Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Peter saw Deadpool’s face, he winced. He wasn’t proud of it, and the guilt he carried from that action often followed behind him like a shadow. Peter had been in the rec room at the Avenger’s tower, sitting upside down on the crisp leather couch, his feet dangling over the back. He blocked out the angry tapping and murmured expletives of Thor and Clint playing Mario Kart, and tried to focus on the tablet in front of him.

Tony had forwarded him some information on Kingpin. Most of it he already knew, and about halfway through the files, Peter’s eyes began to glaze over the way they tend to when he’d been doing homework for too long. 

In his defense, which meant almost nothing to be honest, Peter didn’t know it was Deadpool. Not at first. The scarred and twisted face appeared on the screen like a jumpscare, and it was difficult for Peter to admit what he felt upon seeing it. Realistically, the feeling settled somewhere between startled and unsurprised. A lot of Kingpin’s associates had been roughed up, but this one was particularly affected. 

Then Peter read the file. 

Wade Wilson. Former mercenary. Known to have taken contracts for Kingpin before turning over a new leaf. Alias: Deadpool.

Peter knew in that moment that he had fucked up (unintentionally) in a way that he couldn’t come back from. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t see the rivers of scar tissue upholstering Deadpool’s face. The shriveled husks of his ears. The depth of his eyes, like ocean trenches.

Peter couldn’t forget the name, so short and simple and appropriate. 

Wade, he mouthed silently, shivering at the stretch of his lips around it. Clint and Thor were too engrossed in their game to notice Peter’s epiphany. He almost snapped at them, told them to quit bickering, that it was interrupting his moment, but he was paralyzed beneath the hot gaze of the mugshot. Wade’s mouth was turned up in a crooked smile, as if he could see through the liquid crystal display, and he was asking Peter, what are you going to do about it?

It took a month for Peter to decide that he had to come clean. His semi-nightly team-ups with Deadpool had been thick and syrupy with tension that Peter knew was one hundred percent his own fault. Every so often, while sitting on a rooftop, or strolling through a garbage riddled alley, Peter would look at the Deadpool mask too intently, constructing a motion captured rendering of Wade’s secret face atop it as the merc babbled on about the differences between Jalisco Mexican food and Cal-Mex and the pitiful attempt at Mexican food that was New Mexican food and Peter had stopped listening because he was lost in his fantasy rendering of Wade.

“Do I have something on my face?” Wade’s eyebrow raised beneath his mask, stretching the fabric. Peter knew now that Wade didn’t even have eyebrows, just two sharp bones jutting out above his lazuli eyes, his-

“Helloooo. Earth to Spider-Man!” Wade snapped his fingers in front of Peter’s face. “I don’t know why you’re staring but you’re making me, Yellow, and White uncomfortable and that’s never a good sign when those two agree on something.” 

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled. “I was just spacing out a bit. It’s been a long night.” 

“We just started.”

“I have a life outside of this, you know.” Peter crossed his arms. He was grateful for the mask. Spider-Man probably looked aloof and uninterested, unlike Peter whose face was burning hot with shame. 

“Okay, baby boy.”

Peter refused to touch his aching dick that night, haunted by the image of that gnarled face calling him baby boy . It was in that agonizing moment he decided that he had to come clean, and the best way to ease the blow would be to offer Wade his own secret identity as an apology. 

It wasn’t as if Peter hadn’t thought about it before. He and Deadpool had become close through their shared evenings of patrolling and bailing one another out of even the most ridiculous situations. He just couldn’t figure out how to do it. 

Peter had never willingly told anyone that he was Spider-Man. It was easy to hide because the web-slinger was this incredible vigilante that everyone loved and Peter was just Peter, so average and unassuming and someone Deadpool probably wouldn’t look twice at. Sharing his identity with Wade would be anticlimactic at best, but it was the only way he would be able to make amends. 

The opportunity presented itself sooner than Peter would have liked, but who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?  

Peter was only at the bar because MJ needed a wingman. Let the record show that it was possibly the worst decision she could have made because all he did was park himself at the bar and down shots of Patron while she danced with a casual, curly-cue haired woman. He was convinced she had only said it as an excuse to force him to do something fun for once. Obviously she did not need his help picking anyone up, as proven by the brunette stranger walking her fingers up MJ’s shoulder like little dancer's legs. 

It was about seven shots in when Peter spotted him. 

“Oh shit. Oh fuck. Fuck,” Peter whispered to himself, tucking his head down to hide his gaze.

None of Peter’s imaginary renderings could compare to how Wade looked in motion. The merc was wearing jeans and a dark hoodie, hood pulled up to obstruct his face in shadow. It did little to hide the way the lavender bar lights traipsed across his muddled flesh, pushing and pulling the values of each gaping pit.

Wade seated himself at the barstool, beckoning the bartender closer. Peter definitely did not stare at the stretch of fabric over his extremely large bicep. Nope. Peter also did not jump when MJ appeared beside him, slugging him in the shoulder. Or yelp.

“You seem distracted,” she shouted over the hum of music and typical unruly bar litany. The brunette from before was beside her, one long thin arm draped across MJ’s shoulders, delicate fingers twisting into red wisps of hair. 

“Me? No.” Peter gestured at the stranger. She had no makeup on and carried a soft smell of lotion and weed. “So like, are you gonna introduce us or something?” 

MJ laughed, loud and drunk. “Yeah. I came over to do that but then I saw you staring at Mr. Keeps-His-Hood-Up-Indoors over there. I didn’t know broody was your type but what do I know? I’m just your best friend in the whole world.” 

“You’re drunk.”

MJ jabbed him with a finger. 

“You’re not drunk enough. Put that metabolism to work, Pete. I want you wasted and easy before the night is over.” She jumped up, as if she just remembered the woman beside her. “You’re not gonna believe this, by the way. This is Michelle.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay. Hi, Michelle.”

“Michelle Jones ,” MJ added. “Her friends call her MJ! Isn’t that weird?”

Michelle Jones aka MJ the second gave a brief salute. “Yo.” 

“Anyway, I just came over to tell you me and MJ over here are gonna get to know each other a bit,” MJ, the first one (Peter was definitely going to get confused), giggled. “And you should go get yourself some strange”

She grabbed his arm, and before he could protest, Peter was dragged across the bar and delivered right next to Wade. 

“Excuse me. Hate to bother you,” MJ said, tapping Wade’s shoulder as if he wasn’t an immortal and deadly assassin with a kill count in the triple digits. Wade whipped around, freezing when his eyes landed on Peter. 

And just like that, Peter was gone, drifting away into the cauldrons of blue.

“This is Peter. He’s too shy to tell you that he wants you to bend him over a table.”

“MJ!” Peter hissed, covering his face with his hands. To make things worse, Wade laughed.

Wade laughed and it was Deadpool’s laugh that Peter knew so well, the one that turned his insides into sparkling champagne. 

“You cats enjoy yourselves,” MJ said, hooking her arm through Michelle’s elbow. “Now don’t be rude. Buy my buddy a drink.”

Just like that the two MJs were lost to the crowd.

“So, Peter,” Wade said. Peter nearly blacked out at the timbre of his voice, like bourbon. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Peter nodded, slowly. He could do this. Deadpool and Spider-Man flirted all the time, despite his reluctance to admit it, and Wade often waxed poetic about the way his suit settled into the crevice where his thighs met his asscheeks. Peter was ninety percent sure that Wade was sincere in his attraction to Spider-Man. Some small, drunk part of him wanted Wade to be attracted to Peter, too. 

“What’s it gonna be?” Wade asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Something strong,” Peter said, settling into the stool beside Wade, trying to ignore just how huge the man was at such a close proximity. “I need all the courage I can get.”

Chapter Text

Wade had been trying for months to tell Peter, aka the amazing freakin’ Spider-Man, that he had accidentally discovered his secret identity. And really, he swore up and down and sideways that it was definitely an accident but when you’re an ex mercenary you didn’t get much benefit of a doubt. 

He happened upon Spider-Man during magic hour, the sun bleeding into the cave of a damp alley. Spidey was, appropriately, dangling beneath a fire escape from a thin web, his leg jutting out forward. It was like looking at a gymnast on a balance beam, impossibly still and elegant. 

Too still. White started rambling about wax replicas or paralyses and before that got out of control, Wade dropped behind an electric box, peeking over the edge. Spidey was definitely breathing, his abdomen shifting softly. 

Wade almost screamed when the flash went off.

Like a director yelling cut, Spidey relaxed, drifting down the web to the backstreet. He jogged across the alley to pluck a camera off the lid of a dumpster. 

Wade could have squealed, but he really didn’t want to alert his favorite person in the world that he caught him taking selfies. That was a memory Wade would keep to himself and recall fondly and it didn’t really mean much other than that.

Until it did. Until Wade was reading The Daily Bugle one morning, his bunny-slipper-clad feet propped up on the kitchen table, slurping down a macchiato. 

He really should have done a spit take. He had the perfect set-up, even a mouthful of coffee, when he saw the double-page spread photo of Spider-Man, dangling from a web, one leg outstretched as if he were mid-swing.

Wade knew better. He knew the rusted fire escape behind the vigilante. Knew the delicate pose first-hand. Wade was never the sharpest switchblade, but even he could rub his two brain cells (White and Yellow, respectively) together and figure out that Photo by Peter Parker printed at that bottom also said Peter Parker is Spider-Man holy shit Spidey’s name is Peter. 

He should have left it at that. What’s in a name anyway? He only spent about four hours chanting Peter Peter Peter in his head instead of paying attention to whatever it was Spidey was saying. He could totally just tuck that away into the dusty bookshelf of his mind and not think about.

Except he really couldn’t. Wade could resist anything but temptation, and every time he wandered past the The Daily Bugle’s office (on accident, as far as anyone could prove) he was gripped with the remarkable knowledge that his Spidey, the peas to his carrots, the peanut butter to his chocolate, the ham to his oatmeal, was tucked away somewhere behind those industrial gray walls. 

Deadpool definitely wanted the Spidey-shaped forbidden fruit, and his want drowned out the voices screeching against his amygdala that if he snooped then Spidey would never forgive him, and he’d lose his best friend, the future father of his babies, the carne asada in his burrito, and so forth.

He did it anyway, because Deadpool didn’t make wise decisions.

He recognized the camera first. Old but snazzy, draped around the narrow shoulders of one Peter Parker. Wade was certain even before hearing Peter order a hotdog from the stand across the square, his voice without any doubt belonging to the spider nesting in Wade’s heart. Peter wore oversized jeans and shoes that were separating where the rubber met the fabric. He had a deep green, knitted sweater with sleeves draping past his knuckles and a wiry set of glasses precariously propped on his upturned nose, the barest hint of freckles trickled across his cheeks.

He’d avoided Spidey for weeks after that, unable to look at the web-slinger without recalling those wisps of brunette hair, those peachy and damp lips wrapping around a hotdog, throat undulating as he swallowed. He had felt guilty enough about masturbating to thoughts of tight, red spandex but he dug himself a whole new grave conjuring the after-image that had been seared into his corneas. 

