Archive of Our Own

It often occurs to Wade that he might never be enough for Peter.

He thinks of it most in the early mornings and late evenings, when Peter himself believes Wade to be sleeping or distracted or looking elsewhere. Peter takes his phone and looks at pictures, the same couple ones every time, of his old friends. He just looks, does not really smile or frown or laugh or cry. He told Wade that he deleted all social medias off his phone because staying updated on MJ and Ned’s new lives took up too much of his time, too much space in his brain. But it is still in his camera roll for him to dwell on, proof that he was known by them once—loved by them.

Ned and MJ. Peter talks about them to Wade occasionally, but not deeply. Sometimes he will recall a memory, a funny story with Ned or an awkward moment from when he and MJ were figuring out their childish feelings for one another. He will talk about them like they are still around, just a phone call away, but then, usually around two thirds of the way through the story, he will stop. He remembers, and then he will not talk much more for the rest of the day.

It is the worst when the story Peter catches himself telling is one Wade has already heard before. He does not make any comments, only smiling and listening actively as he always does, but Peter remembers all on his own. Like he always does. He is sitting at Wade’s kitchen island while Wade makes them breakfast, and his gaze sinks to his reflection in his black coffee. Wade pretends not to notice until he is finished cooking, sliding a plate with sunny side up eggs, toast, and sausage links in front of Peter. Peter does not look from his mug.

“Hey,” whispers Wade. “Thought you were hungry.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “I…” he shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He is not thinking about the food. Wade sighs, leaning over the island to tip Peter’s chin.

“You know you can always talk to daddy.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry. Seriously…” Wade keeps his voice soft, quiet. “Tell me what spit in your coffee, baby. You know I’ll kill it for you.”

A dry chuckle comes out of Peter, and inwardly Wade releases a small sigh of relief. “It’s just… it’s all old,” he begins. “All memories. I’m gonna run out of them soon. I’m gonna—I’ll never be able to tell you something funny Ned did yesterday, or–or even a week ago, or…” he presses his palms to his eyes, elbows on the island counter. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It is. It is. I’m over it. Honestly, I–I–” Peter has trouble lying, even to himself. He nevertheless does it often, Wade notices—did it plenty to Wade before they first got together. But he is undeniably bad at it in a way no amount of practice can perfect. “I want to be over it. I want to stop thinking so goddamn much. I just—”

“You want them back.” Her back, Wade thinks. Somehow, Peter hears him completely. 

“No. Not like that, Wade. Of course not like that.” It is Wade’s turn to look elsewhere. To the side, at their makeshift bed on the couch. After patrol the last night, they fell asleep within the first 15 minutes of a movie they had no real intent to watch. And when they both awoke to the ending credits, they decided together to not risk the perilous, exhausting journey from the living room to the bedroom. Wade laid back on the couch cushions, and Peter pulled up against his chest, pulling a blanket over their bodies. He wants to go back to then, that peaceful moment—Peter snoring softly in his ear, his hands wrapped in Peter’s hair.

“This is why it’s stupid—why I don’t—I don’t like talking about it,” Peter continues, bringing Wade back to the present. He reaches across the counter, envelops Wade’s hands with his own. “You’re enough for me, Wade. You’re good to me—for me. And I don’t want you to ever think anything different.”

It is nice to hear, only that Wade does not buy it. “But?”

“There’s no ‘but’.”

“There’s always a ‘but’ with you, baby.”

Peter frowns. He came home last night with a busted lip, and it is healing nicely. Nothing more than a slight discoloration just a few hours later. But Wade still wishes it would be quicker, Peter’s healing factor. “Okay.” Peter sighs. “Okay. Fine. But. But I don’t know how to move on. I don’t know how to stop wanting it, even when I know I can’t have it. Even when I know I have enough.” A beat. “I’m sorry, Wade. I’m so, so sorry. You just have to know it’s not you. It’s me. It’s—”

“Are you trying to break up with me?” Peter only moved into Wade’s apartment three weeks ago. And if Peter says yes, if he insinuates anything close to a yes, Wade is not sure what he will do—if he will be able to let him go. Peter is stronger than him, can certainly overpower Wade if he desires. But when it comes to desire between the two of them, in any and all scenarios, Wade knows that his is more. His is greater. Peter can fight to leave, can insist on his own self-pities and doubts, but Wade will win. Wade will stop him, keep him in one place until he comes back to his senses. Until his brain comes back to Wade.

“What? No! No, Wade,” says Peter. “Not that. Never that. Are you even listening to me? You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. Even I’m not stupid enough to ignore that.” He offers a small, sad smile. “I’m saying this for you, Wade. Just—if you ever get sick of it, of me, of this moping or whatever you want to call it, I don’t want you to think you have any obligation to stick around—”

“Baby,” Wade says firmly, using a tone that kills the words on Peter’s tongue. “I wouldn’t let you go even if you begged me to.”

