear, I—! Oh my god.” The world tilts for a second. “Oh my god, did I use you? Was I using you? Holy shit, did I manipulate you into having s—?” Peter goes on, starting to properly panic because why hadn’t he considered that he’d basically thrown down a massive, life-altering secret and then fucked Wade without actually giving him time to process?
Peter’s not really aware of what he’s doing with his hands until Wade is suddenly in front of him, interrupting his rambling and lowering them from the vicious grip he has in his own hair. His scalp aches and the brunet looks miserably up at Wade with guilt and shame and a horrible, icky prickling under his skin. He can’t really remember how to breathe and Wade’s neutral expression isn’t really helping; the fact that notably mouthy Wade Wilson has been silent during Peter’s ranting is also throwing him for a loop. He flexes his fingers uncomfortably, biting his tongue and looking at where Wade’s big warm hands gently hold his wrists.
“Please say something,” Peter croaks, because now his throat is as dry and sticky as his cottonmouth and this isn’t a comfortable, companionable silence like the ones he’s used to when both of them are able to shut up around each other and just be.
“Pete,” Wade says quietly, far too gentle considering what Peter had done and how long he’d basically jerked Wade around. Somehow, Wade not yelling at him makes him more nervous. “I’m… yeah, I’m upset. I was upset.”
Peter focuses on Wade’s words and the way his expression is too soft, his hands on Peter’s skin too careful, just holding him motionlessly — not squeezing, or digging nails in, or pushing Peter away. But he deserves all of that, Wade should be furious and maybe even should’ve broken up with him for lying and definitely, totally manipulating the mercenary and abusing his kindness and generosity and affection and—
“Aw, Petey, don’t cry,” Wade murmurs delicately, but Peter can only feel worse guilt because he shouldn’t cry, he shouldn’t be allowed to feel upset that Wade had been upset. Big fat tears of shame and anxiety and cold, impending loneliness start spilling out of him and blurring his vision. Maybe he won’t be with Wade next Halloween after all, how could he be so selfish to think this happiness could last after what he’d pulled? And Wade — too kind, too patient, sweetheart Wade fucking Wilson — hauls him forward and wraps the smaller man up in his arms, cradling Peter’s head to his shoulder and running soothing hands up and down his back. “Hey, c’mon, Pumpkin, I… I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding it, I know you’ve been tryna talk to me about this,” he says at the younger man’s ear. Peter can’t see his face to read his expression, but he dares to press his wet face to Wade’s warm skin, only a thin layer of cotton between him and Wade’s familiar scars. Scars he may never have the privilege of touching again, any minute now. “Can we sit down, Sugar Bear?”
Peter’s shoulders tremble with the rest of his stupid, traitorous body when he nods against Wade’s chest, arms weak as he gratefully returns the embrace. Wade hesitates only a moment before squeezing around Peter and simply picking him up off his feet. Miraculously, Peter chokes on a small laugh and the larger man brings them to the couch, turning to sit back and settle his spider in his lap in a familiar move. The way Wade can encompass him without making him feel caged or unsafe is bewildering. Peter still can’t wrap his head around how good it feels to be smaller in comparison to someone like Wade; it’s even better when Wade makes himself small for Peter, and he really, really hopes they can have that after this. That he can have Wade curled in his own lap and give him the comfort of being held the way Wade holds Peter. Sniffling, Peter curls his fingers at Wade’s back and pulls himself back so he can look at his mercenary, look into his beautiful hazel eyes and suck it the hell up so he can apologize like an adult and try to come up with a way to make it up to Wade if he still wants Peter after all this.
“Hi,” Wade greets with a little smile when Peter’s woeful puppy dog eyes, still glistening with tears, meet his gaze with a measure of willpower he knows his shutterbug is struggling to maintain. He keeps one hand firmly rubbing up and down Peter’s back as he lifts a hand to gently card through soft brown curls, watching his long lashes flutter. “Are you breathing, baby? Can you breathe for me?” Peter’s jaw tenses but he nods, swallowing hard and trying to do just that because Wade had asked him to. Because he isn’t good at it when he’s halfway to an anxiety attack. “We can talk about it, but I also kinda wanna cuddle you, okay? It’ll make me feel better,” Wade reasons honestly.
Bonus points, it also makes Peter feel better to close the distance when one or both of them feel like shit; stretched too thin and reeking of panic, guilt, and shame.
“Yeah,” Peter agrees, voice scratchy. He pulls a blanket from the back of the couch and shakily opens it up, doing his best to wrap both of them up in it. Clutching the ends closed, he buries his face into the curve of his boyfriend’s neck again; Wade smells like leather conditioner and the enchiladas from last night. Under it is a faint whiff of maple that Wade jokes is just his “natural Canadian musk,” but he smells like home and the comfort that Peter doesn’t deserve. He’s distracted, still soothed enough by the scent that he doesn’t notice Wade nosing into his hair until there’s a soft sigh of appreciation above his ear.
“Like damp earth,” Wade notes quietly. Peter turns his face just slightly closer to Wade’s jaw, brow furrowed. “Like rain. Pretty sure there’s a word for it, but…,” the other super elaborates unhelpfully.
“What?” Peter asks uncertainly, clutching Wade’s shirt and the fuzzy corners of the blanket. He does already feel a little better, warm and huddled against his boyfriend who he really hopes stays his boyfriend.
“You smell like rain, Sweets,” Wade says with a tiny smile, nuzzling Peter’s crown with his cheek, fingers still playing with strands of hair at the back of his neck. “Cinnamon and rain. Fruity cereal. Sometimes sea salt. Real surprised I didn’t put that together— Spidey smells like cinnamon and salt. I mean, you do. In the suit, y’know?”
Peter isn’t sure he should be hearing such a casual, soothing tone out of Wade right now, tensing slightly as Wade continues to talk about Spider-Man and Peter himself in comparison; he doesn’t dare interrupt now, just tucks his face to press his nose under Wade’s jaw, listening.
“There’s a buncha stuff I shoulda noticed, Petey. The uh. The boxes had some opinions for a while there, I just didn’t listen. And here we are.” Wade pauses and shifts slightly, hands falling from Peter only to pull his legs up and cross his ankles, giving Peter a more comfortable lap to sit in, settling him delicately and helping the brunet cozy up against him again. Peter stiffens but shifts to accommodate, sagging against Wade’s broad chest and resting his head on his shoulder. Wade returns a hand to his hair and breathes in as Peter sighs raggedly. “In hindsight, which is 20/20 and never needs correction, I shoulda noticed the similarities months ago.”
“Wade,” Peter says in a small voice, but Wade hushes him and wraps an arm around his shoulders to bring him even closer, sharing his considerable warmth, trying to convey security and patience. Peter chews his cheek and waits again.
“You ever noticed the way you walk, baby?” Wade asks lightly. Peter nods after a beat. “Course you do, bet you thought a lot about it when you were younger, huh?” Wade adds quieter, knowing. “But you move like an acrobat, Sweetie. You’re fluid and quick. You do this thing, when you’re curious or focused, where you sorta… stop? Like you go still, and then.” He snorts, startling Peter. “Then you cock your head at an angle, like a, like a bird. Or a puppy tryna listen to something he can’t hear right? Like, I can tell you’re listening, and it’s— it’s so adorable. Then you—.” Peter scowls and narrows his gaze, lifting his head to show Wade his displeasure. The man giggles, gesturing to Peter’s face. “Yeah, that. You squint a little. It happens to your mask, too, the lenses contract and it’s so precious, Petey.”