He had to tell him. Yes, Peter would be mad, but he was Peter and he was kind and trusting and for some reason, he always had another chance to give to Deadpool. Still, Wade didn’t want to rush into the inevitable argument. He considered offering a trade, his own face as an apology, but that thought was thrown out when he considered, well, Peter was hot.

Peter was gorgeous, in fact. Wade always knew he’d find Spidey attractive no matter what was beneath the mask. Nothing could negate that round ass and unconditional heart. Wade, however, was not prepared for the reality of that probably falls asleep in the library and bakes banana bread to relax face hitting him like a shotgun slug.

No, Wade could never let Peter see the abstract disaster beneath his own mask. He would run screaming for sure, because Peter’s face was that of dreams and Wade’s was that of nightmares. 

He wouldn’t be able to come back from that kind of rejection. He was okay with Spidey not being attracted to him because he was fucked up in the attic. The whole mercenary bit typically turned off anyone with more than a few marbles in their head. Wade didn’t know what would happen if Peter saw the brutalized remnants of him on top of everything.

Wade almost dropped his drink when he turned and was staring deep into the hazel storm of Peter’s eyes. 

Deadpool only went to the bar to pick up some intel as a favor for Weasel. He didn’t expect Peter to be there, or his tall and gorgeous redheaded friend, and he definitely could not have predicted Peter sitting next to him, tucking his chin down to hide an inebriated smile. He wasn’t sure if Peter was blushing or just flushed from alcohol, peering up at him through delicate fans of eyelashes. 

“She was right, you know,” Peter said after finishing his third drink. His head bobbed back and forth, not at all in sync with the music pulsing around them. “I would totally be okay with you bending me over a table.”

Wade swallowed an unattractive screech in his throat. Had the bartender slipped something into his drink? Was he actually dead long enough to experience a snippet of heaven? As if Wade could so much as visit heaven. 

“Oh, baby boy. It’s the muscles isn’t it?” Wade asked, lifting an arm to flex. He was grappling with the fact that Peter was attracted to guys at all, but the brunette was openly gaping, his eyes dashing across the channels of Wade’s arms. Peter also hadn’t made any indication that he was aware that Wade was the ugliest mutherfucker in New York. It was dark, and Wade’s hood only kind of sheltered the brunt of it. Still, Peter was leaning forward, placing his hand on Wade’s steel bicep.

Alcohol was probably Wade’s best wingman. Peter was lost to the poison, probably having been drunk before Wade started buying him drinks. Wade knew Spidey had an insane metabolism, so it had to have taken a lot to bring him to the point where he could gaze upon Wade’s face and still manage to look coy and interested.

The gods were toying with him. 

Peter squeezed Wade’s arm, humming pleasantly and he slid his touch down to Wade’s exposed hand. The merc yanked it away out of instinct. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Wade started but trailed off. Peter didn’t look offended or embarrassed or sad, he had a set look of pure determination. Wade wondered if that was the same look he wore beneath the mask when shit got real. “I’m flattered. Really. But I could probably eat you.”

Peter’s breath hitched.

“I mean in a big bag wolf kinda way, not really the sexy way.” 

“They’re different?” Peter's hand dropped down to hook a pinky through Wade’s belt loop. It was the merc’s turn suck in a sharp breath. 

“What I’m trying to say,” Wade rambled, reciting the states in alphabetical order in his head to try to subdue his blossoming boner. What a time for White and Yellow to be silent. “I’m saying that I’m just a bunch of bad news. One of those ‘when it rains, it pours’ kinda people. But I’m the rain. You get what I’m saying, Petey pie?”

“Petey pie?” Peter asked, pulling himself closer. His face was inching nearer to Wade’s. He could smell the alcohol on Peter’s shallow breaths, could see how large and dilated his pupils were, and the reflection of his own monstrous face in their sight.

“You are very drunk,” Wade said. “I don’t think you realize just how ugly this mug is.”

Like ripping off a band-aid, Wade yanked his hood down, revealing all of his gnarly glory so that Peter could come to his senses and run away and Wade could pretend the whole scenario never happened, no matter how much it was gonna hurt. 

“That was a little over dramatic, don’t you think?” Peter raised his eyebrows, eyes darting across Wade in a flurry as if taking in as much as he could while he had the chance. 

“How are you not throwing up right now?” Wade asked. 

“There’s more to someone than just their face.” 

Ouch. Like a bucket of ice water, Wade remembered the Spider-Man good, Deadpool bad, I will never be good, and that’s not bad and the whole rest of that movie quote that left Wade bawling every time. 

“Well, believe it or not, my face isn’t the ugliest thing about me.” 

“Oh my God.” Peter rolled his eyes and slammed back the last of his drink. “I don’t know how to make this any clearer. I’m into this.” He gestured at Wade. “And I kinda want you to fuck me. Preferably in my bed.”

Wade had done a lot in his life that was bad, but even he knew this particular punishment was cruel and unusual. 

Peter was drunk. He was drunk and horny and he’d probably be coming on to anyone and Wade just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Peter (good, sweet, kind Peter) would never want Deadpool, who was a few french fries short of a happy meal.

Deadpool knew what had to be done. It would be the most difficult mission he had ever taken. White and Yellow were never going to let him live this one down.

Chapter Text

Peter was barely upright when the two of them stumbled into the hallway. Wade kept an arm hooked around his waist, using every ounce of willpower to not let his hand travel down. The elevator ride had been difficult enough, Peter wrapping his arms around Wade’s neck and swaying to nonexistent music. Wade had to change to listing the capitals of each state to distract himself from the heat of Peter’s face burrowing into his collar, the moisture of his lips where they stamped tiny kisses on the available flesh.

“Hartford,” Wade mumbled, guiding Peter past thankfully closed doors. He doubted that sober Peter would be very happy if his neighbors saw him wasted and handsy, because he was definitely getting handsy. “Sacramento. Augusta. Des Moines.”

“Bless you.” Peter giggled, dragging Wade to an innocuous door. He really hoped Peter was with it enough to remember which apartment was his because they all really did look the same, even the number painted on the door had mostly peeled away. Either he was right or Wade was gonna be making a lot of apologies on his behalf and Wade really didn’t feel like doing that. He was pretty much spending all of his good boy points by taking his drunk spider home and absolutely one hundred percent in no freakin’ way taking advantage of him while he was trashed. 

Peter fell back against the door, dragging Wade forward into him. Wade braced his hands on the door above Peter’s shoulders, intending to keep space for Jeebus between them, but he definitely fucked that one up, too. Peter’s stare was fire, his bottom lip curled up into his teeth. Yeah. Peter definitely had a thing for how big Wade was and the merc caging him in only made it worse. 

“Come inside.” Peter’s voice was riddled with harsh pants. 

“Oh, Pete. You know I can’t do that.” Wade stroked Peter’s cheek, the brunette leaning into his large palm and moaning softly at the tender contact. 

The moan turned into an almost growl, Peter lunging up and wrapping his legs around Wade’s waist. He weighed almost nothing. Wade had a brief thought that maybe having hollow bones was part of his mutation, but he really didn’t want his brain going on a tangent right then. 

“Petey-pie,” Wade groaned. He could feel the solid line of Peter’s erection tucked up under his pectorals, and no amount of state capitals could save him from his own whirlpool of arousal. Peter kissed the corner of his mouth, sweet and languid.

“C’mon, Wade,” Peter whispered. “Have a slice of your Petey-pie.”

“Oh, fuck me.” 

Wade could seriously cry. Everything he wanted was gift-wrapped for him (around him, technically) and he couldn’t open it. There were too many things that could go wrong. Peter might change his mind about Wade’s scars if he could see just how far the rabbit hole goes. Peter might wake up sober and angry at Wade for taking advantage of him while he was clearly too drunk to be making any important decisions about consent. Peter might find out Wade was Deadpool and hate his guts for using Peter’s ignorance as a way into his pants. In all of the possible scenarios, Peter came out hating him, and no fuck was worth that. 

Wade peeled Peter’s legs off of him. He really was just like an adorable, clingy spider. At least Wade was stocked up on spank bank material for the rest of his life, however long that ended up being. 

“Let’s get you inside, Pete.”

Peter pouted, turning around to unlock the door. Before Wade could draw away, Peter reached back and grabbed his sleeves, keeping the merc rooted in place behind him.

“Um, what are you- oh fuck, oh shit.” Wade dissolved into babbles as Peter ground his ass backwards right against Wade’s crotch. There was no hiding how hard he was, his dick jutting out and dampening a patch against his zipper. The friction of denim and Peter’s perfect, globular ass against him unraveled Wade like a spool of thread. He groaned, his hands, acting independently of his rational thought, dropped to Peter’s waist and pulled him in for another harsh grind.

“I knew you wanted me,” Peter whispered, leaning his face against the cool door. “Look how much you want me.”

Peter had no idea. Wade screwed his eyes shut, trying to will himself to step back and just walk away. But the pressure on his dick was astounding, and each gyration of Peter’s hips pulled and twisted his appendage in nearly painful, but always glorious ways. 

Peter panted against his door, his hands dragging Wade’s down and forward to rest on his own burning erection.

“Oh, Pete,” Wade gasped, his grip flexing over the stretched material of Peter’s pants. He used his thumb to trace sharp lines around the bulb of his head, and Peter whimpered.

“Baby boy.” Wade kissed the fine hairs on the nape of Peter’s neck. “You’re making me crazy.” 

“Come inside, Wade.” 

Wade screwed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the crown of Peter’s scalp. His hips jerked and shook against the cleft of Peter’s ass. Peter’s hair smelled like coffee and graphite. 

“You’re doing that on purpose,” Wade said. 

It didn’t matter if anyone came out into the hall. Wade was too far gone, pinning Peter against the door, palm rubbing harshly against his bulge. Each pinpoint of skin was like a key to a song spilling out of Peter’s mouth. Who knew Spidey would be his favorite instrument? 

Who was he kidding? Spidey, Peter, was his favorite everything. 

He was losing sight. Heat swarmed in his stomach. Why was he denying himself such a delicacy? Why did Wade elect to suffer? To be good? He was never good.

No. That wasn’t right. Spidey thought he was good. He would be good for him. 

“Wade,” Peter moaned. “Oh God, yes. You’re so big. I can feel it.” Peter threw his arms up and back to wrap around Wade’s neck and pull him closer. His movements became shaky and scattered.

“You’d be the biggest I’ve ever taken.”

It was the knowledge that Peter had been penetrated before that brought on his orgasm. He couldn’t decide which fleeting image had done it. Peter fingering himself open, fucking himself on a toy, being pinned down by some random man and pounded, the thought of Wade watching his own scarred dick sink into depths of Peter’s hole... 

He came in his pants, the succulent friction of Peter’s grinding torturous on his sensitive dick. 

Even if somehow the neighbors had not heard Wade release a guttural groan, there was no hiding Peter’s outburst. He threw his head back, arching sharp and poetic and lacerating Wade’s scalp where his fingers dug. Peter was a screamer. 

