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baby, i’d victoria your secret anytime

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It says a lot about Peter’s life that when he clambers into the living room window of his own apartment at four in the morning and sees Deadpool making pancakes in the kitchen, it’s not the weirdest thing to happen to him all week.

It’s not even the twelfth weirdest thing. He has no idea how the guy keeps getting in. It happens often enough that it stopped being annoying a long time ago, and now it’s just sort of…nice. When he’s not trying to kill people Deadpool makes bizarrely good company, and Peter’s just pathetic enough to take companionship where he can get it.

Plus, pancakes. Everyone likes pancakes.

What is weird--and it takes Peter’s brain a second to catch up, because (a) he’s tired, and (b) what the fuck--is that Deadpool isn’t wearing any pants. Or much of anything, really.

Nearly naked Deadpool.

Kitchen.

Four AM.

Pancakes.

Okay, this is maybe the twelfth weirdest thing to happen to Peter all week.

“Hey, baby boy!” Deadpool--Wade--calls over his shoulder. Wade’s still got his mask on, tugged down to about the level of his nose, but Peter finds it pretty much impossible to think of him as “Deadpool” when there’s that much skin on display. “I’m making Mickey Mouse™ pancakes. Pretty cool, right? And Disney can’t even sue because I pronounced the ™ correctly and everything.”

“Uh huh,” Peter says. He peels off his own mask and runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, wearily staggers from the living room into the kitchen proper. “Please tell me there’s still beer in my fridge.”

“Petey, Petey, Petey,” Wade says. Sometimes, Peter thinks Wade just likes the sound of his name. “Petey. Beer and pancakes do not a proper breakfast make.”

“Says who?”

“Says Martha Stewart.”

“What?” Peter blinks. “Since when do you watch Martha Stewart?”

Wade half-turns from Peter’s tiny stove to grin at him, says, “Nah, just fuckin’ with you, I’m a Gordon Ramsay guy all the way,” and Peter’s brain suddenly short-circuits because he was completely and utterly mistaken about his earlier impression re: Wade’s lack of clothing.

Wade is…Wade is wearing panties. And a matching bra.

They’re pink.

“You…” Peter’s mouth is so dry that it might as well be the Sahara, and he feels like the world’s biggest creeper because he can’t stop staring. “Wade, what are you wearing?”

“What, this?” Wade looks down, takes in the ensemble like he’s just now noticed it, then shrugs. “Everything else is in the wash.”

And because Peter’s known Wade for a while now, he can maybe see how this makes sense--like, maybe Wade has a thing about going commando and just happened to have an old girlfriend’s panties lying around, one thing led to another…but…

“And the bra?” Peter croaks.

Wade just gives him a look, like Peter’s grown a second head or toads are falling out of his mouth or something. “It’s a matched set,” he says. “What was I supposed to do, just not wear it?”

Yes, Peter thinks faintly, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do, and he has no idea why this is fucking with him so badly. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Wade in various states of undress before. For someone who’s so skittish about his face he’s shockingly immodest when it comes to the rest of his body, and Peter’s just quietly accepted the fact that having Wade hang around his apartment means there’s going to be a lot more scarred skin and muscle on display than usual.

Which is cool, really. It’s not like Peter looks or anything.

Much.

And even if he does look (which he doesn’t, he really doesn’t!), it’s not weird because it’s all in the name of…of professional interest.

Right. Professional.

This, though. Pink little boyshorts and a scrap of a bra, silky-looking fabric and lace edging. It should look ridiculous. It should look absolutely ridiculous, because there’s not a feminine bone in Wade’s body--the guy’s huge, he’s all planes and angles and flat, hard muscle--but instead of being ridiculous the juxtaposition between the femininity of the underthings and Wade’s solidity is just…

Really, really hot.

Peter swallows hard and gives silent thanks to the protective cup of his suit, because this has the potential to get very awkward, very fast. “So, I, uh,” he stutters. Stop staring at Wade’s ass, stop staring at Wade’s ass… “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

And maybe jerk off, he adds mentally. A lot.

