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Wade sat on his beat-up couch, hunched over a controller as he button-mashed his way through an old game of Left 4 Dead. It was one of those rare nights where he got done with merc duties and patrol before midnight, resigning himself to the couch for a mountain of pizza rolls and a respectable amount of Coors Banquets (quantity irrelevant). His focus stayed on the game even as he heard the living room window slide open behind him, a masked vigilante climbing through.
“Yknow, I should put a bell on you,” he called out with his mask rolled halfway up his face. He’d grown to expect Spider-Man’s presence, and even if Peter had seen his face a few times, he was just more comfortable like this.
The web-clad superhero made a beeline over to Wade’s fridge, rummaging around the shelves hurriedly.
“What happened to that leftover chow mein you took after patrol last night?” Peter asked as if he hadn’t just entered the man’s home unannounced. “Wade?”
“You really expect leftover chow mein to last over 24 hours in my fridge? I ate it, Webs.”
Peter grumbled, settling on some pad thai that smelled only a little funky and popped it into the microwave before heading down the hall to change out of his suit. He could always count on Wade to have some kind of noodles available for him to eat.
The bond between Peter and Wade was less than orthodox, straying further from any concept of normalcy by the day. It started out black and white, Peter’s naivety and morality urging him to condemn the mercenary, to thwart his efforts and prevent any loss of life he attempted to bring about, incentivized or not. Then came the rare instances when their goals aligned, they became a pair, useful to each other and far more productive when their cunning abilities were joined rather than at odds. After that came the comfortability, patrolling together, sharing meals on rooftops, wholesome memories of kittens removing kittens from treetops, and helping old ladies across the street. Peter found that Deadpool wasn’t a heartless killer driven by cash, and Wade found that Spidey wasn’t a straight-laced bootlicker with a ten-foot stick up his ass.
Somewhere in there, the lines got blurred, and once they did, there was really no going back. At first Peter hated himself for it, knowing that he was pathetic enough to turn a blind eye to the kind of man Wade was if it meant that he could get what he needed from him. Peter knew Wade was bad, and it made him feel wrong to be excited by a situation so morally debased, so dirty. And Wade got off on the way Peter reeked of desperation and shame, the ideal concoction, wrong in all the right ways.
Peter put up a good effort to keep his identity hidden despite the intimacy, he started holding the secret closer than he ever had. Especially since they started frequenting Wade’s apartment. Wade knew very little about who Peter was, except that he was probably in college the way he was always swinging around with a beat-up backpack in tow. Higher than undergrad, he figured just based on how long Spidey had been seen swinging around the city. He knew that he was trans, and that he was Jewish. You don’t say stuff like chutzpah and tchotchkes that often in New York without being Jewish. But physically, from the neck down, Wade could recognize his body in a lineup. Every inch of him was etched into his memory, he knew every scar, surgical or battle wound.
Despite his valiant efforts to keep himself obscure, Peter had his slip-ups, and Wade kept proving himself to be more trustworthy than he ever expected. Peter always denied invitations to sleep over, stayed vigilant, and kept his guard up. Then there was the night that he fell asleep on Wade’s couch. It’d been a day, two seminars at ESU, lab work, patrol with Wade, minor villain beatdown turned into rooftop burritos turned into getting his face shoved into the pillows of Wade’s couch, then leaving him fucked out and starry-eyed. Surely more than he bargained for, and he was just so tired he couldn’t help himself. Wade left to get a towel, and his eyelids were too heavy to stay open.
Waking up on Deadpool’s couch with only the top half of his suit on was worse than any hangxiety he’d ever felt. He’d reached for his mask immediately, relieved to find that it was still on, rolled up to the nose like he’d had it the night before. A blanket was draped over hi,m and some Star Wars pajama pants were folded over the arm of the couch. Wade hadn’t crossed that line, hadn’t looked at Peter’s face even though the chance was right there.
Then there was the time Peter slipped up really badly, mentioning his own name for some dumbass reason. The way he remembers it, he’d been quoting someone, maybe May or a colleague from the lab. His hands clapped over his mouth immediately after he’d said it. Peter knew Wade’s name, Wade didn’t exactly care if people knew who he was. He had guns for that. But now Wade knew Spidey’s name, and it was his own stupid fault.
“Shitshitshitshitfuckshit,” Peter rambled, pacing the rooftop while Wade just stared at him, picking at his nail beds with a little spade.
“What?” Wade asked.
“My- I just said my name. My real life actual name,” Peter replied, barely catching up with himself.
“Oh,” Wade shrugged. “Must’ve missed it.”
