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Wade is a fucking idiot.
Contrary to popular belief, he’s been working on the positive self-talk lately. Really. He has. But some things are just objective facts, and while he’s the most street savvy motherfucker he knows, sometimes his common sense is…lacking. On vacation. Taking a fucking sabbatical.
[Wouldn’t one of those be nice?]
The thing is—Wade promised himself he wouldn’t fuck up this time. It’s different when it’s just him. He grows back. What’s another little chip off his shoulder? It’s nothing, in the grand scheme of it all. He hardly even registers half this shit anymore.
But this mission was special. Wade wasn’t alone; he had precious fucking cargo, and he couldn’t afford to mess up. Not when Spider-man was involved. No sir.
And he hadn’t—not until the very end. Not until Wade had gone back because he’d dropped a fucking keychain (it was the Hello Kitty, one, okay, but still—) only to find Peter coated thoroughly in a thick cloud of chemicals when he got back, the now shattered cylinder broken at his feet. Wade has had it with sketchy motherfuckers in super top secret science-y labs concocting shit that somehow makes his life even worse than it already is.
But where Spider-man’s involved? Wade’s tempted to go back inside and make sure they’re triple-dead.
He tries to remind himself that Spidey isn’t fatally wounded. Not even close, Wade doesn’t think. There’s not even a scratch on the surface of his suit. But when those vast white cut-outs in his mask had widened in alarm, a shaky hand outstretched in Wade’s direction, it’d been enough to set off alarm bells.
Now they’re back at one of Wade’s safe houses, Wade heaving from running and uncaring of whether or not he’s getting himself soiled with the mystery chemical too, and Spider-man is…
…is doing whatever the hell he’s doing. Wade chokes on his tongue and stumbles forward.
“No, no, no. Spidey, your clothes stay on—!”
+
Peter’s hot. He’s really fucking hot.
God. He can’t recall any other time he’s been this feverish. That must be what this is, right? Some kind of sickness? It’s all a little foggy—the lab, the vials, the creepy glass cylinders full of chemicals with a noticeable lack of labeling.
Him making it all the way out only to stumble on a rock and drop the thing at his feet, the gas billowing up and enveloping him.
Well. The mission had been to destroy it. Technically, it was a success.
It’s just, like. Inside of Peter now, he guesses. Or not in him, but—matter of fact, he is feeling strangely empty at the moment.
And hot. Very, very hot.
The suit makes it worse, itchy and irritating against his skin. He feels more sensitive than usual but not in a nice way, all of his senses fully overwhelmed. It’s like the chemical has made its way into the threading of the spandex and Peter needs it off.
“Spidey, your clothes stay on—!”
“Wade?” Peter slurs, swinging his head toward the noise and squinting through the mask. “S’that you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. The dumbass that left you alone with the fucking mystery toxin—”
Wade? Wade! Wade can help him get this off. He’s always talking about getting Peter naked.
“Off,” Peter huffs eloquently. He’s sweating.
“—fuck off? Yeah, I will in a minute, baby boy, just as soon as I make sure you’re not dying on me,” Wade prattles on.
“Not dying,” Peter grunts. “S’hot. I need—need it off.”
This seems to give Wade pause, and Peter feels off balance without his voice to know where he is as his vision tunnels. He reaches out blindly, and Wade instinctively meets him halfway. Peter squeezes his gloved hand, then pulls it up to the zipper of his suit.
“Woah, woah, Webs—let’s just take a sec, okay? You’re hot? Like—what, a fever? You want some Tylenol?”
Peter groans again, stumbling toward him. He lands with his forehead to Wade’s hard shoulder, and even as hot as he is right now, the body heat feels divine. Peter rubs his cheek against the rough material until the loose edge of his mask comes further undone and his mouth is free, then finds out what it feels like between his teeth.
“Holy shit,” he hears distantly, a shaky hand on the back of his own neck that provides a delightful pressure. Peter moans. “Okay, yeah. Something’s definitely off.”
He bares his teeth when Wade pulls him off of him, but when Peter sees the split of his mouth, even through the dirty red leather covering his jaw, he’s diving for it regardless.
He kisses Wade through the mask as convincingly as he can, uncaring of the mess as spit dampens the material and keeps him from tasting Wade for real. It feels debauched, feels so unlike himself that he finds it thrilling, winding his arms up around Wade’s shoulders to pull him down harder, firmer, deeper.
Wade makes a confused noise and presses a hand to Peter’s chest, and with a somewhat pained groan, pushes him lightly away.
“Fuck. Fuck-shit. Hey, slow your roll, Webs. We need to figure this out, okay? This is—you wouldn’t normally want—”
“Don’t tell me what I want,” Peter nearly snarls, his resolve wearing dangerously thin. Wade falls still, and something mangled and instinctual inside of Peter is satisfied.
His strength isn’t something he prefers to use against friends. Or whatever he and Deadpool are to each other. But he finds himself wanting to use it now, to gather up all of Wade’s quick-moving limbs and hold him still, to bring him close, to never let him get away.
Not until Peter’s finished with him.
“Spidey,” Wade tries again, gentler this time, “this isn’t you. Whatever was in that lab, it’s not good. I know they’re not my biggest fan, but we may need to call—”
“No one else,” Peter snaps. Whatever’s happening inside of him right now, Peter’s learned to trust his gut in times like these.
And his body is telling him that he and Wade are more than capable of handling this. Alone.
