Chapter Text
It’s an accident.
Okay—that’s a lie. One doesn’t go about selling pictures of their junk on the internet accidentally. But it wasn’t supposed to be real. It was a stupid little bet, and actually, it’s all Mary Jane’s fault.
The thing is, Peter’s busy. He’s in graduate school, which means besides classes he’s got a butt-ton of independent research, lab work, and reports to write. He’s also got an internship, which is awesome for his resume and future gainful employment but it pays absolute bupkis. And, oh yeah, on top of all of that, he’s Spider-Man, which means that on any given day there’s about an 80% chance he’s running on 45 minutes of sleep and nursing a minor concussion.
It makes holding down a part-time job kind of impossible, and Peter’s just been given his eighth ‘it's not working out’ in as many months.
“I don’t understand,” MJ says. She’s eating something crunchy. Her gross smacky mouth noises are carrying perfectly over the line even without Peter’s enhanced hearing. He knows she knows he can hear every sound with crystal clarity; she just doesn’t care. Peter misses her so much.
“No, I get it,” Peter scuffs his foot against his ceiling. He’s got to stop pacing up here before someone notices all the footprints. “I’m always late, and sometimes I look a little rough, and—”
“No, I get that. You look like a PSA for violence against surprisingly ripped twinks,” MJ interrupts. “I just don’t get why you haven’t made an OnlyFans already.”
That stops Peter in his tracks.
“Dude,” he says reproachfully, “Spider-Man can’t have an OnlyFans.”
“Dumbass.” Peter can hear her rolling her eyes. “I’m not talking about Spider-Man.”
Peter scoffs. “Who the hell would pay for an OnlyFans of Peter Parker?”
“I think it’s time we revisit the ripped twink thing,” MJ says, and Peter rolls his eyes.
“MJ,” he starts, but she interrupts him again because she’s got the manners of a feral inner-city raccoon.
“No, I’m right. You already take selfies of yourself for money, you know how to do it, just take your clothes off for a few! You’ve got a tight ass and a pretty dick. People would totally pay money to see that shit. Honestly, you wouldn’t even have to show your face if you didn’t want to, people love a mystery. Just a few cropped nudes a month and you’d be rolling in it.”
Peter feels his face go hot for reasons that have nothing to do with being upside-down. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he looks like. He’s been cat-called enough times to know what people appreciate about his body. But that’s Spider-Man, not Peter Parker, for all that they share the same butt.
He gives up on the ceiling and flops onto his bed with a squeaky bounce. “Why are you trying to talk me into this?”
“Because I don’t want you to starve, doofus,” she says matter-of-factly, then accusingly, “You aren’t having some kind of moral objection, are you?”
“No,” Peter says defensively, because he’s not. He was there for MJ’s gender studies minor. He sat through the two-hour powerpoint advocating for sex work legalisation. Peter knows that consensual sex work is just like any other kind of labor. He’s not a prude. And anyway, the sex workers of New York tend to be some of Spidey’s nicest civilian interactions. He keeps an eye out for them and they always give him the hot goss.
“Good,” MJ says with a decisive chomp into whatever she’s eating. It sounds like chips. God, Peter’s hungry. He’s got nothing in the apartment and not enough money in his bank account to justify getting something delivered before patrol. “So, what’s stopping you?”
“It’s different! It’s my dick! What if someone recognizes me?” Peter argues, because, hey, that’s a legitimate question.
“From your dick?”
And yeah, he supposes that’s a legitimate answer. It’s not like Peter’s regularly gotten naked with that many people: Gwen, MJ, Harry. Of the three of them, well. Only MJ has access to the internet, and she’s the architect of this insanity. Felicia, but frankly Peter having an OnlyFans would only make him marginally less boring in her eyes.
There were a couple of random hookups in college, nothing long-term enough that he thinks they’d remember his junk in detail. There’s Johnny, though now that he’s thinking about it fooling around with Johnny was mostly limited to Peter on his knees and a couple of quick mutual handies. Peter’s not sure if Johnny would be able to pick him out of a dick lineup if presented with one.