This is certainly a confusing conversation but now Peter is embarrassed instead of ashamed. “What!” he demands, but his voice is still rough and his red-rimmed eyes are sparkly, so Wade can only beam at him, which throws the brunet off again. “What?” he repeats softer, shier, almost smiling.
“Shoulda noticed the freckles, too. Your canines. I just thought, y’know, ‘lotsa people have freckles, it’s not that weird that Pete and Spidey both have freckles.’ And I think you noticed I was staring too much after I noticed them for the first time. Like when we’d be hangin’ out or eating ‘n you’d have your mask over your nose? Cuz you stopped letting me look for too long a few months ago, and then the light was never good enough, and— wow, I’m pretty dumb— I also love the shape of your nose and totally shoulda noticed you have the same nose…” Wade squints and swipes a fingertip down the length of Peter’s nose while he studies the man’s face, which is turning hot pink as the smaller super opens and closes his mouth when he can’t come up with something to say.
“You’re not dumb,” Peter decides sincerely. “I… I wasn’t weird about the mask until I was seeing you more as… well, myself. Just Peter.” He can’t maintain eye contact when Wade’s are all scrunched with humor and affection like they are. “I didn’t want you to notice those things.” He steels himself, because he still hasn’t explained. “I didn’t want you to change your mind about me.”
“What’s there to change?”
“People like Spider-Man. You liked Spider-Man.”
“Still do, Hot Stuff.”
“But I couldn’t ‘ve guaranteed you were gonna like Peter Parker,” Peter goes on meaningfully, clenching his jaw for a moment and darting his eyes back to Wade’s. The mercenary frowns thoughtfully. “If you knew that soon that it was just me under the mask, things would’ve been… different. I didn’t want you to see Spider-Man when you looked at me. Or me when you looked at Spider-Man.”
“Pete,” Wade says gently, like the smaller man is breaking his heart. But Peter shakes his head, unfinished.
“Spider-Man is me. He is . I am, it’s me, we’re the same person, but— but I-I can’t be confident, super friendly, funny, kick-ass Spidey all the time. I’m… I’m also Peter Parker, and Peter Parker is a cranky nerd with ADHD who spends most of his time on thesis stuff or in class. A-and I like old movies and doing math for fun and if I weren’t a biochemical engineer, I think maybe I’d teach, or maybe I would’ve gone into astrophysics or software engineering—,” he goes on, and why oh why does he ever talk about himself? This is hardly the time and luckily for him Wade sets a finger over his lips. He quiets immediately, grimacing apologetically.
“I’m not hearing a problem, Pumpkin,” Wade tells him simply. “I like Peter Parker. I like how geeky you are. I like that you like old movies and musicals and Godzilla. I like how good you are at puzzles and how you get really into your photoshoots.” Peter’s cheeks and ears are turning red now and Wade smirks triumphantly. “Pete, I fell for you . The fact that you’re Spidey is extra ganache on a tasty 4-layer chocolate fudge cake that I was gonna binge eat no matter what.”
“I. I’m sorry, I’m derailing,” Peter says uneasily, because Wade moving to flattery and reassurance is not the plan. “I… I didn’t tell you, not just because I wasn’t sure you’d like… me, but because there’s still this… this other stupid hang up I’ve got.” He fidgets and Wade moves his hands to rub up and down Peter’s arms, warm and steady. Grounding. It lights his nerves with affection and that lingering guilt, the guilt that he has to keep an eye on because it likes to coil into grief and jump into his lungs when he least expects it. But it’s important. It’s relevant. It’s not fair and doesn’t really apply to Wade, but it’s part of Peter’s problem and he has to confess the whole story to someone.
“People who know that I’m Spider-Man get hurt,” he explains carefully, unable to meet Wade’s eyes again. “They get— sometimes they get killed, and it’s my fault.” His voice starts to crack every few words and Wade squeezes his deltoids, gaze narrowed slightly. “They get hurt, or they die, and it’s because they know I’m Spider-Man.” He takes a deep breath when Wade sets one hand on the back of his neck. “It happened to MJ, it happ—,” he tries, choking on a sob, his face screwing up, “it happened to Gwen.” Not only had he withheld his alter ego, he’d withheld his first love like he has any right to keep her a secret, like Gwen is someone to be ashamed of. He’s not ashamed of Gwen, he’s ashamed of himself. “It’s my fault Gwen died,” Peter says wetly. Wade pushes both hands through his hair, urging him to come closer and lean against his chest and shoulder again; he doesn’t deserve Wade’s comfort but Peter is too weak to resist.
“I didn’t tell you I’m Spider-Man because it turns out Spider-Man is a killer and a hypocrite and h-how could I tell you not to do the same thing I did? How could I turn your hero into a— a fucking murderer?” Peter says through his teeth in nearly a whisper, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes, just moving the tears around. He doesn’t want to soak Wade’s shirt. He doesn’t want to burden Wade with this, even though Wade should know; he deserves to know, he doesn’t deserve to be lied to anymore. “How could I be your hero, after what I did? She died because I couldn’t save her. I wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t smart enough, and she fell, Wade. She— she fell so far,” he goes on, voice fully breaking.
“Peter, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” Wade assures him gently, rocking them a little, tucking his chin over Peter’s head as the brunet shakes and curls up tighter in his lap. Peter clings to the back of his shirt and refuses to look up from where he’s hiding his face in his knees. No wonder he holds onto Wade like this when he’s scared or sad. Shit. “Is she the girl in your nightmares?”
Peter’s heart nearly seizes. “What?”
“You say her name sometimes, baby. In your sleep. When you have a bad nightmare and wake up screaming.” Wade does his best not to sound like he’s just realized this had been another piece of the Spider-Pete puzzle.
Peter’s mind reels. He’s been saying her name this whole time? He’s well aware he still has the nightmares, that they’ll never stop. He’s had way fewer in the last couple of months, sleeping in bed with Wade and able to soak in the ambient comfort and warmth of his loving boyfriend. “I have?” he squeaks.
“Pete, I… I think I know who you’re talking about.” Wade treads carefully, revealing how much he knows about Spider-Man’s villain interactions has always been a touchy subject around the wallcrawler, since the extent of it borders on… well, stalker levels. He’s a fangirl, naturally, but he’s also a mercenary; gathering information and observing subjects are strong suits. Wade had looked into a lot of things about Spider-Man, stopping just short of tracking down his identity, and incidents like the one with the Green Goblin in Manhattan less than four years ago had been included. From what he’d gathered, Spidey is either missing crucial details or misremembering after all the — you know — trauma. Wade can’t just let him get away with blaming himself, so he takes a breath and goes on in a gentle voice. “I need you to know, Sweetheart, the autopsy said the shock of the fall killed her.”
Peter tenses up in his arms again but only continues to cry softly. “I broke her neck, Wade.”
A cold silence fills the room. Grief bleeds out of Peter as he sniffles, relaxing all at once. Resigned. Wade’s eyelid twitches.
