Archive of Our Own

Peter has certain tests he puts people through before coming out as trans. Not always — he doesn’t find it necessary for every person, in every situation. And he definitely doesn’t find it necessary to come out to everyone he ever meets.

Largely, he tends to tell people in moments where it feels organic, or when he wants someone to know him a little better, or to relate to another queer person. He might be a little more flippant about it than others, but that’s because he’s Spider-Man. If someone in a bar or on the street decides they have a problem with him, then they’ll be in for a very rude awakening when they get their ass handed to them effortlessly.

Anyway, the tests come into play when he feels a little more hesitant about coming out to someone. They started back when he was 14, with Aunt May being the main recipient. Looking back, his extreme caution seems a little redundant — Aunt May is one of the most tolerant and accepting people he knows, and she was always the first to step up for any gender nonconforming patients being mistreated in the hospital — but his hesitance came naturally. You never know if things will be different when it’s you rather than a random stranger, and anyway, Peter was still in the midst of figuring everything out for himself.

Those tests were more about clothes and haircuts, then TV characters and “friends” from school, then politics that affected queer people. In the end, Peter’s little tests were probably more obvious than not, but they led to him feeling completely comfortable by the time he finally did come out to Aunt May, and she was nothing but supportive.

Back then, he was still coming out all the time. It was necessary because it wasn’t obvious, because he had to correct people often, but his tests developed with him. He learned when and when not to correct a stranger’s assumptions, learned which situations made him feel comfortable and which made him feel unsafe. He couldn’t take as much time for those tests — not like with Aunt May — and would usually have to decide in a split second or two whether it was worth it to come out. Rather than carefully structured questions and pointed observations, he learned to rely on vibes. The downturn of someone’s mouth, a slightly too analytical stare, an expectant gaze after misgendering him.

Peter’s lucky enough that these days, coming out is mostly optional for him. So, the tests only come up in environments where he’s inherently more cautious, like at work or on dating apps.

And then there’s the person he’s the most cautious with: Deadpool.

It’s a little bit ridiculous, actually. Peter’s wanted to tell him for going on a year now. It’s just that Wade makes him nervous.

It’s not that he’s afraid he’ll react badly — Peter’s 99.9% positive that coming out won’t change the way Wade views him whatsoever. He’s passed every test Peter has ever thrown his way — most with flying colors.

Rather, it’s the idea of revealing anything personal or identifiable that makes him nervous. Which is also stupid, Peter knows.

They’ve been friends for years. Admittedly, their friendship had a pretty rocky start — what with Wade murdering people, Peter saving people, and the two of them fighting on multiple occasions — but they somehow got past all that and became friends anyway. Mostly because Wade is persistent. And a little bit addictive. And behind the opposing morals, they’re scarily similar.

And, okay, Peter’s also a little bit in love with the guy, but that’s neither here nor there. Because he’s too protective of his identity to do anything about it, and even if he wasn’t, he has a strict rule about coming out to the people he’s interested in. If that’s a showstopper for them, he’d much rather find out before he gets his hopes up.

So. There you have it, all laid bare. They’ve reached a point in their friendship where Peter wants Wade to know about something that’s this important to him — but he can’t risk his identity like that. And since he’ll never give up his identity, it’s never going to happen. Stalemate.

Although, Peter never accounted for accidentally giving up his identity, which he really should have. It starts like this:

The rain is really starting to come down outside, which is upsetting. Peter hates patrolling in the rain, but unfortunately, the bad weather never does much to prevent crime. More often than not, the crimes are already underway when the rain begins, and it’s not like criminals ever decide to take a raincheck. (Heh. Literally.)

It’s not just being wet and cold that Peter doesn’t like — it affects other parts of his patrol too. Visuals, for one thing. The lenses on his mask are water resistant, and while the rain tends to bead up and slide off his face pretty easily, it’s still an overall impairment of his vision. At the same time, he has to change up the way he swings. His webs work a little differently in the rain, which means he needs to use more webbing than usual to ensure they stick to the buildings, which makes the webs thicker and heavier, which changes just enough that he has to alter the way he swings. It isn’t necessarily any extra effort, but it’s different enough that it requires additional brain power, which is annoying.

Plus, most depressingly, it takes any chance of hanging out with Wade entirely off the table. Wade’s always down for a good time. That’s why they meet up before patrols more often than not and even end the night playing video games or watching movies at Wade’s place on occasion, but sitting on a roof in a downpour is decidedly not fun by either of their standards, so Wade definitely won’t be around tonight.