Peter blinks, thick lashes fluttering repeatedly. He thinks Wade is flirting, not at all serious. For now, Wade will let him continue thinking that.

“Yeah?” he responds in a dirty voice. It makes Wade want to throw the untouched breakfast he made to the floor and spread Peter out over the kitchen island. He wants to have him naked, back shivering against the marble counter, squirming around like a little bug with Wade’s head between his legs. 

So Wade sees to all of that exactly.

-

Following a shift bartending at Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children and patrolling as Spider-Man, Peter meets Deadpool on their favorite rooftop in the city.

It is a block away from their frequented taco truck and overlooks the Brooklyn Bridge. Peter touches down with a bag of steak tacos for himself and chimichangas for Wade. The mercenary takes the bag from him, sets it on the ground, and presses Peter against the nearest wall of brick. 

“What are you—”

He pulls Peter’s mask up to his nose and presses their mouths—or at least the part of Wade’s face where his mouth will be if his mask is off—together. By now, Wade has a fair understanding of Peter’s feelings towards the Deadpool suit. How terribly, horribly, awfully sexy he finds it, especially when it smells freshly of gunpowder and blood. Especially when it pushes against Peter, surrounds him, consumes him. His breath hitches while Wade continues to rub his mask against Peter’s face. He does not know totally what is going on, but he likes it.

“Wanna ride it?”

Peter blanks. “What?” he croaks. 

“My mask, my nose… my tongue if I think you deserve it. Just in case you haven’t already worked up enough of an appetite out there.” He pushes his knee between Peter’s legs. “We can do it right here.”

“‘S dirty,” says Peter weakly.

“I know. Exactly the way you like it, baby boy.” He slides rough hands inside the top part of Peter’s suit, gripping his waist. “Whaddya say? Wanna take the S.S. Deadpool on her maiden voyage?”

“Maiden?”

“Hey. No slut-shaming, and no changing the subject, meanie.”

Peter considers Wade’s proposition. In theory, it sounds fantastic. Rocks and gravel digging into Peter’s knees as he ruts against Wade’s face. The friction of their suits, the sight of Wade below him. Peter has to bite his lip to keep from breathing a rash, needy, ‘Please.’ Because it sounds all so lovely in theory, but in reality, he has to remember all the times a villain has dropped in on him from above, the helicopters The Daily Bugle has watching the city more intensely than the NYPD. Would that not just be the perfect gift to J. Jonah Jameson? Spider-Man riding Deadpool’s face on a rooftop, suits and masks still on so there will be no mistaking who they are. It would make the newspaper editor’s day—hell, probably even his year—to turn the media back against Spider-Man. He has been trying his damndest lately, but New York City is currently in their longest lasting and strongest period of widely acknowledging him as the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man rather than the Spider-Menace. 

How long it will continue to last, he does not know. Would being caught getting pleasured by a mercenary do him any favors? Absolutely not. Is even standing beside Deadpool, enjoying a bite after a lengthy patrol something J.J.J can and might one day use against Spider-Man? Sure. But Peter is not going to give that up for anything. 

So regretfully, Peter shakes his head. The step Wade takes back is immediate. His hand vacates Peter’s clothes, leaving the spot where he once touched feeling dreadfully cold. 

“Tired?” Wade asks.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to fully enjoy,” he gestures to the open space around him, unsure of the right word to use, “this.”

“Not an exhibitionist?”

“That’s what they’re calling it?” Peter scoffs. “Yeah. No. I guess that’s something I’m not.” He shrugs. “Least not as Spider-Man.”

“There it is. You’re too much of a freak to actually not give something a try.” Wade takes a hold of the sides of his neck, pushing the soft underneath of Peter’s chin up with his thumbs. “So Spider-Man’s a little shy. That’s fine. Cute, even. But how far is Peter Parker willing to go?”

Wade keeps this up, Peter will not be able to say ‘no’ to him twice. Lightly, he pushes on the other man’s shoulders, saying, “You can ask him when we get home. Right now, Spider-Man just wants to enjoy a nice meal with Deadpool before it gets any colder than it already is.”

Despite the hard heat Peter can feel between Wade’s legs, Wade obediently backs off again. “Sorry, baby boy,” he says, rubbing the top of Peter’s head. “I think I just want to fuck you so bad in your suit, it’s making me feel crazy.”

Peter pushes off the wall and picks up the bag Wade discarded. “Maybe you’ll get lucky enough one of these days.” He takes a seat on the ledge and pats the spot next to him. “But not tonight.”

-

Wade notices her first.

Coming down the street, wrapped in a black belted trench and a green plaid scarf to combat the early winter chill, is MJ. That night Wade first met Peter out of his Spider-Man suit, he did not get too great a look at her—the woman Peter was tailing through the streets. His focus was less on her then, more on making sure the man following her did not try to do something to make Wade intervene. But Wade spared her a glance or two, and he now recalls what he saw. Her long, dark curls, her smooth skin, her innocence that shone through the way she walks so often distractedly down the sidewalks of New York City.

