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See, it starts the moment that they meet, and it never really ends.
The stranger twists around in the air, landing lightly on his feet as Spider-Man swings down, lands even lighter, and says, “Hi.”
“Hi. We’ve never met, have we? No, no, I would have remembered you.” The man points at him. “You stole my suit design. Great ass, though.”
“…I designed this myself.” He ignores the comment about his ass. “I’m Spider-Man.”
“Hi Spider-Man. Catchy name. Weird hyphen, though. The fans are never going to respect that.”
(Peter remembers, at this point, being very confused.) “Right. Well, uh, those were some sick moves back there.”
“Thank you very much!” He looks like he’s smiling, even through the blank face of his mask. He sounds like he’s smiling. “Aren’t you just a delight. Right, right, title cards. I’m Deadpool, and I—”
This is it coming up. The kicker. One of Doc Ock’s mechanical tentacles cuts off Deadpool’s next line, whatever that might have been, by appearing out of nowhere with a violent crack. Even Peter hadn’t seen it coming until it was too late, distracted with Deadpool’s overwhelming first impression.
The tentacle slams them both against the nearest wall, winding Peter and seemingly knocking Deadpool out cold.
Until Peter’s senses snap into high gear, and, like a bright red warning sign, he sees the small knife dangling from Deadpool’s not-so-unconscious hand.
Deadpool slams the knife upwards, shouting baby knife, motherfucker as he goes, and as Doc Ock screeches they both drop back down neatly to the ground.
“That was rude, Doc, even for you,” Peter shouts out, crouching low to avoid the next inevitable attack.
Deadpool, on the other hand, stands up tall and starts to strut around. “Nice-Ass is right, that was rude. We were in the middle of a conversation. Not to mention, that really hurt.”
This is it—the thing that’s been haunting them since this very moment, as Deadpool cocks a hip, unsheathes a katana, and tosses Peter a wink.
“Lucky for you,” Deadpool says, “I like pain.”
—
Three years later, and the creature that is Wade Wilson has somehow—against Peter’s wishes, better judgement, and lease agreement—moved into Peter’s apartment. Despite how that sounds, it’s good most of the time. Messy, but good.
Sometimes it’s even really good.
Like now, as Wade rocks in Peter’s lap, hands braced on his chest as he moans, little by little, sinking down onto Peter’s cock. He’s so fucking tight, body repairing itself almost as quickly as he can acquire whatever injury it thinks sex is. Every time he manages to relax, his muscles almost immediately clench down again—it’s torturously good. Peter’s one hand is steadying his own dick, helping Wade along, and the other is crushing bruises into the scarring across Wade’s hip.
He’d be gentler, but Wade likes it this way. The pain. Peter watches as Wade brings one of his own hands up to his mouth so he can bite the fingers.
“Don’t get too worked up,” Peter advises, breathless and bucking up on accident into Wade’s body, earning him the sweetest, muffled sort of whine. “I’m serious, babe, if you bite those fingers off we’ll have to stop.”
“I won’t,” Wade says, but his teeth are sort of sawing through anyway. He’s used to Wade’s minor self mutilation by now, but it’s still disgusting—Peter groans, yanking Wade’s hand away from himself, scowling down at where blood is welling up around exposed bone.
“Jesus, come on, man, this is our last pair of sheets that aren’t red—“
“Well that’s your problem right there.” Wade leans down, forcing himself further on Peter’s cock as he mouths, deceptively gentle, around the skin of Peter’s neck. “I’m telling you, red is the best. Hides the blood, yeah, but also it’s the color of passion. Don’t you want to walk into our bedroom and feel the passion, Petey?”
“I’m literally fucking you right now. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Wade whines, collapsing into Peter’s chest, a sudden crushing weight.
He’s not even moving his hips.
Peter’s dick isn’t happy about that one, but he knows these moods—it’ll pass, as long as he lets it, and doesn’t bring up how his cock is half shoved into his boyfriend’s body or the way Wade’s bitten fingers have bled out enough to stain even though they’ve already mostly healed.
Peter takes as deep of a breath as he can manage with Wade smothering him, and then he waits. Runs a hand down Wade’s spine, feeling for the protrusions of bone beneath the uneven scar tissue.