Peter tries to ignore his bad mood, which is premature and honestly more than a little bit embarrassing. He’s gotten spoiled recently, ever since Wade started joining him for pre-patrol hangouts more regularly. The Peter from a year ago wouldn’t even be fazed at the prospect of not seeing Wade one night, and now he practically has withdrawals.

Still, he suits up like usual and pushes past his looming disappointment. With the rain so heavy outside, he skips his usual check, double-check, and triple-check of his surroundings, knowing that no one will be able to make him out from the windows across the street.

He slips out onto the fire escape, slides the window shut behind him, and straightens up to the sound of a clang.

“Are you kidding me?”

Peter jerks backward as his head snaps up. Laying prone across the fire escape above him is Wade. He’s fully suited up, and by the looks of how drenched he is, he’s been laying there for a while. He has a sniper rifle propped up before him and aimed across the street, plus a duffle bag (presumably full of more weapons) just to the side of him.

“I— uh— you’re— what?” Peter isn’t even sure what thought he’s trying to convey. His head is spinning. Deadpool is looking down at him through the grates.

“Webs. Please, for the love of God, tell me that’s not your apartment.”

Peter swallows. It doesn’t really work the first time, his spit getting stuck in his throat and threatening to send him into a coughing fit, so he does it again. “Whaaat? Ha-ha. Oh man, no — definitely not, of course not. That’s — hah! I can totally see why you’d think that! But yeah. No.”

Wade drops his head forward until it smacks into the grate with a rattling thud. And then he does it again, plus a third time for good measure. He groans.

“What?” Peter says. “I’m not lying! I’m — I’m, uh, well, I’m investigating this guy, actually. Yeah.”

“Uh-huh,” says Wade. His voice is low. Vaguely disappointed.

“Yeah, reeeal suspicious character. Super shady guy. Um, not that you’d want to kill him, or anything. He’s not that bad.”

“Right,” says Wade. “So, you’re investigating this not-so-bad-bad-guy, and you’re coming out of his apartment at—" he tilts his head to the side, just enough to check his watch “—almost exactly the time you usually start your patrol.”

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek. “Yep,” he decides on.

“And — just to be clear — I definitely shouldn’t unalive this guy instead of the douchebag across the street.”

“Definitely not,” Peter agrees. “No one would like that.”

Wade bangs his head against the fire escape again. “Okay. This one’s just to gauge if you’re smarter than a fifth grader: how much of that do you actually think I believe?”

Peter scratches his neck. Somehow, the panic hasn’t set in yet. “The part where you shouldn’t kill him?”

For a second, Wade is silent — and then he snorts. The sound devolves into laughter, and for some reason Peter’s laughing too.

“God dammit,” Wade wheezes. “Do you always start your patrols like this? Anyone could see you!”

“It’s pouring!” Peter protests. “I mean, usually I’m more careful—”

“There’s a murderer literally right across this street,” Wade continues. “If you’d ever been just a little bit less lucky, he could’ve killed you.”

“Oh yeah, I’m lucky,” Peter scoffs. “Somehow, of all places, you’re staking out on my fire escape.”

“No, no, no, that is lucky,” Wade says. He pushes himself onto his elbows and Peter finally has mercy on his craning neck, pulling himself onto the next level of the fire escape to crouch beside him. “I could’ve been one of your fancy villains, and then you’d really be up shit creek, getting paddled.”

“You mean without a paddle?”

“Nah, getting paddled. ’S hotter.”

“Sure, ‘Pool.”

“And I won’t even stalk the shit outta you. Scout’s honor.”

“Really,” Peter says, his voice flat.

Wade goes back to examining the apartment across the street through his scope. He won’t actually kill the guy in front of Peter — not anymore.

“‘Course not. It’d ruin the game.”

Peter blinks. Frowns. His mind spins for a minute, searching and searching and coming up blank. Finally, he gives up. “What game?”

Another snort. “The ‘I-care-about-my-identity-so-much’ game.”

“That’s not a game,” Peter protests. “That’s real.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why aren’t you freaking out right now? I know where you live. It would take me ten minutes tops to find out everything else about you.”

“Yeah, but… you won’t.”

“I know. But two years ago, you would’ve been having a panic attack right now,” Wade says, and even though Peter opens his mouth to argue, no words are forthcoming. Because Wade’s right.

He used to be terrified at the idea of Wade finding out. Not just nervous, or afraid of changing the status quo, or relieved that since it’ll never happen, he’ll never come out, and therefore he’ll never have to confess his feelings.

Holy shit, is that what this is?

“Okay, maybe it’s more the principle of it all these days, but it’s still not a game.”

