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Pretty Woman

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A pathetic sound crawls up from the back of Peter’s throat and MJ smirks at his reflection.

“Not my fault Ned can’t hold his booze.” She says, fingers running through his hair.

“How was I supposed to know you put away shots like an alcoholic?” Peter grouses, crossing his arms over his chest, the action partly defensive and partly an effort to fight off the chill causing his skin to pucker with goosebumps.

MJ’s bedroom isn’t particularly cold, but because he bet that Ned could outlast MJ in a drinking contest, and was sorely mistaken, he has to let the girl dress him up. As a woman.

The outfit she’s chosen from her closet--that, to his mortification, fits well--consists of a faux grey leather mini skirt and a white crop top that hangs off his right shoulder. If he were wearing a bra, it would be showing through the sheer fabric. To finish the get up she pulls two black pieces of shimmery fabric off of her mirror where they’d been draped.

Knee-high silk socks, Peter realizes after they’re thrust into his hands.

MJ has to let him keep his shoes because none of hers will fit him. Peter mutely sends his thanks to whatever God is looking out for him, because even with his enhanced balance he isn’t sure he could walk in high heels and not topple over.

Peter grimaces as the young woman does things to his face. Blush, eyeshadow, highlighter, mascara, the words are lost on him. MJ leans away, her lips pursed thoughtfully. She clicks her tongue and rummages through her cluttered vanity. She claspes a plain black choker around his neck and gives his lips a coat of coral pink gloss.

He’s never seen the woman wear any makeup, and is at a loss as to why she has a bagful of products she seems comfortable using.

“Why, exactly, do you want to see me like this?” Peter asks, sculpted eyebrow twitching.

“I’m teaching you to never doubt my powers.”

Peter blushes under the rouge and contour she’s put on his cheeks. He had been… overconfident the previous night. Science and weight had been on his side, after all! If MJ hadn’t had built a tolerance to alcohol, Ned would have surely outlasted her.

He supposes it matters little now that he’s paying for his cockiness.

“Alright, now that I’m all gussied up I suppose you want to parade me around town?”

MJ shakes her head. “Nah, I’m not a sadist. You can go home, I’m tired of you.” Her deadpan tone conflicts with the smirk curling her mouth.

“So, what? You just wanted a doll to dress up?”

A shrug, and then, “May friended me on Facebook.”

Peter looks at MJ strangely, not seeing how her answer related to his question. Mirth sparkles in her brown eyes. “I saw all the pictures she has posted...” she trails off, waiting for realization to dawn on him.

It doesn’t. “There’s, like, an entire photo album of you wearing dresses as a kid, Pete. You were a cute kid, by the way.”

Outwardly, Peter shows no reaction.

“Those are on Facebook?” He asks calmly.

“Yep,” MJ replies cheerfully. “I figured it was time to revisit that trend.”

Peter has no explanation to absolve him of responsibility for the girls clothes he wore in those pictures. When he was a child, May was happy to let him wear almost anything, no matter how badly the colors or patterns clashed. So when they were at the mall and he wandered into the girls clearance section, May saw no problem letting him pick out frilly dresses.

He found out later that May and Ben had tried for years to conceive, that May had longed to have a little girl. He’s embarrassed those pictures are posted for all May’s friends to see, but he’s glad that he, albeit unintentionally, helped her live out a relinquished dream.

This is why Peter has no response for MJ’s friendly teasing. Sighing, he asks if she’s kicking out Ned as well.

She glances to their third friend, still sleeping off a hangover face down on the floor. She shrugs non committedly. “What did he bet?”

MJ smiles and Peter doubts her claim of not being a sadist. “He has to do my laundry. For a week.”

Peter shudders theatrically. “I got off easy.”

The girl nods and moves from the vanity where she’d been doing his makeup to flop onto her bed.

“Stay if you want.” She says, turning over and wrapping herself in her blanket in the process.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna bounce. Wade’s probably missing me.”

MJ grunts in response and Peter takes that as his cue to let himself out. He feels the pinprick of stares on him when he gets to the street. His heart beats harder and he tells himself, I am Spider-Man. I am Spider-Man.

Spider-Man, hero and vigilante of New York. If he, or anyone for that matter, wants to dress up like a woman (or is obligated to) then there is nothing shameful about that. This in mind, Peter stands tall, his chin up, and hails a taxi. The cabbie, a nice Indian fellow, doesn’t ask him anything except if he has a radio station preference.

He tips the man ten dollars and waves goodbye from the sidewalk, trying not to wince when the man says “have a good day, miss!”

