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So if you wanna piss off your parents
date me to scare them
show them you’re all grown up
if long hair and tattoos are what attract you
baby then you’re in luck
and I know it’s just a phase
you’re not in love with me
you wanna piss of your parents, baby
that’s all right with me
—Anarbor, 18

Peter Parker is sitting on his couch, cross-legged with a laptop on his person. Surrounded by snacks, wiping taco shells off his keyboard, he looks up to greet Wade with that boyish grin of his and Wade hurts inside.

How long can he keep this up?

“The wi-fi sucks,” says Peter in greeting.

“Where’d you get wi-fi from?”

“Stole it from the neighbours,” Peter replies casually. “Their password is password, I kid you not.”

“I believe you.” Wade chuckles, and drops his ammo on the kitchen table. There are sprinkles of Peter everywhere. The milk is no longer expired, the placement of shit in the cupboards. He has his own mug (it says Stark Industries, to Wade’s displeasure), and some of his clothes are starting to take place in Wade’s closet.

This needs to stop.

“Hey Petey?”

The college student hmms in response. 

Wade wipes his hands on his spandex pants. Don’t do this, the voices say. Because of course, why would he do this? This is perfect. He’s got his own pocket-Spidey to himself, sitting in his living room like he owns it, like he belongs there, which he does. But he’s not supposed to.

You always ruin things for yourself.

No, he always ruins things. Plain and simple.

And he can’t ruin Peter Parker, he just can’t. Because the world needs Spider-Man, and the world is infinitely more important than one lonely Wade Wilson.

This has been great, a few weeks like this (three weeks, four days, eight hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-nine seco— forty, forty-one, forty-two) but Wade has to draw the line somewhere, because he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t put his foot down now, he won’t ever. 

He hates being grown-up.


Peter’s on the move and he's got nowhere to hide. Not that it’d even be easy to hide, with his outfit, and the mask, and literally everything about him.

The brunet pokes his head inside the kitchen. “Hey, Wade. What’s up?”


“You should leave.”

No, no, don’t make that face!

“Why?” Peter sounds so small. He shouldn’t. He’s larger than life. 

Wade bites his lip. It’s not comfortable with the fabric of the suit, and he really shouldn’t do that sort of thing while he’s in it. Which means he shouldn’t really ever be biting his lip. “Go home.”

Peter wraps his hoodie closer to himself. Shit, it’s mine. When did he get his hands on it? 

“Do you … not want me here anymore?”

“No! No, Baby Boy, it’s not that at all!” If it was up to Wade, he’d probably shut Peter in a room somewhere no one could find him, board up the doors with nails and hammers, probably add some elaborate Rube Goldberg invention to stop anyone in their tracks if they ever so much as touched the doorknob. He’d Home Alone the shit out of the place.

“Then … why?”

Because I’m bad for you? Because you’re so young, and you have so much to offer the world and I’m just going to drag you down to my hell? Because you have a bright future, and you risk that the more time you spend with me. Because you don’t flinch when I polish my swords, or when I turn up with blood on the front of my shirt, or think a thing of it when you hear bullets going off. People run away from danger, Petey, you’ve stopped doing that a long time ago. You should leave because I think I’m falling in love with you, and I know you can’t feel like that about me.

“You should just go.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Wade blinks. He doesn’t think Peter can see it behind the pure-white eye sockets of the suit. “What?”

“Are you trying to break up with me? Cause you’re shit at it,” says Peter, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, and he looks sexy and youthful and beautiful, and Wade wants to touch, but he knows Peter will crumble before his eyes. “I mean, not that we’ve technically put a label on this or anything, but like … Listen, is this because you don’t feel comfortable? Are we going too fast? Is it because I take up too much room on your couch?” 

“No, it’s not—”

“Is this because I’m young? Because you think I don’t know any better? Because you’re not the first person I’ve dated—”

“I know that, Spidey, it’s just—”

“You’re the first guy I’ve dated,” Peter finishes. 

Wade nods.

Peter pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. Wade will pull it for him.

“You’re thinking stupid things again, aren’t you? I don’t like calling them stupid thoughts, I really don’t, because that means you waste your time on things that don’t matter, but if they matter to you, of course they’re important.” Peter digs his foot into the ground, into the tile. He’s wearing a pair of sneakers, worn out and dirty. And Wade is sure that high school students still wear them. It’s like he’s being swallowed by Wade’s clothes. 