“Suit yourself.” Wade shrugs and turns back to the stove. He flips the current pancake, and Peter isn’t jealous at ALL of the fact that it lands perfectly instead of hitting the fan above the stove. “But don’t expect Mickey Mouse™ when you’re done, mi amigo. This is a one-time deal. After this batch, it’s regular ol’ sadness flapjacks for you. Not that flapjacks are sad. Or that mine are sad, because mine are awesome. But seeing as you could be eating the head of Mickey Mouse™--”

He’s wearing stockings, Peter realizes abruptly. Jesus fucking Christ.

Wade’s still talking about the damn pancakes, but Peter’s more or less tuned him out. He’s horribly fascinated by the way the muscles are shifting in Wade’s back beneath the slim bra-straps as he moves, the flex of his legs in the sheer stockings. Peter’s frontal lobe makes a pretty valiant attempt to point out Wade’s many and varied faults--and there are a lot, seriously, he could write a novel--which range from the practical (Wade does deeply questionable things for money) to the downright mean (dude looks pretty fucked up, and that’s on a good day), but his hindbrain helpfully reminds him that Wade’s been trying to be a better person, and honestly, Peter stopped caring about his looks a long-ass time ago.

It was probably around the time that Wade decided that his mask and a pair of boxers was perfectly acceptable loungewear for marathon Fallout 3 sessions, come to think of it.

Wade makes an irritated noise, pauses in his diatribe, and slides a finger beneath the hem of the panties where they’ve ridden up to tug them back into place, and everything in Peter’s mind goes kind of slow-motion for a second. He’s across the room before he’s entirely aware of moving.

“Uhhh,” Wade says. He hasn’t tried to gut Peter or elbow him in the head or anything, so that’s probably a good sign. “Not sure if you know this already, but you’re…kind of breathing on me.”

Creeper! Peter thinks, his hands on Wade’s hips and his mouth just brushing the skin of his bare shoulder. Creeper, creeper, creeper!

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and utterly fails to move away.

This close, Wade smells kind of incredible, like blood and spice and skin and gunpowder, like maple syrup from the batch of pancakes he must’ve made before Peter got home. It’s a combination that shouldn’t make Peter want to rub helplessly against him, but--well. He feels like he should try to make this casual somehow (as opposed to really, horribly weird), but he can’t seem to pull away, can’t stop skating his fingers over the satiny fabric stretched tight over Wade’s hips.

There’s…probably no way to make this casual, not at this point. He might as well just dry-hump the guy already so they can get to the punching-Peter-in-the-head stage of things and forget about it already.

Peter Parker: King of Terrible Life Choices. He really needs to get laid.

Wade’s gone very still and very tense. “Mind control,” he says finally. His voice is low, rougher than usual, and Peter suddenly--desperately--wants to hear that voice saying his name. “Or…sex pollen? That’s a thing, right?”

“It is a thing,” Peter tells him. He drags one hand over the scarred flesh of Wade’s stomach and chest and skates his fingers over the cup of the bra, which is little more than a scrap of lace and satin. Does it again when Wade’s breathing stutters. “Not this thing, though.”

“Blackmail?” Wade suggests. His voice is more than a little unsteady, hitches when Peter mouths the strap of the bra over his shoulderblade and presses his tongue to the skin there. “Or, or. I know. A bet.” He grunts in surprise when Peter uses his teeth, and now he sounds a trifle desperate. “A dare.”

Like these are the only reasons he can think of for Peter to willingly touch him.

“No,” Peter says. He rests his forehead against the back of Wade’s neck and gulps, tries to get his breathing under control. Unfortunately, his hands have found Wade’s hips again, the silky little panties and the firm muscle beneath, and that’s really not helping the situation any. Wade’s got an amazing ass.

“No,” he says again. “It’s not any of those things.”

“Then what?” Wade’s all but growling now. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty fond of the epic bromance we’ve been developing over the past year or so, but you’ve made it quite clear that you’re not into brokebacking my mountain.”

Peter snorts helplessly. The fact that Wade can say something like that and Peter still wants to do incredibly inappropriate things to him is all the proof he needs that this is the real deal.