Suddenly, Wade snaps up, hands planted on either side of Peter’s head, eyes squeezed shut as he rocks back hard.
“Hey! Stop, Wade, you’re going to hurt yourself—“
“That’s the point, honeywebs,” Wade grits out, forcing himself further and further on Peter’s dick until he’s bottomed out and still trying to go back more.
“Shit,” Peter breathes, trying to steady himself against the feeling of Wade’s body around him, that peculiar internal rhythm that only Wade has—like a heartbeat, that's his body trying to heal around Peter’s body. Trying to force the intrusion out. “Why did you—“
“I told you,” Wade’s eyes open, dark and pleading. He’s on his hands and knees. Begging. “I need it to hurt. Please. Please.” Shit, Wade saying please really does—
“I don’t want to,” Peter says, which is what he says every time, even if the please’s get to him. “I—“
“Seriously? You’re trying to tell me that you never think about hurting me…Not even when I’ve left the dishes in the sink overnight—“
“This is New York, dude, I don’t want roaches—“
“Or when I go off script and almost get everyone killed—“
“That’s significantly worse than that first thing, babe.”
“Or when I do this.”
Wade keens backward, his hand—it’s always uncanny—a little faster than Peter’s eye. Peter’s senses flare to life just before Wade arches, clenching down around Peter’s dick as he drives one of his knives into his own stomach.
“Fuck,” Wade moans like a whore as Peter tries very, very hard not to freak out.
He’s not doing a good job. “What the hell, Wade?! Are you insane?! You could have—“
“Don’t worry,” Wade says, his voice all shaky and breathless as he fucks the knife into his stomach, rocking on Peter’s dick in time. “I’d never stab you, babe. Trust me, I know exactly where you are inside me.”
“Shut up,” he says, feeling himself go red, because yeah, that was what he was afraid of, which sounds insane considering Wade’s the one getting gutted. He tightens his hands on Wade’s thighs, stuck watching blood pulse out of Wade’s body with every thrust of the knife. It pours down Wade’s pelvis, flowing past his beautiful, achingly hard dick until it drips. Begins to pool on Peter’s stomach.
Wade’s eyes slip shut.
Peter moves as quickly as he can, which happens to be extraordinarily quick. He grips Wade’s hand over the handle of the knife, pulling back with strength even Wade can’t match—he’s weakened, caught off guard and presumably overwhelmed with his own masochistic pleasure.
Peter flips them easily, bringing the knife and Wade’s hand with it up to Wade’s throat, pinning him down into the mattress as he stares into Wade’s wide, glazed over eyes.
“Hi,” Wade says. He licks his lips, the picture of innocence with blood still on his tongue.
Peter swallows hard, rutting a little deeper into Wade’s body. “I know you’re not all there,” he grinds out, pressing the blade down closer to Wade’s throat—although, not as close as Wade is trying to get it. “But that was crazy, even for you.”
“Ouch,” Wade whines, wriggling his hips, trying to bait Peter into moving. “Come on, that just hurts. And not in the fun way. I’m talking about physical pain, babe. It’s not much of a turn on for you to start sounding like my therapist. Ex-therapist. I quit therapy, is now a good time to tell you that?”
He’s not in a joking mood, but he can’t help himself. “Oh, what, suddenly you can’t handle me punching below the belt?” Peter punctuates that with a hand wrapped around Wade’s dick, jerking him off with his own still-tacky blood.
“Now we’re talking. A little cock and ball torture never killed anyone—“
“Stop it!” Peter tosses the knife away, freeing Wade’s hand.
That hand then immediately wraps around Wade’s own throat, choking himself.
Something inside Peter snaps. He covers Wade’s fingers with his own, both hands pressing down onto his throat as he pulls out and slams back into Wade’s body, watching for the moment when Wade realizes that he isn’t going to let up.
There’s an insane amount of resistance as he fucks him—Wade’s already healed.
“Is this what you wanted?” Peter chokes him harder, pressing Wade’s fingers into his windpipe.
There it is. Wade’s eyes roll back into his head, a broken, wet moan drooling out of his wet lips when he finally makes the connection.