“Sure it is. The rules are simple. You tell me more and more about yourself until the only thing left to know is your identity.”

“And that’s how you win?” Peter says, suddenly nauseous. “When I tell you?”

“What? No,” Wade says. “I’m already winning. The whole point is that I get to learn more about my favorite person, and you for some reason decide to trust me enough to tell me those things.”

“So… you’re not going to stalk me because it’d be breaching my trust?”

“Bingo,” Wade says. “Ruins the game. You wouldn’t want to tell me things anymore.”

Peter hadn’t really noticed it. Then again, he wasn’t thinking about it like a game. To him, it was just the natural development of their friendship.

In the beginning, he never would’ve gone over to Wade’s apartment. He also used to swing winding routes home, just in case Wade got the bright idea to follow him. He used to spend every conversation on the tip of his toes, careful to word things in a way that wouldn’t be revealing to someone as observant as Wade. These days, he’ll talk about almost anything, his only defense being omitting proper nouns.

“All right,” Peter finally says. “Definitely don’t go poking around in my apartment then. Lots of spoilers in there.”

“You tempt me, baby boy.”

“And don’t kill that guy from my fire escape. I don’t want the cops poking around when they calculate the trajectory.”

Wade grumbles in complaint, but he gets up and starts climbing down the fire escape. When Peter sets off to patrol, he’s in a much better mood than he ever would’ve expected, even with the rain and accidental apartment reveal.

A month later, it happens again. Not the same thing, obviously, but something equally idiotic.

They’re in a scuffle with a criminal. Okay, it’s more than a scuffle, but whatever. There’s no telling whether this guy is some sort of mutant or maybe a mad scientist, but as far as Peter can tell, he has invisible floating hands. Peter can’t begin to count them all, but he’s already webbed down six of them to the walls of the alleyway, and yet more keep coming.

“Over here!” Peter calls, when several of them converge and begin to wrestle him. “I’ve really — got my — hands full!”

“Oh, booo!” Wade says, though he sidesteps the invisible-hands-guy and swings a katana in an arc, cutting at least three of them off Peter. “That pun deserves jail time. Maybe worse. Heh, I should leave you in Mr. Invisible’s more than capable hands.”

“That one was even worse, I gotta hand it to ya.”

“Really? How so? I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Peter laughs, even as he says, “I give that a solid thumbs down.”

“Psh, that was a ten-outta-ten. Wait, no, let me figure out how to work in ‘back-handed.’”

“No time — this is getting out of hand!”

Wade’s laugh is more of a bark. Peter is webbing the invisible hands like crazy, prying them off his arms and neck whenever they try to cling on. Meanwhile, Wade’s slicing through the air so chaotically that his progress is only evident because of the invisible obstacles Peter keeps trodding on.

Honestly, Peter doesn’t know why neither of them try to apprehend the man controlling the hands. Maybe because it seems pointless to web up a dude who doesn’t need any of his limbs to fight, but it at least would’ve made sense to knock him out.

Instead, they engage in a seemingly never-ending battle against his hands, and that’s when one of them grabs the back of Peter’s mask and yanks.

And then Peter’s just standing there. Gaping and maskless. Staring at Wade.

Without a word, and without looking away from Peter, Wade raises his arm and shoots Mr. Invisible in the head.

“Deadpool!”

“Dead men tell no lies,” Wade says. “Or, in this case, sell out your frankly adorable face.”

And despite the fact that there’s a dead man in the alley — one who just yanked off Peter’s mask and revealed yet another layer of his identity — Peter blushes.

“Dammit,” Peter mutters. He finds his mask a few feet away on the ground, the hand that stole it apparently having evaporated. “All the times I’ve nearly been unmasked, and this is the idiot who manages it.”

Wade catches his wrists before he can pull his mask back on.

“What?” Peter says.

“Just — give me a minute,” Wade says. “I wanna get a good look at you, since I’ll probably never see it again.”

Now Peter’s really blushing. He can feel the heat climbing up his neck, can feel it burning in his ears. For some reason, he can’t seem to look Wade in the eye. It never felt so intimate before, with both of them hiding behind their masks, but now…

Wade brushes his hair back from his forehead. Peter knows from experience that it’s sweaty and messy and horrible looking.

“Okay,” Wade says, and he releases Peter’s wrist. Peter clears his throat, feeling weirdly self-conscious as he pulls his mask back over his head.

“Cool,” Peter says awkwardly. “All good?” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. Probably whether they should continue the patrol.

But, “Oh, yeah,” Wade says. “Memorized it like the back of my hand.”

“God, no more puns.”