“Right, because you’ve made your interest so incredibly obvious,” he says, pressing a kiss onto Wade’s shoulder, and jerks back in surprise when Wade turns around to face him. Wade is frowning, and Peter’s stomach sinks. The expression is pretty much the last one Peter wants to see given their current situation.

“I made you pancakes,” Wade says. His voice is quiet, and Peter realizes he’s not frowning so much as looking at Peter really, really intently. This would probably be a lot easier if he’d just take off the damn mask already. His hands move from Peter’s shoulders to his chest to his shoulders again, like he’s not sure where to put them; when he finally does settle somewhere, it’s to cup Peter’s face between his palms, like Peter is something terribly precious.

Peter’s heart gives a weird little lurch, and he feels kind of like the world’s biggest asshole.

He’s also still hard, which isn’t helping either.

“And I didn’t stab anything when you wanted to watch the prequel films during our Star Wars marathon,” Wade continues, “(which, trust me, I totally should’ve), and I started Taco Tuesday because you were sad that one time and I didn’t spoil you for anything in Portal 2 even though I beat it, like, way before you did--“

“Wade.”

“--and I say nice things about your butt.”

“You say nice things about everyone’s butt,” Peter feels obligated to point out. “It’s practically your thing.”

“But I say the nicest things about yours,” Wade says patiently, and…okay, from a Wade point of view Peter can see how this might, in fact, be a pretty blatant declaration of interest.

He says, “Oh.”

Wade leans in until their foreheads are touching. “Spider-kid,” he says, very seriously, “I have wanted to get my teeth in that thing since I saw it. I don’t make pancakes for just anyone, you know.”

It’s a million kinds of wrong that Peter finds this touching.

Also, sort of hot.

Peter strokes the lace edging of the panties with his thumbs and drags his palms over the sharp edges of Wade’s hipbones. He keeps his eyes on Wade’s when he does it--although he’s getting increasingly desperate to know if Wade is as hard as he is, he doesn’t want to be that guy--and is rewarded when Wade’s mouth drops open and he sucks in a deep, shuddery breath. Yup, he thinks smugly. Wade’s definitely affected too.

“So the bra and panties…?” Peter says.

“Laundry day,” Wade says, and somehow manages a shaky grin. “If I’d known it would get you going like this, I would’ve done laundry a lot sooner. And a lot more often.”

Peter’s voice is ragged. “And the stockings?”

Wade’s grin turns predatory and he catches Peter’s lower lip with his thumb, presses until Peter’s caught between the urge to bite or suck. “They make my legs feel silky smooth.”

Jesus fuck.

Peter yanks Wade’s hips against his at the same time their mouths crash together. He’s honestly not sure which of them instigates the kiss, but it doesn’t matter: it’s clearly the best idea they’ve ever had. Wade kisses with the singular focus he lacks in almost every other area of his life, all tongue and teeth and toe-curling want, and Peter is very quickly reduced to a boneless, weak-kneed mess. Wade kisses like he means it (and if the hardness against Peter’s belly is any indication then he really, seriously means it), and Peter wants to do things to him. Filthy things.

Preferably when he’s still in those fucking panties, but Peter’s not going to be picky at this point.

He doesn’t even realize he’s saying most of this out loud until Wade utters a shaky groan and bites at his jaw, his throat, muttering, “Fuck, and everyone thinks I’m the mouthy one. You’re killing me, Pete.”

“I bet I can think of a use for your mouth,” Peter gasps, and this has the awesome effect of making Wade laugh and moan at the same time, like he thinks Peter is an absolute idiot but is too turned on to care. “I love your mouth. You have an amazing mouth! And you never shut up, never, and sometimes when you're talking all I want to do is grab your head and--“

He breaks off with a high, breathless sound as Wade hefts him like he doesn’t weigh a thing, crosses the kitchen in four long strides and pins Peter to the wall.

“Don't stop talking,” Wade says. God, his voice is wrecked. His eyes are wide and wild and hungry, and Peter’s really glad that one of them got his mask off, because…wow. “Vote’s three to one. Don’t stop talking or I will murder you.”