“Alright. Okay, baby boy. No phoning a friend,” Wade agrees, raising his hands. “Uh. Let’s just—let’s get you set up somewhere in here and I’ll see if I can check you out without removing the suit. Not, like, check-you-out, check-you but like, you get it. Hopefully. Not that I don’t do that sometimes, but—ugh, nevermind. What are you—oh.”
Wade’s voice feels fucking stellar straight from the source, Peter’s mouth pressed to the outside of his throat. He can feel every vibration, every hum of the syllables, every click of stilted breath as Peter noses closer to where he knows Wade’s mask is tucked into the top of his suit. He wants the material gone from between them, needs to feel skin against nothing but more skin; against, ideally, fresh indentions of Peter’s own canines and blotchy love bites.
It really has been so long. Peter’s been good, he hasn’t gotten involved with anyone, not since learning that letting anyone close is essentially a curse. He’s so afraid, always afraid that whatever he touches, he’ll lose.
But Wade is different. Wade isn’t like the others. He wouldn’t be only capable of ‘putting up with’ Peter. He’d, undoubtedly, give just as good as he got.
And isn’t that exciting?
Peter gets one heady inhale of Wade’s scent from the small gap between mask and suit before Wade is forcing him away again, his own voice progressively rough around the edges. Peter fizzles with pride, despite everything.
“Webs, you’re fuckin’ killing me,” Wade laughs, strangled. “Seriously, we gotta find out what’s…”
He must find his answer when Peter grinds forward against his thigh, and even through his cup, his arousal is noticeable. Peter hadn’t even fully realized how much until this moment, but now he can’t ignore it.
His temperature rackets up again, slick inside of his suit with sweat and his hot, panting breaths tucked against Wade’s throat and hand, and suddenly, he’s got to do something.
Desperate, Peter aims his wrist, intent on pinning Wade against the wall behind them, but nothing happens.
He tries again and gets the same result.
And again, and again.
He frowns down at his wrist, flexing the sensitive muscles of the spinneret underneath. Throughout all of the other malfunctions he’s had over the past few years, they’ve never failed him before. But now they’re sore and aching, unwilling to cooperate, as if warning him that something is wrong.
Peter is so entranced by them that he fails to realize he’s losing strength in other areas too, the world going sideways as he sways into Wade’s chest and arms.
Everything is white noise except for Wade’s heat, the hard ridges of his muscle, the outline of his limbs where they keep Peter upright. Peter wants to push him down, take him somewhere safe, keep him there until the world tilts back to rights again. But all he has the energy to do is grind against Wade’s hip, evidently.
He pants against him, rocking back and forth, chasing a high that feels so—fucking—close—
And then Wade is talking again, saying something, not Peter’s name, which feels wrong, but his voice is nice, so Peter tries to listen but it all just sounds like static.
Wade is terrifying, mostly because he’s the one person Peter really lets take care of him. He’s seen too much, knows too much without even knowing anything about him at all, and Peter should be scared. It’s exactly what he tries to keep from happening.
And yet, fear is the furthest thing from him now.
But Peter’s tongue is thick inside of his mouth and he can’t get it to cooperate properly, can’t get the words out in the right order the way he means them. He’ll just have to use his body, then.
Peter wraps around him as closely as he can get, leans up to press his lips to the shell of Wade’s ear over the mask, and employs a word that tastes funny inside of his mouth.
“Please.”
It stuns Wade enough that Peter has enough time and coordination to hitch a flexible leg over his hip, to rut into him more firmly and quickly until everything is closing in again, getting too much too much too much—why haven’t they done this before?—and, just as Peter feels like he might be on the verge of passing out from the heat and the pain, he falls headfirst into white hot release.
He tongues at the split of Wade’s slack jaw and open mouth where he can feel hot breath through the mask as he trembles and shakes, groans against him as he rides out the waves until he’s weak and whining and letting Wade pick him up off the floor. Peter would hate that, usually. Now, he feels like he’s floating.
The fact that his strength has gone missing and his spinnerets aren’t functioning is more than mildly concerning, but the momentary relief is so sweet that he can’t worry about it right now. He tries to open his mouth, tries to ask Wade where they’re going, to ask him not to leave him alone, but he can’t.
Peter feels an odd, unfamiliar pressure against his forehead. Hears the creak of a bed distantly, his aching limbs splayed out and, finally, at rest.
“I’m sorry, Spidey. I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”
And then there’s no more body heat, retreating thuds of combat boots and the click of a door closing shut. Peter raises a shaky wrist a final time and aims his spinneret.
Then he passes out.
+
Unfortunately, wanting Spider-man isn’t anything new.
Wade considers himself fluent in it. For a while it was just senseless, from a distance pining, but then, when they became kind-of-friends, it spiraled into full on yearning. It isn’t cute. Wade does stupid shit like trip over his own feet or stumble over his words more often than he thinks a grown man should. Even if Spidey’s too polite to point it out.
Point is, Wade would know if Webs wanted him back. He’s dropped hints. Not even subtle ones. Big, egregious, unignorable hints and suggestions that almost always go either unacknowledged or unanswered, and are certainly never reciprocated.
He’s still happy—more than—to be Spidey’s friend, but it’d taken a bit to nurse his wounded heart back to health. It still stings, sometimes. Inside of his head, Wade has an entire fictional universe pictured that Spider-man lives in when he’s not Spider-man, and Wade’s most definitely not in it. He’s probably got a nice family, cool friends, a badass side gig that he’s too smart for but humble enough to keep. The lore goes deep.
The extent of the validity of all of that is debatable, but the former rings true: Spider-man does not want him. Wade is so many leagues away from being deserving of him that it’s laughable.
Which is how he knows that Spidey’s sudden blatant want must be a side effect of the gas and not a conscious sort of thing.