“You’re right, hands are overrated anyway. Now I’m all about eyes. Big, pretty, brown eyes—"

“‘Pool.”

“And fluffy brown hair, I love fluffy brown hair—"

“Deadpool.”

“Ugh, and freckles. Such a fan of freckles!”

Peter webs away, his insides melting in embarrassment, but he knows by the sound of Wade’s cackling that he’s following right behind him.

After that, well — it really can’t be helped.

Peter’s never run into Wade in public before. It’s a big city, and anyway, he’s pretty sure he would know if Wade liked to hang around any of his usual haunts.

Still, he used to imagine what it might be like. Whether Wade would even notice him, or whether they’d just walk past one another in the street, Peter sweating balls and Wade totally oblivious. Or maybe they’d be forced to interact, for whatever reason, and then Peter’s imagination splits.

There were scenarios where Wade was none the wiser, either blandly responsive to whatever imaginary conversation they were having, or (in Peter’s more indulgent fantasies) obviously interested. Then there were the scenarios where Wade was suspicious, except without actually being sure of what he was suspicious of, just that he seemed somewhere between confused and weirdly observant. Those bled into fantasies of Peter thinking that he got off the hook, that he managed to make it through a whole conversation without blowing it, only for Wade to pull the rug out from under him the next time they met. Finally, there were the fantasies where he realized right away. Took one look at Peter, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Fancy meeting you here, baby boy.”

None of those fantasies work anymore, obviously. Wade knows what he looks like now. And maybe Peter shouldn’t have given him the chance to memorize his face — maybe then, it’d be less immediately apparent if they bumped into each other in public — but it’s too late for that now.

Way, way too late.

At first, Peter didn’t think much of anything when he glanced up from the table he’d set up at, the door to the coffee shop having chimed when it opened. In came a huge, tantalizingly built dude. His muscles were obvious even through the sweats, and Peter couldn’t help but stare.

Which, unfortunately, was his downfall.

Because Wade doubtlessly felt the eyes prying into him. In fact, he’s probably more aware than most — not just because he’s a mercenary and trained to be that observant, but because he’s self-conscious about his skin and likely on even higher alert because of it. Funnily enough, in all of Peter’s fantasies, he’d imagined Wade in the suit, never in civilians. Which is extra stupid, honestly, because he’s seen Wade dressed like this hundreds of times now. He rarely keeps the suit on when they’re in his apartment.

Anyway, Peter was staring because Wade looked as hot as Wade always looks, and then Wade’s eyes had cut to the side, his face already set in a glower — and then they’d both recoiled, eyes widening in surprise.

“This seat taken?” Wade says now. He skipped the line, where a few other people are waiting to order coffee, and he stands with his hand gripping the back of the chair across from Peter.

Normally, this would be Peter’s worst nightmare. When he comes to a coffee shop, it’s for the vibes and the atmosphere, a perfect combination in his brain for getting work done. But his work’s already far from his mind, and he never would’ve said no to Wade anyway.

“Go ahead,” Peter says. Wade slides into the seat, then he plants his elbows on the table and leans forward, huge and hulking and amused.

Peter hasn’t unmasked around Wade since that night with the invisible hands. He could if he wanted to. There’s really no point in hiding it anymore. But habit breeds familiarity, so Peter still wears his mask at Wade’s place and he still raises it just enough to eat.

“Your hair looks even fluffier now,” Wade says.

Peter snorts. “That’s not surprising. It’s sweaty and gross when I wear, um—"

Wade raises his eyebrows.

“—that… hat,” Peter finishes lamely.

“Smooth,” says Wade. “And I disagree. It looked like you just got fucked. Like, really, really fu—"

“Got it!” Peter blurts. He’s blushing again, and it must be even more obvious in the light of the coffee shop, because Wade’s grinning like a shark. “What brings you here?”

“Coffee, pastries, and apparently a guardian angel,” Wade says. “I like your outfit, by the way. I knew you were a hot nerd, but I didn’t know you dressed like one.”

Peter opens his mouth to reply — no idea what he plans to say to that — but that’s when one of the baristas steps up to the counter holding a cup of coffee.

“Mobile order for Peter?” she calls.

Peter presses his lips together. Wade stares at him, lazily glances around the shop, and then stares at him again. He grins.

“Peter? Iced coffee for Peter?”

He shifts in his chair, barely resisting the urge to squirm. Wade’s holding in laughter now, it’s obvious.

The barista examines the label printed on the coffee cup. “Peter Parker?”

At that, Wade laughs out loud. Peter abruptly slides his chair back, hurrying toward to the counter. “Sorry, thank you,” he blurts. Then it’s the walk of shame back to their table, where Wade is simultaneously dying and looking gleeful.