“I tried to stop her falling,” Peter tells him, strangely numb. His tears don’t stop but he can’t be bothered to fight them. “Tried to catch her before she could hit the ground. But she… the momentum, Wade, I— I caught her, but she— bounced. Just before she could hit the pavement.” He sees it again, even from high above: her body bending unnaturally with the force of the stop. “I heard it, Wade. I heard her neck sn—.” He flinches, remembering the series of sickening little cracks in quick succession, crystal clear with his cursed enhanced senses. Peter swallows roughly again. The lump won’t go down. “I heard it snap. I killed her.”
“Peter,” Wade says gravely. A chill ripples up Peter’s spine; he tenses again but Wade is unmoving. “You didn’t kill her. She was dead before you caught her.” Peter’s heart twists, tears renewed. He’s exhausted, too tired to hold onto him anymore but Wade cradles him closer and Peter doesn’t deserve the trickle of comfort it grants him. “Goblin killed her, Pete. He threw her from that skyscraper and even if she’d been alive when you caught her — which she wasn’t — of all the ways to die, a broken neck is a thousand times better than becoming a pancake on the sidewalk, baby.” A pause. Wade grits his teeth before relaxing his jaw again. “You gotta trust me on that, I can speak from experience. It would have been a mercy.”
“Wade,” Peter croaks, trembling now. His fingers curl slowly back into Wade’s shirt, bunching the fabric as he presses his face into his chest, drenching it after all with his horrible, messy tears. “You don’t hafta… don’t say that. I know what I did—.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” Wade insists defensively, and Peter clamps his mouth shut. “You didn’t kill Gwen Stacy, Spider-Man. Gwen is not dead because you tried to save her. A dangerous, fucked up, severely ill criminal with a vendetta against one of the greatest heroes on the planet killed her. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and Goblin took advantage of that. If I recall correctly, Spider-Man barely walked away from that fight himself.” Peter ducks his face lower. “You feel responsible because you’re a hero, Pete. Because you loved her.” His voice softens, his shoulders droop, and he rests his cheek atop Peter’s head again, threading fingers lazily through his hair. For a few long, precious moments, he just holds the brunet and plays with his curls while Peter processes.
Wade figures his boyfriend has never really let himself grieve properly. Peter had mentioned therapy and the timeline for when he’d tried lines up with Gwen’s death, but it’s hard to fully take advantage of a therapist when you can’t explain that you weren’t just the civilian boyfriend but also the masked vigilante who’d been on the scene at the time; the survivor’s guilt hits very differently. (We know all about survivor’s guilt and failing to save someone we love.) Wade can’t imagine someone like Spider-Man hadn’t also had a touch of a savior complex, considering his only recently and barely broken habit of thinking he needed to save the entire city all by himself.
“Harry was my friend, Wade,” Peter says so quietly he’s not sure he’d spoken aloud. Wade frowns but doesn’t stop petting the other man’s hair. The mercenary knows the Green Goblin — the man who’d killed Gwen Stacy — had been Harry Osborn, but even after his arrest that night, nothing had ever come out on the villain’s personal life that had included Peter’s name. A “P. Parker” had been mentioned in relation to Gwen in the papers and online, but it had been easy for Deadpool to assume her only connection to Spider-Man had been tangential to knowing the hero’s photographer, if there had ever been a connection to begin with. Even the Daily Bugle had reported that there’d been no obvious link between Gwen Stacy and Spider-Man, that she had ultimately just been a random, convenient target as a reachable civilian trying to help during a citywide bombing crisis. “He was my best friend since childhood and he took Gwen because he knew it would hurt me.”
“Pete—.”
“I wouldn’t give him my blood, Wade. He wanted my blood— Spider-Man’s blood. He thought it would help him get better. I told him it wasn’t a good idea. Spider-Man told him it wasn’t safe.” A dry, bitter laugh, and Peter goes on. “A messy, debilitating hereditary disease that kills you slowly and miserably. He just didn’t want to die young, but I… I knew my blood wouldn’t help. It’s, it’s a long story, but the company? Oscorp would’ve used it to hurt people. For everything good they do, they do twice as much for the military, sketchy covert government departments, and private operations. It’s bad enough Oscorp sells the tech that they already do, I couldn’t let them have what might give them super soldiers.”
Wade’s eyelid twitches more drastically this time. Super soldiers, huh? Sounds familiar.
Holy shit, what a weirdly noble little bug. Those morals are gonna get him killed, no wonder he’s so sympathetic to our tragic backstory.
“Your friend doing something stupid and fucked up because he was scared of mortality is not a good reason to blame yourself, Pete,” Wade reasons stiffly. Peter takes a long, deep breath, exhaling silently as Wade settles his hand on the back of his neck. He seems smaller than ever when he’s heartbroken. “How did he find out?”
“He—,” Peter chokes. “He didn’t know until he grabbed Gwen, but he wasn’t gonna kill her until he realized who Spider-Man was. Who I was.”
“Baby,” the mercenary murmurs, squeezing Peter’s side. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he reminds him even more gently this time. “Weren’t you all of, like, 20 years old?”
“Yeah. We were,” the brunet answers in a small voice. It’s hard to accept they’d both been so young. “She was trying to help.”
“Did you tell her to?” Wade questions quickly, already knowing the answer.
“Of course not,” Peter rasps, grimacing.
“Then it sounds like she made a choice to be there.”
A trace of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You couldn’t tell Gwen what to do even if you were a police captain,” he muses, and Wade suspects he’s being a smart-ass. “She was so confident. Independent.”
“She sounds like a smart cookie,” Wade chuckles. He’s not jealous, somehow. (Can’t compete with the dead, anyway. A memory doesn’t hafta be a challenge.) He’s almost grateful to her, actually. (WHAT?) Peter had once had something important with her, something deep and meaningful. Wade can see how attached his boyfriend had been to this pretty blonde, this girl he still can’t stop grieving. It means Peter had loved and been loved so thoroughly that it’s followed him for years, even if that love looks like guilt and shame and sorrow now, festering in the smaller man’s too-good heart. Wade doesn’t need to have met Gwen to know she’d been good for Peter if he still feels all of these things after losing her so abruptly, thinking this whole time that he’s responsible.
Wade would be a nasty hypocrite to fault Peter for having another love he’ll cherish forever. Shit, Vanessa’s death had been sudden too, and Wade had nearly lost his mind all over again after it had happened.
Don’t think about Ness, big buy. Don’t think about how you could’ve saved her, either. Pete didn’t do anything wrong, but you? You never should’ve turned your back to the door when those fuckers came for you. It should’ve been you—
Wade and Peter sure have a lot in common.
“You miss her, huh?” Wade sighs, resting his chin atop Peter’s fluffy curls. Screw the boxes. What the hell do they know?
Everything you do, you fucking moron—
“Yeah,” Peter croaks, clearing his throat. “Yeah I do. I miss her all the time.” He can’t keep his face dry for more than a few seconds, still crying and still too tired to lift his head. “I thought I’d… I thought I’d be alone forever after Gwen died. I didn’t think I could be happy again, I knew I couldn’t just be with someone after her. I couldn’t…,” he strains. “I couldn’t get anyone else hurt, o-or killed, just for knowing me. Just for helping Spider-Man.”