[It wouldn’t really make any sense, otherwise.]
It hurts more than it should.
Wade allows himself the blissful shock of feeling Spidey shiver through that first unexpected orgasm before he unthaws himself and carries him to the bedroom. He lays him down on the bed, smears one last indulgent kiss to his temple, then peels himself from the room altogether and into the hallway.
Which is where he sits currently, slunk to the floor, head in his hands, trying to come up with some sort of plan. Wade doesn’t do plans. He goes in guns blazing, shooting first and asking questions later. He can’t do that now.
The door and windows are locked, and without his enhanced strength, Spidey probably can’t pry them open, so that should buy him at least a little time. Even still, Wade isn’t sure he’s comfortable leaving the house regardless knowing that Spidey’s inside alone. In any other instance, Wade wouldn’t waste any time doubting his ability to defend himself. But like this…Wade wants to take up a post right here and not leave until Spidey’s back to his resilient, stubborn self and telling him personally to fuck off. Or, whatever the non-swearing equivalent of that is, probably.
Judging by the effects he’s experiencing now, there’s good reason to believe that it contained some sort of aphrodisiac, one strong enough to penetrate—[no! bad! wrong word choice!]—his super metabolism and healing process. It really only points to one conclusion. Fuck.
Even on his best behavior, Wade is so not morally upstanding enough for a sex pollen trope.
+
If Wade had been hoping to quell Peter’s insistent arousal, putting him in his bed certainly wasn’t the way to do it.
Everything smells like him. Not the trash by the door because Wade missed taking it out or the expired milk in the fridge in the kitchen. No, Wade’s bed smells like nothing but Wade; the cling of the detergent he washes his clothes in and post-mission musk and a hint of the 3-in-1 body scrub that’s only body scrub because Wade doesn’t have any fucking hair to wash.
Peter shivers as he rolls over, groggy and half-conscious, grunting as he tries to get a hand around himself and rut against the bed at the same time. It’s a cacophony at first and he gets tangled in the sheets as he rips his suit off finally, but eventually he shoves his face into Wade’s pillow and bucks up into his fist and keeps inhaling until he comes again.
The gasp of air he takes in right afterward clears his head a little more. As logic trickles slightly back into reach again, Peter grasps it with both hands and tries to think.
So he’s obviously gone and gotten himself doused in some sort of toxin that’s affecting his nervous, limbic, and endocrine systems, causing his skin to sweat, his heart to palpitate, his—
Oh, fuck it. Making him horny. To put it plainly.
It’d be—it is—a little mortifying, but Peter can’t honestly think of anyone better to have around for this than Deadpool, who not only has talked in vivid detail about his attraction to Spider-man, but makes the same level of depraved commentary about things that are just plain Peter-isms too.
Except.
Except that Peter had already grabbed onto him and rutted against him until he came (oh God, he really had done that, hadn’t he?) and Wade had—Wade had done nothing.
Waited until Peter was finished, carried him in here and left him alone, locked the door on his way out.
Maybe. Maybe he’s all bark and no bite about this particular thing. Maybe Peter’s insecurity was so obvious that Wade was just trying to build him up a little, inflate his ego, but he didn’t actually mean what he was saying.
Well. Peter’s arousal is definitely a little more quelled now that Wade put him in time out to think about his actions.
Wade might’ve made his position clear, but it doesn’t stop Peter from wanting. He shoves his face back into the pillow, spreads his legs, and wrings the next one from himself purely out of spite.
It helps, a little.
+
Wade thinks the universe must be spiting him somehow.
Why the hell else would he be forced to sit here and listen to Spidey get his rocks off over and over again without being able to do anything about it?
With all his other plans full of pitfalls and unforeseeable loopholes, he’d given into his paranoia and neglected to call anyone else to help, opting to see if they could wait it out. Webs made it sound like he had a fever, and fever’s break, right?
It’ll break, and he’ll be just fine, and Wade will swoop in afterward with the most ass-backwards form of aftercare he can manage with the shit he’s got in his apartment, and he’ll keep Spidey here until he flees and likely never returns in the wake of Wade’s epic failure and unforgivable betrayal of trust.
Until then, Wade plans to sit very stiffly on his couch and play his favorite game of blatant self-inflicted masochism until he comes out.
But then—then he starts talking.
There’s a thud against the thick wood of Wade’s bedroom door, and Wade’s head snaps toward the noise. Muttering comes next, and a shake of the knob, and a few seconds of determined finagling before something, Spidey, slumps to the floor with a whine.
“Why’d you lock the door?”
“To give you privacy,” Wade answers as rehearsed, walking over from the sofa to sit against the wall on the opposite side of the door. The knob wiggles again. “Don’t mess with the door, Spidey—”
“Peter,” comes an exasperated sigh. There’s a small knock on the wood, like his forehead’s just banged against it. “Call me Peter.”
Wade doesn’t feel like he deserves to know that, but there’s no panicked retraction that comes afterward, so Wade lets himself have this one, small (huge) thing.
“Okay, Peter.”
There’s a hitched moan from the other side of the door, restless shifting that Wade valiantly tries and immediately fails not to envision.
“Talk,” Peter says, sharp and sure.
“Good idea, Webs—Pete. That’ll make you go soft real quick—”
“Wade.”
“What—” Wade spits out too fast, winces and tries again slower. “What are you thinking about?”
“Right now? Your hands,” he answers immediately. “Shit, Wade. Your hands.”