“Oh, Peter,” he purrs. “Peter, Peter, Peter.”

“The universe hates me,” Peter mutters. “Lucky, my ass.”

“I could definitely make your ass feel lucky,” Wade says. “Just say the word.”

Peter ignores the extreme heat radiating from his entire body and takes a sip of his coffee instead. Wade sprawls in his seat across from him, one of his feet ending up between Peter’s below the table.

“Are you doing anything after this?” Peter asks.

“That depends, are you busy?”

Peter chokes on his coffee, which sends Wade into a fit of hysterics so severe that Peter’s forced to get up and buy him a drink rather than wait and ask if he’d want to stay and sit with Peter, like he intended. When he returns, Wade is still giggling quietly, but his expression melts into something soft and gooey when Peter hands him the drink across the table.

They finish their coffee without being kicked out — Wade for causing too much of a ruckus, and Peter for dying of embarrassment and spoiling the atmosphere — and Peter decides to hold off on inviting Wade back to his apartment. Mostly because he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t survive the presumptuous jokes Wade would be bound to make.

It seems like the next step, though. Wade already knows where he lives, and now he knows his face and name, too. Peter’s identity is out there, and the world hasn’t exploded. What comes next seems obvious — Peter just needs to work up the courage.

“The Spidey bachelor pad? No way!” Wade grabs their bag of takeout, walking straight past the area of roof they usually picnic on, and angles in the exact direction of Peter’s apartment.

“I thought it only fair. I mean, I’ve seen your house of horrors too many times to count.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it, baby boy,” Wade says. “I know you’re jealous of my cloud couch.”

The journey is quick, if not painless. Wade spends practically the entire time guessing what the inside of Peter’s apartment will look like, and while most of his guesses are way off, some are embarrassingly accurate. Like the not-actually-a-table-masquerading-as-a-coffee-table, the severe lack of dishware, and the red-string-theory board. (That last one isn’t actually true, but Peter does have a map that he marks up with particularly active crime spots.)

Peter leads the way through the window (after thoroughly checking their surroundings) and he pulls off his mask as Wade clambers in after him. He straightens up, spins in a circle, and immediately starts going through Peter’s things.

“This that aunt you talk about? Aw, she seems nice,” and “Lego Charizard? Sweet,” and “I’m surprised you actually have a box spring,” and “Can I go through this drawer? I’m going through it. SMH, no dildo?” and “Wow, you really like books,” and “Is this supposed to be the pantry? Pete. Petey. C’mon,” and “Ooh, is this your underwear drawer?”

“Okay!” Peter blurts. He webs Wade’s wrist and yanks him back toward the center of the room. Wade comes willingly, smiling wide behind his mask.

“I like it. It’s homey,” he says. “You made it sound like you live in squalor.”

“I mean, it’s not that nice of a place,” Peter points out. “It’s all one room. And there’s no AC. And the water shuts off randomly sometimes.”

“Yeah, but it’s very you,” Wade explains. “The decorations and knick-knacks and such. It’s endearing, I’m endeared!”

“Thank you. Shut up,” Peter says. He shoves Wade in the direction of the couch where he immediately sprawls, no doubt testing its comfiness in comparison to his own. There’s no contest there — Peter’s fallen asleep on Wade’s couch countless times, and anytime he’s accidentally done that here, he’s never failed to wake up without some part of his body ailing him.

He grabs their takeout which Wade abandoned by the window, tosses it in his direction, and turns on the TV (banging the side in a Very Specific manner to make a pink line of deadened pixels disappear from the center of the screen). Wade barely scoots over to make room on the couch, which is nothing new, and they push and shove at one another for about thirty seconds as they fight for space. Then they dig into their Chinese food, hunching over the cardboard-box-that-acts-as-a-coffee-table.

“Kelso’s a douche,” Wade says around a mouthful of noodles. They’re watching That '70s show, where Kelso is unfortunately flirting with Laurie, his not-girlfriend. “But I love him.”

“Same. Anyway, Jackie and Hyde is where it’s at.”

“Oh, easily. Eric’s my favorite, though. Skinny nerd, just my type.”

Peter elbows Wade, but he can’t help grinning into his box of fried rice. All in all, it’s like any other night they’ve spent together. Goofy and easy and heart-poundingly flirty, at times. The only difference is that they’re at Peter’s apartment, and neither of them are wearing their masks. Oh, and also Peter’s Plan.

He’s been putting it off long enough. Finally, he managed to convince himself that if he avoided it any longer, then he wouldn’t be able to excuse it as anything other than cowardly. The hard part is figuring out how to bring it up.