Wade rubs circles at his boyfriend’s neck and along his side, soothing and gentle, giving him time to breathe. “You know I can’t die, right?” he says after a while, when he can’t hear Peter crying anymore. He can hear the gears thunking and grinding away in Peter’s big beautiful brain at this reminder on the heels of his grief, and the younger super’s next breath in is stuttered even as he swallows a sob. He continues to cry after all, quiet and contemplative.
“I don’t want you to get hurt, either. You still feel pain, Wade.” Peter sniffles. “Pain sucks,” he mutters tightly, and Wade fights down a laugh.
“I can handle a little pain, Petey. I’d let those ass-blasting Weapon-X monsters torture me again if it meant you were safe.” Wade doesn’t hesitate to say it, either, and Peter’s gut churns with indecision at the same time as certainty blankets his anxieties. He believes Wade. He knows Wade would move heaven and earth if it would protect Peter Parker. The mercenary strokes through soft hair and tilts the brunet’s head to kiss his crown, lingering. “I’d ‘ve cut that purple chin-beast’s ugly fuckin’ head off before letting anything bad happen to you, Baby Boy,” he growls.
Peter’s brow furrows, face screwing up with confusion and the deep affection he can’t just call “love” when it doesn’t mean enough. It is love, of course, but it’s not enough. He’s just not sure what his boyfriend is talking about. “Wade…?” he rasps.
“And I bet Gwen woulda said the same thing, right?” Wade challenges carefully, skipping right over his meta slip. Peter presses his forehead to Wade’s shoulder. “Just cuz she couldn’t lift a bus or heal from bullet wounds doesn’t mean she woulda liked seein’ you hurt. She sounds like a hero.”
“Wade,” Peter murmurs tentatively.
“I saw the news coverage, Pete. You were real fucked up by the time she showed.” Wade can still picture the news footage: Spider-Man had been limping and clutching his side before nearly stumbling off when he’d zipped away that night, and he hadn’t made an exit until EMTs were at Gwen’s side. He remembers his own heart aching for the way Spider-Man had clung to that poor girl’s body. He feels stupid, in hindsight, not putting together that Spidey had clearly been in love with Gwen Stacy. “Don’t you tell me she saw you fightin’ that gliding green creep and didn’t wanna help.”
“Wade.” This time Peter’s voice breaks.
“You said yourself you couldn’t tell her what to do. She wanted to help you. That girl loved you.” Wade starts holding Peter a little tighter, his chest aching. He’s not good at this, this reassuring against guilt and grief stuff, even if he knows there’s not a word of untruth out of his own mouth as he consoles his Baby Boy. The smaller man shudders. “Gwen loved you, and you loved her, and what happened is not your fault, Peter. You did everything you could, you saved the city, and she died a hero as far as I’m concerned.” Because it’s important, because Peter doesn’t seem to believe him yet, he repeats, “It’s not your fault, Spider-Man.”
Peter’s head throbs with the impending headache of crying so hard for so long. “Wade,” he tries to say, but Wade noses at his crown again.
“It’s not your fault, Spider-Man,” Wade whispers delicately, voice even softer and eyes closed as he cradles his boyfriend in his lap.
“Okay,” the other super finally agrees. Relief and uneasy acceptance trickle through his nerves, following the lines of his veins as his muscles slowly relax. He feels taut and sore, but being in Wade’s warm grasp helps. “Thank you, Wade,” he murmurs. Peter starts to breathe again in long, deep breaths. For a few minutes, the two of them just hold each other. Peter’s brain is a flood of emotions and impulses to fight but he’s starting to feel less like he and Wade can only end tragically. Wade himself can’t imagine thinking far enough ahead to Peter dying of old age, because there’s no way anything else in this or any other reality is going to take Spider-Man away from Deadpool — or take Peter Parker away from Wade Wilson. “Wade?” Peter eventually asks and even though he can’t see his face, Wade knows Peter’s brow is furrowed.
“Yeah, Pumpkin?”
“I really am sorry I didn’t tell you.” He opens a hand and sets it over Wade’s chest when he feels him take a breath to respond; hand flattened over his sternum, Peter applies the slightest pressure. His heartbeat is strong — alive — because Wade is… undying. Everlasting. Peter feels stupid for worrying about an immortal but he can’t help himself. It still stings to see Wade hurt, to patch him up after he comes home without a limb or with a piece of his skull missing, to wait for him to wake up after a brutal fight when they’re both still in masks. Just because his merc bounces back doesn’t mean Peter likes that he ever has to bounce back from something as severe as evisceration or decapitation.
It always hurts to see the people you love hurting.
Peter had loved Gwen so much, had thought he could’ve spent the rest of his life with her if things had gone differently, but Wade? If it were possible, he would try to spend eternity with the other super. There has to be something better than a silly bracelet that he can give to Wade, something to show him how he feels, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal at the moment to puzzle over it. So, another time. Another time he’ll come up with a good way to ask Wade for whatever might be the closest thing they could reach to eternity.
“I know I hurt your feelings, and I don’t— I never want to hurt you,” Peter articulates cautiously, letting some of that desire to share forever with Wade cling to his words. His merc’s heartbeat doesn’t really slow or speed up but he feels it skitter for just a moment. The brunet curls his fingers into Wade’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, they’re quiet again, but then Wade sighs, soft and light.
“It did hurt my feelings, Pete. When you told me and I realized how long I hadn’t known,” he tells him honestly, when it feels enough like the both of them can handle it. Peter nods into Wade’s collarbone, pressing a fistful of the taller man’s soft shirt into his chest, encouraging him to go on. He should hear this; he needs to hear this. “I thought maybe you didn’t trust me not to fuck with your life, knowing you’re Spider-Man. Like you thought I’d sell you out to the highest bidder.” For a moment Wade feels the battering wash of self-hatred stinging his fragile skin again. He hates who he used to be. If it hadn’t been for everything that had happened after Weapon X, he might have. He might have been just fine tracking down Spider-Man’s identity for the right price.
So what the hell changed, big guy? How are you any fucking different now?
The difference? Money had stopped being enough. What happens when you have so much money that every job you take makes no difference to you or how you live? When you start wondering why you do what you do after all, if the money is meaningless? You look for purpose somewhere else. You start… caring if people are suffering again. You try the hero thing, even if it sucks and no one is ever grateful or believes in you. You try to make yourself worthy of being in the presence of pure, heroic souls like Spider-Man. Wade had gone back to helping the little guy, like he’d been doing before the nightmare face and the immortality. He’ll never sell out someone like Spider-Man, and he sure as hell won’t hurt Peter.
“I thought, maybe you didn’t think I was good enough for Spider-Man. Or maybe, I wasn’t good enough for Peter Parker,” Wade goes on, back to truth time. Peter winces, but he doesn’t otherwise interrupt his merc. “The, uh. The boxes? They’re kinda huge dicks a lot of the time.” He staunchly ignores a sequence of outraged protests behind his eyes, accusatory and defensive. “There was a hot minute where they—,” he goes on with a tired sigh, but forcibly stops himself from elaborating. He hasn’t really gotten into the boxes with Peter yet. Peter knows they’re intrusive and cruel, knows he responds to them aloud sometimes, but he doesn’t know the real extent to which Wade is fucking bonkers. Sucking his teeth for a moment, the larger super looks out across the room into the middle distance and carefully chooses his next words while Peter remains silent and still in his arms, just listening.