Wade could feel the cum saturating his spider’s pants at the same time he felt the spell of arousal lift from around him.

“I’m such an asshole,” Wade mumbled. 

“Hmn?” Peter was blissed-out and limp against him, eyes drifting closed in the haze. 

“Come on, Petey.” Wade led Peter inside the apartment. It was small and messy, but lived-in and warm. “Let’s get you to bed.”

The apartment was a studio, the bed in the far most corner with a paper screen separating it from the couch and tv. A desk sat in the opposite corner, overflowing with papers written in a foreign mathematics language that Wade couldn’t begin to understand. He almost laughed at how appropriate it all was. 

Peter belly-flopped into the mess of sheets that was his bed. He practically purred in the nest of blankets and pillows. Wade could watch him forever. 

Peter held out a hand to Wade, calling him to the bed.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Wade said, taking his hand only to press a small kiss to his palm. “It’s best if I get out of your hair.”

Peter made a whine of protest, but he was already drifting away into sleep.

Wade took Peter’s shoes and socks off. He hesitated, but ultimately decided he shouldn’t let his Spidey sleep in semen-soaked underwear. He stripped him from the waist down, doing everything he could not to steal a glance at Peter’s sculpted ass or flaccid dick. 

Wade could already feel the swarm of guilt rushing through his veins like cold saline. He should have known he couldn’t trust himself to take Peter home. He just wanted to know he made it safely. He wasn’t supposed to take advantage, but Wade was so, so bad at saying no to something he wanted. He could at least take solace in the fact that it didn’t go any further. Maybe Spidey would find it in his heart to forgive him for all the frottage. It was his idea, after all. 

Wade knew he was making excuses. It wasn’t fair to blame Peter for it. He took the soiled clothes to the bathroom to run them under cold water, unable to resist bringing the red briefs (of course) to his face, inhaling deeply the musk of sweat and semen. It was briny and sweet, like oyster liquor. 

God, Wade was lost.

Chapter Text

It had been a while since Peter woke up with a hangover. The telltale ache at the base of his skull and the tidal waves crashing in his stomach were bad enough, but the onslaught of memories hit him like a freight train. Peter really ought to fling himself out the window.

He hid his face in his hands, letting out a screech.

It took a few minutes to get up, the sudden rush of blood causing him to stumble and moan. Peter was one bad shift away from puking his brains out. He was wearing nothing but a t-shirt, but had no memory of taking any clothes off. He didn’t really remember anything after orgasming in the hallway. Yeah. That was a thing that happened. 

He would probably have to find a new apartment because if he looked any of his neighbors in the eye he might just combust. Peter showered away the dried spunk beginning to crust in his pubic hair, damp underwear and pants from the night before draping over the curtain rod. Wade must have cleaned them.

Wade.

Peter groaned again, turning the water to unbearably hot. That absolutely did not go the way he had planned it. Granted, the plan developed well into his inebriation so it probably wasn’t that good of a plan anyway, but it probably would have gone better than using Wade as a sexy scratching post. 

He had to stop that train of thought immediately because Peter was too ashamed to pop a boner. There was wallowing to be done. 

His plan had been pretty straight forward. Flirt a little with Wade, see if he could be attracted to Peter Parker, invite him home, reveal he’s Spider-Man, and then fuck. 

Okay so it wasn’t the most thought-out plan, but his brain had been operating at a quarter capacity and seeing Wade in all of his glorious muscle and deep eyes really jammed his gears. 

Peter wasn’t new to sex. He’d had several fairly meaningless trysts in his adult life, some men and some women, but he had never really been anything more than vanilla, so why on earth had he suddenly been possessed with horniness to the point that he would get off in public? Sort of public. Public enough to be very much not the sort of thing Peter had ever seen himself doing.

Something about Wade brought a beast out of him, and he knew it already but he didn’t truly understand how ravenous it was until Wade was in his snare. 

He had every intention of banging Wade’s brains out. Deadpool made enough claims about his sexual prowess while on patrol that Peter was ready to shut him up and make him put his money where his mouth was. But Wade didn’t sleep with him. Sure, they both got off, but most of that was Peter, and Wade had just sort of went along for the ride.

Any residual arousal at the memories of the night before morphed into shame. 

Wade didn’t want Peter Parker.

Peter had considered the possibility that Deadpool would be underwhelmed with his secret identity, but he tried to be optimistic. Wade got a free orgasm, and then he bounced. 

It stung to think about. 

Peter stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. He started a pot of coffee, basking in the aroma that already began to chase away the effects of being hungover. At least his metabolism helped him recover from that, too. 

Peter's heart was in his stomach. He nursed at the coffee, replaying the events of the evening as well as he could, and balking at his obliviousness to Wade’s multiple attempts to politely reject him. And that’s what it had been, a bunch of little rejections scattered throughout the night. 

Peter spent a fair amount of time being depressed about the whole thing. He sprawled out on the couch for a few hours only half watching reruns of an old sitcom. He didn’t eat any real food, just polished off the carafe and gnoshed on an entire box of Trix cereal. The sun was already falling when he finally peeled himself off the furniture for patrol. 

He didn’t purposely avoid Wade. It wasn’t as if they had a specific schedule, usually just crossing paths early in the night in the usual district. Peter just didn’t know what he could say to the merc

Hey. Surprise! Remember that desperate guy that kinda molested you last night? That was me! Wanna get tacos? What’s that? You never want to see me again?  

Or Peter could forget about it all, pretend that the night before never happened and continue just being Spider-Man. He and Deadpool could be partners and maybe friends and not have sex and that was fine. It could be enough.

Deadpool found him just as the night began to pale with the oncoming dawn. Peter had dropped down onto a steel gazebo to watch the street vendors begin setting up shop for the early commuters. 

“I didn’t think I was gonna be seeing you,” Deadpool said, sitting down next to Peter with his feet dangling over the edge.

Peter took a sharp breath. He couldn’t look at Wade, at the bulge of his pectorals and arms in tight leather. If he did he wouldn’t be able to hold it together, the phantom feeling of Wade’s giant body pinning him into the door, his huge hands working him raw. 

Peter focused on the street. 

“Okay. I’m never really great at reading the room,” Wade said. “But I think something’s bugging you. Get it? Bugging?” 

Wade’s joke had no humor behind it. Peter wondered if he was affected by the night before, or if he had just chalked it up to a strange encounter and brushed it off. Peter pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them.

“I’m feeling a little down.” Peter couldn’t really lie, and even though Wade was the object of his frustration, he was also his friend and he didn’t want to snub him. “I got rejected by someone. Nothing crazy or anything. I think my ego is just shot.”

That was a gentle way of saying that Peter would never love again and would probably go live in a cave somewhere and survive off of mushrooms and dirt. 

Wade tensed up, as if he hadn’t actually expected Peter to tell him what was wrong. The merc played it off easily. 

“You know what they say, Spidey-babe. There’s plenty of fish in the breeding pond and all that. Don’t feel bad about yourself because of one fish.”

Peter peeked out of the corner of his eye at Wade, but he wished he didn’t. The Deadpool mask was a caricature of Wade, and he longed to see the face underneath. Now that he had tasted the sweet wine, how could he give it up? He barely got to touch it, only got to kiss small patches of skin. He didn’t get to kiss Wade’s mouth, cracked and discolored but calling to him. 

“I liked this fish,” Peter said. 

Wade was silent for a long while, which was unusual for the merc. They watched strokes of pink and lavender spread across the rooftops, dappling light into even the darkest concrete corners. 

“Everything happens for a reason, right?” Wade elbowed him in the arm. Peter wanted to kick him off the ledge, but that wasn’t an appropriate way for him to deal with his feelings. “This person’s probably a piece of shit, and you deserve so much more than that. Not to sound too much like a fangirl, but you’re the amazing fuckin’ Spider-Man!” Wade made jazz hands.

Peter’s insides churned. Being complimented by the person who turned him down was really sending him mixed signals, but again, this was Spidey that Wade was talking to, and Peter Parker just wasn’t Spidey. 

“Under this mask,” Peter gestured to his face. “It’s nothing special. I don’t exactly turn heads in my free time.”

“Bullshit.”

Peter jumped at how loud Wade was. Several vendors below glanced up, most going back to their business and some taking out their phones to steal a photo. 

“Anyone would be lucky to have you. I’m ugly as all fuck under this mask, so trust me when I say that whatever you got going on under there is fine.” Wade grasped Peter’s shoulder. Peter almost moaned at the manhandling. Yep, his life was ruined. “You are a special person. Anyone who makes you feel bad about yourself is so not worth it, baby boy.”

Peter shivered. The morning left a sheen of dew on Deadpool’s suit, giving him an incandescence, or maybe it was just the rose-colored lenses Peter looked upon him with. Either way, Peter had it bad.

He had always known their friendship language was fluent, but he was then certain that they were sexually compatible as well. 

Peter thought about ripping off the mask, revealing to Wade all of the mediocrity he had to offer. But he couldn’t. It felt like a manipulation tactic, and he didn’t want Wade to only be attracted to Peter because he was Spider-Man. He would always know it was inauthentic.

Wade stared at him for a while. He could feel the tickle of his eyes sweeping over his ear, his cheekbone, the bend of his shoulder. It was maddening, to want so badly to be desired, desperate to be an object of affection.

Chapter Text

Wade considered leaving the country. Maybe if he spent a few months in a hut in Nicaragua, Peter would forget all about the stranger at the bar and they could go back to the awkward sexual tension that they were used to.

He didn’t think Spidey would act differently. He had always been an expert at keeping his social life and his night job separate. Wade had even considered avoiding Peter for a little while, until he could collect himself enough to talk to the man without imagining him bent over a table, Wade’s hand on the back of his neck, legs kicked apart-

Wade cursed his branching thoughts. 

He was selfish though, as usual, and he couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing Peter that night, so he haunted the typical spots, his eyes scanning the rooftops for an acrobatic silhouette.

When the morning lurked around the corner, Wade had accepted that Peter wasn’t gonna be there tonight. He was gonna eat his disappointment in fried street foods and then maybe jack off a bit, probably cry, but at the last possible second Wade spotted him, perched atop an awning.

None of his internal pep talks prepared him to see Peter. Well, Spidey. But he knew Peter was there, beneath the witty and bleeding-heart hero. Peter with his soft cushion of hair and sunkissed skin. Peter, whose orgasm sounded like a hymn. Peter, who felt rejected and insecure because Wade had turned him down.

Why did we do that again? 

We’re disgusting. Spidey doesn’t know what he wants.

Wade let himself drown in the bath that morning. The reprieve of death was temporary but so satisfying. Like turning a computer off and on again. Wade puked up soapy water on the tile, draping his upper half over the tub. Coming back from drowning was always a bitch. His lungs ached from the purge, and his scars swelled with vasoconstriction. 

He had to set the record straight. It wasn’t fair to Peter. He had to tell him he was Wade and Wade was Deadpool and Deadpool and Wade were both head over katanas for Peter. 

He just needed to reset again, just to be sure he was ready. 