Hey, you know how you joke about fucking me all the time? Well, I’d be down for that. Also, I don’t have a penis.

Or maybe: Guess who’s kind of in love with you and also trans? This guy!

Or the classic: Wanna know how I got these scars?

He wants it to be a serious conversation, is the problem. He doesn’t always feel like that — a lot of the time, it’s easy for him to say and he barely has to think about how he wants to say it — but this is just. Different. It’s like with Aunt May. He really cares about Wade, and he wants to elicit the right response. If he brings it up jokingly, then Wade will respond in kind, and that’s not how he intends for this conversation to go.

“What’s eating you?” Wade says, too perceptive for his own good. “And don’t say me, ‘cause that’s not ‘til later.” He winks.

Classic. Only Wade could lead the way into a serious conversation with a leud joke and actually make Peter feel more at ease.

“Sorry, I’m fine. I’ve just been thinking about how to tell you something.”

Wade settles more comfortably into the couch. Somehow, he manages to pause the show in the same movement and even make it look casual.

Peter clears his throat. “Um. Well, okay, first of all: I really like you.”

Wade’s eyebrows twitch upward.

Fuck. What the shit? This was not the plan. He was supposed to come out first and then… well, and then see what happened. He hadn’t even necessarily planned on telling him this tonight!

Fuck it. Full steam ahead.

“Like, that is to say, I’m attracted to you. In all the ways.” His hand moves in a circle, apparently to encompass all the ways, and oh God, he is so, so butchering this. What the fuck. What is wrong with him. He’s blushing so hard it’s like the opposite of a boner. Dick-be-gone — success!

“Breathe, baby boy,” Wade says. Somehow, he’s the calm one. When Peter imagined this scenario, Wade was a lot more… squealy. And touchy. And disbelief-y. Then again, Peter usually imagined himself as much more suave. “So, you’re saying you… want to do something about it?”

Peter nods, helpless, and Wade’s eyebrows discover another inch of his forehead.

“But I have a rule,” Peter blurts.

Aaand the eyebrows return. There we go, back where they belong.

“Lemme guess,” Wade says. “You don’t date mercenaries?”

Peter blinks. “Well — I mean, I haven’t before. But that’s not what this is about, actually.”

“Oh.”

“It’s— before I date someone— I mean, if you even want to date me— but, okay, this isn’t how this conversation was meant to go, I was actually gonna tell you regardless because I want you to know, and then I was supposed to tell you I liked you some other time—”

Now Wade really looks surprised. His mouth is parted, and he almost looks concerned, and Peter can’t blame him. He’s stuttering like a mad man, his mouth moving without anything even close to permission, and he just can’t seem to stop.

“—and anyway, what I really was trying to tell you is that I’m trans.” Peter’s mouth finally glues itself shut. His eyes have a momentary spasm, both wanting to see Wade’s expression and being too terrified to look. Wanting wins out, and then Peter’s staring at him, his heart beating stupid fast, but Wade is just smiling, his expression all soft and gooey again.

“Oh, for real? That’s awesome,” Wade says. He’s touching Peter just as much as before. Maybe a little bit more, actually, because now he’s pressing his leg into Peter’s, and that feels intentional. “Thank you for telling me.”

Peter grins, somehow embarrassed and relieved at the same time. “I wanted to tell you forever ago,” he says. “But it felt too revealing, I guess. Like you’d be able to narrow down my identity.”

“I prefer letting you do it. In a series of missteps, one aspect at a time.”

“Shut up,” Peter groans.

Wade shifts suddenly, his arm sliding behind Peter on the couch. When Peter doesn’t move away, he uses it to pull him into a side-hug. “It doesn’t change anything, by the way. I’m still 100% obsessed with you. Also, yes, I am so down to date you? Are you kidding me? Or did I imagine that in the middle of your tirade?”

“Definitely didn’t imagine it,” Peter says.

His brain kind of fizzles between that and what happens next. Peter’s leaning against Wade, and he thinks he turns to look at him when he responds, and then there’s a hand on his chin, followed by lips on his mouth, and then Peter forgets pretty much everything.

It’s just Wade, Wade, Wade. The texture of his scarred lips, the heat radiating from his body, the pressure of his hands on Peter’s neck, arm, ribs, waist. Peter’s sitting on Wade’s lap, and he doesn’t remember either crawling or being pulled up there, but whoever’s idea it was, Peter has to applaud them. It brings him up higher than Wade, lets him lean down and drive his tongue into Wade’s mouth, lets him hold Wade’s head and angle it just how he wants it.

