can we get this thing wrapped up?

by thesnapwasbrutal

Summary:

“Hey, Petey-Pie?” Wade asked, tone sugar-laced, butter-warm, and instantly suspect. “You remember that fun, not-at-all torturous challenge you gave me a while back?”

Peter groaned, the sound punched up from deep in his chest. "Yeah… God, don’t remind me... Why?” he asked, trying and failing to sound neutral. Bracing already.

“I’d like to redeem my one-use Spidey-web coupon now, if ya’ don’t mind,” Wade said, chipper as ever. His tone was light, the cadence casual.

But the way he stretched his arms behind his head, elbows wide, chest pushed forward just a little, the cocky shift in his hips said everything.

Notes:

• For blurple.

blah blah ropes blah blah makeshift shibari
this is part 2 to - i cant touch it, even though it's mine

Patrol had been quiet. Nothing to chase, nothing to punch.

A petty theft foiled with a single glare, an old lady helped across a light too slow to change, one cat rescued, one hot dog shared. For once there was no blood, no bruises, and no last-minute moral dilemmas. It was just the kind of low-stakes night that left Peter half-convinced something had to be lurking around the next corner just to balance things out… but nothing ever came.

So now they were here.

Post-patrol, perched on some random apartment rooftop tucked between neighbourhoods, half-stained with pigeon shit and maybe old grease from the exhaust fans below. There was no real view, no real reason to stay—except they had, and were. Because Wade had found the spot, and Peter hadn’t complained, and now they were both sprawled across the concrete like it was a couch in someone’s living room.

They weren’t talking about anything important, mostly nonsense. What if Spiderman got a podcast. Whether it was illegal to cook a steak with repulsor tech. If the Hulk could get tan—I mean, could he? It was nothing useful, all of it laced with that weird late-night giddiness that crept in when your muscles were too tired to hold your guard up.

There were clotheslines strung sloppily across the neighbouring buildings, sagging low, hung with laundry that rippled in the breeze. A pair of faded jeans kicked at the air, some oversized underwear flapped proudly next to a tank top shaped like it had been through a war. The rooftop was cluttered, broken lawn chairs and empty pots, a tangle of string lights someone had given up on untangling. It smelled like asphalt and dust and summer sweat, with a hint of detergent wafting off a stiff white bed sheet pinned near the edge.

They could be seen here, that part was clear. Someone could walk up to grab their drying socks and find this; two half-dressed vigilantes laying flat like they were waiting for the sky to start talking. One wrong footstep on the fire escape and someone would have a show.

But no one had, luckily enough.

Wade was spread out like he was sunbathing, legs stretched, arms flung wide like he belonged here. His shirt had ridden up just a little, exposing the curve of his belly. He was grinning at nothing, humming some off-key pop song with his eyes mostly closed. Peter sat cross-legged beside him, perched more like a squatter than a lounger, fiddling with a loose thread in his suit sleeve, wondering how on earth the stitching came loose. His curls were a wind-tangled disaster, eyebrows furrowed, and there was a dark smudge on his jaw from where he’d scraped against the fire escape coming up.

It was a peaceful kind of scene. Quiet in the bones, warm in the skin. That once in a while post-patrol hush where the city exhaled and even the sirens took a nap. Where the air wasn’t thick with tension, just the leftover heat from the day and the promise of nothing.

But that was before Wade opened his mouth.

“Hey, Petey-Pie?” he asked, tone sugar-laced, butter-warm, and instantly suspect. He didn’t shift position, just tilted his head lazily in Peter’s direction, that shit-eating grin sliding slow across his face like a tide rolling in. The kind of smile that meant mischief, the kind that glinted, catching just enough of the setting sun to telegraph trouble from half a block away. “You remember that fun, not-at-all torturous challenge you gave me a while back?”

Peter groaned, the sound punched up from deep in his chest as if his body was trying to physically reject the memory. His shoulders drooped, his head rolled back, and he squinted toward the skyline like he was trying to manifest an emergency through sheer willpower. “Yeah… God, don’t remind me,” he muttered, voice dropping into that wary register he used whenever Wade was about to ruin his night in a very specific way.

His heartbeat stuttered a little, not that he’d admit it—because yeah, he remembered the aftermath of that challenge. The week that followed. The sheer lack of walking—God, his thighs had trembled for days.

He could still feel it if he thought about it too hard—which he absolutely was, now, thank you very much.

“...Why?” he asked, trying and failing to sound neutral. Bracing already.

Wade just huffed a laugh, low and pleased, like he’d expected that exact reaction and was eating it up.

“I’d like to redeem my one-use Spidey-web coupon now, if ya’ don’t mind,” he said, chipper as ever. His tone was light, the cadence casual. But the way he stretched his arms behind his head, elbows wide, chest pushed forward just a little, the cocky shift in his hips said everything. He knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d been waiting for this moment. Like he’d planned it with the precision of a military strike and the glee of a cartoon villain.

Peter blinked.

Then blinked again, slower this time, like maybe if he rebooted his brain the words would mean something else. The silence that followed was jagged and immediate, sharp enough to slice through the ambient city hum like glass cracking under pressure.

“What?” he blurted, voice hitching up, just a little too high. His hands jerked off his knees as if he’d touched something live, some current running up his arms and into his spine. “H–Here?”

“Yes, here,” Wade said evenly, the calm in his tone so absurd it bordered on comedy. Like they were discussing takeout. Like it wasn’t a completely deranged suggestion. He didn’t even open his eyes. Just let the fading sun stretch across his face, catching on the faint scars and edges of healed burns like he was recharging. He looked perfectly content. Suspiciously so.

“But—um, but we’re in public, Wade,” Peter stammered, and there it was—that voice. The frantic, borderline-desperate cadence he only used when trying to talk sense into a man who quite literally had none. He looked around fast, shoulders tightening, eyes scanning the fire escape, the laundry lines, the door that might swing open at any moment.

“We’re on a rooftop, Webs,” Wade replied. His voice was breezy, infuriatingly so, as if the concept of ‘public indecency’ was a myth someone had made up to stifle creativity.

Peter threw his hands up halfway, doing that half-flail thing he always did when his thoughts for once outran his mouth—like he could physically grab the words before they escaped. “A public rooftop, Wade,” he hissed, pink blooming fast across his cheeks and up his ears like he was being dragged into a spotlight. His body was already betraying him, shifting closer to Wade even as his mouth tried to hold the line. His eyes darted down to Wade’s smile and then away just as quickly, because he knew what that smile meant and was desperately trying to avoid it.

The implications were burning hot in his stomach, mortifying, and the worst part—the worst part—was how fast he was getting hard.

“Mm, details… details...” Wade hummed, waving a lazy hand like Peter’s entire moral argument was just dust in the air. His grin was getting wider by the second, and each syllable out of Peter’s mouth was further confirmation that this was going exactly where he wanted it to. “But it doesn’t matter. No one’s here.”

He glanced sideways then, finally cracking one eye open—and caught the exact second Peter hesitated. It was all over him: the shift in his shoulders, the way his weight tipped subtly backward like he was bracing for the fallout, the dart of his tongue across suddenly dry lips. And just for good measure, Wade pouted. Real, exaggerated, bottom-lip-jutting, mournful-eyes before he let out with a whine, “Come on, you swore scouts’ honour.”

Peter made a noise, soft and embarrassed.

“I–I did, but—I just—” The words tumbled out of him in a rush, brittle and jumbled, the kind of faltering cadence that only happened when his logic was losing to his own hormones. His shoulders crept inward, curling as if he could make himself smaller by sheer force of will, and the flush was rising hard now—up his neck, blooming pink and soft along his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. His gaze flicked around the rooftop like something might shift, like he’d find an excuse waiting in the laundry or a valid escape wedged behind the AC unit.