“I’m going to try and read your mind, okay?” Suddenly, and there’s that fire in his eyes that Wade loves so much, and also, fuck Leonardo di Caprio for stealing that line from him. Wade says it better. “Because I can shoot webs out of my wrists, so I can probably take a guess at what you’re thinking. 

“You’re thinking I’m too young, that I don’t know anything. You think that because I’ve been traumatized, clearly I’m coping in weird ways. You’re thinking that, oh no, he’s in his rebellious phase. He’s doing stupid shit he’ll regret in fifteen years because what better way to stick it to them than to date a murderous mercenary who swears profoundly and is most certainly going to ruin my innocence. 

“You’re thinking I’m going to wake up one day and realize I don’t want you and that everything we’ve done is a mistake, even though I can’t think that because you’ve acted like I have the bubonic plague since we first started dating! Since that first date, since you found out, you’ve been treating me like you don’t even know me, like I’m a parasite in your home and you’re just waiting for the exterminator to get rid of me already.” 

No, I didn’t mean to do that.

But you did. And you fucked up. Like you always do.

“Is this because I’m Spider-Man? Or is it because I’m Peter? You said you liked Peter, but maybe—”

“No, it’s not that,” Wade says quickly. He can still barely believe that beautiful Peter Parker is the same person as Spider-Man, that he’s so lucky to have fallen for someone who he doesn’t have to worry about, who can take care of himself, but at the same time it feels too unreal. It seems too perfect. And Wade may not be a genius, but he knows better than to trust something that seems to be too good to be true.

“Then what is it? Because if you’ve been treating me like shit to try and get me to leave, then it doesn’t work. I’m still here! Clearly there must be something wrong with me, yeah? But, news flash! Wade Wilson, you aren’t nearly as evil a human being as you think you are. You put blankets over me when I fall asleep and prepare enough food for two, and you’ve given up your bed for me too many times to count! You sing in the shower and I like that! I like you—”


Peter’s voice drops low, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me what I feel—”

“But you can’t!”

“You’re not nearly as unloveable as you think you are, Wade!”

You’re not real!

Peter blinks. “What?”

“I mean, yes, of course I think you’re too young to make up your mind about anything. Of course I don’t trust your judgement, and obviously I think I’m bad for you! I put three bullets in a guy’s head today, just because! And that guy’s head was mine! I’m not good for anyone, and even more so because I’m absolutely certain you’re a figment of my imagination— oof!”

Petey packs a good punch.

“Can an illusion do that?” He looks so satisfied, with a little smirk on his lips.

Wade’s never enjoyed pain more (and that’s saying something). He straightens himself up (ha, straight!). “You couldn’t have gone with a kiss? Be a bit more romantic?”

The brunet rolls his eyes. “Right, because romanticism would’ve gotten through to you.”

“It might’ve.”

“It wouldn’t’ve.” Peter sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Do you just … not want me? I’ll let you go if that’s it, I don’t want to force you—”

“I don’t want to force you,” Wade interrupts. “I just … don’t know.”

“Okay.” Peter pushes himself off the wall and steps closer. With each step he takes, Wade forgets to breathe. “How about we figure it out together? Does that sound good to you?”

Wade is still absolutely sure that Peter is a figment of his imagination. Maybe he’s punched himself, but if this is an illusion and everything is made up, he’s okay with that. He’s always been slightly off the handle, and this is nothing less than that. 

“Can we not … can we not put labels on this?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Peter says. “Let’s start over. Hi, my name is Peter Benjamin Parker. My hobbies include photography, intense video gaming, and swinging from roofs using webs I shoot from my veins as support. Nice to meet you.”

Wade is used to being fast. To jumping on top of things the instant they happen. He’s used to running, running until he can’t breathe, and quick clicks of the trigger. He’s used to a fast-paced world. 

He’ll gladly slow it all down with Peter by his side.

“Wade Winston Wilson. My hobbies include competing in chimichanga eating contest, verbally sexually harassing Spider-Man, and unaliving people. Pleasure’s all mine.”