Wade gives a cursory, wide eyed glance down at his lap where the aforementioned body parts lie, flexes his fingers and knuckles as he grabs onto nothing but air. He doesn’t really like the look of them, all covered in bruises in different stages of advanced healing from the mission, and just as scarred as the rest of his body. He has half a mind to find his gloves and cover them up. That must be what Pete’s referring to. A glove kink, or some shit. People definitely have those sometimes.
Wade doesn’t get it. But he’s also a self-sabotaging piece of shit, so.
“Yeah? You—uh. You like ‘em?”
“Uh-huh,” Peter groans, “they’re so big. And you move ‘em around so much when you talk. S’distracting. Gonna get me killed, one of these days.”
“I’m not letting you get hurt again,” Wade interjects.
“I can—shit—I can protect m’self,” Peter slurs, more shifting coming from the other side of the door. Wade swallows.
“‘Course you can, baby boy, but—”
He’s cut off by a moan that’s longer and louder than the rest of them, and Peter’s head knocks back hard against the door. In the brief silence that comes after, he can hear panting, one of Peter’s feet, presumably, slipping across the hardwood, and the slick, unmistakable noise of a fist working frantically over his cock.
Wade clears his throat, squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry. What—um. My hands? You were…”
“Yeah,” Peter agrees breathlessly, even though he hadn’t said anything specific about them. “Think about ‘em touching me. How they’d be all rough against me. How you’d know exactly what you wanted. How you could just hold me down with ‘em and—take it. And I could get out of it if I wanted to in about a hundred different ways but I…God, Wade. I wouldn’t want to.”
“Shit, Pete,” Wade exhales, grabbing his own thighs so he won’t be tempted to strangle his dick the way he so badly wants to right now. “Active imagination you got there.”
Peter snorts, and the sound is so transparently Spidey that it cracks a smile on Wade’s face. “You’re one to talk.”
The humor is a nice, familiar salve, but it doesn’t last long. Pete’s breathing goes choppy again, irritated noises in the back of his throat, his hand speeding up but not quite enough to work himself over the edge.
Wade turns his body, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the peeling wood in front of him. Narrowly avoids pressing his fingertips to it and making Peter do the other half like he’s seen in the movies.
“What do you need, Webs?”
Peter’s exhale sounds like a sob. “Talk. Talk to me, Wade, please.”
Wade shoves every other looping thought into a triple locked, chain-wrapped box in his head and opens his mouth. There’s a hell of a lot worse he’d do for Peter if he asked.
+
Of all the times he’s tried to coax Wade into having a more morally upstanding code of ethics, Peter thinks, he can’t fathom why Wade’s chosen now to put it into practice.
Even if Wade doesn’t him otherwise, he’s still a man. And he’s got, by far, the most inclusive sexual orientation Peter’s ever encountered. There’s no possible way that Wade is that repulsed by the thought of having sex with him.
So Peter’s tried to prove that his dignity isn’t at stake here. He’s moaned and writhed against the door where he knows Wade was sitting on the other side, stuck his fingers in his mouth while he got off so it’d sound like something else was down his throat instead. He’d said Wade’s name over and over again, toed the line of begging at several points.
It’d worked, a little—Peter had heard him get up at one point and cross to the farthest side of the apartment, heard the sink running to drown out the noise of Wade stripping his cock so quick and so desperately silent that Peter would have laughed if he weren’t closer to sobbing.
But then he’d come back and sat down again, dutiful and too far away and steadfast in his stubbornness to a degree only the two of them could manage.
And now, now it’s beginning to hurt. Peter’s lost track of time but from the light outside the window he assumes it’s been at least a full twenty-four hours since exposure now, and where the pleasure had given him brief amount of reprieve before, each new one only sends him into a spasming, sharp panic—a full body reminder of dissatisfaction that obviously isn’t going to be absolved by his own hand.
…Or by the box of sex paraphernalia Peter found underneath the bed and used. Thoroughly. Sorry, Wade.
When the sun starts to set again going into the second day, Peter drags himself to the door and tries to make himself sound as level as possible.
“Wade, I’m—it’s not getting better. I think—I think you’re gonna have to—”
“No,” Wade answers immediately. “No, no, no. We can find another way, Webs. There’s a shit ton of sex toys in the box under the bed, you can—”
“I used those. They didn’t work,” Peter says shamelessly.
“I can call someone, then. Someone you trust, or—or a doctor, probably, would be good—”
“I need you.”
Something like a choke gets stuck on the other side of the door, a short pause behind it.
“You don’t, Pete.”
Peter groans. “Wade. I fucking get that you don’t want me, okay? But I’m asking you for help. I’m not getting better, and I’m not going to get any more clear headed than this. I don’t—there’s no one else I’d rather ask for this. We don’t have to even talk about it again, just—” he pleads, dropping his forehead against the frame when his voice cracks. “Please.”
Nothing happens for one long minute, and then for several more, and Peter raises his reluctantly wet eyes from the floor to glance at the too-still knob. Had Peter pushed too far? Had Wade left, and Peter, so wrapped up in his own self loathing and rejection, hadn’t heard him?
Is he—is he alone?
“...Wade?”
There’s a sniper-quick movement on the other side of the door, and Peter only narrowly manages to stumble backward as it swings open on its hinges, banging back against the stopper. Wade fills the doorway with his hulking body, still dressed in his suit, mask and all. Peter thinks fleetingly about his own bare face, but he can’t make himself panic about it as much as he should.
“You think I don’t want you?” Wade whispers.
“What else am I supposed to think?” Peter returns. “I’m throwing myself at you and you won’t touch me.”