“I don’t want anyone to see us,” he mumbled, voice small and barely holding together.

Wade finally sat up properly, propped on one elbow, head tilted just slightly as he studied him. The smirk faded—not completely, but enough to make room for something quieter. “I doubt anyone will,” he said, and there was something in his tone that gave it weight. Not dismissive. Just sure. Like he’d already factored in every angle and still landed here, on this rooftop, with him.

Then came the grin. That grin. Tilted and sly and two shades too knowing for its own good. “Have I ever led you astray, Petey?”

Peter snorted, eyes cutting toward him because seriously?, but the protest didn’t make it past his lips. “I won’t answer that,” he muttered, deadpan—but not sharp. His mouth twitched halfway toward a smile, and his hands were already creeping back toward his knees, fingers tapping a slow, nervous rhythm against the fabric of his pants.

Peter looked at him, jaw tight, eyes narrowed—not angry, but thinking. Measuring. There was a line being drawn here, and he knew it, could feel it in the curl of Wade’s smile, in the stretch of silence that followed. For a second, the rooftop faded—the hum of cars, the sway of shirts drying in the breeze, the whole city dipped behind the way Wade watched him. Not even demanding, just waiting.

And Peter, for all his good sense, for all the warning bells pinging in his brain like a pinball machine, stared right back at him and stepped willingly across the line.

“Fine,” he said, voice low and tight, like it hurt to squeeze the words out. “But, um… make it quick.”

Wade’s face lit up.

Not like a light switch but like a slow fuse catching, one gleam of tooth after another, fondness bleeding straight into smugness until his whole expression was a cocky, radiant thing. He didn’t even bother pretending. “I’d like to take my time,” he said sweetly, head tilting in mock innocence, before adding, “Besides, you could always safe-word, and I’ll stop.”

The way he said it, so soft, so easy, so earnest, landed warm and steady in Peter’s chest. Wade meant it, no question. There was no angle, no push, no tease tucked behind it this time. Just a quiet out Peter could use if he needed it.

A lifeline.

And still—

Still, all it did was make Peter’s face burn hotter. Because fuck, no. He didn’t want to use it. That was the whole problem.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, one hard reflex that looked more like a full-body gulp, and Wade saw it. Saw the way his breath caught a little, the tiniest wobble in his mouth like a word had tried to escape and been wrestled down at the last second. That twitch in the corner of his lips, a barely-there quirk betraying every thought he didn’t say.

Oh, he was fighting it. Trying to hold on to some last scrap of control. It was adorable.

Then suddenly, Peter moved.

Abruptly, like he’d spooked himself into action. He pushed up from where he’d been sitting, limbs stiff like they hadn’t decided whether they wanted to cooperate. “Mph, just—just get on with it,” He muttered, suddenly, voice sharper than it needed to be. He ducked his head almost immediately, fumbling with the clasps at his wrists like they’d become harder to undo just because Wade was watching.

His fingers trembled. The shakes were small, nerves fraying at the edges, but he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the web shooters off with practiced hands, clumsy in places, then held them out toward Wade with the stiffness of someone offering up a sacred relic he so desperately wanted back.

A reluctant sacrifice.

And Wade?

Wade sprang to his feet like a loaded spring firing off, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement.

“Thank you very much!” He chirped, snatching the web shooters from Peter’s outstretched hands with the unrestrained glee of a history buff handed keys to a war tank. He bounced them in his palm a few times, weighing them like twin grenades he had every intention of detonating as soon as humanly possible. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, his grin all teeth and unchecked chaos.

Then—with far too much flair—he slipped them on.

One strap. Snug.

Then the other. A quick little tug to secure it. A whistle under his breath, cheerful and off-key, like he was getting ready for a nice stroll rather than… whatever this was going to become. He adjusted the fit with an exaggerated pat to the wrist mounts, nodding to himself.

Peter, watching all of this with quiet dread, had the gall to think: He actually looks kind of good in them.

He did.

The web shooters suited him. Not just aesthetically—though yeah, they hugged his forearms a little too well—but in attitude. Like he was born to misuse this technology. Peter kind of hated how natural they looked on him.

“There we go,” Wade announced once both were snug, rolling his wrists with a dramatic flourish. He flexed his fingers in slow, exaggerated motions, the kind that were just close enough to Peter’s actual movements to be an insult. Then he flicked his wrists forward, air-gunning at the skyline.

“Thwip! Pew!” he barked, blasting imaginary webs into the air. “Pew pew! Thwip!” Each sound effect was louder than the last, complete with recoil animations, ducked knees, and a truly cursed interpretation of Peter’s web-swinging stance that looked more like interpretive dance than anything combat-capable.

He twisted his hips, tossed a shoulder, then locked into a wild-legged pose, head tilted as if admiring himself in the windows across the alley.

“It’s strange,” he mused, serious now—too serious. “Being on the other side of this.”

Peter rolled his eyes so hard his head tipped back like the force might knock him over. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, already regretting everything that had led to this exact moment. He stayed planted exactly where he was, though, standing and fidgeting on his two feet, held in place by the weight of what he’d just consented to.

Wade didn’t answer. Didn’t quip, didn’t crow. He just turned his full attention to Peter, and that look settled into his face. The one that meant chaos was imminent. Mischief engaged. The expression Wade got right before pressing the metaphorical big red button. His eyes glittered with it, charged and bright, and Peter didn’t even get a second to prepare before—

Thwip.

The sound snapped through the air like a whip crack.

Peter’s wrists jolted together, webbing tightening fast and seamless around them, sticky-slick and unforgiving. The pressure was immediate, hugging skin and muscle in a hold he knew too well, yanking his hands into perfect alignment. He instinctively tugged, testing the bond, but there was no give. No wiggle. Just Wade’s precision—damn him—and the sweet, stupidly familiar tension of being restrained by his own fucking tech.

He looked down at them, then up at Wade, incredulous.

Then back down, as if maybe, just maybe, he could logic them loose by glaring.

He grumbled low in his throat, not loud enough to be dangerous, just a mutter of helpless irritation wrapped in humiliation. “Just you wait,” he muttered darkly.

“Oooh, threats now?” Wade gasped, delighted. His whole face lit up like Peter had just gifted him an early birthday present, and he crouched down instantly, planting both hands on his knees like he needed to get closer to this moment. “You gonna tie me up?” he cooed, practically vibrating. “You know I’m into that, Petey.”

Peter narrowed his eyes, but the effect was ruined by the blush he sported on his face. It wasn’t threatening, no, not even close. It was sulky and embarrassed and more than a little aroused—and Wade saw it. Saw it and thrived.

“Should know better than to threaten you with a good time,” Peter muttered, trying for dry but falling right into shaky.

Wade didn’t give him time to recover.

One beat, and then—before Peter could even flinch—

His suit pants were down around his thighs in a single, merciless tug. No hesitation, no ceremony, just two quick fingers at the waistband and a rip of fabric down his legs. The breeze hit skin that had no business being that exposed, that fast, and Peter made a sound like he’d swallowed his own dignity.

Which, really, he had.

Peter flinched like the air had physically smacked him, a full-body jolt that snapped his knees together on reflex. A yelp burst from his mouth, sharp and high, and immediate heat flooded his face—cheeks, ears, neck, everywhere. It was the kind of blush that burned from the inside out. He knew better. Knew. He always went commando under the suit—had to—but that didn’t make it less humiliating now, laid out, pants tangled around his ankles like a bad punchline.

His thighs twitched and pulled in automatically, trying to cross, to close, to do something—but with his wrists bound and Wade leering at him, all he managed was an awkward scrunch that only made things worse. Way worse.

“H–Hey!” he snapped, voice pitching embarrassingly high as he tried to twist away, as if modesty were still salvageable. His hands jerked at the webs again, useless. He was half-covered, half-exposed, and all-around doomed.