“How about this,” MJ says while Peter mentally runs through all the scenarios of a hypothetical dick lineup, “Send me a couple of photos. I’ll set everything up. If it’s a bust, I’ll take everything down and pay for your Doordash for a month. If it’s a success, you owe me five dollars and a sweet ‘MJ is always right’ dance.”
Peter can’t help but smile. “You’re just after my nudes.”
“Dude, I already have your nudes.”
“Aw." Peter is surprised and strangely touched. “You kept them?”
“Obviously. They’re extremely fucking hot. Unless you want me to delete them?” MJ chomps through her chips again.
“Nah, that’s okay, you can keep them.”
Though, wait a second— “If you already have them, why do you need new ones?”
MJ scoffs, and Peter imagines chip debris spraying everywhere. “Hello? Those are mine. MJ Exclusives. The internet perverts have to get their own tasteful shots of Peter’s peter. I earned these ones fair and square.”
And once again Peter feels warm and gooey all over. He hates California as much as he misses her. “Love you, MJ.”
At once, her voice softens. “Love you too, tiger.” Then, “Now send me pictures of your cock so I can put it on the internet for cash money.”
What a woman.
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Peter doesn’t expect it to be hard.
Wait. Hold on, that’s not what he means. What he means is: Peter’s a photographer. He’s taken like a million photos, and a great deal of those are selfies. Granted, they’re selfies of his masked alter ego and not of Peter, but that’s not the point. He knows how to take a good photo.
He’s also a red-blooded bisexual dude in his twenties. He’s taken a bunch of nudes with no complaints.
Taking a couple of photos of his junk shouldn’t be difficult, is what he’s getting at here.
And yet it’s been days, and he’s trying okay, but everything’s coming out terrible and his dick is being super uncooperative.
“I think I’m doing this wrong,” he says, and the profound silence on the other end of the line makes him regret all of his life choices.
“What?” comes MJ’s strangled voice, and Peter puts his head down on his desk. This is mortifying. All of the blood in his body is in the wrong head for what he needs right now.
“It’s just like, I don’t know,” Peter mumbles, “It just feels weird. All the photos are bad.”
“Peter,” MJ says, and she’s 2,400 miles away and he can still feel her squinting at him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you just been like, coming in from class and snapping a bunch of hole pics before running out for patrol?”
Now it’s Peter’s turn to squint. “Do you have a camera in here?”
“God, I wish,” MJ mutters, “Watching you fumble around all day would be way better than Love is Blind. No, dumbass, I just know you.”
MJ heaves a huge, extremely-put-upon sigh, which under the circumstances feels a little uncalled for. He is trying her insane idea after all.
“MJ,” he tries, but she talks over him, the feral raccoon, he hates her.
“Why did you send me nudes when we were together?”
Peter’s too embarrassed for this and it makes his temper short.
“I think that’s obvious, Mary Jane,” he snarks, but she only snorts at him.
“Clearly not, Parker,” she snarks back, “C’mon, think.”
Peter thinks being friends with Mary Jane Watson is some kind of punishment for all his wrong-doings.
“For you? For sex? To turn you on?”
“Yeah,” MJ drawls, “And how did you feel when you were taking those photos for me?”
Peter squirms a little. He and MJ’s romantic era is over, totally over, but the memory is enough to make his dick give a hopeful little twitch. “I mean, that’s different. That’s what I’m getting at here.”
“Why?” she prompts, “C’mon, Parker, why would these be any different?”
“I was sending them to my girlfriend,” Peter argues, feeling put-upon himself. “Not just like…the internet’s horniest randos.”
MJ sighs again. “You’re so close.”
Peter glances at his mostly soft dick and mutters, “Yeah, you could not be further from the truth right now.”
MJ makes one of her ugly honk laughs and Peter smiles automatically. He loves her ugly honk laughs. All at once, the embarrassed tension falls away and Peter waits for her to take pity on him. She always does.