Wade’s hands are on his waist. Sometimes they slide down his thighs, squeezing at the muscles there. But once they venture backward, toward his ass, they don’t dare to leave. Wade just squeezes and kneads, pulling Peter even closer every once in a while, and it somehow always draws an embarrassing sound out of Peter. A ragged gasp or a low moan.

They’re both making noises though, Peter realizes. Wade, humming into his mouth, groaning, and — wow, Peter didn’t even realize he was talking. Not at first. But somehow, Wade’s managing it. Only he could get words out in between kisses, gasping out praises and blabbering on in disbelief.

It gets heated fast. Or maybe it isn’t fast. Actually, Peter can’t seem to remember a time when they weren’t kissing. He wouldn’t be surprised if only minutes or several hours had passed. Either seems plausible.

“Mm, baby boy,” Wade groans, tilting his head back against the couch. Peter’s grinding against him, just barely, but mostly he’s concentrating on this scar that crawls up the side of Wade’s neck. He likes the taste of it. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna do this tonight, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Up to you. Just don’t want you to feel pressured, y’know?”

“I’m the one grinding on your lap,” Peter points out. “If you don’t want to do this, that’s fine.”

“No, no, no, I want this,” Wade says. He squeezes Peter’s ass and drags him forward hard enough that Peter grinds right up against his hard cock, making him whimper. “But if you don’t wanna come out and then fuck the very same night, I get it. No big deal.”

“Oh,” Peter says. And then he snorts. And then he giggles. “Okay, yeah, not a problem,” he says. “That’s usually how first times go for me.”

“Wait, really?”

“I mean, if they don’t suddenly lose interest, then yeah.”

“Fine with me,” Wade says. “As long as you won’t regret putting out on the very first date.”

“Does this count as a date?”

“I bought the food,” Wade points out. “Then you confessed your undying love for me, then we made out on the couch… Sounds like a date to me.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says. “Guess that makes us both sluts.”

Wade stands. He does it swiftly enough that Peter gasps and clings to him in surprise, though there’s really no need to. Wade’s holding him up easily enough.

He deposits them on the bed, crawling over Peter and kissing him hard enough that he forgets how to breathe. He manages it in tiny, desperate gasps, all of them an afterthought. Instead, his brain is just a jumble of this. Wade’s body weighing him into the bed. His hands sliding down Peter’s sides, back up. And his thigh, slotting tight between Peter’s legs, creating just enough pressure to drive him mad.

“I used to think this suit was the best thing to ever happen to me,” Wade murmurs, plucking at the hem of Peter’s waistband. “Now, I think it’s the worst. I want it off.”

Peter just raises his arms, and then Wade’s dragging it up and over his head. Peter shivers in the suddenly cold air of his bedroom, but Wade’s body is already there, covering him. His hands scour the plains of Peter’s chest, his stomach. Then one wiggles between their hips, still on the outside of Peter’s suit, and it nudges past Peter’s packer and settles between his legs.

“Oh,” Peter gasps. There’s a pressure there, calculated and firm. Wade squeezes and presses and rubs, just enough to make Peter squirm. He forgets how to kiss in the meantime, but it doesn’t matter, because Wade isn’t kissing him either. He’s pulled away to stare down at Peter, drinking in the expressions on his face.

Peter’s legs spread automatically, creating more room, and Wade murmurs, “good boy,” so low that it sends a jolt of heat straight from his groin to his every extremity.

“Y-you should— take my— pants,” Peter gasps. It’s all he can manage. “And your suit.”

“Mhmm,” Wade says. But he still doesn’t move to change anything about the situation. He just keeps rubbing at the apex of Peter’s legs, even when Peter starts jerking up into the pressure. “Do you ever cum like this? Through your clothes, I mean. Bet it feels different than when you touch yourself straight on.”

Peter whimpers. “Um, it’s like it’s muffled,” he says, trying hard to concentrate. “Good in different ways. Lasts a bit longer.”

Wade chuckles. “This is you lasting longer?”

The flush starts at Peter’s chest and crawls all the way into his face. Fuck, why does he like that? Wade teasing him?

“Fuck,” Peter breathes. He spreads his legs a little wider and Wade bears down on his clit. It’s not so much the speed — he isn’t rubbing Peter is furious, fast little circles — it’s the pressure. Peter’s hips arch up, something deep in him starts to throb, and then he cries out and his thighs snap together, trapping Wade’s hand as he grinds against it desperately.

He doesn’t realize that he’s squeezing Wade’s wrist, holding him in place, until after.

“What the fuck,” he breathes.