“Whaaat?” Wade sang, and the innocent tone was filthy by nature. His gaze dropped—slow, intentional, devouring the strip of newly bared skin with zero shame. The smirk curling his mouth was enough to warrant arrest. He looked like a man handed a present with the wrapping already torn open. “I need access,” he added, shrugging like this was the most reasonable point in the world. “You should be glad it’s a two-piece suit.”

“You mean regretting,” Peter hissed, trying to reassert some form of ground, any ground, but the words came out thinner than intended.

Wade wasn’t listening. His focus had narrowed to a pin. One hand reached out, fingertips brushing Peter’s thigh with maddening softness—barely pressure, just contact. His nails traced up along the inside seam of skin, slow and unhurried, following invisible lines only he could see. Peter tensed under it, breath hitching hard in his chest, another tremor crawling down his spine. It wasn’t just the touch—it was how Wade moved like he was savoring every second. Like he knew exactly how wound-up Peter was and was taking his time winding him tighter.

The smirk never left his face. It deepened. Got lazier, if anything—lethally focused. He leaned in, lips parting like he was about to say something awful. Something unforgettable. Something that would haunt Peter’s brain for weeks in the best way.

And then—

He stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-smirk.

Eyes lit up like he'd just remembered the second half of a plan.

“Oh—oh, wait!” he gasped, jerking back like he’d been yanked by a leash. He spun toward his crumpled backpack at the far edge of the roof and dropped to his knees with all the grace of a cartoon raccoon breaking into a picnic basket. There was a frantic rustle of zippers and fabric, a triumphant “aha!”—and then he turned back around holding a fuzzy, pastel monstrosity in both hands.

A blanket. Adorned with unicorns. Big-eyed, pink-cheeked, glitter-maned unicorns in a repeating pattern that bordered on offensively cheerful.

He shook it out with a flourish, snapping it once like a magician unveiling a prop. “Voila! For you, my prince,” he declared, already spreading it out on the rooftop like he was laying down a red carpet.

Peter blinked. Then rolled his breath out through his nose, long-suffering and exasperated—but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, just slightly. “You’re kidding me,” he said, voice flatter than a pancake. “Were you seriously carrying that around?”

Wade sat back on his heels, nodding solemnly. “Hey, I’m not gonna let my pookie get scuffed up on all this concrete.”

He reached behind him, smoothing out one corner of the unicorn blanket like it mattered—like the dumb little wrinkle might cause discomfort in the middle of everything else they were about to do. The gesture was absurdly tender, fastidious, almost domestic in its care.

Then he turned his head, glancing at Peter again.

And paused.

There—something. Just a flicker. The way Peter shifted his weight, the way his heel twitched on the rooftop, one shallow breath dragged in like it surprised him. Not a flinch. Not discomfort, not really. But something Wade knew. Something right on the edge of permission. Or shame.

Hesitation.

Or maybe—

“Unless…” Wade said, slow and sinfully soft, head tilting with the exact deliberation of a predator who’s spotted the weakest point in the fence. His grin crept back in, slinking across his face like ivy curling around a wall, invasive and unstoppable. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Peter’s reaction was immediate. He jerked his head away like Wade had turned into a spotlight, the blush tearing its way across his face in real-time, blooming from cheekbones to ears in a single, damning rush.

“I—I mean,” he began, voice breathless and barely audible, “it would add to the, um… experience.”

The words came out dripping with guilt, smaller and smaller, like he thought maybe if he mumbled hard enough, they’d disappear into the concrete. His shoulders hunched. His chin dipped. His entire body coiled inward like he was trying to fold himself into a shoebox.

His fingers twitched where they were bound together at his front, web-stuck and shaking. His knuckles were pink, clenched tight in their own restraint, betraying every second of spiraling thought spinning through his head. He wasn’t looking at Wade anymore. Wasn’t braving it. His eyes were fixed off to the side, past Wade’s shoulder—or maybe straight through him. Past the dumb unicorn blanket now sitting too pristine, too deliberate on the rooftop.

His thighs squeezed tighter. His breath hitched and caught.

And it was all too obvious.

No, wasn’t Peter asking for comfort. He was asking to feel it. Asking for the scrape of concrete, the chill of air under his skin, the pressure of the city just inches away. This was Peter admitting—with the whole curl of his spine and the quake in his voice—that part of him wanted the risk. The place. The fact that they were up here and not somewhere safe. That someone might come up. That he might be seen.

Wade’s response was instant.

He inhaled like Peter had just confessed a goddamn fantasy, like he’d been handed the most delicious fucking truth in the world—and Wade had been waiting his whole life to hear it.

“God, I love you,” he breathed—rushed, raw, hoarse from holding in too much too long. The words tumbled out unfiltered, wrecked with affection, reverence tangled in filth. His hands moved without thought, grabbing the edge of the unicorn blanket and shoving it back like it had personally offended him.

And then he launched forward.

He caught Peter’s face in both hands, palms framing his cheeks like they were precious cargo, and kissed him. No finesse. No setup. Just a crush of lips and teeth and airless laughter, Wade smiling so hard into the kiss it went crooked. Peter squeaked a sound of protest that got absolutely bulldozed the second Wade’s thumb brushed under his jaw, tilting him up, guiding him back into it without pressure—just pull, coaxed into place by touch alone.

The kiss was messy. Hot. Soaked in the kind of giddiness that burned. Wade’s hands were cupping him like he couldn’t decide whether to devour or cradle. Peter’s lips parted helplessly, a shiver rolling down his spine even as his wrists jerked uselessly against their sticky bonds. He didn’t kiss back at first—he just let Wade have him, pliant and breathless, willing.

The kiss finally broke, the air rushing back in between them sharp and dizzying.

“Come here,” Wade murmured against his mouth, voice rough with ruin, ragged around the edges like it could barely keep itself held together. His breath ghosted across Peter’s lips, too close to let the kiss really end. And even as he spoke, he was already tugging at Peter’s arms—gently, reverently, but with purpose. With intent. Like every inch of softness was just packaging for the next step. His fingers twitched with too much energy, not impatient but hungry, ideas already stacked behind his eyes, waiting to happen.

Peter let himself be moved. A little awkward at first, unsure how to fold, but Wade coaxed him down slowly onto the uneven concrete beneath. He hissed quietly when a rough corner scraped his lower back, the wince curling up his spine, but didn’t say anything. His breathing was already starting to shift, coming shallower, like his body had just remembered what kind of territory this was.

Wade laid him back with care, but with intention—a palm warm on Peter’s sternum, a hand braced under his thigh as he bent his legs, settling him open. His pants were peeled the rest of the way down with the same casual control, bunched at his ankles for a moment before being flung aside entirely. Peter shifted again, arching just slightly to adjust, breath hitching as another small piece of gravel jabbed beneath his spine.

And then—Wade’s fingers were back.

No warning. No teasing lead-up. Just the deliberate return of pressure, the soft press of a single slicked finger sliding inside him like it belonged there. There was no resistance—none. Peter’s body opened up without question, like it had been waiting for this.

The first knuckle in, then the second, the third—and Peter’s hips twitched up automatically, a sharp little jerk of surprise and hunger that drove his back off the concrete for a second. His wrists tugged hard against the webs around his wrists, instinct clawing at restraint with no real intention of escape. His breath caught in his throat, and his legs—tense just a moment before—went soft at the knees, parting wider with zero conscious permission.

The stretch was immediate, electric. Not overwhelming, not yet—but enough to light every nerve in his pelvis like a fuse, enough to make his toes curl in slow, involuntary arcs. His body knew what was coming. It was reacting ahead of him, eager and open and already so damn close to trembling.