Wade nearly turned and ran when Peter opened the door. He was disheveled, with tired eyes and wearing only boxer shorts. Wade was probably the last person Peter was expecting that evening. 

He seemed at a loss for words, and Wade couldn’t blame him. He was seeing Wade’s face while sober, and that probably had him reassessing their brief encounter.

“I’m sorry to show up like this,” Wade said. “I just feel like we need to talk about the other night.”

Peter swallowed and Wade did not watch his small Adam’s apple bobble and he definitely didn’t imagine sucking on it. 

“Yeah. Come in.” Peter stepped aside. “Do you, um, drink coffee?”

Before Wade could answer Peter was already at the pot, filling two mugs. He rifled through the fridge and cabinets, gathering every add-in he had. Peter stacked the table with half n half, milk, sugar, Splenda, cinnamon, nutmeg, almond milk, whip cream, and Hershey’s syrup.

“I don’t know what you like,” Peter mumbled, scratching the back of his head and jutting out his bottom lip just so.

You , Wade wanted to scream. 

“Uh. Thanks.”

They both fixed their coffees in amicable silence. Peter loved his creamy, while Wade packed in the sugar. Eventually they sat at the tiny IKEA table across from one another.

“Listen, I’m so so-”

“I feel bad abo-”

They both stopped. Peter gestured at Wade to go ahead.

“I wanted to apologize about what happened,” Wade said.

“Apologize?” Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “I should be doing that. I was all over you, and I didn’t respect that you weren’t interested. I was a real ass.”

Wade blinked hard and looked up at the ceiling, willing away the images so he could focus. 

“You were drunk. Stupid shit happens when you’re drunk. It’s not as if I didn’t want it.”

“Why didn’t you stay, then?” Peter asked.

That was a hard one. That was the moment Wade should have confessed, explained to Peter that he was Deadpool and he was a shitshow and Peter could do a thousand times better. 

“I’m a shitty person,” Wade said instead. “I’ve got so much baggage they won’t even let me on a plane. I also look like a shriveled testicle from head to toe. So if I don’t have the looks, and I don’t have the personality, then I’ve really just got nothing to offer but to be a pity fuck. And you deserve better than that, baby boy.”

Wade dared to make eye contact with Peter, which was bad. Peter looked furious, and really it was surprising how someone so soft and so pure could radiate so much anger. Wade winced. 

“Are you attracted to me?” Peter asked. His voice was level, like a calm before the storm. 

“That’s really got nothing to do with what I’m saying.”

Peter leaned forward, setting his coffee aside. Wade could smell his aftershave from where he sat. It was crisp and sweet. 

“Are you attracted to me, Wade?” 

Wade tried counting to ten, but he really couldn't think of what came after two while Peter was pinning him in place with a single look. Was he supposed to be turned on by that? Because he was so turned on by it.

“Do you want to fuck me?” 

“Jesus, Pete!” Wade was sweating. It was warm already in his hoodie but the temperature spiked. “That doesn’t matter.”

“So you do want to fuck me.” Peter stood up and stalked over to Wade, standing close enough to touch his bare chest, four beauty marks tip-toeing up Peter's ribs, like lily pads for Wade’s tongue to hop across. 

“You want to hold me down?”

Wade twisted his eyes shut. He felt like a biblical sinner, doomed to cut his own hands off so they couldn’t touch. 

“C’mon, Wade.” Peter took Wade’s hands and brought them to his thighs. The skin there was smooth and velvety, and the fine hairs tickled the sensitive scars of his fingertips. “You’d kill to get inside me. Finger me open, slow and deep, until I’m begging for more.”

Wade’s eyes shot open. Peter had spread his thighs enough to straddle the ends of Wade’s legs. Hands still on Peter’s thighs. He slid them down, savoring the contours of muscle. Peter's own hands guided them.

The voices in Wade’s head screamed at each other. White was desperate to manhandle Peter over the countertop and take him, fast and wild and loud. Yellow couldn’t stop listing all the reasons why Wade was a horrible person who didn’t deserve Peter. And Peter… 

Peter's mouth was dragging him to hell. 

“Or maybe you wanna lie back, let me sink down on your cock, and use you.”

Wade moaned. He was devastatingly hard. Who knew his Spidey had a pornstar mouth? 

“You’re pretty forward with a guy you just met.”

“What can I say? I feel like I’ve known you forever.” 

Peter kissed Wade, settling down to straddle his lap. He lapped at Wade’s lip like a kitten, and how could Wade not let him in? He was stranded in the ocean, and clung to the kiss like a raft.

“What would you do to me?” Peter mumbled against Wade’s lip. “Tell me how you want me.”

Forever .

“Please, Wade. I want you to want me.”

Wade stood up, picking Peter up with him. He walked them both to the bed, dropping Peter onto the mattress.

Peter groaned and spread his arms out like a snow angel. 

“I do want you.”

“Then take me.”

“I can’t.” Wade’s voice cracked. He tried to tell the truth, but he wasn’t ready to give up that moment, looking down on the muse that was Peter. 

Peter considered him for a moment. Wade thought he might get thrown out, but Peter just gave a shy smile.

“You can go if you want, Wade. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.” Peter reached down to stroke himself through his boxers. “But I’m gonna touch myself. And if you want to watch, well, I want you to watch me.”

It’s just watching.

It’s just watching.

“It’s just watching,” Peter whispered.

Wade’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t think straight. His dick jerked and twitched, begging for attention. He was afraid to touch himself, as if the moment he moved he would wake up from a wonderful dream. Peter would dissipate into fog, and he would be alone, chasing Spider-Man from the ground while the hero swung away.

Chapter Text

Peter was possessed with lust. The dam he had constructed so meticulously between his personal and vigilante life crumpled beneath the storm that was Wade. 

He was high off the feeling of the merc watching him. Peter hooked his thumbs in the elastic of his boxers, dragging them down. A moan erupted from him at the drag of fabric against his dick. It sprung out, glistening wet and begging to be touched.

He had lost sight again. A small, very quiet and not at all assertive part of him said that he needed to be upfront with Wade, that maybe they could address whatever it was that lurked between them like two mature adults. Touching himself was so much easier. How could he say how he felt? How could Peter convey his yearning to be pinned down, used, and loved? How could Peter tell Wade that he flinched the first time he saw his face, but now it’s the only thing he could think about?

Wade was frozen in place, eyes blown out and glistening. 

Peter gave himself a stroke, kicking his boxers at Wade. They hit the merc in the chest before falling to the floor. He never blinked, just observed the way Peter dragged his fist up to polish circles around the head of his cock.

The power it gave Peter was astounding, like a snake charmer, and Wade was the cobra caught in his melody. The sheets curled under flexing toes, each muscle rippling with waves of pleasure.

“Wade,” Peter whispered. His face flushed red, and his hips bucked against the ministrations. “I… I’m...”

“You like it when I watch?” Wade’s voice was deep, deeper than Peter had ever heard it. Peter was looking at a predator, wound up, each muscle drawn back like a bowstring ready to fire. Peter felt like a steak.

He loved it.

Peter never really felt sexy, and he was never really treated like he was until Deadpool came along. But that was Spider-Man, and right then Wade was only looking at Peter. He wanted to prolong that feeling, the burn of shame that morphed into something sweeter.

Wade took a few steps back, until the backs of his knees hit the desk chair. He collapsed into it, never taking his eyes off Peter, his hands shaking in his pockets.

Peter propped up on an elbow, keeping eye contact with the merc while he cupped his testicles, massaging and tugging at the flesh.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” Peter asked.

Wade stayed silent. 

“I’m thinking about how the scars on your hands would feel on my cock.” Peter closed his eyes, drawing upon a fantasy that had existed far before that night. “I’m picturing you between my legs, squeezing it. You lick the inside of my thigh. A little promise of what’s to come.”

Wade bit down on his knuckle, his other hand prying at his pants. “And what’s to come?” Wade croaked. 

Peter sat up, leaning over to the nightstand and grabbing a clear bottle. He stood on his knees in the center of the bed, facing away from Wade, looking back at him over his shoulder.

The plastic of the cap popping off was like gunfire.

“You turn me around,” Peter whispered. He reached back with wet fingers to grasp his cheeks and spread them ever so slightly. His whole body was on fire. The shame alone of exposing himself to Wade in such a way could probably get him off. “You worship my ass.”

“I do,” Wade stuttered.

“You dig your teeth into me. You bite me hard enough that I sob.” 

“You’d like that, huh? A little pain gets you off?” Wade was unzipping his jeans, pulling his erection out and it was large and scarred with a whirlpool of textures. 

Peter whimpered.

“You lick me open,” Peter brushed the ring of his anus, highlighting it with the gleam of lube. “You work me until I can’t feel anything but your mouth and your tongue and your fingers as they split me open.”

Peter dropped forward onto his elbows, ass presented in the air. His dripping cock swayed like a pendulum between slick thighs. 

“Oh fuck.” Wade was squeezing the base of his cock, trying not to let it end too soon. 

Peter reached back and sunk a finger into himself, pressing until it bottomed out at the knuckle. His face contorted in bliss. The sting of the breach was his favorite thing, to feel himself be forced open. And Wade was watching. Knowing his audience had Peter even more sensitive than he had ever been. 

“Your fingers are so much bigger than mine,” Peter moaned. “You’d force me to take them, though. You’d be rough, but kiss away the burn. You’d disassemble me, reduce me to nothing but molecules.”

Peter’s eyes rolled back. He couldn’t see Wade, but he could hear each hitch of the merc’s breath like a bee sting in the brain. He was already so close to coming, his ass clenching around his finger, trying to draw it in deeper. He could just barely brush his prostate, and each tease pushed him closer to the precipice. 

He didn’t hear Wade get up, and Peter’s spider sense had long ago stopped going off around the merc. His whole body lurched, spine arching down as two huge hands grabbed his thighs, hard enough to bruise.

Wade dug his teeth into the cushion of his ass.

Peter squealed and came across the sheets, collapsing into a puddle of spunk. 

He could hear the slick sound of Wade jerking himself off. Peter craned his head back, unwilling to miss a thing.

Wade’s face was dark with arousal, and his jeans were yanked down enough to reveal the tops of muscular thighs. The flexing of quadriceps did unspeakable things to Peter’s insides.

“How was I?” Peter asked, chest heaving to catch his breath. 

“Beautiful. Perfect,” Wade murmured. His pace began to stagger. “You’re everything, Petey.”

Peter basked in the glow of Wade’s approval, his insides pliant.

Wade’s cum splattered on Peter’s ass. Peter loved the feel of it. He watched over his shoulder as Wade reached back out, using his thumb to scoop a globule of semen and push it gently into Peter’s hole.

“Good boy,” Wade mumbled. He massaged the spunk in. Peter quivered at the act of ownership, fading away into the afterglow. “My good boy.”

Chapter Text

Wade took a job in Quebec. The intention had been to find a way to distract himself, to detox Peter out of his system enough to make just one fucking level-headed decision, please. He didn’t. His obsession compounded on itself, until every night Wade got lost in a fantasy of Spider-Man showing up at his hotel, peeling away the mask to reveal Peter.

