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now you're in (you can't get out)

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Their mouths collide - it's hot, the way Peter's ravaging Wade's mouth like he actually wants to kill him, and Wade's fingers are fumbling with the sides of Peter's suit, wondering where in the damn hell this thing ends. He can't find a fucking opening - "Am I supposed to tear apart your suit?" he demands.

Peter tears himself apart and glares at him. "Don't you dare."

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," Wade says, but then Peter's pushing him back in his apartment, knocking Wade onto his couch and stripping his suit off.

Wade hadn't been feeling... great today, great in the sense that the words in the yellow box were his words today, and Wade's never heard of a moral compass before. (Well, he's heard but that doesn't mean he has one, today.) So he'd kind of fucked up and might've killed some innocent people and then Peter came and beat him up for it. Wade doesn't think there's such thing as fairness when you're listening to the yellow box, just that you do shit and then shit happens to you.

Peter's one of those things - Wade did shit, and now Peter's teeth are scraping along the rough skin at Wade's jaw and shoving him onto his couch.

"Fucking - hate you," Peter says, getting the top of Wade's suit off and pushing his hand onto his chest.

"Language," Wade says.

"Shut up." Peter's eyes get glinty in the dark, they haven't even turned the fucking light on and some infomercial is playing on Wade's TV because he doesn't care about saving energy. Peter's taken Wade's suit off somehow, says, "Of course you're not wearing any fucking underwear," and then his hand is on Wade's cock.

Wade says to him, "What did I say about language?"

"You can't tell me what to do," Peter says, stroking and twisting his hand. Oh, he thinks he can shake Wade to the core. Well, he's got another thing coming -

Peter does this thing with his thumb, presses hard and it nearly fucking hurts, feels so good.

Wade groans, goes, "Jesus, Spidey, you sadist."

"You don't even like me that much too, do you?" Peter says.

Wade frowns at him. "I like you plenty - "

"I have to clean up your messes," Peter continues. "Even the Avengers won't - "

"The Avengers are hacks."

"God, why can't you shut up?" Peter says, and his hand is working quick on Wade's hand that Wade hates how it's numb and hurts and he's oh so fucking sensitive that he might come at any moment. He wants to, he really wants to, but then Peter takes his hand off and says, "Finger me."

"W-What?" Wade says, dazed.

Peter grabs at the lube Wade keeps on his living room table - like he'd expected it to be there - shoves it into Wade's hands, and then says, "Finger me."

"Fucking Christ," Wade breathes.

He gets himself prepped. Peter's naked and nimble above him, his pale lean body shoving itself onto Wade's finger without abandon. Wade groans, the insides of his brains feeling like metal grinding against metal with the hot, tight way Peter keeps fucking himself onto Wade's finger, not even making a sound like he belongs here. Wade's going to lose his mind - Peter's so tight and Wade's biting his lip, his head's going to fucking explode before he's even inside Peter -

"I'm going to fuck you," Peter declares, moving himself off Wade and stroking along the underside of Wade's cock. Wade really just wants to cry - Peter looks so determined, and Wade can't even move because Peter's sitting on him, pinning him to his ratty couch here and then he's rubbing the head of Wade's cock at the rim of his entrance.

"Shit," Wade says, as Peter sinks onto him fully. "Fuck."

"Fuck me," Peter breathes, barely panting.

But he's the one who fucks Wade, really, pushing Wade's dick inside of him and rocking down at him fast, so fucking fast like he wants Wade to feel it, to get over sensitive from the grind of him pressing thickly into Peter, against his walls as Peter thrusts down on him, again and again. Wade tries to grab the curve of Peter's ass, but Peter digs the heel of his palm down on Wade's chest, prevents his stretch.

"Thought you wanted me to fuck you," Wade growls, as Peter watches him, eyes glinting in the infomercial light again.

"Thought you were stronger than this," Peter taunts, squeezing around him, the backs of his thighs twitching, making Wade's own eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull.

Wade is. But Peter is, too, and sometimes Wade wants to growl into his mouth, bite into his skin, make Peter bleed and see who can make the other bleed first. Sometimes that's the yellow box, and sometimes it's just the way Peter looks at him and bites his lip and drives Wade crazy and he knows it.

Wade could take him in a fight. He could take Peter like this, rolling his hips down onto Wade's dick, letting out all these sexy sighs and running his fingers down his chest and keeping Wade down and not letting him move, his pale muscled body bluish in the light. But Wade wants to watch Peter fuck him too, Peter saying, "Don't fucking call me after this," as he leans over Wade, breaths coming out a little faster. Peter's hand finds his, and Wade isn't really thinking as he reaches down and clutches Peter's ass, and he's really just touching him because Peter is the one fucking down on him faster and faster until there aren't yellow boxes or white boxes in Wade's head anymore, just coming into Peter's tight little hole carved out for him.

"Fuck," Peter says, and yanks himself back, jerks himself off until he's coming onto Wade's chest and a little bit on his mask. Wade watches him through it; but he must dissociate because the next thing he knows, Peter's yanking his clothes back on, putting his own mask over his head.

"Call me when you feel good again," Peter says, as he makes his way toward Wade's window. He glances back. "Or don't call me at all."

Wade watches, with his own spent dick on his stomach, as Peter disappears into the night, swinging between rooftops like the fucking hero he is.