He feels his heartbeat quicken as she approaches like she is something to fear, even as she fumbles with the cords of her wired headphones, taking the buds out of her ears and wrapping it around her phone as best as her gloved fingers will allow. Peter is distracted, too, crouched down to retie the laces of his completely inappropriate for the weather sneakers.

Wade is hopeful for a moment, believing she might pass with Peter’s head still down, and this might remain the nice walk to Peter’s shift at Sister Margaret’s as originally intended. 

But MJ’s phone slips from her hands and Peter is catching it before it hits the ground beside his feet. Wade can feel himself disappear as Peter looks up at her slowly, eyes wide and cold, red lips parted.

“Nice catch,” the woman chuckles awkwardly, waiting for Peter to hand her the phone. “Sorry about that.” He still does not move, openly staring at her. “Um…”

Wade inserts himself reluctantly, taking the phone from Peter and dropping it in MJ’s hands. “Thank you,” she says, giving him a stiff nod. To Peter, she offers the polite, tight smile that people reserve for strangers. “You too. Thanks.”

She leaves. Peter remains in place, gaze trained on the spot she stood when their eyes last connected. Something tells Wade that if were to leave as well, he might revisit this street corner the next morning and find Peter unmoved. Unwilling to test that hypothesis, Wade commandeers Peter by the arm and drags him the rest of the way to the bar. The other man does not protest, does not even say a word until they are standing by the doors, and Wade is not opening them for him. Peter looks over his shoulder at Wade, the fog gone from his eyes, a blank look in its place. “You’re not coming in?”

“No.” Wade shakes his head. “No, I don’t think—I don’t think I should. Maybe I’ll come pick you up when you’re done, but maybe—I don’t know. Maybe it’s best to just meet back at home.”

He does not know what to say. Peter does not either. Wade takes the first step away, but Peter catches him by the strings of his fleece-lined hoodie, clutching onto them like he would a web suspending him hundreds of feet off the ground. “What a small city,” he whispers to Wade’s chest.

“Eight million people.”

“Don’t be upset. I’ll be… I’ll be better when you come get me. I promise. I’ll be—I’ll be—” his voice cracks. If Wade were a better man, this is where he would wrap Peter up in an all-consuming hug, tell him he has nothing to worry about and all the time in the world to feel his feelings. But Wade is not that man. Wade is a selfish, jealous, insecure bastard. Always has been, always will be. If Peter does not know that already, it is time he learns.

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, baby.”

“Wade, that’s not—”

“Yeah.” He takes hold of Peter’s wrists and pulls them off his hoodie. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you in a few hours, or at home, or—” he shakes his head, defeated. What he needs right now is to put on his suit and blow off some steam. He is not sure how long that will take. “Just don't wait up.”

-

Wade finishes a job he has been putting off, knowing it was the kind that upset Peter specifically.

It truly has been an ongoing effort of his, avoiding new jobs that needed to end in death because it would bring him closer to the man he wanted to be for Peter. But this woman contacted Deadpool a long time ago, far before things started getting truly serious between the hero and the mercenary. She found her second husband, a high-profile business man, had been violently abusing her young children while she was not around. Real scum of the earth kind of guy.

She gave Deadpool as long as he needed to take care of it, preferring it to look like a mugging gone wrong. Peter would obviously disapprove—insisting it would not fix anything, would not make the poor kids any more whole for the man to die cruelly and far away without facing any real justice or consequence for what he did to them—making it the perfect job for Wade on this night. Because he so deeply wants to upset Peter, wants the man to ask him how he spent their hours apart so he could tell him exactly. No sugar coating, no beating around the bush—the plain, bloody truth. How the man wet his pants when Deadpool showed him his gun, how he spent his last moments blubbering and begging for his life. How this, to Wade, will always be true justice in action.

He hopes then that it will be Peter who starts the argument, wagging his finger at Wade like he is an impulsive child who does not know any better. And Wade will bring up MJ, who Peter is still clearly in love with, and there will be the yelling and the throwing of things, and when it is clear there is no resolution to be found, it will be Peter who tries to leave.

And Wade who does not let him go. 

The mercenary resists the urge to take Peter back from Sister Margaret’s and get his plan in motion. The more he can increase Peter’s ire, the better he thinks this will go. The more explosive Peter’s emotions, the more justified Wade’s response becomes. 

He sits at home without changing out of his bloodied suit, so excited for the end of the night when he will have Peter on the carpet squirming and crying to be let go that he has to periodically remind himself of why he is upset in the first place. Has to replace the fantasy of tears in Peter’s big, brown eyes and his wobbly bottom lip with that awestruck, infatuated look Wade watched him show to MJ. 