The projection of Peter would talk, but Wade couldn’t hear over the pounding in his ears, and how fucked up was that, that he couldn’t even imagine Peter verbalizing the words he so desperately wanted? To do so would probably snip the last thread holding his psyche together. He could get lost in the realm of his own construction.

The mission had to end, though, and Wade wasn’t good at staying away from Spider-Man. 

He rolled into town as casual as ever on the surface, but the turmoil inside raged on. His plan was to linger for at least a day, hopefully two, before crawling back to Peter to hopefully come clean and nosedive into the shit-show that was coming his way.

He tried to organize how he was going to say it, practiced different intonations and inflections and diction over and over again, and completely accepted that he may have to resort to begging. If that were the case, so be it. Wade would beg Peter. He’d kneel before him, let Peter step on his head with a delicate, bare foot. Maybe Peter would bind Wade’s hands behind his back, so he couldn’t fight back. Maybe with webs.

Distracted by the roving of his thoughts, Deadpool didn’t see the purse thief until he was zooming past, a woman far back crying out, “He stole my meds!”

Maybe a few punches would help Wade let off steam. He took off after the thief, who picked up the pace after seeing the leather-clad, katana-wielding mask chasing behind. The running man took a sharp turn into an alley, which Deadpool followed. 

He stopped in his tracks to see Peter. Good old regular guy Peter, slipping a foot out and hooking the thief’s leg, toppling him over. Peter looked down at the man, and picked up the purse.

“Something tells me you’re not the Gucci type,” Peter said with a dopey smile. Wade’s heart just about combusted at the look on Peter’s face.

The woman appeared, jogging past Wade (impressive in her pumps. Could she teach Wade?) and approaching Peter.

“Oh, thank you, so much. My insulin is in here and I can’t afford anymore right now,” she said, flinging her arms around Peter’s neck and squeezing him. Peter’s whole face flushed.

Yeah. Wade was in love. He was in love with that crooked smile and heart of freakin’ gold coated in a layer of old fashioned humility. Peter was a dream. A beautiful, sexy dream that Wade could inhabit forever.

Peter didn’t notice the merc until after the woman walked away. Wade approached and leaned over to tie the thief’s hands behind his back, trying desperately not to revert back to his previous fantasy of that happening to himself.

“Uh, thanks,” Peter stammered. He was still flushed around the ears and neck, which was downright adorable. “Uh, Mr. Deadpool.”

Wade absolutely did not purr and he didn’t correct Peter and say call me daddy like he wanted to, so points to him. Sexiness aside, it was pretty hilarious to see Peter try to act casual, like he didn’t know Deadpool already as Spider-Man. 

On the flip side, Wade had to act like he didn’t know Peter Parker, like he hadn’t watched the other man finger himself on all fours and oh my God, think of anything else.  

“Oh please, Mr Deadpool was my father,” Wade said. “But you can call me Daddy if you want.”

God dammit. Wade could smack himself, but the look on Peter’s face was worth the slip. Deadpool, alias Wade, alias fucking moron, alias Peter doesn’t know I’m Wade and he sure as hell doesn’t know that I know that he’s-

This is confusing.

You’re giving me a headache.

“I’m giving myself a headache,” Wade hissed under his breath. He jumped back to attention, leaning against the alley wall with his arms crossed in an attempt to look casual. He was pretty sure he leaned against gum. He hoped it was gum. “Anyway, Bambi, I’m happy to help. Though you seemed to have it handled.”

Wade was definitely enjoying being able to see that Peter was even more embarrassed than he was. 

“I guess I got lucky. I don’t know what I would have done if he got back up.” Peter batted his eyelashes.

Holy shit, Wade thought. Peter, alias Spider-Man, alias the love of My life, is a flirt.

First, Wade thought maybe he was reading into it. Surely Peter was playing the damsel to avoid giving away his true identity to Deadpool. But then Peter put a hand on Wade’s forearm and gave it a squeeze, simple yet intimate, and looked up into his mask with twinkling doe eyes.

“Guess I’m lucky you were around.”

The second thought Wade had was that maybe what Peter had with him wasn’t all that special, that he was just a horny bastard who maybe fingered himself for lots of people. The third thought recalled that Peter was being flirtatious with Deadpool , and Peter didn’t know that he knew but he did know.

Woah.

Wade had the horrible awful idea to try his luck.

“Well what can I say? A sweet little thing like you needs someone looking out for him.” Wade leaned in just a bit more, to see if Peter would back off. 

Peter didn’t. He kept his eyes locked on the merc mask, his teeth peeking out from a crooked smile. “Would you be that someone then, Mr Pool?”

“I would sweetums,” Wade grabbed Peter’s jaw and tilted his head up. “But this black heart’s got the blues for a certain web-slinging hero. I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”

Peter’s breath hitched.

Bingo .

“I suppose that’s fair,” Peter said, his voice slow and calculated. “My boy-toy’s been away. Guess it’s left me feeling lonely. Maybe he'll come visit soon?” 

Wade almost croaked. “I’m sure no one could stay away from that face long.”

“We will see, Mr. Pool.” Peter pulled away. 

Wade waited for him to walk out of sight before struggling to pull the wad of gum off of his back. 

Wade found himself back at that innocuous door.  He held a fist up, let it hover in the imitation of a knock. It didn’t matter, because Peter opened the door unprompted, seeming completely unsurprised by Wade’s appearance.

“Long time no see,” Peter said, propping an arm on the doorframe. His hair was a mess of waves and a glimmer of sweat beaded on in his exposed collarbone, like a tiny wishing well. Wade was captivated by it. “What brings you around?”

Peter dug his teeth into the cushion and screamed. 

Wade had him thrown over the couch armrest, ass presented in the air, while Wade himself kneeled down on the floor, nose deep in the cleft of Peter’s ass. He was surrounded by the smell of musk and sweat, and he guzzled it down like an addict. Each hand was positioned on an asscheek and Wade spread them apart with tenderness, revealing Peter’s hole. 

He blew a soft breath across the skin there, watching the fine peach fuzz stand erect. 

“You like it when I bite you?” Wade asked.

“Nnng… I love it.” Peter panted. 

Wade nibbled at the ring of muscle, letting his canine hook and drag against it. Peter’s thighs quaked at the onslaught. He massaged his thumbs into Peter’s ass, drawing his hands back to give it a sharp slap.

Wade could’ve creamed himself watching it jiggle and light up pink. 

“You want me to lick your hole? Fuck it with my tongue?”

“Oh please, please Wade.”

Wade gave a rough and wide swipe across Peter’s anus. 

Peter purred.

He ran his tongue around the rim, savoring the flavor he had coveted so badly. “It’s like licking the salt off a margarita glass,” Wade whispered against skin, before putting his mouth around the hole and giving a hard suck.

Peter bucked, arching his back off the couch, arms stretched out to claw at upturning cushions. 

“Good kitten,” Wade mumbled. He used the very tips of both thumbs to pry Peter’s hole open ever so slightly, and wiggled his tongue into the sea of him. “So good for me. You open up so easily for me, sweetie.”

Peter let out a choked sob. The tremors in his legs buzzed by Wade’s ears. 

Wade burrowed deeper, using the slick of spit to ease his thumbs in more, pulling and tugging at the abused ring. “So pliant. How often do you touch yourself here, Petey-pie? Is your ass always so hungry?”

“More now. I can’t stop fucking myself,” Peter gasped, chewing on a knuckle. “I can’t stop wishing it was you, splitting me open and fucking my brains out. I've masturbated every night since you’ve been gone.”

Wade groaned. He had done it again. How did he end up nose-deep between Peter’s ass cheeks when he was supposed to be bringing up the whole we really need to talk about this because there’s a lot going on here ? But Peter enchanted him before he could get the words out, stripping down and begging Wade to touch him. What else could Wade do but throw Peter down and feast?

Wade’s thumb sunk entirely into Peter. The boiling muscles inside suckled at the merc’s digit. He thrust it slowly, the spit not enough to prevent a painful yet indescribable drag. Peter whimpered and hissed, rutting against the velvety upholstery. 

Wade brought a kiss to the cleft of one cheek, and then the other, before tucking back down to kiss the stretch of muscle around his thumb. A twist and stroke and he could feel the hidden pearl of cave under his touch.

Peter screamed again, and it was becoming Wade’s favorite sound. He spanked Peter once more with his free hand, the sudden jerk pile-driving his thumb into Peter’s prostate. 

Peters orgasm rattled his whole body, constricting down onto Wade’s thumb like a bear-trap snapping. Wade groaned at the suction, his cock screaming for attention. Begging him to have his way with Peter, who was presented so deliciously. 

Wade gave another kiss to the raw skin of Peter’s hole before drawing back and standing up.

His cock sobbed at the loss.

Peter turned his head to look back at Wade, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Will you stay?” Peter asked. 

“For a bit,” Wade said.

Peter sat up on the couch, making room for Wade beside him. When the merc sat down, Peter reached a hand out to his erection. Wade caught him by the wrist.

“Don’t worry about that, baby boy,” he said. “Just come ‘ere.”

Wade drew Peter up into his lap, nuzzling into his neck to inhale the saccharine musk. 

Peter was completely naked, curled in the merc’s lap, and Wade couldn’t help but think that if he tried to tell the truth, he would ruin the moment, and he was an addict for those moments.

Chapter Text

Peter wrote the confession onto a neon pink sticky note. It was all he had lying around, and he had to get the words out somehow, since his ability to access his higher functions apparently ceased to exist whenever Wade was in the vicinity. 

Everything about the merc from his wit to his disfigured jawline turned Peter into a cat in heat. So he wrote the note out in shaky but determined strokes, I know you’re Deadpool. I know because I’m Spider-Man.

Short and sweet. Enough to make Wade get the conversation going because Peter sure as hell wasn't able to, and one of them needed to be the mature and responsible one, and since when was that Deadpool ?

But Wade still hadn’t fucked him. He’d eaten his asshole until Peter felt like a melted cream pop, but he didn’t fuck him. It was sweet, in a way, to think that Wade was resistant to rushing into something, but at the same time it drove Peter mental.

His ape brain spent hours trying to figure out why Wade wouldn’t fuck him, and he finally came to the conclusion that maybe he was attracted to Peter, but his heart belonged to Spider-Man . And he had said that, hadn’t he? 

If Peter could just bridge the gap, everything would be fine and they would definitely laugh about it.

Right? 

Peter kept the note in his back pocket for the next time he saw Wade, as himself or in the suit, because either way he was going to keep his mouth shut and just fling the note at him. It was all very middle school. He may as well have written do you like me? Circle yes or no .

He wasn’t planning to run away after giving it to him at least, but he was playing it by ear.

Peter has never really ran into Wade on purpose before, so he shouldn’t have been so surprised when, as Spider-Man, he swung down toward a falafel cart only to come face to face with Wade.

Wade, not Deadpool, with his over-sized hoodie and weathered jeans and a gaping mouth full of half-chewed pita.