He gets into the apartment without incident, not surprised to see Deadpool hasn’t woken up yet. Peter kicks off his beaten sneakers by the front door, leaving them where they fell. A habit May never had been able to break him of.

His destination is the kitchen. Deadpool is more of a cook than him, but he can manage his way around the stove without burning the building down.

Their fridge is barren, but he sees they have the ingredients for cheese omelettes so that’s what he starts making.

He’s only cracked the eggs into the bowl when he hears Deadpool lumbering towards the kitchen. He turns to greet the other man, ‘good morning’ turning into a yelp. Instinct makes him leap, clinging to the ceiling. Deadpool stares at him, wide-eyed, and lowers the gun he’d been pointing at Peter.

“Baby boy?”

Peter drops to the floor, heartbeat hammering in his ears.

“I lost a bet to MJ,” he explains breathlessly. “Fuck, you were gonna shoot me?”

Deadpool doesn’t respond for a moment, slack jawed and staring hard enough Peter wonders if he’s trying to see if he has X-ray vision again. It registers that Peter asked him something and he shakes himself from his stupor.

“I thought a strange woman was in our apartment!” He leers at Peter, eyes dragging over his revealing outfit. Goosebumps that have nothing to do with the rooms temperature appear on his skin.

He smiles in a way he hopes is seductive, although it isn’t hard to entice his boyfriend. Peter leans back against the counter, one leg extended out and one bending so his silk wrapped foot is pressed to the cabinet door. He cocks his hip obviously.

“Nope,” he confirms, “just little old me.”

Deadpool closes the distance between them. “What’s under that skirt?” His head dips and he asks the question against Peter’s neck, tongue licking a stripe up his throat. He can feel Peter’s pulse when he sucks his jugular. Peter’s foot slides down the grainy wood and he tilts his head back, offering Deadpool more of his neck.

Peter doesn’t know if he regrets the lengths he let MJ take this bet, but he’s not going to think about that now.

“Why don’t you find out?”

Deadpool slides heavily to his knees, dragging the skirt down to reveal a pair of black panties adored with tiny pink bows and lace. MJ swore she’d never worn these.

In retrospect, Peter hadn’t questioned her as much as he should have. She was MJ, the girl who filled sketchbooks with all the details she noticed about people. His best friend since freshman year, whose ability to read people was close to Sherlock levels of impressive. If she noticed his fascination with women's clothing on one of their mall outings in search of art supplies, it wouldn’t surprise him.

If she had orchestrated all of this specifically for him to explore the kink he’d never admitted he had, it wouldn’t surprise him.

Deadpool has met MJ a handful of times and holds the young woman in high regards. The first time they met she glared at him through frizzy bangs, looked at him head to toe, then blew and popped a bubble with her chewing gum. She had then stuck out a reluctant hand, introducing herself.

“I’m MJ, the girl who will plan your murder if you fuck Peter over.”

“Over what? Because I’ve got bad news about the counter--” Peter smacked him so hard the air was forced from his lungs. “Nice to meet you.”

Each interaction after that yielded similar results. She reminds Deadpool of Negasonic Teenage Warhead, but staring at the panties Peter wears, mouth dry, he decides he likes MJ a lot more than the mutant.

It’s like he’s staring at the face of perfection. Like the heavens have opened up to shower Peter in rays of sunlight, an angelic choir singing in the background.

He nuzzles the man’s bulge, enjoying the strangled yelp the action earns. He locks eyes with Peter and mouths the man’s growing erection through satin fabric.

“Wade,” Peter breathes, thrusting his hips slightly. Deadpool pops up to his feet.

“You were making breakfast, weren’t you? I wouldn’t want to distract my Petey-pie from the most important meal of the day.” He fixes Peter with a smug look, challenging the boy to defy him.

Peter grits his teeth. Of course Deadpool wants to prolong this. Well, two can play that game. Pulling his skirt back up, he adjusts it and then bats his eyelashes, elongated by mascara. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you breakfast?” He says in a honeyed voice, guiding Deadpool to a chair at the table.

The man sits obediently and Peter lets his hands linger on his shoulders, squeezing and drumming his manicured fingers on Deadpool’s skin. He deliberately pricks Deadpool with his nails--filed into soft points and painted cherry red. MJ truly has too much time on her hands.

He moves away slowly, fingers dragging across Deadpool’s shoulders. Peter carefully places each foot directly in front of the other, exaggerating the sway of his hips. He feels Deadpool’s gaze on him and smirks.

Bending over to get a pan from a cupboard, he feels the skirt ride up over his thighs.

Peter turns on the clock radio they keep on the counter, putting it on a station playing auto-tuned pop songs. He cooks, humming and dancing to the synthesized music. Sneaking a glance at Deadpool makes the display worth it.