“I spend a lot of time hating myself, Petey,” he starts evenly. Peter stirs but Wade scritches lightly at the man’s scalp to try and distract him from sidetracking him. “I know, I know; we’ll talk about it later, I’m getting to it,” he insists, and Peter takes a beat to lean into Wade’s hand and delicately trace his scarred collarbone with lightly calloused finger pads. “Anyway, uh. I don’t like myself, and the boxes are pretty big on that. They remind me why I should hate myself, point out the obvious, offer helpful suggestions, tell me what’s up when people look at me. They usually really get behind me un-aliving people who piss me off, y’know? ‘S wild how they begged me not to, after you got abducted. Told me I’d break your heart. Weirdly, they’re surprisingly less violent than usual when I’m around you. But, uh, they won’t let me have nice things for too long. Someone like me, with someone like you?” He dismissively waves around the hand that’s not in Peter’s hair, Peter’s eyes tracking it even as he holds his tongue. “They know it doesn’t make sense. Me? Too ugly, too loud, too chatty, too wrong and bad and broken. All that good stuff.”
That’s not all we do! Besides, we only speak the truth. It’s not our fault you’re such a fuck up.
“Yeah, like that,” Wade sighs, rolling his eyes, and Peter is uncomfortably aware that the boxes have said something nasty. “They replay my greatest hits, and y’know— it’s not all bad. It’s not always a nightmare or a flashback in 5.1 stereo on the biggest screen available cuz it’s my whole brain,” the mutant goes on grudgingly, gruff. He settles his hand over the blanket at Peter’s back again, when the smaller super presses his fingertips into Wade’s chest. Peter misses the closer contact of Wade’s hand unimpeded by an additional layer of red fuzz and squirms a little, but Wade pats him gently and the brunet takes a deep breath to relax again. “But sometimes it is. That is, when it’s not just running commentary on every little thing happening around me. It’s like I’m living in a comic book, they just. Pop up whenever they feel like it.”
Haha, get it? Cuz it’s a fanfic and not the comics this time?
“Do you see them?” Peter asks softly. “Your boxes?”
“Yes, I visually manifest the boxes,” Wade confirms clinically, and Peter tries not to flinch at the tight tone because he knows it’s not really for him. He has to imagine someone had once phrased it like that on Wade’s behalf, and wonders if Wade’s ever seen the inside of a psychiatric institution, criminal or otherwise. “Not every time, ‘n I don’t look at ‘em much anymore, but, uh. Anywhoozles. When you told me you’re Spider-Man, I thought for a second, y’know… maybe you were just messing with me all this time? Seventeen chapters , and you were just messing with me!” He laughs nervously, deserving the next onslaught of criticism from the boxes when he once again catches his mistake a moment too late.
Yeah, let’s bring up that meta bullshit right now, that’ll go over just swell! the boxes sneer. Have you tried telling him he’s a fictional character? Wanna go over how perception is reality and everyone is someone’s fictional whatever in the ~grand calculus of the multiverse~? Are you for fucking real right now? Take your stupid fourth wall and shove it up your—!
“I really hate it when you drop the we/us,” Wade hisses at them, unable to stop himself.
“Is there a way I can help?” Peter inquires sincerely, mercifully ignoring the comments that don’t track and blinking up at Wade, who flicks hazel eyes down to big brown beauties.
“You help just by bein’ around, babe. I promise,” Wade tells his boyfriend easily, because he doesn’t have to lie about it. The boxes have no argument, which feels highly suspicious but he’ll take any amount of peace they’ll grant him right now; it could be a royal shitshow if they decide they feel like chiming in any more frequently. “They seem to like you. Sometimes you just make ‘em all romantic or real horny, honestly.” He chortles and Peter smiles faintly. “But this is one ‘a those, ‘save myself’ kinda deals. My brain’s been scrambled, fried, refried, spilled everywhere, then scooped back into a blender for funsies before getting’ poured back into my skull. It’s fuckin’ chaos up in here, Baby Cakes.” He taps one of his temples with his index finger and waggles his eyebrows, which makes Peter squint at him. Wade’s lips quirk at one corner. “It’s sweet that you care about my mental health, Bambi. But I’m a special breed ‘a headcase — the constantly healing and rebuilding brain cells and brain matter kinda special. Short of more human experimentation, I’m not gonna see medical help that ain’t regular psychotherapy.”
Maybe behavioral therapy? Ha ha, remember that time we were institutionalized in England? That lady sucked. Wait, was that us-us or a different us?
“Or behavioral therapy.” A pause. “Not always assholes. Sometimes just nosy and mouthy,” he allows, but rolls his eyes to make his point when they grumble about his lack of gratitude. “And I don’t know any therapists that handle supers. Bet I could ask around for one that’ll see private contractors, though…,” he muses, tapping his chin thoughtfully. Could make a difference, if the therapist at least understands, “I am/was paid to harm and/or un-alive people,” isn’t a metaphor to dance around or merely “humor.”
“I don’t either,” Peter grumbles, resting on his shoulder again, still studying the way Wade’s expression shifts when he’s in his head or listening to the boxes. “I guess I should ask more supers, maybe there’s an Avenger who’s seeing someone that’s not just working for S.H.I.E.L.D. That would be nice.”
Wade chuckles, nodding sagely in agreement. “Yeah, I don’t need any more dealings with S.H.I.E.L.D. than where I’m at with ‘em now.” He pulls his head back slightly to look down at Peter in his close proximity. Peter lifts his gaze, eyebrows raised. He seems a little more like himself again, no longer a shaking, sobbing mess in Wade’s arms. It makes it a little easier to feel alright — well, maybe not alright, but better — about telling his boyfriend about the boxes. “The boxes claim they figured you out way before I did.” (We did, though.) “They’re pretty smug about it, too, dirty bastards,” he gripes. “But, in a stunning upset, they also wanted me to believe I could… that you could still want me, even though you’re too good to be true.”
Peter thumps the flat palm he has on Wade’s chest, jolting him. Leaning back with a stern scowl and his nose wrinkled just slightly, Peter makes his freckles harder to avoid staring. “What are you talking about?” he demands curtly, remarkably dodging an accusatory tone. Wade has said stuff like this before but in the context of this conversation, Peter knows he means it, that it’s not just a playful flirtation.
“Well. Yeah,” Wade responds like it’s obvious, eyebrows raised. “I don’t deserve you, let alone you and Spidey being the same person and still wanting to be with me.”
Duh. Also, we’re gonna looove this next bit. You won’t appreciate it for a few paragraphs, though.
Peter gapes, looking between Wade’s achingly serious eyes as a sort of horror lays over his own features. “You… don’t think you deserve me?” he disbelievingly asks for clarification, because there’s no such thing as someone who doesn’t deserve someone better than him. Especially Wade. “Wade,” he says simply, “that’s the craziest thing you’ve ever said.”