I’m doing this for you, asshole.
Wade struggles to nod, legs twitching on either side of Peter’s hips.
“Shit.” Peter goes to pull away, terrified at all of this. He doesn’t want to hurt Wade. I don’t want to hurt you! “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Wade’s fingers interlace with his, keeping him there. Pressing him closer, until Peter’s pretty sure he can feel Wade’s trachea giving way beneath them. “P—lease,” Wade chokes out. The second time he goes to say it, there’s no sound—just his scarred lips mouthing please. Please, Peter.
And if there’s one thing Peter can’t do, it’s refuse Wade when he manages to ask politely. “Wade,” Peter says, making sure Wade’s looking at him before he continues, even if the look is glassy and Wade’s begun drooling out of the corner of his mouth. “Tap out if it’s too much,” he settles on.
The moan Wade ekes out is worth it. The way his body tightens around Peter’s and everything about him seizes, dick leaking precum to mix with his own blood.
Unfortunately, Peter draws a blank. He desperately searches his mind for anything, but even the most violent corner of his mind doesn’t get worse than slapping Wade and immediately apologizing. Maybe grabbing pizza after.
Thankfully, Wade has far worse, far kinkier ideas. He shifts a little beneath Peter, and then very deliberately brushes over the extremely sensitive inside of Peter’s wrist. His unfocused eyes stare in Peter’s general direction. His hairless brows waggle.
Got it. Peter leans back, pulling out and easing off Wade’s throat in one fluid motion that makes Wade protest, head shaking as his mouth begins to open.
So, Peter sits back on his haunches, and webs Wade’s mouth shut.
“If we’re gonna do this, then you’re going to have to do what I say. No more suggestions. Got it?”
Wade looks up, giving his best puppy dog eyes as he nods.
“Good.”
At the very simple praise, Wade beams, reaching up with both hands, trying to grab Peter to drag him back in.
“Hey, that’s a great point, babe. It’ll be easier if I know you’re not going anywhere.” Peter calculates quickly, shooting two more webs which easily make their targets, pinning Wade’s hands to the headboard. “How’s that? Comfy?”
Wade rolls his whole head instead of his eyes, but his dick has gotten even harder, straining between his legs as Peter thinks of where to go from here.
It’s not that they’ve never done this before—they have, actually, many times—but normally this is the extent of the kinkiness.
That won’t satisfy Wade, though. After all, he did say please.
Peter tugs a length of webbing from his wrist, shivering at the feeling of doing it so slowly. It’s different from shooting them—he can feel this, the strand of silk sliding all the way from inside of his forearm, a unique sort of pleasure shuddering out from the thousands of precise nerve endings that give him so much accuracy and control.
He gathers the webbing in the opposite hand, pulling another strand from the other wrist, back and forth and back and forth until he has a length thick enough for what he’s going to do.
Actually, it’s been thick enough for a while, but he’s enjoying the overwhelming sensation of pulling at it. Making Wade squirm as he’s forced to wait is even better.
Finally, Wade loudly groans through the gag, pointedly straining and rolling his eyes around until Peter gives in.
“You like being choked so much?”
Wade moans, all muffled, nodding wildly.
“Try this, then.” Peter crawls back over his boyfriend, wrapping the webbing cord tightly around his neck once, twice, three times before he uses the end of it to connect up to the headboard with Wade’s wrists.
Wade goes a little purple, but he also looks horny and happy and wrecked, bucking up into the air between them, entire body tensing and twitching—he’s so fucking reactive.
It feels wrong to be so turned on, but Peter’s always had a blindspot in the shape of Wade—he’s horny because Wade’s horny, and it’s getting urgent for them both.
He prods his way back into Wade’s body with his fingers. It’s dry and tight and has to be painful, which is apparently the goal today considering how Wade arches, screaming as he rolls his hips down further onto Peter’s hand.
“You know, I’m never going to understand this,” Peter says, aiming for conversational and quippy even as he crooks his fingers and presses against Wade’s prostate. Even as his voice is nearly as blown out as Wade’s is going to be. “I mean, we’re always getting hurt on the job.”
Wade speaks, or at least tries to, and it betrays how much time they’ve spent together when, through the gag, Peter thinks he understands. “Duh. What better way to deal with it than to kinkify it!”