His jaw is tensed, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. Peter plates an omelette and brings it to his lover. Instead of setting it on the table, Peter sits on Deadpool’s lap sidesaddle style, fork and plate in hand.

“Open your mouth,” he says, low and sweet. Deadpool’s mouth opens automatically. Peter cuts off a bite and feeds it to the other, watching his lips close around the fork with rapt attention. They continue this way until the food is gone and Peter feels the swell of Deadpool’s hardness through his sweatpants.

He sets the plate down, cups Deadpool’s chin in his hand. “Messy,” he whispers, kissing away butter residue.

Arms slither around his waist in an attempt to keep him there. Peter breaks the kiss, nips at Deadpool’s lips playfully. “Now I just have to wash the dishes.” He hops from his seat, relishing the lost expression on Deadpool’s face.

Deadpool sits, stunned, and watches Peter stand at the kitchen sink.

He hums and wiggles, pleased when it takes only a moment for Deadpool to come up behind him. The man’s body presses against his. Deadpool tucks his chin into the hollow of Peter’s shoulder and neck.

 


 

Peter, sweet, innocent Peter, how Wade loves his boy. Well, he’s not innocent anymore, not after the years they’ve been together. He’s never really been innocent, Wade thinks. Clueless and uneducated on certain subjects, but not innocent. Pure is a better word to describe his baby boy. Beautiful and sweet and pure and looking sinful.

His boyish curves and slenderness have suddenly been transformed into the shape of womanhood. There is a glorious expanse of bare skin between the skirt and crop top and Deadpool brushes his scarred hands along it.

He hates his scars, but Peter can find the good in anything. And the good in Wade’s calloused, wounded flesh is that it feels heavenly on Peter’s naked body. For Deadpool it’s one of the few pros of his disfigurement. Another is that it cements the extent of Peter’s love for him. If Peter could love him in spite of his looking like a reanimated corpse, the boy must truly love him.

Peter whines as those hands scrape across his stomach, ascending to his chest. Deadpool rolls each nipple expertly between his thumb and index finger, stopping to grope the flatness of Peter’s chest.

His baby boy is exquisite no matter what. Whether he’s naked, wearing his suit, dressed for a night on the town or a night in, Peter is gorgeous. But this… this is something else. He wants to see Peter wear flowy sundresses and sandals and 1950s housewife dresses. He wants to kiss away lipstick from sugar-sweet lips, to be branded by scarlet lip prints. He wants Peter to rake his painted nails along his back.

Seeing Peter dolled up is something he hadn’t known he needed in his life.

“Wade,” Peter moans, arching into his touch, knees pressing together as his hips push out.

“You look so good, baby.” Deadpool praises. “You’re fucking beautiful. I should show you off, show the world what a beautiful girlfriend I have.” He suckles Peter’s throat above the choker.

Peter whimpers, but doesn’t protest. Verbally, at least. Deadpool can sense the others uncertainty. Being seen by Wade like this is one thing, having the worlds eyes on him is another. Although no one would dare ridicule him with Deadpool’s arm around his waist.

Another time, perhaps. They can go on a shopping spree, get his boy all the pretty things he deserves. Even if none of the clothing gets worn out of the house, it will not be a purchase regretted.

“Come on,” Deadpool instructs, pulling Peter to the bathroom. “I want you to see how good you look, baby girl.”

Peter doesn’t have the blood in his brain to be irritated at the new nickname. He does what he’s told, pleasure blown eyes, copper eyeshadow smudged on the lids, meeting their reflection. The mini skirt hugs his curves and accentuates the shape of his body, his slim torso showcased by the short top.

He looks… feminine.

The eyeshadow MJ applied makes the flecks of gold in his eyes pop. Pink lipgloss has been kissed away and his swollen lips are parted around ragged breaths. His fluffy hair has fallen from the style she’d worked it into.

Deadpool slides a hand up Peter’s thigh, palms his erection and swipes a thumb over the wet spot in the lacy panties. Peter’s head bows, his entire body pitching forward. He supports himself on his elbows, struggling to keep his head risen so he can watch his reflection.

“Good girl,” Deadpool coos, crouching. He peels fake leather up over Peter’s lush cheeks, the bubble butt he loves so much emphasized by the womens panties. His gaze trails down, lingering on the knee-high black socks. “So pretty.” Deadpool murmurs, pulling those panties down around Peter’s ankles.

He spreads Peter’s cheeks, not hesitating for a moment to lick at the boy’s twitching hole. The moan he gets goes straight to his cock. He sucks at Peter’s entrance until he’s dripping wet and right on the edge of orgasm. Each time he thrusts his tongue inside, his baby boy’s cock jumps a little bit, dribbling precome.