Wade barks out a laugh, tossing his head back, but Peter slowly folds his arms up over his chest and Wade’s amused grin falls when he catches the intensity in the brunet’s face. “Oh. You’re serious,” he mutters. “Pete. C’mon,” he scoffs nervously. Those gorgeous brown eyes can surely see into his soul, oh god. Wade sweats. “I’m Freddy Krueger if Freddy Krueger shot people for a living and annoyed everyone from here to Timbuktu by talking until their ears bled. You’re getting your masters in biochemical engineering during the day and saving lives in a super suit when the sun goes down.”
“You don’t think you should have nice things,” Peter observes absently, tipping his head back to look at Wade from an angle. Wade’s mouth stretches into a thin line and he can’t seem to find anything to reply with. Peter’s eyes flash. “You… hypocrite!” he accuses breathlessly, eyes widening. “Wade!” He thumps his boyfriend’s shoulder with a loose fist, the blanket around the both of them pulling at his back. Wade whines, pouting and making a show of rubbing the spot. Peter huffs but sets his hand over his boyfriend’s and splays their fingers, putting on a sad smile with his brows curved upward. “You deserve nice things. Things you want, but think you can’t have.”
“Now, hang on,” Wade tries to argue, the words familiar, but Peter cups a hand over his mouth and smirks a little when Wade dutifully shuts it. He’s sorely tempted to lick Peter’s palm in an obnoxious reflex but behaves himself for the moment.
“Wade,” the smaller man says sternly, “you can’t tell me I deserve good things and then turn around and say that you don’t.” Peter carefully adjusts to sit back on his heels but keeps himself between Wade’s legs, bringing his other hand up to cradle the side of his boyfriend’s face. Wade doesn’t like the pensive look he’s wearing. “You don’t really think you can’t have me, do you?” he asks softly, a creeping of hurt in his roughened voice. “Cuz I… Wade, I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. It feels like I don’t deserve you.” He shakes his head when Wade gently pries his hand from the merc’s infamous mouth.
“Baby Boy, that’s not even close to true.” (What a couple ‘a sad sacks, Christ. Dial down the downer, fellas.) Wade fills his lungs with air in a dramatic, exaggeratedly deep breath, holds it for a second, and then lets it go in a heavy rush, Peter watching him with curious, faint amusement. “Well this sucks,” Wade jokes, “guess neither of us is worthy. Does that mean the self-loathing cancels out? Are we worth-neutral? That’s how math works, right?” Peter rolls his eyes and head, and Wade points at him with a delighted grin. “And that! You and Spidey roll your eyes with your whole head! Is it cuz of the mask? People can’t tell if you don’t overdo it?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Peter admonishes, lowering Wade’s index finger and tugging his fingers apart to lace them with his own. “I love you, Wade. I think you more than deserve me, if you love me too.”
“I do,” Wade assures him immediately and the grimace Peter offers makes it clear he hadn’t been fishing. Wade squeezes the brunet’s hand in his, and leans to kiss his cheek. “It’s hard to let yourself… have things, huh?” he muses. “I didn’t want you two to be the same person,” he confesses, but quickly follows it up before Peter can look at him like he’s broken his heart anew, “because I can’t stand the thought of losing both of you. I’ve lost people before, too, Pumpkin. And it— it really does fuckin’ suck.”
Maybe the whole self-destructive spiral after Vanessa is a story for another time, big guy. You’re already always on the brink of scaring him off…
“Shut up,” Wade grinds out impatiently, and Peter ducks to nuzzle at Wade’s neck, softening his brief burst of irritation and mild panic.
“I guess I can understand that,” Peter mumbles. “But, uh. You might have noticed, I can kinda take care of myself a lot of the time.” It feels strange to know it’s true and also know it comes with a caveat. “You’ve been good for me when I can’t. Y’know?” he awkwardly assures his merc, who hums in acknowledgement. “I’m. I’m really sorry, Wade. I should’ve told you sooner,” he adds weakly, voice cracking. He’s not going to cry anymore. He’s not.
“Pete. Petey-Pie. Petey Pumpkin Pie, Apple of My Eye,” Wade murmurs sweetly, attention fully on the super in his lap, who kisses his mottled skin gently. “I’m not mad you didn’t tell me sooner. I respect the super bro code even if it turns out my super bro is also my boyfriend,” he says, smirking wryly when Peter purses his lips. “I mean, you coulda waited even longer, or I coulda found out by accident and uh, outed you myself, I guess.” He blanches, groaning and rubbing his face. “Yeah, forced disclosure? Not my scene. I never tried to find out your identity, Baby Boy. You’re not a job, you were never a job, ‘n I never woulda taken one where Spider-Man was the target.” This time, when he says it, he knows it’s true; he’s not convinced even the old Deadpool would’ve sold out Spider-Man, after all. He’d done a lot of things: bad things, neutral things, tiny little good things, maybe. But he can’t imagine himself accepting payment for outing a guy like Spidey — nothing he’d have followed through on, anyway.
“I believe you.” Peter brings both hands to smooth over his boyfriend’s textured scalp, resting at the back of his neck and making him sigh. The touch is gentle, commonplace these days, and Wade is still shivery for the direct, willing, positive contact from someone who so easily and honestly tells Wade he loves him. “I really am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I— I trust you, Wade. I trust you more than anyone else and I should’ve told you for that reason alone. I… I know you’d never sell me out, by the way. I promise I know that.” He’s known that for a while. He’d believed it after only a handful of months working with Deadpool, actually, but knowing Wade personally? Knowing how he makes food for people when he’s worried about them and loses his shit when kids get hurt, how he handles Peter’s anxieties so thoughtfully and his body so reverently, how he laughs uproariously at sitcom re-runs and shovels popcorn into his face when he’s comfortable enough to be without the mask? Peter regrets. He regrets waiting to tell him. Knowing what he knows now, he at the very least wishes he’d told Wade once they’d slept together.
Wade whines softly and cradles the brunet’s supremely cute face in his hands, tipping his head to touch their foreheads together. His little queer heart hums away in his chest, all twitter-pated and fond. “That means a lot to me, baby. I know trust is a big deal for you.”
“It’s… it’s kinda everything,” Peter admits sheepishly, blushing a pretty pink. Wade coos. “I trust you, Wade. I trust you and I love you.”
“I trust you too, Pete,” Wade says, shifting and carefully trying to arrange the blanket snugly back around them, urging Peter to join him again. But Peter pushes meaningfully at Wade’s shoulders with a lopsided smile and Wade wriggles to lie down on his back, humming happily as the brunet climbs over and lies atop him. They become a comfortable tangle of limbs, and Wade sighs dreamily as Peter nuzzles at his neck and tucks his arms under the larger super’s torso, locking them in place as he slots their hips and wraps his legs around Wade’s. “I trust and love you, Baby Boy,” he murmurs, stroking idly up and down his spider’s spine, cozy and relaxing more and more with every passing minute.
“I got a real kick outta makin’ you prove you were Spidey, by the way,” Wade muses after a beat, and Peter pushes up just enough to glower down at him. Wade grins mischievously. “But I love who you are, Pete. I love you, Spider-Man or no,” he goes on shamelessly and Peter’s frown morphs into a wobbly line trying not to be a smile. “If you cry again, I’ll cry too,” Wade warns him, and Peter dips to nip the tip of his nose, making his boyfriend yelp and dissolve into giggles.