Which, really, they’ve been spending way too much time together considering kinkify isn’t even a word. “That’s not even a word,” Peter says, stretching Wade out dry on three fingers and mouthing gently at the inside of one of Wade’s knees as he pulls up a leg.
Wade goes a little cross-eyed. “You know me so well.”
“Oh, be quiet,” Peter says, but he’s smiling. Wade only moans louder, exaggerating it for his unseen audience.
Peter wouldn’t have him any other way.
He pulls his fingers out, making a show of pushing them into his own mouth, getting them nice and wet as Wade whimpers. Impressively muscular arms straining as he tries to break the webs binding him to the headboard.
Wade yanks so hard the headboard creaks.
“Uh uh.” Peter pulls his fingers out with a pop, using his own spit to jerk himself off. “Hey, you’re not goin’ anywhere. You ready?”
Wade nods so hard Peter’s pretty sure he’s going to strain himself right out of the silk wrapped around his neck. His enthusiastic moaning is broken every time he nods forward. Ungh, ungh, ungh, come, on, p—lease!
As much as he’s enjoying Wade’s desperation, he’s too close to drag this out any longer. He pushes back into Wade’s body, gritting his teeth against the too-tight, too-dry friction on his dick.
At least one of them is enjoying this.
Wade makes a noise that Peter’s only ever heard before in shitty pornos and particularly difficult fights. The kind of noise that is real, shoved into the middle of a bunch of played up, exaggerated noises. The singular, guttural, heaven help me even though I don’t believe in God sort of noise.
Wade makes that noise as he meets Peter on every thrust, head tipped all the way back, eyes squeezed shut so hard that Peter watches actual tears force their way out and down into his ears.
The angle isn’t working as well as he wants, though, with how much Wade is squirming, so Peter quickly pulls out and flips Wade over, dragging his hips up and slamming back in all before Wade can even make a questioning sort of sound. The perks of being Spider-Man—he can still surprise his boyfriend.
Speaking of surprises, Peter grabs the taut end of the leash leading off the webbing collar and rips it from the headboard, using it for leverage as he fucks Wade as hard and fast as his body wants him to. Harder and faster than he’s ever let himself go before, slamming into Wade so viciously that the bed creaks and the floor creaks and the wall begins to creak.
It’s definitely working, and not just for him as the pleasure grows more and more intense. Wade’s arching back, arms forcibly crossed in front of him where they’re still stuck to the headboard, gone mute again with how hard Peter’s choking him.
He’d ease off, but right now he’s more focused on making them both cum.
That’s when it hits him—what Wade would call Chekov’s gun. Or, rather, Chekov’s sex knife.
Peter snaps out a hand behind him, instinctually webbing up the knife from where he’d tossed it and flicking it back into his hand.
He fucks up into Wade’s body, teasing the edge of his covered mouth with the tip of the knife before slicing clean through the middle.
“Hi,” he says, holding the blade flat against Wade’s throat.
“Jesus, hi! Who know you were hiding this guy in there!” Wade tips his head back against Peter’s shoulder, trying to snag his throat on the knife and meet Peter’s eye at the same time. “Where have you been keeping this beast?”
“You like that?” Peter tugs Wade flush against him with a hand around his waist, mouthing around Wade’s cheek.
“Like it? You’ve never been hotter. I’m so wet right now, although I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
“You’re wet, huh?” Peter’s more than used to Wade’s odd use of terminology, but it does give him an idea. “Really? ‘Cause, uh, I thought you were hard.”
And then he drags the knife down from Wade’s throat, lightly across his chest and down his stomach until he rests it—carefully—right up against the base of Wade’s dick.
“Want me to take care of that for you?”
“Shit. Shit. Fucking hell,” Wade moans, trailing off with a watery L sound as he turns his face into Peter’s neck. He sounds drunk, slurring out, “I love you. You should do it, I wanna see if I can cum without a dick, and trust me, I am close.”
“I’m not going to cut your dick off,” Peter mumbles pressing wet, open mouthed kisses to Wade’s neck. Biting when Wade starts to complain.