“Uh. Hi. I almost ran right into you,” Peter stammered, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Guess I should look where I’m swinging, huh?”

Wade shut his mouth and swallowed. Peter tried not to focus on the ripple of his throat. 

“Wow. Spider-Man, huh?” Wade gushed. “I’m a fan, I must admit. With the whole, pew pew pew! ” He made ridiculous, purposefully incorrect web-shooter motions. It was adorable because Peter knew he was full of shit.

“That’s me. Spider-Man. Just ya know, being all friendly and neighborhood-ly.” Peter wanted to slap himself. What was it about having a guy’s cum in one’s ass that deteriorated their ability to act like a normal human being? 

Wade laughed, compromising the integrity of Peter’s ability to stay standing. 

“You’re pretty cute when you’re nervous,” Wade said.  

Peter also felt tempted to slap Wade as well as himself. Wade was probably feeling pretty devilish pretending not to know Spider-Man, but the joke was on the merc because Peter still knew Wade had his tongue in his asshole not forty-eight hours before. 

So why did he feel like they were both the losers?

The sticky note weighed heavy on him. He had been prepared for Peter to give it to Wade, or for Spider-Man to give it to Deadpool, but somehow the wires had been crossed, and Peter couldn’t get his arm to function.

“You always flirt with masked vigilantes?” Peter asked. 

“What can I say?” Wade gave him a coy smile. “Feels like I’ve known you forever.” 

Didn’t Peter say that to Wade once? Or was it Deadpool? He was getting the four of them mixed up, couldn’t decipher where Spider-Man ended and Peter began. Somehow there was still a missing circuit, and they couldn’t bridge the gap. 

“Guess I better get going. Got baddies to web up, pedestrians to woo and all that.” Shut up, Peter. “I’ll leave you to your falafel.”

“I assumed you were going to get some for yourself.” Wade said. His non-existent eyebrow arched up and Peter knew he was just being an ass at that point. 

“Uh.” Peter couldn’t think. He was drowning beneath the phantom sensation of Wade’s hands peeling him apart like a pomegranate, plucking all of his seeds out one by one. His tongue, the snag of his teeth, the texture of his blistered lips.

“I know I’m a looker, but you seem a bit tongue-tied. So I'mma head out,” Wade saluted him. “And I’ll give you the pleasure of watching me go.” 

With that Wade turned on his heel and sauntered away, definitely looking back to make sure Peter was still watching him, and he was. 

Peter was fast. He knew the alleys better than anyone and a few well-timed web slingshots had him hiding behind a dumpster just ahead of where Wade was walking. Peter had long before mastered the art of the quick change, but even he was cutting it close, barely zipping his bag shut that had his clothes before Wade rounded the corner.

“Long time, no see, Petey Pie,” Wade said, crossing his arms. He raised his eyebrow again. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were following me.”

Peter, hair disheveled and out of breath from the sprint, swallowed down the lump in his throat. 

Particles of asphalt scratched at Peter’s knees, even through the denim of his pants. He couldn’t form a cohesive thought regarding the disgusting state of the ground, questionable puddles included, because he finally, finally had Wade’s cock in his hands.

Metaphorically, and physically. 

It wasn’t his proudest moment, as Peter never really expected to find himself kneeling behind an alley dumpster in a desperation to get a cock in his mouth. But really, it wasn’t just any cock, so that had to make up for it a bit. 

“Oh, baby boy,” Wade groaned, curling his fingers into the short wefts of Peter’s hair. Peter had just tugged Wade’s dick out of his jeans, his breath catching at the sight of it, upright and rock hard, scattered with the same spiraling scars of his whole body. It was exactly how Peter hoped it would be. 

“It’s perfect,” Peter murmured, nuzzling the underside, breathing deeply the emanating aroma of sex. He suckled a kiss and a feather-light nip at the base, sending tremors through Wade’s thighs. 

“Oh, Peter Peter Peter,” Wade groaned. “You’re so fucking hot. You’re like lava, like spontaneous combustion, hot. Damn. Are you gonna suck my cock?”

Peter licked across the crevices of the scar tissue, wringing a whimper out of the merc.

“Oh, God, you’re gonna suck me. I might die.”

Peter leaned back, catching Wade’s gaze. He was proud to know that the glassy look in his electric blue eyes was because of him. 

“Wade?”

“Yeah?”

“Want to see what I can do?”

“What do you- ohhh my Gooood.” Wade threw his head back as Peter took his entire cock in his mouth, swallowing it deeper and deeper until it plugged up his throat. He held it for a moment, blissed out on the brief lack of oxygen, before pulling back enough to kiss the mushroom head.

“I’m dead. I’m actually dead,” Wade whispered to himself, stroking tenderly at Peter’s scalp. It was enough to drive Peter insane.

“Wade, as flattered as I am by your gushing, I need you to fuck my face.” Peter twisted his fingers into Wade’s jeans, pulling his pelvis closer, drawing the merc’s cock back to his mouth. “Come on, Wade.” Peter practically purred. 

After that, Wade had Peter up against the concrete wall, thrusting into his open mouth. Peter loved it. The brick scratched and scraped at his scalp while the rough texture of Wade’s dick did the same to his tongue. It was bliss. Peter was lost in how Wade’s grip had gone from soft to desperate, his motions from giving to taking and taking and taking. Peter was only able to catch sharp and stunted breaths each time Wade drew back, only to have the air knocked out of him when the merc slammed back in.

Peter dug his nails into the exposed flesh of Wade’s ass, muscular and firm, massaging the meat of it while he fucked into Peter’s mouth. Wade groaned.

“Petey, you’re so good. Just look at you. You’re so beautiful,” Wade mumbled. His words slurred together, dissolving into nonsensical grunts and babbles as Peter trailed his touch between Wade’s cheeks, and caressed a fingertip against the button of his hole. 

Wade tried to pull out when he came, but Peter held on tight, his vision nearly fading in ecstasy at the sensation of wet and hot shooting down his throat. Wade groaned, deep and guttural.

When Wade did manage to pull out, Peter couldn’t hold back a cough, dribbling spittle and semen out of the corners of his mouth. 

“Baby boy,” Wade whispered. The merc trailed his fingers down the curve of Peter’s jaw, dragging through the spunk. “You’re always so beautiful.”

Peter's heart caught in his throat. He was yet again floating in the stratosphere of bliss, unable to notice the sticky note with his confession lost in a puddle of alley water and oil. He’d beat himself up over it later, but the present Peter had one singular focus. Looking up into the adoration of Wade’s expression, it occurred to him that he was definitely in love with Wade, slash Deadpool, slash mercenary. Whoever he chose to be, Peter would love him.

Chapter Text

It was a nameless gangbanger who managed to stick a shiv in the meat of his thigh. Peter had thought the man was already down, and typically it was one of his more notorious enemies that managed to land a lucky shot, and he had no one to blame but himself, really.

It toppled Peter. The pain was like boiling water, and the blood that erupted from around the rust metal spike saturated the fabric of his suit in seconds, and he knew that couldn’t be a good sign. That, and the sudden bursts of ink framing his vision. He could barely see the silhouette of his assailant racing away before face-planting into the muck of the street.

Peter had been in worse situations, but it was hard to think of any through the haze in his head. Part of him was appalled at the thought of New York asphalt coming into contact with what was surely a deep wound. Another part of him thought back to high school anatomy classes, as the teacher traced a stern finger across the femoral artery and tried to map out where the shiv had landed, where it skid across the flesh before embedding into the thatching of muscle. It was hard to think. Peter fumbled blindly for the jagged handle, ignoring how wet and slippery it was in his attempt to get a solid grip. 

“Baby boy, don’t you know you’re not supposed to take that out?”

Maybe it was the blood loss causing Peter to see things, but it was also very likely that Deadpool just happened to be in the right place at the right time because he had a habit of doing that. Peter really loved that about him. He loved a lot of things about Wade, and he could probably list them if he wasn’t bleeding out on a backstreet. 

“You’re worse than I thought,” Wade mumbled, leaning down to take Peter’s arm and hoist him up. The vertigo struck him at the sudden shift, and Peter nearly collapsed again. Wade was solid and warm and scooped him up like he weighed nothing at all.

Peter tried to remind himself that it wasn’t the time to be swooning over how easy Wade was able to manhandle him. He could focus on that later.

“I think I’m bleeding a lot, ‘Pool,” Peter whispered. Wade did well not to jostle the blade as he walked, but each footstep tugged mercilessly at the wound. He whimpered.

“You sure are, buddy.” 

“I think you’re condescending me,” Peter said.

“I think you need to save your energy, Spidey-Poo.”

Peter would have complained, fought himself to his feet, but even though the leather of his suit Wade emitted such immense heat, and Peter was feeling cold.

The fairy lights surprised Peter the most. He hadn’t known what to expect of Wade’s apartment, but he’d always envisioned the place to be littered with take-out boxes and dust bunnies. There was no dust, no trash scattered about. It was almost mundane, with a thrift store couch that had been broken in and a single barstool at the kitchen counter. It spoke a lot about the life Wade kept to himself. The parts he hadn’t shared with Peter or even Spider-Man.

Peter imagined Wade sitting at the counter, eating a box of Kraft mac and cheese. He didn’t need a second stool, or even a table. Wade was content to eat at the counter, or on the couch, and Peter wanted so desperately to get Wade a table that he ached.

Peter was propped up on the couch with pillows tucked against his sides as if he might topple over, and he really might. Wade kneeled down before him, like a knight or a prince or something else absolutely Victorian. The room reeked of weed. The first thing Wade had done when they got in was light up a joint and force him to take it. Peter rolled his mask up to the bridge of his nose, wondering if Wade would recognize his lips. Peter had smoked a few times before, so he accepted the joint and held in lungfuls of smoke until the acidic pain became something separate from himself altogether.

“I’m going to take off your pants,” Wade said, and he said it with such a serious tone of voice that Peter knew his leg must be bad. He wanted Wade to wiggle his eyebrows through his mask, or giggle, or literally do any of the outlandish things Peter craved. Serious Wade- serious Deadpool, was something entirely ominous.

Wade found the seam where the uniform pants hid, and he hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic waistline. Peter kept his eyes on the fairy lights, strung up across the walls. They were gold and dim, like shards of glass catching sunlight. Peter focused on the freckles of sunshine, trying not to think about his pants being dragged down, over his hips, across his flaccid cock-

Peter threw his head back and screamed. 

“Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry.” Wade held a rag firmly against the wound to staunch the reinvigorated bleeding. The pressure had Peter’s eyes near rolling back into his head. Wade’s other hand held up the shiv that looked like it had been made in a holding cell. 

“Oh God.” Peter moaned. “I’m gonna get Hepatitis. Oh shit, when was my last tetanus shot?” He continued to murmur, mostly to himself, while Wade set the shiv aside and went back to addressing the hole in Peter’s thigh. 

“This is probably gonna hurt a whole lot.”

“Oh, good.”