It works, somewhat. But the longer Wade waits, the less he has to make himself angry. He looks at the clock on the wall, finding it to be an hour past the time Peter usually finishes at Sister Margaret’s, and the fury that arises in his chest is completely natural. He gets up, pacing around the apartment, trying to decide his next move. Obviously Peter is out as Spider-Man, avoiding the problem he knows is waiting for him at home. Wade can go find him, drag him back to the apartment thrown over his shoulder and hog-tied, or he can stay. Wait.

Wade hates both options. So he finds a new one in breaking through the window of Weasel’s apartment, not far from Sister Margaret’s. He could use someone to talk to while time passes, even if that someone is Weasel, and Weasel might be the one person in the world who knows less about healthy relationships than Wade. His ‘girlfriends’ are always leaving him in the middle of the night after taking his credit cards or the keys to Sister Margaret’s register. He still likes to talk about the faith he has in the woman who did not even wait for him to fall asleep before leaving his apartment, just left him handcuffed to the headboard, coming back one day. And Wade would judge that sort of delusional optimism if he had any room to. Stranger things have happened—such as Spider-Man moving in with Deadpool. 

Weasel’s messy apartment is dark. Asleep. Wade walks into his bedroom and turns the lights on.

“W’da fuck?” the man groans, waking up slowly with no sense of urgency. Best as he can without his glasses on, he spots Wade standing in the doorway, fully suited up, and closes his eyes again in exasperation. “Wrong guy, pal.”

“Need your advice, Weasel. Feel free to assume how desperate my being here makes me.”

“I don’t know you.” He pulls his blankets over his head..

“Weasel,” says Wade. When the man does not reply, he jumps onto the bed. “Weasel,” he repeats, shaking the other man’s shoulders. “Weasel, wake up. Weasel, wake up. Wake up, Weasel. Weasel—”

“You fucking ass!” Weasel sits up abruptly, pushing Wade to the foot of his bed with as much strength as he can muster—which is not a lot. “First, you make me come into work on my day off. And then—”

“I did what?”

“Oh, I hate you, man. I actually despise you right now.” Weasel pinches his nose and keeps his eyes closed, like he wants to stay as close to sleep as he can. “Peter calls me halfway through his shift, says he needs to leave. I ask what’s wrong, he tells me just to get over there. Being the good boss I am, I don’t ask again. So for not even the last time in the past 24 hours apparently, I am forced out of my sleep. I find my bar in pandemonium, there’s fighting, there’s a fuck ton of blood, and no bartender. Peter’s locked himself in the backroom, or someone locked him in there—still not entirely sure. Anyway, he’s upset. Won’t stop repeating he has to go, he has to go, he can’t be here anymore, he has to go.” Weasel shakes his head. “I tell him he’s fine—because, again, I am an amazing boss—he can sneak out the back, but he’s gotta at least tell me what happened so I can begin to put things back together outside. He doesn’t reveal much, just that the fight might’ve started when he punched someone in the nose. And it’s your fault, Wade. I don’t know what you did, but I know you fucking did it—”

“I wasn’t even there!”

“Like that matters!” Weasel clucks his tongue. “Kid puts up with a whole lotta shit from those dudes. For this to be the first night that he lashes out, must be because something’s upsetting him outside the doors of the bar. I had a hunch it was you. And now you’re here, confirming my hunch, bothering me—”

“He was really that upset?”

“Uh, yuh-huh?” scoffs Weasel. “Did anything I just said sound like a good time to you?”

Wade shrugs. He is not happy to hear Peter was so distressed—possibly in danger—but it might have been nice to see him throw a dirty punch.

“If you came here for my advice on Peter, I don’t think I need to hear any details to know that you being anywhere except with him right now is the wrong place to be. He didn’t come home after leaving?” Wade shakes his head. “You poor bastard. I’d hate to be you right now.”

“Lotta empty space in this bed here, Weas.”

“Oh, is there? I’m glad you can still recognize that, ‘cause it sounds to me like an empty bed is exactly where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”

Wade scratches his head. “I’m starting to have a little trouble remembering if I came here to kill you or talk to you.”

“Sure, sure. Killin’ me’s sure to win Petey back.”

“He isn’t gone. We didn’t break up, and I don’t have to win him back anywhere. I’ll have you know, even though you seem to be so sure that I’m the one who messed up, I’m upset with him.”

Weasel looks at Wade for a drawn out, quiet while. “You’re a bigger idiot than I’ve always thought.”

“I’m getting out of here.” He jumps off the bed, goes for the open window with the broken lock. 

“The kid likes you,” Weasel says to his retreating back. “The reason why is beyond me. I’m sure it’s beyond you too, but that doesn’t mean you should let that cost yourself a good thing. And I know you know, at the very least, that it’s a good thing you have. So stop asking yourself why you have it and just enjoy it.” A beat. “And for the love of God, stop fucking with my bar.”