Wade worked slowly at first—just a gentle curl, a little twist. Testing depth. Reacquainting himself with the shape of Peter’s insides. The sound of it was obscene, slick and wet and absolutely unhideable. The way his finger moved—it wasn’t tentative. It was admiring, like Wade was savoring the feel of each ring of muscle around him, memorizing the subtle give, the twitch, the way Peter sucked him in like his body missed the contact.

“Lucky we stretched you out this morning, hm?” Wade murmured, voice dropping into something low and devastatingly fond. His tone wrapped around Peter’s spine like a hot wire, coiling deep in the pit of his stomach.

His eyes didn’t move. They stayed locked on the place where his finger disappeared—watching the slow, greedy clench of muscle every time he pushed in, watching Peter flutter open around him like he wanted more.

“God, look at that…” Wade breathed, half-lost in it already.

Peter’s mouth worked around a breath he couldn’t quite get out. He flushed deeper, the colour rising in a tide that hit every exposed inch of skin. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, to look composed—but it was over before it started. His lip trembled. His eyes fluttered. He was failing, hard.

“Makes me think…” he managed, voice weak and cracking at the edges, “you were planning this.”

He sounded like he was trying for sarcasm. But his voice was fraying—frayed from the inside out, like the tension in his body was shaking the syllables loose before they were done forming.

“Oh, no!” Wade gasped, like the idea itself was offensive. “I pride myself on being a spontaneous man.” His second finger joined the first like punctuation, and Peter’s head dropped back against the concrete with a soft thud, a shaky exhale cutting through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, right,” Peter tried again, sarcasm clinging to the words like static. “Sp-spontaneous my—mmph, nevermind—”

His voice stuttered, cut clean by the feel of Wade’s mouth dipping lower—hot breath ghosting across his pelvis, lips brushing close enough to tease. He didn’t go for it directly. No, of course not. He kissed the skin around Peter’s cock, soft and slow, the base of his stomach, the crease of his hip, the sensitive dip where thigh met groin. With each press, his fingers worked deeper, curling slightly, stretching him open with a rhythm so steady it felt cruel.

Peter whimpered, thighs twitching, ankles shifting restlessly, and Wade—smug bastard—smiled into the next kiss. Then licked a stripe just shy of where Peter wanted him, and added a third finger without warning.

Peter’s hands—still webbed at the wrists, still technically restrained—started to move anyway, inching their way toward Wade’s head like they had a will of their own. His fingers brushed over the curve of his scalp, soft and reverent, trailing in feather-light patterns across smooth skin. It wasn’t even firm pressure—just coaxing, pleading in the shape of touch. The kind of silent ask that only existed in the way fingertips curled.

Wade made a noise deep in his throat, somewhere between a purr and a laugh. “Hmm,” he hummed, mock-thoughtful, barely lifting his gaze. He let the moment linger—just enough for Peter to think maybe he’d won—before casually lifting a hand and—

Thwip.

The new line of web shot up and over Peter’s head, snagging his wrists and dragging them backward, pinning them high to the low concrete ledge behind them. The angle was rough—shoulders stretched, back arched slightly off the ground—and Peter’s breath stuttered out in a sharp exhale.

“What? Wait, no no, h–hey!” he gasped, jerking against the restraint, his voice pitching straight up the moment he realized just how tight the seal was. His hips bucked a little, not in protest—just trying to recalibrate around the restraint—but his wrists held fast, web line thick and unmoving.

“Can’t have you being so grabby now, can we?” Wade said sweetly, lips still hovering infuriatingly close to Peter’s cock. He punctuated it with a kiss to the inside of his thigh, wet and soft, and the contrast made Peter twitch.

“You don’t—” Peter gasped, already breathless, voice slurring around the sharpness of it. “You don’t web to concrete, idiot. It’s gonna take hours to dissolve—”

He groaned as he said it, a full-bodied sound of frustration, embarrassment, and—yeah—arousal, bleeding together in equal measure. His head dropped back against the rooftop with a hollow thunk, curls catching on the rough surface, eyes squinting shut. The position stretched his throat out, collarbones pushed high, chest rising fast and shallow. He looked like a man caught between panic and rapture, torn in two.

His expression twisted, contorted with helpless tension. Every muscle was tensed under his skin like a wire—humiliated, yes, thoroughly, but also wrecked with heat. Wade’s webs were too good. His fingers were too precise. And Peter was crumbling too fast to be able to pretend it wasn’t turning him on.

Wade smiled.

Didn’t look up. Didn’t even acknowledge the complaint beyond that curved edge of his mouth. He leaned in lower instead, exhaling a slow stream of hot breath across the inside of Peter’s thigh—just enough to make him twitch.

“Aw,” Wade murmured, like he was being indulgent. “But that sweetens the deal, doesn’t it?”

And then he pushed his fingers deeper.

Peter jolted, his spine arching off the rooftop like he’d been plugged into a live current. His bound wrists jerked against the webs above him, his thighs snapping wider on reflex, trying to follow the movement and being denied. He moaned—short, hitched, punched out of his chest like the wind had been stolen right from his lungs. The sound cracked open mid-breath.

“God—” he rasped, legs trembling, calves twitching against the concrete. “A-ah, mph—sl-slow down—”

But the plea was a lie. It was betrayed instantly by the way his hips moved, rolling into Wade’s hand like he was trying to fuck himself onto the pressure. He was panting hard through clenched teeth, sharp exhales that kept breaking rhythm every time Wade curled his fingers just right. His wrists pulled, jerked, tried to do something, anything, like his body needed an outlet for how high he was already riding.

“You say that,” Wade drawled, rich with smug delight, “yet you’re grinding on my fingers, Webs.”

He gave an extra twist, a slow, deliberate curl of his fingers like punctuation—there, right where Peter was softest and tightest, right at that spot that always turned him inside out.

Peter whined, helpless through clenched teeth, high and guttural like it had been ripped out of him. His thighs fluttered, toes curling against the rooftop, hips straining against both instinct and restraint. The webbing at his wrists stretched with every jerk, but it didn’t give, and his legs—God, his legs—trembled with the effort it took not to rut up into Wade’s hand like a dog in heat.

“Here,” Wade murmured, voice dropping into something slow and patronizing, fond in the most wicked way. He shifted his weight, leaning forward like he was about to whisper a secret. “I’ll make up your mind, hm?”

Thwip.

The sound split the air again, clean and sudden—and Peter gasped, shocked out of whatever thought he’d been holding. His eyes flew wide as the new webbing snaked fast and tight across his hips, pulling him down—hard—until his lower back was flat to the concrete and his pelvis was locked in place. His breath punched out of him in one quick, shuddering hitch.

Then the second gasp came, louder, sharper, as the weight of it registered. The compression. The absolute lack of mobility.

The web was thick and firm, wrapped just above his hipbones like a harness, and Wade must’ve yanked it taut because Peter could barely move now—barely. His hips shifted maybe an inch if he tried, enough to ache, but not enough to chase relief. Not enough to grind down the way he needed to.

And oh, that was the point.

“M-mmh—that’s—” he stammered, breath stuttering, chest rising too fast, too shallow. His voice cracked on the word, breaking open at the edges like the rest of him. His heart was hammering like it was trying to rattle free from his ribs, every beat synced to the pulse pounding between his legs. His whole body sang with tension—wired and twitching, wired and helpless.

“F–Fuck, o-okay, mhm—” he moaned, the sound slipping out without permission. His throat arched, his neck exposing itself on instinct, the vulnerability rolling off him in waves. His legs, spread wide already, relaxed even further, knees falling open until he was nothing but offering—wrecked and flushed and ready, every inch of him humming want.

Wade made a noise—low and pleased, something close to a purr. “Oooh,” he cooed, leaning in closer, his grin going soft around the edges in that dangerous way, lazy and evil and deeply entertained. He brought his face just shy of Peter’s, like he wanted to watch the embarrassment as it bloomed.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting into this?”