He stands and shucks off his pants. Peter turns, slinks forward to give Deadpool a scorching kiss. The younger man breaks the kiss and sinks to his knees, glancing up at Deadpool through his lashes.

“Can I?” His hands find purchase on Deadpool’s thighs, the tiny plea ridiculously sexy. As if Deadpool would ever deny a blowjow, especially to those doe eyes. But he knows Peter and his games.

“What do you want, baby girl?”

The boy, on his knees like he’s been dozens of times before, makes a choked sound and averts his gaze, pink staining his cheeks. Fuck, how does Peter do that? How can he act like a blushing virgin when Wade knows all the dirty things the boy has done? The list is long--and still growing.

“Please,” Peter whines, teeth worrying his lower lip. “Can I…”

He’s playing hard to get. Wade is happy to play along.

“What do you want, baby girl?” He pets Peter’s hair gently and the boy presses into the touch, eyelids drifting shut. “Tell me what you want.”

“I…” Peter swallows, seems at a loss for explaining his desires, and pretends to gather his courage. “I want to… taste you.” Peter makes the confession sound humiliated, like he can’t bare to say the words.

“Anything for my princess.” Deadpool says kindly. As if he’s doing Peter a favor.

Peter glances up at him again and he catches the glint of wickedness in his eyes. It’s gone in a flash, false innocence taking its place.

“I--I’ve never,” Peter stutters. “Not--I mean, not with someone… so big.”

Deadpool groans, a hand going to the wall to steady himself. In another life, Peter has to have been an actor. He’s simply too good at this role, at these games they play. In reality he has the power to lift the rubble of a building, and yet he plays the helpless, unsure virgin perfectly. Gone is the snark, gone is the sharp tongue that never ceases to impress Deadpool.

“Open your pretty little mouth, sweetheart.”

Peter does, still looking up at him, searching for approval. Deadpool rubs the leaking head of his cock on Peter’s tongue, forcing his mouth open wider as he presses in. He murmurs encouragements, pushing forward until he is sheathed in Peter’s throat. Peter blinks at him, and if he’d been able to Deadpool is sure he would have tilted his head curiously.

What now? Those eyes ask. “Suck,” he instructs, and Peter does. It's loud and wet and sloppy, a dead ringer for an amateurs attempt at deepthroating. “I’m going to fuck your face.” He warns, and Peter hums in reply, tongue wiggling against the underside of his cock.

He keeps his cock lodged in Peter’s throat, but his thrusts are shallow. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. You wanna taste it, want me to come on your titties?”

Peter slurps around him and pulls off, licking the length of the shaft before sitting back on his heels.

“I want you to come inside me.” Deadpool sometimes forgets how wrapped around Peter’s finger he really is.

“Get up, then. You look so good on your knees. You’ll look even better on my cock.”

Peter shakily stands, bracing himself on Deadpool’s forearms. “Please,” he whimpers.

“Turn around, baby.” He reaches to maneuver Peter, who is beautifully compliant.

Deadpool pushes in slowly. The burn, he knows from Peter’s moans, is sweeter than it is painful. Flush against his ass, he stills. He silently counts. Makes it to fifteen before getting a reaction.

The noise that comes out of Peter’s mouth is something between a hiss and a whine, impatience shining through the facade of obedience. He throws an irritated look over his shoulder. The anger, somehow, is intensified by the makeup on his face, by the definition of his furrowed eyebrows.

Laughing, Deadpool starts an easy rhythm. Peter is liquid heat around him, his fluttering walls tight around his cock. He runs a hand along the length of Peter’s spine and then pulls Peter up so his back is against Deadpool’s front. One hand plays with rosy nipples and the other jerks Peter’s straining member.

“You like it when I fuck your pussy?”

Deadpool half expects Peter to snap at him. Instead he gets a broken and needy, “yeah.”

“You’re so good, baby girl. So pretty. Look at you, you’re the most gorgeous thing.” The praise winds through Peter’s trembling legs and coils in his stomach. It sits there, heavy and tight.

“Wade,” he gasps out. “ More.”

“Anything for you, baby girl.” Deadpool’s arms support Peter’s body as he thrusts harder, hand returning to Peter’s cock.

Peter cries out when he comes, tension leaving his body. Deadpool groans, fire burning through him. He pushes in deep, come spurting into Peter’s welcoming heat.

They come down together, panting and limp.

“...Remind me to thank MJ.”

Peter laughs. “I hope she didn’t want these clothes back.”