-

Peter comes home close to seven in the morning, four hours after he closed up Sister Margaret’s. He climbs through the living room window that Wade left unlocked, still in his suit. He spots Wade sitting at the kitchen table and tugs off his mask. His hair is wild and wet at the roots with sweat, blood dries around his nose, and there is no trace of defiance in him as he stumbles towards Wade. No disappointment or anger as he drops to his knees between Wade’s open legs, clearly close enough to smell the gunpowder and gore on him. There is as little question to what Wade has been out doing as there is for Peter. But Peter makes no mention of it as he nuzzles his cheek on Wade’s knee and starts slowly kissing up his thigh.

Wade forgets completely everything he thought he wanted to shout, every argument he crafted. He remembers what Weasel said to him and is no longer any semblance of upset as he threads his covered hand through Peter’s curls and holds it at the crown of his head, tugging a little. Peter’s breath hitches. Wade leans down, putting their faces close. 

“You have something you want to say to me, baby boy?”

“I love you,” he answers breathlessly. “I love you, Wade. And I hate when you’re upset. I hate working when you’re not there. I hate leaving work and you’re not there. I hate looking down at the streets and you’re not there. I hate—I hate being apart from you, Wade. Because I love you. I really, really do.” He pauses. And there are those tears brimming prettily on his waterline that Wade was so excited to see, but he likes the context of these so much better. This context—this mushy, emotional confession from Peter—far exceeds any mock scenario that Wade’s messed up, terrible mind can ever concoct. “And it’s not that I’m not lonely anymore. It’s more than that. It’s—it’s how you look after me, take care of me, forgive me—” he laughs, “—even when I don’t make it easy. It’s—Wade, it’s—”

“Who said you were forgiven?”

Peter blinks. “I… you. You five seconds from now, I was hoping. Unless it’s—I understand if this is too much for you. More than understand. Wade, if—if you want me to go, I… I’d do it. I’d go, faster than—”

“Why don’t you try?” says Wade. What Weasel does not know is that as much as Wade is waiting to be left, Peter is anticipating being told to go. It is why they fight, it is why they work, it is why things will not be fixed tomorrow, but they will still want one another. Care for one another. Love one another. “That’d be the best way to find out exactly what I think about you leaving, if you’re forgiven. All of it. Don’t you think?”

They are never going to be perfect. So let that be something they can use rather than worry over.

Peter sniffles. Then, curious, he pushes back on the hand Wade has wrapped in his curls. He finds the grip to be cemented, and a small smile breaks through his pitiful mood. He pushes back again, this time channeling a bit of his super-strength. Wade’s hold gives, and Peter has enough time to stand before Wade is doing the same, grabbing Peter by the neck and slamming his back onto the kitchen table.

“That’s all you got, Spider?” Wade growls.

“You honestly think you could handle my all, merc?”

“Try me, baby boy.”

It is all the permission Peter needs. He pulls the hand Wade has around his neck off just as he wraps lean, long legs around his waist. Wade waits in thrilled anticipation as Peter brings his head back, only slightly, and throws it against Wade’s forehead. The blow is effective—likely concussive to the average man— and knocks him off his balance. But Peter’s locked legs keep him from going too far.

Climbing onto him, elbows digging into Wade’s shoulders, Peter does it again. As Wade’s vision adjusts, the bruise on his brain healing, Peter uses his chest as a springboard. Wade is thrown into the kitchen island, and Peter lands gracefully in his signature squat on the table. “Way this is going,” he begins, not even tired and voice completely even. “I’ll be halfway outta the building before you even figure out what hit you.”

Cracking his knuckles, Wade laughs. “When I get my hands on you, baby, you’ll want the time you spent on that quip back to actually get halfway outta here.”

“Loud bark,” says Peter, grinning. “But I don’t think you got it in you to bite, dog.”

“You ever gonna find out? Or are you just gonna keep talking at me from all the way over there?”

Peter licks his lips, knowing he is being goaded. The game is to run, but Wade is trying to get him to attack. Peter usually likes to win, but the latter sounds more fun. He webs one of Wade’s ankles and yanks. The mercenary could have held his ground, but his legs go out from under him, and he falls easily onto his back. Too easily. Peter jumps over him, wanting his mask off so he can better predict Wade’s tactics—if he has any at all besides letting Spider-Man toss him around.

“Gotcha,” he chirps, taking a seat on Wade’s chest. He puts his feet flat on either side of the man’s head, using his enhanced abilities to grip the floor. Wade cannot rise as Peter unmasks him. “There you—”

Hands attach to Peter’s head from behind. Wade pulls down hard and fast, making Peter choose between keeping his feet gripped or losing a chunk of his hair. He chooses his hair. “‘Bout time somebody uses these pretty boy curls against you,” Wade huffs, forcing Peter against the kitchen tile. He grinds his knee into the small of Peter’s back, lifts him up quickly by his hair, and then taps his face softly against the floor—just to illustrate his point. Wade knows his opponent will not repair or recover rapidly and would use that knowledge against anyone but Peter. “Had enough yet, insect?”