He watches Wade grind his molars under the scuffed red leather. “I think that some mystery chemical blew its load all over you and whatever it did made you think you want me because I was the closest person around. What happened before was a moment of weakness. I might be a shitty person, Webs, but I’m not that kind of shitty.”
“Do I look like I’m still humping you like a dog? We’re talking, aren’t we? I’m lucid enough to consent, Wade.”
“That’s—that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why?” Peter fires back. “Because you for some reason can’t fathom the fact that somebody could want you? Or because it’s me?”
“Because I’d have to find a way to kill myself and make sure I stayed that way if something happened between usu and you regretted it afterward,” Wade spits, near seething as he steps forward, a shaking finger aimed at Peter’s chest.
The air crackles around them for a handful of seconds, and Peter takes several breaths before he lifts a hand, folding careful fingers around Wade’s—bare, he’s now realizing—wrists. Even though he flinches, Wade lets him.
“Wade…” Peter starts, gentler than before. That almost seems to make Wade reel back more.
He shakes his head, insistent, and glances over at the bed. “Look, I’m still not gonna one-hundred-percent believe you on this until afterward, but…” he sucks in a breath, looking back at Peter. “But what you did before. Where you used me to get off and I didn’t—I didn’t touch you back. You can do that.”
“You won’t touch me,” Peter repeats, his grip slackening.
“Not until—not ‘til I know,” Wade says.
Well, Peter muses. Challenge accepted.
+
Wade doesn’t think the universe is spiting him anymore. In fact, if anything, it’s just plain dumb luck that finds him on his back on the bed with Peter’s weight settled atop his hips, his deft, eager hands roaming Wade’s body as they please.
He’s not stupid, contrary to popular belief. He knows Spidey well enough to know that his ultimatum had been taken as a challenge, and that Peter is absolutely going to try to make him go back on his word. Wade just has to grit his teeth and bear it (read: try not to horrifically embarrass himself by shooting off the moment Peter touches him in any way) until Peter’s satisfied, and then maybe Wade can scrape by with a little of his dignity left afterward.
He starts with Wade’s mouth like he had the day before, leaning down to graze his lips over the leather covering Wade’s jaw. The material is thick over his cheeks to sustain damage but it’s thinner over his lips so he can speak and breathe, and the hot, firm pressure of Peter against him makes every fucked up nerve in Wade’s body light up neon. He kisses the bump of Wade’s mouth over the leather tenderly, the top lip and then the bottom one and then a tease of his tongue in between them, and then he’s moving down before Wade can lean up any further into it for more.
The buckles and belts are noisy as Peter undoes them with masterful flicks of his fingers, all the things Wade hadn’t even bothered to take off himself after the mission because he’d been too preoccupied worrying about Peter to handle it.
He finds the zipper moments later, urging Wade’s back to arch so he can work it down, and Wade makes himself stay carefully still as the top half of his suit is removed completely from his body.
The singular reason he’s not as nervous about this part is because Spidey’s seen him this way before, back when they first started tentatively working together and Wade’d taken a bullet to the chest for him, and Peter had been frantic and overwrought with guilt, dragging him to safety and getting the top half of the suit off to inspect the wound.
So long as the mask stays on, Peter can have anything else he wants.
He takes his time dragging his hands over Wade’s bare chest for a minute, thumbing over his nipples and mapping out the vague impression of abs before his fingers fall to Wade’s belt.
A gun hits the floor as its freed from its holster. Then bullets, knives, more bullets, more knives, the Hello Kitty keychain, until it’s all in a heap on the floor and Peter can hook his digits into the band and peel them down over his thighs and calves and off to join the rest on the ground.
“Wade,” Peter says seriously, “I want you to fuck me. You good with that?”
Wade briefly ascends this astral plane of existence, then yanks himself back to reality so that he can give Peter an answer.
“I literally didn’t know that you knew that word.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches. “Hey. Fucking focus, ‘Pool,” he enunciates pointedly.
“Told you. Whatever you want,” Wade agrees, trying not to sound too eager.
“But do you want?” he presses. “Two way street, y’know.”
“It’s fine.” He’s rushing, trying to get Peter to get on with it already because he needs it like air, but Peter’s hands abruptly stop moving on his chest.
“I’m not fucking you if it’s only just fine, Wade.”
He goes suddenly to move off of him, and Wade’s hands fly to his hips, desperate.
“No, look, I—I want this, okay? More than—enough that I think you’d be uncomfortable knowing just how much, actually, but this is about you, so it doesn’t matter, and…”
Wade trails off when he realizes Peter’s grinning above him, eyeing where Wade’s touching him with a victorious glint in his eye. His gaze slips off of Wade’s hand and back up to his face, cocking a brow.
“No touching, huh?”
“Oh, you’re fuckin’ mean,” Wade surmises delightfully. “Tricking people into reassurance through blathering insecurity is s’posed to be my thing, Webs.”
“Had to be done,” Peter’s grin goes crooked as he leans up, reaching over for the lube he’s already been using on the nightstand. “You stop touching me, and I stop.” He pauses his ascent, drops down again to exhale against the seam of Wade’s covered mouth. “And I really don’t want to stop.”
With the lube dropped onto the sheets beside them, Peter’s hands slip over his shoulders, underneath the edge of the mask on his neck. Wade jerks his head away, and Peter’s touch stills against his pulse.
Nothing happens for a minute, and then Peter hooks a thumb over his chin to drag him back. “You know I don’t care what’s under the mask, right?”
“Indifference doesn’t usually end well,” Wade mutters.