Peter moaned deep and guttural at the drag of an alcohol soaked rag. His vision kept dancing, the fairy lights becoming a thousand shooting stars streaking across the peripheral of his perception. His pants were at his ankles, and Wade was crouched between his legs, the cartoonish eyes of his mask almost comical just inches from Peter’s tight briefs, rapidly becoming tighter. 

The memories of Wade coming all over him, fingering his semen inside him, licking and sucking out his insides, all rushed at Peter like crashing waves. Even the pain of Wade working meticulously on the seam of his laceration couldn’t force down his budding erection. He just hoped Wade didn’t notice. 

Peter fished his hand blindly to the side table, fetching the joint and lighter to take another deep drag, somehow easing the pain while enhancing the electric touch of Wade’s gloved fingertips. 

“Are you still with me, Spidey?” Wade asked.

Peter hummed, eyelids adrift at sea. A buzz like a loud bee or a soft radiator hovered against his ears. He barely felt it when the needle went through his skin, and again, merely a tickle. Peter almost swatted at the irritant, but was able to remember that Wade was stitching him up because he had been stabbed, and it wasn’t the time to be hard, but he was. 

Heat warmed Peter’s cheeks, a combination of arousal and shame. Maybe he was imagining Wade rubbing small circles into the soft fat of his inner thigh with a thumb, because Wade might do that to Peter, but he wouldn’t do it to Spider-Man. Peter might want that from Wade, but he wasn’t supposed to from Deadpool. 

God, he was so hard, and he was high, and he had definitely lost a lot of blood. 

When Wade tugged another knot into his stitches, Peter moaned again, but the pain had transfigured into pleasure, and there was no way Wade didn’t notice Peter’s dick standing at attention. 

“‘Pool…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Wade said. “Bodies are weird.”

Peter could cry, but he couldn’t decide why he wanted to. Was it the pain, or the desire, or the feeling of being dismissed? His eyes burned through the final stitch being placed. 

Wade observed his handiwork, tracing a digit across the pink and puckered skin. The bleeding had stopped, but Peter’s thigh was still caked in dried blood. Wade used a new rag to dab away the burnt sienna smears, and Peter thrashed and bucked against the strokes. 

“You need to hold still. You’re going to hurt yourself,” Wade mumbled, but his voice was deep and ragged, and his caresses continued beyond just cleaning Peter’s skin, running up the crevice of his thigh, tickling the fine blonde hairs that stood up on end. 

“I can’t.” Peter gasped. His depth perception was off, because he couldn’t tell if Wade was a reasonable distance away or if he was leaning in close to the bulge of his crotch, blank mask eyes wide and absolutely unreadable. 

He must have been close. Peter could feel the puffs of breath along his skin, like fluttering moth wings. 

Peter tried to stand, but Wade’s firm grip on his thighs forced him back down, pinned him in place.

“Ahhh. Wade!” Peter gasped at the manhandling.

Wade froze. 

Peter blinked a few times, his eyelids heavy, before an icy jolt raced up his spine. 

“Shit,” Peter said.

Wade stood up, taking a step back, dead silent. It was eerie, and Peter had lost too much blood to try to wriggle out of the shit-show that was brewing right in front of him. 

Peter ripped his mask the rest of the way off, revealing clammy and pale skin. He wondered if he looked as shitty as he felt, but it was hard to be self conscious when he already had his pants around his ankles.

“I know it’s you, Wade,” Peter whispered. “I know you’re like six seconds away from a total freak out, but I need you to hear me out.”

Wade slowly peeled up his own mask, and Peter almost wished he had kept it on. The merc’s expression was cold and calculated, and how Peter never wanted Wade to look at him. 

“You knew it was me the whole time,” Wade said. His voice was wound tightly. “You knew and you didn’t say anything.”

Peter stood up and shuffled his pants back up, cautious of the stitches. They still stung at the contact with the fabric of the suit. Somehow he was still aroused, despite the crackling tension in the room, which probably didn’t make him seem sincere at all.

“Well, you don’t exactly seem surprised that I’m Spider-Man,” Peter said, tentatively, watching for a reaction. It was barely there, but Wade winced, and he saw it. “Because you knew.” 

Peter shoved his face into his hands, groaning and rubbing at his eyes, willing himself to sober up and fast because he should not be having that conversation while high. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Peter asked. 

“Me?” Wade did not outright gape, but he may as well have. “You’ve been using me as a stripper pole this whole time! You didn’t think to mention this?”

It was true that Peter had not made the most reasonable decisions when it came to Wade, but that had been an issue ever since they first met. He ate probably twice as much takeout, and stayed out even later than before, and overlooked some questionable use of violence, because it was Wade, and he was weak for him. 

“What about you?” Peter asked. “You let me suck your dick.”

“Yeah, well, to be fair I would also let Spider-Man suck my dick.” 

Peter took a step toward Wade. The space between them was suffocating and he needed to be closer, to be eye to eye with Wade so they could just fucking level with each other. 

Peter’s leg buckled under the step. Wade was fast, lunging forward to hook a hand around Peter’s elbow to stabilize him. Wade had to lean down to reach, and it brought their faces close. Close enough for Peter to see hurt and anger in Wade’s eyes, and to wonder what the other man could see in his.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He was throwing darts at a dartboard of emotions, no consistency, just chaotic surges of anger, guilt, stubbornness, and always love. He wanted to search for love in Wade’s eyes, but their labyrinthian irises held their secrets close, as Wade tended to.

“Why wouldn’t you have sex with me, then?” Peter asked. “I practically gave myself to you on a silver platter.”

“I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“You had your tongue in my asshole.”

“Yeah,” Wade said. “Like a gentleman.” 

Wade held Peter up easily, but he refused to let himself feel like a swooning Austenian. 

“Peter,” Wade started. Peter wished he had used a nickname, because he didn’t like how serious Wade sounded. “I knew it was you already when we met in the bar.” His grip tightened. “I knew and I was terrified that if you knew it was me, whatever you saw in this-,” he gestured to his face, “would disappear. You can’t be ugly and a terrible person and still get the hero.”

Peter shoved Wade back, managing not to stumble from his aching leg. 

“Stop it with the self-deprecating shit. I really don’t know how else to get it through to you that I am attracted to-“ Peter made a dramatic gesture to Wade, in imitation of his own. “Literally all of this. I’ve spelled it out for you.  Do you need a runway with neon arrows pointing between my legs”

“You lied to me.”

“By omission,” Peter said, holding a finger up. “Which you have also been doing.”

“I see your point,” Wade said. “So does White. Yellow kinda wants me to storm off and drown myself in a sewer. I’m trying to decide what the middle ground is.”

Peter lifted a gloved hand to trace the marbling skin of Wade’s cheek. He had touched him before, but even so it had been as if Wade was still wearing a mask. The man was finally, utterly bared. He was beautiful like a lightning strike.

Wade reached up and held Peter’s hand, drawing it away. 

When Peter was twelve, his appendix nearly ruptured. He could still recall the sensation, lying on a gurney styled cot to be sent through the CAT scan, the nurse injecting dye into his IV. You’ll feel like you need to pee, she’d said, before a wave that was somehow hot and cold at once rushed through his body. Peter felt that same sensation at the sadness in Wade’s expression. 

“I need some time,” Wade said, his invisible mask slipping over his expression once more. “You need some time, too. Let’s just… take a few days. Cool off.” 

Wade gestured down to Peter’s leg. 

“It’s fine,” Peter said. It wasn’t fine. Not his aching leg, or the strumming in his chest. But it would have to be. Peter had been pushing Wade, beckoning him into intimacy, and he needed to be reasonable and just take a second to think . “It’s gonna be fine.”

Chapter Text

Michelle had one AirPod jutting out of her ear. She was such a cool kid, in a way that Peter had never been. So effortless, lounging in MJ’s hot pink hammock chair. 

“Can we like, talk about this in private,” Peter whispered. Not that it mattered, as the bedroom was incredibly cramped, and MJ sat in Michelle’s lap anyway. “I feel like it’s difficult to... ya know,” Peter waved his arms in a nonsensical gesture. 

“Just pretend I’m not here,” Michelle said, stroking her fingers through MJ’s silk red hair and lighting a spliff. 

“Oh, Pete,” MJ said. “Michelle doesn’t care about the explicit details. Can we go back to the part where you sucked this guy off behind a dumpster because I feel like that’s kind of crazy and like, I’m honestly shocked you had the balls to do that.”

Michelle raised a hand into cup shape. “Big balls,” she said, nodding.

Peter hadn’t planned on dumping his problems on his best friend, but he had a habit of gravitating toward her apartment while lost in thought. It was difficult to explain the intricacies of his predicament in a way that was sans Spider-Man and mercenaries, but MJ never asked him to fill in any blanks, and for that much he was grateful. Despite not really knowing Michelle much either, and being stupidly intimidated by her, even her presence couldn’t stop him from throwing himself onto MJ’s bed in near tears and raving in a way that was pitiful and desperate. 

“Yes, I sucked his dick behind a dumpster. Can we move on to the part where we just suck at communicating and now we’re in relationship limbo?”

“Limbo. Got it.” MJ took a puff off the spliff then passed it across the room to Peter. “Peter, you totally suck at talking about your feelings.”

“Wow.”

“Hey, it’s true.”

“I’m talking about my feelings right now.” Peter definitely did not pout. “I feel like garbage, like the whole world is ending. I feel like something someone would scrape off of the bottom of their shoe.”

“Talking to me doesn’t count,” MJ said. “You need to talk to Wade. Tell him how you feel.”

“I feel like he’s the one who would scrape me off his shoe.”

“Oh my God,” Michelle groaned. “This is kinda sad to witness.”

Peter flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The fan, drifting on low, was starting to accumulate dust along its edges. A single marr in the otherwise immaculate bedroom that felt straight out of a nineties teen movie. MJ had always been organized and pristine and feminine. She kept her movies and her books sorted into categories and then had those categories sorted alphabetically by author.

Michelle was so different it was almost comical. Every time Peter had seen her since that first night they met she wore oversized sweatpants, and paint-stained t-shirts. Her huge pockets were always packed with gum and sticky notes and way more keys than any one person should need. Even the static of the furry chair she sat in sent her spiraling hair up every direction. If he looked closely, he could see the absolute silken wefts of MJ’s hair begin to lift, drawn into the charged chaos of Michelle’s.

The apartment was dark when Peter climbed through the window. He hadn’t anticipated being gone all day, but after being ribbed by MJ squared he needed to blow off some steam in the streets. Home was weird for Peter, since the last time he and Wade spoke. All of the surfaces held projections of intimacy. He couldn’t even sit on the couch to drown his cacophonous thoughts in television, as the give of the fabric and the garish orange shade sent him tumbling into the memory of Wade. 

Like ripping off a band-aid, Peter had tried to just let the feelings do their thing. He draped himself over the couch, and fingered himself open. The pull and stretch was sickeningly satisfying, but it wasn’t Wade. He pictured the merc, tried to hone in the phantom heft of his fingers, but Peter’s were thin and long and soft and were just not the same. 