“Arachnid.” 

“What was th—”

Peter lifts his hips, grabs Wade by the collar of his suit, and hurls his entire body over his shoulders. Wade lands stomach up with a thud that shakes the entire apartment, wind knocked out of him, both from the impact and from the first-hand demonstration of how strong Peter actually is. If Wade intends to win this, which he does, he supposes he will have to stop being so lenient. 

As Peter’s smiling, upside-down face comes to hover over Wade’s, he is met with a gun to the hairline.

Peter’s smile falls—Wade briefly wonders if he went too far—but it is back almost as fast as it left. “Aw,” he purrs. “Are you that scared of me, merc?”

“That’s an awfully smug way to concede.”

“Probably.” He nearly gives Wade a heart attack when he licks from Wade’s fingers around the weapon’s handle—intentionally nowhere near the trigger—all the way down the barrel. “You got me,” he says, kissing the tip of the gun before lowering to share with Wade the slightly metallic, oily taste lingering on his tongue. “Now, what are you gonna do with me?”

Wade puts his gun back in his belt, personally ready to have it as far from Peter as it can be. Peter makes a small noise akin to a whine as Wade sits up and grabs him roughly by the face. “Either there’s something terribly wrong with you that I’d be the devil to encourage,” Wade starts, pressing both his thumbs on Peter’s bottom lip. “Or God made you specifically for me.”

Peter sucks both digits into his mouth, and Wade finds his answer. 

“Both, then. Definitely both.”

He releases Peter’s face with a push, and as Peter falls back, Wade straddles his hips and shoves one thumb back in the hero’s mouth. “What do you think I should do with you, Spider?”

“Anything,” comes his garbled reply. “Whatever you want.”

Wade chuckles. “So slutty, baby.” He exchanges his thumb for his middle and ring finger, and slides them in and out of Peter’s slick mouth. “How ‘bout I show you just how much I want you to stay—how much I love you, too.”

“Oh.” Peter holds tenderly onto Wade’s wrist. He is drooling down his chin, but Wade swears he sees hearts in his eyes as they look up at him. “You big sap—f’k!”

Wade stuffs his fingers all the way to the back of Peter’s throat. The man gags, his gag reflex far from as trained as Wade’s. “But you’re gonna have to be good,” says Wade in a low tone. “Keep that mouth of yours under control, or else I’m not gonna be too nice to you anymore. You understand what I’m saying, baby?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says, head bobbing. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good boy. Very good boy.” He flips Peter onto his stomach and pulls him up by the hips so he is on his hands and knees. Wade acknowledges the harshness of the kitchen tile and tugs Peter’s hips again to rest atop Wade’s lap. Their aching groins are flush, and Peter’s chest is flat on the floor. Wade tugs the bottom of Peter’s suit down just enough to uncover his ass and pull out his cock. He will never quite get over this unfettered access he has to Spider-Man’s perfect butt—his tight hole, his almost overly sensitive sweet spot. It blesses him beyond measure, certainly beyond deserving. 

“Can’t believe this is my first time fucking you in your suit, baby.”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter. “Be careful with it.” 

Wade brings his palm down on Peter’s ass hard—a little payback for the two headbutts. The next four hits that he lands are for his own pleasure, and a follow through on his promise to teach Peter a lesson if he does not watch his words. Because he supposes he has been too lenient with the hero, and the way Peter’s body jerks every time his hand makes contact—each strike more shocking than the last—has Wade ready to come in his suit. 

“Oh, my God,” Peter whimpers as soon as he gets a moment of reprieve. His left cheek, which received a disproportionate amount of the strikes, glowing a pretty shade of red.

“Not my name, baby,” says Wade as he spits in his hand, grabs some pre-come from Peter’s hard, leaking cock, and shoves two fingers inside Peter’s hole. He does not even tense like the first few times Wade did this to him, does not cry out in surprise. Instead, his body opens for Wade, and all that leaves his parted lips is a long, high-pitched sigh. “You like that?”

“Yeah, daddy. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Wade mimics, replicating Peter’s drawl. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?” He fits in his third finger. “I could leave that wide door open, and you’d stay right where you are, huh?” Receiving only heavy breaths in response, Wade spanks him again. “C’mon, baby. Talk to me.”

“No. No. ‘M not goin’ anywhere. I’m staying—I’m staying right here.”

“That’s what I thought.” Gently, Wade removes his fingers and picks Peter’s lower half off his lap, setting him flat on the floor. “Who else’s gonna fuck you like this?” He unzips his suit and pulls himself out. 

Peter looks back at Wade over his shoulder, pupils blown. “Nobody.”

“‘S right.” They hold each other’s eyes as Wade enters Peter slowly and fully. They speak without words, without sound beyond moans, but Wade knows what they are saying—the two sentiments transmitting between them. I trust you, he hears Peter say. And I love you, Wade says in reply.