“Peter, the nudes you sent me were always so fucking hot because you were turned on. It turned you on to turn me on, that’s what made them sexy. If you’re going to do this right, don’t treat it like a perfunctory shower jerk, or like, a chore. You gotta commit. Romance yourself a little, Parker, goddamn.”
It makes sense, annoying as it is to hear it from MJ instead of figuring it out himself. He has just been trying to get this over with. It’s only that the photos were so bad he couldn’t bear to let anyone see them, let alone MJ—let alone internet randos—that he gave up and asked for help.
“Perfunctory’s a good word,” Peter says instead of ‘thanks’.
“Right? Got it out of a script. It was fucking god-awful but I do love me a good vocab word.”
Peter sighs and MJ hums thoughtfully.
“If it helps to imagine doing it for someone, then do that,” MJ says into the lull. “Whatever gets you in the mood to show off a little.”
Commit. Romance himself. Show off a little. Peter sighs again. “Okay, okay. I’ll try.”
“Atta boy, Parker,” MJ says cheerfully. Then she dips into the worst J. Jonah Jameson impression he’s ever heard. “I want pictures of Spider-Man’s hog on my desk by tomorrow morning!”
“Oh my god,” Peter sputters, “That’s horrible! Mary Jane! That’s disgusting—why would you do that? You’re the worst. I hate you.”
“I know,” MJ says lovingly, and hangs up on him.
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No matter what’s going on in Peter’s life, the moment the mask comes down and he’s in the air, all of his problems seem far, far away.
Peter likes to think of this as healthy compartmentalisation. MJ says it’s the most blatant case of dissociation she’s ever seen, but who cares what MJ says.
It’s easy to be Spider-Man. Sure, people are always trying to punch him, or shoot him, or stab him, or find new and creative ways to put permanent holes in him, but in comparison to Peter Parker Problems it’s a breeze. Most of the time, he gets to swing around the city, help some people out, and go home blissfully hole-free.
Out here, swinging between buildings in the easy dusk of late April, there’s no better place to be than New York, and no better person to be than Spider-Man.
It’s early still, the streets full of people still making their way home from work and school or heading out to dinner. Crime’s been relatively quiet in the city lately, but there’s been a rash of morons who have been randomly punching women, and boy would Spider-Man like to introduce those fellas to some webbed justice.
He’s been swinging around for a few hours, mostly doing little things: helping an old lady get up the stairs to her brownstone, webbing someone’s phone out of a subway grate, you know, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man stuff, when he finds Deadpool.
Peter dreads finding Deadpool on patrol. It’s not—they’re not enemies, not anymore, if they ever really were. They’re—friendly. Friends-ish. Sometimes Deadpool will help Spider-Man out in a fight, or keep him company on a stake-out. But that’s usually Deadpool finding him.
When Spider-Man finds Deadpool it generally plays out in one of two scenarios:
1. Deadpool’s doing something he’s not supposed to be and he’s about to suck Peter into some bizarre, inconvenient, convoluted debacle that will involve his insane merc friends, alternate dimensions, and dinosaur-zombies that will take at least a whole week to sort out and totally torpedo Peter’s GPA for the semester,
OR
2. He’s dead.
Tonight, it’s the second scenario. Peter hates the second scenario.
“Wade?” he asks, unnecessarily. He’s absolutely one-hundred-percent dead. There’s a knife lodged in his throat, straight up through the soft palate into his head. Deadpool’s white eyes are dull—lights out—and he’s eerily still in the way that alive-Deadpool never is.
He’s sitting slumped over on the sidewalk and Peter probably wouldn’t have noticed except for the flash of red material that caught his eye and the growing number of horrified rubberneckers starting to form around his body.
To the rubberneckers, Peter says: “Hey folks, I’ve got him from here. I know it looks bad, but don’t worry—he’s just resting. He’ll be okay.”
He notices someone taking a photo of Wade’s body and he puts on his best Captain America Frown of Disapproval until they blush hotly and hurry away.