“I don’t mean I’d be indifferent, Wade,” he says firmly, “and I don’t mean a bunch of bullshit about ‘it’s what’s on the inside’, either. I mean that half the time you live to get on my last nerve and I don’t know why I like you so much, but I do, and the way your skin looks isn’t going to change that. I’m pretty convinced at this point that nothing will. So.”
His fingers move up to the bottom of the mask again, but don’t go further. Wade waits him out, tries one last time to convince himself that this is all just a cosmic joke and that any minute now Peter’s going to erupt into laughter or disgust and jump out the window, but it doesn’t happen.
“I don’t want to do this with Deadpool.” Peter grabs Wade’s hand, raises it to the seam, curls his fingers under the edge. “Take it off. Please.”
He’d planned to hesitate a little longer, but when Peter curls in on himself on Wade’s chest, moaning in pain instead of pleasure, Wade rips the damn thing off like it’s scalding and reaches for the lube.
“Hey, c’mon. Take what you need, Pete.”
Peter groans a little as he pushes himself up again, pupils dilated and dick dragging in idle motions against Wade’s stomach, but he pauses when he sees Wade’s unmasked face.
It’s not well and truly the first time he’s seen it. Parts of the mask have been blown or shot off before, and he’s had glimpses, Wade is sure, when they’re eating or when Peter sneaks up on him and Wade has to scramble to get it back on.
But this is definitely the first time he’s on full, naked display, without anything to hide behind and so close that he can feel Peter’s breath on the craters and divots of his skin. Wade holds his breath for a reaction. But, like, Peter’s dick doesn’t immediately flag between them, so he thinks that’s a pretty good sign—
“Mmph,” Wade exclaims into his mouth when Pete leans down to press them together, his hands clutching at Peter’s arms, Peter’s framing his face.
He’s messy about it, smearing spit all over Wade’s chin with his tongue, taking his lips hostage between his like he’s trying to suck a bruise on them. His hips twitch to life against Wade’s abdomen again, rocking slow at first and then fast and hard, his teeth digging into Wade’s lip while he chases friction.
“Fuck, Wade,” he pants, ripping himself away with a wince. “I need—”
Wade shoves the lube into his hand and nods. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon. Take it, Pete. Whatever you want.”
The preparation is quick, only because Wade knows that Pete’s already been using his stash from under the bed. He groans at the image it paints in his head, and then even more when Peter reaches back to grip his cock that hasn’t ceased to be at attention this entire time. He wets the rough weight of it in slick and lifts himself on his knees, and Wade barely has time to compute how the tight furl of Peter’s ass feels pressed to the sensitive tip of his dick before Peter’s pressing him forward and inside.
“Motherfucker,” Wade gasps, hips twitching up off the bed helplessly as Pete sinks down onto him.
“Huh. Always figured you’d be more into dads,” Peter chokes out.
His eyes are squeezed shut, head tilted back toward the ceiling, mouth pinched at the corners. He gives a full body shudder when there’s nowhere left to go, Wade’s cock buried in him as deep as it’s going to get, and a single band of tension seems to give way as he grinds down on it.
“Okay?” Wade checks through gritted teeth, hands so tight on Peter’s hips that they go pale.
Peter peels an eye half-open, looking down at him. He leans back to brace his palms on Wade’s thighs, moving experimentally.
“Not gonna break me,” he says. “Welcome to test the theory, though. If you want.”
“Not you I’m concerned about here, baby boy,” Wade chuckles tightly, eyes rolling back a little when Peter begins to lift himself up and down.
Peter’s hazy smile is cruel and captivating. He shifts his legs so he’s got his feet planted on either side of Wade’s ribs, toes touching the inner parts of his biceps, adding two more points of leverage. He shifts his weight onto his soles and his palms still on Wade’s thighs behind him, and Wade clings to his ankles like a lifeline when he starts fucking himself proper.
“Oh yeah? You talk such a big game, ‘Pool. You promising things you can’t deliver?”
Wade swallows. “This is—this is about you.”
“Sure it is,” Peter agrees, “but it’s a two way street. Remember? Or is my ass so good you forgot?”
“Fucking hell, Pete,” Wade gives a strangled laugh, thrusting up into him once and groaning. “Where’ve you been hiding that filthy mouth?”
Peter only grins, adjusting his grip and setting a quick, solid rhythm. The angle lets Wade see everything—the flex and release of Peter’s strong thighs as he lifts and lowers himself, the greedy stretch of his body taking Wade’s chiseled dick, his pretty, flushed face a little further back when his mouth falls open and his brows furrow in concentration.
Wade’s hands twitch to life, confining himself to Pete’s calves as he strokes up and down with his palms. He’s been told it’s not a pleasant sensation but Pete seems to like it, moaning when Wade’s thumbs dig into the sensitive dip behind his knees, working over the taut muscles as he moves.
“More,” he breathes, repeating himself when Wade doesn’t listen. “Touch me more, Wade. Please.”
Wade shudders, hands moving higher. “S’it helping?”
He gets a pitched moan in lieu of a response, Peter’s back bowed and hips coming down so hard on his cock that their skin slaps together, slick and noisy with lube and sweat, Peter’s hard dick bouncing along with them.
Carefully, Wade slips his open palms up and over Peter’s thighs to grab hold of his hips again, and bucks his own up into Peter harshly just as he slams down.
They both groan, rhythm temporarily faltering before they get it back and double down. It’s frantic then, and dirty, and a little depraved, the way Wade assumes it probably should be after waiting for it for so damn long. He must be hitting pretty deep against where it feels good, because Peter keeps clenching around him. The pressure is dizzying, and that combined with the gratuitous wish fulfilment has Wade toeing the edge earlier than he’d like to be.