-

Wade calls out of Peter’s shift at Sister Margaret’s for him. 

After finishing round one in the kitchen, Wade takes Peter to bed and tells him he is not leaving Wade’s side for the rest of the day. Peter mentions that good as that sounds, he is unfortunately working again tonight.

“Where’s your phone?” asks Wade.

“On the cord, but—”

Wade kisses him into silence and then flips him onto his stomach. They are both naked, suits in a pile by the stove. Wade rocks into him slowly, feeling his body adjust, gradually making way. And when Peter is practically singing into his pillow, Wade reaches for his phone charging on the nightstand. 

Peter never told Wade his password, but Wade figured it out. Knowing that he knows, Peter has not changed it. Wade punches in Aunt May’s scrambled birthday on the screen and finds Weasel’s number in the contact list. 

“Hey, kid,” comes the man’s voice after a couple of rings. He sounds high. He probably is, spending his Saturday on his couch, enjoying the company of his bong. “You feelin’ any better?”

“Hey, man.”

“Wade?” Weasel asks at the same time Peter does. 

“What are you–mmpf!” Wade presses down on the back of Peter’s head, stuffing his face into the pillows. Peter does not fight back.

“Peter can’t come in tonight.”

Weasel sighs. “Is that his choice? Or do I need to send a SWAT team to your apartment to save that poor boy?”

“No need, Weasel! TTYL!”

“I hate you so–”

Wade hangs up, throws the phone to the side, and focuses wholly on giving Peter a good, fast, early morning dicking down. He gets Peter to come three more times before Peter has to grab him by the shoulders and say, “Wade, I love you, but if you don’t get the hell off me right now, your jaw is going to find out first hand what it feels like when I don’t pull my punches.”

“Oh, God, baby boy, yes please—”

“Off!” Peter is on his stomach, limp and near useless. But he manages to spare a bit of energy, reaching back to slap Wade’s excited hands away from his butt. “Off, off, off!”

Wade amusedly obeys, understanding that while Peter’s stamina is heightened by his healing factor, it is not at all as fast as Wade’s. He plants a kiss on the crown of Peter’s sweaty head and goes into the room’s adjoining bathroom, not wanting to go as far as the kitchen in case the other man recovers and calls Wade over. He cups his hands under the sink faucet and gulps water from them. Wade is about to bring Peter his own handful when he makes the mistake of catching his reflection in the mirror—something he is usually good at avoiding. But his guard has significantly lowered since the first time he and Peter kissed.

Despite all they have spoken over, been through, fucked out, Wade cannot help but stare at himself for a long moment and wonder again, what is Peter thinking? Good, heroic, pretty Peter making it do with him? Wade. Deadpool. It does not make much sense at all. It never has outside of their intimate moments. As Wade drops the water in his hands into the sink basin and looks deeply at his scarred, ruined, bare body, the only explanation he can think of is that Peter is so much lonelier than either of them are willing to admit.

He must be with Wade because Wade is the only choice he has been given since a spell removed him from the lives of everyone he ever knew and loved.

But if the spell were to one day lift…

Peter loved MJ terribly. He still does, even if he insists on it being something he will not once again pursue. He still aches and agonizes over everything they could have had—everything Peter gave up and continues to give up to protect her. It is clearly a persevering love though Peter will not say it aloud. And Wade… how much further could Wade be from her? In appearance, in character, in significance to Peter. If MJ one day called on him by name, would Wade have any right, any reason to ask Peter not to go?

Wade should ask Peter to leave, now and then—should apologize for letting the relationship go this far and offer all the help he can give in finding Peter a new place and moving him into it. But that is not what Wade wants. What Wade wants is to keep Peter close, to place him behind locked doors and closed windows so that it is only Wade that Peter lovingly aches and agonizes over. He wants to make MJ not even a memory, but just as much a stranger to Peter as he is to her.

And it is this want exactly that makes him so undeserving of the hero—of his tolerance, his company, his affections. Wade is too ugly, in mind and body, to ever be someone with which Peter chooses to stay. 

Knocking but not waiting, Peter comes into the bathroom a few minutes, hours, days later. He has put on one of Wade’s large hoodies and goes for the wet wipes on the counter, aiming to clean off the come drying on the inside of his thighs. But when he spots Wade’s expression in the mirror, he stops what he is doing and makes a gentle cooing noise. “I didn’t mean to sound so rough out there,” he whispers, curling his warm body around Wade’s back, pressing three kisses down his spine. “It just really felt like for a second there that my ass was going to fall off. I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset.”

“If she remembered everything tomorrow, what would happen then?”

Peter hums against Wade’s back, not thrown off by the sudden question. Almost like he had been expecting it. “I don’t know.”

“Really?” asks Wade, strongly disliking that answer.

“Yeah. Or—no, not that I don’t know. I won’t know. It’s not going to happen. It won’t ever happen, so I don’t really spend much time wondering—worrying over the possibility.” He pauses. “At least not anymore. Not since I met you, Wade.”