“Good?” Wade prompts. “Let me know if I do anything you don’t like.”

Peter laughs, incredulous. “That’s the fastest anyone’s ever made me cum.”

“Oooh, I’mma start collecting adjectives. Next is hardest.”

Wade does away with Peter’s pants next, and he makes good on that promise, too. He slides to the ground, yanks Peter to the edge of the bed, and buries his face between his legs for so long that he must’ve found a new and improved way to breathe.

Peter spends minutes, hours, days writhing under that tongue, bucking and twisting and squirming and crying. Wade holds him in place with three fingers anchored inside him, his mouth devouring him like he’s his last meal. Inside, his fingers scrunch like come hither as his lips wrap around Peter’s clit, sucking hard, and it feels like he draws out Peter’s soul at the same time as his orgasm.

The aftershocks take forever to calm down, Peter’s stomach twitching and clenching randomly as he throbs around Wade’s fingers. When it does, he sinks back into his body, suddenly aware that Wade has ruined all other sex for him. Maybe this was his master plan. If he’d just fucked Peter the first time they’d met, it all would’ve been over. Peter would’ve been a slave to his fingers, his mouth, his—

“Can you please fuck me now?” Peter blurts. He realizes that he hasn’t seen it yet, and that’s totally not fair. He’s covered in sweat and his own slickness and Wade is still fully dressed, his cock straining against his suit.

“Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Wade strips out of his clothes. If he feels self-conscious, it doesn’t show — but then, maybe he doesn’t. Peter’s felt self-conscious about his body before (many, many times), but not a hint of that unease has shown its face tonight. Maybe Wade feels similarly, miraculously comfortable.

And, God, he should. His muscles are nothing to scoff at, which Peter was already well aware of, but it’s different seeing them ripple and move with nothing to obstruct them. Not to mention his cock. It’s the biggest Peter’s ever seen in person, and it’s standing tall and proud, flushed at the tip and just waiting to fill him.

“What’s the move here?” Wade asks. He crawls back onto the bed, following Peter as he eases toward to pillows. “Condom? Pull-out? Missionary? Doggy-style? Just throwing out ideas.”

“I’m on birth control, so don’t worry about the condom,” Peter says. “And I want to see you, so…” He raises his legs, bringing his knees to his chest. Wade takes the hint and slides toward him, holding Peter’s legs there with his hands on the back of Peter’s thighs, just under his knees.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

When Wade slides into him, Peter learns for the first time what it means to be well and truly full. It’s slow going, at first, just Wade testing the waters, making sure Peter’s ready — and then it’s fast and hard and good, so good—

“Oh fuck,” Peter whimpers. He’s bouncing against the bed, moving under the weight of Wade’s powerful thrusts. The sound of it is sloppy and wet, their bodies smacking together quick and hard. And fuck, it feels good. Wade’s cock is hitting this perfect spot deep inside of him, and when he slides out, it grinds against his g-spot, and Peter’s entire body jolts with pleasure every time Wade pounds back in.

He's grunting, murmuring under his breath when he’s not. His fingers dig into Peter’s thighs, pressing them down harder as he fucks into him faster—

“Fuck, oh fuck, Wade, Wade—”

“Shit, baby boy, you should say my name more often,” he gasps. “Always calling me ’Pool. I’m revoking that.”

“’Kay, okay, Wade, Wade, please, Wade—”

Wade moans. He releases one of Peter’s thighs — which flops to the side, opening him up even more — and he rubs Peter’s clit instead. Hard and fast and oh God, so good—

The feeling builds and grows and then explodes through him. Peter cries throughout it, gasping and moaning and shaking apart, cumming on Wade’s cock and throbbing around him. Wade follows him with a shout, something that sounds almost like Peter’s name, and then he’s stuttering into Peter, shallow and erratic, his face screwed up into something pleasured and pained and beautiful.

They lay like that for a while afterward, but they eventually shift and slide and rearrange until they’re a combination of sweaty limbs, intermixed and flung sideways and touching almost everywhere.

Peter thinks they’ll fall asleep like that. There’s probably more to talk about, more feelings to be shared and revelations to be had, be he figures it can wait. For now, they’re sleepy and sated and everything is perfect.

“I know you were joking earlier when you said I professed my undying love,” Peter murmurs, his eyes closed and his body definitely edging toward sleep, “but that’s not that far off.”

There’s a surprised grunt from beside him, and that’s all the warning Peter gets before Wade is turning him over, sliding on top of him, and pushing back into him.

Peter will have to learn to be more careful with his I love you’s in the future. Or much, much more forthcoming.