“No you won’t,” Peter says, scrabbling at his suit because it needs to be off, like, yesterday. “You love me too much,” and for a moment there’s something so startled and so terrifyingly open in Wade’s expression that Peter’s not sure if he wants to take it back or say it again. He settles for dragging Wade in for another kiss instead, for wrapping his legs around Wade’s waist and grinding against his stomach because he hasn’t gotten the rest of the suit off and he hates its protective cup more than he’s ever hated anything in his entire life.

When Wade pulls back, Peter clutches at his shoulders and whines, terrible and needy and ohgod so fucking humiliating, but Wade just roughly pets his stomach and rasps, “Relax, Petey, I gotcha,” before yanking what remains of Peter’s suit down to his knees.

Oh, Peter thinks dizzily, yes, okay, this is a development I can get behind.

Peter would’ve expected Wade to swoop back in the second Peter’s pants were off, but to his surprise the mercenary hangs back a moment. Looking. His eyes are dark, pupils so blown that there’s barely any blue left, and Peter can’t help but think about what he must look like: clinging desperately to the wall, the remainder of his suit jumbled around his knees, eyes wide and chest heaving, so hard it fucking hurts. An embarrassed flush crawls hotly from his stomach to his face.

“Ain’t you just a picture,” Wade says, something funny and soft in his voice. “If I carried a wallet, I’d keep you tucked away in it.”

There are a lot of things Peter wants to say to that--smooth things, sexy things, things that will make Wade’s expression heat up even more and get him back between Peter’s thighs where he belongs. What he does say is, “You do too have a wallet. It has Captain America on it.”

--because he is an idiot.

But Wade just grins at him, slow and easy and hungry. “I’m gonna need your camera later, then.”

Oh my god, Peter thinks, giddy with arousal and relief. We’re soul-mates!. Aloud, he says, “You. Over here. Now,” before kicking his pants all the way off. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to need them anymore.

Wade slides forward until they’re almost but not quite touching and braces his forearms against the wall on either side of Peter’s head. His expression has gone serious again, and he’s searching Peter’s face like he’s looking for the answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask.

“You’re still gonna respect me in the morning, right?” Peter quips, because the way Wade’s looking at him makes him think that Wade’s wondering if Peter’s going to respect him ever, and that’s not only a total boner-killer but also really fucking sad.

Wade blinks and his pensive expression fades. “Heh,” he says. “Not a chance, you kinky little bastard.”

The way Wade’s looking at him now makes him flush, makes his belly quiver and his thighs fall open just a bit more. Peter honestly can’t remember a time when he was more turned on, or more painfully aware of his own inexperience.

“I’m not kinky,” he says. “I just--“ and breaks off with a groan when Wade just quirks an eyebrow and finally--finally!--rocks their hips together just so. The satin fabric that felt so good under his fingers feels amazing on his dick, and – yup, that is definitely Wade’s erection right there, is it ever, Peter’s just going to rub himself against that until he comes or dies or spontaneously combusts, whichever comes first. He bangs his head against the wall behind him and whimpers. “--ohsweetfuckingChrist, okay, maybe I’m kinky as shit. Don’t judge me.”

“Judge if I want,” Wade mutters, and works his way up Peter’s exposed throat with his lips and tongue and teeth until Peter is shuddering and digging his fingernails into Wade’s shoulders. “’S’three of us in here--could be judge, jury ‘n executioner, make one hell of a tv show--“

“Oh my God, shut up,” Peter gasps, “shut up, shut up,” and moans when Wade snaps his hips and grins fiercely against his mouth.

Make me,” Wade says. Rolls his hips again, tangles his fingers in Peter’s hair and tugs his head back to lick a hot stripe up Peter’s throat, bites. Peter’s beginning to suspect Wade has a thing about his neck. “C’mon, Spidey-kid, let’s see what you’ve got. Put your money where your sweet little mouth is.”