“Humor me.”

Peter shakes his head. “I would if you were being funny. But you’re not. You’re only torturing yourself, and I don’t want to be part of it.”

“I bet there’s a way out there to do it. I bet if you really let yourself look for a way to bring back their memories, you’d find it. You could have your old life back, everything you’ve been missing, but instead you’re here. Wasting time at that stupid bar… wasting time with me.”

“Don’t say things like that, Wade. Please. There’s never been a moment where it felt even relatively close to wasting my time when I’ve been with you.” He tightens his arms around Wade’s middle. “Wasting my time was all I was doing before I met you—really met you. You know that. You saw me—you saw how I was when all I wanted, all I could think about was getting my old life back. It disturbed you. Just from the look in my eyes, you assumed I was out to hurt someone—hurt MJ. And I’d never, I’d die before I thought of ever raising a hand against her, but… there was something happening to me then. Something was changing—I was changing into someone I never, ever want to be… and you pulled me out of that, Wade.” 

The mercenary drums his fingers against the sink, head still lowered, still hiding from his reflection. Peter has to stand on the tips of his toes to see over Wade’s shoulder, to see the both of them in the bathroom mirror. He unhooks one arm from around Wade’s waist and runs his fingers slowly down the length of Wade’s neck. “I don’t know what becomes of my old life from here on, but I know I don’t have it anymore. I can’t snap it back, I can’t go back in time and change the choice I made. And that must be for some reason. Reason which is… harder to understand some days, easier on others. But that also means I’m not here, I’m not with you just to pass time. I’m here for a reason as well. I don’t know what it is completely, can’t put it into words, but I can feel it, Wade. I can feel that it’s right, and it’s good, and I want it for as long as I can have it.” He runs both hands slowly from Wade’s shoulders to his tight grip on the porcelain basin. Peter places his slender fingers between Wade’s, hooks his thumbs around Wade’s wrists. “Can you feel it, too?”

Wade lifts his gaze, finding Peter’s brown eyes peeking over Wade’s much larger frame. They almost glitter, and his touch is both so sincere and so warm that Wade realizes instantly what a fool he is being. Thinking so heavily about his own doubts, his own flaws, his own insecurities when Peter is right here—not gone, not trying to run—pressed flush against his back, speaking to him softly and sweetly. And sure, the issue of Peter’s lost life is a grey area in their relationship, but Peter is right when he says there is no way of knowing what will become of it, what to do with it. So why waste time worrying over it? 

Time Wade can spend talking to Peter, holding Peter, enjoying Peter. 

And there is little else that Wade knows more personally than nothing is ever permanent, nothing ever stays—but the future is unmade, and the present is Peter’s chin hooked in the nape of his neck, waiting to hear what it is Wade feels for him.

“Yes,” he answers, squeezing Peter’s fingers once between his own before turning around. He clutches Peter’s hips and pulls them close so they are touching again—skin to skin, flesh against flesh. Peter puts both of his hands flat against Wade’s chest and looks up at him with a small smile on his perfect, lovely face. “You’re all that I’ve been able to feel for weeks—months. And it stresses me out a bit, maybe a lot. Because even if you didn’t have this remarkably tragic backstory, you’d still be you. You’d still be the self-sacrificing hero with the pretty face and tiny waist and perfect ass—”

“Oh, good God,” Peter sighs, making a half-hearted effort to pull away. Wade does not allow it. 

“And I’d still be me,” continues Wade. “And I might live forever—I’m not really sure, but I don’t think even that would be enough time for me to deserve you.”

“Wade,” Peter begins kindly. “You might be putting me on a bit of a pedestal. I’m not—I’m really not that great.”

“You saying that aligns perfectly with my point, B-T-Dubs.”

He shakes his head. “You know, you said it yourself that night I first took my mask off for you. ‘Even Spider-Man doesn’t have it figured out’, or whatever—”

“I was angry.”

“You were right,” insists Peter. “My life is a constant series of fuck-ups, atoning for those fuck-ups, and then fucking up again. It’s sweet how kindly you view me, but I think you’re just showing me all the grace you deprive yourself of. And it’s a lot. Maybe too much, Wade.” He splays out his fingers on Wade’s chest. “And don’t get me wrong, I don’t love your job, but I love you, Wade. Your job doesn’t define you, not completely. Just like—just like being a hero, or former Avenger, or whatever, doesn’t mean I’m not a mess.” He shrugs. “I don’t just think you have the capacity to be good, I think you are good. In your own way. And there’s no one way to define ‘good’, just like there isn’t one description of a fulfilling, sound relationship. We’re still figuring things out. But we can figure those things out together.” A beat passes. Peter looks coyly up at Wade through his thick lashes. "If you'd have me."

Forever and always, Wade thinks. But aloud, he just says, "Yes."