“Shut up,” Peter chuckles, a satisfied smile in place as he rests against Wade again, closing his eyes. “I love you.” Safe, home. “Can we order in tonight? I know you were thinking about making pasta, but I kinda don’t wanna get up for a while. Or not be cuddling you,” Peter mumbles quietly into Wade’s neck, a little drowsy from crying so much. His head aches just slightly but Wade’s warmth and the hand wandering through his hair have him melting right where he is. “We should get tacos.”
“Tacos sound good.”
“We got tacos the first night I realized I might really like you beyond, y’know, friendship,” Peter notes, smiling to himself. Wade’s hand stills in his hair but picks up again a moment later, and Peter’s smile twists into a smirk. “We get tacos all the time,” he allows knowingly, figuring Wade is trying to parse which specific time it might have been. “Think July,” he informs him, because he’s not a total asshole. “You technically met Peter Parker like, a few days before.”
“Legs from the alley, how could I ever forget?” Wade hums, starry eyed and affectionate. He has an immaculate recall of the way the cute brunet in the glasses from the alley had looked up at him with such bewilderment. For everything that his brain does cruelly, badly, and often, it lets him keep that memory intact: the first time he’d seen Peter’s full, gorgeous face. “I swear I wasn’t stalking you when I saw you in Central Park,” he quickly promises him, grimacing. The stalking hadn’t happened until after he’d hand-delivered Peter’s fanmail at the Daily Bugle. Everything up until that point had been a series of fortunate events lining up perfectly. (Or a narrative predetermined by an omniscient fanboy. We’re so popular!) “It just definitely seemed like it.”
“It was a hard coincidence to accept, but I forgive you,” Peter snorts, pressing his fingertips into Wade’s back where they’re trapped between his boyfriend and the couch cushions. “Those tacos were really good.”
“Where’s my phone?” Wade whines, reaching one hand out and groping for the coffee table in case it happens to be there. He can’t remember when or where he’d had it last. Peter laughs and pulls his hands out from under Wade, sliding them down the man’s sides and earning a squeak when he gropes at Wade’s back pocket, pulling the phone out and holding it up with a smirk. “How did I miss that?”
“I’m very distracting,” Peter replies smoothly. He means the breaking down and hysterics, but Wade acts like he’s some alluring tempter instead.
“Hell yeah, you are,” Wade growls, bouncing his eyebrows and snagging his phone. Peter folds his arms over Wade’s sternum and rests his chin there, watching his merc hold the phone over his face and mess with a delivery app. “Oh good, they’re on the apps.” He orders the same things they’d gotten that night because he does remember it, that specific night, the specific way Spider-Man had been so hesitant to accept being fed the way Deadpool always wants to feed him. The specific way Spidey had nearly smashed tacos into his mask before comfortably pulling it up onto the bridge of his nose, no longer anxious about showing the lower half of his face to Deadpool for more than a few seconds at a time. The night Wade had vowed to feed his spider whenever he could get away with it. “Sucker,” Wade mumbles with a tiny, triumphant smirk, and Peter quirks an eyebrow.
“Hey, doofus.”
“Yes, my sweetest, darlingest boy?” Wade singsongs, dropping his phone on the couch arm above his head, tacos ordered because he’s hungry and Peter will be totally wiped from crying in less than an hour. He’s also feeling a little romantic. What’s more romantic than tacos?
“Kiss me or I’m gonna pout,” Peter threatens, biting his lower lip to stop from breaking into a grin.
“But you’re so cute when you pout,” Wade argues, cooing when Peter makes good on his threat and throws in the puppy dog eyes. Wade wails comically, holding the smaller man’s face with both hands again, squishing his cheeks together and making him whine. “Okay, okay! C’mere.” He hauls Peter up and plants a smiling kiss on his pretty lips; Peter hums softly in approval, spreading his fingers over Wade’s collarbone and shoulder.
“I love you,” Peter says again when they part, basking in Wade’s hazel gaze. Wade who sees him. Wade who makes him feel safe and loved. Wade who emanates home when Peter looks at him.
“I love you,” Wade echoes dreamily, watching little red and blue hearts and stars float and pop around Peter’s head. He could watch the brunet inspire fun little visual filters in his brain all damned day. “Wanna watch monster movies all night?”
Peter groans, dropping his forehead to Wade’s solar plexus and making him grunt even as he laughs. “Yes, I super want to watch monster movies and eat tacos with you, Wade. You’re my favorite.”
Wade gasps. “You’re my favorite!”
Peter is about to counter with another, equally silly gushing comment, but suddenly remembers something just as silly and meaningful. He gasps, pushing himself up again and beaming down at Wade, who raises both eyebrows and narrows his gaze with curiosity. “I hafta show you something,” the shorter man says excitedly. As reluctant as he is to part, he pries himself up off of Wade and rolls off the couch to the sound of the other man’s whining protests. “Just a sec,” Peter promises him, quickly righting himself and darting down the hallway.
“Just can’t exit a couch normally,” Wade muses, sitting upright and already missing Peter’s weight and body heat, waiting patiently as he watches Peter corner hard into his office. A few seconds of light clattering and boxes shifting, and his boyfriend emerges with a folded piece of paper and a smart-ass grin. “Well don’t you look satisfied with yourself, Handsome?” he chuckles, sighing fondly as the brunet returns on quick, quiet feet. Wade drapes an arm over the back of the couch, his boyfriend’s smile morphing from triumphant to bashful as he bends over the couch to show Wade the piece of paper he’s unfolding. The mercenary gently takes it from Peter’s offering hand and falls completely silent as he takes it in.
Told you it would come up in the last chapter!
It’s a colored pencil drawing, bold colors and confident, hard lines, signed in one corner with “MARLA, AGE 8.” Spider-Man is launching webs from both wrists, swinging on the Brooklyn bridge, and below that is a flattering depiction of Deadpool himself, reaching for the hero with hearts in his mask’s eyes. Wade makes a tiny, strangled noise of joy and agony, and Peter tips over the back of the couch to nose at his crown with a warm smile.
“This is so painstakingly precious, Webs,” Wade croaks. He has to clutch dramatically at his chest for the ache it forces on his little queer heart. “Little Marla — age eight — is gonna be a famous illustrator someday,” he goes on aimlessly, because if he admits he wants this framed above their bed it might be weird, so he keeps talking as Peter hops over the back of the couch and settles in Wade’s lap while he sniffles. “When did you get this beauty? Can I get the kiddo’s autograph? Do I get to keep this?”
“Same night as the tacos,” the webslinger murmurs, basking in the glory of Wade in the middle of adoring something innocent, big brown eyes flicking between Wade’s sparkling hazel, the taller man’s short, sparse lashes damp. “Wade,” Peter says gently, and his boyfriend lifts his face to focus on Peter’s. “You can’t keep it because I’m gonna hang it up in the dining room,” he informs him with a lopsided smile, propping his elbow by Wade’s on the back of the couch and leaning his head into his hand. “That way we can both enjoy it.” And it’s probably not too risky to display one little piece of perhaps innocuous fanart in their home.
“You got any other extremely flattering fanart, Pumpkin?” Wade asks roughly, needing to clear his throat and flap a hand at his wet eyes. “Ohhh, this is just so cute, sorry. Even little kiddos know I’m enamored with you. How embarrassing,” he giggles.