Peter’s cheeks flared hotter, impossibly red now. His lips parted in a stunned, abortive protest, but nothing came out. Just a huff of breath. His mouth worked like it might form a sentence if given a few more seconds—like his brain was sending instructions and his mouth was choosing not to listen. His eyes fluttered shut, just for a heartbeat, overwhelmed.

Then they snapped open again. Wide. Glassy. Full of something fragile and deeply fucked.

“You are, aren’t you?” Wade pressed, smugness thick in his voice now, curling around every syllable like smoke wrapping the edges of a burn. He leaned in close to Peter’s ear, letting it land. “Dirty boy.”

Peter whimpered.

Wade shifted then—just a little. Almost imperceptible. A tilt in his hips, a slow flex of his shoulders. The soft rustle of fabric, the way his weight adjusted above Peter, barely noticeable unless you were tuned to it. Peter was. His breath hitched the second he felt the change, every nerve waking up with a shudder of anticipation. The fingers inside him paused for one slow second—then slid out.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Peter gasped like he’d been unplugged from something vital. The stretch disappeared, the friction, the pressure. He was left open and empty, slick and twitching around nothing. His hips twitched upward instinctively, chasing sensation, trying to follow—but Wade didn’t give it back.

Peter whined—high and wounded—back arching slightly off the concrete, heels scraping against the rooftop like he might find traction. “Wha—why—” he breathed, already unraveling, barely able to form the thought, let alone the words.

And then he saw the reason.

Wade had leaned back just slightly, not away—never away—but enough to create that space, that terrible, teasing distance between promise and fulfillment. His hand was around himself now, stroking slow, slick, obscene, his eyes glued to Peter like he was the best fucking thing he’d ever seen. His expression wasn’t cocky anymore. Not grinning. Just quiet. Focused. Intense in a way that made Peter’s pulse trip.

Peter whimpered. Soft and helpless, utterly wrecked with need. His thighs shook where they were spread wide, his hips twitching, breath catching in his throat with every slow jerk of Wade’s hand. The sight of it—that particular angle, the hard line of Wade’s cock slick with lube and teasing at the edge of what Peter wanted so badly—was unbearable.

“Please,” he whispered, not even meaning to. The word slipped out on breath alone, stripped of performance, soft and desperate. It didn’t sound like a request. It sounded like a need. Like he’d collapse if he didn’t get it soon.

Wade’s mouth curled—not into a smirk this time, but something smaller. Softer. A real smile, warm and stupid with affection, the kind that barely tilted the corners of his mouth but lit up his whole face from underneath.

He reached up with his free hand, brushing his fingers through Peter’s damp curls, the touch slow and stupidly gentle. His knuckles skimmed over sweat-slick skin, brushing hair off Peter’s forehead with the same care one might give to a sleep-tousled lover or a fever patient. His thumb lingered behind Peter’s ear, dragging once across the tender spot there in a stroke so absurdly tender it almost hurt.

“So polite,” Wade murmured, the words like silk dragged slow across bare skin. Not mocking. Not biting. Just low and teasing and unbearably fond. “Such good manners.”

Peter made a sound—small, not even a word—just breath and blush and something soft curling up inside him that he couldn’t quite control.

Wade dipped his head.

Pressed a kiss to Peter’s mouth—gentle this time. No rush. No teeth. Just lips and heat and quiet reverence. The kind of kiss that asked for nothing, because it already had everything.

“My good boy,” Wade whispered, so low it barely existed, like he was saying it more for himself than for Peter.

And then—

Then he pressed in.

Slow.

The tip caught, aligned, and then started to push forward—inch by inch, deliberate and devastating. The slick resistance gave way by degrees, Peter’s body stretching around him with obscene readiness, the pressure building with every fraction of movement.

“Fuck,” Peter gasped, breath ghosting against Wade’s lips, voice catching high and hard in his throat. His head tipped back with a dull thud, cracking against the concrete again, and he didn’t care. Not even a little. The sting was background noise now.

Wade didn’t rush. Never at first. He liked the process. Liked to watch. The way Peter trembled when that first thick stretch hit him. The way his thighs jerked like they wanted to close but couldn’t. The way Peter panted, mouth falling open like he couldn’t decide whether to moan or scream. The way the sounds peeled out of him—wet and desperate, high-pitched and raw—every time another inch slid inside.

“There we go…” Wade groaned, voice rough with restraint, breath breaking up with the force of it. “God, you’re so tight—”

Peter whimpered—high, thin, a frayed wire of sound that cut through the air like a spark. His wrists yanked at the webs, useless and instinctual, his fingers curling tight around nothing. His body strained at every anchor point but not in protest. Not trying to escape. He was just moving, needing, helpless against the need.

And still—still—he pushed back.

His hips lifted as much as they could, barely a grind, barely motion, just the pathetic little tilt of a man trying to take more. Trying to be better, deeper, fuller. He was trembling already, eyes fluttering shut every time Wade rocked slightly deeper. His breath stuttered with every pulse of friction, every new inch stretching him open in that slow, toe-curling way Wade knew would wreck him.

And God, it was. Wade was thick and hot, claiming every nerve like a lit fuse, and Peter—Peter couldn’t even think anymore.

He whined—thin and broken, a sound dragged straight from the back of his throat. Whimpered again, this time with a hitch, something raw and unraveling already taking root in his voice. His fingers clenched uselessly in the webs, shoulders trembling, and when the pressure became too much, not enough, he bucked his hips as best he could—only a little, just a short jerk of motion, but he tried. His thighs tensed, shifted, pushed. He rolled his hips in a desperate little circle, trying to coax movement, to beg with his body since his mouth was busy falling open on another half-choked moan.

“Come on,” Peter gasped, the words breaking apart in his mouth like they couldn’t hold their shape. His breath shuddered out of him, chest stuttering with each inhale, voice splitting at the seams like his whole body was short-circuiting. “Wade, please just–move—”

He squirmed beneath Wade, every inch of him straining with urgency, desperation driving him to grind up, to beg through motion what he couldn’t form into words. His thighs flexed, trembling under the effort, his legs shifting wider on instinct. He rocked his hips up as far as the webbing around his waist would allow, hoping the subtle arch would be enough. That Wade would see. That he’d get it. That he’d do something.

And Wade did.

He paused. Just a beat. Just long enough to watch.

His eyes trailed over Peter’s body in one slow drag—down the twitch of his hips, the tremor in his thighs, the tension in his hands, still clenched against their restraints. He took in the way Peter’s lips were parted, dry, glistening with spit, his breath catching in small hiccups. The whole mess of him, splayed out and trying so hard to hold still when every nerve in his body screamed for friction.

And Wade grinned.

It was slow and awful, an idea blooming in real time.

“Mmm…” he hummed, already shifting his weight slightly. “Hold on.”

His voice dropped, velvet-slick and way too pleased with himself. “Gonna try a little something…”

Peter barely had time to suck in a breath before—thwip—a new band of webbing snapped across his thighs, tight and fast.

Then another.

The pull was immediate. Viciously effective.

His legs were yanked wide and down, splayed flat to the rooftop. The thick lines of web stuck fast to the concrete, dragging his knees outward until they were fully bent, flushed to the ground. The stretch was too much, too sudden—his muscles strained automatically, calves quaking, tendons flexing under the webbing’s tight grip.

Every inch of him below the waist was anchored, helplessly open, fully exposed, and utterly at Wade’s mercy.

Peter yelped, the sound punched out of his chest without warning, loud and sharp and wrecked. His hips twitched, struggling for a fraction of movement and finding nothing but restraint.

“Ooh,” Wade crooned, low and smug and loving it. He leaned forward again, settling more of his weight into the cradle of Peter’s hips, pressing down into that new openness. “That’s better, hm?” he murmured, and gave a slow roll of his hips that knocked the air right out of Peter’s lungs.