It’d been a week since Wade had asked for time, and while a week was nothing compared to some of the stretches they had been apart, every hour dragged by with agonizing viscosity. 

Peter didn’t flip the lights on. He didn’t want to see the bed, and get swept away in the thought of it. He was too tired and emotional to even masturbate, which was probably a first for him since hitting puberty. The mask came off, and then his shirt. He left the costume parts littering the floor as he stumbled toward bed. He was down to his plain black briefs before he noticed the looming shadow sitting at the edge of his mattress. 

“I’m surprised how easy it is to sneak up on you,” Wade said. He wore a short sleeved t-shirt, too small in the best way. Peter’s starved eyes devoured as much of the sight as he could in the dark. Wade’s exposed arms and the obscene stretch of fabric across his biceps. Peter’s mouth went absolutely arid at the sight. He wanted to touch every crevice of scar tissue, to slip his fingers into every vestibule of Wade’s body.

“You know my spidey senses don’t go off around you,” Peter said.

“Hmn. I wonder why that is.” Wade cocked his head, openly scanning up and down Peter’s near naked body. 

“Wade, I-”

Wade cut Peter off by raising a hand.

“Take them off, Pete,” Wade said. 

A jolt rushed through Peter at the sudden depth of Wade’s voice. He was supposed to just say it. MJ would certainly kill him if he didn’t just fucking say it. 

Wade raised a would-have-been eyebrow. Peter had never ripped his underwear off so fast in his life.

“Good boy,” Wade said. 

Peter let out the softest whimper, his eyes drifting closed at the rush of ecstasy. He was erect already, probably had been but hadn’t noticed. He stood open and exposed for Wade to observe. 

“Look at you,” Wade whispered. “You could never see yourself the way I see you.”

Wade patted his lap. Peter hurried to obey, letting Wade’s textured hands guide him across his massive thighs. Peter whimpered again. The heat radiating off of the merc’s rock solid muscle seeped into the pit of Peter’s stomach, while his back and ass prickled at the cool contrast of the room. Wade ran a hand, hot and firm down the slope of Peter’s back, across a globe of his ass cheek. Wade cupped the flesh and fat there and squeezed, drawing another strangled noise out of Peter.

“You’ve been such a tease,” Wade said. “So exposed and open, beckoning me in.”

“You could have had me at any time,” Peter huffed.

Wade slapped his ass, hard and sudden. Peter jolted forward and gasped. His spider senses revved deep inside him as Wade slapped the other cheek. The sound was loud, and the pain was radiating and hot, and each strike drove Peter’s hard cock against the denim of Wade’s jeans. Wade massaged the rapidly swelling marks his palms left behind. 

“Ah ah… mng,” Peter didn’t even know what he was trying to say. His spider sense transformed into a purr, spiking just enough for adrenaline to wash over Peter just before each subsequent strike. 

“You knew how much I wanted you,” Wade said. 

“I did.” Peter gasped. 

Wade struck him again. 

“You got off on how much I wanted you.”

“Fuck. Yes, Wade. I did.”

Peter’s ass was red and tender, and his dick had leaked a wet patch against Wade’s leg. He never heard that tell-tale snap of the lube bottle being opened, but Wade had to have had some somewhere, as he used one hand to spread Peter’s cheeks apart and stroked slicked up fingers against his hole with the other. One slippery digit popped in with no resistance.

“Have you been touching yourself, Petey pie?” Wade asked. He burrowed in deeper, hissing at the hot clench. “You’re so hungry for me. Look at you, gobbling me up.”

“Yes,” Peter confessed. The scrape of scarred fingers inside him finally eased that desperate and empty ache. “I’ve been touching myself, but it’s not enough. No matter how much I tell myself it’s you, it’s not the same. I need you inside me.” 

Wade growled, sinking a second and third finger in with ease. 

“Please, Wade!” Peter thrashed and bucked at the preparation. His cock ached, and his face burned red at the sweet humiliation of his position. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Peter almost cried when Wade’s fingers pressed suddenly into his prostate. Peter had to bring his hand up to his mouth, biting down on the skin to keep from screaming as Wade repeatedly stabbed at it. 

“I feel like I’ve got you in the palm of my hand,” Wade said. He squeezed one of Peter’s cheeks again, to emphasize his point. “I could tell you to suck my cock, and I bet you’d do it.”

“I would.”

“I could make you crawl around on all fours, begging me for my cock. I could tell you to meow, and you would.”

“Anything,” Peter moaned. “I’ll do anything for it.”

Wade smiled, somewhat sinister but mostly giddy. Peter’s only saving grace was feeling Wade’s hard cock jutting into his ribcage and knowing the merc was just as affected as he was. 

“I want you to call me Daddy,” Wade murmured. From his position draped across Wade’s lap, Peter couldn’t get a good look at Wade’s eyes, but he could feel them watching, waiting to see what he would do. 

Peter slid off of Wade’s lap, already feeling so empty from losing those incredible fingers. Wade watched with curiosity as Peter settled on his knees on the floor, between the merc’s spread legs. His breath hitched when Peter leaned a cheek against his inner thigh, gazing up at him with glossy, puffy eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered. “I’ve been bad. I hope you’ll forgive me. Please, Daddy.”

“Fuck, baby boy.” Wade cupped Peter’s jaw, swiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “How could I not?”

Wade stood up, just long enough to strip out of his clothes. Peter marveled at the sight. Finally he could see all of Wade, and despite the dark, the view was magnificent. His form was that of a painting, with sweeping strokes and a multitude of shades and values. Still, despite the exquisite disarray of flesh, he could still make out the sculpted structure of muscle. He always knew Wade was built, but seeing it all at once had Peter reduced to a puddle. Wade could probably physically throw him across the room, and Peter would thank him for it, and probably come then and there.

Wade sat back down, pulling Peter up. Peter climbed onto his lap again, this time upright and face to face. A groan escaped him at the stretch of his muscles straining to straddle the huge merc. 

“Oh, God. You’re so big,” Peter whispered. He clutched onto Wade’s shoulders, which were also massive. Peter had always been lean, but in that moment he felt outright small. Wade slipped a hand between them to graze over Peter’s cock and then brush against the scab of his laceration. 

“Does it hurt?” Wade asked. 

Peter shook his head. 

“I have an advanced refractory period.”

“I’ll have to save that tidbit of information for a later date,” Wade mumbled. He took Peter’s face in both of his hands, and pulled him into a kiss. 

It was wet and warm and scratchy and it was everything Peter wanted. Wade clutched Peter close, suckling his lip and sweeping his tongue along his teeth. Peter groaned and welcomed him in, dizzy with pleasure as Wade threaded fingers into his hair and tugged back, drawing Peter’s head up to expose his neck. Wade’s kisses traveled down, until he could lavish a perfect mole on the stretch of Peter’s jugular. 

“I could taste you everyday and it would always be new and incredible,” Wade whispered. The hand that wasn’t in Peter’s hair went to his cock, to guide it to Peter’s hole.

Wade’s whole body quaked when Peter sunk down onto him.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, Petey pie.”

Peter’s eyebrows were contorted together as he took Wade’s cock in. It was thick, and the drag of scars along his rim made him see stars. Peter wrapped his arms around Wade’s neck to stabilize himself, to keep Wade close, while he shifted and rocked to adjust. 

“I knew it,” Peter whimpered. “I knew you’d be the biggest I’ve ever taken.”

Wade groaned, slipping his arms to hook beneath Peter’s armpits and wrap up to his shoulders. With frightening ease, he hoisted Peter up before dropping him back down on his cock. The sudden drop finally bottomed him out.

“Oh, God.” Peter threw his head back and wailed. His prostate was being held down like a buzzer, and the sting of his raw ass cheeks colliding with Wade’s thighs was so good. “Wade!”

“Peter,” Wade whispered, repeating the motion, slower, deeper, grinding their bones together so that they may erode together. “You’re so good. You’re perfect. I wanna live inside you.”

“You already do,” Peter said. He drew Wade in for another kiss before bracing his hands on Wade’s collarbones and shoving him down, flat on his back.

“Pete?” Wade asked, looking up the man straddling his cock. 

“I’m gonna ride you now,” Peter said. “But you can’t come unless I say so.”

“Oh, shit.” Wade’s eyes nearly rolled into his head at the perfect view of Peter lifting himself up and dropping down again, a few times slowly to get the angle, and then sudden and sharp and incredible. “Fuck. Fuck. Petey. Oh my fucking God.”

Peter’s dick bobbled as he bounced up and down, the occasional scrape of Wade’s stomach against it and the ongoing abuse of his prostate was transcendental. It was dark and his eyes watered but the image of Wade beneath him was crystal clear, down to beads of sweat glinting against the light coming from the street. Peter wanted to lick each one up, to worship the skin Wade had kept from him for so long, but the pleasure was too intense, and he wasn’t willing to give up the incredible angle. 

Wade’s hands clutched Peter’s thighs, nails digging small crescents into the milky flesh. Wade had died many times, and he was starting to think he was going to die again. Peter on top of him, using him to fuck himself, was going to kill him.

“Can I come?” he whimpered.

“Not yet.” Peter’s breath was shallow and sharp, and his gut tumultuous with his oncoming orgasm. “Wait for me, Daddy.” 

“You’re the devil,” Wade gasped. “I’m fucking the devil.” 

Peter laughed. Wade was lost in the beauty of it. His curls drifting about his flushed cheeks, and expression aglow with joy and pleasure. “I’m in love with the devil. I mean… Fuck, I love you, Pete. I fucking love you.”

Peter gasped, and he came all over Wade’s chest, neck, and chin. His motions began to stutter, so Wade grabbed his hips and flipped them over, caging in Peter’s shivering body against the sheets and fucking him through his sensitivity. Peter flailed and screeched at the over-stimulation, and his dick sputtered out a few more droplets of semen. 

“Please, can I come?” Wade pressed his forehead to Peter’s and clenched his eyes shut.

“You have to come inside me,” Peter said through sharp breaths. “I can’t stop thinking about your cum inside me.”

Wade shuddered through his orgasm, holding onto Peter as if he was the only thing keeping him from hurdling away into space. Maybe they were holding each other in place. 

When Wade came back to his senses, he lifted up onto his hands, and gazed down at Peter illuminated by the light from the window. Peter was disheveled and flushed and his chest swooped in and out with heavy breaths, and he was the most beautiful thing Wade had ever seen.

“Did you mean it?” Peter asked. He was still whispering, afraid of the fragility of the moment. 

“Yeah,” Wade said, swallowing down a swamp of fear that threatened to overtake him. “I love you, Peter.”

Peter reached up to caress Wade’s cheek. Wade nuzzled into the touch. 

“I love you, too,” Peter said. “I should have told you a long time ago, but I didn’t know how. I had to translate all these new and intense emotions into a language I understood. But I get it now. I love you, ‘Pool.”

Wade laughed, and when he did, Peter did, and when Wade pulled out of him at the intense pressure of Peter’s muscles clenching on his sensitive cock, they both laughed harder.