He tries to slow them a little, but Peter’s insistent. His hips keep going, tight and unrelenting around Wade’s dick, and Wade’s fingers dig into the side of his thigh in warning.
“Pete, wait a sec. I’m gonna—” he shivers, head tossed back against the pillow under Pete’s watchful gaze.
“So do it, then,” Peter says. “You can give me more than one, can’t you?”
Which—yeah, that’s a good point. One of the perks of this regenerating shit: he can be ready to go again sometimes in seconds instead of the long minutes and hours it used to take. Plus, with himself out of the way, he can focus fully on Peter like he wants to.
He braces his palms flat on Pete’s knees and swings his hips up into Peter relentlessly, pleased at the way Peter has to flail for a second to hold on. It takes only a handful of thrusts more for Wade to choke and the coil of pleasure inside of him to snap, caught on a moan of Pete’s name as he shoves up a final time and spills hot and deep inside of him.
Peter follows him back down to the bed when Wade’s ass finally lowers to the sheets again, his hips grinding in lazy circles to work him through it. His legs have folded up beside him again on either side of Wade’s hips, his hands on Wade’s chest now instead of his thighs as he leans over him from above.
He dips down for an indulgent kiss and Wade gives in easy, smiling against Pete’s mouth as he gathers his strength again.
Just when Peter starts to grow restless again, his dick leaving a sticky trail of excitement on Wade’s stomach, Wade captures his lip between his teeth and looks straight into his eyes.
“Your turn, baby boy.”
+
Peter yelps as he’s lifted and tossed onto his back, bouncing a little when Wade lands squarely on top of him.
He wraps his legs around Wade’s hips and tries to lock his ankles to push him back in, but Wade tuts. He grabs Peter’s ankles and pushes them out and up, until his entire lower half is spread open and on display, his own bent knees up by his chest.
“Fuck. Look at you,” Wade mutters, scooping up lube and a wayward smear of his own come to fuck it back into Peter with his fingers. “Don’t you worry, baby. Gonna fuck you ‘til that fever’s all gone.”
Peter moans, bearing down on the fingers as Wade chuckles. “Get on with it, then.”
“Your wish is my command,” Wade says, and then he knees forward and sinks back into Peter deep enough that it feels like he hits his stomach.
He’d though it’d be more intense on top, when he had Wade spread out beneath him and at his mercy. Peter likes a little power sometimes—or, okay, a good amount of the time—but he’s willing to give it up for the right person. For someone who knows what to do with it.
And Wade obviously does. He presses his hands up underneath the back of Peter’s knees to hold him down and open, pushes up with his toes and angles his hips so that each thrust is enough to take Peter’s breath away. His biceps bulge, broad shoulders looming to encompass Peter completely in their shadow, the hard lines of his face slick with sweat and calculated exertion. He’s looking at Peter the same way he does a future crime scene, and it’s—it’s really doing it for Peter.
“C’mon,” he grunts, pistoning into Peter so fast he momentarily becomes a blur. His hand slips off Peter’s thigh, reaches down to grab his dick. “Give me one, Pete.”
The hot, thick pressure of Wade filling him up and the fist around his cock are fantastic enough, but it’s the threat-slash-promise of more that has Peter giving into it so soon. He shoves his hips back onto Wade with as much force as he can manage, bucking down onto him and up into his hand as he comes all over his stomach and Wade’s already sticky fingers.
Peter can tell the moment the fever breaks for good. His body loses the last strings of tension, the pinpricks of pain giving way to a dull throb of leftover pleasure instead of an incessant need for more.
But he doesn’t want to be finished. Not yet.
He clenches around Wade again who’s panting above him, waiting for further instruction, and notes the way he’s already thickened up to full hardness again inside of him. Peter’s regeneration isn’t quite as advanced as his, but with the toxin receding, he should be able to keep up.
Slipping a hand up around Wade’s neck, Peter pulls him down to his mouth, kissing him deep and messy and grateful. And yeah, this is—this is good. It’s really good, now that it’s less blind ache and more of a conscious want, now that he can appreciate it like he should.
Wade’s kisses turn slower, rough tongue pushing up and against Peter’s slick, eager one. His knuckles graze the hair at Peter’s temple when he says, “Still want more?”
It’s quiet and entirely too tentative for Peter’s liking. He kisses Wade hard one last time, then locks his legs around Wade’s hips, pushing up against him.
“Yeah. Don’t stop.”
Wade huffs a laugh against his mouth and shakes his head a little, kisses Peter once more for good measure before he rises up to readjust.
His grip wraps around Peter’s wrists, stroking over the impacted, sensitive spinnerets, and then he raises them up over Peter’s head, guiding his fingers to close around the slats in the headboard.
“Hang on,” he murmurs in warning, and Peter listens.
Wade grabs his hips, lifts them so they’re still attached flush to his own when he rises up on his knees, then pulls out until only the rounded tip of his dick is the only thing remaining inside of Peter’s waiting, lax body.
His first thrust is sweet and entirely misleading. The second is a nice halfway point, and by the third, Wade is fucking into him hard and fast, rough in just the way Peter craves but can never seem to find anyone to satisfy.
With his shoulder blades flat on the mattress and his hips extended into the air to meet Wade’s ruthless pace, the tan skin of his stomach is stretched taut across his hip bones, and Peter swears he can see the dent of Wade’s cock just underneath his navel on each upstroke. He’d reach down and feel it, if he weren’t grounding himself with his hold on the headboard.