To Wade, he says, “Come on, buddy. I’ve got you,” and hoists the merc’s body over his shoulder. Jeez, he always forgets how heavy the guy is. The man is made of pure muscle and illegal weaponry.
He secures Wade’s body with a little webbing, then shoots another web up to get them away from the street. Swinging is always harder with two people—especially with literal dead weight—but he only needs to get them somewhere a little more private for Wade to wake up safely.
There’s a flat rooftop nearby that’s serviceable: high enough to be out of prying eyes but low enough that Wade will be able to get down with his grappling hook. Peter gently sets Wade’s body down and then contemplates the knife.
He’s gotta take it out. Wade will heal way faster if it’s removed instead waiting for his body to slowly push it out.
It’s gonna be so gross.
Ugh, he’s just gotta do it. Man up, Spider-Man. Peter grabs the handle, trying to focus on the details of it— looks Japanese, is The Hand acting up again? He should check in with Matt— as he pulls the blade from Wade’s neck.
It feels gross. It looks gross. It sounds awful, a terrible sucking squelch like a boot pulling from muck that is going to haunt Peter’s nightmares.
The blade is also longer than Peter expects, which means, yeah, that’s gray matter at the end of it, Peter hates the second scenario so much.
Then it’s out and it’s done. Peter spends a few nice restorative minutes sitting on the edge of the roof, trying not to heave while carefully not looking at the hole in his friend-ish’s body.
Peter doesn’t have to wait too long before there’s a horrible little gurgle and a heavy gasp that heralds Wade’s return to the land of the living.
“Hey, ‘Pool,” Peter calls. He keeps a few paces back: he knows better now than to be in grabbing distance. Sometimes it takes a minute for Wade to realize he’s not fighting anymore.
“Pulled you up here to keep you safe,” he continues as Wade groans his way back into awareness, “Looks like you died over on 28th and 9th.”
“Well I’ll be, Mr. Spider-Man,” Wade rasps. Peter shivers. Deadpool’s normal voice is rough but the still-healing wound in his throat makes it sound like a growl.
Wade tilts over suddenly. Peter starts forward to keep him from falling before realizing that Wade’s just arranging himself into a coquettish sprawl.
“How can I ever repay you?” Deadpool continues flirtatiously, spreading his legs.
“I just pulled a knife from your brain,” Peter informs him flatly.
“Hot,” Wade winks. Unbelievable.
“It was super not,” Peter corrects. Speaking of the knife, he hands it over to Wade. “I webbed a cover for it. It’s extremely sharp.”
Wade groans in protest.
“Yeah, I caught that as it was jammed into the ol’ noodle there, Websy.” He takes the knife and pokes at the webs dejectedly. “I hate it when you do this. There’s something about this stuff that just makes a blade completely lose its edge.”
That’s news to Peter. “Really?”
“Sure. It’s happened to the girls enough times for me to notice a webby trend. It’s worse the longer it stays on.”
Peter hops closer to Wade and takes the knife back to inspect it. He pours a little web solvent on the edge and then picks the webbing back to inspect the metal beneath. It doesn’t look that different to his eye, though maybe it’s a little duller. Interesting.
“Could be the acidity,” Peter mutters, gently testing the edge. It’s still sharp enough that one wrong move would make for a nasty cut. “Though it could be another chemical that’s interacting with the metal, acting as a corrosive…”
He should test this in the lab. See what causes it and how long it takes to react, maybe he could tweak some webs to increase the rate of degradation. Peter would love to get slashed and stabbed less. Wade catches his attention by pulling the knife away and tucking it into one of his pouches.
“You are,” Wade says warmly, “such a nerd, baby boy.”
Peter shrugs. He’s not dodging that charge anytime soon. He looks up at Wade now that he’s standing. They’re not that far apart in height, not really, but for some reason Wade always makes Peter feel small. Right now, Peter’s at the perfect angle to see that the hole in Wade’s throat has closed over entirely, leaving shiny new skin peeking through the ripped fabric of his mask.
Something that’s been humming anxiously in the back of Peter’s mind settles down to see Wade up and whole again.