Peter snorts and Wade smiles as he slides fingertips up Peter’s propped arm, lowering the brunet’s hand from his cheek and replacing it with his own. “I don’t think you’re embarrassed at all,” Peter muses, closing his eyes and leaning into Wade’s palm, big and warm and safe.
“You’re right,” Wade confirms. “D’you save all the art you get?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so fuckin’ adorable,” Wade growls. Peter flashes his fangs in a grin. “Better show me sometime, I’m dyin’ to know what people actually hand over to you.”
“It’s mostly little kids that actually hand me their drawings. Otherwise I get tagged on social media.” Peter brushes his fingers over the back of Wade’s hand on his cheek, holding him there. “People are really skilled, it’s honestly really flattering. Only a little embarrassing, sometimes, when they get, uh. Risqué? I feel like you’d like those ones.”
“There’s tons of pornographic fanart of you, Baby Boy. As is good and right.” Wade smirks deviously and Peter takes the drawing to set it on the coffee table. He shifts to sit more in his merc’s lap again, settling over strong thighs and circling an arm around his neck and shoulders even as he insistently keeps Wade’s hand on his face. “I’ve definitely found it.”
“I believe you,” Peter comments drily, “and I’ve seen some of it. Feels weird though, to see people so horny for me when they, uh. Y’know. Have no idea what I look like.” A pause. “Under the suit, anyway. They seem to have a decent understanding of my musculature,” he goes on with a little smirk of his own, cheeks dusted pink. The more he thinks about it, the more validating it feels that the general public and even artists are clocking (or at least representing) him as cisgender. Peter is not ashamed of who he is, but he knows how important it is for his identity and safety that Spider-Man be seen as cis.
“And I am so grateful for the privilege of knowing what’s hiding under all that sexy spandex, Sweetcheeks,” Wade sighs dreamily, nuzzling at Peter’s fluffy curls. He grins mischievously but hastily reels it in. “You seen the live action stuff?”
“I daren’t,” Peter jokes. “Let the amateur porn be what it may, but I think watching some guy in a knock-off Spidey suit with just his dick out while he’s screwing someone in a Black Cat costume is ten times more mortifying than even the sluttiest digital painting of Spider-Man with the suit all torn up.”
Wade tries very hard not to picture these examples, biting his tongue. “Mm-hmm,” he hums tightly. “Yeah. Mortifying. Not sexy at all. D’you, uh, have any links to either of those?” he asks, voice cracking. Peter laughs brightly but turns his face to bite at Wade’s collarbone, earning a yelp. “What!”
“Perv,” the brunet accuses wryly. “You get the real thing, don’t go confusing fantasy with reality.” He noses up under Wade’s jaw, smiling against his mottled skin as Wade’s hand presses between his shoulder blades.
“Nothing compares, Pete,” Wade murmurs sweetly, breathing in cinnamon and rain. “Whatchu wanna watch first?”
“Mechagodzilla,” Peter answers decisively and Wade grins into his hair.
They pass out a few hours later tangled up on the couch with Mothra playing on the TV and taco wrappers scattered around them. There are no bad dreams, no nightmares, and when they wake in the morning, they just breathe together for a little while. Comfortable, home, and perfect for each other.
Notes:
This fic was a ride. I loved writing this so much. I had an explosion of re-exposure to Spidey and Deadpool (and Venom, honestly, but there’s a reason Eddie & Our Favorite Symbiote aren’t in this fic and it’s that I wanted the focus on our mouthy, red super-suited faves) almost all at once over spring and summer. I love love love tropes (I promise you don’t hate tropes, you just hate clichés), and I was desperate to compile all my favorites my way. Thus, this fic was born; in classic ADHD fashion, I hyperfocused hard and just. Wrote. And wrote. And wrote some more after a bunch of brainstorming and typing excitedly at my gf while I was at work. She’s been the best beta reader, and it’s my fault she fell into this particular fandom hole. Her fabulous fiancé and my good friend did the all-important proofreading and I am eternally grateful for her patience, sincerity, and time. This couldn’t have happened without them both, I never would’ve felt confident enough getting back into fanfic or even narrative prose if it weren’t for these two fine humans whom I have the great honor of being close to and spoiled by.
I have future plans! There was so much for this story that I wanted to include but didn’t feel fit directly into the flow of this narrative. There will be a companion prequel/sequel in the future, which I’ll publish as a “part two” sort of thing; my canon isn’t so far removed from lots of fanon standard so it might end up just feeling like an acceptable bundle of Spideypool Moments™ if anyone doesn’t read this base narrative. For instance, I didn’t feel the need to do Spider-Man & Deadpool’s first interactions here, just allude to them. I didn’t put in the boudoir photoshoot. I didn’t put in Peter reconnecting with MJ. I didn’t even give them a wedding! (Though let’s be real, my timetable was so fuckin’ fast a wedding would’ve been jarring; they already moved in together after like 2 months of going out, in sparkling U-Haul Lesbian fashion [another joke I somehow managed not to make, you’re welcome].) So this particular AU canon will be returned to, but it’s unlikely the release schedule will be preplanned and I’m not sure I have the guts to usurp more of my proofreader’s time, so it may need extensive self-review (beyond what I did even for this fic before she got to it lol) before chapters are published.
As a side note, I don’t think it’s possible for me to write a cisgender Peter; anything else from me will have trans Peter Parker. I actually more easily fell back in Spidey fandom by seeing the explosive response of trans Peter headcanons with Tom Holland’s Spidey. I’ve never seen a fandom latch onto a trans headcanon the way Spider-Man’s has, and as someone who identifies as transmasc genderqueer, I literally cried on seeing some of the fanart and the first few fics I read. I’ve been here since Tobey Maguire but the reintroduction with Tom Holland’s Peter being so, so easily read as a trans boy is truly inspirational. My Spidey is a mixed conglomeration of mostly Andrew Garfield’s storyline and the comics, but Tom’s incredible portrayal is not to be dismissed. I’m so proud of y’all. I’m so proud of Gen Z.I’ve got another Spideypool fic flopping around in my head, inspired by my gf. I touch on Peter doing parkour in this fic, but astoundingly I haven’t personally stumbled across anyone latching onto Parker Parkour yet, so DIBS. Ah, the youths and their streaming twitches and the YouTubes. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) That also may be unlikely to get properly proofread, but we’ll see. (Undoubtedly everything will at least be beta read because my gf is a fuckin’ deity.)
Thank you all for reading. I’ve loved your comments, I’m so flattered by the bookmarks and collections (!!!!!), and every kudos was a little hit of dopamine for the ol’ broken serotonin-machine. I really missed narrative prose. I was in a bad headspace for a long time and couldn’t enjoy even tried-and-true creative outlets; the other project I’ve been very slowly working on over the last few years (unrelated to fandom — I know, just wild) got put on the back burner for a long time before I came back to it. Then this hyperfocus came along, and it was so fucking worth it.
I hope to see y’all again. Y’all repeat commenters are a special kind of heartwarming and I still smile reading your lovely words. With all the fandom feels and inspiration, I’ve had nothing but a good time. Thank you all so much (❤´艸｀❤)
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