He pulls one thigh back out of Wade’s grip and hooks it over his shoulder instead, and Wade muffles a groan into the bend of Peter’s knee, scraping his teeth over the sensitive spot. The rough drag of his face feels like it lights up all the nerves under his skin, and Peter dazedly files away for later that he wants to feel that all over the inside of his thighs at some point.
Wade seems to have the same idea, big hand splaying out over the space as he fucks Peter with expert rolls of his hips. He’s busy appreciating the ratio of shoulders to waist when Wade tilts his chin to spit straight onto Peter’s dick, his palm slipping off Peter’s thigh to wrap it in his fist.
It’s difficult to get a good rhythm going with how hard and fast they’re moving together, so Wade’s palm settles mostly at the sensitive underside of Peter’s cock, rubbing at his frenulum and swiping his thumb in quick, intense passes over the tip.
It hurts a little, his first orgasm not even totally out of his system yet. But the fact that he’s hard again, that he’s close again already, means that his regeneration is returning.
Wade’s dick really had cured him. Peter dreads the jokes he’s going to have to suffer through about that.
Bracing one foot against the bed and using his knee over Wade’s shoulder as a hinge, Peter grabs hard at the headboard and rolls his body, riding Wade’s hips and meeting him halfway. He keeps forgetting that Wade’s enhanced like he is, that he’ll undoubtedly be able to keep up with Peter, that they can just keep going and going and going—
Peter tosses his head back and pushes hard into the heat of Wade’s fist when he comes a second time, the pleasure wrung straight out from his core. Everything goes haywire for a second, instincts and hormones firing at once until everything is only white hot and radioactive.
When he blinks his eyes open again, Wade’s hips are pumping slower, his hand easing up and off Peter’s twitching dick, and Peter can’t pull his hands from the headboard. He tries once, then again, and frowns when they don’t budge.
“What’d’you tie me with?” Peter mutters, because there’s not a lot that he can’t wriggle his way out of.
“Petey,” Wade chuckles, lowering his hips to the bed. He reaches up to tuck two fingers under Peter’s chin and tilt his head back. “That wasn’t me, baby boy.”
Sure enough, even upside down, Peter can make out the thick, spooling bulge of his webs covering his hands like oven mitts, keeping his fingers stuck around Wade’s headboard.
“Oh,” he says belatedly.
Well. At least the spinnerets work again.
Wade laughs. “Yeah. Gimme a sec, I’ll get something to cut you out and—”
Peter clenches pointedly around Wade’s cock before he can pull out, and Wade collapses onto a palm on top of him, narrowly catching himself from face planting into Peter’s chest. “Y’didn’t finish.”
“Don’t need to,” Wade gasps, hips twitching in contrast with his words. “You gotta be feelin’ it, Pete. I can just—”
“You can just keep fucking me ‘til you come.”
With a genuine whimper, Wade drops his forehead to Peter’s shoulder and shivers. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Peter says. “Give it to me, ‘Pool. Not like I’m going anywhere.”
Wade makes a desperate noise and surges up to press their mouths together, his hips moving much slower now that they’re both lying flat. Peter can feel the rough texture of his abs moving against his softening dick between them, can feel the tension in his arms that frame Peter’s outstretched biceps. He can feel the hardly contained want that stains every bit of Wade’s warm, insistent mouth, the trace of his tongue, the press of his teeth, the little gasp he makes before he presses back in for more.
He’d misread Wade so terribly at first; mistaken his overzealous personality to mean that he was overcompensating for something. That there was more theater than substance, that if Peter peeled back the layers all he’d find was the same useless bravado and empty promises every other guy seemed to have.
The thing about Wade, though, is that he hadn’t been overcompensating at all. He only ever said exactly what he meant, and if he made Peter a promise, he was swift to follow through, and he did it with a smile despite all of Peter’s customary grumbling.
And when he says he wants Peter, he’d meant that too. This is only the proof.
So Peter lets his hands stay stuck and lifts his head enough to kiss Wade properly, lets Wade feel how much he trusts him. As if unmasking around him hadn’t been clear enough, but. Sometimes Wade needs the extra reassurance.
When Wade comes he accidentally bites Peter’s lip, and Peter moans, surging up further to press the sharp taste of blood over their tongues. He’d have his hands on Wade’s shoulders if not for the webbing, but that only means he can show him in other ways, can be a landing pad instead of a runway for once.
“Fuck, Petey,” he breathes, hot against Peter’s cheek as he shudders, hips shoving forward the last few times as he fills him up.
“Mm,” Peter hums. “We did do that, yeah.”
Wade laughs, pinching him in the nipple—which is incredibly cruel, since he can’t do it back with his hands tied. He hooks a leg over Wade’s hip and thigh instead, knocking him off balance and onto his side. Peter rolls with him, spent and sated.
He extricates himself from Peter long enough to grab one of his knives off the floor, then carefully reaches up to slice through the webbing until Peter can get loose. He flexes his fingers and wrists, then uses his newfound freedom to yank Wade right back where he was.
“You’re a brat,” Wade murmurs into his collarbone.
“I know. How will you ever manage to cope.”
“I can think of a few ways,” he suggests, lifting up enough to wiggle where his eyebrows used to be. “I mean, if that’s—you’re not all—sex pollen-ed anymore, so like. Totally your call.”
Wade still doesn’t believe him. Typical. He rolls his eyes, leaning down to kiss him again.
That’s fine, Peter muses. Challenge accepted.
+
Turns out, regardless of his behavior, Wade managed his way out of a sex pollen trope after all. And somehow, even afterward, Peter wants to stay. Maybe, like, forever.
[And wouldn’t that be nice?]