The wave of relief Peter felt was enormous. He knew Wade had heard it and was doing him a favor. In complete truth, if Wade wanted to find him out, he surely could. Peter had the double-edged sword of a deadname, making things a little harder for anyone to look up any kind of personal records. It was a curse when he heard it, but a blessing when it came to hiding behind it. Wade never called him anything different, even after that day. Even during sex. Just Webs, Spidey, baby boy.
Then came the big favor, when Peter had been ranting absentmindedly and let it slip that he was getting evicted, short on rent far too many times for the landlord to let it slide. Wade told him he could stay at his place for as long as he needed to. So Peter did, and after that, he never really left. How could he when Wade took such good care of him? He always had a couch to sleep on, food in his belly, and the apartment had heating. It wasn’t the nicest place in the world, but it was surely nicer than Peter’s place had been, and Wade’s cooking was unexpectedly phenomenal.
Eventually, Peter had found himself in Wade’s doorway one night, timidly requesting an additional blanket for the little nest he’d made for himself on the pullout. Wade rolled over half asleep, holding the comforter open for him to climb in. Wade’s bed had been a lot warmer than another blanket would have been, and so Peter found himself there some nights.
Most nights were like this one, Peter perched beside Wade in one of his too-big shirts and some sweatpants, scarfing down whatever leftovers he had laying around and keeping each other company. Sometimes Peter would come home in worse condition, and he’d get to witness Wade's impressive ability to stitch a suture or dig a bullet out of skin, but tonight was thankfully not one of those nights. Peter placed the food in his lap, stretching his arms overhead and letting his legs drape across Wade’s lap.
“You’re lucky I like you enough to let you put your dogs in my lap like that. I’m into a lot but feet shockingly doesn’t make the list,” Wade said, adjusting his elbows to make room for Peter.
“That’s honestly surprising coming from you,” Peter said while he dangled a noodle into his mouth with chopsticks.
“Well, maybe if there’s some below the waist action I could make an exception. Never say never! Am I right Beliebers?”
“Do I get to finish my meal before you start the footjob talk or is this what we’re doing now?” Peter asked. “Cuz I could always just kick you.”
“Impact play? Now that’s something that’ll get me going,” Wade ran a hand up Peter’s ankle, causing him to retract his legs back and sit cross-legged.
“Yeah, you’re done.” Peter wished he could see the glare he was passing under the mask.
He finished his last few bites, used to eating fast because he was always in a rush in some way or another. It was something they had in common except Wade was far more of a bottomless pit.
“You could ask before stealing my shirts out of my dresser. That Beastie Boys one is a favorite, y'know." Wade teased.
“Yeah well consider it payback for stealing my underwear. I know about that by the way, not sure what you’re even doing with them since they won’t fit you anyways.”
“The cotton feels so nice on my face when I send my mask off to the dry cleaners, plus the more I steal from you the less likely you are to be wearing any.”
“You’re a sicko.”
“You love it”
“Is that why you want the shirt back? So you can see me without it?”
“Maybe I wanna gag you with it, haven’t decided yet.” Wade stood from the couch, turning off the video game and replacing it with a show Peter liked. “I’m gonna go shower, been sittin’ here so long, I feel like the sloth victim in Seven.”
Wade walked around the couch, standing behind Peter who looked up at him from behind the mask. He slid a hand down Peter’s chest, tucking it under the waistband of his pajama pants and running his fingers over the bare skin between his legs. Peter let him, silent and caught off-guard, getting goosebumps from even the slightest contact, his cheeks flushed at the notion that Wade had really decided to check. That he was confident he didn’t even ask.
“See? My method is clearly working.” Wade hummed in satisfaction, two fingers parting the skin and circling around the wetness that had already begun to build from banter alone. He withdrew his hand, earning a barely-audible noise of disappointment from Peter as he turned to walk away.
“Wait.” Peter scrambled, quickly gripping the back of Wade’s shirt, his head hanging back over the armrest of the couch to look up at him.
“Need something, Webs?” Wade circled back looming over him and holding his masked head with both hands. “Maybe some briefs? I only rock crotchless but I can see-”
“Wade, please.” Peter wished that he wasn’t stuck behind this stupid mask. He knew the effect of his eyes and that they’d surely melt Wade if he were to reveal them.
“Please what?” Wade teased, letting one of his hands travel to Peter’s lips still exposed by his rolled up mask.
“Keep going,” Peter replied, grabbing Wade’s wrist and trying to guide his hand back to the spot it had so urgently found before.
Wade allowed Peter to move him, stopping him right as his hand reached his waistband again.