“Come on, I’m never going to have the balls to do it myself—ha, get it? ‘Cause I won’t have balls—“
Peter flicks the knife over Wade’s pelvis, carving a bright, bleeding smile across his stomach.
“Shit, that’s good, do more of that.”
“You are so bossy.”
“You love me,” Wade teases. “You love me so much, it’s embarrassing.”
“I will web your mouth shut again.”
“Aw, but then I can’t do this!” Wade cranes as far as he can, pressing his mouth to Peter’s mouth. Leftover silk clings onto his lips, but it doesn’t really matter—he still makes out with Peter like he needs it, hands straining again at the webs for the first time since Peter had pulled him into his lap.
From there it’s a blur. A slash at Wade’s stomach, his thighs, and his chest. Shallow wounds that get Wade moaning sloppily into Peter’s mouth as Peter struggles to keep up a rhythm. Bouncing Wade on his dick when Wade goes totally boneless, draping himself across Peter’s body in a heavy, sweaty heap.
It’s too much—Peter cums first, startlingly sudden when he’s been so close for so long.
He fucks in as deep as he can go and stays there, letting Wade drop forward onto his elbows, which, of course, means Wade drops down onto his chest and arches his back.
“That’s it,” Wade groans. “Fuck, yeah, make me cum, babe. So close—“
Peter holds the knife again at the base of Wade’s dick, jerking him off with his other hand, leaning over him. His chest to Wade’s ridiculously arched back. Bearing down with all his weight. “Maybe I’ll cut it off after you cum.”
“Where’s the fun in—“
“One last orgasm before you lose your dick, how’s that sound?”
“Oh, oh! Yeah, oh, shit, that’s good.” Wade tucks his head into his crossed elbows, muttering, “More.”
Peter bites down on Wade’s shoulder, stalling for time.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to. The bite is what does it—Wade cums hard, collapsing fully into the bed, forcing the knife accidentally into the base of his dick.
He clenches down onto Peter with a loud, trembling groan.
“Shit! Wade, I’m so sorry, I—!“
“Don’t be,” Wade slurs out, rolling to the side, dick half-severed and still drooling out cum. “That was amazing.”
Peter tosses the knife away, ripping Wade’s hands free from the headboard. “You promise you’re okay?”
Wade’s genuinely a little cross-eyed. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my entire life. Except maybe this one time, but trust me, our bed is way comfier than a Honda Odyssey.”
Peter doesn’t laugh.
Wade rolls his eyes, and his whole head with them. “Yes, Jesus, Peter, I’m fine! You’re so uptight.”
“Your dick is falling off! How am I the one being unreasonable here?!”
Wade shrugs, a weird little motion when he’s still curled up on his side. “Hey, look at that, it’s already growing back!”
It’s true—the bleeding’s stopped, and the alarming gash is knitting itself back together neatly. First an open wound, then an odd, jagged line, and then nothing—whatever remaining trace of damage tucks itself neatly into the mottled scar tissue of Wade’s skin.
Still, Peter fusses the rest of the night. He insists on accompanying Wade into the shower—which gets him a very soapy blowjob—and then into bed, where Wade insists on wearing his full Hello Kitty ensemble as he insists on calling it. That being fluffy printed pants and a tank top that, frankly, wouldn’t even have fit Peter pre-bite. It stretches obscenely tight across Wade’s chest, Hello Kitty’s smiling face distorted as he pushes his pecs together and suggestively glances at his cleavage.
“Man, I am exhausted. How are you still horny? I mean, we are certain you don’t have an off switch, right?”
“If I did, you would definitely have found it by now. Preferably with your tongue.”
Despite the flirting, Peter pulls Wade’s head down onto his chest, and Wade eagerly curls up into his side. “Go to sleep, babe.”
Wade’s quiet for a minute, breathing evening out, and Peter almost thinks he’s going to get to sleep now until Wade lowly clears his throat and says softly, “Thanks, by the way.” Then, back to his usual tone, “I mean it, really, tonight was magical.”
“Wow,” Peter says, stops, yawns, and continues. “First you say please, and now thank you? What’s next?”
Wade sighs wistfully. “Probably this.”
And then, he shoves his hand down Peter’s shorts.