The first time Deadpool kisses him, it isn’t perfect. That’s probably because it isn’t exactly a kiss.
“Thanks for your help,” Peter is saying, admiring the stunned muggers all wrapped up in webbing. “It was kinda fun tackling small fry with a sidekick. Sometimes it gets monotonous.”
“Sidekick?” Deadpool muses, striding toward him. “You’re the sidekick.”
“Don’t think so,” Peter retorts, moving backward because hello, personal space. “This is my turf, remember?”
Deadpool keeps coming, forcing Peter to backpedal to the alley wall. “No way, you’re the sidekick. Look at your flashy costume — all red and blue.” He strikes a pose, waving vaguely at Peter’s outfit. “Sidekicks always get the flashier costumes, because they haven’t become broken, bitter, hollow shells of men yet.”
“Dude,” Peter laughs, but he can’t remember what he was going to say because somehow, Deadpool has him so far up against the wall that he’s instinctively started to inch up the brick. “Hey—”
Deadpool kisses him — or tries to. The masks make it difficult, but Deadpool doesn’t lift his and Peter is too stunned to do anything. So they end up rubbing their covered mouths together in a vague approximation, Deadpool’s hands on either side of Peter’s head. He can feel the heat of Deadpool — Wade’s — lips, and Peter finds himself opening his mouth even though—
“Aw, come on!” one of the muggers pleads. “You already caught us, man, don’t make us watch you get it on in the alley.”
And, well. That’s the end of that.
The second time happens after an impromptu training exercise. And by “training exercise” Peter means, “Wade decided to chase him across the rooftops of Manhattan.” Possibly because he was bored. Or maybe just because he felt like being irritating.
“Neither,” Wade confesses when they’re pressed together against a water tower. “I was checking out your moves.”
“Again?” Peter breathes, and catches Wade’s wrists when the other’s hands go for his mask. “Don’t, man.”
But Wade doesn’t back down. “Shh, shh,” he demurs, “trust me. I’m a professional.” And then he takes hold of Peter’s mask, peeling it off inch by inch, until it’s bunched up under his nose.
Peter feels exposed; he swallows hard. His fingers are still curled around Wade’s wrists. Wade stares at him for a few moments, and then does the same to his own mask. Peter finds himself staring at the scarred mouth, expecting something smart-assed or dismissive to come out of it. Wade only leans in, stopping with a chuckle just short of contact. Peter blinks, and realizes he’s preemptively tilted his head for the kiss.
“What’s so funny?” Peter demands. They’re so close that his lips ghost over Wade’s when he talks.
“Nothing,” the other man replies, and licks Peter’s bottom lip.
“This doesn’t get you into the Spidey-cave,” Peter stipulates, even as he wraps his arms around Wade’s waist.
“Can I convince you?”
But then in the distance, someone screams, and it’s business as usual.
“I love this building,” Wade is saying, standing near the edge and overlooking the streets. “It gives you a beautiful view of the Dakota. Which one’s Yoko’s?”
They’ve been standing here for ten minutes, ostensibly admiring the city sights, and Peter is getting impatient. “Deadpool.”
“Does she really still live there, or does everyone just pretend she does?”
“I’ve always wanted to live in a building like that. I’d start my own sitcom. Deadpool’s Dakota. The main character—”
Peter snaps, marching over and grabbing Wade’s arm. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
Wade instantly brightens. “Oh, of course! I was just waiting for something to go wrong,” he explains, already pulling at his mask. “Things tend to go wrong at important climaxes like this, so I was preparing for the worst.”
Peter rolls his eyes, tugging his mask up. “You still can’t come home with me,” he says.
“We’ll see,” Wade promises, and proceeds to kiss the life out of him.