“I— I don’t—ah—” Peter stammered, each syllable cracking as it passed through the knot in his throat. His voice fluttered like a torn wire, no control left in it, just breath and broken tension spilling out raw. His back arched without permission, ribcage lifting off the rooftop like his body was trying to escape through the sky. His whole torso trembled, ribs stuttering under the strain of his own lungs trying to keep up.

The sensation of being held down—fully—was molten in his spine. The web around his waist still pressed him flat to the ground, thighs spread so wide they ached, shoulders twisted under the pull of his bound wrists. And the concrete underneath him was merciless—rough and cold, scraping at the soft skin of his back with every tiny movement. No barrier. No comfort. Just the rooftop. Just Wade. Just the helpless, burning reminder of exactly where he was and what was happening.

It was too much. Too fast. And not even close to enough.

“Fuuuuck,” Wade groaned above him, low and full of grit, hips rolling forward just enough to drag against that tight heat again—just to make Peter feel how deep he still was. “You are flexible, Spidey.”

And then he pushed deeper.

Not quick. Not brutal. Just slow, perfect pressure, the kind that let Peter feel every inch as it sank in. The kind that stretched him across every nerve-ending he had, until it felt like he was glowing under his skin. Wade’s hips ground down in a slow, firm circle, angling just right, sending sparks of sensation up Peter’s spine with surgical precision.

Peter gasped, whole body shivering with it.

“How does it feel,” Wade asked, voice soft but steeped in filth, each word dipped in heat. “Being spread out and tied up like this?”

“I— I don’t know—” Peter choked, head lolling to the side, breath stammering. He sounded wrecked, voice thinned out to almost nothing, the barest edge of composure left. His hands clenched harder, useless in the webs, and his legs—pinned wide, twitching against their bonds—jerked faintly with frustration.

But even then, he tilted his hips up again, just the tiniest movement, just enough to invite more.

He breathed out a ragged, “Mmph,” and then, “Helpless.”

The word landed like a confession.

Wade shuddered. Smiled.

“What a lovely answer,” he said, voice soaked in warmth and filth all at once, affection soaked in the edge of a growl. “Because that’s exactly what you are, Petey.”

He leaned forward, one hand bracing next to Peter’s head, and his hips rolled again—slow, deep, unyielding. The stretch lit Peter up like a struck match.

“So helpless for me, hm?” Wade purred, voice curling like smoke as his breath ghosted hot against Peter’s cheek. “Couldn’t even resist what I’m doing if you wanted to.”

Peter’s mouth twitched. His lips parted like he had a rebuttal on deck—something sharp, something defiant—but then Wade shifted his angle, found that spot, thrust harder, and all that came out was a breathy, desperate, “A-Ah—y-you’re a perv—”

“I know!” Wade cackled, eyes flashing like the accusation was a trophy. “But so are you.”

And then he snapped his hips again, sudden and rough, one clean, merciless thrust that knocked the breath out of Peter’s lungs like a punch. No wind-up. No warning. Just impact—deep and hot and solid—the sound of it echoing off the rooftop like thunder trapped in skin.

Peter’s gasp came out as a choked noise, thin and desperate, a sound that died on his tongue the second Wade pressed in again, pace quicker by the second. His head lolled, mouth open and empty, unable to even shape the syllables now. His body twitched underneath, overstimulated and locked wide, straining against every line of webbing that held him there.

“And you like it,” Wade growled, low and intimate, lips brushing the shell of Peter’s ear.

Peter whimpered—a raw, wrecked noise that trembled into a moan before it finished forming.

“St—Still— a-a perv—” he gasped again, stubborn to the last, even as his voice broke and stuttered, the syllables wobbling like his brain couldn’t keep hold of them. Every word was thin, high, fragile with arousal.

“Don’t make me web your mouth shut,” Wade murmured, the threat sugar-sweet but underscored with dangerous intent. “Though,” he added with a low, pleased groan, “your noises do increase our chances of getting caught, s-so, a—ah—” he moaned softly through his teeth, hips grinding deeper as Peter clenched around him, “I’ll hold off on that.”

“A-Ah—fuck,” Peter gasped, head thrown back, brow furrowed like the logic pained him physically. His lips snapped shut tight, his jaw locking around the groan that tried to escape. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying so hard to keep it in, to not moan like Wade was wringing it out of him.

But Wade saw it. Felt it. Smirked because of it.

“Ohhh, no you don’t,” he growled, voice dipping into that low, rough register Peter had no defenses against. His hand came up in a flash, fingers catching Peter’s jaw and forcing it open, his thumb braced at the corner of his mouth, other fingers curled firm along his cheek. Wade leaned over him, pressing in close, eyes bright and breath hot.

“I wanna hear you,” he growled, and gave a slow, deliberate snap of his hips.

“There we go…” he purred, the words trailing off as Peter moaned loud, no filter left, no strength to keep it in. It spilled from him, ragged and high-pitched, pulled from somewhere deep and guttural, a sound so shameless it should’ve been illegal.

Wade shuddered, hips stuttering for half a breath as he let out a long, low groan—thick and wrecked and soaked with satisfaction. It crawled up from his chest, deep and pleased and filthy, vibrating down his spine with the kind of joy that couldn’t be faked. Peter’s noises, the heat, the way he trembled underneath him—this was why he did it. This was everything.

“You—you fucking asshole—” Peter panted, voice rasping out of his throat like it had been through a grinder. His face was scarlet, flushed all the way down to his chest, jaw tight and teeth grit like he wanted to mean it—but his body betrayed him with every twitch, every thrust he tilted up into, every whimper he tried to swallow and failed.

Wade laughed—short, delighted, practically bouncing.

“That’s very literal,” he quipped, glee sparkling just under the surface, only barely contained by the breathless rasp in his voice.

“Wade,” Peter whined, more of a sob than a name, his voice cracking on the vowels. The way he said it—it wasn’t a protest. Not really. It was a beg disguised as an accusation.

Wade’s grin sharpened, went feral around the edges—hungry and fond, awful in that way he got when he knew he had Peter exactly where he wanted him. He leaned in close again, not even thrusting now, just hovering with that heavy weight pressed deep inside, his lips barely an inch from Peter’s ear.

Peter could feel his breath—warm and slow, too controlled.

Then Wade’s voice dropped—smooth, vile, the kind of intimate that made skin crawl in the best way.

“Hmm…” he murmured, slow as sin. “Anyone could come up here, you know that?”

Peter froze beneath him.

His lashes fluttered, mouth parting like the air had gotten too thick to breathe. The words landed hard—too hard—like they’d been waiting, like his body already knew the truth in them before they were spoken. A cold thrill crept under his skin, down his spine, wrapping around his ribs and sinking teeth into his lungs.

The realization had weight.

“Anyone could come up,” Wade whispered, lips brushing the hinge of Peter’s jaw, his voice dragging soft across skin like silk dipped in filth. His teeth grazed there, gentle but sharp enough to spark heat where breath met bone. “And see you being fucked like this.”

Then—he thrust. Slow. Deep. A push that stretched Peter open all over again, letting him feel every inch like he hadn’t already been split for minutes.

“See their very own friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man,” Wade went on, drawing the phrase out like a goddamn punchline, like it meant something different now that Peter was flushed and shaking and so thoroughly wrecked. “Trapped in his own webs…”

Wade groaned—deep in his throat—and dropped his head, tongue flicking out to taste the spot just beneath Peter’s ear, right where his pulse throbbed hard under the surface. Just a quick swipe, filthy and affectionate.

“Ohhhh,” he sighed, lips dragging lower. “What a sight that would be…”

Peter moaned. Openly. No filter, no shame left, no strength left to pretend. His chest heaved like he was drowning, mouth open and panting, the air sharp and loud in his lungs. Every breath came out ragged, every moan peeled off his throat without thought. The idea, the image Wade was painting with every word, climbed inside him and lit a fire.