Well, that’s a challenge if Peter’s ever heard one. He braces his feet and shoves forward off the wall, launching himself at the other man. It’s immediately apparent that Wade didn’t actually expect him to do anything, because instead of catching him Wade makes a startled noise and goes over backward, taking Peter with him. They crash to the kitchen floor--and if Peter’s downstairs neighbors didn’t hate him before, they definitely do now--and lay there dazed for a moment, Wade on his back and Peter sprawled unceremoniously on top of him. Finally, Peter pushes up onto his hands, blinks down at Wade below.

“That,” he says ruefully, “didn’t exactly go the way I’d planned.”

Wade stares at him, and bursts out laughing. Peter can’t help but laugh too: it’s that or go hide in a closet somewhere out of shame, and laughing is definitely the preferable option of the two. After a moment, Wade trails off and raises one hand to Peter’s cheek.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “He is kind of a dumbfuck.” There’s so much fondness in his voice that Peter doesn’t have the heart to ask who in the hell he’s talking to.

Wade’s still talking, carrying on a conversation that apparently only he can hear. “I do still like him,” he says, and the only reply Peter can think of for that is to lean down and kiss him, very softly, with lots of tongue.

Wade makes a low, pleased rumble and kisses him back, brings up his other hand to Peter’s bare hip. Slowly, the kiss gets wetter and a little filthier; Wade’s touching him everywhere, restlessly sliding his hands over Peter’s skin like he can’t decide what he wants to touch the most. Any other day, Peter would be hopelessly embarrassed about the desperate little noises that are catching in the back of his throat, cut-off moans and whimpers that make him sound like the pathetic virgin he so totally is, but every time his breath hitches Wade’s kiss gets a little messier and his touch gets a little rougher, and it occurs to him that Wade is getting off on this, is getting off on the way Peter is slowly but surely falling apart, and that’s…well, the word “awesome” comes to mind.

“Wade,” Peter says. His hips jerk a little helplessly when this earns him a groan and a full-body shudder. He presses his face into Wade’s shoulder, grinding shamelessly against his stomach and probably smearing precome everywhere. The pressure of Wade’s still-clothed dick against his ass is driving him insane. “Wade, I need to, please--“ And he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, not really, because he’s so fucking close that it’s not like it’s going to take much to push him over the edge, but there’s still something that he just…something--

“Shh.” Wade’s lips are against his temple, his breath hot on Peter’s skin. “Shhh, it’s cool. I gotcha, remember?”

And then he’s sliding a hand between their bodies and wrapping his fingers around Peter’s dick, and all it takes is three quick, firm strokes and the catch of his thumb before Peter’s shaking apart, crying out against Wade’s neck as he comes all over his hand and stomach.

Wade flips them over before he’s done coming down, braces himself over Peter with one arm. “Sorry, baby boy,” he mutters. “You’re too much, I gotta--“ and Peter watches, a little dazed, as he yanks the panties down just far enough to get his other fist around his cock. His hand is still slippery with Peter’s come, and he starts jerking himself fast and hard, the pace almost punishing. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants from between his clenched teeth.

Holy shit, Peter thinks. That’s because of me. He reaches up to touch Wade’s cheek, but Wade makes a low, pained noise and turns his face away.

Peter feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “Wade.”

“Don’t--” Wade pants, and infuriatingly ups the pace, like he’s trying to speed up his orgasm so they don’t need to have this conversation. “Don’t--don’t want you seeing…”

Peter grabs his head and kisses him fiercely, keeps on kissing him until Wade groans and shudders and starts to lose his rhythm.

“You asshole,” Peter says against his mouth. “You made me pancakes. I practically dry-humped you because you wore ladies underwear. Of course I want to fucking see.

He pulls back and meets Wade’s eyes, and has maybe a second to see the complete and utter surprise there before Wade is throwing his head back and groaning his release. It’s incredibly hot, and also incredibly messy, and Peter’s definitely going to make Wade help him clean up because, well, kitchen. He eats here.

Well, he prepares food here.

At least, he stands in front of the fridge and eats leftover takeout straight from the box here.

Hygiene!