“Oh, I see. So you just come over here, steal my food, wear my clothes and now you get to have all the fun too? Is that how it is?”
“Basically, yeah.” Peter smiled. “Feeling generous though…what’d you have in mind?”
“Wow, you’re so kind,” Wade returned the false grin, then lowered his own waistband to free his erection over Peter’s still upside-down face. “Spidey style?”
“Never gets old for you, does it?” Peter shook his head.
“Not with a view this good.” Wade smirked, allowing his own hand to find its way back into Peter’s pants.
Peter sat up on his elbows, back arching at the return of Wade’s fingers on such sensitive skin. He let his head fall back, mouth agape as he took the head of Wade’s dick into his mouth. He remembered how back his gag reflex had been when they started hooking up, how much throatfucking they’d done to work it out of him. He still wasn’t perfect but he’d definitely gotten better, not that Wade ever made it easy. He worked his tongue along the length of it, lapping at the scarred skin and breathing through his nose as Wade stepped closer to him, forcing it to the back of his throat already.
Wade’s hand, broad and agile, was already giving Peter what he’d been desperate for, spreading him open with two fingers and spreading Peter’s own slick over a pulsing clit. Before Wade, Peter could count his decent sexual encounters on one hand, and still have enough fingers to do it better himself. But Wade never needed any instruction, gentle, reassuring, yet still firm. Peter revelled in the thought of Wade’s arm being big enough to reach between his legs in this position as he tried not to choke on the mouthful he was receiving.
“Yknow, starting to think you’re doing the underwear thing for attention, Webs,” Wade smiled, his free hand coming around to cup Peter’s jaw as he rocked his hips forward in a small thrust.
Y’know, starting to think you only like this blowjob thing cuz I can’t talk back, Peter wished he could say.
Three fingers worked in circles across the folds of skin between Peter’s legs, the younger man grinding up to meet them as his legs spread open frantically, searching for the arrangement that would send the most pleasure between them. His toes curled so intensely it made his calves cramp, already chasing a climax until two fingers slipped inside, denying him as they worked in and out with a pace that was fast enough for pleasure but far too slow for release. Peter huffed in frustration, quickly overtaken by the obscene sounds formed from Wade’s palm rutting up against him with every flick of his wrist.
“Take your pants off,” Wade ordered and Peter didn’t hesitate, pulling them down to his ankles and kicking them off without a care. “There we go. Remind me to make you sit on my face later, I like when you grow it out like that.”
Wade ran a hand over the dark tuft of hair with his thumb, two fingers buried knuckle deep in Peter as he held his jaw in place before shoving himself down his throat to the hilt. Peter’s back arched trying to keep composed, his face red with asphyxia. His breath was ragged but he knew gagging would only lead to further denial. Wade held him there for a few seconds, amused eyes staring down at him before releasing his grip and pulling his fingers out, circling them back over his swollen clit.
“Good boy,” Wade cooed. Peter hated how much he loved that, the validation, the praise.
Some composure regained, Peter wrapped his tongue around Wade inside of his mouth, adjusting now to the rhythm he had set. His hand still held Peter’s jaw but it was gentler than before. It wasn’t the hand Peter was focused on anyways, as the attention he was receiving below the waist was building again. His hips rocked forward, bucking up to meet the calloused fingers that ran against his skin. The scars were more of a plus than anyone might think, the nerve endings responsible for his pleasure expecting uniformity, only to be greeted with a texture far more rewarding. He was barely even focused on Wade now, gasping for air around the dick still lodged in his mouth as he arched upward for more touch. Wade gave it without denial, fingers sliding in only to come out wetter than before, playing in the mess that they had both created. Peter felt like he had cotton in his ears, bleary-eyed and dizzy as Wade slid his fingers over the tip of Peter’s clit relentlessly. Unable to stop himself, Peter’s legs closed firmly around Wade’s arm, bucking up against him like something feral as he chased his orgasm.
“Good boy, that’s right.” Wade coaxed, his fingers slowing down as Peter’s legs released their grip on him. He withdrew then, holding his cum-slicken hand up to Peter’s face who graciously lapped at it without objection.
Coming back to his senses, back to himself and his body, Peter leaned his head up and righted himself on the couch.
“Sorry you didn’t get to uh…” Peter started, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
“What, finish? Babyboy I just like seeing how flustered you get trying to multi-task. Cumming was never the goal. Plus that O-face, even if it's only half your face…spank bank material times infinity.”
“Nevermind, actually. Not sorry, you’re a freak, and I’m raiding your fridge again.”
“Yeah love you too, Webs.”