Someone coming up.

Someone seeing.

Seeing him, like this—bound and spread and used.

It rolled through him like a fever.

“W–Wade—please—” he choked out, voice breaking, words barely held together by breath. It wasn’t clear what he was asking for. More. Less. Anything. He was too far gone to know.

His legs twitched where they were locked down, muscles flexing uselessly under the webbing, thighs shaking with the need to move, to do something. His toes curled. His hips lifted in the half-centimeter the restraints allowed. His eyes were glassy, blown wide, pupils swallowing up the color. His lips were red and bitten and trembling.

And Wade just laughed.

Low. Breathless. Right against his skin.

It wasn’t cruel. It was joy. A laugh soaked with delight and lust and love, so full it barely held shape, his whole body shaking with how much he wanted this—wanted him.

“You shouldn’t have let me try this, Pete,” Wade murmured, still grinning like he was discovering a new superpower. He pulled his hips back just enough to feel the drag of friction, then pushed in again, slow but deep, grinding up into Peter like he was trying to mold him to the rooftop.

Peter gasped, hips twitching, his legs barely managing to flex against the sticky bonds holding them splayed wide. The webs groaned faintly under the tension, not nearly enough to snap.

“I can tell you’re enjoying this,” Wade breathed, his voice curling like smoke between Peter’s ears.

“N–ah–N-No,” Peter choked out, the word cracking mid-way through.

It was a lie.

A terrible, transparent, shaking lie, barely strung together by what was left of his brain.

He didn’t even sound convinced. Not even to himself. His voice was wobbly and weak, every syllable wrapped in breathless disbelief like he couldn’t keep up with the pace of his own unraveling.

His lip was chewed to hell, bitten raw from trying to stay quiet, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes—were gone. Half-lidded, lashes wet, pupils blown wide like he’d forgotten how to see. He wasn’t looking at anything. Just floating. His gaze kept drifting, unfocused, glassy like he was dreaming.

“You’ve thought of this before, haven’t you?” Wade murmured, his voice that dangerous blend of soft and mean, cruel like silk over bruises. The way he said it—teasing, slow, already knowing the answer—burned in Peter’s ears. “Such a dirty boy…”

Then another thrust—harder this time, deep enough that Peter choked on a sound, moaning like his voice had been dragged through gravel. The noise tore from him unfiltered, raw and humiliating and so goddamn honest.

“Wanting to be used like this,” Wade went on, breath thick with exertion, and now he was moving again—rhythmic, steady, mean. Each thrust punctuated his words like he was pinning them into Peter’s body. “To be tied up and taken—” snap—another brutal grind of his hips, dragging across every raw nerve. “Used and filled, hm?”

Peter moaned—a sound so wrecked it barely made it out. His head lolled to the side, curls sticking to the sweat on his forehead, neck stretched and glistening. His eyes fluttered—then rolled slightly, lashes trembling. He looked gone. Too much. Too deep. Drenched in sensation and stretched open around it.

Wade slowed.

Just a second.

Peter’s mouth hung open, lips flushed and shiny, his throat fluttering with the effort of breath. His skin was pink and damp and trembling, glistening with effort, the heave of his chest uneven. His arms tugged weakly at the webs, but there was no real fight left—only the shiver of nerves gone to static.

Wade smiled.

He reached up, cupped Peter’s cheek in one calloused palm, thumb brushing gently over the soaked skin at his temple. The contrast was devastating—his hand so careful, so reverent, even as his hips continued to rock in, slow and deep, like he was still trying to fuck Peter into the concrete.

“Heya, Petey-Pie,” he whispered, voice low and warm and aching with affection. “Don’t check out on me yet.”

Peter moaned again. A wet, trembling thing. His jaw hung slack, body twitching with every thrust but offering no resistance.

“W-Wade—ah,” Peter hiccupped, the sound punched out of him, fractured and brittle. His breath hitched like a caught gear, his chest rising fast, shallow, like there was no space left inside him for air and sensation both. His eyes fluttered, unable to land anywhere, glassy and wild, rolling like they didn’t know whether to look at Wade or just give up entirely.

“I—I can’t—”

“Oh, I know,” Wade murmured, soft again, his voice all velvet and ash. He slowed—just a little. Shallower now, his thrusts pulling back from the edge, not giving reprieve, just keeping him there. Keeping him present. Letting Peter feel it without drowning in it.

“It’s too much, hm?” Wade cooed, head tilting, hips rocking steady and slow like he was holding him in place. “Too much for my Spidey?”

Peter’s whole body shook—from overstimulation, from heat, from want—and another desperate sound spilled out of him, shaking free like it had to get out before he collapsed under the weight of it.

“M—Mmh—m-more,” he whimpered, the word catching, trembling on his lips like it had surprised him to say it aloud. Like he hadn’t meant to give Wade that, but it slipped out anyway, ripped raw and wanting.

Wade’s head dropped, mouth falling open around a groan that rolled out of his chest like steam from a pressure valve. “Fuck yeah,” he gasped, voice hoarse now, dry with heat, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with pace and everything to do with Peter. “Ask and you shall receive.”

His hand slid up slowly, dragging across Peter’s chest, over the frantic rise of ribs, then curled—purposeful, slow, certain—around Peter’s throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming. The warm, solid pressure of possession pressed into sweat-slick skin.

“You’re a fucking slut, Webs,” Wade growled, voice breaking open now as his hips snapped harder. Faster. He drove in with every word, fucking it into Peter like punctuation. “And I— I fucking love it.”

Peter arched.

His back bowed clean off the rooftop, whole body a tight, shaking line of overwhelmed pleasure. His arms twitched violently against the webs binding them, fists clenching and opening again like he didn’t know what to do with his hands if they weren’t clinging to Wade. His mouth fell open around a noise—a moan—long and ruined, no shame left to shape the sound into a word.

“Only—f-fuck—ha—only for you,” he sobbed, voice wet and bright with too-much-ness. His legs kicked once, thighs trembling where they were held wide, no strength left to fight it. His whole body was pink and flushed, chest to forehead, drenched in heat and sweat and so much want he looked like he might pass out from it.

“Wade, I—I’m cl-close—” Peter gasped, voice jagged and shattered like a broken window, every syllable catching on the edges of breath. His whole body had gone taut beneath Wade, locked down by tension that pulsed just under the skin, muscles coiled tight as a tripwire. He was holding on by threads now—by seconds—the kind of edge that wasn’t just approaching, but rushing up fast from underneath, about to split him open.

“Yeah?” Wade panted, words spilling out rough and uneven now, his voice losing shape around the edges. He sounded like a man trying to talk through a storm, every inhale ragged, wet. His hips ground in with cruel, unhurried precision—deep and slow, then slower, dragging through every trembling inch of Peter like he was trying to leave fingerprints on the inside. “Gonna cum for me?”

Peter tried to answer. He tried. His mouth opened, jaw twitching, breath catching—but there were no words left. Nothing came out but a strangled, cracked moan, punched out of him like air from a popped balloon. His whole body seized beneath Wade, rigid with tension, thighs trembling against the sticky webbing, feet flexing uselessly. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything. His wrists jerked violently at the restraints above his head, fingers clawing at air, reaching for something, for Wade, for control he didn’t have.

“Granted,” Wade groaned, laughing low and wrecked, the sound torn from his chest, “it’s the only thing you could do… except take it.”

Then softer. Darker. Right in Peter’s ear.

“My helpless cumdump, hm?”

And oh, that was it.

Peter arched. A single, blinding spasm that cracked through him like lightning—his back scraped against the rooftop, as his head dropped back with a whiplash snap, mouth wide open in a soundless scream—and then—

He moaned. Obscene, loud, ragged. Ripped from the deepest part of him.