Wade grunts and rolls off of Peter and onto his back. He’s got come all over his belly and the panties are a wreck; looking at him, Peter wonders if Wade’s healing factor applies to his refractory period as well as everything else, because that? Would be amazing. As if he senses Peter watching him, Wade opens his eyes. For a brief moment he looks nervous, and then his expression quickly shuts down into one that’s cool and borderline hostile.

“Don’t tell me you’re regretting it already,” he says as he pushes into a sitting position. “Most people give me a courtesy hour at least before they kick my ass out of bed (or off the kitchen floor, as the case may be) and start whining about it being a mistake.”

“What?” Startled, Peter sits up too. “No! That’s not--what are you talking about?”

“You were looking at me,” Wade says, like that explains everything. “When sex is concerned, that doesn’t usually lead anywhere good.”

Peter suddenly and desperately wants to punch everyone that Wade has ever slept with right in their stupid faces. “Actually,” he says, “I was wondering how long it would be before you could get it up again.”

Wade blinks, looking a little lost. “You…what?”

“Because I want to blow you,” Peter clarifies. “Only it would be kind of weird if you were soft the whole time, so. Recovery time.”

Wade is still staring at him. “Seriously?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve never given a blowjob before, but I imagine it would be weird if the other person wasn’t hard, because they’d be all kinda…flopping around and--“

“Stop talking.”

“--falling out of your mouth when you were trying to get things going--“

“You are going to ruin blowjobs,” Wade says frantically. “How can you even live with yourself?”

“Depends,” Peter says, smirking. “Do I get to blow you anytime soon?”

They have a silent and intense staring contest for a moment, until Wade breaks eye contact first and leans over to retrieve his discarded mask. To Peter’s faint surprise, he doesn’t pull it on right away; instead, he turns it over in his hands, looking at it thoughtfully. His scars and lesions shift in their never-ending flux, appearing and reappearing on the canvas of his skin like the world’s most fucked-up Jackson Pollock painting. It looks painful, Peter thinks, and feels horrible for never asking about it, for never bothering to find out if it hurts Wade to be touched.

Wade’s a pretty tactile guy, Peter never thought…

“Depends,” Wade says abruptly, breaking Peter’s train of thought.

“On what?”

“On--“ Wade suddenly cuts himself off, shakes his head before pulling on his mask. “Never mind. Whatever you want, Pete, I’m up for it.”

Peter frowns. “What do you want?” he says.

Wade shrugs. “Eh, what does anyone want? Sex, tacos, money…”

Love, whispers a little voice in the back of Peter’s mind. It sounds weirdly like Wade, only much quieter and much sadder. Love. Attention. Permanence.

“Hey,” Peter says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Even through the mask, Wade somehow manages to look skeptical. “Didn’t say you were, bro. Although now that you mention it, getting up might be a good idea. Your floor was already pretty grody and we just made it worse.”

Peter grabs his arm when he moves to rise, and Wade goes still immediately. “I’m not going anywhere,” Peter repeats.

“Okay?”

“And neither are you.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Wade’s posture. “If I didn’t know any better,” he says, “I’d think you were asking me to go steady.”

“You wanna wear my letterman jacket?” Peter says.

Wade snorts.

“Or I could pin you,” Peter adds with a suggestive eyebrow waggle, because no double entendre is complete without a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Only if you promise to take me to the Homecoming Dance,” Wade says finally, and Peter does a giddy mental jig before leaning over to kiss Wade right through the mask.

“Deal,” he says. “Buy you a corsage and everything.”

“You’re a weird kid,” Wade says, which--Peter needs to have a serious talk with him about certain cast-iron kitchen implements and colors that rhyme with “whack.” “You know that, right?”

Peter scootches up next to him and tucks his head against Wade’s shoulder. “Yup,” he says. “You love me anyway.”

“Whatever,” Wade grumbles, but he doesn’t deny it either and that’s definitely more than Peter expected. They sit like that for a few minutes, Peter snug against Wade’s shoulder, Wade’s mouth against his hair, before Wade finally pulls away and claps his hands together. “All right, all right, enough fucking cuddling. Time for hotcakes and blowjobs!”

This, Peter decides, is officially the fifth weirdest thing to happen to him all week.

He'll take it.