“So,” Peter says in the quiet between them.
“So…” Wade sing-songs because he’s annoyance-coded at all times.
Peter rolls his eyes.
“So, what was it this time? DP-related merc nastiness or is The Hand up to some nonsense again?”
Wade snorts.
“Websy, dear-heart, The Hand is always up to some nonsense. Nah, if you can believe, I was minding my own innocent Deadpool biznatch when your poor pal Wade here got jumped by some random ninjas.”
Peter squints at him suspiciously. Wade puts his hand over his chest.
“I swear! Cross my heart and hope to die again, Spidey!”
“Once was enough for tonight, Wade.” Peter shivers, trying to block the intrusive thought of the Squelch.
“Aw, Websy, did we traumatise you?” Wade coos, and pulls Pete into a one-armed hug before he can dodge it. “Sorry, baby boy, you know I don’t like to upset my little spidey-widey. I do try not to die on your patrols.”
“I appreciate that,” Peter says, though it’s somewhat muffled from being squashed into Deadpool’s side.
“Come on, Websy, let Daddy Deadpool—"
—“Ew, Wade.” —
“—make it up to you. I know you’re hungry, let me buy you some tacos.”
Even if Peter had wanted to lie, his traitorous stomach makes such an immediate, mortifying sound of agreement that the two of them are momentarily frozen: Peter in abject embarrassment, Wade in, well—
“I felt that,” Wade says in awe. “I literally felt your stomach growl. I can’t tell if I’m horrified that my special boy is off saving the world on such an empty stomach or deeply aroused that I felt your insides.”
Pete shoves him away. “Gross, Deadpool.”
“Aw, come on, Spidey,” Wade protests, “We were Wade there for a little bit. Deadpool feels like the full government from you.”
Peter rolls his eyes.
“Less horndog, more tacos, ‘Pool.”
Wade brightens.
“I’ll accept ‘Pool. Vámonos, Spidey. Tacos, and then if you want, we can swing by the Pool Pad. I’m Jeff-sitting for a while.”
It’s Peter’s turn to brighten.
“Jeff? He’s here? Why didn’t you say anything? What are you waiting for, let’s go!”
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Peter loves Jeff. Peter’s not sure if there’s anyone in the universe capable of not loving Jeff. If there is, Peter doesn’t want to meet them. That’s a line in the sand Peter refuses to cross.
“Mmmrrr?” Jeff trills hopefully as Peter picks up the last chorizo taco.
Technically, Jeff is not supposed to be eating people-food. Technically, Jeff is really not supposed to be eating spicy people-food. This was made very clear in Hawkeye’s Care And Feeding For Jeff instructions taped to Wade’s fridge. That particular section is highlighted and underlined several times.
Peter looks at Jeff. Jeff looks at Peter, his enormous liquid eyes so hopeful and full of love. Love for Peter. Love for chorizo. Love that might go away if Peter does not give Jeff his chorizo. Peter desperately looks at Wade for help.
Wade just laughs at him.
“Why are you looking at me to be the voice of reason here?” Wade asks, and yeah okay, fair point.
Peter looks down at Jeff.
“Kate said no?” Peter tries. Jeff’s perfect, adorable little sharky face doesn’t budge an inch.
“Mrrrrr?”
“If he gets the shits, you gotta clean it up,” Wade warns.
Peter sighs and hands the taco to Jeff. He snaps it up in one pointy-toothed bite and wags his tail happily. He’s so cute. This is worth it. Peter dealt with the Squelch tonight. He can deal with some shark indigestion.
Still, he looks at Wade accusingly. “You’d let him have it, too.”
“Oh hell yeah. I’m a sucker for that little guy. Can’t resist him for shit. But he’s not asking me, he’s asking you and you gave it to him, ipso facto, I’m the good shark-dad, you are the bad shark-dad.”
Peter rolls his eyes and settles back on the couch to better pet the land shark curled up beside him. Wade kicks back in the armchair adjacent to them, propping his feet on the coffee table amidst an impressive amount of empty take-out containers.