His cock twitched between them, untouched and leaking, then jerked—once, twice, then again—thick ropes spilling hot across his own stomach, each pulse tearing through him with a jolt that made his abs twitch and his knees jerk weakly against their bonds.

Wade let out a growl of a groan, deep and stunned, hips driving in again—once, twice, harder, losing rhythm entirely as his own orgasm tore through him.

And then he came.

Deep.

The heat spilled out of Wade in long, thick pulses, each one a brand new rush of warmth that Peter felt—deep—filling him in steady waves that refused to end. His whole body jolted with it, every overstretched, overstimulated nerve catching fire again, burning in place even after the peak had crested.

Wade’s breath caught on a curse—slurred, choked, grateful. His mouth was half-open against Peter’s shoulder, breath hot and shivering as his entire frame buckled forward. He came hard, shaking, his hips jerking instinctively even as his limbs gave out beneath him. Each twitch sent another thick throb inside Peter, drawn out to the edge of cruelty, leaving both of them wrecked in the space where pleasure bled into too much.

He collapsed—almost.

One arm caught himself, braced and trembling, while the other slung across Peter’s chest like instinct, like protection, like he couldn’t bear the space between them. His forehead pressed to Peter’s sweat-damp collarbone, lips brushing skin but not kissing, too winded for anything more than clinging.

He stayed like that.

Still.

Just breathing.

Their bodies were sticky now, wet and spent, muscles relaxed into one another like they couldn’t remember where one ended and the other began. Wade’s chest heaved against Peter’s, erratic at first, then slowly settling. His breath came in waves, fogging against flushed skin, his hand twitching faintly where it lay over Peter’s heart like he was trying to sync them up by force.

And Peter—

Peter blinked up at the sky, body limp, boneless except for the aftershocks twitching through him. His eyes were open yet glassy and unfocused, breath rasping soft and shuddery in the back of his throat. He blinked slowly, like his system was rebooting from the ground up.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled eventually, voice hoarse and high, completely fried. He blinked again, like he needed to verify Wade was actually still there and not just a post-orgasm hallucination. “Wade,” he whispered.

Wade slowly lifted his head, breath catching, half-ready for a shoe to be thrown or a metaphorical knee to the ribs.

“I know, I know,” he started, already chuckling to himself, breath still wheezing. “I’m an a—”

“No—fuck, no—” Peter cut in fast, still panting. His voice was broken, unsteady, but the urgency was real. “That was amazing.”

Wade blinked.

Just stared at him.

His mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“Really?” he said at last, too dumbfounded to be smug, because—duh—but also: holy shit.

Peter gave a weak, breathless little laugh. A snort that barely made it out past the grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Oh, fuck yeah,” he sighed, the words shivering around the edges.

He shifted a little, enough to feel the tension still strung tight around his limbs. The webbing clung to him like another layer of skin. He winced faintly as his hips flexed and reminded him exactly how deep he’d been fucked into the rooftop. There was still a mess between his thighs—hot, sticky, cooling now—and he made a soft sound in the back of his throat, almost a whimper, like even the memory of it made his nerves light up.

“We—we’re gonna do this again,” he mumbled, dreamy and wrecked.

A pause.

Then, lower. Slurred like a secret: “And again. And more after that.”

And then Wade laughed.

Or tried to.

It wasn’t even a laugh at first—just a sound, torn out of his chest like it caught on something solid and cracked it wide open. He collapsed forward without thinking, mouth pressing to Peter’s collarbone in a kiss so warm and unconscious it didn’t feel like a kiss at all—just gravity and affection, gravity and relief.

His grin spread slow and unstoppable across his face, teeth and breath and glee smashed together. His nose nudged into Peter’s throat.

“You are full of surprises, Webs,” he breathed against sweat-slick skin. “I love it. I love you.”

Peter smiled up at the sky, eyes fluttering. “Mmh, I love you more, you giant perv,” He murmured, still winded, the words almost slurred with exhaustion. He sounded smug, affectionate, and utterly ruined all at once. His voice curled around Wade’s ribs like it belonged there. “Now kiss me.”

“Yes, Mister Spider Sir,” Wade answered instantly, mock-formal with a hand over his chest and a crooked little bow of his head like Peter was royalty and he, the pervert knight-errant, at last requesting his reward.

And then he did, pressing their mouths together in a slow, sinking kiss that tasted like afterglow and maybe a little blood from Peter’s bitten lip. There was no desperation left, no edge—just that deep, molten syrup kind of contact, like they could fall asleep into each other’s mouths.

It wasn’t even one kiss.

It was a whole sequence—half-drunk with it, languid and drawn-out and filthy in its sweetness. Wade shifted up onto one elbow, dragging his fingers along Peter’s jaw as their mouths met again, and again, and again. Lips plush and swollen, noses brushing, breathing each other in. Kisses that barely landed and lingered forever, wet and slow and so intentional, like they had all the time in the world and the whole city was suspended in air around them.

Peter whimpered into his mouth—tiny, satisfied noises, soft like humming. His wrists twitched in the webs still pinning them above his head, but there was no fight in it. He was pliant now, flushed and relaxed, and Wade held his cheek like something precious, thumb stroking behind his ear.

Eventually, between kisses, Wade nosed at the corner of Peter’s mouth, grinning against him. “So!” he said cheerfully, like they hadn’t just defiled a rooftop. “You said it takes hours for your webs to dissolve?”

Peter groaned faintly, tipping his head back into the concrete with a little clunk. His curls stuck to his forehead, lips shiny, still slightly parted from the last kiss. “Yeah…” he began, slow and wry, “Unless you’d be so kind as to cut me loose with all your chivalry… but, ah—” he hesitated, glancing down at the mess of webs pinning his waist and thighs, “I mean, you… don’t have to…”

He bit his lip right after, barely catching the way his voice went up at the end. An offer wrapped in false reluctance, guilt laced in kink, heat still sitting heavy between them.

Wade’s grin went sharp.

“Ooooh, I like the way you think,” He purred, already shifting his weight, that little mischievous light flickering back behind his eyes. His fingers twitched where they still rested on Peter’s jaw, teasing the skin with little back-and-forth strokes, tracing invisible circles just to feel him flinch. “How about…” he continued, drawing it out like a lover and a madman all in one, “we web that pretty mouth of yours this time?”

Peter’s brows shot up, lips parting in real-time protest— “You—”

Too late.

Thwip.

The webbing smacked over his mouth with surgical precision, splattering sticky and fast across the curve of his lips. It molded instantly, muffling whatever righteous complaint he had queued up. His eyes widened in outrage, sound catching in his throat as he squirmed on instinct, but all that emerged was a deeply undignified:

“Y-mh-ou, aphfshole—”

Wade cackled, unable to help himself. His whole body shook with the force of it, his hand settling proudly against Peter’s cheek like he was admiring his own craftsmanship.

“That’s my name, Petey,” he said, beaming with all the self-satisfaction of a man who’d just gift-wrapped a national treasure. “Don’t wear it out.”

Notes:

i have no right to be writing this much smut with the amount of work I HAVE TO DO, but here i am :3
ngl spidey and wade live rent free in my mind so writing them feels really great TwT, i have to stop myself from going on and on and on-- you get the drift
i am also trying to break my emdash addiction!!! haha i'm not at all struggling :D they're just such a lovely piece of punctuation that's cursed with LLM's thinking the same :( i remember lamenting about this with my literature professor lol
anyways i have a lot more spideypool planned, though be warned they might be less cheerful 😅 for some reason i drafted a LOT of hurt/comfort fics oh lordy
but yea, ty for the warm welcome into the spideypool fandom TwT

lmk if you enjoyeddd :3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of spideypool :3