Peter will give him this: when Wade wants to feed someone he commits, enhanced super metabolisms notwithstanding. Pete hasn’t been this full since….well, actually. Probably since the last time he let Wade buy dinner.
“So,” Peter starts. He watches Wade’s head turn lazily towards him. “Ninjas?”
Wade groans.
“Promise, baby boy. Random ninjas. Didn’t look like the Hand. Embarrassing that they got the jump on me, but I wasn’t on merc business. Took some time off for Jeffy-poo.”
And actually…yeah. Peter believes that. He knows Wade loves Jeff as much as Peter does. It’s a big deal for Kate to leave him in Wade’s care while she’s on missions, and he knows Wade takes it seriously. Or as seriously as Deadpool can take things.
Wade’s still got his mask rolled up over his mouth and Peter can see the new skin of his throat slowly being taken over by shifting scars.
Pete drops his eyes and scritches around Jeff’s fin until he purrs happily.
“‘Sucks,” he says finally. “Sorry, dude.”
“Worth it, Websy. I’d get shanked all the time if it means I get to hang with my two favorite guys,” Wade grins, and the light glints of the sharp points of his canines. There’s something about that grin that causes Pete’s heart rate to spike, but before he can figure out why, there’s an ominous gurgle from the belly beneath his hand.
“Mrrrggggghghhh,” Jeff groans, and then it’s a race to see who will win: one super-powered man with enhanced agility and reflexes, or the compromised gastrointestinal system of a sixty-pound landshark who should not be eating chorizo, holy shit.
Pete wins by the grace of god and radioactive spiders, but it’s a very near miss. The less said about it all, the better.
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Pete gets back to his apartment either super late or super early, depending on how you look at it.
(After The Great Chorizo Expulsion, Jeff is super clingy and what is Peter supposed to do? Leave him? What is he, some kind of monster?
They play a few rounds of Mario Kart and then Wade finds out Peter hasn’t played Hades. After Peter gets him to stop gasping dramatically around the apartment, Wade boots it up so Peter can give it a go. Then it’s like Peter blinks and it’s 4 am, Jeff snoring loudly on the couch behind him and Wade sunk low into his armchair.
“Oh shoot,” he says as Wade blinks at him. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to be here all night.”
Wade only gives him that slow smile again, the one that makes Peter feel—
“Anytime, baby boy. You’re always welcome in Casa del Pool.”
Peter shrugs off the weird feeling and smiles back.
“Thanks, Wade. Give the little guy a smooch from me when he wakes up. I’ll stop by later in the week to check in.”
Wade waggles his eyebrows at him beneath his mask.
“You got it, Spidey. I don’t suppose you’d give that smooch to me so I can pass it on?”
Peter rolls his eyes, and climbs out the window.
“Bye, Wade.”
“Bye, Websy.”)
All that being said, it’s just after 5am before Peter finally crawls through his window.
As Peter pulls off his mask, he looks at the burgeoning dawn light coming into his room and thinks: hmm. Nice.
And as he strips off the rest of his suit and kicks it into the compartment under his bed, he studies the way the pale yellow sunlight hits the sheets and thinks: yeah. Pretty.
There’s something thrumming under his skin, an energy that kept him wired on his way home but now that he’s here has nowhere to go. He’s not sure what it is yet, but as he passes a hand over his chest, he feels his body react, and yeah.
Romance yourself, Parker. He can do that.
Peter sets his camera up but this time he takes his time. He thinks about MJ’s advice. He forgets about the internet’s horniest randos. He’s doing this for himself to send to someone specific. Peter hasn’t been with a guy in a little bit so he imagines that; some dude who’s tall and broad, standing behind the camera and asking Peter to show off for him.
The early morning light glints off the web-shooters on his desk in a way that reminds him of—something he can’t quite recall, but whatever it is, it’s hot and enough that his higher brain function turns off for the sake of getting off. He lets himself get lost in the feeling and the fantasy and the click of his camera shutter.